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 TO
MY DEAR FRIEND
HOMMY-BEG
How these papers have been placed in sequence will be
made manifest in the reading of them. All needless matters
have been eliminated, so that the history almost at variance
with the possibilities of later-day belief may stand forth as
simple fact. There is throughout no statement of past things
wherein memory may err, for all the records chosen are
exactly contemporary, given from the standpoints and
within range of knowledge of those who made them.
DRACULA
 I

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL.

(KEPT IN SHORTHAND.)

3 May. Bistritz.—Left Munich at 8:35 p.m., on 1st May,

arriving at Vienna early next morning; should have arrived
at 6:46, but train was an hour late. Buda-Pesth seems a
wonderful place, from the glimpse which I got of it from the
train and the little I could walk through the streets. I feared
to go very far from the station, as we had arrived late and
would start as near the correct time as possible. The
impression I had was that we were leaving the West and
entering the East; the most western of splendid bridges over
the Danube, which is here of noble width and depth, took us
among the traditions of Turkish rule.
We left in pretty good time, and came after nightfall to
Klausenburgh. Here I stopped for the night at the Hotel
Royale. I had for dinner, or rather supper, a chicken done up
some way with red pepper, which was very good but thirsty.
(Mem., get recipe for Mina.) I asked the waiter, and he said it
was called “paprika hendl,” and that, as it was a national
dish, I should be able to get it anywhere along the
Carpathians. I found my smattering of German very useful
here; indeed, I don’t know how I should be able to get on
without it.
 Having had some time at my disposal when in London, I
had visited the British Museum, and made search among the
books and maps in the library regarding Transylvania; it had
struck me that some foreknowledge of the country could
hardly fail to have some importance in dealing with a
nobleman of that country. I find that the district he named is
in the extreme east of the country, just on the borders of
three states, Transylvania, Moldavia and Bukovina, in the
midst of the Carpathian mountains; one of the wildest and
least known portions of Europe. I was not able to light on
any map or work giving the exact locality of the Castle
Dracula, as there are no maps of this country as yet to
compare with our own Ordnance Survey maps; but I found
that Bistritz, the post town named by Count Dracula, is a
fairly well-known place. I shall enter here some of my notes,
as they may refresh my memory when I talk over my travels
with Mina.
In the population of Transylvania there are four distinct
nationalities: Saxons in the South, and mixed with them the
Wallachs, who are the descendants of the Dacians; Magyars
in the West, and Szekelys in the East and North. I am going
among the latter, who claim to be descended from Attila and
the Huns. This may be so, for when the Magyars conquered
the country in the eleventh century they found the Huns
settled in it. I read that every known superstition in the
world is gathered into the horseshoe of the Carpathians, as if
it were the centre of some sort of imaginative whirlpool; if so
my stay may be very interesting. (Mem., I must ask the
Count all about them.)
I did not sleep well, though my bed was comfortable
enough, for I had all sorts of queer dreams. There was a dog
howling all night under my window, which may have had
something to do with it; or it may have been the paprika, for
I had to drink up all the water in my carafe, and was still
thirsty. Towards morning I slept and was wakened by the
continuous knocking at my door, so I guess I must have
been sleeping soundly then. I had for breakfast more
paprika, and a sort of porridge of maize flour which they said
was “mamaliga,” and eggplant stuffed with forcemeat, a
very excellent dish, which they call “impletata.” (Mem., get
recipe for this also.) I had to hurry breakfast, for the train
started a little before eight, or rather it ought to have done
so, for after rushing to the station at 7:30 I had to sit in the
carriage for more than an hour before we began to move. It
seems to me that the further east you go the more
unpunctual are the trains. What ought they to be in China?
All day long we seemed to dawdle through a country
which was full of beauty of every kind. Sometimes we saw
little towns or castles on the top of steep hills such as we see
in old missals; sometimes we ran by rivers and streams
which seemed from the wide stony margin on each side of
them to be subject to great floods. It takes a lot of water,
and running strong, to sweep the outside edge of a river
clear. At every station there were groups of people,
sometimes crowds, and in all sorts of attire. Some of them
were just like the peasants at home or those I saw coming
through France and Germany, with short jackets and round
hats and homemade trousers; but others were very
picturesque. The women looked pretty, except when you got
near them, but they were very clumsy about the waist. They
had all full white sleeves of some kind or other, and most of
them had big belts with a lot of strips of something
fluttering from them like the dresses in a ballet, but of
course there were petticoats under them. The strangest
figures we saw were the Slovaks, who were more barbarian
than the rest, with their big cowboy hats, great baggy dirty-
white trousers, white linen shirts, and enormous heavy
leather belts, nearly a foot wide, all studded over with brass
nails. They wore high boots, with their trousers tucked into
them, and had long black hair and heavy black moustaches.
They are very picturesque, but do not look prepossessing.
On the stage they would be set down at once as some old
Oriental band of brigands. They are, however, I am told, very
harmless and rather wanting in natural self-assertion.
It was on the dark side of twilight when we got to Bistritz,
which is a very interesting old place. Being practically on
the frontier—for the Borgo Pass leads from it into Bukovina—
it has had a very stormy existence, and it certainly shows
marks of it. Fifty years ago a series of great fires took place,
which made terrible havoc on five separate occasions. At the
very beginning of the seventeenth century it underwent a
siege of three weeks and lost 13,000 people, the casualties
of war proper being assisted by famine and disease.
Count Dracula had directed me to go to the Golden Krone
Hotel, which I found, to my great delight, to be thoroughly
old-fashioned, for of course I wanted to see all I could of the
ways of the country. I was evidently expected, for when I got
near the door I faced a cheery-looking elderly woman in the
usual peasant dress—white undergarment with long double
apron, front, and back, of coloured stuff fitting almost too
tight for modesty. When I came close she bowed and said,
“The Herr Englishman?” “Yes,” I said, “Jonathan Harker.” She
smiled, and gave some message to an elderly man in white
shirtsleeves, who had followed her to the door. He went, but
immediately returned with a letter:—

“My Friend.—Welcome to the Carpathians. I am

anxiously expecting you. Sleep well tonight. At three
tomorrow the diligence will start for Bukovina; a place
on it is kept for you. At the Borgo Pass my carriage will
await you and will bring you to me. I trust that your
journey from London has been a happy one, and that
you will enjoy your stay in my beautiful land.

“Your friend,
“DRACULA.”
4 May.—I found that my landlord had got a letter from the
Count, directing him to secure the best place on the coach
for me; but on making inquiries as to details he seemed
somewhat reticent, and pretended that he could not
understand my German. This could not be true, because up
to then he had understood it perfectly; at least, he answered
my questions exactly as if he did. He and his wife, the old
lady who had received me, looked at each other in a
frightened sort of way. He mumbled out that the money had
been sent in a letter, and that was all he knew. When I asked
him if he knew Count Dracula, and could tell me anything of
his castle, both he and his wife crossed themselves, and,
saying that they knew nothing at all, simply refused to
speak further. It was so near the time of starting that I had
no time to ask 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 very hysterical way:
“Must you go? Oh! young Herr, must you go?” She was in
such an excited state that she seemed to have lost her grip
of what German she knew, and mixed it all up with some
other language which I did not know at all. I was just able to
follow her by asking many questions. When I told her that I
must go at once, and that I was engaged on important
business, she asked again:
“Do you know what day it is?” I answered that it was the
fourth of May. She shook her head as she said again:
“Oh, yes! I know that! I know that, but do you know what
day it is?” On my saying that I did not understand, she went
on:
“It is the eve of St. George’s Day. Do you not know that
tonight, when the clock strikes midnight, all the evil things
in the world will have full sway? Do you know where you are
going, and what you are going to?” She was in such evident
distress that I tried to comfort her, but without effect. Finally
she went down on her knees and implored me not to go; at
least to wait a day or two before starting. It was all very
ridiculous but I did not feel comfortable. However, there was
business to be done, and I could allow nothing to interfere
with it. I therefore tried to raise her up, and said, as gravely
as I could, that I thanked her, but my duty was imperative,
and that I must go. She then rose and dried her eyes, and
taking a crucifix from her neck offered it to me. I did not
know what to do, for, as an English Churchman, I have been
taught to regard such things as in some measure idolatrous,
and yet it seemed so ungracious to refuse an old lady
meaning so well and in such a state of mind. She saw, I
suppose, the doubt in my face, for she put the rosary round
my neck, and said, “For your mother’s sake,” and went out of
the room. I am writing up this part of the diary whilst I am
waiting for the coach, which is, of course, late; and the
crucifix is still round my neck. Whether it is the old lady’s
fear, or the many ghostly traditions of this place, or the
crucifix itself, I do not know, but I am not feeling nearly as
easy in my mind as usual. If this book should ever reach
Mina before I do, let it bring my goodbye. Here comes the
coach!

5 May. The Castle.—The grey of the morning has passed,

and the sun is high over the distant horizon, which seems
jagged, whether with trees or hills I know not, for it is so far
off that big things and little are mixed. I am not sleepy, and,
as I am not to be called till I awake, naturally I write till sleep
comes. There are many odd things to put down, and, lest
who reads them may fancy that I dined too well before I left
Bistritz, let me put down my dinner exactly. I dined on what
they called “robber steak”—bits of bacon, onion, and beef,
seasoned with red pepper, and strung on sticks and roasted
over the fire, in the simple style of the London cat’s meat!
The wine was Golden Mediasch, which produces a queer
sting on the tongue, which is, however, not disagreeable. I
had only a couple of glasses of this, and nothing else.
When I got on the coach the driver had not taken his seat,
and I saw him talking with the landlady. They were evidently
talking of me, for every now and then they looked at me,
and some of the people who were sitting on the bench
outside the door—which they call by a name meaning
“word-bearer”—came and listened, and then looked at me,
most of them pityingly. I could hear a lot of words often
repeated, queer words, for there were many nationalities in
the crowd; so I quietly got my polyglot dictionary from my
bag and looked them out. I must say they were not cheering
to me, for amongst them were “Ordog”—Satan, “pokol”—
hell, “stregoica”—witch, “vrolok” and “vlkoslak”—both of
which mean the same thing, one being Slovak and the other
Servian for something that is either werewolf or vampire.
(Mem., I must ask the Count about these superstitions)
When we started, the crowd round the inn door, which had
by this time swelled to a considerable size, all made the sign
of the cross and pointed two fingers towards me. With some
difficulty I got a fellow-passenger to tell me what they
meant; he would not answer at first, but on learning that I
was English, he explained that it was a charm or guard
against the evil eye. This was not very pleasant for me, just
starting for an unknown place to meet an unknown man; but
everyone seemed so kindhearted, and so sorrowful, and so
sympathetic that I could not but be touched. I shall never
forget the last glimpse which I had of the inn-yard and its
crowd of picturesque figures, all crossing themselves, as
they stood round the wide archway, with its background of
rich foliage of oleander and orange trees in green tubs
clustered in the centre of the yard. Then our driver, whose
wide linen drawers covered the whole front of the box-
seat—“gotza” they call them—cracked his big whip over his
four small horses, which ran abreast, and we set off on our
journey.
 I soon lost sight and recollection of ghostly fears in the
beauty of the scene as we drove along, although had I
known the language, or rather languages, which my fellow-
passengers were speaking, I might not have been able to
throw them off so easily. Before us lay a green sloping land
full of forests and woods, with here and there steep hills,
crowned with clumps of trees or with farmhouses, the blank
gable end to the road. There was everywhere a bewildering
mass of fruit blossom—apple, plum, pear, cherry; and as we
drove by I could see the green grass under the trees
spangled with the fallen petals. In and out amongst these
green hills of what they call here the “Mittel Land” ran the
road, losing itself as it swept round the grassy curve, or was
shut out by the straggling ends of pine woods, which here
and there ran down the 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 emphasised 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, hayricks in
the trees, and here and there very beautiful masses of
weeping birch, their white stems shining like silver through
the delicate green of the leaves. Now and again we passed a
leiter-wagon—the ordinary peasant’s cart—with its long,
snakelike vertebra, calculated to suit the inequalities of the
road. On this were sure to be seated quite a group of
homecoming peasants, the Cszeks with their white, and the
Slovaks with their coloured, sheepskins, the latter carrying
lance-fashion their long staves, with axe at end. As the
evening fell it began to get very cold, and the growing
twilight seemed to merge into one dark mistiness the gloom
of the trees, oak, beech, and pine, though in the valleys
which ran deep between the spurs of the hills, as we
ascended through the Pass, the dark firs stood out here and
there against the background of late-lying snow. Sometimes,
as the road was cut through the pine woods that seemed in
the darkness to be closing down upon us, great masses of
greyness, which here and there bestrewed the trees,
produced a peculiarly weird and solemn effect, which carried
on the thoughts and grim fancies engendered earlier in the
evening, when the falling sunset threw into strange relief
the ghostlike clouds which amongst the Carpathians seem to
wind ceaselessly through the valleys. Sometimes the hills
were so steep that, despite our driver’s haste, the horses
could only go slowly. I wished to get down and walk up
them, as we do at home, but the driver would not hear of it.
“No, no,” he said; “you must not walk here; the dogs are too
fierce”; and then he added, with what he evidently meant
for grim pleasantry—for he looked round to catch the
approving smile of the rest—“and you may have enough of
such matters before you go to sleep.” The only stop he
would make was a moment’s pause to light his lamps.
When it grew dark there seemed to be some excitement
amongst the passengers, and they kept speaking to him,
one after the other, as though urging him to further speed.
He lashed the horses unmercifully with his long whip, and
with wild cries of encouragement urged them on to further
exertions. Then through the darkness I could see a sort of
patch of grey light ahead of us, as though there were a cleft
in the hills. The excitement of the passengers grew greater;
the crazy coach rocked on its great leather springs, and
swayed like a boat tossed on a stormy sea. I had to hold on.
The road grew more level, and we appeared to fly along.
Then the mountains seemed to come nearer to us on each
side and to frown down upon us; we were entering on the
Borgo Pass. One by one several of the passengers offered me
gifts, which they pressed upon me with an earnestness
which would take no denial; these were certainly of an odd
and varied kind, but each was given in simple good faith,
with a kindly word, and a blessing, and that strange mixture
of fear-meaning movements which I had seen outside the
hotel at Bistritz—the sign of the cross and the guard against
the evil eye. Then, as we flew along, the driver leaned
forward, and on each side the passengers, craning over the
edge of the coach, peered eagerly into the darkness. It was
evident that something very exciting was either happening
or expected, but though I asked each passenger, no one
would give me the slightest explanation. This state of
excitement kept on for some little time; and at last we saw
before us the Pass opening out on the eastern side. There
were dark, rolling clouds overhead, and in the air the heavy,
oppressive sense of thunder. It seemed as though the
mountain range had separated two atmospheres, and that
now we had got into the thunderous one. I was now myself
looking out for the conveyance which was to take me to the
Count. Each moment I expected to see the glare of lamps
through the blackness; but all was dark. The only light was
the flickering rays of our own lamps, in which the steam
from our hard-driven horses rose in a white cloud. We could
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 said in German worse
than my own:—
“There is no carriage here. The Herr is not expected after
all. He will now come on to Bukovina, and return tomorrow or
the next day; better the next day.” Whilst he was speaking
the horses began to neigh and snort and plunge wildly, so
that the driver had to hold them up. Then, amongst a chorus
of screams from the peasants and a universal crossing of
themselves, a calèche, with four horses, drove up behind us,
overtook us, and drew up beside the coach. I could see from
the flash of our lamps, as the rays fell on them, that the
horses were coal-black and splendid animals. They were
driven by a tall man, with a long brown beard and a great
black hat, which seemed to hide his face from us. I could
only see the gleam of a pair of very bright eyes, which
seemed red in the lamplight, as he turned to us. He said to
the driver:—
“You are early tonight, my friend.” The man stammered in
reply:—
“The English Herr was in a hurry,” to which the stranger
replied:—
“That is why, I suppose, you wished him to go on to
Bukovina. You cannot deceive me, my friend; I know too
much, and my horses are swift.” As he spoke he smiled, and
the lamplight fell on a hard-looking mouth, with very red lips
and sharp-looking teeth, as white as ivory. One of my
companions whispered to another the line from Burger’s
“Lenore”:—

“Denn die Todten reiten schnell”—

(“For the dead travel fast.”)

The strange driver evidently heard the words, for he

looked up with a gleaming smile. The passenger turned his
face away, at the same time putting out his two fingers and
crossing himself. “Give me the Herr’s luggage,” said the
driver; and with exceeding alacrity my bags were handed
out and put in the calèche. Then I descended from the side
of the coach, as the calèche was close alongside, the driver
helping me with a hand which caught my arm in a grip of
steel; his strength must have been prodigious. Without a
word he shook his reins, the horses turned, and we swept
into the darkness of the Pass. As I looked back I saw the
steam from the horses of the coach by the light of the lamps,
and projected against it the figures of my late companions
crossing themselves. Then the driver cracked his whip and
called to his horses, and off they swept on their way to
Bukovina. As they sank into the darkness I felt a strange
chill, and a lonely feeling came over me; but a cloak was
thrown over my shoulders, and a rug across my knees, and
the driver said in excellent German:—
“The night is chill, mein Herr, and my master the Count
bade me take all care of you. There is a flask of slivovitz (the
plum brandy of the country) underneath the seat, if you
should require it.” I did not take any, but it was a comfort to
know it was there all the same. I felt a little strangely, and
not a little frightened. I think had there been any alternative
I should have taken it, instead of prosecuting that unknown
night journey. The carriage went at a hard pace straight
along, then we made a complete turn and went along
another straight road. It seemed to me that we were simply
going over and over the same ground again; and so I took
note of some salient point, and found that this was so. I
would have liked to have asked the driver what this all
meant, but I really feared to do so, for I thought that, placed
as I was, any protest would have had no effect in case there
had been an intention to delay. By-and-by, however, as I was
curious to know how time was passing, I struck a match, and
by its flame looked at my watch; it was within a few minutes
of midnight. This gave me a sort of shock, for I suppose the
general superstition about midnight was increased by my
recent experiences. I waited with a sick feeling of suspense.
Then a dog began to howl somewhere in a farmhouse far
down the road—a long, agonised 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 calèche and run, whilst they reared again and plunged
madly, so that the driver had to use all his great strength to
keep them from bolting. In a few minutes, however, my own
ears got accustomed to the sound, and the horses so far
became quiet that the driver was able to descend and to
stand before them. He petted and soothed them, and
whispered something in their ears, as I have heard of horse-
tamers doing, and with extraordinary effect, for under his
caresses they became quite manageable again, though they
still trembled. The driver again took his seat, and shaking
his reins, started off at a great pace. This time, after going to
the far side of the Pass, he suddenly turned down a narrow
roadway which ran sharply to the right.
Soon we were hemmed in with trees, which in places
arched right over the roadway till we passed as through a
tunnel; and again great frowning rocks guarded us boldly on
either side. Though we were in shelter, we could hear the
rising wind, for it moaned and whistled through the rocks,
and the branches of the trees crashed together as we swept
along. It grew colder and colder still, and fine, powdery snow
began to fall, so that soon we and all around us were
covered with a white blanket. The keen wind still carried the
howling of the dogs, though this grew fainter as we went on
our way. The baying of the wolves sounded nearer and
nearer, as though they were closing round on us from every
side. I grew dreadfully afraid, and the horses shared my fear.
The driver, however, was not in the least disturbed; he kept
turning his head to left and right, but I could not see
anything through the darkness.
Suddenly, away on our left, I saw a faint flickering blue
flame. The driver saw it at the same moment; he at once
checked the horses, and, jumping to the ground,
disappeared into the darkness. I did not know what to do,
the less as the howling of the wolves grew closer; but while I
wondered the driver suddenly appeared again, and without
a word took his seat, and we resumed our journey. I think I
must have fallen asleep and kept dreaming of the incident,
for it seemed to be repeated endlessly, and now looking
back, it is like a sort of awful nightmare. Once the flame
appeared so near the road, that even in the darkness around
us I could watch the driver’s motions. He went rapidly to
where the blue flame arose—it must have been very faint,
for it did not seem to illumine the place around it at all—and
gathering a few stones, formed them into some device. Once
there appeared a strange optical effect: when he stood
between me and the flame he did not obstruct it, for I could
see its ghostly flicker all the same. This startled me, but as
the effect was only momentary, I took it that my eyes
deceived me straining through the darkness. Then for a time
there were no blue flames, and we sped onwards through
the gloom, with the howling of the wolves around us, as
though they were following in a moving circle.
At last there came a time when the driver went further
afield than he had yet gone, and during his absence, the
horses began to tremble worse than ever and to snort and
scream with fright. I could not see any cause for it, for the
howling of the wolves had ceased altogether; but just then
the moon, sailing through the black clouds, appeared
behind the jagged crest of a beetling, pine-clad rock, and by
its light I saw around us a ring of wolves, with white teeth
and lolling red tongues, with long, sinewy limbs and shaggy
hair. They were a hundred times more terrible in the grim
silence which held them than even when they howled. For
myself, I felt a sort of paralysis of fear. It is only when a man
feels himself face to face with such horrors that he can
understand their true import.
All at once the wolves began to howl as though the
moonlight had had some peculiar effect on them. The horses
jumped about and reared, and looked helplessly round with
eyes that rolled in a way painful to see; but the living ring of
terror encompassed them on every side; and they had
perforce to remain within it. I called to the coachman to
come, for it seemed to me that our only chance was to try to
break out through the ring and to aid his approach. I
shouted and beat the side of the calèche, hoping by the
noise to scare the wolves from that side, so as to give him a
chance of reaching the trap. How he came there, I know not,
but I heard his voice raised in a tone of imperious command,
and looking towards the sound, saw him stand in the
roadway. As he swept his long arms, as though brushing
aside some impalpable obstacle, the wolves fell back and
back further still. Just then a heavy cloud passed across the
face of the moon, so that we were again in darkness.
When I could see again the driver was climbing into the
calèche, and the wolves had disappeared. This was all so
strange and uncanny that a dreadful fear came upon me,
and I was afraid to speak or move. The time seemed
interminable as we swept on our way, now in almost
complete darkness, for the rolling clouds obscured the
moon. We kept on ascending, with occasional periods of
quick descent, but in the main always ascending. Suddenly,
I became conscious of the fact that the driver was in the act
of pulling up the horses in the courtyard of a vast ruined
castle, from whose tall black windows came no ray of light,
and whose broken battlements showed a jagged line against
the moonlit sky.
 II

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 calèche stopped, the driver jumped down and
held out his hand to assist me to alight. Again I could not
but notice his prodigious strength. His hand actually seemed
like a steel vice that could have crushed mine if he had
chosen. Then he took out my traps, and placed them on the
ground beside me as I stood close to a great door, old and
studded with large iron nails, and set in a projecting
doorway of massive stone. I could see even in the dim light
that the stone was massively carved, but that the carving
had been much worn by time and weather. As I stood, the
driver jumped again into his seat and shook the reins; the
horses started forward, and trap and all disappeared down
one of the dark openings.
I stood in silence where I was, for I did not know what to
do. Of bell or knocker there was no sign; through these
frowning walls and dark window openings it was not likely
that my voice could penetrate. The time I waited seemed
endless, and I felt doubts and fears crowding upon me. What
sort of place had I come to, and among what kind of people?
What sort of grim adventure was it on which I had
embarked? Was this a customary incident in the life of a
solicitor’s clerk sent out to explain the purchase of a London
estate to a foreigner? Solicitor’s clerk! Mina would not like
that. Solicitor—for just before leaving London I got word that
my examination was successful; and I am now a full-blown
solicitor! I began to rub my eyes and pinch myself to see if I
were awake. It all seemed like a horrible nightmare to me,
and I expected that I should suddenly awake, and find
myself at home, with the dawn struggling in through the
windows, as I had now and again felt in the morning after a
day of overwork. But my flesh answered the pinching test,
and my eyes were not to be deceived. I was indeed awake
and among the Carpathians. All I could do now was to be
patient, and to wait the coming of the morning.
Just as I had come to this conclusion I heard a heavy step
approaching behind the great door, and saw through the
chinks the gleam of a coming light. Then there was the
sound of rattling chains and the clanking of massive bolts
drawn back. A key was turned with the loud grating noise of
long disuse, and the great door swung back.
Within, stood a tall old man, clean shaven save for a long
white moustache, and clad in black from head to foot,
without a single speck of colour about him anywhere. He
held in his hand an antique silver lamp, in which the flame
burned without chimney or globe of any kind, throwing long
quivering shadows as it flickered in the draught of the open
door. The old man motioned me in with his right hand with a
courtly gesture, saying in excellent English, but with a
strange intonation:—
“Welcome to my house! Enter freely and of your own will!”
He made no motion of stepping to meet me, but stood like a
statue, as though his gesture of welcome had fixed him into
stone. The instant, however, that I had stepped over the
threshold, he moved impulsively forward, and holding out
his hand grasped mine with a strength which made me
wince, an effect which was not lessened by the fact that it
seemed as cold as ice—more like the hand of a dead than a
living man. Again he said:—
“Welcome to my house. Come freely. Go safely; and leave
something of the happiness you bring!” The strength of the
handshake was so much akin to that which I had noticed in
the driver, whose face I had not seen, that for a moment I
doubted if it were not the same person to whom I was
speaking; so to make sure, I said interrogatively:—
“Count Dracula?” He bowed in a courtly way as he
replied:—
“I am Dracula; and I bid you welcome, Mr. Harker, to my
house. Come in; the night air is chill, and you must need to
eat and rest.” As he was speaking, he put the lamp on a
bracket on the wall, and stepping out, took my luggage; he
had carried it in before I could forestall him. I protested but
he insisted:—
“Nay, sir, you are my guest. It is late, and my people are
not available. Let me see to your comfort myself.” He
insisted on carrying my traps along the passage, and then
up a great winding stair, and along another great passage,
on whose stone floor our steps rang heavily. At the end of
this he threw open a heavy door, and I rejoiced to see within
a well-lit room in which a table was spread for supper, and
on whose mighty hearth a great fire of logs, freshly
replenished, flamed and flared.
The Count halted, putting down my bags, closed the door,
and crossing the room, opened another door, which led into
a small octagonal room lit by a single lamp, and seemingly
without a window of any sort. Passing through this, he
opened another door, and motioned me to enter. It was a
welcome sight; for here was a great bedroom well lighted
and warmed with another log fire—also added to but lately,
for the top logs were fresh—which sent a hollow roar up the
wide chimney. The Count himself left my luggage inside and
withdrew, saying, before he closed the door:—
“You will need, after your journey, to refresh yourself by
making your toilet. I trust you will find all you wish. When
you are ready, come into the other room, where you will find
your supper prepared.”
The light and warmth and the Count’s courteous welcome
seemed to have dissipated all my doubts and fears. Having
then reached my normal state, I discovered that I was half
famished with hunger; so making a hasty toilet, I went into
the other room.
I found supper already laid out. My host, who stood on one
side of the great fireplace, leaning against the stonework,
made a graceful wave of his hand to the table, and said:—
“I pray you, be seated and sup how you please. You will, I
trust, excuse me that I do not join you; but I have dined
already, and I do not sup.”
I handed to him the sealed letter which Mr. Hawkins had
entrusted to me. He opened it and read it gravely; then, with
a charming smile, he handed it to me to read. One passage
of it, at least, gave me a thrill of pleasure.
“I must regret that an attack of gout, from which malady I
am a constant sufferer, forbids absolutely any travelling on
my part for some time to come; but I am happy to say I can
send a sufficient substitute, one in whom I have every
possible confidence. He is a young man, full of energy and
talent in his own way, and of a very faithful disposition. He is
discreet and silent, and has grown into manhood in my
service. He shall be ready to attend on you when you will
during his stay, and shall take your instructions in all
matters.”
The Count himself came forward and took off the cover of
a dish, and I fell to at once on an excellent roast chicken.
This, with some cheese and a salad and a bottle of old Tokay,
of which I had two glasses, was my supper. During the time I
was eating it the Count asked me many questions as to my
journey, and I told him by degrees all I had experienced.
By this time I had finished my supper, and by my host’s
desire had drawn up a chair by the fire and begun to smoke
a cigar which he offered me, at the same time excusing
himself that he did not smoke. I had now an opportunity of
observing him, and found him of a very marked
physiognomy.
His face was a strong—a very strong—aquiline, with high
bridge of the thin nose and peculiarly arched nostrils; with
lofty domed forehead, and hair growing scantily round the
temples but profusely elsewhere. His eyebrows were very
massive, almost meeting over the nose, and with bushy hair
that seemed to curl in its own profusion. The mouth, so far
as I could see it under the heavy moustache, was fixed and
rather cruel-looking, with peculiarly sharp white teeth; these
protruded over the lips, whose remarkable ruddiness showed
astonishing vitality in a man of his years. For the rest, his
ears were pale, and at the tops extremely pointed; the chin
was broad and strong, and the cheeks firm though thin. The
general effect was one of extraordinary pallor.
Hitherto I had noticed the backs of his hands as they lay
on his knees in the firelight, and they had seemed rather
white and fine; but seeing them now close to me, I could not
but notice that they were rather coarse—broad, with squat
fingers. Strange to say, there were hairs in the centre of the
palm. The nails were long and fine, and cut to a sharp point.
As the Count leaned over me and his hands touched me, I
could not repress a shudder. It may have been that his
breath was rank, but a horrible feeling of nausea came over
me, which, do what I would, I could not conceal. The Count,
evidently noticing it, drew back; and with a grim sort of
smile, which showed more than he had yet done his
protuberant teeth, sat himself down again on his own side of
the fireplace. We were both silent for a while; and as I looked
towards the window I saw the first dim streak of the coming
dawn. There seemed a strange stillness over everything; but
as I listened I heard as if from down below in the valley the
howling of many wolves. The Count’s eyes gleamed, and he
said:—
“Listen to them—the children of the night. What music
they make!” Seeing, I suppose, some expression in my face
strange to him, he added:—
“Ah, sir, you dwellers in the city cannot enter into the
feelings of the hunter.” Then he rose and said:—
“But you must be tired. Your bedroom is all ready, and
tomorrow you shall sleep as late as you will. I have to be
away till the afternoon; so sleep well and dream well!” With
a courteous bow, he opened for me himself the door to the
octagonal room, and I entered my bedroom. …
I am all in a sea of wonders. I doubt; I fear; I think strange
things, which I dare not confess to my own soul. God keep
me, if only for the sake of those dear to me!

7 May.—It is again early morning, but I have rested and

enjoyed the last twenty-four hours. I slept till late in the day,
and awoke of my own accord. When I had dressed myself I
went into the room where we had supped, and found a cold
breakfast laid out, with coffee kept hot by the pot being
placed on the hearth. There was a card on the table, on
which was written:—
“I have to be absent for a while. Do not wait for me.—D.” I
set to and enjoyed a hearty meal. When I had done, I looked
for a bell, so that I might let the servants know I had
finished; but I could not find one. There are certainly odd
deficiencies in the house, considering the extraordinary
evidences of wealth which are round me. The table service is
of gold, and so beautifully wrought that it must be of
immense value. The curtains and upholstery of the chairs
and sofas and the hangings of my bed are of the costliest
and most beautiful fabrics, and must have been of fabulous
value when they were made, for they are centuries old,
though in excellent order. I saw something like them in
Hampton Court, but there they were worn and frayed and
moth-eaten. But still in none of the rooms is there a mirror.
There is not even a toilet glass on my table, and I had to get
the little shaving glass from my bag before I could either
shave or brush my hair. I have not yet seen a servant
anywhere, or heard a sound near the castle except the
howling of wolves. Some time after I had finished my meal—I
do not know whether to call it breakfast or dinner, for it was
between five and six o’clock when I had it—I looked about
for something to read, for I did not like to go about the castle
until I had asked the Count’s permission. There was
absolutely nothing in the room, book, newspaper, or even
writing materials; so I opened another door in the room and
found a sort of library. The door opposite mine I tried, but
found it locked.
In the library I found, to my great delight, a vast number of
English books, whole shelves full of them, and bound
volumes of magazines and newspapers. A table in the centre
was littered with English magazines and newspapers,
though none of them were of very recent date. The books
were of the most varied kind—history, geography, politics,
political economy, botany, geology, law—all relating to
England and English life and customs and manners. There
were even such books of reference as the London Directory,
the “Red” and “Blue” books, Whitaker’s 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 boyar; the common people know me, and I am
master. But a stranger in a strange land, he is no one; men
know him not—and to know not is to care not for. I am
content if I am like the rest, so that no man stops if he see
me, or pause in his speaking if he hear my words, ‘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 awhile, 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 old days there were
stirring times, when the Austrian and the Hungarian came
up in hordes, and the patriots went out to meet them—men
and women, the aged and the children too—and waited their
coming on the rocks above the passes, that they might
sweep destruction on them with their artificial avalanches.
When the invader was triumphant he found but little, for
whatever there was had been sheltered in the friendly soil.”
“But how,” said I, “can it have remained so long
undiscovered, when there is a sure index to it if men will but
take the trouble to look?” The Count smiled, and as his lips
ran back over his gums, the long, sharp, canine teeth
showed out strangely; he answered:—
“Because your peasant is at heart a coward and a fool!
Those flames only appear on one night; and on that night no
man of this land will, if he can help it, stir without his doors.
And, dear sir, even if he did he would not know what to do.
Why, even the peasant that you tell me of who marked the
place of the flame would not know where to look in daylight
even for his own work. Even you would not, I dare be sworn,
be able to find these places again?”
“There you are right,” I said. “I know no more than the
dead where even to look for them.” Then we drifted into
other matters.
“Come,” he said at last, “tell me of London and of the
house which you have procured for me.” With an apology for
my remissness, I went into my own room to get the papers
from my bag. Whilst I was placing them in order I heard a
rattling of china and silver in the next room, and as I passed
through, noticed that the table had been cleared and the
lamp lit, for it was by this time deep into the dark. The lamps
were also lit in the study or library, and I found the Count
lying on the sofa, reading, of all things in the world, an
English Bradshaw’s Guide. When I came in he cleared the
books and papers from the table; and with him I went into
plans and deeds and figures of all sorts. He was interested in
everything, and asked me a myriad questions about the
place and its surroundings. He clearly had studied
beforehand all he could get on the subject of the
neighbourhood, for he evidently at the end knew very much
more than I did. When I remarked this, he answered:—
 “Well, but, my friend, is it not needful that I should? When
I go there I shall be all alone, and my friend Harker
Jonathan—nay, pardon me, I fall into my country’s habit of
putting your patronymic first—my friend Jonathan Harker
will not be by my side to correct and aid me. He will be in
Exeter, miles away, probably working at papers of the law
with my other friend, Peter Hawkins. So!”
We went thoroughly into the business of the purchase of
the estate at Purfleet. When I had told him the facts and got
his signature to the necessary papers, and had written a
letter with them ready to post to Mr. Hawkins, he began to
ask me how I had come across so suitable a place. I read to
him the notes which I had made at the time, and which I
inscribe here:—
“At Purfleet, on a byroad, I came across just such a place
as seemed to be required, and where was displayed a
dilapidated notice that the place was for sale. It is
surrounded by a high wall, of ancient structure, built of
heavy stones, and has not been repaired for a large number
of years. The closed gates 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 medieval
times, for one part is of stone immensely thick, with only a
few windows high up and heavily barred with iron. It looks
like part of a keep, and is close to an old chapel or church. I
could not enter it, as I had not the key of the door leading to
it from the house, but I have taken with my kodak views of it
from various points. The house has been added to, but in a
very straggling way, and I can only guess at the amount of
ground it covers, which must be very great. There are but
few houses close at hand, one being a very large house only
recently added to and formed into a private lunatic asylum.
It is not, however, visible from the grounds.”
When I had finished, he said:—
“I am glad that it is old and big. I myself am of an old
family, and to live in a new house would kill me. A house
cannot be made habitable in a day; and, after all, how few
days go to make up a century. I rejoice also that there is a
chapel of old times. We Transylvanian nobles love not to
think that our bones may lie amongst the common dead. I
seek not gaiety nor mirth, not the bright voluptuousness of
much sunshine and sparkling waters which please the
young and gay. I am no longer young; and my heart, through
weary years of mourning over the dead, is not attuned to
mirth. Moreover, the walls of my castle are broken; the
shadows are many, and the wind breathes cold through the
broken battlements and casements. I love the shade and the
shadow, and would be alone with my thoughts when I may.”
Somehow his words and his look did not seem to accord, or
else it was that his cast of face made his smile look
malignant and saturnine.
Presently, with an excuse, he left me, asking me to put all
my papers together. He was some little time away, and I
began to look at some of the books around me. One was an
atlas, which I found opened naturally at England, as if that
map had been much used. On looking at it I found in certain
places little rings marked, and on examining these I noticed
that one was near London on the east side, manifestly where
his new estate was situated; the other two were Exeter, and
Whitby on the Yorkshire coast.
It was the better part of an hour when the Count returned.
“Aha!” he said; “still at your books? Good! But you must not
work always. Come; I am informed that your supper is
ready.” He took my arm, and we went into the next room,
where I found an excellent supper ready on the table. The
Count again excused himself, as he had dined out on his
being away from home. But he sat as on the previous night,
and chatted whilst I ate. After supper I smoked, as on the
last evening, and the Count stayed with me, chatting and
asking questions on every conceivable subject, hour after
hour. I felt that it was getting very late indeed, but I did not
say anything, for I felt under obligation to meet my host’s
wishes in every way. I was not sleepy, as the long sleep
yesterday had fortified me; but I could not help experiencing
that chill which comes over one at the coming of the dawn,
which is like, in its way, the turn of the tide. They say that
people who are near death die generally at the change to
the dawn or at the turn of the tide; 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 a cock coming up with preternatural
shrillness through the clear morning air; Count Dracula,
jumping to his feet, said:—
“Why, there is the morning again! How remiss I am to let
you stay up so long. You must make your conversation
regarding my dear new country of England less interesting,
so that I may not forget how time flies by us,” and, with a
courtly bow, he quickly left me.
I went into my own room and drew the curtains, but there
was little to notice; my window opened into the courtyard,
all I could see was the warm grey of quickening sky. So I
pulled the curtains again, and have written of this day.

8 May.—I began to fear as I wrote in this book that I was

getting too diffuse; but now I am glad that I went into detail
from the first, for there is something so strange about this
place and all in it that I cannot but feel uneasy. I wish I were
safe out of it, or that I had never come. It may be that this
strange night-existence is telling on me; but would that that
were all! If there were anyone to talk to I could bear it, but
there is no one. I have only the Count to speak with, and
he!—I fear I am myself the only living soul within the place.
Let me be prosaic so far as facts can be; it will help me to
bear up, and imagination must not run riot with me. If it
does I am lost. Let me say at once how I stand—or seem to.
I only slept a few hours when I went to bed, and feeling
that I could not sleep any more, got up. I had hung my
shaving glass by the window, and was just beginning to
shave. Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder, and heard the
Count’s voice saying to me, “Good morning.” I started, for it
amazed me that I had not seen him, since the reflection of
the glass covered the whole room behind me. In starting I
had cut myself slightly, but did not notice it at the moment.
Having answered the Count’s salutation, I turned to the
glass again to see how I had been mistaken. This time there
could be no error, for the man was close to me, and I could
see him over my shoulder. But there was no reflection of him
in the mirror! The whole room behind me was displayed; but
there was no sign of a man in it, except myself. This was
startling, and, coming on the top of so many strange things,
was beginning to increase that vague feeling of uneasiness
which I always have when the Count is near; but at the
instant I saw that the cut had bled a little, and the blood was
trickling over my chin. I laid down the razor, turning as I did
so half round to look for some sticking plaster. When the
Count saw my face, his eyes blazed with a sort of demoniac
fury, and he suddenly made a grab at my throat. I drew
away, and his hand touched the string of beads which held
the crucifix. It made an instant change in him, for the fury
passed so quickly that I could hardly believe that it was ever
there.
“Take care,” he said, “take care how you cut yourself. It is
more dangerous than you think in this country.” Then
seizing the shaving glass, he went on: “And this is the
wretched thing that has done the mischief. It is a foul bauble
of man’s vanity. Away with it!” and opening the heavy
window with one wrench of his terrible hand, he flung out
the glass, which was shattered into a thousand pieces on the
stones of the courtyard far below. Then he withdrew without
a word. It is very annoying, for I do not see how I am to
shave, unless in my watch-case or the bottom of the
shaving-pot, which is fortunately of metal.
When I went into the dining-room, breakfast was prepared;
but I could not find the Count anywhere. So I breakfasted
alone. It is strange that as yet I have not seen the Count eat
or drink. He must be a very peculiar man! After breakfast I
did a little exploring in the castle. I went out on the stairs,
and found a room looking towards the South. The view was
magnificent, and from where I stood there was every
opportunity of seeing it. The castle is on the very edge of a
terrible precipice. A stone falling from the window would fall
a thousand feet without touching anything! As far as the eye
can reach is a sea of green tree tops, with occasionally a
deep rift where there is a chasm. Here and there are silver
threads where the rivers wind in deep gorges through the
forests.
But I am not in heart to describe beauty, for when I had
seen the view I explored further; doors, doors, doors
everywhere, and all locked and bolted. In no place save from
the windows in the castle walls is there an available exit.
The castle is a veritable prison, and I am a prisoner!
 III

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL—CONTINUED

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

came over me. I rushed up and down the stairs, trying every
door and peering out of every window I could find; but after
a little the conviction of my helplessness overpowered all
other feelings. When I look back after a few hours I think I
must have been mad for the time, for I behaved much as a
rat does in a trap. When, however, the conviction had come
to me that I was helpless I sat down quietly—as quietly as I
have ever done anything in my life—and began to think
over what was best to be done. I am thinking still, and as yet
have come to no definite conclusion. Of one thing only am I
certain; that it is no use making my ideas known to the
Count. He knows well that I am imprisoned; and as he has
done it himself, and has doubtless his own motives for it, he
would only deceive me if I trusted him fully with the facts.
So far as I can see, my only plan will be to keep my
knowledge and my fears to myself, and my eyes open. I am,
I know, either being deceived, like a baby, by my own fears,
or else I am in desperate straits; and if the latter be so, I
need, and shall need, all my brains to get through.
I had hardly come to this conclusion when I heard the
great door below shut, and knew that the Count had
returned. He did not come at once into the library, so I went
cautiously to my own room and found him making the bed.
This was odd, but only confirmed what I had all along
thought—that there were no servants in the house. When
later I saw him through the chink of the hinges of the door
laying the table in the dining-room, I was assured of it; for if
he does himself all these menial offices, surely it is proof
that there is no one else to do them. This gave me a fright,
for if there is no one else in the castle, it must have been the
Count himself who was the driver of the coach that brought
me here. This is a terrible thought; for if so, what does it
mean that he could control the wolves, as he did, by only
holding up his hand in silence. How was it that all the people
at Bistritz and on the coach had some terrible fear for me?
What meant the giving of the crucifix, of the garlic, of the
wild rose, of the mountain ash? Bless that good, good
woman who hung the crucifix round my neck! for it is a
comfort and a strength to me whenever I touch it. It is odd
that a thing which I have been taught to regard with
disfavour and as idolatrous should in a time of loneliness
and trouble be of help. Is it that there is something in the
essence of the thing itself, or that it is a medium, a tangible
help, in conveying memories of sympathy and comfort?
Some time, if it may be, I must examine this matter and try
to make up my mind about it. In the meantime I must find
out all I can about Count Dracula, as it may help me to
understand. Tonight he may talk of himself, if I turn the
conversation that way. I must be very careful, however, not
to awake his suspicion.

Midnight.—I have had a long talk with the Count. I asked him
a few questions on Transylvania history, and he warmed up
to the subject wonderfully. In his speaking of things and
people, and especially of battles, he spoke as if he had been
present at them all. This he afterwards explained by saying
that to a boyar the pride of his house and name is his own
pride, that their glory is his glory, that their fate is his fate.
Whenever he spoke of his house he always said “we,” and
spoke almost in the plural, like a king speaking. I wish I
could put down all he said exactly as he said it, for to me it
was most fascinating. It seemed to have in it a whole history
of the country. He grew excited as he spoke, and walked
about the room pulling his great white moustache and
grasping anything on which he laid his hands as though he
would crush it by main strength. One thing he said which I
shall put down as nearly as I can; for it tells in its way the
story of his race:—
“We Szekelys have a right to be proud, for in our veins
flows the blood of many brave races who fought as the lion
fights, for lordship. Here, in the whirlpool of European races,
the Ugric tribe bore down from Iceland the fighting spirit
which Thor and Wodin gave them, which their Berserkers
displayed to such fell intent on the seaboards of Europe, ay,
and of Asia and Africa too, till the peoples thought that the
werewolves themselves had come. Here, too, when they
came, they found the Huns, whose warlike fury had swept
the earth like a living flame, till the dying peoples held that
in their veins ran the blood of those old witches, who,
expelled from Scythia had mated with the devils in the
desert. Fools, fools! What devil or what witch was ever so
great as Attila, whose blood is in these veins?” He held up
his arms. “Is it a wonder that we were a conquering race;
that we were proud; that when the Magyar, the Lombard, the
Avar, the Bulgar, or the Turk poured his thousands on our
frontiers, we drove them back? Is it strange that when Arpad
and his legions swept through the Hungarian fatherland he
found us here when he reached the frontier; that the
Honfoglalas was completed there? And when the Hungarian
flood swept eastward, the Szekelys were claimed as kindred
by the victorious Magyars, and to us for centuries was
trusted the guarding of the frontier of Turkey-land; ay, and
more than that, endless duty of the frontier guard, for, as the
Turks say, ‘water sleeps, and enemy is sleepless.’ Who more
gladly than we throughout the Four Nations received the
‘bloody sword,’ or at its warlike call flocked quicker to the
standard of the King? When was redeemed that great shame
of my nation, the shame of Cassova, when the flags of the
Wallach and the Magyar went down beneath the Crescent?
Who was it but one of my own race who as Voivode crossed
the Danube and beat the Turk on his own ground? This was a
Dracula indeed! Woe was it that his own unworthy brother,
when he had fallen, sold his people to the Turk and brought
the shame of slavery on them! Was it not this Dracula,
indeed, who inspired that other of his race who in a later age
again and again brought his forces over the great river into
Turkey-land; who, when he was beaten back, came again,
and again, and again, though he had to come alone from the
bloody field where his troops were being slaughtered, since
he knew that he alone could ultimately triumph! 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 Mohács, 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, meagre facts,
verified by books and figures, and of which there can be no
doubt. I must not confuse them with experiences which will
have to rest on my own observation, or my memory of them.
Last evening when the Count came from his room he began
by asking me questions on legal matters and on the doing of
certain kinds of business. I had spent the day wearily over
books, and, simply to keep my mind occupied, went over
some of the matters I had been examined in at Lincoln’s Inn.
There was a certain method in the Count’s inquiries, so I
shall try to put them down in sequence; the knowledge may
somehow or some time be useful to me.
First, he asked if a man in England might have two
solicitors or more. I told him he might have a dozen if he
wished, but that it would not be wise to have more than one
solicitor engaged in one transaction, as only one could act at
a time, and that to change would be certain to militate
against his interest. He seemed thoroughly to understand,
and went on to ask if there would be any practical difficulty
in having one man to attend, say, to banking, and another
to look after shipping, in case local help were needed in a
place far from the home of the banking solicitor. I asked him
to explain more fully, so that I might not by any chance
mislead him, so he said:—
“I shall illustrate. Your friend and mine, Mr. Peter Hawkins,
from under the shadow of your beautiful cathedral at Exeter,
which is far from London, buys for me through your good self
my place at London. Good! Now here let me say frankly, lest
you should think it strange that I have sought the services of
one so far off from London instead of someone resident
there, that my motive was that no local interest might be
served save my wish only; and as one of London 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’s
interest, not mine, and I had to think of him, not myself; and
besides, while Count Dracula was speaking, there was that
in his eyes and in his bearing which made me remember
that I was a prisoner, and that if I wished it I could have no
choice. The Count saw his victory in my bow, and his
mastery in the trouble of my face, for he began at once to
use them, but in his own smooth, resistless way:—
“I pray you, my good young friend, that you will not
discourse of things other than business in your letters. It will
doubtless please your friends to know that you are well, and
that you look forward to getting home to them. Is it not so?”
As he spoke he handed me three sheets of notepaper 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 careful what I wrote, for he would be able to read
it. So I determined to write only formal notes now, but to
write fully to Mr. Hawkins in secret, and also to Mina, for to
her I could write in shorthand, which would puzzle the
Count, if he did see it. When I had written my two letters I
sat quiet, reading a book whilst the Count wrote several
notes, referring as he wrote them to some books on his
table. Then he took up my two and placed them with his
own, and put by his writing materials, after which, the
instant the door had closed behind him, I leaned over and
looked at the letters, which were face down on the table. I
felt no compunction in doing so, for under the circumstances
I felt that I should protect myself in every way I could.
 One of the letters was directed to Samuel F. Billington,
No. 7, The Crescent, Whitby, another to Herr Leutner, Varna;
the third was to Coutts & Co., London, and the fourth to
Herren Klopstock & Billreuth, bankers, Buda-Pesth. The
second and fourth were unsealed. I was just about to look at
them when I saw the door-handle move. I sank back in my
seat, having just had time to replace the letters as they had
been and to resume my book before the Count, holding still
another letter in his hand, entered the room. He took up the
letters on the table and stamped them carefully, and then
turning to me, said:—
“I trust you will forgive me, but I have much work to do in
private this evening. You will, I hope, find all things as you
wish.” At the door he turned, and after a moment’s pause
said:—
“Let me advise you, my dear young friend—nay, let me
warn you with all seriousness, that should you leave these
rooms you will not by any chance go to sleep in any other
part of the castle. It is old, and has many memories, and
there are bad dreams for those who sleep unwisely. Be
warned! Should sleep now or ever overcome you, or be like
to do, then haste to your own chamber or to these rooms, for
your rest will then be safe. But if you be not careful in this
respect, then”—He finished his speech in a gruesome way,
for he motioned with his hands as if he were washing them. I
quite understood; my only doubt was as to whether any
dream could be more terrible than the unnatural, horrible
net of gloom and mystery which seemed closing 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 so many
opportunities of studying. I was at first interested and
somewhat amused, for it is wonderful how small a matter
will interest and amuse a man when he is a prisoner. But my
very feelings changed to repulsion and terror when I saw the
whole man slowly emerge from the window and begin to
crawl down the castle wall over that dreadful abyss, face
down with his cloak spreading out around him like great
wings. At first I could not believe my eyes. I thought it was
some trick of the moonlight, some weird effect of shadow;
but I kept looking, and it could be no delusion. I saw the
fingers and toes grasp the corners of the stones, worn clear
of the mortar by the stress of years, and by thus using every
projection and inequality move downwards with
considerable speed, just as a lizard moves along a wall.
What manner of man is this, or what manner of creature is
it in the semblance of man? I feel the dread of this horrible
place overpowering me; I am in fear—in awful fear—and
there is no escape for me; I am encompassed about with
terrors that I dare not think of. …

15 May.—Once more have I seen the Count go out in his

lizard fashion. He moved downwards in a sidelong way,
some hundred feet down, and a good deal to the left. He
vanished into some hole or window. When his head had
disappeared, I leaned out to try and see more, but without
avail—the distance was too great to allow a proper angle of
sight. I knew he had left the castle now, and thought to use
the opportunity to explore more than I had dared to do as
yet. I went back to the room, and taking a lamp, tried all the
doors. They were all locked, as I had expected, and the locks
were comparatively new; but I went down the stone stairs to
the hall where I had entered originally. I found I could pull
back the bolts easily enough and unhook the great chains;
but the door was locked, and the key was gone! That key
must be in the Count’s room; I must watch should his door
be unlocked, so that I may get it and escape. I went on to
make a thorough examination of the various stairs and
passages, and to try the doors that opened from them. One
or two small rooms near the hall were open, but there was
nothing to see in them except old furniture, dusty with age
and moth-eaten. At last, however, I found one door at the
top of the stairway which, though it seemed to be locked,
gave a little under pressure. I tried it harder, and found that
it was not really locked, but that the resistance came from
the fact that the hinges had fallen somewhat, and the heavy
door rested on the floor. Here was an opportunity which I
might not have again, so I exerted myself, and with many
efforts forced it back so that I could enter. I was now in a
wing of the castle further to the right than the rooms I knew
and a storey lower down. From the windows I could see that
the suite of rooms lay along to the south of the castle, the
windows of the end room looking out both west and south.
On the latter side, as well as to the former, there was a great
precipice. The castle was built on the corner of a great rock,
so that on three sides it was quite impregnable, and great
windows were placed here where sling, or bow, or culverin
could not reach, and consequently light and comfort,
impossible to a position which had to be guarded, were
secured. To the west was a great valley, and then, rising far
away, great jagged mountain fastnesses, rising peak on
peak, the sheer rock studded with mountain ash and thorn,
whose roots clung in cracks and crevices and crannies of the
stone. This was evidently the portion of the castle occupied
by the ladies in bygone days, for the furniture had more air
of comfort than any I had seen. The windows were
curtainless, and the yellow moonlight, flooding in through
the diamond panes, enabled one to see even colours, whilst
it softened the wealth of dust which lay over all and
disguised in some measure the ravages of time and the
moth. My lamp seemed to be of little effect in the brilliant
moonlight, but I was glad to have it with me, for there was a
dread loneliness in the place which chilled my heart and
made my nerves tremble. Still, it was better than living
alone in the rooms which I had come to hate from the
presence of the Count, and after trying a little to school my
nerves, I found a soft quietude come over me. Here I am,
sitting at a little oak table where in old times possibly some
fair lady sat to pen, with much thought and many blushes,
her ill-spelt love-letter, and writing in my diary in shorthand
all that has happened since I closed it last. It is nineteenth
century up-to-date with a vengeance. And yet, unless my
senses deceive me, the old centuries had, and have, powers
of their own which mere “modernity” cannot kill.

Later: the Morning of 16 May.—God preserve my sanity, for

to this I am reduced. Safety and the assurance of safety are
things of the past. Whilst I live on here there is but one thing
to hope for, that I may not go mad, if, indeed, I be not mad
already. If I be sane, then surely it is maddening to think that
of all the foul things that lurk in this hateful place the Count
is the least dreadful to me; that to him alone I can look for
safety, even though this be only whilst I can serve his
purpose. Great God! merciful God! Let me be calm, for out of
that way lies madness indeed. I begin to get new lights on
certain things which have puzzled me. Up to now I never
quite knew what Shakespeare meant when he made Hamlet
say:—

“My tablets! quick, my tablets!

’Tis meet that I put it down,” etc.,

for now, feeling as though my own brain were unhinged or

as if the shock had come which must end in its undoing, I
turn to my diary for repose. The habit of entering accurately
must help to soothe me.
The Count’s mysterious warning frightened me at the
time; it frightens me more now when I think of it, for in
future he has a fearful hold upon me. I shall fear to doubt
what he may say!
When I had written in my diary and had fortunately
replaced the book and pen in my pocket I felt sleepy. The
Count’s warning came into my mind, but I took a pleasure in
disobeying it. The sense of sleep was upon me, and with it
the obstinacy which sleep brings as outrider. The soft
moonlight soothed, and the wide expanse without gave a
sense of freedom which refreshed me. I determined not to
return tonight to the gloom-haunted rooms, but to sleep
here, where, of old, ladies had sat and sung and lived sweet
lives whilst their gentle breasts were sad for their menfolk
away in the midst of remorseless wars. I drew a great couch
out of its place near the corner, so that as I lay, I could look
at the lovely view to east and south, and unthinking of and
uncaring for the dust, composed myself for sleep. I suppose I
must have fallen asleep; I hope so, but I fear, for all that
followed was startlingly real—so real that now sitting here in
the broad, full sunlight of the morning, I cannot in the least
believe that it was all sleep.
I was not alone. The room was the same, unchanged in any
way since I came into it; I could see along the floor, in the
brilliant moonlight, my own footsteps marked where I had
disturbed the long accumulation of dust. In the moonlight
opposite me were three young women, ladies by their dress
and manner. I thought at the time that I must be dreaming
when I saw them, for, though the moonlight was behind
them, they threw no shadow on the floor. They came close to
me, and looked at me for some time, and then whispered
together. Two were dark, and had high aquiline noses, like
the Count, and great dark, piercing eyes that seemed to be
almost red when contrasted with the pale yellow moon. The
other was fair, as fair as can be, with great wavy masses of
golden hair and eyes like pale sapphires. I seemed somehow
to know her face, and to know it in connection with some
dreamy fear, but I could not recollect at the moment how or
where. All three had brilliant white teeth that shone like
pearls against the ruby of their voluptuous lips. There was
something about them that made me uneasy, some longing
and at the same time some deadly fear. I felt in my heart a
wicked, burning desire that they would kiss me with those
red lips. It is not good to note this down, lest some day it
should meet Mina’s eyes and cause her pain; but it is the
truth. They whispered together, and then they all three
laughed—such a silvery, musical laugh, but as hard as
though the sound never could have come through the
softness of human lips. It was like the intolerable, tingling
sweetness of water-glasses when played on by a cunning
hand. The fair girl shook her head coquettishly, and the
other two urged her on. One said:—
“Go on! You are first, and we shall follow; yours is the right
to begin.” The other added:—
“He is young and strong; there are kisses for us all.” I lay
quiet, looking out under my eyelashes in an agony of
delightful anticipation. The fair girl advanced and bent over
me till I could feel the movement of her breath upon me.
Sweet it was in one sense, honey-sweet, and sent the same
tingling through the nerves as her voice, but with a bitter
underlying the sweet, a bitter offensiveness, as one smells in
blood.
I was afraid to raise my eyelids, but looked out and saw
perfectly under the lashes. The 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
about to fasten on my throat. Then she paused, and I could
hear the churning sound of her tongue as it licked her teeth
and lips, and could feel the hot breath on my neck. Then the
skin of my throat began to tingle as one’s flesh does when
the hand that is to tickle it approaches nearer—nearer. I
could feel the soft, shivering touch of the lips on the super-
sensitive skin of my throat, and the hard dents of two sharp
teeth, just touching and pausing there. I closed my eyes in a
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
hellfire blazed behind them. His face was deathly pale, and
the lines of it were hard like drawn wires; the thick eyebrows
that met over the nose now seemed like a heaving bar of
white-hot metal. With a fierce sweep of his arm, he hurled
the woman from him, and then motioned to the others, as
though he were beating them back; it was the same
imperious gesture that I had seen used to the wolves. In a
voice which, though low and almost in a whisper seemed to
cut through the air and then ring round the room 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.
 IV

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL—CONTINUED

I awoke in my own bed. If it be that I had not dreamt, the

Count must have carried me here. I tried to satisfy myself on
the subject, but could not arrive at any unquestionable
result. To be sure, there were certain small evidences, such
as that my clothes were folded and laid by in a manner
which was not my habit. My watch was still unwound, and I
am rigorously accustomed to wind it the last thing before
going to bed, and many such details. But these things are no
proof, for they may have been evidences that my mind was
not as usual, and, from some cause or another, I had
certainly been much upset. I must watch for proof. Of one
thing I am glad: if it was that the Count carried me here and
undressed me, he must have been hurried in his task, for my
pockets are intact. I am sure this diary would have been a
mystery to him which he would not have brooked. He would
have taken or destroyed it. As I look round this room,
although it has been to me so full of fear, it is now a sort of
sanctuary, for nothing can be more dreadful than those
awful women, who were—who are—waiting to suck my
blood.
18 May.—I have been down to look at that room again in
daylight, for I must know the truth. When I got to the
doorway at the top of the stairs I found it closed. It had been
so forcibly driven against the jamb that part of the
woodwork was splintered. I could see that the bolt of the
lock had not been shot, but the door is fastened from the
inside. I fear it was no dream, and must act on this surmise.

19 May.—I am surely in the toils. Last night the Count asked

me in the suavest tones to write three letters, one saying
that my work here was nearly done, and that I should start
for home within a few days, another that I was starting on
the next morning from the time of the letter, and the third
that I had left the castle and arrived at Bistritz. I would fain
have rebelled, but felt that in the present state of things it
would be madness to quarrel openly with the Count whilst I
am so absolutely in his power; and to refuse would be to
excite his suspicion and to arouse his anger. He knows that I
know too much, and that I must not live, lest I be dangerous
to him; my only chance is to prolong my opportunities.
Something may occur which will give me a chance to
escape. I saw in his eyes something of that gathering wrath
which was manifest when he hurled that fair woman from
him. He explained to me that posts were few and uncertain,
and that my writing now would ensure ease of mind to my
friends; and he assured me with so much impressiveness
that he would countermand the later letters, which would be
held over at Bistritz until due time in case chance would
admit of my prolonging my stay, that to oppose him would
have been to create new suspicion. I therefore pretended to
fall in with his views, and asked him what dates I should put
on the letters. He calculated a minute, and then said:—
“The first should be June 12, the second June 19, and the
third June 29.”
 I know now the span of my life. God help me!

28 May.—There is a chance of escape, or at any rate of being

able to send word home. A band of Szgany have come to the
castle, and are encamped in the courtyard. These Szgany
are gipsies; I have notes of them in my book. They are
peculiar to this part of the world, though allied to the
ordinary gipsies all the world over. There are thousands of
them in Hungary and Transylvania, who are almost outside
all law. They attach themselves as a rule to some great noble
or boyar, and call themselves by his name. They are fearless
and without religion, save superstition, and they talk only
their own varieties of the Romany tongue.
I shall write some letters home, and shall try to get them
to have them posted. I have already spoken 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 to talk tonight, since
there are many labours to me; but you will sleep, I pray.” I
passed to my room and went to bed, and, strange to say,
slept without dreaming. Despair has its own calms.
31 May.—This morning when I woke I thought I would
provide myself with some paper and envelopes from my bag
and keep them in my pocket, so that I might write in case I
should get an opportunity, but again a surprise, again a
shock!
Every scrap of paper was gone, and with it all my notes,
my memoranda, relating to railways and travel, my letter of
credit, in fact all that might be useful to me were I once
outside the castle. I sat and pondered 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 cracking of
whips and pounding and scraping of horses’ feet up the
rocky path beyond the courtyard. With joy I hurried to the
window, and saw drive into the yard two great leiter-wagons,
each drawn by eight sturdy horses, and at the head of each
pair a Slovak, with his wide hat, great nail-studded belt,
dirty sheepskin, and high boots. They had also their long
staves in hand. I ran to the door, intending to descend and
try and join them through the main hall, as I thought that
way might be opened for them. Again a shock: my door was
fastened on the outside.
Then I ran to the window and cried to them. They looked
up at me stupidly and pointed, but just then the “hetman”
of the Szgany came out, and seeing them pointing to my
window, said something, at which they laughed. Henceforth
no effort of mine, no piteous cry or agonised entreaty, would
make them even look at me. They resolutely turned away.
The leiter-wagons contained great, square boxes, with
handles of thick rope; these were evidently empty by the
ease with which the Slovaks handled them, and by their
resonance as they were roughly moved. When they were all
unloaded and packed in a great heap in one corner of the
yard, the Slovaks were given some money by the Szgany,
and spitting on it for luck, lazily went each to his horse’s
head. Shortly afterwards, I heard the cracking of their whips
die away in the distance.

24 June, before morning.—Last night the Count left me

early, and locked himself into his own room. As soon as I
dared I ran up the winding stair, and looked out of the
window, which opened south. I thought I would watch for the
Count, for there is something going on. The Szgany are
quartered somewhere in the castle and are doing work of
some kind. I know it, for now and then I hear a faraway
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 aërial gambolling.
Something made me start up, a low, piteous howling of
dogs somewhere far below in the valley, which was hidden
from my sight. Louder it seemed to ring in my ears, and the
floating motes of dust to take new shapes to the sound as
they danced in the moonlight. I felt myself struggling to
awake to some call of my instincts; nay, my very soul was
struggling, and my half-remembered sensibilities were
striving to answer the call. I was becoming 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 of
the three ghostly women to whom I was doomed. I fled, and
felt somewhat safer in my own room, where there was no
moonlight and where the lamp was burning brightly.
When a couple of hours had passed I heard something
stirring in the Count’s room, something like a sharp wail
quickly suppressed; and then there was silence, deep, awful
silence, which chilled me. With a beating heart, I tried the
door; but I was locked in my prison, and could do nothing. I
sat down and simply cried.
As I sat I heard a sound in the courtyard without—the
agonised cry of a woman. I rushed to the window, and
throwing it up, peered out between the bars. There, indeed,
was a woman with dishevelled hair, holding her hands over
her heart as one distressed with running. She was leaning
against a corner of the gateway. When she saw my face at
the window she threw herself forward, and shouted in a
voice laden with menace:—
“Monster, give me my child!”
She threw herself on her knees, and raising up her hands,
cried the same words in tones which wrung my heart. Then
she tore her hair and beat her breast, and abandoned herself
to all the violences of extravagant emotion. Finally, she
threw herself forward, and, though I could not see her, I
could hear the beating of her naked hands against the door.
Somewhere high overhead, probably on the tower, I heard
the voice of the Count calling in his harsh, metallic whisper.
His call seemed to be answered from far and wide by the
howling of wolves. Before many minutes had passed a pack
of them poured, like a pent-up dam when liberated, through
the wide entrance into the courtyard.
There was no cry from the woman, and the howling of the
wolves was but short. Before long they streamed away
singly, licking their lips.
I could not pity her, for I knew now what had become of
her child, and she was better dead.
What shall I do? what can I do? How can I escape from this
dreadful thing of night and gloom and fear?

25 June, morning.—No man knows till he has suffered from

the night how sweet and how dear to his heart and eye the
morning can be. When the sun grew so high this morning
that it struck the top of the great gateway opposite my
window, the high spot which it touched seemed to me as if
the dove from the ark had lighted there. My fear fell from me
as if it had been a vaporous garment which dissolved in the
warmth. I must take action of some sort whilst the courage
of the day is upon me. Last night one of my postdated
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 nighttime that I have been molested
or threatened, or in some way in danger or in fear. I have not
yet seen the Count in the daylight. Can it be that he sleeps
when others wake, that he may be awake whilst they sleep?
If I could only get into his room! But there is no possible way.
The door is always locked, no way for me.
Yes, there is a way, if one dares to take it. Where his body
has gone why may not another body go? I have seen him
myself crawl from his window. Why should not I imitate him,
and go in by his window? The chances are desperate, but my
need is more desperate still. I shall risk it. At the worst it can
only be death; and a man’s death is not a calf’s, and the
dreaded Hereafter may still be open to me. God help me in
my task! Goodbye, Mina, if I fail; goodbye, my faithful friend
and second father; goodbye, all, and last of all Mina!

Same day, later.—I have made the effort, and God, helping
me, have come safely back to this room. I must put down
every detail in order. I went whilst my courage was fresh
straight to the window on the south side, and at once got
outside on the narrow ledge of stone which runs around the
building 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 knew pretty well
the direction and distance of the Count’s window, and made
for it as well as I could, having regard to the opportunities
available. I did not feel dizzy—I suppose I was too excited—
and the time seemed ridiculously short till I found myself
standing on the windowsill and trying to raise up the sash. I
was filled with agitation, however, when I bent down and
slid feet foremost in through the window. Then I looked
around for the Count, but, with surprise and gladness, made
a discovery. The room was empty! It was barely furnished
with odd things, which seemed to have never been used;
the furniture was something the same style as that in the
south rooms, and was covered with dust. I looked for the key,
but it was not in the lock, and I could not find it anywhere.
The only thing I found was a great heap of gold in one
corner—gold of all kinds, Roman, and British, and Austrian,
and Hungarian, and Greek and Turkish money, covered with
a film of dust, as though it had lain long in the ground. None
of it that I noticed was less than three hundred years old.
There were also chains and ornaments, some jewelled, but
all of them old and stained.
At one corner of the room was a heavy door. I tried it, for,
since I could not find the key of the room or the key of the
outer door, which was the main object of my search, I must
make further examination, or all my efforts would be in vain.
It was open, and led through a stone passage to a circular
stairway, which went steeply down. I descended, minding
carefully where I went, for the stairs were dark, being only lit
by loopholes in the heavy masonry. At the bottom there was
a dark, tunnel-like passage, through which came a deathly,
sickly odour, the odour of old earth newly turned. As I went
through the passage the smell grew closer and heavier. At
last I pulled open a heavy door which stood ajar, and found
myself in an old, ruined chapel, which had evidently been
used as a graveyard. The roof was broken, and in two places
were steps leading to vaults, but the ground had recently
been dug over, and the earth placed in great wooden boxes,
manifestly those which had been brought by the Slovaks.
There was nobody about, and I made search for any further
outlet, but there was none. Then I went over every inch of
the ground, so as not to lose a chance. I went down even
into the vaults, where the dim light struggled, although to
do so was a dread to my very soul. Into two of these I went,
but saw nothing except fragments of old coffins and piles of
dust; in the third, however, I made a discovery.
There, in one of the great boxes, of which there were fifty
in all, on a pile of newly dug earth, lay the Count! He was
either dead or asleep, I could not say which—for the eyes
were open and stony, but without the glassiness of death—
and the cheeks had the warmth of life through all their
pallor; 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 alone by man’s hand would
have any effect on him. I dared not wait to see him return,
for I feared to see those weird sisters. I came back to the
library, and read there till I fell asleep.
I was awakened by the Count, who looked at me as grimly
as a man can look as he said:—
“Tomorrow, my friend, we must part. You return to your
beautiful England, I to some work which may have such an
end that we may never meet. Your letter home has been
despatched; tomorrow I shall not be here, but all shall be
ready for your journey. In the morning come the Szgany,
who have some labours of their own here, and also come
some Slovaks. When they have gone, my carriage shall
come for you, and shall bear you to the Borgo Pass to meet
the diligence from Bukovina to Bistritz. But I am in hopes
that I shall see more of you at Castle Dracula.” I suspected
him, and determined to test his sincerity. Sincerity! It seems
like a profanation of the word to write it in connection with
such a monster, so asked him point-blank:—
“Why may I not go tonight?”
“Because, dear sir, my coachman and horses are away on
a mission.”
“But I would walk with pleasure. I want to get away at
once.” He smiled, such a soft, smooth, diabolical smile that I
knew there was some trick behind his smoothness. He
said:—
“And your baggage?”
“I do not care about it. I can send for it some other time.”
The Count stood up, and said, with a sweet courtesy which
made me rub my eyes, it seemed so real:—
“You English have a saying which is close to my heart, for
its spirit is that which rules our boyars: ‘Welcome the
coming; speed the parting guest.’ Come with me, my dear
young friend. Not an hour shall you wait in my house against
your will, though sad am I at your going, and that you so
suddenly desire it. Come!” With a stately gravity, he, with
the lamp, preceded me down the stairs and along the hall.
Suddenly he stopped.
“Hark!”
Close at hand came the howling of many wolves. It was
almost as if the sound sprang up at the rising of his hand,
just as the music of a great orchestra seems to leap under
the bâton of the conductor. After a pause of a moment, he
proceeded, in his stately way, to the door, drew back the
ponderous bolts, unhooked the heavy chains, and began to
draw it open.
To my intense astonishment I saw that it was unlocked.
Suspiciously, I looked all round, but could see no key of any
kind.
As the door began to open, the howling of the wolves
without grew louder and angrier; their red jaws, with
champing teeth, and their blunt-clawed feet as they leaped,
came in through the opening door. I knew then that to
struggle at the moment against the Count was useless. With
such allies as these at his command, I could do nothing. But
still the door continued slowly to open, and only the Count’s
body stood in the gap. Suddenly it struck me that this might
be the moment and means of my doom; I was to be given to
the wolves, and at my own instigation. There was a
diabolical wickedness in the idea great enough for the
Count, and as a last chance I cried out:—
“Shut the door; I shall wait till morning!” and covered my
face with my hands to hide my tears of bitter
disappointment. With one sweep of his powerful arm, the
Count threw the door shut, and the great bolts clanged and
echoed through the hall as they shot back into their places.
In silence we returned to the library, and after a minute or
two I went to my own room. The last I saw of Count Dracula
was his kissing his hand to me; with a red light of triumph in
his eyes, and with a smile that Judas in hell might be proud
of.
 When I was in my room and about to lie down, I thought I
heard a whispering at my door. I went to it softly and
listened. Unless my ears deceived me, I heard the voice of
the Count:—
“Back, back, to your own place! Your time is not yet come.
Wait! Have patience! 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, morning.—These may be the last words I ever write

in this diary. I slept till just before the dawn, and when I
woke threw myself on my knees, for I determined that if
Death came he should find me ready.
At last I felt that subtle change in the air, and knew that
the morning had come. Then came the welcome cockcrow,
and I felt that I was safe. With a glad heart, I opened my
door and ran down to the hall. I had seen that the door was
unlocked, and now escape was before me. With hands that
trembled with eagerness, I unhooked the chains and drew
back the massive bolts.
But the door would not move. Despair seized me. I pulled,
and pulled, at the door, and shook it till, massive as it was, it
rattled in its casement. I could see the bolt shot. It had been
locked after I left the Count.
Then a wild desire took me to obtain that key at any risk,
and I determined then and there to scale the wall again and
gain the Count’s room. He might kill me, but death now
seemed the happier choice of evils. Without a pause I rushed
up to the east window, and scrambled down the wall, as
before, into the Count’s room. It was empty, but that was as I
expected. I could not see a key anywhere, but the heap of
gold remained. I went through the door in the corner and
down the winding stair and along the dark passage to the
old chapel. I knew now well enough where to find the
monster I sought.
The great box was in the same place, close against the
wall, but the lid was laid on it, not fastened down, but with
the nails ready in their places to be hammered home. I knew
I must 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 renewed, for the white
hair and moustache were changed to dark iron-grey; the
cheeks were fuller, and the white skin seemed ruby-red
underneath; the mouth was redder than ever, for on the lips
were gouts of fresh blood, which trickled from the corners of
the mouth and ran over the chin and neck. Even the deep,
burning eyes seemed set amongst swollen flesh, for the lids
and pouches underneath were bloated. It seemed as if the
whole awful creature were simply gorged with blood. He lay
like a filthy leech, exhausted with his repletion. I shuddered
as I bent over to touch him, and every sense in me revolted
at the contact; but I had to search, or I was lost. The coming
night might see my own body a banquet in a similar way to
those horrid three. I felt all over the body, but no sign could I
find of the key. Then I stopped and looked at the Count.
There was a mocking smile on the bloated face which
seemed to drive me mad. This was the being I was helping
to transfer to London, where, perhaps, for centuries to come
he might, amongst its teeming millions, satiate his lust for
blood, and create a new and ever-widening circle of semi-
demons to batten on the helpless. The very thought drove
me mad. A terrible desire came upon me to rid the world of
such a monster. There was no lethal weapon at hand, but I
seized a shovel which the workmen had been using to fill
the cases, and lifting it high, struck, with the edge
downward, at the hateful face. But as I did so the head
turned, and the eyes fell full upon me, with all their blaze of
basilisk horror. The sight seemed to paralyse me, and the
shovel turned in my hand and glanced from the face, merely
making a deep gash above the forehead. The shovel fell
from my hand across the box, and as I pulled it away the
flange of the blade caught the edge of the lid which fell over
again, and hid the horrid thing from my sight. The last
glimpse I had was of the bloated face, bloodstained and
fixed with a grin of malice which would have held its own in
the nethermost hell.
I thought and thought what should be my next move, but
my brain seemed on fire, and I waited with a despairing
feeling growing over me. As I waited I heard in the distance
a gipsy song sung by merry voices coming closer, and
through their song the rolling of heavy wheels and the
cracking of whips; the Szgany and the Slovaks of whom the
Count had spoken were coming. With a last look around and
at the box which contained the vile body, I ran from the
place and gained the Count’s room, determined to rush out
at the moment the door should be opened. With strained
ears, I listened, and heard downstairs the grinding of the key
in the great lock and the falling back of the heavy door.
There must have been some other means of entry, or
someone had a key for one of the locked doors. Then there
came the sound of many feet tramping and dying away in
some passage which sent up a clanging echo. I turned to run
down again towards the vault, where I might find the new
entrance; but at the moment there seemed to come a
violent puff of wind, and the door to the winding stair blew
to with a shock that set the dust from the lintels flying.
When I ran to push it open, I found that it was hopelessly
fast. I was again a prisoner, and the net of doom was closing
round me more closely.
 As I write there is in the passage below a sound of many
tramping feet and the crash of weights being set down
heavily, doubtless the boxes, with their freight of earth.
There is a sound of hammering; it is the box being nailed
down. Now I can hear the heavy feet tramping again along
the hall, with many other idle feet coming behind them.
The door is shut, and the chains rattle; there is a grinding
of the key in the lock; I can hear the key withdraw: then
another door opens and shuts; I hear the creaking of lock
and bolt.
Hark! in the courtyard and down the rocky way the roll of
heavy wheels, the crack of whips, and the chorus of the
Szgany as they pass into the distance.
I am alone in the castle with those awful women. Faugh!
Mina is a woman, and there is nought in common. They are
devils of the Pit!
I shall not remain alone with them; I shall try to scale the
castle wall farther than I have yet attempted. I shall take
some of the gold with me, lest I want it later. I may find a
way from this dreadful place.
And then away for home! away to the quickest and
nearest train! away from this cursed spot, from this cursed
land, where the devil and his children still walk with earthly
feet!
At least God’s mercy is better than that of these monsters,
and the precipice is steep and high. At its foot a man may
sleep—as a man. Goodbye, all! Mina!
 V

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 practising shorthand very assiduously.
When we are married I shall be able to be useful to Jonathan,
and if I can stenograph well enough I can take down what he
wants to say in this way and write it out for him on the
typewriter, at which also I am practising very hard. He and I
sometimes write letters in shorthand, and he is keeping a
stenographic journal of his travels abroad. When I am with
you I shall keep a diary in the same way. I don’t mean one of
those two-pages-to-the-week-with-Sunday-squeezed-in-a-
corner diaries, but a sort of journal which I can write in
whenever I feel inclined. I do not suppose there will be much
of interest to other people; but it is not intended for them. I
may show it to Jonathan some day if there is in it anything
worth sharing, but it is really an exercise book. I shall try to
do what I see lady journalists do: interviewing and writing
descriptions and trying to remember conversations. I am
told that, with a little practice, one can remember all that
goes on or that one hears said during a day. However, we
shall see. I 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 so nice to
see strange countries. I wonder if we—I mean Jonathan and
I—shall ever see them together. There is the ten o’clock bell
ringing. Goodbye.

“Your loving
“MINA.

“Tell me all the news when you write. You have not told me
anything for a long time. I hear rumours, and especially of a
tall, handsome, curly-haired man???”

LETTER, LUCY WESTENRA TO MINA MURRAY.

“17, Chatham Street,

“Wednesday.
“My dearest Mina—
“I must say you tax me very unfairly with being a bad
correspondent. I wrote to you twice since we parted, and
your last letter was only your second. Besides, I have
nothing to tell you. There is really nothing to interest you.
Town is very pleasant just now, and we go a good deal to
picture-galleries and for walks and rides in the park. As to
the tall, curly-haired man, I suppose it was the one who was
with me at the last Pop. Someone has evidently been telling
tales. That was Mr. Holmwood. He often comes to see us, and
he and mamma get on very well together; they have so
many things to talk about in common. We met some time
ago a man that would just do for you, if you were not already
engaged to Jonathan. He is an excellent parti, being
handsome, well off, and of good birth. He is a doctor and
really clever. Just fancy! He is only nine-and-twenty, and he
has an immense lunatic asylum all under his own care.
Mr. Holmwood introduced him to me, and he called here to
see us, and often comes now. I think he is one of the most
resolute men I ever saw, and yet the most calm. He seems
absolutely imperturbable. I can fancy what a wonderful
power he must have over his patients. He has a curious
habit of looking one straight in the face, as if trying to read
one’s thoughts. He tries this on very much with me, but I
flatter myself he has got a tough nut to crack. I know that
from my glass. Do you ever try to read your own face? I do,
and I can tell you it is not a bad study, and gives you more
trouble than you can well fancy if you have never tried it. He
says that I afford him a curious psychological study, and I
humbly think I do. I do not, as you know, take sufficient
interest in dress to be able to describe the new fashions.
Dress is a bore. That is slang again, but never mind; Arthur
says that every day. There, it is all out. Mina, we have told all
our secrets to each other since we were children; we have
slept together and eaten together, and laughed and cried
together; and now, though I have spoken, I would like to
speak more. Oh, Mina, couldn’t you guess? I love him. I am
blushing as I write, for although I think he loves me, he has
not told me so in words. But oh, Mina, I love him; I love him; I
love him! There, that does me good. I wish I were with you,
dear, sitting by the fire undressing, as we used to sit; and I
would try to tell you what I feel. I do not know how I am
writing this even to you. I am afraid to stop, or I should tear
up the letter, and I don’t want to stop, for I do so want to tell
you all. Let me hear from you at once, and tell me all that
you think about it. Mina, I must stop. Good night. Bless me
in your prayers; and, Mina, pray for my happiness.

“LUCY.

“P.S.—I need not tell you this is a secret. Good night again.
 “L.”

LETTER, LUCY WESTENRA TO MINA MURRAY.

“24 May.
“My dearest Mina—
“Thanks, and thanks, and thanks again for your sweet letter.
It was so nice to be able to tell you and to have your
sympathy.
“My dear, it never rains but it pours. How true the old
proverbs are. Here am I, who shall be twenty in September,
and yet I never had a proposal till today, not a real proposal,
and today I have had three. Just fancy! THREE proposals in
one day! Isn’t it awful! I feel sorry, really and truly sorry, for
two of the poor fellows. Oh, Mina, I am so happy that I don’t
know what to do with myself. And three proposals! But, for
goodness’ sake, don’t tell any of the girls, or they would be
getting all sorts of extravagant ideas and imagining
themselves injured and slighted if in their very first day at
home they did not get six at least. Some girls are so vain!
You and I, Mina dear, who are engaged and are going to
settle down soon soberly into old married women, can
despise vanity. Well, I must tell you about the three, but you
must keep it a secret, dear, from everyone, except, of
course, Jonathan. You will tell him, because I would, if I were
in your place, certainly tell Arthur. A woman ought to tell her
husband everything—don’t you think so, dear?—and I must
be fair. Men like women, certainly their wives, to be quite as
fair as they are; and women, I am afraid, are not always
quite as fair as they should be. Well, my dear, number One
came just before lunch. I told you of him, Dr. John Seward,
the lunatic-asylum man, with the strong jaw and the good
forehead. He was very cool outwardly, but was nervous all
the same. He had evidently been schooling himself as to all
sorts of little things, and remembered them; but he almost
managed to sit down on his silk hat, which men don’t
generally do when they are cool, and then when he wanted
to appear at ease he kept playing with a lancet in a way that
made me nearly scream. He spoke to me, Mina, very
straightforwardly. He told me how dear I was to him, though
he had known me so little, and what his life would be with
me to help and cheer him. He was going to tell me how
unhappy he would be if I did not care for him, but when he
saw me cry he said that he was a brute and would not add to
my present trouble. Then he broke off and asked if I could
love him in time; and when I shook my head his hands
trembled, and then with some hesitation he asked me if I
cared already for anyone 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 someone. I only told him that much, and
then he stood up, and he looked very strong and very grave
as he took both my hands in his and said he hoped I would
be happy, and that if I ever wanted a friend I must count him
one of my best. Oh, Mina dear, I can’t help crying: and you
must excuse this letter being all blotted. Being proposed to
is all very nice and all that sort of thing, but it isn’t at all a
happy thing when you have to see a poor fellow, whom you
know loves you honestly, going away and looking all
brokenhearted, and to know that, no matter what he may
say at the moment, you are passing quite out of his life. My
dear, I must stop here at present, I feel so miserable, though
I am so happy.

“Evening.
“Arthur has just gone, and I feel in better spirits than when I
left off, so I can go on telling you about the day. Well, my
dear, number Two came after lunch. He is such a nice fellow,
an American from Texas, and he looks so young and so fresh
that it seems almost impossible that he has been to so many
places and has had such adventures. I sympathise with poor
Desdemona when she had such a dangerous stream poured
in her ear, even by a black man. I suppose that we women
are such cowards that we think a man will save us from
fears, and we marry him. I know now what I would do if I
were a man and wanted to make a girl love me. No, I don’t,
for there was Mr. Morris telling us his stories, and Arthur
never told any, and yet—My dear, I am somewhat previous.
Mr. Quincey P. Morris found me alone. It seems that a man
always does find a girl alone. No, he doesn’t, for Arthur tried
twice to make a chance, and I helping him all I could; I am
not ashamed to say it now. I must tell you beforehand that
Mr. Morris doesn’t always speak slang—that is to say, he
never does so to strangers or before them, for he is really
well educated and has exquisite manners—but he found out
that it amused me to hear him talk American slang, and
whenever I was present, and there was no one to be
shocked, he said such funny things. I am afraid, my dear, he
has to invent it all, for it fits exactly into whatever else he
has to say. But this is a way slang has. I do not know myself
if I shall ever speak slang; I do not know if Arthur likes it, as I
have never heard him use any as yet. Well, Mr. Morris sat
down beside me and looked as happy and jolly as he could,
but I could see all the same that he was very nervous. He
took my hand in his, and said ever so sweetly:—
“ ‘Miss Lucy, I know I ain’t good enough to regulate the
fixin’s of your little shoes, but I guess if you wait till you find
a man that is you will go join them seven young women with
the lamps when you quit. Won’t you just hitch up alongside
of me and let us go down the long road together, driving in
double harness?’
“Well, he did look so good-humoured and so jolly that it
didn’t seem half so hard to refuse him as it did poor
Dr. Seward; so I said, as lightly as I could, that I did not know
anything of hitching, and that I wasn’t broken to harness at
all yet. Then he said that he had spoken in a light manner,
and he hoped that if he had made a mistake in doing so on
so grave, so momentous, an occasion for him, I would forgive
him. He really did look serious when he was saying it, and I
couldn’t help feeling a bit serious too—I know, Mina, you will
think me a horrid flirt—though I couldn’t help feeling a sort
of exultation that he was number two in one day. And then,
my dear, before I could say a word he began pouring out a
perfect torrent of 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 anyone 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 greathearted, true gentleman. I burst into tears—I am
afraid, my dear, you will think this a very sloppy letter in
more ways than one—and I really felt very badly. Why can’t
they let a girl marry three men, or as many as want her, and
save all this trouble? But this is heresy, and I must not say it.
I am glad to say that, though I was crying, I was able to look
into Mr. Morris’s brave eyes, and I told him out straight:—
“ ‘Yes, there is someone I love, though he has not told me
yet that he even loves me.’ I was right to speak to him so
frankly, for quite a light came into his face, and he put out
both his hands and took mine—I think I put them into his—
and said in a hearty way:—
“ ‘That’s my brave girl. It’s better worth being late for a
chance of winning you than being in time for any other girl
in the world. Don’t cry, my dear. If it’s for me, I’m a hard nut
to crack; and I take it standing up. If that other fellow
doesn’t know his happiness, well, he’d better look for it
soon, or he’ll have to deal with me. Little girl, your honesty
and pluck have made me a friend, and that’s rarer than a
lover; it’s more unselfish anyhow. My dear, I’m going to have
a pretty lonely walk between this and Kingdom Come. Won’t
you give me one kiss? It’ll be something to keep off the
darkness now and then. You can, you know, if you like, for
that other good fellow—he must be a good fellow, my dear,
and a fine fellow, or you could not love him—hasn’t spoken
yet.’ That quite won me, Mina, for it was brave and sweet of
him, and noble, too, to a rival—wasn’t it?—and he so sad; so
I leant over and kissed him. He stood up with my two hands
in his, and as he looked down into my face—I am afraid I was
blushing very much—he said:—
“ ‘Little girl, I hold your hand, and you’ve kissed me, and if
these things don’t make us friends nothing ever will. Thank
you for your sweet honesty to me, and 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 down 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 Romæ venalia sunt. Hell has its price! verb.
sap. If there be anything behind this instinct it will be
valuable to trace it afterwards accurately, so I had better
commence to do so, therefore—
R. M. Renfield, ætat 59.—Sanguine temperament; great
physical strength; morbidly excitable; periods of gloom,
ending in some fixed idea which I cannot make out. I
presume that the sanguine temperament itself and the
disturbing influence end in a mentally-accomplished finish;
a possibly dangerous man, probably dangerous if unselfish.
In selfish men caution is as secure an armour for their foes
as for themselves. What I think of on this point is, when self
is the fixed point the centripetal force is balanced with the
centrifugal; when duty, a cause, etc., is the fixed point, the
latter force is paramount, and only accident or a series of
accidents can balance it.

LETTER, QUINCEY P. MORRIS TO HON. ARTHUR HOLMWOOD.

“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 the best worth winning. We promise you a hearty
welcome, and a loving greeting, and a health as true as your
own right hand. We shall both swear to leave you at home if
you drink too deep to a certain pair of eyes. Come!

“Yours, as ever and always,

“QUINCEY P. MORRIS.”

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.”
 VI

MINA MURRAY’S JOURNAL.

24 July. Whitby.—Lucy met me at the station, looking sweeter

and lovelier than ever, and we drove up to the house at the
Crescent in which they have rooms. This is a lovely place.
The little river, the Esk, runs through a deep valley, which
broadens out as it comes near the harbour. A great viaduct
runs across, with high piers, through which the view seems
somehow further away than it really is. The valley is
beautifully green, and it is so steep that when you are on the
high land on either side you look right across it, unless you
are near enough to see down. The houses of the old town—
the side away from us—are all red-roofed, and seem piled up
one over the other anyhow, like the pictures we see of
Nuremberg. Right over the town is the ruin of Whitby Abbey,
which was sacked by the Danes, and which is the scene of
part of “Marmion,” where the girl was built up in the wall. It
is a most noble ruin, of immense size, and full of beautiful
and romantic bits; there is a legend that a white lady is seen
in one of the windows. Between it and the town there is
another church, the parish one, round which is a big
graveyard, all full of tombstones. This is to my mind the
nicest spot in Whitby, for it lies right over the town, and has
a full view of the harbour and all up the bay to where the
headland called Kettleness stretches out into the sea. It
descends so steeply over the harbour that part of the bank
has fallen away, and some of the graves have been
destroyed. In one place part of the stonework of the graves
stretches out over the sandy pathway far below. There are
walks, with seats beside them, through the churchyard; and
people go and sit there all day long looking at the beautiful
view and enjoying the breeze. I shall come and sit here very
often myself and work. Indeed, I am writing now, with my
book on my knee, and listening to the talk of three old men
who are sitting beside me. They seem to do nothing all day
but sit up here and talk.
The harbour lies below me, with, on the far side, one long
granite wall stretching out into the sea, with a curve
outwards at the end of it, in the middle of which is a
lighthouse. A heavy 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 edge of which runs straight out
from behind the south lighthouse. At the end of it is a buoy
with a bell, which swings in bad weather, and sends in a
mournful sound on the wind. They have a legend here that
when a ship is lost bells are heard out at sea. I must ask the
old man about this; he is coming this way. …
He is a funny old man. He must be awfully old, for his face
is all gnarled and twisted like the bark of a tree. He tells me
that he is nearly a hundred, and that he was a sailor in the
Greenland fishing fleet when Waterloo was fought. He is, I
am afraid, a very sceptical person, for when I asked him
about the bells at sea and the White Lady at the abbey he
said very brusquely:—
 “I wouldn’t fash masel’ about them, miss. Them things be
all wore out. Mind, I don’t say that they never was, but I do
say that they wasn’t in my time. They be all very well for
comers and trippers, an’ the like, but not for a nice young
lady like you. Them feet-folks from York and Leeds that be
always eatin’ cured herrin’s an’ drinkin’ tea an’ lookin’ out to
buy cheap jet would creed aught. I wonder masel’ who’d be
bothered tellin’ lies to them—even the newspapers, which is
full of fool-talk.” I thought he would be a good person to
learn interesting things from, so I asked him if he would
mind telling me something about the whale-fishing in the
old days. He was just settling himself to begin when the
clock struck six, whereupon he laboured to get up, and
said:—
“I must gang ageeanwards home now, miss. My
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; an’, miss, I lack belly-timber sairly
by the clock.”
He hobbled away, and I could see him hurrying, as well as
he could, down the steps. The steps are a great feature on
the place. They lead from the town up to the church, there
are hundreds of them—I do not know how many—and they
wind up in a delicate curve; the slope is so gentle that a
horse could easily walk up and down them. I think they must
originally have had something to do with the abbey. I shall
go home too. Lucy went out visiting with her mother, and as
they were only duty calls, I did not go. They will be home by
this.

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 downfaces everybody. If he can’t out-argue them he
bullies them, and then takes their silence for agreement
with his views. Lucy was looking sweetly pretty in her white
lawn frock; she has got a beautiful colour since she has been
here. I noticed that the old men did not lose any time in
coming up and sitting near her when we sat down. She is so
sweet with old people; I think they all fell in love with her on
the spot. Even my old man succumbed and did not
contradict her, but gave me double share instead. I got him
on the subject of the legends, and he went off at once into a
sort of sermon. I must try to remember it and put it down:—
“It be all fool-talk, lock, stock, and barrel; that’s what it be,
an’ nowt else. These bans an’ wafts an’ boh-ghosts an’
barguests an’ bogles an’ all anent them is only fit to set
bairns an’ dizzy women a-belderin’. They be nowt but air-
blebs. They, an’ all grims an’ signs an’ warnin’s, be all
invented by parsons an’ illsome beuk-bodies an’ railway
touters to skeer an’ scunner hafflin’s, an’ to get folks to do
somethin’ that they don’t other incline to. It makes me ireful
to think o’ them. Why, it’s them that, not content with
printin’ lies on paper an’ preachin’ them out of pulpits, does
want to be cuttin’ them on the 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’
tryin’ to drag their tombsteans with them to prove how good
they was; some of them trimmlin’ and ditherin’, with their
hands that dozzened an’ slippy from lyin’ in the sea that
they can’t even keep their grup o’ them.”
I could see from the old fellow’s self-satisfied air and the
way in which he looked round for the approval of his cronies
that he was “showing off,” so I put in a word to keep him
going:—
“Oh, Mr. Swales, you can’t be serious. Surely these
tombstones are not all wrong?”
“Yabblins! There may be a poorish few not wrong, savin’
where they make out the people too good; for there be folk
that do think a balm-bowl be like the sea, if only it be their
own. The whole thing be only lies. Now look you here; you
come here a stranger, an’ you see this kirk-garth.” I nodded,
for I thought it better to assent, though I did not quite
understand his dialect. I knew it had something to do with
the church. He went on: “And you consate that all these
steans be aboon folk that be happed here, snod an’ snog?” I
assented again. “Then that be just where the lie comes in.
Why, there be scores of these lay-beds that be toom as old
Dun’s ’bacca-box on Friday night.” He nudged one of his
companions, and they all laughed. “And my gog! how could
they be otherwise? Look at that one, the aftest abaft the
bier-bank: read it!” I went over and read:—
“Edward Spencelagh, master mariner, murdered by pirates
off the coast of Andres, April, 1854, æt. 30.” When I came
back Mr. Swales went on:—
“Who brought him home, I wonder, to hap him here?
Murdered off the coast of Andres! an’ you consated his body
lay under! Why, I could name ye a dozen whose bones lie in
the Greenland seas above”—he pointed northwards—“or
where the currents may have drifted them. There be the
steans around ye. Ye can, with your young eyes, read the
small-print of the lies from here. This Braithwaite Lowrey—I
knew his father, lost in the Lively off Greenland in ’20; or
Andrew Woodhouse, drowned in the same seas in 1777; or
John Paxton, drowned off Cape Farewell a year later; or old
John Rawlings, whose grandfather sailed with me, drowned
in the Gulf of Finland in ’50. Do ye think that all these men
will have to make a rush to Whitby when the trumpet
sounds? I have me antherums aboot it! I tell ye that when
they got here they’d be jommlin’ an’ jostlin’ one another
that way that it ’ud be like a fight up on the ice in the old
days, when we’d be at one another from daylight to dark, an’
tryin’ to tie up our cuts by the light of the aurora borealis.”
This was evidently local pleasantry, for the old man cackled
over it, and his cronies joined in with gusto.
“But,” I said, “surely you are not quite correct, for you start
on the assumption that all the poor people, or their spirits,
will have to take their tombstones with them on the Day of
Judgment. Do you think that will be really necessary?”
“Well, what else be they 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-stean,” he said. The letters were upside down to me
from where I sat, but Lucy was more opposite to them, so she
leant over and read:—
“Sacred to the memory of George Canon, who died, in the
hope of a glorious resurrection, on July, 29, 1873, falling
from the rocks at Kettleness. This tomb 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 hellcat that hated
him because he was acrewk’d—a regular lamiter he was—an’
he hated her so that he committed suicide in order that she
mightn’t get an insurance she put on his life. He blew nigh
the top of his head off with an old musket that they had for
scarin’ the crows with. ’Twarn’t for crows then, for it brought
the clegs and the dowps to him. That’s the way he fell off
the rocks. And, as to hopes of a glorious resurrection, I’ve
often heard him say masel’ that he hoped he’d go to hell, for
his mother was so pious that she’d be sure to go to heaven,
an’ he didn’t 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’ up the grees with the
tombstean balanced on his hump, and asks it to be took as
evidence!”
I did not know what to say, but Lucy turned the
conversation as she said, rising up:—
“Oh, why did you tell us of this? It is my favourite seat,
and I cannot leave it; and now I find I must go on sitting over
the grave of a suicide.”
“That won’t harm ye, my pretty; an’ it may make poor
Geordie gladsome to have so trim a lass sittin’ on his lap.
That won’t hurt ye. Why, I’ve sat here off an’ on for nigh
twenty years past, an’ it hasn’t done me no harm. Don’t ye
fash about them as lies under ye, or that doesn’ lie there
either! It’ll be time for ye to be getting scart when ye see the
tombsteans all run away with, and the place as bare as a
stubble-field. There’s the clock, an’ I must gang. My service
to ye, ladies!” And off he hobbled.
Lucy and I sat 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 heartsick, for I haven’t heard from Jonathan for a
whole month.
The same day. I came up here alone, for I am very sad. There
was no letter for me. I hope there cannot be anything the
matter with Jonathan. The clock has just struck nine. I see
the lights scattered all over the town, sometimes in rows
where the streets are, and sometimes singly; they run right
up the Esk and die away in the curve of the valley. To my left
the view is cut off by a black line of roof of the old house
next the abbey. The sheep and lambs are bleating in the
fields away behind me, and there is a clatter of a donkey’s
hoofs up the paved road below. The band on the pier is
playing a harsh waltz in good time, and further along the
quay there is a Salvation Army meeting in a back street.
Neither of the bands hears the other, but up here I hear and
see them both. I wonder where Jonathan is and if he is
thinking of me! I wish he were here.

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY.

5 June.—The case of Renfield grows more interesting the

more I get to understand the man. He has certain qualities
very largely developed; selfishness, secrecy, and purpose. I
wish I could get at what is the object of the latter. He seems
to have some settled scheme of his own, but what it is I do
not yet know. His redeeming quality is a love of animals,
though, indeed, he has such curious turns in it that I
sometimes imagine he is only abnormally cruel. His pets are
of odd sorts. Just now his hobby is catching flies. He has at
present such a quantity that I have had myself to
expostulate. To my astonishment, he did not break out into a
fury, as I expected, but took the matter in simple
seriousness. He thought for a moment, and then said: “May I
have three days? I shall clear them away.” Of course, I said
that would do. I must watch him.
18 June.—He has turned his mind now to spiders, and has
got several very big fellows in a box. He keeps feeding them
with his flies, and the number of the latter is becoming
sensibly diminished, although he has used half his food in
attracting more flies from outside to his room.

1 July.—His spiders are now becoming as great a nuisance as

his flies, and today I told him that he must get rid of them.
He looked very sad at this, so I said that he must clear out
some of them, at all events. He cheerfully acquiesced in this,
and I gave him the same time as before for reduction. He
disgusted me much while with him, for when a horrid
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 “focusing” some account, as the
auditors put it.

8 July.—There is a method in his madness, and the

rudimentary idea in my mind is growing. It will be a whole
idea soon, and then, oh, unconscious cerebration! you will
have to give the wall to your conscious brother. I kept away
from my friend for a few days, so that I might notice if there
were any change. Things remain as they were except that he
has parted with some of his pets and got a new one. He has
managed to get a sparrow, and has already partially tamed
it. His means of taming is simple, for already the spiders
have diminished. Those that do remain, however, are well
fed, for he still brings in the flies by tempting them with his
food.

19 July.—We are progressing. My friend has now a whole

colony of sparrows, and his flies and spiders are almost
obliterated. When I came in he ran to me and said he
wanted to ask me a great favour—a very, very great favour;
and as he spoke he fawned on me like a dog. I asked him
what it was, and he said, with a sort of rapture in his voice
and bearing:—
“A kitten, a nice little, sleek playful kitten, that I can play
with, and teach, and feed—and feed—and feed!” I was not
unprepared for this request, for I had noticed how his pets
went on increasing in size and vivacity, but I did not care
that his pretty family of tame sparrows should be wiped out
in the same manner as the flies and the spiders; so I said I
would see about it, and asked him if he would not rather
have a cat than a kitten. His eagerness betrayed him as he
answered:—
“Oh, yes, I would like a cat! I only asked for a kitten lest
you should refuse me a cat. No one would refuse me a
kitten, would they?” I shook my head, and said that at
present I feared it would not be possible, but that I would
see about it. His face fell, and I could see a warning of
danger in it, for there was a sudden fierce, sidelong look
which meant killing. The man is an undeveloped homicidal
maniac. I shall test him with his present craving and see how
it will work out; then I shall know more.
10 p.m.—I have visited him again and found him sitting in a
corner brooding. When I came in he threw himself on his
knees before me and implored me to let him have a cat; that
his salvation depended upon it. I was firm, however, and told
him that he could not have it, whereupon he went without a
word, and sat down, gnawing his fingers, in the corner where
I had found him. I shall see him in the morning early.

20 July.—Visited Renfield very early, before the attendant

went his rounds. Found him up and humming a tune. He was
spreading out his sugar, which he had saved, in the window,
and was manifestly beginning his fly-catching again; and
beginning it cheerfully and with a good grace. I looked
around for his birds, and not seeing them, asked him where
they were. He replied, without turning round, that they had
all flown away. There were a few feathers about the room
and on his pillow a drop of blood. I said nothing, but went
and told the keeper to report to me if there were anything
odd about him during the day.

11 a.m.—The attendant has just been to me to say that

Renfield has been very sick and has disgorged a whole lot of
feathers. “My belief is, doctor,” he said, “that he has eaten
his birds, and that he just took and ate them raw!”

11 p.m.—I gave Renfield a strong opiate tonight, enough to

make even him sleep, and took away his 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 zoöphagous (life-
eating) maniac; what he desires is to absorb as many lives
as he can, and he has laid himself out to achieve it in a
cumulative way. He gave many flies to one spider and many
spiders to one bird, and then wanted a cat to eat the many
birds. What would have been his later steps? It would almost
be worth while to complete the experiment. It might be done
if there were only a sufficient cause. Men sneered at
vivisection, and yet look at its results today! Why not
advance science in its most difficult and vital aspect—the
knowledge of the brain? Had I even the secret of one such
mind—did I hold the key to the fancy of even one lunatic—I
might advance my own branch of science to a pitch
compared with which Burdon-Sanderson’s physiology or
Ferrier’s brain-knowledge would be as nothing. If only there
were a sufficient cause! I must not think too much of this, or
I may be tempted; a good cause might turn the scale with
me, for may not I too be of an exceptional brain,
congenitally?
How well the man reasoned; lunatics always do within
their own scope. I wonder at how many lives he values a
man, or if at only one. He has closed the account most
accurately, and today begun a new record. How many of us
begin a new record with each day of our lives?
To me it seems only yesterday that my whole life ended
with my new hope, and that truly I began a new record. So it
will be until the Great Recorder sums me up and closes my
ledger account with a balance to profit or loss. Oh, Lucy,
Lucy, I cannot be angry with you, nor can I be angry with my
friend whose happiness is yours; but I must only wait on
hopeless and work. Work! work!
If I only could have as strong a cause as my poor mad
friend there—a good, unselfish cause to make me work—that
would be indeed happiness.
 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 sleepwalkers
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 to the seat on the churchyard cliff and show him the
beauty of Whitby. I daresay it is the waiting which disturbs
her; she will be all right when he arrives.

27 July.—No news from Jonathan. I am getting quite uneasy

about him, though why I should I do not know; but I do wish
that he would write, if it were only a single line. Lucy walks
more than ever, and each night I am awakened by her
moving about the room. Fortunately, the weather is so hot
that she cannot get cold; but still the anxiety and the
perpetually being wakened is beginning to tell on me, and I
am getting nervous and wakeful myself. Thank God, Lucy’s
health keeps up. Mr. Holmwood has been suddenly called to
Ring to see his father, who has been taken seriously ill. Lucy
frets at the postponement of seeing him, but it does not
touch her looks; she is a trifle stouter, and her cheeks are a
lovely rose-pink. She has lost that anæmic look which she
had. I pray it will all last.

3 August.—Another week gone, and no news from Jonathan,

not even to Mr. Hawkins, from whom I have heard. Oh, I do
hope he is not ill. He surely would have written. I look at that
last letter of his, but somehow it does not satisfy me. It does
not read like him, and yet it is his writing. There is no
mistake of that. Lucy has not walked much in her sleep the
last week, but there is an odd concentration about her which
I do not understand; even in her sleep she seems to be
watching me. She tries the door, and finding it locked, goes
about the room searching for the key.

6 August.—Another three days, and no news. This suspense

is getting dreadful. If I only knew where to write to or where
to go to, I should feel easier; but no one has heard a word of
Jonathan since that last letter. I must only pray to God for
patience. Lucy is more excitable than ever, but is otherwise
well. Last night was very threatening, and the fishermen say
that we are in for a storm. I must try to watch it and learn
the weather signs. Today is a grey day, and the sun as I write
is hidden in thick clouds, high over Kettleness. Everything is
grey—except the green grass, which seems like emerald
amongst it; grey earthy rock; grey clouds, tinged with the
sunburst at the far edge, hang over the grey sea, into which
the sand-points stretch like grey fingers. The sea is tumbling
in over the shallows and the sandy flats with a roar, muffled
in the sea-mists drifting inland. The horizon is lost in a grey
mist. All is vastness; the clouds are piled up like giant rocks,
and there is a “brool” over the sea that sounds like some
presage of doom. Dark figures are on the beach here and
there, sometimes half shrouded in the mist, and seem “men
like trees walking.” The fishing-boats are racing for home,
and rise and dip in the ground swell as they sweep into the
harbour, bending to the scuppers. Here comes old
Mr. Swales. He is making straight for me, and I can see, by
the way he lifts his hat, that he wants to talk. …
I have been quite touched by the change in the poor old
man. When he sat down beside me, he said in a very gentle
way:—
“I want to say something to you, miss.” I could see he was
not at ease, so I took his poor old wrinkled hand in mine and
asked him to speak fully; so he said, leaving his hand in
mine:—
“I’m afraid, my deary, that I must have shocked you by all
the wicked things I’ve been sayin’ about the dead, and
suchlike, for weeks past; but I didn’t mean them, and I want
ye to remember that when I’m gone. We aud folks that be
daffled, and with one foot abaft the krok-hooal, don’t
altogether like to think of it, and we don’t want to feel scart
of it; an’ that’s why I’ve took to makin’ light of it, so that I’d
cheer up my own heart a bit. But, Lord love ye, miss, I ain’t
afraid of dyin’, not a bit; only I don’t want to die if I can help
it. My time must be nigh at hand now, for I be aud, and a
hundred years is too much for any man to expect; and I’m so
nigh it that the Aud Man is already whettin’ his scythe. Ye
see, I can’t get out o’ the habit of caffin’ about it all at once;
the chafts will wag as they be used to. Some day soon the
Angel of Death will sound his trumpet for me. But don’t ye
dooal an’ greet, my deary!”—for he saw that I was
crying—“if he should come this very night I’d not refuse to
answer his call. For life be, after all, only a waitin’ for
somethin’ else than what we’re doin’; and death be all that
we can rightly depend on. But I’m content, for it’s comin’ to
me, my deary, and comin’ quick. It may be comin’ while we
be lookin’ and wonderin’. Maybe it’s in that wind out over
the sea that’s bringin’ with it loss and wreck, and sore
distress, and sad hearts. Look! look!” he cried suddenly.
“There’s something in that wind and in the hoast beyont
that sounds, and looks, and tastes, and smells like death. It’s
in the air; I feel it comin’. Lord, make me answer cheerful
when my call comes!” He held up his arms devoutly, and
raised his hat. His mouth moved as though he were praying.
After a few minutes’ silence, he got up, shook hands with
me, and blessed me, and said goodbye, and hobbled off. It
all touched me, and upset me very much.
I was glad when the coastguard came along, with his
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.”
 VII

CUTTING FROM THE DAILYGRAPH, 8 AUGUST

(PASTED IN MINA MURRAY’S JOURNAL.)

FROM A CORRESPONDENT.

Whitby.
One 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
holidaymakers laid out yesterday for visits to Mulgrave
Woods, Robin Hood’s Bay, Rig Mill, Runswick, Staithes, and
the various trips in the neighbourhood of Whitby. The
steamers Emma and Scarborough made trips up and down
the coast, and there was an unusual amount of “tripping”
both to and from Whitby. The day was unusually fine till the
afternoon, when some of the gossips who frequent the East
Cliff churchyard, and from that commanding eminence
watch the wide sweep of sea visible to the north and east,
called attention to a sudden show of “mares’-tails” high in
the sky to the 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 way
was marked by myriad clouds of every sunset-colour—flame,
purple, pink, green, violet, and all the tints of gold; with here
and there masses not large, but of seemingly absolute
blackness, in all sorts of shapes, as well outlined as colossal
silhouettes. The experience was not lost on the painters, and
doubtless some of the sketches of the “Prelude to the Great
Storm” will grace the R. A. and R. I. walls in May next. More
than one captain made up his mind then and there that his
“cobble” or his “mule,” as they term the different classes of
boats, would remain in the harbour till the storm had
passed. The wind fell away entirely during the evening, and
at midnight there was a dead calm, a sultry heat, and that
prevailing intensity which, on the approach of thunder,
affects persons of a sensitive nature. There were but few
lights in sight at sea, for even the coasting steamers, which
usually “hug” the shore so closely, kept well to seaward, and
but few fishing-boats were in sight. The only sail noticeable
was a foreign schooner with all sails set, which was
seemingly going westwards. The foolhardiness or ignorance
of her officers was a prolific theme for comment whilst she
remained in sight, and efforts were made to signal her to
reduce sail in face of her danger. Before the night shut down
she was seen with sails idly flapping as she gently rolled on
the undulating swell of the sea,

“As idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean.”

 Shortly before ten o’clock the stillness of the air grew
quite oppressive, and the silence was so marked that the
bleating of a sheep inland or the barking of a dog in the
town was distinctly heard, and the band on the pier, with its
lively French air, was like a discord in the great harmony of
nature’s silence. A little after midnight came a strange
sound from over the sea, and high overhead the air began to
carry a strange, faint, hollow booming.
Then without warning the tempest broke. With a rapidity
which, at the time, seemed incredible, and even afterwards
is impossible to realize, the whole aspect of nature at once
became convulsed. The waves rose in growing fury, each
overtopping its fellow, till in a very few minutes the lately
glassy sea was like a roaring and devouring monster. White-
crested waves beat madly on the level sands and rushed up
the shelving cliffs; others broke over the piers, and with
their spume swept the lanterns of the lighthouses which rise
from the end of either pier of Whitby Harbour. The wind
roared like thunder, and blew with such force that it was
with difficulty that even strong men kept their feet, or clung
with grim clasp to the iron stanchions. It was found
necessary to clear the entire piers from the mass of
onlookers, or else the fatalities of the night would have been
increased manifold. To add to the difficulties and dangers of
the time, masses of sea-fog came drifting inland—white, wet
clouds, which swept by in ghostly fashion, so dank and
damp and cold that it needed but little effort of imagination
to think that the spirits of those lost at sea were touching
their living brethren with the clammy hands of death, and
many a one shuddered as the wreaths of sea-mist swept by.
At times the mist cleared, and the sea for some distance
could be seen in the glare of the lightning, which now came
thick and fast, followed by such sudden peals of thunder
that the whole sky overhead seemed trembling under the
shock of the footsteps of the storm.
 Some of the scenes thus revealed were of immeasurable
grandeur and of absorbing interest—the sea, running
mountains high, threw skywards with each wave mighty
masses of white foam, which the tempest seemed to snatch
at and whirl away into space; here and there a fishing-boat,
with a rag of sail, running madly for shelter before the blast;
now and again the white wings of a storm-tossed 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
the inrushing mist swept with it the surface of the sea. Once
or twice its service was most effective, as when a fishing-
boat, with gunwale under water, rushed into the harbour,
able, by the guidance of the sheltering light, to avoid the
danger of dashing against the piers. As each boat achieved
the safety of the port there was a shout of joy from the mass
of people on shore, a shout which for a moment seemed to
cleave the gale and was then swept away in its rush.
Before long the searchlight discovered some distance
away a schooner with all sails set, apparently the same
vessel which had been noticed earlier in the evening. The
wind had by this time backed to the east, and there was a
shudder amongst the watchers on the cliff as they realized
the terrible danger in which she now was. Between her and
the port lay the great flat reef on which so many good ships
have from time to time suffered, and, with the wind blowing
from its present quarter, it would be quite impossible that
she should fetch the entrance of the harbour. It was now
nearly the hour of high tide, but the waves were so great
that in their troughs the shallows of the shore were almost
visible, and the schooner, with all sails set, was rushing with
such speed that, in the words of one old salt, “she must
fetch up somewhere, if it was only in hell.” Then came
another rush of sea-fog, greater than any hitherto—a mass
of dank mist, which seemed to close on all things like a grey
pall, and left available to men only the organ of hearing, for
the roar of the tempest, and the crash of the thunder, and
the booming of the mighty billows came through the damp
oblivion even louder than before. The rays of the searchlight
were kept fixed on the harbour mouth across the East Pier,
where the shock was expected, and men waited breathless.
The wind suddenly shifted to the 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 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—“thruff-
steans” or “through-stones,” as they call them in the Whitby
vernacular—actually project over where the sustaining cliff
has fallen away, it disappeared in the darkness, which
seemed intensified just beyond the focus of the searchlight.
 It so happened that there was no one at the moment on
Tate Hill Pier, as all those whose houses are in close
proximity were either in bed or were out on the heights
above. Thus the coastguard on duty on the eastern side of
the harbour, who at once ran down to the little pier, was the
first to climb on board. The men working the searchlight,
after scouring the entrance of the harbour without seeing
anything, then turned the light on the derelict and kept it
there. The coastguard ran aft, and when he came beside the
wheel, bent over to examine it, and recoiled at once as
though under some sudden emotion. This seemed to pique
general curiosity, and quite a number of people began to
run. It is a good way round from the West Cliff by the
Drawbridge to Tate Hill Pier, but your correspondent is a
fairly good runner, and came well ahead of the crowd. When
I arrived, however, I found already assembled on the pier a
crowd, whom the coastguard and police refused to allow to
come on board. By the courtesy of the chief boatman, I was,
as your correspondent, permitted to climb on deck, and was
one of a small group who saw the dead seaman whilst
actually lashed to the wheel.
It was no wonder that the coastguard was surprised, or
even awed, for not often can such a sight have been seen.
The man was simply fastened by his hands, tied one over
the other, to a spoke of the wheel. Between the inner hand
and the wood was a crucifix, the set of beads on which it was
fastened being around both wrists and wheel, and all kept
fast by the binding cords. The poor fellow may have been
seated at one time, but the flapping and buffeting of the
sails had worked through the rudder of the wheel and
dragged him to and fro, so that the cords with which he was
tied had cut the flesh to the bone. Accurate note was made
of the state of things, and a doctor—Surgeon J. M. Caffyn, of
33, East Elliot Place—who came immediately after me,
declared, after making examination, that the man must have
been dead for quite two days. In his pocket was a bottle,
carefully corked, empty save for a little roll of paper, which
proved to be the addendum to the log. The 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 statutes of mortmain, since the
tiller, as emblemship, if not proof, of delegated possession, is
held in a dead hand. It is needless to say that the dead
steersman has been reverently removed from the place
where he held his honourable watch and ward till death—a
steadfastness as noble as that of the young Casabianca—
and placed in the mortuary to await inquest.
Already the sudden storm is passing, and its fierceness is
abating; crowds are scattering homeward, and the sky is
beginning to redden over the Yorkshire wolds. I shall send, in
time for your next issue, further details of the derelict ship
which found her way so miraculously into harbour in the
storm.

Whitby.
9 August.—The sequel to the strange arrival of the derelict
in the storm last night is almost more startling than the
thing itself. It turns out that the schooner is a Russian from
Varna, and is called the Demeter. She is almost entirely in
ballast of silver sand, with only a small amount of cargo—a
number of great wooden boxes filled with mould. This cargo
was consigned to a Whitby solicitor, Mr. S. F. Billington, of 7,
The Crescent, who this morning went aboard and formally
took possession of the goods consigned to him. The Russian
consul, too, acting for the charter-party, took formal
possession of the ship, and paid all harbour dues, etc.
Nothing is talked about here today except the strange
coincidence; the officials of the Board of Trade have been
most exacting in seeing that every compliance has been
made with existing regulations. As the matter is to be a
“nine days’ wonder,” they are evidently determined that
there shall be no cause of after complaint. A good deal of
interest was abroad concerning the dog which landed when
the ship struck, and more than a few of the members of the
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 to
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 logbook 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 rescript, simply omitting
technical details of seamanship and supercargo. It almost
seems as though the captain had been seized with some
kind of mania before he had got well into blue water, and
that this had developed persistently throughout the voyage.
Of course my statement must be taken cum grano, since I
am writing from the dictation of a clerk of the Russian
consul, who kindly translated for me, time being short.

LOG OF THE DEMETER.

VARNA TO WHITBY.

Written 18 July, things so strange happening, that I shall

keep accurate note henceforth till we land.

On 6 July we finished taking in cargo, silver sand and

boxes of earth. At noon set sail. East wind, fresh. Crew,
five hands … two mates, cook, and myself (captain).

On 11 July at dawn entered Bosphorus. Boarded by

Turkish Customs officers. Backsheesh. All correct. Under
way at 4 p.m.

On 12 July through Dardanelles. More Customs officers

and flagboat of guarding squadron. Backsheesh again.
Work of officers thorough, but quick. Want us off soon. At
dark passed into Archipelago.
On 13 July passed Cape Matapan. Crew dissatisfied
about something. Seemed scared, but would not speak
out.

On 14 July was somewhat anxious about crew. Men all

steady fellows, who sailed with me before. Mate could
not make out what was wrong; they only told him there
was something, and crossed themselves. Mate lost
temper with one of them that day and struck him.
Expected fierce quarrel, but all was quiet.

On 16 July mate reported in the morning that one of

crew, Petrofsky, was missing. Could not account for it.
Took larboard watch eight bells last night; was relieved
by Abramoff, but did not go to bunk. Men more
downcast than ever. All said they expected something of
the kind, but would not say more than there was
something aboard. Mate getting very impatient with
them; feared some trouble ahead.

On 17 July, yesterday, one of the men, Olgaren, came to

my cabin, and in an awestruck way confided to me that
he thought there was a strange man aboard the ship. He
said that in his watch he had been sheltering behind the
deck-house, as there was a rainstorm, 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
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 someone
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 a handspike. I let him
take the helm, while the rest began thorough search, all
keeping abreast, with lanterns: we left no corner
unsearched. As there were only the big wooden boxes,
there were no odd corners where a man could hide. Men
much relieved when search over, and went back to work
cheerfully. First mate scowled, but said nothing.

22 July.—Rough weather last three days, and all hands

busy with sails—no time to be frightened. Men seem to
have forgotten their dread. Mate cheerful again, and all
on good terms. Praised men for work in bad weather.
Passed Gibralter and out through Straits. All well.

24 July.—There seems some doom over this ship. Already

a hand short, and entering on the Bay of Biscay with
wild weather ahead, and yet last night another man
lost—disappeared. Like the first, he came off his watch
and was not seen again. Men all in a panic of fear; sent a
round robin, asking to have double watch, as they fear
to be alone. Mate angry. Fear there will be some trouble,
as either he or the men will do some violence.
28 July.—Four days in hell, knocking about in a sort of
maelstrom, and the wind a tempest. No sleep for
anyone. Men all worn out. Hardly know how to set a
watch, since no one fit to go on. Second mate
volunteered to steer and watch, and let men snatch a
few hours’ sleep. Wind abating; seas still terrific, but feel
them less, as ship is steadier.

29 July.—Another tragedy. Had single watch tonight, as

crew too tired to double. When morning watch came on
deck could find no one except steersman. Raised outcry,
and all came on deck. Thorough search, but no one
found. Are now without second mate, and crew in a
panic. Mate and I agreed to go armed henceforth and
wait for any sign of cause.

30 July.—Last night. Rejoiced we are nearing England.

Weather fine, all sails set. Retired worn out; slept
soundly; awaked by mate telling me that both man of
watch and steersman missing. Only self and mate and
two hands left to work ship.

1 August.—Two days of fog, and not a sail sighted. Had

hoped when in the English Channel to be able to signal
for help or get in somewhere. Not having power to work
sails, have to run before wind. Dare not lower, as could
not raise them again. We seem to be drifting to some
terrible doom. Mate now more 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 Romanian.

2 August, midnight.—Woke up from few minutes’ sleep

by hearing a cry, seemingly outside my port. Could see
nothing in fog. Rushed on deck, and ran against mate.
Tells me heard cry and ran, but no sign of man on watch.
One more gone. Lord, help us! Mate says we must be
past Straits of Dover, as in a moment of fog lifting he
saw North Foreland, just as he heard the man cry out. If
so we are now off in the North Sea, and only God can
guide us in the fog, which seems to move with us; and
God seems to have deserted us.

3 August.—At midnight I went to relieve the man at the

wheel, 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 his knife and drove it
savagely into space. Then he went on: “But It is here,
and I’ll find It. It is in the hold, perhaps in one of those
boxes. I’ll unscrew them one by one and see. You work
the helm.” And, with a warning look and his finger on his
lip, he went below. There was springing up a choppy
wind, and I could not leave the helm. I saw him come out
on deck again with a tool-chest and a lantern, and go
down the forward hatchway. He is mad, stark, raving
mad, and it’s no use my trying to stop him. He can’t hurt
those big boxes: they are invoiced as “clay,” and to pull
them about is as harmless a thing as he can do. So here I
stay, and mind the helm, and write these notes. I can
only trust in God and wait till the fog clears. Then, if I
can’t steer to any harbour with the wind that is, I shall
cut down sails and lie by, and signal for help. …

It is nearly all over now. Just as I was beginning to hope

that the mate would come out calmer—for I heard him
knocking away at something in the hold, and work is
good for him—there came up the hatchway a sudden,
startled scream, which made my blood run cold, and up
on the deck he came as if shot from a gun—a raging
madman, with his eyes rolling and his face convulsed
with fear. “Save me! save me!” he cried, and then looked
round on the blanket of fog. His horror turned to despair,
and in a steady voice he said: “You had better come too,
captain, before it is too late. He is there. I know the
secret now. The sea will save me from Him, and it is all
that is left!” Before I could say a word, or move forward
to seize him, he sprang on the bulwark and deliberately
threw himself into the sea. I suppose I know the secret
too, now. It was this madman who had got rid of the men
one by one, and now he has followed them himself. God
help me! How am I to account for all these horrors when
I get to port? When I get to port! Will that ever be?
 4 August.—Still fog, which the sunrise cannot pierce. I
know there is sunrise because I am a sailor, why else I
know not. I dared not go below, I dared not leave the
helm; so here all night I stayed, and in the dimness of
the night I saw It—Him! God forgive me, but the mate
was right to jump overboard. It 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 sleepwalking,
for as soon as her will is thwarted in any physical way, her
intention, if there be any, disappears, and she yields herself
almost exactly to the routine of her life.
Early in the morning we both got up and went down to the
harbour to see if anything had happened in the night. There
were very few people about, and though the sun was bright,
and the air clear and fresh, the big, grim-looking waves, that
seemed dark themselves because the foam that topped
them was like snow, forced themselves in through the
narrow mouth of the harbour—like a bullying man going
through a crowd. Somehow I felt glad that Jonathan was not
on the sea last night, but on land. But, oh, is he on land or
sea? Where is he, and how? I am getting fearfully anxious
about him. If I only knew what to do, and could do anything!

10 August.—The funeral of the poor sea-captain today was

most touching. Every boat in the harbour seemed to be
there, and the coffin was carried by captains all the way
from Tate Hill Pier up to the churchyard. Lucy came with me,
and we went early to our old seat, whilst the cortège of
boats went up the river to the Viaduct and came down
again. We had a lovely view, and saw the procession nearly
all the way. The poor fellow was laid to rest quite near our
seat so that we stood on it when the time came and saw
everything. Poor Lucy seemed much upset. She was restless
and uneasy all the time, and I cannot but think that her
dreaming at night is telling on her. She is quite odd in one
thing: she will not admit to me that there is any cause for
restlessness; or if there be, she does not understand it
herself. There is an additional cause in that poor old
Mr. Swales was found dead this morning on our seat, his
neck being broken. He had evidently, as the doctor said,
fallen back in the seat in some sort of fright, for there was a
look of fear and horror on his face that the men said made
them shudder. Poor dear old man! Perhaps he had seen
Death with his dying eyes! Lucy is so sweet and sensitive
that she feels influences more acutely than other people do.
Just now she was quite upset by a little thing which I did not
much heed, though I am myself very fond of animals. One of
the men who 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 sort of
fury, with its eyes savage, and all its hairs bristling out like a
cat’s tail when puss is on the warpath. Finally the man, too,
got angry, and jumped down and kicked the dog, and then
took it by the scruff of the neck and half dragged and half
threw it on the tombstone on which the seat is fixed. The
moment it touched the stone the poor thing became quiet
and fell all into a tremble. It did not try to get away, but
crouched down, quivering and cowering, and was in such a
pitiable state of terror that I tried, though without effect, to
comfort it. Lucy was full of pity, too, but she did not attempt
to touch the dog, but looked at it in an 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 sleepwalking then.
 VIII

MINA MURRAY’S JOURNAL.

Same day, 11 o’clock p.m.—Oh, but I am tired! If it were not

that I had made my diary a duty I should not open it tonight.
We had a lovely walk. Lucy, after a while, was in gay spirits,
owing, I think, to some dear cows who came nosing towards
us in a field close to the lighthouse, and frightened the wits
out of us. I believe we forgot everything except, of course,
personal fear, and it seemed to wipe the slate clean and give
us a fresh start. We had a capital “severe tea” at Robin
Hood’s Bay in a sweet little old-fashioned inn, with a bow-
window right over the seaweed-covered rocks of the strand. I
believe we should have shocked the “New Woman” with our
appetites. Men are more tolerant, bless them! Then we
walked home with some, or rather many, stoppages to rest,
and with our hearts full of a constant dread of wild bulls.
Lucy was really tired, and we intended to creep off to bed as
soon as we could. The young curate came in, however, and
Mrs. Westenra asked him to stay for supper. Lucy and I had
both a fight for it with the dusty miller; I know it was a hard
fight on my part, and I am quite heroic. I think that some
day the bishops must get together and see about breeding
up a new class of curates, who don’t take supper, no matter
how they may be pressed to, and who will know when girls
are tired. Lucy is asleep and breathing softly. She has more
colour in her cheeks than usual, and looks, oh, so sweet. If
Mr. Holmwood fell in love with her seeing her only in the
drawing-room, I wonder what he would say if he saw her
now. Some of the “New Women” writers will some day start
an idea that men and women should be allowed to see each
other asleep before proposing or accepting. But I suppose
the New Woman won’t condescend in future to accept; she
will do the proposing herself. And a nice job she will make of
it, too! There’s some consolation in that. I am so happy
tonight, because dear Lucy seems better. I really believe she
has turned the corner, and that we are over her troubles with
dreaming. I should be quite happy if I only knew if
Jonathan. … God bless and keep him.

11 August, 3 a.m.—Diary again. No sleep now, so I may as

well write. I am too agitated to sleep. We have had such an
adventure, such an agonising experience. I fell asleep as
soon as I had closed my diary. … Suddenly I became broad
awake, and sat up, with a horrible sense of fear upon me,
and of some feeling of emptiness around me. The room was
dark, so I could not see Lucy’s bed; I stole across and felt for
her. The bed was empty. I lit a match and found that she was
not in the room. The door was shut, but not locked, as I had
left it. I feared to wake her mother, who has been more than
usually ill lately, so threw on some clothes and got ready to
look for her. As I was leaving the room it struck me that the
clothes she wore might give me some clue to her dreaming
intention. Dressing-gown would mean house; dress, outside.
Dressing-gown and dress were both in their places. “Thank
God,” I said to myself, “she cannot be far, as she is only in
her nightdress.” I ran downstairs and looked in the sitting-
room. Not there! Then I looked in all the other open rooms of
the house, with an ever-growing fear chilling my heart.
Finally I came to the hall door and found it open. It was not
wide open, but the catch of the lock had not caught. The
people of the house are careful to lock the door every night,
so I feared that Lucy must have gone out as she was. There
was no time to think of what might happen; a vague,
overmastering fear obscured all details. I took a big, heavy
shawl and ran out. The clock was striking one as I was in the
Crescent, and there was not a soul in sight. I ran along the
North Terrace, but could see no sign of the white figure
which I expected. At the edge of the West Cliff above the
pier I looked across the harbour to the East Cliff, in the hope
or fear—I don’t know which—of seeing Lucy in our favourite
seat. There was a bright full moon, with heavy black, driving
clouds, which threw the whole scene into a fleeting diorama
of light and shade as they sailed across. For a moment or
two I could see nothing, as the shadow of a cloud obscured
St. Mary’s Church and all around it. Then as the cloud
passed I could see the ruins of the abbey coming into view;
and as the edge of a narrow band of light as sharp as a
sword-cut moved along, the church and the churchyard
became gradually visible. Whatever my expectation was, it
was not disappointed, for there, on our favourite seat, the
silver light of the moon struck a half-reclining figure, snowy
white. The coming of the cloud was too quick for me to see
much, for shadow shut down on light almost immediately;
but it seemed to me as though something dark stood behind
the seat where the white figure shone, and bent over it.
What it was, whether man or beast, I could not tell; I did not
wait to catch another glance, but flew down the steep steps
to the pier and along by the fish-market to the bridge, which
was the only way to reach the East Cliff. The town seemed as
dead, for not a soul did I see; I rejoiced that it was so, for I
wanted no witness of poor Lucy’s condition. The time and
distance seemed endless, and my knees trembled and my
breath came laboured as I toiled up the endless steps to the
abbey. I must have gone fast, and yet it seemed to me as if
my feet were weighted with lead, and as though every joint
in my body were rusty. When I got almost to the top I could
see the seat and the white figure, for I was now close enough
to distinguish it even through the spells of shadow. There
was undoubtedly something, long and black, bending over
the half-reclining white figure. I called in fright, “Lucy!
Lucy!” and something raised a head, and from where I was I
could see a white face and red, gleaming eyes. Lucy did not
answer, and I ran on to the entrance of the churchyard. As I
entered, the church was between me and the seat, and for a
minute or so I lost sight of her. When I came in view again
the cloud had passed, and the moonlight struck so brilliantly
that I could see Lucy half reclining with her head lying over
the back of the seat. She was quite alone, and there was not
a sign of any living thing about.
When I bent over her I could see that she was still asleep.
Her lips were parted, and she was breathing—not softly as
usual with her, but in long, heavy gasps, as though striving
to get her lungs full at every breath. As I came close, she put
up her hand in her sleep and pulled the collar of her
nightdress close around her throat. Whilst she did so there
came a little shudder through her, as though she felt the
cold. I flung the warm shawl over her, and drew the edges
tight round her neck, for I dreaded lest she should get some
deadly chill from the night air, unclad as she was. I feared to
wake her all at once, so, in order to have my hands free that
I might help her, I fastened the shawl at her throat with a big
safety-pin; but I must have been clumsy in my anxiety and
pinched or pricked her with it, for by-and-by, when her
breathing became quieter, she put her hand to her throat
again and moaned. When I had her carefully wrapped up I
put my shoes on her feet and then began very gently to
wake her. At first she did not respond; but gradually she
became more and more uneasy in her sleep, moaning and
sighing occasionally. At last, as time was passing fast, and,
for many other reasons, I wished to get her home at once, I
shook her more forcibly, till finally she opened her eyes and
awoke. She did not seem surprised to see me, as, of course,
she did not realise all at once where she was. Lucy always
wakes prettily, and even at such a time, when her body must
have been chilled with cold, and her mind somewhat
appalled at waking unclad in a churchyard at night, she did
not lose her grace. She trembled a little, and clung to me;
when I told her to come at once with me home she rose
without a word, with the obedience of a child. As we passed
along, the gravel hurt my feet, and Lucy noticed me wince.
She stopped and wanted to insist upon my taking my shoes;
but I would not. However, when we got to the pathway
outside the churchyard, where there was a puddle of water,
remaining from the storm, I daubed my feet with mud, using
each foot in turn on the other, so that as we went home, no
one, in case we should meet anyone, should notice my bare
feet.
Fortune favoured us, and we got home without meeting a
soul. Once we saw a man, who seemed not quite sober,
passing along a street in front of us; but we hid in a door till
he had disappeared up an opening such as there are here,
steep little closes, or “wynds,” as they call them in Scotland.
My heart beat so loud all the time that sometimes I thought I
should faint. I was filled with anxiety about Lucy, not only for
her health, lest she should suffer from the exposure, but for
her reputation in case the story should get wind. When we
got in, and had washed our feet, and had said a prayer of
thankfulness together, I tucked her into bed. Before falling
asleep she asked—even implored—me not to say a word to
anyone, 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 thinking, too, of how such a
story might become distorted—nay, infallibly would—in case
it should leak out, I thought it wiser to do so. I hope I did
right. I have locked the door, and the key is tied to my wrist,
so perhaps I shall not be again disturbed. Lucy is sleeping
soundly; the reflex of the dawn is high and far over the
sea. …

Same day, noon.—All goes well. Lucy slept till I woke her
and seemed not to have even changed her side. The
adventure of the night does not seem to have harmed her;
on the contrary, it has benefited her, for she looks better this
morning than she has done for weeks. I was sorry to notice
that my clumsiness with the safety-pin hurt her. Indeed, it
might have been serious, for the skin of her throat was
pierced. I must have pinched up a piece of loose skin and
have transfixed it, for there are two little red points like
pinpricks, 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 help to make them more
bearable.

13 August.—Another quiet day, and to bed with the key on

my wrist as before. Again I awoke in the night, and found
Lucy sitting up in bed, still asleep, pointing to the window. I
got up quietly, and pulling aside the blind, looked out. It was
brilliant moonlight, and the soft effect of the light over the
sea and sky—merged together in one great, silent mystery—
was beautiful beyond words. Between me and the moonlight
flitted a great bat, coming and going in great whirling
circles. Once or twice it came quite close, but was, I suppose,
frightened at seeing me, and flitted away across the harbour
towards the abbey. When I came back from the window Lucy
had lain down again, and was sleeping peacefully. She did
not stir again all night.

14 August.—On the East Cliff, reading and writing all day.

Lucy seems to have become as much in love with the spot as
I am, and it is hard to get her away from it when it is time to
come home for lunch or tea or dinner. This afternoon she
made a funny remark. We were coming home for dinner, and
had come to the top of the steps up from the West Pier and
stopped to look at the view, as we generally do. The setting
sun, low down in the sky, was just dropping behind
Kettleness; the red light was thrown over on the East Cliff
and the old abbey, and seemed to bathe everything in a
beautiful rosy glow. We were silent for a while, and suddenly
Lucy murmured as if to herself:—
“His red eyes again! They are just the same.” It was such
an odd expression, coming apropos of nothing, that it quite
startled me. I slewed round a little, so as to see Lucy well
without seeming to stare at her, and saw that she was in a
half-dreamy state, with an odd look on her face that I could
not quite make out; so I said nothing, but followed her eyes.
She appeared to be looking over at our own seat, whereon
was a dark figure seated alone. I was a little startled myself,
for it seemed for an instant as if the stranger had great eyes
like burning flames; but a second look dispelled the illusion.
The red sunlight was shining on the windows of St. Mary’s
Church behind our seat, and as the sun dipped there was
just sufficient change in the refraction and reflection to
make it appear as if the light moved. I called Lucy’s
attention to the peculiar effect, and she became herself with
a start, but she looked sad all the same; it may have been
that she was thinking of that terrible night up there. We
never refer to it; so I said nothing, and we went home to
dinner. Lucy had a headache and went early to bed. I saw
her asleep, and went out for a little stroll myself; I walked
along the cliffs to the westward, and was full of sweet
sadness, for I was thinking of Jonathan. When coming
home—it was then bright moonlight, so bright that, though
the front of our part of the Crescent was in shadow,
everything could be well seen—I threw a glance up at our
window, and saw Lucy’s head leaning out. I thought that
perhaps she was looking out for me, so I opened my
handkerchief and waved it. She did not notice or make any
movement whatever. Just then, the moonlight crept round
an angle of the building, and the light fell on the window.
There distinctly was Lucy with her head lying up against the
side of the windowsill and her eyes shut. She was fast
asleep, and by her, seated on the windowsill, was something
that looked like a good-sized bird. I was afraid she might get
a chill, so I ran upstairs, but as I came into the room she was
moving back to her bed, fast asleep, and breathing heavily;
she was holding her hand to her throat, as though to protect
it from cold.
I did not wake her, but tucked her up warmly; I have taken
care that the door is locked and the window securely
fastened.
She looks so sweet as she sleeps; but she is paler than is
her wont, and there is a drawn, haggard look under her eyes
which I do not like. I fear she is fretting about something. I
wish I could find out what it is.

15 August.—Rose later than usual. Lucy was languid and

tired, and slept on after we had been called. We had a happy
surprise at breakfast. Arthur’s father is better, and wants the
marriage to come off soon. Lucy is full of quiet joy, and her
mother is glad and sorry at once. Later on in the day she told
me the cause. She is grieved to lose Lucy as her very own,
but she is rejoiced that she is soon to have someone to
protect her. Poor dear, sweet lady! She confided to me that
she has got her death-warrant. She has not told Lucy, and
made me promise secrecy; her doctor told her that within a
few months, at most, she must die, for her heart is
weakening. At any time, even now, a sudden shock would be
almost sure to kill her. Ah, we were wise to keep from her the
affair of the dreadful night of Lucy’s sleepwalking.
17 August.—No diary for two whole days. I have not had the
heart to write. Some sort of shadowy pall seems to be
coming over our happiness. No news from Jonathan, and
Lucy seems to be growing weaker, whilst her mother’s hours
are numbering to a close. I do not understand Lucy’s fading
away as she is doing. She eats well and sleeps well, and
enjoys the fresh air; but all the time the roses in her cheeks
are fading, and she gets weaker and more languid day by
day; at night I hear her gasping as if for air. I keep the key of
our door always fastened to my wrist at night, but she gets
up and walks about the room, and sits at the open window.
Last night I found her leaning out when I woke up, and when
I tried to wake her I could not; she was in a faint. When I
managed to restore her she was as weak as water, and cried
silently between long, painful struggles for breath. When I
asked her how she came to be at the window she shook her
head and turned away. I trust her feeling ill may not be from
that unlucky prick of the safety-pin. I looked at her throat
just now as she lay asleep, and the tiny wounds seem not to
have healed. They are still open, and, if anything, larger
than before, and the edges of them are faintly white. They
are like little white dots with red centres. Unless they heal
within a day or two, I shall insist on the doctor seeing about
them.

LETTER, SAMUEL F. BILLINGTON & SON, SOLICITORS, WHITBY, TO

MESSRS. CARTER, PATERSON & CO., LONDON.

“17 August.
“Dear Sirs—
“Herewith please receive invoice of goods sent by Great
Northern Railway. Same are to be delivered at Carfax, near
Purfleet, immediately on receipt at goods station King’s
Cross. The house is at present empty, but enclosed please
find keys, all of which are labelled.
“You will please deposit the boxes, fifty in number, which
form the consignment, in the partially ruined building
forming part of the house and marked ’a’ on rough diagram
enclosed. Your agent will easily recognise the locality, as it is
the ancient chapel of the mansion. The goods leave by the
train at 9:30 tonight, and will be due at King’s Cross at 4:30
tomorrow afternoon. As our client wishes the delivery made
as soon as possible, we shall be obliged by your having
teams ready at King’s Cross at the time named and forthwith
conveying the goods to destination. In order to obviate any
delays possible through any routine requirements as to
payment in your departments, we enclose cheque herewith
for ten pounds (£10), receipt of which please acknowledge.
Should the charge be less than this amount, you can return
balance; if greater, we shall at once send cheque for
difference on hearing from you. You are to leave the keys on
coming away in the main hall of the house, where the
proprietor may get them on his entering the house by means
of his duplicate key.
“Pray do not take us as exceeding the bounds of business
courtesy in pressing you in all ways to use the utmost
expedition.

“We are, dear Sirs,

“Faithfully yours,
“SAMUEL F. BILLINGTON & SON.”

LETTER, MESSRS. CARTER, PATERSON & CO., LONDON, TO MESSRS.

BILLINGTON & SON, WHITBY.

“21 August.
“Dear Sirs—
“We beg to acknowledge £10 received and to return cheque
£1 17s. 9d., amount of overplus, as shown in receipted
account herewith. Goods are delivered in exact accordance
with instructions, and keys left in parcel in main hall, as
directed.

“We are, dear Sirs,

“Yours respectfully.
“Pro CARTER, PATERSON & CO.”

MINA MURRAY’S JOURNAL.

18 August.—I am happy today, and write sitting on the seat

in the churchyard. Lucy is ever so much better. Last night
she slept well all night, and did not disturb me once. The
roses seem coming back already to her cheeks, though she
is still sadly pale and wan-looking. If she were in any way
anæmic I could understand it, but she is not. She is in gay
spirits and full of life and cheerfulness. All the morbid
reticence seems to have passed from her, and she has just
reminded me, as if I needed any reminding, of that night,
and that it was here, on this very seat, I found her asleep. As
she told me she tapped playfully with the heel of her boot
on the stone slab and said:—
“My poor little feet didn’t make much noise then! I daresay
poor old Mr. Swales would have told me that it was because I
didn’t want to wake up Geordie.” As she was in such a
communicative humour, I asked her if she had dreamed at
all that night. Before she answered, that sweet, puckered
look came into her forehead, which Arthur—I call him Arthur
from her habit—says he loves; and, indeed, I don’t wonder
that he does. Then she went on in a half-dreaming kind of
way, as if trying to recall it to herself:—
 “I didn’t quite dream; but it all seemed to be real. I only
wanted to be here in this spot—I don’t know why, for I was
afraid of something—I don’t know what. I remember, though
I suppose I was asleep, passing through the streets and over
the bridge. A fish leaped as I went by, and I leaned over to
look at it, and I heard a lot of dogs howling—the whole town
seemed as if it must be full of dogs all howling at once—as I
went up the steps. Then I 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
agonising feeling, as if I were in an earthquake, and I came
back and found you shaking my body. I saw you do it before
I felt you.”
Then she began to laugh. It seemed a little uncanny to
me, and I listened to her breathlessly. I did not quite like it,
and thought it better not to keep her mind on the subject, so
we drifted on to other subjects, and Lucy was like her old self
again. When we got home the fresh breeze had braced her
up, and her pale cheeks were really more rosy. Her mother
rejoiced when she saw her, and we all spent a very happy
evening together.

19 August.—Joy, joy, joy! although not all joy. At last, news

of Jonathan. The dear fellow has been ill; that is why he did
not write. I am not afraid to think it or 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 next my heart, for he is in
my heart. My journey is all mapped out, and my luggage
ready. I am only taking one change of dress; Lucy will bring
my trunk to London and keep it till I send for it, for it may be
that … I must write no more; I must keep it to say to
Jonathan, my husband. The letter that he has seen and
touched must comfort me till we meet.

LETTER, SISTER AGATHA, HOSPITAL OF ST. JOSEPH AND STE. MARY,

BUDA-PESTH, TO MISS WILHELMINA MURRAY.

“12 August.
“Dear Madam—
“I write by desire of Mr. Jonathan Harker, who is himself not
strong enough to write, though progressing well, thanks to
God and St. Joseph and Ste. Mary. He has been under our
care for nearly six weeks, suffering from a violent brain
fever. He wishes me to convey his love, and to say that by
this post I write for him to Mr. Peter Hawkins, Exeter, to say,
with his dutiful respects, that he is sorry for his delay, and
that all of his work is completed. He will require some few
weeks’ rest in our sanatorium in the hills, but will then
return. He wishes me to say that he has not sufficient money
with him, and that he would like to pay for his staying here,
so that others who need shall not be wanting for help.

“Believe me,
“Yours, with sympathy and all blessings,
“SISTER AGATHA.

“P.S.—My patient being asleep, I open this to let you know

something more. He has told me all about you, and that you
are shortly to be his wife. All blessings to you both! He has
had some fearful shock—so says our doctor—and in his
delirium his ravings have been dreadful; of wolves and
poison and blood; of ghosts and demons; and I fear to say of
what. Be careful with him always that there may be nothing
to excite him of this kind for a long time to come; the traces
of such an illness as his do not lightly die away. We should
have written long ago, but we knew nothing of his friends,
and there was on him nothing that anyone could
understand. He came in the train from Klausenburg, and the
guard was told by the stationmaster there that he rushed
into the station shouting for a ticket for home. Seeing from
his violent demeanour that he was English, they gave him a
ticket for the furthest station on the way thither that the
train reached.
“Be assured that he is well cared for. He has won all hearts
by his sweetness and gentleness. He is truly getting on well,
and I have no doubt will in a few weeks be all himself. But be
careful of him for safety’s sake. There are, I pray God and
St. Joseph and Ste. Mary, many, many, happy years for you
both.”

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY.

19 August.—Strange and sudden change in Renfield last

night. About eight o’clock he began to get excited and sniff
about as a dog does when setting. The attendant was struck
by his manner, and knowing my interest in him, encouraged
him to talk. He is usually respectful to the attendant and at
times servile; but tonight, the man tells me, he was quite
haughty. Would not condescend to talk with him at all. All he
would say was:—
 “I don’t want to talk to you: you don’t count now; the
Master is at hand.”

The attendant thinks it is some sudden form of religious

mania which has seized him. If so, we must look out for
squalls, for a strong man with homicidal and religious mania
at once might be dangerous. The combination is a dreadful
one. At nine o’clock I visited him myself. His attitude to me
was the same as that to the attendant; in his sublime self-
feeling the difference between myself and attendant
seemed to him as nothing. It looks like religious mania, and
he will soon think that he himself is God. These infinitesimal
distinctions between man and man are too paltry for an
Omnipotent Being. How these madmen give themselves
away! The real God taketh heed lest a sparrow fall; but the
God created from human vanity sees no difference between
an eagle and a sparrow. Oh, if men only knew!
For half an hour or more Renfield kept getting excited in
greater and greater degree. I did not pretend to be watching
him, but I kept strict observation all the same. All at once
that shifty look came into his eyes which we always see
when a madman has seized an idea, and with it the shifty
movement of the head and back which asylum attendants
come to know so well. He became quite quiet, and went and
sat on the edge of his bed resignedly, and looked into space
with lacklustre eyes. I thought I would find out if his apathy
were real or only assumed, and tried to lead him to talk of
his pets, a theme which had never failed to excite his
attention. At first he made no reply, but at length said
testily:—
“Bother them all! I don’t care a pin about them.”
“What?” I said. “You don’t mean to tell me you don’t care
about spiders?” (Spiders at present are his hobby and the
notebook is filling up with columns of small figures.) To this
he answered enigmatically:—
 “The bride-maidens rejoice the eyes that wait the coming
of the bride; but when the bride draweth nigh, then the
maidens shine not to the eyes that are filled.”
He would not explain himself, but remained obstinately
seated on his bed all the time I remained with him.
I am weary tonight and low in spirits. I cannot but think of
Lucy, and how different things might have been. If I don’t
sleep at once, chloral, the modern Morpheus—C2HCl3O. H2O!
I must be careful not to let it grow into a habit. No, I shall
take none tonight! I have thought of Lucy, and I shall not
dishonour her by mixing the two. If need be, tonight shall be
sleepless. …

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
someone, but I was afraid to go near enough to hear what he
was saying, lest I might frighten him, and he should run off.
Chasing an errant swarm of bees is nothing to following a
naked lunatic, when the fit of escaping is upon him! After a
few minutes, however, I could see that he did not take note
of anything around him, and so ventured to draw nearer to
him—the more so as my men had now crossed the wall and
were closing him in. I heard him say:—
“I am here to do Your bidding, Master. I am Your slave, and
You will reward me, for I shall be faithful. I have worshipped
You long and afar off. Now that You are near, I await Your
commands, and You will not pass me by, will You, dear
Master, in Your distribution of good things?”
He is a selfish old beggar anyhow. He thinks of the loaves
and fishes even when he believes he is in a Real Presence.
His manias make a startling combination. When we closed in
on him he fought like a tiger. He is immensely strong, for he
was more like a wild beast than a man. I never saw a lunatic
in such a paroxysm of rage before; and I hope I shall not
again. It is a mercy that we have found out his strength and
his danger in good time. With strength and determination
like his, he might have done wild work before he was caged.
He is safe now at any rate. Jack Sheppard himself couldn’t
get free from the strait-waistcoat that keeps him restrained,
and he’s chained to the wall in the padded room. His cries
are at times awful, but the silences that follow are more
deadly still, for he means murder in every turn and
movement.
Just now he spoke coherent words for the first time:—
“I shall be patient, Master. It is coming—coming—coming!”
So I took the hint, and came too. I was too excited to sleep,
but this diary has quieted me, and I feel I shall get some
sleep tonight.
 IX

LETTER, MINA HARKER TO LUCY WESTENRA.

“Buda-Pesth, 24 August.
“My dearest Lucy—
“I know you will be anxious to hear all that has happened
since we parted at the railway station at Whitby. Well, my
dear, I got to Hull all right, and caught the boat to Hamburg,
and then the train on here. I feel that I can hardly recall
anything of the journey, except that I knew I was coming to
Jonathan, and, that as I should have to do some nursing, I
had better get all the sleep I could. … I found my dear one,
oh, so thin and pale and weak-looking. All the resolution has
gone out of his dear eyes, and that quiet dignity which I told
you was in his face has vanished. He is only a wreck of
himself, and he does not remember anything that has
happened to him for a long time past. At least, he wants me
to believe so, and I shall never ask. He has had some terrible
shock, and I fear it might tax his poor brain if he were to try
to recall it. Sister Agatha, who is a good creature and a born
nurse, tells me that he raved of dreadful things whilst he
was off his head. I wanted her to tell me what they were; but
she would only cross herself, and say she would never tell;
that the ravings of the sick were the secrets of God, and that
if a nurse through her vocation should hear them, she
should respect her trust. She is a sweet, good soul, and the
next day, when she saw I was troubled, she opened up the
subject again, and after saying that she could never mention
what my poor dear raved about, added: ‘I can tell you this
much, my dear: that it was not about anything which he has
done wrong himself; and you, as his wife to be, have no
cause to be concerned. He has not forgotten you or what he
owes to you. His fear was of great and terrible things, which
no mortal can treat of.’ I do believe the dear soul thought I
might be jealous lest my poor dear should have fallen in
love with any other girl. The idea of my being jealous about
Jonathan! And yet, my dear, let me whisper, I felt a thrill of
joy through me when I knew that no other woman was a
cause of trouble. I am now sitting by his bedside, where I can
see his face while he sleeps. He is waking! …
“When he woke he asked me for his coat, as he wanted to
get something from the pocket; I asked Sister Agatha, and
she brought all his things. I saw that amongst them was his
notebook, and was going to ask him to let me look at it—for I
knew then that I might find some clue to his trouble—but I
suppose he must have seen my wish in my eyes, for he sent
me over to the window, saying he wanted to be quite alone
for a moment. Then he called me back, and when I came he
had his hand over the notebook, and he said to me very
solemnly:—
“ ‘Wilhelmina’—I knew then that he was in deadly earnest,
for he has never called me by that name since he asked me
to marry him—‘you know, dear, my ideas of the trust
between husband and wife: there should be no secret, no
concealment. I have had a great shock, and when I try to
think of what it is I feel my head spin round, and I do not
know if it was all real or the dreaming of a madman. You
know I have had brain fever, and that is to be mad. The
secret is here, and I do not want to know it. I want to take up
my life here, with our marriage.’ For, my dear, we had
decided to be married as soon as the formalities are
complete. ‘Are you willing, Wilhelmina, to share my
ignorance? Here is the book. Take it and keep it, read it if
you will, but never let me know; unless, indeed, some
solemn duty should come upon me to go back to the bitter
hours, asleep or awake, sane or mad, recorded here.’ He fell
back exhausted, and I put the book under his pillow, and
kissed him. I have asked Sister Agatha to beg the Superior
to let our wedding be this afternoon, and am waiting her
reply. …

“She has come and told me that the chaplain of the English
mission church has been sent for. We are to be married in an
hour, or as soon after as Jonathan awakes. …

“Lucy, the time has come and gone. I feel very solemn, but
very, very happy. Jonathan woke a little after the hour, and
all was ready, and he sat up in bed, propped up with pillows.
He answered his ‘I will’ firmly and strongly. I could hardly
speak; my heart was so full that even those words seemed to
choke me. The dear sisters were so kind. Please God, I shall
never, never forget them, nor the grave and sweet
responsibilities I have taken upon me. I must tell you of my
wedding present. When the chaplain and the sisters had left
me alone with my husband—oh, Lucy, it is the first time I
have written the words ‘my husband’—left me alone with my
husband, I took the book from under his pillow, and wrapped
it up in white paper, and tied it with a little bit of pale blue
ribbon which was round my neck, and sealed it over the knot
with sealing-wax, and for my seal I used my wedding ring.
Then I kissed it and showed it to my husband, and told him
that I would keep it so, and then it would be an outward and
visible sign for us all our lives that we trusted each other;
that I would never open it unless it were for his own dear
sake or for the sake of some stern duty. Then he took my
hand in his, and oh, Lucy, it was the first time he took his
wife’s hand, and said that it was the dearest thing in all the
wide world, and that he would go through all the past again
to win it, if need be. The poor dear meant to have said a part
of the past, but he cannot think of time yet, and I shall not
wonder if at first he mixes up not only the month, but the
year.
“Well, my dear, what could I say? I could only tell him that
I was the happiest woman in all the wide world, and that I
had nothing to give him except myself, my life, and my
trust, and that with these went my love and duty for all the
days of my life. And, my dear, when he kissed me, and drew
me to him with his poor weak hands, it was like a very
solemn pledge between us. …
“Lucy dear, do you know why I tell you all this? It is not
only because it is all sweet to me, but because you have
been, and are, very dear to me. It was my privilege to be
your friend and guide when you came from the schoolroom
to prepare for the world of life. I want you to see now, and
with the eyes of a very happy wife, whither duty has led me;
so that in your own married life you too may be all happy as
I am. My dear, please Almighty God, your life may be all it
promises: a long day of sunshine, with no harsh wind, no
forgetting duty, no distrust. I must not wish you no pain, for
that can never be; but I do hope you will be always as happy
as I am now. Goodbye, my dear. I shall post this at once,
and, perhaps, write you very soon again. I must stop, for
Jonathan is waking—I must attend to my husband!

“Your ever-loving
“MINA HARKER.”

LETTER, LUCY WESTENRA TO MINA HARKER.

“Whitby, 30 August.
“My dearest Mina—
“Oceans of love and millions of kisses, and may you soon be
in your own home with your husband. I wish you could be
coming home soon enough to stay with us here. 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. SEWARD’S DIARY.

20 August.—The case of Renfield grows even more

interesting. He has now so far quieted that there are spells of
cessation from his passion. For the first week after his attack
he was perpetually violent. Then one night, just as the moon
rose, he grew quiet, and kept murmuring to himself: “Now I
can wait; now I can wait.” The attendant came to tell me, so
I ran down at once to have a look at him. He was still in the
strait-waistcoat and in the padded room, but the suffused
look had gone from his face, and his eyes had something of
their old pleading—I might almost say, “cringing”—softness.
I was satisfied with his present condition, and directed him
to be relieved. The attendants hesitated, but finally carried
out my wishes without protest. It was a strange thing that
the patient had humour enough to see their distrust, for,
coming close to me, he said in a whisper, all the while
looking furtively at them:—
“They think I could hurt you! Fancy me hurting you! The
fools!”
It was soothing, somehow, to the feelings to find myself
dissociated even in the mind of this poor madman from the
others; but all the same I do not follow his thought. Am I to
take it that I have anything in common with him, so that we
are, as it were, to stand together; or has he to gain from me
some good so stupendous that my well-being is needful to
him? I must find out later on. Tonight he will not speak. Even
the offer of a kitten or even a full-grown cat will not tempt
him. He will only say: “I don’t take any stock in cats. I have
more to think of now, and I can wait; I can wait.”
After a while I left him. The attendant tells me that he was
quiet until just before dawn, and that then he began to get
uneasy, and at length violent, until at last he fell into a
paroxysm which exhausted him so that he swooned into a
sort of coma.

… Three nights has the same thing happened—violent all

day then quiet from moonrise to sunrise. I wish I could get
some clue to the cause. It would almost seem as if there was
some influence which came and went. Happy thought! We
shall tonight play sane wits against mad ones. He escaped
before without our help; tonight he shall escape with it. We
shall give him a chance, and have the men ready to follow in
case they are required. …
23 August.—“The unexpected always happens.” How well
Disraeli knew life. Our bird when he found the cage open
would not fly, so all our subtle arrangements 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 an hour
before sunrise. The poor soul’s body will enjoy the relief
even if his mind cannot appreciate it. Hark! The unexpected
again! I am called; the patient has once more escaped.

Later.—Another night adventure. Renfield artfully waited

until the attendant was entering the room to inspect. Then
he dashed out past him and flew down the passage. I sent
word for the attendants to follow. Again he went into the
grounds of the deserted house, and we found him in the
same place, pressed against the old chapel door. When he
saw me he became furious, and had not the attendants
seized him in time, he would have tried to kill me. As we
were holding him a strange thing happened. He suddenly
redoubled his efforts, and then as suddenly grew calm. I
looked round instinctively, but could see nothing. Then I
caught the patient’s eye and followed it, but could trace
nothing as it looked into the moonlit sky except a big bat,
which was flapping its silent and ghostly way to the west.
Bats usually wheel and flit about, but this one seemed to go
straight on, as if it knew where it was bound for or had some
intention of its own. The patient grew calmer every instant,
and presently said:—
“You needn’t tie me; I shall go quietly!” Without trouble we
came back to the house. I feel there is something ominous in
his calm, and shall not forget this night. …
 LUCY WESTENRA’S DIARY.

Hillingham, 24 August.—I must imitate Mina, and keep

writing things down. Then we can have long talks when we
do meet. I wonder when it will be. I wish she were with me
again, for I feel so unhappy. Last night I seemed to be
dreaming again just as I was at Whitby. Perhaps it is the
change of air, or getting home again. It is all dark and horrid
to me, for I can remember nothing; but I am full of vague
fear, and I feel so weak and worn out. When Arthur came to
lunch he looked quite grieved when he saw me, and I hadn’t
the spirit to try to be cheerful. I wonder if I could sleep in
mother’s room tonight. I shall make an excuse and try.

25 August.—Another bad night. Mother did not seem to take

to my proposal. She seems not too well herself, and
doubtless she fears to worry me. I tried to keep awake, and
succeeded for a while; but when the clock struck twelve it
waked me from a doze, so I must have been falling asleep.
There was a sort of scratching or flapping at the window, but
I did not mind it, and as I remember no more, I suppose I
must then have fallen asleep. More bad dreams. I wish I
could remember them. This morning I am horribly weak. My
face is ghastly pale, and my throat pains me. It must be
something wrong with my lungs, for I don’t seem ever to get
air enough. I shall try to cheer up when Arthur comes, or
else I know he will be miserable to see me so.

LETTER, ARTHUR HOLMWOOD TO DR. SEWARD.

“Albemarle Hotel, 31 August.

“My dear Jack—
“I want you to do me a favour. Lucy is ill; that is, she has no
special disease, but she looks awful, and is getting worse
every day. I have asked her if there is any cause; I do not
dare to ask her mother, for to disturb the poor lady’s mind
about her daughter in her present state of health would be
fatal. Mrs. Westenra has confided to me that her doom is
spoken—disease of the heart—though poor Lucy does not
know it yet. I am sure that there is something preying on my
dear girl’s mind. I am 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 shall come in for tea,
and we can go away together; I am filled with anxiety, and
want to consult with you alone as soon as I can after you
have seen her. Do not fail!

“ARTHUR.”

TELEGRAM, ARTHUR HOLMWOOD TO SEWARD.

“1 September.
“Am summoned to see my father, who is worse. Am writing.
Write me fully by tonight’s post to Ring. Wire me if
necessary.”

LETTER FROM DR. SEWARD TO ARTHUR HOLMWOOD.

 “2 September.
“My dear old fellow—
“With regard to Miss Westenra’s health I hasten to let you
know at once that in my opinion there is not any functional
disturbance or any malady that I know of. At the same time, I
am not by any means satisfied with her appearance; she is
woefully different from what she was when I saw her last. Of
course you must bear in mind that I did not have full
opportunity of examination such as I should wish; our very
friendship makes a little difficulty which not even medical
science or custom can bridge over. I had better tell you
exactly what happened, leaving you to draw, in a measure,
your own conclusions. I shall then say what I have done and
propose doing.
“I found Miss Westenra in seemingly gay spirits. Her
mother was present, and in a few seconds I made up my
mind that she was trying all she knew to mislead her mother
and prevent her from being anxious. I have no doubt she
guesses, if she does not know, what need of caution there is.
We lunched alone, and as we all exerted ourselves to be
cheerful, we got, as some kind of reward for our labours,
some real cheerfulness amongst us. Then Mrs. Westenra
went to lie down, and Lucy was left with me. We went into
her boudoir, and till we got there her gaiety remained, for
the servants were coming and going. As soon as the door
was closed, however, the mask fell from her face, and she
sank down into a chair with a great sigh, and hid her eyes
with her hand. When I saw that her high spirits had failed, I
at once took advantage of her reaction to make a diagnosis.
She said to me very sweetly:—
“ ‘I cannot tell you how I loathe talking about myself.’ I
reminded her that a doctor’s confidence was sacred, but that
you were grievously anxious about her. She caught on to my
meaning at once, and settled that matter in a word. ‘Tell
Arthur everything you choose. I do not care for myself, but
all for him!’ So I am quite free.
 “I could easily see that she is somewhat bloodless, but I
could not see the usual anæmic signs, and by a chance I
was actually able to test the quality of her blood, for in
opening a window which was stiff a cord gave way, and she
cut her hand slightly with broken glass. It was a slight
matter in itself, but it gave me an evident chance, and I
secured a few drops of the blood and have analysed them.
The qualitative analysis gives a quite normal condition, and
shows, I should infer, in itself a vigorous state of health. In
other physical matters I was quite satisfied that there is no
need for anxiety; but as there must be a cause somewhere, I
have come to the conclusion that it must be something
mental. She complains of difficulty in breathing satisfactorily
at times, and of heavy, lethargic sleep, with dreams that
frighten her, but regarding which she can remember
nothing. She says that as a child she used to walk in her
sleep, and that when in Whitby the habit came back, and
that once she walked out in the night and went to 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 anyone 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, but this is because
he knows what he is talking about better than anyone else.
He is a philosopher and a metaphysician, and one of the
most advanced scientists of his day; and he has, I believe,
an absolutely open mind. This, with an iron nerve, a temper
of the ice-brook, an indomitable resolution, self-command,
and toleration exalted from virtues to blessings, and the
kindliest and truest heart that beats—these form his
equipment for the noble work that he is doing for mankind—
work both in theory and practice, for his views are as wide as
his all-embracing sympathy. I tell you these facts that you
may know why I have such confidence in him. I have asked
him to come at once. I shall see Miss Westenra tomorrow
again. She is to meet me at the Stores, so that I may not
alarm her mother by too early a repetition of my call.

“Yours always,
“JOHN SEWARD.”

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

DR. SEWARD.

“2 September.
“My good Friend—
“When I have received your letter I am already coming to
you. By good fortune I can leave just at once, without wrong
to any of those who have trusted me. Were fortune other,
then it were bad for those who have trusted, for I come to
my friend when he call me to aid those he holds dear. Tell
your friend that when that time you suck from my wound so
swiftly the poison of the gangrene from that knife that our
other friend, too nervous, let slip, you did more for him when
he wants my aids and you call for them than all his great
fortune could do. But it is pleasure added to do for him, your
friend; it is to you that I come. Have then rooms for me at
the Great Eastern Hotel, so that I may be near to hand, and
please it so arrange that we may see the young lady not too
late on tomorrow, for it is likely that I may have to return
here that night. But if need be I shall come again in three
days, and stay longer if it must. Till then goodbye, my friend
John.

“VAN HELSING.”

LETTER, DR. SEWARD TO HON. ARTHUR HOLMWOOD.

“3 September.
“My dear Art—
“Van Helsing has come and gone. He came on with me to
Hillingham, and found that, by Lucy’s discretion, her mother
was lunching out, so that we were alone with her. Van
Helsing made a very careful examination of the patient. He
is to report to me, and I shall advise you, for of course I was
not present all the time. He is, I fear, much concerned, but
says he must think. When I told him of our friendship and
how you trust to me in the matter, he said: ‘You must tell
him all you think. Tell him what I think, if you can guess it, if
you will. Nay, I am not jesting. This is no jest, but life and
death, perhaps more.’ I asked what he meant by that, for he
was very serious. This was when we had come back to town,
and he was having a cup of tea before starting on his return
to Amsterdam. He would not give me any further clue. You
must not be angry with me, Art, because his very reticence
means that all his brains are working for her good. He will
speak plainly enough when the time comes, be sure. So I
told him I would simply write an account of our visit, just as
if I were doing a descriptive special article for The Daily
Telegraph. He seemed not to notice, but remarked that the
smuts in London were not quite so bad as they used to be
when he was a student here. I am to get his report tomorrow
if he can possibly make it. In any case I am to have a letter.
“Well, as to the visit. Lucy was more cheerful than on the
day I first saw her, and certainly looked better. She had lost
something of the ghastly look that so upset you, and her
breathing was normal. She was very sweet to the professor
(as she always is), and tried to make him feel at ease;
though I could see that the poor girl was making a hard
struggle for it. I believe Van Helsing saw it, too, for I saw the
quick look under his bushy brows that I knew of old. Then he
began to chat of all things except ourselves and diseases
and with such an infinite geniality that I could see poor
Lucy’s pretense of animation merge into reality. Then,
without any seeming change, he brought the conversation
gently round to his visit, and suavely said:—
“ ‘My dear young miss, I have the so great pleasure
because you are so much beloved. That is much, my dear,
ever were there that which I do not see. They told me you
were down in the spirit, and that you were of a ghastly pale.
To them I say: “Pouf!” ’ And he snapped his fingers at me and
went on: ‘But you and I shall show them how wrong they are.
How can he’—and he pointed at me with the same look and
gesture as that with which once he pointed me out to his
class, on, or rather after, a particular occasion which he
never fails to remind me of—‘know anything of a young
ladies? He has his madams 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
anæmic. I have asked her to send me her maid, that I may
ask just one or two question, that so I may not chance to
miss nothing. I know well what she will say. And yet there is
cause; there is always cause for everything. I must go back
home and think. You must send to me the telegram every
day; and if there be cause I shall come again. The disease—
for not to be all well is a disease—interest me, and the sweet
young dear, she interest me too. She charm me, and for her,
if not for you or disease, I come.’
“As I tell you, he would not say a word more, even when we
were alone. And so now, Art, you know all I know. I shall keep
stern watch. I trust your poor father is rallying. It must be a
terrible thing to you, my dear old fellow, to be placed in such
a position between two people who are both so dear to you. I
know your idea of duty to your father, and you are right to
stick to it; but, if need be, I shall send you word to come at
once to Lucy; so do not be overanxious unless you hear from
me.”

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY.

4 September.—Zoöphagous patient still keeps up our

interest in him. He had only one outburst and that was
yesterday at an unusual time. Just before the stroke of noon
he began to grow restless. The attendant knew the
symptoms, and at once summoned aid. Fortunately the men
came at a run, and were just in time, for at the stroke of
noon he became so violent that it took all their strength to
hold him. In about five minutes, however, he began to get
more and more quiet, and finally sank into a sort of
melancholy, in which state he has remained up to now. The
attendant tells me that his screams whilst in the paroxysm
were really appalling; I found my hands full when I got in,
attending to some of the other patients who were frightened
by him. Indeed, I can quite understand the effect, for the
sounds disturbed even me, though I was some distance
away. It is now after the dinner-hour of the asylum, and as
yet my patient sits in a corner brooding, with a dull, sullen,
woebegone look in his face, which seems rather to indicate
than to show something directly. I cannot quite understand
it.

Later.—Another change in my patient. At five o’clock I

looked in on him, and found him seemingly as happy and
contented as he used to be. He was catching flies and eating
them, and was keeping note of his capture by making nail-
marks on the edge of the door between the ridges of
padding. When he saw me, he came over and apologised 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 windowsill, 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 faraway voice,
as though saying it rather to himself than to me:—
“All over! all over! He has deserted me. No hope for me
now unless I do it for myself!” Then suddenly turning to me
in a resolute way, he said: “Doctor, won’t you be very good
to me and let me have a little more sugar? I think it would
be good for me.”
“And the flies?” I said.
“Yes! The flies like it, too, and I like the flies; therefore I
like it.” And there are people who know so little as to think
that madmen do not argue. I procured him a double supply,
and left him as happy a man as, I suppose, any in the world.
I wish I could fathom his mind.

Midnight.—Another change in him. I had been to see Miss

Westenra, whom I found much better, and had just returned,
and was standing at our own gate looking at the sunset,
when once more I heard him yelling. As his room is on this
side of the house, I could hear it better than in the morning.
It was a shock to me to turn from the wonderful smoky
beauty of a sunset over London, with its lurid lights and inky
shadows and all the marvellous tints that come on foul
clouds even as on foul water, and to realise all the grim
sternness of my own cold stone building, with its wealth of
breathing misery, and my own desolate heart to endure it
all. I reached him just as the sun was going down, and from
his window saw the red disc sink. As it sank he became less
and less frenzied; and just as it dipped he slid from the
hands that held him, an inert mass, on the floor. It is
wonderful, however, what intellectual recuperative power
lunatics have, for within a few minutes he stood up quite
calmly and looked around him. I signalled to the attendants
not to hold him, for I was anxious to see what he would do.
He went straight over to the window and brushed out the
crumbs of sugar; then he took his fly-box, and emptied it
outside, and threw away the box; then he shut the window,
and crossing over, sat down on his bed. All this surprised
me, so I asked him: “Are you not going to keep flies any
more?”
“No,” said he; “I am sick of all that rubbish!” He certainly
is a wonderfully interesting study. I wish I could get some
glimpse of his mind or of the cause of his sudden passion.
Stop; there may be a clue after all, if we can find why today
his paroxysms came on at high noon and at sunset. Can it be
that there is a malign influence of the sun at periods which
affects certain natures—as at times the moon does others?
We shall see.

TELEGRAM, SEWARD, LONDON, TO VAN HELSING, AMSTERDAM.

“4 September.—Patient still better today.”

TELEGRAM, SEWARD, LONDON, TO VAN HELSING, AMSTERDAM.

“5 September.—Patient greatly improved. Good appetite;

sleeps naturally; good spirits; colour coming back.”

TELEGRAM, SEWARD, LONDON, TO VAN HELSING, AMSTERDAM.

“6 September.—Terrible change for the worse. Come at once;

do not lose an hour. I hold over telegram to Holmwood till
have seen you.”
 X

LETTER, DR. SEWARD TO HON. ARTHUR HOLMWOOD.

“6 September.
“My dear Art—
“My news today is not so good. Lucy this morning had gone
back a bit. There is, however, one good thing which has
arisen from it; Mrs. Westenra was naturally anxious
concerning Lucy, and has consulted me professionally about
her. I took advantage of the opportunity, and told her that
my old master, Van Helsing, the great specialist, was coming
to stay with me, and that I would put her in his charge
conjointly with myself; so now we can come and go without
alarming her unduly, for a shock to her would mean sudden
death, and this, in Lucy’s weak condition, might be
disastrous to her. We are hedged in with difficulties, all of us,
my poor old fellow; but, please God, we shall come through
them all right. If any need I shall write, so that, if you do not
hear from me, take it for granted that I am simply waiting for
news. In haste

“Yours ever,
“JOHN SEWARD.”

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY.

7 September.—The first thing Van Helsing said to me when
we met at Liverpool Street was:—
“Have you said anything to our young friend the lover of
her?”
“No,” I said. “I waited till I had seen you, as I said in my
telegram. I wrote him a letter simply telling him that you
were coming, as Miss Westenra was not so well, and that I
should let him know if need be.”
“Right, my friend,” he said, “quite right! Better he not
know as yet; perhaps he shall never know. I pray so; but if it
be needed, then he shall know all. And, my good friend John,
let me caution you. You deal with the madmen. All men are
mad in some way or the other; and inasmuch as you deal
discreetly with your madmen, so deal with God’s madmen,
too—the rest of the world. You tell not your madmen what
you do nor why you do it; you tell them not what you think.
So you shall keep knowledge in its place, where it may rest—
where it may gather its kind around it and breed. You and I
shall keep as yet what we know here, and here.” He touched
me on the heart and on the forehead, and then touched
himself the same way. “I have for myself thoughts at the
present. Later I shall unfold to you.”
“Why not now?” I asked. “It may do some good; we may
arrive at some decision.” He stopped and looked at me, and
said:—
“My friend John, when the corn is grown, even before it has
ripened—while the milk of its mother-earth is in him, and the
sunshine has not yet begun to paint him with his gold, the
husbandman he pull the ear and rub him between his rough
hands, and blow away the green chaff, and say to you:
‘Look! he’s good corn; he will make good crop when the time
comes.’ ” I did not see the application, and told him so. For
reply he reached over and took my ear in his hand and
pulled it playfully, as he used long ago to do at lectures, and
said: “The good husbandman tell you so then because he
knows, but not till then. But you do not find the good
husbandman dig up his planted corn to see if he grow; that
is for the children who play at husbandry, and not for those
who take it as of the work of their life. See you now, friend
John? I have sown my corn, and Nature has her work to do in
making it sprout; if he sprout at all, there’s some promise;
and I wait till the ear begins to swell.” He broke off, for he
evidently saw that I understood. Then he went on, and very
gravely:—
“You were always a careful student, and your casebook
was ever more full than the rest. You were only student then;
now you are master, and I trust that good habit have not fail.
Remember, my friend, that knowledge is stronger than
memory, and we should not trust the weaker. Even if you
have not kept the good practise, let me tell you that this
case of our dear miss is one that may be—mind, I say may
be—of such interest to us and others that all the rest may
not make him kick the beam, as your peoples say. Take then
good note of it. Nothing is too small. I counsel you, put down
in record even your doubts and surmises. Hereafter it may
be of interest to you to see how true you guess. We learn
from failure, not from success!”
When I described Lucy’s symptoms—the same as before,
but infinitely more marked—he looked very grave, but said
nothing. He took with him a bag in which were many
instruments and drugs, “the ghastly paraphernalia of our
beneficial trade,” as he once called, in one of his lectures,
the equipment of a professor of the healing craft. When we
were shown in, Mrs. Westenra met us. She was alarmed, but
not nearly so much as I expected to find her. Nature in one
of her beneficent moods has ordained that even death has
some antidote to its own terrors. Here, in a case where any
shock may prove fatal, matters are so ordered that, from
some cause or other, the things not personal—even the
terrible change in her daughter to whom she is so
attached—do not seem to reach her. It is something like the
way Dame Nature gathers round a foreign body an envelope
of some insensitive tissue which can protect from evil that
which it would otherwise harm by contact. If this be an
ordered selfishness, then we should pause before we
condemn anyone 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 laid down a rule that she should not be present with
Lucy or think of her illness more than was absolutely
required. She assented readily, so readily that I saw again
the hand of Nature fighting for life. Van Helsing and I were
shown up to Lucy’s room. If I was shocked when I saw her
yesterday, I was horrified when I saw her today. She was
ghastly, chalkily pale; the red seemed to have gone even
from her lips and gums, and the bones of her face stood out
prominently; her breathing was painful to see or hear. Van
Helsing’s face grew set as marble, and his eyebrows
converged till they almost touched over his nose. Lucy lay
motionless, and did not seem to have strength to speak, so
for a while we were all silent. Then Van Helsing beckoned to
me, and we went gently out of the room. The instant we had
closed the door he stepped quickly along the passage to the
next door, which was open. Then he pulled me quickly in
with him and closed the door. “My God!” he said; “this is
dreadful. There is no time to be lost. She will die for sheer
want of blood to keep the heart’s action as it should be.
There must be transfusion of blood at once. Is it you or me?”
“I am younger and stronger, Professor. It must be me.”
“Then get ready at once. I will bring up my bag. I am
prepared.”
I went downstairs with him, and as we were going there
was a knock at the hall-door. When we reached the hall the
maid had just opened the door, and Arthur was stepping
quickly in. He rushed up to me, saying in an eager
whisper:—
“Jack, I was so anxious. I read between the lines of your
letter, and have been in an agony. The dad was better, so I
ran down here to see for myself. Is not that gentleman
Dr. Van Helsing? I am so thankful to you, sir, for coming.”
When first the Professor’s eye had lit upon him he had been
angry at his interruption at such a time; but now, as he took
in his stalwart proportions and recognised the strong young
manhood which seemed to emanate from him, his eyes
gleamed. Without a pause he said to him gravely as he held
out his hand:—
“Sir, you have come in time. You are the lover of our dear
miss. She is bad, very, very bad. Nay, my child, do not go
like that.” For he suddenly grew pale and sat down in a chair
almost fainting. “You are to help her. You can do more than
any that live, and your courage is your best help.”
“What can I do?” asked Arthur hoarsely. “Tell me, and I
shall do it. My life is hers, and I would give the last drop of
blood in my body for her.” The Professor has a strongly
humorous side, and I could from old knowledge detect a
trace of its origin in his answer:—
“My young sir, I do not ask so much as that—not the last!”
“What shall I do?” There was fire in his eyes, and his open
nostril quivered with intent. Van Helsing slapped him on the
shoulder. “Come!” he said. “You are a man, and it is a man
we want. You are better than me, better than my friend
John.” Arthur looked bewildered, and the Professor went on
by explaining in a kindly way:—
“Young miss is bad, very bad. She wants blood, and blood
she must have or die. My friend John and I have consulted;
and we are about to perform what we call transfusion of
blood—to transfer from full veins of one to the empty veins
which pine for him. John was to give his blood, as he is the
more young and strong than me”—here Arthur took my hand
and wrung it hard in silence—“but, now you are here, you
are more good than us, old or young, who toil much in the
world of thought. Our nerves are not so calm and our blood
not so bright than yours!” Arthur turned to him and said:—
 “If you only knew how gladly I would die for her you would
understand—”
He stopped, with a sort of choke in his voice.
“Good boy!” said Van Helsing. “In the not-so-far-off you
will be happy that you have done all for her you love. Come
now and be silent. You shall kiss her once before it is done,
but then you must go; and you must leave at my sign. Say
no word to Madame; you know how it is with her! There must
be no shock; any knowledge of this would be one. Come!”
We all went up to Lucy’s room. Arthur by direction
remained outside. Lucy turned her head and looked at us,
but said nothing. She was not asleep, but she was simply too
weak to make the effort. Her eyes spoke to us; that was all.
Van Helsing took some things from his bag and laid them on
a little table out of sight. Then he mixed a narcotic, and
coming over to the bed, said cheerily:—
“Now, little miss, here is your medicine. Drink it off, like a
good child. See, I lift you so that to swallow is easy. Yes.” She
had made the effort with success.
It astonished me how long the drug took to act. This, in
fact, marked the extent of her weakness. The time seemed
endless until sleep began to flicker in her eyelids. At last,
however, the narcotic began to manifest its potency; and
she fell into a deep sleep. When the Professor was satisfied
he called Arthur into the room, and bade him strip off his
coat. Then he added: “You may take that one little kiss
whiles I bring over the table. Friend John, help to me!” So
neither of us looked whilst he bent over her.
Van Helsing turning to me, said:
“He is so young and strong and of blood so pure that we
need not defibrinate it.”
Then with swiftness, but with absolute method, Van
Helsing performed the operation. As the transfusion went on
something like life seemed to come back to poor Lucy’s
cheeks, and through Arthur’s growing pallor the joy of his
face seemed absolutely to shine. After a bit I began to grow
anxious, for the loss of blood was telling on Arthur, strong
man as he was. It gave me an idea of what 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 this wound, or
whatever it was, might be the means of that manifest loss of
blood; but I abandoned the idea as soon as formed, for such
a thing could not be. The whole bed would have been
drenched to a scarlet with the blood which the girl must
have lost to leave such a pallor as she had before the
transfusion.
“Well?” said Van Helsing.
“Well,” said I, “I can make nothing of it.” The Professor
stood up. “I must go back to Amsterdam tonight,” he said.
“There are books and things there which I want. You must
remain here all the night, and you must not let your sight
pass from her.”
“Shall I have a nurse?” I asked.
“We are the best nurses, you and I. You keep watch all
night; see that she is well fed, and that nothing disturbs her.
You must not sleep all the night. Later on we can sleep, you
and I. I shall be back 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 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. This was
repeated several times, with greater effort and with shorter
pauses as the time moved on. It was apparent that she did
not want to sleep, so I tackled the subject at once:—
“You do not want to go to sleep?”
“No; I am afraid.”
“Afraid to go to sleep! Why so? It is the boon we all crave
for.”
“Ah, not if you were like me—if sleep was to you a presage
of horror!”
“A presage of horror! What on earth do you mean?”
“I don’t know; oh, I don’t know. And that is what is so
terrible. All this weakness comes to me in sleep; until I dread
the very thought.”
“But, my dear girl, you may sleep tonight. I am here
watching you, and I can promise that nothing will happen.”
 “Ah, I can trust you!” I seized the opportunity, and said: “I
promise you that if I see any evidence of bad dreams I will
wake you at once.”
“You will? Oh, will you really? How good you are to me.
Then I will sleep!” And almost at the word she gave a deep
sigh of relief, and sank back, asleep.
All night long I watched by her. She never stirred, but slept
on and on in a deep, tranquil, life-giving, health-giving
sleep. Her lips were slightly parted, and her breast rose and
fell with the regularity of a pendulum. There was a smile on
her face, and it was evident that no bad dreams had come to
disturb her peace of mind.
In the early morning her maid came, and I left her in her
care and took myself back home, for I was anxious about
many things. I sent a short wire to Van Helsing and to
Arthur, telling them of the excellent result of the operation.
My own work, with its manifold arrears, took me all day to
clear off; it was dark when I was able to inquire about my
zoöphagous 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
Arthur only knew! My dear, my dear, your ears must tingle
as you sleep, as mine do waking. Oh, the blissful rest of last
night! How I slept, with that dear, good Dr. Seward watching
me. And tonight I shall not fear to sleep, since he is close at
hand and within call. Thank everybody for being so good to
me! Thank God! Good night, Arthur.
 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 agonised
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 agonising
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 for transfusion; I had taken off
my coat and rolled up my shirtsleeve. There was no
possibility of an opiate just at present, and no need of one;
and so, without a moment’s delay, we began the operation.
After a time—it did not seem a short time either, for the
draining away of one’s blood, no matter how willingly it be
given, is a terrible feeling—Van Helsing held up a warning
finger. “Do not stir,” he said, “but I fear that with growing
strength she may wake; and that would make danger, oh, so
much danger. But I shall precaution take. I shall give
hypodermic injection of morphia.” He proceeded then,
swiftly and deftly, to carry out his intent. The effect on Lucy
was not bad, for the faint seemed to merge subtly into the
narcotic sleep. It was with a feeling of personal pride that I
could see a faint tinge of colour steal back into the pallid
cheeks and lips. No man knows, till he experiences it, what it
is to feel his own lifeblood drawn away into the veins of the
woman he loves.
The Professor watched me critically. “That will do,” he said.
“Already?” I remonstrated. “You took a great deal more from
Art.” To which he smiled a sad sort of smile as he replied:—
“He is her lover, her fiancé. You have work, much work, to
do for her and for others; and the present will suffice.”
When we stopped the operation, he attended to Lucy,
whilst I applied digital pressure to my own incision. I laid
down, whilst I waited his leisure to attend to me, for I felt
faint and a little sick. By-and-by he bound up my wound,
and sent me downstairs to get a glass of wine for myself. As I
was leaving the room, he came after me, and half
whispered:—
“Mind, nothing must be said of this. If our young lover
should turn up unexpected, as before, no word to him. It
would at once frighten him and enjealous him, too. There
must be none. So!”
When I came back he looked at me carefully, and then
said:—
“You are not much the worse. Go into the room, and lie on
your sofa, and rest awhile; then have much breakfast, and
come here to me.”
I followed out his orders, for I knew how right and wise
they were. I had done my part, and now my next duty was to
keep up my strength. I felt very weak, and in the weakness
lost something of the amazement at what had occurred. I fell
asleep on the sofa, however, wondering over and over again
how Lucy had made such a retrograde movement, and how
she could have been drained of so much blood with no sign
anywhere to show for it. I think I must have continued my
wonder in my dreams, for, sleeping and waking, my
thoughts always came back to the little punctures in her
throat and the ragged, exhausted appearance of their
edges—tiny though they were.
Lucy slept well into the day, and when she woke she was
fairly well and strong, though not nearly so much so as the
day before. When Van Helsing had seen her, he went out for
a walk, leaving me in charge, with strict injunctions that I
was not to leave her for a moment. I could hear his voice in
the hall, asking the way to the nearest telegraph office.
Lucy chatted with me freely, and seemed quite
unconscious that anything had happened. I tried to keep her
amused and interested. When her mother came up to see
her, she did not seem to notice any change whatever, but
said to me gratefully:—
“We owe you so much, Dr. Seward, for all you have done,
but you really must now take care not to overwork yourself.
You are looking pale yourself. You want a wife to nurse and
look after you a bit; that you do!” As she spoke, Lucy turned
crimson, though it was only momentarily, for her poor
wasted veins could not stand for long such an unwonted
drain to the head. The reaction came in excessive pallor as
she turned imploring eyes on me. I smiled and nodded, and
laid my finger on my lips; with a sigh, she sank back amid
her pillows.
Van Helsing returned in a couple of hours, and presently
said to me: “Now you go home, and eat much and drink
enough. Make yourself strong. I stay here tonight, and I shall
sit up with little miss myself. You and I must watch the case,
and we must have none other to know. I have grave reasons.
No, do not ask them; think what you will. Do not fear to
think even the most not-probable. Good night.”
In the hall two of the maids came to me, and asked if they
or either of them might not sit up with Miss Lucy. They
implored me to let them; and when I said it was Dr. Van
Helsing’s wish that either he or I should sit up, they asked
me quite piteously to intercede with the “foreign
gentleman.” I was much touched by their kindness. Perhaps
it is because I am weak at present, and perhaps because it
was on Lucy’s account, that their devotion was manifested;
for over and over again have I seen similar instances of
woman’s kindness. I got back here in time for a late dinner;
went my rounds—all well; and set this down whilst waiting
for sleep. It is coming.

11 September.—This afternoon I went over to Hillingham.

Found Van Helsing in excellent spirits, and Lucy much
better. Shortly after I had arrived, a big parcel from abroad
came for the Professor. He opened it with much
impressment—assumed, of course—and showed a great
bundle of white flowers.
“These are for you, Miss Lucy,” he said.
“For me? Oh, Dr. Van Helsing!”
“Yes, my dear, but not for you to play with. These are
medicines.” Here Lucy made a wry face. “Nay, but they are
not to take in a decoction or in nauseous form, so you need
not snub that so charming nose, or I shall point out to my
friend Arthur what woes he may have to endure in seeing so
much beauty that he so loves so much distort. Aha, my
pretty miss, that bring the so nice nose all straight again.
This is medicinal, but you do not know how. I put him in your
window, I make pretty wreath, and hang him round your
neck, so that you sleep well. Oh yes! they, like the lotus
flower, make your trouble forgotten. It smell so like the
waters of Lethe, and of that fountain of youth that the
Conquistadores sought for in the Floridas, and find him all
too late.”
Whilst he was speaking, Lucy had been examining the
flowers and smelling them. Now she threw them down,
saying, with half-laughter, and half-disgust:—
“Oh, Professor, I believe you are only putting up a joke on
me. Why, these flowers are only common garlic.”
To my surprise, Van Helsing rose up and said with all his
sternness, his iron jaw set and his bushy eyebrows
meeting:—
“No trifling with me! I never jest! There is grim purpose in
all I do; and I warn you that you do not thwart me. Take care,
for the sake of others if not for your own.” Then seeing poor
Lucy scared, as she might well be, he went on more gently:
“Oh, little miss, my dear, do not fear me. I only do for your
good; but there is much virtue to you in those so common
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 awhile. Come with me, friend John, and you shall help
me deck the room with my garlic, which is all the way from
Haarlem, where my friend Vanderpool raise herb in his
glasshouses 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 pharmacopœia 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.
 XI

LUCY WESTENRA’S DIARY.

12 September.—How good they all are to me. I quite love

that dear Dr. Van Helsing. I wonder why he was so anxious
about these flowers. He positively frightened me, he was so
fierce. And yet he must have been right, for I feel comfort
from them already. Somehow, I do not dread being alone
tonight, and I can go to sleep without fear. I shall not mind
any flapping outside the window. Oh, the terrible struggle
that I have had against sleep so often of late; the pain of the
sleeplessness, or the pain of the fear of sleep, with such
unknown horrors as it has for me! How blessed are some
people, whose lives have no fears, no dreads; to whom sleep
is a blessing that comes nightly, and brings nothing but
sweet dreams. Well, here I am tonight, hoping for sleep, and
lying like Ophelia in the play, with “virgin crants and maiden
strewments.” I never liked garlic before, but tonight it is
delightful! There is peace in its smell; I feel sleep coming
already. Good night, everybody.

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY.

13 September.—Called at the Berkeley and found Van
Helsing, as usual, up to time. The carriage ordered from the
hotel was waiting. The Professor took his bag, which he
always brings with him now.
Let all be put down exactly. Van Helsing and I arrived at
Hillingham at eight o’clock. It was a lovely morning; the
bright sunshine and all the fresh feeling of early autumn
seemed like the completion of nature’s annual work. The
leaves were turning to all kinds of beautiful colours, but had
not yet begun to drop from the trees. When we entered we
met Mrs. Westenra coming out of the morning room. She is
always an early riser. She greeted us warmly and said:—
“You will be glad to know that Lucy is better. The dear
child is still asleep. I looked into her room and saw her, but
did not go in, lest I should disturb her.” The Professor smiled,
and looked quite jubilant. He rubbed his hands together,
and said:—
“Aha! I thought I had diagnosed the case. My treatment is
working,” to which she answered:—
“You must not take all the credit to yourself, doctor. Lucy’s
state this morning is due in part to me.”
“How you do mean, ma’am?” asked the Professor.
“Well, I was anxious about the dear child in the night, and
went into her room. She was sleeping soundly—so soundly
that even my coming did not wake her. But the room was
awfully stuffy. There were a lot of those horrible, strong-
smelling flowers about everywhere, and she had actually a
bunch of them round her neck. I feared that the heavy odour
would be too much for the dear child in her weak state, so I
took them all away and opened a bit of the window to let in
a little fresh air. You will be pleased with her, I am sure.”
She moved off into her boudoir, where she usually
breakfasted early. As she had spoken, I watched the
Professor’s face, and saw it turn ashen grey. He had been
able to retain his self-command whilst the poor lady was
present, for he knew her state and how mischievous a shock
would be; he actually smiled on her as he held open the
door for her to pass into her room. But the instant she had
disappeared he pulled me, suddenly and forcibly, into the
dining-room and closed the door.
Then, for the first time in my life, I saw Van Helsing break
down. He raised his hands over his head in a sort of mute
despair, and then beat his palms together in a helpless way;
finally he sat down on a chair, and putting his hands before
his face, began to sob, with loud, dry sobs that seemed to
come from the very racking of his heart. Then he raised his
arms again, as though appealing to the whole universe.
“God! God! God!” he said. “What have we done, what has
this poor thing done, that we are so sore beset? Is there fate
amongst us still, sent down from the pagan world of old, that
such things must be, and in such way? This poor mother, all
unknowing, and all for the best as she think, does such thing
as lose her daughter body and soul; and we must not tell
her, we must not even warn her, or she die, and then both
die. Oh, how we are beset! How are all the powers of the
devils against us!” Suddenly he jumped to his feet. “Come,”
he said, “come, we must see and act. Devils or no devils, or
all the devils at once, it matters not; we fight him all the
same.” He went to the hall-door for his bag; and together we
went up to Lucy’s room.
Once again I drew up the blind, whilst Van Helsing went
towards the bed. This time he did not start as he looked on
the poor face with the same awful, waxen pallor as before.
He wore a look of stern sadness and infinite pity.
“As I expected,” he murmured, with that hissing
inspiration of his which meant so much. Without a word he
went and locked the door, and then began to set out on the
little table the instruments for yet another operation of
transfusion of blood. I had long ago recognised the
necessity, and begun to take off my coat, but he stopped me
with a warning hand. “No!” he said. “Today you must
operate. I shall provide. You are weakened already.” As he
spoke he took off his coat and rolled up his shirtsleeve.
Again the operation; again the narcotic; again some return
of colour to the ashy cheeks, and the regular breathing of
healthy sleep. This time I watched whilst Van Helsing
recruited himself and rested.
Presently he took an opportunity of telling Mrs. Westenra
that she must not remove anything from Lucy’s room
without consulting him; that the flowers were of medicinal
value, and that the breathing of their odour was a part of the
system of cure. Then he took over the care of the case
himself, saying that he would watch this night and the next
and would send me word when to come.
After another hour Lucy waked from her sleep, fresh and
bright and seemingly not much the worse for her terrible
ordeal.
What does it all mean? I am beginning to wonder if my
long habit of life amongst the insane is beginning to tell
upon my own brain.

LUCY WESTENRA’S DIARY.

17 September.—Four days and nights of peace. I am getting

so strong again that I hardly know myself. It is as if I had
passed through some long nightmare, and had just
awakened to see the beautiful sunshine and feel the fresh
air of the morning around me. I have a dim half-
remembrance of long, anxious times of waiting and fearing;
darkness in which there was not even the pain of hope to
make present distress more poignant: and then long spells
of oblivion, and the rising back to life as a diver coming up
through a great press of water. Since, however, Dr. Van
Helsing has been with me, all this bad dreaming seems to
have passed away; the noises that used to frighten me out
of my wits—the flapping against the windows, the distant
voices which seemed so close to me, the harsh sounds that
came from I know not where and commanded me to do I
know not what—have all ceased. I go to bed now without
any fear of sleep. I do not even try to keep awake. I have
grown quite fond of the garlic, and a boxful arrives for me
every day from Haarlem. Tonight Dr. Van Helsing is going
away, as he has to be for a day in Amsterdam. But I need not
be watched; I am well enough to be left alone. Thank God for
mother’s sake, and dear Arthur’s, and for all our friends who
have been so kind! I shall not even feel the change, for last
night Dr. Van Helsing slept in his chair a lot of the time. I
found him asleep twice when I awoke; but I did not fear to
go to sleep again, although the boughs or bats or something
napped almost angrily against the windowpanes.

THE PALL MALL GAZETTE, 18 SEPTEMBER.

THE ESCAPED WOLF.

PERILOUS ADVENTURE OF OUR INTERVIEWER.

INTERVIEW WITH THE KEEPER IN THE ZOÖLOGICAL GARDENS.

After many inquiries and almost as many refusals, and

perpetually using the words “Pall Mall Gazette” as a sort of
talisman, I managed to find the keeper of the section of the
Zoölogical Gardens in which the wolf department is
included. Thomas Bilder lives in one of the cottages in the
enclosure behind the elephant-house, and was just sitting
down to his tea when I found him. Thomas and his wife are
hospitable folk, elderly, and without children, and if the
specimen I enjoyed of their hospitality be of the average
kind, their lives must be pretty comfortable. The keeper
would not enter on what he called “business” until the
supper was over, and we were all satisfied. Then when the
table was cleared, and he had lit his pipe, he said:—
“Now, sir, you can go on and arsk me what you want. You’ll
excoose me refoosin’ to talk of perfeshunal subjects afore
meals. I gives the wolves and the jackals and the hyenas in
all our section their tea afore I begins to arsk them
questions.”
“How do you mean, ask them questions?” I queried,
wishful to get him into a talkative humour.
“ ’Ittin’ of them over the ’ead with a pole is one way;
scratchin’ of their hears is another, when gents as is flush
wants a bit of a show-orf to their gals. I don’t so much mind
the fust—the ’ittin’ with a pole afore I chucks in their dinner;
but I waits till they’ve ’ad their sherry and kawffee, so to
speak, afore I tries on with the ear-scratchin’. Mind you,” he
added philosophically, “there’s a deal of the same nature in
us as in them theer animiles. Here’s you a-comin’ and arskin’
of me questions about my business, and I that grumpy-like
that only for your bloomin’ ’arf-quid I’d ’a’ seen you blowed
fust ’fore I’d answer. Not even when you arsked me sarcastic-
like if I’d like you to arsk the Superintendent if you might
arsk me questions. Without offence did I tell yer to go to
’ell?”
“You did.”
“An’ when you said you’d report me for usin’ of obscene
language that was ’ittin’ me over the ’ead; but the ’arf-quid
made that all right. I weren’t a-goin’ to fight, so I waited for
the food, and did with my ’owl as the wolves, and lions, and
tigers does. But, Lor’ love yer ’art, now that the old ’ooman
has stuck a chunk of her teacake in me, an’ rinsed me out
with her bloomin’ old teapot, and I’ve lit hup, you may
scratch my ears for all you’re worth, and won’t git even a
growl out of me. Drive along with your questions. I know
what yer a-comin’ at, that ’ere escaped wolf.”
“Exactly. I want you to give me your view of it. Just tell me
how it happened; and when I know the facts I’ll get you to
say what you consider was the cause of it, and how you
think the whole affair will end.”
“All right, guv’nor. This ’ere is about the ’ole story. That
’ere wolf what we called Bersicker was one of three grey
ones that came from Norway to Jamrach’s, which we bought
off him four years ago. He was a nice well-behaved wolf, that
never gave no trouble to talk of. I’m more surprised at ’im for
wantin’ to get out nor any other animile in the place. But,
there, you can’t trust wolves no more nor women.”
“Don’t you mind him, sir!” broke in Mrs. Tom, with a cheery
laugh. “ ’E’s got mindin’ the animiles so long that blest if he
ain’t like a old wolf ’isself! But there ain’t no ’arm in ’im.”
“Well, sir, it was about two hours after feedin’ yesterday
when I first hear my disturbance. I was makin’ up a litter in
the monkey-house for a young puma which is ill; but when I
heard the yelpin’ and ’owlin’ I kem away straight. There was
Bersicker a-tearin’ like a mad thing at the bars as if he
wanted to get out. There wasn’t much people about that
day, and close at hand was only one man, a tall, thin chap,
with a ’ook nose and a pointed beard, with a few white hairs
runnin’ through it. He had a ’ard, cold look and red eyes, and
I took a sort of mislike to him, for it seemed as if it was ’im as
they was hirritated at. He ’ad white kid gloves on ’is ’ands,
and he pointed out the animiles to me and says: ‘Keeper,
these wolves seem upset at something.’
“ ‘Maybe it’s you,’ says I, for I did not like the airs as he
give ’isself. He didn’t git angry, as I ’oped he would, but he
smiled a kind of insolent smile, with a mouth full of white,
sharp teeth. ‘Oh no, they wouldn’t like me,’ ’e says.
“ ’Ow yes, they would,’ says I, a-imitatin’ of him. ‘They
always likes a bone or two to clean their teeth on about
teatime, which you ’as a bagful.’
 “Well, it was a odd thing, but when the animiles see us a-
talkin’ they lay down, and when I went over to Bersicker he
let me stroke his ears same as ever. That there man kem
over, and blessed but if he didn’t put in his hand and stroke
the old wolf’s ears too!
“ ‘Tyke care,’ says I. ‘Bersicker is quick.’
“ ‘Never mind,’ he says. ‘I’m used to ’em!’
“ ‘Are you in the business yourself?’ I says, tyking off my
’at, for a man what trades in wolves, anceterer, is a good
friend to keepers.
“ ‘No’ says he, ‘not exactly in the business, but I ’ave made
pets of several.’ And with that he lifts his ’at as perlite as a
lord, and walks away. Old Bersicker kep’ a-lookin’ arter ’im
till ’e was out of sight, and then went and lay down in a
corner and wouldn’t come hout the ’ole hevening. Well, larst
night, so soon as the moon was hup, the wolves here all
began a-’owling. There warn’t nothing for them to ’owl at.
There warn’t no one near, except someone that was
evidently a-callin’ a dog somewheres out back of the
gardings in the Park road. Once or twice I went out to see
that all was right, and it was, and then the ’owling stopped.
Just before twelve o’clock I just took a look round afore
turnin’ in, an’, bust me, but when I kem opposite to old
Bersicker’s cage I see the rails broken and twisted about and
the cage empty. And that’s all I know for certing.”
“Did anyone else see anything?”
“One of our gard’ners was a-comin’ ’ome about that time
from a ’armony, when he sees a big grey dog comin’ out
through the garding ’edges. At least, so he says, but I don’t
give much for it myself, for if he did ’e never said a word
about it to his missis when ’e got ’ome, and it was only after
the escape of the wolf was made known, and we had been
up all night-a-huntin’ of the Park for Bersicker, that he
remembered seein’ anything. My own belief was that the
’armony ’ad got into his ’ead.”
 “Now, Mr. Bilder, can you account in any way for the
escape of the wolf?”
“Well, sir,” he said, with a suspicious sort of modesty, “I
think I can; but I don’t know as ’ow you’d be satisfied with
the theory.”
“Certainly I shall. If a man like you, who knows the animals
from experience, can’t hazard a good guess at any rate, who
is even to try?”
“Well then, sir, I accounts for it this way; it seems to me
that ’ere wolf escaped—simply because he wanted to get
out.”
From the hearty way that both Thomas and his wife
laughed at the joke I could see that it had done service
before, and that the whole explanation was simply an
elaborate sell. I couldn’t cope in badinage with the worthy
Thomas, but I thought I knew a surer way to his heart, so I
said:—
“Now, Mr. Bilder, we’ll consider that first half-sovereign
worked off, and this brother of his is waiting to be claimed
when you’ve told me what you think will happen.”
“Right y’are, sir,” he said briskly. “Ye’ll excoose me, I know,
for a-chaffin’ of ye, but the old woman here winked at me,
which was as much as telling me to go on.”
“Well, I never!” said the old lady.
“My opinion is this: that ’ere wolf is a-’idin’ of,
somewheres. The gard’ner wot didn’t remember said he was
a-gallopin’ northward faster than a horse could go; but I
don’t believe him, for, yer see, sir, wolves don’t gallop no
more nor dogs does, they not bein’ built that way. Wolves is
fine things in a storybook, and I dessay when they gets in
packs and does be chivyin’ somethin’ that’s more afeared
than they is they can make a devil of a noise and chop it up,
whatever it is. But, Lor’ bless you, in real life a wolf is only a
low creature, not half so clever or bold as a good dog; and
not half a quarter so much fight in ’im. This one ain’t been
used to fightin’ or even to providin’ for hisself, and more like
he’s somewhere round the Park a-’idin’ an’ a-shiverin’ of,
and, if he thinks at all, wonderin’ where he is to get his
breakfast from; or maybe he’s got down some area and is in
a coal-cellar. My eye, won’t some cook get a rum start when
she sees his green eyes a-shining at her out of the dark! If
he can’t get food he’s bound to look for it, and mayhap he
may chance to light on a butcher’s shop in time. If he
doesn’t, and some nursemaid goes a-walkin’ orf with a
soldier, leavin’ of the hinfant in the perambulator—well,
then I shouldn’t be surprised if the census is one babby the
less. That’s all.”
I was handing him the half-sovereign, when something
came bobbing up against the window, and Mr. Bilder’s face
doubled its natural length with surprise.
“God bless me!” he said. “If there ain’t old Bersicker come
back by ’isself!”
He went to the door and opened it; a most unnecessary
proceeding it seemed to me. I have always thought that a
wild animal never looks so well as when some obstacle of
pronounced durability is between us; a personal experience
has intensified rather than diminished that idea.
After all, however, there is nothing like custom, for neither
Bilder nor his wife thought any more of the wolf than I
should of a dog. The animal itself was as peaceful and well-
behaved as that father of all picture-wolves—Red Riding
Hood’s quondam friend, whilst moving her confidence in
masquerade.
The whole scene was an unutterable mixture of comedy
and pathos. The wicked wolf that for half a day had
paralysed London and set all the children in the town
shivering in their shoes, was there in a sort of penitent
mood, and was received and petted like a sort of vulpine
prodigal son. Old Bilder examined him all over with most
tender solicitude, and when he had finished with his
penitent said:—
 “There, I knew the poor old chap would get into some kind
of trouble; didn’t I say it all along? Here’s his head all cut
and full of broken glass. ’E’s been a-gettin’ over some
bloomin’ wall or other. It’s a shyme that people are allowed
to top their walls with broken bottles. This ’ere’s what comes
of it. Come along, Bersicker.”
He took the wolf and locked him up in a cage, with a piece
of meat that satisfied, in quantity at any rate, the
elementary conditions of the fatted calf, and went off to
report.
I came off, too, to report the only exclusive information
that is given today regarding the strange escapade at the
Zoo.

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY.

17 September.—I was engaged after dinner in my study

posting up my books, which, through press of other work
and the many visits to Lucy, had fallen sadly into arrear.
Suddenly the door was burst open, and in rushed my
patient, with his face distorted with passion. I was
thunderstruck, for such a thing as a patient getting of his
own accord into the Superintendent’s study is almost
unknown. Without an instant’s pause he made straight at
me. He had a dinner-knife in his hand, and, as I saw he was
dangerous, I tried to keep the table between us. He was too
quick and too strong for me, however; for before I could get
my balance he had struck at me and cut my left wrist rather
severely. Before he could strike again, however, I got in my
right and he was sprawling on his back on the floor. My wrist
bled freely, and quite a little pool trickled on to the carpet. I
saw that my friend was not intent on further effort, and
occupied myself binding up my wrist, keeping a wary eye on
the prostrate figure all the time. When the attendants
rushed in, and we turned our attention to him, his
employment positively sickened me. He was lying on his
belly on the floor licking up, like a dog, the blood which had
fallen from my wounded wrist. He was easily secured, and, to
my surprise, went with the attendants quite placidly, simply
repeating over and over again: “The blood is the life! The
blood is the life!”
I cannot afford to lose blood just at present; I have lost too
much of late for my physical good, and then the prolonged
strain of Lucy’s illness and its horrible phases is telling on
me. I am overexcited and weary, and I need rest, rest, rest.
Happily Van Helsing has not summoned me, so I need not
forego my sleep; tonight I could not well do without it.

TELEGRAM, VAN HELSING, ANTWERP, TO SEWARD, CARFAX.

(SENT TO CARFAX, SUSSEX, AS NO COUNTY GIVEN; DELIVERED LATE BY

TWENTY-TWO HOURS.)

“17 September.—Do not fail to be at Hillingham tonight. If

not watching all the time frequently, visit and see that
flowers are as placed; very important; do not fail. Shall be
with you as soon as possible after arrival.”

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY.

18 September.—Just off for train to London. The arrival of

Van Helsing’s telegram filled me with dismay. A whole night
lost, and I know by bitter experience what may happen in a
night. Of course it is possible that all may be well, but what
may have happened? Surely there is some horrible doom
hanging over us that every possible accident should thwart
us in all we try to do. I shall take this cylinder with me, and
then I can complete my entry on Lucy’s phonograph.

MEMORANDUM LEFT BY LUCY WESTENRA.

17 September. Night.—I write this and leave it to be seen, so

that no one may by any chance get into trouble through me.
This is an exact record of what took place tonight. I feel I am
dying of weakness, and have barely strength to write, but it
must be done if I die in the doing.
I went to bed as usual, taking care that the flowers were
placed as Dr. Van Helsing directed, and soon fell asleep.
I was waked by the flapping at the window, which had
begun after that sleepwalking on the cliff at Whitby when
Mina saved me, and which now I know so well. I was not
afraid, but I did wish that Dr. Seward was in the next room—
as Dr. Van Helsing said he would be—so that I might have
called him. I tried to go to sleep, but could not. Then there
came to me the old fear of sleep, and I determined to keep
awake. Perversely sleep would try to come then when I did
not want it; so, as I feared to be alone, I opened my door and
called out: “Is there anybody there?” There was no answer. I
was afraid to wake mother, and so closed my door again.
Then outside in the shrubbery I heard a sort of howl like a
dog’s, but more fierce and deeper. I went to the window and
looked out, but could see nothing, except a big bat, which
had evidently been buffeting its wings against the window.
So I went back to bed again, but determined not to go to
sleep. Presently the door opened, and mother looked in;
seeing by my moving that I was not asleep, came in, and sat
by me. She said to me even more sweetly and softly than
her wont:—
“I was uneasy about you, darling, and came in to see that
you were all right.”
I feared she might catch cold sitting there, and asked her
to come in and sleep with me, so she came into bed, and lay
down beside me; she did not take off her dressing gown, for
she said she would only stay a while and then go back to her
own bed. As she lay there in my arms, and I in hers, the
flapping and buffeting came to the window again. She was
startled and a little frightened, and cried out: “What is
that?” I tried to pacify her, and at last succeeded, and she
lay quiet; but I could hear her poor dear heart still beating
terribly. After a while there was the low howl again out in the
shrubbery, and shortly after there was a crash at the
window, and a lot of broken glass was hurled on the floor.
The window blind blew back with the wind that rushed in,
and in the aperture of the broken panes there was the head
of a great, gaunt grey wolf. Mother cried out in a fright, and
struggled up into a sitting posture, and clutched wildly at
anything that would help her. Amongst other things, she
clutched the wreath of flowers that Dr. Van Helsing insisted
on my wearing round my neck, and tore it away from me. For
a second or two she sat up, pointing at the wolf, and there
was a strange and horrible gurgling in her throat; then she
fell over—as if struck with lightning, and her head hit my
forehead and made me dizzy for a moment or two. The room
and all round seemed to spin round. I kept my eyes fixed on
the window, but the wolf drew his head back, and a whole
myriad of little specks seemed to come blowing in through
the broken window, and wheeling and circling round like the
pillar of dust that travellers describe when there is a simoon
in the desert. I tried to stir, but there was some spell upon
me, and dear mother’s poor body, which seemed to grow
cold already—for her dear heart had ceased to beat—
weighed me down; and I remembered no more for a while.
 The time did not seem long, but very, very awful, till I
recovered consciousness again. Somewhere near, a passing
bell was tolling; the dogs all round the neighbourhood were
howling; and in our shrubbery, seemingly just outside, a
nightingale was singing. I was dazed and stupid with pain
and terror and weakness, but the sound of the nightingale
seemed like the voice of my dead mother come back to
comfort me. The sounds seemed to have awakened the
maids, too, for I could hear their bare feet pattering outside
my door. I called to them, and they came in, and when they
saw what had happened, and what it was that lay over me
on the bed, they screamed out. The wind rushed in through
the broken window, and the door slammed to. They lifted off
the body of my dear mother, and laid her, covered up with a
sheet, on the bed after I had got up. They were all so
frightened and nervous that I directed them to go to the
dining-room and have each a glass of wine. The door flew
open for an instant and closed again. The maids shrieked,
and then went in a body to the dining-room; and I laid what
flowers I had on my dear mother’s breast. When they were
there I remembered what Dr. Van Helsing had told me, but I
didn’t like to remove them, and, besides, I would have some
of the servants to sit up with me now. I was surprised that
the maids did not come back. I called them, but got no
answer, so I went to the dining-room to look for them.
My heart sank when I saw what had happened. They all
four lay helpless on the floor, breathing heavily. The
decanter of sherry was on the table half full, but there was a
queer, acrid smell about. I was suspicious, and examined the
decanter. It smelt of laudanum, and looking on the
sideboard, I found that the bottle which mother’s doctor
uses for her—oh! did use—was empty. What am I to do?
what am I to do? I am back in the room with mother. I cannot
leave her, and I am alone, save for the sleeping servants,
whom someone has drugged. Alone with the dead! I dare not
go out, for I can hear the low howl of the wolf through the
broken window.
The air seems full of specks, floating and circling in the
draught from the window, and the lights burn blue and dim.
What am I to do? God shield me from harm this night! I shall
hide this paper in my breast, where they shall find it when
they come to lay me out. My dear mother gone! It is time
that I go too. Goodbye, dear Arthur, if I should not survive
this night. God keep you, dear, and God help me!
 XII

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY.

18 September.—I drove at once to Hillingham and arrived

early. Keeping my cab at the gate, I went up the avenue
alone. I knocked gently and rang as quietly as possible, for I
feared to disturb Lucy or her mother, and hoped to only
bring a servant to the door. After a while, finding no
response, I knocked and rang again; still no answer. I cursed
the laziness of the servants that they should lie abed at such
an hour—for it was now ten o’clock—and so rang and
knocked again, but more impatiently, but still without
response. Hitherto I had blamed only the servants, but now a
terrible fear began to assail me. Was this desolation but
another link in the chain of doom which seemed drawing
tight around us? Was it indeed a house of death to which I
had come, too late? I knew that minutes, even seconds of
delay, might mean hours of danger to Lucy, if she had had
again one of those frightful relapses; and I went round the
house to try if I could find by chance an entry anywhere.
I could find no means of ingress. Every window and door
was fastened and locked, and I returned baffled to the porch.
As I did so, I heard the rapid pit-pat of a swiftly driven
horse’s feet. They stopped at the gate, and a few seconds
later I met Van Helsing running up the avenue. When he saw
me, he gasped out:—
 “Then it was you, and just arrived. How is she? Are we too
late? Did you not get my telegram?”
I answered as quickly and coherently as I could that I had
only got his telegram early in the morning, and had not lost
a minute in coming here, and that I could not make anyone
in the house hear me. He paused and raised his hat as he
said solemnly:—
“Then I fear we are too late. God’s will be done!” With his
usual recuperative energy, he went on: “Come. If there be no
way open to get in, we must make one. Time is all in all to us
now.”
We went round to the back of the house, where there was
a kitchen window. The Professor took a small surgical saw
from his case, and handing it to me, pointed to the iron bars
which guarded the window. I attacked them at once and had
very soon cut through three of them. Then with a long, thin
knife we pushed back the fastening of the sashes and
opened the window. I helped the Professor in, and followed
him. There was no one in the kitchen or in the servants’
rooms, which were close at hand. We tried all the rooms as
we went along, and in the dining-room, dimly lit by rays of
light through the shutters, found four servant-women lying
on the floor. There was no need to think them dead, for their
stertorous breathing and the acrid smell of laudanum in the
room left no doubt as to their condition. Van Helsing and I
looked at each other, and as we moved away he said: “We
can attend to them later.” Then we ascended to Lucy’s room.
For an instant or two we paused at the door to listen, but
there was no sound that we could hear. With white faces and
trembling hands, we opened the door gently, and entered
the room.
How shall I describe what we saw? On the bed lay two
women, Lucy and her mother. The latter lay farthest in, and
she was covered with a white sheet, the edge of which had
been blown back by the draught through the broken
window, showing the drawn, white face, with a look of terror
fixed upon it. By her side lay Lucy, with face white and still
more drawn. The flowers which had been round her neck we
found upon her mother’s bosom, and her throat was bare,
showing the two little wounds which we had noticed before,
but looking horribly white and mangled. Without a word the
Professor bent over the bed, his head almost touching poor
Lucy’s breast; then he gave a quick turn of his head, as of
one who listens, and leaping to his feet, he cried out to
me:—
“It is not yet too late! Quick! quick! Bring the brandy!”
I flew downstairs and returned with it, taking care to smell
and taste it, lest it, too, were drugged like the decanter of
sherry which I found on the table. The maids were still
breathing, but more restlessly, and I fancied that the
narcotic was wearing off. I did not stay to make sure, but
returned to Van Helsing. He rubbed the brandy, as on
another occasion, on her lips and gums and on her wrists
and the palms of her hands. He said to me:—
“I can do this, all that can be at the present. You go wake
those maids. Flick them in the face with a wet towel, and
flick them hard. Make them get heat and fire and a warm
bath. This poor soul is nearly as cold as that beside her. She
will need be heated before we can do anything more.”
I went at once, and found little difficulty in waking three of
the women. The fourth was only a young girl, and the drug
had evidently affected her more strongly, so I lifted her on
the sofa and let her sleep. The others were dazed at first, but
as remembrance came back to them they cried and sobbed
in a hysterical manner. I was stern with them, however, and
would not let them talk. I told them that one life was bad
enough to lose, and that if they delayed they would sacrifice
Miss Lucy. So, sobbing and crying, they went about their
way, half clad as they were, and prepared fire and water.
Fortunately, the kitchen and boiler fires were still alive, and
there was no lack of hot water. We got a bath and carried
Lucy out as she was and placed her in it. Whilst we were
busy chafing her limbs there was a knock at the hall door.
One of the maids ran off, hurried on some more clothes, and
opened it. Then she returned and whispered to us that there
was a gentleman who had come with a message from
Mr. Holmwood. I bade her simply tell him that he must wait,
for we could see no one now. She went away with the
message, and, engrossed with our work, I clean forgot all
about him.
I never saw in all my experience the Professor work in such
deadly earnest. I knew—as he knew—that it was a stand-up
fight with death, and in a pause told him so. He answered
me in a way that I did not understand, but with the sternest
look that his face could wear:—
“If that were all, I would stop here where we are now, and
let her fade away into peace, for I see no light in life over her
horizon.” He went on with his work with, if possible, renewed
and more frenzied vigour.
Presently we both began to be conscious that the heat was
beginning to be of some effect. Lucy’s heart beat a trifle
more audibly to the stethoscope, and her lungs had a
perceptible movement. Van Helsing’s face almost beamed,
and as we lifted her from the bath and rolled her in a hot
sheet to dry her he said to me:—
“The first gain is ours! Check to the King!”
We took Lucy into another room, which had by now been
prepared, and laid her in bed and forced a few drops of
brandy down her throat. I noticed that Van Helsing tied a
soft silk handkerchief round her throat. She was still
unconscious, and was quite as bad as, if not worse than, we
had ever seen her.
Van Helsing called in one of the women, and told her to
stay with her and not to take her eyes off her till we
returned, and then beckoned me out of the room.
“We must consult as to what is to be done,” he said as we
descended the stairs. In the hall he opened the dining-room
door, and we passed in, he closing the door carefully behind
him. The shutters had been opened, but the blinds were
already down, with that obedience to the etiquette of death
which the British woman of the lower classes always rigidly
observes. The room was, therefore, dimly dark. It was,
however, light enough for our purposes. Van Helsing’s
sternness was somewhat relieved by a look of perplexity. He
was evidently torturing his mind about something, so I
waited for an instant, and he spoke:—
“What are we to do now? Where are we to turn for help?
We must have another transfusion of blood, and that soon,
or that poor girl’s life won’t be worth an hour’s purchase. You
are exhausted already; I am exhausted too. I fear to trust
those women, even if they would have courage to submit.
What are we to do for someone who will open his veins for
her?”
“What’s the matter with me, anyhow?”
The voice came from the sofa across the room, and its
tones brought relief and joy to my heart, for they were those
of Quincey Morris. Van Helsing started angrily at the first
sound, but his face softened and a glad look came into his
eyes as I cried out: “Quincey Morris!” and rushed towards
him with outstretched hands.
“What brought you here?” I cried as our hands met.
“I guess Art is the cause.”
He handed me a telegram:—

“Have not heard from Seward for three days, and am

terribly anxious. Cannot leave. Father still in same
condition. Send me word how Lucy is. Do not delay.—
HOLMWOOD.”

“I think I came just in the nick of time. You know you have
only to tell me what to do.”
Van Helsing strode forward, and took his hand, looking him
straight in the eyes as he said:—
 “A brave man’s blood is the best thing on this earth when
a woman is in trouble. You’re a man and no mistake. Well,
the devil may work against us for all he’s worth, but God
sends us men when we want them.”
Once again we went through that ghastly operation. I have
not the heart to go through with the details. Lucy had got a
terrible shock and it told on her more than before, for
though plenty of blood went into her veins, her body did not
respond to the treatment as well as on the other occasions.
Her struggle back into life was something frightful to see
and hear. However, the action of both heart and lungs
improved, and Van Helsing made a subcutaneous injection
of morphia, as before, and with good effect. Her faint
became a profound slumber. The Professor watched whilst I
went downstairs with Quincey Morris, and sent one of the
maids to pay off one of the cabmen who were waiting. I left
Quincey lying down after having a glass of wine, and told
the cook to get ready a good breakfast. Then a thought
struck me, and I went back to the room where Lucy now was.
When I came softly in, I found Van Helsing with a sheet or
two of notepaper in his hand. He had evidently read it, and
was thinking it over as he sat with his hand to his brow.
There was a look of grim satisfaction in his face, as of one
who has had a doubt solved. He handed me the paper
saying only: “It dropped from Lucy’s breast when we carried
her to the bath.”
When I had read it, I stood looking at the Professor, and
after a pause asked him: “In God’s name, what does it all
mean? Was she, or is she, mad; or what sort of horrible
danger is it?” I was so bewildered that I did not know what to
say more. Van Helsing put out his hand and took the paper,
saying:—
“Do not trouble about it now. Forget it for the present. You
shall know and understand it all in good time; but it will be
later. And now what is it that you came to me to say?” This
brought me back to fact, and I was all myself again.
 “I came to speak about the certificate of death. If we do
not act properly and wisely, there may be an inquest, and
that paper would have to be produced. I am in hopes that we
need have no inquest, for if we had it would surely kill poor
Lucy, if nothing else did. I know, and you know, and the
other doctor who attended her knows, that Mrs. Westenra
had disease of the heart, and we can certify that she died of
it. Let us fill up the certificate at once, and I shall take it
myself to the registrar and go on to the undertaker.”
“Good, oh my friend John! Well thought of! Truly Miss Lucy,
if she be sad in the foes that beset her, is at least happy in
the friends that love her. One, two, three, all open their veins
for her, besides one old man. Ah yes, I know, friend John; I
am not blind! I love you all the more for it! Now go.”
In the hall I met Quincey Morris, with a telegram for Arthur
telling him that Mrs. Westenra was dead; that Lucy also had
been ill, but was now going on better; and that Van Helsing
and I were with her. I told him where I was going, and he
hurried me out, but as I was going said:—
“When you come back, Jack, may I have two words with
you all to ourselves?” I nodded in reply and went out. I found
no difficulty about the registration, and arranged with the
local undertaker to come up in the evening to measure for
the coffin and to make arrangements.
When I got back Quincey was waiting for me. I told him I
would see him as soon as I knew about Lucy, and went up to
her room. She was still sleeping, and the Professor
seemingly had not moved from his seat at her side. From his
putting his finger to his lips, I gathered that he expected her
to wake before long and was afraid of forestalling nature. So
I went down to Quincey and took him into the breakfast-
room, where the blinds were not drawn down, and which was
a little more cheerful, or rather less cheerless, than the other
rooms. When we were alone, he said to me:—
“Jack Seward, I don’t want to shove myself in anywhere
where I’ve no right to be; but this is no ordinary case. You
know I loved that girl and wanted to marry her; but,
although that’s all past and gone, I can’t help feeling
anxious about her all the same. What is it that’s wrong with
her? The Dutchman—and a fine old fellow he is; I can see
that—said, that time you two came into the room, that you
must have another transfusion of blood, and that both you
and he were exhausted. Now I know well that you medical
men speak in camera, and that a man must not expect to
know what they consult about in private. But this is no
common matter, and, whatever it is, I have done my part. Is
not that so?”
“That’s so,” I said, and he went on:—
“I take it that both you and Van Helsing had done already
what I did today. Is not that so?”
“That’s so.”
“And I guess Art was in it too. When I saw him four days
ago down at his own place he looked queer. I have not seen
anything pulled down so quick since I was on the Pampas
and had a mare that I was fond of go to grass all in a night.
One of those big bats that they call vampires had got at her
in the night, and what with his gorge and the vein left open,
there wasn’t enough blood in her to let her stand up, and I
had to put a bullet through her as she lay. Jack, if you may
tell me without betraying confidence, Arthur was the first, is
not that so?” As he spoke the poor fellow looked terribly
anxious. He was in a torture of suspense regarding the
woman he loved, and his utter ignorance of the terrible
mystery which seemed to surround her intensified his pain.
His very heart was bleeding, and it took all the manhood of
him—and there was a royal lot of it, too—to keep him from
breaking down. I paused before answering, for I felt that I
must not betray anything which the Professor wished kept
secret; but already he knew so much, and guessed so much,
that there could be no reason for not answering, so I
answered in the same phrase: “That’s so.”
“And how long has this been going on?”
 “About ten days.”
“Ten days! Then I guess, Jack Seward, that that poor pretty
creature that we all love has had put into her veins within
that time the blood of four strong men. Man alive, her whole
body wouldn’t hold it.” Then, coming close to me, he spoke
in a fierce half-whisper: “What took it out?”
I shook my head. “That,” I said, “is the crux. Van Helsing is
simply frantic about it, and I am at my wits’ end. I can’t even
hazard a guess. There has been a series of little
circumstances which have thrown out all our calculations as
to Lucy being properly watched. But these shall not occur
again. Here we stay until all be well—or ill.” Quincey held
out his hand. “Count me in,” he said. “You and the
Dutchman will tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”
When she woke late in the afternoon, Lucy’s first
movement was to feel in her breast, and, to my surprise,
produced the paper which Van Helsing had given me to
read. The careful Professor had replaced it where it had
come from, lest on waking she should be alarmed. Her eye
then lit on Van Helsing and on me too, and gladdened. Then
she looked around the room, and seeing where she was,
shuddered; she gave a loud cry, and put her poor thin hands
before her pale face. We both understood what that meant—
that she had realised to the full her mother’s death; so we
tried what we could to comfort her. Doubtless sympathy
eased her somewhat, but she was very low in thought and
spirit, and wept silently and weakly for a long time. We told
her that either or both of us would now remain with her all
the time, and that seemed to comfort her. Towards dusk she
fell into a doze. Here a very odd thing occurred. Whilst still
asleep she took the paper from her breast and tore it in two.
Van Helsing stepped over and took the pieces from her. All
the same, however, she went on with the action of tearing,
as though the material were still in her hands; finally she
lifted her hands and opened them as though scattering the
fragments. Van Helsing seemed surprised, and his brows
gathered as if in thought, but he said nothing.

19 September.—All last night she slept fitfully, being always

afraid to sleep, and something weaker when she woke from
it. The Professor and I took it in turns to watch, and we never
left her for a moment unattended. Quincey Morris said
nothing about his intention, but I knew that all night long he
patrolled round and round the house.
When the day came, its searching light showed the
ravages in poor Lucy’s strength. She was hardly able to turn
her head, and the little nourishment which she could take
seemed to do her no good. At times she slept, and both Van
Helsing and I noticed the difference in her, between sleeping
and waking. Whilst asleep she looked stronger, although
more haggard, and her breathing was softer; her open
mouth showed the pale gums drawn back from the teeth,
which thus looked positively longer and sharper than usual;
when she woke the softness of her eyes evidently changed
the expression, for she looked her own self, although a dying
one. In the afternoon she asked for Arthur, and we
telegraphed for him. Quincey went off to meet him at the
station.
When he arrived it was nearly six o’clock, and the sun was
setting full and warm, and the red light streamed in through
the window and gave more colour to the pale cheeks. When
he saw her, Arthur was simply choking with emotion, and
none of us could speak. In the hours that had passed, the
fits of sleep, or the comatose condition that passed for it,
had grown more frequent, so that the pauses when
conversation was possible were shortened. Arthur’s
presence, however, seemed to act as a stimulant; she rallied
a little, and spoke to him more brightly than she had done
since we arrived. He too pulled himself together, and spoke
as cheerily as he could, so that the best was made of
everything.
It was now nearly one o’clock, and he and Van Helsing are
sitting with her. I am to relieve them in a quarter of an hour,
and I am entering this on Lucy’s phonograph. Until six
o’clock they are to try to rest. I fear that tomorrow will end
our watching, for the shock has been too great; the poor
child cannot rally. God help us all.

LETTER, MINA HARKER TO LUCY WESTENRA.

(UNOPENED BY HER.)

“17 September.
“My dearest Lucy—
“It seems an age since I heard from you, or indeed since I
wrote. You will pardon me, I know, for all my faults when
you have read all my budget of news. Well, I got my
husband back all right; when we arrived at Exeter there was
a carriage waiting for us, and in it, though he had an attack
of gout, Mr. Hawkins. He took us to his house, where there
were rooms for us all nice and comfortable, and we dined
together. After dinner Mr. Hawkins said:—
“ ‘My dears, I want to drink your health and prosperity; and
may every blessing attend you both. I know you both from
children, and have, with love and pride, seen you grow up.
Now I want you to make your home here with me. I have left
to me neither chick nor child; all are gone, and in my will I
have left you everything.’ I cried, Lucy dear, as Jonathan and
the old man clasped hands. Our evening was a very, very
happy one.
“So here we are, installed in this beautiful old house, and
from both my bedroom and the drawing-room I can see the
great elms of the cathedral close, with their great black
stems standing out against the old yellow stone of the
cathedral and I can hear the rooks overhead cawing and
cawing and chattering and gossiping all day, after the
manner of rooks—and humans. I am busy, I need not tell
you, arranging things and housekeeping. Jonathan and
Mr. Hawkins are busy all day; for, now that Jonathan is a
partner, Mr. Hawkins wants to tell him all about the clients.
“How is your dear mother getting on? I wish I could run up
to town for a day or two to see you, dear, but I dare not go
yet, with so much on my shoulders; and Jonathan wants
looking after still. He is beginning to put some flesh on his
bones again, but he was terribly weakened by the long
illness; even now he sometimes starts out of his sleep in a
sudden way and awakes all trembling until I can coax him
back to his usual placidity. However, thank God, these
occasions grow less frequent as the days go on, and they will
in time pass away altogether, I trust. And now I have told
you my news, let me ask yours. When are you to be married,
and where, and who is to perform the ceremony, and what
are you to wear, and is it to be a public or a private
wedding? Tell me all about it, dear; tell me all about
everything, for there is nothing which interests you which
will not be dear to me. Jonathan asks me to send his
‘respectful duty,’ but I do not think that is good enough from
the junior partner of the important firm Hawkins & Harker;
and so, as you love me, and he loves me, and I love you with
all the moods and tenses of the verb, I send you simply his
‘love’ instead. Goodbye, my dearest Lucy, and all blessings
on you.

“Yours,
“MINA HARKER.”
 REPORT FROM PATRICK HENNESSEY, M.D., M.R.C.S.L.K.Q.C.P.I.,
ETC., ETC., TO JOHN SEWARD, M.D.

“20 September.
“My dear Sir—
“In accordance with your wishes, I enclose report of the
conditions of everything left in my charge. … With regard to
patient, Renfield, there is more to say. He has had another
outbreak, which might have had a dreadful ending, but
which, as it fortunately happened, was unattended with any
unhappy results. This afternoon a carrier’s cart with two men
made a call at the empty house whose grounds abut on
ours—the house to which, you will remember, the patient
twice ran away. The men stopped at our gate to ask the
porter their way, as they were strangers. I was myself
looking out of the study window, having a smoke after
dinner, and saw one of them come up to the house. As he
passed the window of Renfield’s room, the patient began to
rate him from within, and called him all the foul names he
could lay his tongue to. The man, who seemed a decent
fellow enough, contented himself by telling him to ‘shut up
for a foul-mouthed beggar,’ whereon our man accused him
of robbing him and wanting to murder him and said that he
would hinder him if he were to swing for it. I opened the
window and signed to the man not to notice, so he
contented himself after looking the place over and making
up his mind as to what kind of a place he had got to by
saying: ‘Lor’ bless yer, sir, I wouldn’t mind what was said to
me in a bloomin’ madhouse. I pity ye and the guv’nor for
havin’ to live in the house with a wild beast like that.’ Then
he asked his way civilly enough, and I told him where the
gate of the empty house was; he went away, followed by
threats and curses and revilings from our man. I went down
to see if I could make out any cause for his anger, since he is
usually such a well-behaved man, and except his violent fits
nothing of the kind had ever occurred. I found him, to my
astonishment, quite composed and most genial in his
manner. I tried to get him to talk of the incident, but he
blandly asked me questions as to what I meant, and led me
to believe that he was completely oblivious of the affair. It
was, I am sorry to say, however, only another instance of his
cunning, for within half an hour I heard of him again. This
time he had broken out through the window of his room, and
was running down the avenue. I called to the attendants to
follow me, and ran after him, for I feared he was intent on
some mischief. My fear was justified when I saw the same
cart which had passed before coming down the road, having
on it some great wooden boxes. The men were wiping their
foreheads, and were flushed in the face, as if with violent
exercise. Before I could get up to him the patient rushed at
them, and pulling one of them off the cart, began to knock
his head against the ground. If I had not seized him just at
the moment I believe he would have killed the man there
and then. The other fellow jumped down and struck him
over the head with the butt-end of his heavy whip. It was a
terrible blow; but he did not seem to mind it, but seized him
also, and struggled with the three of us, pulling us to and fro
as if we were kittens. You know I am no light weight, and the
others were both burly men. At first he was silent in his
fighting; but as we began to master him, and the attendants
were putting a strait-waistcoat on him, he began to shout:
‘I’ll frustrate them! They shan’t rob me! they shan’t murder
me by inches! I’ll fight for my Lord and Master!’ and all sorts
of similar incoherent ravings. It was with very considerable
difficulty that they got him back to the house and put him in
the padded room. One of the attendants, Hardy, had a finger
broken. However, I set it all right; and he is going on well.
“The two carriers were at first loud in their threats of
actions for damages, and promised to rain all the penalties
of the law on us. Their threats were, however, mingled with
some sort of indirect apology for the defeat of the two of
them by a feeble madman. They said that if it had not been
for the way their strength had been spent in carrying and
raising the heavy boxes to the cart they would have made
short work of him. They gave as another reason for their
defeat the extraordinary state of drouth to which they had
been reduced by the dusty nature of their occupation and
the reprehensible distance from the scene of their labours of
any place of public entertainment. I quite understood their
drift, and after a stiff glass of grog, or rather more of the
same, and with each a sovereign in hand, they made light of
the attack, and swore that they would encounter a worse
madman any day for the pleasure of meeting so ‘bloomin’
good a bloke’ as your correspondent. I took their names and
addresses, in case they might be needed. They are as
follows:—Jack Smollet, of Dudding’s Rents, King George’s
Road, Great Walworth, and Thomas Snelling, Peter Farley’s
Row, Guide Court, Bethnal Green. They are both in the
employment of Harris & Sons, Moving and Shipment
Company, Orange Master’s Yard, Soho.
“I shall report to you any matter of interest occurring here,
and shall wire you at once if there is anything of importance.

“Believe me, dear Sir,

“Yours faithfully,
“PATRICK HENNESSEY.”

LETTER, MINA HARKER TO LUCY WESTENRA.

(UNOPENED BY HER.)

“18 September.
“My dearest Lucy—
“Such a sad blow has befallen us. Mr. Hawkins has died very
suddenly. Some may not think it so sad for us, but we had
both come to so love him that it really seems as though we
had lost a father. I never knew either father or mother, so
that the dear old man’s death is a real blow to me. Jonathan
is greatly distressed. It is not only that he feels sorrow, deep
sorrow, for the dear, good man who has befriended him all
his life, and now at the end has treated him like his own son
and left him a fortune which to people of our modest
bringing up is wealth beyond the dream of avarice, but
Jonathan feels it on another account. He says the amount of
responsibility which it puts upon him makes him nervous. He
begins to doubt himself. I try to cheer him up, and my belief
in him helps him to have a belief in himself. But it is here
that the grave shock that he experienced tells upon him the
most. Oh, it is too hard that a sweet, simple, noble, strong
nature such as his—a nature which enabled him by our dear,
good friend’s aid to rise from clerk to master in a few years—
should be so injured that the very essence of its strength is
gone. Forgive me, dear, if I worry you with my troubles in the
midst of your own happiness; but, Lucy dear, I must tell
someone, for the strain of keeping up a brave and cheerful
appearance to Jonathan tries me, and I have no one here
that I can confide in. I dread coming up to London, as we
must do the day after tomorrow; for poor Mr. Hawkins left in
his will that he was to be buried in the grave with his father.
As there are no relations at all, Jonathan will have to be chief
mourner. I shall try to run over to see you, dearest, if only for
a few minutes. Forgive me for troubling you. With all
blessings,

“Your loving
“MINA HARKER.”

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY.

20 September.—Only resolution and habit can let me make
an entry tonight. I am too miserable, too low-spirited, too
sick of the world and all in it, including life itself, that I
would not care if I heard this moment the flapping of the
wings of the angel of death. And he has been flapping those
grim wings to some purpose of late—Lucy’s mother and
Arthur’s father, and now. … Let me get on with my work.
I duly relieved Van Helsing in his watch over Lucy. We
wanted Arthur to go to rest also, but he refused at first. It
was only when I told him that we should want him to help us
during the day, and that we must not all break down for
want of rest, lest Lucy should suffer, that he agreed to go.
Van Helsing was very kind to him. “Come, my child,” he said;
“come with me. You are sick and weak, and have had much
sorrow and much mental pain, as well as that tax on your
strength that we know of. You must not be alone; for to be
alone is to be full of fears and alarms. Come to the drawing-
room, where there is a big fire, and there are two sofas. You
shall lie on one, and I on the other, and our sympathy will be
comfort to each other, even though we do not speak, and
even if we sleep.” Arthur went off with him, casting back a
longing look on Lucy’s face, which lay in her pillow, almost
whiter than the lawn. She lay quite still, and I looked round
the room to see that all was as it should be. I could see that
the Professor had carried out in this room, as in the other, his
purpose of using the garlic; the whole of the window-sashes
reeked with it, and round Lucy’s neck, over the silk
handkerchief which Van Helsing made her keep on, was a
rough chaplet of the same odorous flowers. Lucy was
breathing somewhat stertorously, and her face was at its
worst, for the open mouth showed the pale gums. Her teeth,
in the dim, uncertain light, seemed longer and sharper than
they had been in the morning. In particular, by some trick of
the light, the canine teeth looked longer and sharper than
the rest. I sat down by her, and presently she moved
uneasily. At the same moment there came a sort of dull
flapping or buffeting at the window. I went over to it softly,
and peeped out by the corner of the blind. There was a full
moonlight, and I could see that the noise was made by a
great bat, which wheeled round—doubtless attracted by the
light, although so dim—and every now and again struck the
window with its wings. When I came back to my seat, I found
that Lucy had moved slightly, and had torn away the garlic
flowers from her throat. I replaced them as well as I could,
and sat watching her.
Presently she woke, and I gave her food, as Van Helsing
had prescribed. She took but a little, and that languidly.
There did not seem to be with her now the unconscious
struggle for life and strength that had hitherto so marked
her illness. It struck me as curious that the moment she
became conscious she pressed the garlic flowers close to
her. It was certainly odd that whenever she got into that
lethargic state, with the stertorous breathing, she put the
flowers from her; but that when she waked she clutched
them close. There was no possibility of making any mistake
about this, for in the long hours that followed, she had many
spells of sleeping and waking and repeated both actions
many times.
At six o’clock Van Helsing came to relieve me. Arthur had
then fallen into a doze, and he mercifully let him sleep on.
When he saw Lucy’s face I could hear the sissing indraw of
his breath, and he said to me in a sharp whisper: “Draw up
the blind; I want light!” Then he bent down, and, with his
face almost touching Lucy’s, examined her carefully. He
removed the flowers and lifted the silk handkerchief from
her throat. As he did so he started back, and I could hear his
ejaculation, “Mein Gott!” as it was smothered in his throat. I
bent over and looked, too, and as I noticed some queer chill
came over me.
The wounds on the throat had absolutely disappeared.
For fully five minutes Van Helsing stood looking at her,
with his face at its sternest. Then he turned to me and said
calmly:—
“She is dying. It will not be long now. It will be much
difference, mark me, whether she dies conscious or in her
sleep. Wake that poor boy, and let him come and see the
last; he trusts us, and we have promised him.”
I went to the dining-room and waked him. He was dazed
for a moment, but when he saw the sunlight streaming in
through the edges of the shutters he thought he was late,
and expressed his fear. I assured him that Lucy was still
asleep, but told him as gently as I could that both Van
Helsing and I feared that the end was near. He covered his
face with his hands, and slid down on his knees by the sofa,
where he remained, perhaps a minute, with his head buried,
praying, whilst his shoulders shook with grief. I took him by
the hand and raised him up. “Come,” I said, “my dear old
fellow, summon all your fortitude: it will be best and easiest
for her.”
When we came into Lucy’s room I could see that Van
Helsing had, with his usual forethought, been putting
matters straight and making everything look as pleasing as
possible. He had even brushed Lucy’s hair, so that it lay on
the pillow in its usual sunny ripples. When we came into the
room she opened her eyes, and seeing him, whispered
softly:—
“Arthur! Oh, my love, I am so glad you have come!” He
was stooping to kiss her, when Van Helsing motioned him
back. “No,” he whispered, “not yet! Hold her hand; it will
comfort her more.”
So Arthur took her hand and knelt beside her, and she
looked her best, with all the soft lines matching the angelic
beauty of her eyes. Then gradually her eyes closed, and she
sank to sleep. For a little bit her breast heaved softly, and
her breath came and went like a tired child’s.
And then insensibly there came the strange change which
I had noticed in the night. Her breathing grew stertorous, the
mouth opened, and the pale gums, drawn back, made the
teeth look longer and sharper than ever. In a sort of sleep-
waking, vague, unconscious way she opened her eyes,
which were now dull and hard at once, and said in a soft,
voluptuous voice, such as I had never heard from her lips:—
“Arthur! Oh, my love, I am so glad you have come! Kiss
me!” Arthur bent eagerly over to kiss her; but at that instant
Van Helsing, who, like me, had been startled by her voice,
swooped upon him, and catching him by the neck with both
hands, dragged him back with a fury of strength which I
never thought he could have possessed, and actually hurled
him almost across the room.
“Not for your life!” he said; “not for your living soul and
hers!” And he stood between them like a lion at bay.
Arthur was so taken aback that he did not for a moment
know what to do or say; and before any impulse of violence
could seize him he realised the place and the occasion, and
stood silent, waiting.
I kept my eyes fixed on Lucy, as did Van Helsing, and we
saw a spasm as of rage flit like a shadow over her face; the
sharp teeth champed together. Then her eyes closed, and
she breathed heavily.
Very shortly after she opened her eyes in all their softness,
and putting out her poor, pale, thin hand, took Van Helsing’s
great brown one; drawing it to her, she kissed it. “My true
friend,” she said, in a faint voice, but with untellable pathos,
“My true friend, and his! Oh, guard him, and give me
peace!”
“I swear it!” he said solemnly, kneeling beside her and
holding up his hand, as one who registers an oath. Then he
turned to Arthur, and said to him: “Come, my child, take her
hand in yours, and kiss her on the forehead, and only once.”
Their eyes met instead of their lips; and so they parted.
Lucy’s eyes closed; and Van Helsing, who had been
watching closely, took Arthur’s arm, and drew him away.
And then Lucy’s breathing became stertorous again, and
all at once it ceased.
 “It is all over,” said Van Helsing. “She is dead!”
I took Arthur by the arm, and led him away to the drawing-
room, where he sat down, and covered his face with his
hands, sobbing in a way that nearly broke me down to see.
I went back to the room, and found Van Helsing looking at
poor Lucy, and his face was sterner than ever. Some change
had come over her body. Death had given back part of her
beauty, for her brow and cheeks had recovered some of their
flowing lines; even the lips had lost their deadly pallor. It
was as if the blood, no longer needed for the working of the
heart, had gone to make the harshness of death as little
rude as might be.

“We thought her dying whilst she slept,

And sleeping when she died.”

I stood beside Van Helsing, and said:—

“Ah, well, poor girl, there is peace for her at last. It is the
end!”
He turned to me, and said with grave solemnity:—
“Not so; alas! not so. It is only the beginning!”
When I asked him what he meant, he only shook his head
and answered:—
“We can do nothing as yet. Wait and see.”
 XIII

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY—CONTINUED.

The funeral was arranged for the next succeeding day, so

that Lucy and her mother might be buried together. I
attended to all the ghastly formalities, and the urbane
undertaker proved that his staff were afflicted—or blessed—
with something of his own obsequious suavity. Even the
woman who performed the last offices for the dead remarked
to me, in a confidential, brother-professional way, when she
had come out from the death-chamber:—
“She makes a very beautiful corpse, sir. It’s quite a
privilege to attend on her. It’s not too much to say that she
will do credit to our establishment!”
I noticed that Van Helsing never kept far away. This was
possible from the disordered state of things in the
household. There were no relatives at hand; and as Arthur
had to be back the next day to attend at his father’s funeral,
we were unable to notify anyone who should have been
bidden. Under the circumstances, Van Helsing and I took it
upon ourselves to examine papers, etc. He insisted upon
looking over Lucy’s papers himself. I asked him why, for I
feared that he, being a foreigner, might not be quite aware
of English legal requirements, and so might in ignorance
make some unnecessary trouble. He answered me:—
“I know; I know. You forget that I am a lawyer as well as a
doctor. But this is not altogether for the law. You knew that,
when you avoided the coroner. I have more than him to
avoid. There may be papers more—such as this.”
As he spoke he took from his pocketbook the
memorandum which had been in Lucy’s breast, and which
she had torn in her sleep.
“When you find anything of the solicitor who is for the late
Mrs. Westenra, seal all her papers, and write him tonight. For
me, I watch here in the room and in Miss Lucy’s old room all
night, and I myself search for what may be. It is not well that
her very thoughts go into the hands of strangers.”
I went on with my part of the work, and in another half
hour had found the name and address of Mrs. Westenra’s
solicitor and had written to him. All the poor lady’s papers
were in order; explicit directions regarding the place of
burial were given. I had hardly sealed the letter, when, to my
surprise, Van Helsing walked into the room, saying:—
“Can I help you, friend John? I am free, and if I may, my
service is to you.”
“Have you got what you looked for?” I asked, to which he
replied:—
“I did not look for any specific thing. I only hoped to find,
and find I have, all that there was—only some letters and a
few memoranda, and a diary new begun. But I have them
here, and we shall for the present say nothing of them. I
shall see that poor lad tomorrow evening, and, with his
sanction, I shall use some.”
When we had finished the work in hand, he said to me:—
“And now, friend John, I think we may to bed. We want
sleep, both you and I, and rest to recuperate. Tomorrow we
shall have much to do, but for the tonight there is no need of
us. Alas!”
Before turning in we went to look at poor Lucy. The
undertaker had certainly done his work well, for the room
was turned into a small chapelle ardente. There was a
wilderness of beautiful white flowers, and death was made
as little repulsive as might be. The end of the winding-sheet
was laid over the face; when the Professor bent over and
turned it gently back, we both started at the beauty before
us, the tall wax candles showing a sufficient light to note it
well. All Lucy’s loveliness had come back to her in death,
and the hours that had passed, instead of leaving traces of
“decay’s effacing fingers,” had but restored the beauty of
life, till positively I could not believe my eyes that I was
looking at a corpse.
The Professor looked sternly grave. He had not loved her
as I had, and there was no need for tears in his eyes. He said
to me: “Remain till I return,” and left the room. He came
back with a handful of wild garlic from the box waiting in the
hall, but which had not been opened, and placed the flowers
amongst the others on and around the bed. Then he took
from his neck, inside his collar, a little gold crucifix, and
placed it over the mouth. He restored the sheet to its place,
and we came away.
I was undressing in my own room, when, with a
premonitory tap at the door, he entered, and at once began
to speak:—
“Tomorrow I want you to bring me, before night, a set of
postmortem knives.”
“Must we make an autopsy?” I asked.
“Yes and no. I want to operate, but not as you think. Let
me tell you now, but not a word to another. I want to cut off
her head and take out her heart. Ah! you a surgeon, and so
shocked! You, whom I have seen with no tremble of hand or
heart, do operations of life and death that make the rest
shudder. Oh, but I must not forget, my dear friend John, that
you loved her; and I have not forgotten it, for it is I that shall
operate, and you must only help. I would like to do it
tonight, but for Arthur I must not; he will be free after his
father’s funeral tomorrow, and he will want to see her—to
see it. Then, when she is coffined ready for the next day, you
and I shall come when all sleep. We shall unscrew the coffin-
lid, and shall do our operation: and then replace all, so that
none know, save we alone.”
“But why do it at all? The girl is dead. Why mutilate her
poor body without need? And if there is no necessity for a
postmortem and nothing to gain by it—no good to her, to us,
to science, to human knowledge—why do it? Without such it
is monstrous.”
For answer he put his hand on my shoulder, and said, with
infinite tenderness:—
“Friend John, I pity your poor bleeding heart; and I love
you the more because it does so bleed. If I could, I would
take on myself the burden that you do bear. But there are
things that you know not, but that you shall know, and bless
me for knowing, though they are not pleasant things. John,
my child, you have been my friend now many years, and yet
did you ever know me to do any without good cause? I may
err—I am but man; but I believe in all I do. Was it not for
these causes that you send for me when the great trouble
came? Yes! Were you not amazed, nay horrified, when I
would not let Arthur kiss his love—though she was dying—
and snatched him away by all my strength? Yes! And yet you
saw how she thanked me, with her so beautiful dying eyes,
her voice, too, so weak, and she kiss my rough old hand and
bless me? Yes! And did you not hear me swear promise to
her, that so she closed her eyes grateful? Yes!
“Well, I have good reason now for all I want to do. You have
for many years trust me; you have believe me weeks past,
when there be things so strange that you might have well
doubt. Believe me yet a little, friend John. If you trust me
not, then I must tell what I think; and that is not perhaps
well. And if I work—as work I shall, no matter trust or no
trust—without my friend trust in me, I work with heavy heart
and feel, oh! so lonely when I want all help and courage that
may be!” He paused a moment and went on solemnly:
“Friend John, there are strange and terrible days before us.
Let us not be two, but one, that so we work to a good end.
Will you not have faith in me?”
I took his hand, and promised him. I held my door open as
he went away, and watched him go into his room and close
the door. As I stood without moving, I saw one of the maids
pass silently along the passage—she had her back towards
me, so did not see me—and go into the room where Lucy lay.
The sight touched me. Devotion is so rare, and we are so
grateful to those who show it unasked to those we love. Here
was a poor girl putting aside the terrors which she naturally
had of death to go watch alone by the bier of the mistress
whom she loved, so that the poor clay might not be lonely
till laid to eternal rest. …

I must have slept long and soundly, for it was broad daylight
when Van Helsing waked me by coming into my room. He
came over to my bedside and said:—
“You need not trouble about the knives; we shall not do
it.”
“Why not?” I asked. For his solemnity of the night before
had greatly impressed me.
“Because,” he said sternly, “it is too late—or too early.
See!” Here he held up the little golden crucifix. “This was
stolen in the night.”
“How, stolen,” I asked in wonder, “since you have it now?”
“Because I get it back from the worthless wretch who stole
it, from the woman who robbed the dead and the living. Her
punishment will surely come, but not through me; she knew
not altogether what she did and thus unknowing, she only
stole. Now we must wait.”
He went away on the word, leaving me with a new mystery
to think of, a new puzzle to grapple with.
The forenoon was a dreary time, but at noon the solicitor
came: Mr. Marquand, of Wholeman, Sons, Marquand &
Lidderdale. He was very genial and very appreciative of
what we had done, and took off our hands all cares as to
details. During lunch he told us that Mrs. Westenra had for
some time expected sudden death from her heart, and had
put her affairs in absolute order; he informed us that, with
the exception of a certain entailed property of Lucy’s
father’s which now, in default of direct issue, went back to a
distant branch of the family, the whole estate, real and
personal, was left absolutely to Arthur Holmwood. When he
had told us so much he went on:—
“Frankly we did our best to prevent such a testamentary
disposition, and pointed out certain contingencies that
might leave her daughter either penniless or not so free as
she should be to act regarding a matrimonial alliance.
Indeed, we pressed the matter so far that we almost came
into collision, for she asked us if we were or were not
prepared to carry out her wishes. Of course, we had then no
alternative but to accept. We were right in principle, and
ninety-nine times out of a hundred we should have proved,
by the logic of events, the accuracy of our judgment.
Frankly, however, I must admit that in this case any other
form of disposition would have rendered impossible the
carrying out of her wishes. For by her predeceasing her
daughter the latter would have come into possession of the
property, and, even had she only survived her mother by
five minutes, her property would, in case there were no
will—and a will was a practical impossibility in such a case—
have been treated at her decease as under intestacy. In
which case Lord Godalming, though so dear a friend, would
have had no claim in the world; and the inheritors, being
remote, would not be likely to abandon their just rights, for
sentimental reasons regarding an entire stranger. I assure
you, my dear sirs, I am rejoiced at the result, perfectly
rejoiced.”
He was a good fellow, but his rejoicing at the one little
part—in which he was officially interested—of so great a
tragedy, was an object-lesson in the limitations of
sympathetic understanding.
He did not remain long, but said he would look in later in
the day and see Lord Godalming. His coming, however, had
been a certain comfort to us, since it assured us that we
should not have to dread hostile criticism as to any of our
acts. Arthur was expected at five o’clock, so a little before
that time we visited the death-chamber. It was so in very
truth, for now both mother and daughter lay in it. The
undertaker, true to his craft, had made the best display he
could of his goods, and there was a mortuary air about the
place that lowered our spirits at once. Van Helsing ordered
the former arrangement to be adhered to, explaining that, as
Lord Godalming was coming very soon, it would be less
harrowing to his feelings to see all that was left of his
fiancée quite alone. The undertaker seemed shocked at his
own stupidity and exerted himself to restore things to the
condition in which we left them the night before, so that
when Arthur came such shocks to his feelings as we could
avoid were saved.
Poor fellow! He looked desperately sad and broken; even
his stalwart manhood seemed to have shrunk somewhat
under the strain of his much-tried emotions. He had, I knew,
been very genuinely and devotedly attached to his father;
and to lose him, and at such a time, was a bitter blow to him.
With me he was warm as ever, and to Van Helsing he was
sweetly courteous; but I could not help seeing that there
was some constraint with him. The Professor noticed it, too,
and motioned me to bring him upstairs. I did so, and left him
at the door of the room, as I felt he would like to be quite
alone with her, but he took my arm and led me in, saying
huskily:—
“You loved her too, old fellow; she told me all about it, and
there was no friend had a closer place in her heart than you.
I don’t know how to thank you for all you have done for her. I
can’t think yet. …”
 Here he suddenly broke down, and threw his arms round
my shoulders and laid his head on my breast, crying:—
“Oh, Jack! Jack! What shall I do! The whole of life seems
gone from me all at once, and there is nothing in the wide
world for me to live for.”
I comforted him as well as I could. In such cases men do
not need much expression. A grip of the hand, the
tightening of an arm over the shoulder, a sob in unison, are
expressions of sympathy dear to a man’s heart. I stood still
and silent till his sobs died away, and then I said softly to
him:—
“Come and look at her.”
Together we moved over to the bed, and I lifted the lawn
from her face. God! how beautiful she was. Every hour
seemed to be enhancing her loveliness. It frightened and
amazed me somewhat; and as for Arthur, he fell a-trembling,
and finally was shaken with doubt as with an ague. At last,
after a long pause, he said to me in a faint whisper:—
“Jack, is she really dead?”
I assured him sadly that it was so, and went on to
suggest—for I felt that such a horrible doubt should not have
life for a moment longer than I could help—that it often
happened that after death faces became softened and even
resolved into their youthful beauty; that this was especially
so when death had been preceded by any acute or
prolonged suffering. It seemed to quite do away with any
doubt, and, after kneeling beside the couch for a while and
looking at her lovingly and long, he turned aside. I told him
that that must be goodbye, as the coffin had to be prepared;
so he went back and took her dead hand in his and kissed it,
and bent over and kissed her forehead. He came away,
fondly looking back over his shoulder at her as he came.
I left him in the drawing-room, and told Van Helsing that
he had said goodbye; so the latter went to the kitchen to tell
the undertaker’s men to proceed with the preparations and
to screw up the coffin. When he came out of the room again I
told him of Arthur’s question, and he replied:—
“I am not surprised. Just now I doubted for a moment
myself!”
We all dined together, and I could see that poor Art was
trying to make the best of things. Van Helsing had been
silent all dinnertime; but when we had lit our cigars he
said—
“Lord—”; but Arthur interrupted him:—
“No, no, not that, for God’s sake! not yet at any rate.
Forgive me, sir: I did not mean to speak offensively; it is only
because my loss is so recent.”
The Professor answered very sweetly:—
“I only used that name because I was in doubt. I must not
call you ‘Mr.,’ and I have grown to love you—yes, my dear
boy, to love you—as Arthur.”
Arthur held out his hand, and took the old man’s warmly.
“Call me what you will,” he said. “I hope I may always have
the title of a friend. And let me say that I am at a loss for
words to thank you for your goodness to my poor dear.” He
paused a moment, and went on: “I know that she
understood your goodness even better than I do; and if I was
rude or in any way wanting at that time you acted so—you
remember”—the Professor nodded—“you must forgive me.”
He answered with a grave kindness:—
“I know it was hard for you to quite trust me then, for to
trust such violence needs to understand; and I take it that
you do not—that you cannot—trust me now, for you do not
yet understand. And there may be more times when I shall
want you to trust when you cannot—and may not—and must
not yet understand. But the time will come when your trust
shall be whole and complete in me, and when you shall
understand as though the sunlight himself shone through.
Then you shall bless me from first to last for your own sake,
and for the sake of others and for her dear sake to whom I
swore to protect.”
 “And, indeed, indeed, sir,” said Arthur warmly, “I shall in
all ways trust you. I know and believe you have a very noble
heart, and you are Jack’s friend, and you were hers. You shall
do what you like.”
The Professor cleared his throat a couple of times, as
though about to speak, and finally said:—
“May I ask you something now?”
“Certainly.”
“You know that Mrs. Westenra left you all her property?”
“No, poor dear; I never thought of it.”
“And as it is all yours, you have a right to deal with it as
you will. I want you to give me permission to read all Miss
Lucy’s papers and letters. Believe me, it is no idle curiosity. I
have a motive of which, be sure, she would have approved. I
have them all here. I took them before we knew that all was
yours, so that no strange hand might touch them—no
strange eye look through words into her soul. I shall keep
them, if I may; even you may not see them yet, but I shall
keep them safe. No word shall be lost; and in the good time I
shall give them back to you. It’s a hard thing I ask, but you
will do it, will you not, for Lucy’s sake?”
Arthur spoke out heartily, like his old self:—
“Dr. Van Helsing, you may do what you will. I feel that in
saying this I am doing what my dear one would have
approved. I shall not trouble you with questions till the time
comes.”
The old Professor stood up as he said solemnly:—
“And you are right. There will be pain for us all; but it will
not be all pain, nor will this pain be the last. We and you
too—you most of all, my dear boy—will have to pass through
the bitter water before we reach the sweet. But we must be
brave of heart and unselfish, and do our duty, and all will be
well!”
I slept on a sofa in Arthur’s room that night. Van Helsing
did not go to bed at all. He went to and fro, as if patrolling
the house, and was never out of sight of the room where
Lucy lay in her coffin, strewn with the wild garlic flowers,
which sent, through the odour of lily and rose, a heavy,
overpowering smell into the night.

MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL.

22 September.—In the train to Exeter. Jonathan sleeping.

It seems only yesterday that the last entry was made, and
yet how much between then, in Whitby and all the world
before me, Jonathan away and no news of him; and now,
married to Jonathan, Jonathan a solicitor, a partner, rich,
master of his business, Mr. Hawkins dead and buried, and
Jonathan with another attack that may harm him. Some day
he may ask me about it. Down it all goes. I am rusty in my
shorthand—see what unexpected prosperity does for us—so
it may be as well to freshen it up again with an exercise
anyhow. …
The service was very simple and very solemn. There were
only ourselves and the servants there, one or two old friends
of his from Exeter, his London agent, and a gentleman
representing Sir John Paxton, the President of the
Incorporated Law Society. Jonathan and I stood hand in
hand, and we felt that our best and dearest friend was gone
from us. …
We came back to town quietly, taking a bus to Hyde Park
Corner. Jonathan thought it would interest me to go into the
Row for a while, so we sat down; but there were very few
people there, and it was sad-looking and desolate to see so
many empty chairs. It made us think of the empty chair at
home; so we got up and walked down Piccadilly. Jonathan
was holding me by the arm, the way he used to in old days
before I went to school. I felt it very improper, for you can’t
go on for some years teaching etiquette and decorum to
other girls without the pedantry of it biting into yourself a
bit; but it was Jonathan, and he was my husband, and we
didn’t know anybody who saw us—and we didn’t care if they
did—so on we walked. I was looking at a very beautiful girl,
in a big cartwheel hat, sitting in a victoria outside Guiliano’s,
when I felt Jonathan clutch my arm so tight that he hurt me,
and he said under his breath: “My God!” I am always
anxious about Jonathan, for I fear that some nervous fit may
upset him again; so I turned to him quickly, and asked him
what it was that disturbed him.
He was very pale, and his eyes seemed bulging out as,
half in terror and half in amazement, he gazed at a tall, thin
man, with a beaky nose and black moustache and pointed
beard, who was also observing the pretty girl. He was
looking at her so hard that he did not see either of us, and so
I had a good view of him. His face was not a good face; it
was hard, and cruel, and sensual, and his big white teeth,
that looked all the whiter because his lips were so red, were
pointed like an animal’s. Jonathan kept staring at him, till I
was afraid he would notice. I feared he might take it ill, he
looked so fierce and nasty. I asked Jonathan why he was
disturbed, and he answered, evidently thinking that I knew
as much about it as he did: “Do you see who it is?”
“No, dear,” I said; “I don’t know him; who is it?” His answer
seemed to shock and thrill me, for it was said as if he did not
know that it was to me, Mina, to whom he was speaking:—
“It is the man himself!”
The poor dear was evidently terrified at something—very
greatly terrified; I do believe that if he had not had me to
lean on and to support him he would have sunk down. He
kept staring; a man came out of the shop with a small
parcel, and gave it to the lady, who then drove off. The dark
man kept his eyes fixed on her, and when the carriage
moved up Piccadilly he followed in the same direction, and
hailed a hansom. Jonathan kept looking after him, and said,
as if to himself:—
 “I believe it is the Count, but he has grown young. My God,
if this be so! Oh, my God! my God! If I only knew! if I only
knew!” He was distressing himself so much that I feared to
keep his mind on the subject by asking him any questions,
so I remained silent. I drew him away quietly, and he,
holding my arm, came easily. We walked a little further, and
then went in and sat for a while in the Green Park. It was a
hot day for autumn, and there was a comfortable seat in a
shady place. After a few minutes’ staring at nothing,
Jonathan’s eyes closed, and he went quietly into a sleep,
with his head on my shoulder. I thought it was the best thing
for him, so did not disturb him. In about twenty minutes he
woke up, and said to me quite cheerfully:—
“Why, Mina, have I been asleep! Oh, do forgive me for
being so rude. Come, and we’ll have a cup of tea
somewhere.” He had evidently forgotten all about the dark
stranger, as in his illness he had forgotten all that this
episode had reminded him of. I don’t like this lapsing into
forgetfulness; it may make or continue some injury to the
brain. I must not ask him, for fear I shall do more harm than
good; but I must somehow learn the facts of his journey
abroad. The time is come, I fear, when I must open that
parcel, and know what is written. Oh, Jonathan, you will, I
know, forgive me if I do wrong, but it is for your own dear
sake.

Later.—A sad homecoming in every way—the house empty

of the dear soul who was so good to us; Jonathan still pale
and dizzy under a slight relapse of his malady; and now a
telegram from Van Helsing, whoever he may be:—
“You will be grieved to hear that Mrs. Westenra died five
days ago, and that Lucy died the day before yesterday. They
were both buried today.”
 Oh, what a wealth of sorrow in a few words! Poor
Mrs. Westenra! poor Lucy! Gone, gone, never to return to us!
And poor, poor Arthur, to have lost such sweetness out of his
life! God help us all to bear our troubles.

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY.

22 September.—It is all over. Arthur has gone back to Ring,

and has taken Quincey Morris with him. What a fine fellow is
Quincey! I believe in my heart of hearts that he suffered as
much about Lucy’s death as any of us; but he bore himself
through it like a moral Viking. If America can go on breeding
men like that, she will be a power in the world indeed. Van
Helsing is lying down, having a rest preparatory to his
journey. He goes over to Amsterdam tonight, but says he
returns tomorrow night; that he only wants to make some
arrangements which can only be made personally. He is to
stop with me then, if he can; he says he has work to do in
London which may take him some time. Poor old fellow! I
fear that the strain of the past week has broken down even
his iron strength. All the time of the burial he was, I could
see, putting some terrible restraint on himself. When it was
all over, we were standing beside Arthur, who, poor fellow,
was speaking of his part in the operation where his blood
had been transfused to his Lucy’s veins; I could see Van
Helsing’s face grow white and purple by turns. Arthur was
saying that he felt since then as if they two had been really
married and that she was his wife in the sight of God. None
of us said a word of the other operations, and none of us
ever shall. Arthur and Quincey went away together to the
station, and Van Helsing and I came on here. The moment
we were alone in the carriage he gave way to a regular fit of
hysterics. He has denied to me since that it was hysterics,
and insisted that it was only his sense of humour asserting
itself under very terrible conditions. He laughed till he cried,
and I had to draw down the blinds lest anyone should see us
and misjudge; and then he cried, till he laughed again; and
laughed and cried together, just as a woman does. I tried to
be stern with him, as one is to a woman under the
circumstances; but it had no effect. Men and women are so
different in manifestations of nervous strength or weakness!
Then when his face grew grave and stern again I asked him
why his mirth, and why at such a time. His reply was in a
way characteristic of him, for it was logical and forceful and
mysterious. He said:—
“Ah, you don’t comprehend, friend John. Do not think that I
am not sad, though I laugh. See, I have cried even when the
laugh did choke me. But no more think that I am all sorry
when I cry, for the laugh he come just the same. Keep it
always with you that laughter who knock at your door and
say, ‘May I come in?’ is not the true laughter. No! he is a
king, and he come when and how he like. He ask no person;
he choose no time of suitability. He say, ‘I am here.’ Behold,
in example I grieve my heart out for that so sweet young
girl; I give my blood for her, though I am old and worn; I give
my time, my skill, my sleep; I let my other sufferers want
that so she may have all. And yet I can laugh at her very
grave—laugh when the clay from the spade of the sexton
drop upon her coffin and say ‘Thud! thud!’ to my heart, till it
send back the blood from my cheek. My heart bleed for that
poor boy—that dear boy, so of the age of mine own boy had
I been so blessed that he live, and with his hair and eyes the
same. There, you know now why I love him so. And yet when
he say things that touch my husband-heart to the quick, and
make my father-heart yearn to him as to no other man—not
even to you, friend John, for we are more level in
experiences than father and son—yet even at such moment
King Laugh he come to me and shout and bellow in my ear,
‘Here I am! here I am!’ till the blood come dance back and
bring some of the sunshine that he carry with him to my
cheek. Oh, friend John, it is a strange world, a sad world, a
world full of miseries, and woes, and troubles; and yet when
King Laugh come he make them all dance to the tune he
play. Bleeding hearts, and dry bones of the churchyard, and
tears that burn as they fall—all dance together to the music
that he make with that smileless mouth of him. And believe
me, friend John, that he is good to come, and kind. Ah, we
men and women are like ropes drawn tight with strain that
pull us different ways. Then tears come; and, like the rain on
the ropes, they brace us up, until perhaps the strain become
too great, and we break. But King Laugh he come like the
sunshine, and he ease off the strain again; and we bear to
go on with our labour, what it may be.”
I did not like to wound him by pretending not to see his
idea; but, as I did not yet understand the cause of his
laughter, I asked him. As he answered me his face grew
stern, and he said in quite a different tone:—
“Oh, it was the grim irony of it all—this so lovely lady
garlanded with flowers, that looked so fair as life, till one by
one we wondered if she were truly dead; she laid in that so
fine marble house in that lonely churchyard, where rest so
many of her kin, laid there with the mother who loved her,
and whom she loved; and that sacred bell going ‘Toll! toll!
toll!’ so sad and slow; and those holy men, with the white
garments of the angel, pretending to read books, and yet all
the time their eyes never on the page; and all of us with the
bowed head. And all for what? She is dead; so! Is it not?”
“Well, for the life of me, Professor,” I said, “I can’t see
anything to laugh at in all that. Why, your explanation
makes it a harder puzzle than before. But even if the burial
service was comic, what about poor Art and his trouble?
Why, his heart was simply breaking.”
“Just so. Said he not that the transfusion of his blood to
her veins had made her truly his bride?”
“Yes, and it was a sweet and comforting idea for him.”
 “Quite so. But there was a difficulty, friend John. If so that,
then what about the others? Ho, ho! Then this so sweet maid
is a polyandrist, and me, with my poor wife dead to me, but
alive by Church’s law, though no wits, all gone—even I, who
am faithful husband to this now-no-wife, am bigamist.”
“I don’t see where the joke comes in there either!” I said;
and I did not feel particularly pleased with him for saying
such things. He laid his hand on my arm, and said:—
“Friend John, forgive me if I pain. I showed not my feeling
to others when it would wound, but only to you, my old
friend, whom I can trust. If you could have looked into my
very heart then when I want to laugh; if you could have
done so when the laugh arrived; if you could do so now,
when King Laugh have pack up his crown, and all that is to
him—for he go far, far away from me, and for a long, long
time—maybe you would perhaps pity me the most of all.”
I was touched by the tenderness of his tone, and asked
why.
“Because I know!”
And now we are all scattered; and for many a long day
loneliness will sit over our roofs with brooding wings. Lucy
lies in the tomb of her kin, a lordly death-house in a lonely
churchyard, away from teeming London; where the air is
fresh, and the sun rises over Hampstead Hill, and where wild
flowers grow of their own accord.
So I can finish this diary; and God only knows if I shall ever
begin another. If I do, or if I even open this again, it will be to
deal with different people and different themes; for here at
the end, where the romance of my life is told, ere I go back
to take up the thread of my lifework, I say sadly and without
hope,

“FINIS.”
 THE WESTMINSTER GAZETTE, 25 SEPTEMBER.

A HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY.

The neighbourhood of Hampstead is just at present

exercised with a series of events which seem to run on lines
parallel to those of what was known to the writers of
headlines as “The Kensington Horror,” or “The Stabbing
Woman,” or “The Woman in Black.” During the past two or
three days several cases have occurred of young children
straying from home or neglecting to return from their
playing on the Heath. In all these cases the children were
too young to give any properly intelligible account of
themselves, but the consensus of their excuses is that they
had been with a “bloofer lady.” It has always been late in the
evening when they have been missed, and on two occasions
the children have not been found until early in the following
morning. It is generally supposed in the neighbourhood that,
as the first child missed gave as his reason for being away
that a “bloofer lady” had asked him to come for a walk, the
others had picked up the phrase and used it as occasion
served. This is the more natural as the favourite game of the
little ones at present is luring each other away by wiles. A
correspondent writes us that to see some of the tiny tots
pretending to be the “bloofer lady” is supremely funny.
Some of our caricaturists might, he says, take a lesson in the
irony of grotesque by comparing the reality and the picture.
It is only in accordance with general principles of human
nature that the “bloofer lady” should be the popular role at
these al fresco performances. Our correspondent naively
says that even Ellen Terry could not be so winningly
attractive as some of these grubby-faced little children
pretend—and even imagine themselves—to be.
 There is, however, possibly a serious side to the question,
for some of the children, indeed all who have been missed at
night, have been slightly torn or wounded in the throat. The
wounds seem such as might be made by a rat or a small
dog, and although of not much importance individually,
would tend to show that whatever animal inflicts them has a
system or method of its own. The police of the division have
been instructed to keep a sharp lookout for straying
children, especially when very young, in and around
Hampstead Heath, and for any stray dog which may be
about.

THE WESTMINSTER GAZETTE, 25 SEPTEMBER.

EXTRA SPECIAL.

THE HAMPSTEAD HORROR.

ANOTHER CHILD INJURED.

THE “BLOOFER LADY.”

We have just received intelligence that another child,

missed last night, was only discovered late in the morning
under a furze bush at the Shooter’s Hill side of Hampstead
Heath, which is, perhaps, less frequented than the other
parts. It has the same tiny wound in the throat as has been
noticed in other cases. It was terribly weak, and looked quite
emaciated. It too, when partially restored, had the common
story to tell of being lured away by the “bloofer lady.”
 XIV

MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL.

23 September.—Jonathan is better after a bad night. I am so

glad that he has plenty of work to do, for that keeps his
mind off the terrible things; and oh, I am rejoiced that he is
not now weighed down with the responsibility of his new
position. I knew he would be true to himself, and now how
proud I am to see my Jonathan rising to the height of his
advancement and keeping pace in all ways with the duties
that come upon him. He will be away all day till late, for he
said he could not lunch at home. My household work is
done, so I shall take his foreign journal, and lock myself up
in my room and read it. …

24 September.—I hadn’t the heart to write last night; that

terrible record of Jonathan’s upset me so. Poor dear! How he
must have suffered, whether it be true or only imagination. I
wonder if there is any truth in it at all. Did he get his brain
fever, and then write all those terrible things, or had he
some cause for it all? I suppose I shall never know, for I dare
not open the subject to him. … And yet that man we saw
yesterday! He seemed quite certain of him. … Poor fellow! I
suppose it was the funeral upset him and sent his mind back
on some train of thought. … He believes it all himself. I
remember how on our wedding-day he said: “Unless some
solemn duty come upon me to go back to the bitter hours,
asleep or awake, mad or sane.” There seems to be through it
all some thread of continuity. … That fearful Count was
coming to London. … If it should be, and he came to London,
with his teeming millions. … There may be a solemn duty;
and if it come we must not shrink from it. … I shall be
prepared. I shall get my typewriter this very hour and begin
transcribing. Then we shall be ready for other eyes if
required. And if it be wanted; then, perhaps, if I am ready,
poor Jonathan may not be upset, for I can speak for him and
never let him be troubled or worried with it at all. If ever
Jonathan quite gets over the nervousness he may want to
tell me of it all, and I can ask him questions and find out
things, and see how I may comfort him.

LETTER, VAN HELSING TO MRS. HARKER.

“24 September.
(Confidence)
“Dear Madam—
“I pray you to pardon my writing, in that I am so far friend as
that I sent to you sad news of Miss Lucy Westenra’s death.
By the kindness of Lord Godalming, I am empowered to read
her letters and papers, for I am deeply concerned about
certain matters vitally important. In them I find some letters
from you, which show how great friends you were and how
you love her. Oh, Madam Mina, by that love, I implore you,
help me. It is for others’ good that I ask—to redress great
wrong, and to lift much and terrible troubles—that may be
more great than you can know. May it be that I see you? You
can trust me. I am friend of Dr. John Seward and of Lord
Godalming (that was Arthur of Miss Lucy). I must keep it
private for the present from all. I should come to Exeter to
see you at once if you tell me I am privilege to come, and
where and when. I implore your pardon, madam. I have read
your letters to poor Lucy, and know how good you are and
how your husband suffer; so I pray you, if it may be,
enlighten him not, lest it may harm. Again your pardon, and
forgive me.

“VAN HELSING.”

TELEGRAM, MRS. HARKER TO VAN HELSING.

“25 September.—Come today by quarter-past ten train if you

can catch it. Can see you any time you call.

“WILHELMINA HARKER.”

MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL.

25 September.—I cannot help feeling terribly excited as the

time draws near for the visit of Dr. Van Helsing, for somehow
I expect that it will throw some light upon Jonathan’s sad
experience; and as he attended poor dear Lucy in her last
illness, he can tell me all about her. That is the reason of his
coming; it is concerning Lucy and her sleepwalking, and not
about Jonathan. Then I shall never know the real truth now!
How silly I am. That awful journal gets hold of my
imagination and tinges everything with something of its own
colour. Of course it is about Lucy. That habit came back to
the poor dear, and that awful night on the cliff must have
made her ill. I had almost forgotten in my own affairs how ill
she was afterwards. She must have told him of her
sleepwalking adventure on the cliff, and that I knew all
about it; and now he wants me to tell him what she knows,
so that he may understand. I hope I did right in not saying
anything of it to Mrs. Westenra; I should never forgive myself
if any act of mine, were it even a negative one, brought
harm on poor dear Lucy. I hope, too, Dr. Van Helsing will not
blame me; I have had so much trouble and anxiety of late
that I feel I cannot bear more just at present.
I suppose a cry does us all good at times—clears the air as
other rain does. Perhaps it was reading the journal yesterday
that upset me, and then Jonathan went away this morning to
stay away from me a whole day and night, the first time we
have been parted since our marriage. I do hope the dear
fellow will take care of himself, and that nothing will occur to
upset him. It is two o’clock, and the doctor will be here soon
now. I shall say nothing of Jonathan’s journal unless he asks
me. I am so glad I have typewritten out my own journal, so
that, in case he asks about Lucy, I can hand it to him; it will
save much questioning.

Later.—He has come and gone. Oh, what a strange meeting,

and how it all makes my head whirl round! I feel like one in a
dream. Can it be all possible, or even a part of it? If I had not
read Jonathan’s journal first, I should never have accepted
even a possibility. Poor, poor, dear Jonathan! How he must
have suffered. Please the good God, all this may not upset
him again. I shall try to save him from it; but it may be even
a consolation and a help to him—terrible though it be and
awful in its consequences—to know for certain that his eyes
and ears and brain did not deceive him, and that it is all
true. It may be that it is the doubt which haunts him; that
when the doubt is removed, no matter which—waking or
dreaming—may prove the truth, he will be more satisfied
and better able to bear the shock. Dr. Van Helsing must be a
good man as well as a clever one if he is Arthur’s friend and
Dr. Seward’s, and if they brought him all the way from
Holland to look after Lucy. I feel from having seen him that
he is good and kind and of a noble nature. When he comes
tomorrow I shall ask him about Jonathan; and then, please
God, all this sorrow and anxiety may lead to a good end. I
used to think I would like to practise interviewing;
Jonathan’s friend on “The Exeter News” told him that
memory was everything in such work—that you must be
able to put down exactly almost every word spoken, even if
you had to refine some of it afterwards. Here was a rare
interview; I shall try to record it verbatim.
It was half-past two o’clock when the knock came. I took
my courage à deux mains and waited. In a few minutes Mary
opened the door, and announced “Dr. Van Helsing.”
I rose and bowed, and he came towards me; a man of
medium weight, strongly built, with his shoulders set back
over a broad, deep chest and a neck well balanced on the
trunk as the head is on the neck. The poise of the head
strikes one at once as indicative of thought and power; the
head is noble, well-sized, broad, and large behind the ears.
The face, clean-shaven, shows a hard, square chin, a large,
resolute, mobile mouth, a good-sized nose, rather straight,
but with quick, sensitive nostrils, that seem to broaden as
the big, bushy brows come down and the mouth tightens.
The forehead is broad and fine, rising at first almost straight
and then sloping back above two bumps or ridges wide
apart; such a forehead that the reddish hair cannot possibly
tumble over it, but falls naturally back and to the sides. Big,
dark blue eyes are set widely apart, and are quick and
tender or stern with the man’s moods. He said to me:—
“Mrs. Harker, is it not?” I bowed assent.
“That was Miss Mina Murray?” Again I assented.
“It is Mina Murray that I came to see that was friend of that
poor dear child Lucy Westenra. Madam Mina, it is on account
of the dead I come.”
 “Sir,” I said, “you could have no better claim on me than
that you were a friend and helper of Lucy Westenra.” And I
held out my hand. He took it and said tenderly:—
“Oh, Madam Mina, I knew that the friend of that poor lily
girl must be good, but I had yet to learn—” He finished his
speech with a courtly bow. I asked him what it was that he
wanted to see me about, so he at once began:—
“I have read your letters to Miss Lucy. Forgive me, but I
had to begin to inquire somewhere, and there was none to
ask. I know that you were with her at Whitby. She sometimes
kept a diary—you need not look surprised, Madam Mina; it
was begun after you had left, and was in imitation of you—
and in that diary she traces by inference certain things to a
sleepwalking in which she puts down that you saved her. In
great perplexity then I come to you, and ask you out of your
so much kindness to tell me all of it that you can remember.”
“I can tell you, I think, Dr. Van Helsing, all about it.”
“Ah, then you have good memory for facts, for details? It is
not always so with young ladies.”
“No, doctor, but I wrote it all down at the time. I can show
it to you if you like.”
“Oh, Madam Mina, I will be grateful; you will do me much
favour.” I could not resist the temptation of mystifying him a
bit—I suppose it is some of the taste of the original apple
that remains still in our mouths—so I handed him the
shorthand diary. He took it with a grateful bow, and said:—
“May I read it?”
“If you wish,” I answered as demurely as I could. He
opened it, and for an instant his face fell. Then he stood up
and bowed.
“Oh, you so clever woman!” he said. “I knew long that
Mr. Jonathan was a man of much thankfulness; but see, his
wife have all the good things. And will you not so much
honour me and so help me as to read it for me? Alas! I know
not the shorthand.” By this time my little joke was over, and
I was almost ashamed; so I took the typewritten copy from
my workbasket and handed it to him.
“Forgive me,” I said: “I could not help it; but I had been
thinking that it was of dear Lucy that you wished to ask, and
so that you might not have time to wait—not on my account,
but because I know your time must be precious—I have
written it out on the typewriter for you.”
He took it and his eyes glistened. “You are so good,” he
said. “And may I read it now? I may want to ask you some
things when I have read.”
“By all means,” I said, “read it over whilst I order lunch;
and then you can ask me questions whilst we eat.” He
bowed and settled himself in a chair with his back to the
light, and became absorbed in the papers, whilst I went to
see after lunch chiefly in order that he might not be
disturbed. When I came back, I found him walking hurriedly
up and down the room, his face all ablaze with excitement.
He rushed up to me and took me by both hands.
“Oh, Madam Mina,” he said, “how can I say what I owe to
you? This paper is as sunshine. It opens the gate to me. I am
daze, I am dazzle, with so much light, and yet clouds roll in
behind the light every time. But that you do not, cannot,
comprehend. Oh, but I am grateful to you, you so clever
woman. Madam”—he said this very solemnly—“if ever
Abraham Van Helsing can do anything for you or yours, I
trust you will let me know. It will be pleasure and delight if I
may serve you as a friend; as a friend, but all I have ever
learned, all I can ever do, shall be for you and those you
love. There are darknesses in life, and there are lights; you
are one of the lights. You will have happy life and good life,
and your husband will be blessed in you.”
“But, doctor, you praise me too much, and—and you do
not know me.”
“Not know you—I, who am old, and who have studied all
my life men and women; I, who have made my specialty the
brain and all that belongs to him and all that follow from
him! And I have read your diary that you have so goodly
written for me, and which breathes out truth in every line. I,
who have read your so sweet letter to poor Lucy of your
marriage and your trust, not know you! Oh, Madam Mina,
good women tell all their lives, and by day and by hour and
by minute, such things that angels can read; and we men
who wish to know have in us something of angels’ eyes. Your
husband is noble nature, and you are noble too, for you
trust, and trust cannot be where there is mean nature. And
your husband—tell me of him. Is he quite well? Is all that
fever gone, and is he strong and hearty?” I saw here an
opening to ask him about Jonathan, so I said:—
“He was almost recovered, but he has been greatly upset
by Mr. Hawkins’s death.” He interrupted:—
“Oh, yes, I know, I know. I have read your last two letters.”
I went on:—
“I suppose this upset him, for when we were in town on
Thursday last he had a sort of shock.”
“A shock, and after brain fever so soon! That was not good.
What kind of a shock was it?”
“He thought he saw someone who recalled something
terrible, something which led to his brain fever.” And here
the whole thing seemed to overwhelm me in a rush. The pity
for Jonathan, the horror which he experienced, the whole
fearful mystery of his diary, and the fear that has been
brooding over me ever since, all came in a tumult. I suppose
I was hysterical, for I threw myself on my knees and held up
my hands to him, and implored him to make my husband
well again. He took my hands and raised me up, and made
me sit on the sofa, and sat by me; he held my hand in his,
and said to me with, oh, such infinite sweetness:—
“My life is a barren and lonely one, and so full of work that
I have not had much time for friendships; but since I have
been summoned to here by my friend John Seward I have
known so many good people and seen such nobility that I
feel more than ever—and it has grown with my advancing
years—the loneliness of my life. Believe, me, then, that I
come here full of respect for you, and you have given me
hope—hope, not in what I am seeking of, but that there are
good women still left to make life happy—good women,
whose lives and whose truths may make good lesson for the
children that are to be. I am glad, glad, that I may here be of
some use to you; for if your husband suffer, he suffer within
the range of my study and experience. I promise you that I
will gladly do all for him that I can—all to make his life
strong and manly, and your life a happy one. Now you must
eat. You are overwrought and perhaps overanxious. Husband
Jonathan would not like to see you so pale; and what he like
not where he love, is not to his good. Therefore for his sake
you must eat and smile. You have told me all about Lucy,
and so now we shall not speak of it, lest it distress. I shall
stay in Exeter tonight, for I want to think much over what
you have told me, and when I have thought I will ask you
questions, if I may. And then, too, you will tell me of husband
Jonathan’s trouble so far as you can, but not yet. You must
eat now; afterwards you shall tell me all.”
After lunch, when we went back to the drawing-room, he
said to me:—
“And now tell me all about him.” When it came to speaking
to this great learned man, I began to fear that he would
think me a weak fool, and Jonathan a madman—that journal
is all so strange—and I hesitated to go on. But he was so
sweet and kind, and he had promised to help, and I trusted
him, so I said:—
“Dr. Van Helsing, what I have to tell you is so queer that
you must not laugh at me or at my husband. I have been
since yesterday in a sort of fever of doubt; you must be kind
to me, and not think me foolish that I have even half
believed some very strange things.” He reassured me by his
manner as well as his words when he said:—
“Oh, my dear, if you only know how strange is the matter
regarding which I am here, it is you who would laugh. I have
learned not to think little of anyone’s belief, no matter how
strange it be. I have tried to keep an open mind; and it is not
the ordinary things of life that could close it, but the strange
things, the extraordinary things, the things that make one
doubt if they be mad or sane.”
“Thank you, thank you, a thousand times! You have taken
a weight off my mind. If you will let me, I shall give you a
paper to read. It is long, but I have typewritten it out. It will
tell you my trouble and Jonathan’s. It is the copy of his
journal when abroad, and all that happened. I dare not say
anything of it; you will read for yourself and judge. And then
when I see you, perhaps, you will be very kind and tell me
what you think.”
“I promise,” he said as I gave him the papers; “I shall in
the morning, so soon as I can, come to see you and your
husband, if I may.”
“Jonathan will be here at half-past eleven, and you must
come to lunch with us and see him then; you could catch
the quick 3:34 train, which will leave you at Paddington
before eight.” He was surprised at my knowledge of the
trains offhand, but he does not know that I have made up all
the trains to and from Exeter, so that I may help Jonathan in
case he is in a hurry.
So he took the papers with him and went away, and I sit
here thinking—thinking I don’t know what.

LETTER (BY HAND), VAN HELSING TO MRS. HARKER.

“25 September, 6 o’clock.

“Dear Madam Mina—
“I have read your husband’s so wonderful diary. You may
sleep without doubt. Strange and terrible as it is, it is true! I
will pledge my life on it. It may be worse for others; but for
him and you there is no dread. He is a noble fellow; and let
me tell you from experience of men, that one who would do
as he did in going down that wall and to that room—ay, and
going a second time—is not one to be injured in permanence
by a shock. His brain and his heart are all right; this I swear,
before I have even seen him; so be at rest. I shall have much
to ask him of other things. I am blessed that today I come to
see you, for I have learn all at once so much that again I am
dazzle—dazzle more than ever, and I must think.

“Yours the most faithful,

“ABRAHAM VAN HELSING.”

LETTER, MRS. HARKER TO VAN HELSING.

“25 September, 6:30 p.m.

“My dear Dr. Van Helsing—
“A thousand thanks for your kind letter, which has taken a
great weight off my mind. And yet, if it be true, what terrible
things there are in the world, and what an awful thing if that
man, that monster, be really in London! I fear to think. I have
this moment, whilst writing, had a wire from Jonathan,
saying that he leaves by the 6:25 tonight from Launceston
and will be here at 10:18, so that I shall have no fear
tonight. Will you, therefore, instead of lunching with us,
please come to breakfast at eight o’clock, if this be not too
early for you? You can get away, if you are in a hurry, by the
10:30 train, which will bring you to Paddington by 2:35. Do
not answer this, as I shall take it that, if I do not hear, you
will come to breakfast.

“Believe me,
“Your faithful and grateful friend,
“MINA HARKER.”
 JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL.

26 September.—I thought never to write in this diary again,

but the time has come. When I got home last night Mina had
supper ready, and when we had supped she told me of Van
Helsing’s visit, and of her having given him the two diaries
copied out, and of how anxious she has been about me. She
showed me in the doctor’s letter that all I wrote down was
true. It seems to have made a new man of me. It was the
doubt as to the reality of the whole thing that knocked me
over. I felt impotent, and in the dark, and distrustful. But,
now that I know, I am not afraid, even of the Count. He has
succeeded after all, then, in his design in getting to London,
and it was he I saw. He has got younger, and how? Van
Helsing is the man to unmask him and hunt him out, if he is
anything like what Mina says. We sat late, and talked it all
over. Mina is dressing, and I shall call at the hotel in a few
minutes and bring him over. …
He was, I think, surprised to see me. When I came into the
room where he was, and introduced myself, he took me by
the shoulder, and turned my face round to the light, and
said, after a sharp scrutiny:—
“But Madam Mina told me you were ill, that you had had a
shock.” It was so funny to hear my wife called “Madam Mina”
by this kindly, strong-faced old man. I smiled, and said:—
“I was ill, I have had a shock; but you have cured me
already.”
“And how?”
“By your letter to Mina last night. I was in doubt, and then
everything took a hue of unreality, and I did not know what
to trust, even the evidence of my own senses. Not knowing
what to trust, I did not know what to do; and so had only to
keep on working in what had hitherto been the groove of my
life. The groove ceased to avail me, and I mistrusted myself.
Doctor, you don’t know what it is to doubt everything, even
yourself. No, you don’t; you couldn’t with eyebrows like
yours.” He seemed pleased, and laughed as he said:—
“So! You are physiognomist. I learn more here with each
hour. I am with so much pleasure coming to you to
breakfast; and, oh, sir, you will pardon praise from an old
man, but you are blessed in your wife.” I would listen to him
go on praising Mina for a day, so I simply nodded and stood
silent.
“She is one of God’s women, fashioned by His own hand to
show us men and other women that there is a heaven where
we can enter, and that its light can be here on earth. So
true, so sweet, so noble, so little an egoist—and that, let me
tell you, is much in this age, so sceptical and selfish. And
you, sir—I have read all the letters to poor Miss Lucy, and
some of them speak of you, so I know you since some days
from the knowing of others; but I have seen your true self
since last night. You will give me your hand, will you not?
And let us be friends for all our lives.”
We shook hands, and he was so earnest and so kind that it
made me quite choky.
“And now,” he said, “may I ask you for some more help? I
have a great task to do, and at the beginning it is to know.
You can help me here. Can you tell me what went before
your going to Transylvania? Later on I may ask more help,
and of a different kind; but at first this will do.”
“Look here, sir,” I said, “does what you have to do concern
the Count?”
“It does,” he said solemnly.
“Then I am with you heart and soul. As you go by the
10:30 train, you will not have time to read them; but I shall
get the bundle of papers. You can take them with you and
read them in the train.”
After breakfast I saw him to the station. When we were
parting he said:—
 “Perhaps you will come to town if I send to you, and take
Madam Mina too.”
“We shall both come when you will,” I said.
I had got him the morning papers and the London papers
of the previous night, and while we were talking at the
carriage window, waiting for the train to start, he was
turning them over. His eyes suddenly seemed to catch
something in one of them, The Westminster Gazette—I knew
it by the colour—and he grew quite white. He read
something intently, groaning to himself: “Mein Gott! Mein
Gott! So soon! so soon!” I do not think he remembered me at
the moment. Just then the whistle blew, and the train moved
off. This recalled him to himself, and he leaned out of the
window and waved his hand, calling out: “Love to Madam
Mina; I shall write so soon as ever I can.”

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY.

26 September.—Truly there is no such thing as finality. Not a

week since I said “Finis,” and yet here I am starting fresh
again, or rather going on with the same record. Until this
afternoon I had no cause to think of what is done. Renfield
had become, to all intents, as sane as he ever was. He was
already well ahead with his fly business; and he had just
started in the spider line also; so he had not been of any
trouble to me. I had a letter from Arthur, written on Sunday,
and from it I gather that he is bearing up wonderfully well.
Quincey Morris is with him, and that is much of a help, for he
himself is a bubbling well of good spirits. Quincey wrote me
a line too, and from him I hear that Arthur is beginning to
recover something of his old buoyancy; so as to them all my
mind is at rest. As for myself, I was settling down to my work
with the enthusiasm which I used to have for it, so that I
might fairly have said that the wound which poor Lucy left
on me was becoming cicatrised. Everything is, however, now
reopened; and what is to be the end God only knows. I have
an idea that Van Helsing thinks he knows, too, but he will
only let out enough at a time to whet curiosity. He went to
Exeter yesterday, and stayed there all night. Today he came
back, and almost bounded into the room at about half-past
five o’clock, and thrust last night’s Westminster Gazette into
my hand.
“What do you think of that?” he asked as he stood back
and folded his arms.
I looked over the paper, for I really did not know what he
meant; but he took it from me and pointed out a paragraph
about children being decoyed away at Hampstead. It did not
convey much to me, until I reached a passage where it
described small punctured wounds on their throats. An idea
struck me, and I looked up. “Well?” he said.
“It is like poor Lucy’s.”
“And what do you make of it?”
“Simply that there is some cause in common. Whatever it
was that injured her has injured them.” I did not quite
understand his answer:—
“That is true indirectly, but not directly.”
“How do you mean, Professor?” I asked. I was a little
inclined to take his seriousness lightly—for, after all, four
days of rest and freedom from burning, harrowing anxiety
does help to restore one’s spirits—but when I saw his face, it
sobered me. Never, even in the midst of our despair about
poor Lucy, had he looked more stern.
“Tell me!” I said. “I can hazard no opinion. I do not know
what to think, and I have no data on which to found a
conjecture.”
“Do you mean to tell me, friend John, that you have no
suspicion as to what poor Lucy died of; not after all the hints
given, not only by events, but by me?”
 “Of nervous prostration following on great loss or waste of
blood.”
“And how the blood lost or waste?” I shook my head. He
stepped over and sat down beside me, and went on:—
“You are clever man, friend John; you reason well, and your
wit is bold; but you are too prejudiced. You do not let your
eyes see nor your ears hear, and that which is outside your
daily life is not of account to you. Do you not think that
there are things which you cannot understand, and yet
which are; that some people see things that others cannot?
But there are things old and new which must not be
contemplate by men’s eyes, because they know—or think
they know—some things which other men have told them.
Ah, it is the fault of our science that it wants to explain all;
and if it explain not, then it says there is nothing to explain.
But yet we see around us every day the growth of new
beliefs, which think themselves new; and which are yet but
the old, which pretend to be young—like the fine ladies at
the opera. I suppose now you do not believe in corporeal
transference. No? Nor in materialisation. No? Nor in astral
bodies. No? Nor in the reading of thought. No? Nor in
hypnotism—”
“Yes,” I said. “Charcot has proved that pretty well.” He
smiled as he went on: “Then you are satisfied as to it. Yes?
And of course then you understand how it act, and can
follow the mind of the great Charcot—alas that he is no
more!—into the very soul of the patient that he influence.
No? Then, friend John, am I to take it that you simply accept
fact, and are satisfied to let from premise to conclusion be a
blank? No? Then tell me—for I am student of the brain—how
you accept the hypnotism and reject the thought reading.
Let me tell you, my friend, that there are things done today
in electrical science which would have been deemed unholy
by the very men who discovered electricity—who would
themselves not so long before have been burned as wizards.
There are always mysteries in life. Why was it that
Methuselah lived nine hundred years, and ‘Old Parr’ one
hundred and sixty-nine, and yet that poor Lucy, with four
men’s blood in her poor veins, could not live even one day?
For, had she live one more day, we could have save her. Do
you know all the mystery of life and death? Do you know the
altogether of comparative anatomy and can say wherefore
the qualities of brutes are in some men, and not in others?
Can you tell me why, when other spiders die small and soon,
that one great spider lived for centuries in the tower of the
old Spanish church and grew and grew, till, on descending,
he could drink the oil of all the church lamps? Can you tell
me why in the Pampas, ay and elsewhere, there are bats that
come at night and open the veins of cattle and horses and
suck dry their veins; how in some islands of the Western
seas there are bats which hang on the trees all day, and
those who have seen describe as like giant nuts or pods, and
that when the sailors sleep on the deck, because that it is
hot, flit down on them, and then—and then in the morning
are found dead men, white as even Miss Lucy was?”
“Good God, Professor!” I said, starting up. “Do you mean to
tell me that Lucy was bitten by such a bat; and that such a
thing is here in London in the nineteenth century?” He
waved his hand for silence, and went on:—
“Can you tell me why the tortoise lives more long than
generations of men; why the elephant goes on and on till he
have seen dynasties; and why the parrot never die only of
bite of cat or dog or other complaint? Can you tell me why
men believe in all ages and places that there are some few
who live on always if they be permit; that there are men and
women who cannot die? We all know—because science has
vouched for the fact—that there have been toads shut up in
rocks for thousands of years, shut in one so small hole that
only hold him since the youth of the world. Can you tell me
how the Indian fakir can make himself to die and have been
buried, and his grave sealed and corn sowed on it, and the
corn reaped and be cut and sown and reaped and cut again,
and then men come and take away the unbroken seal and
that there lie the Indian fakir, not dead, but that rise up and
walk amongst them as before?” Here I interrupted him. I was
getting bewildered; he so crowded on my mind his list of
nature’s eccentricities and possible impossibilities that my
imagination was getting fired. I had a dim idea that he was
teaching me some lesson, as long ago he used to do in his
study at Amsterdam; but he used then to tell me the thing,
so that I could have the object of thought in mind all the
time. But now I was without this help, yet I wanted to follow
him, so I said:—
“Professor, let me be your pet student again. Tell me the
thesis, so that I may apply your knowledge as you go on. At
present I am going in my mind from point to point as a mad
man, and not a sane one, follows an idea. I feel like a novice
lumbering through a bog in a mist, jumping from one
tussock to another in the mere blind effort to move on
without knowing where I am going.”
“That is good image,” he said. “Well, I shall tell you. My
thesis is this: I want you to believe.”
“To believe what?”
“To believe in things that you cannot. Let me illustrate. I
heard once of an American who so defined faith: ‘that
faculty which enables us to believe things which we know to
be untrue.’ For one, I follow that man. He meant that we
shall have an open mind, and not let a little bit of truth
check the rush of a big truth, like a small rock does a railway
truck. We get the small truth first. Good! We keep him, and
we value him; but all the same we must not let him think
himself all the truth in the universe.”
“Then you want me not to let some previous conviction
injure the receptivity of my mind with regard to some
strange matter. Do I read your lesson aright?”
“Ah, you are my favourite pupil still. It is worth to teach
you. Now that you are willing to understand, you have taken
the first step to understand. You think then that those so
small holes in the children’s throats were made by the same
that made the hole in Miss Lucy?”
“I suppose so.” He stood up and said solemnly:—
“Then you are wrong. Oh, would it were so! but alas! no. It
is worse, far, far worse.”
“In God’s name, Professor Van Helsing, what do you
mean?” I cried.
He threw himself with a despairing gesture into a chair,
and placed his elbows on the table, covering his face with
his hands as he spoke:—
“They were made by Miss Lucy!”
 XV

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY—CONTINUED.

For a while sheer anger mastered me; it was as if he had

during her life struck Lucy on the face. I smote the table
hard and rose up as I said to him:—
“Dr. Van Helsing, are you mad?” He raised his head and
looked at me, and somehow the tenderness of his face
calmed me at once. “Would I were!” he said. “Madness were
easy to bear compared with truth like this. Oh, my friend,
why, think you, did I go so far round, why take so long to tell
you so simple a thing? Was it because I hate you and have
hated you all my life? Was it because I wished to give you
pain? Was it that I wanted, now so late, revenge for that time
when you saved my life, and from a fearful death? Ah no!”
“Forgive me,” said I. He went on:—
“My friend, it was because I wished to be gentle in the
breaking to you, for I know you have loved that so sweet
lady. But even yet I do not expect you to believe. It is so
hard to accept at once any abstract truth, that we may
doubt such to be possible when we have always believed
the ‘no’ of it; it is more hard still to accept so sad a concrete
truth, and of such a one as Miss Lucy. Tonight I go to prove it.
Dare you come with me?”
This staggered me. A man does not like to prove such a
truth. Byron excepted from the category, jealousy.
 “And prove the very truth he most abhorred.”

He saw my hesitation, and spoke:—

“The logic is simple, no madman’s logic this time, jumping
from tussock to tussock in a misty bog. If it be not true, then
proof will be relief; at worst it will not harm. If it be true! Ah,
there is the dread; yet very dread should help my cause, for
in it is some need of belief. Come, I tell you what I propose:
first, that we go off now and see that child in the hospital.
Dr. Vincent, of the North Hospital, where the papers say the
child is, is friend of mine, and I think of yours since you were
in class at Amsterdam. He will let two scientists see his case,
if he will not let two friends. We shall tell him nothing, but
only that we wish to learn. And then—”
“And then?” He took a key from his pocket and held it up.
“And then we spend the night, you and I, in the churchyard
where Lucy lies. This is the key that lock the tomb. I had it
from the coffin-man to give to Arthur.” My heart sank within
me, for I felt that there was some fearful ordeal before us. I
could do nothing, however, so I plucked up what heart I
could and said that we had better hasten, as the afternoon
was passing. …
We found the child awake. It had had a sleep and taken
some food, and altogether was going on well. Dr. Vincent
took the bandage from its throat, and showed us the
punctures. There was no mistaking the similarity to those
which had been on Lucy’s throat. They were smaller, and the
edges looked fresher; that was all. We asked Vincent to what
he attributed them, and he replied that it must have been a
bite of some animal, perhaps a rat; but, for his own part, he
was inclined to think that it was one of the bats which are so
numerous on the northern heights of London. “Out of so
many harmless ones,” he said, “there may be some wild
specimen from the South of a more malignant species. Some
sailor may have brought one home, and it managed to
escape; or even from the Zoölogical Gardens a young one
may have got loose, or one be bred there from a vampire.
These things do occur, you know. Only ten days ago a wolf
got out, and was, I believe, traced up in this direction. For a
week after, the children were playing nothing but Red
Riding Hood on the Heath and in every alley in the place
until this ‘bloofer lady’ scare came along, since when it has
been quite a gala-time with them. Even this poor little mite,
when he woke up today, asked the nurse if he might go
away. When she asked him why he wanted to go, he said he
wanted to play with the ‘bloofer lady.’ ”
“I hope,” said Van Helsing, “that when you are sending the
child home you will caution its parents to keep strict watch
over it. These fancies to stray are most dangerous; and if the
child were to remain out another night, it would probably be
fatal. But in any case I suppose you will not let it away for
some days?”
“Certainly not, not for a week at least; longer if the wound
is not healed.”
Our visit to the hospital took more time than we had
reckoned on, and the sun had dipped before we came out.
When Van Helsing saw how dark it was, he said:—
“There is no hurry. It is more late than I thought. Come, let
us seek somewhere that we may eat, and then we shall go
on our way.”
We dined at Jack Straw’s Castle along with a little crowd of
bicyclists and others who were genially noisy. About ten
o’clock we started from the inn. It was then very dark, and
the scattered lamps made the darkness greater when we
were once outside their individual radius. The Professor had
evidently noted the road we were to go, for he went on
unhesitatingly; but, as for me, I was in quite a mixup as to
locality. As we went further, we met fewer and fewer people,
till at last we were somewhat surprised when we met even
the patrol of horse police going their usual suburban round.
At last we reached the wall of the churchyard, which we
climbed over. With some little difficulty—for it was very dark,
and the whole place seemed so strange to us—we found the
Westenra tomb. The Professor took the key, opened the
creaky door, and standing back, politely, but quite
unconsciously, motioned me to precede him. There was a
delicious irony in the offer, in the courtliness of giving
preference on such a ghastly occasion. My companion
followed me quickly, and cautiously drew the door to, after
carefully ascertaining that the lock was a falling, and not a
spring, one. In the latter case we should have been in a bad
plight. Then he fumbled in his bag, and taking out a
matchbox and a piece of candle, proceeded to make a light.
The tomb in the daytime, and when wreathed with fresh
flowers, had looked grim and gruesome enough; but now,
some days afterwards, when the flowers hung lank and
dead, their whites turning to rust and their greens to
browns; when the spider and the beetle had resumed their
accustomed dominance; when time-discoloured stone, and
dust-encrusted mortar, and rusty, dank iron, and tarnished
brass, and clouded silver-plating gave back the feeble
glimmer of a candle, the effect was more miserable and
sordid than could have been imagined. It conveyed
irresistibly the idea that life—animal life—was not the only
thing which could pass away.
Van Helsing went about his work systematically. Holding
his candle so that he could read the coffin plates, and so
holding it that the sperm dropped in white patches which
congealed as they touched the metal, he made assurance of
Lucy’s coffin. Another search in his bag, and he took out a
turnscrew.
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
“To open the coffin. You shall yet be convinced.”
Straightway he began taking out the screws, and finally
lifted off the lid, showing the casing of lead beneath. The
sight was almost too much for me. It seemed to be as much
an affront to the dead as it would have been to have
stripped off her clothing in her sleep whilst living; I actually
took hold of his hand to stop him. He only said: “You shall
see,” and again fumbling in his bag, took out a tiny fretsaw.
Striking the turnscrew through the lead with a swift
downward stab, which made me wince, he made a small
hole, which was, however, big enough to admit the point of
the saw. I had expected a rush of gas from the week-old
corpse. We doctors, who have had to study our dangers,
have to become accustomed to such things, and I drew back
towards the door. But the Professor never stopped for a
moment; he sawed down a couple of feet along one side of
the lead coffin, and then across, and down the other side.
Taking the edge of the loose flange, he bent it back towards
the foot of the coffin, and holding up the candle into the
aperture, motioned to me to look.
I drew near and looked. The coffin was empty.
It was certainly a surprise to me, and gave me a
considerable shock, but Van Helsing was unmoved. He was
now more sure than ever of his ground, and so emboldened
to proceed in his task. “Are you satisfied now, friend John?”
he asked.
I felt all the dogged argumentativeness of my nature
awake within me as I answered him:—
“I am satisfied that Lucy’s body is not in that coffin; but
that only proves one thing.”
“And what is that, friend John?”
“That it is not there.”
“That is good logic,” he said, “so far as it goes. But how do
you—how can you—account for it not being there?”
“Perhaps a body-snatcher,” I suggested. “Some of the
undertaker’s people may have stolen it.” I felt that I was
speaking folly, and yet it was the only real cause which I
could suggest. The Professor sighed. “Ah well!” he said, “we
must have more proof. Come with me.”
He put on the coffin-lid again, gathered up all his things
and placed them in the bag, blew out the light, and placed
the candle also in the bag. We opened the door, and went
out. Behind us he closed the door and locked it. He handed
me the key, saying: “Will you keep it? You had better be
assured.” I laughed—it was not a very cheerful laugh, I am
bound to say—as I motioned him to keep it. “A key is
nothing,” I said; “there may be duplicates; and anyhow it is
not difficult to pick a lock of that kind.” He said nothing, but
put the key in his pocket. Then he told me to watch at one
side of the churchyard whilst he would watch at the other. I
took up my place behind a yew-tree, and I saw his dark
figure move until the intervening headstones and trees hid
it from my sight.
It was a lonely vigil. Just after I had taken my place I heard
a distant clock strike twelve, and in time came one and two.
I was chilled and unnerved, and angry with the Professor for
taking me on such an errand and with myself for coming. I
was too cold and too sleepy to be keenly observant, and not
sleepy enough to betray my trust so altogether I had a
dreary, miserable time.
Suddenly, as I turned round, I thought I saw something
like a white streak, moving between two dark yew-trees at
the side of the churchyard farthest from the tomb; at the
same time a dark mass moved from the Professor’s side of
the ground, and hurriedly went towards it. Then I too moved;
but I had to go round headstones and railed-off tombs, and I
stumbled over graves. The sky was overcast, and somewhere
far off an early cock crew. A little way off, beyond a line of
scattered juniper-trees, which marked the pathway to the
church, a white, dim figure flitted in the direction of the
tomb. The tomb itself was hidden by trees, and I could not
see where the figure disappeared. I heard the rustle of actual
movement where I had first seen the white figure, and
coming over, found the Professor holding in his arms a tiny
child. When he saw me he held it out to me, and said:—
“Are you satisfied now?”
“No,” I said, in a way that I felt was aggressive.
“Do you not see the child?”
 “Yes, it is a child, but who brought it here? And is it
wounded?” I asked.
“We shall see,” said the Professor, and with one impulse
we took our way out of the churchyard, he carrying the
sleeping child.
When we had got some little distance away, we went into
a clump of trees, and struck a match, and looked at the
child’s throat. It was without a scratch or scar of any kind.
“Was I right?” I asked triumphantly.
“We were just in time,” said the Professor thankfully.
We had now to decide what we were to do with the child,
and so consulted about it. If we were to take it to a police-
station we should have to give some account of our
movements during the night; at least, we should have had
to make some statement as to how we had come to find the
child. So finally we decided that we would take it to the
Heath, and when we heard a policeman coming, would leave
it where he could not fail to find it; we would then seek our
way home as quickly as we could. All fell out well. At the
edge of Hampstead Heath we heard a policeman’s heavy
tramp, and laying the child on the pathway, we waited and
watched until he saw it as he flashed his lantern to and fro.
We heard his exclamation of astonishment, and then we
went away silently. By good chance we got a cab near the
“Spaniards,” and drove to town.
I cannot sleep, so I make this entry. But I must try to get a
few hours’ sleep, as Van Helsing is to call for me at noon. He
insists that I shall go with him on another expedition.

27 September.—It was two o’clock before we found a

suitable opportunity for our attempt. The funeral held at
noon was all completed, and the last stragglers of the
mourners had taken themselves lazily away, when, looking
carefully from behind a clump of alder-trees, we saw the
sexton lock the gate after him. We knew then that we were
safe till morning did we desire it; but the Professor told me
that we should not want more than an hour at most. Again I
felt that horrid sense of the reality of things, in which any
effort of imagination seemed out of place; and I realised
distinctly the perils of the law which we were incurring in our
unhallowed work. Besides, I felt it was all so useless.
Outrageous as it was to open a leaden coffin, to see if a
woman dead nearly a week were really dead, it now seemed
the height of folly to open the tomb again, when we knew,
from the evidence of our own eyesight, that the coffin was
empty. I shrugged my shoulders, however, and rested silent,
for Van Helsing had a way of going on his own road, no
matter who remonstrated. He took the key, opened the
vault, and again courteously motioned me to precede. The
place was not so gruesome as last night, but oh, how
unutterably mean-looking when the sunshine streamed in.
Van Helsing walked over to Lucy’s coffin, and I followed. He
bent over and again forced back the leaden flange; and then
a shock of surprise and dismay shot through me.
There lay Lucy, seemingly just as we had seen her the
night before her funeral. She was, if possible, more radiantly
beautiful than ever; and I could not believe that she was
dead. The lips were red, nay redder than before; and on the
cheeks was a delicate bloom.
“Is this a juggle?” I said to him.
“Are you convinced now?” said the Professor in response,
and as he spoke he put over his hand, and in a way that
made me shudder, pulled back the dead lips and showed
the white teeth.
“See,” he went on, “see, they are even sharper than
before. With this and this”—and he touched one of the
canine teeth and that below it—“the little children can be
bitten. Are you of belief now, friend John?” Once more,
argumentative hostility woke within me. I could not accept
such an overwhelming idea as he suggested; so, with an
attempt to argue of which I was even at the moment
ashamed, I said:—
“She may have been placed here since last night.”
“Indeed? That is so, and by whom?”
“I do not know. Someone has done it.”
“And yet she has been dead one week. Most peoples in
that time would not look so.” I had no answer for this, so was
silent. Van Helsing did not seem to notice my silence; at any
rate, he showed neither chagrin nor triumph. He was looking
intently at the face of the dead woman, raising the eyelids
and looking at the eyes, and once more opening the lips and
examining the teeth. Then he turned to me and said:—
“Here, there is one thing which is different from all
recorded; here is some dual life that is not as the common.
She was bitten by the vampire when she was in a trance,
sleepwalking—oh, you start; you do not know that, friend
John, but you shall know it all later—and in trance could he
best come to take more blood. In trance she died, and in
trance she is Un-Dead, too. So it is that she differ from all
other. Usually when the Un-Dead sleep at home”—as he
spoke he made a comprehensive sweep of his arm to
designate what to a vampire was “home”—“their face show
what they are, but this so sweet that was when she not Un-
Dead she go back to the nothings of the common dead.
There is no malign there, see, and so it make hard that I
must kill her in her sleep.” This turned my blood cold, and it
began to dawn upon me that I was accepting Van Helsing’s
theories; but if she were really dead, what was there of terror
in the idea of killing her? He looked up at me, and evidently
saw the change in my face, for he said almost joyously:—
“Ah, you believe now?”
I answered: “Do not press me too hard all at once. I am
willing to accept. How will you do this bloody work?”
“I shall cut off her head and fill her mouth with garlic, and
I shall drive a stake through her body.” It made me shudder
to think of so mutilating the body of the woman whom I had
loved. And yet the feeling was not so strong as I had
expected. I was, in fact, beginning to shudder at the
presence of this being, this Un-Dead, as Van Helsing called
it, and to loathe it. Is it possible that love is all subjective, or
all objective?
I waited a considerable time for Van Helsing to begin, but
he stood as if wrapped in thought. Presently he closed the
catch of his bag with a snap, and said:—
“I have been thinking, and have made up my mind as to
what is best. If I did simply follow my inclining I would do
now, at this moment, what is to be done; but there are other
things to follow, and things that are thousand times more
difficult in that them we do not know. This is simple. She
have yet no life taken, though that is of time; and to act now
would be to take danger from her forever. But then we may
have to want Arthur, and how shall we tell him of this? If
you, who saw the wounds on Lucy’s throat, and saw the
wounds so similar on the child’s at the hospital; if you, who
saw the coffin empty last night and full today with a woman
who have not change only to be more rose and more
beautiful in a whole week, after she die—if you know of this
and know of the white figure last night that brought the
child to the churchyard, and yet of your own senses you did
not believe, how, then, can I expect Arthur, who know none
of those things, to believe? He doubted me when I took him
from her kiss when she was dying. I know he has forgiven
me because in some mistaken idea I have done things that
prevent him say goodbye as he ought; and he may think
that in some more mistaken idea this woman was buried
alive; and that in most mistake of all we have killed her. He
will then argue back that it is we, mistaken ones, that have
killed her by our ideas; and so he will be much unhappy
always. Yet he never can be sure; and that is the worst of all.
And he will sometimes think that she he loved was buried
alive, and that will paint his dreams with horrors of what she
must have suffered; and again, he will think that we may be
right, and that his so beloved was, after all, an Un-Dead. No!
I told him once, and since then I learn much. Now, since I
know it is all true, a hundred thousand times more do I know
that he must pass through the bitter waters to reach the
sweet. He, poor fellow, must have one hour that will make
the very face of heaven grow black to him; then we can act
for good all round and send him peace. My mind is made up.
Let us go. You return home for tonight to your asylum, and
see that all be well. As for me, I shall spend the night here in
this churchyard in my own way. Tomorrow night you will
come to me to the Berkeley Hotel at ten of the clock. I shall
send for Arthur to come too, and also that so fine young man
of America that gave his blood. Later we shall all have work
to do. I come with you so far as Piccadilly and there dine, for
I must be back here before the sun set.”
So we locked the tomb and came away, and got over the
wall of the churchyard, which was not much of a task, and
drove back to Piccadilly.

NOTE LEFT BY VAN HELSING IN HIS PORTMANTEAU, BERKELEY HOTEL,

DIRECTED TO JOHN SEWARD, M.D.

(NOT DELIVERED.)

“27 September.
“Friend John—
“I write this in case anything should happen. I go alone to
watch in that churchyard. It pleases me that the Un-Dead,
Miss Lucy, shall not leave tonight, that so on the morrow
night she may be more eager. Therefore I shall fix some
things she like not—garlic and a crucifix—and so seal up the
door of the tomb. She is young as Un-Dead, and will heed.
Moreover, these are only to prevent her coming out; they
may not prevail on her wanting to get in; for then the Un-
Dead is desperate, and must find the line of least resistance,
whatsoever it may be. I shall be at hand all the night from
sunset till after the sunrise, and if there be aught that may
be learned I shall learn it. For Miss Lucy or from her, I have
no fear; but that other to whom is there that she is Un-Dead,
he have now the power to seek her tomb and find shelter. He
is cunning, as I know from Mr. Jonathan and from the way
that all along he have fooled us when he played with us for
Miss Lucy’s life, and we lost; and in many ways the Un-Dead
are strong. He have always the strength in his hand of
twenty men; even we four who gave our strength to Miss
Lucy it also is all to him. Besides, he can summon his wolf
and I know not what. So if it be that he come thither on this
night he shall find me; but none other shall—until it be too
late. But it may be that he will not attempt the place. There
is no reason why he should; his hunting ground is more full
of game than the churchyard where the Un-Dead woman
sleep, and the one old man watch.
“Therefore I write this in case. … Take the papers that are
with this, the diaries of Harker and the rest, and read them,
and then find this great Un-Dead, and cut off his head and
burn his heart or drive a stake through it, so that the world
may rest from him.
“If it be so, farewell.

“VAN HELSING.”

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY.

28 September.—It is wonderful what a good night’s sleep

will do for one. Yesterday I was almost willing to accept Van
Helsing’s monstrous ideas; but now they seem to start out
lurid before me as outrages on common sense. I have no
doubt that he believes it all. I wonder if his mind can have
become in any way unhinged. Surely there must be some
rational explanation of all these mysterious things. Is it
possible that the Professor can have done it himself? He is so
abnormally clever that if he went off his head he would carry
out his intent with regard to some fixed idea in a wonderful
way. I am loath to think it, and indeed it would be almost as
great a marvel as the other to find that Van Helsing was
mad; but anyhow I shall watch him carefully. I may get some
light on the mystery.

29 September, morning. … Last night, at a little before ten

o’clock, Arthur and Quincey came into Van Helsing’s room;
he told us all that he wanted us to do, but especially
addressing himself to Arthur, as if all our wills were centred
in his. He began by saying that he hoped we would all come
with him too, “for,” he said, “there is a grave duty to be done
there. You were doubtless surprised at my letter?” This query
was directly addressed to Lord Godalming.
“I was. It rather upset me for a bit. There has been so
much trouble around my house of late that I could do
without any more. I have been curious, too, as to what you
mean. Quincey and I talked it over; but the more we talked,
the more puzzled we got, till now I can say for myself that
I’m about up a tree as to any meaning about anything.”
“Me too,” said Quincey Morris laconically.
“Oh,” said the Professor, “then you are nearer the
beginning, both of you, than friend John here, who has to go
a long way back before he can even get so far as to begin.”
It was evident that he recognised my return to my old
doubting frame of mind without my saying a word. Then,
turning to the other two, he said with intense gravity:—
“I want your permission to do what I think good this night.
It is, I know, much to ask; and when you know what it is I
propose to do you will know, and only then, how much.
Therefore may I ask that you promise me in the dark, so that
afterwards, though you may be angry with me for a time—I
must not disguise from myself the possibility that such may
be—you shall not blame yourselves for anything.”
“That’s frank anyhow,” broke in Quincey. “I’ll answer for
the Professor. I don’t quite see his drift, but I swear he’s
honest; and that’s good enough for me.”
“I thank you, sir,” said Van Helsing proudly. “I have done
myself the honour of counting you one trusting friend, and
such endorsement is dear to me.” He held out a hand, which
Quincey took.
Then Arthur spoke out:—
“Dr. Van Helsing, I don’t quite like to ‘buy a pig in a poke,’
as they say in Scotland, and if it be anything in which my
honour as a gentleman or my faith as a Christian is
concerned, I cannot make such a promise. If you can assure
me that what you intend does not violate either of these
two, then I give my consent at once; though for the life of
me, I cannot understand what you are driving at.”
“I accept your limitation,” said Van Helsing, “and all I ask
of you is that if you feel it necessary to condemn any act of
mine, you will first consider it well and be satisfied that it
does not violate your reservations.”
“Agreed!” said Arthur; “that is only fair. And now that the
pourparlers are over, may I ask what it is we are to do?”
“I want you to come with me, and to come in secret, to the
churchyard at Kingstead.”
Arthur’s face fell as he said in an amazed sort of way:—
“Where poor Lucy is buried?” The Professor bowed. Arthur
went on: “And when there?”
“To enter the tomb!” Arthur stood up.
“Professor, are you in earnest; or it is some monstrous
joke? Pardon me, I see that you are in earnest.” He sat down
again, but I could see that he sat firmly and proudly, as one
who is on his dignity. There was silence until he asked
again:—
“And when in the tomb?”
“To open the coffin.”
“This is too much!” he said, angrily rising again. “I am
willing to be patient in all things that are reasonable; but in
this—this desecration of the grave—of one who—” He fairly
choked with indignation. The Professor looked pityingly at
him.
“If I could spare you one pang, my poor friend,” he said,
“God knows I would. But this night our feet must tread in
thorny paths; or later, and forever, the feet you love must
walk in paths of flame!”
Arthur looked up with set white face and said:—
“Take care, sir, take care!”
“Would it not be well to hear what I have to say?” said Van
Helsing. “And then you will at least know the limit of my
purpose. Shall I go on?”
“That’s fair enough,” broke in Morris.
After a pause Van Helsing went on, evidently with an
effort:—
“Miss Lucy is dead; is it not so? Yes! Then there can be no
wrong to her. But if she be not dead—”
Arthur jumped to his feet.
“Good God!” he cried. “What do you mean? Has there
been any mistake; has she been buried alive?” He groaned
in anguish that not even hope could soften.
“I did not say she was alive, my child; I did not think it. I
go no further than to say that she might be Un-Dead.”
“Un-Dead! Not alive! What do you mean? Is this all a
nightmare, or what is it?”
“There are mysteries which men can only guess at, which
age by age they may solve only in part. Believe me, we are
now on the verge of one. But I have not done. May I cut off
the head of dead Miss Lucy?”
 “Heavens and earth, no!” cried Arthur in a storm of
passion. “Not for the wide world will I consent to any
mutilation of her dead body. Dr. Van Helsing, you try me too
far. What have I done to you that you should torture me so?
What did that poor, sweet girl do that you should want to
cast such dishonour on her grave? Are you mad that speak
such things, or am I mad to listen to them? Don’t dare to
think more of such a desecration; I shall not give my consent
to anything you do. I have a duty to do in protecting her
grave from outrage; and, by God, I shall do it!”
Van Helsing rose up from where he had all the time been
seated, and said, gravely and sternly:—
“My Lord Godalming, I, too, have a duty to do, a duty to
others, a duty to you, a duty to the dead; and, by God, I
shall do it! All I ask you now is that you come with me, that
you look and listen; and if when later I make the same
request you do not be more eager for its fulfilment even
than I am, then—then I shall do my duty, whatever it may
seem to me. And then, to follow of your Lordship’s wishes I
shall hold myself at your disposal to render an account to
you, when and where you will.” His voice broke a little, and
he went on with a voice full of pity:—
“But, I beseech you, do not go forth in anger with me. In a
long life of acts which were often not pleasant to do, and
which sometimes did wring my heart, I have never had so
heavy a task as now. Believe me that if the time comes for
you to change your mind towards me, one look from you will
wipe away all this so sad hour, for I would do what a man
can to save you from sorrow. Just think. For why should I give
myself so much of labour and so much of sorrow? I have
come here from my own land to do what I can of good; at the
first to please my friend John, and then to help a sweet
young lady, whom, too, I came to love. For her—I am
ashamed to say so much, but I say it in kindness—I gave
what you gave; the blood of my veins; I gave it, I, who was
not, like you, her lover, but only her physician and her
friend. I gave to her my nights and days—before death, after
death; and if my death can do her good even now, when she
is the dead Un-Dead, she shall have it freely.” He said this
with a very grave, sweet pride, and Arthur was much
affected by it. He took the old man’s hand and said in a
broken voice:—
“Oh, it is hard to think of it, and I cannot understand; but
at least I shall go with you and wait.”
 XVI

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY—CONTINUED

It was just a quarter before twelve o’clock when we got into

the churchyard over the low wall. The night was dark with
occasional gleams of moonlight between the rents of the
heavy clouds that scudded across the sky. We all kept
somehow close together, with Van Helsing slightly in front as
he led the way. When we had come close to the tomb I
looked well at Arthur, for I feared that the proximity to a
place laden with so sorrowful a memory would upset him;
but he bore himself well. I took it that the very mystery of
the proceeding was in some way a counteractant to his grief.
The Professor unlocked the door, and seeing a natural
hesitation amongst us for various reasons, solved the
difficulty by entering first himself. The rest of us followed,
and he closed the door. He then lit a dark lantern and
pointed to the coffin. Arthur stepped forward hesitatingly;
Van Helsing said to me:—
“You were with me here yesterday. Was the body of Miss
Lucy in that coffin?”
“It was.” The Professor turned to the rest saying:—
“You hear; and yet there is no one who does not believe
with me.” He took his screwdriver and again took off the lid
of the coffin. Arthur looked on, very pale but silent; when the
lid was removed he stepped forward. He evidently did not
know that there was a leaden coffin, or, at any rate, had not
thought of it. When he saw the rent in the lead, the blood
rushed to his face for an instant, but as quickly fell away
again, so that he remained of a ghastly whiteness; he was
still silent. Van Helsing forced back the leaden flange, and
we all looked in and recoiled.
The coffin was empty!
For several minutes no one spoke a word. The silence was
broken by Quincey Morris:—
“Professor, I answered for you. Your word is all I want. I
wouldn’t ask such a thing ordinarily—I wouldn’t so
dishonour you as to imply a doubt; but this is a mystery that
goes beyond any honour or dishonour. Is this your doing?”
“I swear to you by all that I hold sacred that I have not
removed nor touched her. What happened was this: Two
nights ago my friend Seward and I came here—with good
purpose, believe me. I opened that coffin, which was then
sealed up, and we found it, as now, empty. We then waited,
and saw something white come through the trees. The next
day we came here in daytime, and she lay there. Did she
not, friend John?”
“Yes.”
“That night we were just in time. One more so small child
was missing, and we find it, thank God, unharmed amongst
the graves. Yesterday I came here before sundown, for at
sundown the Un-Dead can move. I waited here all the night
till the sun rose, but I saw nothing. It was most probable that
it was because I had laid over the clamps of those doors
garlic, which the Un-Dead cannot bear, and other things
which they shun. Last night there was no exodus, so tonight
before the sundown I took away my garlic and other things.
And so it is we find this coffin empty. But bear with me. So
far there is much that is strange. Wait you with me outside,
unseen and unheard, and things much stranger are yet to
be. So”—here he shut the dark slide of his lantern—“now to
the outside.” He opened the door, and we filed out, he
coming last and locking the door behind him.
 Oh! but it seemed fresh and pure in the night air after the
terror of that vault. How sweet it was to see the clouds race
by, and the passing gleams of the moonlight between the
scudding clouds crossing and passing—like the gladness
and sorrow of a man’s life; how sweet it was to breathe the
fresh air, that had no taint of death and decay; how
humanising to see the red lighting of the sky beyond the
hill, and to hear far away the muffled roar that marks the life
of a great city. Each in his own way was solemn and
overcome. Arthur was silent, and was, I could see, striving to
grasp the purpose and the inner meaning of the mystery. I
was myself tolerably patient, and half inclined again to
throw aside doubt and to accept Van Helsing’s conclusions.
Quincey Morris was phlegmatic in the way of a man who
accepts all things, and accepts them in the spirit of cool
bravery, with hazard of all he has to stake. Not being able to
smoke, he cut himself a good-sized plug of tobacco and
began to chew. As to Van Helsing, he was employed in a
definite way. First he took from his bag a mass of what
looked like thin, wafer-like biscuit, which was carefully rolled
up in a white napkin; next he took out a double-handful of
some whitish stuff, like dough or putty. He crumbled the
wafer up fine and worked it into the mass between his
hands. This he then took, and rolling it into thin strips,
began to lay them into the crevices between the door and its
setting in the tomb. I was somewhat puzzled at this, and
being close, asked him what it was that he was doing. Arthur
and Quincey drew near also, as they too were curious. He
answered:—
“I am closing the tomb, so that the Un-Dead may not
enter.”
“And is that stuff you have put there going to do it?” asked
Quincey. “Great Scott! Is this a game?”
“It is.”
“What is that which you are using?” This time the question
was by Arthur. Van Helsing reverently lifted his hat as he
answered:—
“The Host. I brought it from Amsterdam. I have an
Indulgence.” It was an answer that appalled the most
sceptical of us, and we felt individually that in the presence
of such earnest purpose as the Professor’s, a purpose which
could thus use the to him most sacred of things, it was
impossible to distrust. In respectful silence we took the
places assigned to us close round the tomb, but hidden from
the sight of anyone approaching. I pitied the others,
especially Arthur. I had myself been apprenticed by my
former visits to this watching horror; and yet I, who had up
to an hour ago repudiated the proofs, felt my heart sink
within me. Never did tombs look so ghastly white; never did
cypress, or yew, or juniper so seem the embodiment of
funereal gloom; never did tree or grass wave or rustle so
ominously; never did bough creak so mysteriously; and
never did the faraway howling of dogs send such a woeful
presage through the night.
There was a long spell of silence, a big, aching void, and
then from the Professor a keen “S-s-s-s!” He pointed; and far
down the avenue of yews we saw a white figure advance—a
dim white figure, which held something dark at its breast.
The figure stopped, and at the moment a ray of moonlight
fell upon the masses of driving clouds and showed in
startling prominence a dark-haired woman, dressed in the
cerements of the grave. We could not see the face, for it was
bent down over what we saw to be a fair-haired child. There
was a pause and a sharp little cry, such as a child gives in
sleep, or a dog as it lies before the fire and dreams. We were
starting forward, but the Professor’s warning hand, seen by
us as he stood behind a yew-tree, kept us back; and then as
we looked the white figure moved forwards again. It was now
near enough for us to see clearly, and the moonlight still
held. My own heart grew cold as ice, and I could hear the
gasp of Arthur, as we recognised the features of Lucy
Westenra. Lucy Westenra, but yet how changed. The
sweetness was turned to adamantine, heartless cruelty, and
the purity to voluptuous wantonness. Van Helsing stepped
out, and, obedient to his gesture, we all advanced too; the
four of us ranged in a line before the door of the tomb. Van
Helsing raised his lantern and drew the slide; by the
concentrated light that fell on Lucy’s face we could see that
the lips were crimson with fresh blood, and that the stream
had trickled over her chin and stained the purity of her lawn
death-robe.
We shuddered with horror. I could see by the tremulous
light that even Van Helsing’s iron nerve had failed. Arthur
was next to me, and if I had not seized his arm and held him
up, he would have fallen.
When Lucy—I call the thing that was before us Lucy
because it bore her shape—saw us she drew back with an
angry snarl, such as a cat gives when taken unawares; then
her eyes ranged over us. Lucy’s eyes in form and colour; but
Lucy’s eyes unclean and full of hellfire, instead of the pure,
gentle orbs we knew. At that moment the remnant of my
love passed into hate and loathing; had she then to be
killed, I could have done it with savage delight. As she
looked, her eyes blazed with unholy light, and the face
became wreathed with a voluptuous smile. Oh, God, how it
made me shudder to see it! With a careless motion, she
flung to the ground, callous as a devil, the child that up to
now she had clutched strenuously to her breast, growling
over it as a dog growls over a bone. The child gave a sharp
cry, and lay there moaning. There was a cold-bloodedness in
the act which wrung a groan from Arthur; when she
advanced to him with outstretched arms and a wanton smile
he fell back and hid his face in his hands.
She still advanced, however, and with a languorous,
voluptuous grace, said:—
“Come to me, Arthur. Leave these others and come to me.
My arms are hungry for you. Come, and we can rest together.
Come, my husband, come!”
 There was something diabolically sweet in her tones—
something of the tingling of glass when struck—which rang
through the brains even of us who heard the words
addressed to another. As for Arthur, he seemed under a
spell; moving his hands from his face, he opened wide his
arms. She was leaping for them, when Van Helsing sprang
forward and held between them his little golden crucifix.
She recoiled from it, and, with a suddenly distorted face, full
of rage, dashed past him as if to enter the tomb.
When within a foot or two of the door, however, she
stopped, as if arrested by some irresistible force. Then she
turned, and her face was shown in the clear burst of
moonlight and by the lamp, which had now no quiver from
Van Helsing’s iron nerves. Never did I see such baffled
malice on a face; and never, I trust, shall such ever be seen
again by mortal eyes. The beautiful colour became livid, the
eyes seemed to throw out sparks of hellfire, the brows were
wrinkled as though the folds of the flesh were the coils of
Medusa’s snakes, and the lovely, bloodstained mouth grew
to an open square, as in the passion masks of the Greeks
and Japanese. If ever a face meant death—if looks could
kill—we saw it at that moment.
And so for full half a minute, which seemed an eternity,
she remained between the lifted crucifix and the sacred
closing of her means of entry. Van Helsing broke the silence
by asking Arthur:—
“Answer me, oh my friend! Am I to proceed in my work?”
Arthur threw himself on his knees, and hid his face in his
hands, as he answered:—
“Do as you will, friend; do as you will. There can be no
horror like this ever any more;” and he groaned in spirit.
Quincey and I simultaneously moved towards him, and took
his arms. We could hear the click of the closing lantern as
Van Helsing held it down; coming close to the tomb, he
began to remove from the chinks some of the sacred
emblem which he had placed there. We all looked on in
horrified amazement as we saw, when he stood back, the
woman, with a corporeal body as real at that moment as our
own, pass in through the interstice where scarce a knife-
blade could have gone. We all felt a glad sense of relief
when we saw the Professor calmly restoring the strings of
putty to the edges of the door.
When this was done, he lifted the child and said:
“Come now, my friends; we can do no more till tomorrow.
There is a funeral at noon, so here we shall all come before
long after that. The friends of the dead will all be gone by
two, and when the sexton lock the gate we shall remain.
Then there is more to do; but not like this of tonight. As for
this little one, he is not much harm, and by tomorrow night
he shall be well. We shall leave him where the police will
find him, as on the other night; and then to home.” Coming
close to Arthur, he said:—
“My friend Arthur, you have had a sore trial; but after,
when you look back, you will see how it was necessary. You
are now in the bitter waters, my child. By this time tomorrow
you will, please God, have passed them, and have drunk of
the sweet waters; so do not mourn overmuch. Till then I shall
not ask you to forgive me.”
Arthur and Quincey came home with me, and we tried to
cheer each other on the way. We had left the child in safety,
and were tired; so we all slept with more or less reality of
sleep.

29 September, night.—A little before twelve o’clock we

three—Arthur, Quincey Morris, and myself—called for the
Professor. It was odd to notice that by common consent we
had all put on black clothes. Of course, Arthur wore black,
for he was in deep mourning, but the rest of us wore it by
instinct. We got to the churchyard by half-past one, and
strolled about, keeping out of official observation, so that
when the gravediggers had completed their task and the
sexton under the belief that everyone had gone, had locked
the gate, we had the place all to ourselves. Van Helsing,
instead of his little black bag, had with him a long leather
one, something like a cricketing bag; it was manifestly of fair
weight.
When we were alone and had heard the last of the
footsteps die out up the road, we silently, and as if by
ordered intention, followed the Professor to the tomb. He
unlocked the door, and we entered, closing it behind us.
Then he took from his bag the lantern, which he lit, and also
two wax candles, which, when lighted, he stuck, by melting
their own ends, on other coffins, so that they might give
light sufficient to work by. When he again lifted the lid off
Lucy’s coffin we all looked—Arthur trembling like an aspen—
and saw that the body lay there in all its death-beauty. But
there was no love in my own heart, nothing but loathing for
the foul Thing which had taken Lucy’s shape without her
soul. I could see even Arthur’s face grow hard as he looked.
Presently he said to Van Helsing:—
“Is this really Lucy’s body, or only a demon in her shape?”
“It is her body, and yet not it. But wait a while, and you all
see her as she was, and is.”
She seemed like a nightmare of Lucy as she lay there; the
pointed teeth, the bloodstained, voluptuous mouth—which
it made one shudder to see—the whole carnal and
unspiritual appearance, seeming like a devilish mockery of
Lucy’s sweet purity. Van Helsing, with his usual
methodicalness, began taking the various contents from his
bag and placing them ready for use. First he took out a
soldering iron and some plumbing solder, and then a small
oil-lamp, which gave out, when lit in a corner of the tomb,
gas which burned at fierce heat with a blue flame; then his
operating knives, which he placed to hand; and last a round
wooden stake, some two and a half or three inches thick and
about three feet long. One end of it was hardened by
charring in the fire, and was sharpened to a fine point. With
this stake came a heavy hammer, such as in households is
used in the coal-cellar for breaking the lumps. To me, a
doctor’s preparations for work of any kind are stimulating
and bracing, but the effect of these things on both Arthur
and Quincey was to cause them a sort of consternation. They
both, however, kept their courage, and remained silent and
quiet.
When all was ready, Van Helsing said:—
“Before we do anything, let me tell you this; it is out of the
lore and experience of the ancients and of all those who
have studied the powers of the Un-Dead. When they become
such, there comes with the change the curse of immortality;
they cannot die, but must go on age after age adding new
victims and multiplying the evils of the world; for all that die
from the preying of the Un-Dead becomes themselves Un-
Dead, and prey on their kind. And so the circle goes on ever
widening, like as the ripples from a stone thrown in the
water. Friend Arthur, if you had met that kiss which you
know of before poor Lucy die; or again, last night when you
open your arms to her, you would in time, when you had
died, have become nosferatu, as they call it in Eastern
Europe, and would all time make more of those Un-Deads
that so have fill us with horror. The career of this so unhappy
dear lady is but just begun. Those children whose blood she
suck are not as yet so much the worse; but if she live on, Un-
Dead, more and more they lose their blood and by her power
over them they come to her; and so she draw their blood
with that so wicked mouth. But if she die in truth, then all
cease; the tiny wounds of the throats disappear, and they go
back to their plays unknowing ever of what has been. But of
the most blessed of all, when this now Un-Dead be made to
rest as true dead, then the soul of the poor lady whom we
love shall again be free. Instead of working wickedness by
night and growing more debased in the assimilating of it by
day, she shall take her place with the other Angels. So that,
my friend, it will be a blessed hand for her that shall strike
the blow that sets her free. To this I am willing; but is there
none amongst us who has a better right? Will it be no joy to
think of hereafter in the silence of the night when sleep is
not: ‘It was my hand that sent her to the stars; it was the
hand of him that loved her best; the hand that of all she
would herself have chosen, had it been to her to choose?’
Tell me if there be such a one amongst us?”
We all looked at Arthur. He saw, too, what we all did, the
infinite kindness which suggested that his should be the
hand which would restore Lucy to us as a holy, and not an
unholy, memory; he stepped forward and said bravely,
though his hand trembled, and his face was as pale as
snow:—
“My true friend, from the bottom of my broken heart I
thank you. Tell me what I am to do, and I shall not falter!”
Van Helsing laid a hand on his shoulder, and said:—
“Brave lad! A moment’s courage, and it is done. This stake
must be driven through her. It will be a fearful ordeal—be
not deceived in that—but it will be only a short time, and
you will then rejoice more than your pain was great; from
this grim tomb you will emerge as though you tread on air.
But you must not falter when once you have begun. Only
think that we, your true friends, are round you, and that we
pray for you all the time.”
“Go on,” said Arthur hoarsely. “Tell me what I am to do.”
“Take this stake in your left hand, ready to place the point
over the heart, and the hammer in your right. Then when we
begin our prayer for the dead—I shall read him, I have here
the book, and the others shall follow—strike in God’s name,
that so all may be well with the dead that we love and that
the Un-Dead pass away.”
Arthur took the stake and the hammer, and when once his
mind was set on action his hands never trembled nor even
quivered. Van Helsing opened his missal and began to read,
and Quincey and I followed as well as we could. Arthur
placed the point over the heart, and as I looked I could see
its dint in the white flesh. Then he struck with all his might.
The Thing in the coffin writhed; and a hideous,
bloodcurdling screech came from the opened red lips. The
body shook and quivered and twisted in wild contortions;
the sharp white teeth champed together till the lips were
cut, and the mouth was smeared with a crimson foam. But
Arthur never faltered. He looked like a figure of Thor as his
untrembling arm rose and fell, driving deeper and deeper
the mercy-bearing stake, whilst the blood from the pierced
heart welled and spurted up around it. His face was set, and
high duty seemed to shine through it; the sight of it gave us
courage so that our voices seemed to ring through the little
vault.
And then the writhing and quivering of the body became
less, and the teeth seemed to champ, and the face to quiver.
Finally it lay still. The terrible task was over.
The hammer fell from Arthur’s hand. He reeled and would
have fallen had we not caught him. The great drops of sweat
sprang from his forehead, and his breath came in broken
gasps. It had indeed been an awful strain on him; and had
he not been forced to his task by more than human
considerations he could never have gone through with it. For
a few minutes we were so taken up with him that we did not
look towards the coffin. When we did, however, a murmur of
startled surprise ran from one to the other of us. We gazed
so eagerly that Arthur rose, for he had been seated on the
ground, and came and looked too; and then a glad, strange
light broke over his face and dispelled altogether the gloom
of horror that lay upon it.
There, in the coffin lay no longer the foul Thing that we
had so dreaded and grown to hate that the work of her
destruction was yielded as a privilege to the one best
entitled to it, but Lucy as we had seen her in her life, with
her face of unequalled sweetness and purity. True that there
were there, as we had seen them in life, the traces of care
and pain and waste; but these were all dear to us, for they
marked her truth to what we knew. One and all we felt that
the holy calm that lay like sunshine over the wasted face
and form was only an earthly token and symbol of the calm
that was to reign forever.
Van Helsing came and laid his hand on Arthur’s shoulder,
and said to him:—
“And now, Arthur my friend, dear lad, am I not forgiven?”
The reaction of the terrible strain came as he took the old
man’s hand in his, and raising it to his lips, pressed it, and
said:—
“Forgiven! God bless you that you have given my dear one
her soul again, and me peace.” He put his hands on the
Professor’s shoulder, and laying his head on his breast, cried
for a while silently, whilst we stood unmoving. When he
raised his head Van Helsing said to him:—
“And now, my child, you may kiss her. Kiss her dead lips if
you will, as she would have you to, if for her to choose. For
she is not a grinning devil now—not any more a foul Thing
for all eternity. No longer she is the devil’s Un-Dead. She is
God’s true dead, whose soul is with Him!”
Arthur bent and kissed her, and then we sent him and
Quincey out of the tomb; the Professor and I sawed the top
off the stake, leaving the point of it in the body. Then we cut
off the head and filled the mouth with garlic. We soldered up
the leaden coffin, screwed on the coffin-lid, and gathering up
our belongings, came away. When the Professor locked the
door he gave the key to Arthur.
Outside the air was sweet, the sun shone, and the birds
sang, and it seemed as if all nature were tuned to a different
pitch. There was gladness and mirth and peace everywhere,
for we were at rest ourselves on one account, and we were
glad, though it was with a tempered joy.
Before we moved away Van Helsing said:—
“Now, my friends, one step of our work is done, one the
most harrowing to ourselves. But there remains a greater
task: to find out the author of all this our sorrow and to
stamp him out. I have clues which we can follow; but it is a
long task, and a difficult, and there is danger in it, and pain.
Shall you not all help me? We have learned to believe, all of
us—is it not so? And since so, do we not see our duty? Yes!
And do we not promise to go on to the bitter end?”
Each in turn, we took his hand, and the promise was made.
Then said the Professor as we moved off:—
“Two nights hence you shall meet with me and dine
together at seven of the clock with friend John. I shall
entreat two others, two that you know not as yet; and I shall
be ready to all our work show and our plans unfold. Friend
John, you come with me home, for I have much to consult
about, and you can help me. Tonight I leave for Amsterdam,
but shall return tomorrow night. And then begins our great
quest. But first I shall have much to say, so that you may
know what is to do and to dread. Then our promise shall be
made to each other anew; for there is a terrible task before
us, and once our feet are on the ploughshare we must not
draw back.”
 XVII

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY—CONTINUED

When we arrived at the Berkeley Hotel, Van Helsing found a

telegram waiting for him:—

“Am coming up by train. Jonathan at Whitby. Important

news.—MINA HARKER.”

The Professor was delighted. “Ah, that wonderful Madam

Mina,” he said, “pearl among women! She arrive, but I
cannot stay. She must go to your house, friend John. You
must meet her at the station. Telegraph her en route, so that
she may be prepared.”
When the wire was despatched he had a cup of tea; over it
he told me of a diary kept by Jonathan Harker when abroad,
and gave me a typewritten copy of it, as also of Mrs. Harker’s
diary at Whitby. “Take these,” he said, “and study them well.
When I have returned you will be master of all the facts, and
we can then better enter on our inquisition. Keep them safe,
for there is in them much of treasure. You will need all your
faith, even you who have had such an experience as that of
today. What is here told,” he laid his hand heavily and
gravely on the packet of papers as he spoke, “may be the
beginning of the end to you and me and many another; or it
may sound the knell of the Un-Dead who walk the earth.
Read all, I pray you, with the open mind; and if you can add
in any way to the story here told do so, for it is all-important.
You have kept diary of all these so strange things; is it not
so? Yes! Then we shall go through all these together when
we meet.” He then made ready for his departure, and shortly
after drove off to Liverpool Street. I took my way to
Paddington, where I arrived about fifteen minutes before the
train came in.
The crowd melted away, after the bustling fashion
common to arrival platforms; and I was beginning to feel
uneasy, lest I might miss my guest, when a sweet-faced,
dainty-looking girl stepped up to me, and, after a quick
glance, said: “Dr. Seward, is it not?”
“And you are Mrs. Harker!” I answered at once; whereupon
she held out her hand.
“I knew you from the description of poor dear Lucy; but—”
She stopped suddenly, and a quick blush overspread her
face.
The blush that rose to my own cheeks somehow set us
both at ease, for it was a tacit answer to her own. I got her
luggage, which included a typewriter, and we took the
Underground to Fenchurch Street, after I had sent a wire to
my housekeeper to have a sitting-room and bedroom
prepared at once for Mrs. Harker.
In due time we arrived. She knew, of course, that the place
was a lunatic asylum, but I could see that she was unable to
repress a shudder when we entered.
She told me that, if she might, she would come presently
to my study, as she had much to say. So here I am finishing
my entry in my phonograph diary whilst I await her. As yet I
have not had the chance of looking at the papers which Van
Helsing left with me, though they lie open before me. I must
get her interested in something, so that I may have an
opportunity of reading them. She does not know how
precious time is, or what a task we have in hand. I must be
careful not to frighten her. Here she is!
 MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL.

29 September.—After I had tidied myself, I went down to

Dr. Seward’s study. At the door I paused a moment, for I
thought I heard him talking with someone. As, however, he
had pressed me to be quick, I knocked at the door, and on
his calling out, “Come in,” I entered.
To my intense surprise, there was no one with him. He was
quite alone, and on the table opposite him was what I knew
at once from the description to be a phonograph. I had never
seen one, and was much interested.
“I hope I did not keep you waiting,” I said; “but I stayed at
the door as I heard you talking, and thought there was
someone with you.”
“Oh,” he replied with a smile, “I was only entering my
diary.”
“Your diary?” I asked him in surprise.
“Yes,” he answered. “I keep it in this.” As he spoke he laid
his hand on the phonograph. I felt quite excited over it, and
blurted out:—
“Why, this beats even shorthand! May I hear it say
something?”
“Certainly,” he replied with alacrity, and stood up to put it
in train for speaking. Then he paused, and a troubled look
overspread his face.
“The fact is,” he began awkwardly, “I only keep my diary
in it; and as it is entirely—almost entirely—about my cases,
it may be awkward—that is, I mean—” He stopped, and I
tried to help him out of his embarrassment:—
“You helped to attend dear Lucy at the end. Let me hear
how she died; for all that I know of her, I shall be very
grateful. She was very, very dear to me.”
To my surprise, he answered, with a horrorstruck look in
his face:—
 “Tell you of her death? Not for the wide world!”
“Why not?” I asked, for some grave, terrible feeling was
coming over me. Again he paused, and I could see that he
was trying to invent an excuse. At length he stammered
out:—
“You see, I do not know how to pick out any particular part
of the diary.” Even while he was speaking an idea dawned
upon him, and he said with unconscious simplicity, in a
different voice, and with the naivete of a child: “That’s quite
true, upon my honour. Honest Indian!” I could not but smile,
at which he grimaced. “I gave myself away that time!” he
said. “But do you know that, although I have kept the diary
for months past, it never once struck me how I was going to
find any particular part of it in case I wanted to look it up?”
By this time my mind was made up that the diary of a doctor
who attended Lucy might have something to add to the sum
of our knowledge of that terrible Being, and I said boldly:—
“Then, Dr. Seward, you had better let me copy it out for
you on my typewriter.” He grew to a positively deathly pallor
as he said:—
“No! no! no! For all the world, I wouldn’t let you know that
terrible story!”
Then it was terrible; my intuition was right! For a moment I
thought, and as my eyes ranged the room, unconsciously
looking for something or some opportunity to aid me, they
lit on a great batch of typewriting on the table. His eyes
caught the look in mine, and, without his thinking, followed
their direction. As they saw the parcel he realised my
meaning.
“You do not know me,” I said. “When you have read those
papers—my own diary and my husband’s also, which I have
typed—you will know me better. I have not faltered in giving
every thought of my own heart in this cause; but, of course,
you do not know me—yet; and I must not expect you to trust
me so far.”
 He is certainly a man of noble nature; poor dear Lucy was
right about him. He stood up and opened a large drawer, in
which were arranged in order a number of hollow cylinders
of metal covered with dark wax, and said:—
“You are quite right. I did not trust you because I did not
know you. But I know you now; and let me say that I should
have known you long ago. I know that Lucy told you of me;
she told me of you too. May I make the only atonement in
my power? Take the cylinders and hear them—the first half-
dozen of them are personal to me, and they will not horrify
you; then you will know me better. Dinner will by then be
ready. In the meantime I shall read over some of these
documents, and shall be better able to understand certain
things.” He carried the phonograph himself up to my sitting-
room and adjusted it for me. Now I shall learn something
pleasant, I am sure; for it will tell me the other side of a true
love episode of which I know one side already. …

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY.

29 September.—I was so absorbed in that wonderful diary of

Jonathan Harker and that other of his wife that I let the time
run on without thinking. Mrs. Harker was not down when the
maid came to announce dinner, so I said: “She is possibly
tired; let dinner wait an hour,” and I went on with my work. I
had just finished Mrs. Harker’s diary, when she came in. She
looked sweetly pretty, but very sad, and her eyes were
flushed with crying. This somehow moved me much. Of late I
have had cause for tears, God knows! but the relief of them
was denied me; and now the sight of those sweet eyes,
brightened with recent tears, went straight to my heart. So I
said as gently as I could:—
“I greatly fear I have distressed you.”
 “Oh, no, not distressed me,” she replied, “but I have been
more touched than I can say by your grief. That is a
wonderful machine, but it is cruelly true. It told me, in its
very tones, the anguish of your heart. It was like a soul
crying out to Almighty God. No one must hear them spoken
ever again! See, I have tried to be useful. I have copied out
the words on my typewriter, and none other need now hear
your heart beat, as I did.”
“No one need ever know, shall ever know,” I said in a low
voice. She laid her hand on mine and said very gravely:—
“Ah, but they must!”
“Must! But why?” I asked.
“Because it is a part of the terrible story, a part of poor
dear Lucy’s death and all that led to it; because in the
struggle which we have before us to rid the earth of this
terrible monster we must have all the knowledge and all the
help which we can get. I think that the cylinders which you
gave me contained more than you intended me to know; but
I can see that there are in your record many lights to this
dark mystery. You will let me help, will you not? I know all up
to a certain point; and I see already, though your diary only
took me to 7 September, how poor Lucy was beset, and how
her terrible doom was being wrought out. Jonathan and I
have been working day and night since Professor Van
Helsing saw us. He is gone to Whitby to get more
information, and he will be here tomorrow to help us. We
need have no secrets amongst us; working together and
with absolute trust, we can surely be stronger than if some
of us were in the dark.” She looked at me so appealingly,
and at the same time manifested such courage and
resolution in her bearing, that I gave in at once to her
wishes. “You shall,” I said, “do as you like in the matter. God
forgive me if I do wrong! There are terrible things yet to
learn of; but if you have so far travelled on the road to poor
Lucy’s death, you will not be content, I know, to remain in
the dark. Nay, the end—the very end—may give you a
gleam of peace. Come, there is dinner. We must keep one
another strong for what is before us; we have a cruel and
dreadful task. When you have eaten you shall learn the rest,
and I shall answer any questions you ask—if there be
anything which you do not understand, though it was
apparent to us who were present.”

MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL.

29 September.—After dinner I came with Dr. Seward to his

study. He brought back the phonograph from my room, and I
took my typewriter. He placed me in a comfortable chair,
and arranged the phonograph so that I could touch it
without getting up, and showed me how to stop it in case I
should want to pause. Then he very thoughtfully took a
chair, with his back to me, so that I might be as free as
possible, and began to read. I put the forked metal to my
ears and listened.
When the terrible story of Lucy’s death, and—and all that
followed, was done, I lay back in my chair powerless.
Fortunately I am not of a fainting disposition. When
Dr. Seward saw me he jumped up with a horrified
exclamation, and hurriedly taking a case-bottle from a
cupboard, gave me some brandy, which in a few minutes
somewhat restored me. My brain was all in a whirl, and only
that there came through all the multitude of horrors, the
holy ray of light that my dear, dear Lucy was at last at
peace, I do not think I could have borne it without making a
scene. It is all so wild, and mysterious, and strange that if I
had not known Jonathan’s experience in Transylvania I could
not have believed. As it was, I didn’t know what to believe,
and so got out of my difficulty by attending to something
else. I took the cover off my typewriter, and said to
Dr. Seward:—
“Let me write this all out now. We must be ready for
Dr. Van Helsing when he comes. I have sent a telegram to
Jonathan to come on here when he arrives in London from
Whitby. In this matter dates are everything, and I think that
if we get all our material ready, and have every item put in
chronological order, we shall have done much. You tell me
that Lord Godalming and Mr. Morris are coming too. Let us be
able to tell him when they come.” He accordingly set the
phonograph at a slow pace, and I began to typewrite from
the beginning of the seventh cylinder. I used manifold, and
so took three copies of the diary, just as I had done with all
the rest. It was late when I got through, but Dr. Seward went
about his work of going his round of the patients; when he
had finished he came back and sat near me, reading, so that
I did not feel too lonely whilst I worked. How good and
thoughtful he is; the world seems full of good men—even if
there are monsters in it. Before I left him I remembered what
Jonathan put in his diary of the Professor’s perturbation at
reading something in an evening paper at the station at
Exeter; so, seeing that Dr. Seward keeps his newspapers, I
borrowed the files of The Westminster Gazette and The Pall
Mall Gazette, and took them to my room. I remember how
much The Dailygraph and The Whitby Gazette, of which I
had made cuttings, helped us to understand the terrible
events at Whitby when Count Dracula landed, so I shall look
through the evening papers since then, and perhaps I shall
get some new light. I am not sleepy, and the work will help
to keep me quiet.

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY.

30 September.—Mr. Harker arrived at nine o’clock. He had
got his wife’s wire just before starting. He is uncommonly
clever, if one can judge from his face, and full of energy. If
this journal be true—and judging by one’s own wonderful
experiences, it must be—he is also a man of great nerve.
That going down to the vault a second time was a
remarkable piece of daring. After reading his account of it I
was prepared to meet a good specimen of manhood, but
hardly the quiet, businesslike gentleman who came here
today.

Later.—After lunch Harker and his wife went back to their

own room, and as I passed a while ago I heard the click of
the typewriter. They are hard at it. Mrs. Harker says that they
are knitting together in chronological order every scrap of
evidence they have. Harker has got the letters between the
consignee of the boxes at Whitby and the carriers in London
who took charge of them. He is now reading his wife’s
typescript of my diary. I wonder what they make out of it.
Here it is. …

Strange that it never struck me that the very next house

might be the Count’s hiding-place! Goodness knows that
we had enough clues from the conduct of the patient
Renfield! The bundle of letters relating to the purchase
of the house were with the typescript. Oh, if we had only
had them earlier we might have saved poor Lucy! Stop;
that way madness lies! Harker has gone back, and is
again collating his material. He says that by dinnertime
they will be able to show a whole connected narrative.
He thinks that in the meantime I should see Renfield, as
hitherto he has been a sort of index to the coming and
going of the Count. I hardly see this yet, but when I get
at the dates I suppose I shall. What a good thing that
 Mrs. Harker put my cylinders into type! We never could
have found the dates otherwise. …
I found Renfield sitting placidly in his room with his
hands folded, smiling benignly. At the moment he
seemed as sane as anyone I ever saw. I sat down and
talked with him on a lot of subjects, all of which he
treated naturally. He then, of his own accord, spoke of
going home, a subject he has never mentioned to my
knowledge during his sojourn here. In fact, he spoke
quite confidently of getting his discharge at once. I
believe that, had I not had the chat with Harker and read
the letters and the dates of his outbursts, I should have
been prepared to sign for him after a brief time of
observation. As it is, I am darkly suspicious. All those
outbreaks were in some way linked with the proximity of
the Count. What then does this absolute content mean?
Can it be that his instinct is satisfied as to the vampire’s
ultimate triumph? Stay; he is himself zoöphagous, and
in his wild ravings outside the chapel door of the
deserted house he always spoke of “master.” This all
seems confirmation of our idea. However, after a while I
came away; my friend is just a little too sane at present
to make it safe to probe him too deep with questions. He
might begin to think, and then—! So I came away. I
mistrust these quiet moods of his; so I have given the
attendant a hint to look closely after him, and to have a
strait-waistcoat ready in case of need.

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL.

29 September, in train to London.—When I received

Mr. Billington’s courteous message that he would give me
any information in his power I thought it best to go down to
Whitby and make, on the spot, such inquiries as I wanted. It
was now my object to trace that horrid cargo of the Count’s
to its place in London. Later, we may be able to deal with it.
Billington junior, a nice lad, met me at the station, and
brought me to his father’s house, where they had decided
that I must stay the night. They are hospitable, with true
Yorkshire hospitality: give a guest everything, and leave him
free to do as he likes. They all knew that I was busy, and that
my stay was short, and Mr. Billington had ready in his office
all the papers concerning the consignment of boxes. It gave
me almost a turn to see again one of the letters which I had
seen on the Count’s table before I knew of his diabolical
plans. Everything had been carefully thought out, and done
systematically and with precision. He seemed to have been
prepared for every obstacle which might be placed by
accident in the way of his intentions being carried out. To
use an Americanism, he had “taken no chances,” and the
absolute accuracy with which his instructions were fulfilled,
was simply the logical result of his care. I saw the invoice,
and took note of it: “Fifty cases of common earth, to be used
for experimental purposes.” Also the copy of letter to Carter
Paterson, and their reply; of both of these I got copies. This
was all the information Mr. Billington could give me, so I
went down to the port and saw the coastguards, the
Customs officers and the harbour-master. They had all
something to say of the strange entry of the ship, which is
already taking its place in local tradition; but no one could
add to the simple description “Fifty cases of common earth.”
I then saw the stationmaster, who kindly put me in
communication with the men who had actually received the
boxes. Their tally was exact with the list, and they had
nothing to add except that the boxes were “main and mortal
heavy,” and that shifting them was dry work. One of them
added that it was hard lines that there wasn’t any
gentleman “suchlike as yourself, squire,” to show some sort
of appreciation of their efforts in a liquid form; another put
in a rider that the thirst then generated was such that even
the time which had elapsed had not completely allayed it.
Needless to add, I took care before leaving to lift, forever
and adequately, this source of reproach.

30 September.—The stationmaster was good enough to give

me a line to his old companion the stationmaster at King’s
Cross, so that when I arrived there in the morning I was able
to ask him about the arrival of the boxes. He, too, put me at
once in communication with the proper officials, and I saw
that their tally was correct with the original invoice. The
opportunities of acquiring an abnormal thirst had been here
limited; a noble use of them had, however, been made, and
again I was compelled to deal with the result in an ex post
facto manner.
From thence I went on to Carter Paterson’s central office,
where I met with the utmost courtesy. They looked up the
transaction in their daybook and letter-book, and at once
telephoned to their King’s Cross office for more details. By
good fortune, the men who did the teaming were waiting for
work, and the official at once sent them over, sending also
by one of them the waybill and all the papers connected
with the delivery of the boxes at Carfax. Here again I found
the tally agreeing exactly; the carriers’ men were able to
supplement the paucity of the written words with a few
details. These were, I shortly found, connected almost solely
with the dusty nature of the job, and of the consequent
thirst engendered in the operators. On my affording an
opportunity, through the medium of the currency of the
realm, of the allaying, at a later period, this beneficial evil,
one of the men remarked:—
“That ’ere ’ouse, guv’nor, is the rummiest I ever was in.
Blyme! but it ain’t been touched sence a hundred years.
There was dust that thick in the place that you might have
slep’ on it without ’urtin’ of yer bones; an’ the place was that
neglected that yer might ’ave smelled ole Jerusalem in it.
But the ole chapel—that took the cike, that did! Me and my
mate, we thort we wouldn’t never git out quick enough. Lor’,
I wouldn’t take less nor a quid a moment to stay there arter
dark.”
Having been in the house, I could well believe him; but if
he knew what I know, he would, I think, have raised his
terms.
Of one thing I am now satisfied: that all the boxes which
arrived at Whitby from Varna in the Demeter were safely
deposited in the old chapel at Carfax. There should be fifty
of them there, unless any have since been removed—as from
Dr. Seward’s diary I fear.
I shall try to see the carter who took away the boxes from
Carfax when Renfield attacked them. By following up this
clue we may learn a good deal.

Later.—Mina and I have worked all day, and we have put all
the papers into order.

MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL.

30 September.—I am so glad that I hardly know how to

contain myself. It is, I suppose, the reaction from the
haunting fear which I have had: that this terrible affair and
the reopening of his old wound might act detrimentally on
Jonathan. I saw him leave for Whitby with as brave a face as
I could, but I was sick with apprehension. The effort has,
however, done him good. He was never so resolute, never so
strong, never so full of volcanic energy, as at present. It is
just as that dear, good Professor Van Helsing said: he is true
grit, and he improves under strain that would kill a weaker
nature. He came back full of life and hope and
determination; we have got everything in order for tonight. I
feel myself quite wild with excitement. I suppose one ought
to pity anything so hunted as is the Count. That is just it:
this Thing is not human—not even beast. To read
Dr. Seward’s account of poor Lucy’s death, and what
followed, is enough to dry up the springs of pity in one’s
heart.

Later.—Lord Godalming and Mr. Morris arrived earlier than

we expected. Dr. Seward was out on business, and had taken
Jonathan with him, so I had to see them. It was to me a
painful meeting, for it brought back all poor dear Lucy’s
hopes of only a few months ago. Of course they had heard
Lucy speak of me, and it seemed that Dr. Van Helsing, too,
has been quite “blowing my trumpet,” as Mr. Morris
expressed it. Poor fellows, neither of them is aware that I
know all about the proposals they made to Lucy. They did
not quite know what to say or do, as they were ignorant of
the amount of my knowledge; so they had to keep on
neutral subjects. However, I thought the matter over, and
came to the conclusion that the best thing I could do would
be to post them in affairs right up to date. I knew from
Dr. Seward’s diary that they had been at Lucy’s death—her
real death—and that I need not fear to betray any secret
before the time. So I told them, as well as I could, that I had
read all the papers and diaries, and that my husband and I,
having typewritten them, had just finished putting them in
order. I gave them each a copy to read in the library. When
Lord Godalming got his and turned it over—it does make a
pretty good pile—he said:—
“Did you write all this, Mrs. Harker?”
 I nodded, and he went on:—
“I don’t quite see the drift of it; but you people are all so
good and kind, and have been working so earnestly and so
energetically, that all I can do is to accept your ideas
blindfold and try to help you. I have had one lesson already
in accepting facts that should make a man humble to the
last hour of his life. Besides, I know you loved my poor
Lucy—” Here he turned away and covered his face with his
hands. I could hear the tears in his voice. Mr. Morris, with
instinctive delicacy, just laid a hand for a moment on his
shoulder, and then walked quietly out of the room. I suppose
there is something in woman’s nature that makes a man free
to break down before her and express his feelings on the
tender or emotional side without feeling it derogatory to his
manhood; for when Lord Godalming found himself alone
with me he sat down on the sofa and gave way utterly and
openly. I sat down beside him and took his hand. I hope he
didn’t think it forward of me, and that if he ever thinks of it
afterwards he never will have such a thought. There I wrong
him; I know he never will—he is too true a gentleman. I said
to him, for I could see that his heart was breaking:—
“I loved dear Lucy, and I know what she was to you, and
what you were to her. She and I were like sisters; and now
she is gone, will you not let me be like a sister to you in your
trouble? I know what sorrows you have had, though I cannot
measure the depth of them. If sympathy and pity can help in
your affliction, won’t you let me be of some little service—for
Lucy’s sake?”
In an instant the poor dear fellow was overwhelmed with
grief. It seemed to me that all that he had of late been
suffering in silence found a vent at once. He grew quite
hysterical, and raising his open hands, beat his palms
together in a perfect agony of grief. He stood up and then
sat down again, and the tears rained down his cheeks. I felt
an infinite pity for him, and opened my arms unthinkingly.
With a sob he laid his head on my shoulder and cried like a
wearied child, whilst he shook with emotion.
We women have something of the mother in us that makes
us rise above smaller matters when the mother-spirit is
invoked; I felt this big sorrowing man’s head resting on me,
as though it were that of the baby that some day may lie on
my bosom, and I stroked his hair as though he were my own
child. I never thought at the time how strange it all was.
After a little bit his sobs ceased, and he raised himself with
an apology, though he made no disguise of his emotion. He
told me that for days and nights past—weary days and
sleepless nights—he had been unable to speak with anyone,
as a man must speak in his time of sorrow. There was no
woman whose sympathy could be given to him, or with
whom, owing to the terrible circumstance with which his
sorrow was surrounded, he could speak freely. “I know now
how I suffered,” he said, as he dried his eyes, “but I do not
know even yet—and none other can ever know—how much
your sweet sympathy has been to me today. I shall know
better in time; and believe me that, though I am not
ungrateful now, my gratitude will grow with my
understanding. You will let me be like a brother, will you not,
for all our lives—for dear Lucy’s sake?”
“For dear Lucy’s sake,” I said as we clasped hands. “Ay,
and for your own sake,” he added, “for if a man’s esteem and
gratitude are ever worth the winning, you have won mine
today. If ever the future should bring to you a time when you
need a man’s help, believe me, you will not call in vain. God
grant that no such time may ever come to you to break the
sunshine of your life; but if it should ever come, promise me
that you will let me know.” He was so earnest, and his sorrow
was so fresh, that I felt it would comfort him, so I said:—
“I promise.”
As I came along the corridor I saw Mr. Morris looking out of
a window. He turned as he heard my footsteps. “How is Art?”
he said. Then noticing my red eyes, he went on: “Ah, I see
you have been comforting him. Poor old fellow! he needs it.
No one but a woman can help a man when he is in trouble of
the heart; and he had no one to comfort him.”
He bore his own trouble so bravely that my heart bled for
him. I saw the manuscript in his hand, and I knew that when
he read it he would realise how much I knew; so I said to
him:—
“I wish I could comfort all who suffer from the heart. Will
you let me be your friend, and will you come to me for
comfort if you need it? You will know, later on, why I speak.”
He saw that I was in earnest, and stooping, took my hand,
and raising it to his lips, kissed it. It seemed but poor
comfort to so brave and unselfish a soul, and impulsively I
bent over and kissed him. The tears rose in his eyes, and
there was a momentary choking in his throat; he said quite
calmly:—
“Little girl, you will never regret that truehearted kindness,
so long as ever you live!” Then he went into the study to his
friend.
“Little girl!”—the very words he had used to Lucy, and oh,
but he proved himself a friend!
 XVIII

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY.

30 September.—I got home at five o’clock, and found that

Godalming and Morris had not only arrived, but had already
studied the transcript of the various diaries and letters
which Harker and his wonderful wife had made and
arranged. Harker had not yet returned from his visit to the
carriers’ men, of whom Dr. Hennessey had written to me.
Mrs. Harker gave us a cup of tea, and I can honestly say that,
for the first time since I have lived in it, this old house
seemed like home. When we had finished, Mrs. Harker
said:—
“Dr. Seward, may I ask a favour? I want to see your
patient, Mr. Renfield. Do let me see him. What you have said
of him in your diary interests me so much!” She looked so
appealing and so pretty that I could not refuse her, and
there was no possible reason why I should; so I took her with
me. When I went into the room, I told the man that a lady
would like to see him; to which he simply answered: “Why?”
“She is going through the house, and wants to see
everyone in it,” I answered. “Oh, very well,” he said; “let her
come in, by all means; but just wait a minute till I tidy up
the place.” His method of tidying was peculiar: he simply
swallowed all the flies and spiders in the boxes before I
could stop him. It was quite evident that he feared, or was
jealous of, some interference. When he had got through his
disgusting task, he said cheerfully: “Let the lady come in,”
and sat down on the edge of his bed with his head down, but
with his eyelids raised so that he could see her as she
entered. For a moment I thought that he might have some
homicidal intent; I remembered how quiet he had been just
before he attacked me in my own study, and I took care to
stand where I could seize him at once if he attempted to
make a spring at her. She came into the room with an easy
gracefulness which would at once command the respect of
any lunatic—for easiness is one of the qualities mad people
most respect. She walked over to him, smiling pleasantly,
and held out her hand.
“Good evening, Mr. Renfield,” said she. “You see, I know
you, for Dr. Seward has told me of you.” He made no
immediate reply, but eyed her all over intently with a set
frown on his face. This look gave way to one of wonder,
which merged in doubt; then, to my intense astonishment,
he said:—
“You’re not the girl the doctor wanted to marry, are you?
You can’t be, you know, for she’s dead.” Mrs. Harker smiled
sweetly as she replied:—
“Oh no! I have a husband of my own, to whom I was
married before I ever saw Dr. Seward, or he me. I am
Mrs. Harker.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“My husband and I are staying on a visit with Dr. Seward.”
“Then don’t stay.”
“But why not?” I thought that this style of conversation
might not be pleasant to Mrs. Harker, any more than it was
to me, so I joined in:—
“How did you know I wanted to marry anyone?” His reply
was simply contemptuous, given in a pause in which he
turned his eyes from Mrs. Harker to me, instantly turning
them back again:—
“What an asinine question!”
 “I don’t see that at all, Mr. Renfield,” said Mrs. Harker, at
once championing me. He replied to her with as much
courtesy and respect as he had shown contempt to me:—
“You will, of course, understand, Mrs. Harker, that when a
man is so loved and honoured as our host is, everything
regarding him is of interest in our little community.
Dr. Seward is loved not only by his household and his
friends, but even by his patients, who, being some of them
hardly in mental equilibrium, are apt to distort causes and
effects. Since I myself have been an inmate of a lunatic
asylum, I cannot but notice that the sophistic tendencies of
some of its inmates lean towards the errors of non causa and
ignoratio elenchi.” I positively opened my eyes at this new
development. Here was my own pet lunatic—the most
pronounced of his type that I had ever met with—talking
elemental philosophy, and with the manner of a polished
gentleman. I wonder if it was Mrs. Harker’s presence which
had touched some chord in his memory. If this new phase
was spontaneous, or in any way due to her unconscious
influence, she must have some rare gift or power.
We continued to talk for some time; and, seeing that he
was seemingly quite reasonable, she ventured, looking at
me questioningly as she began, to lead him to his favourite
topic. I was again astonished, for he addressed himself to
the question with the impartiality of the completest sanity;
he even took himself as an example when he mentioned
certain things.
“Why, I myself am an instance of a man who had a strange
belief. Indeed, it was no wonder that my friends were
alarmed, and insisted on my being put under control. I used
to fancy that life was a positive and perpetual entity, and
that by consuming a multitude of live things, no matter how
low in the scale of creation, one might indefinitely prolong
life. At times I held the belief so strongly that I actually tried
to take human life. The doctor here will bear me out that on
one occasion I tried to kill him for the purpose of
strengthening my vital powers by the assimilation with my
own body of his life through the medium of his blood—
relying, of course, upon the Scriptural phrase, ‘For the blood
is the life.’ Though, indeed, the vendor of a certain nostrum
has vulgarised the truism to the very point of contempt. Isn’t
that true, doctor?” I nodded assent, for I was so amazed that
I hardly knew what to either think or say; it was hard to
imagine that I had seen him eat up his spiders and flies not
five minutes before. Looking at my watch, I saw that I should
go to the station to meet Van Helsing, so I told Mrs. Harker
that it was time to leave. She came at once, after saying
pleasantly to Mr. Renfield: “Goodbye, and I hope I may see
you often, under auspices pleasanter to yourself,” to which,
to my astonishment, he replied:—
“Goodbye, my dear. I pray God I may never see your sweet
face again. May He bless and keep you!”
When I went to the station to meet Van Helsing I left the
boys behind me. Poor Art seemed more cheerful than he has
been since Lucy first took ill, and Quincey is more like his
own bright self than he has been for many a long day.
Van Helsing stepped from the carriage with the eager
nimbleness of a boy. He saw me at once, and rushed up to
me, saying:—
“Ah, friend John, how goes all? Well? So! I have been busy,
for I come here to stay if need be. All affairs are settled with
me, and I have much to tell. Madam Mina is with you? Yes.
And her so fine husband? And Arthur and my friend
Quincey, they are with you, too? Good!”
As I drove to the house I told him of what had passed, and
of how my own diary had come to be of some use through
Mrs. Harker’s suggestion; at which the Professor interrupted
me:—
“Ah, that wonderful Madam Mina! She has man’s brain—a
brain that a man should have were he much gifted—and a
woman’s heart. The good God fashioned her for a purpose,
believe me, when He made that so good combination. Friend
John, up to now fortune has made that woman of help to us;
after tonight she must not have to do with this so terrible
affair. It is not good that she run a risk so great. We men are
determined—nay, are we not pledged?—to destroy this
monster; but it is no part for a woman. Even if she be not
harmed, her heart may fail her in so much and so many
horrors; and hereafter she may suffer—both in waking, from
her nerves, and in sleep, from her dreams. And, besides, she
is young woman and not so long married; there may be
other things to think of some time, if not now. You tell me
she has wrote all, then she must consult with us; but
tomorrow she say goodbye to this work, and we go alone.” I
agreed heartily with him, and then I told him what we had
found in his absence: that the house which Dracula had
bought was the very next one to my own. He was amazed,
and a great concern seemed to come on him. “Oh that we
had known it before!” he said, “for then we might have
reached him in time to save poor Lucy. However, ‘the milk
that is spilt cries not out afterwards,’ as you say. We shall not
think of that, but go on our way to the end.” Then he fell
into a silence that lasted till we entered my own gateway.
Before we went to prepare for dinner he said to
Mrs. Harker:—
“I am told, Madam Mina, by my friend John that you and
your husband have put up in exact order all things that have
been, up to this moment.”
“Not up to this moment, Professor,” she said impulsively,
“but up to this morning.”
“But why not up to now? We have seen hitherto how good
light all the little things have made. We have told our
secrets, and yet no one who has told is the worse for it.”
Mrs. Harker began to blush, and taking a paper from her
pockets, she said:—
“Dr. Van Helsing, will you read this, and tell me if it must
go in. It is my record of today. I too have seen the need of
putting down at present everything, however trivial; but
there is little in this except what is personal. Must it go in?”
The Professor read it over gravely, and handed it back,
saying:—
“It need not go in if you do not wish it; but I pray that it
may. It can but make your husband love you the more, and
all us, your friends, more honour you—as well as more
esteem and love.” She took it back with another blush and a
bright smile.
And so now, up to this very hour, all the records we have
are complete and in order. The Professor took away one copy
to study after dinner, and before our meeting, which is fixed
for nine o’clock. The rest of us have already read everything;
so when we meet in the study we shall all be informed as to
facts, and can arrange our plan of battle with this terrible
and mysterious enemy.

MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL.

30 September.—When we met in Dr. Seward’s study two

hours after dinner, which had been at six o’clock, we
unconsciously formed a sort of board or committee. Professor
Van Helsing took the head of the table, to which Dr. Seward
motioned him as he came into the room. He made me sit
next to him on his right, and asked me to act as secretary;
Jonathan sat next to me. Opposite us were Lord Godalming,
Dr. Seward, and Mr. Morris—Lord Godalming being next the
Professor, and Dr. Seward in the centre. The Professor said:—
“I may, I suppose, take it that we are all acquainted with
the facts that are in these papers.” We all expressed assent,
and he went on:—
“Then it were, I think good that I tell you something of the
kind of enemy with which we have to deal. I shall then make
known to you something of the history of this man, which
has been ascertained for me. So we then can discuss how we
shall act, and can take our measure according.
“There are such beings as vampires; some of us have
evidence that they exist. Even had we not the proof of our
own unhappy experience, the teachings and the records of
the past give proof enough for sane peoples. I admit that at
the first I was sceptic. Were it not that through long years I
have train myself to keep an open mind, I could not have
believe until such time as that fact thunder on my ear. ‘See!
see! I prove; I prove.’ Alas! Had I known at the first what now
I know—nay, had I even guess at him—one so precious life
had been spared to many of us who did love her. But that is
gone; and we must so work, that other poor souls perish not,
whilst we can save. The nosferatu do not die like the bee
when he sting once. He is only stronger; and being stronger,
have yet more power to work evil. This vampire which is
amongst us is of himself so strong in person as twenty men;
he is of cunning more than mortal, for his cunning be the
growth of ages; he have still the aids of necromancy, which
is, as his etymology imply, the divination by the dead, and
all the dead that he can come nigh to are for him at
command; he is brute, and more than brute; he is devil in
callous, and the heart of him is not; he can, within
limitations, appear at will when, and where, and in any of
the forms that are to him; he can, within his range, direct
the elements; the storm, the fog, the thunder; he can
command all the meaner things: the rat, and the owl, and
the bat—the moth, and the fox, and the wolf; he can grow
and become small; and he can at times vanish and come
unknown. How then are we to begin our strike to destroy
him? How shall we find his where; and having found it, how
can we destroy? My friends, this is much; it is a terrible task
that we undertake, and there may be consequence to make
the brave shudder. For if we fail in this our fight he must
surely win; and then where end we? Life is nothings; I heed
him not. But to fail here, is not mere life or death. It is that
we become as him; that we henceforward become foul
things of the night like him—without heart or conscience,
preying on the bodies and the souls of those we love best. To
us forever are the gates of heaven shut; for who shall open
them to us again? We go on for all time abhorred by all; a
blot on the face of God’s sunshine; an arrow in the side of
Him who died for man. But we are face to face with duty;
and in such case must we shrink? For me, I say, no; but then
I am old, and life, with his sunshine, his fair places, his song
of birds, his music and his love, lie far behind. You others are
young. Some have seen sorrow; but there are fair days yet in
store. What say you?”
Whilst he was speaking, Jonathan had taken my hand. I
feared, oh so much, that the appalling nature of our danger
was overcoming him when I saw his hand stretch out; but it
was life to me to feel its touch—so strong, so self-reliant, so
resolute. A brave man’s hand can speak for itself; it does not
even need a woman’s love to hear its music.
When the Professor had done speaking my husband
looked in my eyes, and I in his; there was no need for
speaking between us.
“I answer for Mina and myself,” he said.
“Count me in, Professor,” said Mr. Quincey Morris,
laconically as usual.
“I am with you,” said Lord Godalming, “for Lucy’s sake, if
for no other reason.”
Dr. Seward simply nodded. The Professor stood up and,
after laying his golden crucifix on the table, held out his
hand on either side. I took his right hand, and Lord
Godalming his left; Jonathan held my right with his left and
stretched across to Mr. Morris. So as we all took hands our
solemn compact was made. I felt my heart icy cold, but it did
not even occur to me to draw back. We resumed our places,
and Dr. Van Helsing went on with a sort of cheerfulness
which showed that the serious work had begun. It was to be
taken as gravely, and in as businesslike a way, as any other
transaction of life:—
“Well, you know what we have to contend against; but we,
too, are not without strength. We have on our side power of
combination—a power denied to the vampire kind; we have
sources of science; we are free to act and think; and the
hours of the day and the night are ours equally. In fact, so far
as our powers extend, they are unfettered, and we are free
to use them. We have self-devotion in a cause, and an end to
achieve which is not a selfish one. These things are much.
“Now let us see how far the general powers arrayed
against us are restrict, and how the individual cannot. In
fine, let us consider the limitations of the vampire in
general, and of this one in particular.
“All we have to go upon are traditions and superstitions.
These do not at the first appear much, when the matter is
one of life and death—nay of more than either life or death.
Yet must we be satisfied; in the first place because we have
to be—no other means is at our control—and secondly,
because, after all, these things—tradition and superstition—
are everything. Does not the belief in vampires rest for
others—though not, alas! for us—on them? A year ago which
of us would have received such a possibility, in the midst of
our scientific, sceptical, matter-of-fact nineteenth century?
We even scouted a belief that we saw justified under our
very eyes. Take it, then, that the vampire, and the belief in
his limitations and his cure, rest for the moment on the same
base. For, let me tell you, he is known everywhere that men
have been. In old Greece, in old Rome; he flourish in
Germany all over, in France, in India, even in the
Chersonese; and in China, so far from us in all ways, there
even is he, and the peoples fear him at this day. He have
follow the wake of the berserker Icelander, the devil-
begotten Hun, the Slav, the Saxon, the Magyar. So far, then,
we have all we may act upon; and let me tell you that very
much of the beliefs are justified by what we have seen in our
own so unhappy experience. The vampire live on, and
cannot die by mere passing of the time; he can flourish
when that he can fatten on the blood of the living. Even
more, we have seen amongst us that he can even grow
younger; that his vital faculties grow strenuous, and seem as
though they refresh themselves when his special pabulum is
plenty. But he cannot flourish without this diet; he eat not as
others. Even friend Jonathan, who lived with him for weeks,
did never see him to eat, never! He throws no shadow; he
make in the mirror no reflect, as again Jonathan observe. He
has the strength of many of his hand—witness again
Jonathan when he shut the door against the wolfs, and when
he help him from the diligence too. He can transform himself
to wolf, as we gather from the ship arrival in Whitby, when
he tear open the dog; he can be as bat, as Madam Mina saw
him on the window at Whitby, and as friend John saw him fly
from this so near house, and as my friend Quincey saw him
at the window of Miss Lucy. He can come in mist which he
create—that noble ship’s captain proved him of this; but,
from what we know, the distance he can make this mist is
limited, and it can only be round himself. He come on
moonlight rays as elemental dust—as again Jonathan saw
those sisters in the castle of Dracula. He become so small—
we ourselves saw Miss Lucy, ere she was at peace, slip
through a hairbreadth space at the tomb door. He can, when
once he find his way, come out from anything or into
anything, no matter how close it be bound or even fused up
with fire—solder you call it. He can see in the dark—no small
power this, in a world which is one half shut from the light.
Ah, but hear me through. He can do all these things, yet he
is not free. Nay; he is even more prisoner than the slave of
the galley, than the madman in his cell. He cannot go where
he lists; he who is not of nature has yet to obey some of
nature’s laws—why we know not. He may not enter
anywhere at the first, unless there be someone of the
household who bid him to come; though afterwards he can
come as he please. His power ceases, as does that of all evil
things, at the coming of the day. Only at certain times can
he have limited freedom. If he be not at the place whither he
is bound, he can only change himself at noon or at exact
sunrise or sunset. These things are we told, and in this
record of ours we have proof by inference. Thus, whereas he
can do as he will within his limit, when he have his earth-
home, his coffin-home, his hell-home, the place unhallowed,
as we saw when he went to the grave of the suicide at
Whitby; still at other time he can only change when the time
come. It is said, too, that he can only pass running water at
the slack or the flood of the tide. Then there are things
which so afflict him that he has no power, as the garlic that
we know of; and as for things sacred, as this symbol, my
crucifix, that was amongst us even now when we resolve, to
them he is nothing, but in their presence he take his place
far off and silent with respect. There are others, too, which I
shall tell you of, lest in our seeking we may need them. The
branch of wild rose on his coffin keep him that he move not
from it; a sacred bullet fired into the coffin kill him so that he
be true dead; and as for the stake through him, we know
already of its peace; or the cut-off head that giveth rest. We
have seen it with our eyes.
“Thus when we find the habitation of this man-that-was,
we can confine him to his coffin and destroy him, if we obey
what we know. But he is clever. I have asked my friend
Arminius, of Buda-Pesth University, to make his record; and,
from all the means that are, he tell me of what he has been.
He must, indeed, have been that Voivode Dracula who won
his name against the Turk, over the great river on the very
frontier of Turkey-land. If it be so, then was he no common
man; for in that time, and for centuries after, he was spoken
of as the cleverest and the most cunning, as well as the
bravest of the sons of the ‘land beyond the forest.’ That
mighty brain and that iron resolution went with him to his
grave, and are even now arrayed against us. The Draculas
were, says Arminius, a great and noble race, though now
and again were scions who were held by their coevals to
have had dealings with the Evil One. They learned his
secrets in the Scholomance, amongst the mountains over
Lake Hermanstadt, where the devil claims the tenth scholar
as his due. In the records are such words as ‘stregoica’—
witch, ‘ordog,’ and ‘pokol’—Satan and hell; and in one
manuscript this very Dracula is spoken of as ‘wampyr,’ which
we all understand too well. There have been from the loins
of this very one great men and good women, and their
graves make sacred the earth where alone this foulness can
dwell. For it is not the least of its terrors that this evil thing is
rooted deep in all good; in soil barren of holy memories it
cannot rest.”
Whilst they were talking Mr. Morris was looking steadily at
the window, and he now got up quietly, and went out of the
room. There was a little pause, and then the Professor went
on:—
“And now we must settle what we do. We have here much
data, and we must proceed to lay out our campaign. We
know from the inquiry of Jonathan that from the castle to
Whitby came fifty boxes of earth, all of which were delivered
at Carfax; we also know that at least some of these boxes
have been removed. It seems to me, that our first step
should be to ascertain whether all the rest remain in the
house beyond that wall where we look today; or whether any
more have been removed. If the latter, we must trace—”
Here we were interrupted in a very startling way. Outside
the house came the sound of a pistol-shot; the glass of the
window was shattered with a bullet, which, ricochetting from
the top of the embrasure, struck the far wall of the room. I
am afraid I am at heart a coward, for I shrieked out. The men
all jumped to their feet; Lord Godalming flew over to the
window and threw up the sash. As he did so we heard
Mr. Morris’s voice without:—
 “Sorry! I fear I have alarmed you. I shall come in and tell
you about it.” A minute later he came in and said:—
“It was an idiotic thing of me to do, and I ask your pardon,
Mrs. Harker, most sincerely; I fear I must have frightened
you terribly. But the fact is that whilst the Professor was
talking there came a big bat and sat on the windowsill. I
have got such a horror of the damned brutes from recent
events that I cannot stand them, and I went out to have a
shot, as I have been doing of late of evenings, whenever I
have seen one. You used to laugh at me for it then, Art.”
“Did you hit it?” asked Dr. Van Helsing.
“I don’t know; I fancy not, for it flew away into the wood.”
Without saying any more he took his seat, and the Professor
began to resume his statement:—
“We must trace each of these boxes; and when we are
ready, we must either capture or kill this monster in his lair;
or we must, so to speak, sterilise the earth, so that no more
he can seek safety in it. Thus in the end we may find him in
his form of man between the hours of noon and sunset, and
so engage with him when he is at his most weak.
“And now for you, Madam Mina, this night is the end until
all be well. You are too precious to us to have such risk.
When we part tonight, you no more must question. We shall
tell you all in good time. We are men and are able to bear;
but you must be our star and our hope, and we shall act all
the more free that you are not in the danger, such as we
are.”
All the men, even Jonathan, seemed relieved; but it did
not seem to me good that they should brave danger and,
perhaps, lessen their safety—strength being the best
safety—through care of me; but their minds were made up,
and, though it was a bitter pill for me to swallow, I could say
nothing, save to accept their chivalrous care of me.
Mr. Morris resumed the discussion:—
“As there is no time to lose, I vote we have a look at his
house right now. Time is everything with him; and swift
action on our part may save another victim.”
I own that my heart began to fail me when the time for
action came so close, but I did not say anything, for I had a
greater fear that if I appeared as a drag or a hindrance to
their work, they might even leave me out of their counsels
altogether. They have now gone off to Carfax, with means to
get into the house.
Manlike, they had told me to go to bed and sleep; as if a
woman can sleep when those she loves are in danger! I shall
lie down and pretend to sleep, lest Jonathan have added
anxiety about me when he returns.

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY.

1 October, 4 a.m.—Just as we were about to leave the house,

an urgent message was brought to me from Renfield to know
if I would see him at once, as he had something of the
utmost importance to say to me. I told the messenger to say
that I would attend to his wishes in the morning; I was busy
just at the moment. The attendant added:—
“He seems very importunate, sir. I have never seen him so
eager. I don’t know but what, if you don’t see him soon, he
will have one of his violent fits.” I knew the man would not
have said this without some cause, so I said: “All right; I’ll go
now”; and I asked the others to wait a few minutes for me, as
I had to go and see my “patient.”
“Take me with you, friend John,” said the Professor. “His
case in your diary interest me much, and it had bearing, too,
now and again on our case. I should much like to see him,
and especial when his mind is disturbed.”
“May I come also?” asked Lord Godalming.
“Me too?” said Quincey Morris. “May I come?” said Harker.
I nodded, and we all went down the passage together.
 We found him in a state of considerable excitement, but
far more rational in his speech and manner than I had ever
seen him. There was an unusual understanding of himself,
which was unlike anything I had ever met with in a lunatic;
and he took it for granted that his reasons would prevail
with others entirely sane. We all four went into the room, but
none of the others at first said anything. His request was
that I would at once release him from the asylum and send
him home. This he backed up with arguments regarding his
complete recovery, and adduced his own existing sanity. “I
appeal to your friends,” he said, “they will, perhaps, not
mind sitting in judgment on my case. By the way, you have
not introduced me.” I was so much astonished, that the
oddness of introducing a madman in an asylum did not
strike me at the moment; and, besides, there was a certain
dignity in the man’s manner, so much of the habit of
equality, that I at once made the introduction: “Lord
Godalming; Professor Van Helsing; Mr. Quincey Morris, of
Texas; Mr. Renfield.” He shook hands with each of them,
saying in turn:—
“Lord Godalming, I had the honour of seconding your
father at the Windham; I grieve to know, by your holding the
title, that he is no more. He was a man loved and honoured
by all who knew him; and in his youth was, I have heard, the
inventor of a burnt rum punch, much patronised on Derby
night. Mr. Morris, you should be proud of your great state. Its
reception into the Union was a precedent which may have
far-reaching effects hereafter, when the Pole and the Tropics
may hold alliance to the Stars and Stripes. The power of
Treaty may yet prove a vast engine of enlargement, when
the Monroe doctrine takes its true place as a political fable.
What shall any man say of his pleasure at meeting Van
Helsing? Sir, I make no apology for dropping all forms of
conventional prefix. When an individual has revolutionised
therapeutics by his discovery of the continuous evolution of
brain-matter, conventional forms are unfitting, since they
would seem to limit him to one of a class. You, gentlemen,
who by nationality, by heredity, or by the possession of
natural gifts, are fitted to hold your respective places in the
moving world, I take to witness that I am as sane as at least
the majority of men who are in full possession of their
liberties. And I am sure that you, Dr. Seward, humanitarian
and medico-jurist as well as scientist, will deem it a moral
duty to deal with me as one to be considered as under
exceptional circumstances.” He made this last appeal with a
courtly air of conviction which was not without its own
charm.
I think we were all staggered. For my own part, I was under
the conviction, despite my knowledge of the man’s
character and history, that his reason had been restored;
and I felt under a strong impulse to tell him that I was
satisfied as to his sanity, and would see about the necessary
formalities for his release in the morning. I thought it better
to wait, however, before making so grave a statement, for of
old I knew the sudden changes to which this particular
patient was liable. So I contented myself with making a
general statement that he appeared to be improving very
rapidly; that I would have a longer chat with him in the
morning, and would then see what I could do in the direction
of meeting his wishes. This did not at all satisfy him, for he
said quickly:—
“But I fear, Dr. Seward, that you hardly apprehend my
wish. I desire to go at once—here—now—this very hour—this
very moment, if I may. Time presses, and in our implied
agreement with the old scytheman it is of the essence of the
contract. I am sure it is only necessary to put before so
admirable a practitioner as Dr. Seward so simple, yet so
momentous a wish, to ensure its fulfilment.” He looked at me
keenly, and seeing the negative in my face, turned to the
others, and scrutinised them closely. Not meeting any
sufficient response, he went on:—
“Is it possible that I have erred in my supposition?”
 “You have,” I said frankly, but at the same time, as I felt,
brutally. There was a considerable pause, and then he said
slowly:—
“Then I suppose I must only shift my ground of request.
Let me ask for this concession—boon, privilege, what you
will. I am content to implore in such a case, not on personal
grounds, but for the sake of others. I am not at liberty to
give you the whole of my reasons; but you may, I assure
you, take it from me that they are good ones, sound and
unselfish, and spring from the highest sense of duty. Could
you look, sir, into my heart, you would approve to the full
the sentiments which animate me. Nay, more, you would
count me amongst the best and truest of your friends.”
Again he looked at us all keenly. I had a growing conviction
that this sudden change of his entire intellectual method
was but yet another form or phase of his madness, and so
determined to let him go on a little longer, knowing from
experience that he would, like all lunatics, give himself away
in the end. Van Helsing was gazing at him with a look of
utmost intensity, his bushy eyebrows almost meeting with
the fixed concentration of his look. He said to Renfield in a
tone which did not surprise me at the time, but only when I
thought of it afterwards—for it was as of one addressing an
equal:—
“Can you not tell frankly your real reason for wishing to be
free tonight? I will undertake that if you will satisfy even
me—a stranger, without prejudice, and with the habit of
keeping an open mind—Dr. Seward will give you, at his own
risk and on his own responsibility, the privilege you seek.”
He shook his head sadly, and with a look of poignant regret
on his face. The Professor went on:—
“Come, sir, bethink yourself. You claim the privilege of
reason in the highest degree, since you seek to impress us
with your complete reasonableness. You do this, whose
sanity we have reason to doubt, since you are not yet
released from medical treatment for this very defect. If you
will not help us in our effort to choose the wisest course, how
can we perform the duty which you yourself put upon us? Be
wise, and help us; and if we can we shall aid you to achieve
your wish.” He still shook his head as he said:—
“Dr. Van Helsing, I have nothing to say. Your argument is
complete, and if I were free to speak I should not hesitate a
moment; but I am not my own master in the matter. I can
only ask you to trust me. If I am refused, the responsibility
does not rest with me.” I thought it was now time to end the
scene, which was becoming too comically grave, so I went
towards the door, simply saying:—
“Come, my friends, we have work to do. Good night.”
As, however, I got near the door, a new change came over
the patient. He moved towards me so quickly that for the
moment I feared that he was about to make another
homicidal attack. My fears, however, were groundless, for he
held up his two hands imploringly, and made his petition in
a moving manner. As he saw that the very excess of his
emotion was militating against him, by restoring us more to
our old relations, he became still more demonstrative. I
glanced at Van Helsing, and saw my conviction reflected in
his eyes; so I became a little more fixed in my manner, if not
more stern, and motioned to him that his efforts were
unavailing. I had previously seen something of the same
constantly growing excitement in him when he had to make
some request of which at the time he had thought much,
such, for instance, as when he wanted a cat; and I was
prepared to see the collapse into the same sullen
acquiescence on this occasion. My expectation was not
realised, for, when he found that his appeal would not be
successful, he got into quite a frantic condition. He threw
himself on his knees, and held up his hands, wringing them
in plaintive supplication, and poured forth a torrent of
entreaty, with the tears rolling down his cheeks, and his
whole face and form expressive of the deepest emotion:—
 “Let me entreat you, Dr. Seward, oh, let me implore you, to
let me out of this house at once. Send me away how you will
and where you will; send keepers with me with whips and
chains; let them take me in a strait-waistcoat, manacled and
leg-ironed, even to a gaol; but let me go out of this. You
don’t know what you do by keeping me here. I am speaking
from the depths of my heart—of my very soul. You don’t
know whom you wrong, or how; and I may not tell. Woe is
me! I may not tell. By all you hold sacred—by all you hold
dear—by your love that is lost—by your hope that lives—for
the sake of the Almighty, take me out of this and save my
soul from guilt! Can’t you hear me, man? Can’t you
understand? Will you never learn? Don’t you know that I am
sane and earnest now; that I am no lunatic in a mad fit, but
a sane man fighting for his soul? Oh, hear me! hear me! Let
me go! let me go! let me go!”
I thought that the longer this went on the wilder he would
get, and so would bring on a fit; so I took him by the hand
and raised him up.
“Come,” I said sternly, “no more of this; we have had quite
enough already. Get to your bed and try to behave more
discreetly.”
He suddenly stopped and looked at me intently for several
moments. Then, without a word, he rose and moving over,
sat down on the side of the bed. The collapse had come, as
on former occasion, just as I had expected.
When I was leaving the room, last of our party, he said to
me in a quiet, well-bred voice:—
“You will, I trust, Dr. Seward, do me the justice to bear in
mind, later on, that I did what I could to convince you
tonight.”
 XIX

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL.

1 October, 5 a.m.—I went with the party to the search with

an easy mind, for I think I never saw Mina so absolutely
strong and well. I am so glad that she consented to hold
back and let us men do the work. Somehow, it was a dread
to me that she was in this fearful business at all; but now
that her work is done, and that it is due to her energy and
brains and foresight that the whole story is put together in
such a way that every point tells, she may well feel that her
part is finished, and that she can henceforth leave the rest
to us. We were, I think, all a little upset by the scene with
Mr. Renfield. When we came away from his room we were
silent till we got back to the study. Then Mr. Morris said to
Dr. Seward:—
“Say, Jack, if that man wasn’t attempting a bluff, he is
about the sanest lunatic I ever saw. I’m not sure, but I
believe that he had some serious purpose, and if he had, it
was pretty rough on him not to get a chance.” Lord
Godalming and I were silent, but Dr. Van Helsing added:—
“Friend John, you know more of lunatics than I do, and I’m
glad of it, for I fear that if it had been to me to decide I
would before that last hysterical outburst have given him
free. But we live and learn, and in our present task we must
take no chance, as my friend Quincey would say. All is best
as they are.” Dr. Seward seemed to answer them both in a
dreamy kind of way:—
“I don’t know but that I agree with you. If that man had
been an ordinary lunatic I would have taken my chance of
trusting him; but he seems so mixed up with the Count in an
indexy kind of way that I am afraid of doing anything wrong
by helping his fads. I can’t forget how he prayed with almost
equal fervour for a cat, and then tried to tear my throat out
with his teeth. Besides, he called the Count ‘lord and
master,’ and he may want to get out to help him in some
diabolical way. That horrid thing has the wolves and the rats
and his own kind to help him, so I suppose he isn’t above
trying to use a respectable lunatic. He certainly did seem
earnest, though. I only hope we have done what is best.
These things, in conjunction with the wild work we have in
hand, help to unnerve a man.” The Professor stepped over,
and laying his hand on his shoulder, said in his grave, kindly
way:—
“Friend John, have no fear. We are trying to do our duty in
a very sad and terrible case; we can only do as we deem
best. What else have we to hope for, except the pity of the
good God?” Lord Godalming had slipped away for a few
minutes, but now he returned. He held up a little silver
whistle, as he remarked:—
“That old place may be full of rats, and if so, I’ve got an
antidote on call.” Having passed the wall, we took our way
to the house, taking care to keep in the shadows of the trees
on the lawn when the moonlight shone out. When we got to
the porch the Professor opened his bag and took out a lot of
things, which he laid on the step, sorting them into four little
groups, evidently one for each. Then he spoke:—
“My friends, we are going into a terrible danger, and we
need arms of many kinds. Our enemy is not merely spiritual.
Remember that he has the strength of twenty men, and that,
though our necks or our windpipes are of the common
kind—and therefore breakable or crushable—his are not
amenable to mere strength. A stronger man, or a body of
men more strong in all than him, can at certain times hold
him; but they cannot hurt him as we can be hurt by him. We
must, therefore, guard ourselves from his touch. Keep this
near your heart”—as he spoke he lifted a little silver crucifix
and held it out to me, I being nearest to him—“put these
flowers round your neck”—here he handed to me a wreath of
withered garlic blossoms—“for other enemies more
mundane, this revolver and this knife; and for aid in all,
these so small electric lamps, which you can fasten to your
breast; and for all, and above all at the last, this, which we
must not desecrate needless.” This was a portion of Sacred
Wafer, which he put in an envelope and handed to me. Each
of the others was similarly equipped. “Now,” he said, “friend
John, where are the skeleton keys? If so that we can open the
door, we need not break house by the window, as before at
Miss Lucy’s.”
Dr. Seward tried one or two skeleton keys, his mechanical
dexterity as a surgeon standing him in good stead. Presently
he got one to suit; after a little play back and forward the
bolt yielded, and, with a rusty clang, shot back. We pressed
on the door, the rusty hinges creaked, and it slowly opened.
It was startlingly like the image conveyed to me in
Dr. Seward’s diary of the opening of Miss Westenra’s tomb; I
fancy that the same idea seemed to strike the others, for
with one accord they shrank back. The Professor was the
first to move forward, and stepped into the open door.
“In manus tuas, Domine!” he said, crossing himself as he
passed over the threshold. We closed the door behind us,
lest when we should have lit our lamps we should possibly
attract attention from the road. The Professor carefully tried
the lock, lest we might not be able to open it from within
should we be in a hurry making our exit. Then we all lit our
lamps and proceeded on our search.
The light from the tiny lamps fell in all sorts of odd forms,
as the rays crossed each other, or the opacity of our bodies
threw great shadows. I could not for my life get away from
the feeling that there was someone else amongst us. I
suppose it was the recollection, so powerfully brought home
to me by the grim surroundings, of that terrible experience
in Transylvania. I think the feeling was common to us all, for
I noticed that the others kept looking over their shoulders at
every sound and every new shadow, just as I felt myself
doing.
The whole place was thick with dust. The floor was
seemingly inches deep, except where there were recent
footsteps, in which on holding down my lamp I could see
marks of hobnails where the dust was cracked. The walls
were fluffy and heavy with dust, and in the corners were
masses of spider’s webs, whereon the dust had gathered till
they looked like old tattered rags as the weight had torn
them partly down. On a table in the hall was a great bunch
of keys, with a time-yellowed label on each. They had been
used several times, for on the table were several similar
rents in the blanket of dust, similar to that exposed when
the Professor lifted them. He turned to me and said:—
“You know this place, Jonathan. You have copied maps of
it, and you know it at least more than we do. Which is the
way to the chapel?” I had an idea of its direction, though on
my former visit I had not been able to get admission to it; so
I led the way, and after a few wrong turnings found myself
opposite a low, arched oaken door, ribbed with iron bands.
“This is the spot,” said the Professor as he turned his lamp
on a small map of the house, copied from the file of my
original correspondence regarding the purchase. With a little
trouble we found the key on the bunch and opened the door.
We were prepared for some unpleasantness, for as we were
opening the door a faint, malodorous air seemed to exhale
through the gaps, but none of us ever expected such an
odour as we encountered. None of the others had met the
Count at all at close quarters, and when I had seen him he
was either in the fasting stage of his existence in his rooms
or, when he was gloated with fresh blood, in a ruined
building open to the air; but here the place was small and
close, and the long disuse had made the air stagnant and
foul. There was an earthy smell, as of some dry miasma,
which came through the fouler air. But as to the odour itself,
how shall I describe it? It was not alone that it was
composed of all the ills of mortality and with the pungent,
acrid smell of blood, but it seemed as though corruption had
become itself corrupt. Faugh! it sickens me to think of it.
Every breath exhaled by that monster seemed to have clung
to the place and intensified its loathsomeness.
Under ordinary circumstances such a stench would have
brought our enterprise to an end; but this was no ordinary
case, and the high and terrible purpose in which we were
involved gave us a strength which rose above merely
physical considerations. After the involuntary shrinking
consequent on the first nauseous whiff, we one and all set
about our work as though that loathsome place were a
garden of roses.
We made an accurate examination of the place, the
Professor saying as we began:—
“The first thing is to see how many of the boxes are left;
we must then examine every hole and corner and cranny
and see if we cannot get some clue as to what has become
of the rest.” A glance was sufficient to show how many
remained, for the great earth chests were bulky, and there
was no mistaking them.
There were only twenty-nine left out of the fifty! Once I got
a fright, for, seeing Lord Godalming suddenly turn and look
out of the vaulted door into the dark passage beyond, I
looked too, and for an instant my heart stood still.
Somewhere, looking out from the shadow, I seemed to see
the high lights of the Count’s evil face, the ridge of the nose,
the red eyes, the red lips, the awful pallor. It was only for a
moment, for, as Lord Godalming said, “I thought I saw a face,
but it was only the shadows,” and resumed his inquiry, I
turned my lamp in the direction, and stepped into the
passage. There was no sign of anyone; and as there were no
corners, no doors, no aperture of any kind, but only the solid
walls of the passage, there could be no hiding-place even for
him. I took it that fear had helped imagination, and said
nothing.
A few minutes later I saw Morris step suddenly back from a
corner, which he was examining. We all followed his
movements with our eyes, for undoubtedly some
nervousness was growing on us, and we saw a whole mass of
phosphorescence, which twinkled like stars. We all
instinctively drew back. The whole place was becoming alive
with rats.
For a moment or two we stood appalled, all save Lord
Godalming, who was seemingly prepared for such an
emergency. Rushing over to the great iron-bound oaken
door, which Dr. Seward had described from the outside, and
which I had seen myself, he turned the key in the lock, drew
the huge bolts, and swung the door open. Then, taking his
little silver whistle from his pocket, he blew a low, shrill call.
It was answered from behind Dr. Seward’s house by the
yelping of dogs, and after about a minute three terriers
came dashing round the corner of the house. Unconsciously
we had all moved towards the door, and as we moved I
noticed that the dust had been much disturbed: the boxes
which had been taken out had been brought this way. But
even in the minute that had elapsed the number of the rats
had vastly increased. They seemed to swarm over the place
all at once, till the lamplight, shining on their moving dark
bodies and glittering, baleful eyes, made the place look like
a bank of earth set with fireflies. The dogs dashed on, but at
the threshold suddenly stopped and snarled, and then,
simultaneously lifting their noses, began to howl in most
lugubrious fashion. The rats were multiplying in thousands,
and we moved out.
 Lord Godalming lifted one of the dogs, and carrying him
in, placed him on the floor. The instant his feet touched the
ground he seemed to recover his courage, and rushed at his
natural enemies. They fled before him so fast that before he
had shaken the life out of a score, the other dogs, who had
by now been lifted in the same manner, had but small prey
ere the whole mass had vanished.
With their going it seemed as if some evil presence had
departed, for the dogs frisked about and barked merrily as
they made sudden darts at their prostrate foes, and turned
them over and over and tossed them in the air with vicious
shakes. We all seemed to find our spirits rise. Whether it was
the purifying of the deadly atmosphere by the opening of
the chapel door, or the relief which we experienced by
finding ourselves in the open I know not; but most certainly
the shadow of dread seemed to slip from us like a robe, and
the occasion of our coming lost something of its grim
significance, though we did not slacken a whit in our
resolution. We closed the outer door and barred and locked
it, and bringing the dogs with us, began our search of the
house. We found nothing throughout except dust in
extraordinary proportions, and all untouched save for my
own footsteps when I had made my first visit. Never once did
the dogs exhibit any symptom of uneasiness, and even
when we returned to the chapel they frisked about as
though they had been rabbit-hunting in a summer wood.
The morning was quickening in the east when we emerged
from the front. Dr. Van Helsing had taken the key of the hall-
door from the bunch, and locked the door in orthodox
fashion, putting the key into his pocket when he had done.
“So far,” he said, “our night has been eminently
successful. No harm has come to us such as I feared might
be and yet we have ascertained how many boxes are
missing. More than all do I rejoice that this, our first—and
perhaps our most difficult and dangerous—step has been
accomplished without the bringing thereinto our most sweet
Madam Mina or troubling her waking or sleeping thoughts
with sights and sounds and smells of horror which she might
never forget. One lesson, too, we have learned, if it be
allowable to argue a particulari: that the brute beasts which
are to the Count’s command are yet themselves not
amenable to his spiritual power; for look, these rats that
would come to his call, just as from his castle top he
summon the wolves to your going and to that poor mother’s
cry, though they come to him, they run pell-mell from the so
little dogs of my friend Arthur. We have other matters before
us, other dangers, other fears; and that monster—he has not
used his power over the brute world for the only or the last
time tonight. So be it that he has gone elsewhere. Good! It
has given us opportunity to cry ‘check’ in some ways in this
chess game, which we play for the stake of human souls.
And now let us go home. The dawn is close at hand, and we
have reason to be content with our first night’s work. It may
be ordained that we have many nights and days to follow, if
full of peril; but we must go on, and from no danger shall we
shrink.”
The house was silent when we got back, save for some
poor creature who was screaming away in one of the distant
wards, and a low, moaning sound from Renfield’s room. The
poor wretch was doubtless torturing himself, after the
manner of the insane, with needless thoughts of pain.
I came tiptoe into our own room, and found Mina asleep,
breathing so softly that I had to put my ear down to hear it.
She looks paler than usual. I hope the meeting tonight has
not upset her. I am truly thankful that she is to be left out of
our future work, and even of our deliberations. It is too great
a strain for a woman to bear. I did not think so at first, but I
know better now. Therefore I am glad that it is settled. There
may be things which would frighten her to hear; and yet to
conceal them from her might be worse than to tell her if
once she suspected that there was any concealment.
Henceforth our work is to be a sealed book to her, till at least
such time as we can tell her that all is finished, and the
earth free from a monster of the nether world. I daresay it
will be difficult to begin to keep silence after such
confidence as ours; but I must be resolute, and tomorrow I
shall keep dark over tonight’s doings, and shall refuse to
speak of anything that has happened. I rest on the sofa, so
as not to disturb her.

1 October, later.—I suppose it was natural that we should

have all overslept ourselves, for the day was a busy one, and
the night had no rest at all. Even Mina must have felt its
exhaustion, for though I slept till the sun was high, I was
awake before her, and had to call two or three times before
she awoke. Indeed, she was so sound asleep that for a few
seconds she did not recognize me, but looked at me with a
sort of blank terror, as one looks who has been waked out of
a bad dream. She complained a little of being tired, and I let
her rest till later in the day. We now know of twenty-one
boxes having been removed, and if it be that several were
taken in any of these removals we may be able to trace
them all. Such will, of course, immensely simplify our labour,
and the sooner the matter is attended to the better. I shall
look up Thomas Snelling today.

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY.

1 October.—It was towards noon when I was awakened by

the Professor walking into my room. He was more jolly and
cheerful than usual, and it is quite evident that last night’s
work has helped to take some of the brooding weight off his
mind. After going over the adventure of the night he
suddenly said:—
“Your patient interests me much. May it be that with you I
visit him this morning? Or if that you are too occupy, I can
go alone if it may be. It is a new experience to me to find a
lunatic who talk philosophy, and reason so sound.” I had
some work to do which pressed, so I told him that if he would
go alone I would be glad, as then I should not have to keep
him waiting; so I called an attendant and gave him the
necessary instructions. Before the Professor left the room I
cautioned him against getting any false impression from my
patient. “But,” he answered, “I want him to talk of himself
and of his delusion as to consuming live things. He said to
Madam Mina, as I see in your diary of yesterday, that he had
once had such a belief. Why do you smile, friend John?”
“Excuse me,” I said, “but the answer is here.” I laid my
hand on the typewritten matter. “When our sane and
learned lunatic made that very statement of how he used to
consume life, his mouth was actually nauseous with the flies
and spiders which he had eaten just before Mrs. Harker
entered the room.” Van Helsing smiled in turn. “Good!” he
said. “Your memory is true, friend John. I should have
remembered. And yet it is this very obliquity of thought and
memory which makes mental disease such a fascinating
study. Perhaps I may gain more knowledge out of the folly of
this madman than I shall from the teaching of the most wise.
Who knows?” I went on with my work, and before long was
through that in hand. It seemed that the time had been very
short indeed, but there was Van Helsing back in the study.
“Do I interrupt?” he asked politely as he stood at the door.
“Not at all,” I answered. “Come in. My work is finished, and
I am free. I can go with you now, if you like.
“It is needless; I have seen him!”
“Well?”
“I fear that he does not appraise me at much. Our
interview was short. When I entered his room he was sitting
on a stool in the centre, with his elbows on his knees, and
his face was the picture of sullen discontent. I spoke to him
as cheerfully as I could, and with such a measure of respect
as I could assume. He made no reply whatever. ‘Don’t you
know me?’ I asked. His answer was not reassuring: ‘I know
you well enough; you are the old fool Van Helsing. I wish you
would take yourself and your idiotic brain theories
somewhere else. Damn all thickheaded Dutchmen!’ Not a
word more would he say, but sat in his implacable
sullenness as indifferent to me as though I had not been in
the room at all. Thus departed for this time my chance of
much learning from this so clever lunatic; so I shall go, if I
may, and cheer myself with a few happy words with that
sweet soul Madam Mina. Friend John, it does rejoice me
unspeakable that she is no more to be pained, no more to be
worried with our terrible things. Though we shall much miss
her help, it is better so.”
“I agree with you with all my heart,” I answered earnestly,
for I did not want him to weaken in this matter. “Mrs. Harker
is better out of it. Things are quite bad enough for us, all
men of the world, and who have been in many tight places
in our time; but it is no place for a woman, and if she had
remained in touch with the affair, it would in time infallibly
have wrecked her.”
So Van Helsing has gone to confer with Mrs. Harker and
Harker; Quincey and Art are all out following up the clues as
to the earth-boxes. I shall finish my round of work and we
shall meet tonight.

MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL.

1 October.—It is strange to me to be kept in the dark as I am

today; after Jonathan’s full confidence for so many years, to
see him manifestly avoid certain matters, and those the
most vital of all. This morning I slept late after the fatigues
of yesterday, and though Jonathan was late too, he was the
earlier. He spoke to me before he went out, never more
sweetly or tenderly, but he never mentioned a word of what
had happened in the visit to the Count’s house. And yet he
must have known how terribly anxious I was. Poor dear
fellow! I suppose it must have distressed him even more
than it did me. They all agreed that it was best that I should
not be drawn further into this awful work, and I acquiesced.
But to think that he keeps anything from me! And now I am
crying like a silly fool, when I know it comes from my
husband’s great love and from the good, good wishes of
those other strong men.
That has done me good. Well, some day Jonathan will tell
me all; and lest it should ever be that he should think for a
moment that I kept anything from him, I still keep my
journal as usual. Then if he has feared of my trust I shall
show it to him, with every thought of my heart put down for
his dear eyes to read. I feel strangely sad and low-spirited
today. I suppose it is the reaction from the terrible
excitement.
Last night I went to bed when the men had gone, simply
because they told me to. I didn’t feel sleepy, and I did feel
full of devouring anxiety. I kept thinking over everything
that has been ever since Jonathan came to see me in
London, and it all seems like a horrible tragedy, with fate
pressing on relentlessly to some destined end. Everything
that one does seems, no matter how right it may be, to bring
on the very thing which is most to be deplored. If I hadn’t
gone to Whitby, perhaps poor dear Lucy would be with us
now. She hadn’t taken to visiting the churchyard till I came,
and if she hadn’t come there in the daytime with me she
wouldn’t have walked there in her sleep; and if she hadn’t
gone there at night and asleep, that monster couldn’t have
destroyed her as he did. Oh, why did I ever go to Whitby?
There now, crying again! I wonder what has come over me
today. I must hide it from Jonathan, for if he knew that I had
been crying twice in one morning—I, who never cried on my
own account, and whom he has never caused to shed a
tear—the dear fellow would fret his heart out. I shall put a
bold face on, and if I do feel weepy, he shall never see it. I
suppose it is one of the lessons that we poor women have to
learn. …
I can’t quite remember how I fell asleep last night. I
remember hearing the sudden barking of the dogs and a lot
of queer sounds, like praying on a very tumultuous scale,
from Mr. Renfield’s room, which is somewhere under this.
And then there was silence over everything, silence so
profound that it startled me, and I got up and looked out of
the window. All was dark and silent, the black shadows
thrown by the moonlight seeming full of a silent mystery of
their own. Not a thing seemed to be stirring, but all to be
grim and fixed as death or fate; so that a thin streak of white
mist, that crept with almost imperceptible slowness across
the grass towards the house, seemed to have a sentience
and a vitality of its own. I think that the digression of my
thoughts must have done me good, for when I got back to
bed I found a lethargy creeping over me. I lay a while, but
could not quite sleep, so I got out and looked out of the
window again. The mist was spreading, and was now close
up to the house, so that I could see it lying thick against the
wall, as though it were stealing up to the windows. The poor
man was more loud than ever, and though I could not
distinguish a word he said, I could in some way recognise in
his tones some passionate entreaty on his part. Then there
was the sound of a struggle, and I knew that the attendants
were dealing with him. I was so frightened that I crept into
bed, and pulled the clothes over my head, putting my
fingers in my ears. I was not then a bit sleepy, at least so I
thought; but I must have fallen asleep, for, except dreams, I
do not remember anything until the morning, when Jonathan
woke me. I think that it took me an effort and a little time to
realise where I was, and that it was Jonathan who was
bending over me. My dream was very peculiar, and was
almost typical of the way that waking thoughts become
merged in, or continued in, dreams.
I thought that I was asleep, and waiting for Jonathan to
come back. I was very anxious about him, and I was
powerless to act; my feet, and my hands, and my brain were
weighted, so that nothing could proceed at the usual pace.
And so I slept uneasily and thought. Then it began to dawn
upon me that the air was heavy, and dank, and cold. I put
back the clothes from my face, and found, to my surprise,
that all was dim around. The gaslight which I had left lit for
Jonathan, but turned down, came only like a tiny red spark
through the fog, which had evidently grown thicker and
poured into the room. Then it occurred to me that I had shut
the window before I had come to bed. I would have got out
to make certain on the point, but some leaden lethargy
seemed to chain my limbs and even my will. I lay still and
endured; that was all. I closed my eyes, but could still see
through my eyelids. (It is wonderful what tricks our dreams
play us, and how conveniently we can imagine.) The mist
grew thicker and thicker and I could see now how it came in,
for I could see it like smoke—or with the white energy of
boiling water—pouring in, not through the window, but
through the joinings of the door. It got thicker and thicker,
till it seemed as if it became concentrated into a sort of pillar
of cloud in the room, through the top of which I could see
the light of the gas shining like a red eye. Things began to
whirl through my brain just as the cloudy column was now
whirling in the room, and through it all came the scriptural
words “a pillar of cloud by day and of fire by night.” Was it
indeed some such spiritual guidance that was coming to me
in my sleep? But the pillar was composed of both the day
and the night-guiding, for the fire was in the red eye, which
at the thought got a new fascination for me; till, as I looked,
the fire divided, and seemed to shine on me through the fog
like two red eyes, such as Lucy told me of in her momentary
mental wandering when, on the cliff, the dying sunlight
struck the windows of St. Mary’s Church. Suddenly the
horror burst upon me that it was thus that Jonathan had
seen those awful women growing into reality though the
whirling mist in the moonlight, and in my dream I must have
fainted, for all became black darkness. The last conscious
effort which imagination made was to show me a livid white
face bending over me out of the mist. I must be careful of
such dreams, for they would unseat one’s reason if there
were too much of them. I would get Dr. Van Helsing or
Dr. Seward to prescribe something for me which would make
me sleep, only that I fear to alarm them. Such a dream at the
present time would become woven into their fears for me.
Tonight I shall strive hard to sleep naturally. If I do not, I shall
tomorrow night get them to give me a dose of chloral; that
cannot hurt me for once, and it will give me a good night’s
sleep. Last night tired me more than if I had not slept at all.

2 October 10 p.m.—Last night I slept, but did not dream. I

must have slept soundly, for I was not waked by Jonathan
coming to bed; but the sleep has not refreshed me, for today
I feel terribly weak and spiritless. I spent all yesterday trying
to read, or lying down dozing. In the afternoon Mr. Renfield
asked if he might see me. Poor man, he was very gentle, and
when I came away he kissed my hand and bade God bless
me. Some way it affected me much; I am crying when I think
of him. This is a new weakness, of which I must be careful.
Jonathan would be miserable if he knew I had been crying.
He and the others were out till dinnertime, and they all came
in tired. I did what I could to brighten them up, and I
suppose that the effort did me good, for I forgot how tired I
was. After dinner they sent me to bed, and all went off to
smoke together, as they said, but I knew that they wanted to
tell each other of what had occurred to each during the day;
I could see from Jonathan’s manner that he had something
important to communicate. I was not so sleepy as I should
have been; so before they went I asked Dr. Seward to give
me a little opiate of some kind, as I had not slept well the
night before. He very kindly made me up a sleeping
draught, which he gave to me, telling me that it would do
me no harm, as it was very mild. … I have taken it, and am
waiting for sleep, which still keeps aloof. I hope I have not
done wrong, for as sleep begins to flirt with me, a new fear
comes: that I may have been foolish in thus depriving
myself of the power of waking. I might want it. Here comes
sleep. Good night.
 XX

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL.

1 October, evening.—I found Thomas Snelling in his house

at Bethnal Green, but unhappily he was not in a condition to
remember anything. The very prospect of beer which my
expected coming had opened to him had proved too much,
and he had begun too early on his expected debauch. I
learned, however, from his wife, who seemed a decent, poor
soul, that he was only the assistant to Smollet, who of the
two mates was the responsible person. So off I drove to
Walworth, and found Mr. Joseph Smollet at home and in his
shirtsleeves, taking a late tea out of a saucer. He is a decent,
intelligent fellow, distinctly a good, reliable type of
workman, and with a headpiece of his own. He remembered
all about the incident of the boxes, and from a wonderful
dog’s-eared notebook, which he produced from some
mysterious receptacle about the seat of his trousers, and
which had hieroglyphical entries in thick, half-obliterated
pencil, he gave me the destinations of the boxes. There
were, he said, six in the cartload which he took from Carfax
and left at 197, Chicksand Street, Mile End New Town, and
another six which he deposited at Jamaica Lane,
Bermondsey. If then the Count meant to scatter these
ghastly refuges of his over London, these places were
chosen as the first of delivery, so that later he might
distribute more fully. The systematic manner in which this
was done made me think that he could not mean to confine
himself to two sides of London. He was now fixed on the far
east of the northern shore, on the east of the southern shore,
and on the south. The north and west were surely never
meant to be left out of his diabolical scheme—let alone the
City itself and the very heart of fashionable London in the
southwest and west. I went back to Smollet, and asked him if
he could tell us if any other boxes had been taken from
Carfax.
He replied:—
“Well, guv’nor, you’ve treated me wery ’an’some”—I had
given him half a sovereign—“an’ I’ll tell yer all I know. I
heard a man by the name of Bloxam say four nights ago in
the ’Are an’ ’Ounds, in Pincher’s Alley, as ’ow he an’ his mate
’ad ’ad a rare dusty job in a old ’ouse at Purfect. There ain’t
a-many such jobs as this ’ere, an’ I’m thinkin’ that maybe
Sam Bloxam could tell ye summut.” I asked if he could tell
me where to find him. I told him that if he could get me the
address it would be worth another half-sovereign to him. So
he gulped down the rest of his tea and stood up, saying that
he was going to begin the search then and there. At the door
he stopped, and said:—
“Look ’ere, guv’nor, there ain’t no sense in me a-keepin’
you ’ere. I may find Sam soon, or I mayn’t; but anyhow he
ain’t like to be in a way to tell ye much tonight. Sam is a rare
one when he starts on the booze. If you can give me a
envelope with a stamp on it, and put yer address on it, I’ll
find out where Sam is to be found and post it ye tonight. But
ye’d better be up arter ’im soon in the mornin’, or maybe ye
won’t ketch ’im; for Sam gets off main early, never mind the
booze the night afore.”
This was all practical, so one of the children went off with a
penny to buy an envelope and a sheet of paper, and to keep
the change. When she came back, I addressed the envelope
and stamped it, and when Smollet had again faithfully
promised to post the address when found, I took my way to
home. We’re on the track anyhow. I am tired tonight, and
want sleep. Mina is fast asleep, and looks a little too pale;
her eyes look as though she had been crying. Poor dear, I’ve
no doubt it frets her to be kept in the dark, and it may make
her doubly anxious about me and the others. But it is best
as it is. It is better to be disappointed and worried in such a
way now than to have her nerve broken. The doctors were
quite right to insist on her being kept out of this dreadful
business. I must be firm, for on me this particular burden of
silence must rest. I shall not ever enter on the subject with
her under any circumstances. Indeed, it may not be a hard
task, after all, for she herself has become reticent on the
subject, and has not spoken of the Count or his doings ever
since we told her of our decision.

2 October, evening.—A long and trying and exciting day. By

the first post I got my directed envelope with a dirty scrap of
paper enclosed, on which was written with a carpenter’s
pencil in a sprawling hand:—
“Sam Bloxam, Korkrans, 4, Poters Cort, Bartel Street,
Walworth. Arsk for the depite.”
I got the letter in bed, and rose without waking Mina. She
looked heavy and sleepy and pale, and far from well. I
determined not to wake her, but that, when I should return
from this new search, I would arrange for her going back to
Exeter. I think she would be happier in our own home, with
her daily tasks to interest her, than in being here amongst
us and in ignorance. I only saw Dr. Seward for a moment,
and told him where I was off to, promising to come back and
tell the rest so soon as I should have found out anything. I
drove to Walworth and found, with some difficulty, Potter’s
Court. Mr. Smollet’s spelling misled me, as I asked for Poter’s
Court instead of Potter’s Court. However, when I had found
the court, I had no difficulty in discovering Corcoran’s
lodging-house. When I asked the man who came to the door
for the “depite,” he shook his head, and said: “I dunno ’im.
There ain’t no such a person ’ere; I never ’eard of ’im in all
my bloomin’ days. Don’t believe there ain’t nobody of that
kind livin’ ere or anywheres.” I took out Smollet’s letter, and
as I read it it seemed to me that the lesson of the spelling of
the name of the court might guide me. “What are you?” I
asked.
“I’m the depity,” he answered. I saw at once that I was on
the right track; phonetic spelling had again misled me. A
half-crown tip put the deputy’s knowledge at my disposal,
and I learned that Mr. Bloxam, who had slept off the remains
of his beer on the previous night at Corcoran’s, had left for
his work at Poplar at five o’clock that morning. He could not
tell me where the place of work was situated, but he had a
vague idea that it was some kind of a “newfangled ware’us”;
and with this slender clue I had to start for Poplar. It was
twelve o’clock before I got any satisfactory hint of such a
building, and this I got at a coffee-shop, where some
workmen were having their dinner. One of these suggested
that there was being erected at Cross Angel Street a new
“cold storage” building; and as this suited the condition of a
“newfangled ware’us,” I at once drove to it. An interview
with a surly gatekeeper and a surlier foreman, both of whom
were appeased with the coin of the realm, put me on the
track of Bloxam; he was sent for on my suggesting that I was
willing to pay his day’s wages to his foreman for the
privilege of asking him a few questions on a private matter.
He was a smart enough fellow, though rough of speech and
bearing. When I had promised to pay for his information and
given him an earnest, he told me that he had made two
journeys between Carfax and a house in Piccadilly, and had
taken from this house to the latter nine great boxes—“main
heavy ones”—with a horse and cart hired by him for this
purpose. I asked him if he could tell me the number of the
house in Piccadilly, to which he replied:—
 “Well, guv’nor, I forgits the number, but it was only a few
doors from a big white church or somethink of the kind, not
long built. It was a dusty old ’ouse, too, though nothin’ to
the dustiness of the ’ouse we tooked the bloomin’ boxes
from.”
“How did you get into the houses if they were both
empty?”
“There was the old party what engaged me a-waitin’ in the
’ouse at Purfleet. He ’elped me to lift the boxes and put them
in the dray. Curse me, but he was the strongest chap I ever
struck, an’ him a old feller, with a white moustache, one that
thin you would think he couldn’t throw a shadder.”
How this phrase thrilled through me!
“Why, ’e took up ’is end o’ the boxes like they was pounds
of tea, and me a-puffin’ an’ a-blowin’ afore I could upend
mine anyhow—an’ I’m no chicken, neither.”
“How did you get into the house in Piccadilly?” I asked.
“He was there too. He must ’a’ started off and got there
afore me, for when I rung of the bell he kem an’ opened the
door ’isself an’ ’elped me to carry the boxes into the ’all.”
“The whole nine?” I asked.
“Yus; there was five in the first load an’ four in the second.
It was main dry work, an’ I don’t so well remember ’ow I got
’ome.” I interrupted him:—
“Were the boxes left in the hall?”
“Yus; it was a big ’all, an’ there was nothin’ else in it.” I
made one more attempt to further matters:—
“You didn’t have any key?”
“Never used no key nor nothink. The old gent, he opened
the door ’isself an’ shut it again when I druv off. I don’t
remember the last time—but that was the beer.”
“And you can’t remember the number of the house?”
“No, sir. But ye needn’t have no difficulty about that. It’s a
’igh ’un with a stone front with a bow on it, an’ ’igh steps up
to the door. I know them steps, ’avin’ ’ad to carry the boxes
up with three loafers what come round to earn a copper. The
old gent give them shillin’s, an’ they seein’ they got so
much, they wanted more; but ’e took one of them by the
shoulder and was like to throw ’im down the steps, till the lot
of them went away cussin’.” I thought that with this
description I could find the house, so, having paid my friend
for his information, I started off for Piccadilly. I had gained a
new painful experience; the Count could, it was evident,
handle the earth-boxes himself. If so, time was precious; for,
now that he had achieved a certain amount of distribution,
he could, by choosing his own time, complete the task
unobserved. At Piccadilly Circus I discharged my cab, and
walked westward; beyond the Junior Constitutional I came
across the house described, and was satisfied that this was
the next of the lairs arranged by Dracula. The house looked
as though it had been long untenanted. The windows were
encrusted with dust, and the shutters were up. All the
framework was black with time, and from the iron the paint
had mostly scaled away. It was evident that up to lately
there had been a large notice-board in front of the balcony;
it had, however, been roughly torn away, the uprights which
had supported it still remaining. Behind the rails of the
balcony I saw there were some loose boards, whose raw
edges looked white. I would have given a good deal to have
been able to see the notice-board intact, as it would,
perhaps, have given some clue to the ownership of the
house. I remembered my experience of the investigation and
purchase of Carfax, and I could not but feel that if I could
find the former owner there might be some means
discovered of gaining access to the house.
There was at present nothing to be learned from the
Piccadilly side, and nothing could be done; so I went round
to the back to see if anything could be gathered from this
quarter. The mews were active, the Piccadilly houses being
mostly in occupation. I asked one or two of the grooms and
helpers whom I saw around if they could tell me anything
about the empty house. One of them said that he heard it
had lately been taken, but he couldn’t say from whom. He
told me, however, that up to very lately there had been a
notice-board of “For Sale” up, and that perhaps Mitchell,
Sons, & Candy, the house agents, could tell me something,
as he thought he remembered seeing the name of that firm
on the board. I did not wish to seem too eager, or to let my
informant know or guess too much, so, thanking him in the
usual manner, I strolled away. It was now growing dusk, and
the autumn night was closing in, so I did not lose any time.
Having learned the address of Mitchell, Sons, & Candy from
a directory at the Berkeley, I was soon at their office in
Sackville Street.
The gentleman who saw me was particularly suave in
manner, but uncommunicative in equal proportion. Having
once told me that the Piccadilly house—which throughout
our interview he called a “mansion”—was sold, he
considered my business as concluded. When I asked who
had purchased it, he opened his eyes a thought wider, and
paused a few seconds before replying:—
“It is sold, sir.”
“Pardon me,” I said, with equal politeness, “but I have a
special reason for wishing to know who purchased it.”
Again he paused longer, and raised his eyebrows still
more. “It is sold, sir,” was again his laconic reply.
“Surely,” I said, “you do not mind letting me know so
much.”
“But I do mind,” he answered. “The affairs of their clients
are absolutely safe in the hands of Mitchell, Sons, & Candy.”
This was manifestly a prig of the first water, and there was
no use arguing with him. I thought I had best meet him on
his own ground, so I said:—
“Your clients, sir, are happy in having so resolute a
guardian of their confidence. I am myself a professional
man.” Here I handed him my card. “In this instance I am not
prompted by curiosity; I act on the part of Lord Godalming,
who wishes to know something of the property which was,
he understood, lately for sale.” These words put a different
complexion on affairs. He said:—
“I would like to oblige you if I could, Mr. Harker, and
especially would I like to oblige his lordship. We once carried
out a small matter of renting some chambers for him when
he was the Honourable Arthur Holmwood. If you will let me
have his lordship’s address I will consult the House on the
subject, and will, in any case, communicate with his lordship
by tonight’s post. It will be a pleasure if we can so far
deviate from our rules as to give the required information to
his lordship.”
I wanted to secure a friend, and not to make an enemy, so
I thanked him, gave the address at Dr. Seward’s and came
away. It was now dark, and I was tired and hungry. I got a
cup of tea at the Aërated Bread Company and came down to
Purfleet by the next train.
I found all the others at home. Mina was looking tired and
pale, but she made a gallant effort to be bright and cheerful,
it wrung my heart to think that I had had to keep anything
from her and so caused her inquietude. Thank God, this will
be the last night of her looking on at our conferences, and
feeling the sting of our not showing our confidence. It took
all my courage to hold to the wise resolution of keeping her
out of our grim task. She seems somehow more reconciled;
or else the very subject seems to have become repugnant to
her, for when any accidental allusion is made she actually
shudders. I am glad we made our resolution in time, as with
such a feeling as this, our growing knowledge would be
torture to her.
I could not tell the others of the day’s discovery till we
were alone; so after dinner—followed by a little music to
save appearances even amongst ourselves—I took Mina to
her room and left her to go to bed. The dear girl was more
affectionate with me than ever, and clung to me as though
she would detain me; but there was much to be talked of
and I came away. Thank God, the ceasing of telling things
has made no difference between us.
When I came down again I found the others all gathered
round the fire in the study. In the train I had written my diary
so far, and simply read it off to them as the best means of
letting them get abreast of my own information; when I had
finished Van Helsing said:—
“This has been a great day’s work, friend Jonathan.
Doubtless we are on the track of the missing boxes. If we
find them all in that house, then our work is near the end.
But if there be some missing, we must search until we find
them. Then shall we make our final coup, and hunt the
wretch to his real death.” We all sat silent awhile and all at
once Mr. Morris spoke:—
“Say! how are we going to get into that house?”
“We got into the other,” answered Lord Godalming quickly.
“But, Art, this is different. We broke house at Carfax, but
we had night and a walled park to protect us. It will be a
mighty different thing to commit burglary in Piccadilly,
either by day or night. I confess I don’t see how we are going
to get in unless that agency duck can find us a key of some
sort; perhaps we shall know when you get his letter in the
morning.” Lord Godalming’s brows contracted, and he stood
up and walked about the room. By-and-by he stopped and
said, turning from one to another of us:—
“Quincey’s head is level. This burglary business is getting
serious; we got off once all right; but we have now a rare job
on hand—unless we can find the Count’s key basket.”
As nothing could well be done before morning, and as it
would be at least advisable to wait till Lord Godalming
should hear from Mitchell’s, we decided not to take any
active step before breakfast time. For a good while we sat
and smoked, discussing the matter in its various lights and
bearings; I took the opportunity of bringing this diary right
up to the moment. I am very sleepy and shall go to bed. …
 Just a line. Mina sleeps soundly and her breathing is
regular. Her forehead is puckered up into little wrinkles, as
though she thinks even in her sleep. She is still too pale, but
does not look so haggard as she did this morning. Tomorrow
will, I hope, mend all this; she will be herself at home in
Exeter. Oh, but I am sleepy!

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY.

1 October.—I am puzzled afresh about Renfield. His moods

change so rapidly that I find it difficult to keep touch of
them, and as they always mean something more than his
own well-being, they form a more than interesting study.
This morning, when I went to see him after his repulse of Van
Helsing, his manner was that of a man commanding destiny.
He was, in fact, commanding destiny—subjectively. He did
not really care for any of the things of mere earth; he was in
the clouds and looked down on all the weaknesses and
wants of us poor mortals. I thought I would improve the
occasion and learn something, so I asked him:—
“What about the flies these times?” He smiled on me in
quite a superior sort of way—such a smile as would have
become the face of Malvolio—as he answered me:—
“The fly, my dear sir, has one striking feature; its wings are
typical of the aërial powers of the psychic faculties. The
ancients did well when they typified the soul as a butterfly!”
I thought I would push his analogy to its utmost logically,
so I said quickly:—
“Oh, it is a soul you are after now, is it?” His madness
foiled his reason, and a puzzled look spread over his face as,
shaking his head with a decision which I had but seldom
seen in him, he said:—
 “Oh, no, oh no! I want no souls. Life is all I want.” Here he
brightened up; “I am pretty indifferent about it at present.
Life is all right; I have all I want. You must get a new patient,
doctor, if you wish to study zoöphagy!”
This puzzled me a little, so I drew him on:—
“Then you command life; you are a god, I suppose?” He
smiled with an ineffably benign superiority.
“Oh no! Far be it from me to arrogate to myself the
attributes of the Deity. I am not even concerned in His
especially spiritual doings. If I may state my intellectual
position I am, so far as concerns things purely terrestrial,
somewhat in the position which Enoch occupied spiritually!”
This was a poser to me. I could not at the moment recall
Enoch’s appositeness; so I had to ask a simple question,
though I felt that by so doing I was lowering myself in the
eyes of the lunatic:—
“And why with Enoch?”
“Because he walked with God.” I could not see the
analogy, but did not like to admit it; so I harked back to
what he had denied:—
“So you don’t care about life and you don’t want souls.
Why not?” I put my question quickly and somewhat sternly,
on purpose to disconcert him. The effort succeeded; for an
instant he unconsciously relapsed into his old servile
manner, bent low before me, and actually fawned upon me
as he replied:—
“I don’t want any souls, indeed, indeed! I don’t. I couldn’t
use them if I had them; they would be no manner of use to
me. I couldn’t eat them or—” He suddenly stopped and the
old cunning look spread over his face, like a wind-sweep on
the surface of the water. “And doctor, as to life, what is it
after all? When you’ve got all you require, and you know
that you will never want, that is all. I have friends—good
friends—like you, Dr. Seward”; this was said with a leer of
inexpressible cunning. “I know that I shall never lack the
means of life!”
 I think that through the cloudiness of his insanity he saw
some antagonism in me, for he at once fell back on the last
refuge of such as he—a dogged silence. After a short time I
saw that for the present it was useless to speak to him. He
was sulky, and so I came away.
Later in the day he sent for me. Ordinarily I would not
have come without special reason, but just at present I am
so interested in him that I would gladly make an effort.
Besides, I am glad to have anything to help to pass the time.
Harker is out, following up clues; and so are Lord Godalming
and Quincey. Van Helsing sits in my study poring over the
record prepared by the Harkers; he seems to think that by
accurate knowledge of all details he will light upon some
clue. He does not wish to be disturbed in the work, without
cause. I would have taken him with me to see the patient,
only I thought that after his last repulse he might not care to
go again. There was also another reason: Renfield might not
speak so freely before a third person as when he and I were
alone.
I found him sitting out in the middle of the floor on his
stool, a pose which is generally indicative of some mental
energy on his part. When I came in, he said at once, as
though the question had been waiting on his lips:—
“What about souls?” It was evident then that my surmise
had been correct. Unconscious cerebration was doing its
work, even with the lunatic. I determined to have the matter
out. “What about them yourself?” I asked. He did not reply
for a moment but looked all round him, and up and down, as
though he expected to find some inspiration for an answer.
“I don’t want any souls!” he said in a feeble, apologetic
way. The matter seemed preying on his mind, and so I
determined to use it—to “be cruel only to be kind.” So I
said:—
“You like life, and you want life?”
“Oh yes! but that is all right; you needn’t worry about
that!”
 “But,” I asked, “how are we to get the life without getting
the soul also?” This seemed to puzzle him, so I followed it
up:—
“A nice time you’ll have some time when you’re flying out
there, with the souls of thousands of flies and spiders and
birds and cats buzzing and twittering and miauing all round
you. You’ve got their lives, you know, and you must put up
with their souls!” Something seemed to affect his
imagination, for he put his fingers to his ears and shut his
eyes, screwing them up tightly just as a small boy does
when his face is being soaped. There was something
pathetic in it that touched me; it also gave me a lesson, for
it seemed that before me was a child—only a child, though
the features were worn, and the stubble on the jaws was
white. It was evident that he was undergoing some process
of mental disturbance, and, knowing how his past moods
had interpreted things seemingly foreign to himself, I
thought I would enter into his mind as well as I could and go
with him. The first step was to restore confidence, so I asked
him, speaking pretty loud so that he would hear me through
his closed ears:—
“Would you like some sugar to get your flies round again?”
He seemed to wake up all at once, and shook his head. With
a laugh he replied:—
“Not much! flies are poor things, after all!” After a pause
he added, “But I don’t want their souls buzzing round me, all
the same.”
“Or spiders?” I went on.
“Blow spiders! What’s the use of spiders? There isn’t
anything in them to eat or”—he stopped suddenly, as
though reminded of a forbidden topic.
“So, so!” I thought to myself, “this is the second time he
has suddenly stopped at the word ‘drink’; what does it
mean?” Renfield seemed himself aware of having made a
lapse, for he hurried on, as though to distract my attention
from it:—
 “I don’t take any stock at all in such matters. ‘Rats and
mice and such small deer,’ as Shakespeare has it,
‘chickenfeed of the larder’ they might be called. I’m past all
that sort of nonsense. You might as well ask a man to eat
molecules with a pair of chopsticks, as to try to interest me
about the lesser carnivora, when I know of what is before
me.”
“I see,” I said. “You want big things that you can make
your teeth meet in? How would you like to breakfast on
elephant?”
“What ridiculous nonsense you are talking!” He was
getting too wide awake, so I thought I would press him hard.
“I wonder,” I said reflectively, “what an elephant’s soul is
like!”
The effect I desired was obtained, for he at once fell from
his high-horse and became a child again.
“I don’t want an elephant’s soul, or any soul at all!” he
said. For a few moments he sat despondently. Suddenly he
jumped to his feet, with his eyes blazing and all the signs of
intense cerebral excitement. “To hell with you and your
souls!” he shouted. “Why do you plague me about souls?
Haven’t I got enough to worry, and pain, and distract me
already, without thinking of souls!” He looked so hostile that
I thought he was in for another homicidal fit, so I blew my
whistle. The instant, however, that I did so he became calm,
and said apologetically:—
“Forgive me, Doctor; I forgot myself. You do not need any
help. I am so worried in my mind that I am apt to be irritable.
If you only knew the problem I have to face, and that I am
working out, you would pity, and tolerate, and pardon me.
Pray do not put me in a strait-waistcoat. I want to think and I
cannot think freely when my body is confined. I am sure you
will understand!” He had evidently self-control; so when the
attendants came I told them not to mind, and they withdrew.
Renfield watched them go; when the door was closed he
said, with considerable dignity and sweetness:—
 “Dr. Seward, you have been very considerate towards me.
Believe me that I am very, very grateful to you!” I thought it
well to leave him in this mood, and so I came away. There is
certainly something to ponder over in this man’s state.
Several points seem to make what the American interviewer
calls “a story,” if one could only get them in proper order.
Here they are:—
Will not mention “drinking.”
Fears the thought of being burdened with the “soul” of
anything.
Has no dread of wanting “life” in the future.
Despises the meaner forms of life altogether, though he
dreads being haunted by their souls.
Logically all these things point one way! he has assurance
of some kind that he will acquire some higher life. He dreads
the consequence—the burden of a soul. Then it is a human
life he looks to!
And the assurance—?
Merciful God! the Count has been to him, and there is
some new scheme of terror afoot!

Later.—I went after my round to Van Helsing and told him

my suspicion. He grew very grave; and, after thinking the
matter over for a while asked me to take him to Renfield. I
did so. As we came to the door we heard the lunatic within
singing gaily, as he used to do in the time which now seems
so long ago. When we entered we saw with amazement that
he had spread out his sugar as of old; the flies, lethargic
with the autumn, were beginning to buzz into the room. We
tried to make him talk of the subject of our previous
conversation, but he would not attend. He went on with his
singing, just as though we had not been present. He had got
a scrap of paper and was folding it into a notebook. We had
to come away as ignorant as we went in.
 His is a curious case indeed; we must watch him tonight.

LETTER, MITCHELL, SONS AND CANDY TO LORD GODALMING.

“1 October.
“My Lord,
“We are at all times only too happy to meet your wishes. We
beg, with regard to the desire of your Lordship, expressed by
Mr. Harker on your behalf, to supply the following
information concerning the sale and purchase of No. 347,
Piccadilly. The original vendors are the executors of the late
Mr. Archibald Winter-Suffield. The purchaser is a foreign
nobleman, Count de Ville, who effected the purchase himself
paying the purchase money in notes ‘over the counter,’ if
your Lordship will pardon us using so vulgar an expression.
Beyond this we know nothing whatever of him.

“We are, my Lord,

“Your Lordship’s humble servants,
“MITCHELL, SONS & CANDY.”

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY.

2 October.—I placed a man in the corridor last night, and

told him to make an accurate note of any sound he might
hear from Renfield’s room, and gave him instructions that if
there should be anything strange he was to call me. After
dinner, when we had all gathered round the fire in the
study—Mrs. Harker having gone to bed—we discussed the
attempts and discoveries of the day. Harker was the only one
who had any result, and we are in great hopes that his clue
may be an important one.
Before going to bed I went round to the patient’s room and
looked in through the observation trap. He was sleeping
soundly, and his heart rose and fell with regular respiration.
This morning the man on duty reported to me that a little
after midnight he was restless and kept saying his prayers
somewhat loudly. I asked him if that was all; he replied that
it was all he heard. There was something about his manner
so suspicious that I asked him point blank if he had been
asleep. He denied sleep, but admitted to having “dozed” for
a while. It is too bad that men cannot be trusted unless they
are watched.
Today Harker is out following up his clue, and Art and
Quincey are looking after horses. Godalming thinks that it
will be well to have horses always in readiness, for when we
get the information which we seek there will be no time to
lose. We must sterilise all the imported earth between
sunrise and sunset; we shall thus catch the Count at his
weakest, and without a refuge to fly to. Van Helsing is off to
the British Museum looking up some authorities on ancient
medicine. The old physicians took account of things which
their followers do not accept, and the Professor is searching
for witch and demon cures which may be useful to us later.
I sometimes think we must be all mad and that we shall
wake to sanity in strait-waistcoats.

Later.—We have met again. We seem at last to be on the

track, and our work of tomorrow may be the beginning of the
end. I wonder if Renfield’s quiet has anything to do with this.
His moods have so followed the doings of the Count, that the
coming destruction of the monster may be carried to him in
some subtle way. If we could only get some hint as to what
passed in his mind, between the time of my argument with
him today and his resumption of fly-catching, it might afford
us a valuable clue. He is now seemingly quiet for a spell. … Is
he?—That wild yell seemed to come from his room. …

The attendant came bursting into my room and told me that

Renfield had somehow met with some accident. He had
heard him yell; and when he went to him found him lying on
his face on the floor, all covered with blood. I must go at
once. …
 XXI

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY

3 October.—Let me put down with exactness all that

happened, as well as I can remember it, since last I made an
entry. Not a detail that I can recall must be forgotten; in all
calmness I must proceed.
When I came to Renfield’s room I found him lying on the
floor on his left side in a glittering pool of blood. When I
went to move him, it became at once apparent that he had
received some terrible injuries; there seemed none of that
unity of purpose between the parts of the body which marks
even lethargic sanity. As the face was exposed I could see
that it was horribly bruised, as though it had been beaten
against the floor—indeed it was from the face wounds that
the pool of blood originated. The attendant who was
kneeling beside the body said to me as we turned him
over:—
“I think, sir, his back is broken. See, both his right arm and
leg and the whole side of his face are paralysed.” How such
a thing could have happened puzzled the attendant beyond
measure. He seemed quite bewildered, and his brows were
gathered in as he said:—
“I can’t understand the two things. He could mark his face
like that by beating his own head on the floor. I saw a young
woman do it once at the Eversfield Asylum before anyone
could lay hands on her. And I suppose he might have broke
his neck by falling out of bed, if he got in an awkward kink.
But for the life of me I can’t imagine how the two things
occurred. If his back was broke, he couldn’t beat his head;
and if his face was like that before the fall out of bed, there
would be marks of it.” I said to him:—
“Go to Dr. Van Helsing, and ask him to kindly come here at
once. I want him without an instant’s delay.” The man ran
off, and within a few minutes the Professor, in his dressing
gown and slippers, appeared. When he saw Renfield on the
ground, he looked keenly at him a moment, and then turned
to me. I think he recognised my thought in my eyes, for he
said very quietly, manifestly for the ears of the attendant:—
“Ah, a sad accident! He will need very careful watching,
and much attention. I shall stay with you myself; but I shall
first dress myself. If you will remain I shall in a few minutes
join you.”
The patient was now breathing stertorously and it was
easy to see that he had suffered some terrible injury. Van
Helsing returned with extraordinary celerity, bearing with
him a surgical case. He had evidently been thinking and had
his mind made up; for, almost before he looked at the
patient, he whispered to me:—
“Send the attendant away. We must be alone with him
when he becomes conscious, after the operation.” So I
said:—
“I think that will do now, Simmons. We have done all that
we can at present. You had better go your round, and Dr. Van
Helsing will operate. Let me know instantly if there be
anything unusual anywhere.”
The man withdrew, and we went into a strict examination
of the patient. The wounds of the face was superficial; the
real injury was a depressed fracture of the skull, extending
right up through the motor area. The Professor thought a
moment and said:—
“We must reduce the pressure and get back to normal
conditions, as far as can be; the rapidity of the suffusion
shows the terrible nature of his injury. The whole motor area
seems affected. The suffusion of the brain will increase
quickly, so we must trephine at once or it may be too late.”
As he was speaking there was a soft tapping at the door. I
went over and opened it and found in the corridor without,
Arthur and Quincey in pajamas and slippers: the former
spoke:—
“I heard your man call up Dr. Van Helsing and tell him of
an accident. So I woke Quincey or rather called for him as he
was not asleep. Things are moving too quickly and too
strangely for sound sleep for any of us these times. I’ve been
thinking that tomorrow night will not see things as they
have been. We’ll have to look back—and forward a little
more than we have done. May we come in?” I nodded, and
held the door open till they had entered; then I closed it
again. When Quincey saw the attitude and state of the
patient, and noted the horrible pool on the floor, he said
softly:—
“My God! what has happened to him? Poor, poor devil!” I
told him briefly, and added that we expected he would
recover consciousness after the operation—for a short time,
at all events. He went at once and sat down on the edge of
the bed, with Godalming beside him; we all watched in
patience.
“We shall wait,” said Van Helsing, “just long enough to fix
the best spot for trephining, so that we may most quickly
and perfectly remove the blood clot; for it is evident that the
hæmorrhage is increasing.”
The minutes during which we waited passed with fearful
slowness. I had a horrible sinking in my heart, and from Van
Helsing’s face I gathered that he felt some fear or
apprehension as to what was to come. I dreaded the words
that Renfield might speak. I was positively afraid to think;
but the conviction of what was coming was on me, as I have
read of men who have heard the death-watch. The poor
man’s breathing came in uncertain gasps. Each instant he
seemed as though he would open his eyes and speak; but
then would follow a prolonged stertorous breath, and he
would relapse into a more fixed insensibility. Inured as I was
to sick beds and death, this suspense grew, and grew upon
me. I could almost hear the beating of my own heart; and
the blood surging through my temples sounded like blows
from a hammer. The silence finally became agonising. I
looked at my companions, one after another, and saw from
their flushed faces and damp brows that they were enduring
equal torture. There was a nervous suspense over us all, as
though overhead some dread bell would peal out powerfully
when we should least expect it.
At last there came a time when it was evident that the
patient was sinking fast; he might die at any moment. I
looked up at the Professor and caught his eyes fixed on
mine. His face was sternly set as he spoke:—
“There is no time to lose. His words may be worth many
lives; I have been thinking so, as I stood here. It may be
there is a soul at stake! We shall operate just above the ear.”
Without another word he made the operation. For a few
moments the breathing continued to be stertorous. Then
there came a breath so prolonged that it seemed as though
it would tear open his chest. Suddenly his eyes opened, and
became fixed in a wild, helpless stare. This was continued
for a few moments; then it softened into a glad surprise, and
from the lips came a sigh of relief. He moved convulsively,
and as he did so, said:—
“I’ll be quiet, Doctor. Tell them to take off the strait-
waistcoat. I have had a terrible dream, and it has left me so
weak that I cannot move. What’s wrong with my face? it
feels all swollen, and it smarts dreadfully.” He tried to turn
his head; but even with the effort his eyes seemed to grow
glassy again so I gently put it back. Then Van Helsing said in
a quiet grave tone:—
“Tell us your dream, Mr. Renfield.” As he heard the voice
his face brightened, through its mutilation, and he said:—
 “That is Dr. Van Helsing. How good it is of you to be here.
Give me some water, my lips are dry; and I shall try to tell
you. I dreamed”—he stopped and seemed fainting, I called
quietly to Quincey—“The brandy—it is in my study—quick!”
He flew and returned with a glass, the decanter of brandy
and a carafe of water. We moistened the parched lips, and
the patient quickly revived. It seemed, however, that his
poor injured brain had been working in the interval, for,
when he was quite conscious, he looked at me piercingly
with an agonised confusion which I shall never forget, and
said:—
“I must not deceive myself; it was no dream, but all a grim
reality.” Then his eyes roved round the room; as they caught
sight of the two figures sitting patiently on the edge of the
bed he went on:—
“If I were not sure already, I would know from them.” For
an instant his eyes closed—not with pain or sleep but
voluntarily, as though he were bringing all his faculties to
bear; when he opened them he said, hurriedly, and with
more energy than he had yet displayed:—
“Quick, Doctor, quick. I am dying! I feel that I have but a
few minutes; and then I must go back to death—or worse!
Wet my lips with brandy again. I have something that I must
say before I die; or before my poor crushed brain dies
anyhow. Thank you! It was that night after you left me, when
I implored you to let me go away. I couldn’t speak then, for I
felt my tongue was tied; but I was as sane then, except in
that way, as I am now. I was in an agony of despair for a long
time after you left me; it seemed hours. Then there came a
sudden peace to me. My brain seemed to become cool
again, and I realised where I was. I heard the dogs bark
behind our house, but not where He was!” As he spoke, Van
Helsing’s eyes never blinked, but his hand came out and
met mine and gripped it hard. He did not, however, betray
himself; he nodded slightly and said: “Go on,” in a low voice.
Renfield proceeded:—
 “He came up to the window in the mist, as I had seen him
often before; but he was solid then—not a ghost, and his
eyes were fierce like a man’s when angry. He was laughing
with his red mouth; the sharp white teeth glinted in the
moonlight when he turned to look back over the belt of
trees, to where the dogs were barking. I wouldn’t ask him to
come in at first, though I knew he wanted to—just as he had
wanted all along. Then he began promising me things—not
in words but by doing them.” He was interrupted by a word
from the Professor:—
“How?”
“By making them happen; just as he used to send in the
flies when the sun was shining. Great big fat ones with steel
and sapphire on their wings; and big moths, in the night,
with skull and crossbones on their backs.” Van Helsing
nodded to him as he whispered to me unconsciously:—
“The Acherontia Aitetropos of the Sphinges—what you call
the ‘Death’s-head Moth’?” The patient went on without
stopping.
“Then he began to whisper: ‘Rats, rats, rats! Hundreds,
thousands, millions of them, and everyone a life; and dogs
to eat them, and cats too. All lives! all red blood, with years
of life in it; and not merely buzzing flies!’ I laughed at him,
for I wanted to see what he could do. Then the dogs howled,
away beyond the dark trees in His house. He beckoned me
to the window. I got up and looked out, and He raised his
hands, and seemed to call out without using any words. A
dark mass spread over the grass, coming on like the shape
of a flame of fire; and then He moved the mist to the right
and left, and I could see that there were thousands of rats
with their eyes blazing red—like His, only smaller. He held
up his hand, and they all stopped; and I thought he seemed
to be saying: ‘All these lives will I give you, ay, and many
more and greater, through countless ages, if you will fall
down and worship me!’ And then a red cloud, like the colour
of blood, seemed to close over my eyes; and before I knew
what I was doing, I found myself opening the sash and
saying to Him: ‘Come in, Lord and Master!’ The rats were all
gone, but He slid into the room through the sash, though it
was only open an inch wide—just as the Moon herself has
often come in through the tiniest crack and has stood before
me in all her size and splendour.”
His voice was weaker, so I moistened his lips with the
brandy again, and he continued; but it seemed as though
his memory had gone on working in the interval for his story
was further advanced. I was about to call him back to the
point, but Van Helsing whispered to me: “Let him go on. Do
not interrupt him; he cannot go back, and maybe could not
proceed at all if once he lost the thread of his thought.” He
proceeded:—
“All day I waited to hear from him, but he did not send me
anything, not even a blowfly, and when the moon got up I
was pretty angry with him. When he slid in through the
window, though it was shut, and did not even knock, I got
mad with him. He sneered at me, and his white face looked
out of the mist with his red eyes gleaming, and he went on
as though he owned the whole place, and I was no one. He
didn’t even smell the same as he went by me. I couldn’t hold
him. I thought that, somehow, Mrs. Harker had come into the
room.”
The two men sitting on the bed stood up and came over,
standing behind him so that he could not see them, but
where they could hear better. They were both silent, but the
Professor started and quivered; his face, however, grew
grimmer and sterner still. Renfield went on without
noticing:—
“When Mrs. Harker came in to see me this afternoon she
wasn’t the same; it was like tea after the teapot had been
watered.” Here we all moved, but no one said a word; he
went on:—
“I didn’t know that she was here till she spoke; and she
didn’t look the same. I don’t care for the pale people; I like
them with lots of blood in them, and hers had all seemed to
have run out. I didn’t think of it at the time; but when she
went away I began to think, and it made me mad to know
that He had been taking the life out of her.” I could feel that
the rest quivered, as I did, but we remained otherwise still.
“So when He came tonight I was ready for Him. I saw the
mist stealing in, and I grabbed it tight. I had heard that
madmen have unnatural strength; and as I knew I was a
madman—at times anyhow—I resolved to use my power. Ay,
and He felt it too, for He had to come out of the mist to
struggle with me. I held tight; and I thought I was going to
win, for I didn’t mean Him to take any more of her life, till I
saw His eyes. They burned into me, and my strength became
like water. He slipped through it, and when I tried to cling to
Him, He raised me up and flung me down. There was a red
cloud before me, and a noise like thunder, and the mist
seemed to steal away under the door.” His voice was
becoming fainter and his breath more stertorous. Van
Helsing stood up instinctively.
“We know the worst now,” he said. “He is here, and we
know his purpose. It may not be too late. Let us be armed—
the same as we were the other night, but lose no time; there
is not an instant to spare.” There was no need to put our
fear, nay our conviction, into words—we shared them in
common. We all hurried and took from our rooms the same
things that we had when we entered the Count’s house. The
Professor had his ready, and as we met in the corridor he
pointed to them significantly as he said:—
“They never leave me; and they shall not till this unhappy
business is over. Be wise also, my friends. It is no common
enemy that we deal with. Alas! alas! that that dear Madam
Mina should suffer!” He stopped; his voice was breaking,
and I do not know if rage or terror predominated in my own
heart.
Outside the Harkers’ door we paused. Art and Quincey
held back, and the latter said:—
 “Should we disturb her?”
“We must,” said Van Helsing grimly. “If the door be locked,
I shall break it in.”
“May it not frighten her terribly? It is unusual to break into
a lady’s room!”
Van Helsing said solemnly, “You are always right; but this
is life and death. All chambers are alike to the doctor; and
even were they not they are all as one to me tonight. Friend
John, when I turn the handle, if the door does not open, do
you put your shoulder down and shove; and you too, my
friends. Now!”
He turned the handle as he spoke, but the door did not
yield. We threw ourselves against it; with a crash it burst
open, and we almost fell headlong into the room. The
Professor did actually fall, and I saw across him as he
gathered himself up from hands and knees. What I saw
appalled me. I felt my hair rise like bristles on the back of
my neck, and my heart seemed to stand still.
The moonlight was so bright that through the thick yellow
blind the room was light enough to see. On the bed beside
the window lay Jonathan Harker, his face flushed and
breathing heavily as though in a stupor. Kneeling on the
near edge of the bed facing outwards was the white-clad
figure of his wife. By her side stood a tall, thin man, clad in
black. His face was turned from us, but the instant we saw
we all recognised the Count—in every way, even to the scar
on his forehead. With his left hand he held both
Mrs. Harker’s hands, keeping them away with her arms at
full tension; his right hand gripped her by the back of the
neck, forcing her face down on his bosom. Her white
nightdress was smeared with blood, and a thin stream
trickled down the man’s bare breast which was shown by his
torn-open dress. The attitude of the two had a terrible
resemblance to a child forcing a kitten’s nose into a saucer
of milk to compel it to drink. As we burst into the room, the
Count turned his face, and the hellish look that I had heard
described seemed to leap into it. His eyes flamed red with
devilish passion; the great nostrils of the white aquiline nose
opened wide and quivered at the edge; and the white sharp
teeth, behind the full lips of the blood-dripping mouth,
champed together like those of a wild beast. With a wrench,
which threw his victim back upon the bed as though hurled
from a height, he turned and sprang at us. But by this time
the Professor had gained his feet, and was holding towards
him the envelope which contained the Sacred Wafer. The
Count suddenly stopped, just as poor Lucy had done outside
the tomb, and cowered back. Further and further back he
cowered, as we, lifting our crucifixes, advanced. The
moonlight suddenly failed, as a great black cloud sailed
across the sky; and when the gaslight sprang up under
Quincey’s match, we saw nothing but a faint vapour. This, as
we looked, trailed under the door, which with the recoil from
its bursting open, had swung back to its old position. Van
Helsing, Art, and I moved forward to Mrs. Harker, who by this
time had drawn her breath and with it had given a scream so
wild, so ear-piercing, so despairing that it seems to me now
that it will ring in my ears till my dying day. For a few
seconds she lay in her helpless attitude and disarray. Her
face was ghastly, with a pallor which was accentuated by
the blood which smeared her lips and cheeks and chin; from
her throat trickled a thin stream of blood; her eyes were mad
with terror. Then she put before her face her poor crushed
hands, which bore on their whiteness the red mark of the
Count’s terrible grip, and from behind them came a low
desolate wail which made the terrible scream seem only the
quick expression of an endless grief. Van Helsing stepped
forward and drew the coverlet gently over her body, whilst
Art, after looking at her face for an instant despairingly, ran
out of the room. Van Helsing whispered to me:—
“Jonathan is in a stupor such as we know the Vampire can
produce. We can do nothing with poor Madam Mina for a few
moments till she recovers herself; I must wake him!” He
dipped the end of a towel in cold water and with it began to
flick him on the face, his wife all the while holding her face
between her hands and sobbing in a way that was
heartbreaking to hear. I raised the blind, and looked out of
the window. There was much moonshine; and as I looked I
could see Quincey Morris run across the lawn and hide
himself in the shadow of a great yew-tree. It puzzled me to
think why he was doing this; but at the instant I heard
Harker’s quick exclamation as he woke to partial
consciousness, and turned to the bed. On his face, as there
might well be, was a look of wild amazement. He seemed
dazed for a few seconds, and then full consciousness
seemed to burst upon him all at once, and he started up. His
wife was aroused by the quick movement, and turned to him
with her arms stretched out, as though to embrace him;
instantly, however, she drew them in again, and putting her
elbows together, held her hands before her face, and
shuddered till the bed beneath her shook.
“In God’s name what does this mean?” Harker cried out.
“Dr. Seward, Dr. Van Helsing, what is it? What has
happened? What is wrong? Mina, dear, what is it? What does
that blood mean? My God, my God! has it come to this!”
and, raising himself to his knees, he beat his hands wildly
together. “Good God help us! help her! oh, help her!” With a
quick movement he jumped from bed, and began to pull on
his clothes—all the man in him awake at the need for instant
exertion. “What has happened? Tell me all about it!” he cried
without pausing. “Dr. Van Helsing, you love Mina, I know. Oh,
do something to save her. It cannot have gone too far yet.
Guard her while I look for him!” His wife, through her terror
and horror and distress, saw some sure danger to him:
instantly forgetting her own grief, she seized hold of him
and cried out:—
“No! no! Jonathan, you must not leave me. I have suffered
enough tonight, God knows, without the dread of his
harming you. You must stay with me. Stay with these friends
who will watch over you!” Her expression became frantic as
she spoke; and, he yielding to her, she pulled him down
sitting on the bed side, and clung to him fiercely.
Van Helsing and I tried to calm them both. The Professor
held up his little golden crucifix, and said with wonderful
calmness:—
“Do not fear, my dear. We are here; and whilst this is close
to you no foul thing can approach. You are safe for tonight;
and we must be calm and take counsel together.” She
shuddered and was silent, holding down her head on her
husband’s breast. When she raised it, his white night-robe
was stained with blood where her lips had touched, and
where the thin open wound in her neck had sent forth drops.
The instant she saw it she drew back, with a low wail, and
whispered, amidst choking sobs:—
“Unclean, unclean! I must touch him or kiss him no more.
Oh, that it should be that it is I who am now his worst
enemy, and whom he may have most cause to fear.” To this
he spoke out resolutely:—
“Nonsense, Mina. It is a shame to me to hear such a word. I
would not hear it of you; and I shall not hear it from you.
May God judge me by my deserts, and punish me with more
bitter suffering than even this hour, if by any act or will of
mine anything ever come between us!” He put out his arms
and folded her to his breast; and for a while she lay there
sobbing. He looked at us over her bowed head, with eyes
that blinked damply above his quivering nostrils; his mouth
was set as steel. After a while her sobs became less frequent
and more faint, and then he said to me, speaking with a
studied calmness which I felt tried his nervous power to the
utmost:—
“And now, Dr. Seward, tell me all about it. Too well I know
the broad fact; tell me all that has been.” I told him exactly
what had happened, and he listened with seeming
impassiveness; but his nostrils twitched and his eyes blazed
as I told how the ruthless hands of the Count had held his
wife in that terrible and horrid position, with her mouth to
the open wound in his breast. It interested me, even at that
moment, to see, that, whilst the face of white set passion
worked convulsively over the bowed head, the hands
tenderly and lovingly stroked the ruffled hair. Just as I had
finished, Quincey and Godalming knocked at the door. They
entered in obedience to our summons. Van Helsing looked at
me questioningly. I understood him to mean if we were to
take advantage of their coming to divert if possible the
thoughts of the unhappy husband and wife from each other
and from themselves; so on nodding acquiescence to him he
asked them what they had seen or done. To which Lord
Godalming answered:—
“I could not see him anywhere in the passage, or in any of
our rooms. I looked in the study but, though he had been
there, he had gone. He had, however—” He stopped
suddenly, looking at the poor drooping figure on the bed.
Van Helsing said gravely:—
“Go on, friend Arthur. We want here no more
concealments. Our hope now is in knowing all. Tell freely!”
So Art went on:—
“He had been there, and though it could only have been
for a few seconds, he made rare hay of the place. All the
manuscript had been burned, and the blue flames were
flickering amongst the white ashes; the cylinders of your
phonograph too were thrown on the fire, and the wax had
helped the flames.” Here I interrupted. “Thank God there is
the other copy in the safe!” His face lit for a moment, but fell
again as he went on: “I ran downstairs then, but could see
no sign of him. I looked into Renfield’s room; but there was
no trace there except—!” Again he paused. “Go on,” said
Harker hoarsely; so he bowed his head and moistening his
lips with his tongue, added: “except that the poor fellow is
dead.” Mrs. Harker raised her head, looking from one to the
other of us she said solemnly:—
 “God’s will be done!” I could not but feel that Art was
keeping back something; but, as I took it that it was with a
purpose, I said nothing. Van Helsing turned to Morris and
asked:—
“And you, friend Quincey, have you any to tell?”
“A little,” he answered. “It may be much eventually, but at
present I can’t say. I thought it well to know if possible where
the Count would go when he left the house. I did not see
him; but I saw a bat rise from Renfield’s window, and flap
westward. I expected to see him in some shape go back to
Carfax; but he evidently sought some other lair. He will not
be back tonight; for the sky is reddening in the east, and the
dawn is close. We must work tomorrow!”
He said the latter words through his shut teeth. For a
space of perhaps a couple of minutes there was silence, and
I could fancy that I could hear the sound of our hearts
beating; then Van Helsing said, placing his hand very
tenderly on Mrs. Harker’s head:—
“And now, Madam Mina—poor, dear, dear Madam Mina—
tell us exactly what happened. God knows that I do not want
that you be pained; but it is need that we know all. For now
more than ever has all work to be done quick and sharp, and
in deadly earnest. The day is close to us that must end all, if
it may be so; and now is the chance that we may live and
learn.”
The poor, dear lady shivered, and I could see the tension
of her nerves as she clasped her husband closer to her and
bent her head lower and lower still on his breast. Then she
raised her head proudly, and held out one hand to Van
Helsing who took it in his, and, after stooping and kissing it
reverently, held it fast. The other hand was locked in that of
her husband, who held his other arm thrown round her
protectingly. After a pause in which she was evidently
ordering her thoughts, she began:—
“I took the sleeping draught which you had so kindly
given me, but for a long time it did not act. I seemed to
become more wakeful, and myriads of horrible fancies began
to crowd in upon my mind—all of them connected with
death, and vampires; with blood, and pain, and trouble.” Her
husband involuntarily groaned as she turned to him and
said lovingly: “Do not fret, dear. You must be brave and
strong, and help me through the horrible task. If you only
knew what an effort it is to me to tell of this fearful thing at
all, you would understand how much I need your help. Well,
I saw I must try to help the medicine to its work with my will,
if it was to do me any good, so I resolutely set myself to
sleep. Sure enough sleep must soon have come to me, for I
remember no more. Jonathan coming in had not waked me,
for he lay by my side when next I remember. There was in
the room the same thin white mist that I had before noticed.
But I forget now if you know of this; you will find it in my
diary which I shall show you later. I felt the same vague
terror which had come to me before and the same sense of
some presence. I turned to wake Jonathan, but found that he
slept so soundly that it seemed as if it was he who had taken
the sleeping draught, and not I. I tried, but I could not wake
him. This caused me a great fear, and I looked around
terrified. Then indeed, my heart sank within me: beside the
bed, as if he had stepped out of the mist—or rather as if the
mist had turned into his figure, for it had entirely
disappeared—stood a tall, thin man, all in black. I knew him
at once from the description of the others. The waxen face;
the high aquiline nose, on which the light fell in a thin white
line; the parted red lips, with the sharp white teeth showing
between; and the red eyes that I had seemed to see in the
sunset on the windows of St. Mary’s Church at Whitby. I
knew, too, the red scar on his forehead where Jonathan had
struck him. For an instant my heart stood still, and I would
have screamed out, only that I was paralysed. In the pause
he spoke in a sort of keen, cutting whisper, pointing as he
spoke to Jonathan:—
 “ ‘Silence! If you make a sound I shall take him and dash
his brains out before your very eyes.’ I was appalled and was
too bewildered to do or say anything. With a mocking smile,
he placed one hand upon my shoulder and, holding me
tight, bared my throat with the other, saying as he did so,
‘First, a little refreshment to reward my exertions. You may as
well be quiet; it is not the first time, or the second, that your
veins have appeased my thirst!’ I was bewildered, and,
strangely enough, I did not want to hinder him. I suppose it
is a part of the horrible curse that such is, when his touch is
on his victim. And oh, my God, my God, pity me! He placed
his reeking lips upon my throat!” Her husband groaned
again. She clasped his hand harder, and looked at him
pityingly, as if he were the injured one, and went on:—
“I felt my strength fading away, and I was in a half swoon.
How long this horrible thing lasted I know not; but it seemed
that a long time must have passed before he took his foul,
awful, sneering mouth away. I saw it drip with the fresh
blood!” The remembrance seemed for a while to overpower
her, and she drooped and would have sunk down but for her
husband’s sustaining arm. With a great effort she recovered
herself and went on:—
“Then he spoke to me mockingly, ‘And so you, like the
others, would play your brains against mine. You would help
these men to hunt me and frustrate me in my designs! You
know now, and they know in part already, and will know in
full before long, what it is to cross my path. They should
have kept their energies for use closer to home. Whilst they
played wits against me—against me who commanded
nations, and intrigued for them, and fought for them,
hundreds of years before they were born—I was
countermining them. And you, their best beloved one, are
now to me, flesh of my flesh; blood of my blood; kin of my
kin; my bountiful winepress for a while; and shall be later on
my companion and my helper. You shall be avenged in turn;
for not one of them but shall minister to your needs. But as
yet you are to be punished for what you have done. You
have aided in thwarting me; now you shall come to my call.
When my brain says “Come!” to you, you shall cross land or
sea to do my bidding; and to that end this!’ With that he
pulled open his shirt, and with his long sharp nails opened a
vein in his breast. When the blood began to spurt out, he
took my hands in one of his, holding them tight, and with
the other seized my neck and pressed my mouth to the
wound, so that I must either suffocate or swallow some of
the—Oh my God! my God! what have I done? What have I
done to deserve such a fate, I who have tried to walk in
meekness and righteousness all my days. God pity me! Look
down on a poor soul in worse than mortal peril; and in mercy
pity those to whom she is dear!” Then she began to rub her
lips as though to cleanse them from pollution.
As she was telling her terrible story, the eastern sky began
to quicken, and everything became more and more clear.
Harker was still and quiet; but over his face, as the awful
narrative went on, came a grey look which deepened and
deepened in the morning light, till when the first red streak
of the coming dawn shot up, the flesh stood darkly out
against the whitening hair.
We have arranged that one of us is to stay within call of
the unhappy pair till we can meet together and arrange
about taking action.
Of this I am sure: the sun rises today on no more miserable
house in all the great round of its daily course.
 XXII

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL.

3 October.—As I must do something or go mad, I write this

diary. It is now six o’clock, and we are to meet in the study in
half an hour and take something to eat; for Dr. Van Helsing
and Dr. Seward are agreed that if we do not eat we cannot
work our best. Our best will be, God knows, required today. I
must keep writing at every chance, for I dare not stop to
think. All, big and little, must go down; perhaps at the end
the little things may teach us most. The teaching, big or
little, could not have landed Mina or me anywhere worse
than we are today. However, we must trust and hope. Poor
Mina told me just now, with the tears running down her dear
cheeks, that it is in trouble and trial that our faith is tested—
that we must keep on trusting; and that God will aid us up to
the end. The end! oh my God! what end? … To work! To work!
When Dr. Van Helsing and Dr. Seward had come back from
seeing poor Renfield, we went gravely into what was to be
done. First, Dr. Seward told us that when he and Dr. Van
Helsing had gone down to the room below they had found
Renfield lying on the floor, all in a heap. His face was all
bruised and crushed in, and the bones of the neck were
broken.
Dr. Seward asked the attendant who was on duty in the
passage if he had heard anything. He said that he had been
sitting down—he confessed to half dozing—when he heard
loud voices in the room, and then Renfield had called out
loudly several times, “God! God! God!” after that there was
a sound of falling, and when he entered the room he found
him lying on the floor, face down, just as the doctors had
seen him. Van Helsing asked if he had heard “voices” or “a
voice,” and he said he could not say; that at first it had
seemed to him as if there were two, but as there was no one
in the room it could have been only one. He could swear to
it, if required, that the word “God” was spoken by the
patient. Dr. Seward said to us, when we were alone, that he
did not wish to go into the matter; the question of an
inquest had to be considered, and it would never do to put
forward the truth, as no one would believe it. As it was, he
thought that on the attendant’s evidence he could give a
certificate of death by misadventure in falling from bed. In
case the coroner should demand it, there would be a formal
inquest, necessarily to the same result.
When the question began to be discussed as to what
should be our next step, the very first thing we decided was
that Mina should be in full confidence; that nothing of any
sort—no matter how painful—should be kept from her. She
herself agreed as to its wisdom, and it was pitiful to see her
so brave and yet so sorrowful, and in such a depth of
despair. “There must be no concealment,” she said, “Alas!
we have had too much already. And besides there is nothing
in all the world that can give me more pain than I have
already endured—than I suffer now! Whatever may happen,
it must be of new hope or of new courage to me!” Van
Helsing was looking at her fixedly as she spoke, and said,
suddenly but quietly:—
“But dear Madam Mina, are you not afraid; not for yourself,
but for others from yourself, after what has happened?” Her
face grew set in its lines, but her eyes shone with the
devotion of a martyr as she answered:—
“Ah no! for my mind is made up!”
 “To what?” he asked gently, whilst we were all very still;
for each in our own way we had a sort of vague idea of what
she meant. Her answer came with direct simplicity, as
though she were simply stating a fact:—
“Because if I find in myself—and I shall watch keenly for
it—a sign of harm to any that I love, I shall die!”
“You would not kill yourself?” he asked, hoarsely.
“I would; if there were no friend who loved me, who would
save me such a pain, and so desperate an effort!” She
looked at him meaningly as she spoke. He was sitting down;
but now he rose and came close to her and put his hand on
her head as he said solemnly:
“My child, there is such an one if it were for your good. For
myself I could hold it in my account with God to find such an
euthanasia for you, even at this moment if it were best. Nay,
were it safe! But my child—” For a moment he seemed
choked, and a great sob rose in his throat; he gulped it down
and went on:—
“There are here some who would stand between you and
death. You must not die. You must not die by any hand; but
least of all by your own. Until the other, who has fouled your
sweet life, is true dead you must not die; for if he is still with
the quick Un-Dead, your death would make you even as he
is. No, you must live! You must struggle and strive to live,
though death would seem a boon unspeakable. You must
fight Death himself, though he come to you in pain or in joy;
by the day, or the night; in safety or in peril! On your living
soul I charge you that you do not die—nay, nor think of
death—till this great evil be past.” The poor dear grew white
as death, and shock and shivered, as I have seen a
quicksand shake and shiver at the incoming of the tide. We
were all silent; we could do nothing. At length she grew
more calm and turning to him said, sweetly, but oh! so
sorrowfully, as she held out her hand:—
“I promise you, my dear friend, that if God will let me live,
I shall strive to do so; till, if it may be in His good time, this
horror may have passed away from me.” She was so good
and brave that we all felt that our hearts were strengthened
to work and endure for her, and we began to discuss what
we were to do. I told her that she was to have all the papers
in the safe, and all the papers or diaries and phonographs
we might hereafter use; and was to keep the record as she
had done before. She was pleased with the prospect of
anything to do—if “pleased” could be used in connection
with so grim an interest.
As usual Van Helsing had thought ahead of everyone else,
and was prepared with an exact ordering of our work.
“It is perhaps well,” he said, “that at our meeting after our
visit to Carfax we decided not to do anything with the earth-
boxes that lay there. Had we done so, the Count must have
guessed our purpose, and would doubtless have taken
measures in advance to frustrate such an effort with regard
to the others; but now he does not know our intentions. Nay,
more, in all probability, he does not know that such a power
exists to us as can sterilise his lairs, so that he cannot use
them as of old. We are now so much further advanced in our
knowledge as to their disposition that, when we have
examined the house in Piccadilly, we may track the very last
of them. Today, then, is ours; and in it rests our hope. The
sun that rose on our sorrow this morning guards us in its
course. Until it sets tonight, that monster must retain
whatever form he now has. He is confined within the
limitations of his earthly envelope. He cannot melt into thin
air nor disappear through cracks or chinks or crannies. If he
go through a doorway, he must open the door like a mortal.
And so we have this day to hunt out all his lairs and sterilise
them. So we shall, if we have not yet catch him and destroy
him, drive him to bay in some place where the catching and
the destroying shall be, in time, sure.” Here I started up for I
could not contain myself at the thought that the minutes
and seconds so preciously laden with Mina’s life and
happiness were flying from us, since whilst we talked action
was impossible. But Van Helsing held up his hand warningly.
“Nay, friend Jonathan,” he said, “in this, the quickest way
home is the longest way, so your proverb say. We shall all
act and act with desperate quick, when the time has come.
But think, in all probable the key of the situation is in that
house in Piccadilly. The Count may have many houses which
he has bought. Of them he will have deeds of purchase, keys
and other things. He will have paper that he write on; he will
have his book of cheques. There are many belongings that
he must have somewhere; why not in this place so central,
so quiet, where he come and go by the front or the back at
all hour, when in the very vast of the traffic there is none to
notice. We shall go there and search that house; and when
we learn what it holds, then we do what our friend Arthur
call, in his phrases of hunt ‘stop the earths’ and so we run
down our old fox—so? is it not?”
“Then let us come at once,” I cried, “we are wasting the
precious, precious time!” The Professor did not move, but
simply said:—
“And how are we to get into that house in Piccadilly?”
“Any way!” I cried. “We shall break in if need be.”
“And your police; where will they be, and what will they
say?”
I was staggered; but I knew that if he wished to delay he
had a good reason for it. So I said, as quietly as I could:—
“Don’t wait more than need be; you know, I am sure, what
torture I am in.”
“Ah, my child, that I do; and indeed there is no wish of me
to add to your anguish. But just think, what can we do, until
all the world be at movement. Then will come our time. I
have thought and thought, and it seems to me that the
simplest way is the best of all. Now we wish to get into the
house, but we have no key; is it not so?” I nodded.
“Now suppose that you were, in truth, the owner of that
house, and could not still get it; and think there was to you
no conscience of the housebreaker, what would you do?”
 “I should get a respectable locksmith, and set him to work
to pick the lock for me.”
“And your police, they would interfere, would they not?”
“Oh, no! not if they knew the man was properly
employed.”
“Then,” he looked at me as keenly as he spoke, “all that is
in doubt is the conscience of the employer, and the belief of
your policemen as to whether or no that employer has a
good conscience or a bad one. Your police must indeed be
zealous men and clever—oh, so clever!—in reading the
heart, that they trouble themselves in such matter. No, no,
my friend Jonathan, you go take the lock off a hundred
empty house in this your London, or of any city in the world;
and if you do it as such things are rightly done, and at the
time such things are rightly done, no one will interfere. I
have read of a gentleman who owned a so fine house in
London, and when he went for months of summer to
Switzerland and lock up his house, some burglar came and
broke window at back and got in. Then he went and made
open the shutters in front and walk out and in through the
door, before the very eyes of the police. Then he have an
auction in that house, and advertise it, and put up big
notice; and when the day come he sell off by a great
auctioneer all the goods of that other man who own them.
Then he go to a builder, and he sell him that house, making
an agreement that he pull it down and take all away within a
certain time. And your police and other authority help him
all they can. And when that owner come back from his
holiday in Switzerland he find only an empty hole where his
house had been. This was all done en règle; and in our work
we shall be en règle too. We shall not go so early that the
policemen who have then little to think of, shall deem it
strange; but we shall go after ten o’clock, when there are
many about, and such things would be done were we indeed
owners of the house.”
 I could not but see how right he was and the terrible
despair of Mina’s face became relaxed a thought; there was
hope in such good counsel. Van Helsing went on:—
“When once within that house we may find more clues; at
any rate some of us can remain there whilst the rest find the
other places where there be more earth-boxes—at
Bermondsey and Mile End.”
Lord Godalming stood up. “I can be of some use here,” he
said. “I shall wire to my people to have horses and carriages
where they will be most convenient.”
“Look here, old fellow,” said Morris, “it is a capital idea to
have all ready in case we want to go horsebacking; but don’t
you think that one of your snappy carriages with its heraldic
adornments in a byway of Walworth or Mile End would
attract too much attention for our purposes? It seems to me
that we ought to take cabs when we go south or east; and
even leave them somewhere near the neighbourhood we are
going to.”
“Friend Quincey is right!” said the Professor. “His head is
what you call in plane with the horizon. It is a difficult thing
that we go to do, and we do not want no peoples to watch us
if so it may.”
Mina took a growing interest in everything and I was
rejoiced to see that the exigency of affairs was helping her
to forget for a time the terrible experience of the night. She
was very, very pale—almost ghastly, and so thin that her
lips were drawn away, showing her teeth in somewhat of
prominence. I did not mention this last, lest it should give
her needless pain; but it made my blood run cold in my
veins to think of what had occurred with poor Lucy when the
Count had sucked her blood. As yet there was no sign of the
teeth growing sharper; but the time as yet was short, and
there was time for fear.
When we came to the discussion of the sequence of our
efforts and of the disposition of our forces, there were new
sources of doubt. It was finally agreed that before starting
for Piccadilly we should destroy the Count’s lair close at
hand. In case he should find it out too soon, we should thus
be still ahead of him in our work of destruction; and his
presence in his purely material shape, and at his weakest,
might give us some new clue.
As to the disposal of forces, it was suggested by the
Professor that, after our visit to Carfax, we should all enter
the house in Piccadilly; that the two doctors and I should
remain there, whilst Lord Godalming and Quincey found the
lairs at Walworth and Mile End and destroyed them. It was
possible, if not likely, the Professor urged, that the Count
might appear in Piccadilly during the day, and that if so we
might be able to cope with him then and there. At any rate,
we might be able to follow him in force. To this plan I
strenuously objected, and so far as my going was concerned,
for I said that I intended to stay and protect Mina, I thought
that my mind was made up on the subject; but Mina would
not listen to my objection. She said that there might be
some law matter in which I could be useful; that amongst
the Count’s papers might be some clue which I could
understand out of my experience in Transylvania; and that,
as it was, all the strength we could muster was required to
cope with the Count’s extraordinary power. I had to give in,
for Mina’s resolution was fixed; she said that it was the last
hope for her that we should all work together. “As for me,”
she said, “I have no fear. Things have been as bad as they
can be; and whatever may happen must have in it some
element of hope or comfort. Go, my husband! God can, if He
wishes it, guard me as well alone as with anyone present.”
So I started up crying out: “Then in God’s name let us come
at once, for we are losing time. The Count may come to
Piccadilly earlier than we think.”
“Not so!” said Van Helsing, holding up his hand.
“But why?” I asked.
“Do you forget,” he said, with actually a smile, “that last
night he banqueted heavily, and will sleep late?”
 Did I forget! shall I ever—can I ever! Can any of us ever
forget that terrible scene! Mina struggled hard to keep her
brave countenance; but the pain overmastered her and she
put her hands before her face, and shuddered whilst she
moaned. Van Helsing had not intended to recall her frightful
experience. He had simply lost sight of her and her part in
the affair in his intellectual effort. When it struck him what
he said, he was horrified at his thoughtlessness and tried to
comfort her. “Oh, Madam Mina,” he said, “dear, dear Madam
Mina, alas! that I of all who so reverence you should have
said anything so forgetful. These stupid old lips of mine and
this stupid old head do not deserve so; but you will forget it,
will you not?” He bent low beside her as he spoke; she took
his hand, and looking at him through her tears, said
hoarsely:—
“No, I shall not forget, for it is well that I remember; and
with it I have so much in memory of you that is sweet, that I
take it all together. Now, you must all be going soon.
Breakfast is ready, and we must all eat that we may be
strong.”
Breakfast was a strange meal to us all. We tried to be
cheerful and encourage each other, and Mina was the
brightest and most cheerful of us. When it was over, Van
Helsing stood up and said:—
“Now, my dear friends, we go forth to our terrible
enterprise. Are we all armed, as we were on that night when
first we visited our enemy’s lair; armed against ghostly as
well as carnal attack?” We all assured him. “Then it is well.
Now, Madam Mina, you are in any case quite safe here until
the sunset; and before then we shall return—if—We shall
return! But before we go let me see you armed against
personal attack. I have myself, since you came down,
prepared your chamber by the placing of things of which we
know, so that He may not enter. Now let me guard yourself.
On your forehead I touch this piece of Sacred Wafer in the
name of the Father, the Son, and—”
 There was a fearful scream which almost froze our hearts
to hear. As he had placed the Wafer on Mina’s forehead, it
had seared it—had burned into the flesh as though it had
been a piece of white-hot metal. My poor darling’s brain had
told her the significance of the fact as quickly as her nerves
received the pain of it; and the two so overwhelmed her that
her overwrought nature had its voice in that dreadful
scream. But the words to her thought came quickly; the
echo of the scream had not ceased to ring on the air when
there came the reaction, and she sank on her knees on the
floor in an agony of abasement. Pulling her beautiful hair
over her face, as the leper of old his mantle, she wailed
out:—
“Unclean! Unclean! Even the Almighty shuns my polluted
flesh! I must bear this mark of shame upon my forehead
until the Judgment Day.” They all paused. I had thrown
myself beside her in an agony of helpless grief, and putting
my arms around held her tight. For a few minutes our
sorrowful hearts beat together, whilst the friends around us
turned away their eyes that ran tears silently. Then Van
Helsing turned and said gravely; so gravely that I could not
help feeling that he was in some way inspired, and was
stating things outside himself:—
“It may be that you may have to bear that mark till God
himself see fit, as He most surely shall, on the Judgment
Day, to redress all wrongs of the earth and of His children
that He has placed thereon. And oh, Madam Mina, my dear,
my dear, may we who love you be there to see, when that
red scar, the sign of God’s knowledge of what has been,
shall pass away, and leave your forehead as pure as the
heart we know. For so surely as we live, that scar shall pass
away when God sees right to lift the burden that is hard
upon us. Till then we bear our Cross, as His Son did in
obedience to His Will. It may be that we are chosen
instruments of His good pleasure, and that we ascend to His
bidding as that other through stripes and shame; through
tears and blood; through doubts and fears, and all that
makes the difference between God and man.”
There was hope in his words, and comfort; and they made
for resignation. Mina and I both felt so, and simultaneously
we each took one of the old man’s hands and bent over and
kissed it. Then without a word we all knelt down together,
and, all holding hands, swore to be true to each other. We
men pledged ourselves to raise the veil of sorrow from the
head of her whom, each in his own way, we loved; and we
prayed for help and guidance in the terrible task which lay
before us.
It was then time to start. So I said farewell to Mina, a
parting which neither of us shall forget to our dying day; and
we set out.
To one thing I have made up my mind: if we find out that
Mina must be a vampire in the end, then she shall not go
into that unknown and terrible land alone. I suppose it is
thus that in old times one vampire meant many; just as their
hideous bodies could only rest in sacred earth, so the holiest
love was the recruiting sergeant for their ghastly ranks.
We entered Carfax without trouble and found all things
the same as on the first occasion. It was hard to believe that
amongst so prosaic surroundings of neglect and dust and
decay there was any ground for such fear as already we
knew. Had not our minds been made up, and had there not
been terrible memories to spur us on, we could hardly have
proceeded with our task. We found no papers, or any sign of
use in the house; and in the old chapel the great boxes
looked just as we had seen them last. Dr. Van Helsing said to
us solemnly as we stood before them:—
“And now, my friends, we have a duty here to do. We must
sterilise this earth, so sacred of holy memories, that he has
brought from a far distant land for such fell use. He has
chosen this earth because it has been holy. Thus we defeat
him with his own weapon, for we make it more holy still. It
was sanctified to such use of man, now we sanctify it to
God.” As he spoke he took from his bag a screwdriver and a
wrench, and very soon the top of one of the cases was
thrown open. The earth smelled musty and close; but we did
not somehow seem to mind, for our attention was
concentrated on the Professor. Taking from his box a piece of
the Sacred Wafer he laid it reverently on the earth, and then
shutting down the lid began to screw it home, we aiding him
as he worked.
One by one we treated in the same way each of the great
boxes, and left them as we had found them to all
appearance; but in each was a portion of the Host.
When we closed the door behind us, the Professor said
solemnly:—
“So much is already done. If it may be that with all the
others we can be so successful, then the sunset of this
evening may shine on Madam Mina’s forehead all white as
ivory and with no stain!”
As we passed across the lawn on our way to the station to
catch our train we could see the front of the asylum. I looked
eagerly, and in the window of my own room saw Mina. I
waved my hand to her, and nodded to tell that our work
there was successfully accomplished. She nodded in reply to
show that she understood. The last I saw, she was waving
her hand in farewell. It was with a heavy heart that we
sought the station and just caught the train, which was
steaming in as we reached the platform.
I have written this in the train.

Piccadilly, 12:30 o’clock.—Just before we reached Fenchurch

Street Lord Godalming said to me:—
“Quincey and I will find a locksmith. You had better not
come with us in case there should be any difficulty; for
under the circumstances it wouldn’t seem so bad for us to
break into an empty house. But you are a solicitor and the
Incorporated Law Society might tell you that you should
have known better.” I demurred as to my not sharing any
danger even of odium, but he went on: “Besides, it will
attract less attention if there are not too many of us. My title
will make it all right with the locksmith, and with any
policeman that may come along. You had better go with Jack
and the Professor and stay in the Green Park, somewhere in
sight of the house; and when you see the door opened and
the smith has gone away, do you all come across. We shall
be on the lookout for you, and shall let you in.”
“The advice is good!” said Van Helsing, so we said no
more. Godalming and Morris hurried off in a cab, we
following in another. At the corner of Arlington Street our
contingent got out and strolled into the Green Park. My
heart beat as I saw the house on which so much of our hope
was centred, looming up grim and silent in its deserted
condition amongst its more lively and spruce-looking
neighbours. We sat down on a bench within good view, and
began to smoke cigars so as to attract as little attention as
possible. The minutes seemed to pass with leaden feet as we
waited for the coming of the others.
At length we saw a four-wheeler drive up. Out of it, in
leisurely fashion, got Lord Godalming and Morris; and down
from the box descended a thickset working man with his
rush-woven basket of tools. Morris paid the cabman, who
touched his hat and drove away. Together the two ascended
the steps, and Lord Godalming pointed out what he wanted
done. The workman took off his coat leisurely and hung it on
one of the spikes of the rail, saying something to a
policeman who just then sauntered along. The policeman
nodded acquiescence, and the man kneeling down placed
his bag beside him. After searching through it, he took out a
selection of tools which he produced to lay beside him in
orderly fashion. Then he stood up, looked into the keyhole,
blew into it, and turning to his employers, made some
remark. Lord Godalming smiled, and the man lifted a good-
sized bunch of keys; selecting one of them, he began to
probe the lock, as if feeling his way with it. After fumbling
about for a bit he tried a second, and then a third. All at
once the door opened under a slight push from him, and he
and the two others entered the hall. We sat still; my own
cigar burnt furiously, but Van Helsing’s went cold altogether.
We waited patiently as we saw the workman come out and
bring in his bag. Then he held the door partly open,
steadying it with his knees, whilst he fitted a key to the lock.
This he finally handed to Lord Godalming, who took out his
purse and gave him something. The man touched his hat,
took his bag, put on his coat and departed; not a soul took
the slightest notice of the whole transaction.
When the man had fairly gone, we three crossed the street
and knocked at the door. It was immediately opened by
Quincey Morris, beside whom stood Lord Godalming lighting
a cigar.
“The place smells so vilely,” said the latter as we came in.
It did indeed smell vilely—like the old chapel at Carfax—and
with our previous experience it was plain to us that the
Count had been using the place pretty freely. We moved to
explore the house, all keeping together in case of attack; for
we knew we had a strong and wily enemy to deal with, and
as yet we did not know whether the Count might not be in
the house. In the dining-room, which lay at the back of the
hall, we found eight boxes of earth. Eight boxes only out of
the nine, which we sought! Our work was not over, and
would never be until we should have found the missing box.
First we opened the shutters of the window which looked out
across a narrow stone-flagged yard at the blank face of a
stable, pointed to look like the front of a miniature house.
There were no windows in it, so we were not afraid of being
overlooked. We did not lose any time in examining the
chests. With the tools which we had brought with us we
opened them, one by one, and treated them as we had
treated those others in the old chapel. It was evident to us
that the Count was not at present in the house, and we
proceeded to search for any of his effects.
After a cursory glance at the rest of the rooms, from
basement to attic, we came to the conclusion that the
dining-room contained any effects which might belong to
the Count; and so we proceeded to minutely examine them.
They lay in a sort of orderly disorder on the great dining-
room table. There were title deeds of the Piccadilly house in
a great bundle; deeds of the purchase of the houses at Mile
End and Bermondsey; notepaper, envelopes, and pens and
ink. All were covered up in thin wrapping paper to keep
them from the dust. There were also a clothes brush, a brush
and comb, and a jug and basin—the latter containing dirty
water which was reddened as if with blood. Last of all was a
little heap of keys of all sorts and sizes, probably those
belonging to the other houses. When we had examined this
last find, Lord Godalming and Quincey Morris taking
accurate notes of the various addresses of the houses in the
East and the South, took with them the keys in a great
bunch, and set out to destroy the boxes in these places. The
rest of us are, with what patience we can, waiting their
return—or the coming of the Count.
 XXIII

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY.

3 October.—The time seemed terrible long whilst we were

waiting for the coming of Godalming and Quincey Morris.
The Professor tried to keep our minds active by using them
all the time. I could see his beneficent purpose, by the side
glances which he threw from time to time at Harker. The
poor fellow is overwhelmed in a misery that is appalling to
see. Last night he was a frank, happy-looking man, with
strong, youthful face, full of energy, and with dark brown
hair. Today he is a drawn, haggard old man, whose white hair
matches well with the hollow burning eyes and grief-written
lines of his face. His energy is still intact; in fact, he is like a
living flame. This may yet be his salvation, for, if all go well,
it will tide him over the despairing period; he will then, in a
kind of way, wake again to the realities of life. Poor fellow, I
thought my own trouble was bad enough, but his—! The
Professor knows this well enough, and is doing his best to
keep his mind active. What he has been saying was, under
the circumstances, of absorbing interest. So well as I can
remember, here it is:—
“I have studied, over and over again since they came into
my hands, all the papers relating to this monster; and the
more I have studied, the greater seems the necessity to
utterly stamp him out. All through there are signs of his
advance; not only of his power, but of his knowledge of it. As
I learned from the researches of my friend Arminus of Buda-
Pesth, he was in life a most wonderful man. Soldier,
statesman, and alchemist—which latter was the highest
development of the science-knowledge of his time. He had a
mighty brain, a learning beyond compare, and a heart that
knew no fear and no remorse. He dared even to attend the
Scholomance, and there was no branch of knowledge of his
time that he did not essay. Well, in him the brain powers
survived the physical death; though it would seem that
memory was not all complete. In some faculties of mind he
has been, and is, only a child; but he is growing, and some
things that were childish at the first are now of man’s
stature. He is experimenting, and doing it well; and if it had
not been that we have crossed his path he would be yet—he
may be yet if we fail—the father or furtherer of a new order
of beings, whose road must lead through Death, not Life.”
Harker groaned and said, “And this is all arrayed against
my darling! But how is he experimenting? The knowledge
may help us to defeat him!”
“He has all along, since his coming, been trying his power,
slowly but surely; that big child-brain of his is working. Well
for us, it is, as yet, a child-brain; for had he dared, at the
first, to attempt certain things he would long ago have been
beyond our power. However, he means to succeed, and a
man who has centuries before him can afford to wait and to
go slow. Festina lente may well be his motto.”
“I fail to understand,” said Harker wearily. “Oh, do be more
plain to me! Perhaps grief and trouble are dulling my brain.”
The Professor laid his hand tenderly on his shoulder as he
spoke:—
“Ah, my child, I will be plain. Do you not see how, of late,
this monster has been creeping into knowledge
experimentally. How he has been making use of the
zoöphagous patient to effect his entry into friend John’s
home; for your Vampire, though in all afterwards he can
come when and how he will, must at the first make entry
only when asked thereto by an inmate. But these are not his
most important experiments. Do we not see how at the first
all these so great boxes were moved by others. He knew not
then but that must be so. But all the time that so great child-
brain of his was growing, and he began to consider whether
he might not himself move the box. So he began to help;
and then, when he found that this be all-right, he try to
move them all alone. And so he progress, and he scatter
these graves of him; and none but he know where they are
hidden. He may have intend to bury them deep in the
ground. So that he only use them in the night, or at such
time as he can change his form, they do him equal well; and
none may know these are his hiding-place! But, my child, do
not despair; this knowledge come to him just too late!
Already all of his lairs but one be sterilise as for him; and
before the sunset this shall be so. Then he have no place
where he can move and hide. I delayed this morning that so
we might be sure. Is there not more at stake for us than for
him? Then why we not be even more careful than him? By
my clock it is one hour and already, if all be well, friend
Arthur and Quincey are on their way to us. Today is our day,
and we must go sure, if slow, and lose no chance. See! there
are five of us when those absent ones return.”
Whilst he was speaking we were startled by a knock at the
hall door, the double postman’s knock of the telegraph boy.
We all moved out to the hall with one impulse, and Van
Helsing, holding up his hand to us to keep silence, stepped
to the door and opened it. The boy handed in a despatch.
The Professor closed the door again, and, after looking at the
direction, opened it and read aloud.

“Look out for D. He has just now, 12:45, come from

Carfax hurriedly and hastened towards the South. He
seems to be going the round and may want to see you:
Mina.”
 There was a pause, broken by Jonathan Harker’s voice:—
“Now, God be thanked, we shall soon meet!” Van Helsing
turned to him quickly and said:—
“God will act in His own way and time. Do not fear, and do
not rejoice as yet; for what we wish for at the moment may
be our undoings.”
“I care for nothing now,” he answered hotly, “except to
wipe out this brute from the face of creation. I would sell my
soul to do it!”
“Oh, hush, hush, my child!” said Van Helsing. “God does
not purchase souls in this wise; and the Devil, though he
may purchase, does not keep faith. But God is merciful and
just, and knows your pain and your devotion to that dear
Madam Mina. Think you, how her pain would be doubled, did
she but hear your wild words. Do not fear any of us, we are
all devoted to this cause, and today shall see the end. The
time is coming for action; today this Vampire is limit to the
powers of man, and till sunset he may not change. It will
take him time to arrive here—see, it is twenty minutes past
one—and there are yet some times before he can hither
come, be he never so quick. What we must hope for is that
my Lord Arthur and Quincey arrive first.”
About half an hour after we had received Mrs. Harker’s
telegram, there came a quiet, resolute knock at the hall
door. It was just an ordinary knock, such as is given hourly
by thousands of gentlemen, but it made the Professor’s
heart and mine beat loudly. We looked at each other, and
together moved out into the hall; we each held ready to use
our various armaments—the spiritual in the left hand, the
mortal in the right. Van Helsing pulled back the latch, and,
holding the door half open, stood back, having both hands
ready for action. The gladness of our hearts must have
shown upon our faces when on the step, close to the door,
we saw Lord Godalming and Quincey Morris. They came
quickly in and closed the door behind them, the former
saying, as they moved along the hall:—
 “It is all right. We found both places; six boxes in each and
we destroyed them all!”
“Destroyed?” asked the Professor.
“For him!” We were silent for a minute, and then Quincey
said:—
“There’s nothing to do but to wait here. If, however, he
doesn’t turn up by five o’clock, we must start off; for it won’t
do to leave Mrs. Harker alone after sunset.”
“He will be here before long now,” said Van Helsing, who
had been consulting his pocketbook. “Nota bene, in
Madam’s telegram he went south from Carfax, that means
he went to cross the river, and he could only do so at slack
of tide, which should be something before one o’clock. That
he went south has a meaning for us. He is as yet only
suspicious; and he went from Carfax first to the place where
he would suspect interference least. You must have been at
Bermondsey only a short time before him. That he is not
here already shows that he went to Mile End next. This took
him some time; for he would then have to be carried over
the river in some way. Believe me, my friends, we shall not
have long to wait now. We should have ready some plan of
attack, so that we may throw away no chance. Hush, there is
no time now. Have all your arms! Be ready!” He held up a
warning hand as he spoke, for we all could hear a key softly
inserted in the lock of the hall door.
I could not but admire, even at such a moment, the way in
which a dominant spirit asserted itself. In all our hunting
parties and adventures in different parts of the world,
Quincey Morris had always been the one to arrange the plan
of action, and Arthur and I had been accustomed to obey
him implicitly. Now, the old habit seemed to be renewed
instinctively. With a swift glance around the room, he at
once laid out our plan of attack, and, without speaking a
word, with a gesture, placed us each in position. Van
Helsing, Harker, and I were just behind the door, so that
when it was opened the Professor could guard it whilst we
two stepped between the incomer and the door. Godalming
behind and Quincey in front stood just out of sight ready to
move in front of the window. We waited in a suspense that
made the seconds pass with nightmare slowness. The slow,
careful steps came along the hall; the Count was evidently
prepared for some surprise—at least he feared it.
Suddenly with a single bound he leaped into the room,
winning a way past us before any of us could raise a hand to
stay him. There was something so panther-like in the
movement—something so unhuman, that it seemed to sober
us all from the shock of his coming. The first to act was
Harker, who, with a quick movement, threw himself before
the door leading into the room in the front of the house. As
the Count saw us, a horrible sort of snarl passed over his
face, showing the eyeteeth long and pointed; but the evil
smile as quickly passed into a cold stare of lion-like disdain.
His expression again changed as, with a single impulse, we
all advanced upon him. It was a pity that we had not some
better organised plan of attack, for even at the moment I
wondered what we were to do. I did not myself know
whether our lethal weapons would avail us anything. Harker
evidently meant to try the matter, for he had ready his great
Kukri knife and made a fierce and sudden cut at him. The
blow was a powerful one; only the diabolical quickness of
the Count’s leap back saved him. A second less and the
trenchant blade had shorne through his heart. As it was, the
point just cut the cloth of his coat, making a wide gap
whence a bundle of banknotes and a stream of gold fell out.
The expression of the Count’s face was so hellish, that for a
moment I feared for Harker, though I saw him throw the
terrible knife aloft again for another stroke. Instinctively I
moved forward with a protective impulse, holding the
Crucifix and Wafer in my left hand. I felt a mighty power fly
along my arm; and it was without surprise that I saw the
monster cower back before a similar movement made
spontaneously by each one of us. It would be impossible to
describe the expression of hate and baffled malignity—of
anger and hellish rage—which came over the Count’s face.
His waxen hue became greenish-yellow by the contrast of
his burning eyes, and the red scar on the forehead showed
on the pallid skin like a palpitating wound. The next instant,
with a sinuous dive he swept under Harker’s arm, ere his
blow could fall, and, grasping a handful of the money from
the floor, dashed across the room, threw himself at the
window. Amid the crash and glitter of the falling glass, he
tumbled into the flagged area below. Through the sound of
the shivering glass I could hear the “ting” of the gold, as
some of the sovereigns fell on the flagging.
We ran over and saw him spring unhurt from the ground.
He, rushing up the steps, crossed the flagged yard, and
pushed open the stable door. There he turned and spoke to
us:—
“You think to baffle me, you—with your pale faces all in a
row, like sheep in a butcher’s. You shall be sorry yet, each
one of you! You think you have left me without a place to
rest; but I have more. My revenge is just begun! I spread it
over centuries, and time is on my side. Your girls that you all
love are mine already; and through them you and others
shall yet be mine—my creatures, to do my bidding and to be
my jackals when I want to feed. Bah!” With a contemptuous
sneer, he passed quickly through the door, and we heard the
rusty bolt creak as he fastened it behind him. A door beyond
opened and shut. The first of us to speak was the Professor,
as, realising the difficulty of following him through the
stable, we moved toward the hall.
“We have learnt something—much! Notwithstanding his
brave words, he fears us; he fear time, he fear want! For if
not, why he hurry so? His very tone betray him, or my ears
deceive. Why take that money? You follow quick. You are
hunters of wild beast, and understand it so. For me, I make
sure that nothing here may be of use to him, if so that he
return.” As he spoke he put the money remaining into his
pocket; took the title-deeds in the bundle as Harker had left
them, and swept the remaining things into the open
fireplace, where he set fire to them with a match.
Godalming and Morris had rushed out into the yard, and
Harker had lowered himself from the window to follow the
Count. He had, however, bolted the stable door; and by the
time they had forced it open there was no sign of him. Van
Helsing and I tried to make inquiry at the back of the house;
but the mews was deserted and no one had seen him
depart.
It was now late in the afternoon, and sunset was not far
off. We had to recognise that our game was up; with heavy
hearts we agreed with the Professor when he said:—
“Let us go back to Madam Mina—poor, poor dear Madam
Mina. All we can do just now is done; and we can there, at
least, protect her. But we need not despair. There is but one
more earth-box, and we must try to find it; when that is done
all may yet be well.” I could see that he spoke as bravely as
he could to comfort Harker. The poor fellow was quite broken
down; now and again he gave a low groan which he could
not suppress—he was thinking of his wife.
With sad hearts we came back to my house, where we
found Mrs. Harker waiting us, with an appearance of
cheerfulness which did honour to her bravery and
unselfishness. When she saw our faces, her own became as
pale as death: for a second or two her eyes were closed as if
she were in secret prayer; and then she said cheerfully:—
“I can never thank you all enough. Oh, my poor darling!”
As she spoke, she took her husband’s grey head in her
hands and kissed it—“Lay your poor head here and rest it.
All will yet be well, dear! God will protect us if He so will it in
His good intent.” The poor fellow groaned. There was no
place for words in his sublime misery.
We had a sort of perfunctory supper together, and I think
it cheered us all up somewhat. It was, perhaps, the mere
animal heat of food to hungry people—for none of us had
eaten anything since breakfast—or the sense of
companionship may have helped us; but anyhow we were all
less miserable, and saw the morrow as not altogether
without hope. True to our promise, we told Mrs. Harker
everything which had passed; and although she grew snowy
white at times when danger had seemed to threaten her
husband, and red at others when his devotion to her was
manifested, she listened bravely and with calmness. When
we came to the part where Harker had rushed at the Count
so recklessly, she clung to her husband’s arm, and held it
tight as though her clinging could protect him from any
harm that might come. She said nothing, however, till the
narration was all done, and matters had been brought right
up to the present time. Then without letting go her
husband’s hand she stood up amongst us and spoke. Oh,
that I could give any idea of the scene; of that sweet, sweet,
good, good woman in all the radiant beauty of her youth and
animation, with the red scar on her forehead, of which she
was conscious, and which we saw with grinding of our
teeth—remembering whence and how it came; her loving
kindness against our grim hate; her tender faith against all
our fears and doubting; and we, knowing that so far as
symbols went, she with all her goodness and purity and
faith, was outcast from God.
“Jonathan,” she said, and the word sounded like music on
her lips it was so full of love and tenderness, “Jonathan dear,
and you all my true, true friends, I want you to bear
something in mind through all this dreadful time. I know
that you must fight—that you must destroy even as you
destroyed the false Lucy so that the true Lucy might live
hereafter; but it is not a work of hate. That poor soul who has
wrought all this misery is the saddest case of all. Just think
what will be his joy when he, too, is destroyed in his worser
part that his better part may have spiritual immortality. You
must be pitiful to him, too, though it may not hold your
hands from his destruction.”
 As she spoke I could see her husband’s face darken and
draw together, as though the passion in him were shrivelling
his being to its core. Instinctively the clasp on his wife’s
hand grew closer, till his knuckles looked white. She did not
flinch from the pain which I knew she must have suffered,
but looked at him with eyes that were more appealing than
ever. As she stopped speaking he leaped to his feet, almost
tearing his hand from hers as he spoke:—
“May God give him into my hand just for long enough to
destroy that earthly life of him which we are aiming at. If
beyond it I could send his soul for ever and ever to burning
hell I would do it!”
“Oh, hush! oh, hush! in the name of the good God. Don’t
say such things, Jonathan, my husband; or you will crush me
with fear and horror. Just think, my dear—I have been
thinking all this long, long day of it—that … perhaps … some
day … I, too, may need such pity; and that some other like
you—and with equal cause for anger—may deny it to me!
Oh, my husband! my husband, indeed I would have spared
you such a thought had there been another way; but I pray
that God may not have treasured your wild words, except as
the heartbroken wail of a very loving and sorely stricken
man. Oh, God, let these poor white hairs go in evidence of
what he has suffered, who all his life has done no wrong, and
on whom so many sorrows have come.”
We men were all in tears now. There was no resisting them,
and we wept openly. She wept, too, to see that her sweeter
counsels had prevailed. Her husband flung himself on his
knees beside her, and putting his arms round her, hid his
face in the folds of her dress. Van Helsing beckoned to us
and we stole out of the room, leaving the two loving hearts
alone with their God.
Before they retired the Professor fixed up the room against
any coming of the Vampire, and assured Mrs. Harker that she
might rest in peace. She tried to school herself to the belief,
and, manifestly for her husband’s sake, tried to seem
content. It was a brave struggle; and was, I think and
believe, not without its reward. Van Helsing had placed at
hand a bell which either of them was to sound in case of any
emergency. When they had retired, Quincey, Godalming,
and I arranged that we should sit up, dividing the night
between us, and watch over the safety of the poor stricken
lady. The first watch falls to Quincey, so the rest of us shall
be off to bed as soon as we can. Godalming has already
turned in, for his is the second watch. Now that my work is
done I, too, shall go to bed.

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL.

3–4 October, close to midnight.—I thought yesterday would

never end. There was over me a yearning for sleep, in some
sort of blind belief that to wake would be to find things
changed, and that any change must now be for the better.
Before we parted, we discussed what our next step was to
be, but we could arrive at no result. All we knew was that
one earth-box remained, and that the Count alone knew
where it was. If he chooses to lie hidden, he may baffle us for
years; and in the meantime!—the thought is too horrible, I
dare not think of it even now. This I know: that if ever there
was a woman who was all perfection, that one is my poor
wronged darling. I love her a thousand times more for her
sweet pity of last night, a pity that made my own hate of the
monster seem despicable. Surely God will not permit the
world to be the poorer by the loss of such a creature. This is
hope to me. We are all drifting reefwards now, and faith is
our only anchor. Thank God! Mina is sleeping, and sleeping
without dreams. I fear what her dreams might be like, with
such terrible memories to ground them in. She has not been
so calm, within my seeing, since the sunset. Then, for a
while, there came over her face a repose which was like
spring after the blasts of March. I thought at the time that it
was the softness of the red sunset on her face, but somehow
now I think it has a deeper meaning. I am not sleepy myself,
though I am weary—weary to death. However, I must try to
sleep; for there is tomorrow to think of, and there is no rest
for me until. …

Later.—I must have fallen asleep, for I was awaked by Mina,

who was sitting up in bed, with a startled look on her face. I
could see easily, for we did not leave the room in darkness;
she had placed a warning hand over my mouth, and now she
whispered in my ear:—
“Hush! there is someone in the corridor!” I got up softly,
and crossing the room, gently opened the door.
Just outside, stretched on a mattress, lay Mr. Morris, wide
awake. He raised a warning hand for silence as he whispered
to me:—
“Hush! go back to bed; it is all right. One of us will be here
all night. We don’t mean to take any chances!”
His look and gesture forbade discussion, so I came back
and told Mina. She sighed and positively a shadow of a smile
stole over her poor, pale face as she put her arms round me
and said softly:—
“Oh, thank God for good brave men!” With a sigh she sank
back again to sleep. I write this now as I am not sleepy,
though I must try again.

4 October, morning.—Once again during the night I was

wakened by Mina. This time we had all had a good sleep, for
the grey of the coming dawn was making the windows into
sharp oblongs, and the gas flame was like a speck rather
than a disc of light. She said to me hurriedly:—
“Go, call the Professor. I want to see him at once.”
“Why?” I asked.
“I have an idea. I suppose it must have come in the night,
and matured without my knowing it. He must hypnotise me
before the dawn, and then I shall be able to speak. Go quick,
dearest; the time is getting close.” I went to the door.
Dr. Seward was resting on the mattress, and, seeing me, he
sprang to his feet.
“Is anything wrong?” he asked, in alarm.
“No,” I replied; “but Mina wants to see Dr. Van Helsing at
once.”
“I will go,” he said, and hurried into the Professor’s room.
In two or three minutes later Van Helsing was in the room
in his dressing-gown, and Mr. Morris and Lord Godalming
were with Dr. Seward at the door asking questions. When the
Professor saw Mina a smile—a positive smile ousted the
anxiety of his face; he rubbed his hands as he said:—
“Oh, my dear Madam Mina, this is indeed a change. See!
friend Jonathan, we have got our dear Madam Mina, as of
old, back to us today!” Then turning to her, he said,
cheerfully: “And what am I do for you? For at this hour you
do not want me for nothings.”
“I want you to hypnotise me!” she said. “Do it before the
dawn, for I feel that then I can speak, and speak freely. Be
quick, for the time is short!” Without a word he motioned her
to sit up in bed.
Looking fixedly at her, he commenced to make passes in
front of her, from over the top of her head downward, with
each hand in turn. Mina gazed at him fixedly for a few
minutes, during which my own heart beat like a trip
hammer, for I felt that some crisis was at hand. Gradually
her eyes closed, and she sat, stock still; only by the gentle
heaving of her bosom could one know that she was alive.
The Professor made a few more passes and then stopped,
and I could see that his forehead was covered with great
beads of perspiration. Mina opened her eyes; but she did not
seem the same woman. There was a faraway look in her
eyes, and her voice had a sad dreaminess which was new to
me. Raising his hand to impose silence, the Professor
motioned to me to bring the others in. They came on tiptoe,
closing the door behind them, and stood at the foot of the
bed, looking on. Mina appeared not to see them. The
stillness was broken by Van Helsing’s voice speaking in a low
level tone which would not break the current of her
thoughts:—
“Where are you?” The answer came in a neutral way:—
“I do not know. Sleep has no place it can call its own.” For
several minutes there was silence. Mina sat rigid, and the
Professor stood staring at her fixedly; the rest of us hardly
dared to breathe. The room was growing lighter; without
taking his eyes from Mina’s face, Dr. Van Helsing motioned
me to pull up the blind. I did so, and the day seemed just
upon us. A red streak shot up, and a rosy light seemed to
diffuse itself through the room. On the instant the Professor
spoke again:—
“Where are you now?” The answer came dreamily, but
with intention; it were as though she were interpreting
something. I have heard her use the same tone when
reading her shorthand notes.
“I do not know. It is all strange to me!”
“What do you see?”
“I can see nothing; it is all dark.”
“What do you hear?” I could detect the strain in the
Professor’s patient voice.
“The lapping of water. It is gurgling by, and little waves
leap. I can hear them on the outside.”
“Then you are on a ship?” We all looked at each other,
trying to glean something each from the other. We were
afraid to think. The answer came quick:—
“Oh, yes!”
 “What else do you hear?”
“The sound of men stamping overhead as they run about.
There is the creaking of a chain, and the loud tinkle as the
check of the capstan falls into the rachet.”
“What are you doing?”
“I am still—oh, so still. It is like death!” The voice faded
away into a deep breath as of one sleeping, and the open
eyes closed again.
By this time the sun had risen, and we were all in the full
light of day. Dr. Van Helsing placed his hands on Mina’s
shoulders, and laid her head down softly on her pillow. She
lay like a sleeping child for a few moments, and then, with a
long sigh, awoke and stared in wonder to see us all around
her. “Have I been talking in my sleep?” was all she said. She
seemed, however, to know the situation without telling,
though she was eager to know what she had told. The
Professor repeated the conversation, and she said:—
“Then there is not a moment to lose: it may not be yet too
late!” Mr. Morris and Lord Godalming started for the door but
the Professor’s calm voice called them back:—
“Stay, my friends. That ship, wherever it was, was
weighing anchor whilst she spoke. There are many ships
weighing anchor at the moment in your so great Port of
London. Which of them is it that you seek? God be thanked
that we have once again a clue, though whither it may lead
us we know not. We have been blind somewhat; blind after
the manner of men, since when we can look back we see
what we might have seen looking forward if we had been
able to see what we might have seen! Alas, but that
sentence is a puddle; is it not? We can know now what was
in the Count’s mind, when he seize that money, though
Jonathan’s so fierce knife put him in the danger that even he
dread. He meant escape. Hear me, escape! He saw that with
but one earth-box left, and a pack of men following like dogs
after a fox, this London was no place for him. He have take
his last earth-box on board a ship, and he leave the land. He
think to escape, but no! we follow him. Tally Ho! as friend
Arthur would say when he put on his red frock! Our old fox is
wily; oh! so wily, and we must follow with wile. I, too, am
wily and I think his mind in a little while. In meantime we
may rest and in peace, for there are waters between us
which he do not want to pass, and which he could not if he
would—unless the ship were to touch the land, and then
only at full or slack tide. See, and the sun is just rose, and all
day to sunset is to us. Let us take bath, and dress, and have
breakfast which we all need, and which we can eat
comfortably since he be not in the same land with us.” Mina
looked at him appealingly as she asked:—
“But why need we seek him further, when he is gone away
from us?” He took her hand and patted it as he replied:—
“Ask me nothings as yet. When we have breakfast, then I
answer all questions.” He would say no more, and we
separated to dress.
After breakfast Mina repeated her question. He looked at
her gravely for a minute and then said sorrowfully:—
“Because my dear, dear Madam Mina, now more than ever
must we find him even if we have to follow him to the jaws
of Hell!” She grew paler as she asked faintly:—
“Why?”
“Because,” he answered solemnly, “he can live for
centuries, and you are but mortal woman. Time is now to be
dreaded—since once he put that mark upon your throat.”
I was just in time to catch her as she fell forward in a faint.
 XXIV

DR. SEWARD’S PHONOGRAPH DIARY, SPOKEN BY VAN HELSING.

This to Jonathan Harker.

You are to stay with your dear Madam Mina. We shall go to
make our search—if I can call it so, for it is not search but
knowing, and we seek confirmation only. But do you stay
and take care of her today. This is your best and most holiest
office. This day nothing can find him here. Let me tell you
that so you will know what we four know already, for I have
tell them. He, our enemy, have gone away; he have gone
back to his Castle in Transylvania. I know it so well, as if a
great hand of fire wrote it on the wall. He have prepare for
this in some way, and that last earth-box was ready to ship
somewheres. For this he took the money; for this he hurry at
the last, lest we catch him before the sun go down. It was his
last hope, save that he might hide in the tomb that he think
poor Miss Lucy, being as he thought like him, keep open to
him. But there was not of time. When that fail he make
straight for his last resource—his last earthwork I might say
did I wish double entente. He is clever, oh, so clever! he
know that his game here was finish; and so he decide he go
back home. He find ship going by the route he came, and he
go in it. We go off now to find what ship, and whither bound;
when we have discover that, we come back and tell you all.
Then we will comfort you and poor dear Madam Mina with
new hope. For it will be hope when you think it over: that all
is not lost. This very creature that we pursue, he take
hundreds of years to get so far as London; and yet in one
day, when we know of the disposal of him we drive him out.
He is finite, though he is powerful to do much harm and
suffers not as we do. But we are strong, each in our purpose;
and we are all more strong together. Take heart afresh, dear
husband of Madam Mina. This battle is but begun, and in the
end we shall win—so sure as that God sits on high to watch
over His children. Therefore be of much comfort till we
return.

VAN HELSING.

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL.

4 October.—When I read to Mina, Van Helsing’s message in

the phonograph, the poor girl brightened up considerably.
Already the certainty that the Count is out of the country
has given her comfort; and comfort is strength to her. For my
own part, now that his horrible danger is not face to face
with us, it seems almost impossible to believe in it. Even my
own terrible experiences in Castle Dracula seem like a long-
forgotten dream. Here in the crisp autumn air in the bright
sunlight—
Alas! how can I disbelieve! In the midst of my thought my
eye fell on the red scar on my poor darling’s white forehead.
Whilst that lasts, there can be no disbelief. And afterwards
the very memory of it will keep faith crystal clear. Mina and I
fear to be idle, so we have been over all the diaries again
and again. Somehow, although the reality seems greater
each time, the pain and the fear seem less. There is
something of a guiding purpose manifest throughout, which
is comforting. Mina says that perhaps we are the
instruments of ultimate good. It may be! I shall try to think
as she does. We have never spoken to each other yet of the
future. It is better to wait till we see the Professor and the
others after their investigations.
The day is running by more quickly than I ever thought a
day could run for me again. It is now three o’clock.

MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL.

5 October, 5 p.m.—Our meeting for report. Present:

Professor Van Helsing, Lord Godalming, Dr. Seward,
Mr. Quincey Morris, Jonathan Harker, Mina Harker.
Dr. Van Helsing described what steps were taken during
the day to discover on what boat and whither bound Count
Dracula made his escape:—
“As I knew that he wanted to get back to Transylvania, I
felt sure that he must go by the Danube mouth; or by
somewhere in the Black Sea, since by that way he come. It
was a dreary blank that was before us. Omne ignotum pro
magnifico; and so with heavy hearts we start to find what
ships leave for the Black Sea last night. He was in sailing
ship, since Madam Mina tell of sails being set. These not so
important as to go in your list of the shipping in the Times,
and so we go, by suggestion of Lord Godalming, to your
Lloyd’s, where are note of all ships that sail, however so
small. There we find that only one Black-Sea-bound ship go
out with the tide. She is the Czarina Catherine, and she sail
from Doolittle’s Wharf for Varna, and thence on to other
parts and up the Danube. ‘Soh!’ said I, ‘this is the ship
whereon is the Count.’ So off we go to Doolittle’s Wharf, and
there we find a man in an office of wood so small that the
man look bigger than the office. From him we inquire of the
goings of the Czarina Catherine. He swear much, and he red
face and loud of voice, but he good fellow all the same; and
when Quincey give him something from his pocket which
crackle as he roll it up, and put it in a so small bag which he
have hid deep in his clothing, he still better fellow and
humble servant to us. He come with us, and ask many men
who are rough and hot; these be better fellows too when
they have been no more thirsty. They say much of blood and
bloom, and of others which I comprehend not, though I
guess what they mean; but nevertheless they tell us all
things which we want to know.
“They make known to us among them, how last afternoon
at about five o’clock comes a man so hurry. A tall man, thin
and pale, with high nose and teeth so white, and eyes that
seem to be burning. That he be all in black, except that he
have a hat of straw which suit not him or the time. That he
scatter his money in making quick inquiry as to what ship
sails for the Black Sea and for where. Some took him to the
office and then to the ship, where he will not go aboard but
halt at shore end of gangplank, and ask that the captain
come to him. The captain come, when told that he will be
pay well; and though he swear much at the first he agree to
term. Then the thin man go and someone tell him where
horse and cart can be hired. He go there and soon he come
again, himself driving cart on which a great box; this he
himself lift down, though it take several to put it on truck for
the ship. He give much talk to captain as to how and where
his box is to be place; but the captain like it not and swear
at him in many tongues, and tell him that if he like he can
come and see where it shall be. But he say ‘no’; that he
come not yet, for that he have much to do. Whereupon the
captain tell him that he had better be quick—with blood—for
that his ship will leave the place—of blood—before the turn
of the tide—with blood. Then the thin man smile and say
that of course he must go when he think fit; but he will be
surprise if he go quite so soon. The captain swear again,
polyglot, and the thin man make him bow, and thank him,
and say that he will so far intrude on his kindness as to
come aboard before the sailing. Final the captain, more red
than ever, and in more tongues tell him that he doesn’t want
no Frenchmen—with bloom upon them and also with blood—
in his ship—with blood on her also. And so, after asking
where there might be close at hand a ship where he might
purchase ship forms, he departed.
“No one knew where he went ‘or bloomin’ well cared,’ as
they said, for they had something else to think of—well with
blood again; for it soon became apparent to all that the
Czarina Catherine would not sail as was expected. A thin
mist began to creep up from the river, and it grew, and grew;
till soon a dense fog enveloped the ship and all around her.
The captain swore polyglot—very polyglot—polyglot with
bloom and blood; but he could do nothing. The water rose
and rose; and he began to fear that he would lose the tide
altogether. He was in no friendly mood, when just at full tide,
the thin man came up the gangplank again and asked to see
where his box had been stowed. Then the captain replied
that he wished that he and his box—old and with much
bloom and blood—were in hell. But the thin man did not be
offend, and went down with the mate and saw where it was
place, and came up and stood awhile on deck in fog. He
must have come off by himself, for none notice him. Indeed
they thought not of him; for soon the fog begin to melt
away, and all was clear again. My friends of the thirst and
the language that was of bloom and blood laughed, as they
told how the captain’s swears exceeded even his usual
polyglot, and was more than ever full of picturesque, when
on questioning other mariners who were on movement up
and down on the river that hour, he found that few of them
had seen any of fog at all, except where it lay round the
wharf. However, the ship went out on the ebb tide; and was
doubtless by morning far down the river mouth. She was by
then, when they told us, well out to sea.
 “And so, my dear Madam Mina, it is that we have to rest for
a time, for our enemy is on the sea, with the fog at his
command, on his way to the Danube mouth. To sail a ship
takes time, go she never so quick; and when we start we go
on land more quick, and we meet him there. Our best hope
is to come on him when in the box between sunrise and
sunset; for then he can make no struggle, and we may deal
with him as we should. There are days for us, in which we
can make ready our plan. We know all about where he go;
for we have seen the owner of the ship, who have shown us
invoices and all papers that can be. The box we seek is to be
landed in Varna, and to be given to an agent, one Ristics
who will there present his credentials; and so our merchant
friend will have done his part. When he ask if there be any
wrong, for that so, he can telegraph and have inquiry made
at Varna, we say ‘no’; for what is to be done is not for police
or of the customs. It must be done by us alone and in our
own way.”
When Dr. Van Helsing had done speaking, I asked him if he
were certain that the Count had remained on board the ship.
He replied: “We have the best proof of that: your own
evidence, when in the hypnotic trance this morning.” I asked
him again if it were really necessary that they should pursue
the Count, for oh! I dread Jonathan leaving me, and I know
that he would surely go if the others went. He answered in
growing passion, at first quietly. As he went on, however, he
grew more angry and more forceful, till in the end we could
not but see wherein was at least some of that personal
dominance which made him so long a master amongst
men:—
“Yes, it is necessary—necessary—necessary! For your sake
in the first, and then for the sake of humanity. This monster
has done much harm already, in the narrow scope where he
find himself, and in the short time when as yet he was only
as a body groping his so small measure in darkness and not
knowing. All this have I told these others; you, my dear
Madam Mina, will learn it in the phonograph of my friend
John, or in that of your husband. I have told them how the
measure of leaving his own barren land—barren of peoples—
and coming to a new land where life of man teems till they
are like the multitude of standing corn, was the work of
centuries. Were another of the Un-Dead, like him, to try to do
what he has done, perhaps not all the centuries of the world
that have been, or that will be, could aid him. With this one,
all the forces of nature that are occult and deep and strong
must have worked together in some wondrous way. The very
place, where he have been alive, Un-Dead for all these
centuries, is full of strangeness of the geologic and chemical
world. There are deep caverns and fissures that reach none
know whither. There have been volcanoes, some of whose
openings still send out waters of strange properties, and
gases that kill or make to vivify. Doubtless, there is
something magnetic or electric in some of these
combinations of occult forces which work for physical life in
strange way; and in himself were from the first some great
qualities. In a hard and warlike time he was celebrate that
he have more iron nerve, more subtle brain, more braver
heart, than any man. In him some vital principle have in
strange way found their utmost; and as his body keep strong
and grow and thrive, so his brain grow too. All this without
that diabolic aid which is surely to him; for it have to yield to
the powers that come from, and are, symbolic of good. And
now this is what he is to us. He have infect you—oh, forgive
me, my dear, that I must say such; but it is for good of you
that I speak. He infect you in such wise, that even if he do
no more, you have only to live—to live in your own old,
sweet way; and so in time, death, which is of man’s common
lot and with God’s sanction, shall make you like to him. This
must not be! We have sworn together that it must not. Thus
are we ministers of God’s own wish: that the world, and men
for whom His Son die, will not be given over to monsters,
whose very existence would defame Him. He have allowed
us to redeem one soul already, and we go out as the old
knights of the Cross to redeem more. Like them we shall
travel towards the sunrise; and like them, if we fall, we fall in
good cause.” He paused and I said:—
“But will not the Count take his rebuff wisely? Since he has
been driven from England, will he not avoid it, as a tiger
does the village from which he has been hunted?”
“Aha!” he said, “your simile of the tiger good, for me, and I
shall adopt him. Your man-eater, as they of India call the
tiger who has once tasted blood of the human, care no more
for the other prey, but prowl unceasing till he get him. This
that we hunt from our village is a tiger, too, a man-eater,
and he never cease to prowl. Nay, in himself he is not one to
retire and stay afar. In his life, his living life, he go over the
Turkey frontier and attack his enemy on his own ground; he
be beaten back, but did he stay? No! He come again, and
again, and again. Look at his persistence and endurance.
With the child-brain that was to him he have long since
conceive the idea of coming to a great city. What does he
do? He find out the place of all the world most of promise for
him. Then he deliberately set himself down to prepare for
the task. He find in patience just how is his strength, and
what are his powers. He study new tongues. He learn new
social life; new environment of old ways, the politic, the law,
the finance, the science, the habit of a new land and a new
people who have come to be since he was. His glimpse that
he have had, whet his appetite only and enkeen his desire.
Nay, it help him to grow as to his brain; for it all prove to him
how right he was at the first in his surmises. He have done
this alone; all alone! from a ruin tomb in a forgotten land.
What more may he not do when the greater world of thought
is open to him. He that can smile at death, as we know him;
who can flourish in the midst of diseases that kill off whole
peoples. Oh, if such an one was to come from God, and not
the Devil, what a force for good might he not be in this old
world of ours. But we are pledged to set the world free. Our
toil must be in silence, and our efforts all in secret; for in this
enlightened age, when men believe not even what they see,
the doubting of wise men would be his greatest strength. It
would be at once his sheath and his armour, and his
weapons to destroy us, his enemies, who are willing to peril
even our own souls for the safety of one we love—for the
good of mankind, and for the honour and glory of God.”
After a general discussion it was determined that for
tonight nothing be definitely settled; that we should all
sleep on the facts, and try to think out the proper
conclusions. Tomorrow, at breakfast, we are to meet again,
and, after making our conclusions known to one another, we
shall decide on some definite cause of action.

I feel a wonderful peace and rest tonight. It is as if some

haunting presence were removed from me. Perhaps …
My surmise was not finished, could not be; for I caught
sight in the mirror of the red mark upon my forehead; and I
knew that I was still unclean.

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY.

5 October.—We all rose early, and I think that sleep did

much for each and all of us. When we met at early breakfast
there was more general cheerfulness than any of us had
ever expected to experience again.
It is really wonderful how much resilience there is in
human nature. Let any obstructing cause, no matter what,
be removed in any way—even by death—and we fly back to
first principles of hope and enjoyment. More than once as we
sat around the table, my eyes opened in wonder whether the
whole of the past days had not been a dream. It was only
when I caught sight of the red blotch on Mrs. Harker’s
forehead that I was brought back to reality. Even now, when
I am gravely revolving the matter, it is almost impossible to
realise that the cause of all our trouble is still existent. Even
Mrs. Harker seems to lose sight of her trouble for whole
spells; it is only now and again, when something recalls it to
her mind, that she thinks of her terrible scar. We are to meet
here in my study in half an hour and decide on our course of
action. I see only one immediate difficulty, I know it by
instinct rather than reason: we shall all have to speak
frankly; and yet I fear that in some mysterious way poor
Mrs. Harker’s tongue is tied. I know that she forms
conclusions of her own, and from all that has been I can
guess how brilliant and how true they must be; but she will
not, or cannot, give them utterance. I have mentioned this
to Van Helsing, and he and I are to talk it over when we are
alone. I suppose it is some of that horrid poison which has
got into her veins beginning to work. The Count had his own
purposes when he gave her what Van Helsing called “the
Vampire’s baptism of blood.” Well, there may be a poison
that distils itself out of good things; in an age when the
existence of ptomaines is a mystery we should not wonder at
anything! One thing I know: that if my instinct be true
regarding poor Mrs. Harker’s silences, then there is a terrible
difficulty—an unknown danger—in the work before us. The
same power that compels her silence may compel her
speech. I dare not think further; for so I should in my
thoughts dishonour a noble woman!
Van Helsing is coming to my study a little before the
others. I shall try to open the subject with him.

Later.—When the Professor came in, we talked over the state

of things. I could see that he had something on his mind
which he wanted to say, but felt some hesitancy about
broaching the subject. After beating about the bush a little,
he said suddenly:—
“Friend John, there is something that you and I must talk
of alone, just at the first at any rate. Later, we may have to
take the others into our confidence”; then he stopped, so I
waited; he went on:—
“Madam Mina, our poor, dear Madam Mina is changing.” A
cold shiver ran through me to find my worst fears thus
endorsed. Van Helsing continued:—
“With the sad experience of Miss Lucy, we must this time
be warned before things go too far. Our task is now in reality
more difficult than ever, and this new trouble makes every
hour of the direst importance. I can see the characteristics of
the vampire coming in her face. It is now but very, very
slight; but it is to be seen if we have eyes to notice without
to prejudge. Her teeth are some sharper, and at times her
eyes are more hard. But these are not all, there is to her the
silence now often; as so it was with Miss Lucy. She did not
speak, even when she wrote that which she wished to be
known later. Now my fear is this. If it be that she can, by our
hypnotic trance, tell what the Count see and hear, is it not
more true that he who have hypnotise her first, and who
have drink of her very blood and make her drink of his,
should, if he will, compel her mind to disclose to him that
which she know?” I nodded acquiescence; he went on:—
“Then, what we must do is to prevent this; we must keep
her ignorant of our intent, and so she cannot tell what she
know not. This is a painful task! Oh, so painful that it
heartbreak me to think of; but it must be. When today we
meet, I must tell her that for reason which we will not to
speak she must not more be of our council, but be simply
guarded by us.” He wiped his forehead, which had broken
out in profuse perspiration at the thought of the pain which
he might have to inflict upon the poor soul already so
tortured. I knew that it would be some sort of comfort to him
if I told him that I also had come to the same conclusion; for
at any rate it would take away the pain of doubt. I told him,
and the effect was as I expected.
It is now close to the time of our general gathering. Van
Helsing has gone away to prepare for the meeting, and his
painful part of it. I really believe his purpose is to be able to
pray alone.

Later.—At the very outset of our meeting a great personal

relief was experienced by both Van Helsing and myself.
Mrs. Harker had sent a message by her husband to say that
she would not join us at present, as she thought it better
that we should be free to discuss our movements without
her presence to embarrass us. The Professor and I looked at
each other for an instant, and somehow we both seemed
relieved. For my own part, I thought that if Mrs. Harker
realised the danger herself, it was much pain as well as
much danger averted. Under the circumstances we agreed,
by a questioning look and answer, with finger on lip, to
preserve silence in our suspicions, until we should have
been able to confer alone again. We went at once into our
Plan of Campaign. Van Helsing roughly put the facts before
us first:—
“The Czarina Catherine left the Thames yesterday
morning. It will take her at the quickest speed she has ever
made at least three weeks to reach Varna; but we can travel
overland to the same place in three days. Now, if we allow
for two days less for the ship’s voyage, owing to such
weather influences as we know that the Count can bring to
bear; and if we allow a whole day and night for any delays
which may occur to us, then we have a margin of nearly two
weeks. Thus, in order to be quite safe, we must leave here
on 17th at latest. Then we shall at any rate be in Varna a day
before the ship arrives, and able to make such preparations
as may be necessary. Of course we shall all go armed—
armed against evil things, spiritual as well as physical.” Here
Quincey Morris added:—
“I understand that the Count comes from a wolf country,
and it may be that he shall get there before us. I propose
that we add Winchesters to our armament. I have a kind of
belief in a Winchester when there is any trouble of that sort
around. Do you remember, Art, when we had the pack after
us at Tobolsk? What wouldn’t we have given then for a
repeater apiece!”
“Good!” said Van Helsing, “Winchesters it shall be.
Quincey’s head is level at all times, but most so when there
is to hunt, metaphor be more dishonour to science than
wolves be of danger to man. In the meantime we can do
nothing here; and as I think that Varna is not familiar to any
of us, why not go there more soon? It is as long to wait here
as there. Tonight and tomorrow we can get ready, and then,
if all be well, we four can set out on our journey.”
“We four?” said Harker interrogatively, looking from one to
another of us.
“Of course!” answered the Professor quickly, “you must
remain to take care of your so sweet wife!” Harker was silent
for awhile and then said in a hollow voice:—
“Let us talk of that part of it in the morning. I want to
consult with Mina.” I thought that now was the time for Van
Helsing to warn him not to disclose our plans to her; but he
took no notice. I looked at him significantly and coughed.
For answer he put his finger on his lips and turned away.

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL.

5 October, afternoon.—For some time after our meeting this

morning I could not think. The new phases of things leave
my mind in a state of wonder which allows no room for
active thought. Mina’s determination not to take any part in
the discussion set me thinking; and as I could not argue the
matter with her, I could only guess. I am as far as ever from a
solution now. The way the others received it, too, puzzled
me; the last time we talked of the subject we agreed that
there was to be no more concealment of anything amongst
us. Mina is sleeping now, calmly and sweetly like a little
child. Her lips are curved and her face beams with
happiness. Thank God, there are such moments still for her.

Later.—How strange it all is. I sat watching Mina’s happy

sleep, and came as near to being happy myself as I suppose
I shall ever be. As the evening drew on, and the earth took
its shadows from the sun sinking lower, the silence of the
room grew more and more solemn to me. All at once Mina
opened her eyes, and looking at me tenderly, said:—
“Jonathan, I want you to promise me something on your
word of honour. A promise made to me, but made holily in
God’s hearing, and not to be broken though I should go
down on my knees and implore you with bitter tears. Quick,
you must make it to me at once.”
“Mina,” I said, “a promise like that, I cannot make at once.
I may have no right to make it.”
“But, dear one,” she said, with such spiritual intensity that
her eyes were like pole stars, “it is I who wish it; and it is not
for myself. You can ask Dr. Van Helsing if I am not right; if he
disagrees you may do as you will. Nay, more, if you all agree,
later, you are absolved from the promise.”
“I promise!” I said, and for a moment she looked
supremely happy; though to me all happiness for her was
denied by the red scar on her forehead. She said:—
“Promise me that you will not tell me anything of the plans
formed for the campaign against the Count. Not by word, or
inference, or implication; not at any time whilst this remains
to me!” and she solemnly pointed to the scar. I saw that she
was in earnest, and said solemnly:—
“I promise!” and as I said it I felt that from that instant a
door had been shut between us.

Later, midnight.—Mina has been bright and cheerful all the

evening. So much so that all the rest seemed to take
courage, as if infected somewhat with her gaiety; as a result
even I myself felt as if the pall of gloom which weighs us
down were somewhat lifted. We all retired early. Mina is now
sleeping like a little child; it is a wonderful thing that her
faculty of sleep remains to her in the midst of her terrible
trouble. Thank God for it, for then at least she can forget her
care. Perhaps her example may affect me as her gaiety did
tonight. I shall try it. Oh! for a dreamless sleep.

6 October, morning.—Another surprise. Mina woke me early,

about the same time as yesterday, and asked me to bring
Dr. Van Helsing. I thought that it was another occasion for
hypnotism, and without question went for the Professor. He
had evidently expected some such call, for I found him
dressed in his room. His door was ajar, so that he could hear
the opening of the door of our room. He came at once; as he
passed into the room, he asked Mina if the others might
come, too.
“No,” she said quite simply, “it will not be necessary. You
can tell them just as well. I must go with you on your
journey.”
Dr. Van Helsing was as startled as I was. After a moment’s
pause he asked:—
“But why?”
 “You must take me with you. I am safer with you, and you
shall be safer, too.”
“But why, dear Madam Mina? You know that your safety is
our solemnest duty. We go into danger, to which you are, or
may be, more liable than any of us from—from
circumstances—things that have been.” He paused,
embarrassed.
As she replied, she raised her finger and pointed to her
forehead:—
“I know. That is why I must go. I can tell you now, whilst
the sun is coming up; I may not be able again. I know that
when the Count wills me I must go. I know that if he tells me
to come in secret, I must come by wile; by any device to
hoodwink—even Jonathan.” God saw the look that she
turned on me as she spoke, and if there be indeed a
Recording Angel that look is noted to her everlasting honour.
I could only clasp her hand. I could not speak; my emotion
was too great for even the relief of tears. She went on:—
“You men are brave and strong. You are strong in your
numbers, for you can defy that which would break down the
human endurance of one who had to guard alone. Besides, I
may be of service, since you can hypnotise me and so learn
that which even I myself do not know.” Dr. Van Helsing said
very gravely:—
“Madam Mina, you are, as always, most wise. You shall
with us come; and together we shall do that which we go
forth to achieve.” When he had spoken, Mina’s long spell of
silence made me look at her. She had fallen back on her
pillow asleep; she did not even wake when I had pulled up
the blind and let in the sunlight which flooded the room. Van
Helsing motioned to me to come with him quietly. We went
to his room, and within a minute Lord Godalming,
Dr. Seward, and Mr. Morris were with us also. He told them
what Mina had said, and went on:—
“In the morning we shall leave for Varna. We have now to
deal with a new factor: Madam Mina. Oh, but her soul is true.
It is to her an agony to tell us so much as she has done; but
it is most right, and we are warned in time. There must be no
chance lost, and in Varna we must be ready to act the
instant when that ship arrives.”
“What shall we do exactly?” asked Mr. Morris laconically.
The Professor paused before replying:—
“We shall at the first board that ship; then, when we have
identified the box, we shall place a branch of the wild rose
on it. This we shall fasten, for when it is there none can
emerge; so at least says the superstition. And to superstition
must we trust at the first; it was man’s faith in the early, and
it have its root in faith still. Then, when we get the
opportunity that we seek, when none are near to see, we
shall open the box, and—and all will be well.”
“I shall not wait for any opportunity,” said Morris. “When I
see the box I shall open it and destroy the monster, though
there were a thousand men looking on, and if I am to be
wiped out for it the next moment!” I grasped his hand
instinctively and found it as firm as a piece of steel. I think
he understood my look; I hope he did.
“Good boy,” said Dr. Van Helsing. “Brave boy. Quincey is
all man. God bless him for it. My child, believe me none of us
shall lag behind or pause from any fear. I do but say what we
may do—what we must do. But, indeed, indeed we cannot
say what we shall do. There are so many things which may
happen, and their ways and their ends are so various that
until the moment we may not say. We shall all be armed, in
all ways; and when the time for the end has come, our effort
shall not be lack. Now let us today put all our affairs in order.
Let all things which touch on others dear to us, and who on
us depend, be complete; for none of us can tell what, or
when, or how, the end may be. As for me, my own affairs are
regulate; and as I have nothing else to do, I shall go make
arrangements for the travel. I shall have all tickets and so
forth for our journey.”
 There was nothing further to be said, and we parted. I shall
now settle up all my affairs of earth, and be ready for
whatever may come. …

Later.—It is all done; my will is made, and all complete. Mina

if she survive is my sole heir. If it should not be so, then the
others who have been so good to us shall have remainder.
It is now drawing towards the sunset; Mina’s uneasiness
calls my attention to it. I am sure that there is something on
her mind which the time of exact sunset will reveal. These
occasions are becoming harrowing times for us all, for each
sunrise and sunset opens up some new danger—some new
pain, which, however, may in God’s will be means to a good
end. I write all these things in the diary since my darling
must not hear them now; but if it may be that she can see
them again, they shall be ready.
She is calling to me.
 XXV

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY.

11 October, Evening.—Jonathan Harker has asked me to

note this, as he says he is hardly equal to the task, and he
wants an exact record kept.
I think that none of us were surprised when we were asked
to see Mrs. Harker a little before the time of sunset. We have
of late come to understand that sunrise and sunset are to
her times of peculiar freedom; when her old self can be
manifest without any controlling force subduing or
restraining her, or inciting her to action. This mood or
condition begins some half hour or more before actual
sunrise or sunset, and lasts till either the sun is high, or
whilst the clouds are still aglow with the rays streaming
above the horizon. At first there is a sort of negative
condition, as if some tie were loosened, and then the
absolute freedom quickly follows; when, however, the
freedom ceases the change-back or relapse comes quickly,
preceded only by a spell of warning silence.
Tonight, when we met, she was somewhat constrained,
and bore all the signs of an internal struggle. I put it down
myself to her making a violent effort at the earliest instant
she could do so. A very few minutes, however, gave her
complete control of herself; then, motioning her husband to
sit beside her on the sofa where she was half reclining, she
made the rest of us bring chairs up close. Taking her
husband’s hand in hers began:—
“We are all here together in freedom, for perhaps the last
time! I know, dear; I know that you will always be with me to
the end.” This was to her husband whose hand had, as we
could see, tightened upon hers. “In the morning we go out
upon our task, and God alone knows what may be in store
for any of us. You are going to be so good to me as to take
me with you. I know that all that brave earnest men can do
for a poor weak woman, whose soul perhaps is lost—no, no,
not yet, but is at any rate at stake—you will do. But you
must remember that I am not as you are. There is a poison in
my blood, in my soul, which may destroy me; which must
destroy me, unless some relief comes to us. Oh, my friends,
you know as well as I do, that my soul is at stake; and
though I know there is one way out for me, you must not and
I must not take it!” She looked appealingly to us all in turn,
beginning and ending with her husband.
“What is that way?” asked Van Helsing in a hoarse voice.
“What is that way, which we must not—may not—take?”
“That I may die now, either by my own hand or that of
another, before the greater evil is entirely wrought. I know,
and you know, that were I once dead you could and would
set free my immortal spirit, even as you did my poor Lucy’s.
Were death, or the fear of death, the only thing that stood in
the way I would not shrink to die here, now, amidst the
friends who love me. But death is not all. I cannot believe
that to die in such a case, when there is hope before us and
a bitter task to be done, is God’s will. Therefore, I, on my
part, give up here the certainty of eternal rest, and go out
into the dark where may be the blackest things that the
world or the nether world holds!” We were all silent, for we
knew instinctively that this was only a prelude. The faces of
the others were set and Harker’s grew ashen grey; perhaps
he guessed better than any of us what was coming. She
continued:—
 “This is what I can give into the hotch-pot.” I could not but
note the quaint legal phrase which she used in such a place,
and with all seriousness. “What will each of you give? Your
lives I know,” she went on quickly, “that is easy for brave
men. Your lives are God’s, and you can give them back to
Him; but what will you give to me?” She looked again
questioningly, but this time avoided her husband’s face.
Quincey seemed to understand; he nodded, and her face lit
up. “Then I shall tell you plainly what I want, for there must
be no doubtful matter in this connection between us now.
You must promise me, one and all—even you, my beloved
husband—that, should the time come, you will kill me.”
“What is that time?” The voice was Quincey’s, but it was
low and strained.
“When you shall be convinced that I am so changed that it
is better that I die that I may live. When I am thus dead in
the flesh, then you will, without a moment’s delay, drive a
stake through me and cut off my head; or do whatever else
may be wanting to give me rest!”
Quincey was the first to rise after the pause. He knelt
down before her and taking her hand in his said solemnly:—
“I’m only a rough fellow, who hasn’t, perhaps, lived as a
man should to win such a distinction, but I swear to you by
all that I hold sacred and dear that, should the time ever
come, I shall not flinch from the duty that you have set us.
And I promise you, too, that I shall make all certain, for if I
am only doubtful I shall take it that the time has come!”
“My true friend!” was all she could say amid her fast-
falling tears, as, bending over, she kissed his hand.
“I swear the same, my dear Madam Mina!” said Van
Helsing.
“And I!” said Lord Godalming, each of them in turn
kneeling to her to take the oath. I followed, myself. Then her
husband turned to her wan-eyed and with a greenish pallor
which subdued the snowy whiteness of his hair, and
asked:—
 “And must I, too, make such a promise, oh, my wife?”
“You too, my dearest,” she said, with infinite yearning of
pity in her voice and eyes. “You must not shrink. You are
nearest and dearest and all the world to me; our souls are
knit into one, for all life and all time. Think, dear, that there
have been times when brave men have killed their wives
and their womenkind, to keep them from falling into the
hands of the enemy. Their hands did not falter any the more
because those that they loved implored them to slay them.
It is men’s duty towards those whom they love, in such times
of sore trial! And oh, my dear, if it is to be that I must meet
death at any hand, let it be at the hand of him that loves me
best. Dr. Van Helsing, I have not forgotten your mercy in
poor Lucy’s case to him who loved”—she stopped with a
flying blush, and changed her phrase—“to him who had best
right to give her peace. If that time shall come again, I look
to you to make it a happy memory of my husband’s life that
it was his loving hand which set me free from the awful thrall
upon me.”
“Again I swear!” came the Professor’s resonant voice.
Mrs. Harker smiled, positively smiled, as with a sigh of relief
she leaned back and said:—
“And now one word of warning, a warning which you must
never forget: this time, if it ever come, may come quickly
and unexpectedly, and in such case you must lose no time
in using your opportunity. At such a time I myself might be—
nay! if the time ever comes, shall be—leagued with your
enemy against you.”
“One more request;” she became very solemn as she said
this, “it is not vital and necessary like the other, but I want
you to do one thing for me, if you will.” We all acquiesced,
but no one spoke; there was no need to speak:—
“I want you to read the Burial Service.” She was
interrupted by a deep groan from her husband; taking his
hand in hers, she held it over her heart, and continued: “You
must read it over me some day. Whatever may be the issue
of all this fearful state of things, it will be a sweet thought to
all or some of us. You, my dearest, will I hope read it, for then
it will be in your voice in my memory forever—come what
may!”
“But oh, my dear one,” he pleaded, “death is afar off from
you.”
“Nay,” she said, holding up a warning hand. “I am deeper
in death at this moment than if the weight of an earthly
grave lay heavy upon me!”
“Oh, my wife, must I read it?” he said, before he began.
“It would comfort me, my husband!” was all she said; and
he began to read when she had got the book ready.
“How can I—how could anyone—tell of that strange scene,
its solemnity, its gloom, its sadness, its horror; and, withal,
its sweetness. Even a sceptic, who can see nothing but a
travesty of bitter truth in anything holy or emotional, would
have been melted to the heart had he seen that little group
of loving and devoted friends kneeling round that stricken
and sorrowing lady; or heard the tender passion of her
husband’s voice, as in tones so broken with emotion that
often he had to pause, he read the simple and beautiful
service from the Burial of the Dead. I—I cannot go on—
words—and—v-voice—f-fail m-me!”

She was right in her instinct. Strange as it all was, bizarre as

it may hereafter seem even to us who felt its potent
influence at the time, it comforted us much; and the silence,
which showed Mrs. Harker’s coming relapse from her
freedom of soul, did not seem so full of despair to any of us
as we had dreaded.

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL.

15 October, Varna.—We left Charing Cross on the morning of
the 12th, got to Paris the same night, and took the places
secured for us in the Orient Express. We travelled night and
day, arriving here at about five o’clock. Lord Godalming
went to the Consulate to see if any telegram had arrived for
him, whilst the rest of us came on to this hotel—the
Odessus. The journey may have had incidents; I was,
however, too eager to get on, to care for them. Until the
Czarina Catherine comes into port there will be no interest
for me in anything in the wide world. Thank God! Mina is
well, and looks to be getting stronger; her colour is coming
back. She sleeps a great deal; throughout the journey she
slept nearly all the time. Before sunrise and sunset,
however, she is very wakeful and alert; and it has become a
habit for Van Helsing to hypnotise her at such times. At first,
some effort was needed, and he had to make many passes;
but now, she seems to yield at once, as if by habit, and
scarcely any action is needed. He seems to have power at
these particular moments to simply will, and her thoughts
obey him. He always asks her what she can see and hear.
She answers to the first:—
“Nothing; all is dark.” And to the second:—
“I can hear the waves lapping against the ship, and the
water rushing by. Canvas and cordage strain and masts and
yards creak. The wind is high—I can hear it in the shrouds,
and the bow throws back the foam.” It is evident that the
Czarina Catherine is still at sea, hastening on her way to
Varna. Lord Godalming has just returned. He had four
telegrams, one each day since we started, and all to the
same effect: that the Czarina Catherine had not been
reported to Lloyd’s from anywhere. He had arranged before
leaving London that his agent should send him every day a
telegram saying if the ship had been reported. He was to
have a message even if she were not reported, so that he
might be sure that there was a watch being kept at the other
end of the wire.
 We had dinner and went to bed early. Tomorrow we are to
see the Vice-Consul, and to arrange, if we can, about getting
on board the ship as soon as she arrives. Van Helsing says
that our chance will be to get on the boat between sunrise
and sunset. The Count, even if he takes the form of a bat,
cannot cross the running water of his own volition, and so
cannot leave the ship. As he dare not change to man’s form
without suspicion—which he evidently wishes to avoid—he
must remain in the box. If, then, we can come on board after
sunrise, he is at our mercy; for we can open the box and
make sure of him, as we did of poor Lucy, before he wakes.
What mercy he shall get from us will not count for much. We
think that we shall not have much trouble with officials or
the seamen. Thank God! this is the country where bribery
can do anything, and we are well supplied with money. We
have only to make sure that the ship cannot come into port
between sunset and sunrise without our being warned, and
we shall be safe. Judge Moneybag will settle this case, I
think!

16 October.—Mina’s report still the same: lapping waves and

rushing water, darkness and favouring winds. We are
evidently in good time, and when we hear of the Czarina
Catherine we shall be ready. As she must pass the
Dardanelles we are sure to have some report.

17 October.—Everything is pretty well fixed now, I think, to

welcome the Count on his return from his tour. Godalming
told the shippers that he fancied that the box sent aboard
might contain something stolen from a friend of his, and got
a half consent that he might open it at his own risk. The
owner gave him a paper telling the Captain to give him
every facility in doing whatever he chose on board the ship,
and also a similar authorisation to his agent at Varna. We
have seen the agent, who was much impressed with
Godalming’s kindly manner to him, and we are all satisfied
that whatever he can do to aid our wishes will be done. We
have already arranged what to do in case we get the box
open. If the Count is there, Van Helsing and Seward will cut
off his head at once and drive a stake through his heart.
Morris and Godalming and I shall prevent interference, even
if we have to use the arms which we shall have ready. The
Professor says that if we can so treat the Count’s body, it will
soon after fall into dust. In such case there would be no
evidence against us, in case any suspicion of murder were
aroused. But even if it were not, we should stand or fall by
our act, and perhaps some day this very script may be
evidence to come between some of us and a rope. For
myself, I should take the chance only too thankfully if it
were to come. We mean to leave no stone unturned to carry
out our intent. We have arranged with certain officials that
the instant the Czarina Catherine is seen, we are to be
informed by a special messenger.

24 October.—A whole week of waiting. Daily telegrams to

Godalming, but only the same story: “Not yet reported.”
Mina’s morning and evening hypnotic answer is unvaried:
lapping waves, rushing water, and creaking masts.

Telegram, October 24th.

Rufus Smith, Lloyd’s, London, to Lord Godalming, care of
H.B.M. Vice-Consul, Varna.
“Czarina Catherine reported this morning from
Dardanelles.”
 DR. SEWARD’S DIARY.

25 October.—How I miss my phonograph! To write diary with

a pen is irksome to me; but Van Helsing says I must. We
were all wild with excitement yesterday when Godalming
got his telegram from Lloyd’s. I know now what men feel in
battle when the call to action is heard. Mrs. Harker, alone of
our party, did not show any signs of emotion. After all, it is
not strange that she did not; for we took special care not to
let her know anything about it, and we all tried not to show
any excitement when we were in her presence. In old days
she would, I am sure, have noticed, no matter how we might
have tried to conceal it; but in this way she is greatly
changed during the past three weeks. The lethargy grows
upon her, and though she seems strong and well, and is
getting back some of her colour, Van Helsing and I are not
satisfied. We talk of her often; we have not, however, said a
word to the others. It would break poor Harker’s heart—
certainly his nerve—if he knew that we had even a suspicion
on the subject. Van Helsing examines, he tells me, her teeth
very carefully, whilst she is in the hypnotic condition, for he
says that so long as they do not begin to sharpen there is no
active danger of a change in her. If this change should come,
it would be necessary to take steps! … We both know what
those steps would have to be, though we do not mention our
thoughts to each other. We should neither of us shrink from
the task—awful though it be to contemplate. “Euthanasia” is
an excellent and a comforting word! I am grateful to
whoever invented it.
It is only about 24 hours’ sail from the Dardanelles to here,
at the rate the Czarina Catherine has come from London.
She should therefore arrive some time in the morning; but as
she cannot possibly get in before then, we are all about to
retire early. We shall get up at one o’clock, so as to be ready.
25 October, Noon.—No news yet of the ship’s arrival.
Mrs. Harker’s hypnotic report this morning was the same as
usual, so it is possible that we may get news at any moment.
We men are all in a fever of excitement, except Harker, who
is calm; his hands are cold as ice, and an hour ago I found
him whetting the edge of the great Ghoorka knife which he
now always carries with him. It will be a bad lookout for the
Count if the edge of that “Kukri” ever touches his throat,
driven by that stern, ice-cold hand!
Van Helsing and I were a little alarmed about Mrs. Harker
today. About noon she got into a sort of lethargy which we
did not like; although we kept silence to the others, we were
neither of us happy about it. She had been restless all the
morning, so that we were at first glad to know that she was
sleeping. When, however, her husband mentioned casually
that she was sleeping so soundly that he could not wake her,
we went to her room to see for ourselves. She was breathing
naturally and looked so well and peaceful that we agreed
that the sleep was better for her than anything else. Poor
girl, she has so much to forget that it is no wonder that
sleep, if it brings oblivion to her, does her good.

Later.—Our opinion was justified, for when after a refreshing

sleep of some hours she woke up, she seemed brighter and
better than she had been for days. At sunset she made the
usual hypnotic report. Wherever he may be in the Black Sea,
the Count is hurrying to his destination. To his doom, I trust!

26 October.—Another day and no tidings of the Czarina

Catherine. She ought to be here by now. That she is still
journeying somewhere is apparent, for Mrs. Harker’s
hypnotic report at sunrise was still the same. It is possible
that the vessel may be lying by, at times, for fog; some of
the steamers which came in last evening reported patches of
fog both to north and south of the port. We must continue
our watching, as the ship may now be signalled any
moment.

27 October, Noon.—Most strange; no news yet of the ship

we wait for. Mrs. Harker reported last night and this morning
as usual: “lapping waves and rushing water,” though she
added that “the waves were very faint.” The telegrams from
London have been the same: “no further report.” Van
Helsing is terribly anxious, and told me just now that he
fears the Count is escaping us. He added significantly:—
“I did not like that lethargy of Madam Mina’s. Souls and
memories can do strange things during trance.” I was about
to ask him more, but Harker just then came in, and he held
up a warning hand. We must try tonight at sunset to make
her speak more fully when in her hypnotic state.

28 October.—Telegram. Rufus Smith, London, to Lord

Godalming, care of H.B.M. Vice-Consul, Varna.
“Czarina Catherine reported entering Galatz at one o’clock
today.”

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY.

28 October.—When the telegram came announcing the

arrival in Galatz I do not think it was such a shock to any of
us as might have been expected. True, we did not know
whence, or how, or when, the bolt would come; but I think
we all expected that something strange would happen. The
delay of arrival at Varna made us individually satisfied that
things would not be just as we had expected; we only waited
to learn where the change would occur. None the less,
however, was it a surprise. I suppose that nature works on
such a hopeful basis that we believe against ourselves that
things will be as they ought to be, not as we should know
that they will be. Transcendentalism is a beacon to the
angels, even if it be a will-o’-the-wisp to man. It was an odd
experience and we all took it differently. Van Helsing raised
his hand over his head for a moment, as though in
remonstrance with the Almighty; but he said not a word, and
in a few seconds stood up with his face sternly set. Lord
Godalming grew very pale, and sat breathing heavily. I was
myself half stunned and looked in wonder at one after
another. Quincey Morris tightened his belt with that quick
movement which I knew so well; in our old wandering days it
meant “action.” Mrs. Harker grew ghastly white, so that the
scar on her forehead seemed to burn, but she folded her
hands meekly and looked up in prayer. Harker smiled—
actually smiled—the dark, bitter smile of one who is without
hope; but at the same time his action belied his words, for
his hands instinctively sought the hilt of the great Kukri
knife and rested there. “When does the next train start for
Galatz?” said Van Helsing to us generally.
“At 6:30 tomorrow morning!” We all started, for the answer
came from Mrs. Harker.
“How on earth do you know?” said Art.
“You forget—or perhaps you do not know, though Jonathan
does and so does Dr. Van Helsing—that I am the train fiend.
At home in Exeter I always used to make up the timetables,
so as to be helpful to my husband. I found it so useful
sometimes, that I always make a study of the timetables
now. I knew that if anything were to take us to Castle
Dracula we should go by Galatz, or at any rate through
Bucharest, so I learned the times very carefully. Unhappily
there are not many to learn, as the only train tomorrow
leaves as I say.”
“Wonderful woman!” murmured the Professor.
“Can’t we get a special?” asked Lord Godalming. Van
Helsing shook his head: “I fear not. This land is very different
from yours or mine; even if we did have a special, it would
probably not arrive as soon as our regular train. Moreover,
we have something to prepare. We must think. Now let us
organize. You, friend Arthur, go to the train and get the
tickets and arrange that all be ready for us to go in the
morning. Do you, friend Jonathan, go to the agent of the ship
and get from him letters to the agent in Galatz, with
authority to make search the ship just as it was here. Morris
Quincey, you see the Vice-Consul, and get his aid with his
fellow in Galatz and all he can do to make our way smooth,
so that no times be lost when over the Danube. John will
stay with Madam Mina and me, and we shall consult. For so
if time be long you may be delayed; and it will not matter
when the sun set, since I am here with Madam to make
report.”
“And I,” said Mrs. Harker brightly, and more like her old
self than she had been for many a long day, “shall try to be
of use in all ways, and shall think and write for you as I used
to do. Something is shifting from me in some strange way,
and I feel freer than I have been of late!” The three younger
men looked happier at the moment as they seemed to
realise the significance of her words; but Van Helsing and I,
turning to each other, met each a grave and troubled
glance. We said nothing at the time, however.
When the three men had gone out to their tasks Van
Helsing asked Mrs. Harker to look up the copy of the diaries
and find him the part of Harker’s journal at the Castle. She
went away to get it; when the door was shut upon her he
said to me:—
 “We mean the same! speak out!”
“There is some change. It is a hope that makes me sick, for
it may deceive us.”
“Quite so. Do you know why I asked her to get the
manuscript?”
“No!” said I, “unless it was to get an opportunity of seeing
me alone.”
“You are in part right, friend John, but only in part. I want
to tell you something. And oh, my friend, I am taking a
great—a terrible—risk; but I believe it is right. In the
moment when Madam Mina said those words that arrest
both our understanding, an inspiration came to me. In the
trance of three days ago the Count sent her his spirit to read
her mind; or more like he took her to see him in his earth-
box in the ship with water rushing, just as it go free at rise
and set of sun. He learn then that we are here; for she have
more to tell in her open life with eyes to see and ears to hear
than he, shut, as he is, in his coffin-box. Now he make his
most effort to escape us. At present he want her not.
“He is sure with his so great knowledge that she will come
at his call; but he cut her off—take her, as he can do, out of
his own power, that so she come not to him. Ah! there I have
hope that our man-brains that have been of man so long and
that have not lost the grace of God, will come higher than
his child-brain that lie in his tomb for centuries, that grow
not yet to our stature, and that do only work selfish and
therefore small. Here comes Madam Mina; not a word to her
of her trance! She know it not; and it would overwhelm her
and make despair just when we want all her hope, all her
courage; when most we want all her great brain which is
trained like man’s brain, but is of sweet woman and have a
special power which the Count give her, and which he may
not take away altogether—though he think not so. Hush! let
me speak, and you shall learn. Oh, John, my friend, we are in
awful straits. I fear, as I never feared before. We can only
trust the good God. Silence! here she comes!”
 I thought that the Professor was going to break down and
have hysterics, just as he had when Lucy died, but with a
great effort he controlled himself and was at perfect nervous
poise when Mrs. Harker tripped into the room, bright and
happy-looking and, in the doing of work, seemingly forgetful
of her misery. As she came in, she handed a number of
sheets of typewriting to Van Helsing. He looked over them
gravely, his face brightening up as he read. Then holding
the pages between his finger and thumb he said:—
“Friend John, to you with so much of experience already—
and you, too, dear Madam Mina, that are young—here is a
lesson: do not fear ever to think. A half-thought has been
buzzing often in my brain, but I fear to let him loose his
wings. Here now, with more knowledge, I go back to where
that half-thought come from and I find that he be no half-
thought at all; that be a whole thought, though so young
that he is not yet strong to use his little wings. Nay, like the
‘Ugly Duck’ of my friend Hans Andersen, he be no duck-
thought at all, but a big swan-thought that sail nobly on big
wings, when the time come for him to try them. See I read
here what Jonathan have written:—
“That other of his race who, in a later age, again and
again, brought his forces over The Great River into Turkey
Land; who, when he was beaten back, came again, and
again, and again, though he had to come alone from the
bloody field where his troops were being slaughtered, since
he knew that he alone could ultimately triumph.”
“What does this tell us? Not much? no! The Count’s child-
thought see nothing; therefore he speak so free. Your man-
thought see nothing; my man-thought see nothing, till just
now. No! But there comes another word from someone who
speak without though because she, too, know not what it
mean—what it might mean. Just as there are elements which
rest, yet when in nature’s course they move on their way
and they touch—then pouf! and there comes a flash of light,
heaven wide, that blind and kill and destroy some; but that
show up all earth below for leagues and leagues. Is it not so?
Well, I shall explain. To begin, have you ever study the
philosophy of crime? ‘Yes’ and ‘No.’ You, John, yes; for it is a
study of insanity. You, no, Madam Mina; for crime touch you
not—not but once. Still, your mind works true, and argues
not a particulari ad universale. There is this peculiarity in
criminals. It is so constant, in all countries and at all times,
that even police, who know not much from philosophy, come
to know it empirically, that it is. That is to be empiric. The
criminal always work at one crime—that is the true criminal
who seems predestinate to crime, and who will of none
other. This criminal has not full man-brain. He is clever and
cunning and resourceful; but he be not of man-stature as to
brain. He be of child-brain in much. Now this criminal of ours
is predestinate to crime also; he, too, have child-brain, and it
is of the child to do what he have done. The little bird, the
little fish, the little animal learn not by principle, but
empirically; and when he learn to do, then there is to him
the ground to start from to do more. ‘Dos pou sto,’ said
Archimedes. ‘Give me a fulcrum, and I shall move the world!’
To do once, is the fulcrum whereby child-brain become man-
brain; and until he have the purpose to do more, he
continue to do the same again every time, just as he have
done before! Oh, my dear, I see that your eyes are opened,
and that to you the lightning flash show all the leagues,” for
Mrs. Harker began to clap her hands and her eyes sparkled.
He went on:—
“Now you shall speak. Tell us two dry men of science what
you see with those so bright eyes.” He took her hand and
held it whilst she spoke. His finger and thumb closed on her
pulse, as I thought instinctively and unconsciously, as she
spoke:—
“The Count is a criminal and of criminal type. Nordau and
Lombroso would so classify him, and quâ criminal he is of
imperfectly formed mind. Thus, in a difficulty he has to seek
resource in habit. His past is a clue, and the one page of it
that we know—and that from his own lips—tells that once
before, when in what Mr. Morris would call a ‘tight place,’ he
went back to his own country from the land he had tried to
invade, and thence, without losing purpose, prepared
himself for a new effort. He came again better equipped for
his work; and won. So he came to London to invade a new
land. He was beaten, and when all hope of success was lost,
and his existence in danger, he fled back over the sea to his
home; just as formerly he had fled back over the Danube
from Turkey Land.”
“Good, good! oh, you so clever lady!” said Van Helsing,
enthusiastically, as he stooped and kissed her hand. A
moment later he said to me, as calmly as though we had
been having a sickroom consultation:—
“Seventy-two only; and in all this excitement. I have
hope.” Turning to her again, he said with keen
expectation:—
“But go on. Go on! there is more to tell if you will. Be not
afraid; John and I know. I do in any case, and shall tell you if
you are right. Speak, without fear!”
“I will try to; but you will forgive me if I seem egotistical.”
“Nay! fear not, you must be egotist, for it is of you that we
think.”
“Then, as he is criminal he is selfish; and as his intellect is
small and his action is based on selfishness, he confines
himself to one purpose. That purpose is remorseless. As he
fled back over the Danube, leaving his forces to be cut to
pieces, so now he is intent on being safe, careless of all. So
his own selfishness frees my soul somewhat from the terrible
power which he acquired over me on that dreadful night. I
felt it! Oh, I felt it! Thank God, for His great mercy! My soul is
freer than it has been since that awful hour; and all that
haunts me is a fear lest in some trance or dream he may
have used my knowledge for his ends.” The Professor stood
up:—
 “He has so used your mind; and by it he has left us here in
Varna, whilst the ship that carried him rushed through
enveloping fog up to Galatz, where, doubtless, he had made
preparation for escaping from us. But his child-mind only
saw so far; and it may be that, as ever is in God’s
Providence, the very thing that the evildoer most reckoned
on for his selfish good, turns out to be his chiefest harm. The
hunter is taken in his own snare, as the great Psalmist says.
For now that he think he is free from every trace of us all,
and that he has escaped us with so many hours to him, then
his selfish child-brain will whisper him to sleep. He think,
too, that as he cut himself off from knowing your mind, there
can be no knowledge of him to you; there is where he fail!
That terrible baptism of blood which he give you makes you
free to go to him in spirit, as you have as yet done in your
times of freedom, when the sun rise and set. At such times
you go by my volition and not by his; and this power to good
of you and others, as you have won from your suffering at
his hands. This is now all the more precious that he know it
not, and to guard himself have even cut himself off from his
knowledge of our where. We, however, are not selfish, and
we believe that God is with us through all this blackness,
and these many dark hours. We shall fellow him; and we
shall not flinch; even if we peril ourselves that we become
like him. Friend John, this has been a great hour; and it have
done much to advance us on our way. You must be scribe
and write him all down, so that when the others return from
their work you can give it to them; then they shall know as
we do.”
And so I have written it whilst we wait their return, and
Mrs. Harker has written with her typewriter all since she
brought the MS. to us.
 XXVI

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY.

29 October.—This is written in the train from Varna to

Galatz. Last night we all assembled a little before the time of
sunset. Each of us had done his work as well as he could; so
far as thought, and endeavour, and opportunity go, we are
prepared for the whole of our journey, and for our work when
we get to Galatz. When the usual time came round
Mrs. Harker prepared herself for her hypnotic effort; and
after a longer and more serious effort on the part of Van
Helsing than has been usually necessary, she sank into the
trance. Usually she speaks on a hint; but this time the
Professor had to ask her questions, and to ask them pretty
resolutely, before we could learn anything; at last her
answer came:—
“I can see nothing; we are still; there are no waves
lapping, but only a steady swirl of water softly running
against the hawser. I can hear men’s voices calling, near and
far, and the roll and creak of oars in the rowlocks. A gun is
fired somewhere; the echo of it seems far away. There is
tramping of feet overhead, and ropes and chains are
dragged along. What is this? There is a gleam of light; I can
feel the air blowing upon me.”
Here she stopped. She had risen, as if impulsively, from
where she lay on the sofa, and raised both her hands, palms
upwards, as if lifting a weight. Van Helsing and I looked at
each other with understanding. Quincey raised his eyebrows
slightly and looked at her intently, whilst Harker’s hand
instinctively closed round the hilt of his Kukri. There was a
long pause. We all knew that the time when she could speak
was passing; but we felt that it was useless to say anything.
Suddenly she sat up, and, as she opened her eyes, said
sweetly:—
“Would none of you like a cup of tea? You must all be so
tired!” We could only make her happy, and so acquiesced.
She bustled off to get tea; when she had gone Van Helsing
said:—
“You see, my friends. He is close to land: he has left his
earth-chest. But he has yet to get on shore. In the night he
may lie hidden somewhere; but if he be not carried on shore,
or if the ship do not touch it, he cannot achieve the land. In
such case he can, if it be in the night, change his form and
can jump or fly on shore, as he did at Whitby. But if the day
come before he get on shore, then, unless he be carried he
cannot escape. And if he be carried, then the customs men
may discover what the box contain. Thus, in fine, if he
escape not on shore tonight, or before dawn, there will be
the whole day lost to him. We may then arrive in time; for if
he escape not at night we shall come on him in daytime,
boxed up and at our mercy; for he dare not be his true self,
awake and visible, lest he be discovered.”
There was no more to be said, so we waited in patience
until the dawn; at which time we might learn more from
Mrs. Harker.
Early this morning we listened, with breathless anxiety, for
her response in her trance. The hypnotic stage was even
longer in coming than before; and when it came the time
remaining until full sunrise was so short that we began to
despair. Van Helsing seemed to throw his whole soul into the
effort; at last, in obedience to his will she made reply:—
“All is dark. I hear lapping water, level with me, and some
creaking as of wood on wood.” She paused, and the red sun
shot up. We must wait till tonight.
And so it is that we are travelling towards Galatz in an
agony of expectation. We are due to arrive between two and
three in the morning; but already, at Bucharest, we are three
hours late, so we cannot possibly get in till well after sunup.
Thus we shall have two more hypnotic messages from
Mrs. Harker; either or both may possibly throw more light on
what is happening.

Later.—Sunset has come and gone. Fortunately it came at a

time when there was no distraction; for had it occurred
whilst we were at a station, we might not have secured the
necessary calm and isolation. Mrs. Harker yielded to the
hypnotic influence even less readily than this morning. I am
in fear that her power of reading the Count’s sensations may
die away, just when we want it most. It seems to me that her
imagination is beginning to work. Whilst she has been in the
trance hitherto she has confined herself to the simplest of
facts. If this goes on it may ultimately mislead us. If I
thought that the Count’s power over her would die away
equally with her power of knowledge it would be a happy
thought; but I am afraid that it may not be so. When she did
speak, her words were enigmatical:—
“Something is going out; I can feel it pass me like a cold
wind. I can hear, far off, confused sounds—as of men talking
in strange tongues, fierce-falling water, and the howling of
wolves.” She stopped and a shudder ran through her,
increasing in intensity for a few seconds, till, at the end, she
shook as though in a palsy. She said no more, even in
answer to the Professor’s imperative questioning. When she
woke from the trance, she was cold, and exhausted, and
languid; but her mind was all alert. She could not remember
anything, but asked what she had said; when she was told,
she pondered over it deeply for a long time and in silence.
30 October, 7 a.m.—We are near Galatz now, and I may not
have time to write later. Sunrise this morning was anxiously
looked for by us all. Knowing of the increasing difficulty of
procuring the hypnotic trance, Van Helsing began his passes
earlier than usual. They produced no effect, however, until
the regular time, when she yielded with a still greater
difficulty, only a minute before the sun rose. The Professor
lost no time in his questioning; her answer came with equal
quickness:—
“All is dark. I hear water swirling by, level with my ears,
and the creaking of wood on wood. Cattle low far off. There
is another sound, a queer one like—” She stopped and grew
white, and whiter still.
“Go on; go on! Speak, I command you!” said Van Helsing
in an agonised voice. At the same time there was despair in
his eyes, for the risen sun was reddening even Mrs. Harker’s
pale face. She opened her eyes, and we all started as she
said, sweetly and seemingly with the utmost unconcern:—
“Oh, Professor, why ask me to do what you know I can’t? I
don’t remember anything.” Then, seeing the look of
amazement on our faces, she said, turning from one to the
other with a troubled look:—
“What have I said? What have I done? I know nothing,
only that I was lying here, half asleep, and heard you say go
on! speak, I command you!’ It seemed so funny to hear you
order me about, as if I were a bad child!”
“Oh, Madam Mina,” he said, sadly, “it is proof, if proof be
needed, of how I love and honour you, when a word for your
good, spoken more earnest than ever, can seem so strange
because it is to order her whom I am proud to obey!”
The whistles are sounding; we are nearing Galatz. We are
on fire with anxiety and eagerness.
 MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL.

30 October.—Mr. Morris took me to the hotel where our

rooms had been ordered by telegraph, he being the one who
could best be spared, since he does not speak any foreign
language. The forces were distributed much as they had
been at Varna, except that Lord Godalming went to the Vice-
Consul, as his rank might serve as an immediate guarantee
of some sort to the official, we being in extreme hurry.
Jonathan and the two doctors went to the shipping agent to
learn particulars of the arrival of the Czarina Catherine.

Later.—Lord Godalming has returned. The Consul is away,

and the Vice-Consul sick; so the routine work has been
attended to by a clerk. He was very obliging, and offered to
do anything in his power.

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL.

30 October.—At nine o’clock Dr. Van Helsing, Dr. Seward, and

I called on Messrs. Mackenzie & Steinkoff, the agents of the
London firm of Hapgood. They had received a wire from
London, in answer to Lord Godalming’s telegraphed request,
asking us to show them any civility in their power. They were
more than kind and courteous, and took us at once on board
the Czarina Catherine, which lay at anchor out in the river
harbour. There we saw the Captain, Donelson by name, who
told us of his voyage. He said that in all his life he had never
had so favourable a run.
 “Man!” he said, “but it made us afeard, for we expeckit
that we should have to pay for it wi’ some rare piece o’ ill
luck, so as to keep up the average. It’s no canny to run frae
London to the Black Sea wi’ a wind ahint ye, as though the
Deil himself were blawin’ on yer sail for his ain purpose. An’
a’ the time we could no speer a thing. Gin we were nigh a
ship, or a port, or a headland, a fog fell on us and travelled
wi’ us, till when after it had lifted and we looked out, the deil
a thing could we see. We ran by Gibraltar wi’oot bein’ able
to signal; an’ till we came to the Dardanelles and had to wait
to get our permit to pass, we never were within hail o’ aught.
At first I inclined to slack off sail and beat about till the fog
was lifted; but whiles, I thocht that if the Deil was minded to
get us into the Black Sea quick, he was like to do it whether
we would or no. If we had a quick voyage it would be no to
our miscredit wi’ the owners, or no hurt to our traffic; an’ the
Old Mon who had served his ain purpose wad be decently
grateful to us for no hinderin’ him.” This mixture of
simplicity and cunning, of superstition and commercial
reasoning, aroused Van Helsing, who said:—
“Mine friend, that Devil is more clever than he is thought
by some; and he know when he meet his match!” The
skipper was not displeased with the compliment, and went
on:—
“When we got past the Bosphorus the men began to
grumble; some o’ them, the Romanians, came and asked me
to heave overboard a big box which had been put on board
by a queer lookin’ old man just before we had started frae
London. I had seen them speer at the fellow, and put out
their twa fingers when they saw him, to guard against the
evil eye. Man! but the supersteetion of foreigners is
pairfectly rideeculous! I sent them aboot their business
pretty quick; but as just after a fog closed in on us I felt a
wee bit as they did anent something, though I wouldn’t say
it was agin the big box. Well, on we went, and as the fog
didn’t let up for five days I joost let the wind carry us; for if
the Deil wanted to get somewheres—well, he would fetch it
up a’reet. An’ if he didn’t, well, we’d keep a sharp lookout
anyhow. Sure eneuch, we had a fair way and deep water all
the time; and two days ago, when the mornin’ sun came
through the fog, we found ourselves just in the river
opposite Galatz. The Romanians were wild, and wanted me
right or wrong to take out the box and fling it in the river. I
had to argy wi’ them aboot it wi’ a handspike; an’ when the
last o’ them rose off the deck wi’ his head in his hand, I had
convinced them that, evil eye or no evil eye, the property
and the trust of my owners were better in my hands than in
the river Danube. They had, mind ye, taken the box on the
deck ready to fling in, and as it was marked Galatz via
Varna, I thocht I’d let it lie till we discharged in the port an’
get rid o’t althegither. We didn’t do much clearin’ that day,
an’ had to remain the nicht at anchor; but in the mornin’,
braw an’ airly, an hour before sunup, a man came aboard wi’
an order, written to him from England, to receive a box
marked for one Count Dracula. Sure eneuch the matter was
one ready to his hand. He had his papers a’ reet, an’ glad I
was to be rid o’ the dam’ thing, for I was beginnin’ masel’ to
feel uneasy at it. If the Deil did have any luggage aboord the
ship, I’m thinkin’ it was nane ither than that same!”
“What was the name of the man who took it?” asked
Dr. Van Helsing with restrained eagerness.
“I’ll be tellin’ ye quick!” he answered, and, stepping down
to his cabin, produced a receipt signed “Immanuel
Hildesheim.” Burgen-strasse 16 was the address. We found
out that this was all the Captain knew; so with thanks we
came away.
We found Hildesheim in his office, a Hebrew of rather the
Adelphi Theatre type, with a nose like a sheep, and a fez. His
arguments were pointed with specie—we doing the
punctuation—and with a little bargaining he told us what he
knew. This turned out to be simple but important. He had
received a letter from Mr. de Ville of London, telling him to
receive, if possible before sunrise so as to avoid customs, a
box which would arrive at Galatz in the Czarina Catherine.
This he was to give in charge to a certain Petrof Skinsky,
who dealt with the Slovaks who traded down the river to the
port. He had been paid for his work by an English bank note,
which had been duly cashed for gold at the Danube
International Bank. When Skinsky had come to him, he had
taken him to the ship and handed over the box, so as to save
porterage. That was all he knew.
We then sought for Skinsky, but were unable go find him.
One of his neighbours, who did not seem to bear him any
affection, said that he had gone away two days before, no
one knew whither. This was corroborated by his landlord,
who had received by messenger the key of the house
together with the rent due, in English money. This had been
between ten and eleven o’clock last night. We were at a
standstill again.
Whilst we were talking one came running and breathlessly
gasped out that the body of Skinsky had been found inside
the wall of the churchyard of St. Peter, and that the throat
had been torn open as if by some wild animal. Those we had
been speaking with ran off to see the horror, the women
crying out “This is the work of a Slovak!” We hurried away
lest we should have been in some way drawn into the affair,
and so detained.
As we came home we could arrive at no definite
conclusion. We were all convinced that the box was on its
way, by water, to somewhere; but where that might be we
would have to discover. With heavy hearts we came home to
the hotel to Mina.
When we met together, the first thing was to consult as to
taking Mina again into our confidence. Things are getting
desperate, and it is at least a chance, though a hazardous
one. As a preliminary step, I was released from my promise
to her.
 MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL.

30 October, evening.—They were so tired and worn out and

dispirited that there was nothing to be done till they had
some rest; so I asked them all to lie down for half an hour
whilst I should enter everything up to the moment. I feel so
grateful to the man who invented the “Traveller’s”
typewriter, and to Mr. Morris for getting this one for me. I
should have felt quite; astray doing the work if I had to write
with a pen. …
It is all done; poor dear, dear Jonathan, what he must have
suffered, what must he be suffering now. He lies on the sofa
hardly seeming to breathe, and his whole body appears in
collapse. His brows are knit; his face is drawn with pain. Poor
fellow, maybe he is thinking, and I can see his face all
wrinkled up with the concentration of his thoughts. Oh! if I
could only help at all. … I shall do what I can.
I have asked Dr. Van Helsing, and he has got me all the
papers that I have not yet seen. … Whilst they are resting, I
shall go over all carefully, and perhaps I may arrive at some
conclusion. I shall try to follow the Professor’s example, and
think without prejudice on the facts before me. …

I do believe that under God’s providence I have made a

discovery. I shall get the maps and look over them. …

I am more than ever sure that I am right. My new conclusion

is ready, so I shall get our party together and read it. They
can judge it; it is well to be accurate, and every minute is
precious.
 MINA HARKER’S MEMORANDUM.

(ENTERED IN HER JOURNAL.)

Ground of inquiry.—Count Dracula’s problem is to get back

to his own place.
(a) He must be brought back by someone. This is evident;
for had he power to move himself as he wished he could go
either as man, or wolf, or bat, or in some other way. He
evidently fears discovery or interference, in the state of
helplessness in which he must be—confined as he is
between dawn and sunset in his wooden box.
(b) How is he to be taken?—Here a process of exclusions
may help us. By road, by rail, by water?
1. By Road.—There are endless difficulties, especially in
leaving the city.
(x) There are people; and people are curious, and
investigate. A hint, a surmise, a doubt as to what might be in
the box, would destroy him.
(y) There are, or there may be, customs and octroi officers
to pass.
(z) His pursuers might follow. This is his highest fear; and
in order to prevent his being betrayed he has repelled, so far
as he can, even his victim—me!
2. By Rail.—There is no one in charge of the box. It would
have to take its chance of being delayed; and delay would
be fatal, with enemies on the track. True, he might escape at
night; but what would he be, if left in a strange place with
no refuge that he could fly to? This is not what he intends;
and he does not mean to risk it.
3. By Water.—Here is the safest way, in one respect, but
with most danger in another. On the water he is powerless
except at night; even then he can only summon fog and
storm and snow and his wolves. But were he wrecked, the
living water would engulf him, helpless; and he would
indeed be lost. He could have the vessel drive to land; but if
it were unfriendly land, wherein he was not free to move, his
position would still be desperate.
We know from the record that he was on the water; so
what we have to do is to ascertain what water.
The first thing is to realise exactly what he has done as
yet; we may, then, get a light on what his later task is to be.
Firstly.—We must differentiate between what he did in
London as part of his general plan of action, when he was
pressed for moments and had to arrange as best he could.
Secondly we must see, as well as we can surmise it from
the facts we know of, what he has done here.
As to the first, he evidently intended to arrive at Galatz,
and sent invoice to Varna to deceive us lest we should
ascertain his means of exit from England; his immediate and
sole purpose then was to escape. The proof of this, is the
letter of instructions sent to Immanuel Hildesheim to clear
and take away the box before sunrise. There is also the
instruction to Petrof Skinsky. These we must only guess at;
but there must have been some letter or message, since
Skinsky came to Hildesheim.
That, so far, his plans were successful we know. The
Czarina Catherine made a phenomenally quick journey—so
much so that Captain Donelson’s suspicions were aroused;
but his superstition united with his canniness played the
Count’s game for him, and he ran with his favouring wind
through fogs and all till he brought up blindfold at Galatz.
That the Count’s arrangements were well made, has been
proved. Hildesheim cleared the box, took it off, and gave it
to Skinsky. Skinsky took it—and here we lose the trail. We
only know that the box is somewhere on the water, moving
along. The customs and the octroi, if there be any, have
been avoided.
Now we come to what the Count must have done after his
arrival—on land, at Galatz.
The box was given to Skinsky before sunrise. At sunrise
the Count could appear in his own form. Here, we ask why
Skinsky was chosen at all to aid in the work? In my
husband’s diary, Skinsky is mentioned as dealing with the
Slovaks who trade down the river to the port; and the man’s
remark, that the murder was the work of a Slovak, showed
the general feeling against his class. The Count wanted
isolation.
My surmise is, this: that in London the Count decided to
get back to his castle by water, as the most safe and secret
way. He was brought from the castle by Szgany, and
probably they delivered their cargo to Slovaks who took the
boxes to Varna, for there they were shipped for London. Thus
the Count had knowledge of the persons who could arrange
this service. When the box was on land, before sunrise or
after sunset, he came out from his box, met Skinsky and
instructed him what to do as to arranging the carriage of the
box up some river. When this was done, and he knew that all
was in train, he blotted out his traces, as he thought, by
murdering his agent.
I have examined the map and find that the river most
suitable for the Slovaks to have ascended is either the Pruth
or the Sereth. I read in the typescript that in my trance I
heard cows low and water swirling level with my ears and
the creaking of wood. The Count in his box, then, was on a
river in an open boat—propelled probably either by oars or
poles, for the banks are near and it is working against
stream. There would be no such sound if floating down
stream.
Of course it may not be either the Sereth or the Pruth, but
we may possibly investigate further. Now of these two, the
Pruth is the more easily navigated, but the Sereth is, at
Fundu, joined by the Bistritza which runs up round the
Borgo Pass. The loop it makes is manifestly as close to
Dracula’s castle as can be got by water.
 MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL—CONTINUED.

When I had done reading, Jonathan took me in his arms and

kissed me. The others kept shaking me by both hands, and
Dr. Van Helsing said:—
“Our dear Madam Mina is once more our teacher. Her eyes
have been where we were blinded. Now we are on the track
once again, and this time we may succeed. Our enemy is at
his most helpless; and if we can come on him by day, on the
water, our task will be over. He has a start, but he is
powerless to hasten, as he may not leave his box lest those
who carry him may suspect; for them to suspect would be to
prompt them to throw him in the stream where he perish.
This he knows, and will not. Now men, to our Council of War;
for, here and now, we must plan what each and all shall do.”
“I shall get a steam launch and follow him,” said Lord
Godalming.
“And I, horses to follow on the bank lest by chance he
land,” said Mr. Morris.
“Good!” said the Professor, “both good. But neither must
go alone. There must be force to overcome force if need be;
the Slovak is strong and rough, and he carries rude arms.”
All the men smiled, for amongst them they carried a small
arsenal. Said Mr. Morris:—
“I have brought some Winchesters; they are pretty handy
in a crowd, and there may be wolves. The Count, if you
remember, took some other precautions; he made some
requisitions on others that Mrs. Harker could not quite hear
or understand. We must be ready at all points.” Dr. Seward
said:—
“I think I had better go with Quincey. We have been
accustomed to hunt together, and we two, well armed, will
be a match for whatever may come along. You must not be
alone, Art. It may be necessary to fight the Slovaks, and a
chance thrust—for I don’t suppose these fellows carry
guns—would undo all our plans. There must be no chances,
this time; we shall not rest until the Count’s head and body
have been separated, and we are sure that he cannot
reincarnate.” He looked at Jonathan as he spoke, and
Jonathan looked at me. I could see that the poor dear was
torn about in his mind. Of course he wanted to be with me;
but then the boat service would, most likely, be the one
which would destroy the … the … the … Vampire. (Why did I
hesitate to write the word?) He was silent awhile, and during
his silence Dr. Van Helsing spoke:—
“Friend Jonathan, this is to you for twice reasons. First,
because you are young and brave and can fight, and all
energies may be needed at the last; and again that it is your
right to destroy him—that—which has wrought such woe to
you and yours. Be not afraid for Madam Mina; she will be my
care, if I may. I am old. My legs are not so quick to run as
once; and I am not used to ride so long or to pursue as need
be, or to fight with lethal weapons. But I can be of other
service; I can fight in other way. And I can die, if need be, as
well as younger men. Now let me say that what I would is
this: while you, my Lord Godalming and friend Jonathan go
in your so swift little steamboat up the river, and whilst John
and Quincey guard the bank where perchance he might be
landed, I will take Madam Mina right into the heart of the
enemy’s country. Whilst the old fox is tied in his box, floating
on the running stream whence he cannot escape to land—
where he dares not raise the lid of his coffin-box lest his
Slovak carriers should in fear leave him to perish—we shall
go in the track where Jonathan went—from Bistritz over the
Borgo, and find our way to the Castle of Dracula. Here,
Madam Mina’s hypnotic power will surely help, and we shall
find our way—all dark and unknown otherwise—after the
first sunrise when we are near that fateful place. There is
much to be done, and other places to be made sanctify, so
that that nest of vipers be obliterated.” Here Jonathan
interrupted him hotly:—
“Do you mean to say, Professor Van Helsing, that you
would bring Mina, in her sad case and tainted as she is with
that devil’s illness, right into the jaws of his deathtrap? Not
for the world! Not for Heaven or Hell!” He became almost
speechless for a minute, and then went on:—
“Do you know what the place is? Have you seen that awful
den of hellish infamy—with the very moonlight alive with
grisly shapes, and every speck of dust that whirls in the
wind a devouring monster in embryo? Have you felt the
Vampire’s lips upon your throat?” Here he turned to me, and
as his eyes lit on my forehead he threw up his arms with a
cry: “Oh, my God, what have we done to have this terror
upon us!” and he sank down on the sofa in a collapse of
misery. The Professor’s voice, as he spoke in clear, sweet
tones, which seemed to vibrate in the air, calmed us all:—
“Oh, my friend, it is because I would save Madam Mina
from that awful place that I would go. God forbid that I
should take her into that place. There is work—wild work—to
be done there, that her eyes may not see. We men here, all
save Jonathan, have seen with their own eyes what is to be
done before that place can be purify. Remember that we are
in terrible straits. If the Count escape us this time—and he is
strong and subtle and cunning—he may choose to sleep him
for a century, and then in time our dear one”—he took my
hand—“would come to him to keep him company, and would
be as those others that you, Jonathan, saw. You have told us
of their gloating lips; you heard their ribald laugh as they
clutched the moving bag that the Count threw to them. You
shudder; and well may it be. Forgive me that I make you so
much pain, but it is necessary. My friend, is it not a dire need
for the which I am giving, possibly my life? If it were that
anyone went into that place to stay, it is I who would have to
go to keep them company.”
 “Do as you will,” said Jonathan, with a sob that shook him
all over, “we are in the hands of God!”

Later.—Oh, it did me good to see the way that these brave

men worked. How can women help loving men when they
are so earnest, and so true, and so brave! And, too, it made
me think of the wonderful power of money! What can it not
do when it is properly applied; and what might it do when
basely used. I felt so thankful that Lord Godalming is rich,
and that both he and Mr. Morris, who also has plenty of
money, are willing to spend it so freely. For if they did not,
our little expedition could not start, either so promptly or so
well equipped, as it will within another hour. It is not three
hours since it was arranged what part each of us was to do;
and now Lord Godalming and Jonathan have a lovely steam
launch, with steam up ready to start at a moment’s notice.
Dr. Seward and Mr. Morris have half a dozen good horses,
well appointed. We have all the maps and appliances of
various kinds that can be had. Professor Van Helsing and I
are to leave by the 11:40 train tonight for Veresti, where we
are to get a carriage to drive to the Borgo Pass. We are
bringing a good deal of ready money, as we are to buy a
carriage and horses. We shall drive ourselves, for we have no
one whom we can trust in the matter. The Professor knows
something of a great many languages, so we shall get on all
right. We have all got arms, even for me a large-bore
revolver; Jonathan would not be happy unless I was armed
like the rest. Alas! I cannot carry one arm that the rest do;
the scar on my forehead forbids that. Dear Dr. Van Helsing
comforts me by telling me that I am fully armed as there
may be wolves; the weather is getting colder every hour,
and there are snow-flurries which come and go as warnings.
Later.—It took all my courage to say goodbye to my darling.
We may never meet again. Courage, Mina! the Professor is
looking at you keenly; his look is a warning. There must be
no tears now—unless it may be that God will let them fall in
gladness.

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL.

October 30. Night.—I am writing this in the light from the

furnace door of the steam launch: Lord Godalming is firing
up. He is an experienced hand at the work, as he has had for
years a launch of his own on the Thames, and another on
the Norfolk Broads. Regarding our plans, we finally decided
that Mina’s guess was correct, and that if any waterway was
chosen for the Count’s escape back to his Castle, the Sereth
and then the Bistritza at its junction, would be the one. We
took it, that somewhere about the 47th degree, north
latitude, would be the place chosen for the crossing the
country between the river and the Carpathians. We have no
fear in running at good speed up the river at night; there is
plenty of water, and the banks are wide enough apart to
make steaming, even in the dark, easy enough. Lord
Godalming tells me to sleep for a while, as it is enough for
the present for one to be on watch. But I cannot sleep—how
can I with the terrible danger hanging over my darling, and
her going out into that awful place. … My only comfort is
that we are in the hands of God. Only for that faith it would
be easier to die than to live, and so be quit of all the trouble.
Mr. Morris and Dr. Seward were off on their long ride before
we started; they are to keep up the right bank, far enough
off to get on higher lands where they can see a good stretch
of river and avoid the following of its curves. They have, for
the first stages, two men to ride and lead their spare
horses—four in all, so as not to excite curiosity. When they
dismiss the men, which shall be shortly, they shall
themselves look after the horses. It may be necessary for us
to join forces; if so they can mount our whole party. One of
the saddles has a movable horn, and can be easily adapted
for Mina, if required.
It is a wild adventure we are on. Here, as we are rushing
along through the darkness, with the cold from the river
seeming to rise up and strike us; with all the mysterious
voices of the night around us, it all comes home. We seem to
be drifting into unknown places and unknown ways; into a
whole world of dark and dreadful things. Godalming is
shutting the furnace door. …

31 October.—Still hurrying along. The day has come, and

Godalming is sleeping. I am on watch. The morning is
bitterly cold; the furnace heat is grateful, though we have
heavy fur coats. As yet we have passed only a few open
boats, but none of them had on board any box or package of
anything like the size of the one we seek. The men were
scared every time we turned our electric lamp on them, and
fell on their knees and prayed.

1 November, evening.—No news all day; we have found

nothing of the kind we seek. We have now passed into the
Bistritza; and if we are wrong in our surmise our chance is
gone. We have overhauled every boat, big and little. Early
this morning, one crew took us for a Government boat, and
treated us accordingly. We saw in this a way of smoothing
matters, so at Fundu, where the Bistritza runs into the
Sereth, we got a Romanian flag which we now fly
conspicuously. With every boat which we have overhauled
since then this trick has succeeded; we have had every
deference shown to us, and not once any objection to
whatever we chose to ask or do. Some of the Slovaks tell us
that a big boat passed them, going at more than usual
speed as she had a double crew on board. This was before
they came to Fundu, so they could not tell us whether the
boat turned into the Bistritza or continued on up the Sereth.
At Fundu we could not hear of any such boat, so she must
have passed there in the night. I am feeling very sleepy; the
cold is perhaps beginning to tell upon me, and nature must
have rest some time. Godalming insists that he shall keep
the first watch. God bless him for all his goodness to poor
dear Mina and me.

2 November, morning.—It is broad daylight. That good

fellow would not wake me. He says it would have been a sin
to, for I slept peacefully and was forgetting my trouble. It
seems brutally selfish to me to have slept so long, and let
him watch all night; but he was quite right. I am a new man
this morning; and, as I sit here and watch him sleeping, I can
do all that is necessary both as to minding the engine,
steering, and keeping watch. I can feel that my strength and
energy are coming back to me. I wonder where Mina is now,
and Van Helsing. They should have got to Veresti about noon
on Wednesday. It would take them some time to get the
carriage and horses; so if they had started and travelled
hard, they would be about now at the Borgo Pass. God guide
and help them! I am afraid to think what may happen. If we
could only go faster! but we cannot; the engines are
throbbing and doing their utmost. I wonder how Dr. Seward
and Mr. Morris are getting on. There seem to be endless
streams running down the mountains into this river, but as
none of them are very large—at present, at all events,
though they are terrible doubtless in winter and when the
snow melts—the horsemen may not have met much
obstruction. I hope that before we get to Strasba we may see
them; for if by that time we have not overtaken the Count, it
may be necessary to take counsel together what to do next.

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY.

2 November.—Three days on the road. No news, and no time

to write it if there had been, for every moment is precious.
We have had only the rest needful for the horses; but we are
both bearing it wonderfully. Those adventurous days of ours
are turning up useful. We must push on; we shall never feel
happy till we get the launch in sight again.

3 November.—We heard at Fundu that the launch had gone

up the Bistritza. I wish it wasn’t so cold. There are signs of
snow coming; and if it falls heavy it will stop us. In such case
we must get a sledge and go on, Russian fashion.

4 November.—Today we heard of the launch having been

detained by an accident when trying to force a way up the
rapids. The Slovak boats get up all right, by aid of a rope
and steering with knowledge. Some went up only a few
hours before. Godalming is an amateur fitter himself, and
evidently it was he who put the launch in trim again. Finally,
they got up the rapids all right, with local help, and are off
on the chase afresh. I fear that the boat is not any better for
the accident; the peasantry tell us that after she got upon
smooth water again, she kept stopping every now and again
so long as she was in sight. We must push on harder than
ever; our help may be wanted soon.

MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL.

31 October.—Arrived at Veresti at noon. The Professor tells

me that this morning at dawn he could hardly hypnotise me
at all, and that all I could say was: “dark and quiet.” He is off
now buying a carriage and horses. He says that he will later
on try to buy additional horses, so that we may be able to
change them on the way. We have something more than 70
miles before us. The country is lovely, and most interesting;
if only we were under different conditions, how delightful it
would be to see it all. If Jonathan and I were driving through
it alone what a pleasure it would be. To stop and see people,
and learn something of their life, and to fill our minds and
memories with all the colour and picturesqueness of the
whole wild, beautiful country and the quaint people! But,
alas!—

Later.—Dr. Van Helsing has returned. He has got the carriage

and horses; we are to have some dinner, and to start in an
hour. The landlady is putting us up a huge basket of
provisions; it seems enough for a company of soldiers. The
Professor encourages her, and whispers to me that it may be
a week before we can get any good food again. He has been
shopping too, and has sent home such a wonderful lot of fur
coats and wraps, and all sorts of warm things. There will not
be any chance of our being cold.
We shall soon be off. I am afraid to think what may happen
to us. We are truly in the hands of God. He alone knows what
may be, and I pray Him, with all the strength of my sad and
humble soul, that He will watch over my beloved husband;
that whatever may happen, Jonathan may know that I loved
him and honoured him more than I can say, and that my
latest and truest thought will be always for him.
 XXVII

MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL.

1 November.—All day long we have travelled, and at a good

speed. The horses seem to know that they are being kindly
treated, for they go willingly their full stage at best speed.
We have now had so many changes and find the same thing
so constantly that we are encouraged to think that the
journey will be an easy one. Dr. Van Helsing is laconic; he
tells the farmers that he is hurrying to Bistritz, and pays
them well to make the exchange of horses. We get hot soup,
or coffee, or tea; and off we go. It is a lovely country; full of
beauties of all imaginable kinds, and the people are brave,
and strong, and simple, and seem full of nice qualities. They
are very, very superstitious. In the first house where we
stopped, when the woman who served us saw the scar on
my forehead, she crossed herself and put out two fingers
towards me, to keep off the evil eye. I believe they went to
the trouble of putting an extra amount of garlic into our
food; and I can’t abide garlic. Ever since then I have taken
care not to take off my hat or veil, and so have escaped their
suspicions. We are travelling fast, and as we have no driver
with us to carry tales, we go ahead of scandal; but I daresay
that fear of the evil eye will follow hard behind us all the
way. The Professor seems tireless; all day he would not take
any rest, though he made me sleep for a long spell. At
sunset time he hypnotised me, and he says that I answered
as usual “darkness, lapping water and creaking wood”; so
our enemy is still on the river. I am afraid to think of
Jonathan, but somehow I have now no fear for him, or for
myself. I write this whilst we wait in a farmhouse for the
horses to be got ready. Dr. Van Helsing is sleeping, Poor dear,
he looks very tired and old and grey, but his mouth is set as
firmly as a conqueror’s; even in his sleep he is instinct with
resolution. When we have well started I must make him rest
whilst I drive. I shall tell him that we have days before us,
and we must not break down when most of all his strength
will be needed. … All is ready; we are off shortly.

2 November, morning.—I was successful, and we took turns

driving all night; now the day is on us, bright though cold.
There is a strange heaviness in the air—I say heaviness for
want of a better word; I mean that it oppresses us both. It is
very cold, and only our warm furs keep us comfortable. At
dawn Van Helsing hypnotised me; he says I answered
“darkness, creaking wood and roaring water,” so the river is
changing as they ascend. I do hope that my darling will not
run any chance of danger—more than need be; but we are in
God’s hands.

2 November, night.—All day long driving. The country gets

wilder as we go, and the great spurs of the Carpathians,
which at Veresti seemed so far from us and so low on the
horizon, now seem to gather round us and tower in front. We
both seem in good spirits; I think we make an effort each to
cheer the other; in the doing so we cheer ourselves. Dr. Van
Helsing says that by morning we shall reach the Borgo Pass.
The houses are very few here now, and the Professor says
that the last horse we got will have to go on with us, as we
may not be able to change. He got two in addition to the two
we changed, so that now we have a rude four-in-hand. The
dear horses are patient and good, and they give us no
trouble. We are not worried with other travellers, and so
even I can drive. We shall get to the Pass in daylight; we do
not want to arrive before. So we take it easy, and have each
a long rest in turn. Oh, what will tomorrow bring to us? We
go to seek the place where my poor darling suffered so
much. God grant that we may be guided aright, and that He
will deign to watch over my husband and those dear to us
both, and who are in such deadly peril. As for me, I am not
worthy in His sight. Alas! I am unclean to His eyes, and shall
be until He may deign to let me stand forth in His sight as
one of those who have not incurred His wrath.

MEMORANDUM BY ABRAHAM VAN HELSING.

4 November.—This to my old and true friend John Seward,

M.D., of Purfleet, London, in case I may not see him. It may
explain. It is morning, and I write by a fire which all the night
I have kept alive—Madam Mina aiding me. It is cold, cold; so
cold that the grey heavy sky is full of snow, which when it
falls will settle for all winter as the ground is hardening to
receive it. It seems to have affected Madam Mina; she has
been so heavy of head all day that she was not like herself.
She sleeps, and sleeps, and sleeps! She who is usual so
alert, have done literally nothing all the day; she even have
lost her appetite. She make no entry into her little diary, she
who write so faithful at every pause. Something whisper to
me that all is not well. However, tonight she is more vif. Her
long sleep all day have refresh and restore her, for now she
is all sweet and bright as ever. At sunset I try to hypnotise
her, but alas! with no effect; the power has grown less and
less with each day, and tonight it fail me altogether. Well,
God’s will be done—whatever it may be, and whithersoever
it may lead!
Now to the historical, for as Madam Mina write not in her
stenography, I must, in my cumbrous old fashion, that so
each day of us may not go unrecorded.
We got to the Borgo Pass just after sunrise yesterday
morning. When I saw the signs of the dawn I got ready for
the hypnotism. We stopped our carriage, and got down so
that there might be no disturbance. I made a couch with
furs, and Madam Mina, lying down, yield herself as usual,
but more slow and more short time than ever, to the
hypnotic sleep. As before, came the answer: “darkness and
the swirling of water.” Then she woke, bright and radiant
and we go on our way and soon reach the Pass. At this time
and place, she become all on fire with zeal; some new
guiding power be in her manifested, for she point to a road
and say:—
“This is the way.”
“How know you it?” I ask.
“Of course I know it,” she answer, and with a pause, add:
“Have not my Jonathan travelled it and wrote of his travel?”
At first I think somewhat strange, but soon I see that there
be only one such byroad. It is used but little, and very
different from the coach road from the Bukovina to Bistritz,
which is more wide and hard, and more of use.
So we came down this road; when we meet other ways—
not always were we sure that they were roads at all, for they
be neglect and light snow have fallen—the horses know and
they only. I give rein to them, and they go on so patient. By-
and-by we find all the things which Jonathan have note in
that wonderful diary of him. Then we go on for long, long
hours and hours. At the first, I tell Madam Mina to sleep; she
try, and she succeed. She sleep all the time; till at the last, I
feel myself to suspicious grow, and attempt to wake her. But
she sleep on, and I may not wake her though I try. I do not
wish to try too hard lest I harm her; for I know that she have
suffer much, and sleep at times be all-in-all to her. I think I
drowse myself, for all of sudden I feel guilt, as though I have
done something; I find myself bolt up, with the reins in my
hand, and the good horses go along jog, jog, just as ever. I
look down and find Madam Mina still sleep. It is now not far
off sunset time, and over the snow the light of the sun flow
in big yellow flood, so that we throw great long shadow on
where the mountain rise so steep. For we are going up, and
up; and all is oh! so wild and rocky, as though it were the
end of the world.
Then I arouse Madam Mina. This time she wake with not
much trouble, and then I try to put her to hypnotic sleep.
But she sleep not, being as though I were not. Still I try and
try, till all at once I find her and myself in dark; so I look
round, and find that the sun have gone down. Madam Mina
laugh, and I turn and look at her. She is now quite awake,
and look so well as I never saw her since that night at Carfax
when we first enter the Count’s house. I am amaze, and not
at ease then; but she is so bright and tender and thoughtful
for me that I forget all fear. I light a fire, for we have brought
supply of wood with us, and she prepare food while I undo
the horses and set them, tethered in shelter, to feed. Then
when I return to the fire she have my supper ready. I go to
help her; but she smile, and tell me that she have eat
already—that she was so hungry that she would not wait. I
like it not, and I have grave doubts; but I fear to affright her,
and so I am silent of it. She help me and I eat alone; and
then we wrap in fur and lie beside the fire, and I tell her to
sleep while I watch. But presently I forget all of watching;
and when I sudden remember that I watch, I find her lying
quiet, but awake, and looking at me with so bright eyes.
Once, twice more the same occur, and I get much sleep till
before morning. When I wake I try to hypnotise her; but alas!
though she shut her eyes obedient, she may not sleep. The
sun rise up, and up, and up; and then sleep come to her too
late, but so heavy that she will not wake. I have to lift her
up, and place her sleeping in the carriage when I have
harnessed the horses and made all ready. Madam still sleep,
and she look in her sleep more healthy and more redder
than before. And I like it not. And I am afraid, afraid,
afraid!—I am afraid of all things—even to think but I must go
on my way. The stake we play for is life and death, or more
than these, and we must not flinch.

5 November, morning.—Let me be accurate in everything,

for though you and I have seen some strange things
together, you may at the first think that I, Van Helsing, am
mad—that the many horrors and the so long strain on nerves
has at the last turn my brain.
All yesterday we travel, ever getting closer to the
mountains, and moving into a more and more wild and
desert land. There are great, frowning precipices and much
falling water, and Nature seem to have held sometime her
carnival. Madam Mina still sleep and sleep; and though I did
have hunger and appeased it, I could not waken her—even
for food. I began to fear that the fatal spell of the place was
upon her, tainted as she is with that Vampire baptism.
“Well,” said I to myself, “if it be that she sleep all the day, it
shall also be that I do not sleep at night.” As we travel on
the rough road, for a road of an ancient and imperfect kind
there was, I held down my head and slept. Again I waked
with a sense of guilt and of time passed, and found Madam
Mina still sleeping, and the sun low down. But all was indeed
changed; the frowning mountains seemed further away, and
we were near the top of a steep-rising hill, on summit of
which was such a castle as Jonathan tell of in his diary. At
once I exulted and feared; for now, for good or ill, the end
was near.
 I woke Madam Mina, and again tried to hypnotise her; but
alas! unavailing till too late. Then, ere the great dark came
upon us—for even after down-sun the heavens reflected the
gone sun on the snow, and all was for a time in a great
twilight—I took out the horses and fed them in what shelter I
could. Then I make a fire; and near it I make Madam Mina,
now awake and more charming than ever, sit comfortable
amid her rugs. I got ready food: but she would not eat,
simply saying that she had not hunger. I did not press her,
knowing her unavailingness. But I myself eat, for I must
needs now be strong for all. Then, with the fear on me of
what might be, I drew a ring so big for her comfort, round
where Madam Mina sat; and over the ring I passed some of
the wafer, and I broke it fine so that all was well guarded.
She sat still all the time—so still as one dead; and she grew
whiter and ever whiter till the snow was not more pale; and
no word she said. But when I drew near, she clung to me,
and I could know that the poor soul shook her from head to
feet with a tremor that was pain to feel. I said to her
presently, when she had grown more quiet:—
“Will you not come over to the fire?” for I wished to make a
test of what she could. She rose obedient, but when she
have made a step she stopped, and stood as one stricken.
“Why not go on?” I asked. She shook her head, and,
coming back, sat down in her place. Then, looking at me
with open eyes, as of one waked from sleep, she said
simply:—
“I cannot!” and remained silent. I rejoiced, for I knew that
what she could not, none of those that we dreaded could.
Though there might be danger to her body, yet her soul was
safe!
Presently the horses began to scream, and tore at their
tethers till I came to them and quieted them. When they did
feel my hands on them, they whinnied low as in joy, and
licked at my hands and were quiet for a time. Many times
through the night did I come to them, till it arrive to the cold
hour when all nature is at lowest; and every time my coming
was with quiet of them. In the cold hour the fire began to
die, and I was about stepping forth to replenish it, for now
the snow came in flying sweeps and with it a chill mist. Even
in the dark there was a light of some kind, as there ever is
over snow; and it seemed as though the snow-flurries and
the wreaths of mist took shape as of women with trailing
garments. All was in dead, grim silence only that the horses
whinnied and cowered, as if in terror of the worst. I began to
fear—horrible fears; but then came to me the sense of safety
in that ring wherein I stood. I began, too, to think that my
imaginings were of the night, and the gloom, and the unrest
that I have gone through, and all the terrible anxiety. It was
as though my memories of all Jonathan’s horrid experience
were befooling me; for the snow flakes and the mist began
to wheel and circle round, till I could get as though a
shadowy glimpse of those women that would have kissed
him. And then the horses cowered lower and lower, and
moaned in terror as men do in pain. Even the madness of
fright was not to them, so that they could break away. I
feared for my dear Madam Mina when these weird figures
drew near and circled round. I looked at her, but she sat
calm, and smiled at me; when I would have stepped to the
fire to replenish it, she caught me and held me back, and
whispered, like a voice that one hears in a dream, so low it
was:—
“No! No! Do not go without. Here you are safe!” I turned to
her, and looking in her eyes, said:—
“But you? It is for you that I fear!” whereat she laughed—a
laugh, low and unreal, and said:—
“Fear for me! Why fear for me? None safer in all the world
from them than I am,” and as I wondered at the meaning of
her words, a puff of wind made the flame leap up, and I see
the red scar on her forehead. Then, alas! I knew. Did I not, I
would soon have learned, for the wheeling figures of mist
and snow came closer, but keeping ever without the Holy
circle. Then they began to materialise till—if God have not
take away my reason, for I saw it through my eyes—there
were before me in actual flesh the same three women that
Jonathan saw in the room, when they would have kissed his
throat. I knew the swaying round forms, the bright hard
eyes, the white teeth, the ruddy colour, the voluptuous lips.
They smiled ever at poor dear Madam Mina; and as their
laugh came through the silence of the night, they twined
their arms and pointed to her, and said in those so sweet
tingling tones that Jonathan said were of the intolerable
sweetness of the water-glasses:—
“Come, sister. Come to us. Come! Come!” In fear I turned
to my poor Madam Mina, and my heart with gladness leapt
like flame; for oh! the terror in her sweet eyes, the repulsion,
the horror, told a story to my heart that was all of hope. God
be thanked she was not, yet, of them. I seized some of the
firewood which was by me, and holding out some of the
Wafer, advanced on them towards the fire. They drew back
before me, and laughed their low horrid laugh. I fed the fire,
and feared them not; for I knew that we were safe within our
protections. They could not approach, me, whilst so armed,
nor Madam Mina whilst she remained within the ring, which
she could not leave no more than they could enter. The
horses had ceased to moan, and lay still on the ground; the
snow fell on them softly, and they grew whiter. I knew that
there was for the poor beasts no more of terror.
And so we remained till the red of the dawn to fall through
the snow-gloom. I was desolate and afraid, and full of woe
and terror; but when that beautiful sun began to climb the
horizon life was to me again. At the first coming of the dawn
the horrid figures melted in the whirling mist and snow; the
wreaths of transparent gloom moved away towards the
castle, and were lost.
Instinctively, with the dawn coming, I turned to Madam
Mina, intending to hypnotise her; but she lay in a deep and
sudden sleep, from which I could not wake her. I tried to
hypnotise through her sleep, but she made no response,
none at all; and the day broke. I fear yet to stir. I have made
my fire and have seen the horses, they are all dead. Today I
have much to do here, and I keep waiting till the sun is up
high; for there may be places where I must go, where that
sunlight, though snow and mist obscure it, will be to me a
safety.
I will strengthen me with breakfast, and then I will to my
terrible work. Madam Mina still sleeps; and, God be thanked!
she is calm in her sleep. …

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL.

4 November, evening.—The accident to the launch has been

a terrible thing for us. Only for it we should have overtaken
the boat long ago; and by now my dear Mina would have
been free. I fear to think of her, off on the wolds near that
horrid place. We have got horses, and we follow on the track.
I note this whilst Godalming is getting ready. We have our
arms. The Szgany must look out if they mean fight. Oh, if
only Morris and Seward were with us. We must only hope! If I
write no more Goodbye, Mina! God bless and keep you.

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY.

5 November.—With the dawn we saw the body of Szgany

before us dashing away from the river with their leiter-
wagon. They surrounded it in a cluster, and hurried along as
though beset. The snow is falling lightly and there is a
strange excitement in the air. It may be our own feelings,
but the depression is strange. Far off I hear the howling of
wolves; the snow brings them down from the mountains, and
there are dangers to all of us, and from all sides. The horses
are nearly ready, and we are soon off. We ride to death of
someone. God alone knows who, or where, or what, or when,
or how it may be. …

DR. VAN HELSING’S MEMORANDUM.

5 November, afternoon.—I am at least sane. Thank God for

that mercy at all events, though the proving it has been
dreadful. When I left Madam Mina sleeping within the Holy
circle, I took my way to the castle. The blacksmith hammer
which I took in the carriage from Veresti was useful; though
the doors were all open I broke them off the rusty hinges,
lest some ill-intent or ill-chance should close them, so that
being entered I might not get out. Jonathan’s bitter
experience served me here. By memory of his diary I found
my way to the old chapel, for I knew that here my work lay.
The air was oppressive; it seemed as if there was some
sulphurous fume, which at times made me dizzy. Either
there was a roaring in my ears or I heard afar off the howl of
wolves. Then I bethought me of my dear Madam Mina, and I
was in terrible plight. The dilemma had me between his
horns.
Her, I had not dare to take into this place, but left safe
from the Vampire in that Holy circle; and yet even there
would be the wolf! I resolve me that my work lay here, and
that as to the wolves we must submit, if it were God’s will. At
any rate it was only death and freedom beyond. So did I
choose for her. Had it but been for myself the choice had
been easy, the maw of the wolf were better to rest in than
the grave of the Vampire! So I make my choice to go on with
my work.
I knew that there were at least three graves to find—
graves that are inhabit; so I search, and search, and I find
one of them. She lay in her Vampire sleep, so full of life and
voluptuous beauty that I shudder as though I have come to
do murder. Ah, I doubt not that in old time, when such
things were, many a man who set forth to do such a task as
mine, found at the last his heart fail him, and then his nerve.
So he delay, and delay, and delay, till the mere beauty and
the fascination of the wanton Un-Dead have hypnotise him;
and he remain on and on, till sunset come, and the Vampire
sleep be over. Then the beautiful eyes of the fair woman
open and look love, and the voluptuous mouth present to a
kiss—and man is weak. And there remain one more victim in
the Vampire fold; one more to swell the grim and grisly ranks
of the Un-Dead! …
There is some fascination, surely, when I am moved by the
mere presence of such an one, even lying as she lay in a
tomb fretted with age and heavy with the dust of centuries,
though there be that horrid odour such as the lairs of the
Count have had. Yes, I was moved—I, Van Helsing, with all
my purpose and with my motive for hate—I was moved to a
yearning for delay which seemed to paralyse my faculties
and to clog my very soul. It may have been that the need of
natural sleep, and the strange oppression of the air were
beginning to overcome me. Certain it was that I was lapsing
into sleep, the open-eyed sleep of one who yields to a sweet
fascination, when there came through the snow-stilled air a
long, low wail, so full of woe and pity that it woke me like the
sound of a clarion. For it was the voice of my dear Madam
Mina that I heard.
Then I braced myself again to my horrid task, and found
by wrenching away tomb-tops one other of the sisters, the
other dark one. I dared not pause to look on her as I had on
her sister, lest once more I should begin to be enthrall; but I
go on searching until, presently, I find in a high great tomb
as if made to one much beloved that other fair sister which,
like Jonathan I had seen to gather herself out of the atoms of
the mist. She was so fair to look on, so radiantly beautiful, so
exquisitely voluptuous, that the very instinct of man in me,
which calls some of my sex to love and to protect one of
hers, made my head whirl with new emotion. But God be
thanked, that soul-wail of my dear Madam Mina had not died
out of my ears; and, before the spell could be wrought
further upon me, I had nerved myself to my wild work. By
this time I had searched all the tombs in the chapel, so far as
I could tell; and as there had been only three of these Un-
Dead phantoms around us in the night, I took it that there
were no more of active Un-Dead existent. There was one
great tomb more lordly than all the rest; huge it was, and
nobly proportioned. On it was but one word

DRACULA.

This then was the Un-Dead home of the King-Vampire, to

whom so many more were due. Its emptiness spoke eloquent
to make certain what I knew. Before I began to restore these
women to their dead selves through my awful work, I laid in
Dracula’s tomb some of the Wafer, and so banished him from
it, Un-Dead, forever.
Then began my terrible task, and I dreaded it. Had it been
but one, it had been easy, comparative. But three! To begin
twice more after I had been through a deed of horror; for if it
was terrible with the sweet Miss Lucy, what would it not be
with these strange ones who had survived through
centuries, and who had been strengthened by the passing of
the years; who would, if they could, have fought for their
foul lives. …
Oh, my friend John, but it was butcher work; had I not
been nerved by thoughts of other dead, and of the living
over whom hung such a pall of fear, I could not have gone
on. I tremble and tremble even yet, though till all was over,
God be thanked, my nerve did stand. Had I not seen the
repose in the first place, and the gladness that stole over it
just ere the final dissolution came, as realisation that the
soul had been won, I could not have gone further with my
butchery. I could not have endured the horrid screeching as
the stake drove home; the plunging of writhing form, and
lips of bloody foam. I should have fled in terror and left my
work undone. But it is over! And the poor souls, I can pity
them now and weep, as I think of them placid each in her
full sleep of death for a short moment ere fading. For, friend
John, hardly had my knife severed the head of each, before
the whole body began to melt away and crumble in to its
native dust, as though the death that should have come
centuries agone had at last assert himself and say at once
and loud “I am here!”
Before I left the castle I so fixed its entrances that never
more can the Count enter there Un-Dead.
When I stepped into the circle where Madam Mina slept,
she woke from her sleep, and, seeing, me, cried out in pain
that I had endured too much.
“Come!” she said, “come away from this awful place! Let
us go to meet my husband who is, I know, coming towards
us.” She was looking thin and pale and weak; but her eyes
were pure and glowed with fervour. I was glad to see her
paleness and her illness, for my mind was full of the fresh
horror of that ruddy vampire sleep.
And so with trust and hope, and yet full of fear, we go
eastward to meet our friends—and him—whom Madam Mina
tell me that she know are coming to meet us.

MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL.

6 November.—It was late in the afternoon when the
Professor and I took our way towards the east whence I knew
Jonathan was coming. We did not go fast, though the way
was steeply downhill, for we had to take heavy rugs and
wraps with us; we dared not face the possibility of being left
without warmth in the cold and the snow. We had to take
some of our provisions, too, for we were in a perfect
desolation, and, so far as we could see through the snowfall,
there was not even the sign of habitation. When we had
gone about a mile, I was tired with the heavy walking and
sat down to rest. Then we looked back and saw where the
clear line of Dracula’s castle cut the sky; for we were so deep
under the hill whereon it was set that the angle of
perspective of the Carpathian mountains was far below it.
We saw it in all its grandeur, perched a thousand feet on the
summit of a sheer precipice, and with seemingly a great gap
between it and the steep of the adjacent mountain on any
side. There was something wild and uncanny about the
place. We could hear the distant howling of wolves. They
were far off, but the sound, even though coming muffled
through the deadening snowfall, was full of terror. I knew
from the way Dr. Van Helsing was searching about that he
was trying to seek some strategic point, where we would be
less exposed in case of attack. The rough roadway still led
downwards; we could trace it through the drifted snow.
In a little while the Professor signalled to me, so I got up
and joined him. He had found a wonderful spot, a sort of
natural hollow in a rock, with an entrance like a doorway
between two boulders. He took me by the hand and drew me
in: “See!” he said, “here you will be in shelter; and if the
wolves do come I can meet them one by one.” He brought in
our furs, and made a snug nest for me, and got out some
provisions and forced them upon me. But I could not eat; to
even try to do so was repulsive to me, and, much as I would
have liked to please him, I could not bring myself to the
attempt. He looked very sad, but did not reproach me.
Taking his field-glasses from the case, he stood on the top of
the rock, and began to search the horizon. Suddenly he
called out:—
“Look! Madam Mina, look! look!” I sprang up and stood
beside him on the rock; he handed me his glasses and
pointed. The snow was now falling more heavily, and swirled
about fiercely, for a high wind was beginning to blow.
However, there were times when there were pauses between
the snow flurries and I could see a long way round. From the
height where we were it was possible to see a great
distance; and far off, beyond the white waste of snow, I
could see the river lying like a black ribbon in kinks and
curls as it wound its way. Straight in front of us and not far
off—in fact, so near that I wondered we had not noticed
before—came a group of mounted men hurrying along. In
the midst of them was a cart, a long leiter-wagon which
swept from side to side, like a dog’s tail wagging, with each
stern inequality of the road. Outlined against the snow as
they were, I could see from the men’s clothes that they were
peasants or gypsies of some kind.
On the cart was a great square chest. My heart leaped as I
saw it, for I felt that the end was coming. The evening was
now drawing close, and well I knew that at sunset the Thing,
which was till then imprisoned there, would take new
freedom and could in any of many forms elude all pursuit. In
fear I turned to the Professor; to my consternation, however,
he was not there. An instant later, I saw him below me.
Round the rock he had drawn a circle, such as we had found
shelter in last night. When he had completed it he stood
beside me again, saying:—
“At least you shall be safe here from him!” He took the
glasses from me, and at the next lull of the snow swept the
whole space below us. “See,” he said, “they come quickly;
they are flogging the horses, and galloping as hard as they
can.” He paused and went on in a hollow voice:—
 “They are racing for the sunset. We may be too late. God’s
will be done!” Down came another blinding rush of driving
snow, and the whole landscape was blotted out. It soon
passed, however, and once more his glasses were fixed on
the plain. Then came a sudden cry:—
“Look! Look! Look! See, two horsemen follow fast, coming
up from the south. It must be Quincey and John. Take the
glass. Look before the snow blots it all out!” I took it and
looked. The two men might be Dr. Seward and Mr. Morris. I
knew at all events that neither of them was Jonathan. At the
same time I knew that Jonathan was not far off; looking
around I saw on the north side of the coming party two other
men, riding at breakneck speed. One of them I knew was
Jonathan, and the other I took, of course, to be Lord
Godalming. They, too, were pursuing the party with the cart.
When I told the Professor he shouted in glee like a
schoolboy, and, after looking intently till a snow fall made
sight impossible, he laid his Winchester rifle ready for use
against the boulder at the opening of our shelter. “They are
all converging,” he said. “When the time comes we shall
have gypsies on all sides.” I got out my revolver ready to
hand, for whilst we were speaking the howling of wolves
came louder and closer. When the snow storm abated a
moment we looked again. It was strange to see the snow
falling in such heavy flakes close to us, and beyond, the sun
shining more and more brightly as it sank down towards the
far mountain tops. Sweeping the glass all around us I could
see here and there dots moving singly and in twos and
threes and larger numbers—the wolves were gathering for
their prey.
Every instant seemed an age whilst we waited. The wind
came now in fierce bursts, and the snow was driven with fury
as it swept upon us in circling eddies. At times we could not
see an arm’s length before us; but at others, as the hollow-
sounding wind swept by us, it seemed to clear the air-space
around us so that we could see afar off. We had of late been
so accustomed to watch for sunrise and sunset, that we
knew with fair accuracy when it would be; and we knew that
before long the sun would set. It was hard to believe that by
our watches it was less than an hour that we waited in that
rocky shelter before the various bodies began to converge
close upon us. The wind came now with fiercer and more
bitter sweeps, and more steadily from the north. It
seemingly had driven the snow clouds from us, for, with only
occasional bursts, the snow fell. We could distinguish clearly
the individuals of each party, the pursued and the pursuers.
Strangely enough those pursued did not seem to realise, or
at least to care, that they were pursued; they seemed,
however, to hasten with redoubled speed as the sun
dropped lower and lower on the mountain tops.
Closer and closer they drew. The Professor and I crouched
down behind our rock, and held our weapons ready; I could
see that he was determined that they should not pass. One
and all were quite unaware of our presence.
All at once two voices shouted out to: “Halt!” One was my
Jonathan’s, raised in a high key of passion; the other
Mr. Morris’ strong resolute tone of quiet command. The
gypsies may not have known the language, but there was no
mistaking the tone, in whatever tongue the words were
spoken. Instinctively they reined in, and at the instant Lord
Godalming and Jonathan dashed up at one side and
Dr. Seward and Mr. Morris on the other. The leader of the
gypsies, a splendid-looking fellow who sat his horse like a
centaur, waved them back, and in a fierce voice gave to his
companions some word to proceed. They lashed the horses
which sprang forward; but the four men raised their
Winchester rifles, and in an unmistakable way commanded
them to stop. At the same moment Dr. Van Helsing and I rose
behind the rock and pointed our weapons at them. Seeing
that they were surrounded the men tightened their reins and
drew up. The leader turned to them and gave a word at
which every man of the gypsy party drew what weapon he
carried, knife or pistol, and held himself in readiness to
attack. Issue was joined in an instant.
The leader, with a quick movement of his rein, threw his
horse out in front, and pointing first to the sun—now close
down on the hill tops—and then to the castle, said
something which I did not understand. For answer, all four
men of our party threw themselves from their horses and
dashed towards the cart. I should have felt terrible fear at
seeing Jonathan in such danger, but that the ardour of battle
must have been upon me as well as the rest of them; I felt
no fear, but only a wild, surging desire to do something.
Seeing the quick movement of our parties, the leader of the
gypsies gave a command; his men instantly formed round
the cart in a sort of undisciplined endeavour, each one
shouldering and pushing the other in his eagerness to carry
out the order.
In the midst of this I could see that Jonathan on one side of
the ring of men, and Quincey on the other, were forcing a
way to the cart; it was evident that they were bent on
finishing their task before the sun should set. Nothing
seemed to stop or even to hinder them. Neither the levelled
weapons nor the flashing knives of the gypsies in front, nor
the howling of the wolves behind, appeared to even attract
their attention. Jonathan’s impetuosity, and the manifest
singleness of his purpose, seemed to overawe those in front
of him; instinctively they cowered, aside and let him pass. In
an instant he had jumped upon the cart, and, with a
strength which seemed incredible, raised the great box, and
flung it over the wheel to the ground. In the meantime,
Mr. Morris had had to use force to pass through his side of
the ring of Szgany. All the time I had been breathlessly
watching Jonathan I had, with the tail of my eye, seen him
pressing desperately forward, and had seen the knives of
the gypsies flash as he won a way through them, and they
cut at him. He had parried with his great bowie knife, and at
first I thought that he too had come through in safety; but as
he sprang beside Jonathan, who had by now jumped from
the cart, I could see that with his left hand he was clutching
at his side, and that the blood was spurting through his
fingers. He did not delay notwithstanding this, for as
Jonathan, with desperate energy, attacked one end of the
chest, attempting to prize off the lid with his great Kukri
knife, he attacked the other frantically with his bowie. Under
the efforts of both men the lid began to yield; the nails drew
with a quick screeching sound, and the top of the box was
thrown back.
By this time the gypsies, seeing themselves covered by
the Winchesters, and at the mercy of Lord Godalming and
Dr. Seward, had given in and made no resistance. The sun
was almost down on the mountain tops, and the shadows of
the whole group fell long upon the snow. I saw the Count
lying within the box upon the earth, some of which the rude
falling from the cart had scattered over him. He was deathly
pale, just like a waxen image, and the red eyes glared with
the horrible vindictive look which I knew too well.
As I looked, the eyes saw the sinking sun, and the look of
hate in them turned to triumph.
But, on the instant, came the sweep and flash of
Jonathan’s great knife. I shrieked as I saw it shear through
the throat; whilst at the same moment Mr. Morris’s bowie
knife plunged into the heart.
It was like a miracle; but before our very eyes, and almost
in the drawing of a breath, the whole body crumble into dust
and passed from our sight.
I shall be glad as long as I live that even in that moment of
final dissolution, there was in the face a look of peace, such
as I never could have imagined might have rested there.
The Castle of Dracula now stood out against the red sky,
and every stone of its broken battlements was articulated
against the light of the setting sun.
The gypsies, taking us as in some way the cause of the
extraordinary disappearance of the dead man, turned,
without a word, and rode away as if for their lives. Those who
were unmounted jumped upon the leiter-wagon and shouted
to the horsemen not to desert them. The wolves, which had
withdrawn to a safe distance, followed in their wake, leaving
us alone.
Mr. Morris, who had sunk to the ground, leaned on his
elbow, holding his hand pressed to his side; the blood still
gushed through his fingers. I flew to him, for the Holy circle
did not now keep me back; so did the two doctors. Jonathan
knelt behind him and the wounded man laid back his head
on his shoulder. With a sigh he took, with a feeble effort, my
hand in that of his own which was unstained. He must have
seen the anguish of my heart in my face, for he smiled at me
and said:—
“I am only too happy to have been of any service! Oh,
God!” he cried suddenly, struggling up to a sitting posture
and pointing to me, “It was worth for this to die! Look! look!”
The sun was now right down upon the mountain top, and
the red gleams fell upon my face, so that it was bathed in
rosy light. With one impulse the men sank on their knees
and a deep and earnest “Amen” broke from all as their eyes
followed the pointing of his finger. The dying man spoke:—
“Now God be thanked that all has not been in vain! See!
the snow is not more stainless than her forehead! The curse
has passed away!”
And, to our bitter grief, with a smile and in silence, he
died, a gallant gentleman.
 NOTE

Seven years ago we all went through the flames; and the
happiness of some of us since then is, we think, well worth
the pain we endured. It is an added joy to Mina and to me
that our boy’s birthday is the same day as that on which
Quincey Morris died. His mother holds, I know, the secret
belief that some of our brave friend’s spirit has passed into
him. His bundle of names links all our little band of men
together; but we call him Quincey.
In the summer of this year we made a journey to
Transylvania, and went over the old ground which was, and
is, to us so full of vivid and terrible memories. It was almost
impossible to believe that the things which we had seen
with our own eyes and heard with our own ears were living
truths. Every trace of all that had been was blotted out. The
castle stood as before, reared high above a waste of
desolation.
When we got home we were talking of the old time—which
we could all look back on without despair, for Godalming
and Seward are both happily married. I took the papers from
the safe where they had been ever since our return so long
ago. We were struck with the fact, that in all the mass of
material of which the record is composed, there is hardly one
authentic document; nothing but a mass of typewriting,
except the later notebooks of Mina and Seward and myself,
and Van Helsing’s memorandum. We could hardly ask
anyone, even did we wish to, to accept these as proofs of so
wild a story. Van Helsing summed it all up as he said, with
our boy on his knee:—
“We want no proofs; we ask none to believe us! This boy
will some day know what a brave and gallant woman his
mother is. Already he knows her sweetness and loving care;
later on he will understand how some men so loved her, that
they did dare much for her sake.”

JONATHAN HARKER.
 Dracula
was published in 1897 by
BRAM STOKER.

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doesn’t change the copyright status of the underlying
works, which, though believed to already be in the U.S.
public domain, may not yet be in the public domain of other
countries. We make this dedication in the interest of
enriching our global cultural heritage, to promote free and
libre culture around the world, and to give back to the
unrestricted culture that has given all of us so much.