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 Table of Contents

Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication

Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
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This book is part of a series of Penguin Classics Deluxe Editions designed
with original cover art in watercolor, pencil, or ink by world-renowned
fashion illustrator RUBEN TOLEDO. Born in Havana, Cuba, in 1961,
Ruben Toledo is an illustrator, painter, sculptor, and filmmaker. His fashion
illustrations have appeared in Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, The New Yorker,
Visionaire, Paper, Interview, and The New York Times, and his commissions
have included Tiffany & Co., Estée Lauder, Louis Vuitton, and Nordstrom’s
national advertising campaign. Toledo and his designer wife, Isabel Toledo,
whose dress and coat were selected by Michelle Obama to wear at the 2009
inauguration of President Barack Obama, are the recipients of the 2005
Cooper-Hewitt Design Award for their work in fashion. In 2010, they
received honorary doctorate degrees in fine arts from Otis College of Art and
Design in Los Angeles, California. Ruben Toledo’s book design for Penguin
Classics represents the marriage of art and fashion to literature. His couture-
inspired interpretations of these beloved classic characters and novels
contribute a uniquely creative vision to the long history of excellence in
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 PENGUIN CLASSICS DELUXE EDITION

Dracula

BRAM (ABRAHAM) STOKER (1847 – 1912) was born in Dublin, the son
of a civil servant. He overcame an incapacitating childhood illness to attend
Trinity College, Dublin, where he distinguished himself in athletics, became
president of both Philosophical and Historical Societies and graduated in
Pure Mathematics. From 1870 to 1877 he worked as a civil servant in
Dublin Castle and published The Duties of Clerks of Petty Sessions in
Ireland (1879). During this period he wrote dramatic criticism, and in 1878
his strong admiration for Henry Irving led the actor to appoint him acting
and business manager at London’s Lyceum Theatre, an experience that
produced Personal Reminiscences of Henry Irving (1906). Stoker wrote
short stories and novels, a lecture in praise of America and the amusing
Famous Imposters (1910). Few of Stoker’s works, which include The
Mystery of the Sea (1902) and The Lair of the White Worm (1911), are now
read, except for his very successful Dracula (1897), a novel composed of
journals and letters, telling of the vampire Count Dracula and involving
hypnotism and other occult interests. The novel was a bestseller upon first
publication, soon went into paperback and is still selling steadily. Many
film versions have been made, two of the most memorable being
Universal’s early talkie of 1931 starring Bela Lugosi and the Hammer Films
Dracula (1958), which established Christopher Lee as the cinema’s new
king of vampires. Besides the numerous Hammer remakes and sequels,
other versions have included Werner Herzog’s idiosyncratic homage to
Murnau, Nosferatu (1979) with Klaus Kinski, while Francis Ford Coppola’s
Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1992) offered a visually stylish interpretation in
many ways faithful to the novel, though Gary Oldman’s Count had now
become a romantic hero.
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 PENGUIN BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario,
Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland
(a division of Penguin Books Ltd)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124,
Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)
Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park,
New Delhi - 110 017, India
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(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank,
Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

First published in Great Britain by Archibald Constable and Company 1897

First published in the United States of America by Doubleday & McClure Co. 1899
This edition published in Penguin Books 2010

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING IN PUBLICATION DATA

Stoker, Bram, 1847 – 1912.
Dracula / Bram Stoker.
p. cm.—(Penguin classics deluxe edition)
ISBN : 978-1-101-54979-7
1. Dracula, Count (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Transylvania (Romania)—
Fiction. 3. Whitby (England)—Fiction. 4. Vampires—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6037.T617D7 2010
823’.8—dc22 2010026242

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 TO
MY DEAR FRIEND
HOMMY-BEG

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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 later-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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 Chapter I

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 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 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 noble
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 eggplant 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 homemade 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 petticoats under them. The strangest figures we saw were the
Slovaks, who are more barbarian than the rest, with their big cowboy 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 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 any one 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
very 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 therefore 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 grey 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 call ‘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 with 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 – which they call by a name meaning ‘word-bearer’
– 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 of which 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 every one 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 box-seat – ‘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 hillside 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 Turks 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
peasant’s cart, with its long, snake-like vertebra, calculated to suit the
inequalities of the road. On this were sure to be seated quite a group of
home-coming 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
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 now see 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 said in
German worse than my own: –
‘There is no carriage here. The Herr is not expected after all. He will now
come on to Bukovina, and return tomorrow or the next day; better the next
day.’ Whilst he was speaking the horses began to neigh and snort and
plunge wildly, so that the driver had to hold them up. Then, amongst a
chorus of screams from the peasants and a universal crossing of themselves,
a calèche 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 calèche. Then I descended from the side of the coach, as
the calèche 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
came 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 run-away 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
calèche 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; but the driver 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 figure 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 ever 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 calèche, hoping by the noise to
scare the wolves from that 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 calèche, and the
wolves had 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 moonlit sky.

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 Chapter II

OceanofPDF.com
 JONATHANS 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 to 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 calèche 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 out 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 the 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 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 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 as cold as ice – more like
the hand of a dead than a living man. Again he said: –
‘Welcome to my house. Come 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
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, 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 me.
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 much 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!’ and, 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.’ So 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 there 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. When 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 it 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 Almanack, 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 friends’ – 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 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 see me, or pause in his speaking if he hear
my words, to say, “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 here 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 we had seen the blue flames. Was it indeed true
that they showed where gold was hidden? 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 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. 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 me, 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 me. 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 by-road, 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 is 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 were 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 has 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 be 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 put all 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 at
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 the dawn or at the turn of the tide; any one 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 a 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 left me.
I went into my own 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 than 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 heavy 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 terrible 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!

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 Chapter III

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 JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL (Continued)

When I found that I was a prisoner a sort of wild feeling came over me. 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 were 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 to do them. This gave me a fright, for if 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 in
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 Transylvanian 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, ay, 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 Turkey-
land; ay and more than that, endless duty of the frontier guard, for, as the
Turks say, “water sleeps, and 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, 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 cock-crow – or like the ghost of Hamlet’s
father.)
12 May. – Let me begin with facts – bare, meagre 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 him 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 someone resident there,
that my motive was that no local interest might be served save my wish
only; and as one of London resident 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’s 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 under-lip, I understood as well as if he had spoken that I should
be 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 in 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 replace the letters as they had been and 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 round
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 any 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 lie 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 weather-worn, 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 so
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 that 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 have I 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 a stairway
which, though it seemed to be 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 in bygone days, for the furniture had more 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 the 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 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 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 a 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,
for, though the moonlight was behind 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, wavy 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 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 fair girl went on her knees, and bent over me, fairly
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 about 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 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 supersensitive
skin of my throat, and the hard dents of two sharp teeth, just touching and
pausing there. I closed my eyes in a languorous ecstacy 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 round the
room as 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 it. 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.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter IV

OceanofPDF.com
 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, from 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 Szgany 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 an
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 wakened 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 to 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 paper 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 a while, 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 cracking 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, before morning. – 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 to 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 motes 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
hypnotized! Quicker and quicker danced the dust, and 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 materialized from the moonbeams, were those of the 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 agonized cry of a
woman. I rushed to the window, and throwing it up, peered out 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 a
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
thrall of night and gloom and fear?
25 June, morning. – No man knows till he has suffered from the night
how sweet and how 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 me. 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 the narrow ledge of stone which runs round the
building on this side. The stones were big and roughly cut, and the mortar
had 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 knew 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 search for any further outlet, but there was none. Then I
went 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 the eyes were open and stony, but without the glassiness of
death – and the cheeks had the warmth of life through all their pallor, and
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 own chamber, 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 alone 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 can
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 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 raising of his hand, just as the music of a great
orchestra seems to leap under the bâton 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 then
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 the 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 a
last chance I cried out: –
‘Shut the door; I shall wait till morning!’ and 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. Tomorrow night, 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, morning. – 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 I knew that the morning had
come. Then came the welcome cock-crow, and I felt that I was safe. With a
glad heart, I opened my door and ran down to 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 drew 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 that 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 search 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 renewed, 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 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 way 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 full upon me, with all their
blaze of basilisk horror. The sight seemed to paralyse 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, bloodstained 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 is 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, and 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 awful 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 this 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 these monsters, and the
precipice is steep and high. At its foot a man may sleep – as a man.
Goodbye, all! Mina!

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 Chapter V

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 LETTER FROM MISS MINA MURRAY TO MISS LUCY
WESTENRA

5 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
practising 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 practising 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 shall tell you all 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 so 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???

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 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 to 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 good 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. Some
one 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; 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, I must stop. Good-night. Bless me in your prayers; and, Mina, pray
for my happiness.
LUCY

P.S. – I need not tell you this is a secret. Good-night again.

‘L.’

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 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 have 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 that 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 it a sort of duty to tell him
that there was someone. 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 quite 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 had such adventures. I sympathize with poor
Desdemona when she had such a dangerous 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 Quincey 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’s 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 unselfish 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 good-bye.’ 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
till 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 for all His goodness
to me in sending to me such a lover, such a husband, and such a friend.
Good-bye.

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 DR 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 down
amongst the patients. I picked out one who has afforded me a study of much
interest. He is so quaint in his ideas, and so unlike the normal lunatic, that I
have 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 Romæ venalia sunt. Hell has its price! verb, sap. 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 –
R. M. Renfield, ætat 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.

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 LETTER, QUINCEY P. MORRIS TO HON. ARTHUR
HOLMWOOD

25 May.
My dear Art, –
We’ve told yarns by the camp-fire 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
camp-fire 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 the 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.

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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.

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 Chapter VI

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 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 very 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 up 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 sea-wall runs along outside of it.
On the near side, the sea-wall 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 tide; 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 edge 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 all 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 an’ 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; an’, 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 of the place. They lead from
the town up 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.
They will be home by this.
25 July. – 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 downfaces 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 up 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, an’ 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 beuk-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 tombsteans. 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 here in
their deathsarks, all jouped together an’ tryin’ to drag their tombsteans with
them to prove how good they was; some of them trimmlin’ and ditherin’,
with their hands that dozzened an’ slippy from lyin’ in the sea that they
can’t even keep their grup 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 kirk-garth.’ 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 happed here,
snod an’ snog?’ I assented again. ‘Then that be just where the lie comes in.
Why, there be scores of these lay-beds that be toom as old Dun’s ’bacca-box
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, æt. 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 currents 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 Lowrey – 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’ an’ 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 light of 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 tombsteans 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 lines on that thruff-stean,’ 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 is 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’ the 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
wan’t 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’ up the grees with the tombstean
balanced on his hump, and asks it 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, an’ I
must gang. My service to ye, ladies!’ And off he hobbled.
Lucy and I sat a while, 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 the Abbey. The sheep
and lambs are bleating in the fields away behind me, and there is a clatter of
a donkey’s 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.

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 DR 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 yet 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 with 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 clear out 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 blow-
fly, bloated with some carrion food, buzzed into the room, he caught it, held
it exultingly 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 the 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 p.m. – 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 the 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 a.m. – The attendant has just been to 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 p.m. – I gave Renfield a strong opiate tonight, enough to make even
him sleep, and took away his pocket-book 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 will 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 only 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.

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 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 sympathize 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 to 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
wakened 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 that anæmic look which she had. I pray it will all last.
3 August. – Another week gone, 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 grey day, and the sun as I write is hidden in thick clouds, high
over Kettleness. Everything is grey – except the green grass, which seems
like emerald amongst it; grey earthy rock; grey clouds, tinged with the
sunburst at the far edge, hang over the grey sea, into which the sand-points
stretch like grey fingers. 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 grey mist. All is vastness; the clouds are piled up like giant rocks,
and there is a ‘brool’ over the sea that sounds like some presage 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 suchlike, 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; an’ 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 spy-glass 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.’

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 Chapter VII

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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 neighbourhood 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
that 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 north-west. 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 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,

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 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 discord 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 overtopping 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 piers from the
mass of onlookers, or else the fatalities of the night would have been
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 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 now
came thick and fast, followed by such sudden 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 sea-bird. 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 the in-
rushing 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 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 where, 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 grey 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
north-east, 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 deck at all. A great awe came on all as
they realized 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 south-east 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
– ‘thruff-steans’ or ‘through-stones,’ as they call them in the 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 on
board. 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
Drawbridge 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
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 J. 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 coast-guard 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 statutes 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; the
crowds are scattering homeward, 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.
Whitby.
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 a 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 formally took 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 after
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
SPCA, 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 greater 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 rescript, 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.

OceanofPDF.com
 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 crew, Petrofsky, was
missing. Could not account for it. Took larboard watch eight bells last night;
was relieved by Abramoff, 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 that 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
deck-house, as there was a rain-storm, when he saw a tall, thin man, who
was not like any of the crew, come up the companion-way, 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 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 demoralize the men; said he would engage to keep them out of
trouble with a handspike. I let him take the helm, while the rest began
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 on 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 violent. 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; awaked 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 demoralized 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 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, but 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 his 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 a
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 is 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 hold almost universally here 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.’

OceanofPDF.com
 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 narrow 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 cortège 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 quite 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 old 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! Perhaps he had seen Death with his dying eyes! 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
come 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 sort
of fury, with its eyes savage, and all its hairs 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 became quiet and fell all into a
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 agonized sort of way. I
greatly fear that she is of too supersensitive 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.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter VIII

OceanofPDF.com
 MINA MURRAY’S JOURNAL

Same day, 11 o’clock p.m. – Oh, but I am tired! If it were not that I have
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 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, 3 a.m. – 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 open 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,
overmastering 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 the 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 round her throat. Whilst she did so there came a little
shudder through her, as though she felt the cold. I flung the warm shawl
over her, and drew the edges tight round 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 that I might 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 more 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 that 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 thinking, too, of how such a story might become
distorted – nay, infallibly would – in case it should leak out, I thought it
wiser to do so. 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
apologized 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 help to 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 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 thought that perhaps she was looking out
for me, so 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 it from 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 someone 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 as 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.

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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 diagram 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 (£10), 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.
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 LETTER, MESSRS. CARTER, PATERSON & CO.,
LONDON, TO MESSRS. BILLINGTON & SON, WHITBY

21 August.
Dear Sirs, –
We beg to acknowledge £10 received and to return cheque £1 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.

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 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 anæmic 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
have 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 other subjects, 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 to 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 next 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.

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 LETTER, SISTER AGATHA, HOSPITAL OF ST JOSEPH
AND STE MARY, BUDA-PESTH, TO MISS WILHELMINA
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 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 with
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 on him nothing that any one 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.

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 DR SEWARD’S DIARY

19 August. – Strange and sudden change in Renfield last night. About eight
o’clock he began to get excited and to 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 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 lacklustre 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 – C2HCl3O·H2O! 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 . . .
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, and 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, and 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.

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 Chapter IX

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 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
weaklooking. 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 raved of dreadful things whilst he was off his head. I 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 of 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 that amongst them was his note-book,
and was going to ask him to let me look at it – for I knew then 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 when I came he had his
hand over the note-book, 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 all real or
the dreaming of a madman. You know I have 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
strongly. 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 very 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 to my
husband!
Your ever-loving MINA HARKER.

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 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 could be coming home soon enough to
stay with us here. This 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.

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 DR SEWARD’S 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 dissociated 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 unexpected always happens.’ How well Disraeli knew
life. Our bird when he found the cage open would not fly, so all our subtle
arrangements went 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 an hour before sunrise. The poor soul’s body will enjoy the relief even
if his mind cannot appreciate it. 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 moonlit sky
except a big bat, which was flapping its silent and ghostly way to the west.
Bats usually wheel and flit 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 . . .

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 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 and 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 then 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 ever to get air enough. I
shall try to cheer up when Arthur comes, or else I know he will be miserable
to see me so.

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LETTER, ARTHUR HOLMWOOD 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 do 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 most 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 shall come
in for tea, and we can go away together; 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.

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TELEGRAM, ARTHUR HOLMWOOD TO DR 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.

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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 all for him!’ So I am quite free.
 I could easily see that she is somewhat bloodless, but I could not
see the usual anaemic signs, and by a chance I was actually able to
test the 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 gives 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 in 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 the 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
only 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,
but 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, an 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.

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LETTER, ABRAHAM VAN HELSING, M.D., D.PH., D.LIT.,
ETC., ETC., TO DR SEWARD

2 September.
My good Friend, –
When I have 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 then rooms for me at the Great Eastern
Hotel, so that I may be near to 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 good-bye,
my friend John.
VAN HELSING.

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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
him, 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 in
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 that 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 pretence
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 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 once he pointed me out
to 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 madmans 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 anaemic. I have asked her to send me her maid, that I may
ask just one or two question, 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 to me the telegram every day; and if there be cause I shall
come again. The disease – for not to be all 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.

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 DR 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 and 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 nail-marks 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 for 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 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 not 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.

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 TELEGRAM, SEWARD, LONDON, TO VAN HELSING,
AMSTERDAM

4 September. – Patient still better today.

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 TELEGRAM, SEWARD, LONDON, TO VAN HELSING,
AMSTERDAM

5 September. – Patient greatly improved. Good appetite; sleeps naturally;

good spirits; colour coming back.

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 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.

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 Chapter X

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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 old 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.

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 DR 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 the 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 shall 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 stopped and 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 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, and very gravely: –
‘You were always a careful student, and your casebook was ever more
full than the rest. You were only student then; now you are master, 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 peoples 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 beneficent 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 roots for its causes
than we have knowledge of.
I used my knowledge of this phase of spiritual pathology, and laid 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 no 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 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 any 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
gravely 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 nostril
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 not 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 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. Good-bye.’
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 seen 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 this wound, or whatever it was, might be the means of
that manifest loss of blood; but I abandoned the idea as soon as 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 the 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 so 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 warning finger held up:
–
‘Remember, she is your charge. If you leave her, and harm befall, you
shall not sleep easy hereafter!’

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 DR 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. This was repeated several times, with
greater effort and with shorter pauses as the time moved on. It was apparent
that she did not want to sleep, so I tackled the subject at once: –
‘You do not want to go 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!’ I seized the opportunity, and said: ‘I promise you
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 to her own, where a
cosy 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.

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 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
Arthur only 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! Good night, Arthur.

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 DR 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!’ deeded 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, tough 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 for 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 life-
blood 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 fiancé. 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 lay down, whilst 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 anywhere 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 such 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 them; think what you will. Do not fear to think even the
most not-probable. Good night.’
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 that 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 all 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 flower. 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 awhile.
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 pharmacopoeia 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.

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 Chapter XI

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 LUCY WESTENRA’S DIARY

11 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 the sleeplessness, or the pain of the fear of sleep, 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. Good night,
everybody.

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 DR SEWARD’S DIARY

12 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 answered: –
‘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 grey.
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, sent 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, and 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 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 shirt-sleeve.
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.

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 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.

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 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 subjects 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 humour.
‘’Ittin’ of them over the ’ead with a pole is one way; scratchin’ their hears
is 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’ with a pole 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 grumpy-
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’ of 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 git even 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 grey ones that came from Norway to
Jamrach’s, which we bought off him four year 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
any 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 were 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 git 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 likes 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-talking’ 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.
‘“No,” 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 grey 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
excaped – 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 devel 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-’idin 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-shining 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 a-walkin’ 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 us; 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 as 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 an unutterable mixture of comedy and pathos. The
wicked wolf that for half a day had paralysed London and set all children in
the 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-getting 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.

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 DR 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 thunder-struck, for such a
thing as a patient getting of his own accord into the Superintendent’s study
is almost unknown. Without an instant’s pause 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, 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.

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 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 Hillingham 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.

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 DR SEWARD’S DIARY

18 September. – Just off for 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.

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 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 any trouble through me. 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 go to sleep, but 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, 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 low 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 grey 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 seemed 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 simoom 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 to. 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
have each 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 someone 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!

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 Chapter XII

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 DR 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 around us? Was it indeed a house of death to which I
had come, too late? I knew 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 lost a minute in coming here, and
that I could not make anyone 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 draught 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 that 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
subcutaneous 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 forestalling 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 eye 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 that 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 it 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 thus 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.
OceanofPDF.com
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 own
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 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 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 a 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 of 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 all blessings on you.
Yours, MINA HARKER.

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LETTER FROM PATRICK HENNESSEY, M.D., M.R.C.S.,
L.K.Q.C.P.I., ETC., ETC., TO JOHN SEWARD, M.D.

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 a 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 terrible 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 light weight, 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 labours of any place
of public entertainment. I quite understood their drift, and after a
stiff glass of 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 Parley’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.

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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 the 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.

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 DR 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 on her pillow, almost whiter
than the lawn. She lay quite still, and I looked round the room to see that all
was as it should be. 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 by 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 round – 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 his 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 for 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 champed 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
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!’ said he 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 so. 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.’
OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter XIII

OceanofPDF.com
 DR SEWARD’S DIARY (Continued)

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 were 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 deaths-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 anyone 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 golden 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 as 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 it is I that shall operate, and you must only 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 into 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 towards 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’s 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 judgement. 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 fiancée 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 a-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 became softened and
even resolved into their youthful beauty; that this was especially so when
death had been preceded by any acute or prolonged suffering. It 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’s a hard thing 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, my
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 patrolling 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.

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 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 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 cartwheel hat, sitting in a victoria
outside Giuliano’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 his 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 to 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 I only knew! if I only 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 him 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 quietly 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 that 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 home-coming 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 sweetness out of his life! God help us all to bear our troubles.

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 DR SEWARD’S DIARY

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
over 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 humour asserting itself under very terrible conditions.
He laughed till he cried, and I had to draw down the blinds lest anyone
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 me. 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 the 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
so 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 to you, friend John, for we are more level in
experiences than father and son – yet even at such 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
labour, 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 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 explanation 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 very heart that 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 ever 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.

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 THE WESTMINSTER GAZETTE, 25 SEPTEMBER

A HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY

The neighbourhood 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 neighbourhood
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 naïvely 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
look-out for straying children, especially when very young, in and around
Hampstead Heath, and for any stray dog which may be about.

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 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.’

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 Chapter XIV

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 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 it . . . 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.
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 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, lest it may harm. Again your pardon, and forgive
me.
VAN HELSING.

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 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.

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 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 about it, 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 type-
written 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 practise interviewing; Jonathan’s friend on the
Exeter News told him that memory was 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 à
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 height,
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 one 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 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 knew that the friend of that poor lily 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 made in 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 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 will be grateful; you will do me much favour.’ I
could not resist the temptation of mystifying him a bit – I suppose it is some
of the 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 long knew 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 type-written copy from my workbasket 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 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 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 daze, I am dazzle, 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. Madam’ – 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 happy life and good life, and your husband will be
blessed in you.’
‘But, doctor, you praise me too much, and – 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 speciality 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 to 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’s 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 was 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 of 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 all 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 knew 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 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, so
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 off-hand, 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.

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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 – ay, 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
dazzle – dazzle more than ever, and I must think.
Yours the most faithful, ABRAHAM VAN HELSING.

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 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.

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 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 all
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 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 to 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 eye 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.’
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 DR 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 same 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 cicatrized. 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 punctured 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 on great loss or waste of blood.’
‘And how the blood lost or waste?’ I shook my head. He stepped over
and sat down beside me, and went on: –
‘You are 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 contemplate 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 student of
the brain – how you accept the 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 men who
discovered electricity – who would themselves not so long before have 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 have 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 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, that 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 seen dynasties; and why
the parrot never die only of bite of cat or dog or other complaint? Can you
tell me why men believe in all ages and places that there are some few who
live on always if they be permit; 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 the 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 then to tell me the thing, so that I could
have the object of thought in mind all the time. But now I was without this
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 mad man, and not a sane one, follows an idea. I feel
like a novice blundering through a bog in a mist, jumping from one tussock
to another in the mere blind effort to move on without knowing where I am
going.’
‘That is 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 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 a
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 injure 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 hole 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!’

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 Chapter XV

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 DR SEWARD’S DIARY (Continued)

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 you 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 be not true, then proof will be relief; at worst
it will not harm. If it be true! Ah, there is the dread; yet very 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 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 that 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 when 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 no 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 mix-up 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 match-box and a piece of candle, proceeded to make a
light. The tomb in the day-time, 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 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.’ Straightaway 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 may be
duplicates; and anyhow it is not difficult to pick a lock of that 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 it. 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 way 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 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?’ I asked.
‘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
‘Spaniards,’ 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 shall 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 then 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 then 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, ‘see, 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. Some one has done it.’
‘And yet she had 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 all later – and in trance could he best
come to take more blood. In trance she died, and in trance she is Un-Dead,
too. So it is that she differ from all other. Usually when the Un-Dead 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 Un-Dead 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 Un-Dead, 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 for ever. 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 one 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
Un-Dead. 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.

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NOTE LEFT BY VAN HELSING IN HIS PORT MANTEAU,
BERKELEY HOTEL, DIRECTED TO JOHN SEWARD M.D.
(Not delivered)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 Un-Dead, 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 Un-
Dead, 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 Un-
Dead 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 the 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 Un-Dead, he have now 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 Un-Dead 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 come 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 Un-Dead
woman sleep, and 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 Un-Dead, 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.

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 DR 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
loath 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, morning . . . Last night, at a little before ten o’clock,
Arthur and Quincey came into Van Helsing’s room; he told us all that 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 pour-parlers
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 Un-Dead.’
‘Un-Dead! 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 speak such things, or am I mad
that listen to them? Don’t dare to 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 fulfilment even than I am,
then – then I shall do my duty, whatever it may seem to me. And then, to
follow of 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 of
labour 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 came 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 to her my nights and days – before death, after death;
and if my death can do her good even now, when she is the dead Un-Dead,
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.’

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 Chapter XVI

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 DR SEWARD’S DIARY (Continued)

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 rents 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 that 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
the 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 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 nor
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 Un-Dead can move. I waited here
all the 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 Un-
Dead 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 to 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 Un-Dead may not enter.’
‘And is that stuff you have put there going to do it?’ asked Quincey.
‘Great Scott! Is this a game?’
‘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
funereal 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, a 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 between 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
tingling 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 iron 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 the 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?’
Arthur threw himself on his knees, and hid his face in his hands, as he
answered: –
‘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 in horrified amazement as we saw, when he
stood back, the woman, with a corporeal body as real at the moment as our
own, pass in 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 lock 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 harm, 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 sore trial; but after, when you will look
back, you will see now 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 overmuch. 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 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 churchyard 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 body 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 bloodstained, voluptuous mouth – which it made one shudder to see –
the whole carnal and unspiritual 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 a small oil-lamp, which gave out, when lit in a corner of the
tomb, gas which burned at 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 Un-Dead. 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 Un-Dead become themselves Un-Dead, 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 all time make more of those
Un-Deads that so have fill us with horror. The career of this so unhappy
dear lady is but just begun. Those children whose blood she suck are not as
yet so much the worse; but if she live on, Un-Dead, 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
plays unknowing ever of what has been. But of the most blessed of all,
when this now Un-Dead 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 assimilation 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 will 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 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 Un-Dead 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 ceased 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 out on 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 her
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
Un-Dead. 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, 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 and our plans unfold. Friend
John, you come with me home, for I have much to consult 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 is 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.’

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 Chapter XVII

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 DR SEWARD’S DIARY (Continued)

When we arrived at the Berkeley 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 despatched 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 Un-Dead 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 diary of all these so strange things; is it not
so? Yes! Then we shall go through all these together when that we meet.’
He then made ready for his departure, and shortly after 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, 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 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 slight 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!

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 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
someone. 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 some one 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 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 can 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 naïvety 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 the 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 . . .
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 DR 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 with 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 dear 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 travelled 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.’

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 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 my typewriter. He
placed me in a comfortable 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 – 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 a 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, 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 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 seventh cylinder. I used manifold,
and so took three copies of the diary, just as I had done with all 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 Daily-
graph and the Whitby Gazette, of which I had made cuttings, 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.

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 DR SEWARD’S DIARY

30 September. – Mr Harker arrived at nine o’clock. He had got his wife’s

wire just before starting. He is uncommonly clever, if one can judge from
his face, and full of energy. If his 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, business-like 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 typescript of my diary. I
wonder what they make out of it. Here he 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 typescript. 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 collating his 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 outbreaks 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.

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 JONATHAN 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 stay the night. They are
hospitable, with true Yorkshire hospitality: give a guest everything, and
leave him free 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 of 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. They had all something to say of the
strange entry of the ship, which is already taking its place in local tradition;
but no one could add to the simple description ‘Fifty cases of common
earth.’ I then saw the station-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 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 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, for ever 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 an ex post facto manner.
From thence I went on 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 waybill 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 details.
These were, I shortly found, connected almost solely with the dusty nature
of the job, and of 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 beneficent 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 the boxes which arrived at
Whitby from Varna in the Demeter were safely deposited in the old chapel
of Carfax. There should be fifty of them there, unless any have since been
removed – as from Dr Seward’s diary I fear.
I shall try to see the carter who took away the boxes from Carfax when
Renfield attacked them. By following up this clue we may learn a good
deal.
Later. – Mina and I have worked all day, and we have put all the papers
into order.

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 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 I 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 any thing so hunted as is the Count. That is just it: this Thing
is not human – not even 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, has 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; soso 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 in 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 poor 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 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 the 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 anyone, 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 on, 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 regret 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!

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 Chapter XVIII

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 DR 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 and his wonderful wife had made
and arranged. 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 everyone 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 me. 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 any one?’ 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 causæ and
ignoratio elenchi.’ 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 me.
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 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 pocket, she said:
–
‘Dr Van Helsing, will you read this, and tell me if it must go in. 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.

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 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 to 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 train myself to keep an open mind, I could not have believe until such
time as that fact thunder on my ear. “See! see! I prove; I prove.” Alas! Had I
known at the 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 limitations, appear at will when,
and where, and in any of the forms that are to him; 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 strife 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 for ever 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 resources 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, 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 Chersonese; and in China, so far from
us in all ways, there even is he, and the people fear 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 to eat, never! He throws no
shadow; he make in the mirror no reflect, as again Jonathan observe. He has
the strength of many in his hand – witness again Jonathan when he shut the
door against the wolfs, 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 are we
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 Turkey-land. 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’s 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 have 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.

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 DR 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 interested 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. 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 four 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
judgment 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 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 allegiance 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 springing 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 form or 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 the 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. Good night.’
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 a 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.’

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 Chapter XIX

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 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 of lunatics that 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 fervour 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 he now 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 yet 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 caked. The walls
were fluffy and heavy with dust, and in the corners were masses of spiders’
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 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 gorged 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 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 any one; 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 halldoor 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 labour, and the sooner the matter is attended to the
better. I shall look up Thomas Snelling today.

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 DR 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 type-
written 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 it. Things
are quite bad enough to 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.

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 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 daytime with me she wouldn’t have walked there
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 it. I suppose it is 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 me. The gas-light
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 some 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 until 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 it. Here comes sleep. Good night.

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 Chapter XX

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 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 to 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’s-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 of 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 heeard 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 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’, or maybe ye won’t ketch ’im; for Sam gets
off main early, 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 want 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 or 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 these 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 coin of
the realm, put me on the track of Bloxam; he was sent for on my suggesting
that I was willing to pay his day’s 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 doors 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 into the houses if they were both 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 up-end 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 to
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 round 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 round 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 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 Aërated 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 had 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;
perhaps we shall know when you get his letter in the morning.’ 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!

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 DR SEWARD’S DIARY

1 October. – I am puzzled 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 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 me. 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 to
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 upon 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 out 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 round 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 there, with the
souls of thousands of flies and spiders and birds and cats buzzing and
twittering and miaowing all round 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 round 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 chop-sticks, as to try to interest me about the lesser
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 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, and 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 note-book. We had to come away as ignorant as we
went in.
His is a curious case indeed; we must watch him tonight.

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LETTER, MITCHELL, SONS AND 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

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 DR 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, and 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 I 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 in 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 . . .

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 Chapter XXI

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 DR SEWARD’S DIARY

3 October. – Let me put down with exactness all that happened, as well as I
can remember it, 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 that 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 ground. 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 broke his back 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 very 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.’ So 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 pyjamas 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 that 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 softened into a glad surprise, and from the 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 blow-fly, and when the moon got up I was pretty angry with him.
When he slid 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 had 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 had 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 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 breast 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, champed 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 bed side, and clung to him fiercely.
Van Helsing and I tried to calm them both. The Professor held up his
little 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 night-robe was stained
with blood where her lips had touched, and where the thin open wound in
her 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 down stairs
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 as 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 very
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 so be; 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 paralysed. 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 designs! 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 of 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.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter XXII

OceanofPDF.com
 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 it. 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 more 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 were 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 by 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 Un-dead, 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 not 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 earthboxes 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 possible. 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 on; 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 hour,
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 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 no 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 house 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 your London, and when he went
for months of summer to Switzerland and lock up his house, some burglar
came 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 règle; and in our work we shall be en règle too.
We shall not go so early that the policeman 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 when 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 a 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 horsebacking; but don’t you think that one of your
snappy carriages with its heraldic adornments in a bye-way of Walworth or
Mile End would attract too much attention for our purposes? 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, in 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 had 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 us.
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 the 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 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 Judgment 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 Judgment 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 fears, 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 us.
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 them: –
‘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 screw-driver 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. If it may be that with all the others we can be
so successful, then the sunset of this evening may shine on 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 look out 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 into 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 in 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 were 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.

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 Chapter XXIII

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 DR 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 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 begin
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 he only 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 come 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 him? Then why we not be even 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 he was 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 despatch.
The Professor closed the door again and, after looking at the direction,
opened it and read it 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 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 pocket-book. ‘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 round 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 panther-like 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 eye-teeth 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 weapon 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 shorne 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 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, as,
realizing the difficulty of following him through the stable, we moved
towards the hall.
‘We have learnt something – much! Notwithstanding his brave words, he
fears us; he fear time, he fear 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 wild beast, and understand it so. For me, I make
sure that nothing here may be of use to him, if so that he return.’ As he
spoke he put the money remaining into 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 only 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 right 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 shrivelling 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
for ever 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.

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 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 love 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 awaked 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.
In 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 do for you? For at this
hour you do not want me for nothings.’
‘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 tip-toe,
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 rachet.’
‘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 whilst
she spoke. There are many ships 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 when
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 waters 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 to
us. Let us take bath, and dress, and have breakfast which we all need, and
which we can eat comfortable 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 nothings 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.

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 Chapter XXIV

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 DR 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 earthwork 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 dear 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 do. 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.
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 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 this 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. And afterwards the very memory of it will keep faith crystal
clear. Mina and I fear to be idle, so we have been over all the diaries again
and again. Somehow, although the reality seems 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.

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 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 my 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 on to other parts and up the Danube. “Soh!” 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 of wood so small that the man look bigger than the
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 gang-plank, 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 is 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 there might be
close at hand a shop 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 gang-plank 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 on 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 by 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 we 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 be. 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 it were certain
the 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 Un-Dead, 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 wondrous way. The
very place, where he have been alive, Un-dead 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 man-eater, as they of India call the tiger who has once taste blood
of the human, care no more for other prey, but prowl unceasing till he get
him. This that we hunt from our village is a tiger, too, a man-eater, 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 politic, 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 armour, 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.

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 DR SEWARD’S DIARY

5 October. – We all rose 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 distils 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!
 Van Helsing is coming to my study a little before the others. I shall try to
open the subject with him.
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 suddenly: –
‘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 to prejudge.
Her teeth are some 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; 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 of 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 all times, but most so when there is to hunt, though my 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 plans to her; but he took no notice. I looked at him significantly and
coughed. For answer he put his finger on his lip and turned away.

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 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 not 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
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 a 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 come 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 everlasting 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
very 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 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 shall 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 arrangement 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 all 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 the 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.

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 Chapter XXV

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 DR 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,
dear; 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 hers. ‘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 as 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 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 comes, 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 for ever – 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 with emotion that often he had to pause, he read the simple and
beautiful service for the Burial of the Dead. I – I cannot go on – words –
and – v-voice – f-fail m-me! . . .
She was right in her instinct. Strange as it all 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.

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 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 travelled 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 board
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 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.

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 RUFUS SMITH, LLOYD’S, LONDON, TO LORD
GODALMING, CARE OF H.B.M. VICE-CONSUL, VARNA

TELEGRAM OCTOBER 24TH.

Czarina Catherine reported this morning from Dardanelles.

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 DR SEWARD’S DIARY

25 October. – How I miss my phonograph! To write 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 then, 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 as cold as ice, and an hour ago I
found him whetting the edge of the great Ghurka knife which he now
always carries with him. It will be a bad look out for the Count if the edge
of that ‘Kúkri’ 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 has 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.
OceanofPDF.com
 28 OCTOBER – TELEGRAM, RUFUS SMITH, LONDON,
TO LORD GODALMING, CARE OF H.B.M. VICE-CONSUL,
VARNA

Czarina Catherine reported entering Galatz at one o’clock today.

DR 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 delay 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, was it 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. It was an odd experience, and we all took it differently. Van Helsing
raised his hands 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 stared, 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 timetables, so as to be helpful to my husband. I found it
so useful sometimes, that I always make a study of the timetables 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 search the ship just as it was here. Morris Quincey, 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!’
‘There 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 come to me. 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 and 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 know
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 so. 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 of 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 someone 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 – then pouf! and
there comes a flash of light, heaven’s 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 particular 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 she 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 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 stopped 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 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 of 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 make 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 all 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 her typewriter all since she brought the MS to us.
OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter XXVI

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 DR 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 strenuous 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 kúkri. 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
would only make her happy, and so acquiesced. 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 can
jump or fly on shore, as he did at Whitby. But if the day come before he get
on shore, then, unless he be carried he cannot escape. And if he be carried,
then the customs may discover what the box contains. 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 sun-up. 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 I 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.

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 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.

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 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 harbour. There were
sat 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 expeckit 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
Gibralter wi’oot bein’ able to signal; an’ till 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 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 agin 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 look out anyhow.
Sure enuch, 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 flint 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 athegither. 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 sun-up, a man came aboard wi’ an order, written to him
from England, to receive a box marked for one Count Dracula. Sure enuch
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.’ Burgenstrasse 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
neighbours, 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.

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 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 me. 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
must he 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.

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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 someone. 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 a 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 might be, customs and octroi officers to pass.
(z) His pursuers might follow. This is his greatest 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 later 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. There 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 for 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
sound 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.

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 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 seen
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 his 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 . . . 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 death-trap? 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 there, that her eyes may not see. We
men here, all save Jonathan, have seen with their own eyes what is 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 be. Forgive
me that I make you so much pain, but it is necessary. My friend, is it not a
dire need for the which I am giving, if need be, my life? If it were that
anyone 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 it is properly applied; and what might it do when
basely used. I felt so thankful that Lord Godalming is rich, and that 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
beautiful 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 to 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.

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 JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL

October 30, 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
had a movable 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 so peacefully and
was forgetting my trouble. It seems brutally selfish of 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 from the mountains
into this river, but as none of them are very large – at present, at all events,
though they are terrible doubtless 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.

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 DR 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 on; 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 rapid. 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
the 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.

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 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 good 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.

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 Chapter XXVII

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 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 that 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 got 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 instinct 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 horses 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.

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 MEMORANDUM BY ABRAHAM VAN HELSING

4 November. – This to my old and true friend John Seward, MD, 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 travel and wrote of his travel?’
 At first I think somewhat strange, but soon I see that there be only one
such by-road. It is used but little, and very different from the coach road
from 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 sleep. 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 it.
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 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, ever 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 ever 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 then 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 take 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! 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 our protections. They could not approach me, whilst so armed,
nor Madam Mina whilst she remained 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 to my terrible work.
Madam Mina still sleeps; and, God be thanked! she is calm in her sleep . . .

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 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 fight. Oh, if only Morris and Seward were with
us. We must only hope! If I write no more Goodbye, Mina! God bless and
keep you.

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 DR SEWARD’S DIARY

5 November. – With the dawn we saw the body of Szgany before us dashing
away from the river with their leiter-waggon. 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 excited 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 . . .

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 DR 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 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 Un-Dead 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 man is weak. And
there remain one more victim in the Vampire fold; one more to swell the
grim and grisly ranks of the Un-Dead! . . .
 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 paralyse 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 Un-Dead phantoms
around us in the night, I took it that there were no more of active Un-Dead
existent. There was one great tomb more lordly than all the rest; huge it
was, and nobly proportioned. On it was but one word

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 DRACULA

This then was the Un-Dead 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, Un-Dead, 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 if 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 on. 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 face, 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 agone 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 Un-Dead.
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.

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 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 snow-fall, there was not even the sign of a 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 all 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 break-neck 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 snowfall 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 the 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 snowstorm 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 us; 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’s 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 unmistakeable 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 gipsy 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 pointing 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 ardour 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 or the flashing knives of the gypsies in front, or 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 quick 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 long 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 too
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 any service! Oh, God!’ he cried
suddenly, struggling up to a sitting posture and pointing to me, ‘It was
worth 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 as 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.

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 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 got to 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 have 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 type-writing, except the later notebooks of
Mina and Seward and myself, and Van Helsing’s memorandum. We could
hardly ask anyone, 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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