DRACULA by Bram Stoker

DRACULA
by
Bram Stoker
1897 edition
CHAPTER 1
Jonathan Harker's Journal
3 May. Bistritz.--Left Munich at 8:35 P.M., on 1st May, arriving at
Vienna early next morning; should have arrived at 6:46, but train was
an hour late. Buda-Pesth seems a wonderful place, from the glimpse
which I got of it from the train and the little I could walk through
the streets. I feared to go very far from the station, as we had
arrived late and would start as near the correct time as possible.
The impression I had was that we were leaving the West and entering the
East; the most western of splendid bridges over the Danube, which is
here of noble width and depth, took us among the traditions of Turkish
rule.
We left in pretty good time, and came after nightfall to Klausenburgh.
Here I stopped for the night at the Hotel Royale. I had for dinner,
or rather supper, a chicken done up some way with red pepper, which
was very good but thirsty. (Mem. get recipe for Mina.) I asked the
waiter, and he said it was called "paprika hendl," and that, as it was
a national dish, I should be able to get it anywhere along the
Carpathians.
I found my smattering of German very useful here, indeed, I don't know
how I should be able to get on without it.
Having had some time at my disposal when in London, I had visited the
British Museum, and made search among the books and maps in the
library regarding Transylvania; it had struck me that some
foreknowledge of the country could hardly fail to have some importance
in dealing with a nobleman of that country.
I find that the district he named is in the extreme east of the
country, just on the borders of three states, Transylvania, Moldavia,
and Bukovina, in the midst of the Carpathian mountains; one of the
wildest and least known portions of Europe.
I was not able to light on any map or work giving the exact locality
of the Castle Dracula, as there are no maps of this country as yet to
compare with our own Ordance Survey Maps; but I found that Bistritz,
the post town named by Count Dracula, is a fairly well-known place. I
shall enter here some of my notes, as they may refresh my memory when
I talk over my travels with Mina.
In the population of Transylvania there are four distinct
nationalities: Saxons in the South, and mixed with them the Wallachs,
who are the descendants of the Dacians; Magyars in the West, and
Szekelys in the East and North. I am going among the latter, who
claim to be descended from Attila and the Huns. This may be so, for
when the Magyars conquered the country in the eleventh century they
found the Huns settled in it.
I read that every known superstition in the world is gathered into the
horseshoe of the Carpathians, as if it were the centre of some sort of
imaginative whirlpool; if so my stay may be very interesting. (Mem.,
I must ask the Count all about them.)
I did not sleep well, though my bed was comfortable enough, for I had
all sorts of queer dreams. There was a dog howling all night under my
window, which may have had something to do with it; or it may have
been the paprika, for I had to drink up all the water in my carafe,
and was still thirsty. Towards morning I slept and was wakened by the
continuous knocking at my door, so I guess I must have been sleeping
soundly then.
I had for breakfast more paprika, and a sort of porridge of maize
flour which they said was "mamaliga", and egg-plant stuffed with
forcemeat, a very excellent dish, which they call "impletata". (Mem.,
get recipe for this also.)
I had to hurry breakfast, for the train started a little before eight,
or rather it ought to have done so, for after rushing to the station
at 7:30 I had to sit in the carriage for more than an hour before we
began to move.
It seems to me that the further east you go the more unpunctual are
the trains. What ought they to be in China?
All day long we seemed to dawdle through a country which was full of
beauty of every kind. Sometimes we saw little towns or castles on the
top of steep hills such as we see in old missals; sometimes we ran by
rivers and streams which seemed from the wide stony margin on each
side of them to be subject to great floods. It takes a lot of water,
and running strong, to sweep the outside edge of a river clear.
At every station there were groups of people, sometimes crowds, and in
all sorts of attire. Some of them were just like the peasants at home
or those I saw coming through France and Germany, with short jackets,
and round hats, and home-made trousers; but others were very
picturesque.
The women looked pretty, except when you got near them, but they were
very clumsy about the waist. They had all full white sleeves of some
kind or other, and most of them had big belts with a lot of strips of
something fluttering from them like the dresses in a ballet, but of
course there were petticoats under them.
The strangest figures we saw were the Slovaks, who were more barbarian
than the rest, with their big cow-boy hats, great baggy dirty-white
trousers, white linen shirts, and enormous heavy leather belts, nearly
a foot wide, all studded over with brass nails. They wore high boots,
with their trousers tucked into them, and had long black hair and
heavy black moustaches. They are very picturesque, but do not look
prepossessing. On the stage they would be set down at once as some
old Oriental band of brigands. They are, however, I am told, very
harmless and rather wanting in natural self-assertion.
It was on the dark side of twilight when we got to Bistritz, which is
a very interesting old place. Being practically on the frontier--for
the Borgo Pass leads from it into Bukovina--it has had a very stormy
existence, and it certainly shows marks of it. Fifty years ago a
series of great fires took place, which made terrible havoc on five
separate occasions. At the very beginning of the seventeenth century
it underwent a siege of three weeks and lost 13,000 people, the
casualties of war proper being assisted by famine and disease.
Count Dracula had directed me to go to the Golden Krone Hotel, which I
found, to my great delight, to be thoroughly old-fashioned, for of
course I wanted to see all I could of the ways of the country.
I was evidently expected, for when I got near the door I faced a
cheery-looking elderly woman in the usual peasant dress--white
undergarment with a long double apron, front, and back, of coloured
stuff fitting almost too tight for modesty. When I came close she
bowed and said, "The Herr Englishman?"
"Yes," I said, "Jonathan Harker."
She smiled, and gave some message to an elderly man in white
shirtsleeves, who had followed her to the door.
He went, but immediately returned with a letter:
"My friend.--Welcome to the Carpathians. I am anxiously
expecting you. Sleep well tonight. At three tomorrow the
diligence will start for Bukovina; a place on it is kept
for you. At the Borgo Pass my carriage will await you and
will bring you to me. I trust that your journey from
London has been a happy one, and that you will enjoy your
stay in my beautiful land.--Your friend, Dracula."
4 May--I found that my landlord had got a letter from the Count,
directing him to secure the best place on the coach for me; but on
making inquiries as to details he seemed somewhat reticent, and
pretended that he could not understand my German.
This could not be true, because up to then he had understood it
perfectly; at least, he answered my questions exactly as if he did.
He and his wife, the old lady who had received me, looked at each
other in a frightened sort of way. He mumbled out that the money had
been sent in a letter, and that was all he knew. When I asked him if
he knew Count Dracula, and could tell me anything of his castle, both
he and his wife crossed themselves, and, saying that they knew nothing
at all, simply refused to speak further. It was so near the time of
starting that I had no time to ask anyone else, for it was all very
mysterious and not by any means comforting.
Just before I was leaving, the old lady came up to my room and said in
a hysterical way: "Must you go? Oh! Young Herr, must you go?" She
was in such an excited state that she seemed to have lost her grip of
what German she knew, and mixed it all up with some other language
which I did not know at all. I was just able to follow her by asking
many questions. When I told her that I must go at once, and that I
was engaged on important business, she asked again:
"Do you know what day it is?" I answered that it was the fourth of
May. She shook her head as she said again:
"Oh, yes! I know that! I know that, but do you know what day it is?"
On my saying that I did not understand, she went on:
"It is the eve of St. George's Day. Do you not know that tonight,
when the clock strikes midnight, all the evil things in the world will
have full sway? Do you know where you are going, and what you are
going to?" She was in such evident distress that I tried to comfort
her, but without effect. Finally, she went down on her knees and
implored me not to go; at least to wait a day or two before starting.
It was all very ridiculous but I did not feel comfortable. However,
there was business to be done, and I could allow nothing to interfere
with it.
I tried to raise her up, and said, as gravely as I could, that I
thanked her, but my duty was imperative, and that I must go.
She then rose and dried her eyes, and taking a crucifix from her neck
offered it to me.
I did not know what to do, for, as an English Churchman, I have been
taught to regard such things as in some measure idolatrous, and yet it
seemed so ungracious to refuse an old lady meaning so well and in such
a state of mind.
She saw, I suppose, the doubt in my face, for she put the rosary round
my neck and said, "For your mother's sake," and went out of the room.
I am writing up this part of the diary whilst I am waiting for the
coach, which is, of course, late; and the crucifix is still round my
neck.
Whether it is the old lady's fear, or the many ghostly traditions of
this place, or the crucifix itself, I do not know, but I am not
feeling nearly as easy in my mind as usual.
If this book should ever reach Mina before I do, let it bring my
goodbye. Here comes the coach!
5 May. The Castle.--The gray of the morning has passed, and the sun
is high over the distant horizon, which seems jagged, whether with
trees or hills I know not, for it is so far off that big things and
little are mixed.
I am not sleepy, and, as I am not to be called till I awake, naturally
I write till sleep comes.
There are many odd things to put down, and, lest who reads them may
fancy that I dined too well before I left Bistritz, let me put down my
dinner exactly.
I dined on what they called "robber steak"--bits of bacon, onion, and
beef, seasoned with red pepper, and strung on sticks, and roasted over
the fire, in simple style of the London cat's meat!
The wine was Golden Mediasch, which produces a queer sting on the
tongue, which is, however, not disagreeable.
I had only a couple of glasses of this, and nothing else.
When I got on the coach, the driver had not taken his seat, and I saw
him talking to the landlady.
They were evidently talking of me, for every now and then they looked
at me, and some of the people who were sitting on the bench outside
the door--came and listened, and then looked at me, most of them
pityingly. I could hear a lot of words often repeated, queer words,
for there were many nationalities in the crowd, so I quietly got my
polyglot dictionary from my bag and looked them out.
I must say they were not cheering to me, for amongst them were
"Ordog"--Satan, "Pokol"--hell, "stregoica"--witch, "vrolok" and
"vlkoslak"--both mean the same thing, one being Slovak and the other
Servian for something that is either werewolf or vampire. (Mem., I
must ask the Count about these superstitions.)
When we started, the crowd round the inn door, which had by this time
swelled to a considerable size, all made the sign of the cross and
pointed two fingers towards me.
With some difficulty, I got a fellow passenger to tell me what they
meant. He would not answer at first, but on learning that I was
English, he explained that it was a charm or guard against the evil
eye.
This was not very pleasant for me, just starting for an unknown place
to meet an unknown man. But everyone seemed so kind-hearted, and so
sorrowful, and so sympathetic that I could not but be touched.
I shall never forget the last glimpse which I had of the inn yard and
its crowd of picturesque figures, all crossing themselves, as they
stood round the wide archway, with its background of rich foliage of
oleander and orange trees in green tubs clustered in the centre of the
yard.
Then our driver, whose wide linen drawers covered the whole front of
the boxseat,--"gotza" they call them--cracked his big whip over his
four small horses, which ran abreast, and we set off on our journey.
I soon lost sight and recollection of ghostly fears in the beauty of
the scene as we drove along, although had I known the language, or
rather languages, which my fellow-passengers were speaking, I might
not have been able to throw them off so easily. Before us lay a green
sloping land full of forests and woods, with here and there steep
hills, crowned with clumps of trees or with farmhouses, the blank
gable end to the road. There was everywhere a bewildering mass of
fruit blossom--apple, plum, pear, cherry. And as we drove by I could
see the green grass under the trees spangled with the fallen petals.
In and out amongst these green hills of what they call here the
"Mittel Land" ran the road, losing itself as it swept round the grassy
curve, or was shut out by the straggling ends of pine woods, which
here and there ran down the hillsides like tongues of flame. The road
was rugged, but still we seemed to fly over it with a feverish haste.
I could not understand then what the haste meant, but the driver was
evidently bent on losing no time in reaching Borgo Prund. I was told
that this road is in summertime excellent, but that it had not yet
been put in order after the winter snows. In this respect it is
different from the general run of roads in the Carpathians, for it is
an old tradition that they are not to be kept in too good order. Of
old the Hospadars would not repair them, lest the Turk should think
that they were preparing to bring in foreign troops, and so hasten the
war which was always really at loading point.
Beyond the green swelling hills of the Mittel Land rose mighty slopes
of forest up to the lofty steeps of the Carpathians themselves. Right
and left of us they towered, with the afternoon sun falling full upon
them and bringing out all the glorious colours of this beautiful
range, deep blue and purple in the shadows of the peaks, green and
brown where grass and rock mingled, and an endless perspective of
jagged rock and pointed crags, till these were themselves lost in the
distance, where the snowy peaks rose grandly. Here and there seemed
mighty rifts in the mountains, through which, as the sun began to
sink, we saw now and again the white gleam of falling water. One of
my companions touched my arm as we swept round the base of a hill and
opened up the lofty, snow-covered peak of a mountain, which seemed, as
we wound on our serpentine way, to be right before us.
"Look! Isten szek!"--"God's seat!"--and he crossed himself reverently.
As we wound on our endless way, and the sun sank lower and lower
behind us, the shadows of the evening began to creep round us. This
was emphasized by the fact that the snowy mountain-top still held the
sunset, and seemed to glow out with a delicate cool pink. Here and
there we passed Cszeks and slovaks, all in picturesque attire, but I
noticed that goitre was painfully prevalent. By the roadside were
many crosses, and as we swept by, my companions all crossed
themselves. Here and there was a peasant man or woman kneeling before
a shrine, who did not even turn round as we approached, but seemed in
the self-surrender of devotion to have neither eyes nor ears for the
outer world. There were many things new to me. For instance,
hay-ricks in the trees, and here and there very beautiful masses of
weeping birch, their white stems shining like silver through the
delicate green of the leaves.
Now and again we passed a leiter-wagon--the ordinary peasants's
cart--with its long, snakelike vertebra, calculated to suit the
inequalities of the road. On this were sure to be seated quite a
group of homecoming peasants, the Cszeks with their white, and the
Slovaks with their coloured sheepskins, the latter carrying
lance-fashion their long staves, with axe at end. As the evening fell
it began to get very cold, and the growing twilight seemed to merge
into one dark mistiness the gloom of the trees, oak, beech, and pine,
though in the valleys which ran deep between the spurs of the hills,
as we ascended through the Pass, the dark firs stood out here and
there against the background of late-lying snow. Sometimes, as the
road was cut through the pine woods that seemed in the darkness to be
closing down upon us, great masses of greyness which here and there
bestrewed the trees, produced a peculiarly weird and solemn effect,
which carried on the thoughts and grim fancies engendered earlier in
the evening, when the falling sunset threw into strange relief the
ghost-like clouds which amongst the Carpathians seem to wind
ceaselessly through the valleys. Sometimes the hills were so steep
that, despite our driver's haste, the horses could only go slowly. I
wished to get down and walk up them, as we do at home, but the driver
would not hear of it. "No, no," he said. "You must not walk here.
The dogs are too fierce." And then he added, with what he evidently
meant for grim pleasantry--for he looked round to catch the approving
smile of the rest--"And you may have enough of such matters before you
go to sleep." The only stop he would make was a moment's pause to
light his lamps.
When it grew dark there seemed to be some excitement amongst the
passengers, and they kept speaking to him, one after the other, as
though urging him to further speed. He lashed the horses unmercifully
with his long whip, and with wild cries of encouragement urged them on
to further exertions. Then through the darkness I could see a sort of
patch of grey light ahead of us, as though there were a cleft in the
hills. The excitement of the passengers grew greater. The crazy
coach rocked on its great leather springs, and swayed like a boat
tossed on a stormy sea. I had to hold on. The road grew more level,
and we appeared to fly along. Then the mountains seemed to come
nearer to us on each side and to frown down upon us. We were entering
on the Borgo Pass. One by one several of the passengers offered me
gifts, which they pressed upon me with an earnestness which would take
no denial. These were certainly of an odd and varied kind, but each
was given in simple good faith, with a kindly word, and a blessing,
and that same strange mixture of fear-meaning movements which I had
seen outside the hotel at Bistritz--the sign of the cross and the
guard against the evil eye. Then, as we flew along, the driver leaned
forward, and on each side the passengers, craning over the edge of the
coach, peered eagerly into the darkness. It was evident that
something very exciting was either happening or expected, but though I
asked each passenger, no one would give me the slightest explanation.
This state of excitement kept on for some little time. And at last we
saw before us the Pass opening out on the eastern side. There were
dark, rolling clouds overhead, and in the air the heavy, oppressive
sense of thunder. It seemed as though the mountain range had
separated two atmospheres, and that now we had got into the thunderous
one. I was now myself looking out for the conveyance which was to
take me to the Count. Each moment I expected to see the glare of
lamps through the blackness, but all was dark. The only light was the
flickering rays of our own lamps, in which the steam from our
hard-driven horses rose in a white cloud. We could see now the sandy
road lying white before us, but there was on it no sign of a vehicle.
The passengers drew back with a sigh of gladness, which seemed to mock
my own disappointment. I was already thinking what I had best do,
when the driver, looking at his watch, said to the others something
which I could hardly hear, it was spoken so quietly and in so low a
tone, I thought it was "An hour less than the time." Then turning to
me, he spoke in German worse than my own.
"There is no carriage here. The Herr is not expected after all. He
will now come on to Bukovina, and return tomorrow or the next day,
better the next day." Whilst he was speaking the horses began to
neigh and snort and plunge wildly, so that the driver had to hold them
up. Then, amongst a chorus of screams from the peasants and a
universal crossing of themselves, a caleche, with four horses, drove
up behind us, overtook us, and drew up beside the coach. I could see
from the flash of our lamps as the rays fell on them, that the horses
were coal-black and splendid animals. They were driven by a tall man,
with a long brown beard and a great black hat, which seemed to hide
his face from us. I could only see the gleam of a pair of very bright
eyes, which seemed red in the lamplight, as he turned to us.
He said to the driver, "You are early tonight, my friend."
The man stammered in reply, "The English Herr was in a hurry."
To which the stranger replied, "That is why, I suppose, you wished him
to go on to Bukovina. You cannot deceive me, my friend. I know too
much, and my horses are swift."
As he spoke he smiled, and the lamplight fell on a hard-looking mouth,
with very red lips and sharp-looking teeth, as white as ivory. One of
my companions whispered to another the line from Burger's "Lenore".
"Denn die Todten reiten Schnell." ("For the dead travel fast.")
The strange driver evidently heard the words, for he looked up with a
gleaming smile. The passenger turned his face away, at the same time
putting out his two fingers and crossing himself. "Give me the Herr's
luggage," said the driver, and with exceeding alacrity my bags were
handed out and put in the caleche. Then I descended from the side of
the coach, as the caleche was close alongside, the driver helping me
with a hand which caught my arm in a grip of steel. His strength must
have been prodigious.
Without a word he shook his reins, the horses turned, and we swept
into the darkness of the pass. As I looked back I saw the steam from
the horses of the coach by the light of the lamps, and projected
against it the figures of my late companions crossing themselves.
Then the driver cracked his whip and called to his horses, and off
they swept on their way to Bukovina. As they sank into the darkness I
felt a strange chill, and a lonely feeling come over me. But a cloak
was thrown over my shoulders, and a rug across my knees, and the
driver said in excellent German--"The night is chill, mein Herr, and
my master the Count bade me take all care of you. There is a flask of
slivovitz (the plum brandy of the country) underneath the seat, if you
should require it."
I did not take any, but it was a comfort to know it was there all the
same. I felt a little strangely, and not a little frightened. I
think had there been any alternative I should have taken it, instead
of prosecuting that unknown night journey. The carriage went at a
hard pace straight along, then we made a complete turn and went along
another straight road. It seemed to me that we were simply going over
and over the same ground again, and so I took note of some salient
point, and found that this was so. I would have liked to have asked
the driver what this all meant, but I really feared to do so, for I
thought that, placed as I was, any protest would have had no effect in
case there had been an intention to delay.
By-and-by, however, as I was curious to know how time was passing, I
struck a match, and by its flame looked at my watch. It was within a
few minutes of midnight. This gave me a sort of shock, for I suppose
the general superstition about midnight was increased by my recent
experiences. I waited with a sick feeling of suspense.
Then a dog began to howl somewhere in a farmhouse far down the road, a
long, agonized wailing, as if from fear. The sound was taken up by
another dog, and then another and another, till, borne on the wind
which now sighed softly through the Pass, a wild howling began, which
seemed to come from all over the country, as far as the imagination
could grasp it through the gloom of the night.
At the first howl the horses began to strain and rear, but the driver
spoke to them soothingly, and they quieted down, but shivered and
sweated as though after a runaway from sudden fright. Then, far off
in the distance, from the mountains on each side of us began a louder
and a sharper howling, that of wolves, which affected both the horses
and myself in the same way. For I was minded to jump from the caleche
and run, whilst they reared again and plunged madly, so that the
driver had to use all his great strength to keep them from bolting.
In a few minutes, however, my own ears got accustomed to the sound,
and the horses so far became quiet that the driver was able to descend
and to stand before them.
He petted and soothed them, and whispered something in their ears, as
I have heard of horse-tamers doing, and with extraordinary effect, for
under his caresses they became quite manageable again, though they
still trembled. The driver again took his seat, and shaking his
reins, started off at a great pace. This time, after going to the far
side of the Pass, he suddenly turned down a narrow roadway which ran
sharply to the right.
Soon we were hemmed in with trees, which in places arched right over
the roadway till we passed as through a tunnel. And again great
frowning rocks guarded us boldly on either side. Though we were in
shelter, we could hear the rising wind, for it moaned and whistled
through the rocks, and the branches of the trees crashed together as
we swept along. It grew colder and colder still, and fine, powdery
snow began to fall, so that soon we and all around us were covered
with a white blanket. The keen wind still carried the howling of the
dogs, though this grew fainter as we went on our way. The baying of
the wolves sounded nearer and nearer, as though they were closing
round on us from every side. I grew dreadfully afraid, and the horses
shared my fear. The driver, however, was not in the least disturbed.
He kept turning his head to left and right, but I could not see
anything through the darkness.
Suddenly, away on our left I saw a faint flickering blue flame. The
driver saw it at the same moment. He at once checked the horses, and,
jumping to the ground, disappeared into the darkness. I did not know
what to do, the less as the howling of the wolves grew closer. But
while I wondered, the driver suddenly appeared again, and without a
word took his seat, and we resumed our journey. I think I must have
fallen asleep and kept dreaming of the incident, for it seemed to be
repeated endlessly, and now looking back, it is like a sort of awful
nightmare. Once the flame appeared so near the road, that even in the
darkness around us I could watch the driver's motions. He went
rapidly to where the blue flame arose, it must have been very faint,
for it did not seem to illumine the place around it at all, and
gathering a few stones, formed them into some device.
Once there appeared a strange optical effect. When he stood between
me and the flame he did not obstruct it, for I could see its ghostly
flicker all the same. This startled me, but as the effect was only
momentary, I took it that my eyes deceived me straining through the
darkness. Then for a time there were no blue flames, and we sped
onwards through the gloom, with the howling of the wolves around us,
as though they were following in a moving circle.
At last there came a time when the driver went further afield than he
had yet gone, and during his absence, the horses began to tremble
worse than ever and to snort and scream with fright. I could not see
any cause for it, for the howling of the wolves had ceased altogether.
But just then the moon, sailing through the black clouds, appeared
behind the jagged crest of a beetling, pine-clad rock, and by its
light I saw around us a ring of wolves, with white teeth and lolling
red tongues, with long, sinewy limbs and shaggy hair. They were a
hundred times more terrible in the grim silence which held them than
even when they howled. For myself, I felt a sort of paralysis of
fear. It is only when a man feels himself face to face with such
horrors that he can understand their true import.
All at once the wolves began to howl as though the moonlight had had
some peculiar effect on them. The horses jumped about and reared, and
looked helplessly round with eyes that rolled in a way painful to
see. But the living ring of terror encompassed them on every side,
and they had perforce to remain within it. I called to the coachman
to come, for it seemed to me that our only chance was to try to break
out through the ring and to aid his approach, I shouted and beat the
side of the caleche, hoping by the noise to scare the wolves from the
side, so as to give him a chance of reaching the trap. How he came
there, I know not, but I heard his voice raised in a tone of imperious
command, and looking towards the sound, saw him stand in the roadway.
As he swept his long arms, as though brushing aside some impalpable
obstacle, the wolves fell back and back further still. Just then a
heavy cloud passed across the face of the moon, so that we were again
in darkness.
When I could see again the driver was climbing into the caleche, and
the wolves disappeared. This was all so strange and uncanny that a
dreadful fear came upon me, and I was afraid to speak or move. The
time seemed interminable as we swept on our way, now in almost
complete darkness, for the rolling clouds obscured the moon.
We kept on ascending, with occasional periods of quick descent, but in
the main always ascending. Suddenly, I became conscious of the fact
that the driver was in the act of pulling up the horses in the
courtyard of a vast ruined castle, from whose tall black windows came
no ray of light, and whose broken battlements showed a jagged line
against the sky.
CHAPTER 2
Jonathan Harker's Journal Continued
5 May.--I must have been asleep, for certainly if I had been fully
awake I must have noticed the approach of such a remarkable place. In
the gloom the courtyard looked of considerable size, and as several
dark ways led from it under great round arches, it perhaps seemed
bigger than it really is. I have not yet been able to see it by
daylight.
When the caleche stopped, the driver jumped down and held out his hand
to assist me to alight. Again I could not but notice his prodigious
strength. His hand actually seemed like a steel vice that could have
crushed mine if he had chosen. Then he took my traps, and placed them
on the ground beside me as I stood close to a great door, old and
studded with large iron nails, and set in a projecting doorway of
massive stone. I could see even in the dim light that the stone was
massively carved, but that the carving had been much worn by time and
weather. As I stood, the driver jumped again into his seat and shook
the reins. The horses started forward, and trap and all disappeared
down one of the dark openings.
I stood in silence where I was, for I did not know what to do. Of
bell or knocker there was no sign. Through these frowning walls and
dark window openings it was not likely that my voice could penetrate.
The time I waited seemed endless, and I felt doubts and fears crowding
upon me. What sort of place had I come to, and among what kind of
people? What sort of grim adventure was it on which I had embarked?
Was this a customary incident in the life of a solicitor's clerk sent
out to explain the purchase of a London estate to a foreigner?
Solicitor's clerk! Mina would not like that. Solicitor, for just
before leaving London I got word that my examination was successful,
and I am now a full-blown solicitor! I began to rub my eyes and pinch
myself to see if I were awake. It all seemed like a horrible
nightmare to me, and I expected that I should suddenly awake, and find
myself at home, with the dawn struggling in through the windows, as I
had now and again felt in the morning after a day of overwork. But my
flesh answered the pinching test, and my eyes were not to be
deceived. I was indeed awake and among the Carpathians. All I could
do now was to be patient, and to wait the coming of morning.
Just as I had come to this conclusion I heard a heavy step approaching
behind the great door, and saw through the chinks the gleam of a
coming light. Then there was the sound of rattling chains and the
clanking of massive bolts drawn back. A key was turned with the loud
grating noise of long disuse, and the great door swung back.
Within, stood a tall old man, clean shaven save for a long white
moustache, and clad in black from head to foot, without a single speck
of colour about him anywhere. He held in his hand an antique silver
lamp, in which the flame burned without a chimney or globe of any
kind, throwing long quivering shadows as it flickered in the draught
of the open door. The old man motioned me in with his right hand with
a courtly gesture, saying in excellent English, but with a strange
intonation.
"Welcome to my house! Enter freely and of your own free will!" He
made no motion of stepping to meet me, but stood like a statue, as
though his gesture of welcome had fixed him into stone. The instant,
however, that I had stepped over the threshold, he moved impulsively
forward, and holding out his hand grasped mine with a strength which
made me wince, an effect which was not lessened by the fact that it
seemed cold as ice, more like the hand of a dead than a living man.
Again he said.
"Welcome to my house! Enter freely. Go safely, and leave something
of the happiness you bring!" The strength of the handshake was so
much akin to that which I had noticed in the driver, whose face I had
not seen, that for a moment I doubted if it were not the same person
to whom I was speaking. So to make sure, I said interrogatively,
"Count Dracula?"
He bowed in a courtly way as he replied, "I am Dracula, and I bid you
welcome, Mr. Harker, to my house. Come in, the night air is chill,
and you must need to eat and rest." As he was speaking, he put the lamp
on a bracket on the wall, and stepping out, took my luggage. He had
carried it in before I could forestall him. I protested, but he
insisted.
"Nay, sir, you are my guest. It is late, and my people are not
available. Let me see to your comfort myself." He insisted on carrying
my traps along the passage, and then up a great winding stair, and
along another great passage, on whose stone floor our steps rang
heavily. At the end of this he threw open a heavy door, and I
rejoiced to see within a well-lit room in which a table was spread for
supper, and on whose mighty hearth a great fire of logs, freshly
replenished, flamed and flared.
The Count halted, putting down my bags, closed the door, and crossing
the room, opened another door, which led into a small octagonal room
lit by a single lamp, and seemingly without a window of any sort.
Passing through this, he opened another door, and motioned me to
enter. It was a welcome sight. For here was a great bedroom well
lighted and warmed with another log fire, also added to but lately,
for the top logs were fresh, which sent a hollow roar up the wide
chimney. The Count himself left my luggage inside and withdrew,
saying, before he closed the door.
"You will need, after your journey, to refresh yourself by making your
toilet. I trust you will find all you wish. When you are ready, come
into the other room, where you will find your supper prepared."
The light and warmth and the Count's courteous welcome seemed to have
dissipated all my doubts and fears. Having then reached my normal
state, I discovered that I was half famished with hunger. So making a
hasty toilet, I went into the other room.
I found supper already laid out. My host, who stood on one side of
the great fireplace, leaning against the stonework, made a graceful
wave of his hand to the table, and said,
"I pray you, be seated and sup how you please. You will I trust,
excuse me that I do not join you, but I have dined already, and I do
not sup."
I handed to him the sealed letter which Mr. Hawkins had entrusted to
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 must regret that an attack of gout, from which malady I am a
constant sufferer, forbids absolutely any travelling on my part for
some time to come. But I am happy to say I can send a sufficient
substitute, one in whom I have every possible confidence. He is a
young man, full of energy and talent in his own way, and of a very
faithful disposition. He is discreet and silent, and has grown into
manhood in my service. He shall be ready to attend on you when you
will during his stay, and shall take your instructions in all
matters."
The count himself came forward and took off the cover of a dish, and I
fell to at once on an excellent roast chicken. This, with some cheese
and a salad and a bottle of old tokay, of which I had two glasses, was
my supper. During the time I was eating it the Count asked me many
questions as to my journey, and I told him by degrees all I had
experienced.
By this time I had finished my supper, and by my host's desire had
drawn up a chair by the fire and begun to smoke a cigar which he
offered me, at the same time excusing himself that he did not smoke.
I had now an opportunity of observing him, and found him of a very
marked physiognomy.
His face was a strong, a very strong, aquiline, with high bridge of
the thin nose and peculiarly arched nostrils, with lofty domed
forehead, and hair growing scantily round the temples but profusely
elsewhere. His eyebrows were very massive, almost meeting over the
nose, and with bushy hair that seemed to curl in its own profusion.
The mouth, so far as I could see it under the heavy moustache, was
fixed and rather cruel-looking, with peculiarly sharp white teeth.
These protruded over the lips, whose remarkable ruddiness showed
astonishing vitality in a man of his years. For the rest, his ears
were pale, and at the tops extremely pointed. The chin was broad and
strong, and the cheeks firm though thin. The general effect was one
of extraordinary pallor.
Hitherto I had noticed the backs of his hands as they lay on his knees
in the firelight, and they had seemed rather white and fine. But
seeing them now close to me, I could not but notice that they were
rather coarse, broad, with squat fingers. Strange to say, there were
hairs in the centre of the palm. The nails were long and fine, and
cut to a sharp point. As the Count leaned over me and his hands
touched me, I could not repress a shudder. It may have been that his
breath was rank, but a horrible feeling of nausea came over me, which,
do what I would, I could not conceal.
The Count, evidently noticing it, drew back. And with a grim sort of
smile, which showed more than he had yet done his protruberant teeth,
sat himself down again on his own side of the fireplace. We were both
silent for a while, and as I looked towards the window I saw the first
dim streak of the coming dawn. There seemed a strange stillness over
everything. But as I listened, I heard as if from down below in the
valley the howling of many wolves. The Count's eyes gleamed, and he
said.
"Listen to them, the children of the night. What music they make!"
Seeing, I suppose, some expression in my face strange to him, he
added, "Ah, sir, you dwellers in the city cannot enter into the
feelings of the hunter." Then he rose and said.
"But you must be tired. Your bedroom is all ready, and tomorrow you
shall sleep as late as you will. I have to be away till the
afternoon, so sleep well and dream well!" With a courteous bow, he
opened for me himself the door to the octagonal room, and I entered my
bedroom.
I am all in a sea of wonders. I doubt. I fear. I think strange
things, which I dare not confess to my own soul. God keep me, if only
for the sake of those dear to me!
7 May.--It is again early morning, but I have rested and enjoyed the
last twenty-four hours. I slept till late in the day, and awoke of my
own accord. When I had dressed myself I went into the room where we
had supped, and found a cold breakfast laid out, with coffee kept hot
by the pot being placed on the hearth. There was a card on the table,
on which was written--"I have to be absent for a while. Do not wait
for me. D." I set to and enjoyed a hearty meal. When I had done, I
looked for a bell, so that I might let the servants know I had
finished, but I could not find one. There are certainly odd
deficiencies in the house, considering the extraordinary evidences of
wealth which are round me. The table service is of gold, and so
beautifully wrought that it must be of immense value. The curtains
and upholstery of the chairs and sofas and the hangings of my bed are
of the costliest and most beautiful fabrics, and must have been of
fabulous value when they were made, for they are centuries old, though
in excellent order. I saw something like them in Hampton Court, but
they were worn and frayed and moth-eaten. But still in none of the
rooms is there a mirror. There is not even a toilet glass on my
table, and I had to get the little shaving glass from my bag before I
could either shave or brush my hair. I have not yet seen a servant
anywhere, or heard a sound near the castle except the howling of
wolves. Some time after I had finished my meal, I do not know whether
to call it breakfast or dinner, for it was between five and six
o'clock when I had it, I looked about for something to read, for I did
not like to go about the castle until I had asked the Count's
permission. There was absolutely nothing in the room, book,
newspaper, or even writing materials, so I opened another door in the
room and found a sort of library. The door opposite mine I tried, but
found locked.
In the library I found, to my great delight, a vast number of English
books, whole shelves full of them, and bound volumes of magazines and
newspapers. A table in the centre was littered with English magazines
and newspapers, though none of them were of very recent date. The
books were of the most varied kind, history, geography, politics,
political economy, botany, geology, law, all relating to England and
English life and customs and manners. There were even such books of
reference as the London Directory, the "Red" and "Blue" books,
Whitaker's Almanac, the Army and Navy Lists, and it somehow gladdened
my heart to see it, the Law List.
Whilst I was looking at the books, the door opened, and the Count
entered. He saluted me in a hearty way, and hoped that I had had a
good night's rest. Then he went on.
"I am glad you found your way in here, for I am sure there is much
that will interest you. These companions," and he laid his hand on
some of the books, "have been good friends to me, and for some years
past, ever since I had the idea of going to London, have given me
many, many hours of pleasure. Through them I have come to know your
great England, and to know her is to love her. I long to go through
the crowded streets of your mighty London, to be in the midst of the
whirl and rush of humanity, to share its life, its change, its death,
and all that makes it what it is. But alas! As yet I only know your
tongue through books. To you, my friend, I look that I know it to
speak."
"But, Count," I said, "You know and speak English thoroughly!" He
bowed gravely.
"I thank you, my friend, for your all too-flattering estimate, but yet
I fear that I am but a little way on the road I would travel. True, I
know the grammar and the words, but yet I know not how to speak them."
"Indeed," I said, "You speak excellently."
"Not so," he answered. "Well, I know that, did I move and speak in
your London, none there are who would not know me for a stranger. That
is not enough for me. Here I am noble. I am a Boyar. The common
people know me, and I am master. But a stranger in a strange land, he
is no one. Men know him not, and to know not is to care not for. I
am content if I am like the rest, so that no man stops if he sees me,
or pauses in his speaking if he hears my words, `Ha, ha! A stranger!'
I have been so long master that I would be master still, or at least
that none other should be master of me. You come to me not alone as
agent of my friend Peter Hawkins, of Exeter, to tell me all about my
new estate in London. You shall, I trust, rest here with me a while,
so that by our talking I may learn the English intonation. And I
would that you tell me when I make error, even of the smallest, in my
speaking. I am sorry that I had to be away so long today, but you
will, I know forgive one who has so many important affairs in hand."
Of course I said all I could about being willing, and asked if I might
come into that room when I chose. He answered, "Yes, certainly," and
added.
"You may go anywhere you wish in the castle, except where the doors
are locked, where of course you will not wish to go. There is reason
that all things are as they are, and did you see with my eyes and know
with my knowledge, you would perhaps better understand." I said I was
sure of this, and then he went on.
"We are in Transylvania, and Transylvania is not England. Our ways
are not your ways, and there shall be to you many strange things. Nay,
from what you have told me of your experiences already, you know
something of what strange things there may be."
This led to much conversation, and as it was evident that he wanted to
talk, if only for talking's sake, I asked him many questions regarding
things that had already happened to me or come within my notice.
Sometimes he sheered off the subject, or turned the conversation by
pretending not to understand, but generally he answered all I asked
most frankly. Then as time went on, and I had got somewhat bolder, I
asked him of some of the strange things of the preceding night, as for
instance, why the coachman went to the places where he had seen the
blue flames. He then explained to me that it was commonly believed
that on a certain night of the year, last night, in fact, when all
evil spirits are supposed to have unchecked sway, a blue flame is seen
over any place where treasure has been concealed.
"That treasure has been hidden," he went on, "in the region through
which you came last night, there can be but little doubt. For it was
the ground fought over for centuries by the Wallachian, the Saxon, and
the Turk. Why, there is hardly a foot of soil in all this region that
has not been enriched by the blood of men, patriots or invaders. In
the old days there were stirring times, when the Austrian and the
Hungarian came up in hordes, and the patriots went out to meet them,
men and women, the aged and the children too, and waited their coming
on the rocks above the passes, that they might sweep destruction on
them with their artificial avalanches. When the invader was
triumphant he found but little, for whatever there was had been
sheltered in the friendly soil."
"But how," said I, "can it have remained so long undiscovered, when
there is a sure index to it if men will but take the trouble to look?
"The Count smiled, and as his lips ran back over his gums, the long,
sharp, canine teeth showed out strangely. He answered.
"Because your peasant is at heart a coward and a fool! Those flames
only appear on one night, and on that night no man of this land will,
if he can help it, stir without his doors. And, dear sir, even if he
did he would not know what to do. Why, even the peasant that you tell
me of who marked the place of the flame would not know where to look
in daylight even for his own work. Even you would not, I dare be
sworn, be able to find these places again?"
"There you are right," I said. "I know no more than the dead where
even to look for them." Then we drifted into other matters.
"Come," he said at last, "tell me of London and of the house which you
have procured for me." With an apology for my remissness, I went into
my own room to get the papers from my bag. Whilst I was placing them
in order I heard a rattling of china and silver in the next room, and
as I passed through, noticed that the table had been cleared and the
lamp lit, for it was by this time deep into the dark. The lamps were
also lit in the study or library, and I found the Count lying on the
sofa, reading, of all things in the world, an English Bradshaw's
Guide. When I came in he cleared the books and papers from the table,
and with him I went into plans and deeds and figures of all sorts. He
was interested in everything, and asked me a myriad questions about
the place and its surroundings. He clearly had studied beforehand all
he could get on the subject of the neighbourhood, for he evidently at
the end knew very much more than I did. When I remarked this, he
answered.
"Well, but, my friend, is it not needful that I should? When I go
there I shall be all alone, and my friend Harker Jonathan, nay, pardon
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 byroad, I came across just such a place as seemed
to be required, and where was displayed a dilapidated notice that the
place was for sale. It was surrounded by a high wall, of ancient
structure, built of heavy stones, and has not been repaired for a
large number of years. The closed gates are of heavy old oak and
iron, all eaten with rust.
"The estate is called Carfax, no doubt a corruption of the old Quatre
Face, as the house is four sided, agreeing with the cardinal points of
the compass. It contains in all some twenty acres, quite surrounded
by the solid stone wall above mentioned. There are many trees on it,
which make it in places gloomy, and there is a deep, dark-looking pond
or small lake, evidently fed by some springs, as the water is clear
and flows away in a fair-sized stream. The house is very large and of
all periods back, I should say, to mediaeval times, for one part is of
stone immensely thick, with only a few windows high up and heavily
barred with iron. It looks like part of a keep, and is close to an
old chapel or church. I could not enter it, as I had not the key of
the door leading to it from the house, but I have taken with my Kodak
views of it from various points. The house had been added to, but in
a very straggling way, and I can only guess at the amount of ground it
covers, which must be very great. There are but few houses close at
hand, one being a very large house only recently added to and formed
into a private lunatic asylum. It is not, however, visible from the
grounds."
When I had finished, he said, "I am glad that it is old and big. I
myself am of an old family, and to live in a new house would kill me.
A house cannot be made habitable in a day, and after all, how few days
go to make up a century. I rejoice also that there is a chapel of old
times. We Transylvanian nobles love not to think that our bones may
lie amongst the common dead. I seek not gaiety nor mirth, not the
bright voluptuousness of much sunshine and sparkling waters which
please the young and gay. I am no longer young, and my heart, through
weary years of mourning over the dead, is attuned to mirth. Moreover,
the walls of my castle are broken. The shadows are many, and the wind
breathes cold through the broken battlements and casements. I love
the shade and the shadow, and would be alone with my thoughts when I
may." Somehow his words and his look did not seem to accord, or else
it was that his cast of face made his smile look malignant and
saturnine.
Presently, with an excuse, he left me, asking me to pull my papers
together. He was some little time away, and I began to look at some
of the books around me. One was an atlas, which I found opened
naturally to England, as if that map had been much used. On looking
at it I found in certain places little rings marked, and on examining
these I noticed that one was near London on the east side, manifestly
where his new estate was situated. The other two were Exeter, and
Whitby on the Yorkshire coast.
It was the better part of an hour when the Count returned. "Aha!" he
said. "Still at your books? Good! But you must not work always.
Come! I am informed that your supper is ready." He took my arm, and
we went into the next room, where I found an excellent supper ready on
the table. The Count again excused himself, as he had dined out on
his being away from home. But he sat as on the previous night, and
chatted whilst I ate. After supper I smoked, as on the last evening,
and the Count stayed with me, chatting and asking questions on every
conceivable subject, hour after hour. I felt that it was getting very
late indeed, but I did not say anything, for I felt under obligation
to meet my host's wishes in every way. I was not sleepy, as the long
sleep yesterday had fortified me, but I could not help experiencing
that chill which comes over one at the coming of the dawn, which is
like, in its way, the turn of the tide. They say that people who are
near death die generally at the change to dawn or at the turn of the
tide. Anyone who has when tired, and tied as it were to his post,
experienced this change in the atmosphere can well believe it. All at
once we heard the crow of the cock coming up with preternatural
shrillness through the clear morning air.
Count Dracula, jumping to his feet, said, "Why there is the morning
again! How remiss I am to let you stay up so long. You must make
your conversation regarding my dear new country of England less
interesting, so that I may not forget how time flies by us," and with
a courtly bow, he quickly left me.
I went into my room and drew the curtains, but there was little to
notice. My window opened into the courtyard, all I could see was the
warm grey of quickening sky. So I pulled the curtains again, and have
written of this day.
8 May.--I began to fear as I wrote in this book that I was getting too
diffuse. But now I am glad that I went into detail from the first,
for there is something so strange about this place and all in it that
I cannot but feel uneasy. I wish I were safe out of it, or that I had
never come. It may be that this strange night existence is telling on
me, but would that that were all! If there were any one to talk to I
could bear it, but there is no one. I have only the Count to speak
with, and he--I fear I am myself the only living soul within the
place. Let me be prosaic so far as facts can be. It will help me to
bear up, and imagination must not run riot with me. If it does I am
lost. Let me say at once how I stand, or seem to.
I only slept a few hours when I went to bed, and feeling that I could
not sleep any more, got up. I had hung my shaving glass by the
window, and was just beginning to shave. Suddenly I felt a hand on my
shoulder, and heard the Count's voice saying to me, "Good morning." I
started, for it amazed me that I had not seen him, since the
reflection of the glass covered the whole room behind me. In starting
I had cut myself slightly, but did not notice it at the moment. Having
answered the Count's salutation, I turned to the glass again to see
how I had been mistaken. This time there could be no error, for the
man was close to me, and I could see him over my shoulder. But there
was no reflection of him in the mirror! The whole room behind me was
displayed, but there was no sign of a man in it, except myself.
This was startling, and coming on the top of so many strange things,
was beginning to increase that vague feeling of uneasiness which I
always have when the Count is near. But at the instant I saw that the
cut had bled a little, and the blood was trickling over my chin. I
laid down the razor, turning as I did so half round to look for some
sticking plaster. When the Count saw my face, his eyes blazed with a
sort of demoniac fury, and he suddenly made a grab at my throat. I
drew away and his hand touched the string of beads which held the
crucifix. It made an instant change in him, for the fury passed so
quickly that I could hardly believe that it was ever there.
"Take care," he said, "take care how you cut yourself. It is more
dangerous that you think in this country." Then seizing the shaving
glass, he went on, "And this is the wretched thing that has done the
mischief. It is a foul bauble of man's vanity. Away with it!" And
opening the window with one wrench of his terrible hand, he flung out
the glass, which was shattered into a thousand pieces on the stones of
the courtyard far below. Then he withdrew without a word. It is very
annoying, for I do not see how I am to shave, unless in my watch-case
or the bottom of the shaving pot, which is fortunately of metal.
When I went into the dining room, breakfast was prepared, but I could
not find the Count anywhere. So I breakfasted alone. It is strange
that as yet I have not seen the Count eat or drink. He must be a very
peculiar man! After breakfast I did a little exploring in the
castle. I went out on the stairs, and found a room looking towards
the South.
The view was magnificent, and from where I stood there was every
opportunity of seeing it. The castle is on the very edge of a
terrific precipice. A stone falling from the window would fall a
thousand feet without touching anything! As far as the eye can reach
is a sea of green tree tops, with occasionally a deep rift where there
is a chasm. Here and there are silver threads where the rivers wind
in deep gorges through the forests.
But I am not in heart to describe beauty, for when I had seen the view
I explored further. Doors, doors, doors everywhere, and all locked
and bolted. In no place save from the windows in the castle walls is
there an available exit. The castle is a veritable prison, and I am a
prisoner!
CHAPTER 3
Jonathan Harker's Journal Continued
When I found that I was a prisoner a sort of wild feeling came over
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 are no servants in the house. When later I saw
him through the chink of the hinges of the door laying the table in
the dining room, I was assured of it. For if he does himself all
these menial offices, surely it is proof that there is no one else in
the castle, it must have been the Count himself who was the driver of
the coach that brought me here. This is a terrible thought, for if
so, what does it mean that he could control the wolves, as he did, by
only holding up his hand for silence? How was it that all the people
at Bistritz and on the coach had some terrible fear for me? What
meant the giving of the crucifix, of the garlic, of the wild rose, of
the mountain ash?
Bless that good, good woman who hung the crucifix round my neck! For
it is a comfort and a strength to me whenever I touch it. It is odd
that a thing which I have been taught to regard with disfavour and as
idolatrous should in a time of loneliness and trouble be of help. Is
it that there is something in the essence of the thing itself, or that
it is a medium, a tangible help, in conveying memories of sympathy and
comfort? Some time, if it may be, I must examine this matter and try
to make up my mind about it. In the meantime I must find out all I
can about Count Dracula, as it may help me to understand. Tonight he
may talk of himself, if I turn the conversation that way. I must be
very careful, however, not to awake his suspicion.
Midnight.--I have had a long talk with the Count. I asked him a few
questions on Transylvania history, and he warmed up to the subject
wonderfully. In his speaking of things and people, and especially of
battles, he spoke as if he had been present at them all. This he
afterwards explained by saying that to a Boyar the pride of his house
and name is his own pride, that their glory is his glory, that their
fate is his fate. Whenever he spoke of his house he always said "we",
and spoke almost in the plural, like a king speaking. I wish I could
put down all he said exactly as he said it, for to me it was most
fascinating. It seemed to have in it a whole history of the country.
He grew excited as he spoke, and walked about the room pulling his
great white moustache and grasping anything on which he laid his hands
as though he would crush it by main strength. One thing he said which
I shall put down as nearly as I can, for it tells in its way the story
of his race.
"We Szekelys have a right to be proud, for in our veins flows the
blood of many brave races who fought as the lion fights, for lordship.
Here, in the whirlpool of European races, the Ugric tribe bore down
from Iceland the fighting spirit which Thor and Wodin gave them, which
their Berserkers displayed to such fell intent on the seaboards of
Europe, aye, and of Asia and Africa too, till the peoples thought that
the werewolves themselves had come. Here, too, when they came, they
found the Huns, whose warlike fury had swept the earth like a living
flame, till the dying peoples held that in their veins ran the blood
of those old witches, who, expelled from Scythia had mated with the
devils in the desert. Fools, fools! What devil or what witch was
ever so great as Attila, whose blood is in these veins?" He held up
his arms. "Is it a wonder that we were a conquering race, that we
were proud, that when the Magyar, the Lombard, the Avar, the Bulgar,
or the Turk poured his thousands on our frontiers, we drove them back?
Is it strange that when Arpad and his legions swept through the
Hungarian fatherland he found us here when he reached the frontier,
that the Honfoglalas was completed there? And when the Hungarian
flood swept eastward, the Szekelys were claimed as kindred by the
victorious Magyars, and to us for centuries was trusted the guarding
of the frontier of Turkeyland. Aye, and more than that, endless duty
of the frontier guard, for as the Turks say, `water sleeps, and the
enemy is sleepless.' Who more gladly than we throughout the Four
Nations received the `bloody sword,' or at its warlike call flocked
quicker to the standard of the King? When was redeemed that great
shame of my nation, the shame of Cassova, when the flags of the
Wallach and the Magyar went down beneath the Crescent? Who was it but
one of my own race who as Voivode crossed the Danube and beat the Turk
on his own ground? This was a Dracula indeed! Woe was it that his
own unworthy brother, when he had fallen, sold his people to the Turk
and brought the shame of slavery on them! Was it not this Dracula,
indeed, who inspired that other of his race who in a later age again
and again brought his forces over the great river into Turkeyland,
who, when he was beaten back, came again, and again, though he had to
come alone from the bloody field where his troops were being
slaughtered, since he knew that he alone could ultimately triumph!
They said that he thought only of himself. Bah! What good are
peasants without a leader? Where ends the war without a brain and
heart to conduct it? Again, when, after the battle of Mohacs, we
threw off the Hungarian yoke, we of the Dracula blood were amongst
their leaders, for our spirit would not brook that we were not free.
Ah, young sir, the Szekelys, and the Dracula as their heart's blood,
their brains, and their swords, can boast a record that mushroom
growths like the Hapsburgs and the Romanoffs can never reach. The
warlike days are over. Blood is too precious a thing in these days of
dishonourable peace, and the glories of the great races are as a tale
that is told."
It was by this time close on morning, and we went to bed. (Mem., this
diary seems horribly like the beginning of the "Arabian Nights," for
everything has to break off at cockcrow, or like the ghost of Hamlet's
father.)
12 May.--Let me begin with facts, bare, meager facts, verified by
books and figures, and of which there can be no doubt. I must not
confuse them with experiences which will have to rest on my own
observation, or my memory of them. Last evening when the Count came
from his room he began by asking me questions on legal matters and on
the doing of certain kinds of business. I had spent the day wearily
over books, and, simply to keep my mind occupied, went over some of
the matters I had been examined in at Lincoln's Inn. There was a
certain method in the Count's inquiries, so I shall try to put them
down in sequence. The knowledge may somehow or some time be useful to
me.
First, he asked if a man in England might have two solicitors or more.
I told him he might have a dozen if he wished, but that it would not
be wise to have more than one solicitor engaged in one transaction, as
only one could act at a time, and that to change would be certain to
militate against his interest. He seemed thoroughly to understand,
and went on to ask if there would be any practical difficulty in having
one man to attend, say, to banking, and another to look after
shipping, in case local help were needed in a place far from the home
of the banking solicitor. I asked to explain more fully, so that I
might not by any chance mislead him, so he said,
"I shall illustrate. Your friend and mine, Mr. Peter Hawkins, from
under the shadow of your beautiful cathedral at Exeter, which is far
from London, buys for me through your good self my place at London.
Good! Now here let me say frankly, lest you should think it strange
that I have sought the services of one so far off from London instead
of some one resident there, that my motive was that no local interest
might be served save my wish only, and as one of London residence
might, perhaps, have some purpose of himself or friend to serve, I
went thus afield to seek my agent, whose labours should be only to my
interest. Now, suppose I, who have much of affairs, wish to ship
goods, say, to Newcastle, or Durham, or Harwich, or Dover, might it
not be that it could with more ease be done by consigning to one in
these ports?"
I answered that certainly it would be most easy, but that we
solicitors had a system of agency one for the other, so that local
work could be done locally on instruction from any solicitor, so that
the client, simply placing himself in the hands of one man, could have
his wishes carried out by him without further trouble.
"But," said he, "I could be at liberty to direct myself. Is it not
so?"
"Of course," I replied, and "Such is often done by men of business,
who do not like the whole of their affairs to be known by any one
person."
"Good!" he said, and then went on to ask about the means of making
consignments and the forms to be gone through, and of all sorts of
difficulties which might arise, but by forethought could be guarded
against. I explained all these things to him to the best of my
ability, and he certainly left me under the impression that he would
have made a wonderful solicitor, for there was nothing that he did not
think of or foresee. For a man who was never in the country, and who
did not evidently do much in the way of business, his knowledge and
acumen were wonderful. When he had satisfied himself on these points
of which he had spoken, and I had verified all as well as I could by
the books available, he suddenly stood up and said, "Have you written
since your first letter to our friend Mr. Peter Hawkins, or to any
other?"
It was with some bitterness in my heart that I answered that I had
not, that as yet I had not seen any opportunity of sending letters to
anybody.
"Then write now, my young friend," he said, laying a heavy hand on my
shoulder, "write to our friend and to any other, and say, if it will
please you, that you shall stay with me until a month from now."
"Do you wish me to stay so long?" I asked, for my heart grew cold at
the thought.
"I desire it much, nay I will take no refusal. When your master,
employer, what you will, engaged that someone should come on his
behalf, it was understood that my needs only were to be consulted. I
have not stinted. Is it not so?"
What could I do but bow acceptance? It was Mr. Hawkins' interest, not
mine, and I had to think of him, not myself, and besides, while Count
Dracula was speaking, there was that in his eyes and in his bearing
which made me remember that I was a prisoner, and that if I wished it
I could have no choice. The Count saw his victory in my bow, and his
mastery in the trouble of my face, for he began at once to use them,
but in his own smooth, resistless way.
"I pray you, my good young friend, that you will not discourse of
things other than business in your letters. It will doubtless please
your friends to know that you are well, and that you look forward to
getting home to them. Is it not so?" As he spoke he handed me three
sheets of note paper and three envelopes. They were all of the
thinnest foreign post, and looking at them, then at him, and noticing
his quiet smile, with the sharp, canine teeth lying over the red
underlip, I understood as well as if he had spoken that I should be
more careful what I wrote, for he would be able to read it. So I
determined to write only formal notes now, but to write fully to Mr.
Hawkins in secret, and also to Mina, for to her I could write
shorthand, which would puzzle the Count, if he did see it. When I had
written my two letters I sat quiet, reading a book whilst the Count
wrote several notes, referring as he wrote them to some books on his
table. Then he took up my two and placed them with his own, and put
by his writing materials, after which, the instant the door had closed
behind him, I leaned over and looked at the letters, which were face
down on the table. I felt no compunction in doing so for under the
circumstances I felt that I should protect myself in every way I
could.
One of the letters was directed to Samuel F. Billington, No. 7, The
Crescent, Whitby, another to Herr Leutner, Varna. The third was to
Coutts & Co., London, and the fourth to Herren Klopstock & Billreuth,
bankers, Buda Pesth. The second and fourth were unsealed. I was just
about to look at them when I saw the door handle move. I sank back in
my seat, having just had time to resume my book before the Count,
holding still another letter in his hand, entered the room. He took
up the letters on the table and stamped them carefully, and then
turning to me, said,
"I trust you will forgive me, but I have much work to do in private
this evening. You will, I hope, find all things as you wish." At the
door he turned, and after a moment's pause said, "Let me advise you,
my dear young friend. Nay, let me warn you with all seriousness, that
should you leave these rooms you will not by any chance go to sleep in
any other part of the castle. It is old, and has many memories, and
there are bad dreams for those who sleep unwisely. Be warned! Should
sleep now or ever overcome you, or be like to do, then haste to your
own chamber or to these rooms, for your rest will then be safe. But
if you be not careful in this respect, then," He finished his speech
in a gruesome way, for he motioned with his hands as if he were washing
them. I quite understood. My only doubt was as to whether any dream
could be more terrible than the unnatural, horrible net of gloom and
mystery which seemed closing around me.
Later.--I endorse the last words written, but this time there is no
doubt in question. I shall not fear to sleep in any place where he is
not. I have placed the crucifix over the head of my bed, I imagine
that my rest is thus freer from dreams, and there it shall remain.
When he left me I went to my room. After a little while, not hearing
any sound, I came out and went up the stone stair to where I could
look out towards the South. There was some sense of freedom in the
vast expanse, inaccessible though it was to me, as compared with the
narrow darkness of the courtyard. Looking out on this, I felt that I
was indeed in prison, and I seemed to want a breath of fresh air,
though it were of the night. I am beginning to feel this nocturnal
existence tell on me. It is destroying my nerve. I start at my own
shadow, and am full of all sorts of horrible imaginings. God knows
that there is ground for my terrible fear in this accursed place! I
looked out over the beautiful expanse, bathed in soft yellow moonlight
till it was almost as light as day. In the soft light the distant
hills became melted, and the shadows in the valleys and gorges of
velvety blackness. The mere beauty seemed to cheer me. There was
peace and comfort in every breath I drew. As I leaned from the window
my eye was caught by something moving a storey below me, and somewhat
to my left, where I imagined, from the order of the rooms, that the
windows of the Count's own room would look out. The window at which I
stood was tall and deep, stone-mullioned, and though weatherworn, was
still complete. But it was evidently many a day since the case had
been there. I drew back behind the stonework, and looked carefully
out.
What I saw was the Count's head coming out from the window. I did not
see the face, but I knew the man by the neck and the movement of his
back and arms. In any case I could not mistake the hands which I had
had some many opportunities of studying. I was at first interested
and somewhat amused, for it is wonderful how small a matter will
interest and amuse a man when he is a prisoner. But my very feelings
changed to repulsion and terror when I saw the whole man slowly emerge
from the window and begin to crawl down the castle wall over the
dreadful abyss, face down with his cloak spreading out around him like
great wings. At first I could not believe my eyes. I thought it was
some trick of the moonlight, some weird effect of shadow, but I kept
looking, and it could be no delusion. I saw the fingers and toes
grasp the corners of the stones, worn clear of the mortar by the
stress of years, and by thus using every projection and inequality
move downwards with considerable speed, just as a lizard moves along a
wall.
What manner of man is this, or what manner of creature, is it in the
semblance of man? I feel the dread of this horrible place
overpowering me. I am in fear, in awful fear, and there is no escape
for me. I am encompassed about with terrors that I dare not think of.
15 May.--Once more I have seen the count go out in his lizard fashion.
He moved downwards in a sidelong way, some hundred feet down, and a
good deal to the left. He vanished into some hole or window. When
his head had disappeared, I leaned out to try and see more, but
without avail. The distance was too great to allow a proper angle of
sight. I knew he had left the castle now, and thought to use the
opportunity to explore more than I had dared to do as yet. I went
back to the room, and taking a lamp, tried all the doors. They were
all locked, as I had expected, and the locks were comparatively new.
But I went down the stone stairs to the hall where I had entered
originally. I found I could pull back the bolts easily enough and
unhook the great chains. But the door was locked, and the key was
gone! That key must be in the Count's room. I must watch should his
door be unlocked, so that I may get it and escape. I went on to make
a thorough examination of the various stairs and passages, and to try
the doors that opened from them. One or two small rooms near the hall
were open, but there was nothing to see in them except old furniture,
dusty with age and moth-eaten. At last, however, I found one door at
the top of the stairway which, though it seemed locked, gave a little
under pressure. I tried it harder, and found that it was not really
locked, but that the resistance came from the fact that the hinges had
fallen somewhat, and the heavy door rested on the floor. Here was an
opportunity which I might not have again, so I exerted myself, and
with many efforts forced it back so that I could enter. I was now in
a wing of the castle further to the right than the rooms I knew and a
storey lower down. From the windows I could see that the suite of
rooms lay along to the south of the castle, the windows of the end
room looking out both west and south. On the latter side, as well as
to the former, there was a great precipice. The castle was built on
the corner of a great rock, so that on three sides it was quite
impregnable, and great windows were placed here where sling, or bow,
or culverin could not reach, and consequently light and comfort,
impossible to a position which had to be guarded, were secured. To
the west was a great valley, and then, rising far away, great jagged
mountain fastnesses, rising peak on peak, the sheer rock studded with
mountain ash and thorn, whose roots clung in cracks and crevices and
crannies of the stone. This was evidently the portion of the castle
occupied by the ladies in bygone days, for the furniture had more an
air of comfort than any I had seen.
The windows were curtainless, and the yellow moonlight, flooding in
through the diamond panes, enabled one to see even colours, whilst it
softened the wealth of dust which lay over all and disguised in some
measure the ravages of time and moth. My lamp seemed to be of little
effect in the brilliant moonlight, but I was glad to have it with me,
for there was a dread loneliness in the place which chilled my heart
and made my nerves tremble. Still, it was better than living alone in
the rooms which I had come to hate from the presence of the Count, and
after trying a little to school my nerves, I found a soft quietude
come over me. Here I am, sitting at a little oak table where in old
times possibly some fair lady sat to pen, with much thought and many
blushes, her ill-spelt love letter, and writing in my diary in
shorthand all that has happened since I closed it last. It is the
nineteenth century up-to-date with a vengeance. And yet, unless my
senses deceive me, the old centuries had, and have, powers of their
own which mere "modernity" cannot kill.
Later: The morning of 16 May.--God preserve my sanity, for to this I
am reduced. Safety and the assurance of safety are things of the
past. Whilst I live on here there is but one thing to hope for, that
I may not go mad, if, indeed, I be not mad already. If I be sane,
then surely it is maddening to think that of all the foul things that
lurk in this hateful place the Count is the least dreadful to me, that
to him alone I can look for safety, even though this be only whilst I
can serve his purpose. Great God! Merciful God, let me be calm, for
out of that way lies madness indeed. I begin to get new lights on
certain things which have puzzled me. Up to now I never quite knew
what Shakespeare meant when he made Hamlet say, "My tablets! Quick,
my tablets! `tis meet that I put it down," etc., For now, feeling as
though my own brain were unhinged or as if the shock had come which
must end in its undoing, I turn to my diary for repose. The habit of
entering accurately must help to soothe me.
The Count's mysterious warning frightened me at the time. It frightens
me more not when I think of it, for in the future he has a fearful
hold upon me. I shall fear to doubt what he may say!
When I had written in my diary and had fortunately replaced the book
and pen in my pocket I felt sleepy. The Count's warning came into my
mind, but I took pleasure in disobeying it. The sense of sleep was
upon me, and with it the obstinacy which sleep brings as outrider. The
soft moonlight soothed, and the wide expanse without gave a sense of
freedom which refreshed me. I determined not to return tonight to the
gloom-haunted rooms, but to sleep here, where, of old, ladies had sat
and sung and lived sweet lives whilst their gentle breasts were sad
for their menfolk away in the midst of remorseless wars. I drew a
great couch out of its place near the corner, so that as I lay, I
could look at the lovely view to east and south, and unthinking of and
uncaring for the dust, composed myself for sleep. I suppose I must
have fallen asleep. I hope so, but I fear, for all that followed was
startlingly real, so real that now sitting here in the broad, full
sunlight of the morning, I cannot in the least believe that it was all
sleep.
I was not alone. The room was the same, unchanged in any way since I
came into it. I could see along the floor, in the brilliant
moonlight, my own footsteps marked where I had disturbed the long
accumulation of dust. In the moonlight opposite me were three young
women, ladies by their dress and manner. I thought at the time that I
must be dreaming when I saw them, they threw no shadow on the floor.
They came close to me, and looked at me for some time, and then
whispered together. Two were dark, and had high aquiline noses, like
the Count, and great dark, piercing eyes, that seemed to be almost red
when contrasted with the pale yellow moon. The other was fair, as
fair as can be, with great masses of golden hair and eyes like pale
sapphires. I seemed somehow to know her face, and to know it in
connection with some dreamy fear, but I could not recollect at the
moment how or where. All three had brilliant white teeth that shone
like pearls against the ruby of their voluptuous lips. There was
something about them that made me uneasy, some longing and at the same
time some deadly fear. I felt in my heart a wicked, burning desire
that they would kiss me with those red lips. It is not good to note
this down, lest some day it should meet Mina's eyes and cause her
pain, but it is the truth. They whispered together, and then they all
three laughed, such a silvery, musical laugh, but as hard as though
the sound never could have come through the softness of human lips.
It was like the intolerable, tingling sweetness of waterglasses when
played on by a cunning hand. The fair girl shook her head
coquettishly, and the other two urged her on.
One said, "Go on! You are first, and we shall follow. Yours is the
right to begin."
The other added, "He is young and strong. There are kisses for us
all."
I lay quiet, looking out from under my eyelashes in an agony of
delightful anticipation. The fair girl advanced and bent over me till
I could feel the movement of her breath upon me. Sweet it was in one
sense, honey-sweet, and sent the same tingling through the nerves as
her voice, but with a bitter underlying the sweet, a bitter
offensiveness, as one smells in blood.
I was afraid to raise my eyelids, but looked out and saw perfectly
under the lashes. The girl went on her knees, and bent over me,
simply gloating. There was a deliberate voluptuousness which was both
thrilling and repulsive, and as she arched her neck she actually
licked her lips like an animal, till I could see in the moonlight the
moisture shining on the scarlet lips and on the red tongue as it
lapped the white sharp teeth. Lower and lower went her head as the
lips went below the range of my mouth and chin and seemed to fasten on
my throat. Then she paused, and I could hear the churning sound of
her tongue as it licked her teeth and lips, and I could feel the hot
breath on my neck. Then the skin of my throat began to tingle as
one's flesh does when the hand that is to tickle it approaches nearer,
nearer. I could feel the soft, shivering touch of the lips on the
super sensitive skin of my throat, and the hard dents of two sharp
teeth, just touching and pausing there. I closed my eyes in
languorous ecstasy and waited, waited with beating heart.
But at that instant, another sensation swept through me as quick as
lightning. I was conscious of the presence of the Count, and of his
being as if lapped in a storm of fury. As my eyes opened
involuntarily I saw his strong hand grasp the slender neck of the fair
woman and with giant's power draw it back, the blue eyes transformed
with fury, the white teeth champing with rage, and the fair cheeks
blazing red with passion. But the Count! Never did I imagine such
wrath and fury, even to the demons of the pit. His eyes were
positively blazing. The red light in them was lurid, as if the flames
of hell fire blazed behind them. His face was deathly pale, and the
lines of it were hard like drawn wires. The thick eyebrows that met
over the nose now seemed like a heaving bar of white-hot metal. With
a fierce sweep of his arm, he hurled the woman from him, and then
motioned to the others, as though he were beating them back. It was
the same imperious gesture that I had seen used to the wolves. In a
voice which, though low and almost in a whisper seemed to cut through
the air and then ring in the room he said,
"How dare you touch him, any of you? How dare you cast eyes on him
when I had forbidden it? Back, I tell you all! This man belongs to
me! Beware how you meddle with him, or you'll have to deal with me."
The fair girl, with a laugh of ribald coquetry, turned to answer him.
"You yourself never loved. You never love!" On this the other women
joined, and such a mirthless, hard, soulless laughter rang through the
room that it almost made me faint to hear. It seemed like the
pleasure of fiends.
Then the Count turned, after looking at my face attentively, and said
in a soft whisper, "Yes, I too can love. You yourselves can tell it
from the past. Is it not so? Well, now I promise you that when I am
done with him you shall kiss him at your will. Now go! Go! I must
awaken him, for there is work to be done."
"Are we to have nothing tonight?" said one of them, with a low laugh,
as she pointed to the bag which he had thrown upon the floor, and
which moved as though there were some living thing within it. For
answer he nodded his head. One of the women jumped forward and opened
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.
CHAPTER 4
Jonathan Harker's Journal Continued
I awoke in my own bed. If it be that I had not dreamt, the Count must
have carried me here. I tried to satisfy myself on the subject, but
could not arrive at any unquestionable result. To be sure, there were
certain small evidences, such as that my clothes were folded and laid
by in a manner which was not my habit. My watch was still unwound,
and I am rigorously accustomed to wind it the last thing before going
to bed, and many such details. But these things are no proof, for
they may have been evidences that my mind was not as usual, and, for
some cause or another, I had certainly been much upset. I must watch
for proof. Of one thing I am glad. If it was that the Count carried
me here and undressed me, he must have been hurried in his task, for
my pockets are intact. I am sure this diary would have been a mystery
to him which he would not have brooked. He would have taken or
destroyed it. As I look round this room, although it has been to me
so full of fear, it is now a sort of sanctuary, for nothing can be
more dreadful than those awful women, who were, who are, waiting to
suck my blood.
18 May.--I have been down to look at that room again in daylight, for
I must know the truth. When I got to the doorway at the top of the
stairs I found it closed. It had been so forcibly driven against the
jamb that part of the woodwork was splintered. I could see that the
bolt of the lock had not been shot, but the door is fastened from the
inside. I fear it was no dream, and must act on this surmise.
19 May.--I am surely in the toils. Last night the Count asked me in
the suavest tones to write three letters, one saying that my work here
was nearly done, and that I should start for home within a few days,
another that I was starting on the next morning from the time of the
letter, and the third that I had left the castle and arrived at
Bistritz. I would fain have rebelled, but felt that in the present
state of things it would be madness to quarrel openly with the Count
whilst I am so absolutely in his power. And to refuse would be to
excite his suspicion and to arouse his anger. He knows that I know
too much, and that I must not live, lest I be dangerous to him. My
only chance is to prolong my opportunities. Something may occur which
will give me a chance to escape. I saw in his eyes something of that
gathering wrath which was manifest when he hurled that fair woman from
him. He explained to me that posts were few and uncertain, and that
my writing now would ensure ease of mind to my friends. And he
assured me with so much impressiveness that he would countermand the
later letters, which would be held over at Bistritz until due time in
case chance would admit of my prolonging my stay, that to oppose him
would have been to create new suspicion. I therefore pretended to
fall in with his views, and asked him what dates I should put on the
letters.
He calculated a minute, and then said, "The first should be June 12,
the second June 19, and the third June 29."
I know now the span of my life. God help me!
28 May.--There is a chance of escape, or at any rate of being able to
send word home. A band of Szgany have come to the castle, and are
encamped in the courtyard. These are gipsies. I have notes of them
in my book. They are peculiar to this part of the world, though
allied to the ordinary gipsies all the world over. There are
thousands of them in Hungary and Transylvania, who are almost outside
all law. They attach themselves as a rule to some great noble or
boyar, and call themselves by his name. They are fearless and without
religion, save superstition, and they talk only their own varieties of
the Romany tongue.
I shall write some letters home, and shall try to get them to have
them posted. I have already spoken to them through my window to begin
acquaintanceship. They took their hats off and made obeisance and
many signs, which however, I could not understand any more than I
could their spoken language . . .
I have written the letters. Mina's is in shorthand, and I simply ask
Mr. Hawkins to communicate with her. To her I have explained my
situation, but without the horrors which I may only surmise. It would
shock and frighten her to death were I to expose my heart to her.
Should the letters not carry, then the Count shall not yet know my
secret or the extent of my knowledge. . . .
I have given the letters. I threw them through the bars of my window
with a gold piece, and made what signs I could to have them posted.
The man who took them pressed them to his heart and bowed, and then
put them in his cap. I could do no more. I stole back to the study,
and began to read. As the Count did not come in, I have written
here . . .
The Count has come. He sat down beside me, and said in his smoothest
voice as he opened two letters, "The Szgany has given me these, of
which, though I know not whence they come, I shall, of course, take
care. See!"--He must have looked at it.--"One is from you, and to my
friend Peter Hawkins. The other,"--here he caught sight of the
strange symbols as he opened the envelope, and the dark look came into
his face, and his eyes blazed wickedly,--"The other is a vile thing,
an outrage upon friendship and hospitality! It is not signed. Well!
So it cannot matter to us." And he calmly held letter and envelope in
the flame of the lamp till they were consumed.
Then he went on, "The letter to Hawkins, that I shall, of course send
on, since it is yours. Your letters are sacred to me. Your pardon,
my friend, that unknowingly I did break the seal. Will you not cover
it again?" He held out the letter to me, and with a courteous bow
handed me a clean envelope.
I could only redirect it and hand it to him in silence. When he went
out of the room I could hear the key turn softly. A minute later I
went over and tried it, and the door was locked.
When, an hour or two after, the Count came quietly into the room, his
coming awakened me, for I had gone to sleep on the sofa. He was very
courteous and very cheery in his manner, and seeing that I had been
sleeping, he said, "So, my friend, you are tired? Get to bed. There
is the surest rest. I may not have the pleasure of talk tonight,
since there are many labours to me, but you will sleep, I pray."
I passed to my room and went to bed, and, strange to say, slept
without dreaming. Despair has its own calms.
31 May.--This morning when I woke I thought I would provide myself
with some papers and envelopes from my bag and keep them in my pocket,
so that I might write in case I should get an opportunity, but again a
surprise, again a shock!
Every scrap of paper was gone, and with it all my notes, my memoranda,
relating to railways and travel, my letter of credit, in fact all that
might be useful to me were I once outside the castle. I sat and
pondered awhile, and then some thought occurred to me, and I made
search of my portmanteau and in the wardrobe where I had placed my
clothes.
The suit in which I had travelled was gone, and also my overcoat and
rug. I could find no trace of them anywhere. This looked like some
new scheme of villainy . . .
17 June.--This morning, as I was sitting on the edge of my bed
cudgelling my brains, I heard without a crackling of whips and
pounding and scraping of horses' feet up the rocky path beyond the
courtyard. With joy I hurried to the window, and saw drive into the
yard two great leiter-wagons, each drawn by eight sturdy horses, and
at the head of each pair a Slovak, with his wide hat, great
nail-studded belt, dirty sheepskin, and high boots. They had also
their long staves in hand. I ran to the door, intending to descend
and try and join them through the main hall, as I thought that way
might be opened for them. Again a shock, my door was fastened on the
outside.
Then I ran to the window and cried to them. They looked up at me
stupidly and pointed, but just then the "hetman" of the Szgany came
out, and seeing them pointing to my window, said something, at which
they laughed.
Henceforth no effort of mine, no piteous cry or agonized entreaty,
would make them even look at me. They resolutely turned away. The
leiter-wagons contained great, square boxes, with handles of thick
rope. These were evidently empty by the ease with which the Slovaks
handled them, and by their resonance as they were roughly moved.
When they were all unloaded and packed in a great heap in one corner
of the yard, the Slovaks were given some money by the Szgany, and
spitting on it for luck, lazily went each to his horse's head.
Shortly afterwards, I heard the crackling of their whips die away in
the distance.
24 June.--Last night the Count left me early, and locked himself into
his own room. As soon as I dared I ran up the winding stair, and
looked out of the window, which opened South. I thought I would watch
for the Count, for there is something going on. The Szgany are
quartered somewhere in the castle and are doing work of some kind. I
know it, for now and then, I hear a far-away muffled sound as of
mattock and spade, and, whatever it is, it must be the end of some
ruthless villainy.
I had been at the window somewhat less than half an hour, when I saw
something coming out of the Count's window. I drew back and watched
carefully, and saw the whole man emerge. It was a new shock to me to
find that he had on the suit of clothes which I had worn whilst
travelling here, and slung over his shoulder the terrible bag which I
had seen the women take away. There could be no doubt as to his
quest, and in my garb, too! This, then, is his new scheme of evil,
that he will allow others to see me, as they think, so that he may
both leave evidence that I have been seen in the towns or villages
posting my own letters, and that any wickedness which he may do shall
by the local people be attributed to me.
It makes me rage to think that this can go on, and whilst I am shut up
here, a veritable prisoner, but without that protection of the law
which is even a criminal's right and consolation.
I thought I would watch for the Count's return, and for a long time
sat doggedly at the window. Then I began to notice that there were
some quaint little specks floating in the rays of the moonlight. They
were like the tiniest grains of dust, and they whirled round and
gathered in clusters in a nebulous sort of way. I watched them with a
sense of soothing, and a sort of calm stole over me. I leaned back in
the embrasure in a more comfortable position, so that I could enjoy
more fully the aerial gambolling.
Something made me start up, a low, piteous howling of dogs somewhere
far below in the valley, which was hidden from my sight. Louder it
seemed to ring in my ears, and the floating moats of dust to take new
shapes to the sound as they danced in the moonlight. I felt myself
struggling to awake to some call of my instincts. Nay, my very soul
was struggling, and my half-remembered sensibilities were striving to
answer the call. I was becoming hypnotised!
Quicker and quicker danced the dust. The moonbeams seemed to quiver
as they went by me into the mass of gloom beyond. More and more they
gathered till they seemed to take dim phantom shapes. And then I
started, broad awake and in full possession of my senses, and ran
screaming from the place.
The phantom shapes, which were becoming gradually materialised from
the moonbeams, were those three ghostly women to whom I was doomed.
I fled, and felt somewhat safer in my own room, where there was no
moonlight, and where the lamp was burning brightly.
When a couple of hours had passed I heard something stirring in the
Count's room, something like a sharp wail quickly suppressed. And
then there was silence, deep, awful silence, which chilled me. With a
beating heart, I tried the door, but I was locked in my prison, and
could do nothing. I sat down and simply cried.
As I sat I heard a sound in the courtyard without, the agonised cry of
a woman. I rushed to the window, and throwing it up, peered between
the bars.
There, indeed, was a woman with dishevelled hair, holding her hands
over her heart as one distressed with running. She was leaning
against the corner of the gateway. When she saw my face at the window
she threw herself forward, and shouted in a voice laden with menace,
"Monster, give me my child!"
She threw herself on her knees, and raising up her hands, cried the
same words in tones which wrung my heart. Then she tore her hair and
beat her breast, and abandoned herself to all the violences of
extravagant emotion. Finally, she threw herself forward, and though I
could not see her, I could hear the beating of her naked hands against
the door.
Somewhere high overhead, probably on the tower, I heard the voice of
the Count calling in his harsh, metallic whisper. His call seemed to
be answered from far and wide by the howling of wolves. Before many
minutes had passed a pack of them poured, like a pent-up dam when
liberated, through the wide entrance into the courtyard.
There was no cry from the woman, and the howling of the wolves was but
short. Before long they streamed away singly, licking their lips.
I could not pity her, for I knew now what had become of her child, and
she was better dead.
What shall I do? What can I do? How can I escape from this dreadful
thing of night, gloom, and fear?
25 June.--No man knows till he has suffered from the night how sweet
and dear to his heart and eye the morning can be. When the sun grew
so high this morning that it struck the top of the great gateway
opposite my window, the high spot which it touched seemed to me as if
the dove from the ark had lighted there. My fear fell from me as if
it had been a vaporous garment which dissolved in the warmth.
I must take action of some sort whilst the courage of the day is upon
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 this side. The stones are big and
roughly cut, and the mortar has by process of time been washed away
between them. I took off my boots, and ventured out on the desperate
way. I looked down once, so as to make sure that a sudden glimpse of
the awful depth would not overcome me, but after that kept my eyes
away from it. I know pretty well the direction and distance of the
Count's window, and made for it as well as I could, having regard to
the opportunities available. I did not feel dizzy, I suppose I was
too excited, and the time seemed ridiculously short till I found
myself standing on the window sill and trying to raise up the sash. I
was filled with agitation, however, when I bent down and slid feet
foremost in through the window. Then I looked around for the Count,
but with surprise and gladness, made a discovery. The room was
empty! It was barely furnished with odd things, which seemed to have
never been used.
The furniture was something the same style as that in the south rooms,
and was covered with dust. I looked for the key, but it was not in
the lock, and I could not find it anywhere. The only thing I found
was a great heap of gold in one corner, gold of all kinds, Roman, and
British, and Austrian, and Hungarian, and Greek and Turkish money,
covered with a film of dust, as though it had lain long in the ground.
None of it that I noticed was less than three hundred years old.
There were also chains and ornaments, some jewelled, but all of them
old and stained.
At one corner of the room was a heavy door. I tried it, for, since I
could not find the key of the room or the key of the outer door, which
was the main object of my search, I must make further examination, or
all my efforts would be in vain. It was open, and led through a stone
passage to a circular stairway, which went steeply down.
I descended, minding carefully where I went for the stairs were dark,
being only lit by loopholes in the heavy masonry. At the bottom there
was a dark, tunnel-like passage, through which came a deathly, sickly
odour, the odour of old earth newly turned. As I went through the
passage the smell grew closer and heavier. At last I pulled open a
heavy door which stood ajar, and found myself in an old ruined chapel,
which had evidently been used as a graveyard. The roof was broken,
and in two places were steps leading to vaults, but the ground had
recently been dug over, and the earth placed in great wooden boxes,
manifestly those which had been brought by the Slovaks.
There was nobody about, and I made a search over every inch of the
ground, so as not to lose a chance. I went down even into the vaults,
where the dim light struggled, although to do so was a dread to my
very soul. Into two of these I went, but saw nothing except fragments
of old coffins and piles of dust. In the third, however, I made a
discovery.
There, in one of the great boxes, of which there were fifty in all, on
a pile of newly dug earth, lay the Count! He was either dead or
asleep. I could not say which, for eyes were open and stony, but
without the glassiness of death, and the cheeks had the warmth of life
through all their pallor. The lips were as red as ever. But there
was no sign of movement, no pulse, no breath, no beating of the heart.
I bent over him, and tried to find any sign of life, but in vain. He
could not have lain there long, for the earthy smell would have passed
away in a few hours. By the side of the box was its cover, pierced
with holes here and there. I thought he might have the keys on him,
but when I went to search I saw the dead eyes, and in them dead though
they were, such a look of hate, though unconscious of me or my
presence, that I fled from the place, and leaving the Count's room by
the window, crawled again up the castle wall. Regaining my room, I
threw myself panting upon the bed and tried to think.
29 June.--Today is the date of my last letter, and the Count has taken
steps to prove that it was genuine, for again I saw him leave the
castle by the same window, and in my clothes. As he went down the
wall, lizard fashion, I wished I had a gun or some lethal weapon, that
I might destroy him. But I fear that no weapon wrought along by man's
hand would have any effect on him. I dared not wait to see him
return, for I feared to see those weird sisters. I came back to the
library, and read there till I fell asleep.
I was awakened by the Count, who looked at me as grimly as a man could
look as he said, "Tomorrow, my friend, we must part. You return to
your beautiful England, I to some work which may have such an end that
we may never meet. Your letter home has been despatched. Tomorrow I
shall not be here, but all shall be ready for your journey. In the
morning come the Szgany, who have some labours of their own here, and
also come some Slovaks. When they have gone, my carriage shall come
for you, and shall bear you to the Borgo Pass to meet the diligence
from Bukovina to Bistritz. But I am in hopes that I shall see more of
you at Castle Dracula."
I suspected him, and determined to test his sincerity. Sincerity! It
seems like a profanation of the word to write it in connection with
such a monster, so I asked him point-blank, "Why may I not go
tonight?"
"Because, dear sir, my coachman and horses are away on a mission."
"But I would walk with pleasure. I want to get away at once."
He smiled, such a soft, smooth, diabolical smile that I knew there was
some trick behind his smoothness. He said, "And your baggage?"
"I do not care about it. I can send for it some other time."
The Count stood up, and said, with a sweet courtesy which made me rub
my eyes, it seemed so real, "You English have a saying which is close
to my heart, for its spirit is that which rules our boyars, `Welcome
the coming, speed the parting guest.' Come with me, my dear young
friend. Not an hour shall you wait in my house against your will,
though sad am I at your going, and that you so suddenly desire it.
Come!" With a stately gravity, he, with the lamp, preceded me down
the stairs and along the hall. Suddenly he stopped. "Hark!"
Close at hand came the howling of many wolves. It was almost as if
the sound sprang up at the rising of his hand, just as the music of a
great orchestra seems to leap under the baton of the conductor. After
a pause of a moment, he proceeded, in his stately way, to the door,
drew back the ponderous bolts, unhooked the heavy chains, and began to
draw it open.
To my intense astonishment I saw that it was unlocked. Suspiciously,
I looked all round, but could see no key of any kind.
As the door began to open, the howling of the wolves without grew
louder and angrier. Their red jaws, with champing teeth, and their
blunt-clawed feet as they leaped, came in through the opening door. I
knew than that to struggle at the moment against the Count was
useless. With such allies as these at his command, I could do
nothing.
But still the door continued slowly to open, and only the Count's body
stood in the gap. Suddenly it struck me that this might be the moment
and means of my doom. I was to be given to the wolves, and at my own
instigation. There was a diabolical wickedness in the idea great
enough for the Count, and as the last chance I cried out, "Shut the
door! I shall wait till morning." And I covered my face with my
hands to hide my tears of bitter disappointment.
With one sweep of his powerful arm, the Count threw the door shut, and
the great bolts clanged and echoed through the hall as they shot back
into their places.
In silence we returned to the library, and after a minute or two I went
to my own room. The last I saw of Count Dracula was his kissing his
hand to me, with a red light of triumph in his eyes, and with a smile
that Judas in hell might be proud of.
When I was in my room and about to lie down, I thought I heard a
whispering at my door. I went to it softly and listened. Unless my
ears deceived me, I heard the voice of the Count.
"Back! Back to your own place! Your time is not yet come. Wait!
Have patience! Tonight is mine. Tomorrow night is yours!"
There was a low, sweet ripple of laughter, and in a rage I threw open
the door, and saw without the three terrible women licking their lips.
As I appeared, they all joined in a horrible laugh, and ran away.
I came back to my room and threw myself on my knees. It is then so
near the end? Tomorrow! Tomorrow! Lord, help me, and those to whom
I am dear!
30 June.--These may be the last words I ever write in this diary. I
slept till just before the dawn, and when I woke threw myself on my
knees, for I determined that if Death came he should find me ready.
At last I felt that subtle change in the air, and knew that the
morning had come. Then came the welcome cockcrow, and I felt that I
was safe. With a glad heart, I opened the door and ran down the hall.
I had seen that the door was unlocked, and now escape was before me.
With hands that trembled with eagerness, I unhooked the chains and
threw back the massive bolts.
But the door would not move. Despair seized me. I pulled and pulled
at the door, and shook it till, massive as it was, it rattled in its
casement. I could see the bolt shot. It had been locked after I left
the Count.
Then a wild desire took me to obtain the key at any risk, and I
determined then and there to scale the wall again, and gain the
Count's room. He might kill me, but death now seemed the happier
choice of evils. Without a pause I rushed up to the east window, and
scrambled down the wall, as before, into the Count's room. It was
empty, but that was as I expected. I could not see a key anywhere,
but the heap of gold remained. I went through the door in the corner
and down the winding stair and along the dark passage to the old
chapel. I knew now well enough where to find the monster I sought.
The great box was in the same place, close against the wall, but the
lid was laid on it, not fastened down, but with the nails ready in
their places to be hammered home.
I knew I must reach the body for the key, so I raised the lid, and
laid it back against the wall. And then I saw something which filled
my very soul with horror. There lay the Count, but looking as if his
youth had been half restored. For the white hair and moustache were
changed to dark iron-grey. The cheeks were fuller, and the white skin
seemed ruby-red underneath. The mouth was redder than ever, for on
the lips were gouts of fresh blood, which trickled from the corners of
the mouth and ran down over the chin and neck. Even the deep, burning
eyes seemed set amongst swollen flesh, for the lids and pouches
underneath were bloated. It seemed as if the whole awful creature
were simply gorged with blood. He lay like a filthy leech, exhausted
with his repletion.
I shuddered as I bent over to touch him, and every sense in me
revolted at the contact, but I had to search, or I was lost. The
coming night might see my own body a banquet in a similar war to those
horrid three. I felt all over the body, but no sign could I find of
the key. Then I stopped and looked at the Count. There was a mocking
smile on the bloated face which seemed to drive me mad. This was the
being I was helping to transfer to London, where, perhaps, for
centuries to come he might, amongst its teeming millions, satiate his
lust for blood, and create a new and ever-widening circle of
semi-demons to batten on the helpless.
The very thought drove me mad. A terrible desire came upon me to rid
the world of such a monster. There was no lethal weapon at hand, but
I seized a shovel which the workmen had been using to fill the cases,
and lifting it high, struck, with the edge downward, at the hateful
face. But as I did so the head turned, and the eyes fell upon me,
with all their blaze of basilisk horror. The sight seemed to paralyze
me, and the shovel turned in my hand and glanced from the face, merely
making a deep gash above the forehead. The shovel fell from my hand
across the box, and as I pulled it away the flange of the blade caught
the edge of the lid which fell over again, and hid the horrid thing
from my sight. The last glimpse I had was of the bloated face,
blood-stained and fixed with a grin of malice which would have held
its own in the nethermost hell.
I thought and thought what should be my next move, but my brain seemed
on fire, and I waited with a despairing feeling growing over me. As I
waited I heard in the distance a gipsy song sung by merry voices
coming closer, and through their song the rolling of heavy wheels and
the cracking of whips. The Szgany and the Slovaks of whom the Count
had spoken were coming. With a last look around and at the box which
contained the vile body, I ran from the place and gained the Count's
room, determined to rush out at the moment the door should be opened.
With strained ears, I listened, and heard downstairs the grinding of
the key in the great lock and the falling back of the heavy door.
There must have been some other means of entry, or some one had a key
for one of the locked doors.
Then there came the sound of many feet tramping and dying away in some
passage which sent up a clanging echo. I turned to run down again
towards the vault, where I might find the new entrance, but at the
moment there seemed to come a violent puff of wind, and the door to
the winding stair blew to with a shock that set the dust from the
lintels flying. When I ran to push it open, I found that it was
hopelessly fast. I was again a prisoner, and the net of doom was
closing round me more closely.
As I write there is in the passage below a sound of many tramping feet
and the crash of weights being set down heavily, doubtless the boxes,
with their freight of earth. There was a sound of hammering. It is
the box being nailed down. Now I can hear the heavy feet tramping
again along the hall, with with many other idle feet coming behind
them.
The door is shut, the chains rattle. There is a grinding of the key
in the lock. I can hear the key withdrawn, then another door opens
and shuts. I hear the creaking of lock and bolt.
Hark! In the courtyard and down the rocky way the roll of heavy
wheels, the crack of whips, and the chorus of the Szgany as they pass
into the distance.
I am alone in the castle with those horrible women. Faugh! Mina is a
woman, and there is nought in common. They are devils of the Pit!
I shall not remain alone with them. I shall try to scale the castle
wall farther than I have yet attempted. I shall take some of the gold
with me, lest I want it later. I may find a way from this dreadful
place.
And then away for home! Away to the quickest and nearest train! Away
from the cursed spot, from this cursed land, where the devil and his
children still walk with earthly feet!
At least God's mercy is better than that of those monsters, and the
precipice is steep and high. At its foot a man may sleep, as a man.
Goodbye, all. Mina!
CHAPTER 5
LETTER FROM MISS MINA MURRAY TO MISS LUCY WESTENRA
9 May.
My dearest Lucy,
Forgive my long delay in writing, but I have been simply
overwhelmed with work. The life of an assistant
schoolmistress is sometimes trying. I am longing to be
with you, and by the sea, where we can talk together freely
and build our castles in the air. I have been working very
hard lately, because I want to keep up with Jonathan's
studies, and I have been practicing shorthand very
assiduously. When we are married I shall be able to be
useful to Jonathan, and if I can stenograph well enough I
can take down what he wants to say in this way and write it
out for him on the typewriter, at which also I am
practicing very hard.
He and I sometimes write letters in shorthand, and he is
keeping a stenographic journal of his travels abroad. When
I am with you I shall keep a diary in the same way. I
don't mean one of those two-pages-to-the-week-with-Sundaysqueezed-
in-a-corner diaries, but a sort of journal which
I can write in whenever I feel inclined.
I do not suppose there will be much of interest to other
people, but it is not intended for them. I may show it to
Jonathan some day if there is in it anything worth sharing,
but it is really an exercise book. I shall try to do what
I see lady journalists do, interviewing and writing
descriptions and trying to remember conversations. I am
told that, with a little practice, one can remember all
that goes on or that one hears said during a day.
However, we shall see. I will tell you of my little plans
when we meet. I have just had a few hurried lines from
Jonathan from Transylvania. He is well, and will be
returning in about a week. I am longing to hear all his
news. It must be nice to see strange countries. I wonder
if we, I mean Jonathan and I, shall ever see them
together. There is the ten o'clock bell ringing. Goodbye.
Your loving
Mina
Tell me all the news when you write. You have not told me
anything for a long time. I hear rumours, and especially
of a tall, handsome, curly-haired man???
LETTER, LUCY WESTENRA TO MINA MURRAY
17, Chatham Street
Wednesday
My dearest Mina,
I must say you tax me very unfairly with being a bad
correspondent. I wrote you twice since we parted, and your
last letter was only your second. Besides, I have nothing
to tell you. There is really nothing to interest you.
Town is very pleasant just now, and we go a great deal to
picture-galleries and for walks and rides in the park. As
to the tall, curly-haired man, I suppose it was the one who
was with me at the last Pop. Someone has evidently been
telling tales.
That was Mr. Holmwood. He often comes to see us, and he and
Mamma get on very well together, they have so many things
to talk about in common.
We met some time ago a man that would just do for you, if
you were not already engaged to Jonathan. He is an
excellent parti, being handsome, well off, and of good
birth. He is a doctor and really clever. Just fancy! He
is only nine-and twenty, and he has an immense lunatic
asylum all under his own care. Mr. Holmwood introduced him
to me, and he called here to see us, and often comes now. I
think he is one of the most resolute men I ever saw, and
yet the most calm. He seems absolutely imperturbable. I
can fancy what a wonderful power he must have over his
patients. He has a curious habit of looking one straight
in the face, as if trying to read one's thoughts. He tries
this on very much with me, but I flatter myself he has got
a tough nut to crack. I know that from my glass.
Do you ever try to read your own face? I do, and I can
tell you it is not a bad study, and gives you more trouble
than you can well fancy if you have never tried it.
He says that I afford him a curious psychological study,
and I humbly think I do. I do not, as you know, take
sufficient interest in dress to be able to describe the new
fashions. Dress is a bore. That is slang again, but never
mind. Arthur says that every day.
There, it is all out, Mina, we have told all our secrets to
each other since we were children. We have slept together
and eaten together, and laughed and cried together, and
now, though I have spoken, I would like to speak more. Oh,
Mina, couldn't you guess? I love him. I am blushing as I
write, for although I think he loves me, he has not told me
so in words. But, oh, Mina, I love him. I love him!
There, that does me good.
I wish I were with you, dear, sitting by the fire
undressing, as we used to sit, and I would try to tell you
what I feel. I do not know how I am writing this even to
you. I am afraid to stop, or I should tear up the letter,
and I don't want to stop, for I do so want to tell you all.
Let me hear from you at once, and tell me all that you
think about it. Mina, pray for my happiness.
Lucy
P.S.--I need not tell you this is a secret.
Goodnight again. L.
LETTER, LUCY WESTENRA TO MINA MURRAY
24 May
My dearest Mina,
Thanks, and thanks, and thanks again for your sweet letter.
It was so nice to be able to tell you and to have your
sympathy.
My dear, it never rains but it pours. How true the old
proverbs are. Here am I, who shall be twenty in September,
and yet I never had a proposal till today, not a real
proposal, and today I had three. Just fancy! Three
proposals in one day! Isn't it awful! I feel sorry,
really and truly sorry, for two of the poor fellows. Oh,
Mina, I am so happy that I don't know what to do with
myself. And three proposals! But, for goodness' sake,
don't tell any of the girls, or they would be getting all
sorts of extravagant ideas, and imagining themselves
injured and slighted if in their very first day at home
they did not get six at least. Some girls are so vain!
You and I, Mina dear, who are engaged and are going to
settle down soon soberly into old married women, can
despise vanity. Well, I must tell you about the three, but
you must keep it a secret, dear, from every one except, of
course, Jonathan. You will tell him, because I would, if I
were in your place, certainly tell Arthur. A woman ought
to tell her husband everything. Don't you think so, dear?
And I must be fair. Men like women, certainly their wives,
to be quite as fair as they are. And women, I am afraid,
are not always quite as fair as they should be.
Well, my dear, number One came just before lunch. I told
you of him, Dr. John Seward, the lunatic asylum man, with
the strong jaw and the good forehead. He was very cool
outwardly, but was nervous all the same. He had evidently
been schooling himself as to all sorts of little things,
and remembered them, but he almost managed to sit down on
his silk hat, which men don't generally do when they are
cool, and then when he wanted to appear at ease he kept
playing with a lancet in a way that made me nearly scream.
He spoke to me, Mina, very straightforwardly. He told me
how dear I was to him, though he had known me so little,
and what his life would be with me to help and cheer him.
He was going to tell me how unhappy he would be if I did
not care for him, but when he saw me cry he said he was a
brute and would not add to my present trouble. Then he
broke off and asked if I could love him in time, and when I
shook my head his hands trembled, and then with some
hesitation he asked me if I cared already for any one else.
He put it very nicely, saying that he did not want to wring
my confidence from me, but only to know, because if a
woman's heart was free a man might have hope. And then,
Mina, I felt a sort of duty to tell him that there was some
one. I only told him that much, and then he stood up, and
he looked very strong and very grave as he took both my
hands in his and said he hoped I would be happy, and that
If I ever wanted a friend I must count him one of my best.
Oh, Mina dear, I can't help crying, and you must excuse this
letter being all blotted. Being proposed to is all very
nice and all that sort of thing, but it isn't at all a
happy thing when you have to see a poor fellow, whom you
know loves you honestly, going away and looking all broken
hearted, and to know that, no matter what he may say at the
moment, you are passing out of his life. My dear, I must
stop here at present, I feel so miserable, though I am so
happy.
Evening.
Arthur has just gone, and I feel in better spirits than when
I left off, so I can go on telling you about the day.
Well, my dear, number Two came after lunch. He is such a
nice fellow, an American from Texas, and he looks so young
and so fresh that it seems almost impossible that he has
been to so many places and has such adventures. I
sympathize with poor Desdemona when she had such a stream
poured in her ear, even by a black man. I suppose that we
women are such cowards that we think a man will save us
from fears, and we marry him. I know now what I would do
if I were a man and wanted to make a girl love me. No, I
don't, for there was Mr. Morris telling us his stories, and
Arthur never told any, and yet . . .
My dear, I am somewhat previous. Mr. Quincy P. Morris
found me alone. It seems that a man always does find a
girl alone. No, he doesn't, for Arthur tried twice to make
a chance, and I helping him all I could, I am not ashamed
to say it now. I must tell you beforehand that Mr. Morris
doesn't always speak slang, that is to say, he never does
so to strangers or before them, for he is really well
educated and has exquisite manners, but he found out that
it amused me to hear him talk American slang, and whenever
I was present, and there was no one to be shocked, he said
such funny things. I am afraid, my dear, he has to invent
it all, for it fits exactly into whatever else he has to
say. But this is a way slang has. I do not know myself if
I shall ever speak slang. I do not know if Arthur likes
it, as I have never heard him use any as yet.
Well, Mr. Morris sat down beside me and looked as happy and
jolly as he could, but I could see all the same that he was
very nervous. He took my hand in his, and said ever so
sweetly . . .
"Miss Lucy, I know I ain't good enough to regulate the
fixin's of your little shoes, but I guess if you wait till
you find a man that is you will go join them seven young
women with the lamps when you quit. Won't you just hitch
up alongside of me and let us go down the long road
together, driving in double harness?"
Well, he did look so good humoured and so jolly that it
didn't seem half so hard to refuse him as it did poor Dr.
Seward. So I said, as lightly as I could, that I did not
know anything of hitching, and that I wasn't broken to
harness at all yet. Then he said that he had spoken in a
light manner, and he hoped that if he had made a mistake in
doing so on so grave, so momentous, and occasion for him, I
would forgive him. He really did look serious when he was
saying it, and I couldn't help feeling a sort of exultation
that he was number Two in one day. And then, my dear,
before I could say a word he began pouring out a perfect
torrent of love-making, laying his very heart and soul at
my feet. He looked so earnest over it that I shall never
again think that a man must be playful always, and never
earnest, because he is merry at times. I suppose he saw
something in my face which checked him, for he suddenly
stopped, and said with a sort of manly fervour that I could
have loved him for if I had been free . . .
"Lucy, you are an honest hearted girl, I know. I should not
be here speaking to you as I am now if I did not believe
you clean grit, right through to the very depths of your
soul. Tell me, like one good fellow to another, is there
any one else that you care for? And if there is I'll never
trouble you a hair's breadth again, but will be, if you
will let me, a very faithful friend."
My dear Mina, why are men so noble when we women are so
little worthy of them? Here was I almost making fun of
this great hearted, true gentleman. I burst into tears, I
am afraid, my dear, you will think this a very sloppy
letter in more ways than one, and I really felt very badly.
Why can't they let a girl marry three men, or as many as
want her, and save all this trouble? But this is heresy,
and I must not say it. I am glad to say that, though I was
crying, I was able to look into Mr. Morris' brave eyes, and
I told him out straight . . .
"Yes, there is some one I love, though he has not told me
yet that he even loves me." I was right to speak to him so
frankly, for quite a light came into his face, and he put
out both his hands and took mine, I think I put them into
his, and said in a hearty way . . .
"That's my brave girl. It's better worth being late for a
chance of winning you than being in time for any other girl
in the world. Don't cry, my dear. If it's for me, I'm a
hard nut to crack, and I take it standing up. If that
other fellow doesn't know his happiness, well, he'd better
look for it soon, or he'll have to deal with me. Little
girl, your honesty and pluck have made me a friend, and
that's rarer than a lover, it's more selfish anyhow. My
dear, I'm going to have a pretty lonely walk between this
and Kingdom Come. Won't you give me one kiss? It'll be
something to keep off the darkness now and then. You can,
you know, if you like, for that other good fellow, or you
could not love him, hasn't spoken yet."
That quite won me, Mina, for it was brave and sweet of him,
and noble too, to a rival, wasn't it? And he so sad, so I
leant over and kissed him.
He stood up with my two hands in his, and as he looked down
into my face, I am afraid I was blushing very much, he
said, "Little girl, I hold your hand, and you've kissed me,
and if these things don't make us friends nothing ever
will. Thank you for your sweet honesty to me, and
goodbye."
He wrung my hand, and taking up his hat, went straight out
of the room without looking back, without a tear or a
quiver or a pause, and I am crying like a baby.
Oh, why must a man like that be made unhappy when there are
lots of girls about who would worship the very ground he
trod on? I know I would if I were free, only I don't want
to be free. My dear, this quite upset me, and I feel I
cannot write of happiness just at once, after telling you
of it, and I don't wish to tell of the number Three until it
can be all happy. Ever your loving . . .
Lucy
P.S.--Oh, about number Three, I needn't tell you of number
Three, need I? Besides, it was all so confused. It seemed
only a moment from his coming into the room till both his
arms were round me, and he was kissing me. I am very, very
happy, and I don't know what I have done to deserve it. I
must only try in the future to show that I am not ungrateful
to God for all His goodness to me in sending to me such a
lover, such a husband, and such a friend.
Goodbye.
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 amongst the patients. I picked out one who has
afforded me a study of much interest. He is so quaint that I am
determined to understand him as well as I can. Today I seemed to get
nearer than ever before to the heart of his mystery.
I questioned him more fully than I had ever done, with a view to
making myself master of the facts of his hallucination. In my manner
of doing it there was, I now see, something of cruelty. I seemed to
wish to keep him to the point of his madness, a thing which I avoid
with the patients as I would the mouth of hell.
(Mem., Under what circumstances would I not avoid the pit of hell?)
Omnia Romae venalia sunt. Hell has its price! If there be anything
behind this instinct it will be valuable to trace it afterwards
accurately, so I had better commence to do so, therefore . . .
R. M, Renfield, age 59. Sanguine temperament, great physical
strength, morbidly excitable, periods of gloom, ending in some fixed
idea which I cannot make out. I presume that the sanguine temperament
itself and the disturbing influence end in a mentally-accomplished
finish, a possibly dangerous man, probably dangerous if unselfish. In
selfish men caution is as secure an armour for their foes as for
themselves. What I think of on this point is, when self is the fixed
point the centripetal force is balanced with the centrifugal. When
duty, a cause, etc., is the fixed point, the latter force is
paramount, and only accident or a series of accidents can balance it.
LETTER, QUINCEY P. MORRIS TO HON. ARTHUR HOLMOOD
25 May.
My dear Art,
We've told yarns by the campfire in the prairies, and
dressed one another's wounds after trying a landing at the
Marquesas, and drunk healths on the shore of Titicaca.
There are more yarns to be told, and other wounds to be
healed, and another health to be drunk. Won't you let this
be at my campfire tomorrow night? I have no hesitation in
asking you, as I know a certain lady is engaged to a
certain dinner party, and that you are free. There will
only be one other, our old pal at the Korea, Jack Seward.
He's coming, too, and we both want to mingle our weeps over
the wine cup, and to drink a health with all our hearts to
the happiest man in all the wide world, who has won the
noblest heart that God has made and best worth winning. We
promise you a hearty welcome, and a loving greeting, and a
health as true as your own right hand. We shall both swear
to leave you at home if you drink too deep to a certain
pair of eyes. Come!
Yours, as ever and always,
Quincey P. Morris
TELEGRAM FROM ARTHUR HOLMWOOD TO QUINCEY P. MORRIS
26 May
Count me in every time. I bear messages which will make
both your ears tingle.
Art
CHAPTER 6
MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL
24 July. Whitby.--Lucy met me at the station, looking sweeter and
lovelier than ever, and we drove up to the house at the Crescent in
which they have rooms. This is a lovely place. The little river, the
Esk, runs through a deep valley, which broadens out as it comes near
the harbour. A great viaduct runs across, with high piers, through
which the view seems somehow further away than it really is. The
valley is beautifully green, and it is so steep that when you are on
the high land on either side you look right across it, unless you are
near enough to see down. The houses of the old town--the side away
from us, are all red-roofed, and seem piled up one over the other
anyhow, like the pictures we see of Nuremberg. Right over the town is
the ruin of Whitby Abbey, which was sacked by the Danes, and which is
the scene of part of "Marmion," where the girl was built up in the
wall. It is a most noble ruin, of immense size, and full of beautiful
and romantic bits. There is a legend that a white lady is seen in one
of the windows. Between it and the town there is another church, the
parish one, round which is a big graveyard, all full of tombstones.
This is to my mind the nicest spot in Whitby, for it lies right over
the town, and has a full view of the harbour and all up the bay to
where the headland called Kettleness stretches out into the sea. It
descends so steeply over the harbour that part of the bank has fallen
away, and some of the graves have been destroyed.
In one place part of the stonework of the graves stretches out over
the sandy pathway far below. There are walks, with seats beside them,
through the churchyard, and people go and sit there all day long
looking at the beautiful view and enjoying the breeze.
I shall come and sit here often myself and work. Indeed, I am writing
now, with my book on my knee, and listening to the talk of three old
men who are sitting beside me. They seem to do nothing all day but
sit here and talk.
The harbour lies below me, with, on the far side, one long granite
wall stretching out into the sea, with a curve outwards at the end of
it, in the middle of which is a lighthouse. A heavy seawall runs
along outside of it. On the near side, the seawall makes an elbow
crooked inversely, and its end too has a lighthouse. Between the two
piers there is a narrow opening into the harbour, which then suddenly
widens.
It is nice at high water, but when the tide is out it shoals away to
nothing, and there is merely the stream of the Esk, running between
banks of sand, with rocks here and there. Outside the harbour on this
side there rises for about half a mile a great reef, the sharp of
which runs straight out from behind the south lighthouse. At the end
of it is a buoy with a bell, which swings in bad weather, and sends in
a mournful sound on the wind.
They have a legend here that when a ship is lost bells are heard out at
sea. I must ask the old man about this. He is coming this way . . .
He is a funny old man. He must be awfully old, for his face is
gnarled and twisted like the bark of a tree. He tells me that he is
nearly a hundred, and that he was a sailor in the Greenland fishing
fleet when Waterloo was fought. He is, I am afraid, a very sceptical
person, for when I asked him about the bells at sea and the White Lady
at the abbey he said very brusquely,
"I wouldn't fash masel' about them, miss. Them things be all wore
out. Mind, I don't say that they never was, but I do say that they
wasn't in my time. They be all very well for comers and trippers, an'
the like, but not for a nice young lady like you. Them feet-folks
from York and Leeds that be always eatin' cured herrin's and drinkin'
tea an' lookin' out to buy cheap jet would creed aught. I wonder
masel' who'd be bothered tellin' lies to them, even the newspapers,
which is full of fool-talk."
I thought he would be a good person to learn interesting things from,
so I asked him if he would mind telling me something about the whale
fishing in the old days. He was just settling himself to begin when
the clock struck six, whereupon he laboured to get up, and said,
"I must gang ageeanwards home now, miss. My grand-daughter doesn't
like to be kept waitin' when the tea is ready, for it takes me time to
crammle aboon the grees, for there be a many of `em, and miss, I lack
belly-timber sairly by the clock."
He hobbled away, and I could see him hurrying, as well as he could,
down the steps. The steps are a great feature on the place. They
lead from the town to the church, there are hundreds of them, I do not
know how many, and they wind up in a delicate curve. The slope is so
gentle that a horse could easily walk up and down them.
I think they must originally have had something to do with the abbey.
I shall go home too. Lucy went out, visiting with her mother, and as
they were only duty calls, I did not go.
1 August.--I came up here an hour ago with Lucy, and we had a most
interesting talk with my old friend and the two others who always come
and join him. He is evidently the Sir Oracle of them, and I should
think must have been in his time a most dictatorial person.
He will not admit anything, and down faces everybody. If he can't
out-argue them he bullies them, and then takes their silence for
agreement with his views.
Lucy was looking sweetly pretty in her white lawn frock. She has got
a beautiful colour since she has been here.
I noticed that the old men did not lose any time in coming and sitting
near her when we sat down. She is so sweet with old people, I think
they all fell in love with her on the spot. Even my old man succumbed
and did not contradict her, but gave me double share instead. I got
him on the subject of the legends, and he went off at once into a sort
of sermon. I must try to remember it and put it down.
"It be all fool-talk, lock, stock, and barrel, that's what it be and
nowt else. These bans an' wafts an' boh-ghosts an' bar-guests an'
bogles an' all anent them is only fit to set bairns an' dizzy women
a'belderin'. They be nowt but air-blebs. They, an' all grims an' signs
an' warnin's, be all invented by parsons an' illsome berk-bodies an'
railway touters to skeer an' scunner hafflin's, an' to get folks to do
somethin' that they don't other incline to. It makes me ireful to
think o' them. Why, it's them that, not content with printin' lies on
paper an' preachin' them out of pulpits, does want to be cuttin' them
on the tombstones. Look here all around you in what airt ye will. All
them steans, holdin' up their heads as well as they can out of their
pride, is acant, simply tumblin' down with the weight o' the lies
wrote on them, `Here lies the body' or `Sacred to the memory' wrote on
all of them, an' yet in nigh half of them there bean't no bodies at
all, an' the memories of them bean't cared a pinch of snuff about,
much less sacred. Lies all of them, nothin' but lies of one kind or
another! My gog, but it'll be a quare scowderment at the Day of
Judgment when they come tumblin' up in their death-sarks, all jouped
together an' trying' to drag their tombsteans with them to prove how
good they was, some of them trimmlin' an' dithering, with their hands
that dozzened an' slippery from lyin' in the sea that they can't even
keep their gurp o' them."
I could see from the old fellow's self-satisfied air and the way in
which he looked round for the approval of his cronies that he was
"showing off," so I put in a word to keep him going.
"Oh, Mr. Swales, you can't be serious. Surely these tombstones are
not all wrong?"
"Yabblins! There may be a poorish few not wrong, savin' where they
make out the people too good, for there be folk that do think a
balm-bowl be like the sea, if only it be their own. The whole thing
be only lies. Now look you here. You come here a stranger, an' you
see this kirkgarth."
I nodded, for I thought it better to assent, though I did not quite
understand his dialect. I knew it had something to do with the
church.
He went on, "And you consate that all these steans be aboon folk that
be haped here, snod an' snog?" I assented again. "Then that be just
where the lie comes in. Why, there be scores of these laybeds that be
toom as old Dun's `baccabox on Friday night."
He nudged one of his companions, and they all laughed. "And, my gog!
How could they be otherwise? Look at that one, the aftest abaft the
bier-bank, read it!"
I went over and read, "Edward Spencelagh, master mariner, murdered by
pirates off the coast of Andres, April, 1854, age 30." When I came
back Mr. Swales went on,
"Who brought him home, I wonder, to hap him here? Murdered off the
coast of Andres! An' you consated his body lay under! Why, I could
name ye a dozen whose bones lie in the Greenland seas above," he
pointed northwards, "or where the currants may have drifted them.
There be the steans around ye. Ye can, with your young eyes, read the
small print of the lies from here. This Braithwaite Lowery, I knew
his father, lost in the Lively off Greenland in `20, or Andrew
Woodhouse, drowned in the same seas in 1777, or John Paxton, drowned
off Cape Farewell a year later, or old John Rawlings, whose
grandfather sailed with me, drowned in the Gulf of Finland in `50. Do
ye think that all these men will have to make a rush to Whitby when
the trumpet sounds? I have me antherums aboot it! I tell ye that
when they got here they'd be jommlin' and jostlin' one another that
way that it `ud be like a fight up on the ice in the old days, when
we'd be at one another from daylight to dark, an' tryin' to tie up our
cuts by the aurora borealis." This was evidently local pleasantry, for
the old man cackled over it, and his cronies joined in with gusto.
"But," I said, "surely you are not quite correct, for you start on the
assumption that all the poor people, or their spirits, will have to
take their tombstones with them on the Day of Judgment. Do you think
that will be really necessary?"
"Well, what else be they tombstones for? Answer me that, miss!"
"To please their relatives, I suppose."
"To please their relatives, you suppose!" This he said with intense
scorn. "How will it pleasure their relatives to know that lies is
wrote over them, and that everybody in the place knows that they be
lies?"
He pointed to a stone at our feet which had been laid down as a slab,
on which the seat was rested, close to the edge of the cliff. "Read
the lies on that thruff-stone," he said.
The letters were upside down to me from where I sat, but Lucy was more
opposite to them, so she leant over and read, "Sacred to the memory of
George Canon, who died, in the hope of a glorious resurrection, on
July 29,1873, falling from the rocks at Kettleness. This tomb was
erected by his sorrowing mother to her dearly beloved son.`He was the
only son of his mother, and she was a widow.' Really, Mr. Swales, I
don't see anything very funny in that!" She spoke her comment very
gravely and somewhat severely.
"Ye don't see aught funny! Ha-ha! But that's because ye don't gawm
the sorrowin' mother was a hell-cat that hated him because he was
acrewk'd, a regular lamiter he was, an' he hated her so that he
committed suicide in order that she mightn't get an insurance she put
on his life. He blew nigh the top of his head off with an old musket
that they had for scarin' crows with. `twarn't for crows then, for it
brought the clegs and the dowps to him. That's the way he fell off
the rocks. And, as to hopes of a glorious resurrection, I've often
heard him say masel' that he hoped he'd go to hell, for his mother was
so pious that she'd be sure to go to heaven, an' he didn't want to
addle where she was. Now isn't that stean at any rate," he hammered
it with his stick as he spoke, "a pack of lies? And won't it make
Gabriel keckle when Geordie comes pantin' ut the grees with the
tompstean balanced on his hump, and asks to be took as evidence!"
I did not know what to say, but Lucy turned the conversation as she
said, rising up, "Oh, why did you tell us of this? It is my favourite
seat, and I cannot leave it, and now I find I must go on sitting over
the grave of a suicide."
"That won't harm ye, my pretty, an' it may make poor Geordie gladsome
to have so trim a lass sittin' on his lap. That won't hurt ye. Why,
I've sat here off an' on for nigh twenty years past, an' it hasn't
done me no harm. Don't ye fash about them as lies under ye, or that
doesn' lie there either! It'll be time for ye to be getting scart
when ye see the tombsteans all run away with, and the place as bare as
a stubble-field. There's the clock, and'I must gang. My service to
ye, ladies!" And off he hobbled.
Lucy and I sat awhile, and it was all so beautiful before us that we
took hands as we sat, and she told me all over again about Arthur and
their coming marriage. That made me just a little heart-sick, for I
haven't heard from Jonathan for a whole month.
The same day. I came up here alone, for I am very sad. There was no
letter for me. I hope there cannot be anything the matter with
Jonathan. The clock has just struck nine. I see the lights scattered
all over the town, sometimes in rows where the streets are, and
sometimes singly. They run right up the Esk and die away in the curve
of the valley. To my left the view is cut off by a black line of roof
of the old house next to the abbey. The sheep and lambs are bleating
in the fields away behind me, and there is a clatter of donkeys' hoofs
up the paved road below. The band on the pier is playing a harsh
waltz in good time, and further along the quay there is a Salvation
Army meeting in a back street. Neither of the bands hears the other,
but up here I hear and see them both. I wonder where Jonathan is and
if he is thinking of me! I wish he were here.
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 know.
His redeeming quality is a love of animals, though, indeed, he has
such curious turns in it that I sometimes imagine he is only
abnormally cruel. His pets are of odd sorts.
Just now his hobby is catching flies. He has at present such a
quantity that I have had myself to expostulate. To my astonishment,
he did not break out into a fury, as I expected, but took the matter
in simple seriousness. He thought for a moment, and then said, "May I
have three days? I shall clear them away." Of course, I said that
would do. I must watch him.
18 June.--He has turned his mind now to spiders, and has got several
very big fellows in a box. He keeps feeding them his flies, and the
number of the latter is becoming sensibly diminished, although he has
used half his food in attracting more flies from outside to his room.
1 July.--His spiders are now becoming as great a nuisance as his
flies, and today I told him that he must get rid of them.
He looked very sad at this, so I said that he must some of them, at
all events. He cheerfully acquiesced in this, and I gave him the same
time as before for reduction.
He disgusted me much while with him, for when a horrid blowfly,
bloated with some carrion food, buzzed into the room, he caught it,
held it exultantly for a few moments between his finger and thumb, and
before I knew what he was going to do, put it in his mouth and ate it.
I scolded him for it, but he argued quietly that it was very good and
very wholesome, that it was life, strong life, and gave life to him.
This gave me an idea, or the rudiment of one. I must watch how he
gets rid of his spiders.
He has evidently some deep problem in his mind, for he keeps a little
notebook in which he is always jotting down something. whole pages of
it are filled with masses of figures, generally single numbers added
up in batches, and then the totals added in batches again, as though
he were focussing some account, as the auditors put it.
8 July.--There is a method in his madness, and the rudimentary idea in
my mind is growing. It will be a whole idea soon, and then, oh,
unconscious cerebration, you will have to give the wall to your
conscious brother.
I kept away from my friend for a few days, so that I might notice if
there were any change. Things remain as they were except that he has
parted with some of his pets and got a new one.
He has managed to get a sparrow, and has already partially tamed it.
His means of taming is simple, for already the spiders have
diminished. Those that do remain, however, are well fed, for he still
brings in the flies by tempting them with his food.
19 July--We are progressing. My friend has now a whole colony of
sparrows, and his flies and spiders are almost obliterated. When I
came in he ran to me and said he wanted to ask me a great favour, a
very, very great favour. And as he spoke, he fawned on me like a dog.
I asked him what it was, and he said, with a sort of rapture in his
voice and bearing, "A kitten, a nice, little, sleek playful kitten,
that I can play with, and teach, and feed, and feed, and feed!"
I was not unprepared for this request, for I had noticed how his pets
went on increasing in size and vivacity, but I did not care that his
pretty family of tame sparrows should be wiped out in the same manner
as the flies and spiders. So I said I would see about it, and asked
him if he would not rather have a cat than a kitten.
His eagerness betrayed him as he answered, "Oh, yes, I would like a
cat! I only asked for a kitten lest you should refuse me a cat. No
one would refuse me a kitten, would they?"
I shook my head, and said that at present I feared it would not be
possible, but that I would see about it. His face fell, and I could
see a warning of danger in it, for there was a sudden fierce, sidelong
look which meant killing. The man is an undeveloped homicidal
maniac. I shall test him with his present craving and see how it will
work out, then I shall know more.
10 pm.--I have visited him again and found him sitting in a corner
brooding. When I came in he threw himself on his knees before me and
implored me to let him have a cat, that his salvation depended upon
it.
I was firm, however, and told him that he could not have it, whereupon
he went without a word, and sat down, gnawing his fingers, in the
corner where I had found him. I shall see him in the morning early.
20 July.--Visited Renfield very early, before attendant went his
rounds. Found him up and humming a tune. He was spreading out his
sugar, which he had saved, in the window, and was manifestly beginning
his fly catching again, and beginning it cheerfully and with a good
grace.
I looked around for his birds, and not seeing them, asked him where
they were. He replied, without turning round, that they had all flown
away. There were a few feathers about the room and on his pillow a
drop of blood. I said nothing, but went and told the keeper to report
to me if there were anything odd about him during the day.
11 am.--The attendant has just been to see me to say that Renfield has
been very sick and has disgorged a whole lot of feathers. "My belief
is, doctor," he said, "that he has eaten his birds, and that he just
took and ate them raw!"
11 pm.--I gave Renfield a strong opiate tonight, enough to make even
him sleep, and took away his pocketbook to look at it. The thought
that has been buzzing about my brain lately is complete, and the
theory proved.
My homicidal maniac is of a peculiar kind. I shall have to invent a
new classification for him, and call him a zoophagous (life-eating)
maniac. What he desires is to absorb as many lives as he can, and he
has laid himself out to achieve it in a cumulative way. He gave many
flies to one spider and many spiders to one bird, and then wanted a
cat to eat the many birds. What would have been his later steps?
It would almost be worth while to complete the experiment. It might
be done if there were only a sufficient cause. Men sneered at
vivisection, and yet look at its results today! Why not advance
science in its most difficult and vital aspect, the knowledge of the
brain?
Had I even the secret of one such mind, did I hold the key to the
fancy of even one lunatic, I might advance my own branch of science to
a pitch compared with which Burdon-Sanderson's physiology or Ferrier's
brain knowledge would be as nothing. If only there were a sufficient
cause! I must not think too much of this, or I may be tempted. A
good cause might turn the scale with me, for may not I too be of an
exceptional brain, congenitally?
How well the man reasoned. Lunatics always do within their own scope.
I wonder at how many lives he values a man, or if at only one. He has
closed the account most accurately, and today begun a new record. How
many of us begin a new record with each day of our lives?
To me it seems only yesterday that my whole life ended with my new
hope, and that truly I began a new record. So it shall be until the
Great Recorder sums me up and closes my ledger account with a balance
to profit or loss.
Oh, Lucy, Lucy, I cannot be angry with you, nor can I be angry with my
friend whose happiness is yours, but I must only wait on hopeless and
work. Work! Work!
If I could have as strong a cause as my poor mad friend there, a good,
unselfish cause to make me work, that would be indeed happiness.
MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL
26 July.--I am anxious, and it soothes me to express myself here. It
is like whispering to one's self and listening at the same time. And
there is also something about the shorthand symbols that makes it
different from writing. I am unhappy about Lucy and about Jonathan.
I had not heard from Jonathan for some time, and was very concerned,
but yesterday dear Mr. Hawkins, who is always so kind, sent me a
letter from him. I had written asking him if he had heard, and he
said the enclosed had just been received. It is only a line dated
from Castle Dracula, and says that he is just starting for home. That
is not like Jonathan. I do not understand it, and it makes me uneasy.
Then, too, Lucy, although she is so well, has lately taken to her old
habit of walking in her sleep. Her mother has spoken to me about it,
and we have decided that I am to lock the door of our room every
night.
Mrs. Westenra has got an idea that sleep-walkers always go out on
roofs of houses and along the edges of cliffs and then get suddenly
wakened and fall over with a despairing cry that echoes all over the
place.
Poor dear, she is naturally anxious about Lucy, and she tells me that
her husband, Lucy's father, had the same habit, that he would get up
in the night and dress himself and go out, if he were not stopped.
Lucy is to be married in the autumn, and she is already planning out
her dresses and how her house is to be arranged. I sympathise with
her, for I do the same, only Jonathan and I will start in life in a
very simple way, and shall have to try to make both ends meet.
Mr. Holmwood, he is the Hon. Arthur Holmwood, only son of Lord
Godalming, is coming up here very shortly, as soon as he can leave
town, for his father is not very well, and I think dear Lucy is
counting the moments till he comes.
She wants to take him up in the seat on the churchyard cliff and show
him the beauty of Whitby. I daresay it is the waiting which disturbs
her. She will be all right when he arrives.
27 July.--No news from Jonathan. I am getting quite uneasy about him,
though why I should I do not know, but I do wish that he would write,
if it were only a single line.
Lucy walks more than ever, and each night I am awakened by her moving
about the room. Fortunately, the weather is so hot that she cannot
get cold. But still, the anxiety and the perpetually being awakened
is beginning to tell on me, and I am getting nervous and wakeful
myself. Thank God, Lucy's health keeps up. Mr. Holmwood has been
suddenly called to Ring to see his father, who has been taken
seriously ill. Lucy frets at the postponement of seeing him, but it
does not touch her looks. She is a trifle stouter, and her cheeks are
a lovely rose-pink. She has lost the anemic look which she had. I
pray it will all last.
3 August.--Another week gone by, and no news from Jonathan, not even
to Mr. Hawkins, from whom I have heard. Oh, I do hope he is not ill.
He surely would have written. I look at that last letter of his, but
somehow it does not satisfy me. It does not read like him, and yet it
is his writing. There is no mistake of that.
Lucy has not walked much in her sleep the last week, but there is an
odd concentration about her which I do not understand, even in her
sleep she seems to be watching me. She tries the door, and finding it
locked, goes about the room searching for the key.
6 August.--Another three days, and no news. This suspense is getting
dreadful. If I only knew where to write to or where to go to, I
should feel easier. But no one has heard a word of Jonathan since
that last letter. I must only pray to God for patience.
Lucy is more excitable than ever, but is otherwise well. Last night
was very threatening, and the fishermen say that we are in for a
storm. I must try to watch it and learn the weather signs.
Today is a gray day, and the sun as I write is hidden in thick clouds,
high over Kettleness. Everything is gray except the green grass,
which seems like emerald amongst it, gray earthy rock, gray clouds,
tinged with the sunburst at the far edge, hang over the gray sea, into
which the sandpoints stretch like gray figures. The sea is tumbling
in over the shallows and the sandy flats with a roar, muffled in the
sea-mists drifting inland. The horizon is lost in a gray mist. All
vastness, the clouds are piled up like giant rocks, and there is a
`brool' over the sea that sounds like some passage of doom. Dark
figures are on the beach here and there, sometimes half shrouded in
the mist, and seem `men like trees walking'. The fishing boats are
racing for home, and rise and dip in the ground swell as they sweep
into the harbour, bending to the scuppers. Here comes old Mr. Swales.
He is making straight for me, and I can see, by the way he lifts his
hat, that he wants to talk.
I have been quite touched by the change in the poor old man. When he
sat down beside me, he said in a very gentle way, "I want to say
something to you, miss."
I could see he was not at ease, so I took his poor old wrinkled hand in
mine and asked him to speak fully.
So he said, leaving his hand in mine, "I'm afraid, my deary, that I
must have shocked you by all the wicked things I've been sayin' about
the dead, and such like, for weeks past, but I didn't mean them, and I
want ye to remember that when I'm gone. We aud folks that be daffled,
and with one foot abaft the krok-hooal, don't altogether like to think
of it, and we don't want to feel scart of it, and that's why I've took
to makin' light of it, so that I'd cheer up my own heart a bit. But,
Lord love ye, miss, I ain't afraid of dyin', not a bit, only I don't
want to die if I can help it. My time must be nigh at hand now, for I
be aud, and a hundred years is too much for any man to expect. And
I'm so nigh it that the Aud Man is already whettin' his scythe. Ye
see, I can't get out o' the habit of caffin' about it all at once.
The chafts will wag as they be used to. Some day soon the Angel of
Death will sound his trumpet for me. But don't ye dooal an' greet, my
deary!"--for he saw that I was crying--"if he should come this very
night I'd not refuse to answer his call. For life be, after all, only
a waitin' for somethin' else than what we're doin', and death be all
that we can rightly depend on. But I'm content, for it's comin' to
me, my deary, and comin' quick. It may be comin' while we be lookin'
and wonderin'. Maybe it's in that wind out over the sea that's
bringin' with it loss and wreck, and sore distress, and sad hearts.
Look! Look!" he cried suddenly. "There's something in that wind and
in the hoast beyont that sounds, and looks, and tastes, and smells
like death. It's in the air. I feel it comin'. Lord, make me answer
cheerful, when my call comes!" He held up his arms devoutly, and
raised his hat. His mouth moved as though he were praying. After a
few minutes' silence, he got up, shook hands with me, and blessed me,
and said goodbye, and hobbled off. It all touched me, and upset me
very much.
I was glad when the coastguard came along, with his spyglass under his
arm. He stopped to talk with me, as he always does, but all the time
kept looking at a strange ship.
"I can't make her out," he said. "She's a Russian, by the look of
her. But she's knocking about in the queerest way. She doesn't know
her mind a bit. She seems to see the storm coming, but can't decide
whether to run up north in the open, or to put in here. Look there
again! She is steered mighty strangely, for she doesn't mind the hand
on the wheel, changes about with every puff of wind. We'll hear more
of her before this time tomorrow."
CHAPTER 7
CUTTING FROM "THE DAILYGRAPH", 8 AUGUST
(PASTED IN MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL)
From a correspondent.
Whitby.
One of the greatest and suddenest storms on record has just
been experienced here, with results both strange and
unique. The weather had been somewhat sultry, but not to
any degree uncommon in the month of August. Saturday
evening was as fine as was ever known, and the great body
of holiday-makers laid out yesterday for visits to Mulgrave
Woods, Robin Hood's Bay, Rig Mill, Runswick, Staithes, and
the various trips in the neighborhood of Whitby. The
steamers Emma and Scarborough made trips up and down the
coast, and there was an unusual amount of `tripping' both
to and from Whitby. The day was unusually fine till the
afternoon, when some of the gossips who frequent the East
Cliff churchyard, and from the commanding eminence watch
the wide sweep of sea visible to the north and east, called
attention to a sudden show of `mares tails' high in the sky
to the northwest. The wind was then blowing from the
south-west in the mild degree which in barometrical
language is ranked `No. 2, light breeze.'
The coastguard on duty at once made report, and one old
fisherman, who for more than half a century has kept watch
on weather signs from the East Cliff, foretold in an
emphatic manner the coming of a sudden storm. The approach
of sunset was so very beautiful, so grand in its masses of
splendidly coloured clouds, that there was quite an
assemblage on the walk along the cliff in the old
churchyard to enjoy the beauty. Before the sun dipped
below the black mass of Kettleness, standing boldly athwart
the western sky, its downward way was marked by myriad
clouds of every sunset colour, flame, purple, pink, green,
violet, and all the tints of gold, with here and there
masses not large, but of seemingly absolute blackness, in
all sorts of shapes, as well outlined as colossal
silhouettes. The experience was not lost on the painters,
and doubtless some of the sketches of the `Prelude to the
Great Storm' will grace the R. A and R. I. walls in May
next.
More than one captain made up his mind then and there that
his `cobble' or his `mule', as they term the different
classes of boats, would remain in the harbour till the
storm had passed. The wind fell away entirely during the
evening, and at midnight there was a dead calm, a sultry
heat, and that prevailing intensity which, on the approach
of thunder, affects persons of a sensitive nature.
There were but few lights in sight at sea, for even the
coasting steamers, which usually hug the shore so closely,
kept well to seaward, and but few fishing boats were in
sight. The only sail noticeable was a foreign schooner
with all sails set, which was seemingly going westwards.
The foolhardiness or ignorance of her officers was a
prolific theme for comment whilst she remained in sight,
and efforts were made to signal her to reduce sail in the
face of her danger. Before the night shut down she was
seen with sails idly flapping as she gently rolled on the
undulating swell of the sea.
"As idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean."
Shortly before ten o'clock the stillness of the air grew
quite oppressive, and the silence was so marked that the
bleating of a sheep inland or the barking of a dog in the
town was distinctly heard, and the band on the pier, with
its lively French air, was like a dischord in the great
harmony of nature's silence. A little after midnight came
a strange sound from over the sea, and high overhead the
air began to carry a strange, faint, hollow booming.
Then without warning the tempest broke. With a rapidity
which, at the time, seemed incredible, and even afterwards
is impossible to realize, the whole aspect of nature at
once became convulsed. The waves rose in growing fury,
each over-topping its fellow, till in a very few minutes
the lately glassy sea was like a roaring and devouring
monster. White-crested waves beat madly on the level sands
and rushed up the shelving cliffs. Others broke over the
piers, and with their spume swept the lanthorns of the
lighthouses which rise from the end of either pier of
Whitby Harbour.
The wind roared like thunder, and blew with such force that
it was with difficulty that even strong men kept their
feet, or clung with grim clasp to the iron stanchions. It
was found necessary to clear the entire pier from the mass
of onlookers, or else the fatalities of the night would
have increased manifold. To add to the difficulties and
dangers of the time, masses of sea-fog came drifting
inland. White, wet clouds, which swept by in ghostly
fashion, so dank and damp and cold that it needed but
little effort of imagination to think that the spirits of
those lost at sea were touching their living brethren with
the clammy hands of death, and many a one shuddered as the
wreaths of sea-mist swept by.
At times the mist cleared, and the sea for some distance
could be seen in the glare of the lightning, which came
thick and fast, followed by such peals of thunder that the
whole sky overhead seemed trembling under the shock of the
footsteps of the storm.
Some of the scenes thus revealed were of immeasurable
grandeur and of absorbing interest. The sea, running
mountains high, threw skywards with each wave mighty masses
of white foam, which the tempest seemed to snatch at and
whirl away into space. Here and there a fishing boat, with
a rag of sail, running madly for shelter before the blast,
now and again the white wings of a storm-tossed seabird. On
the summit of the East Cliff the new searchlight was ready
for experiment, but had not yet been tried. The officers
in charge of it got it into working order, and in the
pauses of onrushing mist swept with it the surface of the
sea. Once or twice its service was most effective, as when
a fishing boat, with gunwale under water, rushed into the
harbour, able, by the guidance of the sheltering light, to
avoid the danger of dashing against the piers. As each
boat achieved the safety of the port there was a shout of
joy from the mass of people on the shore, a shout which for
a moment seemed to cleave the gale and was then swept away
in its rush.
Before long the searchlight discovered some distance away a
schooner with all sails set, apparently the same vessel
which had been noticed earlier in the evening. The wind
had by this time backed to the east, and there was a
shudder amongst the watchers on the cliff as they realized
the terrible danger in which she now was.
Between her and the port lay the great flat reef on which so
many good ships have from time to time suffered, and, with
the wind blowing from its present quarter, it would be
quite impossible that she should fetch the entrance of the
harbour.
It was now nearly the hour of high tide, but the waves were
so great that in their troughs the shallows of the shore
were almost visible, and the schooner, with all sails set,
was rushing with such speed that, in the words of one old
salt, "she must fetch up somewhere, if it was only in
hell". Then came another rush of sea-fog, greater than any
hitherto, a mass of dank mist, which seemed to close on all
things like a gray pall, and left available to men only the
organ of hearing, for the roar of the tempest, and the
crash of the thunder, and the booming of the mighty billows
came through the damp oblivion even louder than before.
The rays of the searchlight were kept fixed on the harbour
mouth across the East Pier, where the shock was expected,
and men waited breathless.
The wind suddenly shifted to the northeast, and the remnant
of the sea fog melted in the blast. And then, mirabile
dictu, between the piers, leaping from wave to wave as it
rushed at headlong speed, swept the strange schooner before
the blast, with all sail set, and gained the safety of the
harbour. The searchlight followed her, and a shudder ran
through all who saw her, for lashed to the helm was a
corpse, with drooping head, which swung horribly to and fro
at each motion of the ship. No other form could be seen on
the deck at all.
A great awe came on all as they realised that the ship, as
if by a miracle, had found the harbour, unsteered save by
the hand of a dead man! However, all took place more
quickly than it takes to write these words. The schooner
paused not, but rushing across the harbour, pitched herself
on that accumulation of sand and gravel washed by many tides
and many storms into the southeast corner of the pier
jutting under the East Cliff, known locally as Tate Hill
Pier.
There was of course a considerable concussion as the vessel
drove up on the sand heap. Every spar, rope, and stay was
strained, and some of the `top-hammer' came crashing down.
But, strangest of all, the very instant the shore was
touched, an immense dog sprang up on deck from below, as if
shot up by the concussion, and running forward, jumped from
the bow on the sand.
Making straight for the steep cliff, where the churchyard
hangs over the laneway to the East Pier so steeply that
some of the flat tombstones, thruffsteans or
through-stones, as they call them in Whitby vernacular,
actually project over where the sustaining cliff has fallen
away, it disappeared in the darkness, which seemed
intensified just beyond the focus of the searchlight.
It so happened that there was no one at the moment on Tate
Hill Pier, as all those whose houses are in close proximity
were either in bed or were out on the heights above. Thus
the coastguard on duty on the eastern side of the harbour,
who at once ran down to the little pier, was the first to
climb aboard. The men working the searchlight, after
scouring the entrance of the harbour without seeing
anything, then turned the light on the derelict and kept it
there. The coastguard ran aft, and when he came beside the
wheel, bent over to examine it, and recoiled at once as
though under some sudden emotion. This seemed to pique
general curiosity, and quite a number of people began to
run.
It is a good way round from the West Cliff by the
Draw-bridge to Tate Hill Pier, but your correspondent is a
fairly good runner, and came well ahead of the crowd. When
I arrived, however, I found already assembled on the pier a
crowd, whom the coastguard and police refused to allow to
come on board. By the courtesy of the chief boatman, I
was, as your correspondent, permitted to climb on deck, and
was one of a small group who saw the dead seaman whilst
actually lashed to the wheel.
It was no wonder that the coastguard was surprised, or even
awed, for not often can such a sight have been seen. The
man was simply fastened by his hands, tied one over the
other, to a spoke of the wheel. Between the inner hand and
the wood was a crucifix, the set of beads on which it was
fastened being around both wrists and wheel, and all kept
fast by the binding cords. The poor fellow may have been
seated at one time, but the flapping and buffeting of the
sails had worked through the rudder of the wheel and had
dragged him to and fro, so that the cords with which he was
tied had cut the flesh to the bone.
Accurate note was made of the state of things, and a
doctor, Surgeon 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 coastguard said the man must have tied up his own
hands, fastening the knots with his teeth. The fact that a
coastguard was the first on board may save some
complications later on, in the Admiralty Court, for
coastguards cannot claim the salvage which is the right of
the first civilian entering on a derelict. Already,
however, the legal tongues are wagging, and one young law
student is loudly asserting that the rights of the owner
are already completely sacrificed, his property being held
in contravention of the statues of mortmain, since the
tiller, as emblemship, if not proof, of delegated
possession, is held in a dead hand.
It is needless to say that the dead steersman has been
reverently removed from the place where he held his
honourable watch and ward till death, a steadfastness as
noble as that of the young Casabianca, and placed in the
mortuary to await inquest.
Already the sudden storm is passing, and its fierceness is
abating. Crowds are scattering backward, and the sky is
beginning to redden over the Yorkshire wolds.
I shall send, in time for your next issue, further details
of the derelict ship which found her way so miraculously
into harbour in the storm.
9 August.--The sequel to the strange arrival of the derelict
in the storm last night is almost more startling than the
thing itself. It turns out that the schooner is Russian
from Varna, and is called the Demeter. She is almost
entirely in ballast of silver sand, with only a small
amount of cargo, a number of great wooden boxes filled with
mould.
This cargo was consigned to a Whitby solicitor, Mr. S.F.
Billington, of 7, The Crescent, who this morning went
aboard and took formal possession of the goods consigned to
him.
The Russian consul, too, acting for the charter-party, took
formal possession of the ship, and paid all harbour dues,
etc.
Nothing is talked about here today except the strange
coincidence. The officials of the Board of Trade have been
most exacting in seeing that every compliance has been made
with existing regulations. As the matter is to be a `nine
days wonder', they are evidently determined that there
shall be no cause of other complaint.
A good deal of interest was abroad concerning the dog which
landed when the ship struck, and more than a few of the
members of the S.P.C.A., which is very strong in Whitby,
have tried to befriend the animal. To the general
disappointment, however, it was not to be found. It seems
to have disappeared entirely from the town. It may be that
it was frightened and made its way on to the moors, where
it is still hiding in terror.
There are some who look with dread on such a possibility,
lest later on it should in itself become a danger, for it
is evidently a fierce brute. Early this morning a large
dog, a half-bred mastiff belonging to a coal merchant close
to Tate Hill Pier, was found dead in the roadway opposite
its master's yard. It had been fighting, and manifestly
had had a savage opponent, for its throat was torn away,
and its belly was slit open as if with a savage claw.
Later.--By the kindness of the Board of Trade inspector, I
have been permitted to look over the log book of the
Demeter, which was in order up to within three days, but
contained nothing of special interest except as to facts of
missing men. The greatest interest, however, is with
regard to the paper found in the bottle, which was today
produced at the inquest. And a more strange narrative than
the two between them unfold it has not been my lot to come
across.
As there is no motive for concealment, I am permitted to use
them, and accordingly send you a transcript, simply
omitting technical details of seamanship and supercargo. It
almost seems as though the captain had been seized with
some kind of mania before he had got well into blue water,
and that this had developed persistently throughout the
voyage. Of course my statement must be taken cum grano,
since I am writing from the dictation of a clerk of the
Russian consul, who kindly translated for me, time being
short.
LOG OF THE "DEMETER" Varna to Whitby
Written 18 July, things so strange happening, that I shall
keep accurate note henceforth till we land.
On 6 July we finished taking in cargo, silver sand and boxes
of earth. At noon set sail. East wind, fresh. Crew, five
hands . . . two mates, cook, and myself, (captain).
On 11 July at dawn entered Bosphorus. Boarded by Turkish
Customs officers. Backsheesh. All correct. Under way at
4 p.m.
On 12 July through Dardanelles. More Customs officers and
flagboat of guarding squadron. Backsheesh again. Work of
officers thorough, but quick. Want us off soon. At dark
passed into Archipelago.
On 13 July passed Cape Matapan. Crew dissatisfied about
something. Seemed scared, but would not speak out.
On 14 July was somewhat anxious about crew. Men all steady
fellows, who sailed with me before. Mate could not make
out what was wrong. They only told him there was
SOMETHING, and crossed themselves. Mate lost temper with
one of them that day and struck him. Expected fierce
quarrel, but all was quiet.
On 16 July mate reported in the morning that one of the
crew, Petrofsky, was missing. Could not account for it.
Took larboard watch eight bells last night, was relieved by
Amramoff, but did not go to bunk. Men more downcast than
ever. All said they expected something of the kind, but
would not say more than there was SOMETHING aboard. Mate
getting very impatient with them. Feared some trouble
ahead.
On 17 July, yesterday, one of the men, Olgaren, came to my
cabin, and in an awestruck way confided to me that he
thought there was a strange man aboard the ship. He said
that in his watch he had been sheltering behind the
deckhouse, as there was a rain storm, when he saw a tall,
thin man, who was not like any of the crew, come up the
companionway, and go along the deck forward and disappear.
He followed cautiously, but when he got to bows found no
one, and the hatchways were all closed. He was in a panic
of superstitious fear, and I am afraid the panic may
spread. To allay it, I shall today search the entire ship
carefully from stem to stern.
Later in the day I got together the whole crew, and told
them, as they evidently thought there was some one in the
ship, we would search from stem to stern. First mate
angry, said it was folly, and to yield to such foolish
ideas would demoralise the men, said he would engage to
keep them out of trouble with the handspike. I let him
take the helm, while the rest began a thorough search, all
keeping abreast, with lanterns. We left no corner
unsearched. As there were only the big wooden boxes, there
were no odd corners where a man could hide. Men much
relieved when search over, and went back to work
cheerfully. First mate scowled, but said nothing.
22 July.--Rough weather last three days, and all hands busy
with sails, no time to be frightened. Men seem to have
forgotten their dread. Mate cheerful again, and all on
good terms. Praised men for work in bad weather. Passed
Gibraltar and out through Straits. All well.
24 July.--There seems some doom over this ship. Already a
hand short, and entering the Bay of Biscay with wild
weather ahead, and yet last night another man lost,
disappeared. Like the first, he came off his watch and was
not seen again. Men all in a panic of fear, sent a round
robin, asking to have double watch, as they fear to be
alone. Mate angry. Fear there will be some trouble, as
either he or the men will do some violence.
28 July.--Four days in hell, knocking about in a sort of
maelstrom, and the wind a tempest. No sleep for any one.
Men all worn out. Hardly know how to set a watch, since no
one fit to go on. Second mate volunteered to steer and
watch, and let men snatch a few hours sleep. Wind abating,
seas still terrific, but feel them less, as ship is
steadier.
29 July.--Another tragedy. Had single watch tonight, as
crew too tired to double. When morning watch came on deck
could find no one except steersman. Raised outcry, and all
came on deck. Thorough search, but no one found. Are now
without second mate, and crew in a panic. Mate and I
agreed to go armed henceforth and wait for any sign of
cause.
30 July.--Last night. Rejoiced we are nearing England.
Weather fine, all sails set. Retired worn out, slept
soundly, awakened by mate telling me that both man of watch
and steersman missing. Only self and mate and two hands
left to work ship.
1 August.--Two days of fog, and not a sail sighted. Had
hoped when in the English Channel to be able to signal for
help or get in somewhere. Not having power to work sails,
have to run before wind. Dare not lower, as could not
raise them again. We seem to be drifting to some terrible
doom. Mate now more demoralised than either of men. His
stronger nature seems to have worked inwardly against
himself. Men are beyond fear, working stolidly and
patiently, with minds made up to worst. They are Russian,
he Roumanian.
2 August, midnight.--Woke up from few minutes sleep by
hearing a cry, seemingly outside my port. Could see
nothing in fog. Rushed on deck, and ran against mate.
Tells me he heard cry and ran, but no sign of man on
watch. One more gone. Lord, help us! Mate says we must
be past Straits of Dover, as in a moment of fog lifting he
saw North Foreland, just as he heard the man cry out. If
so we are now off in the North Sea, and only God can guide
us in the fog, which seems to move with us, and God seems
to have deserted us.
3 August.--At midnight I went to relieve the man at the
wheel and when I got to it found no one there. The wind
was steady, and as we ran before it there was no yawing. I
dared not leave it, so shouted for the mate. After a few
seconds, he rushed up on deck in his flannels. He looked
wild-eyed and haggard, and I greatly fear his reason has
given way. He came close to me and whispered hoarsely,
with his mouth to my ear, as though fearing the very air
might hear. "It is here. I know it now. On the watch
last night I saw It, like a man, tall and thin, and ghastly
pale. It was in the bows, and looking out. I crept behind
It, and gave it my knife, but the knife went through It,
empty as the air." And as he spoke he took the knife and
drove it savagely into space. Then he went on, "But It is
here, and I'll find It. It is in the hold, perhaps in one
of those boxes. I'll unscrew them one by one and see. You
work the helm." And with a warning look and his finger on
his lip, he went below. There was springing up a choppy
wind, and I could not leave the helm. I saw him come out
on deck again with a tool chest and lantern, and go down
the forward hatchway. He is mad, stark, raving mad, and
it's no use my trying to stop him. He can't hurt those big
boxes, they are invoiced as clay, and to pull them about is
as harmless a thing as he can do. So here I stay and mind
the helm, and write these notes. I can only trust in God
and wait till the fog clears. Then, if I can't steer to
any harbour with the wind that is, I shall cut down sails,
and lie by, and signal for help . . .
It is nearly all over now. Just as I was beginning to hope
that the mate would come out calmer, for I heard him
knocking away at something in the hold, and work is good
for him, there came up the hatchway a sudden, startled
scream, which made my blood run cold, and up on the deck he
came as if shot from a gun, a raging madman, with his eyes
rolling and his face convulsed with fear. "Save me! Save
me!" he cried, and then looked round on the blanket of fog.
His horror turned to despair, and in a steady voice he
said, "You had better come too, captain, before it is too
late. He is there! I know the secret now. The sea will
save me from Him, and it is all that is left!" Before I
could say a word, or move forward to seize him, he sprang
on the bulwark and deliberately threw himself into the sea.
I suppose I know the secret too, now. It was this madman
who had got rid of the men one by one, and now he has
followed them himself. God help me! How am I to account
for all these horrors when I get to port? When I get to
port! Will that ever be?
4 August.--Still fog, which the sunrise cannot pierce, I
know there is sunrise because I am a sailor, why else I
know not. I dared not go below, I dared not leave the
helm, so here all night I stayed, and in the dimness of the
night I saw it, Him! God, forgive me, but the mate was
right to jump overboard. It was better to die like a man.
To die like a sailor in blue water, no man can object. But
I am captain, and I must not leave my ship. But I shall
baffle this fiend or monster, for I shall tie my hands to
the wheel when my strength begins to fail, and along with
them I shall tie that which He, It, dare not touch. And
then, come good wind or foul, I shall save my soul, and my
honour as a captain. I am growing weaker, and the night is
coming on. If He can look me in the face again, I may not
have time to act. . . If we are wrecked, mayhap this bottle
may be found, and those who find it may understand. If
not . . . well, then all men shall know that I have been
true to my trust. God and the Blessed Virgin and the
Saints help a poor ignorant soul trying to do his duty . . .
Of course the verdict was an open one. There is no evidence
to adduce, and whether or not the man himself committed the
murders there is now none to say. The folk here hold
almost universally that the captain is simply a hero, and
he is to be given a public funeral. Already it is arranged
that his body is to be taken with a train of boats up the
Esk for a piece and then brought back to Tate Hill Pier and
up the abbey steps, for he is to be buried in the
churchyard on the cliff. The owners of more than a hundred
boats have already given in their names as wishing to
follow him to the grave.
No trace has ever been found of the great dog, at which
there is much mourning, for, with public opinion in its
present state, he would, I believe, be adopted by the town.
Tomorrow will see the funeral, and so will end this one
more `mystery of the sea'.
MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL
8 August.--Lucy was very restless all night, and I too, could not
sleep. The storm was fearful, and as it boomed loudly among the
chimney pots, it made me shudder. When a sharp puff came it seemed to
be like a distant gun. Strangely enough, Lucy did not wake, but she
got up twice and dressed herself. Fortunately, each time I awoke in
time and managed to undress her without waking her, and got her back to
bed. It is a very strange thing, this sleep-walking, for as soon as
her will is thwarted in any physical way, her intention, if there be
any, disappears, and she yields herself almost exactly to the routine
of her life.
Early in the morning we both got up and went down to the harbour to see
if anything had happened in the night. There were very few people
about, and though the sun was bright, and the air clear and fresh, the
big, grim-looking waves, that seemed dark themselves because the foam
that topped them was like snow, forced themselves in through the mouth
of the harbour, like a bullying man going through a crowd. Somehow I
felt glad that Jonathan was not on the sea last night, but on land.
But, oh, is he on land or sea? Where is he, and how? I am getting
fearfully anxious about him. If I only knew what to do, and could do
anything!
10 August.--The funeral of the poor sea captain today was most
touching. Every boat in the harbour seemed to be there, and the coffin
was carried by captains all the way from Tate Hill Pier up to the
churchyard. Lucy came with me, and we went early to our old seat,
whilst the cortege of boats went up the river to the Viaduct and came
down again. We had a lovely view, and saw the procession nearly all
the way. The poor fellow was laid to rest near our seat so that we
stood on it, when the time came and saw everything.
Poor Lucy seemed much upset. She was restless and uneasy all the time,
and I cannot but think that her dreaming at night is telling on her.
She is quite odd in one thing. She will not admit to me that there is
any cause for restlessness, or if there be, she does not understand it
herself.
There is an additional cause in that poor Mr. Swales was found dead
this morning on our seat, his neck being broken. He had evidently, as
the doctor said, fallen back in the seat in some sort of fright, for
there was a look of fear and horror on his face that the men said made
them shudder. Poor dear old man!
Lucy is so sweet and sensitive that she feels influences more acutely
than other people do. Just now she was quite upset by a little thing
which I did not much heed, though I am myself very fond of animals.
One of the men who came up here often to look for the boats was
followed by his dog. The dog is always with him. They are both quiet
persons, and I never saw the man angry, nor heard the dog bark. During
the service the dog would not come to its master, who was on the seat
with us, but kept a few yards off, barking and howling. Its master
spoke to it gently, and then harshly, and then angrily. But it would
neither come nor cease to make a noise. It was in a fury, with its
eyes savage, and all its hair bristling out like a cat's tail when puss
is on the war path.
Finally the man too got angry, and jumped down and kicked the dog, and
then took it by the scruff of the neck and half dragged and half threw
it on the tombstone on which the seat is fixed. The moment it touched
the stone the poor thing began to tremble. It did not try to get away,
but crouched down, quivering and cowering, and was in such a pitiable
state of terror that I tried, though without effect, to comfort it.
Lucy was full of pity, too, but she did not attempt to touch the dog,
but looked at it in an agonised sort of way. I greatly fear that she
is of too super sensitive a nature to go through the world without
trouble. She will be dreaming of this tonight, I am sure. The whole
agglomeration of things, the ship steered into port by a dead man, his
attitude, tied to the wheel with a crucifix and beads, the touching
funeral, the dog, now furious and now in terror, will all afford
material for her dreams.
I think it will be best for her to go to bed tired out physically, so I
shall take her for a long walk by the cliffs to Robin Hood's Bay and
back. She ought not to have much inclination for sleep-walking then.
CHAPTER 8
MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL
Same day, 11 o'clock P.M.--Oh, but I am tired! If it were not that I
had made my diary a duty I should not open it tonight. We had a lovely
walk. Lucy, after a while, was in gay spirits, owing, I think, to some
dear cows who came nosing towards us in a field close to the
lighthouse, and frightened the wits out of us. I believe we forgot
everything, except of course, personal fear, and it seemed to wipe the
slate clean and give us a fresh start. We had a capital `severe tea'
at Robin Hood's Bay in a sweet little old-fashioned inn, with a bow
window right over the seaweed-covered rocks of the strand. I believe
we should have shocked the `New Woman' with our appetites. Men are
more tolerant, bless them! Then we walked home with some, or rather
many, stoppages to rest, and with our hearts full of a constant dread
of wild bulls.
Lucy was really tired, and we intended to creep off to bed as soon as
we could. The young curate came in, however, and Mrs. Westenra asked
him to stay for supper. Lucy and I had both a fight for it with the
dusty miller. I know it was a hard fight on my part, and I am quite
heroic. I think that some day the bishops must get together and see
about breeding up a new class of curates, who don't take supper, no
matter how hard they may be pressed to, and who will know when girls
are tired.
Lucy is asleep and breathing softly. She has more colour in her cheeks
than usual, and looks, oh so sweet. If Mr. Holmwood fell in love with
her seeing her only in the drawing room, I wonder what he would say if
he saw her now. Some of the `New Women' writers will some day start an
idea that men and women should be allowed to see each other asleep
before proposing or accepting. But I suppose the `New Woman' won't
condescend in future to accept. She will do the proposing herself. And
a nice job she will make of it too! There's some consolation in that.
I am so happy tonight, because dear Lucy seems better. I really
believe she has turned the corner, and that we are over her troubles
with dreaming. I should be quite happy if I only knew if Jonathan . . .
God bless and keep him.
11 August.--Diary again. No sleep now, so I may as well write. I am
too agitated to sleep. We have had such an adventure, such an
agonizing experience. I fell asleep as soon as I had closed my diary.
. . . Suddenly I became broad awake, and sat up, with a horrible sense
of fear upon me, and of some feeling of emptiness around me. The room
was dark, so I could not see Lucy's bed. I stole across and felt for
her. The bed was empty. I lit a match and found that she was not in
the room. The door was shut, but not locked, as I had left it. I feared
to wake her mother, who has been more than usually ill lately, so threw
on some clothes and got ready to look for her. As I was leaving the
room it struck me that the clothes she wore might give me some clue to
her dreaming intention. Dressing-gown would mean house, dress outside.
Dressing-gown and dress were both in their places. "Thank God," I said
to myself, "she cannot be far, as she is only in her nightdress."
I ran downstairs and looked in the sitting room. Not there! Then I
looked in all the other rooms of the house, with an ever-growing fear
chilling my heart. Finally, I came to the hall door and found it open.
It was not wide open, but the catch of the lock had not caught. The
people of the house are careful to lock the door every night, so I
feared that Lucy must have gone out as she was. There was no time to
think of what might happen. A vague over-mastering fear obscured all
details.
I took a big, heavy shawl and ran out. The clock was striking one as I
was in the Crescent, and there was not a soul in sight. I ran along
the North Terrace, but could see no sign of the white figure which I
expected. At the edge of the West Cliff above the pier I looked across
the harbour to the East Cliff, in the hope or fear, I don't know which,
of seeing Lucy in our favourite seat.
There was a bright full moon, with heavy black, driving clouds, which
threw the whole scene into a fleeting diorama of light and shade as
they sailed across. For a moment or two I could see nothing, as the
shadow of a cloud obscured St. Mary's Church and all around it. Then
as the cloud passed I could see the ruins of the abbey coming into
view, and as the edge of a narrow band of light as sharp as a sword-cut
moved along, the church and churchyard became gradually visible.
Whatever my expectation was, it was not disappointed, for there, on our
favourite seat, the silver light of the moon struck a half-reclining
figure, snowy white. The coming of the cloud was too quick for me to
see much, for shadow shut down on light almost immediately, but it
seemed to me as though something dark stood behind the seat where the
white figure shone, and bent over it. What it was, whether man or
beast, I could not tell.
I did not wait to catch another glance, but flew down the steep steps
to the pier and along by the fish-market to the bridge, which was the
only way to reach the East Cliff. The town seemed as dead, for not a
soul did I see. I rejoiced that it was so, for I wanted no witness of
poor Lucy's condition. The time and distance seemed endless, and my
knees trembled and my breath came laboured as I toiled up the endless
steps to the abbey. I must have gone fast, and yet it seemed to me as
if my feet were weighted with lead, and as though every joint in my
body were rusty.
When I got almost to the top I could see the seat and the white figure,
for I was now close enough to distinguish it even through the spells of
shadow. There was undoubtedly something, long and black, bending over
the half-reclining white figure. I called in fright, "Lucy! Lucy!"
and something raised a head, and from where I was I could see a white
face and red, gleaming eyes.
Lucy did not answer, and I ran on to the entrance of the churchyard.
As I entered, the church was between me and the seat, and for a minute
or so I lost sight of her. When I came in view again the cloud had
passed, and the moonlight struck so brilliantly that I could see Lucy
half reclining with her head lying over the back of the seat. She was
quite alone, and there was not a sign of any living thing about.
When I bent over her I could see that she was still asleep. Her lips
were parted, and she was breathing, not softly as usual with her, but
in long, heavy gasps, as though striving to get her lungs full at every
breath. As I came close, she put up her hand in her sleep and pulled
the collar of her nightdress close around her, as though she felt the
cold. I flung the warm shawl over her, and drew the edges tight around
her neck, for I dreaded lest she should get some deadly chill from the
night air, unclad as she was. I feared to wake her all at once, so, in
order to have my hands free to help her, I fastened the shawl at her
throat with a big safety pin. But I must have been clumsy in my
anxiety and pinched or pricked her with it, for by-and-by, when her
breathing became quieter, she put her hand to her throat again and
moaned. When I had her carefully wrapped up I put my shoes on her
feet, and then began very gently to wake her.
At first she did not respond, but gradually she became more and more
uneasy in her sleep, moaning and sighing occasionally. At last, as
time was passing fast, and for many other reasons, I wished to get her
home at once, I shook her forcibly, till finally she opened her eyes
and awoke. She did not seem surprised to see me, as, of course, she
did not realize all at once where she was.
Lucy always wakes prettily, and even at such a time, when her body must
have been chilled with cold, and her mind somewhat appalled at waking
unclad in a churchyard at night, she did not lose her grace. She
trembled a little, and clung to me. When I told her to come at once
with me home, she rose without a word, with the obedience of a child.
As we passed along, the gravel hurt my feet, and Lucy noticed me wince.
She stopped and wanted to insist upon my taking my shoes, but I would
not. However, when we got to the pathway outside the chruchyard, where
there was a puddle of water, remaining from the storm, I daubed my feet
with mud, using each foot in turn on the other, so that as we went
home, no one, in case we should meet any one, should notice my bare
feet.
Fortune favoured us, and we got home without meeting a soul. Once we
saw a man, who seemed not quite sober, passing along a street in front
of us. But we hid in a door till he had disappeared up an opening such
as there are here, steep little closes, or `wynds', as they call them
in Scotland. My heart beat so loud all the time sometimes I thought I
should faint. I was filled with anxiety about Lucy, not only for her
health, lest she should suffer from the exposure, but for her
reputation in case the story should get wind. When we got in, and had
washed our feet, and had said a prayer of thankfulness together, I
tucked her into bed. Before falling asleep she asked, even implored,
me not to say a word to any one, even her mother, about her
sleep-walking adventure.
I hesitated at first, to promise, but on thinking of the state of her
mother's health, and how the knowledge of such a thing would fret her,
and think too, of how such a story might become distorted, nay,
infallibly would, in case it should leak out, I thought it wiser to do
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 apologised and was concerned
about it, she laughed and petted me, and said she did not even feel it.
Fortunately it cannot leave a scar, as it is so tiny.
Same day, night.--We passed a happy day. The air was clear, and the
sun bright, and there was a cool breeze. We took our lunch to Mulgrave
Woods, Mrs. Westenra driving by the road and Lucy and I walking by the
cliff-path and joining her at the gate. I felt a little sad myself,
for I could not but feel how absolutely happy it would have been had
Jonathan been with me. But there! I must only be patient. In the
evening we strolled in the Casino Terrace, and heard some good music by
Spohr and Mackenzie, and went to bed early. Lucy seems more restful
than she has been for some time, and fell asleep at once. I shall lock
the door and secure the key the same as before, though I do not expect
any trouble tonight.
12 August.--My expectations were wrong, for twice during the night I
was wakened by Lucy trying to get out. She seemed, even in her sleep,
to be a little impatient at finding the door shut, and went back to bed
under a sort of protest. I woke with the dawn, and heard the birds
chirping outside of the window. Lucy woke, too, and I was glad to see,
was even better than on the previous morning. All her old gaiety of
manner seemed to have come back, and she came and snuggled in beside me
and told me all about Arthur. I told her how anxious I was about
Jonathan, and then she tried to comfort me. Well, she succeeded
somewhat, for, though sympathy can't alter facts, it can make them more
bearable.
13 August.--Another quiet day, and to bed with the key on my wrist as
before. Again I awoke in the night, and found Lucy sitting up in bed,
still asleep, pointing to the window. I got up quietly, and pulling
aside the blind, looked out. It was brilliant moonlight, and the soft
effect of the light over the sea and sky, merged together in one great
silent mystery, was beautiful beyond words. Between me and the
moonlight flitted a great bat, coming and going in great whirling
circles. Once or twice it came quite close, but was, I suppose,
frightened at seeing me, and flitted away across the harbour towards
the abbey. When I came back from the window Lucy had lain down again,
and was sleeping peacefully. She did not stir again all night.
14 August.--On the East Cliff, reading and writing all day. Lucy seems
to have become as much in love with the spot as I am, and it is hard to
get her away from it when it is time to come home for lunch or tea or
dinner. This afternoon she made a funny remark. We were coming home
for dinner, and had come to the top of the steps up from the West Pier
and stopped to look at the view, as we generally do. The setting sun,
low down in the sky, was just dropping behind Kettleness. The red
light was thrown over on the East Cliff and the old abbey, and seemed
to bathe everything in a beautiful rosy glow. We were silent for a
while, and suddenly Lucy murmured as if to herself . . .
"His red eyes again! They are just the same." It was such an odd
expression, coming apropos of nothing, that it quite startled me. I
slewed round a little, so as to see Lucy well without seeming to stare
at her, and saw that she was in a half dreamy state, with an odd look
on her face that I could not quite make out, so I said nothing, but
followed her eyes. She appeared to be looking over at our own seat,
whereon was a dark figure seated alone. I was quite a little startled
myself, for it seemed for an instant as if the stranger had great eyes
like burning flames, but a second look dispelled the illusion. The red
sunlight was shining on the windows of St. Mary's Church behind our
seat, and as the sun dipped there was just sufficient change in the
refraction and reflection to make it appear as if the light moved. I
called Lucy's attention to the peculiar effect, and she became herself
with a start, but she looked sad all the same. It may have been that
she was thinking of that terrible night up there. We never refer to
it, so I said nothing, and we went home to dinner. Lucy had a headache
and went early to bed. I saw her asleep, and went out for a little
stroll myself.
I walked along the cliffs to the westward, and was full of sweet
sadness, for I was thinking of Jonathan. When coming home, it was then
bright moonlight, so bright that, though the front of our part of the
Crescent was in shadow, everything could be well seen, I threw a glance
up at our window, and saw Lucy's head leaning out. I opened my
handkerchief and waved it. She did not notice or make any movement
whatever. Just then, the moonlight crept round an angle of the
building, and the light fell on the window. There distinctly was Lucy
with her head lying up against the side of the window sill and her eyes
shut. She was fast asleep, and by her, seated on the window sill, was
something that looked like a good-sized bird. I was afraid she might
get a chill, so I ran upstairs, but as I came into the room she was
moving back to her bed, fast asleep, and breathing heavily. She was
holding her hand to her throat, as though to protect if from the cold.
I did not wake her, but tucked her up warmly. I have taken care that
the door is locked and the window securely fastened.
She looks so sweet as she sleeps, but she is paler than is her wont,
and there is a drawn, haggard look under her eyes which I do not like.
I fear she is fretting about something. I wish I could find out what it
is.
15 August.--Rose later than usual. Lucy was languid and tired, and
slept on after we had been called. We had a happy surprise at
breakfast. Arthur's father is better, and wants the marriage to come
off soon. Lucy is full of quiet joy, and her mother is glad and sorry
at once. Later on in the day she told me the cause. She is grieved to
lose Lucy as her very own, but she is rejoiced that she is soon to have
some one to protect her. Poor dear, sweet lady! She confided to me
that she has got her death warrant. She has not told Lucy, and made me
promise secrecy. Her doctor told her that within a few months, at
most, she must die, for her heart is weakening. At any time, even now,
a sudden shock would be almost sure to kill her. Ah, we were wise to
keep from her the affair of the dreadful night of Lucy's sleep-walking.
17 August.--No diary for two whole days. I have not had the heart to
write. Some sort of shadowy pall seems to be coming over our
happiness. No news from Jonathan, and Lucy seems to be growing weaker,
whilst her mother's hours are numbering to a close. I do not
understand Lucy's fading away as she is doing. She eats well and
sleeps well, and enjoys the fresh air, but all the time the roses in
her cheeks are fading, and she gets weaker and more languid day by day.
At night I hear her gasping as if for air.
I keep the key of our door always fastened to my wrist at night, but
she gets up and walks about the room, and sits at the open window.
Last night I found her leaning out when I woke up, and when I tried to
wake her I could not.
She was in a faint. When I managed to restore her, she was weak as
water, and cried silently between long, painful struggles for breath.
When I asked her how she came to be at the window she shook her head
and turned away.
I trust her feeling ill may not be from that unlucky prick of the
safety-pin. I looked at her throat just now as she lay asleep, and the
tiny wounds seem not to have healed. They are still open, and, if
anything, larger than before, and the edges of them are faintly white.
They are like little white dots with red centres. Unless they heal
within a day or two, I shall insist on the doctor seeing about them.
LETTER, SAMUEL F. BILLINGTON & SON, SOLICITORS WHITBY,
TO MESSRS. CARTER, PATERSON & CO., LONDON.
17 August
"Dear Sirs,--Herewith please receive invoice of goods sent
by Great Northern Railway. Same are to be delivered at
Carfax, near Purfleet, immediately on receipt at goods
station King's Cross. The house is at present empty, but
enclosed please find keys, all of which are labelled.
"You will please deposit the boxes, fifty in number, which
form the consignment, in the partially ruined building
forming part of the house and marked `A' on rough diagrams
enclosed. Your agent will easily recognize the locality,
as it is the ancient chapel of the mansion. The goods
leave by the train at 9:30 tonight, and will be due at
King's Cross at 4:30 tomorrow afternoon. As our client
wishes the delivery made as soon as possible, we shall be
obliged by your having teams ready at King's Cross at the
time named and forthwith conveying the goods to
destination. In order to obviate any delays possible
through any routine requirements as to payment in your
departments, we enclose cheque herewith for ten pounds,
receipt of which please acknowledge. Should the charge be
less than this amount, you can return balance, if greater,
we shall at once send cheque for difference on hearing from
you. You are to leave the keys on coming away in the main
hall of the house, where the proprietor may get them on his
entering the house by means of his duplicate key.
"Pray do not take us as exceeding the bounds of business
courtesy in pressing you in all ways to use the utmost
expedition.
"We are, dear Sirs,
"Faithfully yours,
"SAMUEL F. BILLINGTON & SON"
LETTER, MESSRS. CARTER, PATERSON & CO., LONDON,
TO MESSRS. BILLINGTON & SON, WHITBY.
21 August.
"Dear Sirs,--"We beg to acknowledge 10 pounds received and
to return cheque of 1 pound, 17s, 9d, amount of overplus,
as shown in receipted account herewith. Goods are
delivered in exact accordance with instructions, and keys
left in parcel in main hall, as directed.
"We are, dear Sirs, "Yours respectfully,
"Pro CARTER, PATERSON & CO."
MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL.
18 August.--I am happy today, and write sitting on the seat in the
churchyard. Lucy is ever so much better. Last night she slept well
all night, and did not disturb me once.
The roses seem coming back already to her cheeks, though she is still
sadly pale and wan-looking. If she were in any way anemic I could
understand it, but she is not. She is in gay spirits and full of life
and cheerfulness. All the morbid reticence seems to have passed from
her, and she has just reminded me, as if I needed any reminding, of
that night, and that it was here, on this very seat, I found her
asleep.
As she told me she tapped playfully with the heel of her boot on the
stone slab and said,
"My poor little feet didn't make much noise then! I daresay poor old
Mr. Swales would have told me that it was because I didn't want to wake
up Geordie."
As she was in such a communicative humour, I asked her if she had
dreamed at all that night.
Before she answered, that sweet, puckered look came into her forehead,
which Arthur, I call him Arthur from her habit, says he loves, and
indeed, I don't wonder that he does. Then she went on in a
half-dreaming kind of way, as if trying to recall it to herself.
"I didn't quite dream, but it all seemed to be real. I only wanted to
be here in this spot. I don't know why, for I was afraid of something,
I don't know what. I remember, though I suppose I was asleep, passing
through the streets and over the bridge. A fish leaped as I went by,
and I leaned over to look at it, and I heard a lot of dogs howling. The
whole town seemed as if it must be full of dogs all howling at once, as
I went up the steps. Then I had a vague memory of something long and
dark with red eyes, just as we saw in the sunset, and something very
sweet and very bitter all around me at once. And then I seemed sinking
into deep green water, and there was a singing in my ears, as I have
heard there is to drowning men, and then everything seemed passing away
from me. My soul seemed to go out from my body and float about the
air. I seem to remember that once the West Lighthouse was right under
me, and then there was a sort of agonizing feeling, as if I were in an
earthquake, and I came back and found you shaking my body. I saw you
do it before I felt you."
Then she began to laugh. It seemed a little uncanny to me, and I
listened to her breathlessly. I did not quite like it, and thought it
better not to keep her mind on the subject, so we drifted on to another
subject, and Lucy was like her old self again. When we got home the
fresh breeze had braced her up, and her pale cheeks were really more
rosy. Her mother rejoiced when she saw her, and we all spent a very
happy evening together.
19 August.--Joy, joy, joy! Although not all joy. At last, news of
Jonathan. The dear fellow has been ill, that is why he did not write.
I am not afraid to think it or to say it, now that I know. Mr. Hawkins
sent me on the letter, and wrote himself, oh so kindly. I am to leave
in the morning and go over to Jonathan, and to help to nurse him if
necessary, and to bring him home. Mr. Hawkins says it would not be a
bad thing if we were to be married out there. I have cried over the
good Sister's letter till I can feel it wet against my bosom, where it
lies. It is of Jonathan, and must be near my heart, for he is in my
heart. My journey is all mapped out, and my luggage ready. I am only
taking one change of dress. Lucy will bring my trunk to London and
keep it till I send for it, for it may be that . . . I must write no
more. I must keep it to say to Jonathan, my husband. The letter that
he has seen and touched must comfort me till we meet.
LETTER, SISTER AGATHA, HOSPITAL OF ST. JOSEPH AND
STE. MARY BUDA-PESTH, TO MISS WILLHELMINA MURRAY
12 August,
"Dear Madam.
"I write by desire of Mr. Jonathan Harker, who is himself
not strong enough to write, though progressing well, thanks
to God and St. Joseph and Ste. Mary. He has been under
our care for nearly six weeks, suffering from a violent
brain fever. He wishes me to convey his love, and to say
that by this post I write for him to Mr. Peter Hawkins,
Exeter, to say, with his dutiful respects, that he is sorry
for his delay, and that all of his work is completed. He
will require some few weeks' rest in our sanatorium in the
hills, but will then return. He wishes me to say that he
has not sufficient money with him, and that he would like
to pay for his staying here, so that others who need shall
not be wanting for help.
Believe me,
Yours, with sympathy
and all blessings. Sister Agatha"
"P.S.--My patient being asleep, I open this to let you know
something more. He has told me all about you, and that you
are shortly to be his wife. All blessings to you both! He
has had some fearful shock, so says our doctor, and in his
delirium his ravings have been dreadful, of wolves and
poison and blood, of ghosts and demons, and I fear to say
of what. Be careful of him always that there may be
nothing to excite him of this kind for a long time to
come. The traces of such an illness as his do not lightly
die away. We should have written long ago, but we knew
nothing of his friends, and there was nothing on him,
nothing that anyone could understand. He came in the train
from Klausenburg, and the guard was told by the station
master there that he rushed into the station shouting for a
ticket for home. Seeing from his violent demeanour that he
was English, they gave him a ticket for the furthest
station on the way thither that the train reached.
"Be assured that he is well cared for. He has won all
hearts by his sweetness and gentleness. He is truly
getting on well, and I have no doubt will in a few weeks be
all himself. But be careful of him for safety's sake.
There are, I pray God and St. Joseph and Ste. Mary, many,
many, happy years for you both."
DR. SEWARD'S DIARY
19 August.--Strange and sudden change in Renfield last night. About
eight o'clock he began to get excited and sniff about as a dog does
when setting. The attendant was struck by his manner, and knowing my
interest in him, encouraged him to talk. He is usually respectful to
the attendant and at times servile, but tonight, the man tells me, he
was quite haughty. Would not condescend to talk with him at all.
All he would say was, "I don't want to talk to you. You don't count
now. The master is at hand."
The attendant thinks it is some sudden form of religious mania which
has seized him. If so, we must look out for squalls, for a strong man
with homicidal and religious mania at once might be dangerous. The
combination is a dreadful one.
At nine o'clock I visited him myself. His attitude to me was the same
as that to the attendant. In his sublime self-feeling the difference
between myself and the attendant seemed to him as nothing. It looks
like religious mania, and he will soon think that he himself is God.
These infinitesimal distinctions between man and man are too paltry for
an Omnipotent Being. How these madmen give themselves away! The real
God taketh heed lest a sparrow fall. But the God created from human
vanity sees no difference between an eagle and a sparrow. Oh, if men
only knew!
For half an hour or more Renfield kept getting excited in greater and
greater degree. I did not pretend to be watching him, but I kept
strict observation all the same. All at once that shifty look came
into his eyes which we always see when a madman has seized an idea, and
with it the shifty movement of the head and back which asylum
attendants come to know so well. He became quite quiet, and went and
sat on the edge of his bed resignedly, and looked into space with
lack-luster eyes.
I thought I would find out if his apathy were real or only assumed, and
tried to lead him to talk of his pets, a theme which had never failed
to excite his attention.
At first he made no reply, but at length said testily, "Bother them
all! I don't care a pin about them."
"What" I said. "You don't mean to tell me you don't care about
spiders?" (Spiders at present are his hobby and the notebook is filling
up with columns of small figures.)
To this he answered enigmatically, "The Bride maidens rejoice the eyes
that wait the coming of the bride. But when the bride draweth nigh,
then the maidens shine not to the eyes that are filled."
He would not explain himself, but remained obstinately seated on his
bed all the time I remained with him.
I am weary tonight and low in spirits. I cannot but think of Lucy, and
how different things might have been. If I don't sleep at once,
chloral, the modern Morpheus! I must be careful not to let it grow
into a habit. No, I shall take none tonight! I have thought of Lucy,
and I shall not dishonour her by mixing the two. If need be, tonight
shall be sleepless.
Later.--Glad I made the resolution, gladder that I kept to it. I had
lain tossing about, and had heard the clock strike only twice, when the
night watchman came to me, sent up from the ward, to say that Renfield
had escaped. I threw on my clothes and ran down at once. My patient
is too dangerous a person to be roaming about. Those ideas of his
might work out dangerously with strangers.
The attendant was waiting for me. He said he had seen him not ten
minutes before, seemingly asleep in his bed, when he had looked through
the observation trap in the door. His attention was called by the
sound of the window being wrenched out. He ran back and saw his feet
disappear through the window, and had at once sent up for me. He was
only in his night gear, and cannot be far off.
The attendant thought it would be more useful to watch where he should
go than to follow him, as he might lose sight of him whilst getting out
of the building by the door. He is a bulky man, and couldn't get
through the window.
I am thin, so, with his aid, I got out, but feet foremost, and as we
were only a few feet above ground landed unhurt.
The attendant told me the patient had gone to the left, and had taken a
straight line, so I ran as quickly as I could. As I got through the
belt of trees I saw a white figure scale the high wall which separates
our grounds from those of the deserted house.
I ran back at once, told the watchman to get three or four men
immediately and follow me into the grounds of Carfax, in case our
friend might be dangerous. I got a ladder myself, and crossing the
wall, dropped down on the other side. I could see Renfield's figure
just disappearing behind the angle of the house, so I ran after him. On
the far side of the house I found him pressed close against the old
iron-bound oak door of the chapel.
He was talking, apparently to some one, but I was afraid to go near
enough to hear what he was saying, lest I might frighten him, and he
should run off.
Chasing an errant swarm of bees is nothing to following a naked
lunatic, when the fit of escaping is upon him! After a few minutes,
however, I could see that he did not take note of anything around him,
and so ventured to draw nearer to him, the more so as my men had now
crossed the wall and were closing him in. I heard him say . . .
"I am here to do your bidding, Master. I am your slave, and you will
reward me, for I shall be faithful. I have worshipped you long and afar
off. Now that you are near, I await your commands, and you will not
pass me by, will you, dear Master, in your distribution of good
things?"
He is a selfish old beggar anyhow. He thinks of the loaves and fishes
even when he believes his is in a real Presence. His manias make a
startling combination. When we closed in on him he fought like a
tiger. He is immensely strong, for he was more like a wild beast than
a man.
I never saw a lunatic in such a paroxysm of rage before, and I hope I
shall not again. It is a mercy that we have found out his strength and
his danger in good time. With strength and determination like his, he
might have done wild work before he was caged.
He is safe now, at any rate. Jack Sheppard himself couldn't get free
from the strait waistcoat that keeps him restrained, and he's chained
to the wall in the padded room.
His cries are at times awful, but the silences that follow are more
deadly still, for he means murder in every turn and movement.
Just now he spoke coherent words for the first time. "I shall be
patient, Master. It is coming, coming, coming!"
So I took the hint, and came too. I was too excited to sleep, but this
diary has quieted me, and I feel I shall get some sleep tonight.
CHAPTER 9
LETTER, MINA HARKER TO LUCY WESTENRA
Buda-Pesth, 24 August.
"My dearest Lucy,
"I know you will be anxious to hear all that has happened
since we parted at the railway station at Whitby.
"Well, my dear, I got to Hull all right, and caught the
boat to Hamburg, and then the train on here. I feel that I
can hardly recall anything of the journey, except that I
knew I was coming to Jonathan, and that as I should have to
do some nursing, I had better get all the sleep I could. I
found my dear one, oh, so thin and pale and weak-looking.
All the resolution has gone out of his dear eyes, and that
quiet dignity which I told you was in his face has
vanished. He is only a wreck of himself, and he does not
remember anything that has happened to him for a long time
past. At least, he wants me to believe so, and I shall
never ask.
"He has had some terrible shock, and I fear it might tax
his poor brain if he were to try to recall it. Sister
Agatha, who is a good creature and a born nurse, tells me
that he wanted her to tell me what they were, but she would
only cross herself, and say she would never tell. That the
ravings of the sick were the secrets of God, and that if a
nurse through her vocation should hear them, she should
respect her trust.
"She is a sweet, good soul, and the next day, when she saw
I was troubled, she opened up the subject my poor dear
raved about, added, `I can tell you this much, my dear.
That it was not about anything which he has done wrong
himself, and you, as his wife to be, have no cause to be
concerned. He has not forgotten you or what he owes to
you. His fear was of great and terrible things, which no
mortal can treat of.'
"I do believe the dear soul thought I might be jealous lest
my poor dear should have fallen in love with any other
girl. The idea of my being jealous about Jonathan! And
yet, my dear, let me whisper, I felt a thrill of joy
through me when I knew that no other woman was a cause for
trouble. I am now sitting by his bedside, where I can see
his face while he sleeps. He is waking!
"When he woke he asked me for his coat, as he wanted to get
something from the pocket. I asked Sister Agatha, and she
brought all his things. I saw amongst them was his
notebook, and was was going to ask him to let me look at
it, for I knew that I might find some clue to his trouble,
but I suppose he must have seen my wish in my eyes, for he
sent me over to the window, saying he wanted to be quite
alone for a moment.
"Then he called me back, and he said to me very solemnly,
`Wilhelmina', I knew then that he was in deadly earnest, for
he has never called me by that name since he asked me to
marry him, `You know, dear, my ideas of the trust between
husband and wife. There should be no secret, no
concealment. I have had a great shock, and when I try to
think of what it is I feel my head spin round, and I do not
know if it was real of the dreaming of a madman. You know
I had brain fever, and that is to be mad. The secret is
here, and I do not want to know it. I want to take up my
life here, with our marriage.' For, my dear, we had
decided to be married as soon as the formalities are
complete. `Are you willing, Wilhelmina, to share my
ignorance? Here is the book. Take it and keep it, read it
if you will, but never let me know unless, indeed, some
solemn duty should come upon me to go back to the bitter
hours, asleep or awake, sane or mad, recorded here.' He
fell back exhausted, and I put the book under his pillow,
and kissed him. I have asked Sister Agatha to beg the
Superior to let our wedding be this afternoon, and am
waiting her reply . . ."
"She has come and told me that the Chaplain of the English
mission church has been sent for. We are to be married in
an hour, or as soon after as Jonathan awakes."
"Lucy, the time has come and gone. I feel very solemn, but
very, very happy. Jonathan woke a little after the hour,
and all was ready, and he sat up in bed, propped up with
pillows. He answered his `I will' firmly and strong. I
could hardly speak. My heart was so full that even those
words seemed to choke me.
"The dear sisters were so kind. Please, God, I shall
never, never forget them, nor the grave and sweet
responsibilities I have taken upon me. I must tell you of
my wedding present. When the chaplain and the sisters had
left me alone with my husband--oh, Lucy, it is the first
time I have written the words `my husband'--left me alone
with my husband, I took the book from under his pillow, and
wrapped it up in white paper, and tied it with a little bit
of pale blue ribbon which was round my neck, and sealed it
over the knot with sealing wax, and for my seal I used my
wedding ring. Then I kissed it and showed it to my
husband, and told him that I would keep it so, and then it
would be an outward and visible sign for us all our lives
that we trusted each other, that I would never open it
unless it were for his own dear sake or for the sake of
some stern duty. Then he took my hand in his, and oh,
Lucy, it was the first time he took his wife's hand, and
said that it was the dearest thing in all the wide world,
and that he would go through all the past again to win it,
if need be. The poor dear meant to have said a part of the
past, but he cannot think of time yet, and I shall not
wonder if at first he mixes up not only the month, but the
year.
"Well, my dear, what could I say? I could only tell him that I
was the happiest woman in all the wide world, and that I
had nothing to give him except myself, my life, and my
trust, and that with these went my love and duty for all
the days of my life. And, my dear, when he kissed me, and
drew me to him with his poor weak hands, it was like a
solemn pledge between us.
"Lucy dear, do you know why I tell you all this? It is not
only because it is all sweet to me, but because you have
been, and are, very dear to me. It was my privilege to be
your friend and guide when you came from the schoolroom to
prepare for the world of life. I want you to see now, and
with the eyes of a very happy wife, whither duty has led
me, so that in your own married life you too may be all
happy, as I am. My dear, please Almighty God, your life
may be all it promises, a long day of sunshine, with no
harsh wind, no forgetting duty, no distrust. I must not
wish you no pain, for that can never be, but I do hope you
will be always as happy as I am now. Goodbye, my dear. I
shall post this at once, and perhaps, write you very soon
again. I must stop, for Jonathan is waking. I must attend
my husband!
"Your ever-loving
"Mina Harker."
LETTER, LUCY WESTENRA TO MINA HARKER.
Whitby, 30 August.
"My dearest Mina,
"Oceans of love and millions of kisses, and may you soon be
in your own home with your husband. I wish you were coming
home soon enough to stay with us here. The strong air
would soon restore Jonathan. It has quite restored me. I
have an appetite like a cormorant, am full of life, and
sleep well. You will be glad to know that I have quite
given up walking in my sleep. I think I have not stirred
out of my bed for a week, that is when I once got into it
at night. Arthur says I am getting fat. By the way, I
forgot to tell you that Arthur is here. We have such walks
and drives, and rides, and rowing, and tennis, and fishing
together, and I love him more than ever. He tells me that
he loves me more, but I doubt that, for at first he told me
that he couldn't love me more than he did then. But this
is nonsense. There he is, calling to me. So no more just
at present from your loving,
"Lucy.
"P.S.--Mother sends her love. She seems better, poor dear.
"P.P.S.--We are to be married on 28 September."
DR. SEWARDS DIARY
20 August.--The case of Renfield grows even more interesting. He has
now so far quieted that there are spells of cessation from his
passion. For the first week after his attack he was perpetually
violent. Then one night, just as the moon rose, he grew quiet, and
kept murmuring to himself. "Now I can wait. Now I can wait."
The attendant came to tell me, so I ran down at once to have a look at
him. He was still in the strait waistcoat and in the padded room, but
the suffused look had gone from his face, and his eyes had something
of their old pleading. I might almost say, cringing, softness. I was
satisfied with his present condition, and directed him to be relieved.
The attendants hesitated, but finally carried out my wishes without
protest.
It was a strange thing that the patient had humour enough to see their
distrust, for, coming close to me, he said in a whisper, all the while
looking furtively at them, "They think I could hurt you! Fancy me
hurting you! The fools!"
It was soothing, somehow, to the feelings to find myself disassociated
even in the mind of this poor madman from the others, but all the same
I do not follow his thought. Am I to take it that I have anything in
common with him, so that we are, as it were, to stand together. Or
has he to gain from me some good so stupendous that my well being is
needful to Him? I must find out later on. Tonight he will not speak.
Even the offer of a kitten or even a full-grown cat will not tempt
him.
He will only say, "I don't take any stock in cats. I have more to
think of now, and I can wait. I can wait."
After a while I left him. The attendant tells me that he was quiet
until just before dawn, and that then he began to get uneasy, and at
length violent, until at last he fell into a paroxysm which exhausted
him so that he swooned into a sort of coma.
. . . Three nights has the same thing happened, violent all day then
quiet from moonrise to sunrise. I wish I could get some clue to the
cause. It would almost seem as if there was some influence which came
and went. Happy thought! We shall tonight play sane wits against mad
ones. He escaped before without our help. Tonight he shall escape
with it. We shall give him a chance, and have the men ready to follow
in case they are required.
23 August.--"The expected always happens." How well Disraeli knew
life. Our bird when he found the cage open would not fly, so all our
subtle arrangements were for nought. At any rate, we have proved one
thing, that the spells of quietness last a reasonable time. We shall
in future be able to ease his bonds for a few hours each day. I have
given orders to the night attendant merely to shut him in the padded
room, when once he is quiet, until the hour before sunrise. The poor
soul's body will enjoy the relief even if his mind cannot appreciate
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 moonlight sky, except a big bat,
which was flapping its silent and ghostly way to the west. Bats
usually wheel about, but this one seemed to go straight on, as if it
knew where it was bound for or had some intention of its own.
The patient grew calmer every instant, and presently said, "You
needn't tie me. I shall go quietly!" Without trouble, we came back
to the house. I feel there is something ominous in his calm, and
shall not forget this night.
LUCY WESTENRA'S DIARY
Hillingham, 24 August.--I must imitate Mina, and keep writing things
down. Then we can have long talks when we do meet. I wonder when it
will be. I wish she were with me again, for I feel so unhappy. Last
night I seemed to be dreaming again just as I was at Whitby. Perhaps
it is the change of air, or getting home again. It is all dark and
horrid to me, for I can remember nothing. But I am full of vague
fear, and I feel so weak and worn out. When Arthur came to lunch he
looked quite grieved when he saw me, and I hadn't the spirit to try to
be cheerful. I wonder if I could sleep in mother's room tonight. I
shall make an excuse to try.
25 August.--Another bad night. Mother did not seem to take to my
proposal. She seems not too well herself, and doubtless she fears to
worry me. I tried to keep awake, and succeeded for a while, but when
the clock struck twelve it waked me from a doze, so I must have been
falling asleep. There was a sort of scratching or flapping at the
window, but I did not mind it, and as I remember no more, I suppose I
must have fallen asleep. More bad dreams. I wish I could remember
them. This morning I am horribly weak. My face is ghastly pale, and
my throat pains me. It must be something wrong with my lungs, for I
don't seem to be getting air enough. I shall try to cheer up when
Arthur comes, or else I know he will be miserable to see me so.
LETTER, ARTHUR TO DR. SEWARD
"Albemarle Hotel, 31 August "My dear Jack,
"I want you to do me a favour. Lucy is ill, that is she
has no special disease, but she looks awful, and is getting
worse every day. I have asked her if there is any cause, I
not dare to ask her mother, for to disturb the poor lady's
mind about her daughter in her present state of health
would be fatal. Mrs. Westenra has confided to me that her
doom is spoken, disease of the heart, though poor Lucy does
not know it yet. I am sure that there is something preying
on my dear girl's mind. I am almost distracted when I
think of her. To look at her gives me a pang. I told her
I should ask you to see her, and though she demurred at
first, I know why, old fellow, she finally consented. It
will be a painful task for you, I know, old friend, but it
is for her sake, and I must not hesitate to ask, or you to
act. You are to come to lunch at Hillingham tomorrow, two
o'clock, so as not to arouse any suspicion in Mrs.
Westenra, and after lunch Lucy will take an opportunity of
being alone with you. I am filled with anxiety, and want
to consult with you alone as soon as I can after you have
seen her. Do not fail!
"Arthur."
TELEGRAM, ARTHUR HOLMWOOD TO SEWARD
1 September
"Am summoned to see my father, who is worse. Am writing.
Write me fully by tonight's post to Ring. Wire me if necessary."
LETTER FROM DR. SEWARD TO ARTHUR HOLMWOOD
2 September
"My dear old fellow,
"With regard to Miss Westenra's health I hasten to let you
know at once that in my opinion there is not any functional
disturbance or any malady that I know of. At the same
time, I am not by any means satisfied with her appearance.
She is woefully different from what she was when I saw her
last. Of course you must bear in mind that I did not have
full opportunity of examination such as I should wish. Our
very friendship makes a little difficulty which not even
medical science or custom can bridge over. I had better
tell you exactly what happened, leaving you to draw, in a
measure, your own conclusions. I shall then say what I
have done and propose doing.
"I found Miss Westenra in seemingly gay spirits. Her mother
was present, and in a few seconds I made up my mind that
she was trying all she knew to mislead her mother and
prevent her from being anxious. I have no doubt she
guesses, if she does not know, what need of caution there
is.
"We lunched alone, and as we all exerted ourselves to be
cheerful, we got, as some kind of reward for our labours,
some real cheerfulness amongst us. Then Mrs. Westenra went
to lie down, and Lucy was left with me. We went into her
boudoir, and till we got there her gaiety remained, for the
servants were coming and going.
"As soon as the door was closed, however, the mask fell from
her face, and she sank down into a chair with a great sigh,
and hid her eyes with her hand. When I saw that her high
spirits had failed, I at once took advantage of her
reaction to make a diagnosis.
"She said to me very sweetly, `I cannot tell you how I
loathe talking about myself.' I reminded her that a
doctor's confidence was sacred, but that you were
grievously anxious about her. She caught on to my meaning
at once, and settled that matter in a word. `Tell Arthur
everything you choose. I do not care for myself, but for
him!' So I am quite free.
"I could easily see that she was somewhat bloodless, but I
could not see the usual anemic signs, and by the chance, I
was able to test the actual quality of her blood, for in
opening a window which was stiff a cord gave way, and she
cut her hand slightly with broken glass. It was a slight
matter in itself, but it gave me an evident chance, and I
secured a few drops of the blood and have analysed them.
"The qualitative analysis give a quite normal condition,
and shows, I should infer, in itself a vigorous state of
health. In other physical matters I was quite satisfied
that there is no need for anxiety, but as there must be a
cause somewhere, I have come to the conclusion that it must
be something mental.
"She complains of difficulty breathing satisfactorily at
times, and of heavy, lethargic sleep, with dreams that
frighten her, but regarding which she can remember
nothing. She says that as a child, she used to walk in her
sleep, and that when in Whitby the habit came back, and
that once she walked out in the night and went to East
Cliff, where Miss Murray found her. But she assures me
that of late the habit has not returned.
"I am in doubt, and so have done the best thing I know of.
I have written to my old friend and master, Professor Van
Helsing, of Amsterdam, who knows as much about obscure
diseases as any one in the world. I have asked him to come
over, and as you told me that all things were to be at your
charge, I have mentioned to him who you are and your
relations to Miss Westenra. This, my dear fellow, is in
obedience to your wishes, for I am only too proud and happy
to do anything I can for her.
"Van Helsing would, I know, do anything for me for a
personal reason, so no matter on what ground he comes, we
must accept his wishes. He is a seemingly arbitrary man,
this is because he knows what he is talking about better
than any one else. He is a philosopher and a
metaphysician, and one of the most advanced scientists of
his day, and he has, I believe, an absolutely open mind.
This, with an iron nerve, a temper of the ice-brook, and
indomitable resolution, self-command, and toleration exalted
from virtues to blessings, and the kindliest and truest
heart that beats, these form his equipment for the noble
work that he is doing for mankind, work both in theory and
practice, for his views are as wide as his all-embracing
sympathy. I tell you these facts that you may know why I
have such confidence in him. I have asked him to come at
once. I shall see Miss Westenra tomorrow again. She is to
meet me at the Stores, so that I may not alarm her mother by
too early a repetition of my call.
"Yours always."
John Seward
LETTER, ABRAHAM VAN HELSING, MD, DPh, D. Lit, ETC, ETC, TO DR. SEWARD
2 September.
"My good Friend,
"When I received your letter I am already coming to you. By
good fortune I can leave just at once, without wrong to any
of those who have trusted me. Were fortune other, then it
were bad for those who have trusted, for I come to my
friend when he call me to aid those he holds dear. Tell
your friend that when that time you suck from my wound so
swiftly the poison of the gangrene from that knife that our
other friend, too nervous, let slip, you did more for him
when he wants my aids and you call for them than all his
great fortune could do. But it is pleasure added to do for
him, your friend, it is to you that I come. Have near at
hand, and please it so arrange that we may see the young
lady not too late on tomorrow, for it is likely that I may
have to return here that night. But if need be I shall
come again in three days, and stay longer if it must. Till
then goodbye, my friend John.
"Van Helsing."
LETTER, DR. SEWARD TO HON. ARTHUR HOLMWOOD
3 September
"My dear Art,
"Van Helsing has come and gone. He came on with me to
Hillingham, and found that, by Lucy's discretion, her
mother was lunching out, so that we were alone with her.
"Van Helsing made a very careful examination of the
patient. He is to report to me, and I shall advise you,
for of course I was not present all the time. He is, I
fear, much concerned, but says he must think. When I told
him of our friendship and how you trust to me in the
matter, he said, `You must tell him all you think. Tell
him him what I think, if you can guess it, if you will.
Nay, I am not jesting. This is no jest, but life and
death, perhaps more.' I asked what he meant by that, for he
was very serious. This was when we had come back to town,
and he was having a cup of tea before starting on his
return to Amsterdam. He would not give me any further
clue. You must not be angry with me, Art, because his very
reticence means that all his brains are working for her
good. He will speak plainly enough when the time comes, be
sure. So I told him I would simply write an account of our
visit, just as if I were doing a descriptive special
article for THE DAILY TELEGRAPH. He seemed not to notice,
but remarked that the smuts of London were not quite so bad
as they used to be when he was a student here. I am to get
his report tomorrow if he can possibly make it. In any
case I am to have a letter.
"Well, as to the visit, Lucy was more cheerful than on the
day I first saw her, and certainly looked better. She had
lost something of the ghastly look that so upset you, and
her breathing was normal. She was very sweet to the
Professor (as she always is), and tried to make him feel at
ease, though I could see the poor girl was making a hard
struggle for it.
"I believe Van Helsing saw it, too, for I saw the quick look
under his bushy brows that I knew of old. Then he began to
chat of all things except ourselves and diseases and with
such an infinite geniality that I could see poor Lucy's
pretense of animation merge into reality. Then, without
any seeming change, he brought the conversation gently
round to his visit, and suavely said,
"`My dear young miss, I have the so great pleasure because
you are so much beloved. That is much, my dear, even were
there that which I do not see. They told me you were down
in the spirit, and that you were of a ghastly pale. To
them I say "Pouf!"' And he snapped his fingers at me and
went on. `But you and I shall show them how wrong they
are. How can he', and he pointed at me with the same look
and gesture as that with which he pointed me out in his
class, on, or rather after, a particular occasion which he
never fails to remind me of, `know anything of a young
ladies? He has his madmen to play with, and to bring them
back to happiness, and to those that love them. It is much
to do, and, oh, but there are rewards in that we can bestow
such happiness. But the young ladies! He has no wife nor
daughter, and the young do not tell themselves to the
young, but to the old, like me, who have known so many
sorrows and the causes of them. So, my dear, we will send
him away to smoke the cigarette in the garden, whiles you
and I have little talk all to ourselves.' I took the hint,
and strolled about, and presently the professor came to the
window and called me in. He looked grave, but said, `I
have made careful examination, but there is no functional
cause. With you I agree that there has been much blood
lost, it has been but is not. But the conditions of her
are in no way anemic. I have asked her to send me her
maid, that I may ask just one or two questions, that so I
may not chance to miss nothing. I know well what she will
say. And yet there is cause. There is always cause for
everything. I must go back home and think. You must send
me the telegram every day, and if there be cause I shall
come again. The disease, for not to be well is a disease,
interest me, and the sweet, young dear, she interest me
too. She charm me, and for her, if not for you or disease,
I come.'
"As I tell you, he would not say a word more, even when we
were alone. And so now, Art, you know all I know. I shall
keep stern watch. I trust your poor father is rallying. It
must be a terrible thing to you, my dear old fellow, to be
placed in such a position between two people who are both
so dear to you. I know your idea of duty to your father,
and you are right to stick to it. But if need be, I shall
send you word to come at once to Lucy, so do not be
over-anxious unless you hear from me."
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 quiet, and
finally sank into a sort of melancholy, in which state he has remained
up to now. The attendant tells me that his screams whilst in the
paroxysm were really appalling. I found my hands full when I got in,
attending to some of the other patients who were frightened by him.
Indeed, I can quite understand the effect, for the sounds disturbed
even me, though I was some distance away. It is now after the dinner
hour of the asylum, and as yet my patient sits in a corner brooding,
with a dull, sullen, woe-begone look in his face, which seems rather
to indicate than to show something directly. I cannot quite
understand it.
Later.--Another change in my patient. At five o'clock I looked in on
him, and found him seemingly as happy and contented as he used to be.
He was catching flies and eating them, and was keeping note of his
capture by making nailmarks on the edge of the door between the ridges
of padding. When he saw me, he came over and apologized for his bad
conduct, and asked me in a very humble, cringing way to be led back to
his own room, and to have his notebook again. I thought it well to
humour him, so he is back in his room with the window open. He has
the sugar of his tea spread out on the window sill, and is reaping
quite a harvest of flies. He is not now eating them, but putting them
into a box, as of old, and is already examining the corners of his
room to find a spider. I tried to get him to talk about the past few
days, for any clue to his thoughts would be of immense help to me, but
he would not rise. For a moment or two he looked very sad, and said
in a sort of far away voice, as though saying it rather to himself
than to me.
"All over! All over! He has deserted me. No hope for me now unless
I do it myself!" Then suddenly turning to me in a resolute way, he
said, "Doctor, won't you be very good to me and let me have a little
more sugar? I think it would be very good for me."
"And the flies?" I said.
"Yes! The flies like it, too, and I like the flies, therefore I like
it." And there are people who know so little as to think that madmen do
not argue. I procured him a double supply, and left him as happy a
man as, I suppose, any in the world. I wish I could fathom his mind.
Midnight.--Another change in him. I had been to see Miss Westenra,
whom I found much better, and had just returned, and was standing at
our own gate looking at the sunset, when once more I heard him
yelling. As his room is on this side of the house, I could hear it
better than in the morning. It was a shock to me to turn from the
wonderful smoky beauty of a sunset over London, with its lurid lights
and inky shadows and all the marvellous tints that come on foul clouds
even as on foul water, and to realize all the grim sternness of my own
cold stone building, with its wealth of breathing misery, and my own
desolate heart to endure it all. I reached him just as the sun was
going down, and from his window saw the red disc sink. As it sank he
became less and less frenzied, and just as it dipped he slid from the
hands that held him, an inert mass, on the floor. It is wonderful,
however, what intellectual recuperative power lunatics have, for
within a few minutes he stood up quite calmly and looked around him. I
signalled to the attendants not to hold him, for I was anxious to see
what he would do. He went straight over to the window and brushed out
the crumbs of sugar. Then he took his fly box, and emptied it
outside, and threw away the box. Then he shut the window, and
crossing over, sat down on his bed. All this surprised me, so I asked
him, "Are you going to keep flies any more?"
"No," said he. "I am sick of all that rubbish!" He certainly is a
wonderfully interesting study. I wish I could get some glimpse of his
mind or of the cause of his sudden passion. Stop. There may be a
clue after all, if we can find why today his paroxysms came on at high
noon and at sunset. Can it be that there is a malign influence of the
sun at periods which affects certain natures, as at times the moon
does others? We shall see.
TELEGRAM. SEWARD, LONDON, TO VAN HELSING, AMSTERDAM
"4 September.--Patient still better today."
TELEGRAM, SEWARD, LONDON, TO VAN HELSING, AMSTERDAM
"5 September.--Patient greatly improved. Good appetite,
sleeps naturally, good spirits, colour coming back."
TELEGRAM, SEWARD, LONDON, TO VAN HELSING, AMSTERDAM
"6 September.--Terrible change for the worse. Come at once.
Do not lose an hour. I hold over telegram to Holmwood till
have seen you."
CHAPTER 10
LETTER, DR. SEWARD TO HON. ARTHUR HOLMWOOD
6 September
"My dear Art,
"My news today is not so good. Lucy this morning had gone
back a bit. There is, however, one good thing which has
arisen from it. Mrs. Westenra was naturally anxious
concerning Lucy, and has consulted me professionally about
her. I took advantage of the opportunity, and told her
that my old master, Van Helsing, the great specialist, was
coming to stay with me, and that I would put her in his
charge conjointly with myself. So now we can come and go
without alarming her unduly, for a shock to her would mean
sudden death, and this, in Lucy's weak condition, might be
disastrous to her. We are hedged in with difficulties, all
of us, my poor fellow, but, please God, we shall come
through them all right. If any need I shall write, so
that, if you do not hear from me, take it for granted that I
am simply waiting for news, In haste,
"Yours ever,"
John Seward
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, to
lover of her?"
"No," I said. "I waited till I had seen you, as I said in my
telegram. I wrote him a letter simply telling him that you were
coming, as Miss Westenra was not so well, and that I should let him
know if need be."
"Right, my friend," he said. "Quite right! Better he not know as
yet. Perhaps he will never know. I pray so, but if it be needed,
then he shall know all. And, my good friend John, let me caution you.
You deal with the madmen. All men are mad in some way or the other,
and inasmuch as you deal discreetly with your madmen, so deal with
God's madmen too, the rest of the world. You tell not your madmen
what you do nor why you do it. You tell them not what you think. So
you shall keep knowledge in its place, where it may rest, where it may
gather its kind around it and breed. You and I shall keep as yet what
we know here, and here." He touched me on the heart and on the
forehead, and then touched himself the same way. "I have for myself
thoughts at the present. Later I shall unfold to you."
"Why not now?" I asked. "It may do some good. We may arrive at some
decision." He looked at me and said, "My friend John, when the corn is
grown, even before it has ripened, while the milk of its mother earth
is in him, and the sunshine has not yet begun to paint him with his
gold, the husbandman he pull the ear and rub him between his rough
hands, and blow away the green chaff, and say to you, 'Look! He's
good corn, he will make a good crop when the time comes.' "
I did not see the application and told him so. For reply he reached
over and took my ear in his hand and pulled it playfully, as he used
long ago to do at lectures, and said, "The good husbandman tell you so
then because he knows, but not till then. But you do not find the
good husbandman dig up his planted corn to see if he grow. That is
for the children who play at husbandry, and not for those who take it
as of the work of their life. See you now, friend John? I have sown
my corn, and Nature has her work to do in making it sprout, if he
sprout at all, there's some promise, and I wait till the ear begins to
swell." He broke off, for he evidently saw that I understood. Then he
went on gravely, "You were always a careful student, and your case
book was ever more full than the rest. And I trust that good habit
have not fail. Remember, my friend, that knowledge is stronger than
memory, and we should not trust the weaker. Even if you have not kept
the good practice, let me tell you that this case of our dear miss is
one that may be, mind, I say may be, of such interest to us and others
that all the rest may not make him kick the beam, as your people say.
Take then good note of it. Nothing is too small. I counsel you, put
down in record even your doubts and surmises. Hereafter it may be of
interest to you to see how true you guess. We learn from failure, not
from success!"
When I described Lucy's symptoms, the same as before, but infinitely
more marked, he looked very grave, but said nothing. He took with him
a bag in which were many instruments and drugs, "the ghastly
paraphernalia of our beneficial trade," as he once called, in one of
his lectures, the equipment of a professor of the healing craft.
When we were shown in, Mrs. Westenra met us. She was alarmed, but not
nearly so much as I expected to find her. Nature in one of her
beneficient moods has ordained that even death has some antidote to
its own terrors. Here, in a case where any shock may prove fatal,
matters are so ordered that, from some cause or other, the things not
personal, even the terrible change in her daughter to whom she is so
attached, do not seem to reach her. It is something like the way dame
Nature gathers round a foreign body an envelope of some insensitive
tissue which can protect from evil that which it would otherwise harm
by contact. If this be an ordered selfishness, then we should pause
before we condemn any one for the vice of egoism, for there may be
deeper root for its causes than we have knowledge of.
I used my knowledge of this phase of spiritual pathology, and set down
a rule that she should not be present with Lucy, or think of her
illness more than was absolutely required. She assented readily, so
readily that I saw again the hand of Nature fighting for life. Van
Helsing and I were shown up to Lucy's room. If I was shocked when I
saw her yesterday, I was horrified when I saw her today.
She was ghastly, chalkily pale. The red seemed to have gone even from
her lips and gums, and the bones of her face stood out prominently.
Her breathing was painful to see or hear. Van Helsing's face grew set
as marble, and his eyebrows converged till they almost touched over his
nose. Lucy lay motionless, and did not seem to have strength to
speak, so for a while we were all silent. Then Van Helsing beckoned
to me, and we went gently out of the room. The instant we had closed
the door he stepped quickly along the passage to the next door, which
was open. Then he pulled me quickly in with him and closed the door.
"My god!" he said. "This is dreadful. There is not time to be lost.
She will die for sheer want of blood to keep the heart's action as it
should be. There must be a transfusion of blood at once. Is it you
or me?"
"I am younger and stronger, Professor. It must be me."
"Then get ready at once. I will bring up my bag. I am prepared."
I went downstairs with him, and as we were going there was a knock at
the hall door. When we reached the hall, the maid had just opened the
door, and Arthur was stepping quickly in. He rushed up to me, saying
in an eager whisper,
"Jack, I was so anxious. I read between the lines of your letter, and
have been in an agony. The dad was better, so I ran down here to see
for myself. Is not that gentleman Dr. Van Helsing? I am so thankful
to you, sir, for coming."
When first the Professor's eye had lit upon him, he had been angry at
his interruption at such a time, but now, as he took in his stalwart
proportions and recognized the strong young manhood which seemed to
emanate from him, his eyes gleamed. Without a pause he said to him as
he held out his hand,
"Sir, you have come in time. You are the lover of our dear miss. She
is bad, very, very bad. Nay, my child, do not go like that." For he
suddenly grew pale and sat down in a chair almost fainting. "You are
to help her. You can do more than any that live, and your courage is
your best help."
"What can I do?" asked Arthur hoarsely. "Tell me, and I shall do it.
My life is hers, and I would give the last drop of blood in my body for
her."
The Professor has a strongly humorous side, and I could from old
knowledge detect a trace of its origin in his answer.
"My young sir, I do not ask so much as that, not the last!"
"What shall I do?" There was fire in his eyes, and his open nostrils
quivered with intent. Van Helsing slapped him on the shoulder.
"Come!" he said. "You are a man, and it is a man we want. You are
better than me, better than my friend John." Arthur looked bewildered,
and the Professor went on by explaining in a kindly way.
"Young miss is bad, very bad. She wants blood, and blood she must
have or die. My friend John and I have consulted, and we are about to
perform what we call transfusion of blood, to transfer from full veins
of one to the empty veins which pine for him. John was to give his
blood, as he is the more young and strong than me."--Here Arthur took
my hand and wrung it hard in silence.--"But now you are here, you are
more good than us, old or young, who toil much in the world of
thought. Our nerves are not so calm and our blood so bright than
yours!"
Arthur turned to him and said, "If you only knew how gladly I would
die for her you would understand . . ." He stopped with a sort of
choke in his voice.
"Good boy!" said Van Helsing. "In the not-so-far-off you will be
happy that you have done all for her you love. Come now and be
silent. You shall kiss her once before it is done, but then you must
go, and you must leave at my sign. Say no word to Madame. You know
how it is with her. There must be no shock, any knowledge of this
would be one. Come!"
We all went up to Lucy's room. Arthur by direction remained outside.
Lucy turned her head and looked at us, but said nothing. She was not
asleep, but she was simply too weak to make the effort. Her eyes
spoke to us, that was all.
Van Helsing took some things from his bag and laid them on a little
table out of sight. Then he mixed a narcotic, and coming over to the
bed, said cheerily, "Now, little miss, here is your medicine. Drink
it off, like a good child. See, I lift you so that to swallow is
easy. Yes." She had made the effort with success.
It astonished me how long the drug took to act. This, in fact, marked
the extent of her weakness. The time seemed endless until sleep began
to flicker in her eyelids. At last, however, the narcotic began to
manifest its potency, and she fell into a deep sleep. When the
Professor was satisfied, he called Arthur into the room, and bade him
strip off his coat. Then he added, "You may take that one little kiss
whiles I bring over the table. Friend John, help to me!" So neither
of us looked whilst he bent over her.
Van Helsing, turning to me, said, "He is so young and strong, and of
blood so pure that we need not defibrinate it."
Then with swiftness, but with absolute method, Van Helsing performed
the operation. As the transfusion went on, something like life seemed
to come back to poor Lucy's cheeks, and through Arthur's growing
pallor the joy of his face seemed absolutely to shine. After a bit I
began to grow anxious, for the loss of blood was telling on Arthur,
strong man as he was. It gave me an idea of what a terrible strain
Lucy's system must have undergone that what weakened Arthur only
partially restored her.
But the Professor's face was set, and he stood watch in hand, and with
his eyes fixed now on the patient and now on Arthur. I could hear my
own heart beat. Presently, he said in a soft voice, "Do not stir an
instant. It is enough. You attend him. I will look to her."
When all was over, I could see how much Arthur was weakened. I
dressed the wound and took his arm to bring him away, when Van Helsing
spoke without turning round, the man seems to have eyes in the back of
his head, "The brave lover, I think, deserve another kiss, which he
shall have presently." And as he had now finished his operation, he
adjusted the pillow to the patient's head. As he did so the narrow
black velvet band which she seems always to wear round her throat,
buckled with an old diamond buckle which her lover had given her, was
dragged a little up, and showed a red mark on her throat.
Arthur did not notice it, but I could hear the deep hiss of indrawn
breath which is one of Van Helsing's ways of betraying emotion. He
said nothing at the moment, but turned to me, saying, "Now take down
our brave young lover, give him of the port wine, and let him lie down
a while. He must then go home and rest, sleep much and eat much, that
he may be recruited of what he has so given to his love. He must not
stay here. Hold a moment! I may take it, sir, that you are anxious
of result. Then bring it with you, that in all ways the operation is
successful. You have saved her life this time, and you can go home
and rest easy in mind that all that can be is. I shall tell her all
when she is well. She shall love you none the less for what you have
done. Goodbye."
When Arthur had gone I went back to the room. Lucy was sleeping
gently, but her breathing was stronger. I could see the counterpane
move as her breast heaved. By the bedside sat Van Helsing, looking at
her intently. The velvet band again covered the red mark. I asked
the Professor in a whisper, "What do you make of that mark on her
throat?"
"What do you make of it?"
"I have not examined it yet," I answered, and then and there proceeded
to loose the band. Just over the external jugular vein there were two
punctures, not large, but not wholesome looking. There was no sign of
disease, but the edges were white and worn looking, as if by some
trituration. It at once occurred to me that that this wound, or
whatever it was, might be the means of that manifest loss of blood.
But I abandoned the idea as soon as it formed, for such a thing could
not be. The whole bed would have been drenched to a scarlet with the
blood which the girl must have lost to leave such a pallor as she had
before the transfusion.
"Well?" said Van Helsing.
"Well," said I. "I can make nothing of it."
The Professor stood up. "I must go back to Amsterdam tonight," he
said "There are books and things there which I want. You must remain
here all night, and you must not let your sight pass from her."
"Shall I have a nurse?" I asked.
"We are the best nurses, you and I. You keep watch all night. See
that she is well fed, and that nothing disturbs her. You must not
sleep all the night. Later on we can sleep, you and I. I shall be
back as soon as possible. And then we may begin."
"May begin?" I said. "What on earth do you mean?"
"We shall see!" he answered, as he hurried out. He came back a moment
later and put his head inside the door and said with a warning finger
held up, "Remember, she is your charge. If you leave her, and harm
befall, you shall not sleep easy hereafter!"
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. It was apparent that she did not want to sleep, so I tackled
the subject at once.
"You do not want to sleep?"
"No. I am afraid."
"Afraid to go to sleep! Why so? It is the boon we all crave for."
"Ah, not if you were like me, if sleep was to you a presage of
horror!"
"A presage of horror! What on earth do you mean?"
"I don't know. Oh, I don't know. And that is what is so terrible.
All this weakness comes to me in sleep, until I dread the very
thought."
"But, my dear girl, you may sleep tonight. I am here watching you,
and I can promise that nothing will happen."
"Ah, I can trust you!" she said.
I seized the opportunity, and said, "I promise that if I see any
evidence of bad dreams I will wake you at once."
"You will? Oh, will you really? How good you are to me. Then I will
sleep!" And almost at the word she gave a deep sigh of relief, and
sank back, asleep.
All night long I watched by her. She never stirred, but slept on and
on in a deep, tranquil, life-giving, health-giving sleep. Her lips
were slightly parted, and her breast rose and fell with the regularity
of a pendulum. There was a smile on her face, and it was evident that
no bad dreams had come to disturb her peace of mind.
In the early morning her maid came, and I left her in her care and took
myself back home, for I was anxious about many things. I sent a short
wire to Van Helsing and to Arthur, telling them of the excellent
result of the operation. My own work, with its manifold arrears, took
me all day to clear off. It was dark when I was able to inquire about
my zoophagous patient. The report was good. He had been quite quiet
for the past day and night. A telegram came from Van Helsing at
Amsterdam whilst I was at dinner, suggesting that I should be at
Hillingham tonight, as it might be well to be at hand, and stating
that he was leaving by the night mail and would join me early in the
morning.
9 September.--I was pretty tired and worn out when I got to
Hillingham. For two nights I had hardly had a wink of sleep, and my
brain was beginning to feel that numbness which marks cerebral
exhaustion. Lucy was up and in cheerful spirits. When she shook
hands with me she looked sharply in my face and said,
"No sitting up tonight for you. You are worn out. I am quite well
again. Indeed, I am, and if there is to be any sitting up, it is I
who will sit up with you."
I would not argue the point, but went and had my supper. Lucy came
with me, and, enlivened by her charming presence, I made an excellent
meal, and had a couple of glasses of the more than excellent port.
Then Lucy took me upstairs, and showed me a room next her own, where a
cozy fire was burning.
"Now," she said. "You must stay here. I shall leave this door open
and my door too. You can lie on the sofa for I know that nothing
would induce any of you doctors to go to bed whilst there is a patient
above the horizon. If I want anything I shall call out, and you can
come to me at once."
I could not but acquiesce, for I was dog tired, and could not have sat
up had I tried. So, on her renewing her promise to call me if she
should want anything, I lay on the sofa, and forgot all about
everything.
LUCY WESTENRA'S DIARY
9 September.--I feel so happy tonight. I have been so miserably weak,
that to be able to think and move about is like feeling sunshine after
a long spell of east wind out of a steel sky. Somehow Arthur feels
very, very close to me. I seem to feel his presence warm about me. I
suppose it is that sickness and weakness are selfish things and turn
our inner eyes and sympathy on ourselves, whilst health and strength
give love rein, and in thought and feeling he can wander where he
wills. I know where my thoughts are. If only Arthur knew! My dear,
my dear, your ears must tingle as you sleep, as mine do waking. Oh,
the blissful rest of last night! How I slept, with that dear, good
Dr. Seward watching me. And tonight I shall not fear to sleep, since
he is close at hand and within call. Thank everybody for being so
good to me. Thank God! Goodnight Arthur.
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!" needed no enforcement
from his agonized face. He raised his hand and pointed to the bed,
and his iron face was drawn and ashen white. I felt my knees begin to
tremble.
There on the bed, seemingly in a swoon, lay poor Lucy, more horribly
white and wan-looking than ever. Even the lips were white, and the
gums seemed to have shrunken back from the teeth, as we sometimes see
in a corpse after a prolonged illness.
Van Helsing raised his foot to stamp in anger, but the instinct of his
life and all the long years of habit stood to him, and he put it down
again softly.
"Quick!" he said. "Bring the brandy."
I flew to the dining room, and returned with the decanter. He wetted
the poor white lips with it, and together we rubbed palm and wrist and
heart. He felt her heart, and after a few moments of agonizing
suspense said,
"It is not too late. It beats, though but feebly. All our work is
undone. We must begin again. There is no young Arthur here now. I
have to call on you yourself this time, friend John." As he spoke, he
was dipping into his bag, and producing the instruments of
transfusion. I had taken off my coat and rolled up my shirt sleeve.
There was no possibility of an opiate just at present, and no need of
one. and so, without a moment's delay, we began the operation.
After a time, it did not seem a short time either, for the draining
away of one's blood, no matter how willingly it be given, is a
terrible feeling, Van Helsing held up a warning finger. "Do not
stir," he said. "But I fear that with growing strength she may wake,
and that would make danger, oh, so much danger. But I shall
precaution take. I shall give hypodermic injection of morphia." He
proceeded then, swiftly and deftly, to carry out his intent.
The effect on Lucy was not bad, for the faint seemed to merge subtly
into the narcotic sleep. It was with a feeling of personal pride that
I could see a faint tinge of colour steal back into the pallid cheeks
and lips. No man knows, till he experiences it, what it is to feel
his own lifeblood drawn away into the veins of the woman he loves.
The Professor watched me critically. "That will do," he said.
"Already?" I remonstrated. "You took a great deal more from Art." To
which he smiled a sad sort of smile as he replied,
"He is her lover, her fiance. You have work, much work to do for her
and for others, and the present will suffice."
When we stopped the operation, he attended to Lucy, whilst I applied
digital pressure to my own incision. I laid down, while I waited his
leisure to attend to me, for I felt faint and a little sick. By and
by he bound up my wound, and sent me downstairs to get a glass of wine
for myself. As I was leaving the room, he came after me, and half
whispered.
"Mind, nothing must be said of this. If our young lover should turn
up unexpected, as before, no word to him. It would at once frighten
him and enjealous him, too. There must be none. So!"
When I came back he looked at me carefully, and then said, "You are
not much the worse. Go into the room, and lie on your sofa, and rest
awhile, then have much breakfast and come here to me."
I followed out his orders, for I knew how right and wise they were. I
had done my part, and now my next duty was to keep up my strength. I
felt very weak, and in the weakness lost something of the amazement at
what had occurred. I fell asleep on the sofa, however, wondering over
and over again how Lucy had made such a retrograde movement, and how
she could have been drained of so much blood with no sign any where to
show for it. I think I must have continued my wonder in my dreams,
for, sleeping and waking my thoughts always came back to the little
punctures in her throat and the ragged, exhausted appearance of their
edges, tiny though they were.
Lucy slept well into the day, and when she woke she was fairly well
and strong, though not nearly so much so as the day before. When Van
Helsing had seen her, he went out for a walk, leaving me in charge,
with strict injunctions that I was not to leave her for a moment. I
could hear his voice in the hall, asking the way to the nearest
telegraph office.
Lucy chatted with me freely, and seemed quite unconscious that
anything had happened. I tried to keep her amused and interested.
When her mother came up to see her, she did not seem to notice any
change whatever, but said to me gratefully,
"We owe you so much, Dr. Seward, for all you have done, but you really
must now take care not to overwork yourself. You are looking pale
yourself. You want a wife to nurse and look after you a bit, that you
do!" As she spoke, Lucy turned crimson, though it was only
momentarily, for her poor wasted veins could not stand for long an
unwonted drain to the head. The reaction came in excessive pallor as
she turned imploring eyes on me. I smiled and nodded, and laid my
finger on my lips. With a sigh, she sank back amid her pillows.
Van Helsing returned in a couple of hours, and presently said to me.
"Now you go home, and eat much and drink enough. Make yourself
strong. I stay here tonight, and I shall sit up with little miss
myself. You and I must watch the case, and we must have none other to
know. I have grave reasons. No, do not ask me. Think what you will.
Do not fear to think even the most not-improbable. Goodnight."
In the hall two of the maids came to me, and asked if they or either
of them might not sit up with Miss Lucy. They implored me to let
them, and when I said it was Dr. Van Helsing's wish that either he or
I should sit up, they asked me quite piteously to intercede with
the`foreign gentleman'. I was much touched by their kindness. Perhaps
it is because I am weak at present, and perhaps because it was on
Lucy's account, that their devotion was manifested. For over and over
again have I seen similar instances of woman's kindness. I got back
here in time for a late dinner, went my rounds, all well, and set this
down whilst waiting for sleep. It is coming.
11 September.--This afternoon I went over to Hillingham. Found Van
Helsing in excellent spirits, and Lucy much better. Shortly after I
had arrived, a big parcel from abroad came for the Professor. He
opened it with much impressment, assumed, of course, and showed a
great bundle of white flowers.
"These are for you, Miss Lucy," he said.
"For me? Oh, Dr. Van Helsing!"
"Yes, my dear, but not for you to play with. These are medicines."
Here Lucy made a wry face. "Nay, but they are not to take in a
decoction or in nauseous form, so you need not snub that so charming
nose, or I shall point out to my friend Arthur what woes he may have
to endure in seeing so much beauty that he so loves so much distort.
Aha, my pretty miss, that bring the so nice nose all straight again.
This is medicinal, but you do not know how. I put him in your window,
I make pretty wreath, and hang him round your neck, so you sleep well.
Oh, yes! They, like the lotus flower, make your trouble forgotten.
It smell so like the waters of Lethe, and of that fountain of youth
that the Conquistadores sought for in the Floridas, and find him all
too late."
Whilst he was speaking, Lucy had been examining the flowers and
smelling them. Now she threw them down saying, with half laughter,
and half disgust,
"Oh, Professor, I believe you are only putting up a joke on me. Why,
these flowers are only common garlic."
To my surprise, Van Helsing rose up and said with all his sternness,
his iron jaw set and his bushy eyebrows meeting,
"No trifling with me! I never jest! There is grim purpose in what I
do, and I warn you that you do not thwart me. Take care, for the sake
of others if not for your own." Then seeing poor Lucy scared, as she
might well be, he went on more gently, "Oh, little miss, my dear, do
not fear me. I only do for your good, but there is much virtue to you
in those so common flowers. See, I place them myself in your room. I
make myself the wreath that you are to wear. But hush! No telling to
others that make so inquisitive questions. We must obey, and silence
is a part of obedience, and obedience is to bring you strong and well
into loving arms that wait for you. Now sit still a while. Come with
me, friend John, and you shall help me deck the room with my garlic,
which is all the war from Haarlem, where my friend Vanderpool raise
herb in his glass houses all the year. I had to telegraph yesterday,
or they would not have been here."
We went into the room, taking the flowers with us. The Professor's
actions were certainly odd and not to be found in any pharmacopeia
that I ever heard of. First he fastened up the windows and latched
them securely. Next, taking a handful of the flowers, he rubbed them
all over the sashes, as though to ensure that every whiff of air that
might get in would be laden with the garlic smell. Then with the wisp
he rubbed all over the jamb of the door, above, below, and at each
side, and round the fireplace in the same way. It all seemed
grotesque to me, and presently I said, "Well, Professor, I know you
always have a reason for what you do, but this certainly puzzles me.
It is well we have no sceptic here, or he would say that you were
working some spell to keep out an evil spirit."
"Perhaps I am!" He answered quietly as he began to make the wreath
which Lucy was to wear round her neck.
We then waited whilst Lucy made her toilet for the night, and when she
was in bed he came and himself fixed the wreath of garlic round her
neck. The last words he said to her were,
"Take care you do not disturb it, and even if the room feel close, do
not tonight open the window or the door."
"I promise," said Lucy. "And thank you both a thousand times for all
your kindness to me! Oh, what have I done to be blessed with such
friends?"
As we left the house in my fly, which was waiting, Van Helsing said,
"Tonight I can sleep in peace, and sleep I want, two nights of travel,
much reading in the day between, and much anxiety on the day to
follow, and a night to sit up, without to wink. Tomorrow in the
morning early you call for me, and we come together to see our pretty
miss, so much more strong for my `spell' which I have work. Ho, ho!"
He seemed so confident that I, remembering my own confidence two
nights before and with the baneful result, felt awe and vague terror.
It must have been my weakness that made me hesitate to tell it to my
friend, but I felt it all the more, like unshed tears.
CHAPTER 11
LUCY WESTENRA'S DIARY
12 September.--How good they all are to me. I quite love that dear
Dr. Van Helsing. I wonder why he was so anxious about these flowers.
He positively frightened me, he was so fierce. And yet he must have
been right, for I feel comfort from them already. Somehow, I do not
dread being alone tonight, and I can go to sleep without fear. I
shall not mind any flapping outside the window. Oh, the terrible
struggle that I have had against sleep so often of late, the pain of
sleeplessness, or the pain of the fear of sleep, and with such unknown
horrors as it has for me! How blessed are some people, whose lives
have no fears, no dreads, to whom sleep is a blessing that comes
nightly, and brings nothing but sweet dreams. Well, here I am
tonight, hoping for sleep, and lying like Ophelia in the play, with
`virgin crants and maiden strewments.' I never liked garlic before,
but tonight it is delightful! There is peace in its smell. I feel
sleep coming already. Goodnight, everybody.
DR. SEWARD'S DIARY
13 September.--Called at the Berkeley and found Van Helsing, as usual,
up to time. The carriage ordered from the hotel was waiting. The
Professor took his bag, which he always brings with him now.
Let all be put down exactly. Van Helsing and I arrived at Hillingham
at eight o'clock. It was a lovely morning. The bright sunshine and
all the fresh feeling of early autumn seemed like the completion of
nature's annual work. The leaves were turning to all kinds of
beautiful colours, but had not yet begun to drop from the trees. When
we entered we met Mrs. Westenra coming out of the morning room. She
is always an early riser. She greeted us warmly and said,
"You will be glad to know that Lucy is better. The dear child is
still asleep. I looked into her room and saw her, but did not go in,
lest I should disturb her." The Professor smiled, and looked quite
jubilant. He rubbed his hands together, and said, "Aha! I thought I
had diagnosed the case. My treatment is working."
To which she replied, "You must not take all the credit to yourself,
doctor. Lucy's state this morning is due in part to me."
"How do you mean, ma'am?" asked the Professor.
"Well, I was anxious about the dear child in the night, and went into
her room. She was sleeping soundly, so soundly that even my coming
did not wake her. But the room was awfully stuffy. There were a lot
of those horrible, strong-smelling flowers about everywhere, and she
had actually a bunch of them round her neck. I feared that the heavy
odour would be too much for the dear child in her weak state, so I took
them all away and opened a bit of the window to let in a little fresh
air. You will be pleased with her, I am sure."
She moved off into her boudoir, where she usually breakfasted early.
As she had spoken, I watched the Professor's face, and saw it turn
ashen gray. He had been able to retain his self-command whilst the
poor lady was present, for he knew her state and how mischievous a
shock would be. He actually smiled on her as he held open the door
for her to pass into her room. But the instant she had disappeared he
pulled me, suddenly and forcibly, into the dining room and closed the
door.
Then, for the first time in my life, I saw Van Helsing break down. He
raised his hands over his head in a sort of mute despair, and then
beat his palms together in a helpless way. Finally he sat down on a
chair, and putting his hands before his face, began to sob, with loud,
dry sobs that seemed to come from the very racking of his heart.
Then he raised his arms again, as though appealing to the whole
universe. "God! God! God!" he said. "What have we done, what has
this poor thing done, that we are so sore beset? Is there fate
amongst us still, send down from the pagan world of old, that such
things must be, and in such way? This poor mother, all unknowing, and
all for the best as she think, does such thing as lose her daughter
body and soul, and we must not tell her, we must not even warn her, or
she die, then both die. Oh, how we are beset! How are all the powers
of the devils against us!"
Suddenly he jumped to his feet. "Come," he said, "come, we must see and
act. Devils or no devils, or all the devils at once, it matters not.
We must fight him all the same." He went to the hall door for his
bag, and together we went up to Lucy's room.
Once again I drew up the blind, whilst Van Helsing went towards the
bed. This time he did not start as he looked on the poor face with
the same awful, waxen pallor as before. He wore a look of stern
sadness and infinite pity.
"As I expected," he murmured, with that hissing inspiration of his
which meant so much. Without a word he went and locked the door, and
then began to set out on the little table the instruments for yet
another operation of transfusion of blood. I had long ago recognized
the necessity, and begun to take off my coat, but he stopped me with a
warning hand. "No!" he said. "Today you must operate. I shall
provide. You are weakened already." As he spoke he took off his coat
and rolled up his shirtsleeve.
Again the operation. Again the narcotic. Again some return of colour
to the ashy cheeks, and the regular breathing of healthy sleep. This
time I watched whilst Van Helsing recruited himself and rested.
Presently he took an opportunity of telling Mrs. Westenra that she
must not remove anything from Lucy's room without consulting him.
That the flowers were of medicinal value, and that the breathing of
their odour was a part of the system of cure. Then he took over the
care of the case himself, saying that he would watch this night and
the next, and would send me word when to come.
After another hour Lucy waked from her sleep, fresh and bright and
seemingly not much the worse for her terrible ordeal.
What does it all mean? I am beginning to wonder if my long habit of
life amongst the insane is beginning to tell upon my own brain.
LUCY WESTENRA'S DIARY
17 September.--Four days and nights of peace. I am getting so strong
again that I hardly know myself. It is as if I had passed through
some long nightmare, and had just awakened to see the beautiful
sunshine and feel the fresh air of the morning around me. I have a
dim half remembrance of long, anxious times of waiting and fearing,
darkness in which there was not even the pain of hope to make present
distress more poignant. And then long spells of oblivion, and the
rising back to life as a diver coming up through a great press of
water. Since, however, Dr. Van Helsing has been with me, all this bad
dreaming seems to have passed away. The noises that used to frighten
me out of my wits, the flapping against the windows, the distant
voices which seemed so close to me, the harsh sounds that came from I
know not where and commanded me to do I know not what, have all
ceased. I go to bed now without any fear of sleep. I do not even try
to keep awake. I have grown quite fond of the garlic, and a boxful
arrives for me every day from Haarlem. Tonight Dr. Van Helsing is
going away, as he has to be for a day in Amsterdam. But I need not be
watched. I am well enough to be left alone.
Thank God for Mother's sake, and dear Arthur's, and for all our
friends who have been so kind! I shall not even feel the change, for
last night Dr. Van Helsing slept in his chair a lot of the time. I
found him asleep twice when I awoke. But I did not fear to go to
sleep again, although the boughs or bats or something flapped almost
angrily against the window panes.
THE PALL MALL GAZETTE 18 September.
THE ESCAPED WOLF PERILOUS ADVENTURE OF OUR INTERVIEWER
INTERVIEW WITH THE KEEPER IN THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS
After many inquiries and almost as many refusals, and
perpetually using the words `PALL MALL GAZETTE' as a sort
of talisman, I managed to find the keeper of the section of
the Zoological Gardens in which the wolf department is
included. Thomas Bilder lives in one of the cottages in
the enclosure behind the elephant house, and was just
sitting down to his tea when I found him. Thomas and his
wife are hospitable folk, elderly, and without children,
and if the specimen I enjoyed of their hospitality be of
the average kind, their lives must be pretty comfortable.
The keeper would not enter on what he called business until
the supper was over, and we were all satisfied. Then when
the table was cleared, and he had lit his pipe, he said,
"Now, Sir, you can go on and arsk me what you want. You'll
excoose me refoosin' to talk of perfeshunal subjucts afore
meals. I gives the wolves and the jackals and the hyenas
in all our section their tea afore I begins to arsk them
questions."
"How do you mean, ask them questions?" I queried, wishful
to get him into a talkative humor.
"`Ittin' of them over the `ead with a pole is one way.
Scratchin' of their ears in another, when gents as is flush
wants a bit of a show-orf to their gals. I don't so much
mind the fust, the `ittin of the pole part afore I chucks
in their dinner, but I waits till they've `ad their sherry
and kawffee, so to speak, afore I tries on with the ear
scratchin'. Mind you," he added philosophically, "there's a
deal of the same nature in us as in them theer animiles.
Here's you a-comin' and arskin' of me questions about my
business, and I that grump-like that only for your bloomin'
`arf-quid I'd `a' seen you blowed fust `fore I'd answer.
Not even when you arsked me sarcastic like if I'd like you
to arsk the Superintendent if you might arsk me questions.
Without offence did I tell yer to go to `ell?"
"You did."
"An' when you said you'd report me for usin' obscene
language that was `ittin' me over the `ead. But the
`arf-quid made that all right. I weren't a-goin' to fight,
so I waited for the food, and did with my `owl as the
wolves and lions and tigers does. But, lor' love yer `art,
now that the old `ooman has stuck a chunk of her tea-cake
in me, an' rinsed me out with her bloomin' old teapot, and
I've lit hup, you may scratch my ears for all you're worth,
and won't even get a growl out of me. Drive along with your
questions. I know what yer a-comin' at, that `ere escaped
wolf."
"Exactly. I want you to give me your view of it. Just
tell me how it happened, and when I know the facts I'll get
you to say what you consider was the cause of it, and how
you think the whole affair will end."
"All right, guv'nor. This `ere is about the `ole story.
That`ere wolf what we called Bersicker was one of three gray
ones that came from Norway to Jamrach's, which we bought
off him four years ago. He was a nice well-behaved wolf,
that never gave no trouble to talk of. I'm more surprised
at `im for wantin' to get out nor any other animile in the
place. But, there, you can't trust wolves no more nor
women."
"Don't you mind him, Sir!" broke in Mrs. Tom, with a cheery
laugh. "`E's got mindin' the animiles so long that blest
if he ain't like a old wolf `isself! But there ain't no
`arm in `im."
"Well, Sir, it was about two hours after feedin' yesterday
when I first hear my disturbance. I was makin' up a litter
in the monkey house for a young puma which is ill. But
when I heard the yelpin' and `owlin' I kem away straight.
There was Bersicker a-tearin' like a mad thing at the bars
as if he wanted to get out. There wasn't much people about
that day, and close at hand was only one man, a tall, thin
chap, with a `ook nose and a pointed beard, with a few
white hairs runnin' through it. He had a `ard, cold look
and red eyes, and I took a sort of mislike to him, for it
seemed as if it was `im as they was hirritated at. He `ad
white kid gloves on `is `ands, and he pointed out the
animiles to me and says, `Keeper, these wolves seem upset
at something.'
"`Maybe it's you,' says I, for I did not like the airs as he
give `isself. He didn't get angry, as I `oped he would, but
he smiled a kind of insolent smile, with a mouth full of
white, sharp teeth. `Oh no, they wouldn't like me,' `e
says.
" `Ow yes, they would,' says I, a-imitatin'of him.`They
always like a bone or two to clean their teeth on about tea
time, which you `as a bagful.'
"Well, it was a odd thing, but when the animiles see us
a-talkin' they lay down, and when I went over to Bersicker
he let me stroke his ears same as ever. That there man kem
over, and blessed but if he didn't put in his hand and
stroke the old wolf's ears too!
"`Tyke care,' says I. `Bersicker is quick.'
"`Never mind,' he says. I'm used to `em!'
"`Are you in the business yourself?" I says, tyking off my
`at, for a man what trades in wolves, anceterer, is a good
friend to keepers.
"`Nom' says he, `not exactly in the business, but I `ave
made pets of several.' and with that he lifts his `at as
perlite as a lord, and walks away. Old Bersicker kep'
a-lookin' arter `im till `e was out of sight, and then went
and lay down in a corner and wouldn't come hout the `ole
hevening. Well, larst night, so soon as the moon was hup,
the wolves here all began a-`owling. There warn't nothing
for them to `owl at. There warn't no one near, except some
one that was evidently a-callin' a dog somewheres out back
of the gardings in the Park road. Once or twice I went out
to see that all was right, and it was, and then the `owling
stopped. Just before twelve o'clock I just took a look
round afore turnin' in, an', bust me, but when I kem
opposite to old Bersicker's cage I see the rails broken and
twisted about and the cage empty. And that's all I know
for certing."
"Did any one else see anything?"
"One of our gard`ners was a-comin' `ome about that time from
a `armony, when he sees a big gray dog comin' out through
the garding `edges. At least, so he says, but I don't give
much for it myself, for if he did `e never said a word
about it to his missis when `e got `ome, and it was only
after the escape of the wolf was made known, and we had
been up all night a-huntin' of the Park for Bersicker, that
he remembered seein' anything. My own belief was that the
`armony `ad got into his `ead."
"Now, Mr. Bilder, can you account in any way for the escape
of the wolf?"
"Well, Sir," he said, with a suspicious sort of modesty, "I
think I can, but I don't know as `ow you'd be satisfied
with the theory."
"Certainly I shall. If a man like you, who knows the
animals from experience, can't hazard a good guess at any
rate, who is even to try?"
"Well then, Sir, I accounts for it this way. It seems to me
that `ere wolf escaped--simply because he wanted to get
out."
From the hearty way that both Thomas and his wife laughed
at the joke I could see that it had done service before,
and that the whole explanation was simply an elaborate
sell. I couldn't cope in badinage with the worthy Thomas,
but I thought I knew a surer way to his heart, so I said,
"Now, Mr. Bilder, we'll consider that first half-sovereign
worked off, and this brother of his is waiting to be
claimed when you've told me what you think will happen."
"Right y`are, Sir," he said briskly. "Ye`ll excoose me, I
know, for a-chaffin' of ye, but the old woman her winked at
me, which was as much as telling me to go on."
"Well, I never!" said the old lady.
"My opinion is this. That `ere wolf is a`idin' of,
somewheres. The gard`ner wot didn't remember said he was
a-gallopin' northward faster than a horse could go, but I
don't believe him, for, yer see, Sir, wolves don't gallop
no more nor dogs does, they not bein' built that way.
Wolves is fine things in a storybook, and I dessay when
they gets in packs and does be chivyin' somethin' that's
more afeared than they is they can make a devil of a noise
and chop it up, whatever it is. But, Lor' bless you, in
real life a wolf is only a low creature, not half so clever
or bold as a good dog, and not half a quarter so much fight
in `im. This one ain't been used to fightin' or even to
providin' for hisself, and more like he's somewhere round
the Park a'hidin' an' a'shiverin' of, and if he thinks at
all, wonderin' where he is to get his breakfast from. Or
maybe he's got down some area and is in a coal cellar. My
eye, won't some cook get a rum start when she sees his
green eyes a-shinin' at her out of the dark! If he can't
get food he's bound to look for it, and mayhap he may
chance to light on a butcher's shop in time. If he
doesn't, and some nursemaid goes out walkin' or orf with a
soldier, leavin' of the hinfant in the perambulator--well,
then I shouldn't be surprised if the census is one babby
the less. That's all."
I was handing him the half-sovereign, when something came
bobbing up against the window, and Mr. Bilder's face
doubled its natural length with surprise.
"God bless me!" he said. "If there ain't old Bersicker
come back by `isself!"
He went to the door and opened it, a most unnecessary
proceeding it seemed to me. I have always thought that a
wild animal never looks so well as when some obstacle of
pronounced durability is between 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 a peaceful
and well-behaved as that father of all picture-wolves, Red
Riding Hood's quondam friend, whilst moving her confidence
in masquerade.
The whole scene was a unutterable mixture of comedy and
pathos. The wicked wolf that for a half a day had
paralyzed London and set all the children in town shivering
in their shoes, was there in a sort of penitent mood, and
was received and petted like a sort of vulpine prodigal
son. Old Bilder examined him all over with most tender
solicitude, and when he had finished with his penitent
said,
"There, I knew the poor old chap would get into some kind of
trouble. Didn't I say it all along? Here's his head all
cut and full of broken glass. `E's been a-gettin' over
some bloomin' wall or other. It's a shyme that people are
allowed to top their walls with broken bottles. This
`ere's what comes of it. Come along, Bersicker."
He took the wolf and locked him up in a cage, with a piece
of meat that satisfied, in quantity at any rate, the
elementary conditions of the fatted calf, and went off to
report.
I came off too, to report the only exclusive information
that is given today regarding the strange escapade at the
Zoo.
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
thunderstruck, for such a thing as a patient getting of his own accord
into the Superintendent's study is almost unknown.
Without an instant's notice he made straight at me. He had a dinner
knife in his hand, and as I saw he was dangerous, I tried to keep the
table between us. He was too quick and too strong for me, however,
for before I could get my balance he had struck at me and cut my left
wrist rather severely.
Before he could strike again, however, I got in my right hand and he
was sprawling on his back on the floor. My wrist bled freely, and
quite a little pool trickled on to the carpet. I saw that my friend
was not intent on further effort, and occupied myself binding up my
wrist, keeping a wary eye on the prostrate figure all the time. When
the attendants rushed in, and we turned our attention to him, his
employment positively sickened me. He was lying on his belly on the
floor licking up, like a dog, the blood which had fallen from my
wounded wrist. He was easily secured, and to my surprise, went with
the attendants quite placidly, simply repeating over and over again,
"The blood is the life! The blood is the life!"
I cannot afford to lose blood just at present. I have lost too much
of late for my physical good, and then the prolonged strain of Lucy's
illness and its horrible phases is telling on me. I am over excited
and weary, and I need rest, rest, rest. Happily Van Helsing has not
summoned me, so I need not forego my sleep. Tonight I could not well
do without it.
TELEGRAM, VAN HELSING, ANTWERP, TO SEWARD, CARFAX
(Sent to Carfax, Sussex, as no county given, delivered late
by twenty-two hours.)
17 September.--Do not fail to be at Hilllingham tonight.
If not watching all the time, frequently visit and see that
flowers are as placed, very important, do not fail. Shall
be with you as soon as possible after arrival.
DR. SEWARD'S DIARY
18 September.--Just off train to London. The arrival of Van
Helsing's telegram filled me with dismay. A whole night lost,
and I know by bitter experience what may happen in a night.
Of course it is possible that all may be well, but what may
have happened? Surely there is some horrible doom hanging over us
that every possible accident should thwart us in all we try to do.
I shall take this cylinder with me, and then I can complete
my entry on Lucy's phonograph.
MEMORANDUM LEFT BY LUCY WESTENRA
17 September, Night.--I write this and leave it to be seen,
so that no one may by any chance get into trouble through
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 sleep, but I could not. Then there came
to me the old fear of sleep, and I determined to keep
awake. Perversely sleep would try to come then when I did
not want it. So, as I feared to be alone, I opened my door
and called out. "Is there anybody there?" There was no
answer. I was afraid to wake mother, and so closed my door
again. Then outside in the shrubbery I heard a sort of
howl like a dog's, but more fierce and deeper. I went to
the window and looked out, but could see nothing, except a
big bat, which had evidently been buffeting its wings
against the window. So I went back to bed again, but
determined not to go to sleep. Presently the door opened,
and mother looked in. Seeing by my moving that I was not
asleep, she came in and sat by me. She said to me even
more sweetly and softly than her wont,
"I was uneasy about you, darling, and came in to see that
you were all right."
I feared she might catch cold sitting there, and asked her
to come in and sleep with me, so she came into bed, and lay
down beside me. She did not take off her dressing gown,
for she said she would only stay a while and then go back
to her own bed. As she lay there in my arms, and I in hers
the flapping and buffeting came to the window again. She
was startled and a little frightened, and cried out, "What
is that?"
I tried to pacify her, and at last succeeded, and she lay
quiet. But I could hear her poor dear heart still beating
terribly. After a while there was the howl again out in
the shrubbery, and shortly after there was a crash at the
window, and a lot of broken glass was hurled on the floor.
The window blind blew back with the wind that rushed in,
and in the aperture of the broken panes there was the head
of a great, gaunt gray wolf.
Mother cried out in a fright, and struggled up into a
sitting posture, and clutched wildly at anything that would
help her. Amongst other things, she clutched the wreath of
flowers that Dr. Van Helsing insisted on my wearing round
my neck, and tore it away from me. For a second or two she
sat up, pointing at the wolf, and there was a strange and
horrible gurgling in her throat. Then she fell over, as if
struck with lightning, and her head hit my forehead and
made me dizzy for a moment or two.
The room and all round seemed to spin round. I kept my eyes
fixed on the window, but the wolf drew his head back, and a
whole myriad of little specks seems to come blowing in
through the broken window, and wheeling and circling round
like the pillar of dust that travellers describe when there
is a simoon in the desert. I tried to stir, but there was
some spell upon me, and dear Mother's poor body, which
seemed to grow cold already, for her dear heart had ceased
to beat, weighed me down, and I remembered no more for a
while.
The time did not seem long, but very, very awful, till I
recovered consciousness again. Somewhere near, a passing
bell was tolling. The dogs all round the neighbourhood were
howling, and in our shrubbery, seemingly just outside, a
nightingale was singing. I was dazed and stupid with pain
and terror and weakness, but the sound of the nightingale
seemed like the voice of my dead mother come back to
comfort me. The sounds seemed to have awakened the maids,
too, for I could hear their bare feet pattering outside my
door. I called to them, and they came in, and when they
saw what had happened, and what it was that lay over me on
the bed, they screamed out. The wind rushed in through the
broken window, and the door slammed 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 each have a glass of wine. The door flew
open for an instant and closed again. The maids shrieked,
and then went in a body to the dining room, and I laid what
flowers I had on my dear mother's breast. When they were
there I remembered what Dr. Van Helsing had told me, but I
didn't like to remove them, and besides, I would have some
of the servants to sit up with me now. I was surprised
that the maids did not come back. I called them, but got
no answer, so I went to the dining room to look for them.
My heart sank when I saw what had happened. They all four
lay helpless on the floor, breathing heavily. The decanter
of sherry was on the table half full, but there was a
queer, acrid smell about. I was suspicious, and examined
the decanter. It smelt of laudanum, and looking on the
sideboard, I found that the bottle which Mother's doctor
uses for her--oh! did use--was empty. What am I to do?
What am I to do? I am back in the room with Mother. I
cannot leave her, and I am alone, save for the sleeping
servants, whom some one has drugged. Alone with the dead!
I dare not go out, for I can hear the low howl of the wolf
through the broken window.
The air seems full of specks, floating and circling in the
draught from the window, and the lights burn blue and dim.
What am I to do? God shield me from harm this night! I
shall hide this paper in my breast, where they shall find
it when they come to lay me out. My dear mother gone! It
is time that I go too. Goodbye, dear Arthur, if I should
not survive this night. God keep you, dear, and God help
me!
CHAPTER 12
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 round us? Was it indeed a house of
death to which I had come, too late? I know that minutes, even
seconds of delay, might mean hours of danger to Lucy, if she had had
again one of those frightful relapses, and I went round the house to
try if I could find by chance an entry anywhere.
I could find no means of ingress. Every window and door was fastened
and locked, and I returned baffled to the porch. As I did so, I heard
the rapid pit-pat of a swiftly driven horse's feet. They stopped at
the gate, and a few seconds later I met Van Helsing running up the
avenue. When he saw me, he gasped out, "Then it was you, and just
arrived. How is she? Are we too late? Did you not get my telegram?"
I answered as quickly and coherently as I could that I had only got
his telegram early in the morning, and had not a minute in coming
here, and that I could not make any one in the house hear me. He
paused and raised his hat as he said solemnly, "Then I fear we are too
late. God's will be done!"
With his usual recuperative energy, he went on, "Come. If there be no
way open to get in, we must make one. Time is all in all to us now."
We went round to the back of the house, where there was a kitchen
window. The Professor took a small surgical saw from his case, and
handing it to me, pointed to the iron bars which guarded the window.
I attacked them at once and had very soon cut through three of them.
Then with a long, thin knife we pushed back the fastening of the
sashes and opened the window. I helped the Professor in, and followed
him. There was no one in the kitchen or in the servants' rooms, which
were close at hand. We tried all the rooms as we went along, and in
the dining room, dimly lit by rays of light through the shutters,
found four servant women lying on the floor. There was no need to
think them dead, for their stertorous breathing and the acrid smell of
laudanum in the room left no doubt as to their condition.
Van Helsing and I looked at each other, and as we moved away he said,
"We can attend to them later." Then we ascended to Lucy's room. For an
instant or two we paused at the door to listen, but there was no sound
that we could hear. With white faces and trembling hands, we opened
the door gently, and entered the room.
How shall I describe what we saw? On the bed lay two women, Lucy and
her mother. The latter lay farthest in, and she was covered with a
white sheet, the edge of which had been blown back by the drought
through the broken window, showing the drawn, white, face, with a look
of terror fixed upon it. By her side lay Lucy, with face white and
still more drawn. The flowers which had been round her neck we found
upon her mother's bosom, and her throat was bare, showing the two
little wounds which we had noticed before, but looking horribly white
and mangled. Without a word the Professor bent over the bed, his head
almost touching poor Lucy's breast. Then he gave a quick turn of his
head, as of one who listens, and leaping to his feet, he cried out to
me, "It is not yet too late! Quick! Quick! Bring the brandy!"
I flew downstairs and returned with it, taking care to smell and taste
it, lest it, too, were drugged like the decanter of sherry which I
found on the table. The maids were still breathing, but more
restlessly, and I fancied that the narcotic was wearing off. I did
not stay to make sure, but returned to Van Helsing. He rubbed the
brandy, as on another occasion, on her lips and gums and on her wrists
and the palms of her hands. He said to me, "I can do this, all that
can be at the present. You go wake those maids. Flick them in the
face with a wet towel, and flick them hard. Make them get heat and
fire and a warm bath. This poor soul is nearly as cold as that beside
her. She will need be heated before we can do anything more."
I went at once, and found little difficulty in waking three of the
women. The fourth was only a young girl, and the drug had evidently
affected her more strongly so I lifted her on the sofa and let her
sleep.
The others were dazed at first, but as remembrance came back to them
they cried and sobbed in a hysterical manner. I was stern with them,
however, and would not let them talk. I told them that one life was
bad enough to lose, and if they delayed they would sacrifice Miss
Lucy. So, sobbing and crying they went about their way, half clad as
they were, and prepared fire and water. Fortunately, the kitchen and
boiler fires were still alive, and there was no lack of hot water. We
got a bath and carried Lucy out as she was and placed her in it.
Whilst we were busy chafing her limbs there was a knock at the hall
door. One of the maids ran off, hurried on some more clothes, and
opened it. Then she returned and whispered to us that there was a
gentleman who had come with a message from Mr. Holmwood. I bade her
simply tell him that he must wait, for we could see no one now. She
went away with the message, and, engrossed with our work, I clean
forgot all about him.
I never saw in all my experience the Professor work in such deadly
earnest. I knew, as he knew, that it was a stand-up fight with death,
and in a pause told him so. He answered me in a way that I did not
understand, but with the sternest look that his face could wear.
"If that were all, I would stop here where we are now, and let her
fade away into peace, for I see no light in life over her horizon." He
went on with his work with, if possible, renewed and more frenzied
vigour.
Presently we both began to be conscious that the heat was beginning to
be of some effect. Lucy's heart beat a trifle more audibly to the
stethoscope, and her lungs had a perceptible movement. Van Helsing's
face almost beamed, and as we lifted her from the bath and rolled her
in a hot sheet to dry her he said to me, "The first gain is ours!
Check to the King!"
We took Lucy into another room, which had by now been prepared, and
laid her in bed and forced a few drops of brandy down her throat. I
noticed that Van Helsing tied a soft silk handkerchief round her
throat. She was still unconscious, and was quite as bad as, if not
worse than, we had ever seen her.
Van Helsing called in one of the women, and told her to stay with her
and not to take her eyes off her till we returned, and then beckoned
me out of the room.
"We must consult as to what is to be done," he said as we descended
the stairs. In the hall he opened the dining room door, and we passed
in, he closing the door carefully behind him. The shutters had been
opened, but the blinds were already down, with that obedience to the
etiquette of death which the British woman of the lower classes always
rigidly observes. The room was, therefore, dimly dark. It was,
however, light enough for our purposes. Van Helsing's sternness was
somewhat relieved by a look of perplexity. He was evidently torturing
his mind about something, so I waited for an instant, and he spoke.
"What are we to do now? Where are we to turn for help? We must have
another transfusion of blood, and that soon, or that poor girl's life
won't be worth an hour's purchase. You are exhausted already. I am
exhausted too. I fear to trust those women, even if they would have
courage to submit. What are we to do for some one who will open his
veins for her?"
"What's the matter with me, anyhow?"
The voice came from the sofa across the room, and its tones brought
relief and joy to my heart, for they were those of Quincey Morris.
Van Helsing started angrily at the first sound, but his face softened
and a glad look came into his eyes as I cried out, "Quincey Morris!"
and rushed towards him with outstretched hands.
"What brought you here?" I cried as our hands met.
"I guess Art is the cause."
He handed me a telegram.--`Have not heard from Seward for three days,
and am terribly anxious. Cannot leave. Father still in same
condition. Send me word how Lucy is. Do not delay.--Holmwood.'
"I think I came just in the nick of time. You know you have only to
tell me what to do."
Van Helsing strode forward, and took his hand, looking him straight in
the eyes as he said, "A brave man's blood is the best thing on this
earth when a woman is in trouble. You're a man and no mistake. Well,
the devil may work against us for all he's worth, but God sends us men
when we want them."
Once again we went through that ghastly operation. I have not the
heart to go through with the details. Lucy had got a terrible shock
and it told on her more than before, for though plenty of blood went
into her veins, her body did not respond to the treatment as well as
on the other occasions. Her struggle back into life was something
frightful to see and hear. However, the action of both heart and
lungs improved, and Van Helsing made a sub-cutaneous injection of
morphia, as before, and with good effect. Her faint became a profound
slumber. The Professor watched whilst I went downstairs with Quincey
Morris, and sent one of the maids to pay off one of the cabmen who
were waiting.
I left Quincey lying down after having a glass of wine, and told the
cook to get ready a good breakfast. Then a thought struck me, and I
went back to the room where Lucy now was. When I came softly in, I
found Van Helsing with a sheet or two of note paper in his hand. He
had evidently read it, and was thinking it over as he sat with his
hand to his brow. There was a look of grim satisfaction in his face,
as of one who has had a doubt solved. He handed me the paper saying
only, "It dropped from Lucy's breast when we carried her to the bath."
When I had read it, I stood looking at the Professor, and after a
pause asked him, "In God's name, what does it all mean? Was she, or
is she, mad, or what sort of horrible danger is it?" I was so
bewildered that I did not know what to say more. Van Helsing put out
his hand and took the paper, saying,
"Do not trouble about it now. Forget it for the present. You shall
know and understand it all in good time, but it will be later. And
now what is it that you came to me to say?" This brought me back to
fact, and I was all myself again.
"I came to speak about the certificate of death. If we do not act
properly and wisely, there may be an inquest, and that paper would
have to be produced. I am in hopes that we need have no inquest, for
if we had it would surely kill poor Lucy, if nothing else did. I
know, and you know, and the other doctor who attended her knows, that
Mrs. Westenra had disease of the heart, and we can certify that she
died of it. Let us fill up the certificate at once, and I shall take
it myself to the registrar and go on to the undertaker."
"Good, oh my friend John! Well thought of! Truly Miss Lucy, if she
be sad in the foes that beset her, is at least happy in the friends
that love her. One, two, three, all open their veins for her, besides
one old man. Ah, yes, I know, friend John. I am not blind! I love
you all the more for it! Now go."
In the hall I met Quincey Morris, with a telegram for Arthur telling
him that Mrs. Westenra was dead, that Lucy also had been ill, but was
now going on better, and that Van Helsing and I were with her. I told
him where I was going, and he hurried me out, but as I was going said,
"When you come back, Jack, may I have two words with you all to
ourselves?" I nodded in reply and went out. I found no difficulty
about the registration, and arranged with the local undertaker to come
up in the evening to measure for the coffin and to make arrangements.
When I got back Quincey was waiting for me. I told him I would see
him as soon as I knew about Lucy, and went up to her room. She was
still sleeping, and the Professor seemingly had not moved from his
seat at her side. From his putting his finger to his lips, I gathered
that he expected her to wake before long and was afraid of
fore-stalling nature. So I went down to Quincey and took him into the
breakfast room, where the blinds were not drawn down, and which was a
little more cheerful, or rather less cheerless, than the other rooms.
When we were alone, he said to me, "Jack Seward, I don't want to shove
myself in anywhere where I've no right to be, but this is no ordinary
case. You know I loved that girl and wanted to marry her, but
although that's all past and gone, I can't help feeling anxious about
her all the same. What is it that's wrong with her? The Dutchman,
and a fine old fellow he is, I can see that, said that time you two
came into the room, that you must have another transfusion of blood,
and that both you and he were exhausted. Now I know well that you
medical men speak in camera, and that a man must not expect to know
what they consult about in private. But this is no common matter, and
whatever it is, I have done my part. Is not that so?"
"That's so," I said, and he went on.
"I take it that both you and Van Helsing had done already what I did
today. Is not that so?"
"That's so."
"And I guess Art was in it too. When I saw him four days ago down at
his own place he looked queer. I have not seen anything pulled down
so quick since I was on the Pampas and had a mare that I was fond of
go to grass all in a night. One of those big bats that they call
vampires had got at her in the night, and what with his gorge and the
vein left open, there wasn't enough blood in her to let her stand up,
and I had to put a bullet through her as she lay. Jack, if you may
tell me without betraying confidence, Arthur was the first, is not
that so?"
As he spoke the poor fellow looked terribly anxious. He was in a
torture of suspense regarding the woman he loved, and his utter
ignorance of the terrible mystery which seemed to surround her
intensified his pain. His very heart was bleeding, and it took all
the manhood of him, and there was a royal lot of it, too, to keep him
from breaking down. I paused before answering, for I felt that I must
not betray anything which the Professor wished kept secret, but
already he knew so much, and guessed so much, that there could be no
reason for not answering, so I answered in the same phrase.
"That's so."
"And how long has this been going on?"
"About ten days."
"Ten days! Then I guess, Jack Seward, that that poor pretty creature
that we all love has had put into her veins within that time the blood
of four strong men. Man alive, her whole body wouldn't hold it." Then
coming close to me, he spoke in a fierce half-whisper. "What took it
out?"
I shook my head. "That," I said, "is the crux. Van Helsing is simply
frantic about it, and I am at my wits' end. I can't even hazard a
guess. There has been a series of little circumstances which have
thrown out all our calculations as to Lucy being properly watched.
But these shall not occur again. Here we stay until all be well, or
ill."
Quincey held out his hand. "Count me in," he said. "You and the
Dutchman will tell me what to do, and I'll do it."
When she woke late in the afternoon, Lucy's first movement was to feel
in her breast, and to my surprise, produced the paper which Van
Helsing had given me to read. The careful Professor had replaced it
where it had come from, lest on waking she should be alarmed. Her
eyes then lit on Van Helsing and on me too, and gladdened. Then she
looked round the room, and seeing where she was, shuddered. She gave
a loud cry, and put her poor thin hands before her pale face.
We both understood what was meant, that she had realized to the full
her mother's death. So we tried what we could to comfort her.
Doubtless sympathy eased her somewhat, but she was very low in thought
and spirit, and wept silently and weakly for a long time. We told her
that either or both of us would now remain with her all the time, and
that seemed to comfort her. Towards dusk she fell into a doze. Here
a very odd thing occurred. Whilst still asleep she took the paper
from her breast and tore it in two. Van Helsing stepped over and took
the pieces from her. All the same, however, she went on with the
action of tearing, as though the material were still in her hands.
Finally she lifted her hands and opened them as though scattering the
fragments. Van Helsing seemed surprised, and his brows gathered as if
in thought, but he said nothing.
19 September.--All last night she slept fitfully, being always afraid
to sleep, and something weaker when she woke from it. The Professor
and I took in turns to watch, and we never left her for a moment
unattended. Quincey Morris said nothing about his intention, but I
knew that all night long he patrolled round and round the house.
When the day came, its searching light showed the ravages in poor
Lucy's strength. She was hardly able to turn her head, and the little
nourishment which she could take seemed to do her no good. At times
she slept, and both Van Helsing and I noticed the difference in her,
between sleeping and waking. Whilst asleep she looked stronger,
although more haggard, and her breathing was softer. Her open mouth
showed the pale gums drawn back from the teeth, which looked
positively longer and sharper than usual. When she woke the softness
of her eyes evidently changed the expression, for she looked her own
self, although a dying one. In the afternoon she asked for Arthur,
and we telegraphed for him. Quincey went off to meet him at the
station.
When he arrived it was nearly six o'clock, and the sun was setting
full and warm, and the red light streamed in through the window and
gave more colour to the pale cheeks. When he saw her, Arthur was
simply choking with emotion, and none of us could speak. In the hours
that had passed, the fits of sleep, or the comatose condition that
passed for it, had grown more frequent, so that the pauses when
conversation was possible were shortened. Arthur's presence, however,
seemed to act as a stimulant. She rallied a little, and spoke to him
more brightly than she had done since we arrived. He too pulled
himself together, and spoke as cheerily as he could, so that the best
was made of everything.
It is now nearly one o'clock, and he and Van Helsing are sitting with
her. I am to relieve them in a quarter of an hour, and I am entering
this on Lucy's phonograph. Until six o'clock they are to try to rest.
I fear that tomorrow will end our watching, for the shock has been too
great. The poor child cannot rally. God help us all.
LETTER MINA HARKER TO LUCY WESTENRA
(Unopened by her)
17 September
My dearest Lucy,
"It seems an age since I heard from you, or indeed since I
wrote. You will pardon me, I know, for all my faults when
you have read all my budget of news. Well, I got my
husband back all right. When we arrived at Exeter there
was a carriage waiting for us, and in it, though he had an
attack of gout, Mr. Hawkins. He took us to his house,
where there were rooms for us all nice and comfortable, and
we dined together. After dinner Mr. Hawkins said,
" `My dears, I want to drink your health and prosperity, and
may every blessing attend you both. I know you both from
children, and have, with love and pride, seen you grow up.
Now I want you to make your home here with me. I have left
to me neither chick nor child. All are gone, and in my
will I have left you everything.' I cried, Lucy dear, as
Jonathan and the old man clasped hands. Our evening was a
very, very happy one.
"So here we are, installed in this beautiful old house, and
from both my bedroom and the drawing room I can see the
great elms of the cathedral close, with their great black
stems standing out against the old yellow stone of the
cathedral, and I can hear the rooks overhead cawing and
cawing and chattering and chattering and gossiping all day,
after the manner of rooks--and humans. I am busy, I need
not tell you, arranging things and housekeeping. Jonathan
and Mr. Hawkins are busy all day, for now that Jonathan is
a partner, Mr. Hawkins wants to tell him all about the
clients.
"How is your dear mother getting on? I wish I could run up
to town for a day or two to see you, dear, but I, dare not
go yet, with so much on my shoulders, and Jonathan wants
looking after still. He is beginning to put some flesh on
his bones again, but he was terribly weakened by the long
illness. Even now he sometimes starts out of his sleep in
a sudden way and awakes all trembling until I can coax him
back to his usual placidity. However, thank God, these
occasions grow less frequent as the days go on, and they
will in time pass away altogether, I trust. And now I have
told you my news, let me ask yours. When are you to be
married, and where, and who is to perform the ceremony, and
what are you to wear, and is it to be a public or private
wedding? Tell me all about it, dear, tell me all about
everything, for there is nothing which interests you which
will not be dear to me. Jonathan asks me to send his
`respectful duty', but I do not think that is good enough
from the junior partner of the important firm Hawkins &
Harker. And so, as you love me, and he loves me, and I
love you with all the moods and tenses of the verb, I send
you simply his `love' instead. Goodbye, my dearest Lucy,
and blessings on you." Yours, Mina Harker
REPORT FROM PATRICK HENNESSEY, MD, MRCSLK, QCPI, ETC, ETC,
TO JOHN SEWARD, MD
20 September
My dear Sir:
"In accordance with your wishes, I enclose report of the
conditions of everything left in my charge. With regard to
patient, Renfield, there is more to say. He has had
another outbreak, which might have had a dreadful ending,
but which, as it fortunately happened, was unattended with
any unhappy results. This afternoon a carrier's cart with
two men made a call at the empty house whose grounds abut
on ours, the house to which, you will remember, the patient
twice ran away. The men stopped at our gate to ask the
porter their way, as they were strangers.
"I was myself looking out of the study window, having a
smoke after dinner, and saw one of them come up to the
house. As he passed the window of Renfield's room, the
patient began to rate him from within, and called him all
the foul names he could lay his tongue to. The man, who
seemed a decent fellow enough, contented himself by telling
him to `shut up for a foul-mouthed beggar', whereon our man
accused him of robbing him and wanting to murder him and
said that he would hinder him if he were to swing for it.
I opened the window and signed to the man not to notice, so
he contented himself after looking the place over and
making up his mind as to what kind of place he had got to
by saying, `Lor' bless yer, sir, I wouldn't mind what was
said to me in a bloomin' madhouse. I pity ye and the
guv'nor for havin' to live in the house with a wild beast
like that.'
"Then he asked his way civilly enough, and I told him where
the gate of the empty house was. He went away followed by
threats and curses and revilings from our man. I went down
to see if I could make out any cause for his anger, since
he is usually such a well-behaved man, and except his
violent fits nothing of the kind had ever occurred. I
found him, to my astonishment, quite composed and most
genial in his manner. I tried to get him to talk of the
incident, but he blandly asked me questions as to what I
meant, and led me to believe that he was completely
oblivious of the affair. It was, I am sorry to say,
however, only another instance of his cunning, for within
half an hour I heard of him again. This time he had broken
out through the window of his room, and was running down
the avenue. I called to the attendants to follow me, and
ran after him, for I feared he was intent on some
mischief. My fear was justified when I saw the same cart
which had passed before coming down the road, having on it
some great wooden boxes. The men were wiping their
foreheads, and were flushed in the face, as if with violent
exercise. Before I could get up to him, the patient rushed
at them, and pulling one of them off the cart, began to
knock his head against the ground. If I had not seized him
just at the moment, I believe he would have killed the man
there and then. The other fellow jumped down and struck
him over the head with the butt end of his heavy whip. It
was a horrible blow, but he did not seem to mind it, but
seized him also, and struggled with the three of us,
pulling us to and fro as if we were kittens. You know I am
no lightweight, and the others were both burly men. At
first he was silent in his fighting, but as we began to
master him, and the attendants were putting a strait
waistcoat on him, he began to shout, `I'll frustrate them!
They shan't rob me! They shan't murder me by inches! I'll
fight for my Lord and Master!' and all sorts of similar
incoherent ravings. It was with very considerable
difficulty that they got him back to the house and put him
in the padded room. One of the attendants, Hardy, had a
finger broken. However, I set it all right, and he is
going on well.
"The two carriers were at first loud in their threats of
actions for damages, and promised to rain all the penalties
of the law on us. Their threats were, however, mingled
with some sort of indirect apology for the defeat of the
two of them by a feeble madman. They said that if it had
not been for the way their strength had been spent in
carrying and raising the heavy boxes to the cart they would
have made short work of him. They gave as another reason
for their defeat the extraordinary state of drouth to which
they had been reduced by the dusty nature of their
occupation and the reprehensible distance from the scene of
their labors of any place of public entertainment. I quite
understood their drift, and after a stiff glass of strong
grog, or rather more of the same, and with each a sovereign
in hand, they made light of the attack, and swore that they
would encounter a worse madman any day for the pleasure of
meeting so `bloomin' good a bloke' as your correspondent.
I took their names and addresses, in case they might be
needed. They are as follows: Jack Smollet, of Dudding's
Rents, King George's Road, Great Walworth, and Thomas
Snelling, Peter Farley's Row, Guide Court, Bethnal Green.
They are both in the employment of Harris & Sons, Moving
and Shipment Company, Orange Master's Yard, Soho.
"I shall report to you any matter of interest occurring
here, and shall wire you at once if there is anything of
importance.
"Believe me, dear Sir,
"Yours faithfully,
"Patrick Hennessey."
LETTER, MINA HARKER TO LUCY WESTENRA (Unopened by her)
18 September
"My dearest Lucy,
"Such a sad blow has befallen us. Mr. Hawkins has died very
suddenly. Some may not think it so sad for us, but we had
both come to so love him that it really seems as though we
had lost a father. I never knew either father or mother,
so that the dear old man's death is a real blow to me.
Jonathan is greatly distressed. It is not only that he
feels sorrow, deep sorrow, for the dear, good man who has
befriended him all his life, and now at the end has treated
him like his own son and left him a fortune which to people
of our modest bringing up is wealth beyond the dream of
avarice, but Jonathan feels it on another account. He says
the amount of responsibility which it puts upon him makes
him nervous. He begins to doubt himself. I try to cheer
him up, and my belief in him helps him to have a belief in
himself. But it is here that the grave shock that he
experienced tells upon him the most. Oh, it is too hard
that a sweet, simple, noble, strong nature such as his, a
nature which enabled him by our dear, good friend's aid to
rise from clerk to master in a few years, should be so
injured that the very essence of its strength is gone.
Forgive me, dear, if I worry you with my troubles in the
midst of your own happiness, but Lucy dear, I must tell
someone, for the strain of keeping up a brave and cheerful
appearance to Jonathan tries me, and I have no one here
that I can confide in. I dread coming up to London, as we
must do that day after tomorrow, for poor Mr. Hawkins left
in his will that he was to be buried in the grave with his
father. As there are no relations at all, Jonathan will
have to be chief mourner. I shall try to run over to see
you, dearest, if only for a few minutes. Forgive me for
troubling you. With all blessings,
"Your loving
Mina Harker"
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 in her pillow, almost whiter than the lawn. She lay quite
still, and I looked around the room to see that all was as it should
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 beside her, and presently she moved uneasily. At the same
moment there came a sort of dull flapping or buffeting at the window.
I went over to it softly, and peeped out by the corner of the blind.
There was a full moonlight, and I could see that the noise was made by
a great bat, which wheeled around, doubtless attracted by the light,
although so dim, and every now and again struck the window with its
wings. When I came back to my seat, I found that Lucy had moved
slightly, and had torn away the garlic flowers from her throat. I
replaced them as well as I could, and sat watching her.
Presently she woke, and I gave her food, as Van Helsing had
prescribed. She took but a little, and that languidly. There did not
seem to be with her now the unconscious struggle for life and strength
that had hitherto so marked her illness. It struck me as curious that
the moment she became conscious she pressed the garlic flowers close
to her. It was certainly odd that whenever she got into that
lethargic state, with the stertorous breathing, she put the flowers
from her, but that when she waked she clutched them close, There was
no possibility of making any mistake about this, for in the long hours
that followed, she had many spells of sleeping and waking and repeated
both actions many times.
At six o'clock Van Helsing came to relieve me. Arthur had then fallen
into a doze, and he mercifully let him sleep on. When he saw Lucy's
face I could hear the hissing indraw of breath, and he said to me in a
sharp whisper. "Draw up the blind. I want light!" Then he bent down,
and, with his face almost touching Lucy's, examined her carefully. He
removed the flowers and lifted the silk handkerchief from her throat.
As he did so he started back and I could hear his ejaculation, "Mein
Gott!" as it was smothered in his throat. I bent over and looked,
too, and as I noticed some queer chill came over me. The wounds on
the throat had absolutely disappeared.
For fully five minutes Van Helsing stood looking at her, with his face
at its sternest. Then he turned to me and said calmly, "She is
dying. It will not be long now. It will be much difference, mark me,
whether she dies conscious or in her sleep. Wake that poor boy, and
let him come and see the last. He trusts us, and we have promised
him."
I went to the dining room and waked him. He was dazed for a moment,
but when he saw the sunlight streaming in through the edges of the
shutters he thought he was late, and expressed his fear. I assured
him that Lucy was still asleep, but told him as gently as I could that
both Van Helsing and I feared that the end was near. He covered his
face with his hands, and slid down on his knees by the sofa, where he
remained, perhaps a minute, with his head buried, praying, whilst his
shoulders shook with grief. I took him by the hand and raised him up.
"Come," I said, "my dear old fellow, summon all your fortitude. It
will be best and easiest for her."
When we came into Lucy's room I could see that Van Helsing had, with
his usual forethought, been putting matters straight and making
everything look as pleasing as possible. He had even brushed Lucy's
hair, so that it lay on the pillow in its usual sunny ripples. When
we came into the room she opened her eyes, and seeing him, whispered
softly, "Arthur! Oh, my love, I am so glad you have come!"
He was stooping to kiss her, when Van Helsing motioned him back.
"No," he whispered, "not yet! Hold her hand, it will comfort her
more."
So Arthur took her hand and knelt beside her, and she looked her best,
with all the soft lines matching the angelic beauty of her eyes. Then
gradually her eyes closed, and she sank to sleep. For a little bit
her breast heaved softly, and her breath came and went like a tired
child's.
And then insensibly there came the strange change which I had noticed
in the night. Her breathing grew stertorous, the mouth opened, and
the pale gums, drawn back, made the teeth look longer and sharper than
ever. In a sort of sleep-waking, vague, unconscious way she opened
her eyes, which were now dull and hard at once, and said in a soft,
voluptuous voice, such as I had never heard from her lips, "Arthur!
Oh, my love, I am so glad you have come! Kiss me!"
Arthur bent eagerly over to kiss her, but at that instant Van Helsing,
who, like me, had been startled by her voice, swooped upon him, and
catching him by the neck with both hands, dragged him back with a fury
of strength which I never thought he could have possessed, and
actually hurled him almost across the room.
"Not on your life!" he said, "not for your living soul and hers!" And
he stood between them like a lion at bay.
Arthur was so taken aback that he did not for a moment know what to do
or say, and before any impulse of violence could seize him he realized
the place and the occasion, and stood silent, waiting.
I kept my eyes fixed on Lucy, as did Van Helsing, and we saw a spasm
as of rage flit like a shadow over her face. The sharp teeth clamped
together. Then her eyes closed, and she breathed heavily.
Very shortly after she opened her eyes in all their softness, and
putting out her poor, pale, thin hand, took Van Helsing's great brown
one, drawing it close to her, she kissed it. "My true friend," she
said, in a faint voice, but with untellable pathos, "My true friend,
and his! Oh, guard him, and give me peace!"
"I swear it!" he said solemnly, kneeling beside her and holding up his
hand, as one who registers an oath. Then he turned to Arthur, and
said to him, "Come, my child, take her hand in yours, and kiss her on
the forehead, and only once."
Their eyes met instead of their lips, and so they parted. Lucy's eyes
closed, and Van Helsing, who had been watching closely, took Arthur's
arm, and drew him away.
And then Lucy's breathing became stertorous again, and all at once it
ceased.
"It is all over," said Van Helsing. "She is dead!"
I took Arthur by the arm, and led him away to the drawing room, where
he sat down, and covered his face with his hands, sobbing in a way
that nearly broke me down to see.
I went back to the room, and found Van Helsing looking at poor Lucy,
and his face was sterner than ever. Some change had come over her
body. Death had given back part of her beauty, for her brow and
cheeks had recovered some of their flowing lines. Even the lips had
lost their deadly pallor. It was as if the blood, no longer needed
for the working of the heart, had gone to make the harshness of death
as little rude as might be.
"We thought her dying whilst she slept, And sleeping when she died."
I stood beside Van Helsing, and said, "Ah well, poor girl, there is
peace for her at last. It is the end!"
He turned to me, and said with grave solemnity, "Not so, alas! Not
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."
CHAPTER 13
DR. SEWARD'S DIARY--cont.
The funeral was arranged for the next succeeding day, so that Lucy and
her mother might be buried together. I attended to all the ghastly
formalities, and the urbane undertaker proved that his staff was
afflicted, or blessed, with something of his own obsequious suavity.
Even the woman who performed the last offices for the dead remarked to
me, in a confidential, brother-professional way, when she had come out
from the death chamber,
"She makes a very beautiful corpse, sir. It's quite a privilege to
attend on her. It's not too much to say that she will do credit to
our establishment!"
I noticed that Van Helsing never kept far away. This was possible
from the disordered state of things in the household. There were no
relatives at hand, and as Arthur had to be back the next day to attend
at his father's funeral, we were unable to notify any one who should
have been bidden. Under the circumstances, Van Helsing and I took it
upon ourselves to examine papers, etc. He insisted upon looking over
Lucy's papers himself. I asked him why, for I feared that he, being a
foreigner, might not be quite aware of English legal requirements, and
so might in ignorance make some unnecessary trouble.
He answered me, "I know, I know. You forget that I am a lawyer as
well as a doctor. But this is not altogether for the law. You knew
that, when you avoided the coroner. I have more than him to avoid.
There may be papers more, such as this."
As he spoke he took from his pocket book the memorandum which had been
in Lucy's breast, and which she had torn in her sleep.
"When you find anything of the solicitor who is for the late Mrs.
Westenra, seal all her papers, and write him tonight. For me, I watch
here in the room and in Miss Lucy's old room all night, and I myself
search for what may be. It is not well that her very thoughts go into
the hands of strangers."
I went on with my part of the work, and in another half hour had found
the name and address of Mrs. Westenra's solicitor and had written to
him. All the poor lady's papers were in order. Explicit directions
regarding the place of burial were given. I had hardly sealed the
letter, when, to my surprise, Van Helsing walked into the room,
saying,
"Can I help you friend John? I am free, and if I may, my service is
to you."
"Have you got what you looked for?" I asked.
To which he replied, "I did not look for any specific thing. I only
hoped to find, and find I have, all that there was, only some letters
and a few memoranda, and a diary new begun. But I have them here, and
we shall for the present say nothing of them. I shall see that poor
lad tomorrow evening, and, with his sanction, I shall use some."
When we had finished the work in hand, he said to me, "And now, friend
John, I think we may to bed. We want sleep, both you and I, and rest
to recuperate. Tomorrow we shall have much to do, but for the tonight
there is no need of us. Alas!"
Before turning in we went to look at poor Lucy. The undertaker had
certainly done his work well, for the room was turned into a small
chapelle ardente. There was a wilderness of beautiful white flowers,
and death was made as little repulsive as might be. The end of the
winding sheet was laid over the face. When the Professor bent over
and turned it gently back, we both started at the beauty before us.
The tall wax candles showing a sufficient light to note it well. All
Lucy's loveliness had come back to her in death, and the hours that
had passed, instead of leaving traces of `decay's effacing fingers',
had but restored the beauty of life, till positively I could not
believe my eyes that I was looking at a corpse.
The Professor looked sternly grave. He had not loved her as I had,
and there was no need for tears in his eyes. He said to me, "Remain
till I return," and left the room. He came back with a handful of
wild garlic from the box waiting in the hall, but which had not been
opened, and placed the flowers amongst the others on and around the
bed. Then he took from his neck, inside his collar, a little gold
crucifix, and placed it over the mouth. He restored the sheet to its
place, and we came away.
I was undressing in my own room, when, with a premonitory tap at the
door, he entered, and at once began to speak.
"Tomorrow I want you to bring me, before night, a set of post-mortem
knives."
"Must we make an autopsy?" I asked.
"Yes and no. I want to operate, but not what you think. Let me tell
you now, but not a word to another. I want to cut off her head and
take out her heart. Ah! You a surgeon, and so shocked! You, whom I
have seen with no tremble of hand or heart, do operations of life and
death that make the rest shudder. Oh, but I must not forget, my dear
friend John, that you loved her, and I have not forgotten it for is I
that shall operate, and you must not help. I would like to do it
tonight, but for Arthur I must not. He will be free after his
father's funeral tomorrow, and he will want to see her, to see it.
Then, when she is coffined ready for the next day, you and I shall
come when all sleep. We shall unscrew the coffin lid, and shall do
our operation, and then replace all, so that none know, save we
alone."
"But why do it at all? The girl is dead. Why mutilate her poor body
without need? And if there is no necessity for a post-mortem and
nothing to gain by it, no good to her, to us, to science, to human
knowledge, why do it? Without such it is monstrous."
For answer he put his hand on my shoulder, and said, with infinite
tenderness, "Friend John, I pity your poor bleeding heart, and I love
you the more because it does so bleed. If I could, I would take on
myself the burden that you do bear. But there are things that you
know not, but that you shall know, and bless me for knowing, though
they are not pleasant things. John, my child, you have been my friend
now many years, and yet did you ever know me to do any without good
cause? I may err, I am but man, but I believe in all I do. Was it
not for these causes that you send for me when the great trouble
came? Yes! Were you not amazed, nay horrified, when I would not let
Arthur kiss his love, though she was dying, and snatched him away by
all my strength? Yes! And yet you saw how she thanked me, with her
so beautiful dying eyes, her voice, too, so weak, and she kiss my
rough old hand and bless me? Yes! And did you not hear me swear
promise to her, that so she closed her eyes grateful? Yes!
"Well, I have good reason now for all I want to do. You have for many
years trust me. You have believe me weeks past, when there be things
so strange that you might have well doubt. Believe me yet a little,
friend John. If you trust me not, then I must tell what I think, and
that is not perhaps well. And if I work, as work I shall, no matter
trust or no trust, without my friend trust in me, I work with heavy
heart and feel, oh so lonely when I want all help and courage that may
be!" He paused a moment and went on solemnly, "Friend John, there are
strange and terrible days before us. Let us not be two, but one, that
so we work to a good end. Will you not have faith in me?"
I took his hand, and promised him. I held my door open as he went
away, and watched him go to his room and close the door. As I stood
without moving, I saw one of the maids pass silently along the
passage, she had her back to me, so did not see me, and go into the
room where Lucy lay. The sight touched me. Devotion is so rare, and
we are so grateful to those who show it unasked to those we love. Here
was a poor girl putting aside the terrors which she naturally had of
death to go watch alone by the bier of the mistress whom she loved, so
that the poor clay might not be lonely till laid to eternal rest.
I must have slept long and soundly, for it was broad daylight when Van
Helsing waked me by coming into my room. He came over to my bedside
and said, "You need not trouble about the knives. We shall not do
it."
"Why not?" I asked. For his solemnity of the night before had
greatly impressed me.
"Because," he said sternly, "it is too late, or too early. See!"
Here he held up the little golden crucifix.
"This was stolen in the night."
"How stolen, "I asked in wonder, "since you have it now?"
"Because I get it back from the worthless wretch who stole it, from
the woman who robbed the dead and the living. Her punishment will
surely come, but not through me. She knew not altogether what she
did, and thus unknowing, she only stole. Now we must wait." He went
away on the word, leaving me with a new mystery to think of, a new
puzzle to grapple with.
The forenoon was a dreary time, but at noon the solicitor came, Mr.
Marquand, of Wholeman, Sons, Marquand & Lidderdale. He was very
genial and very appreciative of what we had done, and took off our
hands all cares as to details. During lunch he told us that Mrs.
Westenra had for some time expected sudden death from her heart, and
had put her affairs in absolute order. He informed us that, with the
exception of a certain entailed property of Lucy's father which now,
in default of direct issue, went back to a distant branch of the
family, the whole estate, real and personal, was left absolutely to
Arthur Holmwood. When he had told us so much he went on,
"Frankly we did our best to prevent such a testamentary disposition,
and pointed out certain contingencies that might leave her daughter
either penniless or not so free as she should be to act regarding a
matrimonial alliance. Indeed, we pressed the matter so far that we
almost came into collision, for she asked us if we were or were not
prepared to carry out her wishes. Of course, we had then no
alternative but to accept. We were right in principle, and
ninety-nine times out of a hundred we should have proved, by the logic
of events, the accuracy of our judgment.
"Frankly, however, I must admit that in this case any other form of
disposition would have rendered impossible the carrying out of her
wishes. For by her predeceasing her daughter the latter would have
come into possession of the property, and, even had she only survived
her mother by five minutes, her property would, in case there were no
will, and a will was a practical impossibility in such a case, have
been treated at her decease as under intestacy. In which case Lord
Godalming, though so dear a friend, would have had no claim in the
world. And the inheritors, being remote, would not be likely to
abandon their just rights, for sentimental reasons regarding an entire
stranger. I assure you, my dear sirs, I am rejoiced at the result,
perfectly rejoiced."
He was a good fellow, but his rejoicing at the one little part, in
which he was officially interested, of so great a tragedy, was an
object-lesson in the limitations of sympathetic understanding.
He did not remain long, but said he would look in later in the day and
see Lord Godalming. His coming, however, had been a certain comfort
to us, since it assured us that we should not have to dread hostile
criticism as to any of our acts. Arthur was expected at five o'clock,
so a little before that time we visited the death chamber. It was so
in very truth, for now both mother and daughter lay in it. The
undertaker, true to his craft, had made the best display he could of
his goods, and there was a mortuary air about the place that lowered
our spirits at once.
Van Helsing ordered the former arrangement to be adhered to,
explaining that, as Lord Godalming was coming very soon, it would be
less harrowing to his feelings to see all that was left of his fiancee
quite alone.
The undertaker seemed shocked at his own stupidity and exerted himself
to restore things to the condition in which we left them the night
before, so that when Arthur came such shocks to his feelings as we
could avoid were saved.
Poor fellow! He looked desperately sad and broken. Even his stalwart
manhood seemed to have shrunk somewhat under the strain of his
much-tried emotions. He had, I knew, been very genuinely and
devotedly attached to his father, and to lose him, and at such a time,
was a bitter blow to him. With me he was warm as ever, and to Van
Helsing he was sweetly courteous. But I could not help seeing that
there was some constraint with him. The professor noticed it too, and
motioned me to bring him upstairs. I did so, and left him at the door
of the room, as I felt he would like to be quite alone with her, but
he took my arm and led me in, saying huskily,
"You loved her too, old fellow. She told me all about it, and there
was no friend had a closer place in her heart than you. I don't know
how to thank you for all you have done for her. I can't think
yet . . ."
Here he suddenly broke down, and threw his arms round my shoulders and
laid his head on my breast, crying, "Oh, Jack! Jack! What shall I
do? The whole of life seems gone from me all at once, and there is
nothing in the wide world for me to live for."
I comforted him as well as I could. In such cases men do not need
much expression. A grip of the hand, the tightening of an arm over
the shoulder, a sob in unison, are expressions of sympathy dear to a
man's heart. I stood still and silent till his sobs died away, and
then I said softly to him, "Come and look at her."
Together we moved over to the bed, and I lifted the lawn from her
face. God! How beautiful she was. Every hour seemed to be enhancing
her loveliness. It frightened and amazed me somewhat. And as for
Arthur, he fell to trembling, and finally was shaken with doubt as
with an ague. At last, after a long pause, he said to me in a faint
whisper, "Jack, is she really dead?"
I assured him sadly that it was so, and went on to suggest, for I felt
that such a horrible doubt should not have life for a moment longer
than I could help, that it often happened that after death faces
become softened and even resolved into their youthful beauty, that
this was especially so when death had been preceded by any acute or
prolonged suffering. I seemed to quite do away with any doubt, and
after kneeling beside the couch for a while and looking at her
lovingly and long, he turned aside. I told him that that must be
goodbye, as the coffin had to be prepared, so he went back and took
her dead hand in his and kissed it, and bent over and kissed her
forehead. He came away, fondly looking back over his shoulder at her
as he came.
I left him in the drawing room, and told Van Helsing that he had said
goodbye, so the latter went to the kitchen to tell the undertaker's
men to proceed with the preparations and to screw up the coffin. When
he came out of the room again I told him of Arthur's question, and he
replied, "I am not surprised. Just now I doubted for a moment
myself!"
We all dined together, and I could see that poor Art was trying to
make the best of things. Van Helsing had been silent all dinner time,
but when we had lit our cigars he said, "Lord . . ." but Arthur
interrupted him.
"No, no, not that, for God's sake! Not yet at any rate. Forgive me,
sir. I did not mean to speak offensively. It is only because my loss
is so recent."
The Professor answered very sweetly, "I only used that name because I
was in doubt. I must not call you `Mr.' and I have grown to love you,
yes, my dear boy, to love you, as Arthur."
Arthur held out his hand, and took the old man's warmly. "Call me
what you will," he said. "I hope I may always have the title of a
friend. And let me say that I am at a loss for words to thank you for
your goodness to my poor dear." He paused a moment, and went on, "I
know that she understood your goodness even better than I do. And if
I was rude or in any way wanting at that time you acted so, you
remember,"--the Professor nodded--"You must forgive me."
He answered with a grave kindness, "I know it was hard for you to
quite trust me then, for to trust such violence needs to understand,
and I take it that you do not, that you cannot, trust me now, for you
do not yet understand. And there may be more times when I shall want
you to trust when you cannot, and may not, and must not yet
understand. But the time will come when your trust shall be whole and
complete in me, and when you shall understand as though the sunlight
himself shone through. Then you shall bless me from first to last for
your own sake, and for the sake of others, and for her dear sake to
whom I swore to protect."
"And indeed, indeed, sir," said Arthur warmly. "I shall in all ways
trust you. I know and believe you have a very noble heart, and you
are Jack's friend, and you were hers. You shall do what you like."
The Professor cleared his throat a couple of times, as though about to
speak, and finally said, "May I ask you something now?"
"Certainly."
"You know that Mrs. Westenra left you all her property?"
"No, poor dear. I never thought of it."
"And as it is all yours, you have a right to deal with it as you will.
I want you to give me permission to read all Miss Lucy's papers and
letters. Believe me, it is no idle curiosity. I have a motive of
which, be sure, she would have approved. I have them all here. I
took them before we knew that all was yours, so that no strange hand
might touch them, no strange eye look through words into her soul. I
shall keep them, if I may. Even you may not see them yet, but I shall
keep them safe. No word shall be lost, and in the good time I shall
give them back to you. It is a hard thing that I ask, but you will do
it, will you not, for Lucy's sake?"
Arthur spoke out heartily, like his old self, "Dr. Van Helsing, you
may do what you will. I feel that in saying this I am doing what my
dear one would have approved. I shall not trouble you with questions
till the time comes."
The old Professor stood up as he said solemnly, "And you are right.
There will be pain for us all, but it will not be all pain, nor will
this pain be the last. We and you too, you most of all, dear boy,
will have to pass through the bitter water before we reach the sweet.
But we must be brave of heart and unselfish, and do our duty, and all
will be well!"
I slept on a sofa in Arthur's room that night. Van Helsing did not go
to bed at all. He went to and fro, as if patroling the house, and was
never out of sight of the room where Lucy lay in her coffin, strewn
with the wild garlic flowers, which sent through the odour of lily and
rose, a heavy, overpowering smell into the night.
MINA HARKER'S JOURNAL
22 September.--In the train to Exeter. Jonathan sleeping. It seems
only yesterday that the last entry was made, and yet how much between
then, in Whitby and all the world before me, Jonathan away and no news
of him, and now, married to Jonathan, Jonathan a solicitor, a partner,
rich, master of his business, Mr. Hawkins dead and buried, and
Jonathan with another attack that may harm him. Some day he may ask
me about it. Down it all goes. I am rusty in my shorthand, see what
unexpected prosperity does for us, so it may be as well to freshen it
up again with an exercise anyhow.
The service was very simple and very solemn. There were only
ourselves and the servants there, one or two old friends of his from
Exeter, his London agent, and a gentleman representing Sir John
Paxton, the President of the Incorporated Law Society. Jonathan and I
stood hand in hand, and we felt that our best and dearest friend was
gone from us.
We came back to town quietly, taking a bus to Hyde Park Corner.
Jonathan thought it would interest me to go into the Row for a while,
so we sat down. But there were very few people there, and it was
sad-looking and desolate to see so many empty chairs. It made us
think of the empty chair at home. So we got up and walked down
Piccadilly. Jonathan was holding me by the arm, the way he used to in
the old days before I went to school. I felt it very improper, for
you can't go on for some years teaching etiquette and decorum to other
girls without the pedantry of it biting into yourself a bit. But it
was Jonathan, and he was my husband, and we didn't know anybody who
saw us, and we didn't care if they did, so on we walked. I was
looking at a very beautiful girl, in a big cart-wheel hat, sitting in
a victoria outside Guiliano's, when I felt Jonathan clutch my arm so
tight that he hurt me, and he said under his breath, "My God!"
I am always anxious about Jonathan, for I fear that some nervous fit
may upset him again. So I turned to him quickly, and asked him what
it was that disturbed him.
He was very pale, and his eyes seemed bulging out as, half in terror
and half in amazement, he gazed at a tall, thin man, with a beaky nose
and black moustache and pointed beard, who was also observing the
pretty girl. He was looking at her so hard that he did not see either
of us, and so I had a good view of him. His face was not a good
face. It was hard, and cruel, and sensual, and big white teeth, that
looked all the whiter because his lips were so red, were pointed like
an animal's. Jonathan kept staring at him, till I was afraid he would
notice. I feared he might take it ill, he looked so fierce and nasty.
I asked Jonathan why he was disturbed, and he answered, evidently
thinking that I knew as much about it as he did, "Do you see who it
is?"
"No, dear," I said. "I don't know him, who is it?" His answer seemed
to shock and thrill me, for it was said as if he did not know that it
was me, Mina, to whom he was speaking. "It is the man himself!"
The poor dear was evidently terrified at something, very greatly
terrified. I do believe that if he had not had me to lean on and to
support him he would have sunk down. He kept staring. A man came out
of the shop with a small parcel, and gave it to the lady, who then
drove off. The dark man kept his eyes fixed on her, and when the
carriage moved up Piccadilly he followed in the same direction, and
hailed a hansom. Jonathan kept looking after him, and said, as if to
himself,
"I believe it is the Count, but he has grown young. My God, if this
be so! Oh, my God! My God! If only I knew! If only I knew!" He was
distressing himself so much that I feared to keep his mind on the
subject by asking him any questions, so I remained silent. I drew
away quietly, and he, holding my arm, came easily. We walked a little
further, and then went in and sat for a while in the Green Park. It
was a hot day for autumn, and there was a comfortable seat in a shady
place. After a few minutes' staring at nothing, Jonathan's eyes
closed, and he went quickly into a sleep, with his head on my
shoulder. I thought it was the best thing for him, so did not disturb
him. In about twenty minutes he woke up, and said to me quite
cheerfully,
"Why, Mina, have I been asleep! Oh, do forgive me for being so rude.
Come, and we'll have a cup of tea somewhere."
He had evidently forgotten all about the dark stranger, as in his
illness he had forgotten all that this episode had reminded him of. I
don't like this lapsing into forgetfulness. It may make or continue
some injury to the brain. I must not ask him, for fear I shall do
more harm than good, but I must somehow learn the facts of his journey
abroad. The time is come, I fear, when I must open the parcel, and
know what is written. Oh, Jonathan, you will, I know, forgive me if I
do wrong, but it is for your own dear sake.
Later.--A sad homecoming in every way, the house empty of the dear
soul who was so good to us. Jonathan still pale and dizzy under a
slight relapse of his malady, and now a telegram from Van Helsing,
whoever he may be. "You will be grieved to hear that Mrs. Westenra
died five days ago, and that Lucy died the day before yesterday. They
were both buried today."
Oh, what a wealth of sorrow in a few words! Poor Mrs. Westenra! Poor
Lucy! Gone, gone, never to return to us! And poor, poor Arthur, to
have lost such a sweetness out of his life! God help us all to bear
our troubles.
DR. SEWARD'S DIARY-CONT.
22 September.--It is all over. Arthur has gone back to Ring, and has
taken Quincey Morris with him. What a fine fellow is Quincey! I
believe in my heart of hearts that he suffered as much about Lucy's
death as any of us, but he bore himself through it like a moral
Viking. If America can go on breeding men like that, she will be a
power in the world indeed. Van Helsing is lying down, having a rest
preparatory to his journey. He goes to Amsterdam tonight, but says he
returns tomorrow night, that he only wants to make some arrangements
which can only be made personally. He is to stop with me then, if he
can. He says he has work to do in London which may take him some
time. Poor old fellow! I fear that the strain of the past week has
broken down even his iron strength. All the time of the burial he
was, I could see, putting some terrible restraint on himself. When it
was all over, we were standing beside Arthur, who, poor fellow, was
speaking of his part in the operation where his blood had been
transfused to his Lucy's veins. I could see Van Helsing's face grow
white and purple by turns. Arthur was saying that he felt since then
as if they two had been really married, and that she was his wife in
the sight of God. None of us said a word of the other operations, and
none of us ever shall. Arthur and Quincey went away together to the
station, and Van Helsing and I came on here. The moment we were alone
in the carriage he gave way to a regular fit of hysterics. He has
denied to me since that it was hysterics, and insisted that it was
only his sense of humor asserting itself under very terrible
conditions. He laughed till he cried, and I had to draw down the
blinds lest any one should see us and misjudge. And then he cried,
till he laughed again, and laughed and cried together, just as a woman
does. I tried to be stern with him, as one is to a woman under the
circumstances, but it had no effect. Men and women are so different
in manifestations of nervous strength or weakness! Then when his face
grew grave and stern again I asked him why his mirth, and why at such
a time. His reply was in a way characteristic of him, for it was
logical and forceful and mysterious. He said,
"Ah, you don't comprehend, friend John. Do not think that I am not
sad, though I laugh. See, I have cried even when the laugh did choke
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 true laughter.
No! He is a king, and he come when and how he like. He ask no
person, he choose no time of suitability. He say, `I am here.'
Behold, in example I grieve my heart out for that so sweet young
girl. I give my blood for her, though I am old and worn. I give my
time, my skill, my sleep. I let my other sufferers want that she may
have all. And yet I can laugh at her very grave, laugh when the clay
from the spade of the sexton drop upon her coffin and say `Thud,
thud!' to my heart, till it send back the blood from my cheek. My
heart bleed for that poor boy, that dear boy, so of the age of mine
own boy had I been so blessed that he live, and with his hair and eyes
the same.
"There, you know now why I love him so. And yet when he say things
that touch my husband-heart to the quick, and make my father-heart
yearn to him as to no other man, not even you, friend John, for we are
more level in experiences than father and son, yet even at such a
moment King Laugh he come to me and shout and bellow in my ear,`Here I
am! Here I am!' till the blood come dance back and bring some of the
sunshine that he carry with him to my cheek. Oh, friend John, it is a
strange world, a sad world, a world full of miseries, and woes, and
troubles. And yet when King Laugh come, he make them all dance to the
tune he play. Bleeding hearts, and dry bones of the churchyard, and
tears that burn as they fall, all dance together to the music that he
make with that smileless mouth of him. And believe me, friend John,
that he is good to come, and kind. Ah, we men and women are like
ropes drawn tight with strain that pull us different ways. Then tears
come, and like the rain on the ropes, they brace us up, until perhaps
the strain become too great, and we break. But King Laugh he come
like the sunshine, and he ease off the strain again, and we bear to go
on with our labor, what it may be."
I did not like to wound him by pretending not to see his idea, but as
I did not yet understand the cause of his laughter, I asked him. As
he answered me his face grew stern, and he said in quite a different
tone,
"Oh, it was the grim irony of it all, this so lovely lady garlanded
with flowers, that looked so fair as life, till one by one we wondered
if she were truly dead, she laid in that so fine marble house in that
lonely churchyard, where rest so many of her kin, laid there with the
mother who loved her, and whom she loved, and that sacred bell going
"Toll! Toll! Toll!' so sad and slow, and those holy men, with the
white garments of the angel, pretending to read books, and yet all the
time their eyes never on the page, and all of us with the bowed head.
And all for what? She is dead, so! Is it not?"
"Well, for the life of me, Professor," I said, "I can't see anything
to laugh at in all that. Why, your expression makes it a harder
puzzle than before. But even if the burial service was comic, what
about poor Art and his trouble? Why his heart was simply breaking."
"Just so. Said he not that the transfusion of his blood to her veins
had made her truly his bride?"
"Yes, and it was a sweet and comforting idea for him."
"Quite so. But there was a difficulty, friend John. If so that, then
what about the others? Ho, ho! Then this so sweet maid is a
polyandrist, and me, with my poor wife dead to me, but alive by
Church's law, though no wits, all gone, even I, who am faithful
husband to this now-no-wife, am bigamist."
"I don't see where the joke comes in there either!" I said, and I did
not feel particularly pleased with him for saying such things. He
laid his hand on my arm, and said,
"Friend John, forgive me if I pain. I showed not my feeling to others
when it would wound, but only to you, my old friend, whom I can trust.
If you could have looked into my heart then when I want to laugh, if
you could have done so when the laugh arrived, if you could do so now,
when King Laugh have pack up his crown, and all that is to him, for he
go far, far away from me, and for a long, long time, maybe you would
perhaps pity me the most of all."
I was touched by the tenderness of his tone, and asked why.
"Because I know!"
And now we are all scattered, and for many a long day loneliness will
sit over our roofs with brooding wings. Lucy lies in the tomb of her
kin, a lordly death house in a lonely churchyard, away from teeming
London, where the air is fresh, and the sun rises over Hampstead Hill,
and where wild flowers grow of their own accord.
So I can finish this diary, and God only knows if I shall ever begin
another. If I do, or if I even open this again, it will be to deal
with different people and different themes, for here at the end, where
the romance of my life is told, ere I go back to take up the thread of
my life-work, I say sadly and without hope, "FINIS".
THE WESTMINSTER GAZETTE, 25 SEPTEMBER A HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
The neighborhood of Hampstead is just at present exercised
with a series of events which seem to run on lines parallel
to those of what was known to the writers of headlines as
"The Kensington Horror," or "The Stabbing Woman," or "The
Woman in Black." During the past two or three days several
cases have occurred of young children straying from home or
neglecting to return from their playing on the Heath. In
all these cases the children were too young to give any
properly intelligible account of themselves, but the
consensus of their excuses is that they had been with a
"bloofer lady." It has always been late in the evening when
they have been missed, and on two occasions the children
have not been found until early in the following morning.
It is generally supposed in the neighborhood that, as the
first child missed gave as his reason for being away that a
"bloofer lady" had asked him to come for a walk, the others
had picked up the phrase and used it as occasion served.
This is the more natural as the favourite game of the little
ones at present is luring each other away by wiles. A
correspondent writes us that to see some of the tiny tots
pretending to be the "bloofer lady" is supremely funny.
Some of our caricaturists might, he says, take a lesson in
the irony of grotesque by comparing the reality and the
picture. It is only in accordance with general principles
of human nature that the "bloofer lady" should be the
popular role at these al fresco performances. Our
correspondent naively says that even Ellen Terry could not
be so winningly attractive as some of these grubby-faced
little children pretend, and even imagine themselves, to
be.
There is, however, possibly a serious side to the question,
for some of the children, indeed all who have been missed
at night, have been slightly torn or wounded in the throat.
The wounds seem such as might be made by a rat or a small
dog, and although of not much importance individually,
would tend to show that whatever animal inflicts them has a
system or method of its own. The police of the division
have been instructed to keep a sharp lookout for straying
children, especially when very young, in and around
Hampstead Heath, and for any stray dog which may be about.
THE WESTMINSTER GAZETTE, 25 SEPTEMBER EXTRA SPECIAL
THE HAMPSTEAD HORROR
ANOTHER CHILD INJURED
THE "BLOOFER LADY"
We have just received intelligence that another child,
missed last night, was only discovered late in the morning
under a furze bush at the Shooter's Hill side of Hampstead
Heath, which is perhaps, less frequented than the other
parts. It has the same tiny wound in the throat as has
been noticed in other cases. It was terribly weak, and
looked quite emaciated. It too, when partially restored,
had the common story to tell of being lured away by the
"bloofer lady".
CHAPTER 14
MINA HARKER'S JOURNAL
23 September.--Jonathan is better after a bad night. I am so glad
that he has plenty of work to do, for that keeps his mind off the
terrible things, and oh, I am rejoiced that he is not now weighed down
with the responsibility of his new position. I knew he would be true
to himself, and now how proud I am to see my Jonathan rising to the
height of his advancement and keeping pace in all ways with the duties
that come upon him. He will be away all day till late, for he said he
could not lunch at home. My household work is done, so I shall take
his foreign journal, and lock myself up in my room and read it.
24 September.--I hadn't the heart to write last night, that terrible
record of Jonathan's upset me so. Poor dear! How he must have
suffered, whether it be true or only imagination. I wonder if there
is any truth in it at all. Did he get his brain fever, and then write
all those terrible things, or had he some cause for it all? I suppose
I shall never know, for I dare not open the subject to him. And yet
that man we saw yesterday! He seemed quite certain of him, poor
fellow! I suppose it was the funeral upset him and sent his mind back
on some train of thought.
He believes it all himself. I remember how on our wedding day he said
"Unless some solemn duty come upon me to go back to the bitter hours,
asleep or awake, mad or sane . . ." There seems to be through it all
some thread of continuity. That fearful Count was coming to London.
If it should be, and he came to London, with its teeming millions . . .
There may be a solemn duty, and if it come we must not shrink from
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.
LETTER, VAN HELSING TO MRS. HARKER
24 September
(Confidence)
"Dear Madam,
"I pray you to pardon my writing, in that I am so far
friend as that I sent to you sad news of Miss Lucy
Westenra's death. By the kindness of Lord Godalming, I am
empowered to read her letters and papers, for I am deeply
concerned about certain matters vitally important. In them
I find some letters from you, which show how great friends
you were and how you love her. Oh, Madam Mina, by that
love, I implore you, help me. It is for others' good that
I ask, to redress great wrong, and to lift much and
terrible troubles, that may be more great than you can
know. May it be that I see you? You can trust me. I am
friend of Dr. John Seward and of Lord Godalming (that was
Arthur of Miss Lucy). I must keep it private for the
present from all. I should come to Exeter to see you at
once if you tell me I am privilege to come, and where and
when. I implore your pardon, Madam. I have read your
letters to poor Lucy, and know how good you are and how
your husband suffer. So I pray you, if it may be,
enlighten him not, least it may harm. Again your pardon,
and forgive me.
"VAN HELSING"
TELEGRAM, MRS. HARKER TO VAN HELSING
25 September.--Come today by quarter past ten train if you
can catch it. Can see you any time you call.
"WILHELMINA HARKER"
MINA HARKER'S JOURNAL
25 September.--I cannot help feeling terribly excited as the time
draws near for the visit of Dr. Van Helsing, for somehow I expect that
it will throw some light upon Jonathan's sad experience, and as he
attended poor dear Lucy in her last illness, he can tell me all about
her. That is the reason of his coming. It is concerning Lucy and her
sleep-walking, and not about Jonathan. Then I shall never know the
real truth now! How silly I am. That awful journal gets hold of my
imagination and tinges everything with something of its own colour. Of
course it is about Lucy. That habit came back to the poor dear, and
that awful night on the cliff must have made her ill. I had almost
forgotten in my own affairs how ill she was afterwards. She must have
told him of her sleep-walking adventure on the cliff, and that I knew
all about it, and now he wants me to tell him what I know, so that he
may understand. I hope I did right in not saying anything of it to
Mrs. Westenra. I should never forgive myself if any act of mine, were
it even a negative one, brought harm on poor dear Lucy. I hope too,
Dr. Van Helsing will not blame me. I have had so much trouble and
anxiety of late that I feel I cannot bear more just at present.
I suppose a cry does us all good at times, clears the air as other
rain does. Perhaps it was reading the journal yesterday that upset
me, and then Jonathan went away this morning to stay away from me a
whole day and night, the first time we have been parted since our
marriage. I do hope the dear fellow will take care of himself, and
that nothing will occur to upset him. It is two o'clock, and the
doctor will be here soon now. I shall say nothing of Jonathan's
journal unless he asks me. I am so glad I have typewritten out my own
journal, so that, in case he asks about Lucy, I can hand it to him.
It will save much questioning.
Later.--He has come and gone. Oh, what a strange meeting, and how it
all makes my head whirl round. I feel like one in a dream. Can it be
all possible, or even a part of it? If I had not read Jonathan's
journal first, I should never have accepted even a possibility. Poor,
poor, dear Jonathan! How he must have suffered. Please the good God,
all this may not upset him again. I shall try to save him from it.
But it may be even a consolation and a help to him, terrible though it
be and awful in its consequences, to know for certain that his eyes
and ears and brain did not deceive him, and that it is all true. It
may be that it is the doubt which haunts him, that when the doubt is
removed, no matter which, waking or dreaming, may prove the truth, he
will be more satisfied and better able to bear the shock. Dr. Van
Helsing must be a good man as well as a clever one if he is Arthur's
friend and Dr. Seward's, and if they brought him all the way from
Holland to look after Lucy. I feel from having seen him that he is
good and kind and of a noble nature. When he comes tomorrow I shall
ask him about Jonathan. And then, please God, all this sorrow and
anxiety may lead to a good end. I used to think I would like to
practice interviewing. Jonathan's friend on "The Exeter News" told
him that memory is everything in such work, that you must be able to
put down exactly almost every word spoken, even if you had to refine
some of it afterwards. Here was a rare interview. I shall try to
record it verbatim.
It was half-past two o'clock when the knock came. I took my courage a
deux mains and waited. In a few minutes Mary opened the door, and
announced "Dr. Van Helsing".
I rose and bowed, and he came towards me, a man of medium weight,
strongly built, with his shoulders set back over a broad, deep chest
and a neck well balanced on the trunk as the head is on the neck. The
poise of the head strikes me at once as indicative of thought and
power. The head is noble, well-sized, broad, and large behind the
ears. The face, clean-shaven, shows a hard, square chin, a large
resolute, mobile mouth, a good-sized nose, rather straight, but with
quick, sensitive nostrils, that seem to broaden as the big bushy brows
come down and the mouth tightens. The forehead is broad and fine,
rising at first almost straight and then sloping back above two bumps
or ridges wide apart, such a forehead that the reddish hair cannot
possibly tumble over it, but falls naturally back and to the sides.
Big, dark blue eyes are set widely apart, and are quick and tender or
stern with the man's moods. He said to me,
"Mrs. Harker, is it not?" I bowed assent.
"That was Miss Mina Murray?" Again I assented.
"It is Mina Murray that I came to see that was friend of that poor dear
child Lucy Westenra. Madam Mina, it is on account of the dead that I
come."
"Sir," I said, "you could have no better claim on me than that you
were a friend and helper of Lucy Westenra." And I held out my hand.
He took it and said tenderly,
"Oh, Madam Mina, I know that the friend of that poor little girl must
be good, but I had yet to learn . . ." He finished his speech with a
courtly bow. I asked him what it was that he wanted to see me about,
so he at once began.
"I have read your letters to Miss Lucy. Forgive me, but I had to
begin to inquire somewhere, and there was none to ask. I know that
you were with her at Whitby. She sometimes kept a diary, you need not
look surprised, Madam Mina. It was begun after you had left, and was
an imitation of you, and in that diary she traces by inference certain
things to a sleep-walking in which she puts down that you saved her.
In great perplexity then I come to you, and ask you out of your so
much kindness to tell me all of it that you can remember."
"I can tell you, I think, Dr. Van Helsing, all about it."
"Ah, then you have good memory for facts, for details? It is not
always so with young ladies."
"No, doctor, but I wrote it all down at the time. I can show it to
you if you like."
"Oh, Madam Mina, I well be grateful. You will do me much favour."
I could not resist the temptation of mystifying him a bit, I suppose
it is some taste of the original apple that remains still in our
mouths, so I handed him the shorthand diary. He took it with a
grateful bow, and said, "May I read it?"
"If you wish," I answered as demurely as I could. He opened it, and
for an instant his face fell. Then he stood up and bowed.
"Oh, you so clever woman!" he said. "I knew long that Mr. Jonathan
was a man of much thankfulness, but see, his wife have all the good
things. And will you not so much honour me and so help me as to read
it for me? Alas! I know not the shorthand."
By this time my little joke was over, and I was almost ashamed. So I
took the typewritten copy from my work basket and handed it to him.
"Forgive me," I said. "I could not help it, but I had been thinking
that it was of dear Lucy that you wished to ask, and so that you might
not have time to wait, not on my account, but because I know your time
must be precious, I have written it out on the typewriter for you."
He took it and his eyes glistened. "You are so good," he said. "And
may I read it now? I may want to ask you some things when I have
read."
"By all means," I said, "read it over whilst I order lunch, and then
you can ask me questions whilst we eat."
He bowed and settled himself in a chair with his back to the light,
and became so absorbed in the papers, whilst I went to see after lunch
chiefly in order that he might not be disturbed. When I came back, I
found him walking hurriedly up and down the room, his face all ablaze
with excitement. He rushed up to me and took me by both hands.
"Oh, Madam Mina," he said, "how can I say what I owe to you? This
paper is as sunshine. It opens the gate to me. I am dazed, I am
dazzled, with so much light, and yet clouds roll in behind the light
every time. But that you do not, cannot comprehend. Oh, but I am
grateful to you, you so clever woman. Madame," he said this very
solemnly, "if ever Abraham Van Helsing can do anything for you or
yours, I trust you will let me know. It will be pleasure and delight
if I may serve you as a friend, as a friend, but all I have ever
learned, all I can ever do, shall be for you and those you love. There
are darknesses in life, and there are lights. You are one of the
lights. You will have a happy life and a good life, and your husband
will be blessed in you."
"But, doctor, you praise me too much, and you do not know me."
"Not know you, I, who am old, and who have studied all my life men and
women, I who have made my specialty the brain and all that belongs to
him and all that follow from him! And I have read your diary that you
have so goodly written for me, and which breathes out truth in every
line. I, who have read your so sweet letter to poor Lucy of your
marriage and your trust, not know you! Oh, Madam Mina, good women
tell all their lives, and by day and by hour and by minute, such
things that angels can read. And we men who wish to know have in us
something of angels' eyes. Your husband is noble nature, and you are
noble too, for you trust, and trust cannot be where there is mean
nature. And your husband, tell me of him. Is he quite well? Is all
that fever gone, and is he strong and hearty?"
I saw here an opening to ask him about Jonathan, so I said, "He was
almost recovered, but he has been greatly upset by Mr. Hawkins death."
He interrupted, "Oh, yes. I know. I know. I have read your last two
letters."
I went on, "I suppose this upset him, for when we were in town on
Thursday last he had a sort of shock."
"A shock, and after brain fever so soon! That is not good. What kind
of shock was it?"
"He thought he saw some one who recalled something terrible, something
which led to his brain fever." And here the whole thing seemed to
overwhelm me in a rush. The pity for Jonathan, the horror which he
experienced, the whole fearful mystery of his diary, and the fear that
has been brooding over me ever since, all came in a tumult. I suppose
I was hysterical, for I threw myself on my knees and held up my hands
to him, and implored him to make my husband well again. He took my
hands and raised me up, and made me sit on the sofa, and sat by me. He
held my hand in his, and said to me with, oh, such infinite sweetness,
"My life is a barren and lonely one, and so full of work that I have
not had much time for friendships, but since I have been summoned to
here by my friend John Seward I have known so many good people and
seen such nobility that I feel more than ever, and it has grown with
my advancing years, the loneliness of my life. Believe me, then, that
I come here full of respect for you, and you have given me hope, hope,
not in what I am seeking of, but that there are good women still left
to make life happy, good women, whose lives and whose truths may make
good lesson for the children that are to be. I am glad, glad, that I
may here be of some use to you. For if your husband suffer, he suffer
within the range of my study and experience. I promise you that I
will gladly do all for him that I can, all to make his life strong and
manly, and your life a happy one. Now you must eat. You are
overwrought and perhaps over-anxious. Husband Jonathan would not like
to see you so pale, and what he like not where he love, is not to his
good. Therefore for his sake you must eat and smile. You have told
me about Lucy, and so now we shall not speak of it, lest it distress.
I shall stay in Exeter tonight, for I want to think much over what you
have told me, and when I have thought I will ask you questions, if I
may. And then too, you will tell me of husband Jonathan's trouble so
far as you can, but not yet. You must eat now, afterwards you shall
tell me all."
After lunch, when we went back to the drawing room, he said to me,
"And now tell me all about him."
When it came to speaking to this great learned man, I began to fear
that he would think me a weak fool, and Jonathan a madman, that
journal is all so strange, and I hesitated to go on. But he was so
sweet and kind, and he had promised to help, and I trusted him, so I
said,
"Dr. Van Helsing, what I have to tell you is so queer that you must
not laugh at me or at my husband. I have been since yesterday in a
sort of fever of doubt. You must be kind to me, and not think me
foolish that I have even half believed some very strange things."
He reassured me by his manner as well as his words when he said, "Oh,
my dear, if you only know how strange is the matter regarding which I
am here, it is you who would laugh. I have learned not to think
little of any one's belief, no matter how strange it may be. I have
tried to keep an open mind, and it is not the ordinary things of life
that could close it, but the strange things, the extraordinary things,
the things that make one doubt if they be mad or sane."
"Thank you, thank you a thousand times! You have taken a weight off my
mind. If you will let me, I shall give you a paper to read. It is
long, but I have typewritten it out. It will tell you my trouble and
Jonathan's. It is the copy of his journal when abroad, and all that
happened. I dare not say anything of it. You will read for yourself
and judge. And then when I see you, perhaps, you will be very kind
and tell me what you think."
"I promise," he said as I gave him the papers. "I shall in the
morning, as soon as I can, come to see you and your husband, if I
may."
"Jonathan will be here at half-past eleven, and you must come to lunch
with us and see him then. You could catch the quick 3:34 train, which
will leave you at Paddington before eight." He was surprised at my
knowledge of the trains offhand, but he does not know that I have made
up all the trains to and from Exeter, so that I may help Jonathan in
case he is in a hurry.
So he took the papers with him and went away, and I sit here thinking,
thinking I don't know what.
LETTER (by hand), VAN HELSING TO MRS. HARKER
25 September, 6 o'clock
"Dear Madam Mina,
"I have read your husband's so wonderful diary. You may
sleep without doubt. Strange and terrible as it is, it is
true! I will pledge my life on it. It may be worse for
others, but for him and you there is no dread. He is a
noble fellow, and let me tell you from experience of men,
that one who would do as he did in going down that wall and
to that room, aye, and going a second time, is not one to
be injured in permanence by a shock. His brain and his
heart are all right, this I swear, before I have even seen
him, so be at rest. I shall have much to ask him of other
things. I am blessed that today I come to see you, for I
have learn all at once so much that again I am dazzled,
dazzled more than ever, and I must think.
"Yours the most faithful,
"Abraham Van Helsing."
LETTER, MRS. HARKER TO VAN HELSING
25 September, 6:30 P.M.
"My dear Dr. Van Helsing,
"A thousand thanks for your kind letter, which has taken a
great weight off my mind. And yet, if it be true, what
terrible things there are in the world, and what an awful
thing if that man, that monster, be really in London! I
fear to think. I have this moment, whilst writing, had a
wire from Jonathan, saying that he leaves by the 6:25
tonight from Launceston and will be here at 10:18, so that
I shall have no fear tonight. Will you, therefore, instead
of lunching with us, please come to breakfast at eight
o'clock, if this be not too early for you? You can get
away, if you are in a hurry, by the 10:30 train, which will
bring you to Paddington by 2:35. Do not answer this, as I
shall take it that, if I do not hear, you will come to
breakfast.
"Believe me,
"Your faithful and grateful friend,
"Mina Harker."
JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL
26 September.--I thought never to write in this diary again, but the
time has come. When I got home last night Mina had supper ready, and
when we had supped she told me of Van Helsing's visit, and of her
having given him the two diaries copied out, and of how anxious she
has been about me. She showed me in the doctor's letter that all I
wrote down was true. It seems to have made a new man of me. It was
the doubt as to the reality of the whole thing that knocked me over.
I felt impotent, and in the dark, and distrustful. But, now that I
know, I am not afraid, even of the Count. He has succeeded after all,
then, in his design in getting to London, and it was he I saw. He has
got younger, and how? Van Helsing is the man to unmask him and hunt
him out, if he is anything like what Mina says. We sat late, and
talked it over. Mina is dressing, and I shall call at the hotel in a
few minutes and bring him over.
He was, I think, surprised to see me. When I came into the room where
he was, and introduced myself, he took me by the shoulder, and turned
my face round to the light, and said, after a sharp scrutiny,
"But Madam Mina told me you were ill, that you had had a shock."
It was so funny to hear my wife called `Madam Mina' by this kindly,
strong-faced old man. I smiled, and said, "I was ill, I have had a
shock, but you have cured me already."
"And how?"
"By your letter to Mina last night. I was in doubt, and then
everything took a hue of unreality, and I did not know what to trust,
even the evidence of my own senses. Not knowing what to trust, I did
not know what to do, and so had only to keep on working in what had
hitherto been the groove of my life. The groove ceased to avail me,
and I mistrusted myself. Doctor, you don't know what it is to doubt
everything, even yourself. No, you don't, you couldn't with eyebrows
like yours."
He seemed pleased, and laughed as he said, "So! You are a
physiognomist. I learn more here with each hour. I am with so much
pleasure coming to you to breakfast, and, oh, sir, you will pardon
praise from an old man, but you are blessed in your wife."
I would listen to him go on praising Mina for a day, so I simply
nodded and stood silent.
"She is one of God's women, fashioned by His own hand to show us men
and other women that there is a heaven where we can enter, and that
its light can be here on earth. So true, so sweet, so noble, so
little an egoist, and that, let me tell you, is much in this age, so
sceptical and selfish. And you, sir . . . I have read all the letters
to poor Miss Lucy, and some of them speak of you, so I know you since
some days from the knowing of others, but I have seen your true self
since last night. You will give me your hand, will you not? And let
us be friends for all our lives."
We shook hands, and he was so earnest and so kind that it made me
quite choky.
"and now," he said, "may I ask you for some more help? I have a great
task to do, and at the beginning it is to know. You can help me
here. Can you tell me what went before your going to Transylvania?
Later on I may ask more help, and of a different kind, but at first
this will do."
"Look here, Sir," I said, "does what you have to do concern the
Count?"
"It does," he said solemnly.
"Then I am with you heart and soul. As you go by the 10:30 train, you
will not have time to read them, but I shall get the bundle of papers.
You can take them with you and read them in the train."
After breakfast I saw him to the station. When we were parting he
said, "Perhaps you will come to town if I send for you, and take Madam
Mina too."
"We shall both come when you will," I said.
I had got him the morning papers and the London papers of the previous
night, and while we were talking at the carriage window, waiting for
the train to start, he was turning them over. His eyes suddenly
seemed to catch something in one of them, "The Westminster Gazette", I
knew it by the colour, and he grew quite white. He read something
intently, groaning to himself, "Mein Gott! Mein Gott! So soon! So
soon!" I do not think he remembered me at the moment. Just then the
whistle blew, and the train moved off. This recalled him to himself,
and he leaned out of the window and waved his hand, calling out, "Love
to Madam Mina. I shall write so soon as ever I can."
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 record. Until this afternoon I had no cause
to think of what is done. Renfield had become, to all intents, as
sane as he ever was. He was already well ahead with his fly business,
and he had just started in the spider line also, so he had not been of
any trouble to me. I had a letter from Arthur, written on Sunday, and
from it I gather that he is bearing up wonderfully well. Quincey
Morris is with him, and that is much of a help, for he himself is a
bubbling well of good spirits. Quincey wrote me a line too, and from
him I hear that Arthur is beginning to recover something of his old
buoyancy, so as to them all my mind is at rest. As for myself, I was
settling down to my work with the enthusiasm which I used to have for
it, so that I might fairly have said that the wound which poor Lucy
left on me was becoming cicatrised.
Everything is, however, now reopened, and what is to be the end God
only knows. I have an idea that Van Helsing thinks he knows, too, but
he will only let out enough at a time to whet curiosity. He went to
Exeter yesterday, and stayed there all night. Today he came back, and
almost bounded into the room at about half-past five o'clock, and
thrust last night's "Westminster Gazette" into my hand.
"What do you think of that?" he asked as he stood back and folded his
arms.
I looked over the paper, for I really did not know what he meant, but
he took it from me and pointed out a paragraph about children being
decoyed away at Hampstead. It did not convey much to me, until I
reached a passage where it described small puncture wounds on their
throats. An idea struck me, and I looked up.
"Well?" he said.
"It is like poor Lucy's."
"And what do you make of it?"
"Simply that there is some cause in common. Whatever it was that
injured her has injured them." I did not quite understand his answer.
"That is true indirectly, but not directly."
"How do you mean, Professor?" I asked. I was a little inclined to
take his seriousness lightly, for, after all, four days of rest and
freedom from burning, harrowing, anxiety does help to restore one's
spirits, but when I saw his face, it sobered me. Never, even in the
midst of our despair about poor Lucy, had he looked more stern.
"Tell me!" I said. "I can hazard no opinion. I do not know what to
think, and I have no data on which to found a conjecture."
"Do you mean to tell me, friend John, that you have no suspicion as to
what poor Lucy died of, not after all the hints given, not only by
events, but by me?"
"Of nervous prostration following a great loss or waste of blood."
"And how was the blood lost or wasted?" I shook my head.
He stepped over and sat down beside me, and went on, "You are a clever
man, friend John. You reason well, and your wit is bold, but you are
too prejudiced. You do not let your eyes see nor your ears hear, and
that which is outside your daily life is not of account to you. Do
you not think that there are things which you cannot understand, and
yet which are, that some people see things that others cannot? But
there are things old and new which must not be contemplated by men's
eyes, because they know, or think they know, some things which other
men have told them. Ah, it is the fault of our science that it wants
to explain all, and if it explain not, then it says there is nothing
to explain. But yet we see around us every day the growth of new
beliefs, which think themselves new, and which are yet but the old,
which pretend to be young, like the fine ladies at the opera. I
suppose now you do not believe in corporeal transference. No? Nor in
materialization. No? Nor in astral bodies. No? Nor in the reading
of thought. No? Nor in hypnotism . . ."
"Yes," I said. "Charcot has proved that pretty well."
He smiled as he went on, "Then you are satisfied as to it. Yes? And
of course then you understand how it act, and can follow the mind of
the great Charcot, alas that he is no more, into the very soul of the
patient that he influence. No? Then, friend John, am I to take it
that you simply accept fact, and are satisfied to let from premise to
conclusion be a blank? No? Then tell me, for I am a student of the
brain, how you accept hypnotism and reject the thought reading. Let
me tell you, my friend, that there are things done today in electrical
science which would have been deemed unholy by the very man who
discovered electricity, who would themselves not so long before been
burned as wizards. There are always mysteries in life. Why was it
that Methuselah lived nine hundred years, and `Old Parr' one hundred
and sixty-nine, and yet that poor Lucy, with four men's blood in her
poor veins, could not live even one day? For, had she live one more
day, we could save her. Do you know all the mystery of life and
death? Do you know the altogether of comparative anatomy and can say
wherefore the qualities of brutes are in some men, and not in others?
Can you tell me why, when other spiders die small and soon, that one
great spider lived for centuries in the tower of the old Spanish
church and grew and grew, till, on descending, he could drink the oil
of all the church lamps? Can you tell me why in the Pampas, ay and
elsewhere, there are bats that come out at night and open the veins of
cattle and horses and suck dry their veins, how in some islands of the
Western seas there are bats which hang on the trees all day, and those
who have seen describe as like giant nuts or pods, and that when the
sailors sleep on the deck, because that it is hot, flit down on them
and then, and then in the morning are found dead men, white as even
Miss Lucy was?"
"Good God, Professor!" I said, starting up. "Do you mean to tell me
that Lucy was bitten by such a bat, and that such a thing is here in
London in the nineteenth century?"
He waved his hand for silence, and went on, "Can you tell me why the
tortoise lives more long than generations of men, why the elephant
goes on and on till he have sees dynasties, and why the parrot never
die only of bite of cat of dog or other complaint? Can you tell me
why men believe in all ages and places that there are men and women
who cannot die? We all know, because science has vouched for the
fact, that there have been toads shut up in rocks for thousands of
years, shut in one so small hole that only hold him since the youth of
the world. Can you tell me how the Indian fakir can make himself to
die and have been buried, and his grave sealed and corn sowed on it,
and the corn reaped and be cut and sown and reaped and cut again, and
then men come and take away the unbroken seal and that there lie the
Indian fakir, not dead, but that rise up and walk amongst them as
before?"
Here I interrupted him. I was getting bewildered. He so crowded on
my mind his list of nature's eccentricities and possible
impossibilities that my imagination was getting fired. I had a dim
idea that he was teaching me some lesson, as long ago he used to do in
his study at Amsterdam. But he used them to tell me the thing, so
that I could have the object of thought in mind all the time. But now
I was without his help, yet I wanted to follow him, so I said,
"Professor, let me be your pet student again. Tell me the thesis, so
that I may apply your knowledge as you go on. At present I am going
in my mind from point to point as a madman, and not a sane one,
follows an idea. I feel like a novice lumbering through a bog in a
midst, jumping from one tussock to another in the mere blind effort to
move on without knowing where I am going."
"That is a good image," he said. "Well, I shall tell you. My thesis
is this, I want you to believe."
"To believe what?"
"To believe in things that you cannot. Let me illustrate. I heard
once of an American who so defined faith, `that faculty which enables
us to believe things which we know to be untrue.' For one, I follow
that man. He meant that we shall have an open mind, and not let a
little bit of truth check the rush of the big truth, like a small rock
does a railway truck. We get the small truth first. Good! We keep
him, and we value him, but all the same we must not let him think
himself all the truth in the universe."
"Then you want me not to let some previous conviction inure the
receptivity of my mind with regard to some strange matter. Do I read
your lesson aright?"
"Ah, you are my favourite pupil still. It is worth to teach you. Now
that you are willing to understand, you have taken the first step to
understand. You think then that those so small holes in the
children's throats were made by the same that made the holes in Miss
Lucy?"
"I suppose so."
He stood up and said solemnly, "Then you are wrong. Oh, would it were
so! But alas! No. It is worse, far, far worse."
"In God's name, Professor Van Helsing, what do you mean?" I cried.
He threw himself with a despairing gesture into a chair, and placed
his elbows on the table, covering his face with his hands as he spoke.
"They were made by Miss Lucy!"
CHAPTER 15
DR. SEWARD'S DIARY-cont.
For a while sheer anger mastered me. It was as if he had during her
life struck Lucy on the face. I smote the table hard and rose up as I
said to him, "Dr. Van Helsing, are you mad?"
He raised his head and looked at me, and somehow the tenderness of his
face calmed me at once. "Would I were!" he said. "Madness were easy
to bear compared with truth like this. Oh, my friend, why, think
you, did I go so far round, why take so long to tell so simple a
thing? Was it because I hate you and have hated you all my life? Was
it because I wished to give you pain? Was it that I wanted, now so
late, revenge for that time when you saved my life, and from a fearful
death? Ah no!"
"Forgive me," said I.
He went on, "My friend, it was because I wished to be gentle in the
breaking to you, for I know you have loved that so sweet lady. But
even yet I do not expect you to believe. It is so hard to accept at
once any abstract truth, that we may doubt such to be possible when we
have always believed the `no' of it. It is more hard still to accept
so sad a concrete truth, and of such a one as Miss Lucy. Tonight I go
to prove it. Dare you come with me?"
This staggered me. A man does not like to prove such a truth, Byron
excepted from the category, jealousy.
"And prove the very truth he most abhorred."
He saw my hesitation, and spoke, "The logic is simple, no madman's
logic this time, jumping from tussock to tussock in a misty bog. If
it not be true, then proof will be relief. At worst it will not harm.
If it be true! Ah, there is the dread. Yet every dread should help my
cause, for in it is some need of belief. Come, I tell you what I
propose. First, that we go off now and see that child in the
hospital. Dr. Vincent, of the North Hospital, where the papers say
the child is, is a friend of mine, and I think of yours since you were
in class at Amsterdam. He will let two scientists see his case, if he
will not let two friends. We shall tell him nothing, but only that we
wish to learn. And then . . ."
"And then?"
He took a key from his pocket and held it up. "And then we spend the
night, you and I, in the churchyard where Lucy lies. This is the key
that lock the tomb. I had it from the coffin man to give to Arthur."
My heart sank within me, for I felt that there was some fearful ordeal
before us. I could do nothing, however, so I plucked up what heart I
could and said that we had better hasten, as the afternoon was
passing.
We found the child awake. It had had a sleep and taken some food, and
altogether was going on well. Dr, Vincent took the bandage from its
throat, and showed us the punctures. There was no mistaking the
similarity to those which had been on Lucy's throat. They were
smaller, and the edges looked fresher, that was all. We asked Vincent
to what he attributed them, and he replied that it must have been a
bite of some animal, perhaps a rat, but for his own part, he was
inclined to think it was one of the bats which are so numerous on the
northern heights of London. "Out of so many harmless ones," he said,
"there may be some wild specimen from the South of a more malignant
species. Some sailor may have brought one home, and it managed to
escape, or even from the Zoological Gardens a young one may have got
loose, or one be bred there from a vampire. These things do occur,
you, know. Only ten days ago a wolf got out, and was, I believe,
traced up in this direction. For a week after, the children were
playing nothing but Red Riding Hood on the Heath and in every alley in
the place until this `bloofer lady' scare came along, since then it
has been quite a gala time with them. Even this poor little mite,
when he woke up today, asked the nurse if he might go away. When she
asked him why he wanted to go, he said he wanted to play with the
`bloofer lady'."
"I hope," said Van Helsing, "that when you are sending the child home
you will caution its parents to keep strict watch over it. These
fancies to stray are most dangerous, and if the child were to remain
out another night, it would probably be fatal. But in any case I
suppose you will not let it away for some days?"
"Certainly not, not for a week at least, longer if the wound is not
healed."
Our visit to the hospital took more time than we had reckoned on, and
the sun had dipped before we came out. When Van Helsing saw how dark
it was, he said,
"There is not hurry. It is more late than I thought. Come, let us
seek somewhere that we may eat, and then we shall go on our way."
We dined at `Jack Straw's Castle' along with a little crowd of
bicyclists and others who were genially noisy. About ten o'clock we
started from the inn. It was then very dark, and the scattered lamps
made the darkness greater when we were once outside their individual
radius. The Professor had evidently noted the road we were to go, for
he went on unhesitatingly, but, as for me, I was in quite a mixup as
to locality. As we went further, we met fewer and fewer people, till
at last we were somewhat surprised when we met even the patrol of
horse police going their usual suburban round. At last we reached the
wall of the churchyard, which we climbed over. With some little
difficulty, for it was very dark, and the whole place seemed so
strange to us, we found the Westenra tomb. The Professor took the
key, opened the creaky door, and standing back, politely, but quite
unconsciously, motioned me to precede him. There was a delicious
irony in the offer, in the courtliness of giving preference on such a
ghastly occasion. My companion followed me quickly, and cautiously
drew the door to, after carefully ascertaining that the lock was a
falling, and not a spring one. In the latter case we should have been
in a bad plight. Then he fumbled in his bag, and taking out a
matchbox and a piece of candle, proceeded to make a light. The tomb
in the daytime, and when wreathed with fresh flowers, had looked grim
and gruesome enough, but now, some days afterwards, when the flowers
hung lank and dead, their whites turning to rust and their greens to
browns, when the spider and the beetle had resumed their accustomed
dominance, when the time-discoloured stone, and dust-encrusted mortar,
and rusty, dank iron, and tarnished brass, and clouded silver-plating
gave back the feeble glimmer of a candle, the effect was more
miserable and sordid than could have been imagined. It conveyed
irresistibly the idea that life, animal life, was not the only thing
which could pass away.
Van Helsing went about his work systematically. Holding his candle so
that he could read the coffin plates, and so holding it that the sperm
dropped in white patches which congealed as they touched the metal, he
made assurance of Lucy's coffin. Another search in his bag, and he
took out a turnscrew.
"What are you going to do?" I asked.
"To open the coffin. You shall yet be convinced."
Straightway he began taking out the screws, and finally lifted off the
lid, showing the casing of lead beneath. The sight was almost too
much for me. It seemed to be as much an affront to the dead as it
would have been to have stripped off her clothing in her sleep whilst
living. I actually took hold of his hand to stop him.
He only said, "You shall see, "and again fumbling in his bag took out
a tiny fret saw. Striking the turnscrew through the lead with a swift
downward stab, which made me wince, he made a small hole, which was,
however, big enough to admit the point of the saw. I had expected a
rush of gas from the week-old corpse. We doctors, who have had to
study our dangers, have to become accustomed to such things, and I
drew back towards the door. But the Professor never stopped for a
moment. He sawed down a couple of feet along one side of the lead
coffin, and then across, and down the other side. Taking the edge of
the loose flange, he bent it back towards the foot of the coffin, and
holding up the candle into the aperture, motioned to me to look.
I drew near and looked. The coffin was empty. It was certainly a
surprise to me, and gave me a considerable shock, but Van Helsing was
unmoved. He was now more sure than ever of his ground, and so
emboldened to proceed in his task. "Are you satisfied now, friend
John?" he asked.
I felt all the dogged argumentativeness of my nature awake within me as
I answered him, "I am satisfied that Lucy's body is not in that
coffin, but that only proves one thing."
"And what is that, friend John?"
"That it is not there."
"That is good logic," he said, "so far as it goes. But how do you,
how can you, account for it not being there?"
"Perhaps a body-snatcher," I suggested. "Some of the undertaker's
people may have stolen it." I felt that I was speaking folly, and yet
it was the only real cause which I could suggest.
The Professor sighed. "Ah well!" he said," we must have more proof.
Come with me."
He put on the coffin lid again, gathered up all his things and placed
them in the bag, blew out the light, and placed the candle also in the
bag. We opened the door, and went out. Behind us he closed the door
and locked it. He handed me the key, saying, "Will you keep it? You
had better be assured."
I laughed, it was not a very cheerful laugh, I am bound to say, as I
motioned him to keep it. "A key is nothing," I said, "there are many
duplicates, and anyhow it is not difficult to pick a lock of this
kind."
He said nothing, but put the key in his pocket. Then he told me to
watch at one side of the churchyard whilst he would watch at the
other.
I took up my place behind a yew tree, and I saw his dark figure move
until the intervening headstones and trees hid it from my sight.
It was a lonely vigil. Just after I had taken my place I heard a
distant clock strike twelve, and in time came one and two. I was
chilled and unnerved, and angry with the Professor for taking me on
such an errand and with myself for coming. I was too cold and too
sleepy to be keenly observant, and not sleepy enough to betray my
trust, so altogether I had a dreary, miserable time.
Suddenly, as I turned round, I thought I saw something like a white
streak, moving between two dark yew trees at the side of the
churchyard farthest from the tomb. At the same time a dark mass moved
from the Professor's side of the ground, and hurriedly went towards
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 ways off, beyond a
line of scattered juniper trees, which marked the pathway to the
church, a white dim figure flitted in the direction of the tomb. The
tomb itself was hidden by trees, and I could not see where the figure
had disappeared. I heard the rustle of actual movement where I had
first seen the white figure, and coming over, found the Professor
holding in his arms a tiny child. When he saw me he held it out to
me, and said, "Are you satisfied now?"
"No," I said, in a way that I felt was aggressive.
"Do you not see the child?"
"Yes, it is a child, but who brought it here? And is it wounded?"
"We shall see," said the Professor, and with one impulse we took our
way out of the churchyard, he carrying the sleeping child.
When we had got some little distance away, we went into a clump of
trees, and struck a match, and looked at the child's throat. It was
without a scratch or scar of any kind.
"Was I right?" I asked triumphantly.
"We were just in time," said the Professor thankfully.
We had now to decide what we were to do with the child, and so
consulted about it. If we were to take it to a police station we
should have to give some account of our movements during the night.
At least, we should have had to make some statement as to how we had
come to find the child. So finally we decided that we would take it
to the Heath, and when we heard a policeman coming, would leave it
where he could not fail to find it. We would then seek our way home
as quickly as we could. All fell out well. At the edge of Hampstead
Heath we heard a policeman's heavy tramp, and laying the child on the
pathway, we waited and watched until he saw it as he flashed his
lantern to and fro. We heard his exclamation of astonishment, and
then we went away silently. By good chance we got a cab near the
`Spainiards,' and drove to town.
I cannot sleep, so I make this entry. But I must try to get a few
hours' sleep, as Van Helsing is to call for me at noon. He insists
that I go with him on another expedition.
27 September.--It was two o'clock before we found a suitable
opportunity for our attempt. The funeral held at noon was all
completed, and the last stragglers of the mourners had taken
themselves lazily away, when, looking carefully from behind a clump of
alder trees, we saw the sexton lock the gate after him. We knew that
we were safe till morning did we desire it, but the Professor told me
that we should not want more than an hour at most. Again I felt that
horrid sense of the reality of things, in which any effort of
imagination seemed out of place, and I realized distinctly the perils
of the law which we were incurring in our unhallowed work. Besides, I
felt it was all so useless. Outrageous as it was to open a leaden
coffin, to see if a woman dead nearly a week were really dead, it now
seemed the height of folly to open the tomb again, when we knew, from
the evidence of our own eyesight, that the coffin was empty. I
shrugged my shoulders, however, and rested silent, for Van Helsing had
a way of going on his own road, no matter who remonstrated. He took
the key, opened the vault, and again courteously motioned me to
precede. The place was not so gruesome as last night, but oh, how
unutterably mean looking when the sunshine streamed in. Van Helsing
walked over to Lucy's coffin, and I followed. He bent over and again
forced back the leaden flange, and a shock of surprise and dismay shot
through me.
There lay Lucy, seemingly just as we had seen her the night before her
funeral. She was, if possible, more radiantly beautiful than ever,
and I could not believe that she was dead. The lips were red, nay
redder than before, and on the cheeks was a delicate bloom.
"Is this a juggle?" I said to him.
"Are you convinced now?" said the Professor, in response, and as he
spoke he put over his hand, and in a way that made me shudder, pulled
back the dead lips and showed the white teeth. "See," he went on,
"they are even sharper than before. With this and this," and he
touched one of the canine teeth and that below it, "the little
children can be bitten. Are you of belief now, friend John?"
Once more argumentative hostility woke within me. I could not accept
such an overwhelming idea as he suggested. So, with an attempt to
argue of which I was even at the moment ashamed, I said, "She may have
been placed here since last night."
"Indeed? That is so, and by whom?"
"I do not know. Someone has done it."
"And yet she has been dead one week. Most peoples in that time would
not look so."
I had no answer for this, so was silent. Van Helsing did not seem to
notice my silence. At any rate, he showed neither chagrin nor
triumph. He was looking intently at the face of the dead woman,
raising the eyelids and looking at the eyes, and once more opening the
lips and examining the teeth. Then he turned to me and said,
"Here, there is one thing which is different from all recorded. Here
is some dual life that is not as the common. She was bitten by the
vampire when she was in a trance, sleep-walking, oh, you start. You
do not know that, friend John, but you shall know it later, and in
trance could he best come to take more blood. In trance she dies, and
in trance she is UnDead, too. So it is that she differ from all
other. Usually when the UnDead sleep at home," as he spoke he made a
comprehensive sweep of his arm to designate what to a vampire was
`home', "their face show what they are, but this so sweet that was
when she not UnDead she go back to the nothings of the common dead.
There is no malign there, see, and so it make hard that I must kill
her in her sleep."
This turned my blood cold, and it began to dawn upon me that I was
accepting Van Helsing's theories. But if she were really dead, what
was there of terror in the idea of killing her?
He looked up at me, and evidently saw the change in my face, for he
said almost joyously, "Ah, you believe now?"
I answered, "Do not press me too hard all at once. I am willing to
accept. How will you do this bloody work?"
"I shall cut off her head and fill her mouth with garlic, and I shall
drive a stake through her body."
It made me shudder to think of so mutilating the body of the woman
whom I had loved. And yet the feeling was not so strong as I had
expected. I was, in fact, beginning to shudder at the presence of
this being, this UnDead, as Van Helsing called it, and to loathe it.
Is it possible that love is all subjective, or all objective?
I waited a considerable time for Van Helsing to begin, but he stood as
if wrapped in thought. Presently he closed the catch of his bag with
a snap, and said,
"I have been thinking, and have made up my mind as to what is best.
If I did simply follow my inclining I would do now, at this moment,
what is to be done. But there are other things to follow, and things
that are thousand times more difficult in that them we do not know.
This is simple. She have yet no life taken, though that is of time,
and to act now would be to take danger from her forever. But then we
may have to want Arthur, and how shall we tell him of this? If you,
who saw the wounds on Lucy's throat, and saw the wounds so similar on
the child's at the hospital, if you, who saw the coffin empty last
night and full today with a woman who have not change only to be more
rose and more beautiful in a whole week, after she die, if you know of
this and know of the white figure last night that brought the child to
the churchyard, and yet of your own senses you did not believe, how
then, can I expect Arthur, who know none of those things, to believe?
"He doubted me when I took him from her kiss when she was dying. I
know he has forgiven me because in some mistaken idea I have done
things that prevent him say goodbye as he ought, and he may think that
in some more mistaken idea this woman was buried alive, and that in
most mistake of all we have killed her. He will then argue back that
it is we, mistaken ones, that have killed her by our ideas, and so he
will be much unhappy always. Yet he never can be sure, and that is
the worst of all. And he will sometimes think that she he loved was
buried alive, and that will paint his dreams with horrors of what she
must have suffered, and again, he will think that we may be right, and
that his so beloved was, after all, an UnDead. No! I told him once,
and since then I learn much. Now, since I know it is all true, a
hundred thousand times more do I know that he must pass through the
bitter waters to reach the sweet. He, poor fellow, must have one hour
that will make the very face of heaven grow black to him, then we can
act for good all round and send him peace. My mind is made up. Let
us go. You return home for tonight to your asylum, and see that all
be well. As for me, I shall spend the night here in this churchyard
in my own way. Tomorrow night you will come to me to the Berkeley
Hotel at ten of the clock. I shall send for Arthur to come too, and
also that so fine young man of America that gave his blood. Later we
shall all have work to do. I come with you so far as Piccadilly and
there dine, for I must be back here before the sun set."
So we locked the tomb and came away, and got over the wall of the
churchyard, which was not much of a task, and drove back to
Piccadilly.
NOTE LEFT BY VAN HELSING IN HIS PORTMANTEAU, BERKELEY HOTEL
DIRECTED TO
JOHN SEWARD, M. D. (Not Delivered)
27 September
"Friend John,
"I write this in case anything should happen. I go alone to
watch in that churchyard. It pleases me that the UnDead,
Miss Lucy, shall not leave tonight, that so on the morrow
night she may be more eager. Therefore I shall fix some
things she like not, garlic and a crucifix, and so seal up
the door of the tomb. She is young as UnDead, and will
heed. Moreover, these are only to prevent her coming out.
They may not prevail on her wanting to get in, for then the
UnDead is desperate, and must find the line of least
resistance, whatsoever it may be. I shall be at hand all
the night from sunset till after sunrise, and if there be
aught that may be learned I shall learn it. For Miss Lucy
or from her, I have no fear, but that other to whom is
there that she is UnDead, he have not the power to seek her
tomb and find shelter. He is cunning, as I know from Mr.
Jonathan and from the way that all along he have fooled us
when he played with us for Miss Lucy's life, and we lost,
and in many ways the UnDead are strong. He have always the
strength in his hand of twenty men, even we four who gave
our strength to Miss Lucy it also is all to him. Besides,
he can summon his wolf and I know not what. So if it be
that he came thither on this night he shall find me. But
none other shall, until it be too late. But it may be that
he will not attempt the place. There is no reason why he
should. His hunting ground is more full of game than the
churchyard where the UnDead woman sleeps, and the one old
man watch.
"Therefore I write this in case . . . Take the papers that
are with this, the diaries of Harker and the rest, and read
them, and then find this great UnDead, and cut off his head
and burn his heart or drive a stake through it, so that the
world may rest from him.
"If it be so, farewell.
"VAN HELSING."
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 loathe
to think it, and indeed it would be almost as great a marvel as the
other to find that Van Helsing was mad, but anyhow I shall watch him
carefully. I may get some light on the mystery.
29 September.--Last night, at a little before ten o'clock, Arthur and
Quincey came into Van Helsing's room. He told us all what he wanted
us to do, but especially addressing himself to Arthur, as if all our
wills were centred in his. He began by saying that he hoped we would
all come with him too, "for," he said, "there is a grave duty to be
done there. You were doubtless surprised at my letter?" This query
was directly addressed to Lord Godalming.
"I was. It rather upset me for a bit. There has been so much trouble
around my house of late that I could do without any more. I have been
curious, too, as to what you mean.
"Quincey and I talked it over, but the more we talked, the more
puzzled we got, till now I can say for myself that I'm about up a tree
as to any meaning about anything."
"Me too," said Quincey Morris laconically.
"Oh," said the Professor, "then you are nearer the beginning, both of
you, than friend John here, who has to go a long way back before he
can even get so far as to begin."
It was evident that he recognized my return to my old doubting frame
of mind without my saying a word. Then, turning to the other two, he
said with intense gravity,
"I want your permission to do what I think good this night. It is, I
know, much to ask, and when you know what it is I propose to do you
will know, and only then how much. Therefore may I ask that you
promise me in the dark, so that afterwards, though you may be angry
with me for a time, I must not disguise from myself the possibility
that such may be, you shall not blame yourselves for anything."
"That's frank anyhow," broke in Quincey. "I'll answer for the
Professor. I don't quite see his drift, but I swear he's honest, and
that's good enough for me."
"I thank you, Sir," said Van Helsing proudly. "I have done myself the
honour of counting you one trusting friend, and such endorsement is
dear to me." He held out a hand, which Quincey took.
Then Arthur spoke out, "Dr. Van Helsing, I don't quite like to `buy a
pig in a poke', as they say in Scotland, and if it be anything in
which my honour as a gentleman or my faith as a Christian is
concerned, I cannot make such a promise. If you can assure me that
what you intend does not violate either of these two, then I give my
consent at once, though for the life of me, I cannot understand what
you are driving at."
"I accept your limitation," said Van Helsing, "and all I ask of you is
that if you feel it necessary to condemn any act of mine, you will
first consider it well and be satisfied that it does not violate your
reservations."
"Agreed!" said Arthur. "That is only fair. And now that the
pourparlers are over, may I ask what it is we are to do?"
"I want you to come with me, and to come in secret, to the churchyard
at Kingstead."
Arthur's face fell as he said in an amazed sort of way,
"Where poor Lucy is buried?"
The Professor bowed.
Arthur went on, "And when there?"
"To enter the tomb!"
Arthur stood up. "Professor, are you in earnest, or is it some
monstrous joke? Pardon me, I see that you are in earnest." He sat
down again, but I could see that he sat firmly and proudly, as one who
is on his dignity. There was silence until he asked again, "And when
in the tomb?"
"To open the coffin."
"This is too much!" he said, angrily rising again. "I am willing to
be patient in all things that are reasonable, but in this, this
desecration of the grave, of one who . . ." He fairly choked with
indignation.
The Professor looked pityingly at him. "If I could spare you one pang,
my poor friend," he said, "God knows I would. But this night our feet
must tread in thorny paths, or later, and for ever, the feet you love
must walk in paths of flame!"
Arthur looked up with set white face and said, "Take care, sir, take
care!"
"Would it not be well to hear what I have to say?" said Van Helsing.
"And then you will at least know the limit of my purpose. Shall I go
on?"
"That's fair enough," broke in Morris.
After a pause Van Helsing went on, evidently with an effort, "Miss
Lucy is dead, is it not so? Yes! Then there can be no wrong to her.
But if she be not dead . . ."
Arthur jumped to his feet, "Good God!" he cried. "What do you mean?
Has there been any mistake, has she been buried alive?" He groaned in
anguish that not even hope could soften.
"I did not say she was alive, my child. I did not think it. I go no
further than to say that she might be UnDead."
"UnDead! Not alive! What do you mean? Is this all a nightmare, or
what is it?"
"There are mysteries which men can only guess at, which age by age
they may solve only in part. Believe me, we are now on the verge of
one. But I have not done. May I cut off the head of dead Miss Lucy?"
"Heavens and earth, no!" cried Arthur in a storm of passion. "Not for
the wide world will I consent to any mutilation of her dead body. Dr.
Van Helsing, you try me too far. What have I done to you that you
should torture me so? What did that poor, sweet girl do that you
should want to cast such dishonour on her grave? Are you mad, that you
speak of such things, or am I mad to listen to them? Don't dare think
more of such a desecration. I shall not give my consent to anything
you do. I have a duty to do in protecting her grave from outrage, and
by God, I shall do it!"
Van Helsing rose up from where he had all the time been seated, and
said, gravely and sternly, "My Lord Godalming, I too, have a duty to
do, a duty to others, a duty to you, a duty to the dead, and by God, I
shall do it! All I ask you now is that you come with me, that you
look and listen, and if when later I make the same request you do not
be more eager for its fulfillment even than I am, then, I shall do my
duty, whatever it may seem to me. And then, to follow your Lordship's
wishes I shall hold myself at your disposal to render an account to
you, when and where you will." His voice broke a little, and he went
on with a voice full of pity.
"But I beseech you, do not go forth in anger with me. In a long life
of acts which were often not pleasant to do, and which sometimes did
wring my heart, I have never had so heavy a task as now. Believe me
that if the time comes for you to change your mind towards me, one
look from you will wipe away all this so sad hour, for I would do what
a man can to save you from sorrow. Just think. For why should I give
myself so much labor and so much of sorrow? I have come here from my
own land to do what I can of good, at the first to please my friend
John, and then to help a sweet young lady, whom too, I come to love.
For her, I am ashamed to say so much, but I say it in kindness, I gave
what you gave, the blood of my veins. I gave it, I who was not, like
you, her lover, but only her physician and her friend. I gave her my
nights and days, before death, after death, and if my death can do her
good even now, when she is the dead UnDead, she shall have it freely."
He said this with a very grave, sweet pride, and Arthur was much
affected by it.
He took the old man's hand and said in a broken voice, "Oh, it is hard
to think of it, and I cannot understand, but at least I shall go with
you and wait."
CHAPTER 16
DR SEWARD'S DIARY-cont.
It was just a quarter before twelve o'clock when we got into the
churchyard over the low wall. The night was dark with occasional
gleams of moonlight between the dents of the heavy clouds that scudded
across the sky. We all kept somehow close together, with Van Helsing
slightly in front as he led the way. When we had come close to the
tomb I looked well at Arthur, for I feared the proximity to a place
laden with so sorrowful a memory would upset him, but he bore himself
well. I took it that the very mystery of the proceeding was in some
way a counteractant to his grief. The Professor unlocked the door,
and seeing a natural hesitation amongst us for various reasons, solved
the difficulty by entering first himself. The rest of us followed,
and he closed the door. He then lit a dark lantern and pointed to a
coffin. Arthur stepped forward hesitatingly. Van Helsing said to me,
"You were with me here yesterday. Was the body of Miss Lucy in that
coffin?"
"It was."
The Professor turned to the rest saying, "You hear, and yet there is
no one who does not believe with me.'
He took his screwdriver and again took off the lid of the coffin.
Arthur looked on, very pale but silent. When the lid was removed he
stepped forward. He evidently did not know that there was a leaden
coffin, or at any rate, had not thought of it. When he saw the rent
in the lead, the blood rushed to his face for an instant, but as
quickly fell away again, so that he remained of a ghastly whiteness.
He was still silent. Van Helsing forced back the leaden flange, and
we all looked in and recoiled.
The coffin was empty!
For several minutes no one spoke a word. The silence was broken by
Quincey Morris, "Professor, I answered for you. Your word is all I
want. I wouldn't ask such a thing ordinarily, I wouldn't so dishonour
you as to imply a doubt, but this is a mystery that goes beyond any
honour or dishonour. Is this your doing?"
"I swear to you by all that I hold sacred that I have not removed or
touched her. What happened was this. Two nights ago my friend Seward
and I came here, with good purpose, believe me. I opened that coffin,
which was then sealed up, and we found it as now, empty. We then
waited, and saw something white come through the trees. The next day
we came here in daytime and she lay there. Did she not, friend John?
"Yes."
"That night we were just in time. One more so small child was
missing, and we find it, thank God, unharmed amongst the graves.
Yesterday I came here before sundown, for at sundown the UnDead can
move. I waited here all night till the sun rose, but I saw nothing.
It was most probable that it was because I had laid over the clamps of
those doors garlic, which the UnDead cannot bear, and other things
which they shun. Last night there was no exodus, so tonight before
the sundown I took away my garlic and other things. And so it is we
find this coffin empty. But bear with me. So far there is much that
is strange. Wait you with me outside, unseen and unheard, and things
much stranger are yet to be. So," here he shut the dark slide of his
lantern, "now to the outside." He opened the door, and we filed out,
he coming last and locking the door behind him.
Oh! But it seemed fresh and pure in the night air after the terror of
that vault. How sweet it was to see the clouds race by, and the
passing gleams of the moonlight between the scudding clouds crossing
and passing, like the gladness and sorrow of a man's life. How sweet
it was to breathe the fresh air, that had no taint of death and decay.
How humanizing to see the red lighting of the sky beyond the hill, and
to hear far away the muffled roar that marks the life of a great
city. Each in his own way was solemn and overcome. Arthur was
silent, and was, I could see, striving to grasp the purpose and the
inner meaning of the mystery. I was myself tolerably patient, and
half inclined again to throw aside doubt and to accept Van Helsing's
conclusions. Quincey Morris was phlegmatic in the way of a man who
accepts all things, and accepts them in the spirit of cool bravery,
with hazard of all he has at stake. Not being able to smoke, he cut
himself a good-sized plug of tobacco and began to chew. As to Van
Helsing, he was employed in a definite way. First he took from his
bag a mass of what looked like thin, wafer-like biscuit, which was
carefully rolled up in a white napkin. Next he took out a double
handful of some whitish stuff, like dough or putty. He crumbled the
wafer up fine and worked it into the mass between his hands. This he
then took, and rolling it into thin strips, began to lay them into the
crevices between the door and its setting in the tomb. I was somewhat
puzzled at this, and being close, asked him what it was that he was
doing. Arthur and Quincey drew near also, as they too were curious.
He answered, "I am closing the tomb so that the UnDead may not enter."
"And is that stuff you have there going to do it?"
"It is."
"What is that which you are using?" This time the question was by
Arthur. Van Helsing reverently lifted his hat as he answered.
"The Host. I brought it from Amsterdam. I have an Indulgence."
It was an answer that appalled the most sceptical of us, and we felt
individually that in the presence of such earnest purpose as the
Professor's, a purpose which could thus use the to him most sacred of
things, it was impossible to distrust. In respectful silence we took
the places assigned to us close round the tomb, but hidden from the
sight of any one approaching. I pitied the others, especially Arthur.
I had myself been apprenticed by my former visits to this watching
horror, and yet I, who had up to an hour ago repudiated the proofs,
felt my heart sink within me. Never did tombs look so ghastly white.
Never did cypress, or yew, or juniper so seem the embodiment of
funeral gloom. Never did tree or grass wave or rustle so ominously.
Never did bough creak so mysteriously, and never did the far-away
howling of dogs send such a woeful presage through the night.
There was a long spell of silence, big, aching, void, and then from
the Professor a keen "S-s-s-s!" He pointed, and far down the avenue of
yews we saw a white figure advance, a dim white figure, which held
something dark at its breast. The figure stopped, and at the moment a
ray of moonlight fell upon the masses of driving clouds, and showed in
startling prominence a dark-haired woman, dressed in the cerements of
the grave. We could not see the face, for it was bent down over what
we saw to be a fair-haired child. There was a pause and a sharp
little cry, such as a child gives in sleep, or a dog as it lies before
the fire and dreams. We were starting forward, but the Professor's
warning hand, seen by us as he stood behind a yew tree, kept us back.
And then as we looked the white figure moved forwards again. It was
now near enough for us to see clearly, and the moonlight still held.
My own heart grew cold as ice, and I could hear the gasp of Arthur, as
we recognized the features of Lucy Westenra. Lucy Westenra, but yet
how changed. The sweetness was turned to adamantine, heartless
cruelty, and the purity to voluptuous wantonness.
Van Helsing stepped out, and obedient to his gesture, we all advanced
too. The four of us ranged in a line before the door of the tomb. Van
Helsing raised his lantern and drew the slide. By the concentrated
light that fell on Lucy's face we could see that the lips were crimson
with fresh blood, and that the stream had trickled over her chin and
stained the purity of her lawn death robe.
We shuddered with horror. I could see by the tremulous light that
even Van Helsing's iron nerve had failed. Arthur was next to me, and
if I had not seized his arm and held him up, he would have fallen.
When Lucy, I call the thing that was before us Lucy because it bore
her shape, saw us she drew back with an angry snarl, such as a cat
gives when taken unawares, then her eyes ranged over us. Lucy's eyes
in form and colour, but Lucy's eyes unclean and full of hell fire,
instead of the pure, gentle orbs we knew. At that moment the remnant
of my love passed into hate and loathing. Had she then to be killed,
I could have done it with savage delight. As she looked, her eyes
blazed with unholy light, and the face became wreathed with a
voluptuous smile. Oh, God, how it made me shudder to see it! With a
careless motion, she flung to the ground, callous as a devil, the
child that up to now she had clutched strenuously to her breast,
growling over it as a dog growls over a bone. The child gave a sharp
cry, and lay there moaning. There was a cold-bloodedness in the act
which wrung a groan from Arthur. When she advanced to him with
outstretched arms and a wanton smile he fell back and hid his face in
his hands.
She still advanced, however, and with a languorous, voluptuous grace,
said, "Come to me, Arthur. Leave these others and come to me. My
arms are hungry for you. Come, and we can rest together. Come, my
husband, come!"
There was something diabolically sweet in her tones, something of the
tinkling of glass when struck, which rang through the brains even of
us who heard the words addressed to another.
As for Arthur, he seemed under a spell, moving his hands from his
face, he opened wide his arms. She was leaping for them, when Van
Helsing sprang forward and held between them his little golden
crucifix. She recoiled from it, and, with a suddenly distorted face,
full of rage, dashed past him as if to enter the tomb.
When within a foot or two of the door, however, she stopped, as if
arrested by some irresistible force. Then she turned, and her face
was shown in the clear burst of moonlight and by the lamp, which had
now no quiver from Van Helsing's nerves. Never did I see such baffled
malice on a face, and never, I trust, shall such ever be seen again by
mortal eyes. The beautiful colour became livid, the eyes seemed to
throw out sparks of hell fire, the brows were wrinkled as though the
folds of flesh were the coils of Medusa's snakes, and the lovely,
blood-stained mouth grew to an open square, as in the passion masks of
the Greeks and Japanese. If ever a face meant death, if looks could
kill, we saw it at that moment.
And so for full half a minute, which seemed an eternity, she remained
between the lifted crucifix and the sacred closing of her means of
entry.
Van Helsing broke the silence by asking Arthur, "Answer me, oh my
friend! Am I to proceed in my work?"
"Do as you will, friend. Do as you will. There can be no horror like
this ever any more." And he groaned in spirit.
Quincey and I simultaneously moved towards him, and took his arms. We
could hear the click of the closing lantern as Van Helsing held it
down. Coming close to the tomb, he began to remove from the chinks
some of the sacred emblem which he had placed there. We all looked on
with horrified amazement as we saw, when he stood back, the woman,
with a corporeal body as real at that moment as our own, pass through
the interstice where scarce a knife blade could have gone. We all
felt a glad sense of relief when we saw the Professor calmly restoring
the strings of putty to the edges of the door.
When this was done, he lifted the child and said, "Come now, my
friends. We can do no more till tomorrow. There is a funeral at
noon, so here we shall all come before long after that. The friends
of the dead will all be gone by two, and when the sexton locks the
gate we shall remain. Then there is more to do, but not like this of
tonight. As for this little one, he is not much harmed, and by
tomorrow night he shall be well. We shall leave him where the police
will find him, as on the other night, and then to home."
Coming close to Arthur, he said, "My friend Arthur, you have had a sore
trial, but after, when you look back, you will see how it was
necessary. You are now in the bitter waters, my child. By this time
tomorrow you will, please God, have passed them, and have drunk of the
sweet waters. So do not mourn over-much. Till then I shall not ask
you to forgive me."
Arthur and Quincey came home with me, and we tried to cheer each other
on the way. We had left behind the child in safety, and were tired.
So we all slept with more or less reality of sleep.
29 September, night.--A little before twelve o'clock we three, Arthur,
Quincey Morris, and myself, called for the Professor. It was odd to
notice that by common consent we had all put on black clothes. Of
course, Arthur wore black, for he was in deep mourning, but the rest
of us wore it by instinct. We got to the graveyard by half-past one,
and strolled about, keeping out of official observation, so that when
the gravediggers had completed their task and the sexton under the
belief that every one had gone, had locked the gate, we had the place
all to ourselves. Van Helsing, instead of his little black bag, had
with him a long leather one, something like a cricketing bag. It was
manifestly of fair weight.
When we were alone and had heard the last of the footsteps die out up
the road, we silently, and as if by ordered intention, followed the
Professor to the tomb. He unlocked the door, and we entered, closing
it behind us. Then he took from his bag the lantern, which he lit,
and also two wax candles, which, when lighted, he stuck by melting
their own ends, on other coffins, so that they might give light
sufficient to work by. When he again lifted the lid off Lucy's coffin
we all looked, Arthur trembling like an aspen, and saw that the corpse
lay there in all its death beauty. But there was no love in my own
heart, nothing but loathing for the foul Thing which had taken Lucy's
shape without her soul. I could see even Arthur's face grow hard as
he looked. Presently he said to Van Helsing, "Is this really Lucy's
body, or only a demon in her shape?"
"It is her body, and yet not it. But wait a while, and you shall see
her as she was, and is."
She seemed like a nightmare of Lucy as she lay there, the pointed
teeth, the blood stained, voluptuous mouth, which made one shudder to
see, the whole carnal and unspirited appearance, seeming like a
devilish mockery of Lucy's sweet purity. Van Helsing, with his usual
methodicalness, began taking the various contents from his bag and
placing them ready for use. First he took out a soldering iron and
some plumbing solder, and then small oil lamp, which gave out, when
lit in a corner of the tomb, gas which burned at a fierce heat with a
blue flame, then his operating knives, which he placed to hand, and
last a round wooden stake, some two and a half or three inches thick
and about three feet long. One end of it was hardened by charring in
the fire, and was sharpened to a fine point. With this stake came a
heavy hammer, such as in households is used in the coal cellar for
breaking the lumps. To me, a doctor's preparations for work of any
kind are stimulating and bracing, but the effect of these things on
both Arthur and Quincey was to cause them a sort of consternation.
They both, however, kept their courage, and remained silent and quiet.
When all was ready, Van Helsing said, "Before we do anything, let me
tell you this. It is out of the lore and experience of the ancients
and of all those who have studied the powers of the UnDead. When they
become such, there comes with the change the curse of immortality.
They cannot die, but must go on age after age adding new victims and
multiplying the evils of the world. For all that die from the preying
of the Undead become themselves Undead, and prey on their kind. And
so the circle goes on ever widening, like as the ripples from a stone
thrown in the water. Friend Arthur, if you had met that kiss which
you know of before poor Lucy die, or again, last night when you open
your arms to her, you would in time, when you had died, have become
nosferatu, as they call it in Eastern Europe, and would for all time
make more of those Un-Deads that so have filled us with horror. The
career of this so unhappy dear lady is but just begun. Those children
whose blood she sucked are not as yet so much the worse, but if she
lives on, UnDead, more and more they lose their blood and by her power
over them they come to her, and so she draw their blood with that so
wicked mouth. But if she die in truth, then all cease. The tiny
wounds of the throats disappear, and they go back to their play
unknowing ever of what has been. But of the most blessed of all, when
this now UnDead be made to rest as true dead, then the soul of the
poor lady whom we love shall again be free. Instead of working
wickedness by night and growing more debased in the assimilating of it
by day, she shall take her place with the other Angels. So that, my
friend, it will be a blessed hand for her that shall strike the blow
that sets her free. To this I am willing, but is there none amongst
us who has a better right? Will it be no joy to think of hereafter in
the silence of the night when sleep is not, `It was my hand that sent
her to the stars. It was the hand of him that loved her best, the
hand that of all she would herself have chosen, had it been to her to
choose?' Tell me if there be such a one amongst us?"
We all looked at Arthur. He saw too, what we all did, the infinite
kindness which suggested that his should be the hand which would
restore Lucy to us as a holy, and not an unholy, memory. He stepped
forward and said bravely, though his hand trembled, and his face was
as pale as snow, "My true friend, from the bottom of my broken heart I
thank you. Tell me what I am to do, and I shall not falter!"
Van Helsing laid a hand on his shoulder, and said, "Brave lad! A
moment's courage, and it is done. This stake must be driven through
her. It well be a fearful ordeal, be not deceived in that, but it
will be only a short time, and you will then rejoice more than your
pain was great. From this grim tomb you will emerge as though you
tread on air. But you must not falter when once you have begun. Only
think that we, your true friends, are round you, and that we pray for
you all the time."
"Go on," said Arthur hoarsely. "Tell me what I am to do."
"Take this stake in your left hand, ready to place to the point over
the heart, and the hammer in your right. Then when we begin our
prayer for the dead, I shall read him, I have here the book, and the
others shall follow, strike in God's name, that so all may be well
with the dead that we love and that the UnDead pass away."
Arthur took the stake and the hammer, and when once his mind was set
on action his hands never trembled nor even quivered. Van Helsing
opened his missal and began to read, and Quincey and I followed as
well as we could.
Arthur placed the point over the heart, and as I looked I could see its
dint in the white flesh. Then he struck with all his might.
The thing in the coffin writhed, and a hideous, blood-curdling screech
came from the opened red lips. The body shook and quivered and
twisted in wild contortions. The sharp white teeth champed together till
the lips were cut, and the mouth was smeared with a crimson foam. But
Arthur never faltered. He looked like a figure of Thor as his
untrembling arm rose and fell, driving deeper and deeper the
mercy-bearing stake, whilst the blood from the pierced heart welled
and spurted up around it. His face was set, and high duty seemed to
shine through it. The sight of it gave us courage so that our voices
seemed to ring through the little vault.
And then the writhing and quivering of the body became less, and the
teeth seemed to champ, and the face to quiver. Finally it lay still.
The terrible task was over.
The hammer fell from Arthur's hand. He reeled and would have fallen
had we not caught him. The great drops of sweat sprang from his
forehead, and his breath came in broken gasps. It had indeed been an
awful strain on him, and had he not been forced to his task by more
than human considerations he could never have gone through with it.
For a few minutes we were so taken up with him that we did not look
towards the coffin. When we did, however, a murmur of startled
surprise ran from one to the other of us. We gazed so eagerly that
Arthur rose, for he had been seated on the ground, and came and looked
too, and then a glad strange light broke over his face and dispelled
altogether the gloom of horror that lay upon it.
There, in the coffin lay no longer the foul Thing that we had so
dreaded and grown to hate that the work of her destruction was yielded
as a privilege to the one best entitled to it, but Lucy as we had seen
her in life, with her face of unequalled sweetness and purity. True
that there were there, as we had seen them in life, the traces of care
and pain and waste. But these were all dear to us, for they marked
her truth to what we knew. One and all we felt that the holy calm
that lay like sunshine over the wasted face and form was only an
earthly token and symbol of the calm that was to reign for ever.
Van Helsing came and laid his hand on Arthur's shoulder, and said to
him, "And now, Arthur my friend, dear lad, am I not forgiven?"
The reaction of the terrible strain came as he took the old man's hand
in his, and raising it to his lips, pressed it, and said, "Forgiven!
God bless you that you have given my dear one her soul again, and me
peace." He put his hands on the Professor's shoulder, and laying his
head on his breast, cried for a while silently, whilst we stood
unmoving.
When he raised his head Van Helsing said to him, "And now, my child,
you may kiss her. Kiss her dead lips if you will, as she would have
you to, if for her to choose. For she is not a grinning devil now,
not any more a foul Thing for all eternity. No longer she is the
devil's UnDead. She is God's true dead, whose soul is with Him!"
Arthur bent and kissed her, and then we sent him and Quincey out of the
tomb. The Professor and I sawed the top off the stake, leaving the
point of it in the body. Then we cut off the head and filled the
mouth with garlic. We soldered up the leaden coffin, screwed on the
coffin lid, and gathering up our belongings, came away. When the
Professor locked the door he gave the key to Arthur.
Outside the air was sweet, the sun shone, and the birds sang, and it
seemed as if all nature were tuned to a different pitch. There was
gladness and mirth and peace everywhere, for we were at rest ourselves
on one account, and we were glad, though it was with a tempered joy.
Before we moved away Van Helsing said, "Now, my friends, one step of
our work is done, one the most harrowing to ourselves. But there
remains a greater task, to find out the author of all this or sorrow
and to stamp him out. I have clues which we can follow, but it is a
long task, and a difficult one, and there is danger in it, and pain.
Shall you not all help me? We have learned to believe, all of us, is
it not so? And since so, do we not see our duty? Yes! And do we not
promise to go on to the bitter end?"
Each in turn, we took his hand, and the promise was made. Then said
the Professor as we moved off, "Two nights hence you shall meet with
me and dine together at seven of the clock with friend John. I shall
entreat two others, two that you know not as yet, and I shall be ready
to all our work show and our plans unfold. Friend John, you come with
me home, for I have much to consult you about, and you can help me.
Tonight I leave for Amsterdam, but shall return tomorrow night. And
then begins our great quest. But first I shall have much to say, so
that you may know what to do and to dread. Then our promise shall be
made to each other anew. For there is a terrible task before us, and
once our feet are on the ploughshare we must not draw back."
CHAPTER 17
DR. SEWARD'S DIARY-cont.
When we arrived at the Berkely Hotel, Van Helsing found a telegram
waiting for him.
"Am coming up by train. Jonathan at Whitby. Important news. Mina
Harker."
The Professor was delighted. "Ah, that wonderful Madam Mina," he
said, "pearl among women! She arrive, but I cannot stay. She must go
to your house, friend John. You must meet her at the station.
Telegraph her en route so that she may be prepared."
When the wire was dispatched he had a cup of tea. Over it he told me
of a diary kept by Jonathan Harker when abroad, and gave me a
typewritten copy of it, as also of Mrs. Harker's diary at Whitby.
"Take these," he said, "and study them well. When I have returned you
will be master of all the facts, and we can then better enter on our
inquisition. Keep them safe, for there is in them much of treasure.
You will need all your faith, even you who have had such an experience
as that of today. What is here told," he laid his hand heavily and
gravely on the packet of papers as he spoke, "may be the beginning of
the end to you and me and many another, or it may sound the knell of
the UnDead who walk the earth. Read all, I pray you, with the open
mind, and if you can add in any way to the story here told do so, for
it is all important. You have kept a diary of all these so strange
things, is it not so? Yes! Then we shall go through all these
together when we meet." He then made ready for his departure and
shortly drove off to Liverpool Street. I took my way to Paddington,
where I arrived about fifteen minutes before the train came in.
The crowd melted away, after the bustling fashion common to arrival
platforms, and I was beginning to feel uneasy, lest I might miss my
guest, when a sweet-faced, dainty looking girl stepped up to me, and
after a quick glance said, "Dr. Seward, is it not?"
"And you are Mrs. Harker!" I answered at once, whereupon she held out
her hand.
"I knew you from the description of poor dear Lucy, but . . ." She
stopped suddenly, and a quick blush overspread her face.
The blush that rose to my own cheeks somehow set us both at ease, for
it was a tacit answer to her own. I got her luggage, which included a
typewriter, and we took the Underground to Fenchurch Street, after I
had sent a wire to my housekeeper to have a sitting room and a bedroom
prepared at once for Mrs. Harker.
In due time we arrived. She knew, of course, that the place was a
lunatic asylum, but I could see that she was unable to repress a
shudder when we entered.
She told me that, if she might, she would come presently to my study,
as she had much to say. So here I am finishing my entry in my
phonograph diary whilst I await her. As yet I have not had the chance
of looking at the papers which Van Helsing left with me, though they
lie open before me. I must get her interested in something, so that I
may have an opportunity of reading them. She does not know how
precious time is, or what a task we have in hand. I must be careful
not to frighten her. Here she is!
MINA HARKER'S JOURNAL
29 September.--After I had tidied myself, I went down to Dr. Seward's
study. At the door I paused a moment, for I thought I heard him
talking with some one. As, however, he had pressed me to be quick, I
knocked at the door, and on his calling out, "Come in," I entered.
To my intense surprise, there was no one with him. He was quite
alone, and on the table opposite him was what I knew at once from the
description to be a phonograph. I had never seen one, and was much
interested.
"I hope I did not keep you waiting," I said, "but I stayed at the door
as I heard you talking, and thought there was someone with you."
"Oh," he replied with a smile, "I was only entering my diary."
"Your diary?" I asked him in surprise.
"Yes," he answered. "I keep it in this." As he spoke he laid his
hand on the phonograph. I felt quite excited over it, and blurted
out, "Why, this beats even shorthand! May I hear it say something?"
"Certainly," he replied with alacrity, and stood up to put it in train
for speaking. Then he paused, and a troubled look overspread his
face.
"The fact is," he began awkwardly, "I only keep my diary in it, and as
it is entirely, almost entirely, about my cases it may be awkward,
that is, I mean . . ." He stopped, and I tried to help him out of his
embarrassment.
"You helped to attend dear Lucy at the end. Let me hear how she died,
for all that I know of her, I shall be very grateful. She was very,
very dear to me."
To my surprise, he answered, with a horrorstruck look in his face,
"Tell you of her death? Not for the wide world!"
"Why not?" I asked, for some grave, terrible feeling was coming over me.
Again he paused, and I could see that he was trying to invent an
excuse. At length, he stammered out, "You see, I do not know how to
pick out any particular part of the diary."
Even while he was speaking an idea dawned upon him, and he said with
unconscious simplicity, in a different voice, and with the naivete of
a child, "that's quite true, upon my honour. Honest Indian!"
I could not but smile, at which he grimaced. "I gave myself away that
time!" he said. "But do you know that, although I have kept the diary
for months past, it never once struck me how I was going to find any
particular part of it in case I wanted to look it up?"
By this time my mind was made up that the diary of a doctor who
attended Lucy might have something to add to the sum of our knowledge
of that terrible Being, and I said boldly, "Then, Dr. Seward, you had
better let me copy it out for you on my typewriter."
He grew to a positively deathly pallor as he said, "No! No! No! For
all the world. I wouldn't let you know that terrible story.!"
Then it was terrible. My intuition was right! For a moment, I
thought, and as my eyes ranged the room, unconsciously looking for
something or some opportunity to aid me, they lit on a great batch of
typewriting on the table. His eyes caught the look in mine, and
without his thinking, followed their direction. As they saw the
parcel he realized my meaning.
"You do not know me," I said. "When you have read those papers, my
own diary and my husband's also, which I have typed, you will know me
better. I have not faltered in giving every thought of my own heart
in this cause. But, of course, you do not know me, yet, and I must
not expect you to trust me so far."
He is certainly a man of noble nature. Poor dear Lucy was right about
him. He stood up and opened a large drawer, in which were arranged in
order a number of hollow cylinders of metal covered with dark wax, and
said,
"You are quite right. I did not trust you because I did not know
you. But I know you now, and let me say that I should have known you
long ago. I know that Lucy told you of me. She told me of you too.
May I make the only atonement in my power? Take the cylinders and
hear them. The first half-dozen of them are personal to me, and they
will not horrify you. Then you will know me better. Dinner will by
then be ready. In the meantime I shall read over some of these
documents, and shall be better able to understand certain things."
He carried the phonograph himself up to my sitting room and adjusted
it for me. Now I shall learn something pleasant, I am sure. For it
will tell me the other side of a true love episode of which I know one
side already.
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 by recent
tears, went straight to my heart. So I said as gently as I could, "I
greatly fear I have distressed you."
"Oh, no, not distressed me," she replied. "But I have been more
touched than I can say by your grief. That is a wonderful machine,
but it is cruelly true. It told me, in its very tones, the anguish of
your heart. It was like a soul crying out to Almighty God. No one
must hear them spoken ever again! See, I have tried to be useful. I
have copied out the words on my typewriter, and none other need now
hear your heart beat, as I did."
"No one need ever know, shall ever know," I said in a low voice. She
laid her hand on mine and said very gravely, "Ah, but they must!"
"Must! but why?" I asked.
"Because it is a part of the terrible story, a part of poor Lucy's
death and all that led to it. Because in the struggle which we have
before us to rid the earth of this terrible monster we must have all
the knowledge and all the help which we can get. I think that the
cylinders which you gave me contained more than you intended me to
know. But I can see that there are in your record many lights to this
dark mystery. You will let me help, will you not? I know all up to a
certain point, and I see already, though your diary only took me to 7
September, how poor Lucy was beset, and how her terrible doom was
being wrought out. Jonathan and I have been working day and night
since Professor Van Helsing saw us. He is gone to Whitby to get more
information, and he will be here tomorrow to help us. We need have no
secrets amongst us. Working together and with absolute trust, we can
surely be stronger than if some of us were in the dark."
She looked at me so appealingly, and at the same time manifested such
courage and resolution in her bearing, that I gave in at once to her
wishes. "You shall," I said, "do as you like in the matter. God
forgive me if I do wrong! There are terrible things yet to learn of.
But if you have so far traveled on the road to poor Lucy's death, you
will not be content, I know, to remain in the dark. Nay, the end, the
very end, may give you a gleam of peace. Come, there is dinner. We
must keep one another strong for what is before us. We have a cruel
and dreadful task. When you have eaten you shall learn the rest, and
I shall answer any questions you ask, if there be anything which you
do not understand, though it was apparent to us who were present."
MINA HARKER'S JOURNAL
29 September.--After dinner I came with Dr. Seward to his study. He
brought back the phonograph from my room, and I took a chair, and
arranged the phonograph so that I could touch it without getting up,
and showed me how to stop it in case I should want to pause. Then he
very thoughtfully took a chair, with his back to me, so that I might
be as free as possible, and began to read. I put the forked metal to
my ears and listened.
When the terrible story of Lucy's death, and all that followed, was
done, I lay back in my chair powerless. Fortunately I am not of a
fainting disposition. When Dr. Seward saw me he jumped up with a
horrified exclamation, and hurriedly taking a case bottle from the
cupboard, gave me some brandy, which in a few minutes somewhat
restored me. My brain was all in a whirl, and only that there came
through all the multitude of horrors, the holy ray of light that my
dear Lucy was at last at peace, I do not think I could have borne it
without making a scene. It is all so wild and mysterious, and strange
that if I had not known Jonathan's experience in Transylvania I could
not have believed. As it was, I didn't know what to believe, and so
got out of my difficulty by attending to something else. I took the
cover off my typewriter, and said to Dr. Seward,
"Let me write this all out now. We must be ready for Dr. Van Helsing
when he comes. I have sent a telegram to Jonathan to come on here
when he arrives in London from Whitby. In this matter dates are
everything, and I think that if we get all of our material ready, and
have every item put in chronological order, we shall have done much.
"You tell me that Lord Godalming and Mr. Morris are coming too. Let
us be able to tell them when they come."
He accordingly set the phonograph at a slow pace, and I began to
typewrite from the beginning of the seventeenth cylinder. I used
manifold, and so took three copies of the diary, just as I had done
with the rest. It was late when I got through, but Dr. Seward went
about his work of going his round of the patients. When he had
finished he came back and sat near me, reading, so that I did not feel
too lonely whilst I worked. How good and thoughtful he is. The world
seems full of good men, even if there are monsters in it.
Before I left him I remembered what Jonathan put in his diary of the
Professor's perturbation at reading something in an evening paper at
the station at Exeter, so, seeing that Dr. Seward keeps his
newspapers, I borrowed the files of `The Westminster Gazette' and `The
Pall Mall Gazette' and took them to my room. I remember how much the
`Dailygraph' and `The Whitby Gazette', of which I had made cuttings,
had helped us to understand the terrible events at Whitby when Count
Dracula landed, so I shall look through the evening papers since then,
and perhaps I shall get some new light. I am not sleepy, and the work
will help to keep me quiet.
DR. SEWARD'S DIARY
30 September.--Mr. Harker arrived at nine o'clock. He got his wife's
wire just before starting. He is uncommonly clever, if one can judge
from his face, and full of energy. If this journal be true, and
judging by one's own wonderful experiences, it must be, he is also a
man of great nerve. That going down to the vault a second time was a
remarkable piece of daring. After reading his account of it I was
prepared to meet a good specimen of manhood, but hardly the quiet,
businesslike gentleman who came here today.
LATER.--After lunch Harker and his wife went back to their own room,
and as I passed a while ago I heard the click of the typewriter. They
are hard at it. Mrs. Harker says that knitting together in
chronological order every scrap of evidence they have. Harker has got
the letters between the consignee of the boxes at Whitby and the
carriers in London who took charge of them. He is now reading his
wife's transcript of my diary. I wonder what they make out of it.
Here it is . . .
Strange that it never struck me that the very next house might be the
Count's hiding place! Goodness knows that we had enough clues from
the conduct of the patient Renfield! The bundle of letters relating
to the purchase of the house were with the transcript. Oh, if we had
only had them earlier we might have saved poor Lucy! Stop! That way
madness lies! Harker has gone back, and is again collecting material.
He says that by dinner time they will be able to show a whole
connected narrative. He thinks that in the meantime I should see
Renfield, as hitherto he has been a sort of index to the coming and
going of the Count. I hardly see this yet, but when I get at the
dates I suppose I shall. What a good thing that Mrs. Harker put my
cylinders into type! We never could have found the dates otherwise.
I found Renfield sitting placidly in his room with his hands folded,
smiling benignly. At the moment he seemed as sane as any one I ever
saw. I sat down and talked with him on a lot of subjects, all of
which he treated naturally. He then, of his own accord, spoke of
going home, a subject he has never mentioned to my knowledge during
his sojourn here. In fact, he spoke quite confidently of getting his
discharge at once. I believe that, had I not had the chat with Harker
and read the letters and the dates of his outbursts, I should have
been prepared to sign for him after a brief time of observation. As
it is, I am darkly suspicious. All those out-breaks were in some way
linked with the proximity of the Count. What then does this absolute
content mean? Can it be that his instinct is satisfied as to the
vampire's ultimate triumph? Stay. He is himself zoophagous, and in
his wild ravings outside the chapel door of the deserted house he
always spoke of `master'. This all seems confirmation of our idea.
However, after a while I came away. My friend is just a little too
sane at present to make it safe to probe him too deep with questions.
He might begin to think, and then . . . So I came away. I mistrust
these quiet moods of of his, so I have given the attendant a hint to
look closely after him, and to have a strait waistcoat ready in case
of need.
JOHNATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL
29 September, in train to London.--When I received Mr. Billington's
courteous message that he would give me any information in his power I
thought it best to go down to Whitby and make, on the spot, such
inquiries as I wanted. It was now my object to trace that horrid
cargo of the Count's to its place in London. Later, we may be able to
deal with it. Billington junior, a nice lad, met me at the station,
and brought me to his father's house, where they had decided that I
must spend the night. They are hospitable, with true Yorkshire
hospitality, give a guest everything and leave him to do as he likes.
They all knew that I was busy, and that my stay was short, and Mr.
Billington had ready in his office all the papers concerning the
consignment of boxes. It gave me almost a turn to see again one of
the letters which I had seen on the Count's table before I knew of his
diabolical plans. Everything had been carefully thought out, and done
systematically and with precision. He seemed to have been prepared
for every obstacle which might be placed by accident in the way of his
intentions being carried out. To use an Americanism, he had `taken no
chances', and the absolute accuracy with which his instructions were
fulfilled was simply the logical result of his care. I saw the
invoice, and took note of it.`Fifty cases of common earth, to be used
for experimental purposes'. Also the copy of the letter to Carter
Paterson, and their reply. Of both these I got copies. This was all
the information Mr. Billington could give me, so I went down to the
port and saw the coastguards, the Customs Officers and the harbour
master, who kindly put me in communication with the men who had
actually received the boxes. Their tally was exact with the list, and
they had nothing to add to the simple description `fifty cases of
common earth', except that the boxes were `main and mortal heavy', and
that shifting them was dry work. One of them added that it was hard
lines that there wasn't any gentleman `such like as like yourself,
squire', to show some sort of appreciation of their efforts in a
liquid form. Another put in a rider that the thirst then generated
was such that even the time which had elapsed had not completely
allayed it. Needless to add, I took care before leaving to lift,
forever and adequately, this source of reproach.
30 September.--The station master was good enough to give me a line to
his old companion the station master at King's Cross, so that when I
arrived there in the morning I was able to ask him about the arrival
of the boxes. He, too put me at once in communication with the proper
officials, and I saw that their tally was correct with the original
invoice. The opportunities of acquiring an abnormal thirst had been
here limited. A noble use of them had, however, been made, and again
I was compelled to deal with the result in ex post facto manner.
From thence I went to Carter Paterson's central office, where I met
with the utmost courtesy. They looked up the transaction in their day
book and letter book, and at once telephoned to their King's Cross
office for more details. By good fortune, the men who did the teaming
were waiting for work, and the official at once sent them over,
sending also by one of them the way-bill and all the papers connected
with the delivery of the boxes at Carfax. Here again I found the
tally agreeing exactly. The carriers' men were able to supplement the
paucity of the written words with a few more details. These were, I
shortly found, connected almost solely with the dusty nature of the
job, and the consequent thirst engendered in the operators. On my
affording an opportunity, through the medium of the currency of the
realm, of the allaying, at a later period, this beneficial evil, one
of the men remarked,
"That `ere `ouse, guv'nor, is the rummiest I ever was in. Blyme! But
it ain't been touched sence a hundred years. There was dust that
thick in the place that you might have slep' on it without `urtin' of
yer bones. An' the place was that neglected that yer might `ave
smelled ole Jerusalem in it. But the old chapel, that took the cike,
that did! Me and my mate, we thort we wouldn't never git out quick
enough. Lor', I wouldn't take less nor a quid a moment to stay there
arter dark."
Having been in the house, I could well believe him, but if he knew
what I know, he would, I think have raised his terms.
Of one thing I am now satisfied. That all those boxes which arrived at
Whitby from Varna in the Demeter were safely deposited in the old
chapel at Carfax. There should be fifty of them there, unless any
have since been removed, as from Dr. Seward's diary I fear.
Later.--Mina and I have worked all day, and we have put all the papers
into order.
MINA HARKER'S JOURNAL
30 September.--I am so glad that I hardly know how to contain myself.
It is, I suppose, the reaction from the haunting fear which I have
had, that this terrible affair and the reopening of his old wound
might act detrimentally on Jonathan. I saw him leave for Whitby with
as brave a face as could, but I was sick with apprehension. The
effort has, however, done him good. He was never so resolute, never
so strong, never so full of volcanic energy, as at present. It is
just as that dear, good Professor Van Helsing said, he is true grit,
and he improves under strain that would kill a weaker nature. He came
back full of life and hope and determination. We have got everything
in order for tonight. I feel myself quite wild with excitement. I
suppose one ought to pity anything so hunted as the Count. That is
just it. This thing is not human, not even a beast. To read Dr.
Seward's account of poor Lucy's death, and what followed, is enough to
dry up the springs of pity in one's heart.
Later.--Lord Godalming and Mr. Morris arrived earlier than we
expected. Dr. Seward was out on business, and had taken Jonathan with
him, so I had to see them. It was to me a painful meeting, for it
brought back all poor dear Lucy's hopes of only a few months ago. Of
course they had heard Lucy speak of me, and it seemed that Dr. Van
Helsing, too, had been quite `blowing my trumpet', as Mr. Morris
expressed it. Poor fellows, neither of them is aware that I know all
about the proposals they made to Lucy. They did not quite know what
to say or do, as they were ignorant of the amount of my knowledge. So
they had to keep on neutral subjects. However, I thought the matter
over, and came to the conclusion that the best thing I could do would
be to post them on affairs right up to date. I knew from Dr. Seward's
diary that they had been at Lucy's death, her real death, and that I
need not fear to betray any secret before the time. So I told them,
as well as I could, that I had read all the papers and diaries, and
that my husband and I, having typewritten them, had just finished
putting them in order. I gave them each a copy to read in the
library. When Lord Godalming got his and turned it over, it does make
a pretty good pile, he said, "Did you write all this, Mrs. Harker?"
I nodded, and he went on.
"I don't quite see the drift of it, but you people are all so good and
kind, and have been working so earnestly and so energetically, that
all I can do is to accept your ideas blindfold and try to help you. I
have had one lesson already in accepting facts that should make a man
humble to the last hour of his life. Besides, I know you loved my
Lucy . . ."
Here he turned away and covered his face with his hands. I could hear
the tears in his voice. Mr. Morris, with instinctive delicacy, just
laid a hand for a moment on his shoulder, and then walked quietly out
of the room. I suppose there is something in a woman's nature that
makes a man free to break down before her and express his feelings on
the tender or emotional side without feeling it derogatory to his
manhood. For when Lord Godalming found himself alone with me he sat
down on the sofa and gave way utterly and openly. I sat down beside
him and took his hand. I hope he didn't think it forward of me, and
that if he ever thinks of it afterwards he never will have such a
thought. There I wrong him. I know he never will. He is too true a
gentleman. I said to him, for I could see that his heart was
breaking, "I loved dear Lucy, and I know what she was to you, and what
you were to her. She and I were like sisters, and now she is gone,
will you not let me be like a sister to you in your trouble? I know
what sorrows you have had, though I cannot measure the depth of them.
If sympathy and pity can help in your affliction, won't you let me be
of some little service, for Lucy's sake?"
In an instant the poor dear fellow was overwhelmed with grief. It
seemed to me that all that he had of late been suffering in silence
found a vent at once. He grew quite hysterical, and raising his open
hands, beat his palms together in a perfect agony of grief. He stood
up and then sat down again, and the tears rained down his cheeks. I
felt an infinite pity for him, and opened my arms unthinkingly. With
a sob he laid his head on my shoulder and cried like a wearied child,
whilst he shook with emotion.
We women have something of the mother in us that makes us rise above
smaller matters when the mother spirit is invoked. I felt this big
sorrowing man's head resting on me, as though it were that of a baby
that some day may lie on my bosom, and I stroked his hair as though he
were my own child. I never thought at the time how strange it all
was.
After a little bit his sobs ceased, and he raised himself with an
apology, though he made no disguise of his emotion. He told me that
for days and nights past, weary days and sleepless nights, he had been
unable to speak with any one, as a man must speak in his time of
sorrow. There was no woman whose sympathy could be given to him, or
with whom, owing to the terrible circumstance with which his sorrow
was surrounded, he could speak freely.
"I know now how I suffered," he said, as he dried his eyes, "but I do
not know even yet, and none other can ever know, how much your sweet
sympathy has been to me today. I shall know better in time, and
believe me that, though I am not ungrateful now, my gratitude will
grow with my understanding. You will let me be like a brother, will
you not, for all our lives, for dear Lucy's sake?"
"For dear Lucy's sake," I said as we clasped hands. "Ay, and for your
own sake," he added, "for if a man's esteem and gratitude are ever
worth the winning, you have won mine today. If ever the future should
bring to you a time when you need a man's help, believe me, you will
not call in vain. God grant that no such time may ever come to you to
break the sunshine of your life, but if it should ever come, promise
me that you will let me know."
He was so earnest, and his sorrow was so fresh, that I felt it would
comfort him, so I said, "I promise."
As I came along the corridor I say Mr. Morris looking out of a window.
He turned as he heard my footsteps. "How is Art?" he said. Then
noticing my red eyes, he went on, "Ah, I see you have been comforting
him. Poor old fellow! He needs it. No one but a woman can help a
man when he is in trouble of the heart, and he had no one to comfort
him."
He bore his own trouble so bravely that my heart bled for him. I saw
the manuscript in his hand, and I knew that when he read it he would
realize how much I knew, so I said to him, "I wish I could comfort all
who suffer from the heart. Will you let me be your friend, and will
you come to me for comfort if you need it? You will know later why I
speak."
He saw that I was in earnest, and stooping, took my hand, and raising
it to his lips, kissed it. It seemed but poor comfort to so brave and
unselfish a soul, and impulsively I bent over and kissed him. The
tears rose in his eyes, and there was a momentary choking in his
throat. He said quite calmly, "Little girl, you will never forget
that true hearted kindness, so long as ever you live!" Then he went
into the study to his friend.
"Little girl!" The very words he had used to Lucy, and, oh, but he
proved himself a friend.
CHAPTER 18
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 had not yet
returned from his visit to the carriers' men, of whom Dr. Hennessey
had written to me. Mrs. Harker gave us a cup of tea, and I can
honestly say that, for the first time since I have lived in it, this
old house seemed like home. When we had finished, Mrs. Harker said,
"Dr. Seward, may I ask a favour? I want to see your patient, Mr.
Renfield. Do let me see him. What you have said of him in your diary
interests me so much!"
She looked so appealing and so pretty that I could not refuse her, and
there was no possible reason why I should, so I took her with me.
When I went into the room, I told the man that a lady would like to see
him, to which he simply answered, "Why?"
"She is going through the house, and wants to see every one in it," I
answered.
"Oh, very well," he said, "let her come in, by all means, but just
wait a minute till I tidy up the place."
His method of tidying was peculiar, he simply swallowed all the flies
and spiders in the boxes before I could stop him. It was quite
evident that he feared, or was jealous of, some interference. When he
had got through his disgusting task, he said cheerfully, "Let the lady
come in," and sat down on the edge of his bed with his head down, but
with his eyelids raised so that he could see her as she entered. For
a moment I thought that he might have some homicidal intent. I
remembered how quiet he had been just before he attacked me in my own
study, and I took care to stand where I could seize him at once if he
attempted to make a spring at her.
She came into the room with an easy gracefulness which would at once
command the respect of any lunatic, for easiness is one of the
qualities mad people most respect. She walked over to him, smiling
pleasantly, and held out her hand.
"Good evening, Mr. Renfield," said she. "You see, I know you, for Dr.
Seward has told me of you." He made no immediate reply, but eyed her
all over intently with a set frown on his face. This look gave way to
one of wonder, which merged in doubt, then to my intense astonishment
he said, "You're not the girl the doctor wanted to marry, are you? You
can't be, you know, for she's dead."
Mrs. Harker smiled sweetly as she replied, "Oh no! I have a husband
of my own, to whom I was married before I ever saw Dr. Seward, or he
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 anyone?"
His reply was simply contemptuous, given in a pause in which he turned
his eyes from Mrs. Harker to me, instantly turning them back again,
"What an asinine question!"
"I don't see that at all, Mr. Renfield," said Mrs. Harker, at once
championing me.
He replied to her with as much courtesy and respect as he had shown
contempt to me, "You will, of course, understand, Mrs. Harker, that
when a man is so loved and honoured as our host is, everything
regarding him is of interest in our little community. Dr. Seward is
loved not only by his household and his friends, but even by his
patients, who, being some of them hardly in mental equilibrium, are
apt to distort causes and effects. Since I myself have been an inmate
of a lunatic asylum, I cannot but notice that the sophistic tendencies
of some of its inmates lean towards the errors of non causa and
ignoratio elenche."
I positively opened my eyes at this new development. Here was my own
pet lunatic, the most pronounced of his type that I had ever met with,
talking elemental philosophy, and with the manner of a polished
gentleman. I wonder if it was Mrs. Harker's presence which had
touched some chord in his memory. If this new phase was spontaneous,
or in any way due to her unconscious influence, she must have some
rare gift or power.
We continued to talk for some time, and seeing that he was seemingly
quite reasonable, she ventured, looking at me questioningly as she
began, to lead him to his favourite topic. I was again astonished,
for he addressed himself to the question with the impartiality of
the completest sanity. He even took himself as an example when he
mentioned certain things.
"Why, I myself am an instance of a man who had a strange belief.
Indeed, it was no wonder that my friends were alarmed, and insisted on
my being put under control. I used to fancy that life was a positive
and perpetual entity, and that by consuming a multitude of live
things, no matter how low in the scale of creation, one might
indefinitely prolong life. At times I held the belief so strongly
that I actually tried to take human life. The doctor here will bear
me out that on one occasion I tried to kill him for the purpose of
strengthening my vital powers by the assimilation with my own body of
his life through the medium of his blood, relying of course, upon the
Scriptural phrase, `For the blood is the life.' Though, indeed, the
vendor of a certain nostrum has vulgarized the truism to the very
point of contempt. Isn't that true, doctor?"
I nodded assent, for I was so amazed that I hardly knew what to either
think or say, it was hard to imagine that I had seen him eat up his
spiders and flies not five minutes before. Looking at my watch, I saw
that I should go to the station to meet Van Helsing, so I told Mrs.
Harker that it was time to leave.
She came at once, after saying pleasantly to Mr. Renfield, "Goodbye,
and I hope I may see you often, under auspices pleasanter to
yourself."
To which, to my astonishment, he replied, "Goodbye, my dear. I pray
God I may never see your sweet face again. May He bless and keep
you!"
When I went to the station to meet Van Helsing I left the boys behind
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 a woman's heart. The good
God fashioned her for a purpose, believe me, when He made that so good
combination. Friend John, up to now fortune has made that woman of
help to us, after tonight she must not have to do with this so
terrible affair. It is not good that she run a risk so great. We men
are determined, nay, are we not pledged, to destroy this monster? But
it is no part for a woman. Even if she be not harmed, her heart may
fail her in so much and so many horrors and hereafter she may suffer,
both in waking, from her nerves, and in sleep, from her dreams. And,
besides, she is young woman and not so long married, there may be
other things to think of some time, if not now. You tell me she has
wrote all, then she must consult with us, but tomorrow she say goodbye
to this work, and we go alone."
I agreed heartily with him, and then I told him what we had found in
his absence, that the house which Dracula had bought was the very next
one to my own. He was amazed, and a great concern seemed to come on
him.
"Oh that we had known it before!" he said, "for then we might have
reached him in time to save poor Lucy. However, `the milk that is
spilt cries not out afterwards,'as you say. We shall not think of
that, but go on our way to the end." Then he fell into a silence that
lasted till we entered my own gateway. Before we went to prepare for
dinner he said to Mrs. Harker, "I am told, Madam Mina, by my friend
John that you and your husband have put up in exact order all things
that have been, up to this moment."
"Not up to this moment, Professor," she said impulsively, "but up to
this morning."
"But why not up to now? We have seen hitherto how good light all the
little things have made. We have told our secrets, and yet no one who
has told is the worse for it."
Mrs. Harker began to blush, and taking a paper from her pockets, she
said, "Dr. Van Helsing, will you read this, and tell me if it must go
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.
MINA HARKER'S JOURNAL
30 September.--When we met in Dr. Seward's study two hours after
dinner, which had been at six o'clock, we unconsciously formed a sort
of board or committee. Professor Van Helsing took the head of the
table, to which Dr. Seward motioned him as he came into the room. He
made me sit next to him on his right, and asked me to act as
secretary. Jonathan sat next to me. Opposite us were Lord Godalming,
Dr. Seward, and Mr. Morris, Lord Godalming being next the Professor,
and Dr. Seward in the centre.
The Professor said, "I may, I suppose, take it that we are all
acquainted with the facts that are in these papers." We all expressed
assent, and he went on, "Then it were, I think, good that I tell you
something of the kind of enemy with which we have to deal. I shall
then make known to you something of the history of this man, which has
been ascertained for me. So we then can discuss how we shall act, and
can take our measure according.
"There are such beings as vampires, some of us have evidence that they
exist. Even had we not the proof of our own unhappy experience, the
teachings and the records of the past give proof enough for sane
peoples. I admit that at the first I was sceptic. Were it not that
through long years I have trained myself to keep an open mind, I could
not have believed until such time as that fact thunder on my ear.`See!
See! I prove, I prove.' Alas! Had I known at first what now I know,
nay, had I even guess at him, one so precious life had been spared to
many of us who did love her. But that is gone, and we must so work,
that other poor souls perish not, whilst we can save. The nosferatu
do not die like the bee when he sting once. He is only stronger, and
being stronger, have yet more power to work evil. This vampire which
is amongst us is of himself so strong in person as twenty men, he is
of cunning more than mortal, for his cunning be the growth of ages, he
have still the aids of necromancy, which is, as his etymology imply,
the divination by the dead, and all the dead that he can come nigh to
are for him at command, he is brute, and more than brute, he is devil
in callous, and the heart of him is not, he can, within his range,
direct the elements, the storm, the fog, the thunder, he can command
all the meaner things, the rat, and the owl, and the bat, the moth,
and the fox, and the wolf, he can grow and become small, and he can at
times vanish and come unknown. How then are we to begin our strike to
destroy him? How shall we find his where, and having found it, how
can we destroy? My friends, this is much, it is a terrible task that
we undertake, and there may be consequence to make the brave shudder.
For if we fail in this our fight he must surely win, and then where
end we? Life is nothings, I heed him not. But to fail here, is not
mere life or death. It is that we become as him, that we henceforward
become foul things of the night like him, without heart or conscience,
preying on the bodies and the souls of those we love best. To us
forever are the gates of heaven shut, for who shall open them to us
again? We go on for all time abhorred by all, a blot on the face of
God's sunshine, an arrow in the side of Him who died for man. But we
are face to face with duty, and in such case must we shrink? For me,
I say no, but then I am old, and life, with his sunshine, his fair
places, his song of birds, his music and his love, lie far behind. You
others are young. Some have seen sorrow, but there are fair days yet
in store. What say you?"
Whilst he was speaking, Jonathan had taken my hand. I feared, oh so
much, that the appalling nature of our danger was overcoming him when
I saw his hand stretch out, but it was life to me to feel its touch,
so strong, so self reliant, so resolute. A brave man's hand can speak
for itself, it does not even need a woman's love to hear its music.
When the Professor had done speaking my husband looked in my eyes, and
I in his, there was no need for speaking between us.
"I answer for Mina and myself," he said.
"Count me in, Professor," said Mr. Quincey Morris, laconically as
usual.
"I am with you," said Lord Godalming, "for Lucy's sake, if for no
other reason."
Dr. Seward simply nodded.
The Professor stood up and, after laying his golden crucifix on the
table, held out his hand on either side. I took his right hand, and
Lord Godalming his left, Jonathan held my right with his left and
stretched across to Mr. Morris. So as we all took hands our solemn
compact was made. I felt my heart icy cold, but it did not even occur
to me to draw back. We resumed our places, and Dr. Van Helsing went
on with a sort of cheerfulness which showed that the serious work had
begun. It was to be taken as gravely, and in as businesslike a way,
as any other transaction of life.
"Well, you know what we have to contend against, but we too, are not
without strength. We have on our side power of combination, a power
denied to the vampire kind, we have sources of science, we are free to
act and think, and the hours of the day and the night are ours
equally. In fact, so far as our powers extend, they are unfettered,
and we are free to use them. We have self devotion in a cause and an
end to achieve which is not a selfish one. These things are much.
"Now let us see how far the general powers arrayed against us are
restrict, and how the individual cannot. In fine, let us consider the
limitations of the vampire in general, and of this one in particular.
"All we have to go upon are traditions and superstitions. These do
not at the first appear much, when the matter is one of life and
death, nay of more than either life or death. Yet must we be
satisfied, in the first place because we have to be, no other means is
at our control, and secondly, because, after all these things,
tradition and superstition, are everything. Does not the belief in
vampires rest for others, though not, alas! for us, on them! A year
ago which of us would have received such a possibility, in the midst
of our scientific, sceptical, matter-of-fact nineteenth century? We
even scouted a belief that we saw justified under our very eyes. Take
it, then, that the vampire, and the belief in his limitations and his
cure, rest for the moment on the same base. For, let me tell you, he
is known everywhere that men have been. In old Greece, in old Rome,
he flourish in Germany all over, in France, in India, even in the
Chermosese, and in China, so far from us in all ways, there even is
he, and the peoples for him at this day. He have follow the wake of
the berserker Icelander, the devil-begotten Hun, the Slav, the Saxon,
the Magyar.
"So far, then, we have all we may act upon, and let me tell you that
very much of the beliefs are justified by what we have seen in our own
so unhappy experience. The vampire live on, and cannot die by mere
passing of the time, he can flourish when that he can fatten on the
blood of the living. Even more, we have seen amongst us that he can
even grow younger, that his vital faculties grow strenuous, and seem
as though they refresh themselves when his special pabulum is plenty.
"But he cannot flourish without this diet, he eat not as others. Even
friend Jonathan, who lived with him for weeks, did never see him eat,
never! He throws no shadow, he make in the mirror no reflect, as
again Jonathan observe. He has the strength of many of his hand,
witness again Jonathan when he shut the door against the wolves, and
when he help him from the diligence too. He can transform himself to
wolf, as we gather from the ship arrival in Whitby, when he tear open
the dog, he can be as bat, as Madam Mina saw him on the window at
Whitby, and as friend John saw him fly from this so near house, and as
my friend Quincey saw him at the window of Miss Lucy.
"He can come in mist which he create, that noble ship's captain proved
him of this, but, from what we know, the distance he can make this
mist is limited, and it can only be round himself.
"He come on moonlight rays as elemental dust, as again Jonathan saw
those sisters in the castle of Dracula. He become so small, we
ourselves saw Miss Lucy, ere she was at peace, slip through a
hairbreadth space at the tomb door. He can, when once he find his
way, come out from anything or into anything, no matter how close it
be bound or even fused up with fire, solder you call it. He can see
in the dark, no small power this, in a world which is one half shut
from the light. Ah, but hear me through.
"He can do all these things, yet he is not free. Nay, he is even more
prisoner than the slave of the galley, than the madman in his cell.
He cannot go where he lists, he who is not of nature has yet to obey
some of nature's laws, why we know not. He may not enter anywhere at
the first, unless there be some one of the household who bid him to
come, though afterwards he can come as he please. His power ceases,
as does that of all evil things, at the coming of the day.
"Only at certain times can he have limited freedom. If he be not at
the place whither he is bound, he can only change himself at noon or
at exact sunrise or sunset. These things we are told, and in this
record of ours we have proof by inference. Thus, whereas he can do as
he will within his limit, when he have his earth-home, his
coffin-home, his hell-home, the place unhallowed, as we saw when he
went to the grave of the suicide at Whitby, still at other time he can
only change when the time come. It is said, too, that he can only
pass running water at the slack or the flood of the tide. Then there
are things which so afflict him that he has no power, as the garlic
that we know of, and as for things sacred, as this symbol, my
crucifix, that was amongst us even now when we resolve, to them he is
nothing, but in their presence he take his place far off and silent
with respect. There are others, too, which I shall tell you of, lest
in our seeking we may need them.
"The branch of wild rose on his coffin keep him that he move not from
it, a sacred bullet fired into the coffin kill him so that he be true
dead, and as for the stake through him, we know already of its peace,
or the cut off head that giveth rest. We have seen it with our eyes.
"Thus when we find the habitation of this man-that-was, we can confine
him to his coffin and destroy him, if we obey what we know. But he is
clever. I have asked my friend Arminius, of Buda-Pesth University, to
make his record, and from all the means that are, he tell me of what
he has been. He must, indeed, have been that Voivode Dracula who won
his name against the Turk, over the great river on the very frontier
of Turkeyland. If it be so, then was he no common man, for in that
time, and for centuries after, he was spoken of as the cleverest and
the most cunning, as well as the bravest of the sons of the `land
beyond the forest.' That mighty brain and that iron resolution went
with him to his grave, and are even now arrayed against us. The
Draculas were, says Arminius, a great and noble race, though now and
again were scions who were held by their coevals to have had dealings
with the Evil One. They learned his secrets in the Scholomance,
amongst the mountains over Lake Hermanstadt, where the devil claims
the tenth scholar as his due. In the records are such words as
`stregoica' witch, `ordog' and `pokol' Satan and hell, and in one
manuscript this very Dracula is spoken of as `wampyr,'which we all
understand too well. There have been from the loins of this very one
great men and good women, and their graves make sacred the earth where
alone this foulness can dwell. For it is not the least of its terrors
that this evil thing is rooted deep in all good, in soil barren of
holy memories it cannot rest."
Whilst they were talking Mr. Morris was looking steadily at the
window, and he now got up quietly, and went out of the room. There
was a little pause, and then the Professor went on.
"And now we must settle what we do. We have here much data, and we
must proceed to lay out our campaign. We know from the inquiry of
Jonathan that from the castle to Whitby came fifty boxes of earth, all
of which were delivered at Carfax, we also know that at least some of
these boxes have been removed. It seems to me, that our first step
should be to ascertain whether all the rest remain in the house beyond
that wall where we look today, or whether any more have been removed.
If the latter, we must trace . . ."
Here we were interrupted in a very startling way. Outside the house
came the sound of a pistol shot, the glass of the window was shattered
with a bullet, which ricochetting from the top of the embrasure,
struck the far wall of the room. I am afraid I am at heart a coward,
for I shrieked out. The men all jumped to their feet, Lord Godalming
flew over to the window and threw up the sash. As he did so we heard
Mr. Morris' voice without, "Sorry! I fear I have alarmed you. I
shall come in and tell you about it."
A minute later he came in and said, "It was an idiotic thing of me to
do, and I ask your pardon, Mrs. Harker, most sincerely, I fear I must
have frightened you terribly. But the fact is that whilst the
Professor was talking there came a big bat and sat on the window sill.
I have got such a horror of the damned brutes from recent events that
I cannot stand them, and I went out to have a shot, as I have been
doing of late of evenings, whenever I have seen one. You used to
laugh at me for it then, Art."
"Did you hit it?" asked Dr. Van Helsing.
"I don't know, I fancy not, for it flew away into the wood." Without
saying any more he took his seat, and the Professor began to resume
his statement.
"We must trace each of these boxes, and when we are ready, we must
either capture or kill this monster in his lair, or we must, so to
speak, sterilize the earth, so that no more he can seek safety in it.
Thus in the end we may find him in his form of man between the hours
of noon and sunset, and so engage with him when he is at his most
weak.
"And now for you, Madam Mina, this night is the end until all be well.
You are too precious to us to have such risk. When we part tonight,
you no more must question. We shall tell you all in good time. We
are men and are able to bear, but you must be our star and our hope,
and we shall act all the more free that you are not in the danger,
such as we are."
All the men, even Jonathan, seemed relieved, but it did not seem to me
good that they should brave danger and, perhaps lessen their safety,
strength being the best safety, through care of me, but their minds
were made up, and though it was a bitter pill for me to swallow, I
could say nothing, save to accept their chivalrous care of me.
Mr. Morris resumed the discussion, "As there is no time to lose, I
vote we have a look at his house right now. Time is everything with
him, and swift action on our part may save another victim."
I own that my heart began to fail me when the time for action came so
close, but I did not say anything, for I had a greater fear that if I
appeared as a drag or a hindrance to their work, they might even leave
me out of their counsels altogether. They have now gone off to
Carfax, with means to get into the house.
Manlike, they had told me to go to bed and sleep, as if a woman can
sleep when those she loves are in danger! I shall lie down, and
pretend to sleep, lest Jonathan have added anxiety about me when he
returns.
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 interest me much, and it had bearing, too, now and again on our
case. I should much like to see him, and especial when his mind is
disturbed."
"May I come also?" asked Lord Godalming.
"Me too?" said Quincey Morris. "May I come?" said Harker. I nodded,
and we all went down the passage together.
We found him in a state of considerable excitement, but far more
rational in his speech and manner than I had ever seen him. There was
an unusual understanding of himself, which was unlike anything I had
ever met with in a lunatic, and he took it for granted that his
reasons would prevail with others entirely sane. We all five went
into the room, but none of the others at first said anything. His
request was that I would at once release him from the asylum and send
him home. This he backed up with arguments regarding his complete
recovery, and adduced his own existing sanity.
"I appeal to your friends, "he said, "they will, perhaps, not mind
sitting in judgement on my case. By the way, you have not introduced
me."
I was so much astonished, that the oddness of introducing a madman in
an asylum did not strike me at the moment, and besides, there was a
certain dignity in the man's manner, so much of the habit of equality,
that I at once made the introduction, "Lord Godalming, Professor Van
Helsing, Mr. Quincey Morris, of Texas, Mr. Jonathan Harker, Mr.
Renfield."
He shook hands with each of them, saying in turn, "Lord Godalming, I
had the honour of seconding your father at the Windham, I grieve to
know, by your holding the title, that he is no more. He was a man
loved and honoured by all who knew him, and in his youth was, I have
heard, the inventor of a burnt rum punch, much patronized on Derby
night. Mr. Morris, you should be proud of your great state. Its
reception into the Union was a precedent which may have far-reaching
effects hereafter, when the Pole and the Tropics may hold alliance to
the Stars and Stripes. The power of Treaty may yet prove a vast
engine of enlargement, when the Monroe doctrine takes its true place
as a political fable. What shall any man say of his pleasure at
meeting Van Helsing? Sir, I make no apology for dropping all forms of
conventional prefix. When an individual has revolutionized
therapeutics by his discovery of the continuous evolution of brain
matter, conventional forms are unfitting, since they would seem to
limit him to one of a class. You, gentlemen, who by nationality, by
heredity, or by the possession of natural gifts, are fitted to hold
your respective places in the moving world, I take to witness that I
am as sane as at least the majority of men who are in full possession
of their liberties. And I am sure that you, Dr. Seward, humanitarian
and medico-jurist as well as scientist, will deem it a moral duty to
deal with me as one to be considered as under exceptional
circumstances. "He made this last appeal with a courtly air of
conviction which was not without its own charm.
I think we were all staggered. For my own part, I was under the
conviction, despite my knowledge of the man's character and history,
that his reason had been restored, and I felt under a strong impulse
to tell him that I was satisfied as to his sanity, and would see about
the necessary formalities for his release in the morning. I thought
it better to wait, however, before making so grave a statement, for of
old I knew the sudden changes to which this particular patient was
liable. So I contented myself with making a general statement that he
appeared to be improving very rapidly, that I would have a longer chat
with him in the morning, and would then see what I could do in the
direction of meeting his wishes.
This did not at all satisfy him, for he said quickly, "But I fear, Dr.
Seward, that you hardly apprehend my wish. I desire to go at once,
here, now, this very hour, this very moment, if I may. Time presses,
and in our implied agreement with the old scytheman it is of the
essence of the contract. I am sure it is only necessary to put before
so admirable a practitioner as Dr. Seward so simple, yet so momentous
a wish, to ensure its fulfilment."
He looked at me keenly, and seeing the negative in my face, turned to
the others, and scrutinized them closely. Not meeting any sufficient
response, he went on, "Is it possible that I have erred in my
supposition?"
"You have," I said frankly, but at the same time, as I felt, brutally.
There was a considerable pause, and then he said slowly, "Then I
suppose I must only shift my ground of request. Let me ask for this
concession, boon, privilege, what you will. I am content to implore
in such a case, not on personal grounds, but for the sake of others. I
am not at liberty to give you the whole of my reasons, but you may, I
assure you, take it from me that they are good ones, sound and
unselfish, and spring from the highest sense of duty.
"Could you look, sir, into my heart, you would approve to the full the
sentiments which animate me. Nay, more, you would count me amongst
the best and truest of your friends."
Again he looked at us all keenly. I had a growing conviction that
this sudden change of his entire intellectual method was but yet
another phase of his madness, and so determined to let him go on a
little longer, knowing from experience that he would, like all
lunatics, give himself away in the end. Van Helsing was gazing at him
with a look of utmost intensity, his bushy eyebrows almost meeting
with the fixed concentration of his look. He said to Renfield in a
tone which did not surprise me at the time, but only when I thought of
it afterwards, for it was as of one addressing an equal, "Can you not
tell frankly your real reason for wishing to be free tonight? I will
undertake that if you will satisfy even me, a stranger, without
prejudice, and with the habit of keeping an open mind, Dr. Seward will
give you, at his own risk and on his own responsibility, the privilege
you seek."
He shook his head sadly, and with a look of poignant regret on his
face. The Professor went on, "Come, sir, bethink yourself. You claim
the privilege of reason in the highest degree, since you seek to
impress us with your complete reasonableness. You do this, whose
sanity we have reason to doubt, since you are not yet released from
medical treatment for this very defect. If you will not help us in
our effort to choose the wisest course, how can we perform the duty
which you yourself put upon us? Be wise, and help us, and if we can
we shall aid you to achieve your wish."
He still shook his head as he said, "Dr. Van Helsing, I have nothing to
say. Your argument is complete, and if I were free to speak I should
not hesitate a moment, but I am not my own master in the matter. I
can only ask you to trust me. If I am refused, the responsibility
does not rest with me."
I thought it was now time to end the scene, which was becoming too
comically grave, so I went towards the door, simply saying, "Come, my
friends, we have work to do. Goodnight."
As, however, I got near the door, a new change came over the patient.
He moved towards me so quickly that for the moment I feared that he
was about to make another homicidal attack. My fears, however, were
groundless, for he held up his two hands imploringly, and made his
petition in a moving manner. As he saw that the very excess of his
emotion was militating against him, by restoring us more to our old
relations, he became still more demonstrative. I glanced at Van
Helsing, and saw my conviction reflected in his eyes, so I became a
little more fixed in my manner, if not more stern, and motioned to him
that his efforts were unavailing. I had previously seen something of
the same constantly growing excitement in him when he had to make some
request of which at the time he had thought much, such for instance,
as when he wanted a cat, and I was prepared to see the collapse into
the same sullen acquiescence on this occasion.
My expectation was not realized, for when he found that his appeal
would not be successful, he got into quite a frantic condition. He
threw himself on his knees, and held up his hands, wringing them in
plaintive supplication, and poured forth a torrent of entreaty, with
the tears rolling down his cheeks, and his whole face and form
expressive of the deepest emotion.
"Let me entreat you, Dr. Seward, oh, let me implore you, to let me out
of this house at once. Send me away how you will and where you will,
send keepers with me with whips and chains, let them take me in a
strait waistcoat, manacled and leg-ironed, even to gaol, but let me go
out of this. You don't know what you do by keeping me here. I am
speaking from the depths of my heart, of my very soul. You don't know
whom you wrong, or how, and I may not tell. Woe is me! I may not
tell. By all you hold sacred, by all you hold dear, by your love that
is lost, by your hope that lives, for the sake of the Almighty, take
me out of this and save my soul from guilt! Can't you hear me, man?
Can't you understand? Will you never learn? Don't you know that I am
sane and earnest now, that I am no lunatic in a mad fit, but a sane
man fighting for his soul? Oh, hear me! Hear me! Let me go, let me
go, let me go!"
I thought that the longer this went on the wilder he would get, and so
would bring on a fit, so I took him by the hand and raised him up.
"Come," I said sternly, "no more of this, we have had quite enough
already. Get to your bed and try to behave more discreetly."
He suddenly stopped and looked at me intently for several moments.
Then, without a word, he rose and moving over, sat down on the side of
the bed. The collapse had come, as on former occasions, just as I had
expected.
When I was leaving the room, last of our party, he said to me in a
quiet, well-bred voice, "You will, I trust, Dr. Seward, do me the
justice to bear in mind, later on, that I did what I could to convince
you tonight."
CHAPTER 19
JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL
1 October, 5 A.M.--I went with the party to the search with an easy
mind, for I think I never saw Mina so absolutely strong and well. I
am so glad that she consented to hold back and let us men do the work.
Somehow, it was a dread to me that she was in this fearful business at
all, but now that her work is done, and that it is due to her energy
and brains and foresight that the whole story is put together in such
a way that every point tells, she may well feel that her part is
finished, and that she can henceforth leave the rest to us. We were,
I think, all a little upset by the scene with Mr. Renfield. When we
came away from his room we were silent till we got back to the study.
Then Mr. Morris said to Dr. Seward, "Say, Jack, if that man wasn't
attempting a bluff, he is about the sanest lunatic I ever saw. I'm
not sure, but I believe that he had some serious purpose, and if he
had, it was pretty rough on him not to get a chance."
Lord Godalming and I were silent, but Dr. Van Helsing added, "Friend
John, you know more lunatics than I do, and I'm glad of it, for I fear