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History of Literature

Bram Stoker
"Dracula"

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Bram Stoker

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Bram Stoker
Irish writer
born Nov. 8, 1847, Dublin, Ire.
died April 20, 1912, London, Eng.
Author of the horror tale Dracula.
Although an invalid in early childhood—he could not stand or walk
until he was seven—Stoker outgrew his weakness to become an outstanding
athlete and football (soccer) player at the University of Dublin. After
10 years in the civil service at Dublin Castle, during which he was also
an unpaid drama critic for the Dublin Mail, he made the acquaintance of
his idol, the actor Sir Henry Irving, and from 1878 until Irving’s death
27 years later, he acted as his manager, writing as many as 50 letters a
day for him and accompanying him on his American tours. Stoker’s first
book, The Duties of Clerks of Petty Sessions in Ireland, a handbook in
legal administration, was published in 1879.
Turning to fiction late in life, Stoker published The Snake’s Pass, a
novel with a bleak western-Ireland setting, in 1891, and in 1897 his
masterpiece, Dracula, appeared. Written chiefly in the form of diaries
and journals kept by the principal characters—Jonathan Harker, who made
the first contact with the vampire Count Dracula; Mina, Jonathan’s wife;
Dr. Seward; and Lucy Westenra, a victim who herself became a vampire—the
story is that of a Transylvanian vampire who, using supernatural powers,
makes his way to England and there victimizes innocent people to gain
the blood on which he lives. Led by Dr. Van Helsing, Harker and his
friends, after many hair-raising adventures, are at last able to
overpower and destroy Dracula. The immensely popular novel enjoyed equal
success in several versions as a play and as a film.
Stoker wrote several other novels—among them The Mystery of the Sea
(1902), The Jewel of Seven Stars (1904), and The Lady of the Shroud
(1909)—but none of them approached the popularity or, indeed, the
quality of Dracula.
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Dracula
Bram Stoker
1847-1912
Dracula is a true horror novel, as much rooted in the reality
ofthe world where it takes place as it is in the forces ofthe
supernatural that invade it. The blurring between these points
is doubled in the story's telling, wherein the era's most
cutting-edge modes of communication are corrupted, transmitting
an ancient evil. Englishman Jonathan Harker travels to a remote
castle in Transylvania to conduct a real estate deal with Count
Dracula, whose fatal appetite for blood is unleashed. As the
Count boards ship for England in search of fresh prey, Dr. Van
Helsing embarks on a complex plan to thwart the vampire. The
narrative progresses through a series of eyewitness reports,
diary entries, and technical notes from doctors and scientists.
Each of these narrative modes should represent a degree of
accurate "truth," yet across them the figure of Dracula is a
constant presence, lurking out of sight, contravening laws of
physics. The fascination and prevailing horror of Dracula lie in
the prospect that even the most advanced of technologies,
developed in search of some ultimate rationality and truth,
still cannot eradicate the forces of the irrational, regardless
of the particular period in history or the advancement in
question.
The bloodthirsty Count has become a popular icon, the figurehead
of both Universal and Hammer Horror movies throughout the
twentieth century. Critics have carried out extensive
psychoanalytical and postcolonial readings of the text. As a
result, the strengths of the work as a horror novel, let alone a
revolutionary one, have been flattened, reduced to almost
nothing throughout the century that lies between its creation
and the present day. This must not be the case, regardless of
what vast and repetitive mileage it has already generated.
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DRACULA
Тyре of work: Novel
Author: Bram Stoker (1847-1912)
Type of plot: Horror romance
Time of plot: Nineteenth century
Locale: Transylvania and England First published: 1897
This work is a classic of the gothic novel genre, and its
principal character, Count Dracula, the vampire, continues to live on in
contemporary entertainment media. Using the rhetorical device of letters
and diaries and staging scenes full of Gothic horror, such as mysterious
gloomy castles and open graves at midnight, the overall effect of the
novel is one of excitement, realism, and horror.
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Principal Characters
Count Dracula, a vampire. A corpse during the day, he comes to life at
night. He has lived for centuries by sucking blood from living people.
He pursues his victims in many harrowing episodes, and is pursued in
turn from England to Rumania. There his body, in transport home to his
castle, is overtaken and a stake driven through the heart, making it
permanently dead.
Jonathan Harker, an English solicitor. He goes to Castle Dracula to
transact business with the Count, whose nocturnal habits and total
absence of servants puzzle Harker. Harker finds himself a prisoner in
the castle, comes one day upon Dracula's corpse, and is occasionally
victimized by the vampire. Then the coffinlike boxes are carried away
and Harker finds himself left alone, still a prisoner. Later, after he
has escaped, he is able to throw light on certain strange happenings in
England.
Mina Murray, Harker's fiancee. She joins in the pursuit of Dracula; in a
trance, she is able to tell the others that Dracula is at sea, on his
return voyage.
Lucy Westenra, a lovely friend whom Mina visits at the time of Harker's
trip to Rumania. She is the repeated victim of Dracula, now in England,
who appears sometimes in werewolf guise. Finally she dies and becomes a
vampire also.
Dr. Van Helsing, a specialist from Amsterdam called to aid the failing
Lucy. His remedies are effective. but a fatal attack comes after he
leaves; he then returns to England to still her corpse as well as to
hunt Dracula.
Dr. Seward, Lucy's former suitor, who attends her during her illness.
Until he makes a midnight visit to her empty tomb, he does not believe
Van Helsing's advice that the dead girl's soul can be saved only if a
stake is driven through her heart.
Arthur Holmwood, a young nobleman and Lucy's fiancee. As he kisses the
dying Lucy, her teeth seem about to fasten on his throat. He goes with
Seward and Van Helsing to the empty tomb and joins them in tracking down
Dracula.
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The Story
On his way to Castle Dracula in the province of Transylvania in Rumania,
Jonathan Harker, an English solicitor, was apprehensive. His nervousness
grew when he observed the curious, fearful attitude of the peasants and
the coachman after they learned of his destination. He was on his way to
transact business with Count Dracula, and his mission would necessitate
remaining at the castle for several days.
Upon his arrival at the castle, Harker found comfortable accommodations
awaiting him. Count Dracula was a charming host, although his peculiarly
bloodless physical appearance was somewhat disagreeable to Harker's
English eyes. Almost immediately. Harker was impressed with the strange
life of the castle. He and the Count discussed their business at night,
as the Count was never available during the daytime. Although the food
was excellent, Harker never saw a servant about the place. While
exploring the castle, he found that it was situated high at the top of a
mountain with no accessible exit other than the main doorway, which was
kept locked. He realized with a shock that he was a prisoner of Count
Dracula. Various harrowing experiences ensued. While Harker half dozed
in the early morning hours, three phantom women materialized and
attacked him, attempting to bite his throat. Then the Count appeared and
drove them off, whispering fiercely that Harker belonged to him. Later,
Harker thought he saw a huge bat descending the castle walls, but the
creature turned out to be Count Dracula. In the morning Harker, trying
frantically to escape, stumbled into an old chapel where a number of
coffinlike boxes of earth were stored. Harker opened one, and beneath
the cover lay the Count, apparently dead. In the evening, however, the
Count appeared as usual, and Harker demanded that he be released. The
Count obligingly opened the castle door. A pack of wolves surrounded the
entrance. The Count, laughing hysterically, left poor Harker a prisoner
in his room.
The next day Harker, weak and sick from a strange wound in his throat,
saw a pack cart, loaded with the mysterious boxes, drive from the
castle. Dracula was gone and Harker was alone, a prisoner with no
visible means of escape.
Meanwhile, Harker's fiancee, Mina Murray, had gone to visit her
beautiful and charming friend Lucy Westenra in England. Lucy was
planning to marry Arthur Holm-wood, a young nobleman. One evening, early
in Mina's visit, a storm blew up and a strange ship was driven aground.
The only living creature aboard was a gray wolflike dog. The animal
escaped into the countryside.
Soon afterward, Lucy's happiness began to fade because of a growing
tendency to sleepwalk. One night, Mina followed her friend during one of
her spells and discovered Lucy in a churchyard. A tall, thin man who was
bending over Lucy disappeared at Mina's approach. Lucy could remember
nothing of the experience when she awoke, but her physical condition
seemed much weakened. Finally, she grew so ill that Mina was forced to
call upon Dr. Seward, Lucy's former suitor. Lucy began to improve under
his care, and when Mina received a report from Budapest that her missing
fiance had been found and needed care, she felt free to end her visit.
When Lucy's condition suddenly grew worse, Dr. Seward asked his old
friend, Dr. Van Helsing, a specialist from Amsterdam, for his
professional opinion. Examining Lucy thoroughly, Van Helsing paused over
two tiny throat wounds that she was unable to explain. Van Helsing was
concerned about Lucy's condition, which pointed to unusual loss of blood
without signs of anemia or hemorrhage. She was given blood transfusions
at intervals, and someone sat up with her at night. She improved but
expressed fear of going to sleep at night because her dreams had grown
so horrible.
One morning, Dr. Seward fell asleep outside her door. When he and Van
Helsing entered her room, they found Lucy ashen white and in a worse
condition than ever. Van Helsing quickly performed another transfusion;
she rallied, but not as satisfactorily as before. Van Helsing then
secured some garlic flowers and told Lucy to keep them around her neck
at night. When the two doctors called the next morning, Lucy's mother
had removed the flowers because she feared their odor might bother her
daughter. Frantically, Van Helsing rushed to Lucy's room and found her
in a coma. Again, he administered a transfusion, and her condition
improved. She said that with the garlic flowers close by she was not
afraid of nightly flapping noises at her window. Van Helsing sat with
her every night until he felt her well enough to leave. After cautioning
her to sleep with the garlic flowers about her neck at all times, he
returned to Amsterdam.
Lucy's mother continued to sleep with her daughter. One night, the two
ladies were awakened by a huge wolf that crashed through the window.
Mrs. Westenra fell dead of a heart attack, and Lucy fainted, the wreath
of garlic flowers slipping from her neck. Seward and Van Helsing, who
had returned to England, discovered her half dead in the morning. They
knew she was dying and called Arthur. As Arthur attempted to kiss her,
Lucy's teeth seemed about to pierce his throat. Van Helsing drew him
away. When Lucy died, Van Helsing put a tiny gold crucifix over her
mouth, but an attendant stole it from her body.
Soon after Lucy's death, several children of the neighborhood were
discovered far from their homes, their throats marked by small wounds.
Their only explanation was that they had followed a pretty lady. When
Jonathan Harker returned to England, Van Helsing went to see him and
Mina. After talking with Harker, Van Helsing revealed to Dr. Seward his
belief that Lucy had fallen victim to a vampire, one of those strange
creatures who can live for centuries on the blood of their victims and
breed their kind by attacking the innocent and making them vampires in
turn. According to Van Helsing, the only way to save Lucy's soul was to
drive a stake through the heart of her corpse, cut off her head, and
stuff her mouth with garlic flowers. Dr. Seward protested violently. The
next midnight Arthur, Dr. Seward, and Van Helsing visited Lucy's tomb
and found it empty. When daylight came, they did as Van Helsing had
suggested with Lucy's corpse, which had returned to its tomb.
The men, with Mina, tried to track down Dracula in London in order to
find him before he victimized anyone else. Their object was to remove
the boxes of sterilized earth he had brought with him from Transylvania
so that he would have no place to hide in the daytime. At last, the
hunters trapped Dracula, but he escaped them. By putting Mina into a
trance. Van Helsing was able to learn that Dracula was at sea, and it
was necessary to follow him to his castle. Wolves gathered about them in
that desolate country. Van Helsing drew a circle in the snow with a
crucifix, and the travelers rested safely within the magic enclosure.
The next morning, they overtook a cart carrying a black box. Van Helsing
and the others overcame the drivers of the cart and pried open the lid
of Dracula's coffin. As the sun began to set, they drove a stake through
the heart of the corpse. The vampire was no more.
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Critical Evaluation
Legend is inextricably twined with Bram Stoker's novel Dracula, for the
novel is based on the legend. It is impossible to separate the two: The
reader will inevitably supply legendary associations between the lines
of the novel; but more often than not, readers tend to forget that both
legend and novel were based on reality. This is not to say that vampires
do or did roam Transylvania or elsewhere. However, the prototype for the
Dracula legend was a verifiable historical figure, Prince Vlad Tepes,
ruler of Transylvania and Walachia (now Rumania) in the mid-fifteenth
century. Tepes, nicknamed "The Impaler," earned a bloody reputation by
spearing his victims (some 100,000 of them in a six- to ten-year reign,
so it is reported) on wooden sticks, a tactic that served to deter
domestic criminals and potential outside invaders alike. He assumed the
name Dracula, the meaning of which has been variously interpreted. The
subjects of his small kingdom were convinced that such blood lust as he
exhibited could be found only in a human vampire; hence Vlad Tepes,
self-proclaimed Dracula, was the basis for the legend that Stoker
captured so well.
Vampirism has been traced by historians, studied by scholars,
embellished by artists and writers, and feared by the superstitious. In
Western culture, vampirism has been associated mainly with the
Transylvania region of Eastern Europe; however, the vampire phenomenon
in one form or another is attested in all parts of the world from
ancient times onward. Outside Europe, the vampire has appeared in the
ancient cultures of the Middle East and the Mediterranean, in China as
well as throughout Asia, in several African cultures, and in Aztec
civilization and later in Mexico. Some references are in allegedly
official reports and in religious works on demonology; others occur in
folklore and in literature, drama, painting, and sculpture. Clearly, the
vampire was no nineteenth century European invention, but the Romantic
obsession with Gothic horror certainly stimulated a spate of vampiric
literature among its other supernatural preoccupations. A short story,
"The Vampyre," by John Poli-dori, was published in 1819. The melodrama
Les Vampires, by Charles Nodier and Carmouche, was first produced in
Paris in 1820. Varney the Vampire, or The Feast of Blood (authorship is
disputed; either John Malcolm Rymer or Thomas Peckett Prest), a long
novel, appeared in 1847 Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu's redoubtable "Carmilla"
first saw print in 1871; but it was Stoker's Dracula, published in 1897,
that surpassed them all and remains the paragon of vampire stories even
today.
Drawing primarily upon European sources, Stoker produced a terrifying
and credible tale by eliminating the inconsistencies and the
contradictions common to legendary matter. Wisely avoiding some of the
more outlandish explanations of vampirism, for example, Stoker portrayed
the trait as transmitted from vampire to victim,
who in turn became a vampire, and so on. To evade straining credulity,
Stoker required prolonged contact between vampire and victim before the
victim was irrevocably enlisted in the ranks. Thus, Jonathan Harker,
whose sustenance of Count Dracula is brief, recovers with no lasting ill
effects; but Lucy Westenra is literally drained and consequently becomes
a vampire herself. As a result—and given the perilous circumstances—Van
Helsing is compelled to restrain forcibly Lucy's ertswhile fiance Arthur
from giving her a deathbed kiss on her frothing, fanged mouth. Stoker
also conceded the vampire's power to exercise a species of demonic
possession, without physical contact, as the affliction of Mina Murray
Harker illustrates.
In like manner, Stoker employed only the most conventional techniques
for repelling vampires: garlic and the crucifix. The requirements for
vampire survival were equally simplified from the vast complexity of
alternatives that accumulated in the legend. Stoker limited his vampires
to nocturnal activity; mandated, of course, the periodic sucking of
blood (allowing for moderate stretches of hibernation or abstinence);
insisted upon daylight repose in a coffin filled with Transylvania soil;
and claimed vampiric invulnerability to ordinary human weapons.
Finally, Stoker's methods for the total annihilation of vampires were
similarly conventional without resort to esoteric impedimenta. He
stipulated that a wooden stake be driven through the vampire's heart
(although Dracula was dispatched with a bowie knife); that the vampire's
head be cut off; and that the vampire's mouth be stuffed with garlic
flowers.
Stoker's recounting of the vampire legend has become the "standard
version" in Western culture. Countless short stories and novels have
spun off from the Stoker novel— the enormous success of Ann Rice's
Interview with the Vampire (1976) and its sequels attests the continuing
appeal of the vampire theme. Similarly, a number of theatrical and film
adaptations have been mounted, but the classic stage and screen
performances of Bela Lugosi, based upon Stoker's Dracula, have never
been equaled. Lugo-si's 1932 portrayal of Dracula still spellbinds
motion-picture audiences as no other production has been able to do; and
in this atmosphere of at least semicredulity, reported sightings of
vampiric activity—much like reported sightings of flying saucers or
unidentified flying objects— continue to the present.
In the meanwhile, Vlad Tepes's castles in Walachia and the Carpathians
have been refurbished by the Rumanian government as tourist attractions,
and the historical Dracula is being hailed as a national hero who strove
to upgrade the moral fiber of his subjects. In many ways, therefore,
Stoker's Dracula lives on to influence the present as powerfully—albeit
in a different manner—as he influenced the past.
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"Dracula"
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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 ot 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
shirt-sleeves, 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
to-night, 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 good-bye. 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 latelying 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
hardlooking 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 or 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 fain 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.
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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 th e 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 was 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 question 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 of 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 center 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, and 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 neighborhood, for he evidently at the end knew very much
more than I did. When I remarked this, he answered.
"Well, but, my friend, is it not needful that I should? When
I go there I shall be all alone, and my friend Harker Jonathan,
nay, pardon me. I fall into my country's habit of putting your
patronymic first, my friend Jonathan Harker will not be by my
side to correct and aid me. He will be in Exeter, miles away,
probably working at papers of the law with my other friend,
Peter Hawkins. So!"
We went thoroughly into the business of the purchase of the
estate at Purfleet. When I had told him the facts and got his
signature to the necessary papers, and had written a letter with
them ready to post to Mr. Hawkins, he began to ask me how I had
come across so suitable a place. I read to him the notes which I
had made at the time, and which I inscribe here.
"At Purfleet, on a by-road, I came across just such a place
as seemed to be required, and where was displayed a dilapidated
notice that the place was for sale. It 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 prosaiac 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 the 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 everywere, and
all locked and bolted. In no place save from the windows in the
castle walls is there an available exit. The castle is a
veritable prison, and I am a prisoner!
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Chapter 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 game 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.
|

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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 sauvest 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 ma 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 pointblank,
"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 cock-crow, 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 irongrey. 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!
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Chapter 5
LETTER FROM MISS MINA MURRAY TO MISS LUCY WESTENRA
9 May.
My dearest Lucy,
Forgive my long delay in writing, but I have been simply
overwhelmed with work. The life of an assistant schoolmistress
is sometimes trying. I am longing to be with you, and by the
sea, where we can talk together freely and build our castles in
the air. I have been working very hard lately, because I want to
keep up with Jonathan's studies, and I have been practicing
shorthand very assiduously. When we are married I shall be able
to be useful to Jonathan, and if I can stenograph well enough I
can take down what he wants to say in this way and write it out
for him on the typewriter, at which also I am practicing very
hard.
He and I sometimes write letters in shorthand, and he is
keeping a stenographic journal of his travels abroad. When I am
with you I shall keep a diary in the same way. I don't mean one
of those two-pages-to-the-week-with-Sunday-squeezed-in-a-corner
diaries, but a sort of journal which I can write in whenever I
feel inclined.
I do not suppose there will be much of interest to other
people, but it is not intended for them. I may show it to
Jonathan some day if there is in it anything worth sharing, but
it is really an exercise book. I shall try to do what I see lady
journalists do, interviewing and writing descriptions and trying
to remember conversations. I am told that, with a little
practice, one can remember all that goes on or that one hears
said during a day.
However, we shall see. I will tell you of my little plans
when we meet. I have just had a few hurried lines from Jonathan
from Transylvania. He is well, and will be returning in about a
week. I am longing to hear all his news. It must be nice to see
strange countries. I wonder if we, I mean Jonathan and I, shall
ever see them together. There is the ten o'clock bell ringing.
Goodbye. Your loving Mina
Tell me all the news when you write. You have not told me
anything for a long time. I hear rumours, and especially of a
tall, handsome, curly-haired man.???
LETTER, LUCY WESTENRA TO MINA MURRAY
17, Chatham Street
Wednesday
My dearest Mina,
I must say you tax me very unfairly with being a bad
correspondent. I wrote you twice since we parted, and your last
letter was only your second. Besides, I have nothing to tell
you. There is really nothing to interest you.
Town is very pleasant just now, and we go a great deal to
picture-galleries and for walks and rides in the park. As to the
tall, curly-haired man, I suppose it was the one who was with me
at the last Pop. Someone has evidently been telling tales.
That was Mr. Holmwood. He often comes to see us, and he and
Mamma get on very well together, they have so many things to
talk about in common.
We met some time ago a man that would just do for you, if you
were not already engaged to Jonathan. He is an excellant 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 say 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 straightfordwardly.
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, and 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 along-side of
me and let us go down the long road together, driving in double
harness?"
Well, he did look so hood 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 lovemaking, 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 of
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
|

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Chapter 6
MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL
24 July. Whitby.--Lucy met me at the station, looking sweeter
and lovlier 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 granddaughter
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 ou t 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 favorite seat, and I cannot leave it, and now I find I must
go on sitting over the grave of a suicide."
"That won't harm ye, my pretty, an' it may make poor Geordie
gladsome to have so trim a lass sittin' on his lap. That won't
hurt ye. Why, I've sat here off an' on for nigh twenty years
past, an' it hasn't done me no harm. Don't ye fash about them as
lies under ye, or that doesn' lie there either! It'll be time
for ye to be getting scart when ye see the tombsteans all run
away with, and the place as bare as a stubble-field. There's the
clock, and'I must gang. My service to ye, ladies!" And off he
hobbled.
Lucy and I sat awhile, and it was all so beautiful before us
that we took hands as we sat, and she told me all over again
about Arthur and their coming marriage. That made me just a
little heart-sick, for I haven't heard from Jonathan for a whole
month.
The same day. I came up here alone, for I am very sad. There
was no letter for me. I hope there cannot be anything the matter
with Jonathan. The clock has just struck nine. I see the lights
scattered all over the town, sometimes in rows where the streets
are, and sometimes singly. They run right up the Esk and die
away in the curve of the valley. To my left the view is cut off
by a black line of roof of the old house next to the abbey. The
sheep and lambs are bleating in the fields away behind me, and
there is a clatter of donkeys' hoofs up the paved road below.
The band on the pier is playing a harsh waltz in good time, and
further along the quay there is a Salvation Army meeting in a
back street. Neither of the bands hears the other, but up here I
hear and see them both. I wonder where Jonathan is and if he is
thinking of me! I wish he were here.
DR. SEWARD'S DIARY
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 diminshed. 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 good-bye, 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."
|

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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 southwest 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 was 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 overtopping its
fellow, till in a very few minutes the lately glassy sea was
like a roaring and devouring monster. Whitecrested 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 at 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 Drawbridge
to Tate Hill Pier, but your correspondent is a fairly good
runner, and came well ahead of the crowd. When I arrived,
however, I found already assembled on the pier a crowd, whom the
coastguard and police refused to allow to come on board. By the
courtesy of the chief boatman, I was, as your correspondent,
permitted to climb on deck, and was one of a small group who saw
the dead seaman whilst actually lashed to the wheel.
It was no wonder that the coastguard was surprised, or even
awed, for not often can such a sight have been seen. The man was
simply fastened by his hands, tied one over the other, to a
spoke of the wheel. Between the inner hand and the wood was a
crucifix, the set of beads on which it was fastened being around
both wrists and wheel, and all kept fast by the binding cords.
The poor fellow may have been seated at one time, but the
flapping and buffeting of the sails had worked through the
rudder of the wheel and 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 SOME- THING, 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
malestrom, 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.
|

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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 oldfashioned inn, with a bow window
right over the seaweedcovered 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 color 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
favorite 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
favorite 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 sleepwalking 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 belp.
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 demeanor 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 Agust.--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 selffeeling
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 by, 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 ironbound 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, les t 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.
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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 weaklooking. All the resolution has gone out
of his dear eyes, and that quiet dignity which I told you was in
his face has vanished. He is only a wreck of himself, and he
does not remember anything that has happened to him for a long
time past. At least, he wants me to believe so, and I shall
never ask.
"He has had some terrible shock, and I fear it might tax his
poor brain if he were to try to recall it. Sister Agatha, who is
a good creature and a born nurse, tells me that he 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. 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 wifes' 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, 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 sere 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 functal
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
sauvely 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, color 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."
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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, healthgiving 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 color 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 the. 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.
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