DRACULA

A Mystery Story

by Bram Stoker – 1897 edition

Edited by Dell Sweet © Copyright 2018.

This book is in the public domain

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How these papers have been placed in sequence will be made manifest in the

reading of them. All needless matters have been eliminated, so that a history

almost at variance with the possibilities of latter-day belief may stand forth

as simple fact. There is throughout no statement of past things wherein

memory may err, for all the records chosen are exactly contemporary, given

from the standpoints and within the range of knowledge of those who made them.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

 

 

CHAPTER

 

1  Jonathan Harker’s Journal

2  Jonathan Harker’s Journal

3  Jonathan Harker’s Journal

4  Jonathan Harker’s Journal

5  Letter From Miss Mina Murray To Miss Lucy Westenra

6  Mina Murray’s Journal

7  Cutting From “The Dailygraph”, 8 August

8  Mina Murray’s Journal

9  Letter, Mina Harker To Lucy Westenra

10  Letter, Dr. Seward To Hon. Arthur Holmwood

11  Lucy Westenra’s Diary

12  Dr. Seward’s Diary

13  Dr. Seward’s Diary

14  Mina Harker’s Journal

15  Dr. Seward’s Diary

16  Dr. Seward’s Diary

17  Dr. Seward’s Diary

18  Dr. Seward’s Diary

19  Jonathan Harker’s Journal

20  Jonathan Harker’s Journal

21  Dr. Seward’s Diary

22  Jonathan Harker’s Journal

23  Dr. Seward’s Diary

24  Dr. Seward’s Phonograph Diary

25  Dr. Seward’s Diary

26  Dr. Seward’s Diary

27  Mina Harker’s Journal

 

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CHAPTER 1

 

 

Jonathan Harker’s Journal

 

(Kept in shorthand)

 

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 Klausenburgh.

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 to 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

shirtsleeves, 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 diligence 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 tonight,

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

goodbye.  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 the 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

1. 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 hard-looking 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 of 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 faint 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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 2

 

 

Jonathan Harker’s Journal Continued

 

5 May.–I must have been asleep, for certainly if I had been fully

awake I must have noticed the approach of such a remarkable place.  In

the gloom the courtyard looked of considerable size, and as several

dark ways led from it under great round arches, it perhaps seemed

bigger than it really is.  I have not yet been able to see it by

daylight.

 

When the caleche stopped, the driver jumped down and held out his hand

to assist me to alight.  Again I could not but notice his prodigious

strength.  His hand actually seemed like a steel vice that could have

crushed mine if he had chosen.  Then he took my traps, and placed them

on the ground beside me as I stood close to a great door, old and

studded with large iron nails, and set in a projecting doorway of

massive stone.  I could see even in the dim light that the stone was

massively carved, but that the carving had been much worn by time and

weather.  As I stood, the driver jumped again into his seat and shook

the reins.  The horses started forward, and trap and all disappeared

down one of the dark openings.

 

I stood in silence where I was, for I did not know what to do.  Of

bell or knocker there was no sign.  Through these frowning walls and

dark window openings it was not likely that my voice could penetrate.

The time I waited seemed endless, and I felt doubts and fears crowding

upon me.  What sort of place had I come to, and among what kind of

people?  What sort of grim adventure was it on which I had embarked?

Was this a customary incident in the life of a solicitor’s clerk sent

out to explain the purchase of a London estate to a foreigner?

Solicitor’s clerk!  Mina would not like that.  Solicitor, for just

before leaving London I got word that my examination was successful,

and I am now a full-blown solicitor!  I began to rub my eyes and pinch

myself to see if I were awake.  It all seemed like a horrible

nightmare to me, and I expected that I should suddenly awake, and find

myself at home, with the dawn struggling in through the windows, as I

had now and again felt in the morning after a day of overwork.  But my

flesh answered the pinching test, and my eyes were not to be

deceived.  I was indeed awake and among the Carpathians.  All I could

do now was to be patient, and to wait the coming of morning.

 

Just as I had come to this conclusion I heard a heavy step approaching

behind the great door, and saw through the chinks the gleam of a

coming light.  Then there was the sound of rattling chains and the

clanking of massive bolts drawn back.  A key was turned with the loud

grating noise of long disuse, and the great door swung back.

 

Within, stood a tall old man, clean shaven save for a long white

moustache, and clad in black from head to foot, without a single speck

of colour about him anywhere.  He held in his hand an antique silver

lamp, in which the flame burned without a chimney or globe of any

kind, throwing long quivering shadows as it flickered in the draught

of the open door.  The old man motioned me in with his right hand with

a courtly gesture, saying in excellent English, but with a strange

intonation.

 

“Welcome to my house!  Enter freely and of your own free will!”  He

made no motion of stepping to meet me, but stood like a statue, as

though his gesture of welcome had fixed him into stone.  The instant,

however, that I had stepped over the threshold, he moved impulsively

forward, and holding out his hand grasped mine with a strength which

made me wince, an effect which was not lessened by the fact that it

seemed cold as ice, more like the hand of a dead than a living man.

Again he said,

 

“Welcome to my house!  Enter freely.  Go safely, and leave something

of the happiness you bring!”  The strength of the handshake was so

much akin to that which I had noticed in the driver, whose face I had

not seen, that for a moment I doubted if it were not the same person

to whom I was speaking.  So to make sure, I said interrogatively,

“Count Dracula?”

 

He bowed in a courtly way as he replied, “I am Dracula, and I bid you

welcome, Mr. Harker, to my house.  Come in, the night air is chill,

and you must need to eat and rest.”  As he was speaking, he put the lamp

on a bracket on the wall, and stepping out, took my luggage.  He had

carried it in before I could forestall him.  I protested, but he

insisted.

 

“Nay, sir, you are my guest.  It is late, and my people are not

available.  Let me see to your comfort myself.”  He insisted on carrying

my traps along the passage, and then up a great winding stair, and

along another great passage, on whose stone floor our steps rang

heavily.  At the end of this he threw open a heavy door, and I

rejoiced to see within a well-lit room in which a table was spread for

supper, and on whose mighty hearth a great fire of logs, freshly

replenished, flamed and flared.

 

The Count halted, putting down my bags, closed the door, and crossing

the room, opened another door, which led into a small octagonal room

lit by a single lamp, and seemingly without a window of any sort.

Passing through this, he opened another door, and motioned me to

enter.  It was a welcome sight.  For here was a great bedroom well

lighted and warmed with another log fire, also added to but lately,

for the top logs were fresh, which sent a hollow roar up the wide

chimney.  The Count himself left my luggage inside and withdrew,

saying, before he closed the door.

 

“You will need, after your journey, to refresh yourself by making your

toilet.  I trust you will find all you wish.  When you are ready, come

into the other room, where you will find your supper prepared.”

 

The light and warmth and the Count’s courteous welcome seemed to have

dissipated all my doubts and fears.  Having then reached my normal

state, I discovered that I was half famished with hunger.  So making a

hasty toilet, I went into the other room.

 

I found supper already laid out.  My host, who stood on one side of

the great fireplace, leaning against the stonework, made a graceful

wave of his hand to the table, and said,

 

“I pray you, be seated and sup how you please.  You will I trust,

excuse me that I do not join you, but I have dined already, and I do

not sup.”

 

I handed to him the sealed letter which Mr. Hawkins had entrusted to

1. He opened it and read it gravely. Then, with a charming smile,

he handed it to me to read.  One passage of it, at least, gave me a

thrill of pleasure.

 

“I must regret that an attack of gout, from which malady I am a

constant sufferer, forbids absolutely any travelling on my part for

some time to come.  But I am happy to say I can send a sufficient

substitute, one in whom I have every possible confidence.  He is a

young man, full of energy and talent in his own way, and of a very

faithful disposition.  He is discreet and silent, and has grown into

manhood in my service.  He shall be ready to attend on you when you

will during his stay, and shall take your instructions in all

matters.”

 

The count himself came forward and took off the cover of a dish, and I

fell to at once on an excellent roast chicken.  This, with some cheese

and a salad and a bottle of old tokay, of which I had two glasses, was

my supper.  During the time I was eating it the Count asked me many

questions as to my journey, and I told him by degrees all I had

experienced.

 

By this time I had finished my supper, and by my host’s desire had

drawn up a chair by the fire and begun to smoke a cigar which he

offered me, at the same time excusing himself that he did not smoke.

I had now an opportunity of observing him, and found him of a very

marked physiognomy.

 

His face was a strong, a very strong, aquiline, with high bridge of

the thin nose and peculiarly arched nostrils, with lofty domed

forehead, and hair growing scantily round the temples but profusely

elsewhere.  His eyebrows were very massive, almost meeting over the

nose, and with bushy hair that seemed to curl in its own profusion.

The mouth, so far as I could see it under the heavy moustache, was

fixed and rather cruel-looking, with peculiarly sharp white teeth.

These protruded over the lips, whose remarkable ruddiness showed

astonishing vitality in a man of his years.  For the rest, his ears

were pale, and at the tops extremely pointed.  The chin was broad and

strong, and the cheeks firm though thin.  The general effect was one

of extraordinary pallor.

 

Hitherto I had noticed the backs of his hands as they lay on his knees

in the firelight, and they had seemed rather white and fine.  But

seeing them now close to me, I could not but notice that they were

rather coarse, broad, with squat fingers.  Strange to say, there were

hairs in the centre of the palm.  The nails were long and fine, and

cut to a sharp point.  As the Count leaned over me and his hands

touched me, I could not repress a shudder.  It may have been that his

breath was rank, but a horrible feeling of nausea came over me, which,

do what I would, I could not conceal.

 

The Count, evidently noticing it, drew back.  And with a grim sort of

smile, which showed more than he had yet done his protuberant teeth,

sat himself down again on his own side of the fireplace.  We were both

silent for a while, and as I looked towards the window I saw the first

dim streak of the coming dawn.  There seemed a strange stillness over

everything.  But as I listened, I heard as if from down below in the

valley the howling of many wolves.  The Count’s eyes gleamed, and he

said.

 

“Listen to them, the children of the night.  What music they make!”

Seeing, I suppose, some expression in my face strange to him, he

added, “Ah, sir, you dwellers in the city cannot enter into the

feelings of the hunter.”  Then he rose and said.

 

“But you must be tired.  Your bedroom is all ready, and tomorrow you

shall sleep as late as you will.  I have to be away till the

afternoon, so sleep well and dream well!”  With a courteous bow, he

opened for me himself the door to the octagonal room, and I entered my

bedroom.

 

I am all in a sea of wonders.  I doubt.  I fear.  I think strange

things, which I dare not confess to my own soul.  God keep me, if only

for the sake of those dear to me!

 

 

7 May.–It is again early morning, but I have rested and enjoyed the

last twenty-four hours.  I slept till late in the day, and awoke of my

own accord.  When I had dressed myself I went into the room where we

had supped, and found a cold breakfast laid out, with coffee kept hot

by the pot being placed on the hearth.  There was a card on the table,

on which was written–“I have to be absent for a while.  Do not wait

for me.  D.”  I set to and enjoyed a hearty meal.  When I had done, I

looked for a bell, so that I might let the servants know I had

finished, but I could not find one.  There are certainly odd

deficiencies in the house, considering the extraordinary evidences of

wealth which are round me.  The table service is of gold, and so

beautifully wrought that it must be of immense value.  The curtains

and upholstery of the chairs and sofas and the hangings of my bed are

of the costliest and most beautiful fabrics, and must have been of

fabulous value when they were made, for they are centuries old, though

in excellent order.  I saw something like them in Hampton Court, but

they were worn and frayed and moth-eaten.  But still in none of the

rooms is there a mirror.  There is not even a toilet glass on my

table, and I had to get the little shaving glass from my bag before I

could either shave or brush my hair.  I have not yet seen a servant

anywhere, or heard a sound near the castle except the howling of

wolves.  Some time after I had finished my meal, I do not know whether

to call it breakfast or dinner, for it was between five and six

o’clock when I had it, I looked about for something to read, for I did

not like to go about the castle until I had asked the Count’s

permission.  There was absolutely nothing in the room, book,

newspaper, or even writing materials, so I opened another door in the

room and found a sort of library.  The door opposite mine I tried, but

found locked.

 

In the library I found, to my great delight, a vast number of English

books, whole shelves full of them, and bound volumes of magazines and

newspapers.  A table in the centre was littered with English magazines

and newspapers, though none of them were of very recent date.  The

books were of the most varied kind, history, geography, politics,

political economy, botany, geology, law, all relating to England and

English life and customs and manners.  There were even such books of

reference as the London Directory, the “Red” and “Blue” books,

Whitaker’s Almanac, the Army and Navy Lists, and it somehow gladdened

my heart to see it, the Law List.

 

Whilst I was looking at the books, the door opened, and the Count

entered.  He saluted me in a hearty way, and hoped that I had had a

good night’s rest.  Then he went on.

 

“I am glad you found your way in here, for I am sure there is much

that will interest you.  These companions,” and he laid his hand on

some of the books, “have been good friends to me, and for some years

past, ever since I had the idea of going to London, have given me

many, many hours of pleasure.  Through them I have come to know your

great England, and to know her is to love her.  I long to go through

the crowded streets of your mighty London, to be in the midst of the

whirl and rush of humanity, to share its life, its change, its death,

and all that makes it what it is.  But alas!  As yet I only know your

tongue through books.  To you, my friend, I look that I know it to

speak.”

 

“But, Count,” I said, “You know and speak English thoroughly!”  He

bowed gravely.

 

“I thank you, my friend, for your all too-flattering estimate, but yet

I fear that I am but a little way on the road I would travel.  True, I

know the grammar and the words, but yet I know not how to speak them.”

 

“Indeed,” I said, “You speak excellently.”

 

“Not so,” he answered.  “Well, I know that, did I move and speak in

your London, none there are who would not know me for a stranger.  That

is not enough for me.  Here I am noble.  I am a Boyar.  The common

people know me, and I am master.  But a stranger in a strange land, he

is no one.  Men know him not, and to know not is to care not for.  I

am content if I am like the rest, so that no man stops if he sees me,

or pauses in his speaking if he hears my words, ‘Ha, ha!  A stranger!’

I have been so long master that I would be master still, or at least

that none other should be master of me.  You come to me not alone as

agent of my friend Peter Hawkins, of Exeter, to tell me all about my

new estate in London.  You shall, I trust, rest here with me a while,

so that by our talking I may learn the English intonation.  And I

would that you tell me when I make error, even of the smallest, in my

speaking.  I am sorry that I had to be away so long today, but you

will, I know forgive one who has so many important affairs in hand.”

 

Of course I said all I could about being willing, and asked if I might

come into that room when I chose.  He answered, “Yes, certainly,” and

added.

 

“You may go anywhere you wish in the castle, except where the doors

are locked, where of course you will not wish to go.  There is reason

that all things are as they are, and did you see with my eyes and know

with my knowledge, you would perhaps better understand.”  I said I was

sure of this, and then he went on.

 

“We are in Transylvania, and Transylvania is not England.  Our ways

are not your ways, and there shall be to you many strange things.  Nay,

from what you have told me of your experiences already, you know

something of what strange things there may be.”

 

This led to much conversation, and as it was evident that he wanted to

talk, if only for talking’s sake, I asked him many questions regarding

things that had already happened to me or come within my notice.

Sometimes he sheered off the subject, or turned the conversation by

pretending not to understand, but generally he answered all I asked

most frankly.  Then as time went on, and I had got somewhat bolder, I

asked him of some of the strange things of the preceding night, as for

instance, why the coachman went to the places where he had seen the

blue flames.  He then explained to me that it was commonly believed

that on a certain night of the year, last night, in fact, when all

evil spirits are supposed to have unchecked sway, a blue flame is seen

over any place where treasure has been concealed.

 

“That treasure has been hidden,” he went on, “in the region through

which you came last night, there can be but little doubt.  For it was

the ground fought over for centuries by the Wallachian, the Saxon, and

the Turk.  Why, there is hardly a foot of soil in all this region that

has not been enriched by the blood of men, patriots or invaders.  In

the old days there were stirring times, when the Austrian and the

Hungarian came up in hordes, and the patriots went out to meet them,

men and women, the aged and the children too, and waited their coming

on the rocks above the passes, that they might sweep destruction on

them with their artificial avalanches.  When the invader was

triumphant he found but little, for whatever there was had been

sheltered in the friendly soil.”

 

“But how,” said I, “can it have remained so long undiscovered, when

there is a sure index to it if men will but take the trouble to look?”

The Count smiled, and as his lips ran back over his gums, the long,

sharp, canine teeth showed out strangely.  He answered:

 

“Because your peasant is at heart a coward and a fool!  Those flames

only appear on one night, and on that night no man of this land will,

if he can help it, stir without his doors.  And, dear sir, even if he

did he would not know what to do.  Why, even the peasant that you tell

me of who marked the place of the flame would not know where to look

in daylight even for his own work.  Even you would not, I dare be

sworn, be able to find these places again?”

 

“There you are right,” I said.  “I know no more than the dead where

even to look for them.”  Then we drifted into other matters.

 

“Come,” he said at last, “tell me of London and of the house which you

have procured for me.”  With an apology for my remissness, I went into

my own room to get the papers from my bag.  Whilst I was placing them

in order I heard a rattling of china and silver in the next room, and

as I passed through, noticed that the table had been cleared and the

lamp lit, for it was by this time deep into the dark.  The lamps were

also lit in the study or library, and I found the Count lying on the

sofa, reading, of all things in the world, an English Bradshaw’s

Guide.  When I came in he cleared the books and papers from the table,

and with him I went into plans and deeds and figures of all sorts.  He

was interested in everything, and asked me a myriad questions about

the place and its surroundings.  He clearly had studied beforehand all

he could get on the subject of the neighbourhood, for he evidently at

the end knew very much more than I did.  When I remarked this, he

answered.

 

“Well, but, my friend, is it not needful that I should?  When I go

there I shall be all alone, and my friend Harker Jonathan, nay, pardon

1. I fall into my country’s habit of putting your patronymic first,

my friend Jonathan Harker will not be by my side to correct and aid

1. He will be in Exeter, miles away, probably working at papers of

the law with my other friend, Peter Hawkins.  So!”

 

We went thoroughly into the business of the purchase of the estate at

Purfleet.  When I had told him the facts and got his signature to the

necessary papers, and had written a letter with them ready to post to

Mr. Hawkins, he began to ask me how I had come across so suitable a

place.  I read to him the notes which I had made at the time, and

which I inscribe here.

 

“At Purfleet, on a byroad, I came across just such a place as seemed

to be required, and where was displayed a dilapidated notice that the

place was for sale.  It was surrounded by a high wall, of ancient

structure, built of heavy stones, and has not been repaired for a

large number of years.  The closed gates are of heavy old oak and

iron, all eaten with rust.

 

“The estate is called Carfax, no doubt a corruption of the old Quatre

Face, as the house is four sided, agreeing with the cardinal points of

the compass.  It contains in all some twenty acres, quite surrounded

by the solid stone wall above mentioned.  There are many trees on it,

which make it in places gloomy, and there is a deep, dark-looking pond

or small lake, evidently fed by some springs, as the water is clear

and flows away in a fair-sized stream.  The house is very large and of

all periods back, I should say, to mediaeval times, for one part is of

stone immensely thick, with only a few windows high up and heavily

barred with iron.  It looks like part of a keep, and is close to an

old chapel or church.  I could not enter it, as I had not the key of

the door leading to it from the house, but I have taken with my Kodak

views of it from various points.  The house had been added to, but in

a very straggling way, and I can only guess at the amount of ground it

covers, which must be very great.  There are but few houses close at

hand, one being a very large house only recently added to and formed

into a private lunatic asylum.  It is not, however, visible from the

grounds.”

 

When I had finished, he said, “I am glad that it is old and big.  I

myself am of an old family, and to live in a new house would kill me.

A house cannot be made habitable in a day, and after all, how few days

go to make up a century.  I rejoice also that there is a chapel of old

times.  We Transylvanian nobles love not to think that our bones may

lie amongst the common dead.  I seek not gaiety nor mirth, not the

bright voluptuousness of much sunshine and sparkling waters which

please the young and gay.  I am no longer young, and my heart, through

weary years of mourning over the dead, is not attuned to mirth.  Moreover,

the walls of my castle are broken.  The shadows are many, and the wind

breathes cold through the broken battlements and casements.  I love

the shade and the shadow, and would be alone with my thoughts when I

may.”  Somehow his words and his look did not seem to accord, or else

it was that his cast of face made his smile look malignant and

saturnine.

 

Presently, with an excuse, he left me, asking me to pull my papers

together.  He was some little time away, and I began to look at some

of the books around me.  One was an atlas, which I found opened

naturally to England, as if that map had been much used.  On looking

at it I found in certain places little rings marked, and on examining

these I noticed that one was near London on the east side, manifestly

where his new estate was situated.  The other two were Exeter, and

Whitby on the Yorkshire coast.

 

It was the better part of an hour when the Count returned.  “Aha!” he

said.  “Still at your books?  Good!  But you must not work always.

Come!  I am informed that your supper is ready.”  He took my arm, and

we went into the next room, where I found an excellent supper ready on

the table.  The Count again excused himself, as he had dined out on

his being away from home.  But he sat as on the previous night, and

chatted whilst I ate.  After supper I smoked, as on the last evening,

and the Count stayed with me, chatting and asking questions on every

conceivable subject, hour after hour.  I felt that it was getting very

late indeed, but I did not say anything, for I felt under obligation

to meet my host’s wishes in every way.  I was not sleepy, as the long

sleep yesterday had fortified me, but I could not help experiencing

that chill which comes over one at the coming of the dawn, which is

like, in its way, the turn of the tide.  They say that people who are

near death die generally at the change to dawn or at the turn of the

tide.  Anyone who has when tired, and tied as it were to his post,

experienced this change in the atmosphere can well believe it.  All at

once we heard the crow of the cock coming up with preternatural

shrillness through the clear morning air.

 

Count Dracula, jumping to his feet, said, “Why there is the morning

again!  How remiss I am to let you stay up so long.  You must make

your conversation regarding my dear new country of England less

interesting, so that I may not forget how time flies by us,” and with

a courtly bow, he quickly left me.

 

I went into my room and drew the curtains, but there was little to

notice.  My window opened into the courtyard, all I could see was the

warm grey of quickening sky.  So I pulled the curtains again, and have

written of this day.

 

 

8 May.–I began to fear as I wrote in this book that I was getting too

diffuse.  But now I am glad that I went into detail from the first,

for there is something so strange about this place and all in it that

I cannot but feel uneasy.  I wish I were safe out of it, or that I had

never come.  It may be that this strange night existence is telling on

me, but would that that were all!  If there were any one to talk to I

could bear it, but there is no one.  I have only the Count to speak

with, and he–I fear I am myself the only living soul within the

place.  Let me be prosaic so far as facts can be.  It will help me to

bear up, and imagination must not run riot with me.  If it does I am

lost.  Let me say at once how I stand, or seem to.

 

I only slept a few hours when I went to bed, and feeling that I could

not sleep any more, got up.  I had hung my shaving glass by the

window, and was just beginning to shave.  Suddenly I felt a hand on my

shoulder, and heard the Count’s voice saying to me, “Good morning.”  I

started, for it amazed me that I had not seen him, since the

reflection of the glass covered the whole room behind me.  In starting

I had cut myself slightly, but did not notice it at the moment.  Having

answered the Count’s salutation, I turned to the glass again to see

how I had been mistaken.  This time there could be no error, for the

man was close to me, and I could see him over my shoulder.  But there

was no reflection of him in the mirror!  The whole room behind me was

displayed, but there was no sign of a man in it, except myself.

 

This was startling, and coming on the top of so many strange things,

was beginning to increase that vague feeling of uneasiness which I

always have when the Count is near.  But at the instant I saw that the

cut had bled a little, and the blood was trickling over my chin.  I

laid down the razor, turning as I did so half round to look for some

sticking plaster.  When the Count saw my face, his eyes blazed with a

sort of demoniac fury, and he suddenly made a grab at my throat.  I

drew away and his hand touched the string of beads which held the

crucifix.  It made an instant change in him, for the fury passed so

quickly that I could hardly believe that it was ever there.

 

“Take care,” he said, “take care how you cut yourself.  It is more

dangerous that you think in this country.”  Then seizing the shaving

glass, he went on, “And this is the wretched thing that has done the

mischief.  It is a foul bauble of man’s vanity.  Away with it!”  And

opening the window with one wrench of his terrible hand, he flung out

the glass, which was shattered into a thousand pieces on the stones of

the courtyard far below.  Then he withdrew without a word.  It is very

annoying, for I do not see how I am to shave, unless in my watch-case

or the bottom of the shaving pot, which is fortunately of metal.

 

When I went into the dining room, breakfast was prepared, but I could

not find the Count anywhere.  So I breakfasted alone.  It is strange

that as yet I have not seen the Count eat or drink.  He must be a very

peculiar man!  After breakfast I did a little exploring in the

castle.  I went out on the stairs, and found a room looking towards

the South.

 

The view was magnificent, and from where I stood there was every

opportunity of seeing it.  The castle is on the very edge of a

terrific precipice.  A stone falling from the window would fall a

thousand feet without touching anything!  As far as the eye can reach

is a sea of green tree tops, with occasionally a deep rift where there

is a chasm.  Here and there are silver threads where the rivers wind

in deep gorges through the forests.

 

But I am not in heart to describe beauty, for when I had seen the view

I explored further.  Doors, doors, doors everywhere, and all locked

and bolted.  In no place save from the windows in the castle walls is

there an available exit.  The castle is a veritable prison, and I am a

prisoner!

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 3

 

 

Jonathan Harker’s Journal Continued

 

When I found that I was a prisoner a sort of wild feeling came over

1. I rushed up and down the stairs, trying every door and peering

out of every window I could find, but after a little the conviction of

my helplessness overpowered all other feelings.  When I look back

after a few hours I think I must have been mad for the time, for I

behaved much as a rat does in a trap.  When, however, the conviction

had come to me that I was helpless I sat down quietly, as quietly as I

have ever done anything in my life, and began to think over what was

best to be done.  I am thinking still, and as yet have come to no

definite conclusion.  Of one thing only am I certain.  That it is no

use making my ideas known to the Count.  He knows well that I am

imprisoned, and as he has done it himself, and has doubtless his own

motives for it, he would only deceive me if I trusted him fully with

the facts.  So far as I can see, my only plan will be to keep my

knowledge and my fears to myself, and my eyes open.  I am, I know,

either being deceived, like a baby, by my own fears, or else I am in

desperate straits, and if the latter be so, I need, and shall need,

all my brains to get through.

 

I had hardly come to this conclusion when I heard the great door below

shut, and knew that the Count had returned.  He did not come at once

into the library, so I went cautiously to my own room and found him

making the bed.  This was odd, but only confirmed what I had all along

thought, that there are no servants in the house.  When later I saw

him through the chink of the hinges of the door laying the table in

the dining room, I was assured of it.  For if he does himself all

these menial offices, surely it is proof that there is no one else in

the castle, it must have been the Count himself who was the driver of

the coach that brought me here.  This is a terrible thought, for if

so, what does it mean that he could control the wolves, as he did, by

only holding up his hand for silence?  How was it that all the people

at Bistritz and on the coach had some terrible fear for me?  What

meant the giving of the crucifix, of the garlic, of the wild rose, of

the mountain ash?

 

Bless that good, good woman who hung the crucifix round my neck!  For

it is a comfort and a strength to me whenever I touch it.  It is odd

that a thing which I have been taught to regard with disfavour and as

idolatrous should in a time of loneliness and trouble be of help.  Is

it that there is something in the essence of the thing itself, or that

it is a medium, a tangible help, in conveying memories of sympathy and

comfort?  Some time, if it may be, I must examine this matter and try

to make up my mind about it.  In the meantime I must find out all I

can about Count Dracula, as it may help me to understand.  Tonight he

may talk of himself, if I turn the conversation that way.  I must be

very careful, however, not to awake his suspicion.

 

 

Midnight.–I have had a long talk with the Count.  I asked him a few

questions on Transylvania history, and he warmed up to the subject

wonderfully.  In his speaking of things and people, and especially of

battles, he spoke as if he had been present at them all.  This he

afterwards explained by saying that to a Boyar the pride of his house

and name is his own pride, that their glory is his glory, that their

fate is his fate.  Whenever he spoke of his house he always said “we”,

and spoke almost in the plural, like a king speaking.  I wish I could

put down all he said exactly as he said it, for to me it was most

fascinating.  It seemed to have in it a whole history of the country.

He grew excited as he spoke, and walked about the room pulling his

great white moustache and grasping anything on which he laid his hands

as though he would crush it by main strength.  One thing he said which

I shall put down as nearly as I can, for it tells in its way the story

of his race.

 

“We Szekelys have a right to be proud, for in our veins flows the

blood of many brave races who fought as the lion fights, for lordship.

Here, in the whirlpool of European races, the Ugric tribe bore down

from Iceland the fighting spirit which Thor and Wodin gave them, which

their Berserkers displayed to such fell intent on the seaboards of

Europe, aye, and of Asia and Africa too, till the peoples thought that

the werewolves themselves had come.  Here, too, when they came, they

found the Huns, whose warlike fury had swept the earth like a living

flame, till the dying peoples held that in their veins ran the blood

of those old witches, who, expelled from Scythia had mated with the

devils in the desert.  Fools, fools!  What devil or what witch was

ever so great as Attila, whose blood is in these veins?”  He held up

his arms.  “Is it a wonder that we were a conquering race, that we

were proud, that when the Magyar, the Lombard, the Avar, the Bulgar,

or the Turk poured his thousands on our frontiers, we drove them back?

Is it strange that when Arpad and his legions swept through the

Hungarian fatherland he found us here when he reached the frontier,

that the Honfoglalas was completed there?  And when the Hungarian

flood swept eastward, the Szekelys were claimed as kindred by the

victorious Magyars, and to us for centuries was trusted the guarding

of the frontier of Turkeyland.  Aye, and more than that, endless duty

of the frontier guard, for as the Turks say, ‘water sleeps, and the

enemy is sleepless.’  Who more gladly than we throughout the Four

Nations received the ‘bloody sword,’ or at its warlike call flocked

quicker to the standard of the King?  When was redeemed that great

shame of my nation, the shame of Cassova, when the flags of the

Wallach and the Magyar went down beneath the Crescent?  Who was it but

one of my own race who as Voivode crossed the Danube and beat the Turk

on his own ground?  This was a Dracula indeed!  Woe was it that his

own unworthy brother, when he had fallen, sold his people to the Turk

and brought the shame of slavery on them!  Was it not this Dracula,

indeed, who inspired that other of his race who in a later age again

and again brought his forces over the great river into Turkeyland,

who, when he was beaten back, came again, and again, though he had to

come alone from the bloody field where his troops were being

slaughtered, since he knew that he alone could ultimately triumph!

They said that he thought only of himself.  Bah!  What good are

peasants without a leader?  Where ends the war without a brain and

heart to conduct it?  Again, when, after the battle of Mohacs, we

threw off the Hungarian yoke, we of the Dracula blood were amongst

their leaders, for our spirit would not brook that we were not free.

Ah, young sir, the Szekelys, and the Dracula as their heart’s blood,

their brains, and their swords, can boast a record that mushroom

growths like the Hapsburgs and the Romanoffs can never reach.  The

warlike days are over.  Blood is too precious a thing in these days of

dishonourable peace, and the glories of the great races are as a tale

that is told.”

 

It was by this time close on morning, and we went to bed.  (Mem., this

diary seems horribly like the beginning of the “Arabian Nights,” for

everything has to break off at cockcrow, or like the ghost of Hamlet’s

father.)

 

 

12 May.–Let me begin with facts, bare, meager facts, verified by

books and figures, and of which there can be no doubt.  I must not

confuse them with experiences which will have to rest on my own

observation, or my memory of them.  Last evening when the Count came

from his room he began by asking me questions on legal matters and on

the doing of certain kinds of business.  I had spent the day wearily

over books, and, simply to keep my mind occupied, went over some of

the matters I had been examined in at Lincoln’s Inn.  There was a

certain method in the Count’s inquiries, so I shall try to put them

down in sequence.  The knowledge may somehow or some time be useful to

me.

 

First, he asked if a man in England might have two solicitors or more.

I told him he might have a dozen if he wished, but that it would not

be wise to have more than one solicitor engaged in one transaction, as

only one could act at a time, and that to change would be certain to

militate against his interest.  He seemed thoroughly to understand,

and went on to ask if there would be any practical difficulty in having

one man to attend, say, to banking, and another to look after

shipping, in case local help were needed in a place far from the home

of the banking solicitor.  I asked to explain more fully, so that I

might not by any chance mislead him, so he said,

 

“I shall illustrate.  Your friend and mine, Mr. Peter Hawkins, from

under the shadow of your beautiful cathedral at Exeter, which is far

from London, buys for me through your good self my place at London.

Good!  Now here let me say frankly, lest you should think it strange

that I have sought the services of one so far off from London instead

of some one resident there, that my motive was that no local interest

might be served save my wish only, and as one of London residence

might, perhaps, have some purpose of himself or friend to serve, I

went thus afield to seek my agent, whose labours should be only to my

interest.  Now, suppose I, who have much of affairs, wish to ship

goods, say, to Newcastle, or Durham, or Harwich, or Dover, might it

not be that it could with more ease be done by consigning to one in

these ports?”

 

I answered that certainly it would be most easy, but that we

solicitors had a system of agency one for the other, so that local

work could be done locally on instruction from any solicitor, so that

the client, simply placing himself in the hands of one man, could have

his wishes carried out by him without further trouble.

 

“But,” said he, “I could be at liberty to direct myself.  Is it not

so?”

 

“Of course,” I replied, and “Such is often done by men of business,

who do not like the whole of their affairs to be known by any one

person.”

 

“Good!” he said, and then went on to ask about the means of making

consignments and the forms to be gone through, and of all sorts of

difficulties which might arise, but by forethought could be guarded

against.  I explained all these things to him to the best of my

ability, and he certainly left me under the impression that he would

have made a wonderful solicitor, for there was nothing that he did not

think of or foresee.  For a man who was never in the country, and who

did not evidently do much in the way of business, his knowledge and

acumen were wonderful.  When he had satisfied himself on these points

of which he had spoken, and I had verified all as well as I could by

the books available, he suddenly stood up and said, “Have you written

since your first letter to our friend Mr. Peter Hawkins, or to any

other?”

 

It was with some bitterness in my heart that I answered that I had

not, that as yet I had not seen any opportunity of sending letters to

anybody.

 

“Then write now, my young friend,” he said, laying a heavy hand on my

shoulder, “write to our friend and to any other, and say, if it will

please you, that you shall stay with me until a month from now.”

 

“Do you wish me to stay so long?” I asked, for my heart grew cold at

the thought.

 

“I desire it much, nay I will take no refusal.  When your master,

employer, what you will, engaged that someone should come on his

behalf, it was understood that my needs only were to be consulted.  I

have not stinted.  Is it not so?”

 

What could I do but bow acceptance?  It was Mr. Hawkins’ interest, not

mine, and I had to think of him, not myself, and besides, while Count

Dracula was speaking, there was that in his eyes and in his bearing

which made me remember that I was a prisoner, and that if I wished it

I could have no choice.  The Count saw his victory in my bow, and his

mastery in the trouble of my face, for he began at once to use them,

but in his own smooth, resistless way.

 

“I pray you, my good young friend, that you will not discourse of

things other than business in your letters.  It will doubtless please

your friends to know that you are well, and that you look forward to

getting home to them.  Is it not so?”  As he spoke he handed me three

sheets of note paper and three envelopes.  They were all of the

thinnest foreign post, and looking at them, then at him, and noticing

his quiet smile, with the sharp, canine teeth lying over the red

underlip, I understood as well as if he had spoken that I should be

more careful what I wrote, for he would be able to read it.  So I

determined to write only formal notes now, but to write fully to Mr.

Hawkins in secret, and also to Mina, for to her I could write

shorthand, which would puzzle the Count, if he did see it.  When I had

written my two letters I sat quiet, reading a book whilst the Count

wrote several notes, referring as he wrote them to some books on his

table.  Then he took up my two and placed them with his own, and put

by his writing materials, after which, the instant the door had closed

behind him, I leaned over and looked at the letters, which were face

down on the table.  I felt no compunction in doing so for under the

circumstances I felt that I should protect myself in every way I

could.

 

One of the letters was directed to Samuel F. Billington, No. 7, The

Crescent, Whitby, another to Herr Leutner, Varna.  The third was to

Coutts & Co., London, and the fourth to Herren Klopstock & Billreuth,

bankers, Buda Pesth.  The second and fourth were unsealed.  I was just

about to look at them when I saw the door handle move.  I sank back in

my seat, having just had time to resume my book before the Count,

holding still another letter in his hand, entered the room.  He took

up the letters on the table and stamped them carefully, and then

turning to me, said,

 

“I trust you will forgive me, but I have much work to do in private

this evening.  You will, I hope, find all things as you wish.”  At the

door he turned, and after a moment’s pause said, “Let me advise you,

my dear young friend.  Nay, let me warn you with all seriousness, that

should you leave these rooms you will not by any chance go to sleep in

any other part of the castle.  It is old, and has many memories, and

there are bad dreams for those who sleep unwisely.  Be warned!  Should

sleep now or ever overcome you, or be like to do, then haste to your

own chamber or to these rooms, for your rest will then be safe.  But

if you be not careful in this respect, then,” He finished his speech

in a gruesome way, for he motioned with his hands as if he were washing

them.  I quite understood.  My only doubt was as to whether any dream

could be more terrible than the unnatural, horrible net of gloom and

mystery which seemed closing around me.

 

 

Later.–I endorse the last words written, but this time there is no

doubt in question.  I shall not fear to sleep in any place where he is

not.  I have placed the crucifix over the head of my bed, I imagine

that my rest is thus freer from dreams, and there it shall remain.

 

When he left me I went to my room.  After a little while, not hearing

any sound, I came out and went up the stone stair to where I could

look out towards the South.  There was some sense of freedom in the

vast expanse, inaccessible though it was to me, as compared with the

narrow darkness of the courtyard.  Looking out on this, I felt that I

was indeed in prison, and I seemed to want a breath of fresh air,

though it were of the night.  I am beginning to feel this nocturnal

existence tell on me.  It is destroying my nerve.  I start at my own

shadow, and am full of all sorts of horrible imaginings.  God knows

that there is ground for my terrible fear in this accursed place!  I

looked out over the beautiful expanse, bathed in soft yellow moonlight

till it was almost as light as day.  In the soft light the distant

hills became melted, and the shadows in the valleys and gorges of

velvety blackness.  The mere beauty seemed to cheer me.  There was

peace and comfort in every breath I drew.  As I leaned from the window

my eye was caught by something moving a storey below me, and somewhat

to my left, where I imagined, from the order of the rooms, that the

windows of the Count’s own room would look out.  The window at which I

stood was tall and deep, stone-mullioned, and though weatherworn, was

still complete.  But it was evidently many a day since the case had

been there.  I drew back behind the stonework, and looked carefully

out.

 

What I saw was the Count’s head coming out from the window.  I did not

see the face, but I knew the man by the neck and the movement of his

back and arms.  In any case I could not mistake the hands which I had

had some many opportunities of studying.  I was at first interested

and somewhat amused, for it is wonderful how small a matter will

interest and amuse a man when he is a prisoner.  But my very feelings

changed to repulsion and terror when I saw the whole man slowly emerge

from the window and begin to crawl down the castle wall over the

dreadful abyss, face down with his cloak spreading out around him like

great wings.  At first I could not believe my eyes.  I thought it was

some trick of the moonlight, some weird effect of shadow, but I kept

looking, and it could be no delusion.  I saw the fingers and toes

grasp the corners of the stones, worn clear of the mortar by the

stress of years, and by thus using every projection and inequality

move downwards with considerable speed, just as a lizard moves along a

wall.

 

What manner of man is this, or what manner of creature, is it in the

semblance of man?  I feel the dread of this horrible place

overpowering me.  I am in fear, in awful fear, and there is no escape

for me.  I am encompassed about with terrors that I dare not think of.

 

 

15 May.–Once more I have seen the count go out in his lizard fashion.

He moved downwards in a sidelong way, some hundred feet down, and a

good deal to the left.  He vanished into some hole or window.  When

his head had disappeared, I leaned out to try and see more, but

without avail.  The distance was too great to allow a proper angle of

sight.  I knew he had left the castle now, and thought to use the

opportunity to explore more than I had dared to do as yet.  I went

back to the room, and taking a lamp, tried all the doors.  They were

all locked, as I had expected, and the locks were comparatively new.

But I went down the stone stairs to the hall where I had entered

originally.  I found I could pull back the bolts easily enough and

unhook the great chains.  But the door was locked, and the key was

gone!  That key must be in the Count’s room.  I must watch should his

door be unlocked, so that I may get it and escape.  I went on to make

a thorough examination of the various stairs and passages, and to try

the doors that opened from them.  One or two small rooms near the hall

were open, but there was nothing to see in them except old furniture,

dusty with age and moth-eaten.  At last, however, I found one door at

the top of the stairway which, though it seemed locked, gave a little

under pressure.  I tried it harder, and found that it was not really

locked, but that the resistance came from the fact that the hinges had

fallen somewhat, and the heavy door rested on the floor.  Here was an

opportunity which I might not have again, so I exerted myself, and

with many efforts forced it back so that I could enter.  I was now in

a wing of the castle further to the right than the rooms I knew and a

storey lower down.  From the windows I could see that the suite of

rooms lay along to the south of the castle, the windows of the end

room looking out both west and south.  On the latter side, as well as

to the former, there was a great precipice.  The castle was built on

the corner of a great rock, so that on three sides it was quite

impregnable, and great windows were placed here where sling, or bow,

or culverin could not reach, and consequently light and comfort,

impossible to a position which had to be guarded, were secured.  To

the west was a great valley, and then, rising far away, great jagged

mountain fastnesses, rising peak on peak, the sheer rock studded with

mountain ash and thorn, whose roots clung in cracks and crevices and

crannies of the stone.  This was evidently the portion of the castle

occupied by the ladies in bygone days, for the furniture had more an

air of comfort than any I had seen.

 

The windows were curtainless, and the yellow moonlight, flooding in

through the diamond panes, enabled one to see even colours, whilst it

softened the wealth of dust which lay over all and disguised in some

measure the ravages of time and moth.  My lamp seemed to be of little

effect in the brilliant moonlight, but I was glad to have it with me,

for there was a dread loneliness in the place which chilled my heart

and made my nerves tremble.  Still, it was better than living alone in

the rooms which I had come to hate from the presence of the Count, and

after trying a little to school my nerves, I found a soft quietude

come over me.  Here I am, sitting at a little oak table where in old

times possibly some fair lady sat to pen, with much thought and many

blushes, her ill-spelt love letter, and writing in my diary in

shorthand all that has happened since I closed it last.  It is the

nineteenth century up-to-date with a vengeance.  And yet, unless my

senses deceive me, the old centuries had, and have, powers of their

own which mere “modernity” cannot kill.

 

 

Later:  The morning of 16 May.–God preserve my sanity, for to this I

am reduced.  Safety and the assurance of safety are things of the

past.  Whilst I live on here there is but one thing to hope for, that

I may not go mad, if, indeed, I be not mad already.  If I be sane,

then surely it is maddening to think that of all the foul things that

lurk in this hateful place the Count is the least dreadful to me, that

to him alone I can look for safety, even though this be only whilst I

can serve his purpose.  Great God!  Merciful God, let me be calm, for

out of that way lies madness indeed.  I begin to get new lights on

certain things which have puzzled me.  Up to now I never quite knew

what Shakespeare meant when he made Hamlet say, “My tablets!  Quick,

my tablets!  ’tis meet that I put it down,” etc., For now, feeling as

though my own brain were unhinged or as if the shock had come which

must end in its undoing, I turn to my diary for repose.  The habit of

entering accurately must help to soothe me.

 

The Count’s mysterious warning frightened me at the time.  It frightens

me more now when I think of it, for in the future he has a fearful

hold upon me.  I shall fear to doubt what he may say!

 

When I had written in my diary and had fortunately replaced the book

and pen in my pocket I felt sleepy.  The Count’s warning came into my

mind, but I took pleasure in disobeying it.  The sense of sleep was

upon me, and with it the obstinacy which sleep brings as outrider.  The

soft moonlight soothed, and the wide expanse without gave a sense of

freedom which refreshed me.  I determined not to return tonight to the

gloom-haunted rooms, but to sleep here, where, of old, ladies had sat

and sung and lived sweet lives whilst their gentle breasts were sad

for their menfolk away in the midst of remorseless wars.  I drew a

great couch out of its place near the corner, so that as I lay, I

could look at the lovely view to east and south, and unthinking of and

uncaring for the dust, composed myself for sleep.  I suppose I must

have fallen asleep.  I hope so, but I fear, for all that followed was

startlingly real, so real that now sitting here in the broad, full

sunlight of the morning, I cannot in the least believe that it was all

sleep.

 

I was not alone.  The room was the same, unchanged in any way since I

came into it.  I could see along the floor, in the brilliant

moonlight, my own footsteps marked where I had disturbed the long

accumulation of dust.  In the moonlight opposite me were three young

women, ladies by their dress and manner.  I thought at the time that I

must be dreaming when I saw them, they threw no shadow on the floor.

They came close to me, and looked at me for some time, and then

whispered together.  Two were dark, and had high aquiline noses, like

the Count, and great dark, piercing eyes, that seemed to be almost red

when contrasted with the pale yellow moon.  The other was fair, as

fair as can be, with great masses of golden hair and eyes like pale

sapphires.  I seemed somehow to know her face, and to know it in

connection with some dreamy fear, but I could not recollect at the

moment how or where.  All three had brilliant white teeth that shone

like pearls against the ruby of their voluptuous lips.  There was

something about them that made me uneasy, some longing and at the same

time some deadly fear.  I felt in my heart a wicked, burning desire

that they would kiss me with those red lips.  It is not good to note

this down, lest some day it should meet Mina’s eyes and cause her

pain, but it is the truth.  They whispered together, and then they all

three laughed, such a silvery, musical laugh, but as hard as though

the sound never could have come through the softness of human lips.

It was like the intolerable, tingling sweetness of water-glasses when

played on by a cunning hand.  The fair girl shook her head

coquettishly, and the other two urged her on.

 

One said, “Go on!  You are first, and we shall follow.  Yours is the

right to begin.”

 

The other added, “He is young and strong.  There are kisses for us

all.”

 

I lay quiet, looking out from under my eyelashes in an agony of

delightful anticipation.  The fair girl advanced and bent over me till

I could feel the movement of her breath upon me.  Sweet it was in one

sense, honey-sweet, and sent the same tingling through the nerves as

her voice, but with a bitter underlying the sweet, a bitter

offensiveness, as one smells in blood.

 

I was afraid to raise my eyelids, but looked out and saw perfectly

under the lashes.  The girl went on her knees, and bent over me,

simply gloating.  There was a deliberate voluptuousness which was both

thrilling and repulsive, and as she arched her neck she actually

licked her lips like an animal, till I could see in the moonlight the

moisture shining on the scarlet lips and on the red tongue as it

lapped the white sharp teeth.  Lower and lower went her head as the

lips went below the range of my mouth and chin and seemed to fasten on

my throat.  Then she paused, and I could hear the churning sound of

her tongue as it licked her teeth and lips, and I could feel the hot

breath on my neck.  Then the skin of my throat began to tingle as

one’s flesh does when the hand that is to tickle it approaches nearer,

nearer.  I could feel the soft, shivering touch of the lips on the

super-sensitive skin of my throat, and the hard dents of two sharp

teeth, just touching and pausing there.  I closed my eyes in

languorous ecstasy and waited, waited with beating heart.

 

But at that instant, another sensation swept through me as quick as

lightning.  I was conscious of the presence of the Count, and of his

being as if lapped in a storm of fury.  As my eyes opened

involuntarily I saw his strong hand grasp the slender neck of the fair

woman and with giant’s power draw it back, the blue eyes transformed

with fury, the white teeth champing with rage, and the fair cheeks

blazing red with passion.  But the Count!  Never did I imagine such

wrath and fury, even to the demons of the pit.  His eyes were

positively blazing.  The red light in them was lurid, as if the flames

of hell fire blazed behind them.  His face was deathly pale, and the

lines of it were hard like drawn wires.  The thick eyebrows that met

over the nose now seemed like a heaving bar of white-hot metal.  With

a fierce sweep of his arm, he hurled the woman from him, and then

motioned to the others, as though he were beating them back.  It was

the same imperious gesture that I had seen used to the wolves.  In a

voice which, though low and almost in a whisper seemed to cut through

the air and then ring in the room he said,

 

“How dare you touch him, any of you?  How dare you cast eyes on him

when I had forbidden it?  Back, I tell you all!  This man belongs to

me!  Beware how you meddle with him, or you’ll have to deal with me.”

 

The fair girl, with a laugh of ribald coquetry, turned to answer him.

“You yourself never loved.  You never love!”  On this the other women

joined, and such a mirthless, hard, soulless laughter rang through the

room that it almost made me faint to hear.  It seemed like the

pleasure of fiends.

 

Then the Count turned, after looking at my face attentively, and said

in a soft whisper, “Yes, I too can love.  You yourselves can tell it

from the past.  Is it not so?  Well, now I promise you that when I am

done with him you shall kiss him at your will.  Now go!  Go!  I must

awaken him, for there is work to be done.”

 

“Are we to have nothing tonight?” said one of them, with a low laugh,

as she pointed to the bag which he had thrown upon the floor, and

which moved as though there were some living thing within it.  For

answer he nodded his head.  One of the women jumped forward and opened

1. If my ears did not deceive me there was a gasp and a low wail, as

of a half smothered child.  The women closed round, whilst I was

aghast with horror.  But as I looked, they disappeared, and with them

the dreadful bag.  There was no door near them, and they could not

have passed me without my noticing.  They simply seemed to fade into

the rays of the moonlight and pass out through the window, for I could

see outside the dim, shadowy forms for a moment before they entirely

faded away.

 

Then the horror overcame me, and I sank down unconscious.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 4

 

 

Jonathan Harker’s Journal Continued

 

I awoke in my own bed.  If it be that I had not dreamt, the Count must

have carried me here.  I tried to satisfy myself on the subject, but

could not arrive at any unquestionable result.  To be sure, there were

certain small evidences, such as that my clothes were folded and laid

by in a manner which was not my habit.  My watch was still unwound,

and I am rigorously accustomed to wind it the last thing before going

to bed, and many such details.  But these things are no proof, for

they may have been evidences that my mind was not as usual, and, for

some cause or another, I had certainly been much upset.  I must watch

for proof.  Of one thing I am glad.  If it was that the Count carried

me here and undressed me, he must have been hurried in his task, for

my pockets are intact.  I am sure this diary would have been a mystery

to him which he would not have brooked.  He would have taken or

destroyed it.  As I look round this room, although it has been to me

so full of fear, it is now a sort of sanctuary, for nothing can be

more dreadful than those awful women, who were, who are, waiting to

suck my blood.

 

 

18 May.–I have been down to look at that room again in daylight, for

I must know the truth.  When I got to the doorway at the top of the

stairs I found it closed.  It had been so forcibly driven against the

jamb that part of the woodwork was splintered.  I could see that the

bolt of the lock had not been shot, but the door is fastened from the

inside.  I fear it was no dream, and must act on this surmise.

 

 

19 May.–I am surely in the toils.  Last night the Count asked me in

the suavest tones to write three letters, one saying that my work here

was nearly done, and that I should start for home within a few days,

another that I was starting on the next morning from the time of the

letter, and the third that I had left the castle and arrived at

Bistritz.  I would fain have rebelled, but felt that in the present

state of things it would be madness to quarrel openly with the Count

whilst I am so absolutely in his power.  And to refuse would be to

excite his suspicion and to arouse his anger.  He knows that I know

too much, and that I must not live, lest I be dangerous to him.  My

only chance is to prolong my opportunities.  Something may occur which

will give me a chance to escape.  I saw in his eyes something of that

gathering wrath which was manifest when he hurled that fair woman from

him.  He explained to me that posts were few and uncertain, and that

my writing now would ensure ease of mind to my friends.  And he

assured me with so much impressiveness that he would countermand the

later letters, which would be held over at Bistritz until due time in

case chance would admit of my prolonging my stay, that to oppose him

would have been to create new suspicion.  I therefore pretended to

fall in with his views, and asked him what dates I should put on the

letters.

 

He calculated a minute, and then said, “The first should be June 12,

the second June 19, and the third June 29.”

 

I know now the span of my life.  God help me!

 

 

28 May.–There is a chance of escape, or at any rate of being able to

send word home.  A band of Szgany have come to the castle, and are

encamped in the courtyard.  These are gipsies.  I have notes of them

in my book.  They are peculiar to this part of the world, though

allied to the ordinary gipsies all the world over.  There are

thousands of them in Hungary and Transylvania, who are almost outside

all law.  They attach themselves as a rule to some great noble or

boyar, and call themselves by his name.  They are fearless and without

religion, save superstition, and they talk only their own varieties of

the Romany tongue.

 

I shall write some letters home, and shall try to get them to have

them posted.  I have already spoken to them through my window to begin

acquaintanceship.  They took their hats off and made obeisance and

many signs, which however, I could not understand any more than I

could their spoken language . . .

 

I have written the letters.  Mina’s is in shorthand, and I simply ask

Mr. Hawkins to communicate with her.  To her I have explained my

situation, but without the horrors which I may only surmise.  It would

shock and frighten her to death were I to expose my heart to her.

Should the letters not carry, then the Count shall not yet know my

secret or the extent of my knowledge. . . .

 

 

I have given the letters.  I threw them through the bars of my window

with a gold piece, and made what signs I could to have them posted.

The man who took them pressed them to his heart and bowed, and then

put them in his cap.  I could do no more.  I stole back to the study,

and began to read.  As the Count did not come in, I have written

here . . .

 

 

The Count has come.  He sat down beside me, and said in his smoothest

voice as he opened two letters, “The Szgany has given me these, of

which, though I know not whence they come, I shall, of course, take

care.  See!”–He must have looked at it.–“One is from you, and to my

friend Peter Hawkins.  The other,”–here he caught sight of the

strange symbols as he opened the envelope, and the dark look came into

his face, and his eyes blazed wickedly,–“The other is a vile thing,

an outrage upon friendship and hospitality!  It is not signed.  Well!

So it cannot matter to us.”  And he calmly held letter and envelope in

the flame of the lamp till they were consumed.

 

Then he went on, “The letter to Hawkins, that I shall, of course send

on, since it is yours.  Your letters are sacred to me.  Your pardon,

my friend, that unknowingly I did break the seal.  Will you not cover

it again?”  He held out the letter to me, and with a courteous bow

handed me a clean envelope.

 

I could only redirect it and hand it to him in silence.  When he went

out of the room I could hear the key turn softly.  A minute later I

went over and tried it, and the door was locked.

 

When, an hour or two after, the Count came quietly into the room, his

coming awakened me, for I had gone to sleep on the sofa.  He was very

courteous and very cheery in his manner, and seeing that I had been

sleeping, he said, “So, my friend, you are tired?  Get to bed.  There

is the surest rest.  I may not have the pleasure of talk tonight,

since there are many labours to me, but you will sleep, I pray.”

 

I passed to my room and went to bed, and, strange to say, slept

without dreaming.  Despair has its own calms.

 

31 May.–This morning when I woke I thought I would provide myself

with some papers and envelopes from my bag and keep them in my pocket,

so that I might write in case I should get an opportunity, but again a

surprise, again a shock!

 

Every scrap of paper was gone, and with it all my notes, my memoranda,

relating to railways and travel, my letter of credit, in fact all that

might be useful to me were I once outside the castle.  I sat and

pondered awhile, and then some thought occurred to me, and I made

search of my portmanteau and in the wardrobe where I had placed my

clothes.

 

The suit in which I had travelled was gone, and also my overcoat and

rug.  I could find no trace of them anywhere.  This looked like some

new scheme of villainy . . .

 

 

17 June.–This morning, as I was sitting on the edge of my bed

cudgelling my brains, I heard without a crackling of whips and

pounding and scraping of horses’ feet up the rocky path beyond the

courtyard.  With joy I hurried to the window, and saw drive into the

yard two great leiter-wagons, each drawn by eight sturdy horses, and

at the head of each pair a Slovak, with his wide hat, great

nail-studded belt, dirty sheepskin, and high boots.  They had also

their long staves in hand.  I ran to the door, intending to descend

and try and join them through the main hall, as I thought that way

might be opened for them.  Again a shock, my door was fastened on the

outside.

 

Then I ran to the window and cried to them.  They looked up at me

stupidly and pointed, but just then the “hetman” of the Szgany came

out, and seeing them pointing to my window, said something, at which

they laughed.

 

Henceforth no effort of mine, no piteous cry or agonized entreaty,

would make them even look at me.  They resolutely turned away.  The

leiter-wagons contained great, square boxes, with handles of thick

rope.  These were evidently empty by the ease with which the Slovaks

handled them, and by their resonance as they were roughly moved.

 

When they were all unloaded and packed in a great heap in one corner

of the yard, the Slovaks were given some money by the Szgany, and

spitting on it for luck, lazily went each to his horse’s head.

Shortly afterwards, I heard the cracking of their whips die away in

the distance.

 

 

24 June.–Last night the Count left me early, and locked himself into

his own room.  As soon as I dared I ran up the winding stair, and

looked out of the window, which opened South.  I thought I would watch

for the Count, for there is something going on.  The Szgany are

quartered somewhere in the castle and are doing work of some kind.  I

know it, for now and then, I hear a far-away muffled sound as of

mattock and spade, and, whatever it is, it must be the end of some

ruthless villainy.

 

I had been at the window somewhat less than half an hour, when I saw

something coming out of the Count’s window.  I drew back and watched

carefully, and saw the whole man emerge.  It was a new shock to me to

find that he had on the suit of clothes which I had worn whilst

travelling here, and slung over his shoulder the terrible bag which I

had seen the women take away.  There could be no doubt as to his

quest, and in my garb, too!  This, then, is his new scheme of evil,

that he will allow others to see me, as they think, so that he may

both leave evidence that I have been seen in the towns or villages

posting my own letters, and that any wickedness which he may do shall

by the local people be attributed to me.

 

It makes me rage to think that this can go on, and whilst I am shut up

here, a veritable prisoner, but without that protection of the law

which is even a criminal’s right and consolation.

 

I thought I would watch for the Count’s return, and for a long time

sat doggedly at the window.  Then I began to notice that there were

some quaint little specks floating in the rays of the moonlight.  They

were like the tiniest grains of dust, and they whirled round and

gathered in clusters in a nebulous sort of way.  I watched them with a

sense of soothing, and a sort of calm stole over me.  I leaned back in

the embrasure in a more comfortable position, so that I could enjoy

more fully the aerial gambolling.

 

Something made me start up, a low, piteous howling of dogs somewhere

far below in the valley, which was hidden from my sight.  Louder it

seemed to ring in my ears, and the floating moats of dust to take new

shapes to the sound as they danced in the moonlight.  I felt myself

struggling to awake to some call of my instincts.  Nay, my very soul

was struggling, and my half-remembered sensibilities were striving to

answer the call.  I was becoming hypnotised!

 

Quicker and quicker danced the dust.  The moonbeams seemed to quiver

as they went by me into the mass of gloom beyond.  More and more they

gathered till they seemed to take dim phantom shapes.  And then I

started, broad awake and in full possession of my senses, and ran

screaming from the place.

 

The phantom shapes, which were becoming gradually materialised from

the moonbeams, were those three ghostly women to whom I was doomed.

 

I fled, and felt somewhat safer in my own room, where there was no

moonlight, and where the lamp was burning brightly.

 

When a couple of hours had passed I heard something stirring in the

Count’s room, something like a sharp wail quickly suppressed.  And

then there was silence, deep, awful silence, which chilled me.  With a

beating heart, I tried the door, but I was locked in my prison, and

could do nothing.  I sat down and simply cried.

 

As I sat I heard a sound in the courtyard without, the agonised cry of

a woman.  I rushed to the window, and throwing it up, peered between

the bars.

 

There, indeed, was a woman with dishevelled hair, holding her hands

over her heart as one distressed with running.  She was leaning

against the corner of the gateway.  When she saw my face at the window

she threw herself forward, and shouted in a voice laden with menace,

“Monster, give me my child!”

 

She threw herself on her knees, and raising up her hands, cried the

same words in tones which wrung my heart.  Then she tore her hair and

beat her breast, and abandoned herself to all the violences of

extravagant emotion.  Finally, she threw herself forward, and though I

could not see her, I could hear the beating of her naked hands against

the door.

 

Somewhere high overhead, probably on the tower, I heard the voice of

the Count calling in his harsh, metallic whisper.  His call seemed to

be answered from far and wide by the howling of wolves.  Before many

minutes had passed a pack of them poured, like a pent-up dam when

liberated, through the wide entrance into the courtyard.

 

There was no cry from the woman, and the howling of the wolves was but

short.  Before long they streamed away singly, licking their lips.

 

I could not pity her, for I knew now what had become of her child, and

she was better dead.

 

What shall I do?  What can I do?  How can I escape from this dreadful

thing of night, gloom, and fear?

 

 

25 June.–No man knows till he has suffered from the night how sweet

and dear to his heart and eye the morning can be.  When the sun grew

so high this morning that it struck the top of the great gateway

opposite my window, the high spot which it touched seemed to me as if

the dove from the ark had lighted there.  My fear fell from me as if

it had been a vaporous garment which dissolved in the warmth.

 

I must take action of some sort whilst the courage of the day is upon

1. Last night one of my post-dated letters went to post, the first

of that fatal series which is to blot out the very traces of my

existence from the earth.

 

Let me not think of it.  Action!

 

It has always been at night-time that I have been molested or

threatened, or in some way in danger or in fear.  I have not yet seen

the Count in the daylight.  Can it be that he sleeps when others wake,

that he may be awake whilst they sleep?  If I could only get into his

room!  But there is no possible way.  The door is always locked, no

way for me.

 

Yes, there is a way, if one dares to take it.  Where his body has gone

why may not another body go?  I have seen him myself crawl from his

window.  Why should not I imitate him, and go in by his window?  The

chances are desperate, but my need is more desperate still.  I shall

risk it.  At the worst it can only be death, and a man’s death is not

a calf’s, and the dreaded Hereafter may still be open to me.  God help

me in my task!  Goodbye, Mina, if I fail.  Goodbye, my faithful friend

and second father.  Goodbye, all, and last of all Mina!

 

 

Same day, later.–I have made the effort, and God helping me, have

come safely back to this room.  I must put down every detail in order.

I went whilst my courage was fresh straight to the window on the south

side, and at once got outside on this side.  The stones are big and

roughly cut, and the mortar has by process of time been washed away

between them.  I took off my boots, and ventured out on the desperate

way.  I looked down once, so as to make sure that a sudden glimpse of

the awful depth would not overcome me, but after that kept my eyes

away from it.  I know pretty well the direction and distance of the

Count’s window, and made for it as well as I could, having regard to

the opportunities available.  I did not feel dizzy, I suppose I was

too excited, and the time seemed ridiculously short till I found

myself standing on the window sill and trying to raise up the sash.  I

was filled with agitation, however, when I bent down and slid feet

foremost in through the window.  Then I looked around for the Count,

but with surprise and gladness, made a discovery.  The room was

empty!  It was barely furnished with odd things, which seemed to have

never been used.

 

The furniture was something the same style as that in the south rooms,

and was covered with dust.  I looked for the key, but it was not in

the lock, and I could not find it anywhere.  The only thing I found

was a great heap of gold in one corner, gold of all kinds, Roman, and

British, and Austrian, and Hungarian, and Greek and Turkish money,

covered with a film of dust, as though it had lain long in the ground.

None of it that I noticed was less than three hundred years old.

There were also chains and ornaments, some jewelled, but all of them

old and stained.

 

At one corner of the room was a heavy door.  I tried it, for, since I

could not find the key of the room or the key of the outer door, which

was the main object of my search, I must make further examination, or

all my efforts would be in vain.  It was open, and led through a stone

passage to a circular stairway, which went steeply down.

 

I descended, minding carefully where I went for the stairs were dark,

being only lit by loopholes in the heavy masonry.  At the bottom there

was a dark, tunnel-like passage, through which came a deathly, sickly

odour, the odour of old earth newly turned.  As I went through the

passage the smell grew closer and heavier.  At last I pulled open a

heavy door which stood ajar, and found myself in an old ruined chapel,

which had evidently been used as a graveyard.  The roof was broken,

and in two places were steps leading to vaults, but the ground had

recently been dug over, and the earth placed in great wooden boxes,

manifestly those which had been brought by the Slovaks.

 

There was nobody about, and I made a search over every inch of the

ground, so as not to lose a chance.  I went down even into the vaults,

where the dim light struggled, although to do so was a dread to my

very soul.  Into two of these I went, but saw nothing except fragments

of old coffins and piles of dust.  In the third, however, I made a

discovery.

 

There, in one of the great boxes, of which there were fifty in all, on

a pile of newly dug earth, lay the Count!  He was either dead or

asleep.  I could not say which, for eyes were open and stony, but

without the glassiness of death, and the cheeks had the warmth of life

through all their pallor.  The lips were as red as ever.  But there

was no sign of movement, no pulse, no breath, no beating of the heart.

 

I bent over him, and tried to find any sign of life, but in vain.  He

could not have lain there long, for the earthy smell would have passed

away in a few hours.  By the side of the box was its cover, pierced

with holes here and there.  I thought he might have the keys on him,

but when I went to search I saw the dead eyes, and in them dead though

they were, such a look of hate, though unconscious of me or my

presence, that I fled from the place, and leaving the Count’s room by

the window, crawled again up the castle wall.  Regaining my room, I

threw myself panting upon the bed and tried to think.

 

 

29 June.–Today is the date of my last letter, and the Count has taken

steps to prove that it was genuine, for again I saw him leave the

castle by the same window, and in my clothes.  As he went down the

wall, lizard fashion, I wished I had a gun or some lethal weapon, that

I might destroy him.  But I fear that no weapon wrought along by man’s

hand would have any effect on him.  I dared not wait to see him

return, for I feared to see those weird sisters.  I came back to the

library, and read there till I fell asleep.

 

I was awakened by the Count, who looked at me as grimly as a man could

look as he said, “Tomorrow, my friend, we must part.  You return to

your beautiful England, I to some work which may have such an end that

we may never meet.  Your letter home has been despatched.  Tomorrow I

shall not be here, but all shall be ready for your journey.  In the

morning come the Szgany, who have some labours of their own here, and

also come some Slovaks.  When they have gone, my carriage shall come

for you, and shall bear you to the Borgo Pass to meet the diligence

from Bukovina to Bistritz.  But I am in hopes that I shall see more of

you at Castle Dracula.”

 

I suspected him, and determined to test his sincerity.  Sincerity!  It

seems like a profanation of the word to write it in connection with

such a monster, so I asked him point-blank, “Why may I not go

tonight?”

 

“Because, dear sir, my coachman and horses are away on a mission.”

 

“But I would walk with pleasure.  I want to get away at once.”

 

He smiled, such a soft, smooth, diabolical smile that I knew there was

some trick behind his smoothness.  He said, “And your baggage?”

 

“I do not care about it.  I can send for it some other time.”

 

The Count stood up, and said, with a sweet courtesy which made me rub

my eyes, it seemed so real, “You English have a saying which is close

to my heart, for its spirit is that which rules our boyars, ‘Welcome

the coming, speed the parting guest.’  Come with me, my dear young

friend.  Not an hour shall you wait in my house against your will,

though sad am I at your going, and that you so suddenly desire it.

Come!”  With a stately gravity, he, with the lamp, preceded me down

the stairs and along the hall.  Suddenly he stopped.  “Hark!”

 

Close at hand came the howling of many wolves.  It was almost as if

the sound sprang up at the rising of his hand, just as the music of a

great orchestra seems to leap under the baton of the conductor.  After

a pause of a moment, he proceeded, in his stately way, to the door,

drew back the ponderous bolts, unhooked the heavy chains, and began to

draw it open.

 

To my intense astonishment I saw that it was unlocked.  Suspiciously,

I looked all round, but could see no key of any kind.

 

As the door began to open, the howling of the wolves without grew

louder and angrier.  Their red jaws, with champing teeth, and their

blunt-clawed feet as they leaped, came in through the opening door.  I

knew than that to struggle at the moment against the Count was

useless.  With such allies as these at his command, I could do

nothing.

 

But still the door continued slowly to open, and only the Count’s body

stood in the gap.  Suddenly it struck me that this might be the moment

and means of my doom.  I was to be given to the wolves, and at my own

instigation.  There was a diabolical wickedness in the idea great

enough for the Count, and as the last chance I cried out, “Shut the

door!  I shall wait till morning.”  And I covered my face with my

hands to hide my tears of bitter disappointment.

 

With one sweep of his powerful arm, the Count threw the door shut, and

the great bolts clanged and echoed through the hall as they shot back

into their places.

 

In silence we returned to the library, and after a minute or two I went

to my own room.  The last I saw of Count Dracula was his kissing his

hand to me, with a red light of triumph in his eyes, and with a smile

that Judas in hell might be proud of.

 

When I was in my room and about to lie down, I thought I heard a

whispering at my door.  I went to it softly and listened.  Unless my

ears deceived me, I heard the voice of the Count.

 

“Back!  Back to your own place!  Your time is not yet come.  Wait!

Have patience!  Tonight is mine.  Tomorrow night is yours!”

 

There was a low, sweet ripple of laughter, and in a rage I threw open

the door, and saw without the three terrible women licking their lips.

As I appeared, they all joined in a horrible laugh, and ran away.

 

I came back to my room and threw myself on my knees.  It is then so

near the end?  Tomorrow!  Tomorrow!  Lord, help me, and those to whom

I am dear!

 

 

30 June.–These may be the last words I ever write in this diary.  I

slept till just before the dawn, and when I woke threw myself on my

knees, for I determined that if Death came he should find me ready.

 

At last I felt that subtle change in the air, and knew that the

morning had come.  Then came the welcome cockcrow, and I felt that I

was safe.  With a glad heart, I opened the door and ran down the hall.

I had seen that the door was unlocked, and now escape was before me.

With hands that trembled with eagerness, I unhooked the chains and

threw back the massive bolts.

 

But the door would not move.  Despair seized me.  I pulled and pulled

at the door, and shook it till, massive as it was, it rattled in its

casement.  I could see the bolt shot.  It had been locked after I left

the Count.

 

Then a wild desire took me to obtain the key at any risk, and I

determined then and there to scale the wall again, and gain the

Count’s room.  He might kill me, but death now seemed the happier

choice of evils.  Without a pause I rushed up to the east window, and

scrambled down the wall, as before, into the Count’s room.  It was

empty, but that was as I expected.  I could not see a key anywhere,

but the heap of gold remained.  I went through the door in the corner

and down the winding stair and along the dark passage to the old

chapel.  I knew now well enough where to find the monster I sought.

 

The great box was in the same place, close against the wall, but the

lid was laid on it, not fastened down, but with the nails ready in

their places to be hammered home.

 

I knew I must reach the body for the key, so I raised the lid, and

laid it back against the wall.  And then I saw something which filled

my very soul with horror.  There lay the Count, but looking as if his

youth had been half restored.  For the white hair and moustache were

changed to dark iron-grey.  The cheeks were fuller, and the white skin

seemed ruby-red underneath.  The mouth was redder than ever, for on

the lips were gouts of fresh blood, which trickled from the corners of

the mouth and ran down over the chin and neck.  Even the deep, burning

eyes seemed set amongst swollen flesh, for the lids and pouches

underneath were bloated.  It seemed as if the whole awful creature

were simply gorged with blood.  He lay like a filthy leech, exhausted

with his repletion.

 

I shuddered as I bent over to touch him, and every sense in me

revolted at the contact, but I had to search, or I was lost.  The

coming night might see my own body a banquet in a similar war to those

horrid three.  I felt all over the body, but no sign could I find of

the key.  Then I stopped and looked at the Count.  There was a mocking

smile on the bloated face which seemed to drive me mad.  This was the

being I was helping to transfer to London, where, perhaps, for

centuries to come he might, amongst its teeming millions, satiate his

lust for blood, and create a new and ever-widening circle of

semi-demons to batten on the helpless.

 

The very thought drove me mad.  A terrible desire came upon me to rid

the world of such a monster.  There was no lethal weapon at hand, but

I seized a shovel which the workmen had been using to fill the cases,

and lifting it high, struck, with the edge downward, at the hateful

face.  But as I did so the head turned, and the eyes fell upon me,

with all their blaze of basilisk horror.  The sight seemed to paralyze

me, and the shovel turned in my hand and glanced from the face, merely

making a deep gash above the forehead.  The shovel fell from my hand

across the box, and as I pulled it away the flange of the blade caught

the edge of the lid which fell over again, and hid the horrid thing

from my sight.  The last glimpse I had was of the bloated face,

blood-stained and fixed with a grin of malice which would have held

its own in the nethermost hell.

 

I thought and thought what should be my next move, but my brain seemed

on fire, and I waited with a despairing feeling growing over me.  As I

waited I heard in the distance a gipsy song sung by merry voices

coming closer, and through their song the rolling of heavy wheels and

the cracking of whips.  The Szgany and the Slovaks of whom the Count

had spoken were coming.  With a last look around and at the box which

contained the vile body, I ran from the place and gained the Count’s

room, determined to rush out at the moment the door should be opened.

With strained ears, I listened, and heard downstairs the grinding of

the key in the great lock and the falling back of the heavy door.

There must have been some other means of entry, or some one had a key

for one of the locked doors.

 

Then there came the sound of many feet tramping and dying away in some

passage which sent up a clanging echo.  I turned to run down again

towards the vault, where I might find the new entrance, but at the

moment there seemed to come a violent puff of wind, and the door to

the winding stair blew to with a shock that set the dust from the

lintels flying.  When I ran to push it open, I found that it was

hopelessly fast.  I was again a prisoner, and the net of doom was

closing round me more closely.

 

As I write there is in the passage below a sound of many tramping feet

and the crash of weights being set down heavily, doubtless the boxes,

with their freight of earth.  There was a sound of hammering.  It is

the box being nailed down.  Now I can hear the heavy feet tramping

again along the hall, with many other idle feet coming behind them.

 

The door is shut, the chains rattle.  There is a grinding of the key

in the lock.  I can hear the key withdrawn, then another door opens

and shuts.  I hear the creaking of lock and bolt.

 

Hark!  In the courtyard and down the rocky way the roll of heavy

wheels, the crack of whips, and the chorus of the Szgany as they pass

into the distance.

 

I am alone in the castle with those horrible women.  Faugh!  Mina is a

woman, and there is nought in common.  They are devils of the Pit!

 

I shall not remain alone with them.  I shall try to scale the castle

wall farther than I have yet attempted.  I shall take some of the gold

with me, lest I want it later.  I may find a way from this dreadful

place.

 

And then away for home!  Away to the quickest and nearest train!  Away

from the cursed spot, from this cursed land, where the devil and his

children still walk with earthly feet!

 

At least God’s mercy is better than that of those monsters, and the

precipice is steep and high.  At its foot a man may sleep, as a man.

Goodbye, all.  Mina!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 5

 

 

LETTER FROM MISS MINA MURRAY TO MISS LUCY WESTENRA

 

9 May.

 

My dearest Lucy,

 

Forgive my long delay in writing, but I have been simply overwhelmed

with work.  The life of an assistant schoolmistress is sometimes

trying.  I am longing to be with you, and by the sea, where we can

talk together freely and build our castles in the air.  I have been

working very hard lately, because I want to keep up with Jonathan’s

studies, and I have been practicing shorthand very assiduously.

When we are married I shall be able to be useful to Jonathan, and if

I can stenograph well enough I can take down what he wants to say in

this way and write it out for him on the typewriter, at which also I

am practicing very hard.

 

He and I sometimes write letters in shorthand, and he is

keeping a stenographic journal of his travels abroad.  When

I am with you I shall keep a diary in the same way.  I don’t

mean one of those two-pages-to-the-week-with-Sunday-squeezed-

in-a-corner diaries, but a sort of journal which I can write

in whenever I feel inclined.

 

I do not suppose there will be much of interest to other people, but

it is not intended for them.  I may show it to Jonathan some day if

there is in it anything worth sharing, but it is really an exercise

book.  I shall try to do what I see lady journalists do,

interviewing and writing descriptions and trying to remember

conversations.  I am told that, with a little practice, one can

remember all that goes on or that one hears said during a day.

 

However, we shall see.  I will tell you of my little plans when we

meet.  I have just had a few hurried lines from Jonathan from

Transylvania.  He is well, and will be returning in about a week.  I

am longing to hear all his news.  It must be nice to see strange

countries.  I wonder if we, I mean Jonathan and I, shall ever see

them together.  There is the ten o’clock bell ringing.  Goodbye.

 

Your loving

 

Mina

 

 

Tell me all the news when you write.  You have not told me

anything for a long time.  I hear rumours, and especially

of a tall, handsome, curly-haired man???

 

 

 

LETTER, LUCY WESTENRA TO MINA MURRAY

 

 

17, Chatham Street

 

Wednesday

 

My dearest Mina,

 

 

I must say you tax me very unfairly with being a bad correspondent.

I wrote you twice since we parted, and your last letter was only

your second.  Besides, I have nothing to tell you.  There is really

nothing to interest you.

 

Town is very pleasant just now, and we go a great deal to

picture-galleries and for walks and rides in the park.  As

to the tall, curly-haired man, I suppose it was the one who

was with me at the last Pop.  Someone has evidently been

telling tales.

 

That was Mr. Holmwood.  He often comes to see us, and he and

Mamma get on very well together, they have so many things

to talk about in common.

 

We met some time ago a man that would just do for you, if you were

not already engaged to Jonathan.  He is an excellent _parti_, being

handsome, well off, and of good birth.  He is a doctor and really

clever.  Just fancy!  He is only nine-and-twenty, and he has an

immense lunatic asylum all under his own care.  Mr. Holmwood

introduced him to me, and he called here to see us, and often comes

now.  I think he is one of the most resolute men I ever saw, and yet

the most calm.  He seems absolutely imperturbable.  I can fancy what

a wonderful power he must have over his patients.  He has a curious

habit of looking one straight in the face, as if trying to read

one’s thoughts.  He tries this on very much with me, but I flatter

myself he has got a tough nut to crack.  I know that from my glass.

 

Do you ever try to read your own face?  I do, and I can

tell you it is not a bad study, and gives you more trouble

than you can well fancy if you have never tried it.

 

He says that I afford him a curious psychological study, and

I humbly think I do.  I do not, as you know, take sufficient

interest in dress to be able to describe the new fashions.

Dress is a bore.  That is slang again, but never mind.  Arthur

says that every day.

 

There, it is all out, Mina, we have told all our secrets to

each other since we were children.  We have slept together

and eaten together, and laughed and cried together, and

now, though I have spoken, I would like to speak more.  Oh,

Mina, couldn’t you guess?  I love him.  I am blushing as I

write, for although I think he loves me, he has not told me

so in words.  But, oh, Mina, I love him.  I love him!  There,

that does me good.

 

I wish I were with you, dear, sitting by the fire undressing, as we

used to sit, and I would try to tell you what I feel.  I do not know

how I am writing this even to you.  I am afraid to stop, or I should

tear up the letter, and I don’t want to stop, for I do so want to

tell you all. Let me hear from you at once, and tell me all that you

think about it.  Mina, pray for my happiness.

 

Lucy

 

 

P.S.–I need not tell you this is a secret.

Goodnight again.  L.

 

 

 

 

LETTER, LUCY WESTENRA TO MINA MURRAY

 

24 May

 

My dearest Mina,

 

Thanks, and thanks, and thanks again for your sweet letter.  It

was so nice to be able to tell you and to have your sympathy.

 

My dear, it never rains but it pours.  How true the old proverbs

are.  Here am I, who shall be twenty in September, and yet I never

had a proposal till today, not a real proposal, and today I had

three.  Just fancy!  Three proposals in one day!  Isn’t it awful!  I

feel sorry, really and truly sorry, for two of the poor fellows.

Oh, Mina, I am so happy that I don’t know what to do with myself.

And three proposals!  But, for goodness’ sake, don’t tell any of the

girls, or they would be getting all sorts of extravagant ideas, and

imagining themselves injured and slighted if in their very first day

at home they did not get six at least.  Some girls are so vain!  You

and I, Mina dear, who are engaged and are going to settle down soon

soberly into old married women, can despise vanity.  Well, I must

tell you about the three, but you must keep it a secret, dear, from

every one except, of course, Jonathan.  You will tell him, because I

would, if I were in your place, certainly tell Arthur.  A woman

ought to tell her husband everything.  Don’t you think so, dear?  And

I must be fair.  Men like women, certainly their wives, to be quite

as fair as they are.  And women, I am afraid, are not always quite

as fair as they should be.

 

Well, my dear, number One came just before lunch.  I told you of

him, Dr. John Seward, the lunatic asylum man, with the strong jaw

and the good forehead.  He was very cool outwardly, but was nervous

all the same.  He had evidently been schooling himself as to all

sorts of little things, and remembered them, but he almost managed

to sit down on his silk hat, which men don’t generally do when they

are cool, and then when he wanted to appear at ease he kept playing

with a lancet in a way that made me nearly scream.  He spoke to me,

Mina, very straightforwardly.  He told me how dear I was to him,

though he had known me so little, and what his life would be with me

to help and cheer him.  He was going to tell me how unhappy he would

be if I did not care for him, but when he saw me cry he said he was

a brute and would not add to my present trouble.  Then he broke off

and asked if I could love him in time, and when I shook my head his

hands trembled, and then with some hesitation he asked me if I cared

already for any one else.  He put it very nicely, saying that he did

not want to wring my confidence from me, but only to know, because

if a woman’s heart was free a man might have hope.  And then, Mina,

I felt a sort of duty to tell him that there was some one.  I only

told him that much, and then he stood up, and he looked very strong

and very grave as he took both my hands in his and said he hoped I

would be happy, and that If I ever wanted a friend I must count him

one of my best.

 

Oh, Mina dear, I can’t help crying, and you must excuse this letter

being all blotted.  Being proposed to is all very nice and all that

sort of thing, but it isn’t at all a happy thing when you have to

see a poor fellow, whom you know loves you honestly, going away and

looking all broken hearted, and to know that, no matter what he may

say at the moment, you are passing out of his life.  My dear, I must

stop here at present, I feel so miserable, though I am so happy.

 

Evening.

 

Arthur has just gone, and I feel in better spirits than when I

left off, so I can go on telling you about the day.

 

Well, my dear, number Two came after lunch.  He is such a nice

fellow, an American from Texas, and he looks so young and so fresh

that it seems almost impossible that he has been to so many places

and has such adventures.  I sympathize with poor Desdemona when she

had such a stream poured in her ear, even by a black man.  I suppose

that we women are such cowards that we think a man will save us from

fears, and we marry him.  I know now what I would do if I were a man

and wanted to make a girl love me.  No, I don’t, for there was Mr.

Morris telling us his stories, and Arthur never told any, and

yet . . .

 

My dear, I am somewhat previous.  Mr. Quincy P. Morris found me

alone.  It seems that a man always does find a girl alone.  No, he

doesn’t, for Arthur tried twice to make a chance, and I helping him

all I could, I am not ashamed to say it now.  I must tell you

beforehand that Mr. Morris doesn’t always speak slang–that is to

say, he never does so to strangers or before them, for he is really

well educated and has exquisite manners–but he found out that it

amused me to hear him talk American slang, and whenever I was

present, and there was no one to be shocked, he said such funny

things.  I am afraid, my dear, he has to invent it all, for it fits

exactly into whatever else he has to say.  But this is a way slang

has.  I do not know myself if I shall ever speak slang.  I do not

know if Arthur likes it, as I have never heard him use any as yet.

 

Well, Mr. Morris sat down beside me and looked as happy and jolly as

he could, but I could see all the same that he was very nervous.  He

took my hand in his, and said ever so sweetly . . .

 

“Miss Lucy, I know I ain’t good enough to regulate the fixin’s of

your little shoes, but I guess if you wait till you find a man that

is you will go join them seven young women with the lamps when you

quit.  Won’t you just hitch up alongside of me and let us go down

the long road together, driving in double harness?”

 

Well, he did look so good humoured and so jolly that it didn’t seem

half so hard to refuse him as it did poor Dr. Seward.  So I said, as

lightly as I could, that I did not know anything of hitching, and

that I wasn’t broken to harness at all yet.  Then he said that he

had spoken in a light manner, and he hoped that if he had made a

mistake in doing so on so grave, so momentous, an occasion for him,

I would forgive him.  He really did look serious when he was saying

it, and I couldn’t help feeling a bit serious too–I know, Mina, you

will think me a horrid flirt–though I couldn’t help feeling a

sort of exultation that he was number Two in one day.  And then,

my dear, before I could say a word he began pouring out a perfect

torrent of love-making, laying his very heart and soul at my feet.

He looked so earnest over it that I shall never again think that

a man must be playful always, and never earnest, because he is

merry at times.  I suppose he saw something in my face which checked

him, for he suddenly stopped, and said with a sort of manly fervour

that I could have loved him for if I had been free . . .

 

“Lucy, you are an honest hearted girl, I know.  I should not be here

speaking to you as I am now if I did not believe you clean grit,

right through to the very depths of your soul.  Tell me, like one

good fellow to another, is there any one else that you care for?

And if there is I’ll never trouble you a hair’s breadth again, but

will be, if you will let me, a very faithful friend.”

 

My dear Mina, why are men so noble when we women are so little

worthy of them?  Here was I almost making fun of this great-hearted,

true gentleman.  I burst into tears–I am afraid, my dear, you will

think this a very sloppy letter in more ways than one–and I really

felt very badly.

 

Why can’t they let a girl marry three men, or as many as

want her, and save all this trouble?  But this is heresy,

and I must not say it.  I am glad to say that, though I was

crying, I was able to look into Mr. Morris’ brave eyes, and

I told him out straight . . .

 

“Yes, there is some one I love, though he has not told me

yet that he even loves me.”  I was right to speak to him so

frankly, for quite a light came into his face, and he put

out both his hands and took mine, I think I put them into

his–and said in a hearty way . . .

 

“That’s my brave girl.  It’s better worth being late for a chance of

winning you than being in time for any other girl in the world.

Don’t cry, my dear.  If it’s for me, I’m a hard nut to crack, and I

take it standing up.  If that other fellow doesn’t know his

happiness, well, he’d better look for it soon, or he’ll have to deal

with me.  Little girl, your honesty and pluck have made me a friend,

and that’s rarer than a lover; it’s more selfish anyhow.  My dear,

I’m going to have a pretty lonely walk between this and Kingdom

Come.  Won’t you give me one kiss?  It’ll be something to keep off

the darkness now and then.  You can, you know, if you like, for

that other good fellow–he must be a good fellow, my dear, and a

fine fellow, or you could not love him–hasn’t spoken yet.”

 

That quite won me, Mina, for it was brave and sweet of him,

and noble too, to a rival–wasn’t it?–and he so sad, so I

leant over and kissed him.

 

He stood up with my two hands in his, and as he looked down into my

face–I am afraid I was blushing very much, he said, “Little girl, I

hold your hand, and you’ve kissed me, and if these things don’t make

us friends nothing ever will.  Thank you for your sweet honesty to

me, and goodbye.”

 

He wrung my hand, and taking up his hat, went straight out of the

room without looking back, without a tear or a quiver or a pause,

and I am crying like a baby.

 

Oh, why must a man like that be made unhappy when there are lots of

girls about who would worship the very ground he trod on?  I know I

would if I were free, only I don’t want to be free.  My dear, this

quite upset me, and I feel I cannot write of happiness just at once,

after telling you of it, and I don’t wish to tell of the number

Three until it can be all happy.  Ever your loving . . .

 

Lucy

 

 

P.S.–Oh, about number Three, I needn’t tell you of number

Three, need I?  Besides, it was all so confused.  It seemed

only a moment from his coming into the room till both his

arms were round me, and he was kissing me.  I am very, very

happy, and I don’t know what I have done to deserve it.  I

must only try in the future to show that I am not ungrateful

to God for all His goodness to me in sending to me such a

lover, such a husband, and such a friend.

 

Goodbye.

 

 

 

1. SEWARD’S DIARY (Kept in phonograph)

 

25 May.–Ebb tide in appetite today.  Cannot eat, cannot rest, so

diary instead.  Since my rebuff of yesterday I have a sort of empty

feeling.  Nothing in the world seems of sufficient importance to be

worth the doing.  As I knew that the only cure for this sort of thing

was work, I went amongst the patients.  I picked out one who has

afforded me a study of much interest.  He is so quaint that I am

determined to understand him as well as I can.  Today I seemed to get

nearer than ever before to the heart of his mystery.

 

I questioned him more fully than I had ever done, with a view to

making myself master of the facts of his hallucination.  In my manner

of doing it there was, I now see, something of cruelty.  I seemed to

wish to keep him to the point of his madness, a thing which I avoid

with the patients as I would the mouth of hell.

 

(Mem., Under what circumstances would I not avoid the pit of hell?)

Omnia Romae venalia sunt.  Hell has its price!  If there be anything

behind this instinct it will be valuable to trace it afterwards

accurately, so I had better commence to do so, therefore . . .

 

59. M, Renfield, age 59. Sanguine temperament, great physical

strength, morbidly excitable, periods of gloom, ending in some fixed

idea which I cannot make out.  I presume that the sanguine temperament

itself and the disturbing influence end in a mentally-accomplished

finish, a possibly dangerous man, probably dangerous if unselfish.  In

selfish men caution is as secure an armour for their foes as for

themselves.  What I think of on this point is, when self is the fixed

point the centripetal force is balanced with the centrifugal.  When

duty, a cause, etc., is the fixed point, the latter force is

paramount, and only accident or a series of accidents can balance it.

 

 

 

LETTER, QUINCEY P. MORRIS TO HON.  ARTHUR HOLMOOD

 

25 May.

 

My dear Art,

 

We’ve told yarns by the campfire in the prairies, and dressed one

another’s wounds after trying a landing at the Marquesas, and drunk

healths on the shore of Titicaca.  There are more yarns to be told,

and other wounds to be healed, and another health to be drunk.

Won’t you let this be at my campfire tomorrow night?  I have no

hesitation in asking you, as I know a certain lady is engaged to a

certain dinner party, and that you are free.  There will only be one

other, our old pal at the Korea, Jack Seward.  He’s coming, too, and

we both want to mingle our weeps over the wine cup, and to drink a

health with all our hearts to the happiest man in all the wide

world, who has won the noblest heart that God has made and best

worth winning.  We promise you a hearty welcome, and a loving

greeting, and a health as true as your own right hand.  We shall

both swear to leave you at home if you drink too deep to a certain

pair of eyes.  Come!

 

Yours, as ever and always,

 

Quincey P. Morris

 

 

 

 

 

TELEGRAM FROM ARTHUR HOLMWOOD TO QUINCEY P. MORRIS

 

26 May

 

 

Count me in every time.  I bear messages which will make both

your ears tingle.

 

Art

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 6

 

 

MINA MURRAY’S JOURNAL

 

24 July.  Whitby.–Lucy met me at the station, looking sweeter and

lovelier than ever, and we drove up to the house at the Crescent in

which they have rooms.  This is a lovely place.  The little river, the

Esk, runs through a deep valley, which broadens out as it comes near

the harbour.  A great viaduct runs across, with high piers, through

which the view seems somehow further away than it really is.  The

valley is beautifully green, and it is so steep that when you are on

the high land on either side you look right across it, unless you are

near enough to see down.  The houses of the old town–the side away

from us, are all red-roofed, and seem piled up one over the other

anyhow, like the pictures we see of Nuremberg.  Right over the town is

the ruin of Whitby Abbey, which was sacked by the Danes, and which is

the scene of part of “Marmion,” where the girl was built up in the

wall.  It is a most noble ruin, of immense size, and full of beautiful

and romantic bits.  There is a legend that a white lady is seen in one

of the windows.  Between it and the town there is another church, the

parish one, round which is a big graveyard, all full of tombstones.

This is to my mind the nicest spot in Whitby, for it lies right over

the town, and has a full view of the harbour and all up the bay to

where the headland called Kettleness stretches out into the sea.  It

descends so steeply over the harbour that part of the bank has fallen

away, and some of the graves have been destroyed.

 

In one place part of the stonework of the graves stretches out over

the sandy pathway far below.  There are walks, with seats beside them,

through the churchyard, and people go and sit there all day long

looking at the beautiful view and enjoying the breeze.

 

I shall come and sit here often myself and work.  Indeed, I am writing

now, with my book on my knee, and listening to the talk of three old

men who are sitting beside me.  They seem to do nothing all day but

sit here and talk.

 

The harbour lies below me, with, on the far side, one long granite

wall stretching out into the sea, with a curve outwards at the end of

it, in the middle of which is a lighthouse.  A heavy seawall runs

along outside of it.  On the near side, the seawall makes an elbow

crooked inversely, and its end too has a lighthouse.  Between the two

piers there is a narrow opening into the harbour, which then suddenly

widens.

 

It is nice at high water, but when the tide is out it shoals away to

nothing, and there is merely the stream of the Esk, running between

banks of sand, with rocks here and there.  Outside the harbour on this

side there rises for about half a mile a great reef, the sharp of

which runs straight out from behind the south lighthouse.  At the end

of it is a buoy with a bell, which swings in bad weather, and sends in

a mournful sound on the wind.

 

They have a legend here that when a ship is lost bells are heard out at

sea.  I must ask the old man about this.  He is coming this way . . .

 

He is a funny old man.  He must be awfully old, for his face is

gnarled and twisted like the bark of a tree.  He tells me that he is

nearly a hundred, and that he was a sailor in the Greenland fishing

fleet when Waterloo was fought.  He is, I am afraid, a very sceptical

person, for when I asked him about the bells at sea and the White Lady

at the abbey he said very brusquely,

 

“I wouldn’t fash masel’ about them, miss.  Them things be all wore

out.  Mind, I don’t say that they never was, but I do say that they

wasn’t in my time.  They be all very well for comers and trippers, an’

the like, but not for a nice young lady like you.  Them feet-folks

from York and Leeds that be always eatin’ cured herrin’s and drinkin’

tea an’ lookin’ out to buy cheap jet would creed aught.  I wonder

masel’ who’d be bothered tellin’ lies to them, even the newspapers,

which is full of fool-talk.”

 

I thought he would be a good person to learn interesting things from,

so I asked him if he would mind telling me something about the whale

fishing in the old days.  He was just settling himself to begin when

the clock struck six, whereupon he laboured to get up, and said,

 

“I must gang ageeanwards home now, miss.  My grand-daughter doesn’t

like to be kept waitin’ when the tea is ready, for it takes me time to

crammle aboon the grees, for there be a many of ’em, and miss, I lack

belly-timber sairly by the clock.”

 

He hobbled away, and I could see him hurrying, as well as he could,

down the steps.  The steps are a great feature on the place.  They

lead from the town to the church, there are hundreds of them, I do not

know how many, and they wind up in a delicate curve.  The slope is so

gentle that a horse could easily walk up and down them.

 

I think they must originally have had something to do with the abbey.

I shall go home too.  Lucy went out, visiting with her mother, and as

they were only duty calls, I did not go.

 

 

1 August.–I came up here an hour ago with Lucy, and we had a most

interesting talk with my old friend and the two others who always come

and join him.  He is evidently the Sir Oracle of them, and I should

think must have been in his time a most dictatorial person.

 

He will not admit anything, and down faces everybody.  If he can’t

out-argue them he bullies them, and then takes their silence for

agreement with his views.

 

Lucy was looking sweetly pretty in her white lawn frock.  She has got

a beautiful colour since she has been here.

 

I noticed that the old men did not lose any time in coming and sitting

near her when we sat down.  She is so sweet with old people, I think

they all fell in love with her on the spot.  Even my old man succumbed

and did not contradict her, but gave me double share instead.  I got

him on the subject of the legends, and he went off at once into a sort

of sermon.  I must try to remember it and put it down.

 

“It be all fool-talk, lock, stock, and barrel, that’s what it be and

nowt else.  These bans an’ wafts an’ boh-ghosts an’ bar-guests an’

bogles an’ all anent them is only fit to set bairns an’ dizzy women

a’belderin’.  They be nowt but air-blebs.  They, an’ all grims an’ signs

an’ warnin’s, be all invented by parsons an’ illsome berk-bodies an’

railway touters to skeer an’ scunner hafflin’s, an’ to get folks to do

somethin’ that they don’t other incline to.  It makes me ireful to

think o’ them.  Why, it’s them that, not content with printin’ lies on

paper an’ preachin’ them out of pulpits, does want to be cuttin’ them

on the tombstones.  Look here all around you in what airt ye will.  All

them steans, holdin’ up their heads as well as they can out of their

pride, is acant, simply tumblin’ down with the weight o’ the lies

wrote on them, ‘Here lies the body’ or ‘Sacred to the memory’ wrote on

all of them, an’ yet in nigh half of them there bean’t no bodies at

all, an’ the memories of them bean’t cared a pinch of snuff about,

much less sacred.  Lies all of them, nothin’ but lies of one kind or

another!  My gog, but it’ll be a quare scowderment at the Day of

Judgment when they come tumblin’ up in their death-sarks, all jouped

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!  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 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.”

 

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 that all these steans be aboon folk that

be haped here, snod an’ snog?”  I assented again.  “Then that be just

where the lie comes in.  Why, there be scores of these laybeds that be

toom as old Dun’s ‘baccabox 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, 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 aboot it!  I tell ye that

when they got here they’d be jommlin’ and jostlin’ 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,” 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

the sorrowin’ mother was a hell-cat that hated him because he was

acrewk’d, a regular lamiter 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 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 keckle 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 favourite

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.

 

 

 

1. SEWARD’S DIARY

 

5 June.–The case of Renfield grows more interesting the more I get to

understand the man.  He has certain qualities very largely developed;

selfishness, secrecy, and purpose.

 

I wish I could get at what is the object of the latter.  He seems to

have some settled scheme of his own, but what it is I do not know.

His redeeming quality is a love of animals, though, indeed, he has

such curious turns in it that I sometimes imagine he is only

abnormally cruel.  His pets are of odd sorts.

 

Just now his hobby is catching flies.  He has at present such a

quantity that I have had myself to expostulate.  To my astonishment,

he did not break out into a fury, as I expected, but took the matter

in simple seriousness.  He thought for a moment, and then said, “May I

have three days?  I shall clear them away.”  Of course, I said that

would do.  I must watch him.

 

 

18 June.–He has turned his mind now to spiders, and has got several

very big fellows in a box.  He keeps feeding them his flies, and the

number of the latter is becoming sensibly diminished, although he has

used half his food in attracting more flies from outside to his room.

 

 

1 July.–His spiders are now becoming as great a nuisance as his

flies, and today I told him that he must get rid of them.

 

He looked very sad at this, so I said that he must some of them, at

all events.  He cheerfully acquiesced in this, and I gave him the same

time as before for reduction.

 

He disgusted me much while with him, for when a horrid blowfly,

bloated with some carrion food, buzzed into the room, he caught it,

held it exultantly for a few moments between his finger and thumb, and

before I knew what he was going to do, put it in his mouth and ate it.

 

I scolded him for it, but he argued quietly that it was very good and

very wholesome, that it was life, strong life, and gave life to him.

This gave me an idea, or the rudiment of one.  I must watch how he

gets rid of his spiders.

 

He has evidently some deep problem in his mind, for he keeps a little

notebook in which he is always jotting down something.  Whole pages of

it are filled with masses of figures, generally single numbers added

up in batches, and then the totals added in batches again, as though

he were focussing some account, as the auditors put it.

 

 

8 July.–There is a method in his madness, and the rudimentary idea in

my mind is growing.  It will be a whole idea soon, and then, oh,

unconscious cerebration, you will have to give the wall to your

conscious brother.

 

I kept away from my friend for a few days, so that I might notice if

there were any change.  Things remain as they were except that he has

parted with some of his pets and got a new one.

 

He has managed to get a sparrow, and has already partially tamed it.

His means of taming is simple, for already the spiders have

diminished.  Those that do remain, however, are well fed, for he still

brings in the flies by tempting them with his food.

 

19 July–We are progressing.  My friend has now a whole colony of

sparrows, and his flies and spiders are almost obliterated.  When I

came in he ran to me and said he wanted to ask me a great favour, a

very, very great favour.  And as he spoke, he fawned on me like a dog.

 

I asked him what it was, and he said, with a sort of rapture in his

voice and bearing, “A kitten, a nice, little, sleek playful kitten,

that I can play with, and teach, and feed, and feed, and feed!”

 

I was not unprepared for this request, for I had noticed how his pets

went on increasing in size and vivacity, but I did not care that his

pretty family of tame sparrows should be wiped out in the same manner

as the flies and spiders.  So I said I would see about it, and asked

him if he would not rather have a cat than a kitten.

 

His eagerness betrayed him as he answered, “Oh, yes, I would like a

cat!  I only asked for a kitten lest you should refuse me a cat.  No

one would refuse me a kitten, would they?”

 

I shook my head, and said that at present I feared it would not be

possible, but that I would see about it.  His face fell, and I could

see a warning of danger in it, for there was a sudden fierce, sidelong

look which meant killing.  The man is an undeveloped homicidal

maniac.  I shall test him with his present craving and see how it will

work out, then I shall know more.

 

 

10 pm.–I have visited him again and found him sitting in a corner

brooding.  When I came in he threw himself on his knees before me and

implored me to let him have a cat, that his salvation depended upon

it.

 

I was firm, however, and told him that he could not have it, whereupon

he went without a word, and sat down, gnawing his fingers, in the

corner where I had found him.  I shall see him in the morning early.

 

 

20 July.–Visited Renfield very early, before attendant went his

rounds.  Found him up and humming a tune.  He was spreading out his

sugar, which he had saved, in the window, and was manifestly beginning

his fly catching again, and beginning it cheerfully and with a good

grace.

 

I looked around for his birds, and not seeing them, asked him where

they were.  He replied, without turning round, that they had all flown

away.  There were a few feathers about the room and on his pillow a

drop of blood.  I said nothing, but went and told the keeper to report

to me if there were anything odd about him during the day.

 

 

11 am.–The attendant has just been to see me to say that Renfield has

been very sick and has disgorged a whole lot of feathers.  “My belief

is, doctor,” he said, “that he has eaten his birds, and that he just

took and ate them raw!”

 

 

11 pm.–I gave Renfield a strong opiate tonight, enough to make even

him sleep, and took away his pocketbook to look at it.  The thought

that has been buzzing about my brain lately is complete, and the

theory proved.

 

My homicidal maniac is of a peculiar kind.  I shall have to invent a

new classification for him, and call him a zoophagous (life-eating)

maniac.  What he desires is to absorb as many lives as he can, and he

has laid himself out to achieve it in a cumulative way.  He gave many

flies to one spider and many spiders to one bird, and then wanted a

cat to eat the many birds.  What would have been his later steps?

 

It would almost be worth while to complete the experiment.  It might

be done if there were only a sufficient cause.  Men sneered at

vivisection, and yet look at its results today!  Why not advance

science in its most difficult and vital aspect, the knowledge of the

brain?

 

Had I even the secret of one such mind, did I hold the key to the

fancy of even one lunatic, I might advance my own branch of science to

a pitch compared with which Burdon-Sanderson’s physiology or Ferrier’s

brain knowledge would be as nothing.  If only there were a sufficient

cause!  I must not think too much of this, or I may be tempted.  A

good cause might turn the scale with me, for may not I too be of an

exceptional brain, congenitally?

 

How well the man reasoned.  Lunatics always do within their own scope.

I wonder at how many lives he values a man, or if at only one.  He has

closed the account most accurately, and today begun a new record.  How

many of us begin a new record with each day of our lives?

 

To me it seems only yesterday that my whole life ended with my new

hope, and that truly I began a new record.  So it shall be until the

Great Recorder sums me up and closes my ledger account with a balance

to profit or loss.

 

Oh, Lucy, Lucy, I cannot be angry with you, nor can I be angry with my

friend whose happiness is yours, but I must only wait on hopeless and

work.  Work!  Work!

 

If I could have as strong a cause as my poor mad friend there, a good,

unselfish cause to make me work, that would be indeed happiness.

 

 

 

MINA MURRAY’S JOURNAL

 

26 July.–I am anxious, and it soothes me to express myself here.  It

is like whispering to one’s self and listening at the same time.  And

there is also something about the shorthand symbols that makes it

different from writing.  I am unhappy about Lucy and about Jonathan.

I had not heard from Jonathan for some time, and was very concerned,

but yesterday dear Mr. Hawkins, who is always so kind, sent me a

letter from him.  I had written asking him if he had heard, and he

said the enclosed had just been received.  It is only a line dated

from Castle Dracula, and says that he is just starting for home.  That

is not like Jonathan.  I do not understand it, and it makes me uneasy.

 

Then, too, Lucy, although she is so well, has lately taken to her old

habit of walking in her sleep.  Her mother has spoken to me about it,

and we have decided that I am to lock the door of our room every

night.

 

Mrs. Westenra has got an idea that sleep-walkers always go out on

roofs of houses and along the edges of cliffs and then get suddenly

wakened and fall over with a despairing cry that echoes all over the

place.

 

Poor dear, she is naturally anxious about Lucy, and she tells me that

her husband, Lucy’s father, had the same habit, that he would get up

in the night and dress himself and go out, if he were not stopped.

 

Lucy is to be married in the autumn, and she is already planning out

her dresses and how her house is to be arranged.  I sympathise with

her, for I do the same, only Jonathan and I will start in life in a

very simple way, and shall have to try to make both ends meet.

 

Mr. Holmwood, he is the Hon. Arthur Holmwood, only son of Lord

Godalming, is coming up here very shortly, as soon as he can leave

town, for his father is not very well, and I think dear Lucy is

counting the moments till he comes.

 

She wants to take him up in the seat on the churchyard cliff and show

him the beauty of Whitby.  I daresay it is the waiting which disturbs

her.  She will be all right when he arrives.

 

 

27 July.–No news from Jonathan.  I am getting quite uneasy about him,

though why I should I do not know, but I do wish that he would write,

if it were only a single line.

 

Lucy walks more than ever, and each night I am awakened by her moving

about the room.  Fortunately, the weather is so hot that she cannot

get cold.  But still, the anxiety and the perpetually being awakened

is beginning to tell on me, and I am getting nervous and wakeful

myself.  Thank God, Lucy’s health keeps up.  Mr. Holmwood has been

suddenly called to Ring to see his father, who has been taken

seriously ill.  Lucy frets at the postponement of seeing him, but it

does not touch her looks.  She is a trifle stouter, and her cheeks are

a lovely rose-pink.  She has lost the anemic look which she had.  I

pray it will all last.

 

 

3 August.–Another week gone by, and no news from Jonathan, not even

to Mr. Hawkins, from whom I have heard.  Oh, I do hope he is not ill.

He surely would have written.  I look at that last letter of his, but

somehow it does not satisfy me.  It does not read like him, and yet it

is his writing.  There is no mistake of that.

 

Lucy has not walked much in her sleep the last week, but there is an

odd concentration about her which I do not understand, even in her

sleep she seems to be watching me.  She tries the door, and finding it

locked, goes about the room searching for the key.

 

 

6 August.–Another three days, and no news.  This suspense is getting

dreadful.  If I only knew where to write to or where to go to, I

should feel easier.  But no one has heard a word of Jonathan since

that last letter.  I must only pray to God for patience.

 

Lucy is more excitable than ever, but is otherwise well.  Last night

was very threatening, and the fishermen say that we are in for a

storm.  I must try to watch it and learn the weather signs.

 

Today is a gray day, and the sun as I write is hidden in thick clouds,

high over Kettleness.  Everything is gray except the green grass,

which seems like emerald amongst it, gray earthy rock, gray clouds,

tinged with the sunburst at the far edge, hang over the gray sea, into

which the sandpoints stretch like gray figures.  The sea is tumbling

in over the shallows and the sandy flats with a roar, muffled in the

sea-mists drifting inland.  The horizon is lost in a gray mist.  All

vastness, the clouds are piled up like giant rocks, and there is a

‘brool’ over the sea that sounds like some passage of doom.  Dark

figures are on the beach here and there, sometimes half shrouded in

the mist, and seem ‘men like trees walking’.  The fishing boats are

racing for home, and rise and dip in the ground swell as they sweep

into the harbour, bending to the scuppers.  Here comes old Mr. Swales.

He is making straight for me, and I can see, by the way he lifts his

hat, that he wants to talk.

 

I have been quite touched by the change in the poor old man.  When he

sat down beside me, he said in a very gentle way, “I want to say

something to you, miss.”

 

I could see he was not at ease, so I took his poor old wrinkled hand in

mine and asked him to speak fully.

 

So he said, leaving his hand in mine, “I’m afraid, my deary, that I

must have shocked you by all the wicked things I’ve been sayin’ about

the dead, and such like, for weeks past, but I didn’t mean them, and I

want ye to remember that when I’m gone.  We aud folks that be daffled,

and with one foot abaft the krok-hooal, don’t altogether like to think

of it, and we don’t want to feel scart of it, and that’s why I’ve took

to makin’ light of it, so that I’d cheer up my own heart a bit.  But,

Lord love ye, miss, I ain’t afraid of dyin’, not a bit, only I don’t

want to die if I can help it.  My time must be nigh at hand now, for I

be aud, and a hundred years is too much for any man to expect.  And

I’m so nigh it that the Aud Man is already whettin’ his scythe.  Ye

see, I can’t get out o’ the habit of caffin’ about it all at once.

The chafts will wag as they be used to.  Some day soon the Angel of

Death will sound his trumpet for me.  But don’t ye dooal an’ greet, my

deary!”–for he saw that I was crying–“if he should come this very

night I’d not refuse to answer his call.  For life be, after all, only

a waitin’ for somethin’ else than what we’re doin’, and death be all

that we can rightly depend on.  But I’m content, for it’s comin’ to

me, my deary, and comin’ quick.  It may be comin’ while we be lookin’

and wonderin’.  Maybe it’s in that wind out over the sea that’s

bringin’ with it loss and wreck, and sore distress, and sad hearts.

Look!  Look!” he cried suddenly.  “There’s something in that wind and

in the hoast beyont that sounds, and looks, and tastes, and smells

like death.  It’s in the air.  I feel it comin’.  Lord, make me answer

cheerful, when my call comes!”  He held up his arms devoutly, and

raised his hat.  His mouth moved as though he were praying.  After a

few minutes’ silence, he got up, shook hands with me, and blessed me,

and said goodbye, and hobbled off.  It all touched me, and upset me

very much.

 

I was glad when the coastguard came along, with his spyglass under his

arm.  He stopped to talk with me, as he always does, but all the time

kept looking at a strange ship.

 

“I can’t make her out,” he said.  “She’s a Russian, by the look of

her.  But she’s knocking about in the queerest way.  She doesn’t know

her mind a bit.  She seems to see the storm coming, but can’t decide

whether to run up north in the open, or to put in here.  Look there

again!  She is steered mighty strangely, for she doesn’t mind the hand

on the wheel, changes about with every puff of wind.  We’ll hear more

of her before this time tomorrow.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 7

 

 

CUTTING FROM “THE DAILYGRAPH”, 8 AUGUST

 

 

(PASTED IN MINA MURRAY’S JOURNAL)

 

 

From a correspondent.

 

Whitby.

 

One of the greatest and suddenest storms on record has just been

experienced here, with results both strange and unique.  The weather

had been somewhat sultry, but not to any degree uncommon in the

month of August.  Saturday evening was as fine as was ever known,

and the great body of holiday-makers laid out yesterday for visits

to Mulgrave Woods, Robin Hood’s Bay, Rig Mill, Runswick, Staithes,

and the various trips in the neighborhood of Whitby.  The steamers

Emma and Scarborough made trips up and down the coast, and there was

an unusual amount of ‘tripping’ both to and from Whitby.  The day

was unusually fine till the afternoon, when some of the gossips who

frequent the East Cliff churchyard, and from the commanding eminence

watch the wide sweep of sea visible to the north and east, called

attention to a sudden show of ‘mares tails’ high in the sky to the

northwest.  The wind was then blowing from the south-west in the

mild degree which in barometrical language is ranked ‘No. 2, light

breeze.’

 

The coastguard on duty at once made report, and one old fisherman,

who for more than half a century has kept watch on weather signs

from the East Cliff, foretold in an emphatic manner the coming of a

sudden storm.  The approach of sunset was so very beautiful, so

grand in its masses of splendidly coloured clouds, that there was

quite an assemblage on the walk along the cliff in the old

churchyard to enjoy the beauty.  Before the sun dipped below the

black mass of Kettleness, standing boldly athwart the western sky,

its downward way was marked by myriad clouds of every sunset colour,

flame, purple, pink, green, violet, and all the tints of gold, with

here and there masses not large, but of seemingly absolute

blackness, in all sorts of shapes, as well outlined as colossal

silhouettes.  The experience was not lost on the painters, and

doubtless some of the sketches of the ‘Prelude to the Great Storm’

will grace the R. A and R. I. walls in May next.

 

More than one captain made up his mind then and there that his

‘cobble’ or his ‘mule’, as they term the different classes of boats,

would remain in the harbour till the storm had passed.  The wind

fell away entirely during the evening, and at midnight there was a

dead calm, a sultry heat, and that prevailing intensity which, on

the approach of thunder, affects persons of a sensitive nature.

 

There were but few lights in sight at sea, for even the coasting

steamers, which usually hug the shore so closely, kept well to

seaward, and but few fishing boats were in sight.  The only sail

noticeable was a foreign schooner with all sails set, which was

seemingly going westwards. The foolhardiness or ignorance of her

officers was a prolific theme for comment whilst she remained in

sight, and efforts were made to signal her to reduce sail in the

face of her danger.  Before the night shut down she was seen with

sails idly flapping as she gently rolled on the undulating swell of

the sea.

 

“As idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean.”

 

Shortly before ten o’clock the stillness of the air grew quite

oppressive, and the silence was so marked that the bleating of a

sheep inland or the barking of a dog in the town was distinctly

heard, and the band on the pier, with its lively French air, was

like a dischord in the great harmony of nature’s silence.  A little

after midnight came a strange sound from over the sea, and high

overhead the air began to carry a strange, faint, hollow booming.

 

Then without warning the tempest broke.  With a rapidity which, at

the time, seemed incredible, and even afterwards is impossible to

realize, the whole aspect of nature at once became convulsed.  The

waves rose in growing fury, each over-topping its fellow, till in a

very few minutes the lately glassy sea was like a roaring and

devouring monster.  White-crested waves beat madly on the level

sands and rushed up the shelving cliffs.  Others broke over the

piers, and with their spume swept the lanthorns of the lighthouses

which rise from the end of either pier of Whitby Harbour.

 

The wind roared like thunder, and blew with such force that it was

with difficulty that even strong men kept their feet, or clung with

grim clasp to the iron stanchions.  It was found necessary to clear

the entire pier from the mass of onlookers, or else the fatalities

of the night would have increased manifold.  To add to the

difficulties and dangers of the time, masses of sea-fog came

drifting inland.  White, wet clouds, which swept by in ghostly

fashion, so dank and damp and cold that it needed but little effort

of imagination to think that the spirits of those lost at sea were

touching their living brethren with the clammy hands of death, and

many a one shuddered as the wreaths of sea-mist swept by.

 

At times the mist cleared, and the sea for some distance could be

seen in the glare of the lightning, which came thick and fast,

followed by such peals of thunder that the whole sky overhead seemed

trembling under the shock of the footsteps of the storm.

 

Some of the scenes thus revealed were of immeasurable grandeur and

of absorbing interest.  The sea, running mountains high, threw

skywards with each wave mighty masses of white foam, which the

tempest seemed to snatch at and whirl away into space.  Here and

there a fishing boat, with a rag of sail, running madly for shelter

before the blast, now and again the white wings of a storm-tossed

seabird.  On the summit of the East Cliff the new searchlight was

ready for experiment, but had not yet been tried.  The officers in

charge of it got it into working order, and in the pauses of

onrushing mist swept with it the surface of the sea.  Once or twice

its service was most effective, as when a fishing boat, with gunwale

under water, rushed into the harbour, able, by the guidance of the

sheltering light, to avoid the danger of dashing against the piers.

As each boat achieved the safety of the port there was a shout of

joy from the mass of people on the shore, a shout which for a moment

seemed to cleave the gale and was then swept away in its rush.

 

Before long the searchlight discovered some distance away a schooner

with all sails set, apparently the same vessel which had been

noticed earlier in the evening.  The wind had by this time backed to

the east, and there was a shudder amongst the watchers on the cliff

as they realized the terrible danger in which she now was.

 

Between her and the port lay the great flat reef on which so many

good ships have from time to time suffered, and, with the wind

blowing from its present quarter, it would be quite impossible that

she should fetch the entrance of the harbour.

 

It was now nearly the hour of high tide, but the waves were so great

that in their troughs the shallows of the shore were almost visible,

and the schooner, with all sails set, was rushing with such speed

that, in the words of one old salt, “she must fetch up somewhere, if

it was only in hell”.  Then came another rush of sea-fog, greater

than any hitherto, a mass of dank mist, which seemed to close on all

things like a gray pall, and left available to men only the organ of

hearing, for the roar of the tempest, and the crash of the thunder,

and the booming of the mighty billows came through the damp oblivion

even louder than before.  The rays of the searchlight were kept fixed

on the harbour mouth across the East Pier, where the shock was

expected, and men waited breathless.

 

The wind suddenly shifted to the northeast, and the remnant of the

sea fog melted in the blast.  And then, mirabile dictu, between the

piers, leaping from wave to wave as it rushed at headlong speed,

swept the strange schooner before the blast, with all sail set, and

gained the safety of the harbour.  The searchlight followed her, and

a shudder ran through all who saw her, for lashed to the helm was a

corpse, with drooping head, which swung horribly to and fro at each

motion of the ship.  No other form could be seen on the deck at all.

 

A great awe came on all as they realised that the ship, as if by a

miracle, had found the harbour, unsteered save by the hand of a dead

man!  However, all took place more quickly than it takes to write

these words.  The schooner paused not, but rushing across the

harbour, pitched herself on that accumulation of sand and gravel

washed by many tides and many storms into the southeast corner of

the pier jutting under the East Cliff, known locally as Tate Hill

Pier.

 

There was of course a considerable concussion as the vessel drove up

on the sand heap.  Every spar, rope, and stay was strained, and some

of the ‘top-hammer’ came crashing down.  But, strangest of all, the

very instant the shore was touched, an immense dog sprang up on deck

from below, as if shot up by the concussion, and running forward,

jumped from the bow on the sand.

 

Making straight for the steep cliff, where the churchyard hangs over

the laneway to the East Pier so steeply that some of the flat

tombstones, thruffsteans or through-stones, as they call them in

Whitby vernacular, actually project over where the sustaining cliff

has fallen away, it disappeared in the darkness, which seemed

intensified just beyond the focus of the searchlight.

 

It so happened that there was no one at the moment on Tate Hill

Pier, as all those whose houses are in close proximity were either

in bed or were out on the heights above.  Thus the coastguard on

duty on the eastern side of the harbour, who at once ran down to the

little pier, was the first to climb aboard.  The men working the

searchlight, after scouring the entrance of the harbour without

seeing anything, then turned the light on the derelict and kept it

there.  The coastguard ran aft, and when he came beside the wheel,

bent over to examine it, and recoiled at once as though under some

sudden emotion.  This seemed to pique general curiosity, and quite a

number of people began to run.

 

It is a good way round from the West Cliff by the Draw-bridge to

Tate Hill Pier, but your correspondent is a fairly good runner, and

came well ahead of the crowd.  When I arrived, however, I found

already assembled on the pier a crowd, whom the coastguard and

police refused to allow to come on board.  By the courtesy of the

chief boatman, I was, as your correspondent, permitted to climb on

deck, and was one of a small group who saw the dead seaman whilst

actually lashed to the wheel.

 

It was no wonder that the coastguard was surprised, or even awed,

for not often can such a sight have been seen.  The man was simply

fastened by his hands, tied one over the other, to a spoke of the

wheel.  Between the inner hand and the wood was a crucifix, the set

of beads on which it was fastened being around both wrists and

wheel, and all kept fast by the binding cords.  The poor fellow may

have been seated at one time, but the flapping and buffeting of the

sails had worked through the rudder of the wheel and had dragged him

to and fro, so that the cords with which he was tied had cut the

flesh to the bone.

 

Accurate note was made of the state of things, and a doctor, Surgeon

1. M. Caffyn, of 33, East Elliot Place, who came immediately after

me, declared, after making examination, that the man must have been

dead for quite two days.

 

In his pocket was a bottle, carefully corked, empty save for

a little roll of paper, which proved to be the addendum to

the log.

 

The coastguard said the man must have tied up his own hands,

fastening the knots with his teeth.  The fact that a coastguard was

the first on board may save some complications later on, in the

Admiralty Court, for coastguards cannot claim the salvage which is

the right of the first civilian entering on a derelict.  Already,

however, the legal tongues are wagging, and one young law student is

loudly asserting that the rights of the owner are already completely

sacrificed, his property being held in contravention of the statues

of mortmain, since the tiller, as emblemship, if not proof, of

delegated possession, is held in a dead hand.

 

It is needless to say that the dead steersman has been reverently

removed from the place where he held his honourable watch and ward

till death, a steadfastness as noble as that of the young

Casabianca, and placed in the mortuary to await inquest.

 

Already the sudden storm is passing, and its fierceness is

abating.  Crowds are scattering backward, and the sky is

beginning to redden over the Yorkshire wolds.

 

I shall send, in time for your next issue, further details

of the derelict ship which found her way so miraculously

into harbour in the storm.

 

 

9 August.–The sequel to the strange arrival of the derelict in the

storm last night is almost more startling than the thing itself.  It

turns out that the schooner is Russian from Varna, and is called the

Demeter.  She is almost entirely in ballast of silver sand, with

only a small amount of cargo, a number of great wooden boxes filled

with mould.

 

This cargo was consigned to a Whitby solicitor, Mr. S.F. Billington,

of 7, The Crescent, who this morning went aboard and took formal

possession of the goods consigned to him.

 

The Russian consul, too, acting for the charter-party, took formal

possession of the ship, and paid all harbour dues, etc.

 

Nothing is talked about here today except the strange coincidence.

The officials of the Board of Trade have been most exacting in

seeing that every compliance has been made with existing

regulations.  As the matter is to be a ‘nine days wonder’, they are

evidently determined that there shall be no cause of other

complaint.

 

A good deal of interest was abroad concerning the dog which landed

when the ship struck, and more than a few of the members of the

S.P.C.A., which is very strong in Whitby, have tried to befriend the

animal.  To the general disappointment, however, it was not to be

found.  It seems to have disappeared entirely from the town.  It may

be that it was frightened and made its way on to the moors, where it

is still hiding in terror.

 

There are some who look with dread on such a possibility, lest later

on it should in itself become a danger, for it is evidently a fierce

brute.  Early this morning a large dog, a half-bred mastiff

belonging to a coal merchant close to Tate Hill Pier, was found dead

in the roadway opposite its master’s yard.  It had been fighting,

and manifestly had had a savage opponent, for its throat was torn

away, and its belly was slit open as if with a savage claw.

 

Later.–By the kindness of the Board of Trade inspector, I have been

permitted to look over the log book of the Demeter, which was in

order up to within three days, but contained nothing of special

interest except as to facts of missing men.  The greatest interest,

however, is with regard to the paper found in the bottle, which was

today produced at the inquest.  And a more strange narrative than

the two between them unfold it has not been my lot to come across.

 

As there is no motive for concealment, I am permitted to use them,

and accordingly send you a transcript, simply omitting technical

details of seamanship and supercargo.  It almost seems as though the

captain had been seized with some kind of mania before he had got

well into blue water, and that this had developed persistently

throughout the voyage.  Of course my statement must be taken cum

grano, since I am writing from the dictation of a clerk of the

Russian consul, who kindly translated for me, time being short.

 

 

 

LOG OF THE “DEMETER” Varna to Whitby

 

 

Written 18 July, things so strange happening, that I shall

keep accurate note henceforth till we land.

 

 

On 6 July we finished taking in cargo, silver sand and boxes

of earth.  At noon set sail.  East wind, fresh.  Crew, five

hands . . . two mates, cook, and myself, (captain).

 

 

On 11 July at dawn entered Bosphorus.  Boarded by Turkish

Customs officers.  Backsheesh.  All correct.  Under way at

4 p.m.

 

 

On 12 July through Dardanelles.  More Customs officers and

flagboat of guarding squadron.  Backsheesh again.  Work of

officers thorough, but quick.  Want us off soon.  At dark

passed into Archipelago.

 

 

On 13 July passed Cape Matapan.  Crew dissatisfied about

something.  Seemed scared, but would not speak out.

 

 

On 14 July was somewhat anxious about crew.  Men all steady

fellows, who sailed with me before.  Mate could not make out what

was wrong.  They only told him there was SOMETHING, and crossed

themselves.  Mate lost temper with one of them that day and struck

him.  Expected fierce quarrel, but all was quiet.

 

 

On 16 July mate reported in the morning that one of the

crew, Petrofsky, was missing.  Could not account for it.

Took larboard watch eight bells last night, was relieved by

Amramoff, but did not go to bunk.  Men more downcast than

ever.  All said they expected something of the kind, but

would not say more than there was SOMETHING aboard.  Mate

getting very impatient with them.  Feared some trouble

ahead.

 

 

On 17 July, yesterday, one of the men, Olgaren, came to my cabin,

and in an awestruck way confided to me that he thought there was a

strange man aboard the ship.  He said that in his watch he had

been sheltering behind the deckhouse, as there was a rain storm,

when he saw a tall, thin man, who was not like any of the crew,

come up the companionway, and go along the deck forward and

disappear.  He followed cautiously, but when he got to bows found

no one, and the hatchways were all closed.  He was in a panic of

superstitious fear, and I am afraid the panic may spread.  To

allay it, I shall today search the entire ship carefully from stem

to stern.

 

 

Later in the day I got together the whole crew, and told them, as

they evidently thought there was some one in the ship, we would

search from stem to stern.  First mate angry, said it was folly,

and to yield to such foolish ideas would demoralise the men, said

he would engage to keep them out of trouble with the handspike.  I

let him take the helm, while the rest began a thorough search, all

keeping abreast, with lanterns.  We left no corner unsearched.  As

there were only the big wooden boxes, there were no odd corners

where a man could hide.  Men much relieved when search over, and

went back to work cheerfully.  First mate scowled, but said

nothing.

 

 

22 July.–Rough weather last three days, and all hands busy

with sails, no time to be frightened.  Men seem to have

forgotten their dread.  Mate cheerful again, and all on

good terms.  Praised men for work in bad weather.  Passed

Gibraltar and out through Straits.  All well.

 

 

24 July.–There seems some doom over this ship.  Already a hand

short, and entering the Bay of Biscay with wild weather ahead, and

yet last night another man lost, disappeared.  Like the first, he

came off his watch and was not seen again.  Men all in a panic of

fear, sent a round robin, asking to have double watch, as they

fear to be alone.  Mate angry.  Fear there will be some trouble,

as either he or the men will do some violence.

 

 

28 July.–Four days in hell, knocking about in a sort of

maelstrom, and the wind a tempest.  No sleep for any one.

Men all worn out.  Hardly know how to set a watch, since no

one fit to go on.  Second mate volunteered to steer and

watch, and let men snatch a few hours sleep.  Wind abating,

seas still terrific, but feel them less, as ship is

steadier.

 

 

29 July.–Another tragedy.  Had single watch tonight, as crew too

tired to double.  When morning watch came on deck could find no

one except steersman.  Raised outcry, and all came on deck.

Thorough search, but no one found.  Are now without second mate,

and crew in a panic.  Mate and I agreed to go armed henceforth and

wait for any sign of cause.

 

 

30 July.–Last night.  Rejoiced we are nearing England. Weather

fine, all sails set.  Retired worn out, slept soundly, awakened by

mate telling me that both man of watch and steersman missing.

Only self and mate and two hands left to work ship.

 

1 August.–Two days of fog, and not a sail sighted.  Had hoped

when in the English Channel to be able to signal for help or get

in somewhere.  Not having power to work sails, have to run before

wind.  Dare not lower, as could not raise them again.  We seem to

be drifting to some terrible doom.  Mate now more demoralised than

either of men.  His stronger nature seems to have worked inwardly

against himself.  Men are beyond fear, working stolidly and

patiently, with minds made up to worst.  They are Russian, he

Roumanian.

 

2 August, midnight.–Woke up from few minutes sleep by hearing a

cry, seemingly outside my port.  Could see nothing in fog.  Rushed

on deck, and ran against mate. Tells me he heard cry and ran, but

no sign of man on watch.  One more gone.  Lord, help us!  Mate

says we must be past Straits of Dover, as in a moment of fog

lifting he saw North Foreland, just as he heard the man cry out.

If so we are now off in the North Sea, and only God can guide us

in the fog, which seems to move with us, and God seems to have

deserted us.

 

 

3 August.–At midnight I went to relieve the man at the

wheel and when I got to it found no one there.  The wind

was steady, and as we ran before it there was no yawing.  I

dared not leave it, so shouted for the mate.  After a few

seconds, he rushed up on deck in his flannels.  He looked

wild-eyed and haggard, and I greatly fear his reason has

given way.  He came close to me and whispered hoarsely,

with his mouth to my ear, as though fearing the very air

might hear.  “It is here.  I know it now.  On the watch

last night I saw It, like a man, tall and thin, and ghastly

pale.  It was in the bows, and looking out.  I crept behind

It, and gave it my knife, but the knife went through It,

empty as the air.”  And as he spoke he took the knife and

drove it savagely into space.  Then he went on, “But It is

here, and I’ll find It.  It is in the hold, perhaps in one

of those boxes.  I’ll unscrew them one by one and see.  You

work the helm.”  And with a warning look and his finger on

his lip, he went below.  There was springing up a choppy

wind, and I could not leave the helm.  I saw him come out

on deck again with a tool chest and lantern, and go down

the forward hatchway.  He is mad, stark, raving mad, and

it’s no use my trying to stop him.  He can’t hurt those big

boxes, they are invoiced as clay, and to pull them about is

as harmless a thing as he can do.  So here I stay and mind

the helm, and write these notes.  I can only trust in God

and wait till the fog clears.  Then, if I can’t steer to

any harbour with the wind that is, I shall cut down sails,

and lie by, and signal for help . . .

 

It is nearly all over now.  Just as I was beginning to hope

that the mate would come out calmer, for I heard him

knocking away at something in the hold, and work is good

for him, there came up the hatchway a sudden, startled

scream, which made my blood run cold, and up on the deck he

came as if shot from a gun, a raging madman, with his eyes

rolling and his face convulsed with fear.  “Save me!  Save

me!” he cried, and then looked round on the blanket of fog.

His horror turned to despair, and in a steady voice he

said, “You had better come too, captain, before it is too

late.  He is there!  I know the secret now.  The sea will

save me from Him, and it is all that is left!”  Before I

could say a word, or move forward to seize him, he sprang

on the bulwark and deliberately threw himself into the sea.

I suppose I know the secret too, now.  It was this madman

who had got rid of the men one by one, and now he has

followed them himself.  God help me!  How am I to account

for all these horrors when I get to port?  When I get to

port!  Will that ever be?

 

 

4 August.–Still fog, which the sunrise cannot pierce, I

know there is sunrise because I am a sailor, why else I

know not.  I dared not go below, I dared not leave the

helm, so here all night I stayed, and in the dimness of the

night I saw it, Him!  God, forgive me, but the mate was

right to jump overboard.  It was better to die like a man.

To die like a sailor in blue water, no man can object.  But

I am captain, and I must not leave my ship.  But I shall

baffle this fiend or monster, for I shall tie my hands to

the wheel when my strength begins to fail, and along with

them I shall tie that which He, It, dare not touch.  And

then, come good wind or foul, I shall save my soul, and my

honour as a captain.  I am growing weaker, and the night is

coming on.  If He can look me in the face again, I may not

have time to act. . .  If we are wrecked, mayhap this bottle

may be found, and those who find it may understand.  If

not . . . well, then all men shall know that I have been

true to my trust.  God and the Blessed Virgin and the

Saints help a poor ignorant soul trying to do his duty . . .

 

 

Of course the verdict was an open one.  There is no evidence

to adduce, and whether or not the man himself committed the

murders there is now none to say.  The folk here hold almost

universally that the captain is simply a hero, and he is to be

given a public funeral.  Already it is arranged that his body

is to be taken with a train of boats up the Esk for a piece

and then brought back to Tate Hill Pier and up the abbey steps,

for he is to be buried in the churchyard on the cliff.  The

owners of more than a hundred boats have already given in their

names as wishing to follow him to the grave.

 

No trace has ever been found of the great dog, at which there is

much mourning, for, with public opinion in its present state, he

would, I believe, be adopted by the town.  Tomorrow will see the

funeral, and so will end this one more ‘mystery of the sea’.

 

 

 

MINA MURRAY’S JOURNAL

 

8 August.–Lucy was very restless all night, and I too, could not

sleep.  The storm was fearful, and as it boomed loudly among the

chimney pots, it made me shudder.  When a sharp puff came it seemed to

be like a distant gun.  Strangely enough, Lucy did not wake, but she

got up twice and dressed herself.  Fortunately, each time I awoke in

time and managed to undress her without waking her, and got her back to

bed.  It is a very strange thing, this sleep-walking, for as soon as

her will is thwarted in any physical way, her intention, if there be

any, disappears, and she yields herself almost exactly to the routine

of her life.

 

Early in the morning we both got up and went down to the harbour to see

if anything had happened in the night.  There were very few people

about, and though the sun was bright, and the air clear and fresh, the

big, grim-looking waves, that seemed dark themselves because the foam

that topped them was like snow, forced themselves in through the mouth

of the harbour, like a bullying man going through a crowd.  Somehow I

felt glad that Jonathan was not on the sea last night, but on land.

But, oh, is he on land or sea?  Where is he, and how?  I am getting

fearfully anxious about him.  If I only knew what to do, and could do

anything!

 

 

10 August.–The funeral of the poor sea captain today was most

touching.  Every boat in the harbour seemed to be there, and the coffin

was carried by captains all the way from Tate Hill Pier up to the

churchyard.  Lucy came with me, and we went early to our old seat,

whilst the cortege of boats went up the river to the Viaduct and came

down again.  We had a lovely view, and saw the procession nearly all

the way.  The poor fellow was laid to rest near our seat so that we

stood on it, when the time came and saw everything.

 

Poor Lucy seemed much upset.  She was restless and uneasy all the time,

and I cannot but think that her dreaming at night is telling on her.

She is quite odd in one thing.  She will not admit to me that there is

any cause for restlessness, or if there be, she does not understand it

herself.

 

There is an additional cause in that poor Mr. Swales was found dead

this morning on our seat, his neck being broken.  He had evidently, as

the doctor said, fallen back in the seat in some sort of fright, for

there was a look of fear and horror on his face that the men said made

them shudder.  Poor dear old man!

 

Lucy is so sweet and sensitive that she feels influences more acutely

than other people do.  Just now she was quite upset by a little thing

which I did not much heed, though I am myself very fond of animals.

 

One of the men who came up here often to look for the boats was

followed by his dog.  The dog is always with him.  They are both quiet

persons, and I never saw the man angry, nor heard the dog bark.  During

the service the dog would not come to its master, who was on the seat

with us, but kept a few yards off, barking and howling.  Its master

spoke to it gently, and then harshly, and then angrily.  But it would

neither come nor cease to make a noise.  It was in a fury, with its

eyes savage, and all its hair bristling out like a cat’s tail when puss

is on the war path.

 

Finally the man too got angry, and jumped down and kicked the dog, and

then took it by the scruff of the neck and half dragged and half threw

it on the tombstone on which the seat is fixed.  The moment it touched

the stone the poor thing began to tremble.  It did not try to get away,

but crouched down, quivering and cowering, and was in such a pitiable

state of terror that I tried, though without effect, to comfort it.

 

Lucy was full of pity, too, but she did not attempt to touch the dog,

but looked at it in an agonised sort of way.  I greatly fear that she

is of too super-sensitive a nature to go through the world without

trouble.  She will be dreaming of this tonight, I am sure.  The whole

agglomeration of things, the ship steered into port by a dead man, his

attitude, tied to the wheel with a crucifix and beads, the touching

funeral, the dog, now furious and now in terror, will all afford

material for her dreams.

 

I think it will be best for her to go to bed tired out physically, so I

shall take her for a long walk by the cliffs to Robin Hood’s Bay and

back.  She ought not to have much inclination for sleep-walking then.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 8

 

 

MINA MURRAY’S JOURNAL

 

Same day, 11 o’clock P.M.–Oh, but I am tired!  If it were not that I

had made my diary a duty I should not open it tonight.  We had a lovely

walk.  Lucy, after a while, was in gay spirits, owing, I think, to some

dear cows who came nosing towards us in a field close to the

lighthouse, and frightened the wits out of us.  I believe we forgot

everything, except of course, personal fear, and it seemed to wipe the

slate clean and give us a fresh start.  We had a capital ‘severe tea’

at Robin Hood’s Bay in a sweet little old-fashioned inn, with a bow

window right over the seaweed-covered rocks of the strand.  I believe

we should have shocked the ‘New Woman’ with our appetites.  Men are

more tolerant, bless them!  Then we walked home with some, or rather

many, stoppages to rest, and with our hearts full of a constant dread

of wild bulls.

 

Lucy was really tired, and we intended to creep off to bed as soon as

we could.  The young curate came in, however, and Mrs. Westenra asked

him to stay for supper.  Lucy and I had both a fight for it with the

dusty miller.  I know it was a hard fight on my part, and I am quite

heroic.  I think that some day the bishops must get together and see

about breeding up a new class of curates, who don’t take supper, no

matter how hard they may be pressed to, and who will know when girls

are tired.

 

Lucy is asleep and breathing softly.  She has more colour in her cheeks

than usual, and looks, oh so sweet.  If Mr. Holmwood fell in love with

her seeing her only in the drawing room, I wonder what he would say if

he saw her now.  Some of the ‘New Women’ writers will some day start an

idea that men and women should be allowed to see each other asleep

before proposing or accepting.  But I suppose the ‘New Woman’ won’t

condescend in future to accept.  She will do the proposing herself.  And

a nice job she will make of it too!  There’s some consolation in that.

I am so happy tonight, because dear Lucy seems better.  I really

believe she has turned the corner, and that we are over her troubles

with dreaming.  I should be quite happy if I only knew if Jonathan . . .

God bless and keep him.

 

 

11 August.–Diary again.  No sleep now, so I may as well write.  I am

too agitated to sleep.  We have had such an adventure, such an

agonizing experience.  I fell asleep as soon as I had closed my diary.

. . .  Suddenly I became broad awake, and sat up, with a horrible sense

of fear upon me, and of some feeling of emptiness around me.  The room

was dark, so I could not see Lucy’s bed.  I stole across and felt for

her.  The bed was empty.  I lit a match and found that she was not in

the room.  The door was shut, but not locked, as I had left it.  I feared

to wake her mother, who has been more than usually ill lately, so threw

on some clothes and got ready to look for her.  As I was leaving the

room it struck me that the clothes she wore might give me some clue to

her dreaming intention.  Dressing-gown would mean house, dress outside.

Dressing-gown and dress were both in their places.  “Thank God,” I said

to myself, “she cannot be far, as she is only in her nightdress.”

 

I ran downstairs and looked in the sitting room.  Not there!  Then I

looked in all the other rooms of the house, with an ever-growing fear

chilling my heart.  Finally, I came to the hall door and found it open.

It was not wide open, but the catch of the lock had not caught.  The

people of the house are careful to lock the door every night, so I

feared that Lucy must have gone out as she was.  There was no time to

think of what might happen.  A vague over-mastering fear obscured all

details.

 

I took a big, heavy shawl and ran out.  The clock was striking one as I

was in the Crescent, and there was not a soul in sight.  I ran along

the North Terrace, but could see no sign of the white figure which I

expected.  At the edge of the West Cliff above the pier I looked across

the harbour to the East Cliff, in the hope or fear, I don’t know which,

of seeing Lucy in our favourite seat.

 

There was a bright full moon, with heavy black, driving clouds, which

threw the whole scene into a fleeting diorama of light and shade as

they sailed across.  For a moment or two I could see nothing, as the

shadow of a cloud obscured St. Mary’s Church and all around it.  Then

as the cloud passed I could see the ruins of the abbey coming into

view, and as the edge of a narrow band of light as sharp as a sword-cut

moved along, the church and churchyard became gradually visible.

Whatever my expectation was, it was not disappointed, for there, on our

favourite seat, the silver light of the moon struck a half-reclining

figure, snowy white.  The coming of the cloud was too quick for me to

see much, for shadow shut down on light almost immediately, but it

seemed to me as though something dark stood behind the seat where the

white figure shone, and bent over it.  What it was, whether man or

beast, I could not tell.

 

I did not wait to catch another glance, but flew down the steep steps

to the pier and along by the fish-market to the bridge, which was the

only way to reach the East Cliff.  The town seemed as dead, for not a

soul did I see.  I rejoiced that it was so, for I wanted no witness of

poor Lucy’s condition.  The time and distance seemed endless, and my

knees trembled and my breath came laboured as I toiled up the endless

steps to the abbey.  I must have gone fast, and yet it seemed to me as

if my feet were weighted with lead, and as though every joint in my

body were rusty.

 

When I got almost to the top I could see the seat and the white figure,

for I was now close enough to distinguish it even through the spells of

shadow.  There was undoubtedly something, long and black, bending over

the half-reclining white figure.  I called in fright, “Lucy!  Lucy!”

and something raised a head, and from where I was I could see a white

face and red, gleaming eyes.

 

Lucy did not answer, and I ran on to the entrance of the churchyard.

As I entered, the church was between me and the seat, and for a minute

or so I lost sight of her.  When I came in view again the cloud had

passed, and the moonlight struck so brilliantly that I could see Lucy

half reclining with her head lying over the back of the seat.  She was

quite alone, and there was not a sign of any living thing about.

 

When I bent over her I could see that she was still asleep.  Her lips

were parted, and she was breathing, not softly as usual with her, but

in long, heavy gasps, as though striving to get her lungs full at every

breath.  As I came close, she put up her hand in her sleep and pulled

the collar of her nightdress close around her, as though she felt the

cold.  I flung the warm shawl over her, and drew the edges tight around

her neck, for I dreaded lest she should get some deadly chill from the

night air, unclad as she was.  I feared to wake her all at once, so, in

order to have my hands free to help her, I fastened the shawl at her

throat with a big safety pin.  But I must have been clumsy in my

anxiety and pinched or pricked her with it, for by-and-by, when her

breathing became quieter, she put her hand to her throat again and

moaned.  When I had her carefully wrapped up I put my shoes on her

feet, and then began very gently to wake her.

 

At first she did not respond, but gradually she became more and more

uneasy in her sleep, moaning and sighing occasionally.  At last, as

time was passing fast, and for many other reasons, I wished to get her

home at once, I shook her forcibly, till finally she opened her eyes

and awoke.  She did not seem surprised to see me, as, of course, she

did not realize all at once where she was.

 

Lucy always wakes prettily, and even at such a time, when her body must

have been chilled with cold, and her mind somewhat appalled at waking

unclad in a churchyard at night, she did not lose her grace.  She

trembled a little, and clung to me.  When I told her to come at once

with me home, she rose without a word, with the obedience of a child.

As we passed along, the gravel hurt my feet, and Lucy noticed me wince.

She stopped and wanted to insist upon my taking my shoes, but I would

not.  However, when we got to the pathway outside the churchyard, where

there was a puddle of water, remaining from the storm, I daubed my feet

with mud, using each foot in turn on the other, so that as we went

home, no one, in case we should meet any one, should notice my bare

feet.

 

Fortune favoured us, and we got home without meeting a soul.  Once we

saw a man, who seemed not quite sober, passing along a street in front

of us.  But we hid in a door till he had disappeared up an opening such

as there are here, steep little closes, or ‘wynds’, as they call them

in Scotland.  My heart beat so loud all the time sometimes I thought I

should faint.  I was filled with anxiety about Lucy, not only for her

health, lest she should suffer from the exposure, but for her

reputation in case the story should get wind.  When we got in, and had

washed our feet, and had said a prayer of thankfulness together, I

tucked her into bed.  Before falling asleep she asked, even implored,

me not to say a word to any one, even her mother, about her

sleep-walking adventure.

 

I hesitated at first, to promise, but on thinking of the state of her

mother’s health, and how the knowledge of such a thing would fret her,

and think too, of how such a story might become distorted, nay,

infallibly would, in case it should leak out, I thought it wiser to do

1. I hope I did right. I have locked the door, and the key is tied

to my wrist, so perhaps I shall not be again disturbed.  Lucy is

sleeping soundly.  The reflex of the dawn is high and far over the

sea . . .

 

 

Same day, noon.–All goes well.  Lucy slept till I woke her and seemed

not to have even changed her side.  The adventure of the night does not

seem to have harmed her, on the contrary, it has benefited her, for she

looks better this morning than she has done for weeks.  I was sorry to

notice that my clumsiness with the safety-pin hurt her.  Indeed, it

might have been serious, for the skin of her throat was pierced.  I

must have pinched up a piece of loose skin and have transfixed it, for

there are two little red points like pin-pricks, and on the band of her

nightdress was a drop of blood.  When I apologised and was concerned

about it, she laughed and petted me, and said she did not even feel it.

Fortunately it cannot leave a scar, as it is so tiny.

 

 

Same day, night.–We passed a happy day.  The air was clear, and the

sun bright, and there was a cool breeze.  We took our lunch to Mulgrave

Woods, Mrs. Westenra driving by the road and Lucy and I walking by the

cliff-path and joining her at the gate.  I felt a little sad myself,

for I could not but feel how absolutely happy it would have been had

Jonathan been with me.  But there!  I must only be patient.  In the

evening we strolled in the Casino Terrace, and heard some good music by

Spohr and Mackenzie, and went to bed early.  Lucy seems more restful

than she has been for some time, and fell asleep at once.  I shall lock

the door and secure the key the same as before, though I do not expect

any trouble tonight.

 

 

12 August.–My expectations were wrong, for twice during the night I

was wakened by Lucy trying to get out.  She seemed, even in her sleep,

to be a little impatient at finding the door shut, and went back to bed

under a sort of protest.  I woke with the dawn, and heard the birds

chirping outside of the window.  Lucy woke, too, and I was glad to see,

was even better than on the previous morning.  All her old gaiety of

manner seemed to have come back, and she came and snuggled in beside me

and told me all about Arthur.  I told her how anxious I was about

Jonathan, and then she tried to comfort me.  Well, she succeeded

somewhat, for, though sympathy can’t alter facts, it can make them more

bearable.

 

 

13 August.–Another quiet day, and to bed with the key on my wrist as

before.  Again I awoke in the night, and found Lucy sitting up in bed,

still asleep, pointing to the window.  I got up quietly, and pulling

aside the blind, looked out.  It was brilliant moonlight, and the soft

effect of the light over the sea and sky, merged together in one great

silent mystery, was beautiful beyond words.  Between me and the

moonlight flitted a great bat, coming and going in great whirling

circles.  Once or twice it came quite close, but was, I suppose,

frightened at seeing me, and flitted away across the harbour towards

the abbey.  When I came back from the window Lucy had lain down again,

and was sleeping peacefully.  She did not stir again all night.

 

 

14 August.–On the East Cliff, reading and writing all day.  Lucy seems

to have become as much in love with the spot as I am, and it is hard to

get her away from it when it is time to come home for lunch or tea or

dinner.  This afternoon she made a funny remark.  We were coming home

for dinner, and had come to the top of the steps up from the West Pier

and stopped to look at the view, as we generally do.  The setting sun,

low down in the sky, was just dropping behind Kettleness.  The red

light was thrown over on the East Cliff and the old abbey, and seemed

to bathe everything in a beautiful rosy glow.  We were silent for a

while, and suddenly Lucy murmured as if to herself . . .

 

“His red eyes again!  They are just the same.”  It was such an odd

expression, coming apropos of nothing, that it quite startled me.  I

slewed round a little, so as to see Lucy well without seeming to stare

at her, and saw that she was in a half dreamy state, with an odd look

on her face that I could not quite make out, so I said nothing, but

followed her eyes.  She appeared to be looking over at our own seat,

whereon was a dark figure seated alone.  I was quite a little startled

myself, for it seemed for an instant as if the stranger had great eyes

like burning flames, but a second look dispelled the illusion.  The red

sunlight was shining on the windows of St. Mary’s Church behind our

seat, and as the sun dipped there was just sufficient change in the

refraction and reflection to make it appear as if the light moved.  I

called Lucy’s attention to the peculiar effect, and she became herself

with a start, but she looked sad all the same.  It may have been that

she was thinking of that terrible night up there.  We never refer to

it, so I said nothing, and we went home to dinner.  Lucy had a headache

and went early to bed.  I saw her asleep, and went out for a little

stroll myself.

 

I walked along the cliffs to the westward, and was full of sweet

sadness, for I was thinking of Jonathan.  When coming home, it was then

bright moonlight, so bright that, though the front of our part of the

Crescent was in shadow, everything could be well seen, I threw a glance

up at our window, and saw Lucy’s head leaning out.  I opened my

handkerchief and waved it.  She did not notice or make any movement

whatever.  Just then, the moonlight crept round an angle of the

building, and the light fell on the window.  There distinctly was Lucy

with her head lying up against the side of the window sill and her eyes

shut.  She was fast asleep, and by her, seated on the window sill, was

something that looked like a good-sized bird.  I was afraid she might

get a chill, so I ran upstairs, but as I came into the room she was

moving back to her bed, fast asleep, and breathing heavily.  She was

holding her hand to her throat, as though to protect if from the cold.

 

I did not wake her, but tucked her up warmly.  I have taken care that

the door is locked and the window securely fastened.

 

She looks so sweet as she sleeps, but she is paler than is her wont,

and there is a drawn, haggard look under her eyes which I do not like.

I fear she is fretting about something.  I wish I could find out what it

is.

 

 

15 August.–Rose later than usual.  Lucy was languid and tired, and

slept on after we had been called.  We had a happy surprise at

breakfast.  Arthur’s father is better, and wants the marriage to come

off soon.  Lucy is full of quiet joy, and her mother is glad and sorry

at once.  Later on in the day she told me the cause.  She is grieved to

lose Lucy as her very own, but she is rejoiced that she is soon to have

some one to protect her.  Poor dear, sweet lady!  She confided to me

that she has got her death warrant.  She has not told Lucy, and made me

promise secrecy.  Her doctor told her that within a few months, at

most, she must die, for her heart is weakening.  At any time, even now,

a sudden shock would be almost sure to kill her.  Ah, we were wise to

keep from her the affair of the dreadful night of Lucy’s sleep-walking.

 

 

17 August.–No diary for two whole days.  I have not had the heart to

write.  Some sort of shadowy pall seems to be coming over our

happiness.  No news from Jonathan, and Lucy seems to be growing weaker,

whilst her mother’s hours are numbering to a close.  I do not

understand Lucy’s fading away as she is doing.  She eats well and

sleeps well, and enjoys the fresh air, but all the time the roses in

her cheeks are fading, and she gets weaker and more languid day by day.

At night I hear her gasping as if for air.

 

I keep the key of our door always fastened to my wrist at night, but

she gets up and walks about the room, and sits at the open window.

Last night I found her leaning out when I woke up, and when I tried to

wake her I could not.

 

She was in a faint.  When I managed to restore her, she was weak as

water, and cried silently between long, painful struggles for breath.

When I asked her how she came to be at the window she shook her head

and turned away.

 

I trust her feeling ill may not be from that unlucky prick of the

safety-pin.  I looked at her throat just now as she lay asleep, and the

tiny wounds seem not to have healed.  They are still open, and, if

anything, larger than before, and the edges of them are faintly white.

They are like little white dots with red centres.  Unless they heal

within a day or two, I shall insist on the doctor seeing about them.

 

 

 

LETTER, SAMUEL F. BILLINGTON & SON, SOLICITORS WHITBY,

TO MESSRS. CARTER, PATERSON & CO., LONDON.

 

17 August

 

“Dear Sirs,–Herewith please receive invoice of goods sent by Great

Northern Railway.  Same are to be delivered at Carfax, near

Purfleet, immediately on receipt at goods station King’s Cross.  The

house is at present empty, but enclosed please find keys, all of

which are labelled.

 

“You will please deposit the boxes, fifty in number, which form the

consignment, in the partially ruined building forming part of the

house and marked ‘A’ on rough diagrams enclosed.  Your agent will

easily recognize the locality, as it is the ancient chapel of the

mansion.  The goods leave by the train at 9:30 tonight, and will be

due at King’s Cross at 4:30 tomorrow afternoon.  As our client

wishes the delivery made as soon as possible, we shall be obliged by

your having teams ready at King’s Cross at the time named and

forthwith conveying the goods to destination.  In order to obviate

any delays possible through any routine requirements as to payment

in your departments, we enclose cheque herewith for ten pounds,

receipt of which please acknowledge.  Should the charge be less than

this amount, you can return balance, if greater, we shall at once

send cheque for difference on hearing from you.  You are to leave

the keys on coming away in the main hall of the house, where the

proprietor may get them on his entering the house by means of his

duplicate key.

 

“Pray do not take us as exceeding the bounds of business courtesy

in pressing you in all ways to use the utmost expedition.

 

“We are, dear Sirs,

Faithfully yours,

SAMUEL F. BILLINGTON & SON”

 

 

 

LETTER, MESSRS.  CARTER, PATERSON & CO., LONDON,

TO MESSRS. BILLINGTON & SON, WHITBY.

 

21 August.

 

“Dear Sirs,–We beg to acknowledge 10 pounds received and to return

cheque of 1 pound, 17s, 9d, amount of overplus, as shown in

receipted account herewith.  Goods are delivered in exact accordance

with instructions, and keys left in parcel in main hall, as

directed.

 

“We are, dear Sirs,

Yours respectfully,

Pro CARTER, PATERSON & CO.”

 

 

 

MINA MURRAY’S JOURNAL.

 

18 August.–I am happy today, and write sitting on the seat in the

churchyard.  Lucy is ever so much better.  Last night she slept well

all night, and did not disturb me once.

 

The roses seem coming back already to her cheeks, though she is still

sadly pale and wan-looking.  If she were in any way anemic I could

understand it, but she is not.  She is in gay spirits and full of life

and cheerfulness.  All the morbid reticence seems to have passed from

her, and she has just reminded me, as if I needed any reminding, of

that night, and that it was here, on this very seat, I found her

asleep.

 

As she told me she tapped playfully with the heel of her boot on the

stone slab and said,

 

“My poor little feet didn’t make much noise then!  I daresay poor old

Mr. Swales would have told me that it was because I didn’t want to wake

up Geordie.”

 

As she was in such a communicative humour, I asked her if she had

dreamed at all that night.

 

Before she answered, that sweet, puckered look came into her forehead,

which Arthur, I call him Arthur from her habit, says he loves, and

indeed, I don’t wonder that he does.  Then she went on in a

half-dreaming kind of way, as if trying to recall it to herself.

 

“I didn’t quite dream, but it all seemed to be real.  I only wanted to

be here in this spot.  I don’t know why, for I was afraid of something,

I don’t know what.  I remember, though I suppose I was asleep, passing

through the streets and over the bridge.  A fish leaped as I went by,

and I leaned over to look at it, and I heard a lot of dogs howling.  The

whole town seemed as if it must be full of dogs all howling at once, as

I went up the steps.  Then I had a vague memory of something long and

dark with red eyes, just as we saw in the sunset, and something very

sweet and very bitter all around me at once.  And then I seemed sinking

into deep green water, and there was a singing in my ears, as I have

heard there is to drowning men, and then everything seemed passing away

from me.  My soul seemed to go out from my body and float about the

air.  I seem to remember that once the West Lighthouse was right under

me, and then there was a sort of agonizing feeling, as if I were in an

earthquake, and I came back and found you shaking my body.  I saw you

do it before I felt you.”

 

Then she began to laugh.  It seemed a little uncanny to me, and I

listened to her breathlessly.  I did not quite like it, and thought it

better not to keep her mind on the subject, so we drifted on to another

subject, and Lucy was like her old self again.  When we got home the

fresh breeze had braced her up, and her pale cheeks were really more

rosy.  Her mother rejoiced when she saw her, and we all spent a very

happy evening together.

 

 

19 August.–Joy, joy, joy!  Although not all joy.  At last, news of

Jonathan.  The dear fellow has been ill, that is why he did not write.

I am not afraid to think it or to say it, now that I know.  Mr. Hawkins

sent me on the letter, and wrote himself, oh so kindly.  I am to leave

in the morning and go over to Jonathan, and to help to nurse him if

necessary, and to bring him home.  Mr. Hawkins says it would not be a

bad thing if we were to be married out there.  I have cried over the

good Sister’s letter till I can feel it wet against my bosom, where it

lies.  It is of Jonathan, and must be near my heart, for he is in my

heart.  My journey is all mapped out, and my luggage ready.  I am only

taking one change of dress.  Lucy will bring my trunk to London and

keep it till I send for it, for it may be that . . .  I must write no

more.  I must keep it to say to Jonathan, my husband.  The letter that

he has seen and touched must comfort me till we meet.

 

 

 

LETTER, SISTER AGATHA, HOSPITAL OF ST. JOSEPH AND

STE. MARY BUDA-PESTH, TO MISS WILLHELMINA MURRAY

 

12 August,

 

“Dear Madam.

 

“I write by desire of Mr. Jonathan Harker, who is himself not strong

enough to write, though progressing well, thanks to God and St.

Joseph and Ste. Mary.  He has been under our care for nearly six

weeks, suffering from a violent brain fever.  He wishes me to convey

his love, and to say that by this post I write for him to Mr. Peter

Hawkins, Exeter, to say, with his dutiful respects, that he is sorry

for his delay, and that all of his work is completed.  He will

require some few weeks’ rest in our sanatorium in the hills, but

will then return.  He wishes me to say that he has not sufficient

money with him, and that he would like to pay for his staying here,

so that others who need shall not be wanting for help.

 

“Believe me,

 

“Yours, with sympathy

and all blessings.

Sister Agatha

 

“P.S.–My patient being asleep, I open this to let you know

something more.  He has told me all about you, and that you are

shortly to be his wife.  All blessings to you both!  He has had some

fearful shock, so says our doctor, and in his delirium his ravings

have been dreadful, of wolves and poison and blood, of ghosts and

demons, and I fear to say of what.  Be careful of him always that

there may be nothing to excite him of this kind for a long time to

come.  The traces of such an illness as his do not lightly die away.

We should have written long ago, but we knew nothing of his friends,

and there was nothing on him, nothing that anyone could understand.

He came in the train from Klausenburg, and the guard was told by the

station master there that he rushed into the station shouting for a

ticket for home.  Seeing from his violent demeanour that he was

English, they gave him a ticket for the furthest station on the way

thither that the train reached.

 

“Be assured that he is well cared for.  He has won all hearts by his

sweetness and gentleness.  He is truly getting on well, and I have

no doubt will in a few weeks be all himself.  But be careful of him

for safety’s sake.  There are, I pray God and St. Joseph and Ste.

Mary, many, many, happy years for you both.”

 

 

 

1. SEWARD’S DIARY

 

19 August.–Strange and sudden change in Renfield last night.  About

eight o’clock he began to get excited and sniff about as a dog does

when setting.  The attendant was struck by his manner, and knowing my

interest in him, encouraged him to talk.  He is usually respectful to

the attendant and at times servile, but tonight, the man tells me, he

was quite haughty.  Would not condescend to talk with him at all.

 

All he would say was, “I don’t want to talk to you.  You don’t count

now.  The master is at hand.”

 

The attendant thinks it is some sudden form of religious mania which

has seized him.  If so, we must look out for squalls, for a strong man

with homicidal and religious mania at once might be dangerous.  The

combination is a dreadful one.

 

At nine o’clock I visited him myself.  His attitude to me was the same

as that to the attendant.  In his sublime self-feeling the difference

between myself and the attendant seemed to him as nothing.  It looks

like religious mania, and he will soon think that he himself is God.

 

These infinitesimal distinctions between man and man are too paltry for

an Omnipotent Being.  How these madmen give themselves away!  The real

God taketh heed lest a sparrow fall.  But the God created from human

vanity sees no difference between an eagle and a sparrow.  Oh, if men

only knew!

 

For half an hour or more Renfield kept getting excited in greater and

greater degree.  I did not pretend to be watching him, but I kept

strict observation all the same.  All at once that shifty look came

into his eyes which we always see when a madman has seized an idea, and

with it the shifty movement of the head and back which asylum

attendants come to know so well.  He became quite quiet, and went and

sat on the edge of his bed resignedly, and looked into space with

lack-luster eyes.

 

I thought I would find out if his apathy were real or only assumed, and

tried to lead him to talk of his pets, a theme which had never failed

to excite his attention.

 

At first he made no reply, but at length said testily, “Bother them

all!  I don’t care a pin about them.”

 

“What?” I said.  “You don’t mean to tell me you don’t care about

spiders?”  (Spiders at present are his hobby and the notebook is filling

up with columns of small figures.)

 

To this he answered enigmatically, “The bride-maidens rejoice the eyes

that wait the coming of the bride.  But when the bride draweth nigh,

then the maidens shine not to the eyes that are filled.”

 

He would not explain himself, but remained obstinately seated on his

bed all the time I remained with him.

 

I am weary tonight and low in spirits.  I cannot but think of Lucy, and

how different things might have been.  If I don’t sleep at once,

chloral, the modern Morpheus!  I must be careful not to let it grow

into a habit.  No, I shall take none tonight!  I have thought of Lucy,

and I shall not dishonour her by mixing the two.  If need be, tonight

shall be sleepless.

 

 

Later.–Glad I made the resolution, gladder that I kept to it.  I had

lain tossing about, and had heard the clock strike only twice, when the

night watchman came to me, sent up from the ward, to say that Renfield

had escaped.  I threw on my clothes and ran down at once.  My patient

is too dangerous a person to be roaming about.  Those ideas of his

might work out dangerously with strangers.

 

The attendant was waiting for me.  He said he had seen him not ten

minutes before, seemingly asleep in his bed, when he had looked through

the observation trap in the door.  His attention was called by the

sound of the window being wrenched out.  He ran back and saw his feet

disappear through the window, and had at once sent up for me.  He was

only in his night gear, and cannot be far off.

 

The attendant thought it would be more useful to watch where he should

go than to follow him, as he might lose sight of him whilst getting out

of the building by the door.  He is a bulky man, and couldn’t get

through the window.

 

I am thin, so, with his aid, I got out, but feet foremost, and as we

were only a few feet above ground landed unhurt.

 

The attendant told me the patient had gone to the left, and had taken a

straight line, so I ran as quickly as I could.  As I got through the

belt of trees I saw a white figure scale the high wall which separates

our grounds from those of the deserted house.

 

I ran back at once, told the watchman to get three or four men

immediately and follow me into the grounds of Carfax, in case our

friend might be dangerous.  I got a ladder myself, and crossing the

wall, dropped down on the other side.  I could see Renfield’s figure

just disappearing behind the angle of the house, so I ran after him.  On

the far side of the house I found him pressed close against the old

iron-bound oak door of the chapel.

 

He was talking, apparently to some one, but I was afraid to go near

enough to hear what he was saying, lest I might frighten him, and he

should run off.

 

Chasing an errant swarm of bees is nothing to following a naked

lunatic, when the fit of escaping is upon him!  After a few minutes,

however, I could see that he did not take note of anything around him,

and so ventured to draw nearer to him, the more so as my men had now

crossed the wall and were closing him in.  I heard him say . . .

 

“I am here to do your bidding, Master.  I am your slave, and you will

reward me, for I shall be faithful.  I have worshipped you long and afar

off.  Now that you are near, I await your commands, and you will not

pass me by, will you, dear Master, in your distribution of good

things?”

 

He is a selfish old beggar anyhow.  He thinks of the loaves and fishes

even when he believes he is in a real Presence.  His manias make a

startling combination.  When we closed in on him he fought like a

tiger.  He is immensely strong, for he was more like a wild beast than

a man.

 

I never saw a lunatic in such a paroxysm of rage before, and I hope I

shall not again.  It is a mercy that we have found out his strength and

his danger in good time.  With strength and determination like his, he

might have done wild work before he was caged.

 

He is safe now, at any rate.  Jack Sheppard himself couldn’t get free

from the strait waistcoat that keeps him restrained, and he’s chained

to the wall in the padded room.

 

His cries are at times awful, but the silences that follow are more

deadly still, for he means murder in every turn and movement.

 

Just now he spoke coherent words for the first time.  “I shall be

patient, Master.  It is coming, coming, coming!”

 

So I took the hint, and came too.  I was too excited to sleep, but this

diary has quieted me, and I feel I shall get some sleep tonight.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 9

 

 

LETTER, MINA HARKER TO LUCY WESTENRA

 

 

Buda-Pesth, 24 August.

 

“My dearest Lucy,

 

“I know you will be anxious to hear all that has happened

since we parted at the railway station at Whitby.

 

“Well, my dear, I got to Hull all right, and caught the boat to

Hamburg, and then the train on here.  I feel that I can hardly

recall anything of the journey, except that I knew I was coming to

Jonathan, and that as I should have to do some nursing, I had better

get all the sleep I could.  I found my dear one, oh, so thin and

pale and weak-looking. All the resolution has gone out of his dear

eyes, and that quiet dignity which I told you was in his face has

vanished.  He is only a wreck of himself, and he does not remember

anything that has happened to him for a long time past.  At least,

he wants me to believe so, and I shall never ask.

 

“He has had some terrible shock, and I fear it might tax his poor

brain if he were to try to recall it.  Sister Agatha, who is a good

creature and a born nurse, tells me that he wanted her to tell me

what they were, but she would only cross herself, and say she would

never tell; that the ravings of the sick were the secrets of God,

and that if a nurse through her vocation should hear them, she

should respect her trust.

 

“She is a sweet, good soul, and the next day, when she saw I was

troubled, she opened up the subject again, and after saying that she

could never mention what my poor dear raved about, added: ‘I can tell

you this much, my dear: that it was not about anything which he has

done wrong himself; and you, as his wife to be, have no cause to be

concerned.  He has not forgotten you or what he owes to

you.  His fear was of great and terrible things, which no mortal can

treat of.’

 

“I do believe the dear soul thought I might be jealous lest my poor

dear should have fallen in love with any other girl.  The idea of my

being jealous about Jonathan!  And yet, my dear, let me whisper, I

felt a thrill of joy through me when I knew that no other woman was

a cause for trouble.  I am now sitting by his bedside, where I can

see his face while he sleeps.  He is waking!

 

“When he woke he asked me for his coat, as he wanted to get

something from the pocket.  I asked Sister Agatha, and she brought

all his things.  I saw amongst them was his notebook, and was

going to ask him to let me look at it, for I knew that I might find

some clue to his trouble, but I suppose he must have seen my wish in

my eyes, for he sent me over to the window, saying he wanted to be

quite alone for a moment.

 

“Then he called me back, and he said to me very solemnly,

‘Wilhelmina’, I knew then that he was in deadly earnest, for he has

never called me by that name since he asked me to marry him, ‘You

know, dear, my ideas of the trust between husband and wife.  There

should be no secret, no concealment.  I have had a great shock, and

when I try to think of what it is I feel my head spin round, and I

do not know if it was real of the dreaming of a madman.  You know I

had brain fever, and that is to be mad.  The secret is here, and I

do not want to know it.  I want to take up my life here, with our

marriage.’  For, my dear, we had decided to be married as soon as

the formalities are complete.  ‘Are you willing, Wilhelmina, to

share my ignorance?  Here is the book.  Take it and keep it, read it

if you will, but never let me know unless, indeed, some solemn duty

should come upon me to go back to the bitter hours, asleep or awake,

sane or mad, recorded here.’  He fell back exhausted, and I put the

book under his pillow, and kissed him.  I have asked Sister Agatha

to beg the Superior to let our wedding be this afternoon, and am

waiting her reply . . .”

 

 

“She has come and told me that the Chaplain of the English mission

church has been sent for.  We are to be married in an hour, or as

soon after as Jonathan awakes.”

 

“Lucy, the time has come and gone.  I feel very solemn, but very,

very happy.  Jonathan woke a little after the hour, and all was

ready, and he sat up in bed, propped up with pillows.  He answered

his ‘I will’ firmly and strong.  I could hardly speak.  My heart was

so full that even those words seemed to choke me.

 

“The dear sisters were so kind.  Please, God, I shall never, never

forget them, nor the grave and sweet responsibilities I have taken

upon me.  I must tell you of my wedding present.  When the chaplain

and the sisters had left me alone with my husband–oh, Lucy, it is

the first time I have written the words ‘my husband’–left me alone

with my husband, I took the book from under his pillow, and wrapped

it up in white paper, and tied it with a little bit of pale blue

ribbon which was round my neck, and sealed it over the knot with

sealing wax, and for my seal I used my wedding ring.  Then I kissed

it and showed it to my husband, and told him that I would keep it

so, and then it would be an outward and visible sign for us all our

lives that we trusted each other, that I would never open it unless

it were for his own dear sake or for the sake of some stern duty.

Then he took my hand in his, and oh, Lucy, it was the first time he

took his wife’s hand, and said that it was the dearest thing in all

the wide world, and that he would go through all the past again to

win it, if need be.  The poor dear meant to have said a part of the

past, but he cannot think of time yet, and I shall not wonder if at

first he mixes up not only the month, but the year.

 

“Well, my dear, what could I say?  I could only tell him that I was

the happiest woman in all the wide world, and that I had nothing to

give him except myself, my life, and my trust, and that with these

went my love and duty for all the days of my life.  And, my dear,

when he kissed me, and drew me to him with his poor weak hands, it

was like a solemn pledge between us.

 

“Lucy dear, do you know why I tell you all this?  It is not only

because it is all sweet to me, but because you have been, and are,

very dear to me.  It was my privilege to be your friend and guide

when you came from the schoolroom to prepare for the world of life.

I want you to see now, and with the eyes of a very happy wife,

whither duty has led me, so that in your own married life you too

may be all happy, as I am.  My dear, please Almighty God, your life

may be all it promises, a long day of sunshine, with no harsh wind,

no forgetting duty, no distrust.  I must not wish you no pain, for

that can never be, but I do hope you will be always as happy as I am

now.  Goodbye, my dear.  I shall post this at once, and perhaps,

write you very soon again.  I must stop, for Jonathan is waking.  I

must attend my husband!

 

“Your ever-loving

Mina Harker.”

 

 

 

LETTER, LUCY WESTENRA TO MINA HARKER.

 

Whitby, 30 August.

 

“My dearest Mina,

 

“Oceans of love and millions of kisses, and may you soon be in your

own home with your husband.  I wish you were coming home soon enough

to stay with us here.  The strong air would soon restore Jonathan.

It has quite restored me.  I have an appetite like a cormorant, am

full of life, and sleep well.  You will be glad to know that I have

quite given up walking in my sleep.  I think I have not stirred out

of my bed for a week, that is when I once got into it at night.

Arthur says I am getting fat.  By the way, I forgot to tell you that

Arthur is here.  We have such walks and drives, and rides, and

rowing, and tennis, and fishing together, and I love him more than

ever.  He tells me that he loves me more, but I doubt that, for at

first he told me that he couldn’t love me more than he did then.

But this is nonsense.  There he is, calling to me.  So no more just

at present from your loving,

 

“Lucy.

 

“P.S.–Mother sends her love.  She seems better, poor dear.

 

“P.P.S.–We are to be married on 28 September.”

 

 

 

1. SEWARDS DIARY

 

20 August.–The case of Renfield grows even more interesting.  He has

now so far quieted that there are spells of cessation from his

passion.  For the first week after his attack he was perpetually

violent.  Then one night, just as the moon rose, he grew quiet, and

kept murmuring to himself.  “Now I can wait.  Now I can wait.”

 

The attendant came to tell me, so I ran down at once to have a look at

him.  He was still in the strait waistcoat and in the padded room, but

the suffused look had gone from his face, and his eyes had something

of their old pleading.  I might almost say, “cringing”, softness.  I was

satisfied with his present condition, and directed him to be relieved.

The attendants hesitated, but finally carried out my wishes without

protest.

 

It was a strange thing that the patient had humour enough to see their

distrust, for, coming close to me, he said in a whisper, all the while

looking furtively at them, “They think I could hurt you!  Fancy me

hurting you!  The fools!”

 

It was soothing, somehow, to the feelings to find myself disassociated

even in the mind of this poor madman from the others, but all the same

I do not follow his thought.  Am I to take it that I have anything in

common with him, so that we are, as it were, to stand together.  Or

has he to gain from me some good so stupendous that my well being is

needful to him?  I must find out later on.  Tonight he will not speak.

Even the offer of a kitten or even a full-grown cat will not tempt

him.

 

He will only say, “I don’t take any stock in cats.  I have more to

think of now, and I can wait.  I can wait.”

 

After a while I left him.  The attendant tells me that he was quiet

until just before dawn, and that then he began to get uneasy, and at

length violent, until at last he fell into a paroxysm which exhausted

him so that he swooned into a sort of coma.

 

 

. . . Three nights has the same thing happened, violent all day then

quiet from moonrise to sunrise.  I wish I could get some clue to the

cause.  It would almost seem as if there was some influence which came

and went.  Happy thought!  We shall tonight play sane wits against mad

ones.  He escaped before without our help.  Tonight he shall escape

with it.  We shall give him a chance, and have the men ready to follow

in case they are required.

 

 

23 August.–“The expected always happens.”  How well Disraeli knew

life.  Our bird when he found the cage open would not fly, so all our

subtle arrangements were for nought.  At any rate, we have proved one

thing, that the spells of quietness last a reasonable time.  We shall

in future be able to ease his bonds for a few hours each day.  I have

given orders to the night attendant merely to shut him in the padded

room, when once he is quiet, until the hour before sunrise.  The poor

soul’s body will enjoy the relief even if his mind cannot appreciate

1. Hark! The unexpected again!  I am called.  The patient has once

more escaped.

 

 

Later.–Another night adventure.  Renfield artfully waited until the

attendant was entering the room to inspect.  Then he dashed out past

him and flew down the passage.  I sent word for the attendants to

follow.  Again he went into the grounds of the deserted house, and we

found him in the same place, pressed against the old chapel door.

When he saw me he became furious, and had not the attendants seized

him in time, he would have tried to kill me.  As we were holding him a

strange thing happened.  He suddenly redoubled his efforts, and then

as suddenly grew calm.  I looked round instinctively, but could see

nothing.  Then I caught the patient’s eye and followed it, but could

trace nothing as it looked into the moonlight sky, except a big bat,

which was flapping its silent and ghostly way to the west.  Bats

usually wheel about, but this one seemed to go straight on, as if it

knew where it was bound for or had some intention of its own.

 

The patient grew calmer every instant, and presently said, “You

needn’t tie me.  I shall go quietly!”  Without trouble, we came back

to the house.  I feel there is something ominous in his calm, and

shall not forget this night.

 

 

 

LUCY WESTENRA’S DIARY

 

Hillingham, 24 August.–I must imitate Mina, and keep writing things

down.  Then we can have long talks when we do meet.  I wonder when it

will be.  I wish she were with me again, for I feel so unhappy.  Last

night I seemed to be dreaming again just as I was at Whitby.  Perhaps

it is the change of air, or getting home again.  It is all dark and

horrid to me, for I can remember nothing.  But I am full of vague

fear, and I feel so weak and worn out.  When Arthur came to lunch he

looked quite grieved when he saw me, and I hadn’t the spirit to try to

be cheerful.  I wonder if I could sleep in mother’s room tonight.  I

shall make an excuse to try.

 

 

25 August.–Another bad night.  Mother did not seem to take to my

proposal.  She seems not too well herself, and doubtless she fears to

worry me.  I tried to keep awake, and succeeded for a while, but when

the clock struck twelve it waked me from a doze, so I must have been

falling asleep.  There was a sort of scratching or flapping at the

window, but I did not mind it, and as I remember no more, I suppose I

must have fallen asleep.  More bad dreams.  I wish I could remember

them.  This morning I am horribly weak.  My face is ghastly pale, and

my throat pains me.  It must be something wrong with my lungs, for I

don’t seem to be getting air enough.  I shall try to cheer up when

Arthur comes, or else I know he will be miserable to see me so.

 

 

 

LETTER, ARTHUR TO DR. SEWARD

 

“Albemarle Hotel, 31 August

 

“My dear Jack,

 

“I want you to do me a favour.  Lucy is ill, that is she has no

special disease, but she looks awful, and is getting worse every

day.  I have asked her if there is any cause, I not dare to ask her

mother, for to disturb the poor lady’s mind about her daughter in

her present state of health would be fatal.  Mrs. Westenra has

confided to me that her doom is spoken, disease of the heart, though

poor Lucy does not know it yet.  I am sure that there is something

preying on my dear girl’s mind.  I am almost distracted when I think

of her.  To look at her gives me a pang.  I told her I should ask

you to see her, and though she demurred at first–I know why, old

fellow–she finally consented.  It will be a painful task for you, I

know, old friend, but it is for _her_ sake, and I must not hesitate to

ask, or you to act.  You are to come to lunch at Hillingham

tomorrow, two o’clock, so as not to arouse any suspicion in Mrs.

Westenra, and after lunch Lucy will take an opportunity of being

alone with you.  I am filled with anxiety, and want to consult with

you alone as soon as I can after you have seen her.  Do not fail!

 

“Arthur.”

 

 

 

TELEGRAM, ARTHUR HOLMWOOD TO SEWARD

 

1 September

 

“Am summoned to see my father, who is worse.  Am writing.  Write

me fully by tonight’s post to Ring.  Wire me if necessary.”

 

 

 

LETTER FROM DR. SEWARD TO ARTHUR HOLMWOOD

 

2 September

 

“My dear old fellow,

 

“With regard to Miss Westenra’s health I hasten to let you know at

once that in my opinion there is not any functional disturbance or

any malady that I know of.  At the same time, I am not by any means

satisfied with her appearance. She is woefully different from what

she was when I saw her last.  Of course you must bear in mind that I

did not have full opportunity of examination such as I should wish.

Our very friendship makes a little difficulty which not even medical

science or custom can bridge over.  I had better tell you exactly

what happened, leaving you to draw, in a measure, your own

conclusions.  I shall then say what I have done and propose doing.

 

“I found Miss Westenra in seemingly gay spirits.  Her mother was

present, and in a few seconds I made up my mind that she was trying

all she knew to mislead her mother and prevent her from being

anxious.  I have no doubt she guesses, if she does not know, what

need of caution there is.

 

“We lunched alone, and as we all exerted ourselves to be cheerful,

we got, as some kind of reward for our labours, some real

cheerfulness amongst us.  Then Mrs. Westenra went to lie down, and

Lucy was left with me.  We went into her boudoir, and till we got

there her gaiety remained, for the servants were coming and going.

 

“As soon as the door was closed, however, the mask fell from her

face, and she sank down into a chair with a great sigh, and hid her

eyes with her hand.  When I saw that her high spirits had failed, I

at once took advantage of her reaction to make a diagnosis.

 

“She said to me very sweetly, ‘I cannot tell you how I loathe

talking about myself.’  I reminded her that a doctor’s confidence

was sacred, but that you were grievously anxious about her.  She

caught on to my meaning at once, and settled that matter in a word.

‘Tell Arthur everything you choose.  I do not care for myself, but

for him!’  So I am quite free.

 

“I could easily see that she was somewhat bloodless, but I could not

see the usual anemic signs, and by the chance, I was able to test

the actual quality of her blood, for in opening a window which was

stiff a cord gave way, and she cut her hand slightly with broken

glass.  It was a slight matter in itself, but it gave me an evident

chance, and I secured a few drops of the blood and have analysed

them.

 

“The qualitative analysis give a quite normal condition, and shows,

I should infer, in itself a vigorous state of health.  In other

physical matters I was quite satisfied that there is no need for

anxiety, but as there must be a cause somewhere, I have come to the

conclusion that it must be something mental.

 

“She complains of difficulty breathing satisfactorily at times, and

of heavy, lethargic sleep, with dreams that frighten her, but

regarding which she can remember nothing.  She says that as a child,

she used to walk in her sleep, and that when in Whitby the habit

came back, and that once she walked out in the night and went to

East Cliff, where Miss Murray found her.  But she assures me that of

late the habit has not returned.

 

“I am in doubt, and so have done the best thing I know of. I have

written to my old friend and master, Professor Van Helsing, of

Amsterdam, who knows as much about obscure diseases as any one in

the world.  I have asked him to come over, and as you told me that

all things were to be at your charge, I have mentioned to him who

you are and your relations to Miss Westenra.  This, my dear fellow,

is in obedience to your wishes, for I am only too proud and happy to

do anything I can for her.

 

“Van Helsing would, I know, do anything for me for a personal

reason, so no matter on what ground he comes, we must accept his

wishes.  He is a seemingly arbitrary man, this is because he knows

what he is talking about better than any one else.  He is a

philosopher and a metaphysician, and one of the most advanced

scientists of his day, and he has, I believe, an absolutely open

mind.  This, with an iron nerve, a temper of the ice-brook, and

indomitable resolution, self-command, and toleration exalted from

virtues to blessings, and the kindliest and truest heart that beats,

these form his equipment for the noble work that he is doing for

mankind, work both in theory and practice, for his views are as wide

as his all-embracing sympathy.  I tell you these facts that you may

know why I have such confidence in him.  I have asked him to come at

once.  I shall see Miss Westenra tomorrow again.  She is to meet me

at the Stores, so that I may not alarm her mother by too early a

repetition of my call.

 

“Yours always.”

 

John Seward

 

 

 

 

LETTER, ABRAHAM VAN HELSING, MD, DPh, D. Lit, ETC, ETC, TO DR. SEWARD

 

2 September.

 

“My good Friend,

 

“When I received your letter I am already coming to you.  By good

fortune I can leave just at once, without wrong to any of those who

have trusted me.  Were fortune other, then it were bad for those who

have trusted, for I come to my friend when he call me to aid those

he holds dear.  Tell your friend that when that time you suck from

my wound so swiftly the poison of the gangrene from that knife that

our other friend, too nervous, let slip, you did more for him when

he wants my aids and you call for them than all his great fortune

could do.  But it is pleasure added to do for him, your friend, it

is to you that I come.  Have near at hand, and please it so arrange

that we may see the young lady not too late on tomorrow, for it is

likely that I may have to return here that night.  But if need be I

shall come again in three days, and stay longer if it must.  Till

then goodbye, my friend John.

 

“Van Helsing.”

 

 

 

LETTER, DR. SEWARD TO HON. ARTHUR HOLMWOOD

 

3 September

 

“My dear Art,

 

“Van Helsing has come and gone.  He came on with me to Hillingham,

and found that, by Lucy’s discretion, her mother was lunching out,

so that we were alone with her.

 

“Van Helsing made a very careful examination of the patient.  He is

to report to me, and I shall advise you, for of course I was not

present all the time.  He is, I fear, much concerned, but says he

must think.  When I told him of our friendship and how you trust to

me in the matter, he said, ‘You must tell him all you think.  Tell

him what I think, if you can guess it, if you will.  Nay, I am

not jesting.  This is no jest, but life and death, perhaps more.’  I

asked what he meant by that, for he was very serious.  This was when

we had come back to town, and he was having a cup of tea before

starting on his return to Amsterdam.  He would not give me any

further clue.  You must not be angry with me, Art, because his very

reticence means that all his brains are working for her good.  He

will speak plainly enough when the time comes, be sure.  So I told

him I would simply write an account of our visit, just as if I were

doing a descriptive special article for THE DAILY TELEGRAPH.  He

seemed not to notice, but remarked that the smuts of London were not

quite so bad as they used to be when he was a student here.  I am to

get his report tomorrow if he can possibly make it.  In any case I

am to have a letter.

 

“Well, as to the visit, Lucy was more cheerful than on the day I

first saw her, and certainly looked better.  She had lost something

of the ghastly look that so upset you, and her breathing was normal.

She was very sweet to the Professor (as she always is), and tried to

make him feel at ease, though I could see the poor girl was making a

hard struggle for it.

 

“I believe Van Helsing saw it, too, for I saw the quick look

under his bushy brows that I knew of old.  Then he began to

chat of all things except ourselves and diseases and with

such an infinite geniality that I could see poor Lucy’s

pretense of animation merge into reality.  Then, without

any seeming change, he brought the conversation gently round

to his visit, and suavely said,

 

“‘My dear young miss, I have the so great pleasure because you are

so much beloved.  That is much, my dear, even were there that which

I do not see.  They told me you were down in the spirit, and that

you were of a ghastly pale.  To them I say “Pouf!”‘  And he snapped

his fingers at me and went on.  ‘But you and I shall show them how

wrong they are.  How can he,’ and he pointed at me with the same

look and gesture as that with which he pointed me out in his class,

on, or rather after, a particular occasion which he never fails to

remind me of, ‘know anything of a young ladies?  He has his madmen

to play with, and to bring them back to happiness, and to those that

love them.  It is much to do, and, oh, but there are rewards in that

we can bestow such happiness.  But the young ladies!  He has no wife

nor daughter, and the young do not tell themselves to the young, but

to the old, like me, who have known so many sorrows and the causes

of them.  So, my dear, we will send him away to smoke the cigarette

in the garden, whiles you and I have little talk all to ourselves.’

I took the hint, and strolled about, and presently the professor

came to the window and called me in.  He looked grave, but said, ‘I

have made careful examination, but there is no functional cause.

With you I agree that there has been much blood lost, it has been

but is not.  But the conditions of her are in no way anemic.  I have

asked her to send me her maid, that I may ask just one or two

questions, that so I may not chance to miss nothing.  I know well

what she will say.  And yet there is cause.  There is always cause

for everything.  I must go back home and think.  You must send me

the telegram every day, and if there be cause I shall come again.

The disease, for not to be well is a disease, interest me, and the

sweet, young dear, she interest me too.  She charm me, and for her,

if not for you or disease, I come.’

 

“As I tell you, he would not say a word more, even when we were

alone.  And so now, Art, you know all I know.  I shall keep stern

watch.  I trust your poor father is rallying.  It must be a terrible

thing to you, my dear old fellow, to be placed in such a position

between two people who are both so dear to you.  I know your idea of

duty to your father, and you are right to stick to it.  But if need

be, I shall send you word to come at once to Lucy, so do not be

over-anxious unless you hear from me.”

 

 

 

1. SEWARD’S DIARY

 

4 September.–Zoophagous patient still keeps up our interest in him.

He had only one outburst and that was yesterday at an unusual time.

Just before the stroke of noon he began to grow restless.  The

attendant knew the symptoms, and at once summoned aid.  Fortunately

the men came at a run, and were just in time, for at the stroke of

noon he became so violent that it took all their strength to hold him.

In about five minutes, however, he began to get more quiet, and

finally sank into a sort of melancholy, in which state he has remained

up to now.  The attendant tells me that his screams whilst in the

paroxysm were really appalling.  I found my hands full when I got in,

attending to some of the other patients who were frightened by him.

Indeed, I can quite understand the effect, for the sounds disturbed

even me, though I was some distance away.  It is now after the dinner

hour of the asylum, and as yet my patient sits in a corner brooding,

with a dull, sullen, woe-begone look in his face, which seems rather

to indicate than to show something directly.  I cannot quite

understand it.

 

 

Later.–Another change in my patient.  At five o’clock I looked in on

him, and found him seemingly as happy and contented as he used to be.

He was catching flies and eating them, and was keeping note of his

capture by making nailmarks on the edge of the door between the ridges

of padding.  When he saw me, he came over and apologized for his bad

conduct, and asked me in a very humble, cringing way to be led back to

his own room, and to have his notebook again.  I thought it well to

humour him, so he is back in his room with the window open.  He has

the sugar of his tea spread out on the window sill, and is reaping

quite a harvest of flies.  He is not now eating them, but putting them

into a box, as of old, and is already examining the corners of his

room to find a spider.  I tried to get him to talk about the past few

days, for any clue to his thoughts would be of immense help to me, but

he would not rise.  For a moment or two he looked very sad, and said

in a sort of far away voice, as though saying it rather to himself

than to me.

 

“All over!  All over!  He has deserted me.  No hope for me now unless

I do it myself!”  Then suddenly turning to me in a resolute way, he

said, “Doctor, won’t you be very good to me and let me have a little

more sugar?  I think it would be very good for me.”

 

“And the flies?” I said.

 

“Yes!  The flies like it, too, and I like the flies, therefore I like

it.”  And there are people who know so little as to think that madmen do

not argue.  I procured him a double supply, and left him as happy a

man as, I suppose, any in the world.  I wish I could fathom his mind.

 

 

Midnight.–Another change in him.  I had been to see Miss Westenra,

whom I found much better, and had just returned, and was standing at

our own gate looking at the sunset, when once more I heard him

yelling.  As his room is on this side of the house, I could hear it

better than in the morning.  It was a shock to me to turn from the

wonderful smoky beauty of a sunset over London, with its lurid lights

and inky shadows and all the marvellous tints that come on foul clouds

even as on foul water, and to realize all the grim sternness of my own

cold stone building, with its wealth of breathing misery, and my own

desolate heart to endure it all.  I reached him just as the sun was

going down, and from his window saw the red disc sink.  As it sank he

became less and less frenzied, and just as it dipped he slid from the

hands that held him, an inert mass, on the floor.  It is wonderful,

however, what intellectual recuperative power lunatics have, for

within a few minutes he stood up quite calmly and looked around him.  I

signalled to the attendants not to hold him, for I was anxious to see

what he would do.  He went straight over to the window and brushed out

the crumbs of sugar.  Then he took his fly box, and emptied it

outside, and threw away the box.  Then he shut the window, and

crossing over, sat down on his bed.  All this surprised me, so I asked

him, “Are you going to keep flies any more?”

 

“No,” said he.  “I am sick of all that rubbish!”  He certainly is a

wonderfully interesting study.  I wish I could get some glimpse of his

mind or of the cause of his sudden passion.  Stop.  There may be a

clue after all, if we can find why today his paroxysms came on at high

noon and at sunset.  Can it be that there is a malign influence of the

sun at periods which affects certain natures, as at times the moon

does others?  We shall see.

 

 

 

TELEGRAM.  SEWARD, LONDON, TO VAN HELSING, AMSTERDAM

 

“4 September.–Patient still better today.”

 

 

 

TELEGRAM, SEWARD, LONDON, TO VAN HELSING, AMSTERDAM

 

“5 September.–Patient greatly improved.  Good appetite, sleeps

naturally, good spirits, colour coming back.”

 

 

 

TELEGRAM, SEWARD, LONDON, TO VAN HELSING, AMSTERDAM

 

“6 September.–Terrible change for the worse.  Come at once.

Do not lose an hour.  I hold over telegram to Holmwood till

have seen you.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 10

 

 

LETTER, DR. SEWARD TO HON. ARTHUR HOLMWOOD

 

 

6 September

 

“My dear Art,

 

“My news today is not so good.  Lucy this morning had gone back a

bit.  There is, however, one good thing which has arisen from it.

Mrs. Westenra was naturally anxious concerning Lucy, and has

consulted me professionally about her.  I took advantage of the

opportunity, and told her that my old master, Van Helsing, the great

specialist, was coming to stay with me, and that I would put her in

his charge conjointly with myself.  So now we can come and go

without alarming her unduly, for a shock to her would mean sudden

death, and this, in Lucy’s weak condition, might be disastrous to

her.  We are hedged in with difficulties, all of us, my poor fellow,

but, please God, we shall come through them all right.  If any need

I shall write, so that, if you do not hear from me, take it for

granted that I am simply waiting for news, In haste,

 

“Yours ever,”

 

John Seward

 

 

 

1. SEWARD’S DIARY

 

7 September.–The first thing Van Helsing said to me when we met at

Liverpool Street was, “Have you said anything to our young friend, to

lover of her?”

 

“No,” I said.  “I waited till I had seen you, as I said in my

telegram.  I wrote him a letter simply telling him that you were

coming, as Miss Westenra was not so well, and that I should let him

know if need be.”

 

“Right, my friend,” he said.  “Quite right!  Better he not know as

yet.  Perhaps he will never know.  I pray so, but if it be needed,

then he shall know all.  And, my good friend John, let me caution you.

You deal with the madmen.  All men are mad in some way or the other,

and inasmuch as you deal discreetly with your madmen, so deal with

God’s madmen too, the rest of the world.  You tell not your madmen

what you do nor why you do it.  You tell them not what you think.  So

you shall keep knowledge in its place, where it may rest, where it may

gather its kind around it and breed.  You and I shall keep as yet what

we know here, and here.”  He touched me on the heart and on the

forehead, and then touched himself the same way.  “I have for myself

thoughts at the present.  Later I shall unfold to you.”

 

“Why not now?” I asked.  “It may do some good.  We may arrive at some

decision.”  He looked at me and said, “My friend John, when the corn is

grown, even before it has ripened, while the milk of its mother earth

is in him, and the sunshine has not yet begun to paint him with his

gold, the husbandman he pull the ear and rub him between his rough

hands, and blow away the green chaff, and say to you, ‘Look!  He’s

good corn, he will make a good crop when the time comes.'”

 

I did not see the application and told him so.  For reply he reached

over and took my ear in his hand and pulled it playfully, as he used

long ago to do at lectures, and said, “The good husbandman tell you so

then because he knows, but not till then.  But you do not find the

good husbandman dig up his planted corn to see if he grow.  That is

for the children who play at husbandry, and not for those who take it

as of the work of their life.  See you now, friend John?  I have sown

my corn, and Nature has her work to do in making it sprout, if he

sprout at all, there’s some promise, and I wait till the ear begins to

swell.”  He broke off, for he evidently saw that I understood.  Then he

went on gravely, “You were always a careful student, and your case

book was ever more full than the rest.  And I trust that good habit

have not fail.  Remember, my friend, that knowledge is stronger than

memory, and we should not trust the weaker.  Even if you have not kept

the good practice, let me tell you that this case of our dear miss is

one that may be, mind, I say may be, of such interest to us and others

that all the rest may not make him kick the beam, as your people say.

Take then good note of it.  Nothing is too small.  I counsel you, put

down in record even your doubts and surmises.  Hereafter it may be of

interest to you to see how true you guess.  We learn from failure, not

from success!”

 

When I described Lucy’s symptoms, the same as before, but infinitely

more marked, he looked very grave, but said nothing.  He took with him

a bag in which were many instruments and drugs, “the ghastly

paraphernalia of our beneficial trade,” as he once called, in one of

his lectures, the equipment of a professor of the healing craft.

 

When we were shown in, Mrs. Westenra met us.  She was alarmed, but not

nearly so much as I expected to find her.  Nature in one of her

beneficient moods has ordained that even death has some antidote to

its own terrors.  Here, in a case where any shock may prove fatal,

matters are so ordered that, from some cause or other, the things not

personal, even the terrible change in her daughter to whom she is so

attached, do not seem to reach her.  It is something like the way dame

Nature gathers round a foreign body an envelope of some insensitive

tissue which can protect from evil that which it would otherwise harm

by contact.  If this be an ordered selfishness, then we should pause

before we condemn any one for the vice of egoism, for there may be

deeper root for its causes than we have knowledge of.

 

I used my knowledge of this phase of spiritual pathology, and set down

a rule that she should not be present with Lucy, or think of her

illness more than was absolutely required.  She assented readily, so

readily that I saw again the hand of Nature fighting for life.  Van

Helsing and I were shown up to Lucy’s room.  If I was shocked when I

saw her yesterday, I was horrified when I saw her today.

 

She was ghastly, chalkily pale.  The red seemed to have gone even from

her lips and gums, and the bones of her face stood out prominently.

Her breathing was painful to see or hear.  Van Helsing’s face grew set

as marble, and his eyebrows converged till they almost touched over his

nose.  Lucy lay motionless, and did not seem to have strength to

speak, so for a while we were all silent.  Then Van Helsing beckoned

to me, and we went gently out of the room.  The instant we had closed

the door he stepped quickly along the passage to the next door, which

was open.  Then he pulled me quickly in with him and closed the door.

“My god!” he said.  “This is dreadful.  There is not time to be lost.

She will die for sheer want of blood to keep the heart’s action as it

should be.  There must be a transfusion of blood at once.  Is it you

or me?”

 

“I am younger and stronger, Professor.  It must be me.”

 

“Then get ready at once.  I will bring up my bag.  I am prepared.”

 

I went downstairs with him, and as we were going there was a knock at

the hall door.  When we reached the hall, the maid had just opened the

door, and Arthur was stepping quickly in.  He rushed up to me, saying

in an eager whisper,

 

“Jack, I was so anxious.  I read between the lines of your letter, and

have been in an agony.  The dad was better, so I ran down here to see

for myself.  Is not that gentleman Dr. Van Helsing?  I am so thankful

to you, sir, for coming.”

 

When first the Professor’s eye had lit upon him, he had been angry at

his interruption at such a time, but now, as he took in his stalwart

proportions and recognized the strong young manhood which seemed to

emanate from him, his eyes gleamed.  Without a pause he said to him as

he held out his hand,

 

“Sir, you have come in time.  You are the lover of our dear miss.  She

is bad, very, very bad.  Nay, my child, do not go like that.”  For he

suddenly grew pale and sat down in a chair almost fainting.  “You are

to help her.  You can do more than any that live, and your courage is

your best help.”

 

“What can I do?” asked Arthur hoarsely.  “Tell me, and I shall do it.

My life is hers, and I would give the last drop of blood in my body for

her.”

 

The Professor has a strongly humorous side, and I could from old

knowledge detect a trace of its origin in his answer.

 

“My young sir, I do not ask so much as that, not the last!”

 

“What shall I do?”  There was fire in his eyes, and his open nostrils

quivered with intent.  Van Helsing slapped him on the shoulder.

 

“Come!” he said.  “You are a man, and it is a man we want.  You are

better than me, better than my friend John.”  Arthur looked bewildered,

and the Professor went on by explaining in a kindly way.

 

“Young miss is bad, very bad.  She wants blood, and blood she must

have or die.  My friend John and I have consulted, and we are about to

perform what we call transfusion of blood, to transfer from full veins

of one to the empty veins which pine for him.  John was to give his

blood, as he is the more young and strong than me.”–Here Arthur took

my hand and wrung it hard in silence.–“But now you are here, you are

more good than us, old or young, who toil much in the world of

thought.  Our nerves are not so calm and our blood so bright than

yours!”

 

Arthur turned to him and said, “If you only knew how gladly I would

die for her you would understand . . .”  He stopped with a sort of

choke in his voice.

 

“Good boy!” said Van Helsing.  “In the not-so-far-off you will be

happy that you have done all for her you love.  Come now and be

silent.  You shall kiss her once before it is done, but then you must

go, and you must leave at my sign.  Say no word to Madame.  You know

how it is with her.  There must be no shock, any knowledge of this

would be one.  Come!”

 

We all went up to Lucy’s room.  Arthur by direction remained outside.

Lucy turned her head and looked at us, but said nothing.  She was not

asleep, but she was simply too weak to make the effort.  Her eyes

spoke to us, that was all.

 

Van Helsing took some things from his bag and laid them on a little

table out of sight.  Then he mixed a narcotic, and coming over to the

bed, said cheerily, “Now, little miss, here is your medicine.  Drink

it off, like a good child.  See, I lift you so that to swallow is

easy.  Yes.”  She had made the effort with success.

 

It astonished me how long the drug took to act.  This, in fact, marked

the extent of her weakness.  The time seemed endless until sleep began

to flicker in her eyelids.  At last, however, the narcotic began to

manifest its potency, and she fell into a deep sleep.  When the

Professor was satisfied, he called Arthur into the room, and bade him

strip off his coat.  Then he added, “You may take that one little kiss

whiles I bring over the table.  Friend John, help to me!”  So neither

of us looked whilst he bent over her.

 

Van Helsing, turning to me, said, “He is so young and strong, and of

blood so pure that we need not defibrinate it.”

 

Then with swiftness, but with absolute method, Van Helsing performed

the operation.  As the transfusion went on, something like life seemed

to come back to poor Lucy’s cheeks, and through Arthur’s growing

pallor the joy of his face seemed absolutely to shine.  After a bit I

began to grow anxious, for the loss of blood was telling on Arthur,

strong man as he was.  It gave me an idea of what a terrible strain

Lucy’s system must have undergone that what weakened Arthur only

partially restored her.

 

But the Professor’s face was set, and he stood watch in hand, and with

his eyes fixed now on the patient and now on Arthur.  I could hear my

own heart beat.  Presently, he said in a soft voice, “Do not stir an

instant.  It is enough.  You attend him.  I will look to her.”

 

When all was over, I could see how much Arthur was weakened.  I

dressed the wound and took his arm to bring him away, when Van Helsing

spoke without turning round, the man seems to have eyes in the back of

his head, “The brave lover, I think, deserve another kiss, which he

shall have presently.”  And as he had now finished his operation, he

adjusted the pillow to the patient’s head.  As he did so the narrow

black velvet band which she seems always to wear round her throat,

buckled with an old diamond buckle which her lover had given her, was

dragged a little up, and showed a red mark on her throat.

 

Arthur did not notice it, but I could hear the deep hiss of indrawn

breath which is one of Van Helsing’s ways of betraying emotion.  He

said nothing at the moment, but turned to me, saying, “Now take down

our brave young lover, give him of the port wine, and let him lie down

a while.  He must then go home and rest, sleep much and eat much, that

he may be recruited of what he has so given to his love.  He must not

stay here.  Hold a moment!  I may take it, sir, that you are anxious

of result.  Then bring it with you, that in all ways the operation is

successful.  You have saved her life this time, and you can go home

and rest easy in mind that all that can be is.  I shall tell her all

when she is well.  She shall love you none the less for what you have

done.  Goodbye.”

 

When Arthur had gone I went back to the room.  Lucy was sleeping

gently, but her breathing was stronger.  I could see the counterpane

move as her breast heaved.  By the bedside sat Van Helsing, looking at

her intently.  The velvet band again covered the red mark.  I asked

the Professor in a whisper, “What do you make of that mark on her

throat?”

 

“What do you make of it?”

 

“I have not examined it yet,” I answered, and then and there proceeded

to loose the band.  Just over the external jugular vein there were two

punctures, not large, but not wholesome looking.  There was no sign of

disease, but the edges were white and worn looking, as if by some

trituration.  It at once occurred to me that that this wound, or

whatever it was, might be the means of that manifest loss of blood.

But I abandoned the idea as soon as it formed, for such a thing could

not be.  The whole bed would have been drenched to a scarlet with the

blood which the girl must have lost to leave such a pallor as she had

before the transfusion.

 

“Well?” said Van Helsing.

 

“Well,” said I.  “I can make nothing of it.”

 

The Professor stood up.  “I must go back to Amsterdam tonight,” he

said “There are books and things there which I want.  You must remain

here all night, and you must not let your sight pass from her.”

 

“Shall I have a nurse?” I asked.

 

“We are the best nurses, you and I.  You keep watch all night.  See

that she is well fed, and that nothing disturbs her.  You must not

sleep all the night.  Later on we can sleep, you and I.  I shall be

back as soon as possible.  And then we may begin.”

 

“May begin?” I said.  “What on earth do you mean?”

 

“We shall see!” he answered, as he hurried out.  He came back a moment

later and put his head inside the door and said with a warning finger

held up, “Remember, she is your charge.  If you leave her, and harm

befall, you shall not sleep easy hereafter!”

 

 

 

1. SEWARD’S DIARY–CONTINUED

 

8 September.–I sat up all night with Lucy.  The opiate worked itself

off towards dusk, and she waked naturally.  She looked a different

being from what she had been before the operation.  Her spirits even

were good, and she was full of a happy vivacity, but I could see

evidences of the absolute prostration which she had undergone.  When I

told Mrs. Westenra that Dr. Van Helsing had directed that I should sit

up with her, she almost pooh-poohed the idea, pointing out her

daughter’s renewed strength and excellent spirits.  I was firm,

however, and made preparations for my long vigil.  When her maid had

prepared her for the night I came in, having in the meantime had

supper, and took a seat by the bedside.

 

She did not in any way make objection, but looked at me gratefully

whenever I caught her eye.  After a long spell she seemed sinking off

to sleep, but with an effort seemed to pull herself together and shook

it off.  It was apparent that she did not want to sleep, so I tackled

the subject at once.

 

“You do not want to sleep?”

 

“No.  I am afraid.”

 

“Afraid to go to sleep!  Why so?  It is the boon we all crave for.”

 

“Ah, not if you were like me, if sleep was to you a presage of

horror!”

 

“A presage of horror!  What on earth do you mean?”

 

“I don’t know.  Oh, I don’t know.  And that is what is so terrible.

All this weakness comes to me in sleep, until I dread the very

thought.”

 

“But, my dear girl, you may sleep tonight.  I am here watching you,

and I can promise that nothing will happen.”

 

“Ah, I can trust you!” she said.

 

I seized the opportunity, and said, “I promise that if I see any

evidence of bad dreams I will wake you at once.”

 

“You will?  Oh, will you really?  How good you are to me.  Then I will

sleep!”  And almost at the word she gave a deep sigh of relief, and

sank back, asleep.

 

All night long I watched by her.  She never stirred, but slept on and

on in a deep, tranquil, life-giving, health-giving sleep.  Her lips

were slightly parted, and her breast rose and fell with the regularity

of a pendulum.  There was a smile on her face, and it was evident that

no bad dreams had come to disturb her peace of mind.

 

In the early morning her maid came, and I left her in her care and took

myself back home, for I was anxious about many things.  I sent a short

wire to Van Helsing and to Arthur, telling them of the excellent

result of the operation.  My own work, with its manifold arrears, took

me all day to clear off.  It was dark when I was able to inquire about

my zoophagous patient.  The report was good.  He had been quite quiet

for the past day and night.  A telegram came from Van Helsing at

Amsterdam whilst I was at dinner, suggesting that I should be at

Hillingham tonight, as it might be well to be at hand, and stating

that he was leaving by the night mail and would join me early in the

morning.

 

 

9 September.–I was pretty tired and worn out when I got to

Hillingham.  For two nights I had hardly had a wink of sleep, and my

brain was beginning to feel that numbness which marks cerebral

exhaustion.  Lucy was up and in cheerful spirits.  When she shook

hands with me she looked sharply in my face and said,

 

“No sitting up tonight for you.  You are worn out.  I am quite well

again.  Indeed, I am, and if there is to be any sitting up, it is I

who will sit up with you.”

 

I would not argue the point, but went and had my supper.  Lucy came

with me, and, enlivened by her charming presence, I made an excellent

meal, and had a couple of glasses of the more than excellent port.

Then Lucy took me upstairs, and showed me a room next her own, where a

cozy fire was burning.

 

“Now,” she said.  “You must stay here.  I shall leave this door open

and my door too.  You can lie on the sofa for I know that nothing

would induce any of you doctors to go to bed whilst there is a patient

above the horizon.  If I want anything I shall call out, and you can

come to me at once.”

 

I could not but acquiesce, for I was dog tired, and could not have sat

up had I tried.  So, on her renewing her promise to call me if she

should want anything, I lay on the sofa, and forgot all about

everything.

 

 

 

LUCY WESTENRA’S DIARY

 

9 September.–I feel so happy tonight.  I have been so miserably weak,

that to be able to think and move about is like feeling sunshine after

a long spell of east wind out of a steel sky.  Somehow Arthur feels

very, very close to me.  I seem to feel his presence warm about me.  I

suppose it is that sickness and weakness are selfish things and turn

our inner eyes and sympathy on ourselves, whilst health and strength

give love rein, and in thought and feeling he can wander where he

wills.  I know where my thoughts are.  If only Arthur knew!  My dear,

my dear, your ears must tingle as you sleep, as mine do waking.  Oh,

the blissful rest of last night!  How I slept, with that dear, good

Dr. Seward watching me.  And tonight I shall not fear to sleep, since

he is close at hand and within call.  Thank everybody for being so

good to me.  Thank God!  Goodnight Arthur.

 

 

 

1. SEWARD’S DIARY

 

10 September.–I was conscious of the Professor’s hand on my head, and

started awake all in a second.  That is one of the things that we

learn in an asylum, at any rate.

 

“And how is our patient?”

 

“Well, when I left her, or rather when she left me,” I answered.

 

“Come, let us see,” he said.  And together we went into the room.

 

The blind was down, and I went over to raise it gently, whilst Van

Helsing stepped, with his soft, cat-like tread, over to the bed.

 

As I raised the blind, and the morning sunlight flooded the room, I

heard the Professor’s low hiss of inspiration, and knowing its rarity,

a deadly fear shot through my heart.  As I passed over he moved back,

and his exclamation of horror, “Gott in Himmel!” needed no enforcement

from his agonized face.  He raised his hand and pointed to the bed,

and his iron face was drawn and ashen white.  I felt my knees begin to

tremble.

 

There on the bed, seemingly in a swoon, lay poor Lucy, more horribly

white and wan-looking than ever.  Even the lips were white, and the

gums seemed to have shrunken back from the teeth, as we sometimes see

in a corpse after a prolonged illness.

 

Van Helsing raised his foot to stamp in anger, but the instinct of his

life and all the long years of habit stood to him, and he put it down

again softly.

 

“Quick!” he said.  “Bring the brandy.”

 

I flew to the dining room, and returned with the decanter.  He wetted

the poor white lips with it, and together we rubbed palm and wrist and

heart.  He felt her heart, and after a few moments of agonizing

suspense said,

 

“It is not too late.  It beats, though but feebly.  All our work is

undone.  We must begin again.  There is no young Arthur here now.  I

have to call on you yourself this time, friend John.”  As he spoke, he

was dipping into his bag, and producing the instruments of

transfusion.  I had taken off my coat and rolled up my shirt sleeve.

There was no possibility of an opiate just at present, and no need of

one; and so, without a moment’s delay, we began the operation.

 

After a time, it did not seem a short time either, for the draining

away of one’s blood, no matter how willingly it be given, is a

terrible feeling, Van Helsing held up a warning finger.  “Do not

stir,” he said.  “But I fear that with growing strength she may wake,

and that would make danger, oh, so much danger.  But I shall

precaution take.  I shall give hypodermic injection of morphia.”  He

proceeded then, swiftly and deftly, to carry out his intent.

 

The effect on Lucy was not bad, for the faint seemed to merge subtly

into the narcotic sleep.  It was with a feeling of personal pride that

I could see a faint tinge of colour steal back into the pallid cheeks

and lips.  No man knows, till he experiences it, what it is to feel

his own lifeblood drawn away into the veins of the woman he loves.

 

The Professor watched me critically.  “That will do,” he said.

“Already?” I remonstrated.  “You took a great deal more from Art.”  To

which he smiled a sad sort of smile as he replied,

 

“He is her lover, her fiance.  You have work, much work to do for her

and for others, and the present will suffice.”

 

When we stopped the operation, he attended to Lucy, whilst I applied

digital pressure to my own incision.  I laid down, while I waited his

leisure to attend to me, for I felt faint and a little sick.  By and

by he bound up my wound, and sent me downstairs to get a glass of wine

for myself.  As I was leaving the room, he came after me, and half

whispered.

 

“Mind, nothing must be said of this.  If our young lover should turn

up unexpected, as before, no word to him.  It would at once frighten

him and enjealous him, too.  There must be none.  So!”

 

When I came back he looked at me carefully, and then said, “You are

not much the worse.  Go into the room, and lie on your sofa, and rest

awhile, then have much breakfast and come here to me.”

 

I followed out his orders, for I knew how right and wise they were.  I

had done my part, and now my next duty was to keep up my strength.  I

felt very weak, and in the weakness lost something of the amazement at

what had occurred.  I fell asleep on the sofa, however, wondering over

and over again how Lucy had made such a retrograde movement, and how

she could have been drained of so much blood with no sign any where to

show for it.  I think I must have continued my wonder in my dreams,

for, sleeping and waking my thoughts always came back to the little

punctures in her throat and the ragged, exhausted appearance of their

edges, tiny though they were.

 

Lucy slept well into the day, and when she woke she was fairly well

and strong, though not nearly so much so as the day before.  When Van

Helsing had seen her, he went out for a walk, leaving me in charge,

with strict injunctions that I was not to leave her for a moment.  I

could hear his voice in the hall, asking the way to the nearest

telegraph office.

 

Lucy chatted with me freely, and seemed quite unconscious that

anything had happened.  I tried to keep her amused and interested.

When her mother came up to see her, she did not seem to notice any

change whatever, but said to me gratefully,

 

“We owe you so much, Dr. Seward, for all you have done, but you really

must now take care not to overwork yourself.  You are looking pale

yourself.  You want a wife to nurse and look after you a bit, that you

do!”  As she spoke, Lucy turned crimson, though it was only

momentarily, for her poor wasted veins could not stand for long an

unwonted drain to the head.  The reaction came in excessive pallor as

she turned imploring eyes on me.  I smiled and nodded, and laid my

finger on my lips.  With a sigh, she sank back amid her pillows.

 

Van Helsing returned in a couple of hours, and presently said to me:

“Now you go home, and eat much and drink enough.  Make yourself

strong.  I stay here tonight, and I shall sit up with little miss

myself.  You and I must watch the case, and we must have none other to

know.  I have grave reasons.  No, do not ask me.  Think what you will.

Do not fear to think even the most not-improbable.  Goodnight.”

 

In the hall two of the maids came to me, and asked if they or either

of them might not sit up with Miss Lucy.  They implored me to let

them, and when I said it was Dr. Van Helsing’s wish that either he or

I should sit up, they asked me quite piteously to intercede with

the ‘foreign gentleman’.  I was much touched by their kindness.  Perhaps

it is because I am weak at present, and perhaps because it was on

Lucy’s account, that their devotion was manifested.  For over and over

again have I seen similar instances of woman’s kindness.  I got back

here in time for a late dinner, went my rounds, all well, and set this

down whilst waiting for sleep.  It is coming.

 

 

11 September.–This afternoon I went over to Hillingham.  Found Van

Helsing in excellent spirits, and Lucy much better.  Shortly after I

had arrived, a big parcel from abroad came for the Professor.  He

opened it with much impressment, assumed, of course, and showed a

great bundle of white flowers.

 

“These are for you, Miss Lucy,” he said.

 

“For me?  Oh, Dr. Van Helsing!”

 

“Yes, my dear, but not for you to play with.  These are medicines.”

Here Lucy made a wry face.  “Nay, but they are not to take in a

decoction or in nauseous form, so you need not snub that so charming

nose, or I shall point out to my friend Arthur what woes he may have

to endure in seeing so much beauty that he so loves so much distort.

Aha, my pretty miss, that bring the so nice nose all straight again.

This is medicinal, but you do not know how.  I put him in your window,

I make pretty wreath, and hang him round your neck, so you sleep well.

Oh, yes!  They, like the lotus flower, make your trouble forgotten.

It smell so like the waters of Lethe, and of that fountain of youth

that the Conquistadores sought for in the Floridas, and find him all

too late.”

 

Whilst he was speaking, Lucy had been examining the flowers and

smelling them.  Now she threw them down saying, with half laughter,

and half disgust,

 

“Oh, Professor, I believe you are only putting up a joke on me.  Why,

these flowers are only common garlic.”

 

To my surprise, Van Helsing rose up and said with all his sternness,

his iron jaw set and his bushy eyebrows meeting,

 

“No trifling with me!  I never jest!  There is grim purpose in what I

do, and I warn you that you do not thwart me.  Take care, for the sake

of others if not for your own.”  Then seeing poor Lucy scared, as she

might well be, he went on more gently, “Oh, little miss, my dear, do

not fear me.  I only do for your good, but there is much virtue to you

in those so common flowers.  See, I place them myself in your room.  I

make myself the wreath that you are to wear.  But hush!  No telling to

others that make so inquisitive questions.  We must obey, and silence

is a part of obedience, and obedience is to bring you strong and well

into loving arms that wait for you.  Now sit still a while.  Come with

me, friend John, and you shall help me deck the room with my garlic,

which is all the way from Haarlem, where my friend Vanderpool raise

herb in his glass houses all the year.  I had to telegraph yesterday,

or they would not have been here.”

 

We went into the room, taking the flowers with us.  The Professor’s

actions were certainly odd and not to be found in any pharmacopeia

that I ever heard of.  First he fastened up the windows and latched

them securely.  Next, taking a handful of the flowers, he rubbed them

all over the sashes, as though to ensure that every whiff of air that

might get in would be laden with the garlic smell.  Then with the wisp

he rubbed all over the jamb of the door, above, below, and at each

side, and round the fireplace in the same way.  It all seemed

grotesque to me, and presently I said, “Well, Professor, I know you

always have a reason for what you do, but this certainly puzzles me.

It is well we have no sceptic here, or he would say that you were

working some spell to keep out an evil spirit.”

 

“Perhaps I am!” he answered quietly as he began to make the wreath

which Lucy was to wear round her neck.

 

We then waited whilst Lucy made her toilet for the night, and when she

was in bed he came and himself fixed the wreath of garlic round her

neck.  The last words he said to her were,

 

“Take care you do not disturb it, and even if the room feel close, do

not tonight open the window or the door.”

 

“I promise,” said Lucy.  “And thank you both a thousand times for all

your kindness to me!  Oh, what have I done to be blessed with such

friends?”

 

As we left the house in my fly, which was waiting, Van Helsing said,

“Tonight I can sleep in peace, and sleep I want, two nights of travel,

much reading in the day between, and much anxiety on the day to

follow, and a night to sit up, without to wink.  Tomorrow in the

morning early you call for me, and we come together to see our pretty

miss, so much more strong for my ‘spell’ which I have work.  Ho, ho!”

 

He seemed so confident that I, remembering my own confidence two

nights before and with the baneful result, felt awe and vague terror.

It must have been my weakness that made me hesitate to tell it to my

friend, but I felt it all the more, like unshed tears.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 11

 

 

LUCY WESTENRA’S DIARY

 

12 September.–How good they all are to me.  I quite love that dear

Dr. Van Helsing.  I wonder why he was so anxious about these flowers.

He positively frightened me, he was so fierce.  And yet he must have

been right, for I feel comfort from them already.  Somehow, I do not

dread being alone tonight, and I can go to sleep without fear.  I

shall not mind any flapping outside the window.  Oh, the terrible

struggle that I have had against sleep so often of late, the pain of

sleeplessness, or the pain of the fear of sleep, and with such unknown

horrors as it has for me!  How blessed are some people, whose lives

have no fears, no dreads, to whom sleep is a blessing that comes

nightly, and brings nothing but sweet dreams.  Well, here I am

tonight, hoping for sleep, and lying like Ophelia in the play, with

‘virgin crants and maiden strewments.’  I never liked garlic before,

but tonight it is delightful!  There is peace in its smell.  I feel

sleep coming already.  Goodnight, everybody.

 

 

 

1. SEWARD’S DIARY

 

13 September.–Called at the Berkeley and found Van Helsing, as usual,

up to time.  The carriage ordered from the hotel was waiting.  The

Professor took his bag, which he always brings with him now.

 

Let all be put down exactly.  Van Helsing and I arrived at Hillingham

at eight o’clock.  It was a lovely morning.  The bright sunshine and

all the fresh feeling of early autumn seemed like the completion of

nature’s annual work.  The leaves were turning to all kinds of

beautiful colours, but had not yet begun to drop from the trees.  When

we entered we met Mrs. Westenra coming out of the morning room.  She

is always an early riser.  She greeted us warmly and said,

 

“You will be glad to know that Lucy is better.  The dear child is

still asleep.  I looked into her room and saw her, but did not go in,

lest I should disturb her.”  The Professor smiled, and looked quite

jubilant.  He rubbed his hands together, and said, “Aha!  I thought I

had diagnosed the case.  My treatment is working.”

 

To which she replied, “You must not take all the credit to yourself,

doctor.  Lucy’s state this morning is due in part to me.”

 

“How do you mean, ma’am?” asked the Professor.

 

“Well, I was anxious about the dear child in the night, and went into

her room.  She was sleeping soundly, so soundly that even my coming

did not wake her.  But the room was awfully stuffy.  There were a lot

of those horrible, strong-smelling flowers about everywhere, and she

had actually a bunch of them round her neck.  I feared that the heavy

odour would be too much for the dear child in her weak state, so I took

them all away and opened a bit of the window to let in a little fresh

air.  You will be pleased with her, I am sure.”

 

She moved off into her boudoir, where she usually breakfasted early.

As she had spoken, I watched the Professor’s face, and saw it turn

ashen gray.  He had been able to retain his self-command whilst the

poor lady was present, for he knew her state and how mischievous a

shock would be.  He actually smiled on her as he held open the door

for her to pass into her room.  But the instant she had disappeared he

pulled me, suddenly and forcibly, into the dining room and closed the

door.

 

Then, for the first time in my life, I saw Van Helsing break down.  He

raised his hands over his head in a sort of mute despair, and then

beat his palms together in a helpless way.  Finally he sat down on a

chair, and putting his hands before his face, began to sob, with loud,

dry sobs that seemed to come from the very racking of his heart.

 

Then he raised his arms again, as though appealing to the whole

universe.  “God!  God!  God!” he said.  “What have we done, what has

this poor thing done, that we are so sore beset?  Is there fate

amongst us still, send down from the pagan world of old, that such

things must be, and in such way?  This poor mother, all unknowing, and

all for the best as she think, does such thing as lose her daughter

body and soul, and we must not tell her, we must not even warn her, or

she die, then both die.  Oh, how we are beset!  How are all the powers

of the devils against us!”

 

Suddenly he jumped to his feet.  “Come,” he said, “come, we must see and

act.  Devils or no devils, or all the devils at once, it matters not.

We must fight him all the same.”  He went to the hall door for his

bag, and together we went up to Lucy’s room.

 

Once again I drew up the blind, whilst Van Helsing went towards the

bed.  This time he did not start as he looked on the poor face with

the same awful, waxen pallor as before.  He wore a look of stern

sadness and infinite pity.

 

“As I expected,” he murmured, with that hissing inspiration of his

which meant so much.  Without a word he went and locked the door, and

then began to set out on the little table the instruments for yet

another operation of transfusion of blood.  I had long ago recognized

the necessity, and begun to take off my coat, but he stopped me with a

warning hand.  “No!” he said.  “Today you must operate.  I shall

provide.  You are weakened already.”  As he spoke he took off his coat

and rolled up his shirtsleeve.

 

Again the operation.  Again the narcotic.  Again some return of colour

to the ashy cheeks, and the regular breathing of healthy sleep.  This

time I watched whilst Van Helsing recruited himself and rested.

 

Presently he took an opportunity of telling Mrs. Westenra that she

must not remove anything from Lucy’s room without consulting him.

That the flowers were of medicinal value, and that the breathing of

their odour was a part of the system of cure.  Then he took over the

care of the case himself, saying that he would watch this night and

the next, and would send me word when to come.

 

After another hour Lucy waked from her sleep, fresh and bright and

seemingly not much the worse for her terrible ordeal.

 

What does it all mean?  I am beginning to wonder if my long habit of

life amongst the insane is beginning to tell upon my own brain.

 

 

 

LUCY WESTENRA’S DIARY

 

17 September.–Four days and nights of peace.  I am getting so strong

again that I hardly know myself.  It is as if I had passed through

some long nightmare, and had just awakened to see the beautiful

sunshine and feel the fresh air of the morning around me.  I have a

dim half remembrance of long, anxious times of waiting and fearing,

darkness in which there was not even the pain of hope to make present

distress more poignant.  And then long spells of oblivion, and the

rising back to life as a diver coming up through a great press of

water.  Since, however, Dr. Van Helsing has been with me, all this bad

dreaming seems to have passed away.  The noises that used to frighten

me out of my wits, the flapping against the windows, the distant

voices which seemed so close to me, the harsh sounds that came from I

know not where and commanded me to do I know not what, have all

ceased.  I go to bed now without any fear of sleep.  I do not even try

to keep awake.  I have grown quite fond of the garlic, and a boxful

arrives for me every day from Haarlem.  Tonight Dr. Van Helsing is

going away, as he has to be for a day in Amsterdam.  But I need not be

watched.  I am well enough to be left alone.

 

Thank God for Mother’s sake, and dear Arthur’s, and for all our

friends who have been so kind!  I shall not even feel the change, for

last night Dr. Van Helsing slept in his chair a lot of the time.  I

found him asleep twice when I awoke.  But I did not fear to go to

sleep again, although the boughs or bats or something flapped almost

angrily against the window panes.

 

 

 

 

THE PALL MALL GAZETTE 18 September.

 

THE ESCAPED WOLF PERILOUS ADVENTURE OF OUR INTERVIEWER

 

INTERVIEW WITH THE KEEPER IN THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS

 

After many inquiries and almost as many refusals, and perpetually

using the words ‘PALL MALL GAZETTE’ as a sort of talisman, I managed

to find the keeper of the section of the Zoological Gardens in which

the wolf department is included.  Thomas Bilder lives in one of the

cottages in the enclosure behind the elephant house, and was just

sitting down to his tea when I found him.  Thomas and his wife are

hospitable folk, elderly, and without children, and if the specimen

I enjoyed of their hospitality be of the average kind, their lives

must be pretty comfortable.  The keeper would not enter on what he

called business until the supper was over, and we were all

satisfied.  Then when the table was cleared, and he had lit his

pipe, he said,

 

“Now, Sir, you can go on and arsk me what you want.  You’ll excoose

me refoosin’ to talk of perfeshunal subjucts afore meals.  I gives

the wolves and the jackals and the hyenas in all our section their

tea afore I begins to arsk them questions.”

 

“How do you mean, ask them questions?” I queried, wishful to get him

into a talkative humor.

 

“‘Ittin’ of them over the ‘ead with a pole is one way.  Scratchin’ of

their ears in another, when gents as is flush wants a bit of a show-orf

to their gals.  I don’t so much mind the fust, the ‘ittin of the

pole part afore I chucks in their dinner, but I waits till they’ve

‘ad their sherry and kawffee, so to speak, afore I tries on with the

ear scratchin’.  Mind you,” he added philosophically, “there’s a

deal of the same nature in us as in them theer animiles. Here’s you

a-comin’ and arskin’ of me questions about my business, and I that

grump-like that only for your bloomin’ ‘arf-quid I’d ‘a’ seen you

blowed fust ‘fore I’d answer.  Not even when you arsked me sarcastic

like if I’d like you to arsk the Superintendent if you might arsk me

questions.  Without offence did I tell yer to go to ‘ell?”

 

“You did.”

 

“An’ when you said you’d report me for usin’ obscene language that

was ‘ittin’ me over the ‘ead.  But the ‘arf-quid made that all

right.  I weren’t a-goin’ to fight, so I waited for the food, and

did with my ‘owl as the wolves and lions and tigers does.  But, lor’

love yer ‘art, now that the old ‘ooman has stuck a chunk of her

tea-cake in me, an’ rinsed me out with her bloomin’ old teapot, and I’ve

lit hup, you may scratch my ears for all you’re worth, and won’t

even get a growl out of me.  Drive along with your questions.  I

know what yer a-comin’ at, that ‘ere escaped wolf.”

 

“Exactly.  I want you to give me your view of it.  Just tell me how

it happened, and when I know the facts I’ll get you to say what you

consider was the cause of it, and how you think the whole affair

will end.”

 

“All right, guv’nor.  This ‘ere is about the ‘ole story.

That ‘ere wolf what we called Bersicker was one of three gray

ones that came from Norway to Jamrach’s, which we bought

off him four years ago.  He was a nice well-behaved wolf,

that never gave no trouble to talk of.  I’m more surprised

at ‘im for wantin’ to get out nor any other animile in the

place.  But, there, you can’t trust wolves no more nor women.”

 

“Don’t you mind him, Sir!” broke in Mrs. Tom, with a cheery

laugh.  “‘E’s got mindin’ the animiles so long that blest

if he ain’t like a old wolf ‘isself!  But there ain’t no

‘arm in ‘im.”

 

“Well, Sir, it was about two hours after feedin’ yesterday when I

first hear my disturbance.  I was makin’ up a litter in the monkey

house for a young puma which is ill.  But when I heard the yelpin’

and ‘owlin’ I kem away straight.  There was Bersicker a-tearin’ like

a mad thing at the bars as if he wanted to get out.  There wasn’t

much people about that day, and close at hand was only one man, a

tall, thin chap, with a ‘ook nose and a pointed beard, with a few

white hairs runnin’ through it.  He had a ‘ard, cold look and red

eyes, and I took a sort of mislike to him, for it seemed as if it

was ‘im as they was hirritated at.  He ‘ad white kid gloves on ‘is

‘ands, and he pointed out the animiles to me and says, ‘Keeper,

these wolves seem upset at something.’

 

“‘Maybe it’s you,’ says I, for I did not like the airs as he

give ‘isself.  He didn’t get angry, as I ‘oped he would, but

he smiled a kind of insolent smile, with a mouth full of white,

sharp teeth.  ‘Oh no, they wouldn’t like me,’ ‘e says.

 

“‘Ow yes, they would,’ says I, a-imitatin’ of him.  ‘They

always like a bone or two to clean their teeth on about tea

time, which you ‘as a bagful.’

 

“Well, it was a odd thing, but when the animiles see us

a-talkin’ they lay down, and when I went over to Bersicker

he let me stroke his ears same as ever.  That there man kem

over, and blessed but if he didn’t put in his hand and stroke

the old wolf’s ears too!

 

“‘Tyke care,’ says I. ‘Bersicker is quick.’

 

“‘Never mind,’ he says.  I’m used to ’em!’

 

“‘Are you in the business yourself?’ I says, tyking off my

‘at, for a man what trades in wolves, anceterer, is a good

friend to keepers.

 

“‘Nom,’ says he, ‘not exactly in the business, but I ‘ave made pets

of several.’  And with that he lifts his ‘at as perlite as a lord,

and walks away.  Old Bersicker kep’ a-lookin’ arter ‘im till ‘e was

out of sight, and then went and lay down in a corner and wouldn’t

come hout the ‘ole hevening.  Well, larst night, so soon as the moon

was hup, the wolves here all began a-‘owling.  There warn’t nothing

for them to ‘owl at.  There warn’t no one near, except some one that

was evidently a-callin’ a dog somewheres out back of the gardings in

the Park road.  Once or twice I went out to see that all was right,

and it was, and then the ‘owling stopped.  Just before twelve

o’clock I just took a look round afore turnin’ in, an’, bust me, but

when I kem opposite to old Bersicker’s cage I see the rails broken

and twisted about and the cage empty.  And that’s all I know for

certing.”

 

“Did any one else see anything?”

 

“One of our gard’ners was a-comin’ ‘ome about that time from a

‘armony, when he sees a big gray dog comin’ out through the garding

‘edges.  At least, so he says, but I don’t give much for it myself,

for if he did ‘e never said a word about it to his missis when ‘e

got ‘ome, and it was only after the escape of the wolf was made

known, and we had been up all night a-huntin’ of the Park for

Bersicker, that he remembered seein’ anything.  My own belief was

that the ‘armony ‘ad got into his ‘ead.”

 

“Now, Mr. Bilder, can you account in any way for the escape

of the wolf?”

 

“Well, Sir,” he said, with a suspicious sort of modesty, “I think I

can, but I don’t know as ‘ow you’d be satisfied with the theory.”

 

“Certainly I shall.  If a man like you, who knows the animals from

experience, can’t hazard a good guess at any rate, who is even to

try?”

 

“Well then, Sir, I accounts for it this way.  It seems to me that

‘ere wolf escaped–simply because he wanted to get out.”

 

From the hearty way that both Thomas and his wife laughed at the

joke I could see that it had done service before, and that the whole

explanation was simply an elaborate sell.  I couldn’t cope in

badinage with the worthy Thomas, but I thought I knew a surer way to

his heart, so I said, “Now, Mr. Bilder, we’ll consider that first

half-sovereign worked off, and this brother of his is waiting to be

claimed when you’ve told me what you think will happen.”

 

“Right y’are, Sir,” he said briskly.  “Ye’ll excoose me, I

know, for a-chaffin’ of ye, but the old woman here winked at

me, which was as much as telling me to go on.”

 

“Well, I never!” said the old lady.

 

“My opinion is this: that ‘ere wolf is a’idin’ of, somewheres.  The

gard’ner wot didn’t remember said he was a-gallopin’ northward

faster than a horse could go, but I don’t believe him, for, yer see,

Sir, wolves don’t gallop no more nor dogs does, they not bein’ built

that way.  Wolves is fine things in a storybook, and I dessay when

they gets in packs and does be chivyin’ somethin’ that’s more

afeared than they is they can make a devil of a noise and chop it

up, whatever it is.  But, Lor’ bless you, in real life a wolf is

only a low creature, not half so clever or bold as a good dog, and

not half a quarter so much fight in ‘im.  This one ain’t been used

to fightin’ or even to providin’ for hisself, and more like he’s

somewhere round the Park a’hidin’ an’ a’shiverin’ of, and if he

thinks at all, wonderin’ where he is to get his breakfast from.  Or

maybe he’s got down some area and is in a coal cellar.  My eye,

won’t some cook get a rum start when she sees his green eyes

a-shinin’ at her out of the dark!  If he can’t get food he’s bound to

look for it, and mayhap he may chance to light on a butcher’s shop

in time.  If he doesn’t, and some nursemaid goes out walkin’ or orf

with a soldier, leavin’ of the hinfant in the perambulator–well,

then I shouldn’t be surprised if the census is one babby the less.

That’s all.”

 

I was handing him the half-sovereign, when something came bobbing up

against the window, and Mr. Bilder’s face doubled its natural length

with surprise.

 

“God bless me!” he said.  “If there ain’t old Bersicker come back by

‘isself!”

 

He went to the door and opened it, a most unnecessary proceeding it

seemed to me.  I have always thought that a wild animal never looks

so well as when some obstacle of pronounced durability is between

1. A personal experience has intensified rather than diminished

that idea.

 

After all, however, there is nothing like custom, for neither Bilder

nor his wife thought any more of the wolf than I should of a dog.

The animal itself was a peaceful and well-behaved as that father of

all picture-wolves, Red Riding Hood’s quondam friend, whilst moving

her confidence in masquerade.

 

The whole scene was a unutterable mixture of comedy and

pathos.  The wicked wolf that for a half a day had

paralyzed London and set all the children in town shivering

in their shoes, was there in a sort of penitent mood, and

was received and petted like a sort of vulpine prodigal

son.  Old Bilder examined him all over with most tender

solicitude, and when he had finished with his penitent

said,

 

“There, I knew the poor old chap would get into some kind of

trouble.  Didn’t I say it all along?  Here’s his head all

cut and full of broken glass.  ‘E’s been a-gettin’ over

some bloomin’ wall or other.  It’s a shyme that people are

allowed to top their walls with broken bottles.  This ‘ere’s

what comes of it.  Come along, Bersicker.”

 

He took the wolf and locked him up in a cage, with a piece

of meat that satisfied, in quantity at any rate, the elementary

conditions of the fatted calf, and went off to report.

 

I came off too, to report the only exclusive information

that is given today regarding the strange escapade at the

Zoo.

 

 

 

1. SEWARD’S DIARY

 

17 September.–I was engaged after dinner in my study posting up my

books, which, through press of other work and the many visits to Lucy,

had fallen sadly into arrear.  Suddenly the door was burst open, and

in rushed my patient, with his face distorted with passion.  I was

thunderstruck, for such a thing as a patient getting of his own accord

into the Superintendent’s study is almost unknown.

 

Without an instant’s notice he made straight at me.  He had a dinner

knife in his hand, and as I saw he was dangerous, I tried to keep the

table between us.  He was too quick and too strong for me, however,

for before I could get my balance he had struck at me and cut my left

wrist rather severely.

 

Before he could strike again, however, I got in my right hand and he

was sprawling on his back on the floor.  My wrist bled freely, and

quite a little pool trickled on to the carpet.  I saw that my friend

was not intent on further effort, and occupied myself binding up my

wrist, keeping a wary eye on the prostrate figure all the time.  When

the attendants rushed in, and we turned our attention to him, his

employment positively sickened me.  He was lying on his belly on the

floor licking up, like a dog, the blood which had fallen from my

wounded wrist.  He was easily secured, and to my surprise, went with

the attendants quite placidly, simply repeating over and over again,

“The blood is the life!  The blood is the life!”

 

I cannot afford to lose blood just at present.  I have lost too much

of late for my physical good, and then the prolonged strain of Lucy’s

illness and its horrible phases is telling on me.  I am over excited

and weary, and I need rest, rest, rest.  Happily Van Helsing has not

summoned me, so I need not forego my sleep.  Tonight I could not well

do without it.

 

 

 

TELEGRAM, VAN HELSING, ANTWERP, TO SEWARD, CARFAX

 

(Sent to Carfax, Sussex, as no county given, delivered late

by twenty-two hours.)

 

17 September.–Do not fail to be at Hilllingham tonight.

If not watching all the time, frequently visit and see that

flowers are as placed, very important, do not fail.  Shall

be with you as soon as possible after arrival.

 

 

 

1. SEWARD’S DIARY

 

18 September.–Just off train to London.  The arrival of Van

Helsing’s telegram filled me with dismay.  A whole night lost,

and I know by bitter experience what may happen in a night.

Of course it is possible that all may be well, but what may

have happened?  Surely there is some horrible doom hanging over us

that every possible accident should thwart us in all we try to do.

I shall take this cylinder with me, and then I can complete

my entry on Lucy’s phonograph.

 

 

 

 

MEMORANDUM LEFT BY LUCY WESTENRA

 

17 September, Night.–I write this and leave it to be seen,

so that no one may by any chance get into trouble through

1. This is an exact record of what took place tonight. I

feel I am dying of weakness, and have barely strength to

write, but it must be done if I die in the doing.

 

I went to bed as usual, taking care that the flowers were

placed as Dr. Van Helsing directed, and soon fell asleep.

 

I was waked by the flapping at the window, which had begun after

that sleep-walking on the cliff at Whitby when Mina saved me, and

which now I know so well.  I was not afraid, but I did wish that

Dr. Seward was in the next room, as Dr. Van Helsing said he would

be, so that I might have called him.  I tried to sleep, but I

could not.  Then there came to me the old fear of sleep, and I

determined to keep awake.  Perversely sleep would try to come then

when I did not want it.  So, as I feared to be alone, I opened my

door and called out, “Is there anybody there?”  There was no

answer.  I was afraid to wake mother, and so closed my door

again.  Then outside in the shrubbery I heard a sort of howl like

a dog’s, but more fierce and deeper.  I went to the window and

looked out, but could see nothing, except a big bat, which had

evidently been buffeting its wings against the window.  So I went

back to bed again, but determined not to go to sleep.  Presently

the door opened, and mother looked in.  Seeing by my moving that

I was not asleep, she came in and sat by me.  She said to me even

more sweetly and softly than her wont,

 

“I was uneasy about you, darling, and came in to see that

you were all right.”

 

I feared she might catch cold sitting there, and asked her

to come in and sleep with me, so she came into bed, and lay

down beside me.  She did not take off her dressing gown,

for she said she would only stay a while and then go back

to her own bed.  As she lay there in my arms, and I in hers

the flapping and buffeting came to the window again.  She

was startled and a little frightened, and cried out, “What

is that?”

 

I tried to pacify her, and at last succeeded, and she lay

quiet.  But I could hear her poor dear heart still beating

terribly.  After a while there was the howl again out in

the shrubbery, and shortly after there was a crash at the

window, and a lot of broken glass was hurled on the floor.

The window blind blew back with the wind that rushed in,

and in the aperture of the broken panes there was the head

of a great, gaunt gray wolf.

 

Mother cried out in a fright, and struggled up into a

sitting posture, and clutched wildly at anything that would

help her.  Amongst other things, she clutched the wreath of

flowers that Dr. Van Helsing insisted on my wearing round

my neck, and tore it away from me.  For a second or two she

sat up, pointing at the wolf, and there was a strange and

horrible gurgling in her throat.  Then she fell over, as if

struck with lightning, and her head hit my forehead and

made me dizzy for a moment or two.

 

The room and all round seemed to spin round.  I kept my eyes

fixed on the window, but the wolf drew his head back, and a whole

myriad of little specks seems to come blowing in through the

broken window, and wheeling and circling round like the pillar of

dust that travellers describe when there is a simoon in the

desert.  I tried to stir, but there was some spell upon me, and

dear Mother’s poor body, which seemed to grow cold already, for

her dear heart had ceased to beat, weighed me down, and I

remembered no more for a while.

 

The time did not seem long, but very, very awful, till I

recovered consciousness again.  Somewhere near, a passing

bell was tolling.  The dogs all round the neighbourhood were

howling, and in our shrubbery, seemingly just outside, a

nightingale was singing.  I was dazed and stupid with pain

and terror and weakness, but the sound of the nightingale

seemed like the voice of my dead mother come back to comfort me.

The sounds seemed to have awakened the maids, too, for I could

hear their bare feet pattering outside my door.  I called to

them, and they came in, and when they saw what had happened, and

what it was that lay over me on the bed, they screamed out.  The

wind rushed in through the broken window, and the door slammed

1. They lifted off the body of my dear mother, and laid her,

covered up with a sheet, on the bed after I had got up.  They

were all so frightened and nervous that I directed them to go to

the dining room and each have a glass of wine.  The door flew

open for an instant and closed again.  The maids shrieked, and

then went in a body to the dining room, and I laid what flowers I

had on my dear mother’s breast.  When they were there I

remembered what Dr. Van Helsing had told me, but I didn’t like to

remove them, and besides, I would have some of the servants to

sit up with me now.  I was surprised that the maids did not come

back.  I called them, but got no answer, so I went to the dining

room to look for them.

 

My heart sank when I saw what had happened.  They all four

lay helpless on the floor, breathing heavily.  The decanter

of sherry was on the table half full, but there was a queer,

acrid smell about.  I was suspicious, and examined the decanter.

It smelt of laudanum, and looking on the sideboard, I found that

the bottle which Mother’s doctor uses for her–oh! did use–was

empty.  What am I to do? What am I to do?  I am back in the room

with Mother.  I cannot leave her, and I am alone, save for the

sleeping servants, whom some one has drugged.  Alone with the

dead! I dare not go out, for I can hear the low howl of the wolf

through the broken window.

 

The air seems full of specks, floating and circling in the

draught from the window, and the lights burn blue and dim.

What am I to do?  God shield me from harm this night!  I

shall hide this paper in my breast, where they shall find

it when they come to lay me out.  My dear mother gone!  It

is time that I go too.  Goodbye, dear Arthur, if I should

not survive this night.  God keep you, dear, and God help

me!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 12

 

 

1. SEWARD’S DIARY

 

18 September.–I drove at once to Hillingham and arrived early.

Keeping my cab at the gate, I went up the avenue alone.  I knocked

gently and rang as quietly as possible, for I feared to disturb Lucy

or her mother, and hoped to only bring a servant to the door.  After a

while, finding no response, I knocked and rang again, still no

answer.  I cursed the laziness of the servants that they should lie

abed at such an hour, for it was now ten o’clock, and so rang and

knocked again, but more impatiently, but still without response.

Hitherto I had blamed only the servants, but now a terrible fear began

to assail me.  Was this desolation but another link in the chain of

doom which seemed drawing tight round us?  Was it indeed a house of

death to which I had come, too late?  I know that minutes, even

seconds of delay, might mean hours of danger to Lucy, if she had had

again one of those frightful relapses, and I went round the house to

try if I could find by chance an entry anywhere.

 

I could find no means of ingress.  Every window and door was fastened

and locked, and I returned baffled to the porch.  As I did so, I heard

the rapid pit-pat of a swiftly driven horse’s feet.  They stopped at

the gate, and a few seconds later I met Van Helsing running up the

avenue.  When he saw me, he gasped out, “Then it was you, and just

arrived.  How is she?  Are we too late?  Did you not get my telegram?”

 

I answered as quickly and coherently as I could that I had only got

his telegram early in the morning, and had not a minute in coming

here, and that I could not make any one in the house hear me.  He

paused and raised his hat as he said solemnly, “Then I fear we are too

late.  God’s will be done!”

 

With his usual recuperative energy, he went on, “Come.  If there be no

way open to get in, we must make one.  Time is all in all to us now.”

 

We went round to the back of the house, where there was a kitchen

window.  The Professor took a small surgical saw from his case, and

handing it to me, pointed to the iron bars which guarded the window.

I attacked them at once and had very soon cut through three of them.

Then with a long, thin knife we pushed back the fastening of the

sashes and opened the window.  I helped the Professor in, and followed

him.  There was no one in the kitchen or in the servants’ rooms, which

were close at hand.  We tried all the rooms as we went along, and in

the dining room, dimly lit by rays of light through the shutters,

found four servant women lying on the floor.  There was no need to

think them dead, for their stertorous breathing and the acrid smell of

laudanum in the room left no doubt as to their condition.

 

Van Helsing and I looked at each other, and as we moved away he said,

“We can attend to them later.”  Then we ascended to Lucy’s room.  For an

instant or two we paused at the door to listen, but there was no sound

that we could hear.  With white faces and trembling hands, we opened

the door gently, and entered the room.

 

How shall I describe what we saw?  On the bed lay two women, Lucy and

her mother.  The latter lay farthest in, and she was covered with a

white sheet, the edge of which had been blown back by the drought

through the broken window, showing the drawn, white, face, with a look

of terror fixed upon it.  By her side lay Lucy, with face white and

still more drawn.  The flowers which had been round her neck we found

upon her mother’s bosom, and her throat was bare, showing the two

little wounds which we had noticed before, but looking horribly white

and mangled.  Without a word the Professor bent over the bed, his head

almost touching poor Lucy’s breast.  Then he gave a quick turn of his

head, as of one who listens, and leaping to his feet, he cried out to

me, “It is not yet too late!  Quick!  Quick!  Bring the brandy!”

 

I flew downstairs and returned with it, taking care to smell and taste

it, lest it, too, were drugged like the decanter of sherry which I

found on the table.  The maids were still breathing, but more

restlessly, and I fancied that the narcotic was wearing off.  I did

not stay to make sure, but returned to Van Helsing.  He rubbed the

brandy, as on another occasion, on her lips and gums and on her wrists

and the palms of her hands.  He said to me, “I can do this, all that

can be at the present.  You go wake those maids.  Flick them in the

face with a wet towel, and flick them hard.  Make them get heat and

fire and a warm bath.  This poor soul is nearly as cold as that beside

her.  She will need be heated before we can do anything more.”

 

I went at once, and found little difficulty in waking three of the

women.  The fourth was only a young girl, and the drug had evidently

affected her more strongly so I lifted her on the sofa and let her

sleep.

 

The others were dazed at first, but as remembrance came back to them

they cried and sobbed in a hysterical manner.  I was stern with them,

however, and would not let them talk.  I told them that one life was

bad enough to lose, and if they delayed they would sacrifice Miss

Lucy.  So, sobbing and crying they went about their way, half clad as

they were, and prepared fire and water.  Fortunately, the kitchen and

boiler fires were still alive, and there was no lack of hot water.  We

got a bath and carried Lucy out as she was and placed her in it.

Whilst we were busy chafing her limbs there was a knock at the hall

door.  One of the maids ran off, hurried on some more clothes, and

opened it.  Then she returned and whispered to us that there was a

gentleman who had come with a message from Mr. Holmwood.  I bade her

simply tell him that he must wait, for we could see no one now.  She

went away with the message, and, engrossed with our work, I clean

forgot all about him.

 

I never saw in all my experience the Professor work in such deadly

earnest.  I knew, as he knew, that it was a stand-up fight with death,

and in a pause told him so.  He answered me in a way that I did not

understand, but with the sternest look that his face could wear.

 

“If that were all, I would stop here where we are now, and let her

fade away into peace, for I see no light in life over her horizon.”  He

went on with his work with, if possible, renewed and more frenzied

vigour.

 

Presently we both began to be conscious that the heat was beginning to

be of some effect.  Lucy’s heart beat a trifle more audibly to the

stethoscope, and her lungs had a perceptible movement.  Van Helsing’s

face almost beamed, and as we lifted her from the bath and rolled her

in a hot sheet to dry her he said to me, “The first gain is ours!

Check to the King!”

 

We took Lucy into another room, which had by now been prepared, and

laid her in bed and forced a few drops of brandy down her throat.  I

noticed that Van Helsing tied a soft silk handkerchief round her

throat.  She was still unconscious, and was quite as bad as, if not

worse than, we had ever seen her.

 

Van Helsing called in one of the women, and told her to stay with her

and not to take her eyes off her till we returned, and then beckoned

me out of the room.

 

“We must consult as to what is to be done,” he said as we descended

the stairs.  In the hall he opened the dining room door, and we passed

in, he closing the door carefully behind him.  The shutters had been

opened, but the blinds were already down, with that obedience to the

etiquette of death which the British woman of the lower classes always

rigidly observes.  The room was, therefore, dimly dark.  It was,

however, light enough for our purposes.  Van Helsing’s sternness was

somewhat relieved by a look of perplexity.  He was evidently torturing

his mind about something, so I waited for an instant, and he spoke.

 

“What are we to do now?  Where are we to turn for help?  We must have

another transfusion of blood, and that soon, or that poor girl’s life

won’t be worth an hour’s purchase.  You are exhausted already.  I am

exhausted too.  I fear to trust those women, even if they would have

courage to submit.  What are we to do for some one who will open his

veins for her?”

 

“What’s the matter with me, anyhow?”

 

The voice came from the sofa across the room, and its tones brought

relief and joy to my heart, for they were those of Quincey Morris.

 

Van Helsing started angrily at the first sound, but his face softened

and a glad look came into his eyes as I cried out, “Quincey Morris!”

and rushed towards him with outstretched hands.

 

“What brought you here?” I cried as our hands met.

 

“I guess Art is the cause.”

 

He handed me a telegram.–‘Have not heard from Seward for three days,

and am terribly anxious.  Cannot leave.  Father still in same

condition.  Send me word how Lucy is.  Do not delay.–Holmwood.’

 

“I think I came just in the nick of time.  You know you have only to

tell me what to do.”

 

Van Helsing strode forward, and took his hand, looking him straight in

the eyes as he said, “A brave man’s blood is the best thing on this

earth when a woman is in trouble.  You’re a man and no mistake.  Well,

the devil may work against us for all he’s worth, but God sends us men

when we want them.”

 

Once again we went through that ghastly operation.  I have not the

heart to go through with the details.  Lucy had got a terrible shock

and it told on her more than before, for though plenty of blood went

into her veins, her body did not respond to the treatment as well as

on the other occasions.  Her struggle back into life was something

frightful to see and hear.  However, the action of both heart and

lungs improved, and Van Helsing made a sub-cutaneous injection of

morphia, as before, and with good effect.  Her faint became a profound

slumber.  The Professor watched whilst I went downstairs with Quincey

Morris, and sent one of the maids to pay off one of the cabmen who

were waiting.

 

I left Quincey lying down after having a glass of wine, and told the

cook to get ready a good breakfast.  Then a thought struck me, and I

went back to the room where Lucy now was.  When I came softly in, I

found Van Helsing with a sheet or two of note paper in his hand.  He

had evidently read it, and was thinking it over as he sat with his

hand to his brow.  There was a look of grim satisfaction in his face,

as of one who has had a doubt solved.  He handed me the paper saying

only, “It dropped from Lucy’s breast when we carried her to the bath.”

 

When I had read it, I stood looking at the Professor, and after a

pause asked him, “In God’s name, what does it all mean?  Was she, or

is she, mad, or what sort of horrible danger is it?”  I was so

bewildered that I did not know what to say more.  Van Helsing put out

his hand and took the paper, saying,

 

“Do not trouble about it now.  Forget it for the present.  You shall

know and understand it all in good time, but it will be later.  And

now what is it that you came to me to say?”  This brought me back to

fact, and I was all myself again.

 

“I came to speak about the certificate of death.  If we do not act

properly and wisely, there may be an inquest, and that paper would

have to be produced.  I am in hopes that we need have no inquest, for

if we had it would surely kill poor Lucy, if nothing else did.  I

know, and you know, and the other doctor who attended her knows, that

Mrs. Westenra had disease of the heart, and we can certify that she

died of it.  Let us fill up the certificate at once, and I shall take

it myself to the registrar and go on to the undertaker.”

 

“Good, oh my friend John!  Well thought of!  Truly Miss Lucy, if she

be sad in the foes that beset her, is at least happy in the friends

that love her.  One, two, three, all open their veins for her, besides

one old man.  Ah, yes, I know, friend John.  I am not blind!  I love

you all the more for it!  Now go.”

 

In the hall I met Quincey Morris, with a telegram for Arthur telling

him that Mrs. Westenra was dead, that Lucy also had been ill, but was

now going on better, and that Van Helsing and I were with her.  I told

him where I was going, and he hurried me out, but as I was going said,

 

“When you come back, Jack, may I have two words with you all to

ourselves?”  I nodded in reply and went out.  I found no difficulty

about the registration, and arranged with the local undertaker to come

up in the evening to measure for the coffin and to make arrangements.

 

When I got back Quincey was waiting for me.  I told him I would see

him as soon as I knew about Lucy, and went up to her room.  She was

still sleeping, and the Professor seemingly had not moved from his

seat at her side.  From his putting his finger to his lips, I gathered

that he expected her to wake before long and was afraid of

fore-stalling nature.  So I went down to Quincey and took him into the

breakfast room, where the blinds were not drawn down, and which was a

little more cheerful, or rather less cheerless, than the other rooms.

 

When we were alone, he said to me, “Jack Seward, I don’t want to shove

myself in anywhere where I’ve no right to be, but this is no ordinary

case.  You know I loved that girl and wanted to marry her, but

although that’s all past and gone, I can’t help feeling anxious about

her all the same.  What is it that’s wrong with her?  The Dutchman,

and a fine old fellow he is, I can see that, said that time you two

came into the room, that you must have another transfusion of blood,

and that both you and he were exhausted.  Now I know well that you

medical men speak in camera, and that a man must not expect to know

what they consult about in private.  But this is no common matter, and

whatever it is, I have done my part.  Is not that so?”

 

“That’s so,” I said, and he went on.

 

“I take it that both you and Van Helsing had done already what I did

today.  Is not that so?”

 

“That’s so.”

 

“And I guess Art was in it too.  When I saw him four days ago down at

his own place he looked queer.  I have not seen anything pulled down

so quick since I was on the Pampas and had a mare that I was fond of

go to grass all in a night.  One of those big bats that they call

vampires had got at her in the night, and what with his gorge and the

vein left open, there wasn’t enough blood in her to let her stand up,

and I had to put a bullet through her as she lay.  Jack, if you may

tell me without betraying confidence, Arthur was the first, is not

that so?”

 

As he spoke the poor fellow looked terribly anxious.  He was in a

torture of suspense regarding the woman he loved, and his utter

ignorance of the terrible mystery which seemed to surround her

intensified his pain.  His very heart was bleeding, and it took all

the manhood of him, and there was a royal lot of it, too, to keep him

from breaking down.  I paused before answering, for I felt that I must

not betray anything which the Professor wished kept secret, but

already he knew so much, and guessed so much, that there could be no

reason for not answering, so I answered in the same phrase.

 

“That’s so.”

 

“And how long has this been going on?”

 

“About ten days.”

 

“Ten days!  Then I guess, Jack Seward, that that poor pretty creature

that we all love has had put into her veins within that time the blood

of four strong men.  Man alive, her whole body wouldn’t hold it.”  Then

coming close to me, he spoke in a fierce half-whisper.  “What took it

out?”

 

I shook my head.  “That,” I said, “is the crux.  Van Helsing is simply

frantic about it, and I am at my wits’ end.  I can’t even hazard a

guess.  There has been a series of little circumstances which have

thrown out all our calculations as to Lucy being properly watched.

But these shall not occur again.  Here we stay until all be well, or

ill.”

 

Quincey held out his hand.  “Count me in,” he said.  “You and the

Dutchman will tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

 

When she woke late in the afternoon, Lucy’s first movement was to feel

in her breast, and to my surprise, produced the paper which Van

Helsing had given me to read.  The careful Professor had replaced it

where it had come from, lest on waking she should be alarmed.  Her

eyes then lit on Van Helsing and on me too, and gladdened.  Then she

looked round the room, and seeing where she was, shuddered.  She gave

a loud cry, and put her poor thin hands before her pale face.

 

We both understood what was meant, that she had realized to the full

her mother’s death.  So we tried what we could to comfort her.

Doubtless sympathy eased her somewhat, but she was very low in thought

and spirit, and wept silently and weakly for a long time.  We told her

that either or both of us would now remain with her all the time, and

that seemed to comfort her.  Towards dusk she fell into a doze.  Here

a very odd thing occurred.  Whilst still asleep she took the paper

from her breast and tore it in two.  Van Helsing stepped over and took

the pieces from her.  All the same, however, she went on with the

action of tearing, as though the material were still in her hands.

Finally she lifted her hands and opened them as though scattering the

fragments.  Van Helsing seemed surprised, and his brows gathered as if

in thought, but he said nothing.

 

 

19 September.–All last night she slept fitfully, being always afraid

to sleep, and something weaker when she woke from it.  The Professor

and I took in turns to watch, and we never left her for a moment

unattended.  Quincey Morris said nothing about his intention, but I

knew that all night long he patrolled round and round the house.

 

When the day came, its searching light showed the ravages in poor

Lucy’s strength.  She was hardly able to turn her head, and the little

nourishment which she could take seemed to do her no good.  At times

she slept, and both Van Helsing and I noticed the difference in her,

between sleeping and waking.  Whilst asleep she looked stronger,

although more haggard, and her breathing was softer.  Her open mouth

showed the pale gums drawn back from the teeth, which looked

positively longer and sharper than usual.  When she woke the softness

of her eyes evidently changed the expression, for she looked her own

self, although a dying one.  In the afternoon she asked for Arthur,

and we telegraphed for him.  Quincey went off to meet him at the

station.

 

When he arrived it was nearly six o’clock, and the sun was setting

full and warm, and the red light streamed in through the window and

gave more colour to the pale cheeks.  When he saw her, Arthur was

simply choking with emotion, and none of us could speak.  In the hours

that had passed, the fits of sleep, or the comatose condition that

passed for it, had grown more frequent, so that the pauses when

conversation was possible were shortened.  Arthur’s presence, however,

seemed to act as a stimulant.  She rallied a little, and spoke to him

more brightly than she had done since we arrived.  He too pulled

himself together, and spoke as cheerily as he could, so that the best

was made of everything.

 

It is now nearly one o’clock, and he and Van Helsing are sitting with

her.  I am to relieve them in a quarter of an hour, and I am entering

this on Lucy’s phonograph.  Until six o’clock they are to try to rest.

I fear that tomorrow will end our watching, for the shock has been too

great.  The poor child cannot rally.  God help us all.

 

 

 

 

LETTER MINA HARKER TO LUCY WESTENRA

 

(Unopened by her)

 

17 September

 

My dearest Lucy,

 

“It seems an age since I heard from you, or indeed since I

wrote.  You will pardon me, I know, for all my faults when

you have read all my budget of news.  Well, I got my husband back

all right.  When we arrived at Exeter there was a carriage

waiting for us, and in it, though he had an attack of gout, Mr.

Hawkins.  He took us to his house, where there were rooms for us

all nice and comfortable, and we dined together.  After dinner

Mr. Hawkins said,

 

“‘My dears, I want to drink your health and prosperity, and

may every blessing attend you both.  I know you both from

children, and have, with love and pride, seen you grow up.

Now I want you to make your home here with me.  I have left

to me neither chick nor child.  All are gone, and in my

will I have left you everything.’  I cried, Lucy dear, as

Jonathan and the old man clasped hands.  Our evening was a

very, very happy one.

 

“So here we are, installed in this beautiful old house, and

from both my bedroom and the drawing room I can see the

great elms of the cathedral close, with their great black

stems standing out against the old yellow stone of the cathedral,

and I can hear the rooks overhead cawing and cawing and

chattering and chattering and gossiping all day, after the manner

of rooks–and humans.  I am busy, I need not tell you, arranging

things and housekeeping.  Jonathan and Mr. Hawkins are busy all

day, for now that Jonathan is a partner, Mr. Hawkins wants to

tell him all about the clients.

 

“How is your dear mother getting on?  I wish I could run up

to town for a day or two to see you, dear, but I dare not

go yet, with so much on my shoulders, and Jonathan wants

looking after still.  He is beginning to put some flesh on

his bones again, but he was terribly weakened by the long

illness.  Even now he sometimes starts out of his sleep in

a sudden way and awakes all trembling until I can coax him

back to his usual placidity.  However, thank God, these

occasions grow less frequent as the days go on, and they

will in time pass away altogether, I trust.  And now I have

told you my news, let me ask yours.  When are you to be

married, and where, and who is to perform the ceremony, and

what are you to wear, and is it to be a public or private

wedding?  Tell me all about it, dear, tell me all about

everything, for there is nothing which interests you which

will not be dear to me.  Jonathan asks me to send his ‘respectful

duty’, but I do not think that is good enough from the junior

partner of the important firm Hawkins & Harker.  And so, as you

love me, and he loves me, and I love you with all the moods and

tenses of the verb, I send you simply his ‘love’ instead.

Goodbye, my dearest Lucy, and blessings on you.

 

“Yours,

 

“Mina Harker”

 

 

 

REPORT FROM PATRICK HENNESSEY, MD, MRCSLK, QCPI, ETC, ETC,

TO JOHN SEWARD, MD

 

20 September

 

My dear Sir:

 

“In accordance with your wishes, I enclose report of the

conditions of everything left in my charge.  With regard to

patient, Renfield, there is more to say.  He has had another

outbreak, which might have had a dreadful ending, but which, as

it fortunately happened, was unattended with any unhappy results.

This afternoon a carrier’s cart with two men made a call at the

empty house whose grounds abut on ours, the house to which, you

will remember, the patient twice ran away.  The men stopped at

our gate to ask the porter their way, as they were strangers.

 

“I was myself looking out of the study window, having a

smoke after dinner, and saw one of them come up to the

house.  As he passed the window of Renfield’s room, the

patient began to rate him from within, and called him all

the foul names he could lay his tongue to.  The man, who

seemed a decent fellow enough, contented himself by telling

him to ‘shut up for a foul-mouthed beggar’, whereon our man

accused him of robbing him and wanting to murder him and

said that he would hinder him if he were to swing for it.

I opened the window and signed to the man not to notice, so

he contented himself after looking the place over and making up

his mind as to what kind of place he had got to by saying, ‘Lor’

bless yer, sir, I wouldn’t mind what was said to me in a bloomin’

madhouse.  I pity ye and the guv’nor for havin’ to live in the

house with a wild beast like that.’

 

“Then he asked his way civilly enough, and I told him where

the gate of the empty house was.  He went away followed by

threats and curses and revilings from our man.  I went down

to see if I could make out any cause for his anger, since

he is usually such a well-behaved man, and except his violent

fits nothing of the kind had ever occurred.  I found him, to my

astonishment, quite composed and most genial in his manner.  I

tried to get him to talk of the incident, but he blandly asked me

questions as to what I meant, and led me to believe that he was

completely oblivious of the affair.  It was, I am sorry to say,

however, only another instance of his cunning, for within half an

hour I heard of him again.  This time he had broken out through

the window of his room, and was running down the avenue.  I

called to the attendants to follow me, and ran after him, for I

feared he was intent on some mischief.  My fear was justified

when I saw the same cart which had passed before coming down the

road, having on it some great wooden boxes.  The men were wiping

their foreheads, and were flushed in the face, as if with violent

exercise.  Before I could get up to him, the patient rushed at

them, and pulling one of them off the cart, began to knock his

head against the ground.  If I had not seized him just at the

moment, I believe he would have killed the man there and then.

The other fellow jumped down and struck him over the head with

the butt end of his heavy whip.  It was a horrible blow, but he

did not seem to mind it, but seized him also, and struggled with

the three of us, pulling us to and fro as if we were kittens.

You know I am no lightweight, and the others were both burly men.

At first he was silent in his fighting, but as we began to master

him, and the attendants were putting a strait waistcoat on him,

he began to shout, ‘I’ll frustrate them! They shan’t rob me!

They shan’t murder me by inches!  I’ll fight for my Lord and

Master!’ and all sorts of similar incoherent ravings.  It was

with very considerable difficulty that they got him back to the

house and put him in the padded room.  One of the attendants,

Hardy, had a finger broken.  However, I set it all right, and he

is going on well.

 

“The two carriers were at first loud in their threats of

actions for damages, and promised to rain all the penalties

of the law on us.  Their threats were, however, mingled

with some sort of indirect apology for the defeat of the

two of them by a feeble madman.  They said that if it had

not been for the way their strength had been spent in carrying

and raising the heavy boxes to the cart they would have made

short work of him.  They gave as another reason for their defeat

the extraordinary state of drouth to which they had been reduced

by the dusty nature of their occupation and the reprehensible

distance from the scene of their labors of any place of public

entertainment.  I quite understood their drift, and after a stiff

glass of strong grog, or rather more of the same, and with each a

sovereign in hand, they made light of the attack, and swore that

they would encounter a worse madman any day for the pleasure of

meeting so ‘bloomin’ good a bloke’ as your correspondent.  I took

their names and addresses, in case they might be needed.  They

are as follows:  Jack Smollet, of Dudding’s Rents, King George’s

Road, Great Walworth, and Thomas Snelling, Peter Farley’s Row,

Guide Court, Bethnal Green. They are both in the employment of

Harris & Sons, Moving and Shipment Company, Orange Master’s Yard,

Soho.

 

“I shall report to you any matter of interest occurring here, and

shall wire you at once if there is anything of importance.

 

“Believe me, dear Sir,

 

“Yours faithfully,

 

“Patrick Hennessey.”

 

 

 

LETTER, MINA HARKER TO LUCY WESTENRA (Unopened by her)

 

18 September

 

“My dearest Lucy,

 

“Such a sad blow has befallen us.  Mr. Hawkins has died very

suddenly.  Some may not think it so sad for us, but we had

both come to so love him that it really seems as though we

had lost a father.  I never knew either father or mother,

so that the dear old man’s death is a real blow to me. Jonathan

is greatly distressed.  It is not only that he feels sorrow, deep

sorrow, for the dear, good man who has befriended him all his

life, and now at the end has treated him like his own son and

left him a fortune which to people of our modest bringing up is

wealth beyond the dream of avarice, but Jonathan feels it on

another account.  He says the amount of responsibility which it

puts upon him makes him nervous.  He begins to doubt himself.  I

try to cheer him up, and my belief in him helps him to have a

belief in himself.  But it is here that the grave shock that he

experienced tells upon him the most.  Oh, it is too hard that a

sweet, simple, noble, strong nature such as his, a nature which

enabled him by our dear, good friend’s aid to rise from clerk to

master in a few years, should be so injured that the very essence

of its strength is gone.  Forgive me, dear, if I worry you with my

troubles in the midst of your own happiness, but Lucy dear, I

must tell someone, for the strain of keeping up a brave and

cheerful appearance to Jonathan tries me, and I have no one here

that I can confide in.  I dread coming up to London, as we must

do that day after tomorrow, for poor Mr. Hawkins left in his will

that he was to be buried in the grave with his father.  As there

are no relations at all, Jonathan will have to be chief mourner.

I shall try to run over to see you, dearest, if only for a few

minutes.  Forgive me for troubling you.  With all blessings,

 

“Your loving

 

“Mina Harker”

 

 

 

1. SEWARD’S DIARY

 

20 September.–Only resolution and habit can let me make an entry

tonight.  I am too miserable, too low spirited, too sick of the world

and all in it, including life itself, that I would not care if I heard

this moment the flapping of the wings of the angel of death.  And he

has been flapping those grim wings to some purpose of late, Lucy’s

mother and Arthur’s father, and now . . . Let me get on with my work.

 

I duly relieved Van Helsing in his watch over Lucy.  We wanted Arthur

to go to rest also, but he refused at first.  It was only when I told

him that we should want him to help us during the day, and that we

must not all break down for want of rest, lest Lucy should suffer,

that he agreed to go.

 

Van Helsing was very kind to him.  “Come, my child,” he said.  “Come

with me.  You are sick and weak, and have had much sorrow and much

mental pain, as well as that tax on your strength that we know of.

You must not be alone, for to be alone is to be full of fears and

alarms.  Come to the drawing room, where there is a big fire, and

there are two sofas.  You shall lie on one, and I on the other, and

our sympathy will be comfort to each other, even though we do not

speak, and even if we sleep.”

 

Arthur went off with him, casting back a longing look on Lucy’s face,

which lay in her pillow, almost whiter than the lawn.  She lay quite

still, and I looked around the room to see that all was as it should

1. I could see that the Professor had carried out in this room, as

in the other, his purpose of using the garlic.  The whole of the

window sashes reeked with it, and round Lucy’s neck, over the silk

handkerchief which Van Helsing made her keep on, was a rough chaplet

of the same odorous flowers.

 

Lucy was breathing somewhat stertorously, and her face was at its

worst, for the open mouth showed the pale gums.  Her teeth, in the

dim, uncertain light, seemed longer and sharper than they had been in

the morning.  In particular, by some trick of the light, the canine

teeth looked longer and sharper than the rest.

 

I sat down beside her, and presently she moved uneasily.  At the same

moment there came a sort of dull flapping or buffeting at the window.

I went over to it softly, and peeped out by the corner of the blind.

There was a full moonlight, and I could see that the noise was made by

a great bat, which wheeled around, doubtless attracted by the light,

although so dim, and every now and again struck the window with its

wings.  When I came back to my seat, I found that Lucy had moved

slightly, and had torn away the garlic flowers from her throat.  I

replaced them as well as I could, and sat watching her.

 

Presently she woke, and I gave her food, as Van Helsing had

prescribed.  She took but a little, and that languidly.  There did not

seem to be with her now the unconscious struggle for life and strength

that had hitherto so marked her illness.  It struck me as curious that

the moment she became conscious she pressed the garlic flowers close

to her.  It was certainly odd that whenever she got into that

lethargic state, with the stertorous breathing, she put the flowers

from her, but that when she waked she clutched them close. There was

no possibility of making any mistake about this, for in the long hours

that followed, she had many spells of sleeping and waking and repeated

both actions many times.

 

At six o’clock Van Helsing came to relieve me.  Arthur had then fallen

into a doze, and he mercifully let him sleep on.  When he saw Lucy’s

face I could hear the hissing indraw of breath, and he said to me in a

sharp whisper.  “Draw up the blind.  I want light!”  Then he bent down,

and, with his face almost touching Lucy’s, examined her carefully.  He

removed the flowers and lifted the silk handkerchief from her throat.

As he did so he started back and I could hear his ejaculation, “Mein

Gott!” as it was smothered in his throat.  I bent over and looked,

too, and as I noticed some queer chill came over me.  The wounds on

the throat had absolutely disappeared.

 

For fully five minutes Van Helsing stood looking at her, with his face

at its sternest.  Then he turned to me and said calmly, “She is

dying.  It will not be long now.  It will be much difference, mark me,

whether she dies conscious or in her sleep.  Wake that poor boy, and

let him come and see the last.  He trusts us, and we have promised

him.”

 

I went to the dining room and waked him.  He was dazed for a moment,

but when he saw the sunlight streaming in through the edges of the

shutters he thought he was late, and expressed his fear.  I assured

him that Lucy was still asleep, but told him as gently as I could that

both Van Helsing and I feared that the end was near.  He covered his

face with his hands, and slid down on his knees by the sofa, where he

remained, perhaps a minute, with his head buried, praying, whilst his

shoulders shook with grief.  I took him by the hand and raised him up.

“Come,” I said, “my dear old fellow, summon all your fortitude.  It

will be best and easiest for her.”

 

When we came into Lucy’s room I could see that Van Helsing had, with

his usual forethought, been putting matters straight and making

everything look as pleasing as possible.  He had even brushed Lucy’s

hair, so that it lay on the pillow in its usual sunny ripples.  When

we came into the room she opened her eyes, and seeing him, whispered

softly, “Arthur!  Oh, my love, I am so glad you have come!”

 

He was stooping to kiss her, when Van Helsing motioned him back.

“No,” he whispered, “not yet!  Hold her hand, it will comfort her

more.”

 

So Arthur took her hand and knelt beside her, and she looked her best,

with all the soft lines matching the angelic beauty of her eyes.  Then

gradually her eyes closed, and she sank to sleep.  For a little bit

her breast heaved softly, and her breath came and went like a tired

child’s.

 

And then insensibly there came the strange change which I had noticed

in the night.  Her breathing grew stertorous, the mouth opened, and

the pale gums, drawn back, made the teeth look longer and sharper than

ever.  In a sort of sleep-waking, vague, unconscious way she opened

her eyes, which were now dull and hard at once, and said in a soft,

voluptuous voice, such as I had never heard from her lips, “Arthur!

Oh, my love, I am so glad you have come!  Kiss me!”

 

Arthur bent eagerly over to kiss her, but at that instant Van Helsing,

who, like me, had been startled by her voice, swooped upon him, and

catching him by the neck with both hands, dragged him back with a fury

of strength which I never thought he could have possessed, and

actually hurled him almost across the room.

 

“Not on your life!” he said, “not for your living soul and hers!”  And

he stood between them like a lion at bay.

 

Arthur was so taken aback that he did not for a moment know what to do

or say, and before any impulse of violence could seize him he realized

the place and the occasion, and stood silent, waiting.

 

I kept my eyes fixed on Lucy, as did Van Helsing, and we saw a spasm

as of rage flit like a shadow over her face.  The sharp teeth clamped

together.  Then her eyes closed, and she breathed heavily.

 

Very shortly after she opened her eyes in all their softness, and

putting out her poor, pale, thin hand, took Van Helsing’s great brown

one, drawing it close to her, she kissed it.  “My true friend,” she

said, in a faint voice, but with untellable pathos, “My true friend,

and his!  Oh, guard him, and give me peace!”

 

“I swear it!” he said solemnly, kneeling beside her and holding up his

hand, as one who registers an oath.  Then he turned to Arthur, and

said to him, “Come, my child, take her hand in yours, and kiss her on

the forehead, and only once.”

 

Their eyes met instead of their lips, and so they parted.  Lucy’s eyes

closed, and Van Helsing, who had been watching closely, took Arthur’s

arm, and drew him away.

 

And then Lucy’s breathing became stertorous again, and all at once it

ceased.

 

“It is all over,” said Van Helsing.  “She is dead!”

 

I took Arthur by the arm, and led him away to the drawing room, where

he sat down, and covered his face with his hands, sobbing in a way

that nearly broke me down to see.

 

I went back to the room, and found Van Helsing looking at poor Lucy,

and his face was sterner than ever.  Some change had come over her

body.  Death had given back part of her beauty, for her brow and

cheeks had recovered some of their flowing lines.  Even the lips had

lost their deadly pallor.  It was as if the blood, no longer needed

for the working of the heart, had gone to make the harshness of death

as little rude as might be.

 

“We thought her dying whilst she slept, and sleeping when she died.”

 

 

I stood beside Van Helsing, and said, “Ah well, poor girl, there is

peace for her at last.  It is the end!”

 

He turned to me, and said with grave solemnity, “Not so, alas!  Not

1. It is only the beginning!”

 

When I asked him what he meant, he only shook his head and answered,

“We can do nothing as yet.  Wait and see.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 13

 

 

1. SEWARD’S DIARY–cont.

 

The funeral was arranged for the next succeeding day, so that Lucy and

her mother might be buried together.  I attended to all the ghastly

formalities, and the urbane undertaker proved that his staff was

afflicted, or blessed, with something of his own obsequious suavity.

Even the woman who performed the last offices for the dead remarked to

me, in a confidential, brother-professional way, when she had come out

from the death chamber,

 

“She makes a very beautiful corpse, sir.  It’s quite a privilege to

attend on her.  It’s not too much to say that she will do credit to

our establishment!”

 

I noticed that Van Helsing never kept far away.  This was possible

from the disordered state of things in the household.  There were no

relatives at hand, and as Arthur had to be back the next day to attend

at his father’s funeral, we were unable to notify any one who should

have been bidden.  Under the circumstances, Van Helsing and I took it

upon ourselves to examine papers, etc.  He insisted upon looking over

Lucy’s papers himself.  I asked him why, for I feared that he, being a

foreigner, might not be quite aware of English legal requirements, and

so might in ignorance make some unnecessary trouble.

 

He answered me, “I know, I know.  You forget that I am a lawyer as

well as a doctor.  But this is not altogether for the law.  You knew

that, when you avoided the coroner.  I have more than him to avoid.

There may be papers more, such as this.”

 

As he spoke he took from his pocket book the memorandum which had been

in Lucy’s breast, and which she had torn in her sleep.

 

“When you find anything of the solicitor who is for the late Mrs.

Westenra, seal all her papers, and write him tonight.  For me, I watch

here in the room and in Miss Lucy’s old room all night, and I myself

search for what may be.  It is not well that her very thoughts go into

the hands of strangers.”

 

I went on with my part of the work, and in another half hour had found

the name and address of Mrs. Westenra’s solicitor and had written to

him.  All the poor lady’s papers were in order.  Explicit directions

regarding the place of burial were given.  I had hardly sealed the

letter, when, to my surprise, Van Helsing walked into the room,

saying,

 

“Can I help you friend John?  I am free, and if I may, my service is

to you.”

 

“Have you got what you looked for?” I asked.

 

To which he replied, “I did not look for any specific thing.  I only

hoped to find, and find I have, all that there was, only some letters

and a few memoranda, and a diary new begun.  But I have them here, and

we shall for the present say nothing of them.  I shall see that poor

lad tomorrow evening, and, with his sanction, I shall use some.”

 

When we had finished the work in hand, he said to me, “And now, friend

John, I think we may to bed.  We want sleep, both you and I, and rest

to recuperate.  Tomorrow we shall have much to do, but for the tonight

there is no need of us.  Alas!”

 

Before turning in we went to look at poor Lucy.  The undertaker had

certainly done his work well, for the room was turned into a small

chapelle ardente.  There was a wilderness of beautiful white flowers,

and death was made as little repulsive as might be.  The end of the

winding sheet was laid over the face.  When the Professor bent over

and turned it gently back, we both started at the beauty before us.

The tall wax candles showing a sufficient light to note it well.  All

Lucy’s loveliness had come back to her in death, and the hours that

had passed, instead of leaving traces of ‘decay’s effacing fingers’,

had but restored the beauty of life, till positively I could not

believe my eyes that I was looking at a corpse.

 

The Professor looked sternly grave.  He had not loved her as I had,

and there was no need for tears in his eyes.  He said to me, “Remain

till I return,” and left the room.  He came back with a handful of

wild garlic from the box waiting in the hall, but which had not been

opened, and placed the flowers amongst the others on and around the

bed.  Then he took from his neck, inside his collar, a little gold

crucifix, and placed it over the mouth.  He restored the sheet to its

place, and we came away.

 

I was undressing in my own room, when, with a premonitory tap at the

door, he entered, and at once began to speak.

 

“Tomorrow I want you to bring me, before night, a set of post-mortem

knives.”

 

“Must we make an autopsy?” I asked.

 

“Yes and no.  I want to operate, but not what you think.  Let me tell

you now, but not a word to another.  I want to cut off her head and

take out her heart.  Ah!  You a surgeon, and so shocked!  You, whom I

have seen with no tremble of hand or heart, do operations of life and

death that make the rest shudder.  Oh, but I must not forget, my dear

friend John, that you loved her, and I have not forgotten it for is I

that shall operate, and you must not help.  I would like to do it

tonight, but for Arthur I must not.  He will be free after his

father’s funeral tomorrow, and he will want to see her, to see it.

Then, when she is coffined ready for the next day, you and I shall

come when all sleep.  We shall unscrew the coffin lid, and shall do

our operation, and then replace all, so that none know, save we

alone.”

 

“But why do it at all?  The girl is dead.  Why mutilate her poor body

without need?  And if there is no necessity for a post-mortem and

nothing to gain by it, no good to her, to us, to science, to human

knowledge, why do it?  Without such it is monstrous.”

 

For answer he put his hand on my shoulder, and said, with infinite

tenderness, “Friend John, I pity your poor bleeding heart, and I love

you the more because it does so bleed.  If I could, I would take on

myself the burden that you do bear.  But there are things that you

know not, but that you shall know, and bless me for knowing, though

they are not pleasant things.  John, my child, you have been my friend

now many years, and yet did you ever know me to do any without good

cause?  I may err, I am but man, but I believe in all I do.  Was it

not for these causes that you send for me when the great trouble

came?  Yes!  Were you not amazed, nay horrified, when I would not let

Arthur kiss his love, though she was dying, and snatched him away by

all my strength?  Yes!  And yet you saw how she thanked me, with her

so beautiful dying eyes, her voice, too, so weak, and she kiss my

rough old hand and bless me?  Yes!  And did you not hear me swear

promise to her, that so she closed her eyes grateful?  Yes!

 

“Well, I have good reason now for all I want to do.  You have for many

years trust me.  You have believe me weeks past, when there be things

so strange that you might have well doubt.  Believe me yet a little,

friend John.  If you trust me not, then I must tell what I think, and

that is not perhaps well.  And if I work, as work I shall, no matter

trust or no trust, without my friend trust in me, I work with heavy

heart and feel oh so lonely when I want all help and courage that may

be!”  He paused a moment and went on solemnly, “Friend John, there are

strange and terrible days before us.  Let us not be two, but one, that

so we work to a good end.  Will you not have faith in me?”

 

I took his hand, and promised him.  I held my door open as he went

away, and watched him go to his room and close the door.  As I stood

without moving, I saw one of the maids pass silently along the

passage, she had her back to me, so did not see me, and go into the

room where Lucy lay.  The sight touched me.  Devotion is so rare, and

we are so grateful to those who show it unasked to those we love.  Here

was a poor girl putting aside the terrors which she naturally had of

death to go watch alone by the bier of the mistress whom she loved, so

that the poor clay might not be lonely till laid to eternal rest.

 

I must have slept long and soundly, for it was broad daylight when Van

Helsing waked me by coming into my room.  He came over to my bedside

and said, “You need not trouble about the knives.  We shall not do

it.”

 

“Why not?” I asked.  For his solemnity of the night before had

greatly impressed me.

 

“Because,” he said sternly, “it is too late, or too early.  See!”

Here he held up the little golden crucifix.

 

“This was stolen in the night.”

 

“How stolen,” I asked in wonder, “since you have it now?”

 

“Because I get it back from the worthless wretch who stole it, from

the woman who robbed the dead and the living.  Her punishment will

surely come, but not through me.  She knew not altogether what she

did, and thus unknowing, she only stole.  Now we must wait.”  He went

away on the word, leaving me with a new mystery to think of, a new

puzzle to grapple with.

 

The forenoon was a dreary time, but at noon the solicitor came, Mr.

Marquand, of Wholeman, Sons, Marquand & Lidderdale.  He was very

genial and very appreciative of what we had done, and took off our

hands all cares as to details.  During lunch he told us that Mrs.

Westenra had for some time expected sudden death from her heart, and

had put her affairs in absolute order.  He informed us that, with the

exception of a certain entailed property of Lucy’s father which now,

in default of direct issue, went back to a distant branch of the

family, the whole estate, real and personal, was left absolutely to

Arthur Holmwood.  When he had told us so much he went on,

 

“Frankly we did our best to prevent such a testamentary disposition,

and pointed out certain contingencies that might leave her daughter

either penniless or not so free as she should be to act regarding a

matrimonial alliance.  Indeed, we pressed the matter so far that we

almost came into collision, for she asked us if we were or were not

prepared to carry out her wishes.  Of course, we had then no

alternative but to accept.  We were right in principle, and

ninety-nine times out of a hundred we should have proved, by the logic

of events, the accuracy of our judgment.

 

“Frankly, however, I must admit that in this case any other form of

disposition would have rendered impossible the carrying out of her

wishes.  For by her predeceasing her daughter the latter would have

come into possession of the property, and, even had she only survived

her mother by five minutes, her property would, in case there were no

will, and a will was a practical impossibility in such a case, have

been treated at her decease as under intestacy.  In which case Lord

Godalming, though so dear a friend, would have had no claim in the

world.  And the inheritors, being remote, would not be likely to

abandon their just rights, for sentimental reasons regarding an entire

stranger.  I assure you, my dear sirs, I am rejoiced at the result,

perfectly rejoiced.”

 

He was a good fellow, but his rejoicing at the one little part, in

which he was officially interested, of so great a tragedy, was an

object-lesson in the limitations of sympathetic understanding.

 

He did not remain long, but said he would look in later in the day and

see Lord Godalming.  His coming, however, had been a certain comfort

to us, since it assured us that we should not have to dread hostile

criticism as to any of our acts.  Arthur was expected at five o’clock,

so a little before that time we visited the death chamber.  It was so

in very truth, for now both mother and daughter lay in it.  The

undertaker, true to his craft, had made the best display he could of

his goods, and there was a mortuary air about the place that lowered

our spirits at once.

 

Van Helsing ordered the former arrangement to be adhered to,

explaining that, as Lord Godalming was coming very soon, it would be

less harrowing to his feelings to see all that was left of his fiancee

quite alone.

 

The undertaker seemed shocked at his own stupidity and exerted himself

to restore things to the condition in which we left them the night

before, so that when Arthur came such shocks to his feelings as we

could avoid were saved.

 

Poor fellow!  He looked desperately sad and broken.  Even his stalwart

manhood seemed to have shrunk somewhat under the strain of his

much-tried emotions.  He had, I knew, been very genuinely and

devotedly attached to his father, and to lose him, and at such a time,

was a bitter blow to him.  With me he was warm as ever, and to Van

Helsing he was sweetly courteous.  But I could not help seeing that

there was some constraint with him.  The professor noticed it too, and

motioned me to bring him upstairs.  I did so, and left him at the door

of the room, as I felt he would like to be quite alone with her, but

he took my arm and led me in, saying huskily,

 

“You loved her too, old fellow.  She told me all about it, and there

was no friend had a closer place in her heart than you.  I don’t know

how to thank you for all you have done for her.  I can’t think

yet . . .”

 

Here he suddenly broke down, and threw his arms round my shoulders and

laid his head on my breast, crying, “Oh, Jack!  Jack!  What shall I

do?  The whole of life seems gone from me all at once, and there is

nothing in the wide world for me to live for.”

 

I comforted him as well as I could.  In such cases men do not need

much expression.  A grip of the hand, the tightening of an arm over

the shoulder, a sob in unison, are expressions of sympathy dear to a

man’s heart.  I stood still and silent till his sobs died away, and

then I said softly to him, “Come and look at her.”

 

Together we moved over to the bed, and I lifted the lawn from her

face.  God!  How beautiful she was.  Every hour seemed to be enhancing

her loveliness.  It frightened and amazed me somewhat.  And as for

Arthur, he fell to trembling, and finally was shaken with doubt as

with an ague.  At last, after a long pause, he said to me in a faint

whisper, “Jack, is she really dead?”

 

I assured him sadly that it was so, and went on to suggest, for I felt

that such a horrible doubt should not have life for a moment longer

than I could help, that it often happened that after death faces

become softened and even resolved into their youthful beauty, that

this was especially so when death had been preceded by any acute or

prolonged suffering.  I seemed to quite do away with any doubt, and

after kneeling beside the couch for a while and looking at her

lovingly and long, he turned aside.  I told him that that must be

goodbye, as the coffin had to be prepared, so he went back and took

her dead hand in his and kissed it, and bent over and kissed her

forehead.  He came away, fondly looking back over his shoulder at her

as he came.

 

I left him in the drawing room, and told Van Helsing that he had said

goodbye, so the latter went to the kitchen to tell the undertaker’s

men to proceed with the preparations and to screw up the coffin.  When

he came out of the room again I told him of Arthur’s question, and he

replied, “I am not surprised.  Just now I doubted for a moment

myself!”

 

We all dined together, and I could see that poor Art was trying to

make the best of things.  Van Helsing had been silent all dinner time,

but when we had lit our cigars he said, “Lord . . .” but Arthur

interrupted him.

 

“No, no, not that, for God’s sake!  Not yet at any rate.  Forgive me,

sir.  I did not mean to speak offensively.  It is only because my loss

is so recent.”

 

The Professor answered very sweetly, “I only used that name because I

was in doubt.  I must not call you ‘Mr.’ and I have grown to love you,

yes, my dear boy, to love you, as Arthur.”

 

Arthur held out his hand, and took the old man’s warmly.  “Call me

what you will,” he said.  “I hope I may always have the title of a

friend.  And let me say that I am at a loss for words to thank you for

your goodness to my poor dear.”  He paused a moment, and went on, “I

know that she understood your goodness even better than I do.  And if

I was rude or in any way wanting at that time you acted so, you

remember”–the Professor nodded–“you must forgive me.”

 

He answered with a grave kindness, “I know it was hard for you to

quite trust me then, for to trust such violence needs to understand,

and I take it that you do not, that you cannot, trust me now, for you

do not yet understand.  And there may be more times when I shall want

you to trust when you cannot, and may not, and must not yet

understand.  But the time will come when your trust shall be whole and

complete in me, and when you shall understand as though the sunlight

himself shone through.  Then you shall bless me from first to last for

your own sake, and for the sake of others, and for her dear sake to

whom I swore to protect.”

 

“And indeed, indeed, sir,” said Arthur warmly.  “I shall in all ways

trust you.  I know and believe you have a very noble heart, and you

are Jack’s friend, and you were hers.  You shall do what you like.”

 

The Professor cleared his throat a couple of times, as though about to

speak, and finally said, “May I ask you something now?”

 

“Certainly.”

 

“You know that Mrs. Westenra left you all her property?”

 

“No, poor dear.  I never thought of it.”

 

“And as it is all yours, you have a right to deal with it as you will.

I want you to give me permission to read all Miss Lucy’s papers and

letters.  Believe me, it is no idle curiosity.  I have a motive of

which, be sure, she would have approved.  I have them all here.  I

took them before we knew that all was yours, so that no strange hand

might touch them, no strange eye look through words into her soul.  I

shall keep them, if I may.  Even you may not see them yet, but I shall

keep them safe.  No word shall be lost, and in the good time I shall

give them back to you.  It is a hard thing that I ask, but you will do

it, will you not, for Lucy’s sake?”

 

Arthur spoke out heartily, like his old self, “Dr. Van Helsing, you

may do what you will.  I feel that in saying this I am doing what my

dear one would have approved.  I shall not trouble you with questions

till the time comes.”

 

The old Professor stood up as he said solemnly, “And you are right.

There will be pain for us all, but it will not be all pain, nor will

this pain be the last.  We and you too, you most of all, dear boy,

will have to pass through the bitter water before we reach the sweet.

But we must be brave of heart and unselfish, and do our duty, and all

will be well!”

 

I slept on a sofa in Arthur’s room that night.  Van Helsing did not go

to bed at all.  He went to and fro, as if patroling the house, and was

never out of sight of the room where Lucy lay in her coffin, strewn

with the wild garlic flowers, which sent through the odour of lily and

rose, a heavy, overpowering smell into the night.

 

 

 

 

MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL

 

22 September.–In the train to Exeter.  Jonathan sleeping.  It seems

only yesterday that the last entry was made, and yet how much between

then, in Whitby and all the world before me, Jonathan away and no news

of him, and now, married to Jonathan, Jonathan a solicitor, a partner,

rich, master of his business, Mr. Hawkins dead and buried, and

Jonathan with another attack that may harm him.  Some day he may ask

me about it.  Down it all goes.  I am rusty in my shorthand, see what

unexpected prosperity does for us, so it may be as well to freshen it

up again with an exercise anyhow.

 

The service was very simple and very solemn.  There were only

ourselves and the servants there, one or two old friends of his from

Exeter, his London agent, and a gentleman representing Sir John

Paxton, the President of the Incorporated Law Society.  Jonathan and I

stood hand in hand, and we felt that our best and dearest friend was

gone from us.

 

We came back to town quietly, taking a bus to Hyde Park Corner.

Jonathan thought it would interest me to go into the Row for a while,

so we sat down.  But there were very few people there, and it was

sad-looking and desolate to see so many empty chairs.  It made us

think of the empty chair at home.  So we got up and walked down

Piccadilly.  Jonathan was holding me by the arm, the way he used to in

the old days before I went to school.  I felt it very improper, for

you can’t go on for some years teaching etiquette and decorum to other

girls without the pedantry of it biting into yourself a bit.  But it

was Jonathan, and he was my husband, and we didn’t know anybody who

saw us, and we didn’t care if they did, so on we walked.  I was

looking at a very beautiful girl, in a big cart-wheel hat, sitting in

a victoria outside Guiliano’s, when I felt Jonathan clutch my arm so

tight that he hurt me, and he said under his breath, “My God!”

 

I am always anxious about Jonathan, for I fear that some nervous fit

may upset him again.  So I turned to him quickly, and asked him what

it was that disturbed him.

 

He was very pale, and his eyes seemed bulging out as, half in terror

and half in amazement, he gazed at a tall, thin man, with a beaky nose

and black moustache and pointed beard, who was also observing the

pretty girl.  He was looking at her so hard that he did not see either

of us, and so I had a good view of him.  His face was not a good

face.  It was hard, and cruel, and sensual, and big white teeth, that

looked all the whiter because his lips were so red, were pointed like

an animal’s.  Jonathan kept staring at him, till I was afraid he would

notice.  I feared he might take it ill, he looked so fierce and nasty.

I asked Jonathan why he was disturbed, and he answered, evidently

thinking that I knew as much about it as he did, “Do you see who it

is?”

 

“No, dear,” I said.  “I don’t know him, who is it?”  His answer seemed

to shock and thrill me, for it was said as if he did not know that it

was me, Mina, to whom he was speaking.  “It is the man himself!”

 

The poor dear was evidently terrified at something, very greatly

terrified.  I do believe that if he had not had me to lean on and to

support him he would have sunk down.  He kept staring.  A man came out

of the shop with a small parcel, and gave it to the lady, who then

drove off.  The dark man kept his eyes fixed on her, and when the

carriage moved up Piccadilly he followed in the same direction, and

hailed a hansom.  Jonathan kept looking after him, and said, as if to

himself,

 

“I believe it is the Count, but he has grown young.  My God, if this

be so!  Oh, my God!  My God!  If only I knew!  If only I knew!”  He was

distressing himself so much that I feared to keep his mind on the

subject by asking him any questions, so I remained silent.  I drew

away quietly, and he, holding my arm, came easily.  We walked a little

further, and then went in and sat for a while in the Green Park.  It

was a hot day for autumn, and there was a comfortable seat in a shady

place.  After a few minutes’ staring at nothing, Jonathan’s eyes

closed, and he went quickly into a sleep, with his head on my

shoulder.  I thought it was the best thing for him, so did not disturb

him.  In about twenty minutes he woke up, and said to me quite

cheerfully,

 

“Why, Mina, have I been asleep!  Oh, do forgive me for being so rude.

Come, and we’ll have a cup of tea somewhere.”

 

He had evidently forgotten all about the dark stranger, as in his

illness he had forgotten all that this episode had reminded him of.  I

don’t like this lapsing into forgetfulness.  It may make or continue

some injury to the brain.  I must not ask him, for fear I shall do

more harm than good, but I must somehow learn the facts of his journey

abroad.  The time is come, I fear, when I must open the parcel, and

know what is written.  Oh, Jonathan, you will, I know, forgive me if I

do wrong, but it is for your own dear sake.

 

 

Later.–A sad homecoming in every way, the house empty of the dear

soul who was so good to us.  Jonathan still pale and dizzy under a

slight relapse of his malady, and now a telegram from Van Helsing,

whoever he may be.  “You will be grieved to hear that Mrs. Westenra

died five days ago, and that Lucy died the day before yesterday.  They

were both buried today.”

 

Oh, what a wealth of sorrow in a few words!  Poor Mrs. Westenra!  Poor

Lucy!  Gone, gone, never to return to us!  And poor, poor Arthur, to

have lost such a sweetness out of his life!  God help us all to bear

our troubles.

 

 

 

1. SEWARD’S DIARY-CONT.

 

22 September.–It is all over.  Arthur has gone back to Ring, and has

taken Quincey Morris with him.  What a fine fellow is Quincey!  I

believe in my heart of hearts that he suffered as much about Lucy’s

death as any of us, but he bore himself through it like a moral

Viking.  If America can go on breeding men like that, she will be a

power in the world indeed.  Van Helsing is lying down, having a rest

preparatory to his journey.  He goes to Amsterdam tonight, but says he

returns tomorrow night, that he only wants to make some arrangements

which can only be made personally.  He is to stop with me then, if he

can.  He says he has work to do in London which may take him some

time.  Poor old fellow!  I fear that the strain of the past week has

broken down even his iron strength.  All the time of the burial he

was, I could see, putting some terrible restraint on himself.  When it

was all over, we were standing beside Arthur, who, poor fellow, was

speaking of his part in the operation where his blood had been

transfused to his Lucy’s veins.  I could see Van Helsing’s face grow

white and purple by turns.  Arthur was saying that he felt since then

as if they two had been really married, and that she was his wife in

the sight of God.  None of us said a word of the other operations, and

none of us ever shall.  Arthur and Quincey went away together to the

station, and Van Helsing and I came on here.  The moment we were alone

in the carriage he gave way to a regular fit of hysterics.  He has

denied to me since that it was hysterics, and insisted that it was

only his sense of humor asserting itself under very terrible

conditions.  He laughed till he cried, and I had to draw down the

blinds lest any one should see us and misjudge.  And then he cried,

till he laughed again, and laughed and cried together, just as a woman

does.  I tried to be stern with him, as one is to a woman under the

circumstances, but it had no effect.  Men and women are so different

in manifestations of nervous strength or weakness!  Then when his face

grew grave and stern again I asked him why his mirth, and why at such

a time.  His reply was in a way characteristic of him, for it was

logical and forceful and mysterious.  He said,

 

“Ah, you don’t comprehend, friend John.  Do not think that I am not

sad, though I laugh.  See, I have cried even when the laugh did choke

1. But no more think that I am all sorry when I cry, for the laugh

he come just the same.  Keep it always with you that laughter who

knock at your door and say, ‘May I come in?’ is not true laughter.

No!  He is a king, and he come when and how he like.  He ask no

person, he choose no time of suitability.  He say, ‘I am here.’

Behold, in example I grieve my heart out for that so sweet young

girl.  I give my blood for her, though I am old and worn.  I give my

time, my skill, my sleep.  I let my other sufferers want that she may

have all.  And yet I can laugh at her very grave, laugh when the clay

from the spade of the sexton drop upon her coffin and say ‘Thud,

thud!’ to my heart, till it send back the blood from my cheek.  My

heart bleed for that poor boy, that dear boy, so of the age of mine

own boy had I been so blessed that he live, and with his hair and eyes

the same.

 

“There, you know now why I love him so.  And yet when he say things

that touch my husband-heart to the quick, and make my father-heart

yearn to him as to no other man, not even you, friend John, for we are

more level in experiences than father and son, yet even at such a

moment King Laugh he come to me and shout and bellow in my ear, ‘Here I

am!  Here I am!’ till the blood come dance back and bring some of the

sunshine that he carry with him to my cheek.  Oh, friend John, it is a

strange world, a sad world, a world full of miseries, and woes, and

troubles.  And yet when King Laugh come, he make them all dance to the

tune he play.  Bleeding hearts, and dry bones of the churchyard, and

tears that burn as they fall, all dance together to the music that he

make with that smileless mouth of him.  And believe me, friend John,

that he is good to come, and kind.  Ah, we men and women are like

ropes drawn tight with strain that pull us different ways.  Then tears

come, and like the rain on the ropes, they brace us up, until perhaps

the strain become too great, and we break.  But King Laugh he come

like the sunshine, and he ease off the strain again, and we bear to go

on with our labor, what it may be.”

 

I did not like to wound him by pretending not to see his idea, but as

I did not yet understand the cause of his laughter, I asked him.  As

he answered me his face grew stern, and he said in quite a different

tone,

 

“Oh, it was the grim irony of it all, this so lovely lady garlanded

with flowers, that looked so fair as life, till one by one we wondered

if she were truly dead, she laid in that so fine marble house in that

lonely churchyard, where rest so many of her kin, laid there with the

mother who loved her, and whom she loved, and that sacred bell going

‘Toll!  Toll!  Toll!’ so sad and slow, and those holy men, with the

white garments of the angel, pretending to read books, and yet all the

time their eyes never on the page, and all of us with the bowed head.

And all for what?  She is dead, so!  Is it not?”

 

“Well, for the life of me, Professor,” I said, “I can’t see anything

to laugh at in all that.  Why, your expression makes it a harder

puzzle than before.  But even if the burial service was comic, what

about poor Art and his trouble?  Why his heart was simply breaking.”

 

“Just so.  Said he not that the transfusion of his blood to her veins

had made her truly his bride?”

 

“Yes, and it was a sweet and comforting idea for him.”

 

“Quite so.  But there was a difficulty, friend John.  If so that, then

what about the others?  Ho, ho!  Then this so sweet maid is a

polyandrist, and me, with my poor wife dead to me, but alive by

Church’s law, though no wits, all gone, even I, who am faithful

husband to this now-no-wife, am bigamist.”

 

“I don’t see where the joke comes in there either!” I said, and I did

not feel particularly pleased with him for saying such things.  He

laid his hand on my arm, and said,

 

“Friend John, forgive me if I pain.  I showed not my feeling to others

when it would wound, but only to you, my old friend, whom I can trust.

If you could have looked into my heart then when I want to laugh, if

you could have done so when the laugh arrived, if you could do so now,

when King Laugh have pack up his crown, and all that is to him, for he

go far, far away from me, and for a long, long time, maybe you would

perhaps pity me the most of all.”

 

I was touched by the tenderness of his tone, and asked why.

 

“Because I know!”

 

And now we are all scattered, and for many a long day loneliness will

sit over our roofs with brooding wings.  Lucy lies in the tomb of her

kin, a lordly death house in a lonely churchyard, away from teeming

London, where the air is fresh, and the sun rises over Hampstead Hill,

and where wild flowers grow of their own accord.

 

So I can finish this diary, and God only knows if I shall ever begin

another.  If I do, or if I even open this again, it will be to deal

with different people and different themes, for here at the end, where

the romance of my life is told, ere I go back to take up the thread of

my life-work, I say sadly and without hope, “FINIS”.

 

 

 

 

THE WESTMINSTER GAZETTE, 25 SEPTEMBER A HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY

 

The neighborhood of Hampstead is just at present exercised

with a series of events which seem to run on lines parallel

to those of what was known to the writers of headlines as

“The Kensington Horror,” or “The Stabbing Woman,” or “The

Woman in Black.”  During the past two or three days several

cases have occurred of young children straying from home or

neglecting to return from their playing on the Heath.  In

all these cases the children were too young to give any

properly intelligible account of themselves, but the

consensus of their excuses is that they had been with a

“bloofer lady.”  It has always been late in the evening when

they have been missed, and on two occasions the children

have not been found until early in the following morning.

It is generally supposed in the neighborhood that, as the

first child missed gave as his reason for being away that a

“bloofer lady” had asked him to come for a walk, the others

had picked up the phrase and used it as occasion served.  This

is the more natural as the favourite game of the little ones

at present is luring each other away by wiles.  A correspondent

writes us that to see some of the tiny tots pretending to be the

“bloofer lady” is supremely funny.  Some of our caricaturists

might, he says, take a lesson in the irony of grotesque by

comparing the reality and the picture.  It is only in accordance

with general principles of human nature that the “bloofer lady”

should be the popular role at these al fresco performances.  Our

correspondent naively says that even Ellen Terry could not be so

winningly attractive as some of these grubby-faced little

children pretend, and even imagine themselves, to be.

 

There is, however, possibly a serious side to the question,

for some of the children, indeed all who have been missed

at night, have been slightly torn or wounded in the throat.

The wounds seem such as might be made by a rat or a small

dog, and although of not much importance individually, would tend

to show that whatever animal inflicts them has a system or method

of its own.  The police of the division have been instructed to

keep a sharp lookout for straying children, especially when very

young, in and around Hampstead Heath, and for any stray dog which

may be about.

 

 

 

 

THE WESTMINSTER GAZETTE, 25 SEPTEMBER EXTRA SPECIAL

 

THE HAMPSTEAD HORROR

 

 

ANOTHER CHILD INJURED

 

THE “BLOOFER LADY”

 

We have just received intelligence that another child,

missed last night, was only discovered late in the morning

under a furze bush at the Shooter’s Hill side of Hampstead

Heath, which is perhaps, less frequented than the other

parts.  It has the same tiny wound in the throat as has

been noticed in other cases.  It was terribly weak, and

looked quite emaciated.  It too, when partially restored,

had the common story to tell of being lured away by the

“bloofer lady”.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 14

 

 

MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL

 

23 September.–Jonathan is better after a bad night.  I am so glad

that he has plenty of work to do, for that keeps his mind off the

terrible things, and oh, I am rejoiced that he is not now weighed down

with the responsibility of his new position.  I knew he would be true

to himself, and now how proud I am to see my Jonathan rising to the

height of his advancement and keeping pace in all ways with the duties

that come upon him.  He will be away all day till late, for he said he

could not lunch at home.  My household work is done, so I shall take

his foreign journal, and lock myself up in my room and read it.

 

 

24 September.–I hadn’t the heart to write last night, that terrible

record of Jonathan’s upset me so.  Poor dear!  How he must have

suffered, whether it be true or only imagination.  I wonder if there

is any truth in it at all.  Did he get his brain fever, and then write

all those terrible things, or had he some cause for it all?  I suppose

I shall never know, for I dare not open the subject to him.  And yet

that man we saw yesterday!  He seemed quite certain of him, poor

fellow!  I suppose it was the funeral upset him and sent his mind back

on some train of thought.

 

He believes it all himself.  I remember how on our wedding day he said

“Unless some solemn duty come upon me to go back to the bitter hours,

asleep or awake, mad or sane . . .”  There seems to be through it all

some thread of continuity.  That fearful Count was coming to London.

If it should be, and he came to London, with its teeming millions . . .

There may be a solemn duty, and if it come we must not shrink from

1. I shall be prepared. I shall get my typewriter this very hour

and begin transcribing.  Then we shall be ready for other eyes if

required.  And if it be wanted, then, perhaps, if I am ready, poor

Jonathan may not be upset, for I can speak for him and never let him

be troubled or worried with it at all.  If ever Jonathan quite gets

over the nervousness he may want to tell me of it all, and I can ask

him questions and find out things, and see how I may comfort him.

 

 

 

 

LETTER, VAN HELSING TO MRS. HARKER

 

24 September

 

(Confidence)

 

“Dear Madam,

 

“I pray you to pardon my writing, in that I am so far

friend as that I sent to you sad news of Miss Lucy

Westenra’s death.  By the kindness of Lord Godalming, I am

empowered to read her letters and papers, for I am deeply

concerned about certain matters vitally important.  In them

I find some letters from you, which show how great friends

you were and how you love her.  Oh, Madam Mina, by that

love, I implore you, help me.  It is for others’ good that

I ask, to redress great wrong, and to lift much and terrible

troubles, that may be more great than you can know.  May it be

that I see you?  You can trust me.  I am friend of Dr. John

Seward and of Lord Godalming (that was Arthur of Miss Lucy).  I

must keep it private for the present from all.  I should come to

Exeter to see you at once if you tell me I am privilege to come,

and where and when.  I implore your pardon, Madam.  I have read

your letters to poor Lucy, and know how good you are and how your

husband suffer.  So I pray you, if it may be, enlighten him not,

least it may harm.  Again your pardon, and forgive me.

 

“VAN HELSING”

 

 

 

 

TELEGRAM, MRS. HARKER TO VAN HELSING

 

25 September.–Come today by quarter past ten train if you

can catch it.  Can see you any time you call.

 

“WILHELMINA HARKER”

 

 

 

 

MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL

 

25 September.–I cannot help feeling terribly excited as the time

draws near for the visit of Dr. Van Helsing, for somehow I expect that

it will throw some light upon Jonathan’s sad experience, and as he

attended poor dear Lucy in her last illness, he can tell me all about

her.  That is the reason of his coming.  It is concerning Lucy and her

sleep-walking, and not about Jonathan.  Then I shall never know the

real truth now!  How silly I am.  That awful journal gets hold of my

imagination and tinges everything with something of its own colour.  Of

course it is about Lucy.  That habit came back to the poor dear, and

that awful night on the cliff must have made her ill.  I had almost

forgotten in my own affairs how ill she was afterwards.  She must have

told him of her sleep-walking adventure on the cliff, and that I knew

all about it, and now he wants me to tell him what I know, so that he

may understand.  I hope I did right in not saying anything of it to

Mrs. Westenra.  I should never forgive myself if any act of mine, were

it even a negative one, brought harm on poor dear Lucy.  I hope too,

Dr. Van Helsing will not blame me.  I have had so much trouble and

anxiety of late that I feel I cannot bear more just at present.

 

I suppose a cry does us all good at times, clears the air as other

rain does.  Perhaps it was reading the journal yesterday that upset

me, and then Jonathan went away this morning to stay away from me a

whole day and night, the first time we have been parted since our

marriage.  I do hope the dear fellow will take care of himself, and

that nothing will occur to upset him.  It is two o’clock, and the

doctor will be here soon now.  I shall say nothing of Jonathan’s

journal unless he asks me.  I am so glad I have typewritten out my own

journal, so that, in case he asks about Lucy, I can hand it to him.

It will save much questioning.

 

Later.–He has come and gone.  Oh, what a strange meeting, and how it

all makes my head whirl round.  I feel like one in a dream.  Can it be

all possible, or even a part of it?  If I had not read Jonathan’s

journal first, I should never have accepted even a possibility.  Poor,

poor, dear Jonathan!  How he must have suffered.  Please the good God,

all this may not upset him again.  I shall try to save him from it.

But it may be even a consolation and a help to him, terrible though it

be and awful in its consequences, to know for certain that his eyes

and ears and brain did not deceive him, and that it is all true.  It

may be that it is the doubt which haunts him, that when the doubt is

removed, no matter which, waking or dreaming, may prove the truth, he

will be more satisfied and better able to bear the shock.  Dr. Van

Helsing must be a good man as well as a clever one if he is Arthur’s

friend and Dr. Seward’s, and if they brought him all the way from

Holland to look after Lucy.  I feel from having seen him that he is

good and kind and of a noble nature.  When he comes tomorrow I shall

ask him about Jonathan.  And then, please God, all this sorrow and

anxiety may lead to a good end.  I used to think I would like to

practice interviewing.  Jonathan’s friend on “The Exeter News” told

him that memory is everything in such work, that you must be able to

put down exactly almost every word spoken, even if you had to refine

some of it afterwards.  Here was a rare interview.  I shall try to

record it verbatim.

 

It was half-past two o’clock when the knock came.  I took my courage a

deux mains and waited.  In a few minutes Mary opened the door, and

announced “Dr. Van Helsing”.

 

I rose and bowed, and he came towards me, a man of medium weight,

strongly built, with his shoulders set back over a broad, deep chest

and a neck well balanced on the trunk as the head is on the neck.  The

poise of the head strikes me at once as indicative of thought and

power.  The head is noble, well-sized, broad, and large behind the

ears.  The face, clean-shaven, shows a hard, square chin, a large

resolute, mobile mouth, a good-sized nose, rather straight, but with

quick, sensitive nostrils, that seem to broaden as the big bushy brows

come down and the mouth tightens.  The forehead is broad and fine,

rising at first almost straight and then sloping back above two bumps

or ridges wide apart, such a forehead that the reddish hair cannot

possibly tumble over it, but falls naturally back and to the sides.

Big, dark blue eyes are set widely apart, and are quick and tender or

stern with the man’s moods.  He said to me,

 

“Mrs. Harker, is it not?”  I bowed assent.

 

“That was Miss Mina Murray?”  Again I assented.

 

“It is Mina Murray that I came to see that was friend of that poor dear

child Lucy Westenra.  Madam Mina, it is on account of the dead that I

come.”

 

“Sir,” I said, “you could have no better claim on me than that you

were a friend and helper of Lucy Westenra.”  And I held out my hand.

He took it and said tenderly,

 

“Oh, Madam Mina, I know that the friend of that poor little girl must

be good, but I had yet to learn . . .”  He finished his speech with a

courtly bow.  I asked him what it was that he wanted to see me about,

so he at once began.

 

“I have read your letters to Miss Lucy.  Forgive me, but I had to

begin to inquire somewhere, and there was none to ask.  I know that

you were with her at Whitby.  She sometimes kept a diary, you need not

look surprised, Madam Mina.  It was begun after you had left, and was

an imitation of you, and in that diary she traces by inference certain

things to a sleep-walking in which she puts down that you saved her.

In great perplexity then I come to you, and ask you out of your so

much kindness to tell me all of it that you can remember.”

 

“I can tell you, I think, Dr. Van Helsing, all about it.”

 

“Ah, then you have good memory for facts, for details?  It is not

always so with young ladies.”

 

“No, doctor, but I wrote it all down at the time.  I can show it to

you if you like.”

 

“Oh, Madam Mina, I well be grateful.  You will do me much favour.”

 

I could not resist the temptation of mystifying him a bit, I suppose

it is some taste of the original apple that remains still in our

mouths, so I handed him the shorthand diary.  He took it with a

grateful bow, and said, “May I read it?”

 

“If you wish,” I answered as demurely as I could.  He opened it, and

for an instant his face fell.  Then he stood up and bowed.

 

“Oh, you so clever woman!” he said.  “I knew long that Mr. Jonathan

was a man of much thankfulness, but see, his wife have all the good

things.  And will you not so much honour me and so help me as to read

it for me?  Alas!  I know not the shorthand.”

 

By this time my little joke was over, and I was almost ashamed.  So I

took the typewritten copy from my work basket and handed it to him.

 

“Forgive me,” I said.  “I could not help it, but I had been thinking

that it was of dear Lucy that you wished to ask, and so that you might

not have time to wait, not on my account, but because I know your time

must be precious, I have written it out on the typewriter for you.”

 

He took it and his eyes glistened.  “You are so good,” he said.  “And

may I read it now?  I may want to ask you some things when I have

read.”

 

“By all means,” I said, “read it over whilst I order lunch, and then

you can ask me questions whilst we eat.”

 

He bowed and settled himself in a chair with his back to the light,

and became so absorbed in the papers, whilst I went to see after lunch

chiefly in order that he might not be disturbed.  When I came back, I

found him walking hurriedly up and down the room, his face all ablaze

with excitement.  He rushed up to me and took me by both hands.

 

“Oh, Madam Mina,” he said, “how can I say what I owe to you?  This

paper is as sunshine.  It opens the gate to me.  I am dazed, I am

dazzled, with so much light, and yet clouds roll in behind the light

every time.  But that you do not, cannot comprehend.  Oh, but I am

grateful to you, you so clever woman.  Madame,” he said this very

solemnly, “if ever Abraham Van Helsing can do anything for you or

yours, I trust you will let me know.  It will be pleasure and delight

if I may serve you as a friend, as a friend, but all I have ever

learned, all I can ever do, shall be for you and those you love.  There

are darknesses in life, and there are lights.  You are one of the

lights.  You will have a happy life and a good life, and your husband

will be blessed in you.”

 

“But, doctor, you praise me too much, and you do not know me.”

 

“Not know you, I, who am old, and who have studied all my life men and

women, I who have made my specialty the brain and all that belongs to

him and all that follow from him!  And I have read your diary that you

have so goodly written for me, and which breathes out truth in every

line.  I, who have read your so sweet letter to poor Lucy of your

marriage and your trust, not know you!  Oh, Madam Mina, good women

tell all their lives, and by day and by hour and by minute, such

things that angels can read.  And we men who wish to know have in us

something of angels’ eyes.  Your husband is noble nature, and you are

noble too, for you trust, and trust cannot be where there is mean

nature.  And your husband, tell me of him.  Is he quite well?  Is all

that fever gone, and is he strong and hearty?”

 

I saw here an opening to ask him about Jonathan, so I said, “He was

almost recovered, but he has been greatly upset by Mr. Hawkins death.”

 

He interrupted, “Oh, yes.  I know.  I know.  I have read your last two

letters.”

 

I went on, “I suppose this upset him, for when we were in town on

Thursday last he had a sort of shock.”

 

“A shock, and after brain fever so soon!  That is not good.  What kind

of shock was it?”

 

“He thought he saw some one who recalled something terrible, something

which led to his brain fever.”  And here the whole thing seemed to

overwhelm me in a rush.  The pity for Jonathan, the horror which he

experienced, the whole fearful mystery of his diary, and the fear that

has been brooding over me ever since, all came in a tumult.  I suppose

I was hysterical, for I threw myself on my knees and held up my hands

to him, and implored him to make my husband well again.  He took my

hands and raised me up, and made me sit on the sofa, and sat by me.  He

held my hand in his, and said to me with, oh, such infinite sweetness,

 

“My life is a barren and lonely one, and so full of work that I have

not had much time for friendships, but since I have been summoned to

here by my friend John Seward I have known so many good people and

seen such nobility that I feel more than ever, and it has grown with

my advancing years, the loneliness of my life.  Believe me, then, that

I come here full of respect for you, and you have given me hope, hope,

not in what I am seeking of, but that there are good women still left

to make life happy, good women, whose lives and whose truths may make

good lesson for the children that are to be.  I am glad, glad, that I

may here be of some use to you.  For if your husband suffer, he suffer

within the range of my study and experience.  I promise you that I

will gladly do all for him that I can, all to make his life strong and

manly, and your life a happy one.  Now you must eat.  You are

overwrought and perhaps over-anxious.  Husband Jonathan would not like

to see you so pale, and what he like not where he love, is not to his

good.  Therefore for his sake you must eat and smile.  You have told

me about Lucy, and so now we shall not speak of it, lest it distress.

I shall stay in Exeter tonight, for I want to think much over what you

have told me, and when I have thought I will ask you questions, if I

may.  And then too, you will tell me of husband Jonathan’s trouble so

far as you can, but not yet.  You must eat now, afterwards you shall

tell me all.”

 

After lunch, when we went back to the drawing room, he said to me,

“And now tell me all about him.”

 

When it came to speaking to this great learned man, I began to fear

that he would think me a weak fool, and Jonathan a madman, that

journal is all so strange, and I hesitated to go on.  But he was so

sweet and kind, and he had promised to help, and I trusted him, so I

said,

 

“Dr. Van Helsing, what I have to tell you is so queer that you must

not laugh at me or at my husband.  I have been since yesterday in a

sort of fever of doubt.  You must be kind to me, and not think me

foolish that I have even half believed some very strange things.”

 

He reassured me by his manner as well as his words when he said, “Oh,

my dear, if you only know how strange is the matter regarding which I

am here, it is you who would laugh.  I have learned not to think

little of any one’s belief, no matter how strange it may be.  I have

tried to keep an open mind, and it is not the ordinary things of life

that could close it, but the strange things, the extraordinary things,

the things that make one doubt if they be mad or sane.”

 

“Thank you, thank you a thousand times!  You have taken a weight off my

mind.  If you will let me, I shall give you a paper to read.  It is

long, but I have typewritten it out.  It will tell you my trouble and

Jonathan’s.  It is the copy of his journal when abroad, and all that

happened.  I dare not say anything of it.  You will read for yourself

and judge.  And then when I see you, perhaps, you will be very kind

and tell me what you think.”

 

“I promise,” he said as I gave him the papers.  “I shall in the

morning, as soon as I can, come to see you and your husband, if I

may.”

 

“Jonathan will be here at half-past eleven, and you must come to lunch

with us and see him then.  You could catch the quick 3:34 train, which

will leave you at Paddington before eight.”  He was surprised at my

knowledge of the trains offhand, but he does not know that I have made

up all the trains to and from Exeter, so that I may help Jonathan in

case he is in a hurry.

 

So he took the papers with him and went away, and I sit here thinking,

thinking I don’t know what.

 

 

 

 

LETTER (by hand), VAN HELSING TO MRS. HARKER

 

25 September, 6 o’clock

 

“Dear Madam Mina,

 

“I have read your husband’s so wonderful diary.  You may

sleep without doubt.  Strange and terrible as it is, it is

true!  I will pledge my life on it.  It may be worse for

others, but for him and you there is no dread.  He is a

noble fellow, and let me tell you from experience of men,

that one who would do as he did in going down that wall and

to that room, aye, and going a second time, is not one to

be injured in permanence by a shock.  His brain and his

heart are all right, this I swear, before I have even seen

him, so be at rest.  I shall have much to ask him of other

things.  I am blessed that today I come to see you, for I

have learn all at once so much that again I am dazzled,

dazzled more than ever, and I must think.

 

“Yours the most faithful,

 

“Abraham Van Helsing.”

 

 

LETTER, MRS. HARKER TO VAN HELSING

 

25 September, 6:30 P.M.

 

“My dear Dr. Van Helsing,

 

“A thousand thanks for your kind letter, which has taken a

great weight off my mind.  And yet, if it be true, what

terrible things there are in the world, and what an awful

thing if that man, that monster, be really in London!  I

fear to think.  I have this moment, whilst writing, had a

wire from Jonathan, saying that he leaves by the 6:25 tonight

from Launceston and will be here at 10:18, so that I shall have

no fear tonight.  Will you, therefore, instead of lunching with

us, please come to breakfast at eight o’clock, if this be not too

early for you?  You can get away, if you are in a hurry, by the

10:30 train, which will bring you to Paddington by 2:35.  Do not

answer this, as I shall take it that, if I do not hear, you will

come to breakfast.

 

“Believe me,

 

“Your faithful and grateful friend,

 

“Mina Harker.”

 

 

 

 

 

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL

 

26 September.–I thought never to write in this diary again, but the

time has come.  When I got home last night Mina had supper ready, and

when we had supped she told me of Van Helsing’s visit, and of her

having given him the two diaries copied out, and of how anxious she

has been about me.  She showed me in the doctor’s letter that all I

wrote down was true.  It seems to have made a new man of me.  It was

the doubt as to the reality of the whole thing that knocked me over.

I felt impotent, and in the dark, and distrustful.  But, now that I

know, I am not afraid, even of the Count.  He has succeeded after all,

then, in his design in getting to London, and it was he I saw.  He has

got younger, and how?  Van Helsing is the man to unmask him and hunt

him out, if he is anything like what Mina says.  We sat late, and

talked it over.  Mina is dressing, and I shall call at the hotel in a

few minutes and bring him over.

 

 

He was, I think, surprised to see me.  When I came into the room where

he was, and introduced myself, he took me by the shoulder, and turned

my face round to the light, and said, after a sharp scrutiny,

 

“But Madam Mina told me you were ill, that you had had a shock.”

 

It was so funny to hear my wife called ‘Madam Mina’ by this kindly,

strong-faced old man.  I smiled, and said, “I was ill, I have had a

shock, but you have cured me already.”

 

“And how?”

 

“By your letter to Mina last night.  I was in doubt, and then

everything took a hue of unreality, and I did not know what to trust,

even the evidence of my own senses.  Not knowing what to trust, I did

not know what to do, and so had only to keep on working in what had

hitherto been the groove of my life.  The groove ceased to avail me,

and I mistrusted myself.  Doctor, you don’t know what it is to doubt

everything, even yourself.  No, you don’t, you couldn’t with eyebrows

like yours.”

 

He seemed pleased, and laughed as he said, “So!  You are a

physiognomist.  I learn more here with each hour.  I am with so much

pleasure coming to you to breakfast, and, oh, sir, you will pardon

praise from an old man, but you are blessed in your wife.”

 

I would listen to him go on praising Mina for a day, so I simply

nodded and stood silent.

 

“She is one of God’s women, fashioned by His own hand to show us men

and other women that there is a heaven where we can enter, and that

its light can be here on earth.  So true, so sweet, so noble, so

little an egoist, and that, let me tell you, is much in this age, so

sceptical and selfish.  And you, sir . . . I have read all the letters

to poor Miss Lucy, and some of them speak of you, so I know you since

some days from the knowing of others, but I have seen your true self

since last night.  You will give me your hand, will you not?  And let

us be friends for all our lives.”

 

We shook hands, and he was so earnest and so kind that it made me

quite choky.

 

“And now,” he said, “may I ask you for some more help?  I have a great

task to do, and at the beginning it is to know.  You can help me

here.  Can you tell me what went before your going to Transylvania?

Later on I may ask more help, and of a different kind, but at first

this will do.”

 

“Look here, Sir,” I said, “does what you have to do concern the

Count?”

 

“It does,” he said solemnly.

 

“Then I am with you heart and soul.  As you go by the 10:30 train, you

will not have time to read them, but I shall get the bundle of papers.

You can take them with you and read them in the train.”

 

After breakfast I saw him to the station.  When we were parting he

said, “Perhaps you will come to town if I send for you, and take Madam

Mina too.”

 

“We shall both come when you will,” I said.

 

I had got him the morning papers and the London papers of the previous

night, and while we were talking at the carriage window, waiting for

the train to start, he was turning them over.  His eyes suddenly

seemed to catch something in one of them, “The Westminster Gazette”, I

knew it by the colour, and he grew quite white.  He read something

intently, groaning to himself, “Mein Gott!  Mein Gott!  So soon!  So

soon!”  I do not think he remembered me at the moment.  Just then the

whistle blew, and the train moved off.  This recalled him to himself,

and he leaned out of the window and waved his hand, calling out, “Love

to Madam Mina.  I shall write so soon as ever I can.”

 

 

 

 

1. SEWARD’S DIARY

 

26 September.–Truly there is no such thing as finality.  Not a week

since I said “Finis,” and yet here I am starting fresh again, or

rather going on with the record.  Until this afternoon I had no cause

to think of what is done.  Renfield had become, to all intents, as

sane as he ever was.  He was already well ahead with his fly business,

and he had just started in the spider line also, so he had not been of

any trouble to me.  I had a letter from Arthur, written on Sunday, and

from it I gather that he is bearing up wonderfully well.  Quincey

Morris is with him, and that is much of a help, for he himself is a

bubbling well of good spirits.  Quincey wrote me a line too, and from

him I hear that Arthur is beginning to recover something of his old

buoyancy, so as to them all my mind is at rest.  As for myself, I was

settling down to my work with the enthusiasm which I used to have for

it, so that I might fairly have said that the wound which poor Lucy

left on me was becoming cicatrised.

 

Everything is, however, now reopened, and what is to be the end God

only knows.  I have an idea that Van Helsing thinks he knows, too, but

he will only let out enough at a time to whet curiosity.  He went to

Exeter yesterday, and stayed there all night.  Today he came back, and

almost bounded into the room at about half-past five o’clock, and

thrust last night’s “Westminster Gazette” into my hand.

 

“What do you think of that?” he asked as he stood back and folded his

arms.

 

I looked over the paper, for I really did not know what he meant, but

he took it from me and pointed out a paragraph about children being

decoyed away at Hampstead.  It did not convey much to me, until I

reached a passage where it described small puncture wounds on their

throats.  An idea struck me, and I looked up.

 

“Well?” he said.

 

“It is like poor Lucy’s.”

 

“And what do you make of it?”

 

“Simply that there is some cause in common.  Whatever it was that

injured her has injured them.”  I did not quite understand his answer.

 

“That is true indirectly, but not directly.”

 

“How do you mean, Professor?” I asked.  I was a little inclined to

take his seriousness lightly, for, after all, four days of rest and

freedom from burning, harrowing, anxiety does help to restore one’s

spirits, but when I saw his face, it sobered me.  Never, even in the

midst of our despair about poor Lucy, had he looked more stern.

 

“Tell me!” I said.  “I can hazard no opinion.  I do not know what to

think, and I have no data on which to found a conjecture.”

 

“Do you mean to tell me, friend John, that you have no suspicion as to

what poor Lucy died of, not after all the hints given, not only by

events, but by me?”

 

“Of nervous prostration following a great loss or waste of blood.”

 

“And how was the blood lost or wasted?”  I shook my head.

 

He stepped over and sat down beside me, and went on, “You are a clever

man, friend John.  You reason well, and your wit is bold, but you are

too prejudiced.  You do not let your eyes see nor your ears hear, and

that which is outside your daily life is not of account to you.  Do

you not think that there are things which you cannot understand, and

yet which are, that some people see things that others cannot?  But

there are things old and new which must not be contemplated by men’s

eyes, because they know, or think they know, some things which other

men have told them.  Ah, it is the fault of our science that it wants

to explain all, and if it explain not, then it says there is nothing

to explain.  But yet we see around us every day the growth of new

beliefs, which think themselves new, and which are yet but the old,

which pretend to be young, like the fine ladies at the opera.  I

suppose now you do not believe in corporeal transference.  No?  Nor in

materialization.  No?  Nor in astral bodies.  No?  Nor in the reading

of thought.  No?  Nor in hypnotism . . .”

 

“Yes,” I said.  “Charcot has proved that pretty well.”

 

He smiled as he went on, “Then you are satisfied as to it.  Yes?  And

of course then you understand how it act, and can follow the mind of

the great Charcot, alas that he is no more, into the very soul of the

patient that he influence.  No?  Then, friend John, am I to take it

that you simply accept fact, and are satisfied to let from premise to

conclusion be a blank?  No?  Then tell me, for I am a student of the

brain, how you accept hypnotism and reject the thought reading.  Let

me tell you, my friend, that there are things done today in electrical

science which would have been deemed unholy by the very man who

discovered electricity, who would themselves not so long before been

burned as wizards.  There are always mysteries in life.  Why was it

that Methuselah lived nine hundred years, and ‘Old Parr’ one hundred

and sixty-nine, and yet that poor Lucy, with four men’s blood in her

poor veins, could not live even one day?  For, had she live one more

day, we could save her.  Do you know all the mystery of life and

death?  Do you know the altogether of comparative anatomy and can say

wherefore the qualities of brutes are in some men, and not in others?

Can you tell me why, when other spiders die small and soon, that one

great spider lived for centuries in the tower of the old Spanish

church and grew and grew, till, on descending, he could drink the oil

of all the church lamps?  Can you tell me why in the Pampas, ay and

elsewhere, there are bats that come out at night and open the veins of

cattle and horses and suck dry their veins, how in some islands of the

Western seas there are bats which hang on the trees all day, and those

who have seen describe as like giant nuts or pods, and that when the

sailors sleep on the deck, because that it is hot, flit down on them

and then, and then in the morning are found dead men, white as even

Miss Lucy was?”

 

“Good God, Professor!” I said, starting up.  “Do you mean to tell me

that Lucy was bitten by such a bat, and that such a thing is here in

London in the nineteenth century?”

 

He waved his hand for silence, and went on, “Can you tell me why the

tortoise lives more long than generations of men, why the elephant

goes on and on till he have sees dynasties, and why the parrot never

die only of bite of cat of dog or other complaint?  Can you tell me

why men believe in all ages and places that there are men and women

who cannot die?  We all know, because science has vouched for the

fact, that there have been toads shut up in rocks for thousands of

years, shut in one so small hole that only hold him since the youth of

the world.  Can you tell me how the Indian fakir can make himself to

die and have been buried, and his grave sealed and corn sowed on it,

and the corn reaped and be cut and sown and reaped and cut again, and

then men come and take away the unbroken seal and that there lie the

Indian fakir, not dead, but that rise up and walk amongst them as

before?”

 

Here I interrupted him.  I was getting bewildered.  He so crowded on

my mind his list of nature’s eccentricities and possible

impossibilities that my imagination was getting fired.  I had a dim

idea that he was teaching me some lesson, as long ago he used to do in

his study at Amsterdam.  But he used them to tell me the thing, so

that I could have the object of thought in mind all the time.  But now

I was without his help, yet I wanted to follow him, so I said,

 

“Professor, let me be your pet student again.  Tell me the thesis, so

that I may apply your knowledge as you go on.  At present I am going

in my mind from point to point as a madman, and not a sane one,

follows an idea.  I feel like a novice lumbering through a bog in a

midst, jumping from one tussock to another in the mere blind effort to

move on without knowing where I am going.”

 

“That is a good image,” he said.  “Well, I shall tell you.  My thesis

is this, I want you to believe.”

 

“To believe what?”

 

“To believe in things that you cannot.  Let me illustrate.  I heard

once of an American who so defined faith, ‘that faculty which enables

us to believe things which we know to be untrue.’  For one, I follow

that man.  He meant that we shall have an open mind, and not let a

little bit of truth check the rush of the big truth, like a small rock

does a railway truck.  We get the small truth first.  Good!  We keep

him, and we value him, but all the same we must not let him think

himself all the truth in the universe.”

 

“Then you want me not to let some previous conviction inure the

receptivity of my mind with regard to some strange matter.  Do I read

your lesson aright?”

 

“Ah, you are my favourite pupil still.  It is worth to teach you.  Now

that you are willing to understand, you have taken the first step to

understand.  You think then that those so small holes in the

children’s throats were made by the same that made the holes in Miss

Lucy?”

 

“I suppose so.”

 

He stood up and said solemnly, “Then you are wrong.  Oh, would it were

so!  But alas!  No.  It is worse, far, far worse.”

 

“In God’s name, Professor Van Helsing, what do you mean?” I cried.

 

He threw himself with a despairing gesture into a chair, and placed

his elbows on the table, covering his face with his hands as he spoke.

 

“They were made by Miss Lucy!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 15

 

 

1. SEWARD’S DIARY–cont.

 

For a while sheer anger mastered me.  It was as if he had during her

life struck Lucy on the face.  I smote the table hard and rose up as I

said to him, “Dr. Van Helsing, are you mad?”

 

He raised his head and looked at me, and somehow the tenderness of his

face calmed me at once.  “Would I were!” he said.  “Madness were easy

to bear compared with truth like this.  Oh, my friend, why, think

you, did I go so far round, why take so long to tell so simple a

thing?  Was it because I hate you and have hated you all my life?  Was

it because I wished to give you pain?  Was it that I wanted, now so

late, revenge for that time when you saved my life, and from a fearful

death?  Ah no!”

 

“Forgive me,” said I.

 

He went on, “My friend, it was because I wished to be gentle in the

breaking to you, for I know you have loved that so sweet lady.  But

even yet I do not expect you to believe.  It is so hard to accept at

once any abstract truth, that we may doubt such to be possible when we

have always believed the ‘no’ of it.  It is more hard still to accept

so sad a concrete truth, and of such a one as Miss Lucy.  Tonight I go

to prove it.  Dare you come with me?”

 

This staggered me.  A man does not like to prove such a truth, Byron

excepted from the category, jealousy.

 

“And prove the very truth he most abhorred.”

 

He saw my hesitation, and spoke, “The logic is simple, no madman’s

logic this time, jumping from tussock to tussock in a misty bog.  If

it not be true, then proof will be relief.  At worst it will not harm.

If it be true!  Ah, there is the dread.  Yet every dread should help my

cause, for in it is some need of belief.  Come, I tell you what I

propose.  First, that we go off now and see that child in the

hospital.  Dr. Vincent, of the North Hospital, where the papers say

the child is, is a friend of mine, and I think of yours since you were

in class at Amsterdam.  He will let two scientists see his case, if he

will not let two friends.  We shall tell him nothing, but only that we

wish to learn.  And then . . .”

 

“And then?”

 

He took a key from his pocket and held it up.  “And then we spend the

night, you and I, in the churchyard where Lucy lies.  This is the key

that lock the tomb.  I had it from the coffin man to give to Arthur.”

 

My heart sank within me, for I felt that there was some fearful ordeal

before us.  I could do nothing, however, so I plucked up what heart I

could and said that we had better hasten, as the afternoon was

passing.

 

We found the child awake.  It had had a sleep and taken some food, and

altogether was going on well.  Dr. Vincent took the bandage from its

throat, and showed us the punctures.  There was no mistaking the

similarity to those which had been on Lucy’s throat.  They were

smaller, and the edges looked fresher, that was all.  We asked Vincent

to what he attributed them, and he replied that it must have been a

bite of some animal, perhaps a rat, but for his own part, he was

inclined to think it was one of the bats which are so numerous on the

northern heights of London.  “Out of so many harmless ones,” he said,

“there may be some wild specimen from the South of a more malignant

species.  Some sailor may have brought one home, and it managed to

escape, or even from the Zoological Gardens a young one may have got

loose, or one be bred there from a vampire.  These things do occur,

you, know.  Only ten days ago a wolf got out, and was, I believe,

traced up in this direction.  For a week after, the children were

playing nothing but Red Riding Hood on the Heath and in every alley in

the place until this ‘bloofer lady’ scare came along, since then it

has been quite a gala time with them.  Even this poor little mite,

when he woke up today, asked the nurse if he might go away.  When she

asked him why he wanted to go, he said he wanted to play with the

‘bloofer lady’.”

 

“I hope,” said Van Helsing, “that when you are sending the child home

you will caution its parents to keep strict watch over it.  These

fancies to stray are most dangerous, and if the child were to remain

out another night, it would probably be fatal.  But in any case I

suppose you will not let it away for some days?”

 

“Certainly not, not for a week at least, longer if the wound is not

healed.”

 

Our visit to the hospital took more time than we had reckoned on, and

the sun had dipped before we came out.  When Van Helsing saw how dark

it was, he said,

 

“There is not hurry.  It is more late than I thought.  Come, let us

seek somewhere that we may eat, and then we shall go on our way.”

 

We dined at ‘Jack Straw’s Castle’ along with a little crowd of

bicyclists and others who were genially noisy.  About ten o’clock we

started from the inn.  It was then very dark, and the scattered lamps

made the darkness greater when we were once outside their individual

radius.  The Professor had evidently noted the road we were to go, for

he went on unhesitatingly, but, as for me, I was in quite a mixup as

to locality.  As we went further, we met fewer and fewer people, till

at last we were somewhat surprised when we met even the patrol of

horse police going their usual suburban round.  At last we reached the

wall of the churchyard, which we climbed over.  With some little

difficulty, for it was very dark, and the whole place seemed so

strange to us, we found the Westenra tomb.  The Professor took the

key, opened the creaky door, and standing back, politely, but quite

unconsciously, motioned me to precede him.  There was a delicious

irony in the offer, in the courtliness of giving preference on such a

ghastly occasion.  My companion followed me quickly, and cautiously

drew the door to, after carefully ascertaining that the lock was a

falling, and not a spring one.  In the latter case we should have been

in a bad plight.  Then he fumbled in his bag, and taking out a

matchbox and a piece of candle, proceeded to make a light.  The tomb

in the daytime, and when wreathed with fresh flowers, had looked grim

and gruesome enough, but now, some days afterwards, when the flowers

hung lank and dead, their whites turning to rust and their greens to

browns, when the spider and the beetle had resumed their accustomed

dominance, when the time-discoloured stone, and dust-encrusted mortar,

and rusty, dank iron, and tarnished brass, and clouded silver-plating

gave back the feeble glimmer of a candle, the effect was more

miserable and sordid than could have been imagined.  It conveyed

irresistibly the idea that life, animal life, was not the only thing

which could pass away.

 

Van Helsing went about his work systematically.  Holding his candle so

that he could read the coffin plates, and so holding it that the sperm

dropped in white patches which congealed as they touched the metal, he

made assurance of Lucy’s coffin.  Another search in his bag, and he

took out a turnscrew.

 

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

 

“To open the coffin.  You shall yet be convinced.”

 

Straightway he began taking out the screws, and finally lifted off the

lid, showing the casing of lead beneath.  The sight was almost too

much for me.  It seemed to be as much an affront to the dead as it

would have been to have stripped off her clothing in her sleep whilst

living.  I actually took hold of his hand to stop him.

 

He only said, “You shall see,” and again fumbling in his bag took out

a tiny fret saw.  Striking the turnscrew through the lead with a swift

downward stab, which made me wince, he made a small hole, which was,

however, big enough to admit the point of the saw.  I had expected a

rush of gas from the week-old corpse.  We doctors, who have had to

study our dangers, have to become accustomed to such things, and I

drew back towards the door.  But the Professor never stopped for a

moment.  He sawed down a couple of feet along one side of the lead

coffin, and then across, and down the other side.  Taking the edge of

the loose flange, he bent it back towards the foot of the coffin, and

holding up the candle into the aperture, motioned to me to look.

 

I drew near and looked.  The coffin was empty.  It was certainly a

surprise to me, and gave me a considerable shock, but Van Helsing was

unmoved.  He was now more sure than ever of his ground, and so

emboldened to proceed in his task.  “Are you satisfied now, friend

John?” he asked.

 

I felt all the dogged argumentativeness of my nature awake within me as

I answered him, “I am satisfied that Lucy’s body is not in that

coffin, but that only proves one thing.”

 

“And what is that, friend John?”

 

“That it is not there.”

 

“That is good logic,” he said, “so far as it goes.  But how do you,

how can you, account for it not being there?”

 

“Perhaps a body-snatcher,” I suggested.  “Some of the undertaker’s

people may have stolen it.”  I felt that I was speaking folly, and yet

it was the only real cause which I could suggest.

 

The Professor sighed.  “Ah well!” he said, “we must have more proof.

Come with me.”

 

He put on the coffin lid again, gathered up all his things and placed

them in the bag, blew out the light, and placed the candle also in the

bag.  We opened the door, and went out.  Behind us he closed the door

and locked it.  He handed me the key, saying, “Will you keep it?  You

had better be assured.”

 

I laughed, it was not a very cheerful laugh, I am bound to say, as I

motioned him to keep it.  “A key is nothing,” I said, “there are many

duplicates, and anyhow it is not difficult to pick a lock of this

kind.”

 

He said nothing, but put the key in his pocket.  Then he told me to

watch at one side of the churchyard whilst he would watch at the

other.

 

I took up my place behind a yew tree, and I saw his dark figure move

until the intervening headstones and trees hid it from my sight.

 

It was a lonely vigil.  Just after I had taken my place I heard a

distant clock strike twelve, and in time came one and two.  I was

chilled and unnerved, and angry with the Professor for taking me on

such an errand and with myself for coming.  I was too cold and too

sleepy to be keenly observant, and not sleepy enough to betray my

trust, so altogether I had a dreary, miserable time.

 

Suddenly, as I turned round, I thought I saw something like a white

streak, moving between two dark yew trees at the side of the

churchyard farthest from the tomb.  At the same time a dark mass moved

from the Professor’s side of the ground, and hurriedly went towards

1. Then I too moved, but I had to go round headstones and railed-off

tombs, and I stumbled over graves.  The sky was overcast, and

somewhere far off an early cock crew.  A little ways off, beyond a

line of scattered juniper trees, which marked the pathway to the

church, a white dim figure flitted in the direction of the tomb.  The

tomb itself was hidden by trees, and I could not see where the figure

had disappeared.  I heard the rustle of actual movement where I had

first seen the white figure, and coming over, found the Professor

holding in his arms a tiny child.  When he saw me he held it out to

me, and said, “Are you satisfied now?”

 

“No,” I said, in a way that I felt was aggressive.

 

“Do you not see the child?”

 

“Yes, it is a child, but who brought it here?  And is it wounded?”

 

“We shall see,” said the Professor, and with one impulse we took our

way out of the churchyard, he carrying the sleeping child.

 

When we had got some little distance away, we went into a clump of

trees, and struck a match, and looked at the child’s throat.  It was

without a scratch or scar of any kind.

 

“Was I right?” I asked triumphantly.

 

“We were just in time,” said the Professor thankfully.

 

We had now to decide what we were to do with the child, and so

consulted about it.  If we were to take it to a police station we

should have to give some account of our movements during the night.

At least, we should have had to make some statement as to how we had

come to find the child.  So finally we decided that we would take it

to the Heath, and when we heard a policeman coming, would leave it

where he could not fail to find it.  We would then seek our way home

as quickly as we could.  All fell out well.  At the edge of Hampstead

Heath we heard a policeman’s heavy tramp, and laying the child on the

pathway, we waited and watched until he saw it as he flashed his

lantern to and fro.  We heard his exclamation of astonishment, and

then we went away silently.  By good chance we got a cab near the

‘Spainiards,’ and drove to town.

 

I cannot sleep, so I make this entry.  But I must try to get a few

hours’ sleep, as Van Helsing is to call for me at noon.  He insists

that I go with him on another expedition.

 

 

27 September.–It was two o’clock before we found a suitable

opportunity for our attempt.  The funeral held at noon was all

completed, and the last stragglers of the mourners had taken

themselves lazily away, when, looking carefully from behind a clump of

alder trees, we saw the sexton lock the gate after him.  We knew that

we were safe till morning did we desire it, but the Professor told me

that we should not want more than an hour at most.  Again I felt that

horrid sense of the reality of things, in which any effort of

imagination seemed out of place, and I realized distinctly the perils

of the law which we were incurring in our unhallowed work.  Besides, I

felt it was all so useless.  Outrageous as it was to open a leaden

coffin, to see if a woman dead nearly a week were really dead, it now

seemed the height of folly to open the tomb again, when we knew, from

the evidence of our own eyesight, that the coffin was empty.  I

shrugged my shoulders, however, and rested silent, for Van Helsing had

a way of going on his own road, no matter who remonstrated.  He took

the key, opened the vault, and again courteously motioned me to

precede.  The place was not so gruesome as last night, but oh, how

unutterably mean looking when the sunshine streamed in.  Van Helsing

walked over to Lucy’s coffin, and I followed.  He bent over and again

forced back the leaden flange, and a shock of surprise and dismay shot

through me.

 

There lay Lucy, seemingly just as we had seen her the night before her

funeral.  She was, if possible, more radiantly beautiful than ever,

and I could not believe that she was dead.  The lips were red, nay

redder than before, and on the cheeks was a delicate bloom.

 

“Is this a juggle?” I said to him.

 

“Are you convinced now?” said the Professor, in response, and as he

spoke he put over his hand, and in a way that made me shudder, pulled

back the dead lips and showed the white teeth.  “See,” he went on,

“they are even sharper than before.  With this and this,” and he

touched one of the canine teeth and that below it, “the little

children can be bitten.  Are you of belief now, friend John?”

 

Once more argumentative hostility woke within me.  I could not accept

such an overwhelming idea as he suggested.  So, with an attempt to

argue of which I was even at the moment ashamed, I said, “She may have

been placed here since last night.”

 

“Indeed?  That is so, and by whom?”

 

“I do not know.  Someone has done it.”

 

“And yet she has been dead one week.  Most peoples in that time would

not look so.”

 

I had no answer for this, so was silent.  Van Helsing did not seem to

notice my silence.  At any rate, he showed neither chagrin nor

triumph.  He was looking intently at the face of the dead woman,

raising the eyelids and looking at the eyes, and once more opening the

lips and examining the teeth.  Then he turned to me and said,

 

“Here, there is one thing which is different from all recorded.  Here

is some dual life that is not as the common.  She was bitten by the

vampire when she was in a trance, sleep-walking, oh, you start.  You

do not know that, friend John, but you shall know it later, and in

trance could he best come to take more blood.  In trance she dies, and

in trance she is UnDead, too.  So it is that she differ from all

other.  Usually when the UnDead sleep at home,” as he spoke he made a

comprehensive sweep of his arm to designate what to a vampire was

‘home’, “their face show what they are, but this so sweet that was

when she not UnDead she go back to the nothings of the common dead.

There is no malign there, see, and so it make hard that I must kill

her in her sleep.”

 

This turned my blood cold, and it began to dawn upon me that I was

accepting Van Helsing’s theories.  But if she were really dead, what

was there of terror in the idea of killing her?

 

He looked up at me, and evidently saw the change in my face, for he

said almost joyously, “Ah, you believe now?”

 

I answered, “Do not press me too hard all at once.  I am willing to

accept.  How will you do this bloody work?”

 

“I shall cut off her head and fill her mouth with garlic, and I shall

drive a stake through her body.”

 

It made me shudder to think of so mutilating the body of the woman

whom I had loved.  And yet the feeling was not so strong as I had

expected.  I was, in fact, beginning to shudder at the presence of

this being, this UnDead, as Van Helsing called it, and to loathe it.

Is it possible that love is all subjective, or all objective?

 

I waited a considerable time for Van Helsing to begin, but he stood as

if wrapped in thought.  Presently he closed the catch of his bag with

a snap, and said,

 

“I have been thinking, and have made up my mind as to what is best.

If I did simply follow my inclining I would do now, at this moment,

what is to be done.  But there are other things to follow, and things

that are thousand times more difficult in that them we do not know.

This is simple.  She have yet no life taken, though that is of time,

and to act now would be to take danger from her forever.  But then we

may have to want Arthur, and how shall we tell him of this?  If you,

who saw the wounds on Lucy’s throat, and saw the wounds so similar on

the child’s at the hospital, if you, who saw the coffin empty last

night and full today with a woman who have not change only to be more

rose and more beautiful in a whole week, after she die, if you know of

this and know of the white figure last night that brought the child to

the churchyard, and yet of your own senses you did not believe, how

then, can I expect Arthur, who know none of those things, to believe?

 

“He doubted me when I took him from her kiss when she was dying.  I

know he has forgiven me because in some mistaken idea I have done

things that prevent him say goodbye as he ought, and he may think that

in some more mistaken idea this woman was buried alive, and that in

most mistake of all we have killed her.  He will then argue back that

it is we, mistaken ones, that have killed her by our ideas, and so he

will be much unhappy always.  Yet he never can be sure, and that is

the worst of all.  And he will sometimes think that she he loved was

buried alive, and that will paint his dreams with horrors of what she

must have suffered, and again, he will think that we may be right, and

that his so beloved was, after all, an UnDead.  No!  I told him once,

and since then I learn much.  Now, since I know it is all true, a

hundred thousand times more do I know that he must pass through the

bitter waters to reach the sweet.  He, poor fellow, must have one hour

that will make the very face of heaven grow black to him, then we can

act for good all round and send him peace.  My mind is made up.  Let

us go.  You return home for tonight to your asylum, and see that all

be well.  As for me, I shall spend the night here in this churchyard

in my own way.  Tomorrow night you will come to me to the Berkeley

Hotel at ten of the clock.  I shall send for Arthur to come too, and

also that so fine young man of America that gave his blood.  Later we

shall all have work to do.  I come with you so far as Piccadilly and

there dine, for I must be back here before the sun set.”

 

So we locked the tomb and came away, and got over the wall of the

churchyard, which was not much of a task, and drove back to

Piccadilly.

 

 

 

 

NOTE LEFT BY VAN HELSING IN HIS PORTMANTEAU, BERKELEY HOTEL DIRECTED TO

JOHN SEWARD, M. D. (Not Delivered)

 

27 September

 

“Friend John,

 

“I write this in case anything should happen.  I go alone to

watch in that churchyard.  It pleases me that the UnDead,

Miss Lucy, shall not leave tonight, that so on the morrow

night she may be more eager.  Therefore I shall fix some

things she like not, garlic and a crucifix, and so seal up

the door of the tomb.  She is young as UnDead, and will

heed.  Moreover, these are only to prevent her coming out.

They may not prevail on her wanting to get in, for then the

UnDead is desperate, and must find the line of least resistance,

whatsoever it may be.  I shall be at hand all the night from

sunset till after sunrise, and if there be aught that may be

learned I shall learn it.  For Miss Lucy or from her, I have no

fear, but that other to whom is there that she is UnDead, he have

not the power to seek her tomb and find shelter.  He is cunning,

as I know from Mr. Jonathan and from the way that all along he

have fooled us when he played with us for Miss Lucy’s life, and

we lost, and in many ways the UnDead are strong.  He have always

the strength in his hand of twenty men, even we four who gave our

strength to Miss Lucy it also is all to him.  Besides, he can

summon his wolf and I know not what.  So if it be that he came

thither on this night he shall find me.  But none other shall,

until it be too late.  But it may be that he will not attempt the

place.  There is no reason why he should.  His hunting ground is

more full of game than the churchyard where the UnDead woman

sleeps, and the one old man watch.

 

“Therefore I write this in case . . . Take the papers that

are with this, the diaries of Harker and the rest, and read

them, and then find this great UnDead, and cut off his head

and burn his heart or drive a stake through it, so that the

world may rest from him.

 

“If it be so, farewell.

 

“VAN HELSING.”

 

 

 

 

1. SEWARD’S DIARY

 

28 September.–It is wonderful what a good night’s sleep will do for

one.  Yesterday I was almost willing to accept Van Helsing’s monstrous

ideas, but now they seem to start out lurid before me as outrages on

common sense.  I have no doubt that he believes it all.  I wonder if

his mind can have become in any way unhinged.  Surely there must be

some rational explanation of all these mysterious things.  Is it

possible that the Professor can have done it himself?  He is so

abnormally clever that if he went off his head he would carry out his

intent with regard to some fixed idea in a wonderful way.  I am loathe

to think it, and indeed it would be almost as great a marvel as the

other to find that Van Helsing was mad, but anyhow I shall watch him

carefully.  I may get some light on the mystery.

 

 

29 September.–Last night, at a little before ten o’clock, Arthur and

Quincey came into Van Helsing’s room.  He told us all what he wanted

us to do, but especially addressing himself to Arthur, as if all our

wills were centred in his.  He began by saying that he hoped we would

all come with him too, “for,” he said, “there is a grave duty to be

done there.  You were doubtless surprised at my letter?”  This query

was directly addressed to Lord Godalming.

 

“I was.  It rather upset me for a bit.  There has been so much trouble

around my house of late that I could do without any more.  I have been

curious, too, as to what you mean.

 

“Quincey and I talked it over, but the more we talked, the more

puzzled we got, till now I can say for myself that I’m about up a tree

as to any meaning about anything.”

 

“Me too,” said Quincey Morris laconically.

 

“Oh,” said the Professor, “then you are nearer the beginning, both of

you, than friend John here, who has to go a long way back before he

can even get so far as to begin.”

 

It was evident that he recognized my return to my old doubting frame

of mind without my saying a word.  Then, turning to the other two, he

said with intense gravity,

 

“I want your permission to do what I think good this night.  It is, I

know, much to ask, and when you know what it is I propose to do you

will know, and only then how much.  Therefore may I ask that you

promise me in the dark, so that afterwards, though you may be angry

with me for a time, I must not disguise from myself the possibility

that such may be, you shall not blame yourselves for anything.”

 

“That’s frank anyhow,” broke in Quincey.  “I’ll answer for the

Professor.  I don’t quite see his drift, but I swear he’s honest, and

that’s good enough for me.”

 

“I thank you, Sir,” said Van Helsing proudly.  “I have done myself the

honour of counting you one trusting friend, and such endorsement is

dear to me.”  He held out a hand, which Quincey took.

 

Then Arthur spoke out, “Dr. Van Helsing, I don’t quite like to ‘buy a

pig in a poke’, as they say in Scotland, and if it be anything in

which my honour as a gentleman or my faith as a Christian is

concerned, I cannot make such a promise.  If you can assure me that

what you intend does not violate either of these two, then I give my

consent at once, though for the life of me, I cannot understand what

you are driving at.”

 

“I accept your limitation,” said Van Helsing, “and all I ask of you is

that if you feel it necessary to condemn any act of mine, you will

first consider it well and be satisfied that it does not violate your

reservations.”

 

“Agreed!” said Arthur.  “That is only fair.  And now that the

pourparlers are over, may I ask what it is we are to do?”

 

“I want you to come with me, and to come in secret, to the churchyard

at Kingstead.”

 

Arthur’s face fell as he said in an amazed sort of way,

 

“Where poor Lucy is buried?”

 

The Professor bowed.

 

Arthur went on, “And when there?”

 

“To enter the tomb!”

 

Arthur stood up.  “Professor, are you in earnest, or is it some

monstrous joke?  Pardon me, I see that you are in earnest.”  He sat

down again, but I could see that he sat firmly and proudly, as one who

is on his dignity.  There was silence until he asked again, “And when

in the tomb?”

 

“To open the coffin.”

 

“This is too much!” he said, angrily rising again.  “I am willing to

be patient in all things that are reasonable, but in this, this

desecration of the grave, of one who . . .”  He fairly choked with

indignation.

 

The Professor looked pityingly at him.  “If I could spare you one pang,

my poor friend,” he said, “God knows I would.  But this night our feet

must tread in thorny paths, or later, and for ever, the feet you love

must walk in paths of flame!”

 

Arthur looked up with set white face and said, “Take care, sir, take

care!”

 

“Would it not be well to hear what I have to say?” said Van Helsing.

“And then you will at least know the limit of my purpose.  Shall I go

on?”

 

“That’s fair enough,” broke in Morris.

 

After a pause Van Helsing went on, evidently with an effort, “Miss

Lucy is dead, is it not so?  Yes!  Then there can be no wrong to her.

But if she be not dead . . .”

 

Arthur jumped to his feet, “Good God!” he cried.  “What do you mean?

Has there been any mistake, has she been buried alive?”  He groaned in

anguish that not even hope could soften.

 

“I did not say she was alive, my child.  I did not think it.  I go no

further than to say that she might be UnDead.”

 

“UnDead!  Not alive!  What do you mean?  Is this all a nightmare, or

what is it?”

 

“There are mysteries which men can only guess at, which age by age

they may solve only in part.  Believe me, we are now on the verge of

one.  But I have not done.  May I cut off the head of dead Miss Lucy?”

 

“Heavens and earth, no!” cried Arthur in a storm of passion.  “Not for

the wide world will I consent to any mutilation of her dead body.  Dr.

Van Helsing, you try me too far.  What have I done to you that you

should torture me so?  What did that poor, sweet girl do that you

should want to cast such dishonour on her grave?  Are you mad, that you

speak of such things, or am I mad to listen to them?  Don’t dare think

more of such a desecration.  I shall not give my consent to anything

you do.  I have a duty to do in protecting her grave from outrage, and

by God, I shall do it!”

 

Van Helsing rose up from where he had all the time been seated, and

said, gravely and sternly, “My Lord Godalming, I too, have a duty to

do, a duty to others, a duty to you, a duty to the dead, and by God, I

shall do it!  All I ask you now is that you come with me, that you

look and listen, and if when later I make the same request you do not

be more eager for its fulfillment even than I am, then, I shall do my

duty, whatever it may seem to me.  And then, to follow your Lordship’s

wishes I shall hold myself at your disposal to render an account to

you, when and where you will.”  His voice broke a little, and he went

on with a voice full of pity.

 

“But I beseech you, do not go forth in anger with me.  In a long life

of acts which were often not pleasant to do, and which sometimes did

wring my heart, I have never had so heavy a task as now.  Believe me

that if the time comes for you to change your mind towards me, one

look from you will wipe away all this so sad hour, for I would do what

a man can to save you from sorrow.  Just think.  For why should I give

myself so much labor and so much of sorrow?  I have come here from my

own land to do what I can of good, at the first to please my friend

John, and then to help a sweet young lady, whom too, I come to love.

For her, I am ashamed to say so much, but I say it in kindness, I gave

what you gave, the blood of my veins.  I gave it, I who was not, like

you, her lover, but only her physician and her friend.  I gave her my

nights and days, before death, after death, and if my death can do her

good even now, when she is the dead UnDead, she shall have it freely.”

He said this with a very grave, sweet pride, and Arthur was much

affected by it.

 

He took the old man’s hand and said in a broken voice, “Oh, it is hard

to think of it, and I cannot understand, but at least I shall go with

you and wait.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 16

 

 

1. SEWARD’S DIARY–cont.

 

It was just a quarter before twelve o’clock when we got into the

churchyard over the low wall.  The night was dark with occasional

gleams of moonlight between the dents of the heavy clouds that scudded

across the sky.  We all kept somehow close together, with Van Helsing

slightly in front as he led the way.  When we had come close to the

tomb I looked well at Arthur, for I feared the proximity to a place

laden with so sorrowful a memory would upset him, but he bore himself

well.  I took it that the very mystery of the proceeding was in some

way a counteractant to his grief.  The Professor unlocked the door,

and seeing a natural hesitation amongst us for various reasons, solved

the difficulty by entering first himself.  The rest of us followed,

and he closed the door.  He then lit a dark lantern and pointed to a

coffin.  Arthur stepped forward hesitatingly.  Van Helsing said to me,

“You were with me here yesterday.  Was the body of Miss Lucy in that

coffin?”

 

“It was.”

 

The Professor turned to the rest saying, “You hear, and yet there is

no one who does not believe with me.”

 

He took his screwdriver and again took off the lid of the coffin.

Arthur looked on, very pale but silent.  When the lid was removed he

stepped forward.  He evidently did not know that there was a leaden

coffin, or at any rate, had not thought of it.  When he saw the rent

in the lead, the blood rushed to his face for an instant, but as

quickly fell away again, so that he remained of a ghastly whiteness.

He was still silent.  Van Helsing forced back the leaden flange, and

we all looked in and recoiled.

 

The coffin was empty!

 

For several minutes no one spoke a word.  The silence was broken by

Quincey Morris, “Professor, I answered for you.  Your word is all I

want.  I wouldn’t ask such a thing ordinarily, I wouldn’t so dishonour

you as to imply a doubt, but this is a mystery that goes beyond any

honour or dishonour.  Is this your doing?”

 

“I swear to you by all that I hold sacred that I have not removed or

touched her.  What happened was this.  Two nights ago my friend Seward

and I came here, with good purpose, believe me.  I opened that coffin,

which was then sealed up, and we found it as now, empty.  We then

waited, and saw something white come through the trees.  The next day

we came here in daytime and she lay there.  Did she not, friend John?

 

“Yes.”

 

“That night we were just in time.  One more so small child was

missing, and we find it, thank God, unharmed amongst the graves.

Yesterday I came here before sundown, for at sundown the UnDead can

move.  I waited here all night till the sun rose, but I saw nothing.

It was most probable that it was because I had laid over the clamps of

those doors garlic, which the UnDead cannot bear, and other things

which they shun.  Last night there was no exodus, so tonight before

the sundown I took away my garlic and other things.  And so it is we

find this coffin empty.  But bear with me.  So far there is much that

is strange.  Wait you with me outside, unseen and unheard, and things

much stranger are yet to be.  So,” here he shut the dark slide of his

lantern, “now to the outside.”  He opened the door, and we filed out,

he coming last and locking the door behind him.

 

Oh!  But it seemed fresh and pure in the night air after the terror of

that vault.  How sweet it was to see the clouds race by, and the

passing gleams of the moonlight between the scudding clouds crossing

and passing, like the gladness and sorrow of a man’s life.  How sweet

it was to breathe the fresh air, that had no taint of death and decay.

How humanizing to see the red lighting of the sky beyond the hill, and

to hear far away the muffled roar that marks the life of a great

city.  Each in his own way was solemn and overcome.  Arthur was

silent, and was, I could see, striving to grasp the purpose and the

inner meaning of the mystery.  I was myself tolerably patient, and

half inclined again to throw aside doubt and to accept Van Helsing’s

conclusions.  Quincey Morris was phlegmatic in the way of a man who

accepts all things, and accepts them in the spirit of cool bravery,

with hazard of all he has at stake.  Not being able to smoke, he cut

himself a good-sized plug of tobacco and began to chew.  As to Van

Helsing, he was employed in a definite way.  First he took from his

bag a mass of what looked like thin, wafer-like biscuit, which was

carefully rolled up in a white napkin.  Next he took out a double

handful of some whitish stuff, like dough or putty.  He crumbled the

wafer up fine and worked it into the mass between his hands.  This he

then took, and rolling it into thin strips, began to lay them into the

crevices between the door and its setting in the tomb.  I was somewhat

puzzled at this, and being close, asked him what it was that he was

doing.  Arthur and Quincey drew near also, as they too were curious.

 

He answered, “I am closing the tomb so that the UnDead may not enter.”

 

“And is that stuff you have there going to do it?”

 

“It is.”

 

“What is that which you are using?”  This time the question was by

Arthur.  Van Helsing reverently lifted his hat as he answered.

 

“The Host.  I brought it from Amsterdam.  I have an Indulgence.”

 

It was an answer that appalled the most sceptical of us, and we felt

individually that in the presence of such earnest purpose as the

Professor’s, a purpose which could thus use the to him most sacred of

things, it was impossible to distrust.  In respectful silence we took

the places assigned to us close round the tomb, but hidden from the

sight of any one approaching.  I pitied the others, especially Arthur.

I had myself been apprenticed by my former visits to this watching

horror, and yet I, who had up to an hour ago repudiated the proofs,

felt my heart sink within me.  Never did tombs look so ghastly white.

Never did cypress, or yew, or juniper so seem the embodiment of

funeral gloom.  Never did tree or grass wave or rustle so ominously.

Never did bough creak so mysteriously, and never did the far-away

howling of dogs send such a woeful presage through the night.

 

There was a long spell of silence, big, aching, void, and then from

the Professor a keen “S-s-s-s!”  He pointed, and far down the avenue of

yews we saw a white figure advance, a dim white figure, which held

something dark at its breast.  The figure stopped, and at the moment a

ray of moonlight fell upon the masses of driving clouds, and showed in

startling prominence a dark-haired woman, dressed in the cerements of

the grave.  We could not see the face, for it was bent down over what

we saw to be a fair-haired child.  There was a pause and a sharp

little cry, such as a child gives in sleep, or a dog as it lies before

the fire and dreams.  We were starting forward, but the Professor’s

warning hand, seen by us as he stood behind a yew tree, kept us back.

And then as we looked the white figure moved forwards again.  It was

now near enough for us to see clearly, and the moonlight still held.

My own heart grew cold as ice, and I could hear the gasp of Arthur, as

we recognized the features of Lucy Westenra.  Lucy Westenra, but yet

how changed.  The sweetness was turned to adamantine, heartless

cruelty, and the purity to voluptuous wantonness.

 

Van Helsing stepped out, and obedient to his gesture, we all advanced

too.  The four of us ranged in a line before the door of the tomb.  Van

Helsing raised his lantern and drew the slide.  By the concentrated

light that fell on Lucy’s face we could see that the lips were crimson

with fresh blood, and that the stream had trickled over her chin and

stained the purity of her lawn death-robe.

 

We shuddered with horror.  I could see by the tremulous light that

even Van Helsing’s iron nerve had failed.  Arthur was next to me, and

if I had not seized his arm and held him up, he would have fallen.

 

When Lucy, I call the thing that was before us Lucy because it bore

her shape, saw us she drew back with an angry snarl, such as a cat

gives when taken unawares, then her eyes ranged over us.  Lucy’s eyes

in form and colour, but Lucy’s eyes unclean and full of hell fire,

instead of the pure, gentle orbs we knew.  At that moment the remnant

of my love passed into hate and loathing.  Had she then to be killed,

I could have done it with savage delight.  As she looked, her eyes

blazed with unholy light, and the face became wreathed with a

voluptuous smile.  Oh, God, how it made me shudder to see it!  With a

careless motion, she flung to the ground, callous as a devil, the

child that up to now she had clutched strenuously to her breast,

growling over it as a dog growls over a bone.  The child gave a sharp

cry, and lay there moaning.  There was a cold-bloodedness in the act

which wrung a groan from Arthur.  When she advanced to him with

outstretched arms and a wanton smile he fell back and hid his face in

his hands.

 

She still advanced, however, and with a languorous, voluptuous grace,

said, “Come to me, Arthur.  Leave these others and come to me.  My

arms are hungry for you.  Come, and we can rest together.  Come, my

husband, come!”

 

There was something diabolically sweet in her tones, something of the

tinkling of glass when struck, which rang through the brains even of

us who heard the words addressed to another.

 

As for Arthur, he seemed under a spell, moving his hands from his

face, he opened wide his arms.  She was leaping for them, when Van

Helsing sprang forward and held between them his little golden

crucifix.  She recoiled from it, and, with a suddenly distorted face,

full of rage, dashed past him as if to enter the tomb.

 

When within a foot or two of the door, however, she stopped, as if

arrested by some irresistible force.  Then she turned, and her face

was shown in the clear burst of moonlight and by the lamp, which had

now no quiver from Van Helsing’s nerves.  Never did I see such baffled

malice on a face, and never, I trust, shall such ever be seen again by

mortal eyes.  The beautiful colour became livid, the eyes seemed to

throw out sparks of hell fire, the brows were wrinkled as though the

folds of flesh were the coils of Medusa’s snakes, and the lovely,

blood-stained mouth grew to an open square, as in the passion masks of

the Greeks and Japanese.  If ever a face meant death, if looks could

kill, we saw it at that moment.

 

And so for full half a minute, which seemed an eternity, she remained

between the lifted crucifix and the sacred closing of her means of

entry.

 

Van Helsing broke the silence by asking Arthur, “Answer me, oh my

friend!  Am I to proceed in my work?”

 

“Do as you will, friend.  Do as you will.  There can be no horror like

this ever any more.”  And he groaned in spirit.

 

Quincey and I simultaneously moved towards him, and took his arms.  We

could hear the click of the closing lantern as Van Helsing held it

down.  Coming close to the tomb, he began to remove from the chinks

some of the sacred emblem which he had placed there.  We all looked on

with horrified amazement as we saw, when he stood back, the woman,

with a corporeal body as real at that moment as our own, pass through

the interstice where scarce a knife blade could have gone.  We all

felt a glad sense of relief when we saw the Professor calmly restoring

the strings of putty to the edges of the door.

 

When this was done, he lifted the child and said, “Come now, my

friends.  We can do no more till tomorrow.  There is a funeral at

noon, so here we shall all come before long after that.  The friends

of the dead will all be gone by two, and when the sexton locks the

gate we shall remain.  Then there is more to do, but not like this of

tonight.  As for this little one, he is not much harmed, and by

tomorrow night he shall be well.  We shall leave him where the police

will find him, as on the other night, and then to home.”

 

Coming close to Arthur, he said, “My friend Arthur, you have had a sore

trial, but after, when you look back, you will see how it was

necessary.  You are now in the bitter waters, my child.  By this time

tomorrow you will, please God, have passed them, and have drunk of the

sweet waters.  So do not mourn over-much.  Till then I shall not ask

you to forgive me.”

 

Arthur and Quincey came home with me, and we tried to cheer each other

on the way.  We had left behind the child in safety, and were tired.

So we all slept with more or less reality of sleep.

 

 

29 September, night.–A little before twelve o’clock we three, Arthur,

Quincey Morris, and myself, called for the Professor.  It was odd to

notice that by common consent we had all put on black clothes.  Of

course, Arthur wore black, for he was in deep mourning, but the rest

of us wore it by instinct.  We got to the graveyard by half-past one,

and strolled about, keeping out of official observation, so that when

the gravediggers had completed their task and the sexton, under the

belief that every one had gone, had locked the gate, we had the place

all to ourselves.  Van Helsing, instead of his little black bag, had

with him a long leather one, something like a cricketing bag.  It was

manifestly of fair weight.

 

When we were alone and had heard the last of the footsteps die out up

the road, we silently, and as if by ordered intention, followed the

Professor to the tomb.  He unlocked the door, and we entered, closing

it behind us.  Then he took from his bag the lantern, which he lit,

and also two wax candles, which, when lighted, he stuck by melting

their own ends, on other coffins, so that they might give light

sufficient to work by.  When he again lifted the lid off Lucy’s coffin

we all looked, Arthur trembling like an aspen, and saw that the corpse

lay there in all its death beauty.  But there was no love in my own

heart, nothing but loathing for the foul Thing which had taken Lucy’s

shape without her soul.  I could see even Arthur’s face grow hard as

he looked.  Presently he said to Van Helsing, “Is this really Lucy’s

body, or only a demon in her shape?”

 

“It is her body, and yet not it.  But wait a while, and you shall see

her as she was, and is.”

 

She seemed like a nightmare of Lucy as she lay there, the pointed

teeth, the blood stained, voluptuous mouth, which made one shudder to

see, the whole carnal and unspirited appearance, seeming like a

devilish mockery of Lucy’s sweet purity.  Van Helsing, with his usual

methodicalness, began taking the various contents from his bag and

placing them ready for use.  First he took out a soldering iron and

some plumbing solder, and then small oil lamp, which gave out, when

lit in a corner of the tomb, gas which burned at a fierce heat with a

blue flame, then his operating knives, which he placed to hand, and

last a round wooden stake, some two and a half or three inches thick

and about three feet long.  One end of it was hardened by charring in

the fire, and was sharpened to a fine point.  With this stake came a

heavy hammer, such as in households is used in the coal cellar for

breaking the lumps.  To me, a doctor’s preparations for work of any

kind are stimulating and bracing, but the effect of these things on

both Arthur and Quincey was to cause them a sort of consternation.

They both, however, kept their courage, and remained silent and quiet.

 

When all was ready, Van Helsing said, “Before we do anything, let me

tell you this.  It is out of the lore and experience of the ancients

and of all those who have studied the powers of the UnDead.  When they

become such, there comes with the change the curse of immortality.

They cannot die, but must go on age after age adding new victims and

multiplying the evils of the world.  For all that die from the preying

of the Undead become themselves Undead, and prey on their kind.  And

so the circle goes on ever widening, like as the ripples from a stone

thrown in the water.  Friend Arthur, if you had met that kiss which

you know of before poor Lucy die, or again, last night when you open

your arms to her, you would in time, when you had died, have become

nosferatu, as they call it in Eastern Europe, and would for all time

make more of those Un-Deads that so have filled us with horror.  The

career of this so unhappy dear lady is but just begun.  Those children

whose blood she sucked are not as yet so much the worse, but if she

lives on, UnDead, more and more they lose their blood and by her power

over them they come to her, and so she draw their blood with that so

wicked mouth.  But if she die in truth, then all cease.  The tiny

wounds of the throats disappear, and they go back to their play

unknowing ever of what has been.  But of the most blessed of all, when

this now UnDead be made to rest as true dead, then the soul of the

poor lady whom we love shall again be free.  Instead of working

wickedness by night and growing more debased in the assimilating of it

by day, she shall take her place with the other Angels.  So that, my

friend, it will be a blessed hand for her that shall strike the blow

that sets her free.  To this I am willing, but is there none amongst

us who has a better right?  Will it be no joy to think of hereafter in

the silence of the night when sleep is not, ‘It was my hand that sent

her to the stars.  It was the hand of him that loved her best, the

hand that of all she would herself have chosen, had it been to her to

choose?’  Tell me if there be such a one amongst us?”

 

We all looked at Arthur.  He saw too, what we all did, the infinite

kindness which suggested that his should be the hand which would

restore Lucy to us as a holy, and not an unholy, memory.  He stepped

forward and said bravely, though his hand trembled, and his face was

as pale as snow, “My true friend, from the bottom of my broken heart I

thank you.  Tell me what I am to do, and I shall not falter!”

 

Van Helsing laid a hand on his shoulder, and said, “Brave lad!  A

moment’s courage, and it is done.  This stake must be driven through

her.  It well be a fearful ordeal, be not deceived in that, but it

will be only a short time, and you will then rejoice more than your

pain was great.  From this grim tomb you will emerge as though you

tread on air.  But you must not falter when once you have begun.  Only

think that we, your true friends, are round you, and that we pray for

you all the time.”

 

“Go on,” said Arthur hoarsely.  “Tell me what I am to do.”

 

“Take this stake in your left hand, ready to place to the point over

the heart, and the hammer in your right.  Then when we begin our

prayer for the dead, I shall read him, I have here the book, and the

others shall follow, strike in God’s name, that so all may be well

with the dead that we love and that the UnDead pass away.”

 

Arthur took the stake and the hammer, and when once his mind was set

on action his hands never trembled nor even quivered.  Van Helsing

opened his missal and began to read, and Quincey and I followed as

well as we could.

 

Arthur placed the point over the heart, and as I looked I could see its

dint in the white flesh.  Then he struck with all his might.

 

The thing in the coffin writhed, and a hideous, blood-curdling screech

came from the opened red lips.  The body shook and quivered and

twisted in wild contortions.  The sharp white teeth champed together till

the lips were cut, and the mouth was smeared with a crimson foam.  But

Arthur never faltered.  He looked like a figure of Thor as his

untrembling arm rose and fell, driving deeper and deeper the

mercy-bearing stake, whilst the blood from the pierced heart welled

and spurted up around it.  His face was set, and high duty seemed to

shine through it.  The sight of it gave us courage so that our voices

seemed to ring through the little vault.

 

And then the writhing and quivering of the body became less, and the

teeth seemed to champ, and the face to quiver.  Finally it lay still.

The terrible task was over.

 

The hammer fell from Arthur’s hand.  He reeled and would have fallen

had we not caught him.  The great drops of sweat sprang from his

forehead, and his breath came in broken gasps.  It had indeed been an

awful strain on him, and had he not been forced to his task by more

than human considerations he could never have gone through with it.

For a few minutes we were so taken up with him that we did not look

towards the coffin.  When we did, however, a murmur of startled

surprise ran from one to the other of us.  We gazed so eagerly that

Arthur rose, for he had been seated on the ground, and came and looked

too, and then a glad strange light broke over his face and dispelled

altogether the gloom of horror that lay upon it.

 

There, in the coffin lay no longer the foul Thing that we had so

dreaded and grown to hate that the work of her destruction was yielded

as a privilege to the one best entitled to it, but Lucy as we had seen

her in life, with her face of unequalled sweetness and purity.  True

that there were there, as we had seen them in life, the traces of care

and pain and waste.  But these were all dear to us, for they marked

her truth to what we knew.  One and all we felt that the holy calm

that lay like sunshine over the wasted face and form was only an

earthly token and symbol of the calm that was to reign for ever.

 

Van Helsing came and laid his hand on Arthur’s shoulder, and said to

him, “And now, Arthur my friend, dear lad, am I not forgiven?”

 

The reaction of the terrible strain came as he took the old man’s hand

in his, and raising it to his lips, pressed it, and said, “Forgiven!

God bless you that you have given my dear one her soul again, and me

peace.”  He put his hands on the Professor’s shoulder, and laying his

head on his breast, cried for a while silently, whilst we stood

unmoving.

 

When he raised his head Van Helsing said to him, “And now, my child,

you may kiss her.  Kiss her dead lips if you will, as she would have

you to, if for her to choose.  For she is not a grinning devil now,

not any more a foul Thing for all eternity.  No longer she is the

devil’s UnDead.  She is God’s true dead, whose soul is with Him!”

 

Arthur bent and kissed her, and then we sent him and Quincey out of the

tomb.  The Professor and I sawed the top off the stake, leaving the

point of it in the body.  Then we cut off the head and filled the

mouth with garlic.  We soldered up the leaden coffin, screwed on the

coffin lid, and gathering up our belongings, came away.  When the

Professor locked the door he gave the key to Arthur.

 

Outside the air was sweet, the sun shone, and the birds sang, and it

seemed as if all nature were tuned to a different pitch.  There was

gladness and mirth and peace everywhere, for we were at rest ourselves

on one account, and we were glad, though it was with a tempered joy.

 

Before we moved away Van Helsing said, “Now, my friends, one step of

our work is done, one the most harrowing to ourselves.  But there

remains a greater task: to find out the author of all this our sorrow

and to stamp him out.  I have clues which we can follow, but it is a

long task, and a difficult one, and there is danger in it, and pain.

Shall you not all help me?  We have learned to believe, all of us, is

it not so?  And since so, do we not see our duty?  Yes!  And do we not

promise to go on to the bitter end?”

 

Each in turn, we took his hand, and the promise was made.  Then said

the Professor as we moved off, “Two nights hence you shall meet with

me and dine together at seven of the clock with friend John.  I shall

entreat two others, two that you know not as yet, and I shall be ready

to all our work show and our plans unfold.  Friend John, you come with

me home, for I have much to consult you about, and you can help me.

Tonight I leave for Amsterdam, but shall return tomorrow night.  And

then begins our great quest.  But first I shall have much to say, so

that you may know what to do and to dread.  Then our promise shall be

made to each other anew.  For there is a terrible task before us, and

once our feet are on the ploughshare we must not draw back.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 17

 

 

1. SEWARD’S DIARY–cont.

 

When we arrived at the Berkely Hotel, Van Helsing found a telegram

waiting for him.

 

“Am coming up by train.  Jonathan at Whitby.  Important news.  Mina

Harker.”

 

 

The Professor was delighted.  “Ah, that wonderful Madam Mina,” he

said, “pearl among women!  She arrive, but I cannot stay.  She must go

to your house, friend John.  You must meet her at the station.

Telegraph her en route so that she may be prepared.”

 

When the wire was dispatched he had a cup of tea.  Over it he told me

of a diary kept by Jonathan Harker when abroad, and gave me a

typewritten copy of it, as also of Mrs. Harker’s diary at Whitby.

“Take these,” he said, “and study them well.  When I have returned you

will be master of all the facts, and we can then better enter on our

inquisition.  Keep them safe, for there is in them much of treasure.

You will need all your faith, even you who have had such an experience

as that of today.  What is here told,” he laid his hand heavily and

gravely on the packet of papers as he spoke, “may be the beginning of

the end to you and me and many another, or it may sound the knell of

the UnDead who walk the earth.  Read all, I pray you, with the open

mind, and if you can add in any way to the story here told do so, for

it is all important.  You have kept a diary of all these so strange

things, is it not so?  Yes!  Then we shall go through all these

together when we meet.”  He then made ready for his departure and

shortly drove off to Liverpool Street.  I took my way to Paddington,

where I arrived about fifteen minutes before the train came in.

 

The crowd melted away, after the bustling fashion common to arrival

platforms, and I was beginning to feel uneasy, lest I might miss my

guest, when a sweet-faced, dainty looking girl stepped up to me, and

after a quick glance said, “Dr. Seward, is it not?”

 

“And you are Mrs. Harker!” I answered at once, whereupon she held out

her hand.

 

“I knew you from the description of poor dear Lucy, but . . .”  She

stopped suddenly, and a quick blush overspread her face.

 

The blush that rose to my own cheeks somehow set us both at ease, for

it was a tacit answer to her own.  I got her luggage, which included a

typewriter, and we took the Underground to Fenchurch Street, after I

had sent a wire to my housekeeper to have a sitting room and a bedroom

prepared at once for Mrs. Harker.

 

In due time we arrived.  She knew, of course, that the place was a

lunatic asylum, but I could see that she was unable to repress a

shudder when we entered.

 

She told me that, if she might, she would come presently to my study,

as she had much to say.  So here I am finishing my entry in my

phonograph diary whilst I await her.  As yet I have not had the chance

of looking at the papers which Van Helsing left with me, though they

lie open before me.  I must get her interested in something, so that I

may have an opportunity of reading them.  She does not know how

precious time is, or what a task we have in hand.  I must be careful

not to frighten her.  Here she is!

 

 

 

 

MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL

 

29 September.–After I had tidied myself, I went down to Dr. Seward’s

study.  At the door I paused a moment, for I thought I heard him

talking with some one.  As, however, he had pressed me to be quick, I

knocked at the door, and on his calling out, “Come in,” I entered.

 

To my intense surprise, there was no one with him.  He was quite

alone, and on the table opposite him was what I knew at once from the

description to be a phonograph.  I had never seen one, and was much

interested.

 

“I hope I did not keep you waiting,” I said, “but I stayed at the door

as I heard you talking, and thought there was someone with you.”

 

“Oh,” he replied with a smile, “I was only entering my diary.”

 

“Your diary?” I asked him in surprise.

 

“Yes,” he answered.  “I keep it in this.”  As he spoke he laid his

hand on the phonograph.  I felt quite excited over it, and blurted

out, “Why, this beats even shorthand!  May I hear it say something?”

 

“Certainly,” he replied with alacrity, and stood up to put it in train

for speaking.  Then he paused, and a troubled look overspread his

face.

 

“The fact is,” he began awkwardly, “I only keep my diary in it, and as

it is entirely, almost entirely, about my cases it may be awkward,

that is, I mean . . .”  He stopped, and I tried to help him out of his

embarrassment.

 

“You helped to attend dear Lucy at the end.  Let me hear how she died,

for all that I know of her, I shall be very grateful.  She was very,

very dear to me.”

 

To my surprise, he answered, with a horrorstruck look in his face,

“Tell you of her death?  Not for the wide world!”

 

“Why not?” I asked, for some grave, terrible feeling was coming over me.

 

Again he paused, and I could see that he was trying to invent an

excuse.  At length, he stammered out, “You see, I do not know how to

pick out any particular part of the diary.”

 

Even while he was speaking an idea dawned upon him, and he said with

unconscious simplicity, in a different voice, and with the naivete of

a child, “that’s quite true, upon my honour.  Honest Indian!”

 

I could not but smile, at which he grimaced.  “I gave myself away that

time!” he said.  “But do you know that, although I have kept the diary

for months past, it never once struck me how I was going to find any

particular part of it in case I wanted to look it up?”

 

By this time my mind was made up that the diary of a doctor who

attended Lucy might have something to add to the sum of our knowledge

of that terrible Being, and I said boldly, “Then, Dr. Seward, you had

better let me copy it out for you on my typewriter.”

 

He grew to a positively deathly pallor as he said, “No!  No!  No!  For

all the world.  I wouldn’t let you know that terrible story!”

 

Then it was terrible.  My intuition was right!  For a moment, I

thought, and as my eyes ranged the room, unconsciously looking for

something or some opportunity to aid me, they lit on a great batch of

typewriting on the table.  His eyes caught the look in mine, and

without his thinking, followed their direction.  As they saw the

parcel he realized my meaning.

 

“You do not know me,” I said.  “When you have read those papers, my

own diary and my husband’s also, which I have typed, you will know me

better.  I have not faltered in giving every thought of my own heart

in this cause.  But, of course, you do not know me, yet, and I must

not expect you to trust me so far.”

 

He is certainly a man of noble nature.  Poor dear Lucy was right about

him.  He stood up and opened a large drawer, in which were arranged in

order a number of hollow cylinders of metal covered with dark wax, and

said,

 

“You are quite right.  I did not trust you because I did not know

you.  But I know you now, and let me say that I should have known you

long ago.  I know that Lucy told you of me.  She told me of you too.

May I make the only atonement in my power?  Take the cylinders and

hear them.  The first half-dozen of them are personal to me, and they

will not horrify you.  Then you will know me better.  Dinner will by

then be ready.  In the meantime I shall read over some of these

documents, and shall be better able to understand certain things.”

 

He carried the phonograph himself up to my sitting room and adjusted

it for me.  Now I shall learn something pleasant, I am sure.  For it

will tell me the other side of a true love episode of which I know one

side already.

 

 

 

 

1. SEWARD’S DIARY

 

29 September.–I was so absorbed in that wonderful diary of Jonathan

Harker and that other of his wife that I let the time run on without

thinking.  Mrs. Harker was not down when the maid came to announce

dinner, so I said, “She is possibly tired.  Let dinner wait an hour,”

and I went on with my work.  I had just finished Mrs. Harker’s diary,

when she came in.  She looked sweetly pretty, but very sad, and her

eyes were flushed with crying.  This somehow moved me much.  Of late I

have had cause for tears, God knows!  But the relief of them was

denied me, and now the sight of those sweet eyes, brightened by recent

tears, went straight to my heart.  So I said as gently as I could, “I

greatly fear I have distressed you.”

 

“Oh, no, not distressed me,” she replied.  “But I have been more

touched than I can say by your grief.  That is a wonderful machine,

but it is cruelly true.  It told me, in its very tones, the anguish of

your heart.  It was like a soul crying out to Almighty God.  No one

must hear them spoken ever again!  See, I have tried to be useful.  I

have copied out the words on my typewriter, and none other need now

hear your heart beat, as I did.”

 

“No one need ever know, shall ever know,” I said in a low voice.  She

laid her hand on mine and said very gravely, “Ah, but they must!”

 

“Must!  But why?” I asked.

 

“Because it is a part of the terrible story, a part of poor Lucy’s

death and all that led to it.  Because in the struggle which we have

before us to rid the earth of this terrible monster we must have all

the knowledge and all the help which we can get.  I think that the

cylinders which you gave me contained more than you intended me to

know.  But I can see that there are in your record many lights to this

dark mystery.  You will let me help, will you not?  I know all up to a

certain point, and I see already, though your diary only took me to 7

September, how poor Lucy was beset, and how her terrible doom was

being wrought out.  Jonathan and I have been working day and night

since Professor Van Helsing saw us.  He is gone to Whitby to get more

information, and he will be here tomorrow to help us.  We need have no

secrets amongst us.  Working together and with absolute trust, we can

surely be stronger than if some of us were in the dark.”

 

She looked at me so appealingly, and at the same time manifested such

courage and resolution in her bearing, that I gave in at once to her

wishes.  “You shall,” I said, “do as you like in the matter.  God

forgive me if I do wrong!  There are terrible things yet to learn of,

but if you have so far traveled on the road to poor Lucy’s death, you

will not be content, I know, to remain in the dark.  Nay, the end, the

very end, may give you a gleam of peace.  Come, there is dinner.  We

must keep one another strong for what is before us.  We have a cruel

and dreadful task.  When you have eaten you shall learn the rest, and

I shall answer any questions you ask, if there be anything which you

do not understand, though it was apparent to us who were present.”

 

 

 

MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL

 

29 September.–After dinner I came with Dr. Seward to his study.  He

brought back the phonograph from my room, and I took a chair, and

arranged the phonograph so that I could touch it without getting up,

and showed me how to stop it in case I should want to pause.  Then he

very thoughtfully took a chair, with his back to me, so that I might

be as free as possible, and began to read.  I put the forked metal to

my ears and listened.

 

When the terrible story of Lucy’s death, and all that followed, was

done, I lay back in my chair powerless.  Fortunately I am not of a

fainting disposition.  When Dr. Seward saw me he jumped up with a

horrified exclamation, and hurriedly taking a case bottle from the

cupboard, gave me some brandy, which in a few minutes somewhat

restored me.  My brain was all in a whirl, and only that there came

through all the multitude of horrors, the holy ray of light that my

dear Lucy was at last at peace, I do not think I could have borne it

without making a scene.  It is all so wild and mysterious, and strange

that if I had not known Jonathan’s experience in Transylvania I could

not have believed.  As it was, I didn’t know what to believe, and so

got out of my difficulty by attending to something else.  I took the

cover off my typewriter, and said to Dr. Seward,

 

“Let me write this all out now.  We must be ready for Dr. Van Helsing

when he comes.  I have sent a telegram to Jonathan to come on here

when he arrives in London from Whitby.  In this matter dates are

everything, and I think that if we get all of our material ready, and

have every item put in chronological order, we shall have done much.

 

“You tell me that Lord Godalming and Mr. Morris are coming too.  Let

us be able to tell them when they come.”

 

He accordingly set the phonograph at a slow pace, and I began to

typewrite from the beginning of the seventeenth cylinder.  I used

manifold, and so took three copies of the diary, just as I had done

with the rest.  It was late when I got through, but Dr. Seward went

about his work of going his round of the patients.  When he had

finished he came back and sat near me, reading, so that I did not feel

too lonely whilst I worked.  How good and thoughtful he is.  The world

seems full of good men, even if there are monsters in it.

 

Before I left him I remembered what Jonathan put in his diary of the

Professor’s perturbation at reading something in an evening paper at

the station at Exeter, so, seeing that Dr. Seward keeps his

newspapers, I borrowed the files of ‘The Westminster Gazette’ and ‘The

Pall Mall Gazette’ and took them to my room.  I remember how much the

‘Dailygraph’ and ‘The Whitby Gazette’, of which I had made cuttings,

had helped us to understand the terrible events at Whitby when Count

Dracula landed, so I shall look through the evening papers since then,

and perhaps I shall get some new light.  I am not sleepy, and the work

will help to keep me quiet.

 

 

 

 

1. SEWARD’S DIARY

 

30 September.–Mr. Harker arrived at nine o’clock.  He got his wife’s

wire just before starting.  He is uncommonly clever, if one can judge

from his face, and full of energy.  If this journal be true, and

judging by one’s own wonderful experiences, it must be, he is also a

man of great nerve.  That going down to the vault a second time was a

remarkable piece of daring.  After reading his account of it I was

prepared to meet a good specimen of manhood, but hardly the quiet,

businesslike gentleman who came here today.

 

 

LATER.–After lunch Harker and his wife went back to their own room,

and as I passed a while ago I heard the click of the typewriter.  They

are hard at it.  Mrs. Harker says that they are knitting together in

chronological order every scrap of evidence they have.  Harker has got

the letters between the consignee of the boxes at Whitby and the

carriers in London who took charge of them.  He is now reading his

wife’s transcript of my diary.  I wonder what they make out of it.

Here it is . . .

 

Strange that it never struck me that the very next house might be the

Count’s hiding place!  Goodness knows that we had enough clues from

the conduct of the patient Renfield!  The bundle of letters relating

to the purchase of the house were with the transcript.  Oh, if we had

only had them earlier we might have saved poor Lucy!  Stop!  That way

madness lies!  Harker has gone back, and is again collecting material.

He says that by dinner time they will be able to show a whole

connected narrative.  He thinks that in the meantime I should see

Renfield, as hitherto he has been a sort of index to the coming and

going of the Count.  I hardly see this yet, but when I get at the

dates I suppose I shall.  What a good thing that Mrs. Harker put my

cylinders into type!  We never could have found the dates otherwise.

 

I found Renfield sitting placidly in his room with his hands folded,

smiling benignly.  At the moment he seemed as sane as any one I ever

saw.  I sat down and talked with him on a lot of subjects, all of

which he treated naturally.  He then, of his own accord, spoke of

going home, a subject he has never mentioned to my knowledge during

his sojourn here.  In fact, he spoke quite confidently of getting his

discharge at once.  I believe that, had I not had the chat with Harker

and read the letters and the dates of his outbursts, I should have

been prepared to sign for him after a brief time of observation.  As

it is, I am darkly suspicious.  All those out-breaks were in some way

linked with the proximity of the Count.  What then does this absolute

content mean?  Can it be that his instinct is satisfied as to the

vampire’s ultimate triumph?  Stay.  He is himself zoophagous, and in

his wild ravings outside the chapel door of the deserted house he

always spoke of ‘master’.  This all seems confirmation of our idea.

However, after a while I came away.  My friend is just a little too

sane at present to make it safe to probe him too deep with questions.

He might begin to think, and then . . . So I came away.  I mistrust

these quiet moods of his, so I have given the attendant a hint to

look closely after him, and to have a strait waistcoat ready in case

of need.

 

 

 

 

 

JOHNATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL

 

29 September, in train to London.–When I received Mr. Billington’s

courteous message that he would give me any information in his power I

thought it best to go down to Whitby and make, on the spot, such

inquiries as I wanted.  It was now my object to trace that horrid

cargo of the Count’s to its place in London.  Later, we may be able to

deal with it.  Billington junior, a nice lad, met me at the station,

and brought me to his father’s house, where they had decided that I

must spend the night.  They are hospitable, with true Yorkshire

hospitality, give a guest everything and leave him to do as he likes.

They all knew that I was busy, and that my stay was short, and Mr.

Billington had ready in his office all the papers concerning the

consignment of boxes.  It gave me almost a turn to see again one of

the letters which I had seen on the Count’s table before I knew of his

diabolical plans.  Everything had been carefully thought out, and done

systematically and with precision.  He seemed to have been prepared

for every obstacle which might be placed by accident in the way of his

intentions being carried out.  To use an Americanism, he had ‘taken no

chances’, and the absolute accuracy with which his instructions were

fulfilled was simply the logical result of his care.  I saw the

invoice, and took note of it.  ‘Fifty cases of common earth, to be used

for experimental purposes’.  Also the copy of the letter to Carter

Paterson, and their reply.  Of both these I got copies.  This was all

the information Mr. Billington could give me, so I went down to the

port and saw the coastguards, the Customs Officers and the harbour

master, who kindly put me in communication with the men who had

actually received the boxes.  Their tally was exact with the list, and

they had nothing to add to the simple description ‘fifty cases of

common earth’, except that the boxes were ‘main and mortal heavy’, and

that shifting them was dry work.  One of them added that it was hard

lines that there wasn’t any gentleman ‘such like as like yourself,

squire’, to show some sort of appreciation of their efforts in a

liquid form.  Another put in a rider that the thirst then generated

was such that even the time which had elapsed had not completely

allayed it.  Needless to add, I took care before leaving to lift,

forever and adequately, this source of reproach.

 

30 September.–The station master was good enough to give me a line to

his old companion the station master at King’s Cross, so that when I

arrived there in the morning I was able to ask him about the arrival

of the boxes.  He, too put me at once in communication with the proper

officials, and I saw that their tally was correct with the original

invoice.  The opportunities of acquiring an abnormal thirst had been

here limited.  A noble use of them had, however, been made, and again

I was compelled to deal with the result in ex post facto manner.

 

From thence I went to Carter Paterson’s central office, where I met

with the utmost courtesy.  They looked up the transaction in their day

book and letter book, and at once telephoned to their King’s Cross

office for more details.  By good fortune, the men who did the teaming

were waiting for work, and the official at once sent them over,

sending also by one of them the way-bill and all the papers connected

with the delivery of the boxes at Carfax.  Here again I found the

tally agreeing exactly.  The carriers’ men were able to supplement the

paucity of the written words with a few more details.  These were, I

shortly found, connected almost solely with the dusty nature of the

job, and the consequent thirst engendered in the operators.  On my

affording an opportunity, through the medium of the currency of the

realm, of the allaying, at a later period, this beneficial evil, one

of the men remarked,

 

“That ‘ere ‘ouse, guv’nor, is the rummiest I ever was in.  Blyme!  But

it ain’t been touched sence a hundred years.  There was dust that

thick in the place that you might have slep’ on it without ‘urtin’ of

yer bones.  An’ the place was that neglected that yer might ‘ave

smelled ole Jerusalem in it.  But the old chapel, that took the cike,

that did!  Me and my mate, we thort we wouldn’t never git out quick

enough.  Lor’, I wouldn’t take less nor a quid a moment to stay there

arter dark.”

 

Having been in the house, I could well believe him, but if he knew

what I know, he would, I think have raised his terms.

 

Of one thing I am now satisfied.  That all those boxes which arrived at

Whitby from Varna in the Demeter were safely deposited in the old

chapel at Carfax.  There should be fifty of them there, unless any

have since been removed, as from Dr. Seward’s diary I fear.

 

 

Later.–Mina and I have worked all day, and we have put all the papers

into order.

 

 

 

 

MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL

 

30 September.–I am so glad that I hardly know how to contain myself.

It is, I suppose, the reaction from the haunting fear which I have

had, that this terrible affair and the reopening of his old wound

might act detrimentally on Jonathan.  I saw him leave for Whitby with

as brave a face as could, but I was sick with apprehension.  The

effort has, however, done him good.  He was never so resolute, never

so strong, never so full of volcanic energy, as at present.  It is

just as that dear, good Professor Van Helsing said, he is true grit,

and he improves under strain that would kill a weaker nature.  He came

back full of life and hope and determination.  We have got everything

in order for tonight.  I feel myself quite wild with excitement.  I

suppose one ought to pity anything so hunted as the Count.  That is

just it.  This thing is not human, not even a beast.  To read Dr.

Seward’s account of poor Lucy’s death, and what followed, is enough to

dry up the springs of pity in one’s heart.

 

 

Later.–Lord Godalming and Mr. Morris arrived earlier than we

expected.  Dr. Seward was out on business, and had taken Jonathan with

him, so I had to see them.  It was to me a painful meeting, for it

brought back all poor dear Lucy’s hopes of only a few months ago.  Of

course they had heard Lucy speak of me, and it seemed that Dr. Van

Helsing, too, had been quite ‘blowing my trumpet’, as Mr. Morris

expressed it.  Poor fellows, neither of them is aware that I know all

about the proposals they made to Lucy.  They did not quite know what

to say or do, as they were ignorant of the amount of my knowledge.  So

they had to keep on neutral subjects.  However, I thought the matter

over, and came to the conclusion that the best thing I could do would

be to post them on affairs right up to date.  I knew from Dr. Seward’s

diary that they had been at Lucy’s death, her real death, and that I

need not fear to betray any secret before the time.  So I told them,

as well as I could, that I had read all the papers and diaries, and

that my husband and I, having typewritten them, had just finished

putting them in order.  I gave them each a copy to read in the

library.  When Lord Godalming got his and turned it over, it does make

a pretty good pile, he said, “Did you write all this, Mrs. Harker?”

 

I nodded, and he went on.

 

“I don’t quite see the drift of it, but you people are all so good and

kind, and have been working so earnestly and so energetically, that

all I can do is to accept your ideas blindfold and try to help you.  I

have had one lesson already in accepting facts that should make a man

humble to the last hour of his life.  Besides, I know you loved my

Lucy . . .”

 

Here he turned away and covered his face with his hands.  I could hear

the tears in his voice.  Mr. Morris, with instinctive delicacy, just

laid a hand for a moment on his shoulder, and then walked quietly out

of the room.  I suppose there is something in a woman’s nature that

makes a man free to break down before her and express his feelings on

the tender or emotional side without feeling it derogatory to his

manhood.  For when Lord Godalming found himself alone with me he sat

down on the sofa and gave way utterly and openly.  I sat down beside

him and took his hand.  I hope he didn’t think it forward of me, and

that if he ever thinks of it afterwards he never will have such a

thought.  There I wrong him.  I know he never will.  He is too true a

gentleman.  I said to him, for I could see that his heart was

breaking, “I loved dear Lucy, and I know what she was to you, and what

you were to her.  She and I were like sisters, and now she is gone,

will you not let me be like a sister to you in your trouble?  I know

what sorrows you have had, though I cannot measure the depth of them.

If sympathy and pity can help in your affliction, won’t you let me be

of some little service, for Lucy’s sake?”

 

In an instant the poor dear fellow was overwhelmed with grief.  It

seemed to me that all that he had of late been suffering in silence

found a vent at once.  He grew quite hysterical, and raising his open

hands, beat his palms together in a perfect agony of grief.  He stood

up and then sat down again, and the tears rained down his cheeks.  I

felt an infinite pity for him, and opened my arms unthinkingly.  With

a sob he laid his head on my shoulder and cried like a wearied child,

whilst he shook with emotion.

 

We women have something of the mother in us that makes us rise above

smaller matters when the mother spirit is invoked.  I felt this big

sorrowing man’s head resting on me, as though it were that of a baby

that some day may lie on my bosom, and I stroked his hair as though he

were my own child.  I never thought at the time how strange it all

was.

 

After a little bit his sobs ceased, and he raised himself with an

apology, though he made no disguise of his emotion.  He told me that

for days and nights past, weary days and sleepless nights, he had been

unable to speak with any one, as a man must speak in his time of

sorrow.  There was no woman whose sympathy could be given to him, or

with whom, owing to the terrible circumstance with which his sorrow

was surrounded, he could speak freely.

 

“I know now how I suffered,” he said, as he dried his eyes, “but I do

not know even yet, and none other can ever know, how much your sweet

sympathy has been to me today.  I shall know better in time, and

believe me that, though I am not ungrateful now, my gratitude will

grow with my understanding.  You will let me be like a brother, will

you not, for all our lives, for dear Lucy’s sake?”

 

“For dear Lucy’s sake,” I said as we clasped hands.  “Ay, and for your

own sake,” he added, “for if a man’s esteem and gratitude are ever

worth the winning, you have won mine today.  If ever the future should

bring to you a time when you need a man’s help, believe me, you will

not call in vain.  God grant that no such time may ever come to you to

break the sunshine of your life, but if it should ever come, promise

me that you will let me know.”

 

He was so earnest, and his sorrow was so fresh, that I felt it would

comfort him, so I said, “I promise.”

 

As I came along the corridor I saw Mr. Morris looking out of a window.

He turned as he heard my footsteps.  “How is Art?” he said.  Then

noticing my red eyes, he went on, “Ah, I see you have been comforting

him.  Poor old fellow!  He needs it.  No one but a woman can help a

man when he is in trouble of the heart, and he had no one to comfort

him.”

 

He bore his own trouble so bravely that my heart bled for him.  I saw

the manuscript in his hand, and I knew that when he read it he would

realize how much I knew, so I said to him, “I wish I could comfort all

who suffer from the heart.  Will you let me be your friend, and will

you come to me for comfort if you need it?  You will know later why I

speak.”

 

He saw that I was in earnest, and stooping, took my hand, and raising

it to his lips, kissed it.  It seemed but poor comfort to so brave and

unselfish a soul, and impulsively I bent over and kissed him.  The

tears rose in his eyes, and there was a momentary choking in his

throat.  He said quite calmly, “Little girl, you will never forget

that true hearted kindness, so long as ever you live!”  Then he went

into the study to his friend.

 

“Little girl!”  The very words he had used to Lucy, and, oh, but he

proved himself a friend.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 18

 

 

1. SEWARD’S DIARY

 

30 September.–I got home at five o’clock, and found that Godalming

and Morris had not only arrived, but had already studied the

transcript of the various diaries and letters which Harker had not yet

returned from his visit to the carriers’ men, of whom Dr. Hennessey

had written to me.  Mrs. Harker gave us a cup of tea, and I can

honestly say that, for the first time since I have lived in it, this

old house seemed like home.  When we had finished, Mrs. Harker said,

 

“Dr. Seward, may I ask a favour?  I want to see your patient, Mr.

Renfield.  Do let me see him.  What you have said of him in your diary

interests me so much!”

 

She looked so appealing and so pretty that I could not refuse her, and

there was no possible reason why I should, so I took her with me.

When I went into the room, I told the man that a lady would like to see

him, to which he simply answered, “Why?”

 

“She is going through the house, and wants to see every one in it,” I

answered.

 

“Oh, very well,” he said, “let her come in, by all means, but just

wait a minute till I tidy up the place.”

 

His method of tidying was peculiar, he simply swallowed all the flies

and spiders in the boxes before I could stop him.  It was quite

evident that he feared, or was jealous of, some interference.  When he

had got through his disgusting task, he said cheerfully, “Let the lady

come in,” and sat down on the edge of his bed with his head down, but

with his eyelids raised so that he could see her as she entered.  For

a moment I thought that he might have some homicidal intent.  I

remembered how quiet he had been just before he attacked me in my own

study, and I took care to stand where I could seize him at once if he

attempted to make a spring at her.

 

She came into the room with an easy gracefulness which would at once

command the respect of any lunatic, for easiness is one of the

qualities mad people most respect.  She walked over to him, smiling

pleasantly, and held out her hand.

 

“Good evening, Mr. Renfield,” said she.  “You see, I know you, for Dr.

Seward has told me of you.”  He made no immediate reply, but eyed her

all over intently with a set frown on his face.  This look gave way to

one of wonder, which merged in doubt, then to my intense astonishment

he said, “You’re not the girl the doctor wanted to marry, are you?  You

can’t be, you know, for she’s dead.”

 

Mrs. Harker smiled sweetly as she replied, “Oh no!  I have a husband

of my own, to whom I was married before I ever saw Dr. Seward, or he

1. I am Mrs. Harker.”

 

“Then what are you doing here?”

 

“My husband and I are staying on a visit with Dr. Seward.”

 

“Then don’t stay.”

 

“But why not?”

 

I thought that this style of conversation might not be pleasant to

Mrs. Harker, any more than it was to me, so I joined in, “How did you

know I wanted to marry anyone?”

 

His reply was simply contemptuous, given in a pause in which he turned

his eyes from Mrs. Harker to me, instantly turning them back again,

“What an asinine question!”

 

“I don’t see that at all, Mr. Renfield,” said Mrs. Harker, at once

championing me.

 

He replied to her with as much courtesy and respect as he had shown

contempt to me, “You will, of course, understand, Mrs. Harker, that

when a man is so loved and honoured as our host is, everything

regarding him is of interest in our little community.  Dr. Seward is

loved not only by his household and his friends, but even by his

patients, who, being some of them hardly in mental equilibrium, are

apt to distort causes and effects.  Since I myself have been an inmate

of a lunatic asylum, I cannot but notice that the sophistic tendencies

of some of its inmates lean towards the errors of non causa and

ignoratio elenche.”

 

I positively opened my eyes at this new development.  Here was my own

pet lunatic, the most pronounced of his type that I had ever met with,

talking elemental philosophy, and with the manner of a polished

gentleman.  I wonder if it was Mrs. Harker’s presence which had

touched some chord in his memory.  If this new phase was spontaneous,

or in any way due to her unconscious influence, she must have some

rare gift or power.

 

We continued to talk for some time, and seeing that he was seemingly

quite reasonable, she ventured, looking at me questioningly as she

began, to lead him to his favourite topic.  I was again astonished,

for he addressed himself to the question with the impartiality of

the completest sanity.  He even took himself as an example when he

mentioned certain things.

 

“Why, I myself am an instance of a man who had a strange belief.

Indeed, it was no wonder that my friends were alarmed, and insisted on

my being put under control.  I used to fancy that life was a positive

and perpetual entity, and that by consuming a multitude of live

things, no matter how low in the scale of creation, one might

indefinitely prolong life.  At times I held the belief so strongly

that I actually tried to take human life.  The doctor here will bear

me out that on one occasion I tried to kill him for the purpose of

strengthening my vital powers by the assimilation with my own body of

his life through the medium of his blood, relying of course, upon the

Scriptural phrase, ‘For the blood is the life.’  Though, indeed, the

vendor of a certain nostrum has vulgarized the truism to the very

point of contempt.  Isn’t that true, doctor?”

 

I nodded assent, for I was so amazed that I hardly knew what to either

think or say, it was hard to imagine that I had seen him eat up his

spiders and flies not five minutes before.  Looking at my watch, I saw

that I should go to the station to meet Van Helsing, so I told Mrs.

Harker that it was time to leave.

 

She came at once, after saying pleasantly to Mr. Renfield, “Goodbye,

and I hope I may see you often, under auspices pleasanter to

yourself.”

 

To which, to my astonishment, he replied, “Goodbye, my dear.  I pray

God I may never see your sweet face again.  May He bless and keep

you!”

 

When I went to the station to meet Van Helsing I left the boys behind

1. Poor Art seemed more cheerful than he has been since Lucy first

took ill, and Quincey is more like his own bright self than he has

been for many a long day.

 

Van Helsing stepped from the carriage with the eager nimbleness of a

boy.  He saw me at once, and rushed up to me, saying, “Ah, friend

John, how goes all?  Well?  So!  I have been busy, for I come here to

stay if need be.  All affairs are settled with me, and I have much to

tell.  Madam Mina is with you?  Yes.  And her so fine husband?  And

Arthur and my friend Quincey, they are with you, too?  Good!”

 

As I drove to the house I told him of what had passed, and of how my

own diary had come to be of some use through Mrs. Harker’s suggestion,

at which the Professor interrupted me.

 

“Ah, that wonderful Madam Mina!  She has man’s brain, a brain that a

man should have were he much gifted, and a woman’s heart.  The good

God fashioned her for a purpose, believe me, when He made that so good

combination.  Friend John, up to now fortune has made that woman of

help to us, after tonight she must not have to do with this so

terrible affair.  It is not good that she run a risk so great.  We men

are determined, nay, are we not pledged, to destroy this monster?  But

it is no part for a woman.  Even if she be not harmed, her heart may

fail her in so much and so many horrors and hereafter she may suffer,

both in waking, from her nerves, and in sleep, from her dreams.  And,

besides, she is young woman and not so long married, there may be

other things to think of some time, if not now.  You tell me she has

wrote all, then she must consult with us, but tomorrow she say goodbye

to this work, and we go alone.”

 

I agreed heartily with him, and then I told him what we had found in

his absence, that the house which Dracula had bought was the very next

one to my own.  He was amazed, and a great concern seemed to come on

him.

 

“Oh that we had known it before!” he said, “for then we might have

reached him in time to save poor Lucy.  However, ‘the milk that is

spilt cries not out afterwards,’ as you say.  We shall not think of

that, but go on our way to the end.”  Then he fell into a silence that

lasted till we entered my own gateway.  Before we went to prepare for

dinner he said to Mrs. Harker, “I am told, Madam Mina, by my friend

John that you and your husband have put up in exact order all things

that have been, up to this moment.”

 

“Not up to this moment, Professor,” she said impulsively, “but up to

this morning.”

 

“But why not up to now?  We have seen hitherto how good light all the

little things have made.  We have told our secrets, and yet no one who

has told is the worse for it.”

 

Mrs. Harker began to blush, and taking a paper from her pockets, she

said, “Dr. Van Helsing, will you read this, and tell me if it must go

1. It is my record of today. I too have seen the need of putting

down at present everything, however trivial, but there is little in

this except what is personal.  Must it go in?”

 

The Professor read it over gravely, and handed it back, saying, “It

need not go in if you do not wish it, but I pray that it may.  It can

but make your husband love you the more, and all us, your friends,

more honour you, as well as more esteem and love.”  She took it back

with another blush and a bright smile.

 

And so now, up to this very hour, all the records we have are complete

and in order.  The Professor took away one copy to study after dinner,

and before our meeting, which is fixed for nine o’clock.  The rest of

us have already read everything, so when we meet in the study we shall

all be informed as to facts, and can arrange our plan of battle with

this terrible and mysterious enemy.

 

 

 

 

 

MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL

 

30 September.–When we met in Dr. Seward’s study two hours after

dinner, which had been at six o’clock, we unconsciously formed a sort

of board or committee.  Professor Van Helsing took the head of the

table, to which Dr. Seward motioned him as he came into the room.  He

made me sit next to him on his right, and asked me to act as

secretary.  Jonathan sat next to me.  Opposite us were Lord Godalming,

Dr. Seward, and Mr. Morris, Lord Godalming being next the Professor,

and Dr. Seward in the centre.

 

The Professor said, “I may, I suppose, take it that we are all

acquainted with the facts that are in these papers.”  We all expressed

assent, and he went on, “Then it were, I think, good that I tell you

something of the kind of enemy with which we have to deal.  I shall

then make known to you something of the history of this man, which has

been ascertained for me.  So we then can discuss how we shall act, and

can take our measure according.

 

“There are such beings as vampires, some of us have evidence that they

exist.  Even had we not the proof of our own unhappy experience, the

teachings and the records of the past give proof enough for sane

peoples.  I admit that at the first I was sceptic.  Were it not that

through long years I have trained myself to keep an open mind, I could

not have believed until such time as that fact thunder on my ear.  ‘See!

See!  I prove, I prove.’  Alas!  Had I known at first what now I know,

nay, had I even guess at him, one so precious life had been spared to

many of us who did love her.  But that is gone, and we must so work,

that other poor souls perish not, whilst we can save.  The nosferatu

do not die like the bee when he sting once.  He is only stronger, and

being stronger, have yet more power to work evil.  This vampire which

is amongst us is of himself so strong in person as twenty men, he is

of cunning more than mortal, for his cunning be the growth of ages, he

have still the aids of necromancy, which is, as his etymology imply,

the divination by the dead, and all the dead that he can come nigh to

are for him at command; he is brute, and more than brute; he is devil

in callous, and the heart of him is not; he can, within his range,

direct the elements, the storm, the fog, the thunder; he can command

all the meaner things, the rat, and the owl, and the bat, the moth,

and the fox, and the wolf, he can grow and become small; and he can at

times vanish and come unknown.  How then are we to begin our strike to

destroy him?  How shall we find his where, and having found it, how

can we destroy?  My friends, this is much, it is a terrible task that

we undertake, and there may be consequence to make the brave shudder.

For if we fail in this our fight he must surely win, and then where

end we?  Life is nothings, I heed him not.  But to fail here, is not

mere life or death.  It is that we become as him, that we henceforward

become foul things of the night like him, without heart or conscience,

preying on the bodies and the souls of those we love best.  To us

forever are the gates of heaven shut, for who shall open them to us

again?  We go on for all time abhorred by all, a blot on the face of

God’s sunshine, an arrow in the side of Him who died for man.  But we

are face to face with duty, and in such case must we shrink?  For me,

I say no, but then I am old, and life, with his sunshine, his fair

places, his song of birds, his music and his love, lie far behind.  You

others are young.  Some have seen sorrow, but there are fair days yet

in store.  What say you?”

 

Whilst he was speaking, Jonathan had taken my hand.  I feared, oh so

much, that the appalling nature of our danger was overcoming him when

I saw his hand stretch out, but it was life to me to feel its touch,

so strong, so self reliant, so resolute.  A brave man’s hand can speak

for itself, it does not even need a woman’s love to hear its music.

 

When the Professor had done speaking my husband looked in my eyes, and

I in his, there was no need for speaking between us.

 

“I answer for Mina and myself,” he said.

 

“Count me in, Professor,” said Mr. Quincey Morris, laconically as

usual.

 

“I am with you,” said Lord Godalming, “for Lucy’s sake, if for no

other reason.”

 

Dr. Seward simply nodded.

 

The Professor stood up and, after laying his golden crucifix on the

table, held out his hand on either side.  I took his right hand, and

Lord Godalming his left, Jonathan held my right with his left and

stretched across to Mr. Morris.  So as we all took hands our solemn

compact was made.  I felt my heart icy cold, but it did not even occur

to me to draw back.  We resumed our places, and Dr. Van Helsing went

on with a sort of cheerfulness which showed that the serious work had

begun.  It was to be taken as gravely, and in as businesslike a way,

as any other transaction of life.

 

“Well, you know what we have to contend against, but we too, are not

without strength.  We have on our side power of combination, a power

denied to the vampire kind, we have sources of science, we are free to

act and think, and the hours of the day and the night are ours

equally.  In fact, so far as our powers extend, they are unfettered,

and we are free to use them.  We have self devotion in a cause and an

end to achieve which is not a selfish one.  These things are much.

 

“Now let us see how far the general powers arrayed against us are

restrict, and how the individual cannot.  In fine, let us consider the

limitations of the vampire in general, and of this one in particular.

 

“All we have to go upon are traditions and superstitions.  These do

not at the first appear much, when the matter is one of life and

death, nay of more than either life or death.  Yet must we be

satisfied, in the first place because we have to be, no other means is

at our control, and secondly, because, after all these things,

tradition and superstition, are everything.  Does not the belief in

vampires rest for others, though not, alas! for us, on them?  A year

ago which of us would have received such a possibility, in the midst

of our scientific, sceptical, matter-of-fact nineteenth century?  We

even scouted a belief that we saw justified under our very eyes.  Take

it, then, that the vampire, and the belief in his limitations and his

cure, rest for the moment on the same base.  For, let me tell you, he

is known everywhere that men have been.  In old Greece, in old Rome,

he flourish in Germany all over, in France, in India, even in the

Chermosese, and in China, so far from us in all ways, there even is

he, and the peoples for him at this day.  He have follow the wake of

the berserker Icelander, the devil-begotten Hun, the Slav, the Saxon,

the Magyar.

 

“So far, then, we have all we may act upon, and let me tell you that

very much of the beliefs are justified by what we have seen in our own

so unhappy experience.  The vampire live on, and cannot die by mere

passing of the time, he can flourish when that he can fatten on the

blood of the living.  Even more, we have seen amongst us that he can

even grow younger, that his vital faculties grow strenuous, and seem

as though they refresh themselves when his special pabulum is plenty.

 

“But he cannot flourish without this diet, he eat not as others.  Even

friend Jonathan, who lived with him for weeks, did never see him eat,

never!  He throws no shadow, he make in the mirror no reflect, as

again Jonathan observe.  He has the strength of many of his hand,

witness again Jonathan when he shut the door against the wolves, and

when he help him from the diligence too.  He can transform himself to

wolf, as we gather from the ship arrival in Whitby, when he tear open

the dog, he can be as bat, as Madam Mina saw him on the window at

Whitby, and as friend John saw him fly from this so near house, and as

my friend Quincey saw him at the window of Miss Lucy.

 

“He can come in mist which he create, that noble ship’s captain proved

him of this, but, from what we know, the distance he can make this

mist is limited, and it can only be round himself.

 

“He come on moonlight rays as elemental dust, as again Jonathan saw

those sisters in the castle of Dracula.  He become so small, we

ourselves saw Miss Lucy, ere she was at peace, slip through a

hairbreadth space at the tomb door.  He can, when once he find his

way, come out from anything or into anything, no matter how close it

be bound or even fused up with fire, solder you call it.  He can see

in the dark, no small power this, in a world which is one half shut

from the light.  Ah, but hear me through.

 

“He can do all these things, yet he is not free.  Nay, he is even more

prisoner than the slave of the galley, than the madman in his cell.

He cannot go where he lists, he who is not of nature has yet to obey

some of nature’s laws, why we know not.  He may not enter anywhere at

the first, unless there be some one of the household who bid him to

come, though afterwards he can come as he please.  His power ceases,

as does that of all evil things, at the coming of the day.

 

“Only at certain times can he have limited freedom.  If he be not at

the place whither he is bound, he can only change himself at noon or

at exact sunrise or sunset.  These things we are told, and in this

record of ours we have proof by inference.  Thus, whereas he can do as

he will within his limit, when he have his earth-home, his

coffin-home, his hell-home, the place unhallowed, as we saw when he

went to the grave of the suicide at Whitby, still at other time he can

only change when the time come.  It is said, too, that he can only

pass running water at the slack or the flood of the tide.  Then there

are things which so afflict him that he has no power, as the garlic

that we know of, and as for things sacred, as this symbol, my

crucifix, that was amongst us even now when we resolve, to them he is

nothing, but in their presence he take his place far off and silent

with respect.  There are others, too, which I shall tell you of, lest

in our seeking we may need them.

 

“The branch of wild rose on his coffin keep him that he move not from

it, a sacred bullet fired into the coffin kill him so that he be true

dead, and as for the stake through him, we know already of its peace,

or the cut off head that giveth rest.  We have seen it with our eyes.

 

“Thus when we find the habitation of this man-that-was, we can confine

him to his coffin and destroy him, if we obey what we know.  But he is

clever.  I have asked my friend Arminius, of Buda-Pesth University, to

make his record, and from all the means that are, he tell me of what

he has been.  He must, indeed, have been that Voivode Dracula who won

his name against the Turk, over the great river on the very frontier

of Turkeyland.  If it be so, then was he no common man, for in that

time, and for centuries after, he was spoken of as the cleverest and

the most cunning, as well as the bravest of the sons of the ‘land

beyond the forest.’  That mighty brain and that iron resolution went

with him to his grave, and are even now arrayed against us.  The

Draculas were, says Arminius, a great and noble race, though now and

again were scions who were held by their coevals to have had dealings

with the Evil One.  They learned his secrets in the Scholomance,

amongst the mountains over Lake Hermanstadt, where the devil claims

the tenth scholar as his due.  In the records are such words as

‘stregoica’ witch, ‘ordog’ and ‘pokol’ Satan and hell, and in one

manuscript this very Dracula is spoken of as ‘wampyr,’ which we all

understand too well.  There have been from the loins of this very one

great men and good women, and their graves make sacred the earth where

alone this foulness can dwell.  For it is not the least of its terrors

that this evil thing is rooted deep in all good, in soil barren of

holy memories it cannot rest.”

 

Whilst they were talking Mr. Morris was looking steadily at the

window, and he now got up quietly, and went out of the room.  There

was a little pause, and then the Professor went on.

 

“And now we must settle what we do.  We have here much data, and we

must proceed to lay out our campaign.  We know from the inquiry of

Jonathan that from the castle to Whitby came fifty boxes of earth, all

of which were delivered at Carfax, we also know that at least some of

these boxes have been removed.  It seems to me, that our first step

should be to ascertain whether all the rest remain in the house beyond

that wall where we look today, or whether any more have been removed.

If the latter, we must trace . . .”

 

Here we were interrupted in a very startling way.  Outside the house

came the sound of a pistol shot, the glass of the window was shattered

with a bullet, which ricochetting from the top of the embrasure,

struck the far wall of the room.  I am afraid I am at heart a coward,

for I shrieked out.  The men all jumped to their feet, Lord Godalming

flew over to the window and threw up the sash.  As he did so we heard

Mr. Morris’ voice without, “Sorry!  I fear I have alarmed you.  I

shall come in and tell you about it.”

 

A minute later he came in and said, “It was an idiotic thing of me to

do, and I ask your pardon, Mrs. Harker, most sincerely, I fear I must

have frightened you terribly.  But the fact is that whilst the

Professor was talking there came a big bat and sat on the window sill.

I have got such a horror of the damned brutes from recent events that

I cannot stand them, and I went out to have a shot, as I have been

doing of late of evenings, whenever I have seen one.  You used to

laugh at me for it then, Art.”

 

“Did you hit it?” asked Dr. Van Helsing.

 

“I don’t know, I fancy not, for it flew away into the wood.”  Without

saying any more he took his seat, and the Professor began to resume

his statement.

 

“We must trace each of these boxes, and when we are ready, we must

either capture or kill this monster in his lair, or we must, so to

speak, sterilize the earth, so that no more he can seek safety in it.

Thus in the end we may find him in his form of man between the hours

of noon and sunset, and so engage with him when he is at his most

weak.

 

“And now for you, Madam Mina, this night is the end until all be well.

You are too precious to us to have such risk.  When we part tonight,

you no more must question.  We shall tell you all in good time.  We

are men and are able to bear, but you must be our star and our hope,

and we shall act all the more free that you are not in the danger,

such as we are.”

 

All the men, even Jonathan, seemed relieved, but it did not seem to me

good that they should brave danger and, perhaps lessen their safety,

strength being the best safety, through care of me, but their minds

were made up, and though it was a bitter pill for me to swallow, I

could say nothing, save to accept their chivalrous care of me.

 

Mr. Morris resumed the discussion, “As there is no time to lose, I

vote we have a look at his house right now.  Time is everything with

him, and swift action on our part may save another victim.”

 

I own that my heart began to fail me when the time for action came so

close, but I did not say anything, for I had a greater fear that if I

appeared as a drag or a hindrance to their work, they might even leave

me out of their counsels altogether.  They have now gone off to

Carfax, with means to get into the house.

 

Manlike, they had told me to go to bed and sleep, as if a woman can

sleep when those she loves are in danger!  I shall lie down, and

pretend to sleep, lest Jonathan have added anxiety about me when he

returns.

 

 

 

 

1. SEWARD’S DIARY

 

1 October, 4 A.M.–Just as we were about to leave the house, an urgent

message was brought to me from Renfield to know if I would see him at

once, as he had something of the utmost importance to say to me.  I

told the messenger to say that I would attend to his wishes in the

morning, I was busy just at the moment.

 

The attendant added, “He seems very importunate, sir.  I have never

seen him so eager.  I don’t know but what, if you don’t see him soon,

he will have one of his violent fits.”  I knew the man would not have

said this without some cause, so I said, “All right, I’ll go now,” and

I asked the others to wait a few minutes for me, as I had to go and

see my patient.

 

“Take me with you, friend John,” said the Professor.  “His case in your

diary interest me much, and it had bearing, too, now and again on our

case.  I should much like to see him, and especial when his mind is

disturbed.”

 

“May I come also?” asked Lord Godalming.

 

“Me too?” said Quincey Morris.  “May I come?” said Harker.  I nodded,

and we all went down the passage together.

 

We found him in a state of considerable excitement, but far more

rational in his speech and manner than I had ever seen him.  There was

an unusual understanding of himself, which was unlike anything I had

ever met with in a lunatic, and he took it for granted that his

reasons would prevail with others entirely sane.  We all five went

into the room, but none of the others at first said anything.  His

request was that I would at once release him from the asylum and send

him home.  This he backed up with arguments regarding his complete

recovery, and adduced his own existing sanity.

 

“I appeal to your friends,” he said, “they will, perhaps, not mind

sitting in judgement on my case.  By the way, you have not introduced

me.”

 

I was so much astonished, that the oddness of introducing a madman in

an asylum did not strike me at the moment, and besides, there was a

certain dignity in the man’s manner, so much of the habit of equality,

that I at once made the introduction, “Lord Godalming, Professor Van

Helsing, Mr. Quincey Morris, of Texas, Mr. Jonathan Harker, Mr.

Renfield.”

 

He shook hands with each of them, saying in turn, “Lord Godalming, I

had the honour of seconding your father at the Windham; I grieve to

know, by your holding the title, that he is no more.  He was a man

loved and honoured by all who knew him, and in his youth was, I have

heard, the inventor of a burnt rum punch, much patronized on Derby

night.  Mr. Morris, you should be proud of your great state.  Its

reception into the Union was a precedent which may have far-reaching

effects hereafter, when the Pole and the Tropics may hold alliance to

the Stars and Stripes.  The power of Treaty may yet prove a vast

engine of enlargement, when the Monroe doctrine takes its true place

as a political fable.  What shall any man say of his pleasure at

meeting Van Helsing?  Sir, I make no apology for dropping all forms of

conventional prefix.  When an individual has revolutionized

therapeutics by his discovery of the continuous evolution of brain

matter, conventional forms are unfitting, since they would seem to

limit him to one of a class.  You, gentlemen, who by nationality, by

heredity, or by the possession of natural gifts, are fitted to hold

your respective places in the moving world, I take to witness that I

am as sane as at least the majority of men who are in full possession

of their liberties.  And I am sure that you, Dr. Seward, humanitarian

and medico-jurist as well as scientist, will deem it a moral duty to

deal with me as one to be considered as under exceptional

circumstances.”  He made this last appeal with a courtly air of

conviction which was not without its own charm.

 

I think we were all staggered.  For my own part, I was under the

conviction, despite my knowledge of the man’s character and history,

that his reason had been restored, and I felt under a strong impulse

to tell him that I was satisfied as to his sanity, and would see about

the necessary formalities for his release in the morning.  I thought

it better to wait, however, before making so grave a statement, for of

old I knew the sudden changes to which this particular patient was

liable.  So I contented myself with making a general statement that he

appeared to be improving very rapidly, that I would have a longer chat

with him in the morning, and would then see what I could do in the

direction of meeting his wishes.

 

This did not at all satisfy him, for he said quickly, “But I fear, Dr.

Seward, that you hardly apprehend my wish.  I desire to go at once,

here, now, this very hour, this very moment, if I may.  Time presses,

and in our implied agreement with the old scytheman it is of the

essence of the contract.  I am sure it is only necessary to put before

so admirable a practitioner as Dr. Seward so simple, yet so momentous

a wish, to ensure its fulfilment.”

 

He looked at me keenly, and seeing the negative in my face, turned to

the others, and scrutinized them closely.  Not meeting any sufficient

response, he went on, “Is it possible that I have erred in my

supposition?”

 

“You have,” I said frankly, but at the same time, as I felt, brutally.

 

There was a considerable pause, and then he said slowly, “Then I

suppose I must only shift my ground of request.  Let me ask for this

concession, boon, privilege, what you will.  I am content to implore

in such a case, not on personal grounds, but for the sake of others.  I

am not at liberty to give you the whole of my reasons, but you may, I

assure you, take it from me that they are good ones, sound and

unselfish, and spring from the highest sense of duty.

 

“Could you look, sir, into my heart, you would approve to the full the

sentiments which animate me.  Nay, more, you would count me amongst

the best and truest of your friends.”

 

Again he looked at us all keenly.  I had a growing conviction that

this sudden change of his entire intellectual method was but yet

another phase of his madness, and so determined to let him go on a

little longer, knowing from experience that he would, like all

lunatics, give himself away in the end.  Van Helsing was gazing at him

with a look of utmost intensity, his bushy eyebrows almost meeting

with the fixed concentration of his look.  He said to Renfield in a

tone which did not surprise me at the time, but only when I thought of

it afterwards, for it was as of one addressing an equal, “Can you not

tell frankly your real reason for wishing to be free tonight?  I will

undertake that if you will satisfy even me, a stranger, without

prejudice, and with the habit of keeping an open mind, Dr. Seward will

give you, at his own risk and on his own responsibility, the privilege

you seek.”

 

He shook his head sadly, and with a look of poignant regret on his

face.  The Professor went on, “Come, sir, bethink yourself.  You claim

the privilege of reason in the highest degree, since you seek to

impress us with your complete reasonableness.  You do this, whose

sanity we have reason to doubt, since you are not yet released from

medical treatment for this very defect.  If you will not help us in

our effort to choose the wisest course, how can we perform the duty

which you yourself put upon us?  Be wise, and help us, and if we can

we shall aid you to achieve your wish.”

 

He still shook his head as he said, “Dr. Van Helsing, I have nothing to

say.  Your argument is complete, and if I were free to speak I should

not hesitate a moment, but I am not my own master in the matter.  I

can only ask you to trust me.  If I am refused, the responsibility

does not rest with me.”

 

I thought it was now time to end the scene, which was becoming too

comically grave, so I went towards the door, simply saying, “Come, my

friends, we have work to do.  Goodnight.”

 

As, however, I got near the door, a new change came over the patient.

He moved towards me so quickly that for the moment I feared that he

was about to make another homicidal attack.  My fears, however, were

groundless, for he held up his two hands imploringly, and made his

petition in a moving manner.  As he saw that the very excess of his

emotion was militating against him, by restoring us more to our old

relations, he became still more demonstrative.  I glanced at Van

Helsing, and saw my conviction reflected in his eyes, so I became a

little more fixed in my manner, if not more stern, and motioned to him

that his efforts were unavailing.  I had previously seen something of

the same constantly growing excitement in him when he had to make some

request of which at the time he had thought much, such for instance,

as when he wanted a cat, and I was prepared to see the collapse into

the same sullen acquiescence on this occasion.

 

My expectation was not realized, for when he found that his appeal

would not be successful, he got into quite a frantic condition.  He

threw himself on his knees, and held up his hands, wringing them in

plaintive supplication, and poured forth a torrent of entreaty, with

the tears rolling down his cheeks, and his whole face and form

expressive of the deepest emotion.

 

“Let me entreat you, Dr. Seward, oh, let me implore you, to let me out

of this house at once.  Send me away how you will and where you will,

send keepers with me with whips and chains, let them take me in a

strait waistcoat, manacled and leg-ironed, even to gaol, but let me go

out of this.  You don’t know what you do by keeping me here.  I am

speaking from the depths of my heart, of my very soul.  You don’t know

whom you wrong, or how, and I may not tell.  Woe is me!  I may not

tell.  By all you hold sacred, by all you hold dear, by your love that

is lost, by your hope that lives, for the sake of the Almighty, take

me out of this and save my soul from guilt!  Can’t you hear me, man?

Can’t you understand?  Will you never learn?  Don’t you know that I am

sane and earnest now, that I am no lunatic in a mad fit, but a sane

man fighting for his soul?  Oh, hear me!  Hear me!  Let me go, let me

go, let me go!”

 

I thought that the longer this went on the wilder he would get, and so

would bring on a fit, so I took him by the hand and raised him up.

 

“Come,” I said sternly, “no more of this, we have had quite enough

already.  Get to your bed and try to behave more discreetly.”

 

He suddenly stopped and looked at me intently for several moments.

Then, without a word, he rose and moving over, sat down on the side of

the bed.  The collapse had come, as on former occasions, just as I had

expected.

 

When I was leaving the room, last of our party, he said to me in a

quiet, well-bred voice, “You will, I trust, Dr. Seward, do me the

justice to bear in mind, later on, that I did what I could to convince

you tonight.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 19

 

 

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL

 

1 October, 5 A.M.–I went with the party to the search with an easy

mind, for I think I never saw Mina so absolutely strong and well.  I

am so glad that she consented to hold back and let us men do the work.

Somehow, it was a dread to me that she was in this fearful business at

all, but now that her work is done, and that it is due to her energy

and brains and foresight that the whole story is put together in such

a way that every point tells, she may well feel that her part is

finished, and that she can henceforth leave the rest to us.  We were,

I think, all a little upset by the scene with Mr. Renfield.  When we

came away from his room we were silent till we got back to the study.

 

Then Mr. Morris said to Dr. Seward, “Say, Jack, if that man wasn’t

attempting a bluff, he is about the sanest lunatic I ever saw.  I’m

not sure, but I believe that he had some serious purpose, and if he

had, it was pretty rough on him not to get a chance.”

 

Lord Godalming and I were silent, but Dr. Van Helsing added, “Friend

John, you know more lunatics than I do, and I’m glad of it, for I fear

that if it had been to me to decide I would before that last

hysterical outburst have given him free.  But we live and learn, and

in our present task we must take no chance, as my friend Quincey would

say.  All is best as they are.”

 

Dr. Seward seemed to answer them both in a dreamy kind of way, “I

don’t know but that I agree with you.  If that man had been an

ordinary lunatic I would have taken my chance of trusting him, but he

seems so mixed up with the Count in an indexy kind of way that I am

afraid of doing anything wrong by helping his fads.  I can’t forget

how he prayed with almost equal fervor for a cat, and then tried to

tear my throat out with his teeth.  Besides, he called the Count ‘lord

and master’, and he may want to get out to help him in some diabolical

way.  That horrid thing has the wolves and the rats and his own kind

to help him, so I suppose he isn’t above trying to use a respectable

lunatic.  He certainly did seem earnest, though.  I only hope we have

done what is best.  These things, in conjunction with the wild work we

have in hand, help to unnerve a man.”

 

The Professor stepped over, and laying his hand on his shoulder, said

in his grave, kindly way, “Friend John, have no fear.  We are trying

to do our duty in a very sad and terrible case, we can only do as we

deem best.  What else have we to hope for, except the pity of the good

God?”

 

Lord Godalming had slipped away for a few minutes, but now he

returned.  He held up a little silver whistle as he remarked, “That

old place may be full of rats, and if so, I’ve got an antidote on

call.”

 

Having passed the wall, we took our way to the house, taking care to

keep in the shadows of the trees on the lawn when the moonlight shone

out.  When we got to the porch the Professor opened his bag and took

out a lot of things, which he laid on the step, sorting them into four

little groups, evidently one for each.  Then he spoke.

 

“My friends, we are going into a terrible danger, and we need arms of

many kinds.  Our enemy is not merely spiritual.  Remember that he has

the strength of twenty men, and that, though our necks or our

windpipes are of the common kind, and therefore breakable or

crushable, his are not amenable to mere strength.  A stronger man, or

a body of men more strong in all than him, can at certain times hold

him, but they cannot hurt him as we can be hurt by him.  We must,

therefore, guard ourselves from his touch.  Keep this near your

heart.”  As he spoke he lifted a little silver crucifix and held it

out to me, I being nearest to him, “put these flowers round your

neck,” here he handed to me a wreath of withered garlic blossoms, “for

other enemies more mundane, this revolver and this knife, and for aid

in all, these so small electric lamps, which you can fasten to your

breast, and for all, and above all at the last, this, which we must

not desecrate needless.”

 

This was a portion of Sacred Wafer, which he put in an envelope and

handed to me.  Each of the others was similarly equipped.

 

“Now,” he said, “friend John, where are the skeleton keys?  If so that

we can open the door, we need not break house by the window, as before

at Miss Lucy’s.”

 

Dr. Seward tried one or two skeleton keys, his mechanical dexterity as

a surgeon standing him in good stead.  Presently he got one to suit,

after a little play back and forward the bolt yielded, and with a

rusty clang, shot back.  We pressed on the door, the rusty hinges

creaked, and it slowly opened.  It was startlingly like the image

conveyed to me in Dr. Seward’s diary of the opening of Miss Westenra’s

tomb, I fancy that the same idea seemed to strike the others, for with

one accord they shrank back.  The Professor was the first to move

forward, and stepped into the open door.

 

“In manus tuas, Domine!” he said, crossing himself as he passed over

the threshold.  We closed the door behind us, lest when we should have

lit our lamps we should possibly attract attention from the road.  The

Professor carefully tried the lock, lest we might not be able to open

it from within should we be in a hurry making our exit.  Then we all

lit our lamps and proceeded on our search.

 

The light from the tiny lamps fell in all sorts of odd forms, as the

rays crossed each other, or the opacity of our bodies threw great

shadows.  I could not for my life get away from the feeling that there

was someone else amongst us.  I suppose it was the recollection, so

powerfully brought home to me by the grim surroundings, of that

terrible experience in Transylvania.  I think the feeling was common

to us all, for I noticed that the others kept looking over their

shoulders at every sound and every new shadow, just as I felt myself

doing.

 

The whole place was thick with dust.  The floor was seemingly inches

deep, except where there were recent footsteps, in which on holding

down my lamp I could see marks of hobnails where the dust was cracked.

The walls were fluffy and heavy with dust, and in the corners were

masses of spider’s webs, whereon the dust had gathered till they

looked like old tattered rags as the weight had torn them partly down.

On a table in the hall was a great bunch of keys, with a time-yellowed

label on each.  They had been used several times, for on the table

were several similar rents in the blanket of dust, similar to that

exposed when the Professor lifted them.

 

He turned to me and said, “You know this place, Jonathan.  You have

copied maps of it, and you know it at least more than we do.  Which is

the way to the chapel?”

 

I had an idea of its direction, though on my former visit I had not

been able to get admission to it, so I led the way, and after a few

wrong turnings found myself opposite a low, arched oaken door, ribbed

with iron bands.

 

“This is the spot,” said the Professor as he turned his lamp on a

small map of the house, copied from the file of my original

correspondence regarding the purchase.  With a little trouble we found

the key on the bunch and opened the door.  We were prepared for some

unpleasantness, for as we were opening the door a faint, malodorous

air seemed to exhale through the gaps, but none of us ever expected

such an odour as we encountered.  None of the others had met the Count

at all at close quarters, and when I had seen him he was either in the

fasting stage of his existence in his rooms or, when he was bloated

with fresh blood, in a ruined building open to the air, but here the

place was small and close, and the long disuse had made the air

stagnant and foul.  There was an earthy smell, as of some dry miasma,

which came through the fouler air.  But as to the odour itself, how

shall I describe it?  It was not alone that it was composed of all the

ills of mortality and with the pungent, acrid smell of blood, but it

seemed as though corruption had become itself corrupt.  Faugh!  It

sickens me to think of it.  Every breath exhaled by that monster

seemed to have clung to the place and intensified its loathsomeness.

 

Under ordinary circumstances such a stench would have brought our

enterprise to an end, but this was no ordinary case, and the high and

terrible purpose in which we were involved gave us a strength which

rose above merely physical considerations.  After the involuntary

shrinking consequent on the first nauseous whiff, we one and all set

about our work as though that loathsome place were a garden of roses.

 

We made an accurate examination of the place, the Professor saying as

we began, “The first thing is to see how many of the boxes are left,

we must then examine every hole and corner and cranny and see if we

cannot get some clue as to what has become of the rest.”

 

A glance was sufficient to show how many remained, for the great earth

chests were bulky, and there was no mistaking them.

 

There were only twenty-nine left out of the fifty!  Once I got a

fright, for, seeing Lord Godalming suddenly turn and look out of the

vaulted door into the dark passage beyond, I looked too, and for an

instant my heart stood still.  Somewhere, looking out from the shadow,

I seemed to see the high lights of the Count’s evil face, the ridge of

the nose, the red eyes, the red lips, the awful pallor.  It was only

for a moment, for, as Lord Godalming said, “I thought I saw a face,

but it was only the shadows,” and resumed his inquiry, I turned my

lamp in the direction, and stepped into the passage.  There was no

sign of anyone, and as there were no corners, no doors, no aperture of

any kind, but only the solid walls of the passage, there could be no

hiding place even for him.  I took it that fear had helped

imagination, and said nothing.

 

A few minutes later I saw Morris step suddenly back from a corner,

which he was examining.  We all followed his movements with our eyes,

for undoubtedly some nervousness was growing on us, and we saw a whole

mass of phosphorescence, which twinkled like stars.  We all

instinctively drew back.  The whole place was becoming alive with

rats.

 

For a moment or two we stood appalled, all save Lord Godalming, who

was seemingly prepared for such an emergency.  Rushing over to the

great iron-bound oaken door, which Dr. Seward had described from the

outside, and which I had seen myself, he turned the key in the lock,

drew the huge bolts, and swung the door open.  Then, taking his little

silver whistle from his pocket, he blew a low, shrill call.  It was

answered from behind Dr. Seward’s house by the yelping of dogs, and

after about a minute three terriers came dashing round the corner of

the house.  Unconsciously we had all moved towards the door, and as we

moved I noticed that the dust had been much disturbed.  The boxes

which had been taken out had been brought this way.  But even in the

minute that had elapsed the number of the rats had vastly increased.

They seemed to swarm over the place all at once, till the lamplight,

shining on their moving dark bodies and glittering, baleful eyes, made

the place look like a bank of earth set with fireflies.  The dogs

dashed on, but at the threshold suddenly stopped and snarled, and

then, simultaneously lifting their noses, began to howl in most

lugubrious fashion.  The rats were multiplying in thousands, and we

moved out.

 

Lord Godalming lifted one of the dogs, and carrying him in, placed him

on the floor.  The instant his feet touched the ground he seemed to

recover his courage, and rushed at his natural enemies.  They fled

before him so fast that before he had shaken the life out of a score,

the other dogs, who had by now been lifted in the same manner, had but

small prey ere the whole mass had vanished.

 

With their going it seemed as if some evil presence had departed, for

the dogs frisked about and barked merrily as they made sudden darts at

their prostrate foes, and turned them over and over and tossed them in

the air with vicious shakes.  We all seemed to find our spirits rise.

Whether it was the purifying of the deadly atmosphere by the opening

of the chapel door, or the relief which we experienced by finding

ourselves in the open I know not, but most certainly the shadow of

dread seemed to slip from us like a robe, and the occasion of our

coming lost something of its grim significance, though we did not

slacken a whit in our resolution.  We closed the outer door and barred

and locked it, and bringing the dogs with us, began our search of the

house.  We found nothing throughout except dust in extraordinary

proportions, and all untouched save for my own footsteps when I had

made my first visit.  Never once did the dogs exhibit any symptom of

uneasiness, and even when we returned to the chapel they frisked about

as though they had been rabbit hunting in a summer wood.

 

The morning was quickening in the east when we emerged from the front.

Dr. Van Helsing had taken the key of the hall door from the bunch, and

locked the door in orthodox fashion, putting the key into his pocket

when he had done.

 

“So far,” he said, “our night has been eminently successful.  No harm

has come to us such as I feared might be and yet we have ascertained

how many boxes are missing.  More than all do I rejoice that this, our

first, and perhaps our most difficult and dangerous, step has been

accomplished without the bringing thereinto our most sweet Madam Mina

or troubling her waking or sleeping thoughts with sights and sounds

and smells of horror which she might never forget.  One lesson, too,

we have learned, if it be allowable to argue a particulari, that the

brute beasts which are to the Count’s command are yet themselves not

amenable to his spiritual power, for look, these rats that would come

to his call, just as from his castle top he summon the wolves to your

going and to that poor mother’s cry, though they come to him, they run

pell-mell from the so little dogs of my friend Arthur.  We have other

matters before us, other dangers, other fears, and that monster . . .

He has not used his power over the brute world for the only or the

last time tonight.  So be it that he has gone elsewhere.  Good!  It

has given us opportunity to cry ‘check’ in some ways in this chess

game, which we play for the stake of human souls.  And now let us go

home.  The dawn is close at hand, and we have reason to be content

with our first night’s work.  It may be ordained that we have many

nights and days to follow, if full of peril, but we must go on, and

from no danger shall we shrink.”

 

The house was silent when we got back, save for some poor creature who

was screaming away in one of the distant wards, and a low, moaning

sound from Renfield’s room.  The poor wretch was doubtless torturing

himself, after the manner of the insane, with needless thoughts of

pain.

 

I came tiptoe into our own room, and found Mina asleep, breathing so

softly that I had to put my ear down to hear it.  She looks paler than

usual.  I hope the meeting tonight has not upset her.  I am truly

thankful that she is to be left out of our future work, and even of

our deliberations.  It is too great a strain for a woman to bear.  I

did not think so at first, but I know better now.  Therefore I am glad

that it is settled.  There may be things which would frighten her to

hear, and yet to conceal them from her might be worse than to tell her

if once she suspected that there was any concealment.  Henceforth our

work is to be a sealed book to her, till at least such time as we can

tell her that all is finished, and the earth free from a monster of

the nether world.  I daresay it will be difficult to begin to keep

silence after such confidence as ours, but I must be resolute, and

tomorrow I shall keep dark over tonight’s doings, and shall refuse to

speak of anything that has happened.  I rest on the sofa, so as not to

disturb her.

 

 

1 October, later.–I suppose it was natural that we should have all

overslept ourselves, for the day was a busy one, and the night had no

rest at all.  Even Mina must have felt its exhaustion, for though I

slept till the sun was high, I was awake before her, and had to call

two or three times before she awoke.  Indeed, she was so sound asleep

that for a few seconds she did not recognize me, but looked at me with

a sort of blank terror, as one looks who has been waked out of a bad

dream.  She complained a little of being tired, and I let her rest

till later in the day.  We now know of twenty-one boxes having been

removed, and if it be that several were taken in any of these removals

we may be able to trace them all.  Such will, of course, immensely

simplify our labor, and the sooner the matter is attended to the

better.  I shall look up Thomas Snelling today.

 

 

 

1. SEWARD’S DIARY

 

1 October.–It was towards noon when I was awakened by the Professor

walking into my room.  He was more jolly and cheerful than usual, and

it is quite evident that last night’s work has helped to take some of

the brooding weight off his mind.

 

After going over the adventure of the night he suddenly said, “Your

patient interests me much.  May it be that with you I visit him this

morning?  Or if that you are too occupy, I can go alone if it may be.

It is a new experience to me to find a lunatic who talk philosophy,

and reason so sound.”

 

I had some work to do which pressed, so I told him that if he would go

alone I would be glad, as then I should not have to keep him waiting,

so I called an attendant and gave him the necessary instructions.

Before the Professor left the room I cautioned him against getting any

false impression from my patient.

 

“But,” he answered, “I want him to talk of himself and of his delusion

as to consuming live things.  He said to Madam Mina, as I see in your

diary of yesterday, that he had once had such a belief.  Why do you

smile, friend John?”

 

“Excuse me,” I said, “but the answer is here.”  I laid my hand on the

typewritten matter.  “When our sane and learned lunatic made that very

statement of how he used to consume life, his mouth was actually

nauseous with the flies and spiders which he had eaten just before

Mrs. Harker entered the room.”

 

Van Helsing smiled in turn.  “Good!” he said.  “Your memory is true,

friend John.  I should have remembered.  And yet it is this very

obliquity of thought and memory which makes mental disease such a

fascinating study.  Perhaps I may gain more knowledge out of the folly

of this madman than I shall from the teaching of the most wise.  Who

knows?”

 

I went on with my work, and before long was through that in hand.  It

seemed that the time had been very short indeed, but there was Van

Helsing back in the study.

 

“Do I interrupt?” he asked politely as he stood at the door.

 

“Not at all,” I answered.  “Come in.  My work is finished, and I am

free.  I can go with you now, if you like.”

 

“It is needless, I have seen him!”

 

“Well?”

 

“I fear that he does not appraise me at much.  Our interview was

short.  When I entered his room he was sitting on a stool in the

centre, with his elbows on his knees, and his face was the picture of

sullen discontent.  I spoke to him as cheerfully as I could, and with

such a measure of respect as I could assume.  He made no reply

whatever.  ‘Don’t you know me?’ I asked.  His answer was not

reassuring: ‘I know you well enough; you are the old fool Van

Helsing.  I wish you would take yourself and your idiotic brain

theories somewhere else.  Damn all thick-headed Dutchmen!’  Not a word

more would he say, but sat in his implacable sullenness as indifferent

to me as though I had not been in the room at all.  Thus departed for

this time my chance of much learning from this so clever lunatic, so I

shall go, if I may, and cheer myself with a few happy words with that

sweet soul Madam Mina.  Friend John, it does rejoice me unspeakable

that she is no more to be pained, no more to be worried with our

terrible things.  Though we shall much miss her help, it is better

so.”

 

“I agree with you with all my heart,” I answered earnestly, for I did

not want him to weaken in this matter.  “Mrs. Harker is better out of

1. Things are quite bad enough for us, all men of the world, and who

have been in many tight places in our time, but it is no place for a

woman, and if she had remained in touch with the affair, it would in

time infallibly have wrecked her.”

 

So Van Helsing has gone to confer with Mrs. Harker and Harker, Quincey

and Art are all out following up the clues as to the earth boxes.  I

shall finish my round of work and we shall meet tonight.

 

 

 

 

 

MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL

 

1 October.–It is strange to me to be kept in the dark as I am today,

after Jonathan’s full confidence for so many years, to see him

manifestly avoid certain matters, and those the most vital of all.

This morning I slept late after the fatigues of yesterday, and though

Jonathan was late too, he was the earlier.  He spoke to me before he

went out, never more sweetly or tenderly, but he never mentioned a

word of what had happened in the visit to the Count’s house.  And yet

he must have known how terribly anxious I was.  Poor dear fellow!  I

suppose it must have distressed him even more than it did me.  They

all agreed that it was best that I should not be drawn further into

this awful work, and I acquiesced.  But to think that he keeps

anything from me!  And now I am crying like a silly fool, when I know

it comes from my husband’s great love and from the good, good wishes

of those other strong men.

 

That has done me good.  Well, some day Jonathan will tell me all.  And

lest it should ever be that he should think for a moment that I kept

anything from him, I still keep my journal as usual.  Then if he has

feared of my trust I shall show it to him, with every thought of my

heart put down for his dear eyes to read.  I feel strangely sad and

low-spirited today.  I suppose it is the reaction from the terrible

excitement.

 

Last night I went to bed when the men had gone, simply because they

told me to.  I didn’t feel sleepy, and I did feel full of devouring

anxiety.  I kept thinking over everything that has been ever since

Jonathan came to see me in London, and it all seems like a horrible

tragedy, with fate pressing on relentlessly to some destined end.

Everything that one does seems, no matter how right it may be, to bring

on the very thing which is most to be deplored.  If I hadn’t gone to

Whitby, perhaps poor dear Lucy would be with us now.  She hadn’t taken

to visiting the churchyard till I came, and if she hadn’t come there

in the day time with me she wouldn’t have walked in her sleep.  And if

she hadn’t gone there at night and asleep, that monster couldn’t have

destroyed her as he did.  Oh, why did I ever go to Whitby?  There now,

crying again!  I wonder what has come over me today.  I must hide it

from Jonathan, for if he knew that I had been crying twice in one

morning . . . I, who never cried on my own account, and whom he has

never caused to shed a tear, the dear fellow would fret his heart out.

I shall put a bold face on, and if I do feel weepy, he shall never see

1. I suppose it is just one of the lessons that we poor women have

to learn . . .

 

I can’t quite remember how I fell asleep last night.  I remember

hearing the sudden barking of the dogs and a lot of queer sounds, like

praying on a very tumultuous scale, from Mr. Renfield’s room, which is

somewhere under this.  And then there was silence over everything,

silence so profound that it startled me, and I got up and looked out

of the window.  All was dark and silent, the black shadows thrown by

the moonlight seeming full of a silent mystery of their own.  Not a

thing seemed to be stirring, but all to be grim and fixed as death or

fate, so that a thin streak of white mist, that crept with almost

imperceptible slowness across the grass towards the house, seemed to

have a sentience and a vitality of its own.  I think that the

digression of my thoughts must have done me good, for when I got back

to bed I found a lethargy creeping over me.  I lay a while, but could

not quite sleep, so I got out and looked out of the window again.  The

mist was spreading, and was now close up to the house, so that I could

see it lying thick against the wall, as though it were stealing up to

the windows.  The poor man was more loud than ever, and though I could

not distinguish a word he said, I could in some way recognize in his

tones some passionate entreaty on his part.  Then there was the sound

of a struggle, and I knew that the attendants were dealing with him.

I was so frightened that I crept into bed, and pulled the clothes over

my head, putting my fingers in my ears.  I was not then a bit sleepy,

at least so I thought, but I must have fallen asleep, for except

dreams, I do not remember anything until the morning, when Jonathan

woke me.  I think that it took me an effort and a little time to

realize where I was, and that it was Jonathan who was bending over me.

My dream was very peculiar, and was almost typical of the way that

waking thoughts become merged in, or continued in, dreams.

 

I thought that I was asleep, and waiting for Jonathan to come back.  I

was very anxious about him, and I was powerless to act, my feet, and

my hands, and my brain were weighted, so that nothing could proceed at

the usual pace.  And so I slept uneasily and thought.  Then it began

to dawn upon me that the air was heavy, and dank, and cold.  I put

back the clothes from my face, and found, to my surprise, that all was

dim around.  The gaslight which I had left lit for Jonathan, but

turned down, came only like a tiny red spark through the fog, which

had evidently grown thicker and poured into the room.  Then it

occurred to me that I had shut the window before I had come to bed.  I

would have got out to make certain on the point, but some leaden

lethargy seemed to chain my limbs and even my will.  I lay still and

endured, that was all.  I closed my eyes, but could still see through

my eyelids.  (It is wonderful what tricks our dreams play us, and how

conveniently we can imagine.)  The mist grew thicker and thicker and I

could see now how it came in, for I could see it like smoke, or with

the white energy of boiling water, pouring in, not through the window,

but through the joinings of the door.  It got thicker and thicker,

till it seemed as if it became concentrated into a sort of pillar of

cloud in the room, through the top of which I could see the light of

the gas shining like a red eye.  Things began to whirl through my

brain just as the cloudy column was now whirling in the room, and

through it all came the scriptural words “a pillar of cloud by day and

of fire by night.”  Was it indeed such spiritual guidance that was

coming to me in my sleep?  But the pillar was composed of both the day

and the night guiding, for the fire was in the red eye, which at the

thought got a new fascination for me, till, as I looked, the fire

divided, and seemed to shine on me through the fog like two red eyes,

such as Lucy told me of in her momentary mental wandering when, on the

cliff, the dying sunlight struck the windows of St. Mary’s Church.

Suddenly the horror burst upon me that it was thus that Jonathan had

seen those awful women growing into reality through the whirling mist

in the moonlight, and in my dream I must have fainted, for all became

black darkness.  The last conscious effort which imagination made was

to show me a livid white face bending over me out of the mist.

 

I must be careful of such dreams, for they would unseat one’s reason if

there were too much of them.  I would get Dr. Van Helsing or Dr.

Seward to prescribe something for me which would make me sleep, only

that I fear to alarm them.  Such a dream at the present time would

become woven into their fears for me.  Tonight I shall strive hard to

sleep naturally.  If I do not, I shall tomorrow night get them to give

me a dose of chloral, that cannot hurt me for once, and it will give

me a good night’s sleep.  Last night tired me more than if I had not

slept at all.

 

 

2 October 10 P.M.–Last night I slept, but did not dream.  I must have

slept soundly, for I was not waked by Jonathan coming to bed, but the

sleep has not refreshed me, for today I feel terribly weak and

spiritless.  I spent all yesterday trying to read, or lying down

dozing.  In the afternoon, Mr. Renfield asked if he might see me.  Poor

man, he was very gentle, and when I came away he kissed my hand and

bade God bless me.  Some way it affected me much.  I am crying when I

think of him.  This is a new weakness, of which I must be careful.

Jonathan would be miserable if he knew I had been crying.  He and the

others were out till dinner time, and they all came in tired.  I did

what I could to brighten them up, and I suppose that the effort did me

good, for I forgot how tired I was.  After dinner they sent me to bed,

and all went off to smoke together, as they said, but I knew that they

wanted to tell each other of what had occurred to each during the day.

I could see from Jonathan’s manner that he had something important to

communicate.  I was not so sleepy as I should have been, so before

they went I asked Dr. Seward to give me a little opiate of some kind,

as I had not slept well the night before.  He very kindly made me up a

sleeping draught, which he gave to me, telling me that it would do me

no harm, as it was very mild . . . I have taken it, and am waiting for

sleep, which still keeps aloof.  I hope I have not done wrong, for as

sleep begins to flirt with me, a new fear comes: that I may have been

foolish in thus depriving myself of the power of waking.  I might want

1. Here comes sleep. Goodnight.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 20

 

 

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL

 

1 October, evening.–I found Thomas Snelling in his house at Bethnal

Green, but unhappily he was not in a condition to remember anything.

The very prospect of beer which my expected coming had opened to him

had proved too much, and he had begun too early on his expected

debauch.  I learned, however, from his wife, who seemed a decent, poor

soul, that he was only the assistant of Smollet, who of the two mates

was the responsible person.  So off I drove to Walworth, and found Mr.

Joseph Smollet at home and in his shirtsleeves, taking a late tea out

of a saucer.  He is a decent, intelligent fellow, distinctly a good,

reliable type of workman, and with a headpiece of his own.  He

remembered all about the incident of the boxes, and from a wonderful

dog-eared notebook, which he produced from some mysterious receptacle

about the seat of his trousers, and which had hieroglyphical entries

in thick, half-obliterated pencil, he gave me the destinations of the

boxes.  There were, he said, six in the cartload which he took from

Carfax and left at 197 Chicksand Street, Mile End New Town, and

another six which he deposited at Jamaica Lane, Bermondsey.  If then

the Count meant to scatter these ghastly refuges of his over London,

these places were chosen as the first of delivery, so that later he

might distribute more fully.  The systematic manner in which this was

done made me think that he could not mean to confine himself to two

sides of London.  He was now fixed on the far east on the northern

shore, on the east of the southern shore, and on the south.  The north

and west were surely never meant to be left out of his diabolical

scheme, let alone the City itself and the very heart of fashionable

London in the south-west and west.  I went back to Smollet, and asked

him if he could tell us if any other boxes had been taken from Carfax.

 

He replied, “Well guv’nor, you’ve treated me very ‘an’some”, I had

given him half a sovereign, “an I’ll tell yer all I know.  I heard a

man by the name of Bloxam say four nights ago in the ‘Are an’ ‘Ounds,

in Pincher’s Alley, as ‘ow he an’ his mate ‘ad ‘ad a rare dusty job in

a old ‘ouse at Purfleet.  There ain’t a many such jobs as this ‘ere,

an’ I’m thinkin’ that maybe Sam Bloxam could tell ye summut.”

 

I asked if he could tell me where to find him.  I told him that if he

could get me the address it would be worth another half sovereign to

him.  So he gulped down the rest of his tea and stood up, saying that

he was going to begin the search then and there.

 

At the door he stopped, and said, “Look ‘ere, guv’nor, there ain’t no

sense in me a keepin’ you ‘ere.  I may find Sam soon, or I mayn’t, but

anyhow he ain’t like to be in a way to tell ye much tonight.  Sam is a

rare one when he starts on the booze.  If you can give me a envelope

with a stamp on it, and put yer address on it, I’ll find out where Sam

is to be found and post it ye tonight.  But ye’d better be up arter

‘im soon in the mornin’, never mind the booze the night afore.”

 

This was all practical, so one of the children went off with a penny

to buy an envelope and a sheet of paper, and to keep the change.  When

she came back, I addressed the envelope and stamped it, and when

Smollet had again faithfully promised to post the address when found,

I took my way to home.  We’re on the track anyhow.  I am tired

tonight, and I want to sleep.  Mina is fast asleep, and looks a little

too pale.  Her eyes look as though she had been crying.  Poor dear,

I’ve no doubt it frets her to be kept in the dark, and it may make her

doubly anxious about me and the others.  But it is best as it is.  It

is better to be disappointed and worried in such a way now than to

have her nerve broken.  The doctors were quite right to insist on her

being kept out of this dreadful business.  I must be firm, for on me

this particular burden of silence must rest.  I shall not ever enter

on the subject with her under any circumstances.  Indeed, It may not

be a hard task, after all, for she herself has become reticent on the

subject, and has not spoken of the Count or his doings ever since we

told her of our decision.

 

 

2 October, evening–A long and trying and exciting day.  By the first

post I got my directed envelope with a dirty scrap of paper enclosed,

on which was written with a carpenter’s pencil in a sprawling hand,

“Sam Bloxam, Korkrans, 4 Poters Cort, Bartel Street, Walworth.  Arsk

for the depite.”

 

I got the letter in bed, and rose without waking Mina.  She looked

heavy and sleepy and pale, and far from well.  I determined not to

wake her, but that when I should return from this new search, I would

arrange for her going back to Exeter.  I think she would be happier in

our own home, with her daily tasks to interest her, than in being here

amongst us and in ignorance.  I only saw Dr. Seward for a moment, and

told him where I was off to, promising to come back and tell the rest

so soon as I should have found out anything.  I drove to Walworth and

found, with some difficulty, Potter’s Court.  Mr. Smollet’s spelling

misled me, as I asked for Poter’s Court instead of Potter’s Court.

However, when I had found the court, I had no difficulty in

discovering Corcoran’s lodging house.

 

When I asked the man who came to the door for the “depite,” he shook

his head, and said, “I dunno ‘im.  There ain’t no such a person ‘ere.

I never ‘eard of ‘im in all my bloomin’ days.  Don’t believe there

ain’t nobody of that kind livin’ ‘ere or anywheres.”

 

I took out Smollet’s letter, and as I read it it seemed to me that the

lesson of the spelling of the name of the court might guide me.  “What

are you?” I asked.

 

“I’m the depity,” he answered.

 

I saw at once that I was on the right track.  Phonetic spelling had

again misled me.  A half crown tip put the deputy’s knowledge at my

disposal, and I learned that Mr. Bloxam, who had slept off the remains

of his beer on the previous night at Corcoran’s, had left for his work

at Poplar at five o’clock that morning.  He could not tell me where

the place of work was situated, but he had a vague idea that it was

some kind of a “new-fangled ware’us,” and with this slender clue I had

to start for Poplar.  It was twelve o’clock before I got any

satisfactory hint of such a building, and this I got at a coffee shop,

where some workmen were having their dinner.  One of them suggested

that there was being erected at Cross Angel Street a new “cold

storage” building, and as this suited the condition of a “new-fangled

ware’us,” I at once drove to it.  An interview with a surly gatekeeper

and a surlier foreman, both of whom were appeased with the coin of the

realm, put me on the track of Bloxam.  He was sent for on my

suggestion that I was willing to pay his days wages to his foreman for

the privilege of asking him a few questions on a private matter.  He

was a smart enough fellow, though rough of speech and bearing.  When I

had promised to pay for his information and given him an earnest, he

told me that he had made two journeys between Carfax and a house in

Piccadilly, and had taken from this house to the latter nine great

boxes, “main heavy ones,” with a horse and cart hired by him for this

purpose.

 

I asked him if he could tell me the number of the house in Piccadilly,

to which he replied, “Well, guv’nor, I forgits the number, but it was

only a few door from a big white church, or somethink of the kind, not

long built.  It was a dusty old ‘ouse, too, though nothin’ to the

dustiness of the ‘ouse we tooked the bloomin’ boxes from.”

 

“How did you get in if both houses were empty?”

 

“There was the old party what engaged me a waitin’ in the ‘ouse at

Purfleet.  He ‘elped me to lift the boxes and put them in the dray.

Curse me, but he was the strongest chap I ever struck, an’ him a old

feller, with a white moustache, one that thin you would think he

couldn’t throw a shadder.”

 

How this phrase thrilled through me!

 

“Why, ‘e took up ‘is end o’ the boxes like they was pounds of tea, and

me a puffin’ an’ a blowin’ afore I could upend mine anyhow, an’ I’m no

chicken, neither.”

 

“How did you get into the house in Piccadilly?” I asked.

 

“He was there too.  He must ‘a started off and got there afore me, for

when I rung of the bell he kem an’ opened the door ‘isself an’ ‘elped

me carry the boxes into the ‘all.”

 

“The whole nine?” I asked.

 

“Yus, there was five in the first load an’ four in the second.  It was

main dry work, an’ I don’t so well remember ‘ow I got ‘ome.”

 

I interrupted him, “Were the boxes left in the hall?”

 

“Yus, it was a big ‘all, an’ there was nothin’ else in it.”

 

I made one more attempt to further matters.  “You didn’t have any

key?”

 

“Never used no key nor nothink.  The old gent, he opened the door

‘isself an’ shut it again when I druv off.  I don’t remember the last

time, but that was the beer.”

 

“And you can’t remember the number of the house?”

 

“No, sir.  But ye needn’t have no difficulty about that.  It’s a ‘igh

‘un with a stone front with a bow on it, an’ ‘igh steps up to the

door.  I know them steps, ‘avin’ ‘ad to carry the boxes up with three

loafers what come round to earn a copper.  The old gent give them

shillin’s, an’ they seein’ they got so much, they wanted more.  But ‘e

took one of them by the shoulder and was like to throw ‘im down the

steps, till the lot of them went away cussin’.”

 

I thought that with this description I could find the house, so having

paid my friend for his information, I started off for Piccadilly.  I

had gained a new painful experience.  The Count could, it was evident,

handle the earth boxes himself.  If so, time was precious, for now

that he had achieved a certain amount of distribution, he could, by

choosing his own time, complete the task unobserved.  At Piccadilly

Circus I discharged my cab, and walked westward.  Beyond the Junior

Constitutional I came across the house described and was satisfied

that this was the next of the lairs arranged by Dracula.  The house

looked as though it had been long untenanted.  The windows were

encrusted with dust, and the shutters were up.  All the framework was

black with time, and from the iron the paint had mostly scaled away.

It was evident that up to lately there had been a large notice board

in front of the balcony.  It had, however, been roughly torn away, the

uprights which had supported it still remaining.  Behind the rails of

the balcony I saw there were some loose boards, whose raw edges looked

white.  I would have given a good deal to have been able to see the

notice board intact, as it would, perhaps, have given some clue to the

ownership of the house.  I remembered my experience of the investigation

and purchase of Carfax, and I could not but feel that if I could find

the former owner there might be some means discovered of gaining access

to the house.

 

There was at present nothing to be learned from the Piccadilly side,

and nothing could be done, so I went around to the back to see if

anything could be gathered from this quarter.  The mews were active,

the Piccadilly houses being mostly in occupation.  I asked one or two

of the grooms and helpers whom I saw around if they could tell me

anything about the empty house.  One of them said that he heard it had

lately been taken, but he couldn’t say from whom.  He told me,

however, that up to very lately there had been a notice board of “For

Sale” up, and that perhaps Mitchell, Sons, & Candy the house agents

could tell me something, as he thought he remembered seeing the name

of that firm on the board.  I did not wish to seem too eager, or to

let my informant know or guess too much, so thanking him in the usual

manner, I strolled away.  It was now growing dusk, and the autumn

night was closing in, so I did not lose any time.  Having learned the

address of Mitchell, Sons, & Candy from a directory at the Berkeley, I

was soon at their office in Sackville Street.

 

The gentleman who saw me was particularly suave in manner, but

uncommunicative in equal proportion.  Having once told me that the

Piccadilly house, which throughout our interview he called a

“mansion,” was sold, he considered my business as concluded.  When I

asked who had purchased it, he opened his eyes a thought wider, and

paused a few seconds before replying, “It is sold, sir.”

 

“Pardon me,” I said, with equal politeness, “but I have a special

reason for wishing to know who purchased it.”

 

Again he paused longer, and raised his eyebrows still more.  “It is

sold, sir,” was again his laconic reply.

 

“Surely,” I said, “you do not mind letting me know so much.”

 

“But I do mind,” he answered.  “The affairs of their clients are

absolutely safe in the hands of Mitchell, Sons, & Candy.”

 

This was manifestly a prig of the first water, and there was no use

arguing with him.  I thought I had best meet him on his own ground, so

I said, “Your clients, sir, are happy in having so resolute a guardian

of their confidence.  I am myself a professional man.”

 

Here I handed him my card.  “In this instance I am not prompted by

curiosity, I act on the part of Lord Godalming, who wishes to know

something of the property which was, he understood, lately for sale.”

 

These words put a different complexion on affairs.  He said, “I would

like to oblige you if I could, Mr. Harker, and especially would I like

to oblige his lordship.  We once carried out a small matter of renting

some chambers for him when he was the honourable Arthur Holmwood.  If

you will let me have his lordship’s address I will consult the House

on the subject, and will, in any case, communicate with his lordship

by tonight’s post.  It will be a pleasure if we can so far deviate

from our rules as to give the required information to his lordship.”

 

I wanted to secure a friend, and not to make an enemy, so I thanked

him, gave the address at Dr. Seward’s and came away.  It was now dark,

and I was tired and hungry.  I got a cup of tea at the Aerated Bread

Company and came down to Purfleet by the next train.

 

I found all the others at home.  Mina was looking tired and pale, but

she made a gallant effort to be bright and cheerful.  It wrung my

heart to think that I had had to keep anything from her and so caused

her inquietude.  Thank God, this will be the last night of her looking

on at our conferences, and feeling the sting of our not showing our

confidence.  It took all my courage to hold to the wise resolution of

keeping her out of our grim task.  She seems somehow more reconciled,

or else the very subject seems to have become repugnant to her, for

when any accidental allusion is made she actually shudders.  I am glad

we made our resolution in time, as with such a feeling as this, our

growing knowledge would be torture to her.

 

I could not tell the others of the day’s discovery till we were alone,

so after dinner, followed by a little music to save appearances even

amongst ourselves, I took Mina to her room and left her to go to bed.

The dear girl was more affectionate with me than ever, and clung to me

as though she would detain me, but there was much to be talked of and

I came away.  Thank God, the ceasing of telling things has made no

difference between us.

 

When I came down again I found the others all gathered round the fire

in the study.  In the train I had written my diary so far, and simply

read it off to them as the best means of letting them get abreast of

my own information.

 

When I had finished Van Helsing said, “This has been a great day’s

work, friend Jonathan.  Doubtless we are on the track of the missing

boxes.  If we find them all in that house, then our work is near the

end.  But if there be some missing, we must search until we find them.

Then shall we make our final coup, and hunt the wretch to his real

death.”

 

We all sat silent awhile and all at once Mr. Morris spoke, “Say!  How

are we going to get into that house?”

 

“We got into the other,” answered Lord Godalming quickly.

 

“But, Art, this is different.  We broke house at Carfax, but we had

night and a walled park to protect us.  It will be a mighty different

thing to commit burglary in Piccadilly, either by day or night.  I

confess I don’t see how we are going to get in unless that agency duck

can find us a key of some sort.”

 

Lord Godalming’s brows contracted, and he stood up and walked about the

room.  By-and-by he stopped and said, turning from one to another of

us, “Quincey’s head is level.  This burglary business is getting

serious.  We got off once all right, but we have now a rare job on

hand.  Unless we can find the Count’s key basket.”

 

As nothing could well be done before morning, and as it would be at

least advisable to wait till Lord Godalming should hear from

Mitchell’s, we decided not to take any active step before breakfast

time.  For a good while we sat and smoked, discussing the matter in

its various lights and bearings.  I took the opportunity of bringing

this diary right up to the moment.  I am very sleepy and shall go to

bed . . .

 

Just a line.  Mina sleeps soundly and her breathing is regular.  Her

forehead is puckered up into little wrinkles, as though she thinks

even in her sleep.  She is still too pale, but does not look so

haggard as she did this morning.  Tomorrow will, I hope, mend all

this.  She will be herself at home in Exeter.  Oh, but I am sleepy!

 

 

 

 

1. SEWARD’S DIARY

 

1 October.–I am puzzled afresh about Renfield.  His moods change so

rapidly that I find it difficult to keep touch of them, and as they

always mean something more than his own well-being, they form a more

than interesting study.  This morning, when I went to see him after

his repulse of Van Helsing, his manner was that of a man commanding

destiny.  He was, in fact, commanding destiny, subjectively.  He did

not really care for any of the things of mere earth, he was in the

clouds and looked down on all the weaknesses and wants of us poor

mortals.

 

I thought I would improve the occasion and learn something, so I asked

him, “What about the flies these times?”

 

He smiled on me in quite a superior sort of way, such a smile as would

have become the face of Malvolio, as he answered me, “The fly, my dear

sir, has one striking feature.  Its wings are typical of the aerial

powers of the psychic faculties.  The ancients did well when they

typified the soul as a butterfly!”

 

I thought I would push his analogy to its utmost logically, so I said

quickly, “Oh, it is a soul you are after now, is it?”

 

His madness foiled his reason, and a puzzled look spread over his face

as, shaking his head with a decision which I had but seldom seen in

him.

 

He said, “Oh, no, oh no!  I want no souls.  Life is all I want.”  Here

he brightened up.  “I am pretty indifferent about it at present.  Life

is all right.  I have all I want.  You must get a new patient, doctor,

if you wish to study zoophagy!”

 

This puzzled me a little, so I drew him on.  “Then you command life.

You are a god, I suppose?”

 

He smiled with an ineffably benign superiority.  “Oh no!  Far be it

from me to arrogate to myself the attributes of the Deity.  I am not

even concerned in His especially spiritual doings.  If I may state my

intellectual position I am, so far as concerns things purely

terrestrial, somewhat in the position which Enoch occupied

spiritually!”

 

This was a poser to me.  I could not at the moment recall Enoch’s

appositeness, so I had to ask a simple question, though I felt that by

so doing I was lowering myself in the eyes of the lunatic.  “And why

with Enoch?”

 

“Because he walked with God.”

 

I could not see the analogy, but did not like to admit it, so I harked

back to what he had denied.  “So you don’t care about life and you

don’t want souls.  Why not?”  I put my question quickly and somewhat

sternly, on purpose to disconcert him.

 

The effort succeeded, for an instant he unconsciously relapsed into

his old servile manner, bent low before me, and actually fawned upon

me as he replied.  “I don’t want any souls, indeed, indeed!  I don’t.

I couldn’t use them if I had them.  They would be no manner of use to

1. I couldn’t eat them or . . .”

 

He suddenly stopped and the old cunning look spread over his face,

like a wind sweep on the surface of the water.

 

“And doctor, as to life, what is it after all?  When you’ve got all

you require, and you know that you will never want, that is all.  I

have friends, good friends, like you, Dr. Seward.”  This was said with

a leer of inexpressible cunning.  “I know that I shall never lack the

means of life!”

 

I think that through the cloudiness of his insanity he saw some

antagonism in me, for he at once fell back on the last refuge of such

as he, a dogged silence.  After a short time I saw that for the

present it was useless to speak to him.  He was sulky, and so I came

away.

 

Later in the day he sent for me.  Ordinarily I would not have come

without special reason, but just at present I am so interested in him

that I would gladly make an effort.  Besides, I am glad to have

anything to help pass the time.  Harker is out, following up clues,

and so are Lord Godalming and Quincey.  Van Helsing sits in my study

poring over the record prepared by the Harkers.  He seems to think

that by accurate knowledge of all details he will light up on some

clue.  He does not wish to be disturbed in the work, without cause.  I

would have taken him with me to see the patient, only I thought that

after his last repulse he might not care to go again.  There was also

another reason.  Renfield might not speak so freely before a third

person as when he and I were alone.

 

I found him sitting in the middle of the floor on his stool, a pose

which is generally indicative of some mental energy on his part.  When

I came in, he said at once, as though the question had been waiting on

his lips.  “What about souls?”

 

It was evident then that my surmise had been correct.  Unconscious

cerebration was doing its work, even with the lunatic.  I determined

to have the matter out.

 

“What about them yourself?” I asked.

 

He did not reply for a moment but looked all around him, and up and

down, as though he expected to find some inspiration for an answer.

 

“I don’t want any souls!” he said in a feeble, apologetic way.  The

matter seemed preying on his mind, and so I determined to use it, to

“be cruel only to be kind.”  So I said, “You like life, and you want

life?”

 

“Oh yes!  But that is all right.  You needn’t worry about that!”

 

“But,” I asked, “how are we to get the life without getting the soul

also?”

 

This seemed to puzzle him, so I followed it up, “A nice time you’ll

have some time when you’re flying out here, with the souls of

thousands of flies and spiders and birds and cats buzzing and

twittering and moaning all around you.  You’ve got their lives, you

know, and you must put up with their souls!”

 

Something seemed to affect his imagination, for he put his fingers to

his ears and shut his eyes, screwing them up tightly just as a small

boy does when his face is being soaped.  There was something pathetic

in it that touched me.  It also gave me a lesson, for it seemed that

before me was a child, only a child, though the features were worn,

and the stubble on the jaws was white.  It was evident that he was

undergoing some process of mental disturbance, and knowing how his

past moods had interpreted things seemingly foreign to himself, I

thought I would enter into his mind as well as I could and go with him.

 

The first step was to restore confidence, so I asked him, speaking

pretty loud so that he would hear me through his closed ears, “Would

you like some sugar to get your flies around again?”

 

He seemed to wake up all at once, and shook his head.  With a laugh he

replied, “Not much!  Flies are poor things, after all!”  After a pause

he added, “But I don’t want their souls buzzing round me, all the

same.”

 

“Or spiders?” I went on.

 

“Blow spiders!  What’s the use of spiders?  There isn’t anything in

them to eat or . . .”  He stopped suddenly as though reminded of a

forbidden topic.

 

“So, so!” I thought to myself, “this is the second time he has

suddenly stopped at the word ‘drink’.  What does it mean?”

 

Renfield seemed himself aware of having made a lapse, for he hurried

on, as though to distract my attention from it, “I don’t take any

stock at all in such matters.  ‘Rats and mice and such small deer,’ as

Shakespeare has it, ‘chicken feed of the larder’ they might be called.

I’m past all that sort of nonsense.  You might as well ask a man to

eat molecules with a pair of chopsticks, as to try to interest me

about the less carnivora, when I know of what is before me.”

 

“I see,” I said.  “You want big things that you can make your teeth

meet in?  How would you like to breakfast on an elephant?”

 

“What ridiculous nonsense you are talking?”  He was getting too wide

awake, so I thought I would press him hard.

 

“I wonder,” I said reflectively, “what an elephant’s soul is like!”

 

The effect I desired was obtained, for he at once fell from his

high-horse and became a child again.

 

“I don’t want an elephant’s soul, or any soul at all!” he said.  For a

few moments he sat despondently.  Suddenly he jumped to his feet, with

his eyes blazing and all the signs of intense cerebral excitement.

“To hell with you and your souls!” he shouted.  “Why do you plague me

about souls?  Haven’t I got enough to worry, and pain, to distract me

already, without thinking of souls?”

 

He looked so hostile that I thought he was in for another homicidal

fit, so I blew my whistle.

 

The instant, however, that I did so he became calm, and said

apologetically, “Forgive me, Doctor.  I forgot myself.  You do not

need any help.  I am so worried in my mind that I am apt to be

irritable.  If you only knew the problem I have to face, and that I am

working out, you would pity, and tolerate, and pardon me.  Pray do not

put me in a strait waistcoat.  I want to think and I cannot think

freely when my body is confined.  I am sure you will understand!”

 

He had evidently self-control, so when the attendants came I told them

not to mind, and they withdrew.  Renfield watched them go.  When the

door was closed he said with considerable dignity and sweetness, “Dr.

Seward, you have been very considerate towards me.  Believe me that I

am very, very grateful to you!”

 

I thought it well to leave him in this mood, and so I came away.

There is certainly something to ponder over in this man’s state.

Several points seem to make what the American interviewer calls “a

story,” if one could only get them in proper order.  Here they are:

 

Will not mention “drinking.”

 

Fears the thought of being burdened with the “soul” of anything.

 

Has no dread of wanting “life” in the future.

 

Despises the meaner forms of life altogether, though he dreads

being haunted by their souls.

 

Logically all these things point one way!  He has assurance of

some kind that he will acquire some higher life.

 

He dreads the consequence, the burden of a soul.  Then it is a

human life he looks to!

 

And the assurance . . .?

 

Merciful God!  The Count has been to him, and there is some new scheme

of terror afoot!

 

 

Later.–I went after my round to Van Helsing and told him my

suspicion.  He grew very grave, and after thinking the matter over for

a while asked me to take him to Renfield.  I did so.  As we came to

the door we heard the lunatic within singing gaily, as he used to do

in the time which now seems so long ago.

 

When we entered we saw with amazement that he had spread out his sugar

as of old.  The flies, lethargic with the autumn, were beginning to

buzz into the room.  We tried to make him talk of the subject of our

previous conversation, but he would not attend.  He went on with his

singing, just as though we had not been present.  He had got a scrap

of paper and was folding it into a notebook.  We had to come away as

ignorant as we went in.

 

His is a curious case indeed.  We must watch him tonight.

 

 

 

 

 

LETTER, MITCHELL, SONS & CANDY TO LORD GODALMING.

 

“1 October.

 

“My Lord,

 

“We are at all times only too happy to meet your wishes.  We beg,

with regard to the desire of your Lordship, expressed by Mr.

Harker on your behalf, to supply the following information

concerning the sale and purchase of No. 347, Piccadilly.  The

original vendors are the executors of the late Mr. Archibald

Winter-Suffield.  The purchaser is a foreign nobleman, Count de

Ville, who effected the purchase himself paying the purchase

money in notes ‘over the counter,’ if your Lordship will pardon

us using so vulgar an expression.  Beyond this we know nothing

whatever of him.

 

“We are, my Lord,

 

“Your Lordship’s humble servants,

 

“MITCHELL, SONS & CANDY.”

 

 

 

 

1. SEWARD’S DIARY

 

2 October.–I placed a man in the corridor last night, and told him to

make an accurate note of any sound he might hear from Renfield’s room,

and gave him instructions that if there should be anything strange he

was to call me.  After dinner, when we had all gathered round the fire

in the study, Mrs. Harker having gone to bed, we discussed the

attempts and discoveries of the day.  Harker was the only one who had

any result, and we are in great hopes that his clue may be an

important one.

 

Before going to bed I went round to the patient’s room and looked in

through the observation trap.  He was sleeping soundly, his heart rose

and fell with regular respiration.

 

This morning the man on duty reported to me that a little after

midnight he was restless and kept saying his prayers somewhat loudly.

I asked him if that was all.  He replied that it was all he heard.

There was something about his manner, so suspicious that I asked him

point blank if he had been asleep.  He denied sleep, but admitted to

having “dozed” for a while.  It is too bad that men cannot be trusted

unless they are watched.

 

Today Harker is out following up his clue, and Art and Quincey are

looking after horses.  Godalming thinks that it will be well to have

horses always in readiness, for when we get the information which we

seek there will be no time to lose.  We must sterilize all the

imported earth between sunrise and sunset.  We shall thus catch the

Count at his weakest, and without a refuge to fly to.  Van Helsing is

off to the British Museum looking up some authorities on ancient

medicine.  The old physicians took account of things which their

followers do not accept, and the Professor is searching for witch and

demon cures which may be useful to us later.

 

I sometimes think we must be all mad and that we shall wake to sanity

in strait waistcoats.

 

Later.–We have met again.  We seem at last to be on the track, and

our work of tomorrow may be the beginning of the end.  I wonder if

Renfield’s quiet has anything to do with this.  His moods have so

followed the doings of the Count, that the coming destruction of the

monster may be carried to him some subtle way.  If we could only get

some hint as to what passed in his mind, between the time of my

argument with him today and his resumption of fly-catching, it might

afford us a valuable clue.  He is now seemingly quiet for a spell . . .

Is he?  That wild yell seemed to come from his room . . .

 

The attendant came bursting into my room and told me that Renfield had

somehow met with some accident.  He had heard him yell, and when he

went to him found him lying on his face on the floor, all covered with

blood.  I must go at once . . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 21

 

 

1. SEWARD’S DIARY

 

3 October.–Let me put down with exactness all that happened, as well

as I can remember, since last I made an entry.  Not a detail that I

can recall must be forgotten.  In all calmness I must proceed.

 

When I came to Renfield’s room I found him lying on the floor on his

left side in a glittering pool of blood.  When I went to move him, it

became at once apparent that he had received some terrible injuries.

There seemed none of the unity of purpose between the parts of the

body which marks even lethargic sanity.  As the face was exposed I

could see that it was horribly bruised, as though it had been beaten

against the floor.  Indeed it was from the face wounds that the pool

of blood originated.

 

The attendant who was kneeling beside the body said to me as we turned

him over, “I think, sir, his back is broken.  See, both his right arm

and leg and the whole side of his face are paralysed.”  How such a

thing could have happened puzzled the attendant beyond measure.  He

seemed quite bewildered, and his brows were gathered in as he said, “I

can’t understand the two things.  He could mark his face like that by

beating his own head on the floor.  I saw a young woman do it once at

the Eversfield Asylum before anyone could lay hands on her.  And I

suppose he might have broken his neck by falling out of bed, if he got

in an awkward kink.  But for the life of me I can’t imagine how the

two things occurred.  If his back was broke, he couldn’t beat his

head, and if his face was like that before the fall out of bed, there

would be marks of it.”

 

I said to him, “Go to Dr. Van Helsing, and ask him to kindly come here

at once.  I want him without an instant’s delay.”

 

The man ran off, and within a few minutes the Professor, in his

dressing gown and slippers, appeared.  When he saw Renfield on the

ground, he looked keenly at him a moment, and then turned to me.  I

think he recognized my thought in my eyes, for he said very quietly,

manifestly for the ears of the attendant, “Ah, a sad accident!  He

will need very careful watching, and much attention.  I shall stay

with you myself, but I shall first dress myself.  If you will remain I

shall in a few minutes join you.”

 

The patient was now breathing stertorously and it was easy to see that

he had suffered some terrible injury.

 

Van Helsing returned with extraordinary celerity, bearing with him a

surgical case.  He had evidently been thinking and had his mind made

up, for almost before he looked at the patient, he whispered to me,

“Send the attendant away.  We must be alone with him when he becomes

conscious, after the operation.”

 

I said, “I think that will do now, Simmons.  We have done all that we

can at present.  You had better go your round, and Dr. Van Helsing

will operate.  Let me know instantly if there be anything unusual

anywhere.”

 

The man withdrew, and we went into a strict examination of the

patient.  The wounds of the face were superficial.  The real injury

was a depressed fracture of the skull, extending right up through the

motor area.

 

The Professor thought a moment and said, “We must reduce the pressure

and get back to normal conditions, as far as can be.  The rapidity of

the suffusion shows the terrible nature of his injury.  The whole

motor area seems affected.  The suffusion of the brain will increase

quickly, so we must trephine at once or it may be too late.”

 

As he was speaking there was a soft tapping at the door.  I went over

and opened it and found in the corridor without, Arthur and Quincey in

pajamas and slippers; the former spoke, “I heard your man call up Dr.

Van Helsing and tell him of an accident.  So I woke Quincey or rather

called for him as he was not asleep.  Things are moving too quickly

and too strangely for sound sleep for any of us these times.  I’ve

been thinking that tomorrow night will not see things as they have

been.  We’ll have to look back, and forward a little more than we have

done.  May we come in?”

 

I nodded, and held the door open till they had entered, then I closed

it again.  When Quincey saw the attitude and state of the patient, and

noted the horrible pool on the floor, he said softly, “My God!  What

has happened to him?  Poor, poor devil!”

 

I told him briefly, and added that we expected he would recover

consciousness after the operation, for a short time, at all events.

He went at once and sat down on the edge of the bed, with Godalming

beside him.  We all watched in patience.

 

“We shall wait,” said Van Helsing, “just long enough to fix the best

spot for trephining, so that we may most quickly and perfectly remove

the blood clot, for it is evident that the haemorrhage is increasing.”

 

The minutes during which we waited passed with fearful slowness.  I

had a horrible sinking in my heart, and from Van Helsing’s face I

gathered that he felt some fear or apprehension as to what was to

come.  I dreaded the words Renfield might speak.  I was positively

afraid to think.  But the conviction of what was coming was on me, as

I have read of men who have heard the death watch.  The poor man’s

breathing came in uncertain gasps.  Each instant he seemed as though

he would open his eyes and speak, but then would follow a prolonged

stertorous breath, and he would relapse into a more fixed

insensibility.  Inured as I was to sick beds and death, this suspense

grew and grew upon me.  I could almost hear the beating of my own

heart, and the blood surging through my temples sounded like blows

from a hammer.  The silence finally became agonizing.  I looked at my

companions, one after another, and saw from their flushed faces and

damp brows that they were enduring equal torture.  There was a nervous

suspense over us all, as though overhead some dread bell would peal

out powerfully when we should least expect it.

 

At last there came a time when it was evident that the patient was

sinking fast.  He might die at any moment.  I looked up at the

Professor and caught his eyes fixed on mine.  His face was sternly set

as he spoke, “There is no time to lose.  His words may be worth many

lives.  I have been thinking so, as I stood here.  It may be there is

a soul at stake!  We shall operate just above the ear.”

 

Without another word he made the operation.  For a few moments the

breathing continued to be stertorous.  Then there came a breath so

prolonged that it seemed as though it would tear open his chest.

Suddenly his eyes opened, and became fixed in a wild, helpless stare.

This was continued for a few moments, then it was softened into a glad

surprise, and from his lips came a sigh of relief.  He moved

convulsively, and as he did so, said, “I’ll be quiet, Doctor.  Tell

them to take off the strait waistcoat.  I have had a terrible dream,

and it has left me so weak that I cannot move.  What’s wrong with my

face?  It feels all swollen, and it smarts dreadfully.”

 

He tried to turn his head, but even with the effort his eyes seemed to

grow glassy again so I gently put it back.  Then Van Helsing said in a

quiet grave tone, “Tell us your dream, Mr. Renfield.”

 

As he heard the voice his face brightened, through its mutilation, and

he said, “That is Dr. Van Helsing.  How good it is of you to be here.

Give me some water, my lips are dry, and I shall try to tell you.  I

dreamed . . .”

 

He stopped and seemed fainting.  I called quietly to Quincey, “The

brandy, it is in my study, quick!”  He flew and returned with a glass,

the decanter of brandy and a carafe of water.  We moistened the

parched lips, and the patient quickly revived.

 

It seemed, however, that his poor injured brain had been working in

the interval, for when he was quite conscious, he looked at me

piercingly with an agonized confusion which I shall never forget, and

said, “I must not deceive myself.  It was no dream, but all a grim

reality.”  Then his eyes roved round the room.  As they caught sight

of the two figures sitting patiently on the edge of the bed he went

on, “If I were not sure already, I would know from them.”

 

For an instant his eyes closed, not with pain or sleep but

voluntarily, as though he were bringing all his faculties to bear.

When he opened them he said, hurriedly, and with more energy than he

had yet displayed, “Quick, Doctor, quick, I am dying!  I feel that I

have but a few minutes, and then I must go back to death, or worse!

Wet my lips with brandy again.  I have something that I must say

before I die.  Or before my poor crushed brain dies anyhow.  Thank

you!  It was that night after you left me, when I implored you to let

me go away.  I couldn’t speak then, for I felt my tongue was tied.

But I was as sane then, except in that way, as I am now.  I was in an

agony of despair for a long time after you left me, it seemed hours.

Then there came a sudden peace to me.  My brain seemed to become cool

again, and I realized where I was.  I heard the dogs bark behind our

house, but not where He was!”

 

As he spoke, Van Helsing’s eyes never blinked, but his hand came out

and met mine and gripped it hard.  He did not, however, betray

himself.  He nodded slightly and said, “Go on,” in a low voice.

 

Renfield proceeded.  “He came up to the window in the mist, as I had

seen him often before, but he was solid then, not a ghost, and his

eyes were fierce like a man’s when angry.  He was laughing with his

red mouth, the sharp white teeth glinted in the moonlight when he

turned to look back over the belt of trees, to where the dogs were

barking.  I wouldn’t ask him to come in at first, though I knew he

wanted to, just as he had wanted all along.  Then he began promising

me things, not in words but by doing them.”

 

He was interrupted by a word from the Professor, “How?”

 

“By making them happen.  Just as he used to send in the flies when the

sun was shining.  Great big fat ones with steel and sapphire on their

wings.  And big moths, in the night, with skull and cross-bones on

their backs.”

 

Van Helsing nodded to him as he whispered to me unconsciously, “The

Acherontia Atropos of the Sphinges, what you call the ‘Death’s-head

Moth’?”

 

The patient went on without stopping, “Then he began to whisper.  ‘Rats,

rats, rats!  Hundreds, thousands, millions of them, and every one a

life.  And dogs to eat them, and cats too.  All lives!  All red blood,

with years of life in it, and not merely buzzing flies!’  I laughed at

him, for I wanted to see what he could do.  Then the dogs howled, away

beyond the dark trees in His house.  He beckoned me to the window.  I

got up and looked out, and He raised his hands, and seemed to call out

without using any words.  A dark mass spread over the grass, coming on

like the shape of a flame of fire.  And then He moved the mist to the

right and left, and I could see that there were thousands of rats with

their eyes blazing red, like His only smaller.  He held up his hand,

and they all stopped, and I thought he seemed to be saying, ‘All these

lives will I give you, ay, and many more and greater, through

countless ages, if you will fall down and worship me!’  And then a red

cloud, like the colour of blood, seemed to close over my eyes, and

before I knew what I was doing, I found myself opening the sash and

saying to Him, ‘Come in, Lord and Master!’  The rats were all gone, but

He slid into the room through the sash, though it was only open an

inch wide, just as the Moon herself has often come in through the

tiniest crack and has stood before me in all her size and splendour.”

 

His voice was weaker, so I moistened his lips with the brandy again,

and he continued, but it seemed as though his memory had gone on

working in the interval for his story was further advanced.  I was

about to call him back to the point, but Van Helsing whispered to me,

“Let him go on.  Do not interrupt him.  He cannot go back, and maybe

could not proceed at all if once he lost the thread of his thought.”

 

He proceeded, “All day I waited to hear from him, but he did not send

me anything, not even a blowfly, and when the moon got up I was pretty

angry with him.  When he did slide in through the window, though it

was shut, and did not even knock, I got mad with him.  He sneered at

me, and his white face looked out of the mist with his red eyes

gleaming, and he went on as though he owned the whole place, and I was

no one.  He didn’t even smell the same as he went by me.  I couldn’t

hold him.  I thought that, somehow, Mrs. Harker had come into the

room.”

 

The two men sitting on the bed stood up and came over, standing behind

him so that he could not see them, but where they could hear better.

They were both silent, but the Professor started and quivered.  His

face, however, grew grimmer and sterner still.  Renfield went on

without noticing, “When Mrs. Harker came in to see me this afternoon

she wasn’t the same.  It was like tea after the teapot has been

watered.”  Here we all moved, but no one said a word.

 

He went on, “I didn’t know that she was here till she spoke, and she

didn’t look the same.  I don’t care for the pale people.  I like them

with lots of blood in them, and hers all seemed to have run out.  I

didn’t think of it at the time, but when she went away I began to

think, and it made me mad to know that He had been taking the life out

of her.”  I could feel that the rest quivered, as I did; but we

remained otherwise still.  “So when He came tonight I was ready for

Him.  I saw the mist stealing in, and I grabbed it tight.  I had heard

that madmen have unnatural strength.  And as I knew I was a madman, at

times anyhow, I resolved to use my power.  Ay, and He felt it too, for

He had to come out of the mist to struggle with me.  I held tight, and

I thought I was going to win, for I didn’t mean Him to take any more

of her life, till I saw His eyes.  They burned into me, and my

strength became like water.  He slipped through it, and when I tried

to cling to Him, He raised me up and flung me down.  There was a red

cloud before me, and a noise like thunder, and the mist seemed to

steal away under the door.”

 

His voice was becoming fainter and his breath more stertorous.  Van

Helsing stood up instinctively.

 

“We know the worst now,” he said.  “He is here, and we know his

purpose.  It may not be too late.  Let us be armed, the same as we

were the other night, but lose no time, there is not an instant to

spare.”

 

There was no need to put our fear, nay our conviction, into words, we

shared them in common.  We all hurried and took from our rooms the

same things that we had when we entered the Count’s house.  The

Professor had his ready, and as we met in the corridor he pointed to

them significantly as he said, “They never leave me, and they shall

not till this unhappy business is over.  Be wise also, my friends.  It

is no common enemy that we deal with Alas!  Alas!  That dear Madam

Mina should suffer!”  He stopped, his voice was breaking, and I do not

know if rage or terror predominated in my own heart.

 

Outside the Harkers’ door we paused.  Art and Quincey held back, and

the latter said, “Should we disturb her?”

 

“We must,” said Van Helsing grimly.  “If the door be locked, I shall

break it in.”

 

“May it not frighten her terribly?  It is unusual to break into a

lady’s room!”

 

Van Helsing said solemnly, “You are always right.  But this is life

and death.  All chambers are alike to the doctor.  And even were they

not they are all as one to me tonight.  Friend John, when I turn the

handle, if the door does not open, do you put your shoulder down and

shove; and you too, my friends.  Now!”

 

He turned the handle as he spoke, but the door did not yield.  We

threw ourselves against it.  With a crash it burst open, and we almost

fell headlong into the room.  The Professor did actually fall, and I

saw across him as he gathered himself up from hands and knees.  What I

saw appalled me.  I felt my hair rise like bristles on the back of my

neck, and my heart seemed to stand still.

 

The moonlight was so bright that through the thick yellow blind the

room was light enough to see.  On the bed beside the window lay

Jonathan Harker, his face flushed and breathing heavily as though in a

stupor.  Kneeling on the near edge of the bed facing outwards was the

white-clad figure of his wife.  By her side stood a tall, thin man,

clad in black.  His face was turned from us, but the instant we saw we

all recognized the Count, in every way, even to the scar on his

forehead.  With his left hand he held both Mrs. Harker’s hands,

keeping them away with her arms at full tension.  His right hand

gripped her by the back of the neck, forcing her face down on his

bosom.  Her white nightdress was smeared with blood, and a thin stream

trickled down the man’s bare chest which was shown by his torn-open

dress.  The attitude of the two had a terrible resemblance to a child

forcing a kitten’s nose into a saucer of milk to compel it to drink.

As we burst into the room, the Count turned his face, and the hellish

look that I had heard described seemed to leap into it.  His eyes

flamed red with devilish passion.  The great nostrils of the white

aquiline nose opened wide and quivered at the edge, and the white

sharp teeth, behind the full lips of the blood dripping mouth, clamped

together like those of a wild beast.  With a wrench, which threw his

victim back upon the bed as though hurled from a height, he turned and

sprang at us.  But by this time the Professor had gained his feet, and

was holding towards him the envelope which contained the Sacred Wafer.

The Count suddenly stopped, just as poor Lucy had done outside the

tomb, and cowered back.  Further and further back he cowered, as we,

lifting our crucifixes, advanced.  The moonlight suddenly failed, as a

great black cloud sailed across the sky.  And when the gaslight sprang

up under Quincey’s match, we saw nothing but a faint vapour.  This, as

we looked, trailed under the door, which with the recoil from its

bursting open, had swung back to its old position.  Van Helsing, Art,

and I moved forward to Mrs. Harker, who by this time had drawn her

breath and with it had given a scream so wild, so ear-piercing, so

despairing that it seems to me now that it will ring in my ears till

my dying day.  For a few seconds she lay in her helpless attitude and

disarray.  Her face was ghastly, with a pallor which was accentuated

by the blood which smeared her lips and cheeks and chin.  From her

throat trickled a thin stream of blood.  Her eyes were mad with

terror.  Then she put before her face her poor crushed hands, which

bore on their whiteness the red mark of the Count’s terrible grip, and

from behind them came a low desolate wail which made the terrible

scream seem only the quick expression of an endless grief.  Van

Helsing stepped forward and drew the coverlet gently over her body,

whilst Art, after looking at her face for an instant despairingly, ran

out of the room.

 

Van Helsing whispered to me, “Jonathan is in a stupor such as we know

the Vampire can produce.  We can do nothing with poor Madam Mina for a

few moments till she recovers herself.  I must wake him!”

 

He dipped the end of a towel in cold water and with it began to flick

him on the face, his wife all the while holding her face between her

hands and sobbing in a way that was heart breaking to hear.  I raised

the blind, and looked out of the window.  There was much moonshine,

and as I looked I could see Quincey Morris run across the lawn and

hide himself in the shadow of a great yew tree.  It puzzled me to

think why he was doing this.  But at the instant I heard Harker’s

quick exclamation as he woke to partial consciousness, and turned to

the bed.  On his face, as there might well be, was a look of wild

amazement.  He seemed dazed for a few seconds, and then full

consciousness seemed to burst upon him all at once, and he started up.

 

His wife was aroused by the quick movement, and turned to him with her

arms stretched out, as though to embrace him.  Instantly, however, she

drew them in again, and putting her elbows together, held her hands

before her face, and shuddered till the bed beneath her shook.

 

“In God’s name what does this mean?” Harker cried out.  “Dr. Seward,

Dr. Van Helsing, what is it?  What has happened?  What is wrong?  Mina,

dear what is it?  What does that blood mean?  My God, my God!  Has it

come to this!”  And, raising himself to his knees, he beat his hands

wildly together.  “Good God help us!  Help her!  Oh, help her!”

 

With a quick movement he jumped from bed, and began to pull on his

clothes, all the man in him awake at the need for instant exertion.

“What has happened?  Tell me all about it!” he cried without pausing.

“Dr. Van Helsing, you love Mina, I know.  Oh, do something to save her.

It cannot have gone too far yet.  Guard her while I look for him!”

 

His wife, through her terror and horror and distress, saw some sure

danger to him.  Instantly forgetting her own grief, she seized hold of

him and cried out.

 

“No!  No!  Jonathan, you must not leave me.  I have suffered enough

tonight, God knows, without the dread of his harming you.  You must

stay with me.  Stay with these friends who will watch over you!”  Her

expression became frantic as she spoke.  And, he yielding to her, she

pulled him down sitting on the bedside, and clung to him fiercely.

 

Van Helsing and I tried to calm them both.  The Professor held up his

golden crucifix, and said with wonderful calmness, “Do not fear, my

dear.  We are here, and whilst this is close to you no foul thing can

approach.  You are safe for tonight, and we must be calm and take

counsel together.”

 

She shuddered and was silent, holding down her head on her husband’s

breast.  When she raised it, his white nightrobe was stained with

blood where her lips had touched, and where the thin open wound in the

neck had sent forth drops.  The instant she saw it she drew back, with

a low wail, and whispered, amidst choking sobs.

 

“Unclean, unclean!  I must touch him or kiss him no more.  Oh, that it

should be that it is I who am now his worst enemy, and whom he may

have most cause to fear.”

 

To this he spoke out resolutely, “Nonsense, Mina.  It is a shame to me

to hear such a word.  I would not hear it of you.  And I shall not

hear it from you.  May God judge me by my deserts, and punish me with

more bitter suffering than even this hour, if by any act or will of

mine anything ever come between us!”

 

He put out his arms and folded her to his breast.  And for a while she

lay there sobbing.  He looked at us over her bowed head, with eyes

that blinked damply above his quivering nostrils.  His mouth was set

as steel.

 

After a while her sobs became less frequent and more faint, and then

he said to me, speaking with a studied calmness which I felt tried his

nervous power to the utmost.

 

“And now, Dr. Seward, tell me all about it.  Too well I know the broad

fact.  Tell me all that has been.”

 

I told him exactly what had happened and he listened with seeming

impassiveness, but his nostrils twitched and his eyes blazed as I told

how the ruthless hands of the Count had held his wife in that terrible

and horrid position, with her mouth to the open wound in his breast.

It interested me, even at that moment, to see that whilst the face of

white set passion worked convulsively over the bowed head, the hands

tenderly and lovingly stroked the ruffled hair.  Just as I had

finished, Quincey and Godalming knocked at the door.  They entered in

obedience to our summons.  Van Helsing looked at me questioningly.  I

understood him to mean if we were to take advantage of their coming to

divert if possible the thoughts of the unhappy husband and wife from

each other and from themselves.  So on nodding acquiescence to him he

asked them what they had seen or done.  To which Lord Godalming

answered.

 

“I could not see him anywhere in the passage, or in any of our rooms.

I looked in the study but, though he had been there, he had gone.  He

had, however . . .”  He stopped suddenly, looking at the poor drooping

figure on the bed.

 

Van Helsing said gravely, “Go on, friend Arthur.  We want here no more

concealments.  Our hope now is in knowing all.  Tell freely!”

 

So Art went on, “He had been there, and though it could only have been

for a few seconds, he made rare hay of the place.  All the manuscript

had been burned, and the blue flames were flickering amongst the white

ashes.  The cylinders of your phonograph too were thrown on the fire,

and the wax had helped the flames.”

 

Here I interrupted.  “Thank God there is the other copy in the safe!”

 

His face lit for a moment, but fell again as he went on.  “I ran

downstairs then, but could see no sign of him.  I looked into

Renfield’s room, but there was no trace there except . . .”  Again he

paused.

 

“Go on,” said Harker hoarsely.  So he bowed his head and moistening his

lips with his tongue, added, “except that the poor fellow is dead.”

 

Mrs. Harker raised her head, looking from one to the other of us she

said solemnly, “God’s will be done!”

 

I could not but feel that Art was keeping back something.  But, as I

took it that it was with a purpose, I said nothing.

 

Van Helsing turned to Morris and asked, “And you, friend Quincey, have

you any to tell?”

 

“A little,” he answered.  “It may be much eventually, but at present I

can’t say.  I thought it well to know if possible where the Count

would go when he left the house.  I did not see him, but I saw a bat

rise from Renfield’s window, and flap westward.  I expected to see him

in some shape go back to Carfax, but he evidently sought some other

lair.  He will not be back tonight, for the sky is reddening in the

east, and the dawn is close.  We must work tomorrow!”

 

He said the latter words through his shut teeth.  For a space of

perhaps a couple of minutes there was silence, and I could fancy that

I could hear the sound of our hearts beating.

 

Then Van Helsing said, placing his hand tenderly on Mrs. Harker’s

head, “And now, Madam Mina, poor dear, dear, Madam Mina, tell us

exactly what happened.  God knows that I do not want that you be

pained, but it is need that we know all.  For now more than ever has

all work to be done quick and sharp, and in deadly earnest.  The day

is close to us that must end all, if it may be so, and now is the

chance that we may live and learn.”

 

The poor dear lady shivered, and I could see the tension of her nerves

as she clasped her husband closer to her and bent her head lower and

lower still on his breast.  Then she raised her head proudly, and held

out one hand to Van Helsing who took it in his, and after stooping and

kissing it reverently, held it fast.  The other hand was locked in

that of her husband, who held his other arm thrown round her

protectingly.  After a pause in which she was evidently ordering her

thoughts, she began.

 

“I took the sleeping draught which you had so kindly given me, but for

a long time it did not act.  I seemed to become more wakeful, and

myriads of horrible fancies began to crowd in upon my mind.  All of

them connected with death, and vampires, with blood, and pain, and

trouble.”  Her husband involuntarily groaned as she turned to him and

said lovingly, “Do not fret, dear.  You must be brave and strong, and

help me through the horrible task.  If you only knew what an effort it

is to me to tell of this fearful thing at all, you would understand

how much I need your help.  Well, I saw I must try to help the

medicine to its work with my will, if it was to do me any good, so I

resolutely set myself to sleep.  Sure enough sleep must soon have come

to me, for I remember no more.  Jonathan coming in had not waked me,

for he lay by my side when next I remember.  There was in the room the

same thin white mist that I had before noticed.  But I forget now if

you know of this.  You will find it in my diary which I shall show you

later.  I felt the same vague terror which had come to me before and

the same sense of some presence.  I turned to wake Jonathan, but found

that he slept so soundly that it seemed as if it was he who had taken

the sleeping draught, and not I.  I tried, but I could not wake him.

This caused me a great fear, and I looked around terrified.  Then

indeed, my heart sank within me.  Beside the bed, as if he had stepped

out of the mist, or rather as if the mist had turned into his figure,

for it had entirely disappeared, stood a tall, thin man, all in

black.  I knew him at once from the description of the others.  The

waxen face, the high aquiline nose, on which the light fell in a thin

white line, the parted red lips, with the sharp white teeth showing

between, and the red eyes that I had seemed to see in the sunset on

the windows of St. Mary’s Church at Whitby.  I knew, too, the red scar

on his forehead where Jonathan had struck him.  For an instant my

heart stood still, and I would have screamed out, only that I was

paralyzed.  In the pause he spoke in a sort of keen, cutting whisper,

pointing as he spoke to Jonathan.

 

“‘Silence!  If you make a sound I shall take him and dash his brains

out before your very eyes.’  I was appalled and was too bewildered to

do or say anything.  With a mocking smile, he placed one hand upon my

shoulder and, holding me tight, bared my throat with the other, saying

as he did so, ‘First, a little refreshment to reward my exertions.

You may as well be quiet.  It is not the first time, or the second,

that your veins have appeased my thirst!’  I was bewildered, and

strangely enough, I did not want to hinder him.  I suppose it is a

part of the horrible curse that such is, when his touch is on his

victim.  And oh, my God, my God, pity me!  He placed his reeking lips

upon my throat!”  Her husband groaned again.  She clasped his hand

harder, and looked at him pityingly, as if he were the injured one,

and went on.

 

“I felt my strength fading away, and I was in a half swoon.  How long

this horrible thing lasted I know not, but it seemed that a long time

must have passed before he took his foul, awful, sneering mouth away.

I saw it drip with the fresh blood!”  The remembrance seemed for a while

to overpower her, and she drooped and would have sunk down but for her

husband’s sustaining arm.  With a great effort she recovered herself

and went on.

 

“Then he spoke to me mockingly, ‘And so you, like the others, would

play your brains against mine.  You would help these men to hunt me

and frustrate me in my design!  You know now, and they know in part

already, and will know in full before long, what it is to cross my

path.  They should have kept their energies for use closer to home.

Whilst they played wits against me, against me who commanded nations,

and intrigued for them, and fought for them, hundreds of years before

they were born, I was countermining them.  And you, their best beloved

one, are now to me, flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood, kin of my

kin, my bountiful wine-press for a while, and shall be later on my

companion and my helper.  You shall be avenged in turn, for not one of

them but shall minister to your needs.  But as yet you are to be

punished for what you have done.  You have aided in thwarting me.  Now

you shall come to my call.  When my brain says “Come!” to you, you

shall cross land or sea to do my bidding.  And to that end this!’

 

“With that he pulled open his shirt, and with his long sharp nails

opened a vein in his breast.  When the blood began to spurt out, he

took my hands in one of his, holding them tight, and with the other

seized my neck and pressed my mouth to the wound, so that I must

either suffocate or swallow some to the . . . Oh, my God!  My God!

What have I done?  What have I done to deserve such a fate, I who have

tried to walk in meekness and righteousness all my days.  God pity

me!  Look down on a poor soul in worse than mortal peril.  And in

mercy pity those to whom she is dear!”  Then she began to rub her lips

as though to cleanse them from pollution.

 

As she was telling her terrible story, the eastern sky began to

quicken, and everything became more and more clear.  Harker was still

and quiet; but over his face, as the awful narrative went on, came a

grey look which deepened and deepened in the morning light, till when

the first red streak of the coming dawn shot up, the flesh stood

darkly out against the whitening hair.

 

We have arranged that one of us is to stay within call of the unhappy

pair till we can meet together and arrange about taking action.

 

Of this I am sure.  The sun rises today on no more miserable house in

all the great round of its daily course.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 22

 

 

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL

 

3 October.–As I must do something or go mad, I write this diary.  It

is now six o’clock, and we are to meet in the study in half an hour

and take something to eat, for Dr. Van Helsing and Dr. Seward are

agreed that if we do not eat we cannot work our best.  Our best will

be, God knows, required today.  I must keep writing at every chance,

for I dare not stop to think.  All, big and little, must go down.

Perhaps at the end the little things may teach us most.  The teaching,

big or little, could not have landed Mina or me anywhere worse than we

are today.  However, we must trust and hope.  Poor Mina told me just

now, with the tears running down her dear cheeks, that it is in

trouble and trial that our faith is tested.  That we must keep on

trusting, and that God will aid us up to the end.  The end!  Oh my

God!  What end? . . . To work!  To work!

 

When Dr. Van Helsing and Dr. Seward had come back from seeing poor

Renfield, we went gravely into what was to be done.  First, Dr. Seward

told us that when he and Dr. Van Helsing had gone down to the room

below they had found Renfield lying on the floor, all in a heap.  His

face was all bruised and crushed in, and the bones of the neck were

broken.

 

Dr. Seward asked the attendant who was on duty in the passage if he

had heard anything.  He said that he had been sitting down, he

confessed to half dozing, when he heard loud voices in the room, and

then Renfield had called out loudly several times, “God!  God!  God!”

After that there was a sound of falling, and when he entered the room

he found him lying on the floor, face down, just as the doctors had

seen him.  Van Helsing asked if he had heard “voices” or “a voice,”

and he said he could not say.  That at first it had seemed to him as

if there were two, but as there was no one in the room it could have

been only one.  He could swear to it, if required, that the word “God”

was spoken by the patient.

 

Dr. Seward said to us, when we were alone, that he did not wish to go

into the matter.  The question of an inquest had to be considered, and

it would never do to put forward the truth, as no one would believe

1. As it was, he thought that on the attendant’s evidence he could

give a certificate of death by misadventure in falling from bed.  In

case the coroner should demand it, there would be a formal inquest,

necessarily to the same result.

 

When the question began to be discussed as to what should be our next

step, the very first thing we decided was that Mina should be in full

confidence.  That nothing of any sort, no matter how painful, should

be kept from her.  She herself agreed as to its wisdom, and it was

pitiful to see her so brave and yet so sorrowful, and in such a depth

of despair.

 

“There must be no concealment,” she said.  “Alas!  We have had too

much already.  And besides there is nothing in all the world that can

give me more pain than I have already endured, than I suffer now!

Whatever may happen, it must be of new hope or of new courage to me!”

 

Van Helsing was looking at her fixedly as she spoke, and said,

suddenly but quietly, “But dear Madam Mina, are you not afraid.  Not

for yourself, but for others from yourself, after what has happened?”

 

Her face grew set in its lines, but her eyes shone with the devotion

of a martyr as she answered, “Ah no!  For my mind is made up!”

 

“To what?” he asked gently, whilst we were all very still, for each in

our own way we had a sort of vague idea of what she meant.

 

Her answer came with direct simplicity, as though she was simply

stating a fact, “Because if I find in myself, and I shall watch keenly

for it, a sign of harm to any that I love, I shall die!”

 

“You would not kill yourself?” he asked, hoarsely.

 

“I would.  If there were no friend who loved me, who would save me

such a pain, and so desperate an effort!”  She looked at him meaningly

as she spoke.

 

He was sitting down, but now he rose and came close to her and put his

hand on her head as he said solemnly.  “My child, there is such an one

if it were for your good.  For myself I could hold it in my account

with God to find such an euthanasia for you, even at this moment if it

were best.  Nay, were it safe!  But my child . . .”

 

For a moment he seemed choked, and a great sob rose in his throat.  He

gulped it down and went on, “There are here some who would stand

between you and death.  You must not die.  You must not die by any

hand, but least of all your own.  Until the other, who has fouled your

sweet life, is true dead you must not die.  For if he is still with

the quick Undead, your death would make you even as he is.  No, you

must live!  You must struggle and strive to live, though death would

seem a boon unspeakable.  You must fight Death himself, though he come

to you in pain or in joy.  By the day, or the night, in safety or in

peril!  On your living soul I charge you that you do not die.  Nay,

nor think of death, till this great evil be past.”

 

The poor dear grew white as death, and shook and shivered, as I have

seen a quicksand shake and shiver at the incoming of the tide.  We

were all silent.  We could do nothing.  At length she grew more calm

and turning to him said sweetly, but oh so sorrowfully, as she held

out her hand, “I promise you, my dear friend, that if God will let me

live, I shall strive to do so.  Till, if it may be in His good time,

this horror may have passed away from me.”

 

She was so good and brave that we all felt that our hearts were

strengthened to work and endure for her, and we began to discuss what

we were to do.  I told her that she was to have all the papers in the

safe, and all the papers or diaries and phonographs we might hereafter

use, and was to keep the record as she had done before.  She was

pleased with the prospect of anything to do, if “pleased” could be

used in connection with so grim an interest.

 

As usual Van Helsing had thought ahead of everyone else, and was

prepared with an exact ordering of our work.

 

“It is perhaps well,” he said, “that at our meeting after our visit to

Carfax we decided not to do anything with the earth boxes that lay

there.  Had we done so, the Count must have guessed our purpose, and

would doubtless have taken measures in advance to frustrate such an

effort with regard to the others.  But now he does not know our

intentions.  Nay, more, in all probability, he does not know that such

a power exists to us as can sterilize his lairs, so that he cannot use

them as of old.

 

“We are now so much further advanced in our knowledge as to their

disposition that, when we have examined the house in Piccadilly, we may

track the very last of them.  Today then, is ours, and in it rests our

hope.  The sun that rose on our sorrow this morning guards us in its

course.  Until it sets tonight, that monster must retain whatever form

he now has.  He is confined within the limitations of his earthly

envelope.  He cannot melt into thin air nor disappear through cracks

or chinks or crannies.  If he go through a doorway, he must open the

door like a mortal.  And so we have this day to hunt out all his lairs

and sterilize them.  So we shall, if we have not yet catch him and

destroy him, drive him to bay in some place where the catching and the

destroying shall be, in time, sure.”

 

Here I started up for I could not contain myself at the thought that

the minutes and seconds so preciously laden with Mina’s life and

happiness were flying from us, since whilst we talked action was

impossible.  But Van Helsing held up his hand warningly.

 

“Nay, friend Jonathan,” he said, “in this, the quickest way home is

the longest way, so your proverb say.  We shall all act and act with

desperate quick, when the time has come.  But think, in all probable

the key of the situation is in that house in Piccadilly.  The Count

may have many houses which he has bought.  Of them he will have deeds

of purchase, keys and other things.  He will have paper that he write

1. He will have his book of cheques. There are many belongings that

he must have somewhere.  Why not in this place so central, so quiet,

where he come and go by the front or the back at all hours, when in

the very vast of the traffic there is none to notice.  We shall go

there and search that house.  And when we learn what it holds, then we

do what our friend Arthur call, in his phrases of hunt ‘stop the

earths’ and so we run down our old fox, so?  Is it not?”

 

“Then let us come at once,” I cried, “we are wasting the precious,

precious time!”

 

The Professor did not move, but simply said, “And how are we to get

into that house in Piccadilly?”

 

“Any way!” I cried.  “We shall break in if need be.”

 

“And your police?  Where will they be, and what will they say?”

 

I was staggered, but I knew that if he wished to delay he had a good

reason for it.  So I said, as quietly as I could, “Don’t wait more

than need be.  You know, I am sure, what torture I am in.”

 

“Ah, my child, that I do.  And indeed there is no wish of me to add to

your anguish.  But just think, what can we do, until all the world be

at movement.  Then will come our time.  I have thought and thought,

and it seems to me that the simplest way is the best of all.  Now we

wish to get into the house, but we have no key.  Is it not so?”  I

nodded.

 

“Now suppose that you were, in truth, the owner of that house, and

could not still get in.  And think there was to you no conscience of

the housebreaker, what would you do?”

 

“I should get a respectable locksmith, and set him to work to pick the

lock for me.”

 

“And your police, they would interfere, would they not?”

 

“Oh no!  Not if they knew the man was properly employed.”

 

“Then,” he looked at me as keenly as he spoke, “all that is in doubt

is the conscience of the employer, and the belief of your policemen as

to whether or not that employer has a good conscience or a bad one.

Your police must indeed be zealous men and clever, oh so clever, in

reading the heart, that they trouble themselves in such matter.  No,

no, my friend Jonathan, you go take the lock off a hundred empty

houses in this your London, or of any city in the world, and if you do

it as such things are rightly done, and at the time such things are

rightly done, no one will interfere.  I have read of a gentleman who

owned a so fine house in London, and when he went for months of summer

to Switzerland and lock up his house, some burglar come and broke

window at back and got in.  Then he went and made open the shutters in

front and walk out and in through the door, before the very eyes of

the police.  Then he have an auction in that house, and advertise it,

and put up big notice.  And when the day come he sell off by a great

auctioneer all the goods of that other man who own them.  Then he go

to a builder, and he sell him that house, making an agreement that he

pull it down and take all away within a certain time.  And your police

and other authority help him all they can.  And when that owner come

back from his holiday in Switzerland he find only an empty hole where

his house had been.  This was all done en regle, and in our work we

shall be en regle too.  We shall not go so early that the policemen

who have then little to think of, shall deem it strange.  But we shall

go after ten o’clock, when there are many about, and such things would

be done were we indeed owners of the house.”

 

I could not but see how right he was and the terrible despair of

Mina’s face became relaxed in thought.  There was hope in such good

counsel.

 

Van Helsing went on, “When once within that house we may find more

clues.  At any rate some of us can remain there whilst the rest find

the other places where there be more earth boxes, at Bermondsey and

Mile End.”

 

Lord Godalming stood up.  “I can be of some use here,” he said.  “I

shall wire to my people to have horses and carriages where they will

be most convenient.”

 

“Look here, old fellow,” said Morris, “it is a capital idea to have

all ready in case we want to go horse backing, but don’t you think

that one of your snappy carriages with its heraldic adornments in a

byway of Walworth or Mile End would attract too much attention for our

purpose?  It seems to me that we ought to take cabs when we go south

or east.  And even leave them somewhere near the neighbourhood we are

going to.”

 

“Friend Quincey is right!” said the Professor.  “His head is what you

call in plane with the horizon.  It is a difficult thing that we go to

do, and we do not want no peoples to watch us if so it may.”

 

Mina took a growing interest in everything and I was rejoiced to see

that the exigency of affairs was helping her to forget for a time the

terrible experience of the night.  She was very, very pale, almost

ghastly, and so thin that her lips were drawn away, showing her teeth

in somewhat of prominence.  I did not mention this last, lest it

should give her needless pain, but it made my blood run cold in my

veins to think of what had occurred with poor Lucy when the Count had

sucked her blood.  As yet there was no sign of the teeth growing

sharper, but the time as yet was short, and there was time for fear.

 

When we came to the discussion of the sequence of our efforts and of

the disposition of our forces, there were new sources of doubt.  It

was finally agreed that before starting for Piccadilly we should

destroy the Count’s lair close at hand.  In case he should find it out

too soon, we should thus be still ahead of him in our work of

destruction.  And his presence in his purely material shape, and at

his weakest, might give us some new clue.

 

As to the disposal of forces, it was suggested by the Professor that,

after our visit to Carfax, we should all enter the house in

Piccadilly.  That the two doctors and I should remain there, whilst

Lord Godalming and Quincey found the lairs at Walworth and Mile End

and destroyed them.  It was possible, if not likely, the Professor

urged, that the Count might appear in Piccadilly during the day, and

that if so we might be able to cope with him then and there.  At any

rate, we might be able to follow him in force.  To this plan I

strenuously objected, and so far as my going was concerned, for I said

that I intended to stay and protect Mina.  I thought that my mind was

made up on the subject, but Mina would not listen to my objection.  She

said that there might be some law matter in which I could be useful.

That amongst the Count’s papers might be some clue which I could

understand out of my experience in Transylvania.  And that, as it was,

all the strength we could muster was required to cope with the Count’s

extraordinary power.  I had to give in, for Mina’s resolution was

fixed.  She said that it was the last hope for her that we should all

work together.

 

“As for me,” she said, “I have no fear.  Things have been as bad as

they can be.  And whatever may happen must have in it some element of

hope or comfort.  Go, my husband!  God can, if He wishes it, guard me

as well alone as with any one present.”

 

So I started up crying out, “Then in God’s name let us come at once,

for we are losing time.  The Count may come to Piccadilly earlier than

we think.”

 

“Not so!” said Van Helsing, holding up his hand.

 

“But why?” I asked.

 

“Do you forget,” he said, with actually a smile, “that last night he

banqueted heavily, and will sleep late?”

 

Did I forget!  Shall I ever . . . can I ever!  Can any of us ever

forget that terrible scene!  Mina struggled hard to keep her brave

countenance, but the pain overmastered her and she put her hands

before her face, and shuddered whilst she moaned.  Van Helsing had not

intended to recall her frightful experience.  He had simply lost sight

of her and her part in the affair in his intellectual effort.

 

When it struck him what he said, he was horrified at his

thoughtlessness and tried to comfort her.

 

“Oh, Madam Mina,” he said, “dear, dear, Madam Mina, alas!  That I of

all who so reverence you should have said anything so forgetful.  These

stupid old lips of mine and this stupid old head do not deserve so,

but you will forget it, will you not?”  He bent low beside her as he

spoke.

 

She took his hand, and looking at him through her tears, said

hoarsely, “No, I shall not forget, for it is well that I remember.

And with it I have so much in memory of you that is sweet, that I take

it all together.  Now, you must all be going soon.  Breakfast is

ready, and we must all eat that we may be strong.”

 

Breakfast was a strange meal to us all.  We tried to be cheerful and

encourage each other, and Mina was the brightest and most cheerful of

1. When it was over, Van Helsing stood up and said, “Now, my dear

friends, we go forth to our terrible enterprise.  Are we all armed, as

we were on that night when first we visited our enemy’s lair.  Armed

against ghostly as well as carnal attack?”

 

We all assured him.

 

“Then it is well.  Now, Madam Mina, you are in any case quite safe

here until the sunset.  And before then we shall return . . . if . . .

We shall return!  But before we go let me see you armed against personal

attack.  I have myself, since you came down, prepared your chamber by

the placing of things of which we know, so that He may not enter.  Now

let me guard yourself.  On your forehead I touch this piece of Sacred

Wafer in the name of the Father, the Son, and . . .”

 

There was a fearful scream which almost froze our hearts to hear.  As

he had placed the Wafer on Mina’s forehead, it had seared it . . . had

burned into the flesh as though it had been a piece of white-hot metal.

My poor darling’s brain had told her the significance of the fact as

quickly as her nerves received the pain of it, and the two so

overwhelmed her that her overwrought nature had its voice in that

dreadful scream.

 

But the words to her thought came quickly.  The echo of the scream had

not ceased to ring on the air when there came the reaction, and she

sank on her knees on the floor in an agony of abasement.  Pulling her

beautiful hair over her face, as the leper of old his mantle, she

wailed out.

 

“Unclean!  Unclean!  Even the Almighty shuns my polluted flesh!  I

must bear this mark of shame upon my forehead until the Judgement

Day.”

 

They all paused.  I had thrown myself beside her in an agony of

helpless grief, and putting my arms around held her tight.  For a few

minutes our sorrowful hearts beat together, whilst the friends around

us turned away their eyes that ran tears silently.  Then Van Helsing

turned and said gravely.  So gravely that I could not help feeling

that he was in some way inspired, and was stating things outside

himself.

 

“It may be that you may have to bear that mark till God himself see

fit, as He most surely shall, on the Judgement Day, to redress all

wrongs of the earth and of His children that He has placed thereon.

And oh, Madam Mina, my dear, my dear, may we who love you be there to

see, when that red scar, the sign of God’s knowledge of what has been,

shall pass away, and leave your forehead as pure as the heart we know.

For so surely as we live, that scar shall pass away when God sees

right to lift the burden that is hard upon us.  Till then we bear our

Cross, as His Son did in obedience to His Will.  It may be that we are

chosen instruments of His good pleasure, and that we ascend to His

bidding as that other through stripes and shame.  Through tears and

blood.  Through doubts and fear, and all that makes the difference

between God and man.”

 

There was hope in his words, and comfort.  And they made for

resignation.  Mina and I both felt so, and simultaneously we each took

one of the old man’s hands and bent over and kissed it.  Then without

a word we all knelt down together, and all holding hands, swore to be

true to each other.  We men pledged ourselves to raise the veil of

sorrow from the head of her whom, each in his own way, we loved.  And

we prayed for help and guidance in the terrible task which lay before

1. It was then time to start. So I said farewell to Mina, a parting

which neither of us shall forget to our dying day, and we set out.

 

To one thing I have made up my mind.  If we find out that Mina must be

a vampire in the end, then she shall not go into that unknown and

terrible land alone.  I suppose it is thus that in old times one

vampire meant many.  Just as their hideous bodies could only rest in

sacred earth, so the holiest love was the recruiting sergeant for

their ghastly ranks.

 

We entered Carfax without trouble and found all things the same as on

the first occasion.  It was hard to believe that amongst so prosaic

surroundings of neglect and dust and decay there was any ground for

such fear as already we knew.  Had not our minds been made up, and had

there not been terrible memories to spur us on, we could hardly have

proceeded with our task.  We found no papers, or any sign of use in

the house.  And in the old chapel the great boxes looked just as we

had seen them last.

 

Dr. Van Helsing said to us solemnly as we stood before him, “And now,

my friends, we have a duty here to do.  We must sterilize this earth,

so sacred of holy memories, that he has brought from a far distant

land for such fell use.  He has chosen this earth because it has been

holy.  Thus we defeat him with his own weapon, for we make it more

holy still.  It was sanctified to such use of man, now we sanctify it

to God.”

 

As he spoke he took from his bag a screwdriver and a wrench, and very

soon the top of one of the cases was thrown open.  The earth smelled

musty and close, but we did not somehow seem to mind, for our

attention was concentrated on the Professor.  Taking from his box a

piece of the Sacred Wafer he laid it reverently on the earth, and then

shutting down the lid began to screw it home, we aiding him as he

worked.

 

One by one we treated in the same way each of the great boxes, and

left them as we had found them to all appearance.  But in each was a

portion of the Host.  When we closed the door behind us, the Professor

said solemnly, “So much is already done.  It may be that with all the

others we can be so successful, then the sunset of this evening may

shine of Madam Mina’s forehead all white as ivory and with no stain!”

 

As we passed across the lawn on our way to the station to catch our

train we could see the front of the asylum.  I looked eagerly, and in

the window of my own room saw Mina.  I waved my hand to her, and

nodded to tell that our work there was successfully accomplished.  She

nodded in reply to show that she understood.  The last I saw, she was

waving her hand in farewell.  It was with a heavy heart that we sought

the station and just caught the train, which was steaming in as we

reached the platform.  I have written this in the train.

 

 

Piccadilly, 12:30 o’clock.–Just before we reached Fenchurch Street

Lord Godalming said to me, “Quincey and I will find a locksmith.  You

had better not come with us in case there should be any difficulty.

For under the circumstances it wouldn’t seem so bad for us to break

into an empty house.  But you are a solicitor and the Incorporated Law

Society might tell you that you should have known better.”

 

I demurred as to my not sharing any danger even of odium, but he went

on, “Besides, it will attract less attention if there are not too many

of us.  My title will make it all right with the locksmith, and with

any policeman that may come along.  You had better go with Jack and

the Professor and stay in the Green Park.  Somewhere in sight of the

house, and when you see the door opened and the smith has gone away,

do you all come across.  We shall be on the lookout for you, and shall

let you in.”

 

“The advice is good!” said Van Helsing, so we said no more.  Godalming

and Morris hurried off in a cab, we following in another.  At the

corner of Arlington Street our contingent got out and strolled into

the Green Park.  My heart beat as I saw the house on which so much of

our hope was centred, looming up grim and silent in its deserted

condition amongst its more lively and spruce-looking neighbours.  We

sat down on a bench within good view, and began to smoke cigars so as

to attract as little attention as possible.  The minutes seemed to

pass with leaden feet as we waited for the coming of the others.

 

At length we saw a four-wheeler drive up.  Out of it, in leisurely

fashion, got Lord Godalming and Morris.  And down from the box

descended a thick-set working man with his rush-woven basket of tools.

Morris paid the cabman, who touched his hat and drove away.  Together

the two ascended the steps, and Lord Godalming pointed out what he

wanted done.  The workman took off his coat leisurely and hung it on

one of the spikes of the rail, saying something to a policeman who

just then sauntered along.  The policeman nodded acquiescence, and the

man kneeling down placed his bag beside him.  After searching through

it, he took out a selection of tools which he proceeded to lay beside

him in orderly fashion.  Then he stood up, looked in the keyhole, blew

into it, and turning to his employers, made some remark.  Lord

Godalming smiled, and the man lifted a good sized bunch of keys.

Selecting one of them, he began to probe the lock, as if feeling his

way with it.  After fumbling about for a bit he tried a second, and

then a third.  All at once the door opened under a slight push from

him, and he and the two others entered the hall.  We sat still.  My

own cigar burnt furiously, but Van Helsing’s went cold altogether.  We

waited patiently as we saw the workman come out and bring his bag.

Then he held the door partly open, steadying it with his knees, whilst

he fitted a key to the lock.  This he finally handed to Lord

Godalming, who took out his purse and gave him something.  The man

touched his hat, took his bag, put on his coat and departed.  Not a

soul took the slightest notice of the whole transaction.

 

When the man had fairly gone, we three crossed the street and knocked

at the door.  It was immediately opened by Quincey Morris, beside whom

stood Lord Godalming lighting a cigar.

 

“The place smells so vilely,” said the latter as we came in.  It did

indeed smell vilely–like the old chapel at Carfax–and with our

previous experience it was plain to us that the Count had been using

the place pretty freely.  We moved to explore the house, all keeping

together in case of attack, for we knew we had a strong and wily enemy

to deal with, and as yet we did not know whether the Count might not

be in the house.

 

In the dining room, which lay at the back of the hall, we found eight

boxes of earth.  Eight boxes only out of the nine which we sought!

Our work was not over, and would never be until we should have found

the missing box.

 

First we opened the shutters of the window which looked out across a

narrow stone flagged yard at the blank face of a stable, pointed to

look like the front of a miniature house.  There were no windows in

it, so we were not afraid of being overlooked.  We did not lose any

time in examining the chests.  With the tools which we had brought

with us we opened them, one by one, and treated them as we had treated

those others in the old chapel.  It was evident to us that the Count

was not at present in the house, and we proceeded to search for any of

his effects.

 

After a cursory glance at the rest of the rooms, from basement to

attic, we came to the conclusion that the dining room contained any

effects which might belong to the Count.  And so we proceeded to

minutely examine them.  They lay in a sort of orderly disorder on the

great dining room table.

 

There were title deeds of the Piccadilly house in a great bundle,

deeds of the purchase of the houses at Mile End and Bermondsey,

notepaper, envelopes, and pens and ink.  All were covered up in thin

wrapping paper to keep them from the dust.  There were also a clothes

brush, a brush and comb, and a jug and basin.  The latter containing

dirty water which was reddened as if with blood.  Last of all was a

little heap of keys of all sorts and sizes, probably those belonging

to the other houses.

 

When we had examined this last find, Lord Godalming and Quincey Morris

taking accurate notes of the various addresses of the houses in the

East and the South, took with them the keys in a great bunch, and set

out to destroy the boxes in these places.  The rest of us are, with

what patience we can, waiting their return, or the coming of the

Count.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 23

 

 

1. SEWARD’S DIARY

 

3 October.–The time seemed terribly long whilst we were waiting for

the coming of Godalming and Quincey Morris.  The Professor tried to

keep our minds active by using them all the time.  I could see his

beneficent purpose, by the side glances which he threw from time to

time at Harker.  The poor fellow is overwhelmed in a misery that is

appalling to see.  Last night he was a frank, happy-looking man, with

strong, youthful face, full of energy, and with dark brown hair.

Today he is a drawn, haggard old man, whose white hair matches well

with the hollow burning eyes and grief-written lines of his face.  His

energy is still intact.  In fact, he is like a living flame.  This may

yet be his salvation, for if all go well, it will tide him over the

despairing period.  He will then, in a kind of way, wake again to the

realities of life.  Poor fellow, I thought my own trouble was bad

enough, but his . . . !

 

The Professor knows this well enough, and is doing his best to keep

his mind active.  What he has been saying was, under the

circumstances, of absorbing interest.  So well as I can remember, here

it is:

 

“I have studied, over and over again since they came into my hands,

all the papers relating to this monster, and the more I have studied,

the greater seems the necessity to utterly stamp him out.  All through

there are signs of his advance.  Not only of his power, but of his

knowledge of it.  As I learned from the researches of my friend

Arminius of Buda-Pesth, he was in life a most wonderful man.  Soldier,

statesman, and alchemist–which latter was the highest development of

the science knowledge of his time.  He had a mighty brain, a learning

beyond compare, and a heart that knew no fear and no remorse.  He

dared even to attend the Scholomance, and there was no branch of

knowledge of his time that he did not essay.

 

“Well, in him the brain powers survived the physical death.  Though it

would seem that memory was not all complete.  In some faculties of

mind he has been, and is, only a child.  But he is growing, and some

things that were childish at the first are now of man’s stature.  He

is experimenting, and doing it well.  And if it had not been that we

have crossed his path he would be yet, he may be yet if we fail, the

father or furtherer of a new order of beings, whose road must lead

through Death, not Life.”

 

Harker groaned and said, “And this is all arrayed against my darling!

But how is he experimenting?  The knowledge may help us to defeat

him!”

 

“He has all along, since his coming, been trying his power, slowly but

surely.  That big child-brain of his is working.  Well for us, it is

as yet a child-brain.  For had he dared, at the first, to attempt

certain things he would long ago have been beyond our power.  However,

he means to succeed, and a man who has centuries before him can afford

to wait and to go slow.  Festina lente may well be his motto.”

 

“I fail to understand,” said Harker wearily.  “Oh, do be more plain to

me!  Perhaps grief and trouble are dulling my brain.”

 

The Professor laid his hand tenderly on his shoulder as he spoke, “Ah,

my child, I will be plain.  Do you not see how, of late, this monster

has been creeping into knowledge experimentally.  How he has been

making use of the zoophagous patient to effect his entry into friend

John’s home.  For your Vampire, though in all afterwards he can come

when and how he will, must at the first make entry only when asked

thereto by an inmate.  But these are not his most important

experiments.  Do we not see how at the first all these so great boxes

were moved by others.  He knew not then but that must be so.  But all

the time that so great child-brain of his was growing, and he began to

consider whether he might not himself move the box.  So he began to

help.  And then, when he found that this be all right, he try to move

them all alone.  And so he progress, and he scatter these graves of

him.  And none but he know where they are hidden.

 

“He may have intend to bury them deep in the ground.  So that only he

use them in the night, or at such time as he can change his form, they

do him equal well, and none may know these are his hiding place!  But,

my child, do not despair, this knowledge came to him just too late!

Already all of his lairs but one be sterilize as for him.  And before

the sunset this shall be so.  Then he have no place where he can move

and hide.  I delayed this morning that so we might be sure.  Is there

not more at stake for us than for him?  Then why not be more careful

than him?  By my clock it is one hour and already, if all be well,

friend Arthur and Quincey are on their way to us.  Today is our day,

and we must go sure, if slow, and lose no chance.  See!  There are

five of us when those absent ones return.”

 

Whilst we were speaking we were startled by a knock at the hall door,

the double postman’s knock of the telegraph boy.  We all moved out to

the hall with one impulse, and Van Helsing, holding up his hand to us

to keep silence, stepped to the door and opened it.  The boy handed in

a dispatch.  The Professor closed the door again, and after looking at

the direction, opened it and read aloud.

 

“Look out for D.  He has just now, 12:45, come from Carfax

hurriedly and hastened towards the South.  He seems to be

going the round and may want to see you:  Mina.”

 

There was a pause, broken by Jonathan Harker’s voice, “Now, God be

thanked, we shall soon meet!”

 

Van Helsing turned to him quickly and said, “God will act in His own

way and time.  Do not fear, and do not rejoice as yet.  For what we

wish for at the moment may be our own undoings.”

 

“I care for nothing now,” he answered hotly, “except to wipe out this

brute from the face of creation.  I would sell my soul to do it!”

 

“Oh, hush, hush, my child!” said Van Helsing.  “God does not purchase

souls in this wise, and the Devil, though he may purchase, does not

keep faith.  But God is merciful and just, and knows your pain and

your devotion to that dear Madam Mina.  Think you, how her pain would

be doubled, did she but hear your wild words.  Do not fear any of us,

we are all devoted to this cause, and today shall see the end.  The

time is coming for action.  Today this Vampire is limit to the powers

of man, and till sunset he may not change.  It will take him time to

arrive here, see it is twenty minutes past one, and there are yet some

times before he can hither come, be he never so quick.  What we must

hope for is that my Lord Arthur and Quincey arrive first.”

 

About half an hour after we had received Mrs. Harker’s telegram, there

came a quiet, resolute knock at the hall door.  It was just an

ordinary knock, such as is given hourly by thousands of gentlemen, but

it made the Professor’s heart and mine beat loudly.  We looked at each

other, and together moved out into the hall.  We each held ready to

use our various armaments, the spiritual in the left hand, the mortal

in the right.  Van Helsing pulled back the latch, and holding the door

half open, stood back, having both hands ready for action.  The

gladness of our hearts must have shown upon our faces when on the

step, close to the door, we saw Lord Godalming and Quincey Morris.

They came quickly in and closed the door behind them, the former

saying, as they moved along the hall:

 

“It is all right.  We found both places.  Six boxes in each and we

destroyed them all.”

 

“Destroyed?” asked the Professor.

 

“For him!”  We were silent for a minute, and then Quincey said,

“There’s nothing to do but to wait here.  If, however, he doesn’t turn

up by five o’clock, we must start off.  For it won’t do to leave Mrs.

Harker alone after sunset.”

 

“He will be here before long now,” said Van Helsing, who had been

consulting his pocketbook.  “Nota bene, in Madam’s telegram he went

south from Carfax.  That means he went to cross the river, and he

could only do so at slack of tide, which should be something before

one o’clock.  That he went south has a meaning for us.  He is as yet

only suspicious, and he went from Carfax first to the place where he

would suspect interference least.  You must have been at Bermondsey

only a short time before him.  That he is not here already shows that

he went to Mile End next.  This took him some time, for he would then

have to be carried over the river in some way.  Believe me, my

friends, we shall not have long to wait now.  We should have ready

some plan of attack, so that we may throw away no chance.  Hush, there

is no time now.  Have all your arms!  Be ready!”  He held up a warning

hand as he spoke, for we all could hear a key softly inserted in the

lock of the hall door.

 

I could not but admire, even at such a moment, the way in which a

dominant spirit asserted itself.  In all our hunting parties and

adventures in different parts of the world, Quincey Morris had always

been the one to arrange the plan of action, and Arthur and I had been

accustomed to obey him implicitly.  Now, the old habit seemed to be

renewed instinctively.  With a swift glance around the room, he at

once laid out our plan of attack, and without speaking a word, with a

gesture, placed us each in position.  Van Helsing, Harker, and I were

just behind the door, so that when it was opened the Professor could

guard it whilst we two stepped between the incomer and the door.

Godalming behind and Quincey in front stood just out of sight ready to

move in front of the window.  We waited in a suspense that made the

seconds pass with nightmare slowness.  The slow, careful steps came

along the hall.  The Count was evidently prepared for some surprise,

at least he feared it.

 

Suddenly with a single bound he leaped into the room.  Winning a way

past us before any of us could raise a hand to stay him.  There was

something so pantherlike in the movement, something so unhuman, that

it seemed to sober us all from the shock of his coming.  The first to

act was Harker, who with a quick movement, threw himself before the

door leading into the room in the front of the house.  As the Count

saw us, a horrible sort of snarl passed over his face, showing the

eyeteeth long and pointed.  But the evil smile as quickly passed into

a cold stare of lion-like disdain.  His expression again changed as,

with a single impulse, we all advanced upon him.  It was a pity that

we had not some better organized plan of attack, for even at the

moment I wondered what we were to do.  I did not myself know whether

our lethal weapons would avail us anything.

 

Harker evidently meant to try the matter, for he had ready his great

Kukri knife and made a fierce and sudden cut at him.  The blow was a

powerful one; only the diabolical quickness of the Count’s leap back

saved him.  A second less and the trenchant blade had shorn through

his heart.  As it was, the point just cut the cloth of his coat,

making a wide gap whence a bundle of bank notes and a stream

of gold fell out.  The expression of the Count’s face was so hellish,

that for a moment I feared for Harker, though I saw him throw the

terrible knife aloft again for another stroke.  Instinctively I moved

forward with a protective impulse, holding the Crucifix and Wafer in

my left hand.  I felt a mighty power fly along my arm, and it was

without surprise that I saw the monster cower back before a similar

movement made spontaneously by each one of us.  It would be impossible

to describe the expression of hate and baffled malignity, of anger and

hellish rage, which came over the Count’s face.  His waxen hue became

greenish-yellow by the contrast of his burning eyes, and the red scar

on the forehead showed on the pallid skin like a palpitating wound.

The next instant, with a sinuous dive he swept under Harker’s arm, ere

his blow could fall, and grasping a handful of the money from the

floor, dashed across the room, threw himself at the window.  Amid the

crash and glitter of the falling glass, he tumbled into the flagged

area below.  Through the sound of the shivering glass I could hear the

“ting” of the gold, as some of the sovereigns fell on the flagging.

 

We ran over and saw him spring unhurt from the ground.  He, rushing up

the steps, crossed the flagged yard, and pushed open the stable door.

There he turned and spoke to us.

 

“You think to baffle me, you with your pale faces all in a row, like

sheep in a butcher’s.  You shall be sorry yet, each one of you!  You

think you have left me without a place to rest, but I have more.  My

revenge is just begun!  I spread it over centuries, and time is on my

side.  Your girls that you all love are mine already.  And through

them you and others shall yet be mine, my creatures, to do my bidding

and to be my jackals when I want to feed.  Bah!”

 

With a contemptuous sneer, he passed quickly through the door, and we

heard the rusty bolt creak as he fastened it behind him.  A door

beyond opened and shut.  The first of us to speak was the Professor.

Realizing the difficulty of following him through the stable, we moved

toward the hall.

 

“We have learnt something . . . much!  Notwithstanding his brave words,

he fears us.  He fears time, he fears want!  For if not, why he hurry

so?  His very tone betray him, or my ears deceive.  Why take that

money?  You follow quick.  You are hunters of the wild beast, and

understand it so.  For me, I make sure that nothing here may be of use

to him, if so that he returns.”

 

As he spoke he put the money remaining in his pocket, took the title

deeds in the bundle as Harker had left them, and swept the remaining

things into the open fireplace, where he set fire to them with a

match.

 

Godalming and Morris had rushed out into the yard, and Harker had

lowered himself from the window to follow the Count.  He had, however,

bolted the stable door, and by the time they had forced it open there

was no sign of him.  Van Helsing and I tried to make inquiry at the

back of the house.  But the mews was deserted and no one had seen him

depart.

 

It was now late in the afternoon, and sunset was not far off.  We had

to recognize that our game was up.  With heavy hearts we agreed with

the Professor when he said, “Let us go back to Madam Mina.  Poor, poor

dear Madam Mina.  All we can do just now is done, and we can there, at

least, protect her.  But we need not despair.  There is but one more

earth box, and we must try to find it.  When that is done all may yet

be well.”

 

I could see that he spoke as bravely as he could to comfort Harker.

The poor fellow was quite broken down, now and again he gave a low

groan which he could not suppress.  He was thinking of his wife.

 

With sad hearts we came back to my house, where we found Mrs. Harker

waiting us, with an appearance of cheerfulness which did honour to her

bravery and unselfishness.  When she saw our faces, her own became as

pale as death.  For a second or two her eyes were closed as if she

were in secret prayer.

 

And then she said cheerfully, “I can never thank you all enough.  Oh,

my poor darling!”

 

As she spoke, she took her husband’s grey head in her hands and kissed

it.

 

“Lay your poor head here and rest it.  All will yet be well, dear!  God

will protect us if He so will it in His good intent.”  The poor fellow

groaned.  There was no place for words in his sublime misery.

 

We had a sort of perfunctory supper together, and I think it cheered

us all up somewhat.  It was, perhaps, the mere animal heat of food to

hungry people, for none of us had eaten anything since breakfast, or

the sense of companionship may have helped us, but anyhow we were all

less miserable, and saw the morrow as not altogether without hope.

 

True to our promise, we told Mrs. Harker everything which had passed.

And although she grew snowy white at times when danger had seemed to

threaten her husband, and red at others when his devotion to her was

manifested, she listened bravely and with calmness.  When we came to

the part where Harker had rushed at the Count so recklessly, she clung

to her husband’s arm, and held it tight as though her clinging could

protect him from any harm that might come.  She said nothing, however,

till the narration was all done, and matters had been brought up to

the present time.

 

Then without letting go her husband’s hand she stood up amongst us and

spoke.  Oh, that I could give any idea of the scene.  Of that sweet,

sweet, good, good woman in all the radiant beauty of her youth and

animation, with the red scar on her forehead, of which she was

conscious, and which we saw with grinding of our teeth, remembering

whence and how it came.  Her loving kindness against our grim hate.

Her tender faith against all our fears and doubting.  And we, knowing

that so far as symbols went, she with all her goodness and purity and

faith, was outcast from God.

 

“Jonathan,” she said, and the word sounded like music on her lips it

was so full of love and tenderness, “Jonathan dear, and you all my

true, true friends, I want you to bear something in mind through all

this dreadful time.  I know that you must fight.  That you must

destroy even as you destroyed the false Lucy so that the true Lucy

might live hereafter.  But it is not a work of hate.  That poor soul

who has wrought all this misery is the saddest case of all.  Just

think what will be his joy when he, too, is destroyed in his worser

part that his better part may have spiritual immortality.  You must be

pitiful to him, too, though it may not hold your hands from his

destruction.”

 

As she spoke I could see her husband’s face darken and draw together,

as though the passion in him were shriveling his being to its core.

Instinctively the clasp on his wife’s hand grew closer, till his

knuckles looked white.  She did not flinch from the pain which I knew

she must have suffered, but looked at him with eyes that were more

appealing than ever.

 

As she stopped speaking he leaped to his feet, almost tearing his hand

from hers as he spoke.

 

“May God give him into my hand just for long enough to destroy that

earthly life of him which we are aiming at.  If beyond it I could send

his soul forever and ever to burning hell I would do it!”

 

“Oh, hush!  Oh, hush in the name of the good God.  Don’t say such

things, Jonathan, my husband, or you will crush me with fear and

horror.  Just think, my dear . . . I have been thinking all this long,

long day of it . . . that . . . perhaps . . . some day . . . I, too, may

need such pity, and that some other like you, and with equal cause for

anger, may deny it to me!  Oh, my husband!  My husband, indeed I would

have spared you such a thought had there been another way.  But I pray

that God may not have treasured your wild words, except as the

heart-broken wail of a very loving and sorely stricken man.  Oh, God,

let these poor white hairs go in evidence of what he has suffered, who

all his life has done no wrong, and on whom so many sorrows have

come.”

 

We men were all in tears now.  There was no resisting them, and we

wept openly.  She wept, too, to see that her sweeter counsels had

prevailed.  Her husband flung himself on his knees beside her, and

putting his arms round her, hid his face in the folds of her dress.

Van Helsing beckoned to us and we stole out of the room, leaving the

two loving hearts alone with their God.

 

Before they retired the Professor fixed up the room against any coming

of the Vampire, and assured Mrs. Harker that she might rest in peace.

She tried to school herself to the belief, and manifestly for her

husband’s sake, tried to seem content.  It was a brave struggle, and

was, I think and believe, not without its reward.  Van Helsing had

placed at hand a bell which either of them was to sound in case of any

emergency.  When they had retired, Quincey, Godalming, and I arranged

that we should sit up, dividing the night between us, and watch over

the safety of the poor stricken lady.  The first watch falls to

Quincey, so the rest of us shall be off to bed as soon as we can.

 

Godalming has already turned in, for his is the second watch.  Now

that my work is done I, too, shall go to bed.

 

 

 

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL

 

3-4 October, close to midnight.–I thought yesterday would never end.

There was over me a yearning for sleep, in some sort of blind belief

that to wake would be to find things changed, and that any change must

now be for the better.  Before we parted, we discussed what our next

step was to be, but we could arrive at no result.  All we knew was

that one earth box remained, and that the Count alone knew where it

was.  If he chooses to lie hidden, he may baffle us for years.  And in

the meantime, the thought is too horrible, I dare not think of it even

now.  This I know, that if ever there was a woman who was all

perfection, that one is my poor wronged darling.  I loved her a

thousand times more for her sweet pity of last night, a pity that made

my own hate of the monster seem despicable.  Surely God will not

permit the world to be the poorer by the loss of such a creature.  This

is hope to me.  We are all drifting reefwards now, and faith is our

only anchor.  Thank God!  Mina is sleeping, and sleeping without

dreams.  I fear what her dreams might be like, with such terrible

memories to ground them in.  She has not been so calm, within my

seeing, since the sunset.  Then, for a while, there came over her face

a repose which was like spring after the blasts of March.  I thought

at the time that it was the softness of the red sunset on her face,

but somehow now I think it has a deeper meaning.  I am not sleepy

myself, though I am weary . . . weary to death.  However, I must try

to sleep.  For there is tomorrow to think of, and there is no rest for

me until . . .

 

 

Later–I must have fallen asleep, for I was awakened by Mina, who was

sitting up in bed, with a startled look on her face.  I could see

easily, for we did not leave the room in darkness.  She had placed a

warning hand over my mouth, and now she whispered in my ear, “Hush!

There is someone in the corridor!”  I got up softly, and crossing the

room, gently opened the door.

 

Just outside, stretched on a mattress, lay Mr. Morris, wide awake.  He

raised a warning hand for silence as he whispered to me, “Hush!  Go

back to bed.  It is all right.  One of us will be here all night.  We

don’t mean to take any chances!”

 

His look and gesture forbade discussion, so I came back and told Mina.

She sighed and positively a shadow of a smile stole over her poor,

pale face as she put her arms round me and said softly, “Oh, thank God

for good brave men!”  With a sigh she sank back again to sleep.  I

write this now as I am not sleepy, though I must try again.

 

 

4 October, morning.–Once again during the night I was wakened by

Mina.  This time we had all had a good sleep, for the grey of the

coming dawn was making the windows into sharp oblongs, and the gas

flame was like a speck rather than a disc of light.

 

She said to me hurriedly, “Go, call the Professor.  I want to see him

at once.”

 

“Why?” I asked.

 

“I have an idea.  I suppose it must have come in the night, and

matured without my knowing it.  He must hypnotize me before the dawn,

and then I shall be able to speak.  Go quick, dearest, the time is

getting close.”

 

I went to the door.  Dr. Seward was resting on the mattress, and

seeing me, he sprang to his feet.

 

“Is anything wrong?” he asked, in alarm.

 

“No,” I replied.  “But Mina wants to see Dr. Van Helsing at once.”

 

“I will go,” he said, and hurried into the Professor’s room.

 

Two or three minutes later Van Helsing was in the room in his dressing

gown, and Mr. Morris and Lord Godalming were with Dr. Seward at the

door asking questions.  When the Professor saw Mina a smile, a

positive smile ousted the anxiety of his face.

 

He rubbed his hands as he said, “Oh, my dear Madam Mina, this is

indeed a change.  See!  Friend Jonathan, we have got our dear Madam

Mina, as of old, back to us today!”  Then turning to her, he said

cheerfully, “And what am I to do for you?  For at this hour you do not

want me for nothing.”

 

“I want you to hypnotize me!” she said.  “Do it before the dawn, for I

feel that then I can speak, and speak freely.  Be quick, for the time

is short!”  Without a word he motioned her to sit up in bed.

 

Looking fixedly at her, he commenced to make passes in front of her,

from over the top of her head downward, with each hand in turn.  Mina

gazed at him fixedly for a few minutes, during which my own heart beat

like a trip hammer, for I felt that some crisis was at hand.

Gradually her eyes closed, and she sat, stock still.  Only by the

gentle heaving of her bosom could one know that she was alive.  The

Professor made a few more passes and then stopped, and I could see

that his forehead was covered with great beads of perspiration.  Mina

opened her eyes, but she did not seem the same woman.  There was a

far-away look in her eyes, and her voice had a sad dreaminess which

was new to me.  Raising his hand to impose silence, the Professor

motioned to me to bring the others in.  They came on tiptoe, closing

the door behind them, and stood at the foot of the bed, looking on.

Mina appeared not to see them.  The stillness was broken by Van

Helsing’s voice speaking in a low level tone which would not break the

current of her thoughts.

 

“Where are you?”  The answer came in a neutral way.

 

“I do not know.  Sleep has no place it can call its own.”  For several

minutes there was silence.  Mina sat rigid, and the Professor stood

staring at her fixedly.

 

The rest of us hardly dared to breathe.  The room was growing lighter.

Without taking his eyes from Mina’s face, Dr. Van Helsing motioned me

to pull up the blind.  I did so, and the day seemed just upon us.  A

red streak shot up, and a rosy light seemed to diffuse itself through

the room.  On the instant the Professor spoke again.

 

“Where are you now?”

 

The answer came dreamily, but with intention.  It were as though she

were interpreting something.  I have heard her use the same tone when

reading her shorthand notes.

 

“I do not know.  It is all strange to me!”

 

“What do you see?”

 

“I can see nothing.  It is all dark.”

 

“What do you hear?”  I could detect the strain in the Professor’s

patient voice.

 

“The lapping of water.  It is gurgling by, and little waves leap.  I

can hear them on the outside.”

 

“Then you are on a ship?'”

 

We all looked at each other, trying to glean something each from the

other.  We were afraid to think.

 

The answer came quick, “Oh, yes!”

 

“What else do you hear?”

 

“The sound of men stamping overhead as they run about.  There is the

creaking of a chain, and the loud tinkle as the check of the capstan

falls into the ratchet.”

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“I am still, oh so still.  It is like death!”  The voice faded away

into a deep breath as of one sleeping, and the open eyes closed again.

 

By this time the sun had risen, and we were all in the full light of

day.  Dr. Van Helsing placed his hands on Mina’s shoulders, and laid

her head down softly on her pillow.  She lay like a sleeping child for

a few moments, and then, with a long sigh, awoke and stared in wonder

to see us all around her.

 

“Have I been talking in my sleep?” was all she said.  She seemed,

however, to know the situation without telling, though she was eager

to know what she had told.  The Professor repeated the conversation,

and she said, “Then there is not a moment to lose.  It may not be yet

too late!”

 

Mr. Morris and Lord Godalming started for the door but the Professor’s

calm voice called them back.

 

“Stay, my friends.  That ship, wherever it was, was weighing anchor at

the moment in your so great Port of London.  Which of them is it that

you seek?  God be thanked that we have once again a clue, though

whither it may lead us we know not.  We have been blind somewhat.

Blind after the manner of men, since we can look back we see what we

might have seen looking forward if we had been able to see what we

might have seen!  Alas, but that sentence is a puddle, is it not?  We

can know now what was in the Count’s mind, when he seize that money,

though Jonathan’s so fierce knife put him in the danger that even he

dread.  He meant escape.  Hear me, ESCAPE!  He saw that with but one

earth box left, and a pack of men following like dogs after a fox,

this London was no place for him.  He have take his last earth box on

board a ship, and he leave the land.  He think to escape, but no!  We

follow him.  Tally Ho!  As friend Arthur would say when he put on his

red frock!  Our old fox is wily.  Oh!  So wily, and we must follow

with wile.  I, too, am wily and I think his mind in a little while.

In meantime we may rest and in peace, for there are between us which

he do not want to pass, and which he could not if he would.  Unless

the ship were to touch the land, and then only at full or slack tide.

See, and the sun is just rose, and all day to sunset is us.  Let us

take bath, and dress, and have breakfast which we all need, and which

we can eat comfortably since he be not in the same land with us.”

 

Mina looked at him appealingly as she asked, “But why need we seek him

further, when he is gone away from us?”

 

He took her hand and patted it as he replied, “Ask me nothing as yet.

When we have breakfast, then I answer all questions.”  He would say no

more, and we separated to dress.

 

After breakfast Mina repeated her question.  He looked at her gravely

for a minute and then said sorrowfully, “Because my dear, dear Madam

Mina, now more than ever must we find him even if we have to follow

him to the jaws of Hell!”

 

She grew paler as she asked faintly, “Why?”

 

“Because,” he answered solemnly, “he can live for centuries, and you

are but mortal woman.  Time is now to be dreaded, since once he put

that mark upon your throat.”

 

I was just in time to catch her as she fell forward in a faint.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 24

 

 

1. SEWARD’S PHONOGRAPH DIARY

 

SPOKEN BY VAN HELSING

 

This to Jonathan Harker.

 

You are to stay with your dear Madam Mina.  We shall go to make our

search, if I can call it so, for it is not search but knowing, and we

seek confirmation only.  But do you stay and take care of her today.

This is your best and most holiest office.  This day nothing can find

him here.

 

Let me tell you that so you will know what we four know already, for I

have tell them.  He, our enemy, have gone away.  He have gone back to

his Castle in Transylvania.  I know it so well, as if a great hand of

fire wrote it on the wall.  He have prepare for this in some way, and

that last earth box was ready to ship somewheres.  For this he took

the money.  For this he hurry at the last, lest we catch him before

the sun go down.  It was his last hope, save that he might hide in the

tomb that he think poor Miss Lucy, being as he thought like him, keep

open to him.  But there was not of time.  When that fail he make

straight for his last resource, his last earth-work I might say did I

wish double entente.  He is clever, oh so clever!  He know that his

game here was finish.  And so he decide he go back home.  He find ship

going by the route he came, and he go in it.

 

We go off now to find what ship, and whither bound.  When we have

discover that, we come back and tell you all.  Then we will comfort

you and poor Madam Mina with new hope.  For it will be hope when you

think it over, that all is not lost.  This very creature that we

pursue, he take hundreds of years to get so far as London.  And yet in

one day, when we know of the disposal of him we drive him out.  He is

finite, though he is powerful to do much harm and suffers not as we

1. But we are strong, each in our purpose, and we are all more

strong together.  Take heart afresh, dear husband of Madam Mina.  This

battle is but begun and in the end we shall win.  So sure as that God

sits on high to watch over His children.  Therefore be of much comfort

till we return.

 

VAN HELSING.

 

 

 

 

 

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL

 

4 October.–When I read to Mina, Van Helsing’s message in the

phonograph, the poor girl brightened up considerably.  Already the

certainty that the Count is out of the country has given her comfort.

And comfort is strength to her.  For my own part, now that his

horrible danger is not face to face with us, it seems almost

impossible to believe in it.  Even my own terrible experiences in

Castle Dracula seem like a long forgotten dream.  Here in the crisp

autumn air in the bright sunlight.

 

Alas!  How can I disbelieve!  In the midst of my thought my eye fell

on the red scar on my poor darling’s white forehead.  Whilst that

lasts, there can be no disbelief.  Mina and I fear to be idle, so we

have been over all the diaries again and again.  Somehow, although the

reality seem greater each time, the pain and the fear seem less.  There

is something of a guiding purpose manifest throughout, which is

comforting.  Mina says that perhaps we are the instruments of ultimate

good.  It may be!  I shall try to think as she does.  We have never

spoken to each other yet of the future.  It is better to wait till we

see the Professor and the others after their investigations.

 

The day is running by more quickly than I ever thought a day could run

for me again.  It is now three o’clock.

 

 

 

 

 

MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL

 

5 October, 5 P.M.–Our meeting for report.  Present:  Professor Van

Helsing, Lord Godalming, Dr. Seward, Mr. Quincey Morris, Jonathan

Harker, Mina Harker.

 

Dr. Van Helsing described what steps were taken during the day to

discover on what boat and whither bound Count Dracula made his escape.

 

“As I knew that he wanted to get back to Transylvania, I felt sure

that he must go by the Danube mouth, or by somewhere in the Black Sea,

since by that way he come.  It was a dreary blank that was before us.

_Omne ignotum pro magnifico_; and so with heavy hearts we start to find

what ships leave for the Black Sea last night.  He was in sailing

ship, since Madam Mina tell of sails being set.  These not so

important as to go in your list of the shipping in the Times, and so

we go, by suggestion of Lord Godalming, to your Lloyd’s, where are

note of all ships that sail, however so small.  There we find that

only one Black Sea bound ship go out with the tide.  She is the

Czarina Catherine, and she sail from Doolittle’s Wharf for Varna, and

thence to other ports and up the Danube.  ‘So!’ said I, ‘this is the

ship whereon is the Count.’  So off we go to Doolittle’s Wharf, and

there we find a man in an office.  From him we inquire of the goings

of the Czarina Catherine.  He swear much, and he red face and loud of

voice, but he good fellow all the same.  And when Quincey give him

something from his pocket which crackle as he roll it up, and put it

in a so small bag which he have hid deep in his clothing, he still

better fellow and humble servant to us.  He come with us, and ask many

men who are rough and hot.  These be better fellows too when they have

been no more thirsty.  They say much of blood and bloom, and of others

which I comprehend not, though I guess what they mean.  But

nevertheless they tell us all things which we want to know.

 

“They make known to us among them, how last afternoon at about five

o’clock comes a man so hurry.  A tall man, thin and pale, with high

nose and teeth so white, and eyes that seem to be burning.  That he be

all in black, except that he have a hat of straw which suit not him or

the time.  That he scatter his money in making quick inquiry as to

what ship sails for the Black Sea and for where.  Some took him to the

office and then to the ship, where he will not go aboard but halt at

shore end of gangplank, and ask that the captain come to him.  The

captain come, when told that he will be pay well, and though he swear

much at the first he agree to term.  Then the thin man go and some one

tell him where horse and cart can be hired.  He go there and soon he

come again, himself driving cart on which a great box.  This he

himself lift down, though it take several to put it on truck for the

ship.  He give much talk to captain as to how and where his box is to

be place.  But the captain like it not and swear at him in many

tongues, and tell him that if he like he can come and see where it

shall be.  But he say ‘no,’ that he come not yet, for that he have

much to do.  Whereupon the captain tell him that he had better be

quick, with blood, for that his ship will leave the place, of blood,

before the turn of the tide, with blood.  Then the thin man smile and

say that of course he must go when he think fit, but he will be

surprise if he go quite so soon.  The captain swear again, polyglot,

and the thin man make him bow, and thank him, and say that he will so

far intrude on his kindness as to come aboard before the sailing.

Final the captain, more red than ever, and in more tongues, tell him

that he doesn’t want no Frenchmen, with bloom upon them and also with

blood, in his ship, with blood on her also.  And so, after asking

where he might purchase ship forms, he departed.

 

“No one knew where he went ‘or bloomin’ well cared’ as they said, for

they had something else to think of, well with blood again.  For it

soon became apparent to all that the Czarina Catherine would not sail

as was expected.  A thin mist began to creep up from the river, and it

grew, and grew.  Till soon a dense fog enveloped the ship and all

around her.  The captain swore polyglot, very polyglot, polyglot with

bloom and blood, but he could do nothing.  The water rose and rose,

and he began to fear that he would lose the tide altogether.  He was

in no friendly mood, when just at full tide, the thin man came up the

gangplank again and asked to see where his box had been stowed.  Then

the captain replied that he wished that he and his box, old and with

much bloom and blood, were in hell.  But the thin man did not be

offend, and went down with the mate and saw where it was place, and

came up and stood awhile on deck in fog.  He must have come off by

himself, for none notice him.  Indeed they thought not of him, for

soon the fog begin to melt away, and all was clear again.  My friends

of the thirst and the language that was of bloom and blood laughed, as

they told how the captain’s swears exceeded even his usual polyglot,

and was more than ever full of picturesque, when on questioning other

mariners who were on movement up and down the river that hour, he

found that few of them had seen any of fog at all, except where it lay

round the wharf.  However, the ship went out on the ebb tide, and was

doubtless by morning far down the river mouth.  She was then, when

they told us, well out to sea.

 

“And so, my dear Madam Mina, it is that we have to rest for a time,

for our enemy is on the sea, with the fog at his command, on his way

to the Danube mouth.  To sail a ship takes time, go she never so

quick.  And when we start to go on land more quick, and we meet him

there.  Our best hope is to come on him when in the box between

sunrise and sunset.  For then he can make no struggle, and we may deal

with him as we should.  There are days for us, in which we can make

ready our plan.  We know all about where he go.  For we have seen the

owner of the ship, who have shown us invoices and all papers that can

1. The box we seek is to be landed in Varna, and to be given to an

agent, one Ristics who will there present his credentials.  And so our

merchant friend will have done his part.  When he ask if there be any

wrong, for that so, he can telegraph and have inquiry made at Varna,

we say ‘no,’ for what is to be done is not for police or of the

customs.  It must be done by us alone and in our own way.”

 

When Dr. Van Helsing had done speaking, I asked him if he were certain

that the Count had remained on board the ship.  He replied, “We have

the best proof of that, your own evidence, when in the hypnotic trance

this morning.”

 

I asked him again if it were really necessary that they should pursue

the Count, for oh!  I dread Jonathan leaving me, and I know that he

would surely go if the others went.  He answered in growing passion,

at first quietly.  As he went on, however, he grew more angry and more

forceful, till in the end we could not but see wherein was at least

some of that personal dominance which made him so long a master

amongst men.

 

“Yes, it is necessary, necessary, necessary!  For your sake in the

first, and then for the sake of humanity.  This monster has done much

harm already, in the narrow scope where he find himself, and in the

short time when as yet he was only as a body groping his so small

measure in darkness and not knowing.  All this have I told these

others.  You, my dear Madam Mina, will learn it in the phonograph of

my friend John, or in that of your husband.  I have told them how the

measure of leaving his own barren land, barren of peoples, and coming

to a new land where life of man teems till they are like the multitude

of standing corn, was the work of centuries.  Were another of the

Undead, like him, to try to do what he has done, perhaps not all the

centuries of the world that have been, or that will be, could aid him.

With this one, all the forces of nature that are occult and deep and

strong must have worked together in some wonderous way.  The very

place, where he have been alive, Undead for all these centuries, is

full of strangeness of the geologic and chemical world.  There are

deep caverns and fissures that reach none know whither.  There have

been volcanoes, some of whose openings still send out waters of

strange properties, and gases that kill or make to vivify.  Doubtless,

there is something magnetic or electric in some of these combinations

of occult forces which work for physical life in strange way, and in

himself were from the first some great qualities.  In a hard and

warlike time he was celebrate that he have more iron nerve, more

subtle brain, more braver heart, than any man.  In him some vital

principle have in strange way found their utmost.  And as his body

keep strong and grow and thrive, so his brain grow too.  All this

without that diabolic aid which is surely to him.  For it have to

yield to the powers that come from, and are, symbolic of good.  And

now this is what he is to us.  He have infect you, oh forgive me, my

dear, that I must say such, but it is for good of you that I speak.  He

infect you in such wise, that even if he do no more, you have only to

live, to live in your own old, sweet way, and so in time, death, which

is of man’s common lot and with God’s sanction, shall make you like to

him.  This must not be!  We have sworn together that it must not.

Thus are we ministers of God’s own wish.  That the world, and men for

whom His Son die, will not be given over to monsters, whose very

existence would defame Him.  He have allowed us to redeem one soul

already, and we go out as the old knights of the Cross to redeem

more.  Like them we shall travel towards the sunrise.  And like them,

if we fall, we fall in good cause.”

 

He paused and I said, “But will not the Count take his rebuff wisely?

Since he has been driven from England, will he not avoid it, as a

tiger does the village from which he has been hunted?”

 

“Aha!” he said, “your simile of the tiger good, for me, and I shall

adopt him.  Your maneater, as they of India call the tiger who has

once tasted blood of the human, care no more for the other prey, but

prowl unceasing till he get him.  This that we hunt from our village

is a tiger, too, a maneater, and he never cease to prowl.  Nay, in

himself he is not one to retire and stay afar.  In his life, his

living life, he go over the Turkey frontier and attack his enemy on

his own ground.  He be beaten back, but did he stay?  No!  He come

again, and again, and again.  Look at his persistence and endurance.

With the child-brain that was to him he have long since conceive the

idea of coming to a great city.  What does he do?  He find out the

place of all the world most of promise for him.  Then he deliberately

set himself down to prepare for the task.  He find in patience just

how is his strength, and what are his powers.  He study new tongues.

He learn new social life, new environment of old ways, the politics,

the law, the finance, the science, the habit of a new land and a new

people who have come to be since he was.  His glimpse that he have

had, whet his appetite only and enkeen his desire.  Nay, it help him

to grow as to his brain.  For it all prove to him how right he was at

the first in his surmises.  He have done this alone, all alone!  From

a ruin tomb in a forgotten land.  What more may he not do when the

greater world of thought is open to him.  He that can smile at death,

as we know him.  Who can flourish in the midst of diseases that kill

off whole peoples.  Oh!  If such an one was to come from God, and not

the Devil, what a force for good might he not be in this old world of

ours.  But we are pledged to set the world free.  Our toil must be in

silence, and our efforts all in secret.  For in this enlightened age,

when men believe not even what they see, the doubting of wise men

would be his greatest strength.  It would be at once his sheath and

his armor, and his weapons to destroy us, his enemies, who are willing

to peril even our own souls for the safety of one we love.  For the

good of mankind, and for the honour and glory of God.”

 

After a general discussion it was determined that for tonight nothing

be definitely settled.  That we should all sleep on the facts, and try

to think out the proper conclusions.  Tomorrow, at breakfast, we are

to meet again, and after making our conclusions known to one another,

we shall decide on some definite cause of action . . .

 

I feel a wonderful peace and rest tonight.  It is as if some haunting

presence were removed from me.  Perhaps . . .

 

My surmise was not finished, could not be, for I caught sight in the

mirror of the red mark upon my forehead, and I knew that I was still

unclean.

 

 

 

 

1. SEWARD’S DIARY

 

5 October.–We all arose early, and I think that sleep did much for

each and all of us.  When we met at early breakfast there was more

general cheerfulness than any of us had ever expected to experience

again.

 

It is really wonderful how much resilience there is in human nature.

Let any obstructing cause, no matter what, be removed in any way, even

by death, and we fly back to first principles of hope and enjoyment.

More than once as we sat around the table, my eyes opened in wonder

whether the whole of the past days had not been a dream.  It was only

when I caught sight of the red blotch on Mrs. Harker’s forehead that I

was brought back to reality.  Even now, when I am gravely revolving

the matter, it is almost impossible to realize that the cause of all

our trouble is still existent.  Even Mrs. Harker seems to lose sight

of her trouble for whole spells.  It is only now and again, when

something recalls it to her mind, that she thinks of her terrible

scar.  We are to meet here in my study in half an hour and decide on

our course of action.  I see only one immediate difficulty, I know it

by instinct rather than reason.  We shall all have to speak frankly.

And yet I fear that in some mysterious way poor Mrs. Harker’s tongue

is tied.  I know that she forms conclusions of her own, and from all

that has been I can guess how brilliant and how true they must be.

But she will not, or cannot, give them utterance.  I have mentioned

this to Van Helsing, and he and I are to talk it over when we are

alone.  I suppose it is some of that horrid poison which has got into

her veins beginning to work.  The Count had his own purposes when he

gave her what Van Helsing called “the Vampire’s baptism of blood.”

Well, there may be a poison that distills itself out of good things.

In an age when the existence of ptomaines is a mystery we should not

wonder at anything!  One thing I know, that if my instinct be true

regarding poor Mrs. Harker’s silences, then there is a terrible

difficulty, an unknown danger, in the work before us.  The same power

that compels her silence may compel her speech.  I dare not think

further, for so I should in my thoughts dishonour a noble woman!

 

 

Later.–When the Professor came in, we talked over the state of

things.  I could see that he had something on his mind, which he

wanted to say, but felt some hesitancy about broaching the subject.

After beating about the bush a little, he said, “Friend John, there is

something that you and I must talk of alone, just at the first at any

rate.  Later, we may have to take the others into our confidence.”

 

Then he stopped, so I waited.  He went on, “Madam Mina, our poor, dear

Madam Mina is changing.”

 

A cold shiver ran through me to find my worst fears thus endorsed.

Van Helsing continued.

 

“With the sad experience of Miss Lucy, we must this time be warned

before things go too far.  Our task is now in reality more difficult

than ever, and this new trouble makes every hour of the direst

importance.  I can see the characteristics of the vampire coming in

her face.  It is now but very, very slight.  But it is to be seen if

we have eyes to notice without prejudge.  Her teeth are sharper, and

at times her eyes are more hard.  But these are not all, there is to

her the silence now often, as so it was with Miss Lucy.  She did not

speak, even when she wrote that which she wished to be known later.

Now my fear is this.  If it be that she can, by our hypnotic trance,

tell what the Count see and hear, is it not more true that he who have

hypnotize her first, and who have drink of her very blood and make her

drink of his, should if he will, compel her mind to disclose to him

that which she know?”

 

I nodded acquiescence.  He went on, “Then, what we must do is to

prevent this.  We must keep her ignorant of our intent, and so she

cannot tell what she know not.  This is a painful task!  Oh, so

painful that it heartbreak me to think of it, but it must be.  When

today we meet, I must tell her that for reason which we will not to

speak she must not more be of our council, but be simply guarded by

us.”

 

He wiped his forehead, which had broken out in profuse perspiration at

the thought of the pain which he might have to inflict upon the poor

soul already so tortured.  I knew that it would be some sort of

comfort to him if I told him that I also had come to the same

conclusion.  For at any rate it would take away the pain of doubt.  I

told him, and the effect was as I expected.

 

It is now close to the time of our general gathering.  Van Helsing has

gone away to prepare for the meeting, and his painful part of it.  I

really believe his purpose is to be able to pray alone.

 

 

Later.–At the very outset of our meeting a great personal relief was

experienced by both Van Helsing and myself.  Mrs. Harker had sent a

message by her husband to say that she would not join us at present,

as she thought it better that we should be free to discuss our

movements without her presence to embarrass us.  The Professor and I

looked at each other for an instant, and somehow we both seemed

relieved.  For my own part, I thought that if Mrs. Harker realized the

danger herself, it was much pain as well as much danger averted.

Under the circumstances we agreed, by a questioning look and answer,

with finger on lip, to preserve silence in our suspicions, until we

should have been able to confer alone again.  We went at once into our

Plan of Campaign.

 

Van Helsing roughly put the facts before us first, “The Czarina

Catherine left the Thames yesterday morning.  It will take her at the

quickest speed she has ever made at least three weeks to reach Varna.

But we can travel overland to the same place in three days.  Now, if

we allow for two days less for the ship’s voyage, owing to such

weather influences as we know that the Count can bring to bear, and if

we allow a whole day and night for any delays which may occur to us,

then we have a margin of nearly two weeks.

 

“Thus, in order to be quite safe, we must leave here on 17th at

latest.  Then we shall at any rate be in Varna a day before the ship

arrives, and able to make such preparations as may be necessary.  Of

course we shall all go armed, armed against evil things, spiritual as

well as physical.”

 

Here Quincey Morris added, “I understand that the Count comes from a

wolf country, and it may be that he shall get there before us.  I

propose that we add Winchesters to our armament.  I have a kind of

belief in a Winchester when there is any trouble of that sort around.

Do you remember, Art, when we had the pack after us at Tobolsk?  What

wouldn’t we have given then for a repeater apiece!”

 

“Good!” said Van Helsing, “Winchesters it shall be.  Quincey’s head is

level at times, but most so when there is to hunt, metaphor be more

dishonour to science than wolves be of danger to man.  In the meantime

we can do nothing here.  And as I think that Varna is not familiar to

any of us, why not go there more soon?  It is as long to wait here as

there.  Tonight and tomorrow we can get ready, and then if all be

well, we four can set out on our journey.”

 

“We four?” said Harker interrogatively, looking from one to another of

us.

 

“Of course!” answered the Professor quickly.  “You must remain to take

care of your so sweet wife!”

 

Harker was silent for awhile and then said in a hollow voice, “Let us

talk of that part of it in the morning.  I want to consult with Mina.”

 

I thought that now was the time for Van Helsing to warn him not to

disclose our plan to her, but he took no notice.  I looked at him

significantly and coughed.  For answer he put his finger to his lips

and turned away.

 

 

 

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL

 

5 October, afternoon.–For some time after our meeting this morning I

could not think.  The new phases of things leave my mind in a state of

wonder which allows no room for active thought.  Mina’s determination

not to take any part in the discussion set me thinking.  And as I

could not argue the matter with her, I could only guess.  I am as far

as ever from a solution now.  The way the others received it, too

puzzled me.  The last time we talked of the subject we agreed that

there was to be no more concealment of anything amongst us.  Mina is

sleeping now, calmly and sweetly like a little child.  Her lips are

curved and her face beams with happiness.  Thank God, there are such

moments still for her.

 

 

Later.–How strange it all is.  I sat watching Mina’s happy sleep, and

I came as near to being happy myself as I suppose I shall ever be.  As

the evening drew on, and the earth took its shadows from the sun

sinking lower, the silence of the room grew more and more solemn to

me.

 

All at once Mina opened her eyes, and looking at me tenderly said,

“Jonathan, I want you to promise me something on your word of honour.

A promise made to me, but made holily in God’s hearing, and not to be

broken though I should go down on my knees and implore you with bitter

tears.  Quick, you must make it to me at once.”

 

“Mina,” I said, “a promise like that, I cannot make at once.  I may

have no right to make it.”

 

“But, dear one,” she said, with such spiritual intensity that her eyes

were like pole stars, “it is I who wish it.  And it is not for myself.

You can ask Dr. Van Helsing if I am not right.  If he disagrees you

may do as you will.  Nay, more if you all agree, later you are

absolved from the promise.”

 

“I promise!” I said, and for a moment she looked supremely happy.

Though to me all happiness for her was denied by the red scar on her

forehead.

 

She said, “Promise me that you will not tell me anything of the plans

formed for the campaign against the Count.  Not by word, or inference,

or implication, not at any time whilst this remains to me!”  And she

solemnly pointed to the scar.  I saw that she was in earnest, and said

solemnly, “I promise!” and as I said it I felt that from that instant

a door had been shut between us.

 

 

Later, midnight.–Mina has been bright and cheerful all the evening.

So much so that all the rest seemed to take courage, as if infected

somewhat with her gaiety.  As a result even I myself felt as if the

pall of gloom which weighs us down were somewhat lifted.  We all

retired early.  Mina is now sleeping like a little child.  It is

wonderful thing that her faculty of sleep remains to her in the midst

of her terrible trouble.  Thank God for it, for then at least she can

forget her care.  Perhaps her example may affect me as her gaiety did

tonight.  I shall try it.  Oh!  For a dreamless sleep.

 

6 October, morning.–Another surprise.  Mina woke me early, about the

same time as yesterday, and asked me to bring Dr. Van Helsing.  I

thought that it was another occasion for hypnotism, and without

question went for the Professor.  He had evidently expected some such

call, for I found him dressed in his room.  His door was ajar, so that

he could hear the opening of the door of our room.  He came at once.

As he passed into the room, he asked Mina if the others might come,

too.

 

“No,” she said quite simply, “it will not be necessary.  You can tell

them just as well.  I must go with you on your journey.”

 

Dr. Van Helsing was as startled as I was.  After a moment’s pause he

asked, “But why?”

 

“You must take me with you.  I am safer with you, and you shall be

safer, too.”

 

“But why, dear Madam Mina?  You know that your safety is our solemnest

duty.  We go into danger, to which you are, or may be, more liable

than any of us from . . . from circumstances . . . things that have

been.”  He paused embarrassed.

 

As she replied, she raised her finger and pointed to her forehead.  “I

know.  That is why I must go.  I can tell you now, whilst the sun is

coming up.  I may not be able again.  I know that when the Count wills

me I must go.  I know that if he tells me to come in secret, I must by

wile.  By any device to hoodwink, even Jonathan.”  God saw the look

that she turned on me as she spoke, and if there be indeed a Recording

Angel that look is noted to her ever-lasting honour.  I could only

clasp her hand.  I could not speak.  My emotion was too great for even

the relief of tears.

 

She went on.  “You men are brave and strong.  You are strong in your

numbers, for you can defy that which would break down the human

endurance of one who had to guard alone.  Besides, I may be of

service, since you can hypnotize me and so learn that which even I

myself do not know.”

 

Dr. Van Helsing said gravely, “Madam Mina, you are, as always, most

wise.  You shall with us come.  And together we shall do that which we

go forth to achieve.”

 

When he had spoken, Mina’s long spell of silence made me look at her.

She had fallen back on her pillow asleep.  She did not even wake when

I had pulled up the blind and let in the sunlight which flooded the

room.  Van Helsing motioned to me to come with him quietly.  We went

to his room, and within a minute Lord Godalming, Dr. Seward, and Mr.

Morris were with us also.

 

He told them what Mina had said, and went on.  “In the morning we

shall leave for Varna.  We have now to deal with a new factor, Madam

Mina.  Oh, but her soul is true.  It is to her an agony to tell us so

much as she has done.  But it is most right, and we are warned in

time.  There must be no chance lost, and in Varna we must be ready to

act the instant when that ship arrives.”

 

“What shall we do exactly?” asked Mr. Morris laconically.

 

The Professor paused before replying, “We shall at the first board

that ship.  Then, when we have identified the box, we shall place a

branch of the wild rose on it.  This we shall fasten, for when it is

there none can emerge, so that at least says the superstition.  And to

superstition must we trust at the first.  It was man’s faith in the

early, and it have its root in faith still.  Then, when we get the

opportunity that we seek, when none are near to see, we shall open the

box, and . . . and all will be well.”

 

“I shall not wait for any opportunity,” said Morris.  “When I see the

box I shall open it and destroy the monster, though there were a

thousand men looking on, and if I am to be wiped out for it the next

moment!”  I grasped his hand instinctively and found it as firm as a

piece of steel.  I think he understood my look.  I hope he did.

 

“Good boy,” said Dr. Van Helsing.  “Brave boy.  Quincey is all man.

God bless him for it.  My child, believe me none of us shall lag

behind or pause from any fear.  I do but say what we may do . . . what

we must do.  But, indeed, indeed we cannot say what we may do.  There

are so many things which may happen, and their ways and their ends are

so various that until the moment we may not say.  We shall all be

armed, in all ways.  And when the time for the end has come, our

effort shall not be lack.  Now let us today put all our affairs in

order.  Let all things which touch on others dear to us, and who on us

depend, be complete.  For none of us can tell what, or when, or how,

the end may be.  As for me, my own affairs are regulate, and as I have

nothing else to do, I shall go make arrangements for the travel.  I

shall have all tickets and so forth for our journey.”

 

There was nothing further to be said, and we parted.  I shall now

settle up all my affairs of earth, and be ready for whatever may come.

 

 

Later.–It is done.  My will is made, and all complete.  Mina if she

survive is my sole heir.  If it should not be so, then the others who

have been so good to us shall have remainder.

 

It is now drawing towards the sunset.  Mina’s uneasiness calls my

attention to it.  I am sure that there is something on her mind which

the time of exact sunset will reveal.  These occasions are becoming

harrowing times for us all.  For each sunrise and sunset opens up some

new danger, some new pain, which however, may in God’s will be means

to a good end.  I write all these things in the diary since my darling

must not hear them now.  But if it may be that she can see them again,

they shall be ready.  She is calling to me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 25

 

 

1. SEWARD’S DIARY

 

11 October, Evening.–Jonathan Harker has asked me to note this, as he

says he is hardly equal to the task, and he wants an exact record

kept.

 

I think that none of us were surprised when we were asked to see Mrs.

Harker a little before the time of sunset.  We have of late come to

understand that sunrise and sunset are to her times of peculiar

freedom.  When her old self can be manifest without any controlling

force subduing or restraining her, or inciting her to action.  This

mood or condition begins some half hour or more before actual sunrise

or sunset, and lasts till either the sun is high, or whilst the clouds

are still aglow with the rays streaming above the horizon.  At first

there is a sort of negative condition, as if some tie were loosened,

and then the absolute freedom quickly follows.  When, however, the

freedom ceases the change back or relapse comes quickly, preceded

only by a spell of warning silence.

 

Tonight, when we met, she was somewhat constrained, and bore all the

signs of an internal struggle.  I put it down myself to her making a

violent effort at the earliest instant she could do so.

 

A very few minutes, however, gave her complete control of herself.

Then, motioning her husband to sit beside her on the sofa where she

was half reclining, she made the rest of us bring chairs up close.

 

Taking her husband’s hand in hers, she began, “We are all here

together in freedom, for perhaps the last time!  I know that you will

always be with me to the end.”  This was to her husband whose hand had,

as we could see, tightened upon her.  “In the morning we go out upon

our task, and God alone knows what may be in store for any of us.  You

are going to be so good to me to take me with you.  I know that all

that brave earnest men can do for a poor weak woman, whose soul

perhaps is lost, no, no, not yet, but is at any rate at stake, you

will do.  But you must remember that I am not as you are.  There is a

poison in my blood, in my soul, which may destroy me, which must

destroy me, unless some relief comes to us.  Oh, my friends, you know

as well as I do, that my soul is at stake.  And though I know there is

one way out for me, you must not and I must not take it!”  She looked

appealingly to us all in turn, beginning and ending with her husband.

 

“What is that way?” asked Van Helsing in a hoarse voice.  “What is

that way, which we must not, may not, take?”

 

“That I may die now, either by my own hand or that of another, before

the greater evil is entirely wrought.  I know, and you know, that were

I once dead you could and would set free my immortal spirit, even as

you did my poor Lucy’s.  Were death, or the fear of death, the only

thing that stood in the way I would not shrink to die here now, amidst

the friends who love me.  But death is not all.  I cannot believe that

to die in such a case, when there is hope before us and a bitter task

to be done, is God’s will.  Therefore, I on my part, give up here the

certainty of eternal rest, and go out into the dark where may be the

blackest things that the world or the nether world holds!”

 

We were all silent, for we knew instinctively that this was only a

prelude.  The faces of the others were set, and Harker’s grew ashen

grey.  Perhaps, he guessed better than any of us what was coming.

 

She continued, “This is what I can give into the hotch-pot.”  I could

not but note the quaint legal phrase which she used in such a place,

and with all seriousness.  “What will each of you give?  Your lives I

know,” she went on quickly, “that is easy for brave men.  Your lives

are God’s, and you can give them back to Him, but what will you give

to me?”  She looked again questioningly, but this time avoided her

husband’s face.  Quincey seemed to understand, he nodded, and her face

lit up.  “Then I shall tell you plainly what I want, for there must be

no doubtful matter in this connection between us now.  You must

promise me, one and all, even you, my beloved husband, that should the

time come, you will kill me.”

 

“What is that time?”  The voice was Quincey’s, but it was low and

strained.

 

“When you shall be convinced that I am so changed that it is better

that I die that I may live.  When I am thus dead in the flesh, then

you will, without a moment’s delay, drive a stake through me and cut

off my head, or do whatever else may be wanting to give me rest!”

 

Quincey was the first to rise after the pause.  He knelt down before

her and taking her hand in his said solemnly, “I’m only a rough

fellow, who hasn’t, perhaps, lived as a man should to win such a

distinction, but I swear to you by all that I hold sacred and dear

that, should the time ever come, I shall not flinch from the duty that

you have set us.  And I promise you, too, that I shall make all

certain, for if I am only doubtful I shall take it that the time has

come!”

 

“My true friend!” was all she could say amid her fast-falling tears,

as bending over, she kissed his hand.

 

“I swear the same, my dear Madam Mina!” said Van Helsing.  “And I!”

said Lord Godalming, each of them in turn kneeling to her to take the

oath.  I followed, myself.

 

Then her husband turned to her wan-eyed and with a greenish pallor

which subdued the snowy whiteness of his hair, and asked, “And must I,

too, make such a promise, oh, my wife?”

 

“You too, my dearest,” she said, with infinite yearning of pity in her

voice and eyes.  “You must not shrink.  You are nearest and dearest

and all the world to me.  Our souls are knit into one, for all life

and all time.  Think, dear, that there have been times when brave men

have killed their wives and their womenkind, to keep them from falling

into the hands of the enemy.  Their hands did not falter any the more

because those that they loved implored them to slay them.  It is men’s

duty towards those whom they love, in such times of sore trial!  And

oh, my dear, if it is to be that I must meet death at any hand, let it

be at the hand of him that loves me best.  Dr. Van Helsing, I have not

forgotten your mercy in poor Lucy’s case to him who loved.”  She

stopped with a flying blush, and changed her phrase, “to him who had

best right to give her peace.  If that time shall come again, I look

to you to make it a happy memory of my husband’s life that it was his

loving hand which set me free from the awful thrall upon me.”

 

“Again I swear!” came the Professor’s resonant voice.

 

Mrs. Harker smiled, positively smiled, as with a sigh of relief she

leaned back and said, “And now one word of warning, a warning which

you must never forget.  This time, if it ever come, may come quickly

and unexpectedly, and in such case you must lose no time in using your

opportunity.  At such a time I myself might be . . . nay!  If the time

ever come, shall be, leagued with your enemy against you.

 

“One more request,” she became very solemn as she said this, “it is

not vital and necessary like the other, but I want you to do one thing

for me, if you will.”

 

We all acquiesced, but no one spoke.  There was no need to speak.

 

“I want you to read the Burial Service.”  She was interrupted by a

deep groan from her husband.  Taking his hand in hers, she held it

over her heart, and continued.  “You must read it over me some day.

Whatever may be the issue of all this fearful state of things, it will

be a sweet thought to all or some of us.  You, my dearest, will I hope

read it, for then it will be in your voice in my memory forever, come

what may!”

 

“But oh, my dear one,” he pleaded, “death is afar off from you.”

 

“Nay,” she said, holding up a warning hand.  “I am deeper in death at

this moment than if the weight of an earthly grave lay heavy upon me!”

 

“Oh, my wife, must I read it?” he said, before he began.

 

“It would comfort me, my husband!” was all she said, and he began to

read when she had got the book ready.

 

How can I, how could anyone, tell of that strange scene, its

solemnity, its gloom, its sadness, its horror, and withal, its

sweetness.  Even a sceptic, who can see nothing but a travesty of

bitter truth in anything holy or emotional, would have been melted to

the heart had he seen that little group of loving and devoted friends

kneeling round that stricken and sorrowing lady; or heard the tender

passion of her husband’s voice, as in tones so broken and emotional

that often he had to pause, he read the simple and beautiful service

from the Burial of the Dead.  I cannot go on . . . words . . . and

v-voices . . . f-fail m-me!

 

She was right in her instinct.  Strange as it was, bizarre as it may

hereafter seem even to us who felt its potent influence at the time,

it comforted us much.  And the silence, which showed Mrs. Harker’s

coming relapse from her freedom of soul, did not seem so full of

despair to any of us as we had dreaded.

 

 

 

 

 

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL

 

15 October, Varna.–We left Charing Cross on the morning of the 12th,

got to Paris the same night, and took the places secured for us in the

Orient Express.  We traveled night and day, arriving here at about

five o’clock.  Lord Godalming went to the Consulate to see if any

telegram had arrived for him, whilst the rest of us came on to this

hotel, “the Odessus.”  The journey may have had incidents.  I was,

however, too eager to get on, to care for them.  Until the Czarina

Catherine comes into port there will be no interest for me in anything

in the wide world.  Thank God!  Mina is well, and looks to be getting

stronger.  Her colour is coming back.  She sleeps a great deal.

Throughout the journey she slept nearly all the time.  Before sunrise

and sunset, however, she is very wakeful and alert.  And it has become

a habit for Van Helsing to hypnotize her at such times.  At first,

some effort was needed, and he had to make many passes.  But now, she

seems to yield at once, as if by habit, and scarcely any action is

needed.  He seems to have power at these particular moments to simply

will, and her thoughts obey him.  He always asks her what she can see

and hear.

 

She answers to the first, “Nothing, all is dark.”

 

And to the second, “I can hear the waves lapping against the ship, and

the water rushing by.  Canvas and cordage strain and masts and yards

creak.  The wind is high . . . I can hear it in the shrouds, and the

bow throws back the foam.”

 

It is evident that the Czarina Catherine is still at sea, hastening on

her way to Varna.  Lord Godalming has just returned.  He had four

telegrams, one each day since we started, and all to the same effect.

That the Czarina Catherine had not been reported to Lloyd’s from

anywhere.  He had arranged before leaving London that his agent should

send him every day a telegram saying if the ship had been reported.

He was to have a message even if she were not reported, so that he

might be sure that there was a watch being kept at the other end of

the wire.

 

We had dinner and went to bed early.  Tomorrow we are to see the Vice

Consul, and to arrange, if we can, about getting on board the ship as

soon as she arrives.  Van Helsing says that our chance will be to get

on the boat between sunrise and sunset.  The Count, even if he takes

the form of a bat, cannot cross the running water of his own volition,

and so cannot leave the ship.  As he dare not change to man’s form

without suspicion, which he evidently wishes to avoid, he must remain

in the box.  If, then, we can come on board after sunrise, he is at

our mercy, for we can open the box and make sure of him, as we did of

poor Lucy, before he wakes.  What mercy he shall get from us all will

not count for much.  We think that we shall not have much trouble with

officials or the seamen.  Thank God!  This is the country where

bribery can do anything, and we are well supplied with money.  We have

only to make sure that the ship cannot come into port between sunset

and sunrise without our being warned, and we shall be safe.  Judge

Moneybag will settle this case, I think!

 

 

16 October.–Mina’s report still the same.  Lapping waves and rushing

water, darkness and favouring winds.  We are evidently in good time,

and when we hear of the Czarina Catherine we shall be ready.  As she

must pass the Dardanelles we are sure to have some report.

 

 

17 October.–Everything is pretty well fixed now, I think, to welcome

the Count on his return from his tour.  Godalming told the shippers

that he fancied that the box sent aboard might contain something

stolen from a friend of his, and got a half consent that he might open

it at his own risk.  The owner gave him a paper telling the Captain to

give him every facility in doing whatever he chose on board the ship,

and also a similar authorization to his agent at Varna.  We have seen

the agent, who was much impressed with Godalming’s kindly manner to

him, and we are all satisfied that whatever he can do to aid our

wishes will be done.

 

We have already arranged what to do in case we get the box open.  If

the Count is there, Van Helsing and Seward will cut off his head at

once and drive a stake through his heart.  Morris and Godalming and I

shall prevent interference, even if we have to use the arms which we

shall have ready.  The Professor says that if we can so treat the

Count’s body, it will soon after fall into dust.  In such case there

would be no evidence against us, in case any suspicion of murder were

aroused.  But even if it were not, we should stand or fall by our act,

and perhaps some day this very script may be evidence to come between

some of us and a rope.  For myself, I should take the chance only too

thankfully if it were to come.  We mean to leave no stone unturned to

carry out our intent.  We have arranged with certain officials that

the instant the Czarina Catherine is seen, we are to be informed by a

special messenger.

 

 

24 October.–A whole week of waiting.  Daily telegrams to Godalming,

but only the same story.  “Not yet reported.”  Mina’s morning and

evening hypnotic answer is unvaried.  Lapping waves, rushing water,

and creaking masts.

 

 

 

 

TELEGRAM, OCTOBER 24TH RUFUS SMITH, LLOYD’S, LONDON,

TO LORD GODALMING, CARE OF H. B. M. VICE CONSUL, VARNA

 

“Czarina Catherine reported this morning from Dardanelles.”

 

 

 

1. SEWARD’S DIARY

 

25 October.–How I miss my phonograph!  To write a diary with a pen is

irksome to me!  But Van Helsing says I must.  We were all wild with

excitement yesterday when Godalming got his telegram from Lloyd’s.  I

know now what men feel in battle when the call to action is heard.

Mrs. Harker, alone of our party, did not show any signs of emotion.

After all, it is not strange that she did not, for we took special

care not to let her know anything about it, and we all tried not to

show any excitement when we were in her presence.  In old days she

would, I am sure, have noticed, no matter how we might have tried to

conceal it.  But in this way she is greatly changed during the past

three weeks.  The lethargy grows upon her, and though she seems strong

and well, and is getting back some of her colour, Van Helsing and I are

not satisfied.  We talk of her often.  We have not, however, said a

word to the others.  It would break poor Harker’s heart, certainly his

nerve, if he knew that we had even a suspicion on the subject.  Van

Helsing examines, he tells me, her teeth very carefully, whilst she is

in the hypnotic condition, for he says that so long as they do not

begin to sharpen there is no active danger of a change in her.  If

this change should come, it would be necessary to take steps!  We both

know what those steps would have to be, though we do not mention our

thoughts to each other.  We should neither of us shrink from the task,

awful though it be to contemplate.  “Euthanasia” is an excellent and a

comforting word!  I am grateful to whoever invented it.

 

It is only about 24 hours’ sail from the Dardanelles to here, at the

rate the Czarina Catherine has come from London.  She should therefore

arrive some time in the morning, but as she cannot possibly get in

before noon, we are all about to retire early.  We shall get up at one

o’clock, so as to be ready.

 

 

25 October, Noon.–No news yet of the ship’s arrival.  Mrs. Harker’s

hypnotic report this morning was the same as usual, so it is possible

that we may get news at any moment.  We men are all in a fever of

excitement, except Harker, who is calm.  His hands are cold as ice,

and an hour ago I found him whetting the edge of the great Ghoorka

knife which he now always carries with him.  It will be a bad lookout

for the Count if the edge of that “Kukri” ever touches his throat,

driven by that stern, ice-cold hand!

 

Van Helsing and I were a little alarmed about Mrs. Harker today.

About noon she got into a sort of lethargy which we did not like.

Although we kept silence to the others, we were neither of us happy

about it.  She had been restless all the morning, so that we were at

first glad to know that she was sleeping.  When, however, her husband

mentioned casually that she was sleeping so soundly that he could not

wake her, we went to her room to see for ourselves.  She was breathing

naturally and looked so well and peaceful that we agreed that the

sleep was better for her than anything else.  Poor girl, she has so

much to forget that it is no wonder that sleep, if it brings oblivion

to her, does her good.

 

 

Later.–Our opinion was justified, for when after a refreshing sleep

of some hours she woke up, she seemed brighter and better than she had

been for days.  At sunset she made the usual hypnotic report.

Wherever he may be in the Black Sea, the Count is hurrying to his

destination.  To his doom, I trust!

 

 

 

26 October.–Another day and no tidings of the Czarina Catherine.  She

ought to be here by now.  That she is still journeying somewhere is

apparent, for Mrs. Harker’s hypnotic report at sunrise was still the

same.  It is possible that the vessel may be lying by, at times, for

fog.  Some of the steamers which came in last evening reported patches

of fog both to north and south of the port.  We must continue our

watching, as the ship may now be signalled any moment.

 

 

27 October, Noon.–Most strange.  No news yet of the ship we wait for.

Mrs. Harker reported last night and this morning as usual.  “Lapping

waves and rushing water,” though she added that “the waves were very

faint.”  The telegrams from London have been the same, “no further

report.”  Van Helsing is terribly anxious, and told me just now that he

fears the Count is escaping us.

 

He added significantly, “I did not like that lethargy of Madam Mina’s.

Souls and memories can do strange things during trance.”  I was about

to ask him more, but Harker just then came in, and he held up a

warning hand.  We must try tonight at sunset to make her speak more

fully when in her hypnotic state.

 

 

28 October.–Telegram.  Rufus Smith, London, to Lord Godalming, care

1. B. M. Vice Consul, Varna

 

“Czarina Catherine reported entering Galatz at one o’clock today.”

 

 

 

 

1. SEWARD’S DIARY

 

28 October.–When the telegram came announcing the arrival in Galatz I

do not think it was such a shock to any of us as might have been

expected.  True, we did not know whence, or how, or when, the bolt

would come.  But I think we all expected that something strange would

happen.  The day of arrival at Varna made us individually satisfied

that things would not be just as we had expected.  We only waited to

learn where the change would occur.  None the less, however, it was a

surprise.  I suppose that nature works on such a hopeful basis that we

believe against ourselves that things will be as they ought to be, not

as we should know that they will be.  Transcendentalism is a beacon to

the angels, even if it be a will-o’-the-wisp to man.  Van Helsing

raised his hand over his head for a moment, as though in remonstrance

with the Almighty.  But he said not a word, and in a few seconds stood

up with his face sternly set.

 

Lord Godalming grew very pale, and sat breathing heavily.  I was

myself half stunned and looked in wonder at one after another.

Quincey Morris tightened his belt with that quick movement which I

knew so well.  In our old wandering days it meant “action.”  Mrs.

Harker grew ghastly white, so that the scar on her forehead seemed to

burn, but she folded her hands meekly and looked up in prayer.  Harker

smiled, actually smiled, the dark, bitter smile of one who is without

hope, but at the same time his action belied his words, for his hands

instinctively sought the hilt of the great Kukri knife and rested

there.

 

“When does the next train start for Galatz?” said Van Helsing to us

generally.

 

“At 6:30 tomorrow morning!”  We all started, for the answer came from

Mrs. Harker.

 

“How on earth do you know?” said Art.

 

“You forget, or perhaps you do not know, though Jonathan does and so

does Dr. Van Helsing, that I am the train fiend.  At home in Exeter I

always used to make up the time tables, so as to be helpful to my

husband.  I found it so useful sometimes, that I always make a study

of the time tables now.  I knew that if anything were to take us to

Castle Dracula we should go by Galatz, or at any rate through

Bucharest, so I learned the times very carefully.  Unhappily there are

not many to learn, as the only train tomorrow leaves as I say.”

 

“Wonderful woman!” murmured the Professor.

 

“Can’t we get a special?” asked Lord Godalming.

 

Van Helsing shook his head, “I fear not.  This land is very different

from yours or mine.  Even if we did have a special, it would probably

not arrive as soon as our regular train.  Moreover, we have something

to prepare.  We must think.  Now let us organize.  You, friend Arthur,

go to the train and get the tickets and arrange that all be ready for

us to go in the morning.  Do you, friend Jonathan, go to the agent of

the ship and get from him letters to the agent in Galatz, with

authority to make a search of the ship just as it was here.  Quincey

Morris, you see the Vice Consul, and get his aid with his fellow in

Galatz and all he can do to make our way smooth, so that no times be

lost when over the Danube.  John will stay with Madam Mina and me, and

we shall consult.  For so if time be long you may be delayed.  And it

will not matter when the sun set, since I am here with Madam to make

report.”

 

“And I,” said Mrs. Harker brightly, and more like her old self than

she had been for many a long day, “shall try to be of use in all ways,

and shall think and write for you as I used to do.  Something is

shifting from me in some strange way, and I feel freer than I have

been of late!”

 

The three younger men looked happier at the moment as they seemed to

realize the significance of her words.  But Van Helsing and I, turning

to each other, met each a grave and troubled glance.  We said nothing

at the time, however.

 

When the three men had gone out to their tasks Van Helsing asked Mrs.

Harker to look up the copy of the diaries and find him the part of

Harker’s journal at the Castle.  She went away to get it.

 

When the door was shut upon her he said to me, “We mean the same!

Speak out!”

 

“Here is some change.  It is a hope that makes me sick, for it may

deceive us.”

 

“Quite so.  Do you know why I asked her to get the manuscript?”

 

“No!” said I, “unless it was to get an opportunity of seeing me

alone.”

 

“You are in part right, friend John, but only in part.  I want to tell

you something.  And oh, my friend, I am taking a great, a terrible,

risk.  But I believe it is right.  In the moment when Madam Mina said

those words that arrest both our understanding, an inspiration came to

1. In the trance of three days ago the Count sent her his spirit to

read her mind.  Or more like he took her to see him in his earth box

in the ship with water rushing, just as it go free at rise and set of

sun.  He learn then that we are here, for she have more to tell in her

open life with eyes to see ears to hear than he, shut as he is, in his

coffin box.  Now he make his most effort to escape us.  At present he

want her not.

 

“He is sure with his so great knowledge that she will come at his

call.  But he cut her off, take her, as he can do, out of his own

power, that so she come not to him.  Ah!  There I have hope that our

man brains that have been of man so long and that have not lost the

grace of God, will come higher than his child-brain that lie in his

tomb for centuries, that grow not yet to our stature, and that do only

work selfish and therefore small.  Here comes Madam Mina.  Not a word

to her of her trance!  She knows it not, and it would overwhelm her

and make despair just when we want all her hope, all her courage, when

most we want all her great brain which is trained like man’s brain,

but is of sweet woman and have a special power which the Count give

her, and which he may not take away altogether, though he think not

1. Hush! Let me speak, and you shall learn.  Oh, John, my friend,

we are in awful straits.  I fear, as I never feared before.  We can

only trust the good God.  Silence!  Here she comes!”

 

I thought that the Professor was going to break down and have

hysterics, just as he had when Lucy died, but with a great effort he

controlled himself and was at perfect nervous poise when Mrs. Harker

tripped into the room, bright and happy looking and, in the doing of

work, seemingly forgetful of her misery.  As she came in, she handed a

number of sheets of typewriting to Van Helsing.  He looked over them

gravely, his face brightening up as he read.

 

Then holding the pages between his finger and thumb he said, “Friend

John, to you with so much experience already, and you too, dear Madam

Mina, that are young, here is a lesson.  Do not fear ever to think.  A

half thought has been buzzing often in my brain, but I fear to let him

loose his wings.  Here now, with more knowledge, I go back to where

that half thought come from and I find that he be no half thought at

all.  That be a whole thought, though so young that he is not yet

strong to use his little wings.  Nay, like the ‘Ugly Duck’ of my

friend Hans Andersen, he be no duck thought at all, but a big swan

thought that sail nobly on big wings, when the time come for him to

try them.  See I read here what Jonathan have written.

 

“That other of his race who, in a later age, again and again, brought

his forces over The Great River into Turkey Land, who when he was

beaten back, came again, and again, and again, though he had to come

alone from the bloody field where his troops were being slaughtered,

since he knew that he alone could ultimately triumph.

 

“What does this tell us?  Not much?  No!  The Count’s child thought

see nothing, therefore he speak so free.  Your man thought see

nothing.  My man thought see nothing, till just now.  No!  But there

comes another word from some one who speak without thought because

she, too, know not what it mean, what it might mean.  Just as there

are elements which rest, yet when in nature’s course they move on

their way and they touch, the pouf!  And there comes a flash of light,

heaven wide, that blind and kill and destroy some.  But that show up

all earth below for leagues and leagues.  Is it not so?  Well, I shall

explain.  To begin, have you ever study the philosophy of crime?

‘Yes’ and ‘No.’  You, John, yes, for it is a study of insanity.  You,

no, Madam Mina, for crime touch you not, not but once.  Still, your

mind works true, and argues not a particulari ad universale.  There is

this peculiarity in criminals.  It is so constant, in all countries

and at all times, that even police, who know not much from philosophy,

come to know it empirically, that it is.  That is to be empiric.  The

criminal always work at one crime, that is the true criminal who seems

predestinate to crime, and who will of none other.  This criminal has

not full man brain.  He is clever and cunning and resourceful, but he

be not of man stature as to brain.  He be of child brain in much.  Now

this criminal of ours is predestinate to crime also.  He, too, have

child brain, and it is of the child to do what he have done.  The

little bird, the little fish, the little animal learn not by

principle, but empirically.  And when he learn to do, then there is to

him the ground to start from to do more.  ‘Dos pou sto,’ said

Archimedes.  ‘Give me a fulcrum, and I shall move the world!’  To do

once, is the fulcrum whereby child brain become man brain.  And until

he have the purpose to do more, he continue to do the same again every

time, just as he have done before!  Oh, my dear, I see that your eyes

are opened, and that to you the lightning flash show all the leagues,”

for Mrs. Harker began to clap her hands and her eyes sparkled.

 

He went on, “Now you shall speak.  Tell us two dry men of science what

you see with those so bright eyes.”  He took her hand and held it

whilst he spoke.  His finger and thumb closed on her pulse, as I

thought instinctively and unconsciously, as she spoke.

 

“The Count is a criminal and of criminal type.  Nordau and Lombroso

would so classify him, and qua criminal he is of an imperfectly formed

mind.  Thus, in a difficulty he has to seek resource in habit.  His

past is a clue, and the one page of it that we know, and that from his

own lips, tells that once before, when in what Mr. Morris would call

a ‘tight place,’ he went back to his own country from the land he had

tried to invade, and thence, without losing purpose, prepared himself

for a new effort.  He came again better equipped for his work, and

won.  So he came to London to invade a new land.  He was beaten, and

when all hope of success was lost, and his existence in danger, he

fled back over the sea to his home.  Just as formerly he had fled back

over the Danube from Turkey Land.”

 

“Good, good!  Oh, you so clever lady!” said Van Helsing,

enthusiastically, as he stooped and kissed her hand.  A moment later

he said to me, as calmly as though we had been having a sick room

consultation, “Seventy-two only, and in all this excitement.  I have

hope.”

 

Turning to her again, he said with keen expectation, “But go on.  Go

on!  There is more to tell if you will.  Be not afraid.  John and I

know.  I do in any case, and shall tell you if you are right.  Speak,

without fear!”

 

“I will try to.  But you will forgive me if I seem too egotistical.”

 

“Nay!  Fear not, you must be egotist, for it is of you that we think.”

 

“Then, as he is criminal he is selfish.  And as his intellect is small

and his action is based on selfishness, he confines himself to one

purpose.  That purpose is remorseless.  As he fled back over the

Danube, leaving his forces to be cut to pieces, so now he is intent on

being safe, careless of all.  So his own selfishness frees my soul

somewhat from the terrible power which he acquired over me on that

dreadful night.  I felt it!  Oh, I felt it!  Thank God, for His great

mercy!  My soul is freer than it has been since that awful hour.  And

all that haunts me is a fear lest in some trance or dream he may have

used my knowledge for his ends.”

 

The Professor stood up, “He has so used your mind, and by it he has

left us here in Varna, whilst the ship that carried him rushed through

enveloping fog up to Galatz, where, doubtless, he had made preparation

for escaping from us.  But his child mind only saw so far.  And it may

be that as ever is in God’s Providence, the very thing that the evil

doer most reckoned on for his selfish good, turns out to be his

chiefest harm.  The hunter is taken in his own snare, as the great

Psalmist says.  For now that he think he is free from every trace of

us all, and that he has escaped us with so many hours to him, then his

selfish child brain will whisper him to sleep.  He think, too, that as

he cut himself off from knowing your mind, there can be no knowledge

of him to you.  There is where he fail!  That terrible baptism of

blood which he give you makes you free to go to him in spirit, as you

have as yet done in your times of freedom, when the sun rise and set.

At such times you go by my volition and not by his.  And this power to

good of you and others, you have won from your suffering at his hands.

This is now all more precious that he know it not, and to guard

himself have even cut himself off from his knowledge of our where.

We, however, are not selfish, and we believe that God is with us

through all this blackness, and these many dark hours.  We shall

follow him, and we shall not flinch, even if we peril ourselves that

we become like him.  Friend John, this has been a great hour, and it

have done much to advance us on our way.  You must be scribe and write

him all down, so that when the others return from their work you can

give it to them, then they shall know as we do.”

 

And so I have written it whilst we wait their return, and Mrs. Harker

has written with the typewriter all since she brought the MS to us.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 26

 

 

1. SEWARD’S DIARY

 

29 October.–This is written in the train from Varna to Galatz.  Last

night we all assembled a little before the time of sunset.  Each of us

had done his work as well as he could, so far as thought, and

endeavour, and opportunity go, we are prepared for the whole of our

journey, and for our work when we get to Galatz.  When the usual time

came round Mrs. Harker prepared herself for her hypnotic effort, and

after a longer and more serious effort on the part of Van Helsing than

has been usually necessary, she sank into the trance.  Usually she

speaks on a hint, but this time the Professor had to ask her

questions, and to ask them pretty resolutely, before we could learn

anything.  At last her answer came.

 

“I can see nothing.  We are still.  There are no waves lapping, but

only a steady swirl of water softly running against the hawser.  I can

hear men’s voices calling, near and far, and the roll and creak of

oars in the rowlocks.  A gun is fired somewhere, the echo of it seems

far away.  There is tramping of feet overhead, and ropes and chains

are dragged along.  What is this?  There is a gleam of light.  I can

feel the air blowing upon me.”

 

Here she stopped.  She had risen, as if impulsively, from where she

lay on the sofa, and raised both her hands, palms upwards, as if

lifting a weight.  Van Helsing and I looked at each other with

understanding.  Quincey raised his eyebrows slightly and looked at her

intently, whilst Harker’s hand instinctively closed round the hilt of

his Kukri.  There was a long pause.  We all knew that the time when

she could speak was passing, but we felt that it was useless to say

anything.

 

Suddenly she sat up, and as she opened her eyes said sweetly, “Would

none of you like a cup of tea?  You must all be so tired!”

 

We could only make her happy, and so acqueisced.  She bustled off to

get tea.  When she had gone Van Helsing said, “You see, my friends.  He

is close to land.  He has left his earth chest.  But he has yet to get

on shore.  In the night he may lie hidden somewhere, but if he be not

carried on shore, or if the ship do not touch it, he cannot achieve

the land.  In such case he can, if it be in the night, change his form

and jump or fly on shore, then, unless he be carried he cannot escape.

And if he be carried, then the customs men may discover what the box

contain.  Thus, in fine, if he escape not on shore tonight, or before

dawn, there will be the whole day lost to him.  We may then arrive in

time.  For if he escape not at night we shall come on him in daytime,

boxed up and at our mercy.  For he dare not be his true self, awake

and visible, lest he be discovered.”

 

There was no more to be said, so we waited in patience until the dawn,

at which time we might learn more from Mrs. Harker.

 

Early this morning we listened, with breathless anxiety, for her

response in her trance.  The hypnotic stage was even longer in coming

than before, and when it came the time remaining until full sunrise

was so short that we began to despair.  Van Helsing seemed to throw

his whole soul into the effort.  At last, in obedience to his will she

made reply.

 

“All is dark.  I hear lapping water, level with me, and some creaking

as of wood on wood.”  She paused, and the red sun shot up.  We must

wait till tonight.

 

And so it is that we are travelling towards Galatz in an agony of

expectation.  We are due to arrive between two and three in the

morning.  But already, at Bucharest, we are three hours late, so we

cannot possibly get in till well after sunup.  Thus we shall have two

more hypnotic messages from Mrs. Harker!  Either or both may possibly

throw more light on what is happening.

 

 

Later.–Sunset has come and gone.  Fortunately it came at a time when

there was no distraction.  For had it occurred whilst we were at a

station, we might not have secured the necessary calm and isolation.

Mrs. Harker yielded to the hypnotic influence even less readily than

this morning.  I am in fear that her power of reading the Count’s

sensations may die away, just when we want it most.  It seems to me

that her imagination is beginning to work.  Whilst she has been in the

trance hitherto she has confined herself to the simplest of facts.  If

this goes on it may ultimately mislead us.  If I thought that the

Count’s power over her would die away equally with her power of

knowledge it would be a happy thought.  But I am afraid that it may

not be so.

 

When she did speak, her words were enigmatical, “Something is going

out.  I can feel it pass me like a cold wind.  I can hear, far off,

confused sounds, as of men talking in strange tongues, fierce falling

water, and the howling of wolves.”  She stopped and a shudder ran

through her, increasing in intensity for a few seconds, till at the

end, she shook as though in a palsy.  She said no more, even in answer

to the Professor’s imperative questioning.  When she woke from the

trance, she was cold, and exhausted, and languid, but her mind was all

alert.  She could not remember anything, but asked what she had said.

When she was told, she pondered over it deeply for a long time and in

silence.

 

 

30 October, 7 A.M.–We are near Galatz now, and I may not have time to

write later.  Sunrise this morning was anxiously looked for by us all.

Knowing of the increasing difficulty of procuring the hypnotic trance,

Van Helsing began his passes earlier than usual.  They produced no

effect, however, until the regular time, when she yielded with a still

greater difficulty, only a minute before the sun rose.  The Professor

lost no time in his questioning.

 

Her answer came with equal quickness, “All is dark.  I hear water

swirling by, level with my ears, and the creaking of wood on wood.

Cattle low far off.  There is another sound, a queer one like . . .”

She stopped and grew white, and whiter still.

 

“Go on, go on!  Speak, I command you!” said Van Helsing in an agonized

voice.  At the same time there was despair in his eyes, for the risen

sun was reddening even Mrs. Harker’s pale face.  She opened her eyes,

and we all started as she said, sweetly and seemingly with the utmost

unconcern.

 

“Oh, Professor, why ask me to do what you know I can’t?  I don’t

remember anything.”  Then, seeing the look of amazement on our faces,

she said, turning from one to the other with a troubled look, “What

have I said?  What have I done?  I know nothing, only that I was lying

here, half asleep, and heard you say ‘go on! speak, I command you!’  It

seemed so funny to hear you order me about, as if I were a bad child!”

 

“Oh, Madam Mina,” he said, sadly, “it is proof, if proof be needed, of

how I love and honour you, when a word for your good, spoken more

earnest than ever, can seem so strange because it is to order her whom

I am proud to obey!”

 

The whistles are sounding.  We are nearing Galatz.  We are on fire

with anxiety and eagerness.

 

 

 

MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL

 

30 October.–Mr. Morris took me to the hotel where our rooms had been

ordered by telegraph, he being the one who could best be spared, since

he does not speak any foreign language.  The forces were distributed

much as they had been at Varna, except that Lord Godalming went to the

Vice Consul, as his rank might serve as an immediate guarantee of some

sort to the official, we being in extreme hurry.  Jonathan and the two

doctors went to the shipping agent to learn particulars of the arrival

of the Czarina Catherine.

 

 

Later.–Lord Godalming has returned.  The Consul is away, and the Vice

Consul sick.  So the routine work has been attended to by a clerk.  He

was very obliging, and offered to do anything in his power.

 

 

 

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL

 

30 October.–At nine o’clock Dr. Van Helsing, Dr. Seward, and I called

on Messrs. Mackenzie & Steinkoff, the agents of the London firm of

Hapgood.  They had received a wire from London, in answer to Lord

Godalming’s telegraphed request, asking them to show us any civility

in their power.  They were more than kind and courteous, and took us

at once on board the Czarina Catherine, which lay at anchor out in the

river harbor.  There we saw the Captain, Donelson by name, who told us

of his voyage.  He said that in all his life he had never had so

favourable a run.

 

“Man!” he said, “but it made us afeard, for we expect it that we

should have to pay for it wi’ some rare piece o’ ill luck, so as to

keep up the average.  It’s no canny to run frae London to the Black

Sea wi’ a wind ahint ye, as though the Deil himself were blawin’ on

yer sail for his ain purpose.  An’ a’ the time we could no speer a

thing.  Gin we were nigh a ship, or a port, or a headland, a fog fell

on us and travelled wi’ us, till when after it had lifted and we

looked out, the deil a thing could we see.  We ran by Gibraltar wi’

oot bein’ able to signal.  An’ til we came to the Dardanelles and had

to wait to get our permit to pass, we never were within hail o’

aught.  At first I inclined to slack off sail and beat about till the

fog was lifted.  But whiles, I thocht that if the Deil was minded to

get us into the Black Sea quick, he was like to do it whether we would

or no.  If we had a quick voyage it would be no to our miscredit

wi’ the owners, or no hurt to our traffic, an’ the Old Mon who had

served his ain purpose wad be decently grateful to us for no hinderin’

him.”

 

This mixture of simplicity and cunning, of superstition and commercial

reasoning, aroused Van Helsing, who said, “Mine friend, that Devil is

more clever than he is thought by some, and he know when he meet his

match!”

 

The skipper was not displeased with the compliment, and went on, “When

we got past the Bosphorus the men began to grumble.  Some o’ them, the

Roumanians, came and asked me to heave overboard a big box which had

been put on board by a queer lookin’ old man just before we had

started frae London.  I had seen them speer at the fellow, and put out

their twa fingers when they saw him, to guard them against the evil

eye.  Man! but the supersteetion of foreigners is pairfectly

rideeculous!  I sent them aboot their business pretty quick, but as

just after a fog closed in on us I felt a wee bit as they did anent

something, though I wouldn’t say it was again the big box.  Well, on

we went, and as the fog didn’t let up for five days I joost let the

wind carry us, for if the Deil wanted to get somewheres, well, he

would fetch it up a’reet.  An’ if he didn’t, well, we’d keep a sharp

lookout anyhow.  Sure eneuch, we had a fair way and deep water all the

time.  And two days ago, when the mornin’ sun came through the fog, we

found ourselves just in the river opposite Galatz.  The Roumanians

were wild, and wanted me right or wrong to take out the box and fling

it in the river.  I had to argy wi’ them aboot it wi’ a handspike.  An’

when the last o’ them rose off the deck wi’ his head in his hand, I

had convinced them that, evil eye or no evil eye, the property and the

trust of my owners were better in my hands than in the river Danube.

They had, mind ye, taken the box on the deck ready to fling in, and as

it was marked Galatz via Varna, I thocht I’d let it lie till we

discharged in the port an’ get rid o’t althegither.  We didn’t do much

clearin’ that day, an’ had to remain the nicht at anchor.  But in the

mornin’, braw an’ airly, an hour before sunup, a man came aboard wi’

an order, written to him from England, to receive a box marked for one

Count Dracula.  Sure eneuch the matter was one ready to his hand.  He

had his papers a’ reet, an’ glad I was to be rid o’ the dam’ thing,

for I was beginnin’ masel’ to feel uneasy at it.  If the Deil did have

any luggage aboord the ship, I’m thinkin’ it was nane ither than that

same!”

 

“What was the name of the man who took it?” asked Dr. Van Helsing with

restrained eagerness.

 

“I’ll be tellin’ ye quick!” he answered, and stepping down to his

cabin, produced a receipt signed “Immanuel Hildesheim.”  Burgen-strasse

16 was the address.  We found out that this was all the Captain knew,

so with thanks we came away.

 

We found Hildesheim in his office, a Hebrew of rather the Adelphi

Theatre type, with a nose like a sheep, and a fez.  His arguments were

pointed with specie, we doing the punctuation, and with a little

bargaining he told us what he knew.  This turned out to be simple but

important.  He had received a letter from Mr. de Ville of London,

telling him to receive, if possible before sunrise so as to avoid

customs, a box which would arrive at Galatz in the Czarina Catherine.

This he was to give in charge to a certain Petrof Skinsky, who dealt

with the Slovaks who traded down the river to the port.  He had been

paid for his work by an English bank note, which had been duly cashed

for gold at the Danube International Bank.  When Skinsky had come to

him, he had taken him to the ship and handed over the box, so as to

save porterage.  That was all he knew.

 

We then sought for Skinsky, but were unable to find him.  One of his

neighbors, who did not seem to bear him any affection, said that he

had gone away two days before, no one knew whither.  This was

corroborated by his landlord, who had received by messenger the key of

the house together with the rent due, in English money.  This had been

between ten and eleven o’clock last night.  We were at a standstill

again.

 

Whilst we were talking one came running and breathlessly gasped out

that the body of Skinsky had been found inside the wall of the

churchyard of St. Peter, and that the throat had been torn open as if

by some wild animal.  Those we had been speaking with ran off to see

the horror, the women crying out.  “This is the work of a Slovak!”  We

hurried away lest we should have been in some way drawn into the

affair, and so detained.

 

As we came home we could arrive at no definite conclusion.  We were

all convinced that the box was on its way, by water, to somewhere, but

where that might be we would have to discover.  With heavy hearts we

came home to the hotel to Mina.

 

When we met together, the first thing was to consult as to taking Mina

again into our confidence.  Things are getting desperate, and it is at

least a chance, though a hazardous one.  As a preliminary step, I was

released from my promise to her.

 

 

 

 

 

MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL

 

30 October, evening.–They were so tired and worn out and dispirited

that there was nothing to be done till they had some rest, so I asked

them all to lie down for half an hour whilst I should enter everything

up to the moment.  I feel so grateful to the man who invented the

“Traveller’s” typewriter, and to Mr. Morris for getting this one for

1. I should have felt quite astray doing the work if I had to write

with a pen . . .

 

It is all done.  Poor dear, dear Jonathan, what he must have suffered,

what he must be suffering now.  He lies on the sofa hardly seeming to

breathe, and his whole body appears in collapse.  His brows are knit.

His face is drawn with pain.  Poor fellow, maybe he is thinking, and I

can see his face all wrinkled up with the concentration of his

thoughts.  Oh! if I could only help at all.  I shall do what I can.

 

I have asked Dr. Van Helsing, and he has got me all the papers that I

have not yet seen.  Whilst they are resting, I shall go over all

carefully, and perhaps I may arrive at some conclusion.  I shall try

to follow the Professor’s example, and think without prejudice on the

facts before me . . .

 

I do believe that under God’s providence I have made a discovery.  I

shall get the maps and look over them.

 

I am more than ever sure that I am right.  My new conclusion is ready,

so I shall get our party together and read it.  They can judge it.  It

is well to be accurate, and every minute is precious.

 

 

 

MINA HARKER’S MEMORANDUM

 

(ENTERED IN HER JOURNAL)

 

 

Ground of inquiry.–Count Dracula’s problem is to get back

to his own place.

 

(a) He must be brought back by some one.  This is evident;

for had he power to move himself as he wished he could go

either as man, or wolf, or bat, or in some other way.  He

evidently fears discovery or interference, in the state of

helplessness in which he must be, confined as he is between

dawn and sunset in his wooden box.

 

(b) How is he to be taken?–Here a process of exclusions may

help us.  By road, by rail, by water?

 

1. By Road.–There are endless difficulties, especially in

leaving the city.

 

(x) There are people.  And people are curious, and

investigate.  A hint, a surmise, a doubt as to what might

be in the box, would destroy him.

 

(y) There are, or there may be, customs and octroi officers

to pass.

 

(z) His pursuers might follow.  This is his highest fear.

And in order to prevent his being betrayed he has repelled,

so far as he can, even his victim, me!

 

2. By Rail.–There is no one in charge of the box. It

would have to take its chance of being delayed, and delay

would be fatal, with enemies on the track.  True, he might

escape at night.  But what would he be, if left in a strange

place with no refuge that he could fly to?  This is not what he

intends, and he does not mean to risk it.

 

3. By Water.–Here is the safest way, in one respect, but

with most danger in another.  On the water he is powerless

except at night.  Even then he can only summon fog and storm and

snow and his wolves.  But were he wrecked, the living water would

engulf him, helpless, and he would indeed be lost.  He could have

the vessel drive to land, but if it were unfriendly land, wherein

he was not free to move, his position would still be desperate.

 

We know from the record that he was on the water, so what

we have to do is to ascertain what water.

 

The first thing is to realize exactly what he has done as

yet.  We may, then, get a light on what his task is to be.

 

Firstly.–We must differentiate between what he did in

London as part of his general plan of action, when he was

pressed for moments and had to arrange as best he could.

 

Secondly.–We must see, as well as we can surmise it from the

facts we know of, what he has done here.

 

As to the first, he evidently intended to arrive at Galatz,

and sent invoice to Varna to deceive us lest we should ascertain

his means of exit from England.  His immediate and sole purpose

then was to escape.  The proof of this, is the letter of

instructions sent to Immanuel Hildesheim to clear and take away

the box before sunrise.  There is also the instruction to Petrof

Skinsky.  These we must only guess at, but there must have been

some letter or message, since Skinsky came to Hildesheim.

 

That, so far, his plans were successful we know.  The Czarina

Catherine made a phenomenally quick journey.  So much so that

Captain Donelson’s suspicions were aroused.  But his superstition

united with his canniness played the Count’s game for him, and he

ran with his favouring wind through fogs and all till he brought

up blindfold at Galatz.  That the Count’s arrangements were well

made, has been proved.  Hildesheim cleared the box, took it off,

and gave it to Skinsky.  Skinsky took it, and here we lose the

trail.  We only know that the box is somewhere on the water,

moving along.  The customs and the octroi, if there be any, have

been avoided.

 

Now we come to what the Count must have done after his

arrival, on land, at Galatz.

 

The box was given to Skinsky before sunrise.  At sunrise

the Count could appear in his own form.  Here, we ask why

Skinsky was chosen at all to aid in the work?  In my husband’s

diary, Skinsky is mentioned as dealing with the Slovaks who trade

down the river to the port.  And the man’s remark, that the

murder was the work of a Slovak, showed the general feeling

against his class.  The Count wanted isolation.

 

My surmise is this, that in London the Count decided to get

back to his castle by water, as the most safe and secret

way.  He was brought from the castle by Szgany, and probably they

delivered their cargo to Slovaks who took the boxes to Varna, for

there they were shipped to London.  Thus the Count had knowledge

of the persons who could arrange this service.  When the box was

on land, before sunrise or after sunset, he came out from his

box, met Skinsky and instructed him what to do as to arranging

the carriage of the box up some river.  When this was done, and

he knew that all was in train, he blotted out his traces, as he

thought, by murdering his agent.

 

I have examined the map and find that the river most

suitable for the Slovaks to have ascended is either the

Pruth or the Sereth.  I read in the typescript that in my

trance I heard cows low and water swirling level with my

ears and the creaking of wood.  The Count in his box, then,

was on a river in an open boat, propelled probably either

by oars or poles, for the banks are near and it is working

against stream.  There would be no such if floating down

stream.

 

Of course it may not be either the Sereth or the Pruth, but

we may possibly investigate further.  Now of these two, the

Pruth is the more easily navigated, but the Sereth is, at

Fundu, joined by the Bistritza which runs up round the Borgo

Pass.  The loop it makes is manifestly as close to Dracula’s

castle as can be got by water.

 

 

 

MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL–CONTINUED

 

When I had done reading, Jonathan took me in his arms and kissed me.

The others kept shaking me by both hands, and Dr. Van Helsing said,

“Our dear Madam Mina is once more our teacher.  Her eyes have been

where we were blinded.  Now we are on the track once again, and this

time we may succeed.  Our enemy is at his most helpless.  And if we

can come on him by day, on the water, our task will be over.  He has a

start, but he is powerless to hasten, as he may not leave this box

lest those who carry him may suspect.  For them to suspect would be to

prompt them to throw him in the stream where he perish.  This he

knows, and will not.  Now men, to our Council of War, for here and

now, we must plan what each and all shall do.”

 

“I shall get a steam launch and follow him,” said Lord Godalming.

 

“And I, horses to follow on the bank lest by chance he land,” said Mr.

Morris.

 

“Good!” said the Professor, “both good.  But neither must go alone.

There must be force to overcome force if need be.  The Slovak is

strong and rough, and he carries rude arms.”  All the men smiled, for

amongst them they carried a small arsenal.

 

Said Mr. Morris, “I have brought some Winchesters.  They are pretty

handy in a crowd, and there may be wolves.  The Count, if you

remember, took some other precautions.  He made some requisitions on

others that Mrs. Harker could not quite hear or understand.  We must

be ready at all points.”

 

Dr. Seward said, “I think I had better go with Quincey.  We have been

accustomed to hunt together, and we two, well armed, will be a match

for whatever may come along.  You must not be alone, Art.  It may be

necessary to fight the Slovaks, and a chance thrust, for I don’t

suppose these fellows carry guns, would undo all our plans.  There

must be no chances, this time.  We shall not rest until the Count’s

head and body have been separated, and we are sure that he cannot

reincarnate.”

 

He looked at Jonathan as he spoke, and Jonathan looked at me.  I could

see that the poor dear was torn about in his mind.  Of course he

wanted to be with me.  But then the boat service would, most likely,

be the one which would destroy the . . . the . . . Vampire.  (Why did

I hesitate to write the word?)

 

He was silent awhile, and during his silence Dr. Van Helsing spoke,

“Friend Jonathan, this is to you for twice reasons.  First, because

you are young and brave and can fight, and all energies may be needed

at the last.  And again that it is your right to destroy him.  That,

which has wrought such woe to you and yours.  Be not afraid for Madam

Mina.  She will be my care, if I may.  I am old.  My legs are not so

quick to run as once.  And I am not used to ride so long or to pursue

as need be, or to fight with lethal weapons.  But I can be of other

service.  I can fight in other way.  And I can die, if need be, as

well as younger men.  Now let me say that what I would is this.  While

you, my Lord Godalming and friend Jonathan go in your so swift little

steamboat up the river, and whilst John and Quincey guard the bank

where perchance he might be landed, I will take Madam Mina right into

the heart of the enemy’s country.  Whilst the old fox is tied in his

box, floating on the running stream whence he cannot escape to land,

where he dares not raise the lid of his coffin box lest his Slovak

carriers should in fear leave him to perish, we shall go in the track

where Jonathan went, from Bistritz over the Borgo, and find our way to

the Castle of Dracula.  Here, Madam Mina’s hypnotic power will surely

help, and we shall find our way, all dark and unknown otherwise, after

the first sunrise when we are near that fateful place.  There is much

to be done, and other places to be made sanctify, so that that nest of

vipers be obliterated.”

 

Here Jonathan interrupted him hotly, “Do you mean to say, Professor

Van Helsing, that you would bring Mina, in her sad case and tainted as

she is with that devil’s illness, right into the jaws of his

deathtrap?  Not for the world!  Not for Heaven or Hell!”

 

He became almost speechless for a minute, and then went on, “Do you

know what the place is?  Have you seen that awful den of hellish

infamy, with the very moonlight alive with grisly shapes, and every

speck of dust that whirls in the wind a devouring monster in embryo?

Have you felt the Vampire’s lips upon your throat?”

 

Here he turned to me, and as his eyes lit on my forehead he threw up

his arms with a cry, “Oh, my God, what have we done to have this

terror upon us?” and he sank down on the sofa in a collapse of misery.

 

The Professor’s voice, as he spoke in clear, sweet tones, which seemed

to vibrate in the air, calmed us all.

 

“Oh, my friend, it is because I would save Madam Mina from that awful

place that I would go.  God forbid that I should take her into that

place.  There is work, wild work, to be done before that place can be

purify.  Remember that we are in terrible straits.  If the Count

escape us this time, and he is strong and subtle and cunning, he may

choose to sleep him for a century, and then in time our dear one,” he

took my hand, “would come to him to keep him company, and would be as

those others that you, Jonathan, saw.  You have told us of their

gloating lips.  You heard their ribald laugh as they clutched the

moving bag that the Count threw to them.  You shudder, and well may it

1. Forgive me that I make you so much pain, but it is necessary. My

friend, is it not a dire need for that which I am giving, possibly my

life?  If it were that any one went into that place to stay, it is I

who would have to go to keep them company.”

 

“Do as you will,” said Jonathan, with a sob that shook him all over,

“we are in the hands of God!”

 

 

Later.–Oh, it did me good to see the way that these brave men worked.

How can women help loving men when they are so earnest, and so true,

and so brave!  And, too, it made me think of the wonderful power of

money!  What can it not do when basely used.  I felt so thankful that

Lord Godalming is rich, and both he and Mr. Morris, who also has

plenty of money, are willing to spend it so freely.  For if they did

not, our little expedition could not start, either so promptly or so

well equipped, as it will within another hour.  It is not three hours

since it was arranged what part each of us was to do.  And now Lord

Godalming and Jonathan have a lovely steam launch, with steam up ready

to start at a moment’s notice.  Dr. Seward and Mr. Morris have half a

dozen good horses, well appointed.  We have all the maps and

appliances of various kinds that can be had.  Professor Van Helsing

and I are to leave by the 11:40 train tonight for Veresti, where we

are to get a carriage to drive to the Borgo Pass.  We are bringing a

good deal of ready money, as we are to buy a carriage and horses.  We

shall drive ourselves, for we have no one whom we can trust in the

matter.  The Professor knows something of a great many languages, so

we shall get on all right.  We have all got arms, even for me a large

bore revolver.  Jonathan would not be happy unless I was armed like

the rest.  Alas!  I cannot carry one arm that the rest do, the scar on

my forehead forbids that.  Dear Dr. Van Helsing comforts me by telling

me that I am fully armed as there may be wolves.  The weather is

getting colder every hour, and there are snow flurries which come and

go as warnings.

 

 

Later.–It took all my courage to say goodbye to my darling.  We may

never meet again.  Courage, Mina!  The Professor is looking at you

keenly.  His look is a warning.  There must be no tears now, unless it

may be that God will let them fall in gladness.

 

 

 

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL

 

30 October, night.–I am writing this in the light from the furnace

door of the steam launch.  Lord Godalming is firing up.  He is an

experienced hand at the work, as he has had for years a launch of his

own on the Thames, and another on the Norfolk Broads.  Regarding our

plans, we finally decided that Mina’s guess was correct, and that if

any waterway was chosen for the Count’s escape back to his Castle, the

Sereth and then the Bistritza at its junction, would be the one.  We

took it, that somewhere about the 47th degree, north latitude, would

be the place chosen for crossing the country between the river and the

Carpathians.  We have no fear in running at good speed up the river at

night.  There is plenty of water, and the banks are wide enough apart

to make steaming, even in the dark, easy enough.  Lord Godalming tells

me to sleep for a while, as it is enough for the present for one to be

on watch.  But I cannot sleep, how can I with the terrible danger

hanging over my darling, and her going out into that awful place . . .

 

My only comfort is that we are in the hands of God.  Only for that

faith it would be easier to die than to live, and so be quit of all

the trouble.  Mr. Morris and Dr. Seward were off on their long ride

before we started.  They are to keep up the right bank, far enough off

to get on higher lands where they can see a good stretch of river and

avoid the following of its curves.  They have, for the first stages,

two men to ride and lead their spare horses, four in all, so as not to

excite curiosity.  When they dismiss the men, which shall be shortly,

they shall themselves look after the horses.  It may be necessary for

us to join forces.  If so they can mount our whole party.  One of the

saddles has a moveable horn, and can be easily adapted for Mina, if

required.

 

It is a wild adventure we are on.  Here, as we are rushing along

through the darkness, with the cold from the river seeming to rise up

and strike us, with all the mysterious voices of the night around us,

it all comes home.  We seem to be drifting into unknown places and

unknown ways.  Into a whole world of dark and dreadful things.

Godalming is shutting the furnace door . . .

 

 

31 October.–Still hurrying along.  The day has come, and Godalming is

sleeping.  I am on watch.  The morning is bitterly cold, the furnace

heat is grateful, though we have heavy fur coats.  As yet we have

passed only a few open boats, but none of them had on board any box or

package of anything like the size of the one we seek.  The men were

scared every time we turned our electric lamp on them, and fell on

their knees and prayed.

 

 

1 November, evening.–No news all day.  We have found nothing of the

kind we seek.  We have now passed into the Bistritza, and if we are

wrong in our surmise our chance is gone.  We have overhauled every

boat, big and little.  Early this morning, one crew took us for a

Government boat, and treated us accordingly.  We saw in this a way of

smoothing matters, so at Fundu, where the Bistritza runs into the

Sereth, we got a Roumanian flag which we now fly conspicuously.  With

every boat which we have overhauled since then this trick has

succeeded.  We have had every deference shown to us, and not once any

objection to whatever we chose to ask or do.  Some of the Slovaks tell

us that a big boat passed them, going at more than usual speed as she

had a double crew on board.  This was before they came to Fundu, so

they could not tell us whether the boat turned into the Bistritza or

continued on up the Sereth.  At Fundu we could not hear of any such

boat, so she must have passed there in the night.  I am feeling very

sleepy.  The cold is perhaps beginning to tell upon me, and nature

must have rest some time.  Godalming insists that he shall keep the

first watch.  God bless him for all his goodness to poor dear Mina and

me.

 

 

2 November, morning.–It is broad daylight.  That good fellow would

not wake me.  He says it would have been a sin to, for I slept

peacefully and was forgetting my trouble.  It seems brutally selfish

to me to have slept so long, and let him watch all night, but he was

quite right.  I am a new man this morning.  And, as I sit here and

watch him sleeping, I can do all that is necessary both as to minding

the engine, steering, and keeping watch.  I can feel that my strength

and energy are coming back to me.  I wonder where Mina is now, and Van

Helsing.  They should have got to Veresti about noon on Wednesday.  It

would take them some time to get the carriage and horses.  So if they

had started and travelled hard, they would be about now at the Borgo

Pass.  God guide and help them!  I am afraid to think what may

happen.  If we could only go faster.  But we cannot.  The engines are

throbbing and doing their utmost.  I wonder how Dr. Seward and Mr.

Morris are getting on.  There seem to be endless streams running down

the mountains into this river, but as none of them are very large, at

present, at all events, though they are doubtless terrible in winter

and when the snow melts, the horsemen may not have met much

obstruction.  I hope that before we get to Strasba we may see them.

For if by that time we have not overtaken the Count, it may be

necessary to take counsel together what to do next.

 

 

 

 

 

1. SEWARD’S DIARY

 

2 November.–Three days on the road.  No news, and no time to write it

if there had been, for every moment is precious.  We have had only the

rest needful for the horses.  But we are both bearing it wonderfully.

Those adventurous days of ours are turning up useful.  We must push

1. We shall never feel happy till we get the launch in sight again.

 

 

3 November.–We heard at Fundu that the launch had gone up the

Bistritza.  I wish it wasn’t so cold.  There are signs of snow coming.

And if it falls heavy it will stop us.  In such case we must get a

sledge and go on, Russian fashion.

 

4 November.–Today we heard of the launch having been detained by an

accident when trying to force a way up the rapids.  The Slovak boats

get up all right, by aid of a rope and steering with knowledge.  Some

went up only a few hours before.  Godalming is an amateur fitter

himself, and evidently it was he who put the launch in trim again.

 

Finally, they got up the rapids all right, with local help, and are off

on the chase afresh.  I fear that the boat is not any better for the

accident, the peasantry tell us that after she got upon smooth water

again, she kept stopping every now and again so long as she was in

sight.  We must push on harder than ever.  Our help may be wanted

soon.

 

 

 

 

 

MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL

 

31 October.–Arrived at Veresti at noon.  The Professor tells me that

this morning at dawn he could hardly hypnotize me at all, and that all

I could say was, “dark and quiet.”  He is off now buying a carriage

and horses.  He says that he will later on try to buy additional

horses, so that we may be able to change them on the way.  We have

something more than 70 miles before us.  The country is lovely, and

most interesting.  If only we were under different conditions, how

delightful it would be to see it all.  If Jonathan and I were driving

through it alone what a pleasure it would be.  To stop and see people,

and learn something of their life, and to fill our minds and memories

with all the colour and picturesqueness of the whole wild, beautiful

country and the quaint people!  But, alas!

 

 

Later.–Dr. Van Helsing has returned.  He has got the carriage and

horses.  We are to have some dinner, and to start in an hour.  The

landlady is putting us up a huge basket of provisions.  It seems

enough for a company of soldiers.  The Professor encourages her, and

whispers to me that it may be a week before we can get any food again.

He has been shopping too, and has sent home such a wonderful lot of

fur coats and wraps, and all sorts of warm things.  There will not be

any chance of our being cold.

 

We shall soon be off.  I am afraid to think what may happen to us.  We

are truly in the hands of God.  He alone knows what may be, and I pray

Him, with all the strength of my sad and humble soul, that He will

watch over my beloved husband.  That whatever may happen, Jonathan may

know that I loved him and honoured him more than I can say, and that my

latest and truest thought will be always for him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 27

 

 

MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL

 

1 November.–All day long we have travelled, and at a good speed.  The

horses seem to know that they are being kindly treated, for they go

willingly their full stage at best speed.  We have now had so many

changes and find the same thing so constantly that we are encouraged

to think that the journey will be an easy one.  Dr. Van Helsing is

laconic, he tells the farmers that he is hurrying to Bistritz, and

pays them well to make the exchange of horses.  We get hot soup, or

coffee, or tea, and off we go.  It is a lovely country.  Full of

beauties of all imaginable kinds, and the people are brave, and

strong, and simple, and seem full of nice qualities.  They are very,

very superstitious.  In the first house where we stopped, when the

woman who served us saw the scar on my forehead, she crossed herself

and put out two fingers towards me, to keep off the evil eye.  I

believe they went to the trouble of putting an extra amount of garlic

into our food, and I can’t abide garlic.  Ever since then I have taken

care not to take off my hat or veil, and so have escaped their

suspicions.  We are travelling fast, and as we have no driver with us

to carry tales, we go ahead of scandal.  But I daresay that fear of

the evil eye will follow hard behind us all the way.  The Professor

seems tireless.  All day he would not take any rest, though he made me

sleep for a long spell.  At sunset time he hypnotized me, and he says

I answered as usual, “darkness, lapping water and creaking wood.”  So

our enemy is still on the river.  I am afraid to think of Jonathan,

but somehow I have now no fear for him, or for myself.  I write this

whilst we wait in a farmhouse for the horses to be ready.  Dr. Van

Helsing is sleeping.  Poor dear, he looks very tired and old and grey,

but his mouth is set as firmly as a conqueror’s.  Even in his sleep he

is intense with resolution.  When we have well started I must make him

rest whilst I drive.  I shall tell him that we have days before us,

and he must not break down when most of all his strength will be

needed . . . All is ready.  We are off shortly.

 

 

2 November, morning.–I was successful, and we took turns driving all

night.  Now the day is on us, bright though cold.  There is a strange

heaviness in the air.  I say heaviness for want of a better word.  I

mean that it oppresses us both.  It is very cold, and only our warm

furs keep us comfortable.  At dawn Van Helsing hypnotized me.  He says

I answered “darkness, creaking wood and roaring water,” so the river

is changing as they ascend.  I do hope that my darling will not run

any chance of danger, more than need be, but we are in God’s hands.

 

 

2 November, night.–All day long driving.  The country gets wilder as

we go, and the great spurs of the Carpathians, which at Veresti seemed

so far from us and so low on the horizon, now seem to gather round us

and tower in front.  We both seem in good spirits.  I think we make an

effort each to cheer the other, in the doing so we cheer ourselves.

Dr. Van Helsing says that by morning we shall reach the Borgo Pass.

The houses are very few here now, and the Professor says that the last

horse we got will have to go on with us, as we may not be able to

change.  He got two in addition to the two we changed, so that now we

have a rude four-in-hand.  The dear horses are patient and good, and

they give us no trouble.  We are not worried with other travellers,

and so even I can drive.  We shall get to the Pass in daylight.  We do

not want to arrive before.  So we take it easy, and have each a long

rest in turn.  Oh, what will tomorrow bring to us?  We go to seek the

place where my poor darling suffered so much.  God grant that we may

be guided aright, and that He will deign to watch over my husband and

those dear to us both, and who are in such deadly peril.  As for me, I

am not worthy in His sight.  Alas!  I am unclean to His eyes, and

shall be until He may deign to let me stand forth in His sight as one

of those who have not incurred His wrath.

 

 

 

 

 

MEMORANDUM BY ABRAHAM VAN HELSING

 

4 November.–This to my old and true friend John Seward, M.D.,

of Purfleet, London, in case I may not see him.  It may

explain.  It is morning, and I write by a fire which all

the night I have kept alive, Madam Mina aiding me.  It is

cold, cold.  So cold that the grey heavy sky is full of

snow, which when it falls will settle for all winter as the

ground is hardening to receive it.  It seems to have affected

Madam Mina.  She has been so heavy of head all day that she was

not like herself.  She sleeps, and sleeps, and sleeps!  She who

is usual so alert, have done literally nothing all the day.  She

even have lost her appetite.  She make no entry into her little

diary, she who write so faithful at every pause.  Something

whisper to me that all is not well.  However, tonight she is more

_vif_.  Her long sleep all day have refresh and restore her, for

now she is all sweet and bright as ever.  At sunset I try to

hypnotize her, but alas! with no effect.  The power has grown

less and less with each day, and tonight it fail me altogether.

Well, God’s will be done, whatever it may be, and whithersoever

it may lead!

 

Now to the historical, for as Madam Mina write not in her

stenography, I must, in my cumbrous old fashion, that so

each day of us may not go unrecorded.

 

We got to the Borgo Pass just after sunrise yesterday

morning.  When I saw the signs of the dawn I got ready for

the hypnotism.  We stopped our carriage, and got down so

that there might be no disturbance.  I made a couch with

furs, and Madam Mina, lying down, yield herself as usual,

but more slow and more short time than ever, to the hypnotic

sleep.  As before, came the answer, “darkness and the swirling of

water.”  Then she woke, bright and radiant and we go on our way

and soon reach the Pass.  At this time and place, she become all

on fire with zeal.  Some new guiding power be in her manifested,

for she point to a road and say, “This is the way.”

 

“How know you it?” I ask.

 

“Of course I know it,” she answer, and with a pause, add,

“Have not my Jonathan travelled it and wrote of his travel?”

 

At first I think somewhat strange, but soon I see that there be

only one such byroad.  It is used but little, and very different

from the coach road from the Bukovina to Bistritz, which is more

wide and hard, and more of use.

 

So we came down this road.  When we meet other ways, not

always were we sure that they were roads at all, for they

be neglect and light snow have fallen, the horses know and

they only.  I give rein to them, and they go on so patient.  By

and by we find all the things which Jonathan have note in that

wonderful diary of him.  Then we go on for long, long hours and

hours.  At the first, I tell Madam Mina to sleep.  She try, and

she succeed.  She sleep all the time, till at the last, I feel

myself to suspicious grow, and attempt to wake her.  But she

sleep on, and I may not wake her though I try.  I do not wish to

try too hard lest I harm her.  For I know that she have suffer

much, and sleep at times be all-in-all to her.  I think I drowse

myself, for all of sudden I feel guilt, as though I have done

something.  I find myself bolt up, with the reins in my hand, and

the good horses go along jog, jog, just as ever.  I look down and

find Madam Mina still asleep.  It is now not far off sunset time,

and over the snow the light of the sun flow in big yellow flood,

so that we throw great long shadow on where the mountain rise so

steep.  For we are going up, and up, and all is oh so wild and

rocky, as though it were the end of the world.

 

Then I arouse Madam Mina.  This time she wake with not much

trouble, and then I try to put her to hypnotic sleep.  But

she sleep not, being as though I were not.  Still I try and

try, till all at once I find her and myself in dark, so I

look round, and find that the sun have gone down.  Madam

Mina laugh, and I turn and look at her.  She is now quite

awake, and look so well as I never saw her since that night

at Carfax when we first enter the Count’s house.  I am amaze, and

not at ease then.  But she is so bright and tender and thoughtful

for me that I forget all fear.  I light a fire, for we have

brought supply of wood with us, and she prepare food while I undo

the horses and set them, tethered in shelter, to feed.  Then when

I return to the fire she have my supper ready.  I go to help her,

but she smile, and tell me that she have eat already.  That she

was so hungry that she would not wait.  I like it not, and I have

grave doubts.  But I fear to affright her, and so I am silent of

1. She help me and I eat alone, and then we wrap in fur and lie

beside the fire, and I tell her to sleep while I watch.  But

presently I forget all of watching.  And when I sudden remember

that I watch, I find her lying quiet, but awake, and looking at

me with so bright eyes.  Once, twice more the same occur, and I

get much sleep till before morning.  When I wake I try to

hypnotize her, but alas! though she shut her eyes obedient, she

may not sleep.  The sun rise up, and up, and up, and then sleep

come to her too late, but so heavy that she will not wake.  I

have to lift her up, and place her sleeping in the carriage when

I have harnessed the horses and made all ready.  Madam still

sleep, and she look in her sleep more healthy and more redder

than before.  And I like it not.  And I am afraid, afraid,

afraid!  I am afraid of all things, even to think but I must go

on my way.  The stake we play for is life and death, or more than

these, and we must not flinch.

 

 

5 November, morning.–Let me be accurate in everything, for

though you and I have seen some strange things together,

you may at the first think that I, Van Helsing, am mad.

That the many horrors and the so long strain on nerves has

at the last turn my brain.

 

All yesterday we travel, always getting closer to the

mountains, and moving into a more and more wild and desert

land.  There are great, frowning precipices and much falling

water, and Nature seem to have held sometime her carnival.  Madam

Mina still sleep and sleep.  And though I did have hunger and

appeased it, I could not waken her, even for food.  I began to

fear that the fatal spell of the place was upon her, tainted as

she is with that Vampire baptism.  “Well,” said I to myself, “if

it be that she sleep all the day, it shall also be that I do not

sleep at night.”  As we travel on the rough road, for a road of

an ancient and imperfect kind there was, I held down my head and

slept.

 

Again I waked with a sense of guilt and of time passed, and

found Madam Mina still sleeping, and the sun low down.  But

all was indeed changed.  The frowning mountains seemed further

away, and we were near the top of a steep rising hill, on summit

of which was such a castle as Jonathan tell of in his diary.  At

once I exulted and feared.  For now, for good or ill, the end was

near.

 

I woke Madam Mina, and again tried to hypnotize her, but

alas!  unavailing till too late.  Then, ere the great dark

came upon us, for even after down sun the heavens reflected

the gone sun on the snow, and all was for a time in a great

twilight.  I took out the horses and fed them in what shelter I

could.  Then I make a fire, and near it I make Madam Mina, now

awake and more charming than ever, sit comfortable amid her rugs.

I got ready food, but she would not eat, simply saying that she

had not hunger.  I did not press her, knowing her unavailingness.

But I myself eat, for I must needs now be strong for all.  Then,

with the fear on me of what might be, I drew a ring so big for

her comfort, round where Madam Mina sat.  And over the ring I

passed some of the wafer, and I broke it fine so that all was

well guarded.  She sat still all the time, so still as one dead.

And she grew whiter and even whiter till the snow was not more

pale, and no word she said.  But when I drew near, she clung to

me, and I could know that the poor soul shook her from head to

feet with a tremor that was pain to feel.

 

I said to her presently, when she had grown more quiet,

“Will you not come over to the fire?” for I wished to make

a test of what she could.  She rose obedient, but when she

have made a step she stopped, and stood as one stricken.

 

“Why not go on?” I asked.  She shook her head, and coming

back, sat down in her place.  Then, looking at me with open

eyes, as of one waked from sleep, she said simply, “I cannot!”

and remained silent.  I rejoiced, for I knew that what she could

not, none of those that we dreaded could.  Though there might be

danger to her body, yet her soul was safe!

 

Presently the horses began to scream, and tore at their

tethers till I came to them and quieted them.  When they

did feel my hands on them, they whinnied low as in joy, and

licked at my hands and were quiet for a time.  Many times

through the night did I come to them, till it arrive to the

cold hour when all nature is at lowest, and every time my

coming was with quiet of them.  In the cold hour the fire

began to die, and I was about stepping forth to replenish

it, for now the snow came in flying sweeps and with it a

chill mist.  Even in the dark there was a light of some

kind, as there ever is over snow, and it seemed as though

the snow flurries and the wreaths of mist took shape as of

women with trailing garments.  All was in dead, grim silence only

that the horses whinnied and cowered, as if in terror of the

worst.  I began to fear, horrible fears.  But then came to me the

sense of safety in that ring wherein I stood.  I began too, to

think that my imaginings were of the night, and the gloom, and

the unrest that I have gone through, and all the terrible

anxiety.  It was as though my memories of all Jonathan’s horrid

experience were befooling me.  For the snow flakes and the mist

began to wheel and circle round, till I could get as though a

shadowy glimpse of those women that would have kissed him.  And

then the horses cowered lower and lower, and moaned in terror as

men do in pain.  Even the madness of fright was not to them, so

that they could break away.  I feared for my dear Madam Mina when

these weird figures drew near and circled round.  I looked at her,

but she sat calm, and smiled at me.  When I would have stepped to

the fire to replenish it, she caught me and held me back, and

whispered, like a voice that one hears in a dream, so low it was.

 

“No!  No!  Do not go without.  Here you are safe!”

 

I turned to her, and looking in her eyes said, “But you?

It is for you that I fear!”

 

Whereat she laughed, a laugh low and unreal, and said, “Fear

for me!  Why fear for me?  None safer in all the world from

them than I am,” and as I wondered at the meaning of her

words, a puff of wind made the flame leap up, and I see the

red scar on her forehead.  Then, alas!  I knew.  Did I not,

I would soon have learned, for the wheeling figures of mist

and snow came closer, but keeping ever without the Holy

circle.  Then they began to materialize till, if God have

not taken away my reason, for I saw it through my eyes.

There were before me in actual flesh the same three women

that Jonathan saw in the room, when they would have kissed

his throat.  I knew the swaying round forms, the bright

hard eyes, the white teeth, the ruddy colour, the voluptuous

lips.  They smiled ever at poor dear Madam Mina.  And as

their laugh came through the silence of the night, they

twined their arms and pointed to her, and said in those so

sweet tingling tones that Jonathan said were of the intolerable

sweetness of the water glasses, “Come, sister.  Come to us.

Come!”

 

In fear I turned to my poor Madam Mina, and my heart with

gladness leapt like flame.  For oh! the terror in her sweet

eyes, the repulsion, the horror, told a story to my heart

that was all of hope.  God be thanked she was not, yet, of

them.  I seized some of the firewood which was by me, and

holding out some of the Wafer, advanced on them towards the

fire.  They drew back before me, and laughed their low horrid

laugh.  I fed the fire, and feared them not.  For I knew that we

were safe within the ring, which she could not leave no more than

they could enter.  The horses had ceased to moan, and lay still

on the ground.  The snow fell on them softly, and they grew

whiter.  I knew that there was for the poor beasts no more of

terror.

 

And so we remained till the red of the dawn began to fall

through the snow gloom.  I was desolate and afraid, and

full of woe and terror.  But when that beautiful sun began

to climb the horizon life was to me again.  At the first

coming of the dawn the horrid figures melted in the whirling

mist and snow.  The wreaths of transparent gloom moved away

towards the castle, and were lost.

 

Instinctively, with the dawn coming, I turned to Madam Mina,

intending to hypnotize her.  But she lay in a deep and sudden

sleep, from which I could not wake her.  I tried to hypnotize

through her sleep, but she made no response, none at all, and the

day broke.  I fear yet to stir.  I have made my fire and have

seen the horses, they are all dead.  Today I have much to do here,

and I keep waiting till the sun is up high.  For there may be

places where I must go, where that sunlight, though snow and mist

obscure it, will be to me a safety.

 

I will strengthen me with breakfast, and then I will do my

terrible work.  Madam Mina still sleeps, and God be thanked!  She

is calm in her sleep . . .

 

 

 

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL

 

4 November, evening.–The accident to the launch has been a terrible

thing for us.  Only for it we should have overtaken the boat long ago,

and by now my dear Mina would have been free.  I fear to think of her,

off on the wolds near that horrid place.  We have got horses, and we

follow on the track.  I note this whilst Godalming is getting ready.

We have our arms.  The Szgany must look out if they mean to fight.  Oh,

if only Morris and Seward were with us.  We must only hope!  If I

write no more Goodby Mina!  God bless and keep you.

 

 

 

1. SEWARD’S DIARY

 

5 November.–With the dawn we saw the body of Szgany before us dashing

away from the river with their leiter wagon.  They surrounded it in a

cluster, and hurried along as though beset.  The snow is falling

lightly and there is a strange excitement in the air.  It may be our

own feelings, but the depression is strange.  Far off I hear the

howling of wolves.  The snow brings them down from the mountains, and

there are dangers to all of us, and from all sides.  The horses are

nearly ready, and we are soon off.  We ride to death of some one.  God

alone knows who, or where, or what, or when, or how it may be . . .

 

 

 

 

 

1. VAN HELSING’S MEMORANDUM

 

5 November, afternoon.–I am at least sane.  Thank God for

that mercy at all events, though the proving it has been

dreadful.  When I left Madam Mina sleeping within the Holy

circle, I took my way to the castle.  The blacksmith hammer

which I took in the carriage from Veresti was useful, though the

doors were all open I broke them off the rusty hinges, lest some

ill intent or ill chance should close them, so that being entered

I might not get out.  Jonathan’s bitter experience served me

here.  By memory of his diary I found my way to the old chapel,

for I knew that here my work lay.  The air was oppressive.  It

seemed as if there was some sulphurous fume, which at times made

me dizzy.  Either there was a roaring in my ears or I heard afar

off the howl of wolves.  Then I bethought me of my dear Madam

Mina, and I was in terrible plight.  The dilemma had me between

his horns.

 

Her, I had not dare to take into this place, but left safe

from the Vampire in that Holy circle.  And yet even there

would be the wolf!  I resolve me that my work lay here, and

that as to the wolves we must submit, if it were God’s will.  At

any rate it was only death and freedom beyond.  So did I choose

for her.  Had it but been for myself the choice had been easy,

the maw of the wolf were better to rest in than the grave of the

Vampire!  So I make my choice to go on with my work.

 

I knew that there were at least three graves to find, graves

that are inhabit.  So I search, and search, and I find one

of them.  She lay in her Vampire sleep, so full of life and

voluptuous beauty that I shudder as though I have come to

do murder.  Ah, I doubt not that in the old time, when such

things were, many a man who set forth to do such a task as

mine, found at the last his heart fail him, and then his

nerve.  So he delay, and delay, and delay, till the mere

beauty and the fascination of the wanton Undead have hypnotize

him.  And he remain on and on, till sunset come, and the Vampire

sleep be over.  Then the beautiful eyes of the fair woman open

and look love, and the voluptuous mouth present to a kiss, and

the man is weak.  And there remain one more victim in the

Vampire fold.  One more to swell the grim and grisly ranks

of the Undead! . . .

 

There is some fascination, surely, when I am moved by the

mere presence of such an one, even lying as she lay in a

tomb fretted with age and heavy with the dust of centuries,

though there be that horrid odour such as the lairs of the

Count have had.  Yes, I was moved.  I, Van Helsing, with

all my purpose and with my motive for hate.  I was moved to

a yearning for delay which seemed to paralyze my faculties

and to clog my very soul.  It may have been that the need

of natural sleep, and the strange oppression of the air

were beginning to overcome me.  Certain it was that I was

lapsing into sleep, the open eyed sleep of one who yields

to a sweet fascination, when there came through the snow-stilled

air a long, low wail, so full of woe and pity that it woke me

like the sound of a clarion.  For it was the voice of my dear

Madam Mina that I heard.

 

Then I braced myself again to my horrid task, and found by

wrenching away tomb tops one other of the sisters, the other dark

one.  I dared not pause to look on her as I had on her sister,

lest once more I should begin to be enthrall.  But I go on

searching until, presently, I find in a high great tomb as if

made to one much beloved that other fair sister which, like

Jonathan I had seen to gather herself out of the atoms of the

mist.  She was so fair to look on, so radiantly beautiful, so

exquisitely voluptuous, that the very instinct of man in me,

which calls some of my sex to love and to protect one of hers,

made my head whirl with new emotion.  But God be thanked, that

soul wail of my dear Madam Mina had not died out of my ears.

And, before the spell could be wrought further upon me, I had

nerved myself to my wild work.  By this time I had searched all

the tombs in the chapel, so far as I could tell.  And as there

had been only three of these Undead phantoms around us in the

night, I took it that there were no more of active Undead

existent.  There was one great tomb more lordly than all the

rest.  Huge it was, and nobly proportioned.  On it was but one

word.

 

 

DRACULA

 

 

This then was the Undead home of the King Vampire, to whom

so many more were due.  Its emptiness spoke eloquent to

make certain what I knew.  Before I began to restore these

women to their dead selves through my awful work, I laid in

Dracula’s tomb some of the Wafer, and so banished him from

it, Undead, for ever.

 

Then began my terrible task, and I dreaded it.  Had it been

but one, it had been easy, comparative.  But three!  To

begin twice more after I had been through a deed of horror.

For it was terrible with the sweet Miss Lucy, what would it

not be with these strange ones who had survived through

centuries, and who had been strengthened by the passing of

the years.  Who would, if they could, have fought for their

foul lives . . .

 

Oh, my friend John, but it was butcher work.  Had I not

been nerved by thoughts of other dead, and of the living

over whom hung such a pall of fear, I could not have gone

1. I tremble and tremble even yet, though till all was

over, God be thanked, my nerve did stand.  Had I not seen

the repose in the first place, and the gladness that stole

over it just ere the final dissolution came, as realization

that the soul had been won, I could not have gone further

with my butchery.  I could not have endured the horrid screeching

as the stake drove home, the plunging of writhing form, and lips

of bloody foam.  I should have fled in terror and left my work

undone.  But it is over!  And the poor souls, I can pity them now

and weep, as I think of them placid each in her full sleep of

death for a short moment ere fading.  For, friend John, hardly

had my knife severed the head of each, before the whole body

began to melt away and crumble into its native dust, as though

the death that should have come centuries ago had at last assert

himself and say at once and loud, “I am here!”

 

Before I left the castle I so fixed its entrances that never

more can the Count enter there Undead.

 

When I stepped into the circle where Madam Mina slept, she

woke from her sleep and, seeing me, cried out in pain that

I had endured too much.

 

“Come!” she said, “come away from this awful place!  Let us

go to meet my husband who is, I know, coming towards us.”

She was looking thin and pale and weak.  But her eyes were

pure and glowed with fervour.  I was glad to see her paleness and

her illness, for my mind was full of the fresh horror of that

ruddy vampire sleep.

 

And so with trust and hope, and yet full of fear, we go

eastward to meet our friends, and him, whom Madam Mina tell

me that she know are coming to meet us.

 

 

 

 

 

MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL

 

6 November.–It was late in the afternoon when the Professor and I

took our way towards the east whence I knew Jonathan was coming.  We

did not go fast, though the way was steeply downhill, for we had to

take heavy rugs and wraps with us.  We dared not face the possibility

of being left without warmth in the cold and the snow.  We had to take

some of our provisions too, for we were in a perfect desolation, and

so far as we could see through the snowfall, there was not even the

sign of habitation.  When we had gone about a mile, I was tired with

the heavy walking and sat down to rest.  Then we looked back and saw

where the clear line of Dracula’s castle cut the sky.  For we were so

deep under the hill whereon it was set that the angle of perspective

of the Carpathian mountains was far below it.  We saw it in all its

grandeur, perched a thousand feet on the summit of a sheer precipice,

and with seemingly a great gap between it and the steep of the

adjacent mountain on any side.  There was something wild and uncanny

about the place.  We could hear the distant howling of wolves.  They

were far off, but the sound, even though coming muffled through the

deadening snowfall, was full of terror.  I knew from the way Dr. Van

Helsing was searching about that he was trying to seek some strategic

point, where we would be less exposed in case of attack.  The rough

roadway still led downwards.  We could trace it through the drifted

snow.

 

In a little while the Professor signalled to me, so I got up and

joined him.  He had found a wonderful spot, a sort of natural hollow

in a rock, with an entrance like a doorway between two boulders.  He

took me by the hand and drew me in.

 

“See!” he said, “here you will be in shelter.  And if the wolves do

come I can meet them one by one.”

 

He brought in our furs, and made a snug nest for me, and got out some

provisions and forced them upon me.  But I could not eat, to even try

to do so was repulsive to me, and much as I would have liked to please

him, I could not bring myself to the attempt.  He looked very sad, but

did not reproach me.  Taking his field glasses from the case, he stood

on the top of the rock, and began to search the horizon.

 

Suddenly he called out, “Look!  Madam Mina, look!  Look!”

 

I sprang up and stood beside him on the rock.  He handed me his

glasses and pointed.  The snow was now falling more heavily, and

swirled about fiercely, for a high wind was beginning to blow.

However, there were times when there were pauses between the snow

flurries and I could see a long way round.  From the height where we

were it was possible to see a great distance.  And far off, beyond the

white waste of snow, I could see the river lying like a black ribbon

in kinks and curls as it wound its way.  Straight in front of us and

not far off, in fact so near that I wondered we had not noticed

before, came a group of mounted men hurrying along.  In the midst of

them was a cart, a long leiter wagon which swept from side to side,

like a dog’s tail wagging, with each stern inequality of the road.

Outlined against the snow as they were, I could see from the men’s

clothes that they were peasants or gypsies of some kind.

 

On the cart was a great square chest.  My heart leaped as I saw it, for

I felt that the end was coming.  The evening was now drawing close,

and well I knew that at sunset the Thing, which was till then

imprisoned there, would take new freedom and could in any of many

forms elude pursuit.  In fear I turned to the Professor.  To my

consternation, however, he was not there.  An instant later, I saw him

below me.  Round the rock he had drawn a circle, such as we had found

shelter in last night.

 

When he had completed it he stood beside me again saying, “At least

you shall be safe here from him!”  He took the glasses from me, and at

the next lull of the snow swept the whole space below us.  “See,” he

said, “they come quickly.  They are flogging the horses, and galloping

as hard as they can.”

 

He paused and went on in a hollow voice, “They are racing for the

sunset.  We may be too late.  God’s will be done!”  Down came another

blinding rush of driving snow, and the whole landscape was blotted

out.  It soon passed, however, and once more his glasses were fixed on

the plain.

 

Then came a sudden cry, “Look!  Look!  Look!  See, two horsemen follow

fast, coming up from the south.  It must be Quincey and John.  Take

the glass.  Look before the snow blots it all out!”  I took it and

looked.  The two men might be Dr. Seward and Mr. Morris.  I knew at

all events that neither of them was Jonathan.  At the same time I knew

that Jonathan was not far off.  Looking around I saw on the north side

of the coming party two other men, riding at breakneck speed.  One of

them I knew was Jonathan, and the other I took, of course, to be Lord

Godalming.  They too, were pursuing the party with the cart.  When I

told the Professor he shouted in glee like a schoolboy, and after

looking intently till a snow fall made sight impossible, he laid his

Winchester rifle ready for use against the boulder at the opening of

our shelter.

 

“They are all converging,” he said.  “When the time comes we shall have

gypsies on all sides.”  I got out my revolver ready to hand, for

whilst we were speaking the howling of wolves came louder and closer.

When the snow storm abated a moment we looked again.  It was strange

to see the snow falling in such heavy flakes close to us, and beyond,

the sun shining more and more brightly as it sank down towards the far

mountain tops.  Sweeping the glass all around us I could see here and

there dots moving singly and in twos and threes and larger numbers.

The wolves were gathering for their prey.

 

Every instant seemed an age whilst we waited.  The wind came now in

fierce bursts, and the snow was driven with fury as it swept upon us

in circling eddies.  At times we could not see an arm’s length before

1. But at others, as the hollow sounding wind swept by us, it seemed

to clear the air space around us so that we could see afar off.  We

had of late been so accustomed to watch for sunrise and sunset, that

we knew with fair accuracy when it would be.  And we knew that before

long the sun would set.  It was hard to believe that by our watches it

was less than an hour that we waited in that rocky shelter before the

various bodies began to converge close upon us.  The wind came now

with fiercer and more bitter sweeps, and more steadily from the

north.  It seemingly had driven the snow clouds from us, for with only

occasional bursts, the snow fell.  We could distinguish clearly the

individuals of each party, the pursued and the pursuers.  Strangely

enough those pursued did not seem to realize, or at least to care,

that they were pursued.  They seemed, however, to hasten with

redoubled speed as the sun dropped lower and lower on the mountain

tops.

 

Closer and closer they drew.  The Professor and I crouched down behind

our rock, and held our weapons ready.  I could see that he was

determined that they should not pass.  One and all were quite unaware

of our presence.

 

All at once two voices shouted out to “Halt!”  One was my Jonathan’s,

raised in a high key of passion.  The other Mr. Morris’ strong

resolute tone of quiet command.  The gypsies may not have known the

language, but there was no mistaking the tone, in whatever tongue the

words were spoken.  Instinctively they reined in, and at the instant

Lord Godalming and Jonathan dashed up at one side and Dr. Seward and

Mr. Morris on the other.  The leader of the gypsies, a splendid

looking fellow who sat his horse like a centaur, waved them back, and

in a fierce voice gave to his companions some word to proceed.  They

lashed the horses which sprang forward.  But the four men raised their

Winchester rifles, and in an unmistakable way commanded them to stop.

At the same moment Dr. Van Helsing and I rose behind the rock and

pointed our weapons at them.  Seeing that they were surrounded the men

tightened their reins and drew up.  The leader turned to them and gave

a word at which every man of the gypsy party drew what weapon he

carried, knife or pistol, and held himself in readiness to attack.

Issue was joined in an instant.

 

The leader, with a quick movement of his rein, threw his horse out in

front, and pointed first to the sun, now close down on the hill tops,

and then to the castle, said something which I did not understand.

For answer, all four men of our party threw themselves from their

horses and dashed towards the cart.  I should have felt terrible fear

at seeing Jonathan in such danger, but that the ardor of battle must

have been upon me as well as the rest of them.  I felt no fear, but

only a wild, surging desire to do something.  Seeing the quick

movement of our parties, the leader of the gypsies gave a command.  His

men instantly formed round the cart in a sort of undisciplined

endeavour, each one shouldering and pushing the other in his eagerness

to carry out the order.

 

In the midst of this I could see that Jonathan on one side of the ring

of men, and Quincey on the other, were forcing a way to the cart.  It

was evident that they were bent on finishing their task before the sun

should set.  Nothing seemed to stop or even to hinder them.  Neither

the levelled weapons nor the flashing knives of the gypsies in front,

nor the howling of the wolves behind, appeared to even attract their

attention.  Jonathan’s impetuosity, and the manifest singleness of his

purpose, seemed to overawe those in front of him.  Instinctively they

cowered aside and let him pass.  In an instant he had jumped upon the

cart, and with a strength which seemed incredible, raised the great

box, and flung it over the wheel to the ground.  In the meantime, Mr.

Morris had had to use force to pass through his side of the ring of

Szgany.  All the time I had been breathlessly watching Jonathan I had,

with the tail of my eye, seen him pressing desperately forward, and

had seen the knives of the gypsies flash as he won a way through them,

and they cut at him.  He had parried with his great bowie knife, and

at first I thought that he too had come through in safety.  But as he

sprang beside Jonathan, who had by now jumped from the cart, I could

see that with his left hand he was clutching at his side, and that the

blood was spurting through his fingers.  He did not delay

notwithstanding this, for as Jonathan, with desperate energy, attacked

one end of the chest, attempting to prize off the lid with his great

Kukri knife, he attacked the other frantically with his bowie.  Under

the efforts of both men the lid began to yield.  The nails drew with a

screeching sound, and the top of the box was thrown back.

 

By this time the gypsies, seeing themselves covered by the

Winchesters, and at the mercy of Lord Godalming and Dr. Seward, had

given in and made no further resistance.  The sun was almost down on

the mountain tops, and the shadows of the whole group fell upon the

snow.  I saw the Count lying within the box upon the earth, some of

which the rude falling from the cart had scattered over him.  He was

deathly pale, just like a waxen image, and the red eyes glared with

the horrible vindictive look which I knew so well.

 

As I looked, the eyes saw the sinking sun, and the look of hate in

them turned to triumph.

 

But, on the instant, came the sweep and flash of Jonathan’s great

knife.  I shrieked as I saw it shear through the throat.  Whilst at

the same moment Mr. Morris’s bowie knife plunged into the heart.

 

It was like a miracle, but before our very eyes, and almost in the

drawing of a breath, the whole body crumbled into dust and passed from

our sight.

 

I shall be glad as long as I live that even in that moment of final

dissolution, there was in the face a look of peace, such as I never

could have imagined might have rested there.

 

The Castle of Dracula now stood out against the red sky, and every

stone of its broken battlements was articulated against the light of

the setting sun.

 

The gypsies, taking us as in some way the cause of the extraordinary

disappearance of the dead man, turned, without a word, and rode away

as if for their lives.  Those who were unmounted jumped upon the

leiter wagon and shouted to the horsemen not to desert them.  The

wolves, which had withdrawn to a safe distance, followed in their

wake, leaving us alone.

 

Mr. Morris, who had sunk to the ground, leaned on his elbow, holding

his hand pressed to his side.  The blood still gushed through his

fingers.  I flew to him, for the Holy circle did not now keep me back;

so did the two doctors.  Jonathan knelt behind him and the wounded man

laid back his head on his shoulder.  With a sigh he took, with a

feeble effort, my hand in that of his own which was unstained.

 

He must have seen the anguish of my heart in my face, for he smiled at

me and said, “I am only too happy to have been of service!  Oh, God!”

he cried suddenly, struggling to a sitting posture and pointing to me.

“It was worth for this to die!  Look!  Look!”

 

The sun was now right down upon the mountain top, and the red gleams

fell upon my face, so that it was bathed in rosy light.  With one

impulse the men sank on their knees and a deep and earnest “Amen”

broke from all as their eyes followed the pointing of his finger.

 

The dying man spoke, “Now God be thanked that all has not been in

vain!  See!  The snow is not more stainless than her forehead!  The

curse has passed away!”

 

And, to our bitter grief, with a smile and in silence, he died, a

gallant gentleman.

 

 

 

 

 

NOTE

 

 

Seven years ago we all went through the flames.  And the happiness of

some of us since then is, we think, well worth the pain we endured.

It is an added joy to Mina and to me that our boy’s birthday is the

same day as that on which Quincey Morris died.  His mother holds, I

know, the secret belief that some of our brave friend’s spirit has

passed into him.  His bundle of names links all our little band of men

together.  But we call him Quincey.

 

In the summer of this year we made a journey to Transylvania, and went

over the old ground which was, and is, to us so full of vivid and

terrible memories.  It was almost impossible to believe that the

things which we had seen with our own eyes and heard with our own ears

were living truths.  Every trace of all that had been was blotted

out.  The castle stood as before, reared high above a waste of

desolation.

 

When we got home we were talking of the old time, which we could all

look back on without despair, for Godalming and Seward are both

happily married.  I took the papers from the safe where they had been

ever since our return so long ago.  We were struck with the fact, that

in all the mass of material of which the record is composed, there is

hardly one authentic document.  Nothing but a mass of typewriting,

except the later notebooks of Mina and Seward and myself, and Van

Helsing’s memorandum.  We could hardly ask any one, even did we wish

to, to accept these as proofs of so wild a story.  Van Helsing summed

it all up as he said, with our boy on his knee.

 

“We want no proofs.  We ask none to believe us!  This boy will some

day know what a brave and gallant woman his mother is.  Already he

knows her sweetness and loving care.  Later on he will understand how

some men so loved her, that they did dare much for her sake.”

 

JONATHAN HARKER

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