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Bram Stoker
1897 edition
manifest in the
reading of them. All needless matters have
been eliminated, so that a history
almost at variance with
the possibilities of latter-day belief may stand forth
as simple
fact. There is throughout no statement of past things
wherein memory may err, for all the records chosen are exactly
contemporary, given
from the standpoints and within
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
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
I found my smattering of German very useful here, indeed, I don't know
how I should be able to get on without it.
Having had some time at my disposal when in London, I had visited the
British Museum, and made search among the books and maps in the
library regarding Transylvania; it had struck me that some
foreknowledge of the country could hardly fail to have some importance
in dealing with a nobleman of that country.
I find that the district he named is in the extreme east of the
country, just on the borders of three states, Transylvania, Moldavia,
and Bukovina, in the midst of the Carpathian mountains; one of the
wildest and least known portions of Europe.
I was not able to light on any map or work giving the exact locality
of the Castle Dracula, as there are no maps of this country as yet to
compare with our own Ordnance Survey Maps; but I found that Bistritz,
the post town named by Count Dracula, is a fairly well-known place. I
shall enter here some of my notes, as they may refresh my memory when
I talk over my travels with Mina.
In the population of Transylvania there are four distinct
nationalities: Saxons in the South, and mixed with them the Wallachs,
who are the descendants of the Dacians; Magyars in the West, and
Szekelys in the East and North. I am going among the latter, who
claim to be descended from Attila and the Huns. This may be so, for
when the Magyars conquered the country in the eleventh century they
found the Huns settled in it.
I read that every known superstition in the world is gathered into the
horseshoe of the Carpathians, as if it were the centre of some sort of
imaginative whirlpool; if so my stay may be very interesting. (Mem.,
I must ask the Count all about them.)
I did not sleep well, though my bed was comfortable enough, for I had
all sorts of queer dreams. There was a dog howling all night under my
window, which may have had something to do with it; or it may have
been the paprika, for I had to drink up all the water in my carafe,
and was still thirsty. Towards morning I slept and was wakened by the
continuous knocking at my door, so I guess I must have been sleeping
soundly then.
I had for breakfast more paprika, and a sort of porridge of maize
flour which they said was "mamaliga", and egg-plant stuffed with
forcemeat, a very excellent dish, which they call "impletata". (Mem.,
get recipe for this also.)
I had to hurry breakfast, for the train started a little before eight,
or rather it ought to have done so, for after rushing to the station
at 7:30 I had to sit in the carriage for more than an hour before we
began to move.
It seems to me that the further east you go the more unpunctual are
the trains. What ought they to be in China?
All day long we seemed to dawdle through a country which was full of
beauty of every kind. Sometimes we saw little towns or castles on the
top of steep hills such as we see in old missals; sometimes we ran by
rivers and streams which seemed from the wide stony margin on each
side of them to be subject to great floods. It takes a lot of water,
and running strong, to sweep the outside edge of a river clear.
At every station there were groups of people, sometimes crowds, and in
all sorts of attire. Some of them were just like the peasants at home
or those I saw coming through France and Germany, with short jackets,
and round hats, and home-made trousers; but others were very
The women looked pretty, except when you got near them, but they were
very clumsy about the waist. They had all full white sleeves of some
kind or other, and most of them had big belts with a lot of strips of
something fluttering from them like the dresses in a ballet, but of
course there were petticoats under them.
The strangest figures we saw were the Slovaks, who were more barbarian
than the rest, with their big cow-boy hats, great baggy dirty-white
trousers, white linen shirts, and enormous heavy leather belts, nearly
a foot wide, all studded over with brass nails. They wore high boots,
with their trousers tucked into them, and had long black hair and
heavy black moustaches. They are very picturesque, but do not look
prepossessing. On the stage they would be set down at once as some
old Oriental band of brigands. They are, however, I am told, very
harmless and rather wanting in natural self-assertion.
It was on the dark side of twilight when we got to Bistritz, which is
a very interesting old place. Being practically on the frontier--for
the Borgo Pass leads from it into Bukovina--it has had a very stormy
existence, and it certainly shows marks of it. Fifty years ago a
series of great fires took place, which made terrible havoc on five
separate occasions. At the very beginning of the seventeenth century
it underwent a siege of three weeks and lost 13,000 people, the
casualties of war proper being assisted by famine and disease.
Count Dracula had directed me to go to the Golden Krone Hotel, which I
found, to my great delight, to be thoroughly old-fashioned, for of
course I wanted to see all I could of the ways of the country.
I was evidently expected, for when I got near the door I faced a
cheery-looking elderly woman in the usual peasant dress--white
undergarment with a long double apron, front, and back, of coloured
stuff fitting almost too tight for modesty. When I came close she
bowed and said, "The Herr Englishman?"
"Yes," I said, "Jonathan Harker."
She smiled, and gave some message to an elderly man in white
shirtsleeves, who had followed her to the door.
He went, but immediately returned with a letter:
"My friend.--Welcome to the Carpathians. I am anxiously expecting
you. Sleep well tonight. At three tomorrow the diligence will
start for Bukovina; a place on it is kept for you. At the Borgo
Pass my carriage will await you and will bring you to me. I trust
that your journey from London has been a happy one, and that you
will enjoy your stay in my beautiful land.--Your friend, Dracula."
4 May--I found that my landlord had got a letter from the Count,
directing him to secure the best place on the coach for me; but on
making inquiries as to details he seemed somewhat reticent, and
pretended that he could not understand my German.
This could not be true, because up to then he had understood it
perfectly; at least, he answered my questions exactly as if he did.
He and his wife, the old lady who had received me, looked at each
other in a frightened sort of way. He mumbled out that the money had
been sent in a letter, and that was all he knew. When I asked him if
he knew Count Dracula, and could tell me anything of his castle, both
he and his wife crossed themselves, and, saying that they knew nothing
at all, simply refused to speak further. It was so near the time of
starting that I had no time to ask anyone else, for it was all very
mysterious and not by any means comforting.
Just before I was leaving, the old lady came up to my room and said in
a hysterical way: "Must you go? Oh! Young Herr, must you go?" She
was in such an excited state that she seemed to have lost her grip of
what German she knew, and mixed it all up with some other language
which I did not know at all. I was just able to follow her by asking
many questions. When I told her that I must go at once, and that I
was engaged on important business, she asked again:
"Do you know what day it is?" I answered that it was the fourth of
May. She shook her head as she said again:
"Oh, yes! I know that! I know that, but do you know what day it is?"
On my saying that I did not understand, she went on:
"It is the eve of St. George's Day. Do you not know that tonight,
when the clock strikes midnight, all the evil things in the world will
have full sway? Do you know where you are going, and what you are
going to?" She was in such evident distress that I tried to comfort
her, but without effect. Finally, she went down on her knees and
implored me not to go; at least to wait a day or two before starting.
It was all very ridiculous but I did not feel comfortable. However,
there was business to be done, and I could allow nothing to interfere
with it.
I tried to raise her up, and said, as gravely as I could, that I
thanked her, but my duty was imperative, and that I must go.
She then rose and dried her eyes, and taking a crucifix from her neck
offered it to me.
I did not know what to do, for, as an English Churchman, I have been
taught to regard such things as in some measure idolatrous, and yet it
seemed so ungracious to refuse an old lady meaning so well and in such
a state of mind.
She saw, I suppose, the doubt in my face, for she put the rosary round
my neck and said, "For your mother's sake," and went out of the room.
I am writing up this part of the diary whilst I am waiting for the
coach, which is, of course, late; and the crucifix is still round my
Whether it is the old lady's fear, or the many ghostly traditions of
this place, or the crucifix itself, I do not know, but I am not
feeling nearly as easy in my mind as usual.
If this book should ever reach Mina before I do, let it bring my
goodbye. Here comes the coach!
5 May. The Castle.--The gray of the morning has passed, and the sun
is high over the distant horizon, which seems jagged, whether with
trees or hills I know not, for it is so far off that big things and
little are mixed.
I am not sleepy, and, as I am not to be called till I awake, naturally
I write till sleep comes.
There are many odd things to put down, and, lest who reads them may
fancy that I dined too well before I left Bistritz, let me put down my
dinner exactly.
I dined on what they called "robber steak"--bits of bacon, onion, and
beef, seasoned with red pepper, and strung on sticks, and roasted over
the fire, in simple style of the London cat's meat!
The wine was Golden Mediasch, which produces a queer sting on the
tongue, which is, however, not disagreeable.
I had only a couple of glasses of this, and nothing else.
When I got on the coach, the driver had not taken his seat, and I saw
him talking to the landlady.
They were evidently talking of me, for every now and then they looked
at me, and some of the people who were sitting on the bench outside
the door--came and listened, and then looked at me, most of them
pityingly. I could hear a lot of words often repeated, queer words,
for there were many nationalities in the crowd, so I quietly got my
polyglot dictionary from my bag and looked them out.
I must say they were not cheering to me, for amongst them were
"Ordog"--Satan, "Pokol"--hell, "stregoica"--witch, "vrolok" and
"vlkoslak"--both mean the same thing, one being Slovak and the other
Servian for something that is either werewolf or vampire. (Mem., I
must ask the Count about these superstitions.)
When we started, the crowd round the inn door, which had by this time
swelled to a considerable size, all made the sign of the cross and
pointed two fingers towards me.
With some difficulty, I got a fellow passenger to tell me what they
meant. He would not answer at first, but on learning that I was
English, he explained that it was a charm or guard against the evil
This was not very pleasant for me, just starting for an unknown place
to meet an unknown man. But everyone seemed so kind-hearted, and so
sorrowful, and so sympathetic that I could not but be touched.
I shall never forget the last glimpse which I had of the inn yard and
its crowd of picturesque figures, all crossing themselves, as they
stood round the wide archway, with its background of rich foliage of
oleander and orange trees in green tubs clustered in the centre of the
Then our driver, whose wide linen drawers covered the whole front of
the boxseat,--"gotza" they call them--cracked his big whip over his
four small horses, which ran abreast, and we set off on our journey.
I soon lost sight and recollection of ghostly fears in the beauty of
the scene as we drove along, although had I known the language, or
rather languages, which my fellow-passengers were speaking, I might
not have been able to throw them off so easily. Before us lay a green
sloping land full of forests and woods, with here and there steep
hills, crowned with clumps of trees or with farmhouses, the blank
gable end to the road. There was everywhere a bewildering mass of
fruit blossom--apple, plum, pear, cherry. And as we drove by I could
see the green grass under the trees spangled with the fallen petals.
In and out amongst these green hills of what they call here the
"Mittel Land" ran the road, losing itself as it swept round the grassy
curve, or was shut out by the straggling ends of pine woods, which
here and there ran down the hillsides like tongues of flame. The road
was rugged, but still we seemed to fly over it with a feverish haste.
I could not understand then what the haste meant, but the driver was
evidently bent on losing no time in reaching Borgo Prund. I was told
that this road is in summertime excellent, but that it had not yet
been put in order after the winter snows. In this respect it is
different from the general run of roads in the Carpathians, for it is
an old tradition that they are not to be kept in too good order. Of
old the Hospadars would not repair them, lest the Turk should think
that they were preparing to bring in foreign troops, and so hasten the
war which was always really at loading point.
Beyond the green swelling hills of the Mittel Land rose mighty slopes
of forest up to the lofty steeps of the Carpathians themselves. Right
and left of us they towered, with the afternoon sun falling full upon
them and bringing out all the glorious colours of this beautiful
range, deep blue and purple in the shadows of the peaks, green and
brown where grass and rock mingled, and an endless perspective of
jagged rock and pointed crags, till these were themselves lost in the
distance, where the snowy peaks rose grandly. Here and there seemed
mighty rifts in the mountains, through which, as the sun began to
sink, we saw now and again the white gleam of falling water. One of
my companions touched my arm as we swept round the base of a hill and
opened up the lofty, snow-covered peak of a mountain, which seemed, as
we wound on our serpentine way, to be right before us.
"Look! Isten szek!"--"God's seat!"--and he crossed himself reverently.
As we wound on our endless way, and the sun sank lower and lower
behind us, the shadows of the evening began to creep round us. This
was emphasized by the fact that the snowy mountain-top still held the
sunset, and seemed to glow out with a delicate cool pink. Here and
there we passed Cszeks and slovaks, all in picturesque attire, but I
noticed that goitre was painfully prevalent. By the roadside were
many crosses, and as we swept by, my companions all crossed
themselves. Here and there was a peasant man or woman kneeling before
a shrine, who did not even turn round as we approached, but seemed in
the self-surrender of devotion to have neither eyes nor ears for the
outer world. There were many things new to me. For instance,
hay-ricks in the trees, and here and there very beautiful masses of
weeping birch, their white stems shining like silver through the
delicate green of the leaves.
Now and again we passed a leiter-wagon--the ordinary peasants's
cart--with its long, snakelike vertebra, calculated to suit the
inequalities of the road. On this were sure to be seated quite a
group of homecoming peasants, the Cszeks with their white, and the
Slovaks with their coloured sheepskins, the latter carrying
lance-fashion their long staves, with axe at end. As the evening fell
it began to get very cold, and the growing twilight seemed to merge
into one dark mistiness the gloom of the trees, oak, beech, and pine,
though in the valleys which ran deep between the spurs of the hills,
as we ascended through the Pass, the dark firs stood out here and
there against the background of late-lying snow. Sometimes, as the
road was cut through the pine woods that seemed in the darkness to be
closing down upon us, great masses of greyness which here and there
bestrewed the trees, produced a peculiarly weird and solemn effect,
which carried on the thoughts and grim fancies engendered earlier in
the evening, when the falling sunset threw into strange relief the
ghost-like clouds which amongst the Carpathians seem to wind
ceaselessly through the valleys. Sometimes the hills were so steep
that, despite our driver's haste, the horses could only go slowly. I
wished to get down and walk up them, as we do at home, but the driver
would not hear of it. "No, no," he said. "You must not walk here.
The dogs are too fierce." And then he added, with what he evidently
meant for grim pleasantry--for he looked round to catch the approving
smile of the rest--"And you may have enough of such matters before you
go to sleep." The only stop he would make was a moment's pause to
light his lamps.
When it grew dark there seemed to be some excitement amongst the
passengers, and they kept speaking to him, one after the other, as
though urging him to further speed. He lashed the horses unmercifully
with his long whip, and with wild cries of encouragement urged them on
to further exertions. Then through the darkness I could see a sort of
patch of grey light ahead of us, as though there were a cleft in the
hills. The excitement of the passengers grew greater. The crazy
coach rocked on its great leather springs, and swayed like a boat
tossed on a stormy sea. I had to hold on. The road grew more level,
and we appeared to fly along. Then the mountains seemed to come
nearer to us on each side and to frown down upon us. We were entering
on the Borgo Pass. One by one several of the passengers offered me
gifts, which they pressed upon me with an earnestness which would take
no denial. These were certainly of an odd and varied kind, but each
was given in simple good faith, with a kindly word, and a blessing,
and that same strange mixture of fear-meaning movements which I had
seen outside the hotel at Bistritz--the sign of the cross and the
guard against the evil eye. Then, as we flew along, the driver leaned
forward, and on each side the passengers, craning over the edge of the
coach, peered eagerly into the darkness. It was evident that
something very exciting was either happening or expected, but though I
asked each passenger, no one would give me the slightest explanation.
This state of excitement kept on for some little time. And at last we
saw before us the Pass opening out on the eastern side. There were
dark, rolling clouds overhead, and in the air the heavy, oppressive
sense of thunder. It seemed as though the mountain range had
separated two atmospheres, and that now we had got into the thunderous
one. I was now myself looking out for the conveyance which was to
take me to the Count. Each moment I expected to see the glare of
lamps through the blackness, but all was dark. The only light was the
flickering rays of our own lamps, in which the steam from our
hard-driven horses rose in a white cloud. We could see now the sandy
road lying white before us, but there was on it no sign of a vehicle.
The passengers drew back with a sigh of gladness, which seemed to mock
my own disappointment. I was already thinking what I had best do,
when the driver, looking at his watch, said to the others something
which I could hardly hear, it was spoken so quietly and in so low a
tone, I thought it was "An hour less than the time." Then turning to
me, he spoke in German worse than my own.
"There is no carriage here. The Herr is not expected after all. He
will now come on to Bukovina, and return tomorrow or the next day,
better the next day." Whilst he was speaking the horses began to
neigh and snort and plunge wildly, so that the driver had to hold them
up. Then, amongst a chorus of screams from the peasants and a
universal crossing of themselves, a caleche, with four horses, drove
up behind us, overtook us, and drew up beside the coach. I could see
from the flash of our lamps as the rays fell on them, that the horses
were coal-black and splendid animals. They were driven by a tall man,
with a long brown beard and a great black hat, which seemed to hide
his face from us. I could only see the gleam of a pair of very bright
eyes, which seemed red in the lamplight, as he turned to us.
He said to the driver, "You are early tonight, my friend."
The man stammered in reply, "The English Herr was in a hurry."
To which the stranger replied, "That is why, I suppose, you wished him
to go on to Bukovina. You cannot deceive me, my friend. I know too
much, and my horses are swift."
As he spoke he smiled, and the lamplight fell on a hard-looking mouth,
with very red lips and sharp-looking teeth, as white as ivory. One of
my companions whispered to another the line from Burger's "Lenore".
"Denn die Todten reiten Schnell." ("For the dead travel fast.")
The strange driver evidently heard the words, for he looked up with a
gleaming smile. The passenger turned his face away, at the same time
putting out his two fingers and crossing himself. "Give me the Herr's
luggage," said the driver, and with exceeding alacrity my bags were
handed out and put in the caleche. Then I descended from the side of
the coach, as the caleche was close alongside, the driver helping me
with a hand which caught my arm in a grip of steel. His strength must
have been prodigious.
Without a word he shook his reins, the horses turned, and we swept
into the darkness of the pass. As I looked back I saw the steam from
the horses of the coach by the light of the lamps, and projected
against it the figures of my late companions crossing themselves.
Then the driver cracked his whip and called to his horses, and off
they swept on their way to Bukovina. As they sank into the darkness I
felt a strange chill, and a lonely feeling come over me. But a cloak
was thrown over my shoulders, and a rug across my knees, and the
driver said in excellent German--"The night is chill, mein Herr, and
my master the Count bade me take all care of you. There is a flask of
slivovitz (the plum brandy of the country) underneath the seat, if you
should require it."
I did not take any, but it was a comfort to know it was there all the
same. I felt a little strangely, and not a little frightened. I
think had there been any alternative I should have taken it, instead
of prosecuting that unknown night journey. The carriage went at a
hard pace straight along, then we made a complete turn and went along
another straight road. It seemed to me that we were simply going over
and over the same ground again, and so I took note of some salient
point, and found that this was so. I would have liked to have asked
the driver what this all meant, but I really feared to do so, for I
thought that, placed as I was, any protest would have had no effect in
case there had been an intention to delay.
By-and-by, however, as I was curious to know how time was passing, I
struck a match, and by its flame looked at my watch. It was within a
few minutes of midnight. This gave me a sort of shock, for I suppose
the general superstition about midnight was increased by my recent
experiences. I waited with a sick feeling of suspense.
Then a dog began to howl somewhere in a farmhouse far down the road, a
long, agonized wailing, as if from fear. The sound was taken up by
another dog, and then another and another, till, borne on the wind
which now sighed softly through the Pass, a wild howling began, which
seemed to come from all over the country, as far as the imagination
could grasp it through the gloom of the night.
At the first howl the horses began to strain and rear, but the driver
spoke to them soothingly, and they quieted down, but shivered and
sweated as though after a runaway from sudden fright. Then, far off
in the distance, from the mountains on each side of us began a louder
and a sharper howling, that of wolves, which affected both the horses
and myself in the same way. For I was minded to jump from the caleche
and run, whilst they reared again and plunged madly, so that the
driver had to use all his great strength to keep them from bolting.
In a few minutes, however, my own ears got accustomed to the sound,
and the horses so far became quiet that the driver was able to descend
and to stand before them.
He petted and soothed them, and whispered something in their ears, as
I have heard of horse-tamers doing, and with extraordinary effect, for
under his caresses they became quite manageable again, though they
still trembled. The driver again took his seat, and shaking his
reins, started off at a great pace. This time, after going to the far
side of the Pass, he suddenly turned down a narrow roadway which ran
sharply to the right.
Soon we were hemmed in with trees, which in places arched right over
the roadway till we passed as through a tunnel. And again great
frowning rocks guarded us boldly on either side. Though we were in
shelter, we could hear the rising wind, for it moaned and whistled
through the rocks, and the branches of the trees crashed together as
we swept along. It grew colder and colder still, and fine, powdery
snow began to fall, so that soon we and all around us were covered
with a white blanket. The keen wind still carried the howling of the
dogs, though this grew fainter as we went on our way. The baying of
the wolves sounded nearer and nearer, as though they were closing
round on us from every side. I grew dreadfully afraid, and the horses
shared my fear. The driver, however, was not in the least disturbed.
He kept turning his head to left and right, but I could not see
anything through the darkness.
Suddenly, away on our left I saw a faint flickering blue flame. The
driver saw it at the same moment. He at once checked the horses, and,
jumping to the ground, disappeared into the darkness. I did not know
what to do, the less as the howling of the wolves grew closer. But
while I wondered, the driver suddenly appeared again, and without a
word took his seat, and we resumed our journey. I think I must have
fallen asleep and kept dreaming of the incident, for it seemed to be
repeated endlessly, and now looking back, it is like a sort of awful
nightmare. Once the flame appeared so near the road, that even in the
darkness around us I could watch the driver's motions. He went
rapidly to where the blue flame arose, it must have been very faint,
for it did not seem to illumine the place around it at all, and
gathering a few stones, formed them into some device.
Once there appeared a strange optical effect. When he stood between
me and the flame he did not obstruct it, for I could see its ghostly
flicker all the same. This startled me, but as the effect was only
momentary, I took it that my eyes deceived me straining through the
darkness. Then for a time there were no blue flames, and we sped
onwards through the gloom, with the howling of the wolves around us,
as though they were following in a moving circle.
At last there came a time when the driver went further afield than he
had yet gone, and during his absence, the horses began to tremble
worse than ever and to snort and scream with fright. I could not see
any cause for it, for the howling of the wolves had ceased altogether.
But just then the moon, sailing through the black clouds, appeared
behind the jagged crest of a beetling, pine-clad rock, and by its
light I saw around us a ring of wolves, with white teeth and lolling
red tongues, with long, sinewy limbs and shaggy hair. They were a
hundred times more terrible in the grim silence which held them than
even when they howled. For myself, I felt a sort of paralysis of
fear. It is only when a man feels himself face to face with such
horrors that he can understand their true import.
All at once the wolves began to howl as though the moonlight had had
some peculiar effect on them. The horses jumped about and reared, and
looked helplessly round with eyes that rolled in a way painful to
see. But the living ring of terror encompassed them on every side,
and they had perforce to remain within it. I called to the coachman
to come, for it seemed to me that our only chance was to try to break
out through the ring and to aid his approach, I shouted and beat the
side of the caleche, hoping by the noise to scare the wolves from the
side, so as to give him a chance of reaching the trap. How he came
there, I know not, but I heard his voice raised in a tone of imperious
command, and looking towards the sound, saw him stand in the roadway.
As he swept his long arms, as though brushing aside some impalpable
obstacle, the wolves fell back and back further still. Just then a
heavy cloud passed across the face of the moon, so that we were again
in darkness.
When I could see again the driver was climbing into the caleche, and
the wolves disappeared. This was all so strange and uncanny that a
dreadful fear came upon me, and I was afraid to speak or move. The
time seemed interminable as we swept on our way, now in almost
complete darkness, for the rolling clouds obscured the moon.
We kept on ascending, with occasional periods of quick descent, but in
the main always ascending. Suddenly, I became conscious of the fact
that the driver was in the act of pulling up the horses in the
courtyard of a vast ruined castle, from whose tall black windows came
no ray of light, and whose broken battlements showed a jagged line
against the sky.
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
When the caleche stopped, the driver jumped down and held out his hand
to assist me to alight. Again I could not but notice his prodigious
strength. His hand actually seemed like a steel vice that could have
crushed mine if he had chosen. Then he took my traps, and placed them
on the ground beside me as I stood close to a great door, old and
studded with large iron nails, and set in a projecting doorway of
massive stone. I could see even in the dim light that the stone was
massively carved, but that the carving had been much worn by time and
weather. As I stood, the driver jumped again into his seat and shook
the reins. The horses started forward, and trap and all disappeared
down one of the dark openings.
I stood in silence where I was, for I did not know what to do. Of
bell or knocker there was no sign. Through these frowning walls and
dark window openings it was not likely that my voice could penetrate.
The time I waited seemed endless, and I felt doubts and fears crowding
upon me. What sort of place had I come to, and among what kind of
people? What sort of grim adventure was it on which I had embarked?
Was this a customary incident in the life of a solicitor's clerk sent
out to explain the purchase of a London estate to a foreigner?
Solicitor's clerk! Mina would not like that. Solicitor, for just
before leaving London I got word that my examination was successful,
and I am now a full-blown solicitor! I began to rub my eyes and pinch
myself to see if I were awake. It all seemed like a horrible
nightmare to me, and I expected that I should suddenly awake, and find
myself at home, with the dawn struggling in through the windows, as I
had now and again felt in the morning after a day of overwork. But my
flesh answered the pinching test, and my eyes were not to be
deceived. I was indeed awake and among the Carpathians. All I could
do now was to be patient, and to wait the coming of morning.
Just as I had come to this conclusion I heard a heavy step approaching
behind the great door, and saw through the chinks the gleam of a
coming light. Then there was the sound of rattling chains and the
clanking of massive bolts drawn back. A key was turned with the loud
grating noise of long disuse, and the great door swung back.
Within, stood a tall old man, clean shaven save for a long white
moustache, and clad in black from head to foot, without a single speck
of colour about him anywhere. He held in his hand an antique silver
lamp, in which the flame burned without a chimney or globe of any
kind, throwing long quivering shadows as it flickered in the draught
of the open door. The old man motioned me in with his right hand with
a courtly gesture, saying in excellent English, but with a strange
"Welcome to my house! Enter freely and of your own free will!" He
made no motion of stepping to meet me, but stood like a statue, as
though his gesture of welcome had fixed him into stone. The instant,
however, that I had stepped over the threshold, he moved impulsively
forward, and holding out his hand grasped mine with a strength which
made me wince, an effect which was not lessened by the fact that it
seemed cold as ice, more like the hand of a dead than a living man.
Again he said,
"Welcome to my house! Enter freely. Go safely, and leave something
of the happiness you bring!" The strength of the handshake was so
much akin to that which I had noticed in the driver, whose face I had
not seen, that for a moment I doubted if it were not the same person
to whom I was speaking. So to make sure, I said interrogatively,
"Count Dracula?"
He bowed in a courtly way as he replied, "I am Dracula, and I bid you
welcome, Mr. Harker, to my house. Come in, the night air is chill,
and you must need to eat and rest." As he was speaking, he put the lamp
on a bracket on the wall, and stepping out, took my luggage. He had
carried it in before I could forestall him. I protested, but he
"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
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
By this time I had finished my supper, and by my host's desire had
drawn up a chair by the fire and begun to smoke a cigar which he
offered me, at the same time excusing himself that he did not smoke.
I had now an opportunity of observing him, and found him of a very
marked physiognomy.
His face was a strong, a very strong, aquiline, with high bridge of
the thin nose and peculiarly arched nostrils, with lofty domed
forehead, and hair growing scantily round the temples but profusely
elsewhere. His eyebrows were very massive, almost meeting over the
nose, and with bushy hair that seemed to curl in its own profusion.
The mouth, so far as I could see it under the heavy moustache, was
fixed and rather cruel-looking, with peculiarly sharp white teeth.
These protruded over the lips, whose remarkable ruddiness showed
astonishing vitality in a man of his years. For the rest, his ears
were pale, and at the tops extremely pointed. The chin was broad and
strong, and the cheeks firm though thin. The general effect was one
of extraordinary pallor.
Hitherto I had noticed the backs of his hands as they lay on his knees
in the firelight, and they had seemed rather white and fine. But
seeing them now close to me, I could not but notice that they were
rather coarse, broad, with squat fingers. Strange to say, there were
hairs in the centre of the palm. The nails were long and fine, and
cut to a sharp point. As the Count leaned over me and his hands
touched me, I could not repress a shudder. It may have been that his
breath was rank, but a horrible feeling of nausea came over me, which,
do what I would, I could not conceal.
The Count, evidently noticing it, drew back. And with a grim sort of
smile, which showed more than he had yet done his protruberant teeth,
sat himself down again on his own side of the fireplace. We were both
silent for a while, and as I looked towards the window I saw the first
dim streak of the coming dawn. There seemed a strange stillness over
everything. But as I listened, I heard as if from down below in the
valley the howling of many wolves. The Count's eyes gleamed, and he
"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
I am all in a sea of wonders. I doubt. I fear. I think strange
things, which I dare not confess to my own soul. God keep me, if only
for the sake of those dear to me!
7 May.--It is again early morning, but I have rested and enjoyed the
last twenty-four hours. I slept till late in the day, and awoke of my
own accord. When I had dressed myself I went into the room where we
had supped, and found a cold breakfast laid out, with coffee kept hot
by the pot being placed on the hearth. There was a card on the table,
on which was written--"I have to be absent for a while. Do not wait
for me. D." I set to and enjoyed a hearty meal. When I had done, I
looked for a bell, so that I might let the servants know I had
finished, but I could not find one. There are certainly odd
deficiencies in the house, considering the extraordinary evidences of
wealth which are round me. The table service is of gold, and so
beautifully wrought that it must be of immense value. The curtains
and upholstery of the chairs and sofas and the hangings of my bed are
of the costliest and most beautiful fabrics, and must have been of
fabulous value when they were made, for they are centuries old, though
in excellent order. I saw something like them in Hampton Court, but
they were worn and frayed and moth-eaten. But still in none of the
rooms is there a mirror. There is not even a toilet glass on my
table, and I had to get the little shaving glass from my bag before I
could either shave or brush my hair. I have not yet seen a servant
anywhere, or heard a sound near the castle except the howling of
wolves. Some time after I had finished my meal, I do not know whether
to call it breakfast or dinner, for it was between five and six
o'clock when I had it, I looked about for something to read, for I did
not like to go about the castle until I had asked the Count's
permission. There was absolutely nothing in the room, book,
newspaper, or even writing materials, so I opened another door in the
room and found a sort of library. The door opposite mine I tried, but
found locked.
In the library I found, to my great delight, a vast number of English
books, whole shelves full of them, and bound volumes of magazines and
newspapers. A table in the centre was littered with English magazines
and newspapers, though none of them were of very recent date. The
books were of the most varied kind, history, geography, politics,
political economy, botany, geology, law, all relating to England and
English life and customs and manners. There were even such books of
reference as the London Directory, the "Red" and "Blue" books,
Whitaker's Almanac, the Army and Navy Lists, and it somehow gladdened
my heart to see it, the Law List.
Whilst I was looking at the books, the door opened, and the Count
entered. He saluted me in a hearty way, and hoped that I had had a
good night's rest. Then he went on.
"I am glad you found your way in here, for I am sure there is much
that will interest you. These companions," and he laid his hand on
some of the books, "have been good friends to me, and for some years
past, ever since I had the idea of going to London, have given me
many, many hours of pleasure. Through them I have come to know your
great England, and to know her is to love her. I long to go through
the crowded streets of your mighty London, to be in the midst of the
whirl and rush of humanity, to share its life, its change, its death,
and all that makes it what it is. But alas! As yet I only know your
tongue through books. To you, my friend, I look that I know it to
"But, Count," I said, "You know and speak English thoroughly!" He
bowed gravely.
"I thank you, my friend, for your all too-flattering estimate, but yet
I fear that I am but a little way on the road I would travel. True, I
know the grammar and the words, but yet I know not how to speak them."
"Indeed," I said, "You speak excellently."
"Not so," he answered. "Well, I know that, did I move and speak in
your London, none there are who would not know me for a stranger. That
is not enough for me. Here I am noble. I am a Boyar. The common
people know me, and I am master. But a stranger in a strange land, he
is no one. Men know him not, and to know not is to care not for. I
am content if I am like the rest, so that no man stops if he sees me,
or pauses in his speaking if he hears my words, 'Ha, ha! A stranger!'
I have been so long master that I would be master still, or at least
that none other should be master of me. You come to me not alone as
agent of my friend Peter Hawkins, of Exeter, to tell me all about my
new estate in London. You shall, I trust, rest here with me a while,
so that by our talking I may learn the English intonation. And I
would that you tell me when I make error, even of the smallest, in my
speaking. I am sorry that I had to be away so long today, but you
will, I know forgive one who has so many important affairs in hand."
Of course I said all I could about being willing, and asked if I might
come into that room when I chose. He answered, "Yes, certainly," and
"You may go anywhere you wish in the castle, except where the doors
are locked, where of course you will not wish to go. There is reason
that all things are as they are, and did you see with my eyes and know
with my knowledge, you would perhaps better understand." I said I was
sure of this, and then he went on.
"We are in Transylvania, and Transylvania is not England. Our ways
are not your ways, and there shall be to you many strange things. Nay,
from what you have told me of your experiences already, you know
something of what strange things there may be."
This led to much conversation, and as it was evident that he wanted to
talk, if only for talking's sake, I asked him many questions regarding
things that had already happened to me or come within my notice.
Sometimes he sheered off the subject, or turned the conversation by
pretending not to understand, but generally he answered all I asked
most frankly. Then as time went on, and I had got somewhat bolder, I
asked him of some of the strange things of the preceding night, as for
instance, why the coachman went to the places where he had seen the
blue flames. He then explained to me that it was commonly believed
that on a certain night of the year, last night, in fact, when all
evil spirits are supposed to have unchecked sway, a blue flame is seen
over any place where treasure has been concealed.
"That treasure has been hidden," he went on, "in the region through
which you came last night, there can be but little doubt. For it was
the ground fought over for centuries by the Wallachian, the Saxon, and
the Turk. Why, there is hardly a foot of soil in all this region that
has not been enriched by the blood of men, patriots or invaders. In
the old days there were stirring times, when the Austrian and the
Hungarian came up in hordes, and the patriots went out to meet them,
men and women, the aged and the children too, and waited their coming
on the rocks above the passes, that they might sweep destruction on
them with their artificial avalanches. When the invader was
triumphant he found but little, for whatever there was had been
sheltered in the friendly soil."
"But how," said I, "can it have remained so long undiscovered, when
there is a sure index to it if men will but take the trouble to look?"
The Count smiled, and as his lips ran back over his gums, the long,
sharp, canine teeth showed out strangely. He answered:
"Because your peasant is at heart a coward and a fool! Those flames
only appear on one night, and on that night no man of this land will,
if he can help it, stir without his doors. And, dear sir, even if he
did he would not know what to do. Why, even the peasant that you tell
me of who marked the place of the flame would not know where to look
in daylight even for his own work. Even you would not, I dare be
sworn, be able to find these places again?"
"There you are right," I said. "I know no more than the dead where
even to look for them." Then we drifted into other matters.
"Come," he said at last, "tell me of London and of the house which you
have procured for me." With an apology for my remissness, I went into
my own room to get the papers from my bag. Whilst I was placing them
in order I heard a rattling of china and silver in the next room, and
as I passed through, noticed that the table had been cleared and the
lamp lit, for it was by this time deep into the dark. The lamps were
also lit in the study or library, and I found the Count lying on the
sofa, reading, of all things in the world, an English Bradshaw's
Guide. When I came in he cleared the books and papers from the table,
and with him I went into plans and deeds and figures of all sorts. He
was interested in everything, and asked me a myriad questions about
the place and its surroundings. He clearly had studied beforehand all
he could get on the subject of the neighbourhood, for he evidently at
the end knew very much more than I did. When I remarked this, he
"Well, but, my friend, is it not needful that I should? When I go
there I shall be all alone, and my friend Harker Jonathan, nay, pardon
me. I fall into my country's habit of putting your patronymic first,
my friend Jonathan Harker will not be by my side to correct and aid
me. He will be in Exeter, miles away, probably working at papers of
the law with my other friend, Peter Hawkins. So!"
We went thoroughly into the business of the purchase of the estate at
Purfleet. When I had told him the facts and got his signature to the
necessary papers, and had written a letter with them ready to post to
Mr. Hawkins, he began to ask me how I had come across so suitable a
place. I read to him the notes which I had made at the time, and
which I inscribe here.
"At Purfleet, on a byroad, I came across just such a place as seemed
to be required, and where was displayed a dilapidated notice that the
place was for sale. It was surrounded by a high wall, of ancient
structure, built of heavy stones, and has not been repaired for a
large number of years. The closed gates are of heavy old oak and
iron, all eaten with rust.
"The estate is called Carfax, no doubt a corruption of the old Quatre
Face, as the house is four sided, agreeing with the cardinal points of
the compass. It contains in all some twenty acres, quite surrounded
by the solid stone wall above mentioned. There are many trees on it,
which make it in places gloomy, and there is a deep, dark-looking pond
or small lake, evidently fed by some springs, as the water is clear
and flows away in a fair-sized stream. The house is very large and of
all periods back, I should say, to mediaeval times, for one part is of
stone immensely thick, with only a few windows high up and heavily
barred with iron. It looks like part of a keep, and is close to an
old chapel or church. I could not enter it, as I had not the key of
the door leading to it from the house, but I have taken with my Kodak
views of it from various points. The house had been added to, but in
a very straggling way, and I can only guess at the amount of ground it
covers, which must be very great. There are but few houses close at
hand, one being a very large house only recently added to and formed
into a private lunatic asylum. It is not, however, visible from the
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
Presently, with an excuse, he left me, asking me to pull my papers
together. He was some little time away, and I began to look at some
of the books around me. One was an atlas, which I found opened
naturally to England, as if that map had been much used. On looking
at it I found in certain places little rings marked, and on examining
these I noticed that one was near London on the east side, manifestly
where his new estate was situated. The other two were Exeter, and
Whitby on the Yorkshire coast.
It was the better part of an hour when the Count returned. "Aha!" he
said. "Still at your books? Good! But you must not work always.
Come! I am informed that your supper is ready." He took my arm, and
we went into the next room, where I found an excellent supper ready on
the table. The Count again excused himself, as he had dined out on
his being away from home. But he sat as on the previous night, and
chatted whilst I ate. After supper I smoked, as on the last evening,
and the Count stayed with me, chatting and asking questions on every
conceivable subject, hour after hour. I felt that it was getting very
late indeed, but I did not say anything, for I felt under obligation
to meet my host's wishes in every way. I was not sleepy, as the long
sleep yesterday had fortified me, but I could not help experiencing
that chill which comes over one at the coming of the dawn, which is
like, in its way, the turn of the tide. They say that people who are
near death die generally at the change to dawn or at the turn of the
tide. Anyone who has when tired, and tied as it were to his post,
experienced this change in the atmosphere can well believe it. All at
once we heard the crow of the cock coming up with preternatural
shrillness through the clear morning air.
Count Dracula, jumping to his feet, said, "Why there is the morning
again! How remiss I am to let you stay up so long. You must make
your conversation regarding my dear new country of England less
interesting, so that I may not forget how time flies by us," and with
a courtly bow, he quickly left me.
I went into my room and drew the curtains, but there was little to
notice. My window opened into the courtyard, all I could see was the
warm grey of quickening sky. So I pulled the curtains again, and have
written of this day.
8 May.--I began to fear as I wrote in this book that I was getting too
diffuse. But now I am glad that I went into detail from the first,
for there is something so strange about this place and all in it that
I cannot but feel uneasy. I wish I were safe out of it, or that I had
never come. It may be that this strange night existence is telling on
me, but would that that were all! If there were any one to talk to I
could bear it, but there is no one. I have only the Count to speak
with, and he--I fear I am myself the only living soul within the
place. Let me be prosaic so far as facts can be. It will help me to
bear up, and imagination must not run riot with me. If it does I am
lost. Let me say at once how I stand, or seem to.
I only slept a few hours when I went to bed, and feeling that I could
not sleep any more, got up. I had hung my shaving glass by the
window, and was just beginning to shave. Suddenly I felt a hand on my
shoulder, and heard the Count's voice saying to me, "Good morning." I
started, for it amazed me that I had not seen him, since the
reflection of the glass covered the whole room behind me. In starting
I had cut myself slightly, but did not notice it at the moment. Having
answered the Count's salutation, I turned to the glass again to see
how I had been mistaken. This time there could be no error, for the
man was close to me, and I could see him over my shoulder. But there
was no reflection of him in the mirror! The whole room behind me was
displayed, but there was no sign of a man in it, except myself.
This was startling, and coming on the top of so many strange things,
was beginning to increase that vague feeling of uneasiness which I
always have when the Count is near. But at the instant I saw that the
cut had bled a little, and the blood was trickling over my chin. I
laid down the razor, turning as I did so half round to look for some
sticking plaster. When the Count saw my face, his eyes blazed with a
sort of demoniac fury, and he suddenly made a grab at my throat. I
drew away and his hand touched the string of beads which held the
crucifix. It made an instant change in him, for the fury passed so
quickly that I could hardly believe that it was ever there.
"Take care," he said, "take care how you cut yourself. It is more
dangerous that you think in this country." Then seizing the shaving
glass, he went on, "And this is the wretched thing that has done the
mischief. It is a foul bauble of man's vanity. Away with it!" And
opening the window with one wrench of his terrible hand, he flung out
the glass, which was shattered into a thousand pieces on the stones of
the courtyard far below. Then he withdrew without a word. It is very
annoying, for I do not see how I am to shave, unless in my watch-case
or the bottom of the shaving pot, which is fortunately of metal.
When I went into the dining room, breakfast was prepared, but I could
not find the Count anywhere. So I breakfasted alone. It is strange
that as yet I have not seen the Count eat or drink. He must be a very
peculiar man! After breakfast I did a little exploring in the
castle. I went out on the stairs, and found a room looking towards
the South.
The view was magnificent, and from where I stood there was every
opportunity of seeing it. The castle is on the very edge of a
terrific precipice. A stone falling from the window would fall a
thousand feet without touching anything! As far as the eye can reach
is a sea of green tree tops, with occasionally a deep rift where there
is a chasm. Here and there are silver threads where the rivers wind
in deep gorges through the forests.
But I am not in heart to describe beauty, for when I had seen the view
I explored further. Doors, doors, doors everywhere, and all locked
and bolted. In no place save from the windows in the castle walls is
there an available exit. The castle is a veritable prison, and I am a
Jonathan Harker's Journal Continued
When I found that I was a prisoner a sort of wild feeling came over
me. I rushed up and down the stairs, trying every door and peering
out of every window I could find, but after a little the conviction of
my helplessness overpowered all other feelings. When I look back
after a few hours I think I must have been mad for the time, for I
behaved much as a rat does in a trap. When, however, the conviction
had come to me that I was helpless I sat down quietly, as quietly as I
have ever done anything in my life, and began to think over what was
best to be done. I am thinking still, and as yet have come to no
definite conclusion. Of one thing only am I certain. That it is no
use making my ideas known to the Count. He knows well that I am
imprisoned, and as he has done it himself, and has doubtless his own
motives for it, he would only deceive me if I trusted him fully with
the facts. So far as I can see, my only plan will be to keep my
knowledge and my fears to myself, and my eyes open. I am, I know,
either being deceived, like a baby, by my own fears, or else I am in
desperate straits, and if the latter be so, I need, and shall need,
all my brains to get through.
I had hardly come to this conclusion when I heard the great door below
shut, and knew that the Count had returned. He did not come at once
into the library, so I went cautiously to my own room and found him
making the bed. This was odd, but only confirmed what I had all along
thought, that there are no servants in the house. When later I saw
him through the chink of the hinges of the door laying the table in
the dining room, I was assured of it. For if he does himself all
these menial offices, surely it is proof that there is no one else in
the castle, it must have been the Count himself who was the driver of
the coach that brought me here. This is a terrible thought, for if
so, what does it mean that he could control the wolves, as he did, by
only holding up his hand for silence? How was it that all the people
at Bistritz and on the coach had some terrible fear for me? What
meant the giving of the crucifix, of the garlic, of the wild rose, of
the mountain ash?
Bless that good, good woman who hung the crucifix round my neck! For
it is a comfort and a strength to me whenever I touch it. It is odd
that a thing which I have been taught to regard with disfavour and as
idolatrous should in a time of loneliness and trouble be of help. Is
it that there is something in the essence of the thing itself, or that
it is a medium, a tangible help, in conveying memories of sympathy and
comfort? Some time, if it may be, I must examine this matter and try
to make up my mind about it. In the meantime I must find out all I
can about Count Dracula, as it may help me to understand. Tonight he
may talk of himself, if I turn the conversation that way. I must be
very careful, however, not to awake his suspicion.
Midnight.--I have had a long talk with the Count. I asked him a few
questions on Transylvania history, and he warmed up to the subject
wonderfully. In his speaking of things and people, and especially of
battles, he spoke as if he had been present at them all. This he
afterwards explained by saying that to a Boyar the pride of his house
and name is his own pride, that their glory is his glory, that their
fate is his fate. Whenever he spoke of his house he always said "we",
and spoke almost in the plural, like a king speaking. I wish I could
put down all he said exactly as he said it, for to me it was most
fascinating. It seemed to have in it a whole history of the country.
He grew excited as he spoke, and walked about the room pulling his
great white moustache and grasping anything on which he laid his hands
as though he would crush it by main strength. One thing he said which
I shall put down as nearly as I can, for it tells in its way the story
of his race.
"We Szekelys have a right to be proud, for in our veins flows the
blood of many brave races who fought as the lion fights, for lordship.
Here, in the whirlpool of European races, the Ugric tribe bore down
from Iceland the fighting spirit which Thor and Wodin gave them, which
their Berserkers displayed to such fell intent on the seaboards of
Europe, aye, and of Asia and Africa too, till the peoples thought that
the werewolves themselves had come. Here, too, when they came, they
found the Huns, whose warlike fury had swept the earth like a living
flame, till the dying peoples held that in their veins ran the blood
of those old witches, who, expelled from Scythia had mated with the
devils in the desert. Fools, fools! What devil or what witch was
ever so great as Attila, whose blood is in these veins?" He held up
his arms. "Is it a wonder that we were a conquering race, that we
were proud, that when the Magyar, the Lombard, the Avar, the Bulgar,
or the Turk poured his thousands on our frontiers, we drove them back?
Is it strange that when Arpad and his legions swept through the
Hungarian fatherland he found us here when he reached the frontier,
that the Honfoglalas was completed there? And when the Hungarian
flood swept eastward, the Szekelys were claimed as kindred by the
victorious Magyars, and to us for centuries was trusted the guarding
of the frontier of Turkeyland. Aye, and more than that, endless duty
of the frontier guard, for as the Turks say, 'water sleeps, and the
enemy is sleepless.' Who more gladly than we throughout the Four
Nations received the 'bloody sword,' or at its warlike call flocked
quicker to the standard of the King? When was redeemed that great
shame of my nation, the shame of Cassova, when the flags of the
Wallach and the Magyar went down beneath the Crescent? Who was it but
one of my own race who as Voivode crossed the Danube and beat the Turk
on his own ground? This was a Dracula indeed! Woe was it that his
own unworthy brother, when he had fallen, sold his people to the Turk
and brought the shame of slavery on them! Was it not this Dracula,
indeed, who inspired that other of his race who in a later age again
and again brought his forces over the great river into Turkeyland,
who, when he was beaten back, came again, and again, though he had to
come alone from the bloody field where his troops were being
slaughtered, since he knew that he alone could ultimately triumph!
They said that he thought only of himself. Bah! What good are
peasants without a leader? Where ends the war without a brain and
heart to conduct it? Again, when, after the battle of Mohacs, we
threw off the Hungarian yoke, we of the Dracula blood were amongst
their leaders, for our spirit would not brook that we were not free.
Ah, young sir, the Szekelys, and the Dracula as their heart's blood,
their brains, and their swords, can boast a record that mushroom
growths like the Hapsburgs and the Romanoffs can never reach. The
warlike days are over. Blood is too precious a thing in these days of
dishonourable peace, and the glories of the great races are as a tale
that is told."
It was by this time close on morning, and we went to bed. (Mem., this
diary seems horribly like the beginning of the "Arabian Nights," for
everything has to break off at cockcrow, or like the ghost of Hamlet's
12 May.--Let me begin with facts, bare, meager facts, verified by
books and figures, and of which there can be no doubt. I must not
confuse them with experiences which will have to rest on my own
observation, or my memory of them. Last evening when the Count came
from his room he began by asking me questions on legal matters and on
the doing of certain kinds of business. I had spent the day wearily
over books, and, simply to keep my mind occupied, went over some of
the matters I had been examined in at Lincoln's Inn. There was a
certain method in the Count's inquiries, so I shall try to put them
down in sequence. The knowledge may somehow or some time be useful to
First, he asked if a man in England might have two solicitors or more.
I told him he might have a dozen if he wished, but that it would not
be wise to have more than one solicitor engaged in one transaction, as
only one could act at a time, and that to change would be certain to
militate against his interest. He seemed thoroughly to understand,
and went on to ask if there would be any practical difficulty in having
one man to attend, say, to banking, and another to look after
shipping, in case local help were needed in a place far from the home
of the banking solicitor. I asked to explain more fully, so that I
might not by any chance mislead him, so he said,
"I shall illustrate. Your friend and mine, Mr. Peter Hawkins, from
under the shadow of your beautiful cathedral at Exeter, which is far
from London, buys for me through your good self my place at London.
Good! Now here let me say frankly, lest you should think it strange
that I have sought the services of one so far off from London instead
of some one resident there, that my motive was that no local interest
might be served save my wish only, and as one of London residence
might, perhaps, have some purpose of himself or friend to serve, I
went thus afield to seek my agent, whose labours should be only to my
interest. Now, suppose I, who have much of affairs, wish to ship
goods, say, to Newcastle, or Durham, or Harwich, or Dover, might it
not be that it could with more ease be done by consigning to one in
these ports?"
I answered that certainly it would be most easy, but that we
solicitors had a system of agency one for the other, so that local
work could be done locally on instruction from any solicitor, so that
the client, simply placing himself in the hands of one man, could have
his wishes carried out by him without further trouble.
"But," said he, "I could be at liberty to direct myself. Is it not
"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
"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
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
"Then write now, my young friend," he said, laying a heavy hand on my
shoulder, "write to our friend and to any other, and say, if it will
please you, that you shall stay with me until a month from now."
"Do you wish me to stay so long?" I asked, for my heart grew cold at
the thought.
"I desire it much, nay I will take no refusal. When your master,
employer, what you will, engaged that someone should come on his
behalf, it was understood that my needs only were to be consulted. I
have not stinted. Is it not so?"
What could I do but bow acceptance? It was Mr. Hawkins' interest, not
mine, and I had to think of him, not myself, and besides, while Count
Dracula was speaking, there was that in his eyes and in his bearing
which made me remember that I was a prisoner, and that if I wished it
I could have no choice. The Count saw his victory in my bow, and his
mastery in the trouble of my face, for he began at once to use them,
but in his own smooth, resistless way.
"I pray you, my good young friend, that you will not discourse of
things other than business in your letters. It will doubtless please
your friends to know that you are well, and that you look forward to
getting home to them. Is it not so?" As he spoke he handed me three
sheets of note paper and three envelopes. They were all of the
thinnest foreign post, and looking at them, then at him, and noticing
his quiet smile, with the sharp, canine teeth lying over the red
underlip, I understood as well as if he had spoken that I should be
more careful what I wrote, for he would be able to read it. So I
determined to write only formal notes now, but to write fully to Mr.
Hawkins in secret, and also to Mina, for to her I could write
shorthand, which would puzzle the Count, if he did see it. When I had
written my two letters I sat quiet, reading a book whilst the Count
wrote several notes, referring as he wrote them to some books on his
table. Then he took up my two and placed them with his own, and put
by his writing materials, after which, the instant the door had closed
behind him, I leaned over and looked at the letters, which were face
down on the table. I felt no compunction in doing so for under the
circumstances I felt that I should protect myself in every way I
One of the letters was directed to Samuel F. Billington, No. 7, The
Crescent, Whitby, another to Herr Leutner, Varna. The third was to
Coutts & Co., London, and the fourth to Herren Klopstock & Billreuth,
bankers, Buda Pesth. The second and fourth were unsealed. I was just
about to look at them when I saw the door handle move. I sank back in
my seat, having just had time to resume my book before the Count,
holding still another letter in his hand, entered the room. He took
up the letters on the table and stamped them carefully, and then
turning to me, said,
"I trust you will forgive me, but I have much work to do in private
this evening. You will, I hope, find all things as you wish." At the
door he turned, and after a moment's pause said, "Let me advise you,
my dear young friend. Nay, let me warn you with all seriousness, that
should you leave these rooms you will not by any chance go to sleep in
any other part of the castle. It is old, and has many memories, and
there are bad dreams for those who sleep unwisely. Be warned! Should
sleep now or ever overcome you, or be like to do, then haste to your
own chamber or to these rooms, for your rest will then be safe. But
if you be not careful in this respect, then," He finished his speech
in a gruesome way, for he motioned with his hands as if he were washing
them. I quite understood. My only doubt was as to whether any dream
could be more terrible than the unnatural, horrible net of gloom and
mystery which seemed closing around me.
Later.--I endorse the last words written, but this time there is no
doubt in question. I shall not fear to sleep in any place where he is
not. I have placed the crucifix over the head of my bed, I imagine
that my rest is thus freer from dreams, and there it shall remain.
When he left me I went to my room. After a little while, not hearing
any sound, I came out and went up the stone stair to where I could
look out towards the South. There was some sense of freedom in the
vast expanse, inaccessible though it was to me, as compared with the
narrow darkness of the courtyard. Looking out on this, I felt that I
was indeed in prison, and I seemed to want a breath of fresh air,
though it were of the night. I am beginning to feel this nocturnal
existence tell on me. It is destroying my nerve. I start at my own
shadow, and am full of all sorts of horrible imaginings. God knows
that there is ground for my terrible fear in this accursed place! I
looked out over the beautiful expanse, bathed in soft yellow moonlight
till it was almost as light as day. In the soft light the distant
hills became melted, and the shadows in the valleys and gorges of
velvety blackness. The mere beauty seemed to cheer me. There was
peace and comfort in every breath I drew. As I leaned from the window
my eye was caught by something moving a storey below me, and somewhat
to my left, where I imagined, from the order of the rooms, that the
windows of the Count's own room would look out. The window at which I
stood was tall and deep, stone-mullioned, and though weatherworn, was
still complete. But it was evidently many a day since the case had
been there. I drew back behind the stonework, and looked carefully
What I saw was the Count's head coming out from the window. I did not
see the face, but I knew the man by the neck and the movement of his
back and arms. In any case I could not mistake the hands which I had
had some many opportunities of studying. I was at first interested
and somewhat amused, for it is wonderful how small a matter will
interest and amuse a man when he is a prisoner. But my very feelings
changed to repulsion and terror when I saw the whole man slowly emerge
from the window and begin to crawl down the castle wall over the
dreadful abyss, face down with his cloak spreading out around him like
great wings. At first I could not believe my eyes. I thought it was
some trick of the moonlight, some weird effect of shadow, but I kept
looking, and it could be no delusion. I saw the fingers and toes
grasp the corners of the stones, worn clear of the mortar by the
stress of years, and by thus using every projection and inequality
move downwards with considerable speed, just as a lizard moves along a
What manner of man is this, or what manner of creature, is it in the
semblance of man? I feel the dread of this horrible place
overpowering me. I am in fear, in awful fear, and there is no escape
for me. I am encompassed about with terrors that I dare not think of.
15 May.--Once more I have seen the count go out in his lizard fashion.
He moved downwards in a sidelong way, some hundred feet down, and a
good deal to the left. He vanished into some hole or window. When
his head had disappeared, I leaned out to try and see more, but
without avail. The distance was too great to allow a proper angle of
sight. I knew he had left the castle now, and thought to use the
opportunity to explore more than I had dared to do as yet. I went
back to the room, and taking a lamp, tried all the doors. They were
all locked, as I had expected, and the locks were comparatively new.
But I went down the stone stairs to the hall where I had entered
originally. I found I could pull back the bolts easily enough and
unhook the great chains. But the door was locked, and the key was
gone! That key must be in the Count's room. I must watch should his
door be unlocked, so that I may get it and escape. I went on to make
a thorough examination of the various stairs and passages, and to try
the doors that opened from them. One or two small rooms near the hall
were open, but there was nothing to see in them except old furniture,
dusty with age and moth-eaten. At last, however, I found one door at
the top of the stairway which, though it seemed locked, gave a little
under pressure. I tried it harder, and found that it was not really
locked, but that the resistance came from the fact that the hinges had
fallen somewhat, and the heavy door rested on the floor. Here was an
opportunity which I might not have again, so I exerted myself, and
with many efforts forced it back so that I could enter. I was now in
a wing of the castle further to the right than the rooms I knew and a
storey lower down. From the windows I could see that the suite of
rooms lay along to the south of the castle, the windows of the end
room looking out both west and south. On the latter side, as well as
to the former, there was a great precipice. The castle was built on
the corner of a great rock, so that on three sides it was quite
impregnable, and great windows were placed here where sling, or bow,
or culverin could not reach, and consequently light and comfort,
impossible to a position which had to be guarded, were secured. To
the west was a great valley, and then, rising far away, great jagged
mountain fastnesses, rising peak on peak, the sheer rock studded with
mountain ash and thorn, whose roots clung in cracks and crevices and
crannies of the stone. This was evidently the portion of the castle
occupied by the ladies in bygone days, for the furniture had more an
air of comfort than any I had seen.
The windows were curtainless, and the yellow moonlight, flooding in
through the diamond panes, enabled one to see even colours, whilst it
softened the wealth of dust which lay over all and disguised in some
measure the ravages of time and moth. My lamp seemed to be of little
effect in the brilliant moonlight, but I was glad to have it with me,
for there was a dread loneliness in the place which chilled my heart
and made my nerves tremble. Still, it was better than living alone in
the rooms which I had come to hate from the presence of the Count, and
after trying a little to school my nerves, I found a soft quietude
come over me. Here I am, sitting at a little oak table where in old
times possibly some fair lady sat to pen, with much thought and many
blushes, her ill-spelt love letter, and writing in my diary in
shorthand all that has happened since I closed it last. It is the
nineteenth century up-to-date with a vengeance. And yet, unless my
senses deceive me, the old centuries had, and have, powers of their
own which mere "modernity" cannot kill.
Later: The morning of 16 May.--God preserve my sanity, for to this I
am reduced. Safety and the assurance of safety are things of the
past. Whilst I live on here there is but one thing to hope for, that
I may not go mad, if, indeed, I be not mad already. If I be sane,
then surely it is maddening to think that of all the foul things that
lurk in this hateful place the Count is the least dreadful to me, that
to him alone I can look for safety, even though this be only whilst I
can serve his purpose. Great God! Merciful God, let me be calm, for
out of that way lies madness indeed. I begin to get new lights on
certain things which have puzzled me. Up to now I never quite knew
what Shakespeare meant when he made Hamlet say, "My tablets! Quick,
my tablets! 'tis meet that I put it down," etc., For now, feeling as
though my own brain were unhinged or as if the shock had come which
must end in its undoing, I turn to my diary for repose. The habit of
entering accurately must help to soothe me.
The Count's mysterious warning frightened me at the time. It frightens
me more not when I think of it, for in the future he has a fearful
hold upon me. I shall fear to doubt what he may say!
When I had written in my diary and had fortunately replaced the book
and pen in my pocket I felt sleepy. The Count's warning came into my
mind, but I took pleasure in disobeying it. The sense of sleep was
upon me, and with it the obstinacy which sleep brings as outrider. The
soft moonlight soothed, and the wide expanse without gave a sense of
freedom which refreshed me. I determined not to return tonight to the
gloom-haunted rooms, but to sleep here, where, of old, ladies had sat
and sung and lived sweet lives whilst their gentle breasts were sad
for their menfolk away in the midst of remorseless wars. I drew a
great couch out of its place near the corner, so that as I lay, I
could look at the lovely view to east and south, and unthinking of and
uncaring for the dust, composed myself for sleep. I suppose I must
have fallen asleep. I hope so, but I fear, for all that followed was
startlingly real, so real that now sitting here in the broad, full
sunlight of the morning, I cannot in the least believe that it was all
I was not alone. The room was the same, unchanged in any way since I
came into it. I could see along the floor, in the brilliant
moonlight, my own footsteps marked where I had disturbed the long
accumulation of dust. In the moonlight opposite me were three young
women, ladies by their dress and manner. I thought at the time that I
must be dreaming when I saw them, they threw no shadow on the floor.
They came close to me, and looked at me for some time, and then
whispered together. Two were dark, and had high aquiline noses, like
the Count, and great dark, piercing eyes, that seemed to be almost red
when contrasted with the pale yellow moon. The other was fair, as
fair as can be, with great masses of golden hair and eyes like pale
sapphires. I seemed somehow to know her face, and to know it in
connection with some dreamy fear, but I could not recollect at the
moment how or where. All three had brilliant white teeth that shone
like pearls against the ruby of their voluptuous lips. There was
something about them that made me uneasy, some longing and at the same
time some deadly fear. I felt in my heart a wicked, burning desire
that they would kiss me with those red lips. It is not good to note
this down, lest some day it should meet Mina's eyes and cause her
pain, but it is the truth. They whispered together, and then they all
three laughed, such a silvery, musical laugh, but as hard as though
the sound never could have come through the softness of human lips.
It was like the intolerable, tingling sweetness of waterglasses when
played on by a cunning hand. The fair girl shook her head
coquettishly, and the other two urged her on.
One said, "Go on! You are first, and we shall follow. Yours is the
right to begin."
The other added, "He is young and strong. There are kisses for us
I lay quiet, looking out from under my eyelashes in an agony of
delightful anticipation. The fair girl advanced and bent over me till
I could feel the movement of her breath upon me. Sweet it was in one
sense, honey-sweet, and sent the same tingling through the nerves as
her voice, but with a bitter underlying the sweet, a bitter
offensiveness, as one smells in blood.
I was afraid to raise my eyelids, but looked out and saw perfectly
under the lashes. The girl went on her knees, and bent over me,
simply gloating. There was a deliberate voluptuousness which was both
thrilling and repulsive, and as she arched her neck she actually
licked her lips like an animal, till I could see in the moonlight the
moisture shining on the scarlet lips and on the red tongue as it
lapped the white sharp teeth. Lower and lower went her head as the
lips went below the range of my mouth and chin and seemed to fasten on
my throat. Then she paused, and I could hear the churning sound of
her tongue as it licked her teeth and lips, and I could feel the hot
breath on my neck. Then the skin of my throat began to tingle as
one's flesh does when the hand that is to tickle it approaches nearer,
nearer. I could feel the soft, shivering touch of the lips on the
super sensitive skin of my throat, and the hard dents of two sharp
teeth, just touching and pausing there. I closed my eyes in
languorous ecstasy and waited, waited with beating heart.
But at that instant, another sensation swept through me as quick as
lightning. I was conscious of the presence of the Count, and of his
being as if lapped in a storm of fury. As my eyes opened
involuntarily I saw his strong hand grasp the slender neck of the fair
woman and with giant's power draw it back, the blue eyes transformed
with fury, the white teeth champing with rage, and the fair cheeks
blazing red with passion. But the Count! Never did I imagine such
wrath and fury, even to the demons of the pit. His eyes were
positively blazing. The red light in them was lurid, as if the flames
of hell fire blazed behind them. His face was deathly pale, and the
lines of it were hard like drawn wires. The thick eyebrows that met
over the nose now seemed like a heaving bar of white-hot metal. With
a fierce sweep of his arm, he hurled the woman from him, and then
motioned to the others, as though he were beating them back. It was
the same imperious gesture that I had seen used to the wolves. In a
voice which, though low and almost in a whisper seemed to cut through
the air and then ring in the room he said,
"How dare you touch him, any of you? How dare you cast eyes on him
when I had forbidden it? Back, I tell you all! This man belongs to
me! Beware how you meddle with him, or you'll have to deal with me."
The fair girl, with a laugh of ribald coquetry, turned to answer him.
"You yourself never loved. You never love!" On this the other women
joined, and such a mirthless, hard, soulless laughter rang through the
room that it almost made me faint to hear. It seemed like the
pleasure of fiends.
Then the Count turned, after looking at my face attentively, and said
in a soft whisper, "Yes, I too can love. You yourselves can tell it
from the past. Is it not so? Well, now I promise you that when I am
done with him you shall kiss him at your will. Now go! Go! I must
awaken him, for there is work to be done."
"Are we to have nothing tonight?" said one of them, with a low laugh,
as she pointed to the bag which he had thrown upon the floor, and
which moved as though there were some living thing within it. For
answer he nodded his head. One of the women jumped forward and opened
it. If my ears did not deceive me there was a gasp and a low wail, as
of a half smothered child. The women closed round, whilst I was
aghast with horror. But as I looked, they disappeared, and with them
the dreadful bag. There was no door near them, and they could not
have passed me without my noticing. They simply seemed to fade into
the rays of the moonlight and pass out through the window, for I could
see outside the dim, shadowy forms for a moment before they entirely
faded away.
Then the horror overcame me, and I sank down unconscious.
Jonathan Harker's Journal Continued
I awoke in my own bed. If it be that I had not dreamt, the Count must
have carried me here. I tried to satisfy myself on the subject, but
could not arrive at any unquestionable result. To be sure, there were
certain small evidences, such as that my clothes were folded and laid
by in a manner which was not my habit. My watch was still unwound,
and I am rigorously accustomed to wind it the last thing before going
to bed, and many such details. But these things are no proof, for
they may have been evidences that my mind was not as usual, and, for
some cause or another, I had certainly been much upset. I must watch
for proof. Of one thing I am glad. If it was that the Count carried
me here and undressed me, he must have been hurried in his task, for
my pockets are intact. I am sure this diary would have been a mystery
to him which he would not have brooked. He would have taken or
destroyed it. As I look round this room, although it has been to me
so full of fear, it is now a sort of sanctuary, for nothing can be
more dreadful than those awful women, who were, who are, waiting to
suck my blood.
18 May.--I have been down to look at that room again in daylight, for
I must know the truth. When I got to the doorway at the top of the
stairs I found it closed. It had been so forcibly driven against the
jamb that part of the woodwork was splintered. I could see that the
bolt of the lock had not been shot, but the door is fastened from the
inside. I fear it was no dream, and must act on this surmise.
19 May.--I am surely in the toils. Last night the Count asked me in
the suavest tones to write three letters, one saying that my work here
was nearly done, and that I should start for home within a few days,
another that I was starting on the next morning from the time of the
letter, and the third that I had left the castle and arrived at
Bistritz. I would fain have rebelled, but felt that in the present
state of things it would be madness to quarrel openly with the Count
whilst I am so absolutely in his power. And to refuse would be to
excite his suspicion and to arouse his anger. He knows that I know
too much, and that I must not live, lest I be dangerous to him. My
only chance is to prolong my opportunities. Something may occur which
will give me a chance to escape. I saw in his eyes something of that
gathering wrath which was manifest when he hurled that fair woman from
him. He explained to me that posts were few and uncertain, and that
my writing now would ensure ease of mind to my friends. And he
assured me with so much impressiveness that he would countermand the
later letters, which would be held over at Bistritz until due time in
case chance would admit of my prolonging my stay, that to oppose him
would have been to create new suspicion. I therefore pretended to
fall in with his views, and asked him what dates I should put on the
He calculated a minute, and then said, "The first should be June 12,
the second June 19, and the third June 29."
I know now the span of my life. God help me!
28 May.--There is a chance of escape, or at any rate of being able to
send word home. A band of Szgany have come to the castle, and are
encamped in the courtyard. These are gipsies. I have notes of them
in my book. They are peculiar to this part of the world, though
allied to the ordinary gipsies all the world over. There are
thousands of them in Hungary and Transylvania, who are almost outside
all law. They attach themselves as a rule to some great noble or
boyar, and call themselves by his name. They are fearless and without
religion, save superstition, and they talk only their own varieties of
the Romany tongue.
I shall write some letters home, and shall try to get them to have
them posted. I have already spoken to them through my window to begin
acquaintanceship. They took their hats off and made obeisance and
many signs, which however, I could not understand any more than I
could their spoken language…
I have written the letters. Mina's is in shorthand, and I simply ask
Mr. Hawkins to communicate with her. To her I have explained my
situation, but without the horrors which I may only surmise. It would
shock and frighten her to death were I to expose my heart to her.
Should the letters not carry, then the Count shall not yet know my
secret or the extent of my knowledge.…
I have given the letters. I threw them through the bars of my window
with a gold piece, and made what signs I could to have them posted.
The man who took them pressed them to his heart and bowed, and then
put them in his cap. I could do no more. I stole back to the study,
and began to read. As the Count did not come in, I have written
The Count has come. He sat down beside me, and said in his smoothest
voice as he opened two letters, "The Szgany has given me these, of
which, though I know not whence they come, I shall, of course, take
care. See!"--He must have looked at it.--"One is from you, and to my
friend Peter Hawkins. The other,"--here he caught sight of the
strange symbols as he opened the envelope, and the dark look came into
his face, and his eyes blazed wickedly,--"The other is a vile thing,
an outrage upon friendship and hospitality! It is not signed. Well!
So it cannot matter to us." And he calmly held letter and envelope in
the flame of the lamp till they were consumed.
Then he went on, "The letter to Hawkins, that I shall, of course send
on, since it is yours. Your letters are sacred to me. Your pardon,
my friend, that unknowingly I did break the seal. Will you not cover
it again?" He held out the letter to me, and with a courteous bow
handed me a clean envelope.
I could only redirect it and hand it to him in silence. When he went
out of the room I could hear the key turn softly. A minute later I
went over and tried it, and the door was locked.
When, an hour or two after, the Count came quietly into the room, his
coming awakened me, for I had gone to sleep on the sofa. He was very
courteous and very cheery in his manner, and seeing that I had been
sleeping, he said, "So, my friend, you are tired? Get to bed. There
is the surest rest. I may not have the pleasure of talk tonight,
since there are many labours to me, but you will sleep, I pray."
I passed to my room and went to bed, and, strange to say, slept
without dreaming. Despair has its own calms.
31 May.--This morning when I woke I thought I would provide myself
with some papers and envelopes from my bag and keep them in my pocket,
so that I might write in case I should get an opportunity, but again a
surprise, again a shock!
Every scrap of paper was gone, and with it all my notes, my memoranda,
relating to railways and travel, my letter of credit, in fact all that
might be useful to me were I once outside the castle. I sat and
pondered awhile, and then some thought occurred to me, and I made
search of my portmanteau and in the wardrobe where I had placed my
The suit in which I had travelled was gone, and also my overcoat and
rug. I could find no trace of them anywhere. This looked like some
new scheme of villainy…
17 June.--This morning, as I was sitting on the edge of my bed
cudgelling my brains, I heard without a crackling of whips and
pounding and scraping of horses' feet up the rocky path beyond the
courtyard. With joy I hurried to the window, and saw drive into the
yard two great leiter-wagons, each drawn by eight sturdy horses, and
at the head of each pair a Slovak, with his wide hat, great
nail-studded belt, dirty sheepskin, and high boots. They had also
their long staves in hand. I ran to the door, intending to descend
and try and join them through the main hall, as I thought that way
might be opened for them. Again a shock, my door was fastened on the
Then I ran to the window and cried to them. They looked up at me
stupidly and pointed, but just then the "hetman" of the Szgany came
out, and seeing them pointing to my window, said something, at which
they laughed.
Henceforth no effort of mine, no piteous cry or agonized entreaty,
would make them even look at me. They resolutely turned away. The
leiter-wagons contained great, square boxes, with handles of thick
rope. These were evidently empty by the ease with which the Slovaks
handled them, and by their resonance as they were roughly moved.
When they were all unloaded and packed in a great heap in one corner
of the yard, the Slovaks were given some money by the Szgany, and
spitting on it for luck, lazily went each to his horse's head.
Shortly afterwards, I heard the crackling of their whips die away in
the distance.
24 June.--Last night the Count left me early, and locked himself into
his own room. As soon as I dared I ran up the winding stair, and
looked out of the window, which opened South. I thought I would watch
for the Count, for there is something going on. The Szgany are
quartered somewhere in the castle and are doing work of some kind. I
know it, for now and then, I hear a far-away muffled sound as of
mattock and spade, and, whatever it is, it must be the end of some
ruthless villainy.
I had been at the window somewhat less than half an hour, when I saw
something coming out of the Count's window. I drew back and watched
carefully, and saw the whole man emerge. It was a new shock to me to
find that he had on the suit of clothes which I had worn whilst
travelling here, and slung over his shoulder the terrible bag which I
had seen the women take away. There could be no doubt as to his
quest, and in my garb, too! This, then, is his new scheme of evil,
that he will allow others to see me, as they think, so that he may
both leave evidence that I have been seen in the towns or villages
posting my own letters, and that any wickedness which he may do shall
by the local people be attributed to me.
It makes me rage to think that this can go on, and whilst I am shut up
here, a veritable prisoner, but without that protection of the law
which is even a criminal's right and consolation.
I thought I would watch for the Count's return, and for a long time
sat doggedly at the window. Then I began to notice that there were
some quaint little specks floating in the rays of the moonlight. They
were like the tiniest grains of dust, and they whirled round and
gathered in clusters in a nebulous sort of way. I watched them with a
sense of soothing, and a sort of calm stole over me. I leaned back in
the embrasure in a more comfortable position, so that I could enjoy
more fully the aerial gambolling.
Something made me start up, a low, piteous howling of dogs somewhere
far below in the valley, which was hidden from my sight. Louder it
seemed to ring in my ears, and the floating moats of dust to take new
shapes to the sound as they danced in the moonlight. I felt myself
struggling to awake to some call of my instincts. Nay, my very soul
was struggling, and my half-remembered sensibilities were striving to
answer the call. I was becoming hypnotised!
Quicker and quicker danced the dust. The moonbeams seemed to quiver
as they went by me into the mass of gloom beyond. More and more they
gathered till they seemed to take dim phantom shapes. And then I
started, broad awake and in full possession of my senses, and ran
screaming from the place.
The phantom shapes, which were becoming gradually materialised from
the moonbeams, were those three ghostly women to whom I was doomed.
I fled, and felt somewhat safer in my own room, where there was no
moonlight, and where the lamp was burning brightly.
When a couple of hours had passed I heard something stirring in the
Count's room, something like a sharp wail quickly suppressed. And
then there was silence, deep, awful silence, which chilled me. With a
beating heart, I tried the door, but I was locked in my prison, and
could do nothing. I sat down and simply cried.
As I sat I heard a sound in the courtyard without, the agonised cry of
a woman. I rushed to the window, and throwing it up, peered between
the bars.
There, indeed, was a woman with dishevelled hair, holding her hands
over her heart as one distressed with running. She was leaning
against the corner of the gateway. When she saw my face at the window
she threw herself forward, and shouted in a voice laden with menace,
"Monster, give me my child!"
She threw herself on her knees, and raising up her hands, cried the
same words in tones which wrung my heart. Then she tore her hair and
beat her breast, and abandoned herself to all the violences of
extravagant emotion. Finally, she threw herself forward, and though I
could not see her, I could hear the beating of her naked hands against
the door.
Somewhere high overhead, probably on the tower, I heard the voice of
the Count calling in his harsh, metallic whisper. His call seemed to
be answered from far and wide by the howling of wolves. Before many
minutes had passed a pack of them poured, like a pent-up dam when
liberated, through the wide entrance into the courtyard.
There was no cry from the woman, and the howling of the wolves was but
short. Before long they streamed away singly, licking their lips.
I could not pity her, for I knew now what had become of her child, and
she was better dead.
What shall I do? What can I do? How can I escape from this dreadful
thing of night, gloom, and fear?
25 June.--No man knows till he has suffered from the night how sweet
and dear to his heart and eye the morning can be. When the sun grew
so high this morning that it struck the top of the great gateway
opposite my window, the high spot which it touched seemed to me as if
the dove from the ark had lighted there. My fear fell from me as if
it had been a vaporous garment which dissolved in the warmth.
I must take action of some sort whilst the courage of the day is upon
me. Last night one of my post-dated letters went to post, the first
of that fatal series which is to blot out the very traces of my
existence from the earth.
Let me not think of it. Action!
It has always been at night-time that I have been molested or
threatened, or in some way in danger or in fear. I have not yet seen
the Count in the daylight. Can it be that he sleeps when others wake,
that he may be awake whilst they sleep? If I could only get into his
room! But there is no possible way. The door is always locked, no
way for me.
Yes, there is a way, if one dares to take it. Where his body has gone
why may not another body go? I have seen him myself crawl from his
window. Why should not I imitate him, and go in by his window? The
chances are desperate, but my need is more desperate still. I shall
risk it. At the worst it can only be death, and a man's death is not
a calf's, and the dreaded Hereafter may still be open to me. God help
me in my task! Goodbye, Mina, if I fail. Goodbye, my faithful friend
and second father. Goodbye, all, and last of all Mina!
Same day, later.--I have made the effort, and God helping me, have
come safely back to this room. I must put down every detail in order.
I went whilst my courage was fresh straight to the window on the south
side, and at once got outside on this side. The stones are big and
roughly cut, and the mortar has by process of time been washed away
between them. I took off my boots, and ventured out on the desperate
way. I looked down once, so as to make sure that a sudden glimpse of
the awful depth would not overcome me, but after that kept my eyes
away from it. I know pretty well the direction and distance of the
Count's window, and made for it as well as I could, having regard to
the opportunities available. I did not feel dizzy, I suppose I was
too excited, and the time seemed ridiculously short till I found
myself standing on the window sill and trying to raise up the sash. I
was filled with agitation, however, when I bent down and slid feet
foremost in through the window. Then I looked around for the Count,
but with surprise and gladness, made a discovery. The room was
empty! It was barely furnished with odd things, which seemed to have
never been used.
The furniture was something the same style as that in the south rooms,
and was covered with dust. I looked for the key, but it was not in
the lock, and I could not find it anywhere. The only thing I found
was a great heap of gold in one corner, gold of all kinds, Roman, and
British, and Austrian, and Hungarian, and Greek and Turkish money,
covered with a film of dust, as though it had lain long in the ground.
None of it that I noticed was less than three hundred years old.
There were also chains and ornaments, some jewelled, but all of them
old and stained.
At one corner of the room was a heavy door. I tried it, for, since I
could not find the key of the room or the key of the outer door, which
was the main object of my search, I must make further examination, or
all my efforts would be in vain. It was open, and led through a stone
passage to a circular stairway, which went steeply down.
I descended, minding carefully where I went for the stairs were dark,
being only lit by loopholes in the heavy masonry. At the bottom there
was a dark, tunnel-like passage, through which came a deathly, sickly
odour, the odour of old earth newly turned. As I went through the
passage the smell grew closer and heavier. At last I pulled open a
heavy door which stood ajar, and found myself in an old ruined chapel,
which had evidently been used as a graveyard. The roof was broken,
and in two places were steps leading to vaults, but the ground had
recently been dug over, and the earth placed in great wooden boxes,
manifestly those which had been brought by the Slovaks.
There was nobody about, and I made a search over every inch of the
ground, so as not to lose a chance. I went down even into the vaults,
where the dim light struggled, although to do so was a dread to my
very soul. Into two of these I went, but saw nothing except fragments
of old coffins and piles of dust. In the third, however, I made a
There, in one of the great boxes, of which there were fifty in all, on
a pile of newly dug earth, lay the Count! He was either dead or
asleep. I could not say which, for eyes were open and stony, but
without the glassiness of death, and the cheeks had the warmth of life
through all their pallor. The lips were as red as ever. But there
was no sign of movement, no pulse, no breath, no beating of the heart.
I bent over him, and tried to find any sign of life, but in vain. He
could not have lain there long, for the earthy smell would have passed
away in a few hours. By the side of the box was its cover, pierced
with holes here and there. I thought he might have the keys on him,
but when I went to search I saw the dead eyes, and in them dead though
they were, such a look of hate, though unconscious of me or my
presence, that I fled from the place, and leaving the Count's room by
the window, crawled again up the castle wall. Regaining my room, I
threw myself panting upon the bed and tried to think.
29 June.--Today is the date of my last letter, and the Count has taken
steps to prove that it was genuine, for again I saw him leave the
castle by the same window, and in my clothes. As he went down the
wall, lizard fashion, I wished I had a gun or some lethal weapon, that
I might destroy him. But I fear that no weapon wrought along by man's
hand would have any effect on him. I dared not wait to see him
return, for I feared to see those weird sisters. I came back to the
library, and read there till I fell asleep.
I was awakened by the Count, who looked at me as grimly as a man could
look as he said, "Tomorrow, my friend, we must part. You return to
your beautiful England, I to some work which may have such an end that
we may never meet. Your letter home has been despatched. Tomorrow I
shall not be here, but all shall be ready for your journey. In the
morning come the Szgany, who have some labours of their own here, and
also come some Slovaks. When they have gone, my carriage shall come
for you, and shall bear you to the Borgo Pass to meet the diligence
from Bukovina to Bistritz. But I am in hopes that I shall see more of
you at Castle Dracula."
I suspected him, and determined to test his sincerity. Sincerity! It
seems like a profanation of the word to write it in connection with
such a monster, so I asked him point-blank, "Why may I not go
"Because, dear sir, my coachman and horses are away on a mission."
"But I would walk with pleasure. I want to get away at once."
He smiled, such a soft, smooth, diabolical smile that I knew there was
some trick behind his smoothness. He said, "And your baggage?"
"I do not care about it. I can send for it some other time."
The Count stood up, and said, with a sweet courtesy which made me rub
my eyes, it seemed so real, "You English have a saying which is close
to my heart, for its spirit is that which rules our boyars, 'Welcome
the coming, speed the parting guest.' Come with me, my dear young
friend. Not an hour shall you wait in my house against your will,
though sad am I at your going, and that you so suddenly desire it.
Come!" With a stately gravity, he, with the lamp, preceded me down
the stairs and along the hall. Suddenly he stopped. "Hark!"
Close at hand came the howling of many wolves. It was almost as if
the sound sprang up at the rising of his hand, just as the music of a
great orchestra seems to leap under the baton of the conductor. After
a pause of a moment, he proceeded, in his stately way, to the door,
drew back the ponderous bolts, unhooked the heavy chains, and began to
draw it open.
To my intense astonishment I saw that it was unlocked. Suspiciously,
I looked all round, but could see no key of any kind.
As the door began to open, the howling of the wolves without grew
louder and angrier. Their red jaws, with champing teeth, and their
blunt-clawed feet as they leaped, came in through the opening door. I
knew than that to struggle at the moment against the Count was
useless. With such allies as these at his command, I could do
But still the door continued slowly to open, and only the Count's body
stood in the gap. Suddenly it struck me that this might be the moment
and means of my doom. I was to be given to the wolves, and at my own
instigation. There was a diabolical wickedness in the idea great
enough for the Count, and as the last chance I cried out, "Shut the
door! I shall wait till morning." And I covered my face with my
hands to hide my tears of bitter disappointment.
With one sweep of his powerful arm, the Count threw the door shut, and
the great bolts clanged and echoed through the hall as they shot back
into their places.
In silence we returned to the library, and after a minute or two I went
to my own room. The last I saw of Count Dracula was his kissing his
hand to me, with a red light of triumph in his eyes, and with a smile
that Judas in hell might be proud of.
When I was in my room and about to lie down, I thought I heard a
whispering at my door. I went to it softly and listened. Unless my
ears deceived me, I heard the voice of the Count.
"Back! Back to your own place! Your time is not yet come. Wait!
Have patience! Tonight is mine. Tomorrow night is yours!"
There was a low, sweet ripple of laughter, and in a rage I threw open
the door, and saw without the three terrible women licking their lips.
As I appeared, they all joined in a horrible laugh, and ran away.
I came back to my room and threw myself on my knees. It is then so
near the end? Tomorrow! Tomorrow! Lord, help me, and those to whom
I am dear!
30 June.--These may be the last words I ever write in this diary. I
slept till just before the dawn, and when I woke threw myself on my
knees, for I determined that if Death came he should find me ready.
At last I felt that subtle change in the air, and knew that the
morning had come. Then came the welcome cockcrow, and I felt that I
was safe. With a glad heart, I opened the door and ran down the hall.
I had seen that the door was unlocked, and now escape was before me.
With hands that trembled with eagerness, I unhooked the chains and
threw back the massive bolts.
But the door would not move. Despair seized me. I pulled and pulled
at the door, and shook it till, massive as it was, it rattled in its
casement. I could see the bolt shot. It had been locked after I left
the Count.
Then a wild desire took me to obtain the key at any risk, and I
determined then and there to scale the wall again, and gain the
Count's room. He might kill me, but death now seemed the happier
choice of evils. Without a pause I rushed up to the east window, and
scrambled down the wall, as before, into the Count's room. It was
empty, but that was as I expected. I could not see a key anywhere,
but the heap of gold remained. I went through the door in the corner
and down the winding stair and along the dark passage to the old
chapel. I knew now well enough where to find the monster I sought.
The great box was in the same place, close against the wall, but the
lid was laid on it, not fastened down, but with the nails ready in
their places to be hammered home.
I knew I must reach the body for the key, so I raised the lid, and
laid it back against the wall. And then I saw something which filled
my very soul with horror. There lay the Count, but looking as if his
youth had been half restored. For the white hair and moustache were
changed to dark iron-grey. The cheeks were fuller, and the white skin
seemed ruby-red underneath. The mouth was redder than ever, for on
the lips were gouts of fresh blood, which trickled from the corners of
the mouth and ran down over the chin and neck. Even the deep, burning
eyes seemed set amongst swollen flesh, for the lids and pouches
underneath were bloated. It seemed as if the whole awful creature
were simply gorged with blood. He lay like a filthy leech, exhausted
with his repletion.
I shuddered as I bent over to touch him, and every sense in me
revolted at the contact, but I had to search, or I was lost. The
coming night might see my own body a banquet in a similar war to those
horrid three. I felt all over the body, but no sign could I find of
the key. Then I stopped and looked at the Count. There was a mocking
smile on the bloated face which seemed to drive me mad. This was the
being I was helping to transfer to London, where, perhaps, for
centuries to come he might, amongst its teeming millions, satiate his
lust for blood, and create a new and ever-widening circle of
semi-demons to batten on the helpless.
The very thought drove me mad. A terrible desire came upon me to rid
the world of such a monster. There was no lethal weapon at hand, but
I seized a shovel which the workmen had been using to fill the cases,
and lifting it high, struck, with the edge downward, at the hateful
face. But as I did so the head turned, and the eyes fell upon me,
with all their blaze of basilisk horror. The sight seemed to paralyze
me, and the shovel turned in my hand and glanced from the face, merely
making a deep gash above the forehead. The shovel fell from my hand
across the box, and as I pulled it away the flange of the blade caught
the edge of the lid which fell over again, and hid the horrid thing
from my sight. The last glimpse I had was of the bloated face,
blood-stained and fixed with a grin of malice which would have held
its own in the nethermost hell.
I thought and thought what should be my next move, but my brain seemed
on fire, and I waited with a despairing feeling growing over me. As I
waited I heard in the distance a gipsy song sung by merry voices
coming closer, and through their song the rolling of heavy wheels and
the cracking of whips. The Szgany and the Slovaks of whom the Count
had spoken were coming. With a last look around and at the box which
contained the vile body, I ran from the place and gained the Count's
room, determined to rush out at the moment the door should be opened.
With strained ears, I listened, and heard downstairs the grinding of
the key in the great lock and the falling back of the heavy door.
There must have been some other means of entry, or some one had a key
for one of the locked doors.
Then there came the sound of many feet tramping and dying away in some
passage which sent up a clanging echo. I turned to run down again
towards the vault, where I might find the new entrance, but at the
moment there seemed to come a violent puff of wind, and the door to
the winding stair blew to with a shock that set the dust from the
lintels flying. When I ran to push it open, I found that it was
hopelessly fast. I was again a prisoner, and the net of doom was
closing round me more closely.
As I write there is in the passage below a sound of many tramping feet
and the crash of weights being set down heavily, doubtless the boxes,
with their freight of earth. There was a sound of hammering. It is
the box being nailed down. Now I can hear the heavy feet tramping
again along the hall, with many other idle feet coming behind them.
The door is shut, the chains rattle. There is a grinding of the key
in the lock. I can hear the key withdrawn, then another door opens
and shuts. I hear the creaking of lock and bolt.
Hark! In the courtyard and down the rocky way the roll of heavy
wheels, the crack of whips, and the chorus of the Szgany as they pass
into the distance.
I am alone in the castle with those horrible women. Faugh! Mina is a
woman, and there is nought in common. They are devils of the Pit!
I shall not remain alone with them. I shall try to scale the castle
wall farther than I have yet attempted. I shall take some of the gold
with me, lest I want it later. I may find a way from this dreadful
And then away for home! Away to the quickest and nearest train! Away
from the cursed spot, from this cursed land, where the devil and his
children still walk with earthly feet!
At least God's mercy is better than that of those monsters, and the
precipice is steep and high. At its foot a man may sleep, as a man.
Goodbye, all. Mina!
9 May.
My dearest Lucy,
Forgive my long delay in writing, but I have been simply overwhelmed
with work. The life of an assistant schoolmistress is sometimes
trying. I am longing to be with you, and by the sea, where we can
talk together freely and build our castles in the air. I have been
working very hard lately, because I want to keep up with Jonathan's
studies, and I have been practicing shorthand very assiduously.
When we are married I shall be able to be useful to Jonathan, and if
I can stenograph well enough I can take down what he wants to say in
this way and write it out for him on the typewriter, at which also I
am practicing very hard.
He and I sometimes write letters in shorthand, and he is
keeping a stenographic journal of his travels abroad. When
I am with you I shall keep a diary in the same way. I don't
mean one of those two-pages-to-the-week-with-Sunday-squeezed-
in-a-corner diaries, but a sort of journal which I can write
in whenever I feel inclined.
I do not suppose there will be much of interest to other people, but
it is not intended for them. I may show it to Jonathan some day if
there is in it anything worth sharing, but it is really an exercise
book. I shall try to do what I see lady journalists do,
interviewing and writing descriptions and trying to remember
conversations. I am told that, with a little practice, one can
remember all that goes on or that one hears said during a day.
However, we shall see. I will tell you of my little plans when we
meet. I have just had a few hurried lines from Jonathan from
Transylvania. He is well, and will be returning in about a week. I
am longing to hear all his news. It must be nice to see strange
countries. I wonder if we, I mean Jonathan and I, shall ever see
them together. There is the ten o'clock bell ringing. Goodbye.
Your loving
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???
17, Chatham Street
My dearest Mina,
I must say you tax me very unfairly with being a bad correspondent.
I wrote you twice since we parted, and your last letter was only
your second. Besides, I have nothing to tell you. There is really
nothing to interest you.
Town is very pleasant just now, and we go a great deal to
picture-galleries and for walks and rides in the park. As
to the tall, curly-haired man, I suppose it was the one who
was with me at the last Pop. Someone has evidently been
telling tales.
That was Mr. Holmwood. He often comes to see us, and he and
Mamma get on very well together, they have so many things
to talk about in common.
We met some time ago a man that would just do for you, if you were
not already engaged to Jonathan. He is an excellent parti, being
handsome, well off, and of good birth. He is a doctor and really
clever. Just fancy! He is only nine-and twenty, and he has an
immense lunatic asylum all under his own care. Mr. Holmwood
introduced him to me, and he called here to see us, and often comes
now. I think he is one of the most resolute men I ever saw, and yet
the most calm. He seems absolutely imperturbable. I can fancy what
a wonderful power he must have over his patients. He has a curious
habit of looking one straight in the face, as if trying to read
one's thoughts. He tries this on very much with me, but I flatter
myself he has got a tough nut to crack. I know that from my glass.
Do you ever try to read your own face? I do, and I can
tell you it is not a bad study, and gives you more trouble
than you can well fancy if you have never tried it.
He says that I afford him a curious psychological study, and
I humbly think I do. I do not, as you know, take sufficient
interest in dress to be able to describe the new fashions.
Dress is a bore. That is slang again, but never mind. Arthur
says that every day.
There, it is all out, Mina, we have told all our secrets to
each other since we were children. We have slept together
and eaten together, and laughed and cried together, and
now, though I have spoken, I would like to speak more. Oh,
Mina, couldn't you guess? I love him. I am blushing as I
write, for although I think he loves me, he has not told me
so in words. But, oh, Mina, I love him. I love him! There,
that does me good.
I wish I were with you, dear, sitting by the fire undressing, as we
used to sit, and I would try to tell you what I feel. I do not know
how I am writing this even to you. I am afraid to stop, or I should
tear up the letter, and I don't want to stop, for I do so want to
tell you all. Let me hear from you at once, and tell me all that you
think about it. Mina, pray for my happiness.
P.S.--I need not tell you this is a secret.
Goodnight again. L.
24 May
My dearest Mina,
Thanks, and thanks, and thanks again for your sweet letter. It
was so nice to be able to tell you and to have your sympathy.
My dear, it never rains but it pours. How true the old proverbs
are. Here am I, who shall be twenty in September, and yet I never
had a proposal till today, not a real proposal, and today I had
three. Just fancy! Three proposals in one day! Isn't it awful! I
feel sorry, really and truly sorry, for two of the poor fellows.
Oh, Mina, I am so happy that I don't know what to do with myself.
And three proposals! But, for goodness' sake, don't tell any of the
girls, or they would be getting all sorts of extravagant ideas, and
imagining themselves injured and slighted if in their very first day
at home they did not get six at least. Some girls are so vain! You
and I, Mina dear, who are engaged and are going to settle down soon
soberly into old married women, can despise vanity. Well, I must
tell you about the three, but you must keep it a secret, dear, from
every one except, of course, Jonathan. You will tell him, because I
would, if I were in your place, certainly tell Arthur. A woman
ought to tell her husband everything. Don't you think so, dear? And
I must be fair. Men like women, certainly their wives, to be quite
as fair as they are. And women, I am afraid, are not always quite
as fair as they should be.
Well, my dear, number One came just before lunch. I told you of
him, Dr. John Seward, the lunatic asylum man, with the strong jaw
and the good forehead. He was very cool outwardly, but was nervous
all the same. He had evidently been schooling himself as to all
sorts of little things, and remembered them, but he almost managed
to sit down on his silk hat, which men don't generally do when they
are cool, and then when he wanted to appear at ease he kept playing
with a lancet in a way that made me nearly scream. He spoke to me,
Mina, very straightforwardly. He told me how dear I was to him,
though he had known me so little, and what his life would be with me
to help and cheer him. He was going to tell me how unhappy he would
be if I did not care for him, but when he saw me cry he said he was
a brute and would not add to my present trouble. Then he broke off
and asked if I could love him in time, and when I shook my head his
hands trembled, and then with some hesitation he asked me if I cared
already for any one else. He put it very nicely, saying that he did
not want to wring my confidence from me, but only to know, because
if a woman's heart was free a man might have hope. And then, Mina,
I felt a sort of duty to tell him that there was some one. I only
told him that much, and then he stood up, and he looked very strong
and very grave as he took both my hands in his and said he hoped I
would be happy, and that If I ever wanted a friend I must count him
one of my best.
Oh, Mina dear, I can't help crying, and you must excuse this letter
being all blotted. Being proposed to is all very nice and all that
sort of thing, but it isn't at all a happy thing when you have to
see a poor fellow, whom you know loves you honestly, going away and
looking all broken hearted, and to know that, no matter what he may
say at the moment, you are passing out of his life. My dear, I must
stop here at present, I feel so miserable, though I am so happy.
Arthur has just gone, and I feel in better spirits than when I
left off, so I can go on telling you about the day.
Well, my dear, number Two came after lunch. He is such a nice
fellow, an American from Texas, and he looks so young and so fresh
that it seems almost impossible that he has been to so many places
and has such adventures. I sympathize with poor Desdemona when she
had such a stream poured in her ear, even by a black man. I suppose
that we women are such cowards that we think a man will save us from
fears, and we marry him. I know now what I would do if I were a man
and wanted to make a girl love me. No, I don't, for there was Mr.
Morris telling us his stories, and Arthur never told any, and
My dear, I am somewhat previous. Mr. Quincy P. Morris found me
alone. It seems that a man always does find a girl alone. No, he
doesn't, for Arthur tried twice to make a chance, and I helping him
all I could, I am not ashamed to say it now. I must tell you
beforehand that Mr. Morris doesn't always speak slang, that is to
say, he never does so to strangers or before them, for he is really
well educated and has exquisite manners, but he found out that it
amused me to hear him talk American slang, and whenever I was
present, and there was no one to be shocked, he said such funny
things. I am afraid, my dear, he has to invent it all, for it fits
exactly into whatever else he has to say. But this is a way slang
has. I do not know myself if I shall ever speak slang. I do not
know if Arthur likes it, as I have never heard him use any as yet.
Well, Mr. Morris sat down beside me and looked as happy and jolly as
he could, but I could see all the same that he was very nervous. He
took my hand in his, and said ever so sweetly…
"Miss Lucy, I know I ain't good enough to regulate the fixin's of
your little shoes, but I guess if you wait till you find a man that
is you will go join them seven young women with the lamps when you
quit. Won't you just hitch up alongside of me and let us go down
the long road together, driving in double harness?"
Well, he did look so good humoured and so jolly that it didn't seem
half so hard to refuse him as it did poor Dr. Seward. So I said, as
lightly as I could, that I did not know anything of hitching, and
that I wasn't broken to harness at all yet. Then he said that he
had spoken in a light manner, and he hoped that if he had made a
mistake in doing so on so grave, so momentous, and occasion for him,
I would forgive him. He really did look serious when he was saying
it, and I couldn't help feeling a sort of exultation that he was
number Two in one day. And then, my dear, before I could say a word
he began pouring out a perfect torrent of love-making, laying his
very heart and soul at my feet. He looked so earnest over it that I
shall never again think that a man must be playful always, and never
earnest, because he is merry at times. I suppose he saw something
in my face which checked him, for he suddenly stopped, and said with
a sort of manly fervour that I could have loved him for if I had
been free…
"Lucy, you are an honest hearted girl, I know. I should not be here
speaking to you as I am now if I did not believe you clean grit,
right through to the very depths of your soul. Tell me, like one
good fellow to another, is there any one else that you care for?
And if there is I'll never trouble you a hair's breadth again, but
will be, if you will let me, a very faithful friend."
My dear Mina, why are men so noble when we women are so little
worthy of them? Here was I almost making fun of this great hearted,
true gentleman. I burst into tears, I am afraid, my dear, you will
think this a very sloppy letter in more ways than one, and I really
felt very badly.
Why can't they let a girl marry three men, or as many as
want her, and save all this trouble? But this is heresy,
and I must not say it. I am glad to say that, though I was
crying, I was able to look into Mr. Morris' brave eyes, and
I told him out straight…
"Yes, there is some one I love, though he has not told me
yet that he even loves me." I was right to speak to him so
frankly, for quite a light came into his face, and he put
out both his hands and took mine, I think I put them into
his, and said in a hearty way…
"That's my brave girl. It's better worth being late for a chance of
winning you than being in time for any other girl in the world.
Don't cry, my dear. If it's for me, I'm a hard nut to crack, and I
take it standing up. If that other fellow doesn't know his
happiness, well, he'd better look for it soon, or he'll have to deal
with me. Little girl, your honesty and pluck have made me a friend,
and that's rarer than a lover, it's more selfish anyhow. My dear,
I'm going to have a pretty lonely walk between this and Kingdom
Come. Won't you give me one kiss? It'll be something to keep off
the darkness now and then. You can, you know, if you like, for that
other good fellow, or you could not love him, hasn't spoken yet."
That quite won me, Mina, for it was brave and sweet of him,
and noble too, to a rival, wasn't it? And he so sad, so I
leant over and kissed him.
He stood up with my two hands in his, and as he looked down into my
face, I am afraid I was blushing very much, he said, "Little girl, I
hold your hand, and you've kissed me, and if these things don't make
us friends nothing ever will. Thank you for your sweet honesty to
me, and goodbye."
He wrung my hand, and taking up his hat, went straight out of the
room without looking back, without a tear or a quiver or a pause,
and I am crying like a baby.
Oh, why must a man like that be made unhappy when there are lots of
girls about who would worship the very ground he trod on? I know I
would if I were free, only I don't want to be free. My dear, this
quite upset me, and I feel I cannot write of happiness just at once,
after telling you of it, and I don't wish to tell of the number
Three until it can be all happy. Ever your loving…
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.
DR. SEWARD'S DIARY (Kept in phonograph)
25 May.--Ebb tide in appetite today. Cannot eat, cannot rest, so
diary instead. Since my rebuff of yesterday I have a sort of empty
feeling. Nothing in the world seems of sufficient importance to be
worth the doing. As I knew that the only cure for this sort of thing
was work, I went amongst the patients. I picked out one who has
afforded me a study of much interest. He is so quaint that I am
determined to understand him as well as I can. Today I seemed to get
nearer than ever before to the heart of his mystery.
I questioned him more fully than I had ever done, with a view to
making myself master of the facts of his hallucination. In my manner
of doing it there was, I now see, something of cruelty. I seemed to
wish to keep him to the point of his madness, a thing which I avoid
with the patients as I would the mouth of hell.
(Mem., Under what circumstances would I not avoid the pit of hell?)
Omnia Romae venalia sunt. Hell has its price! If there be anything
behind this instinct it will be valuable to trace it afterwards
accurately, so I had better commence to do so, therefore…
R. M, Renfield, age 59. Sanguine temperament, great physical
strength, morbidly excitable, periods of gloom, ending in some fixed
idea which I cannot make out. I presume that the sanguine temperament
itself and the disturbing influence end in a mentally-accomplished
finish, a possibly dangerous man, probably dangerous if unselfish. In
selfish men caution is as secure an armour for their foes as for
themselves. What I think of on this point is, when self is the fixed
point the centripetal force is balanced with the centrifugal. When
duty, a cause, etc., is the fixed point, the latter force is
paramount, and only accident or a series of accidents can balance it.
25 May.
My dear Art,
We've told yarns by the campfire in the prairies, and dressed one
another's wounds after trying a landing at the Marquesas, and drunk
healths on the shore of Titicaca. There are more yarns to be told,
and other wounds to be healed, and another health to be drunk.
Won't you let this be at my campfire tomorrow night? I have no
hesitation in asking you, as I know a certain lady is engaged to a
certain dinner party, and that you are free. There will only be one
other, our old pal at the Korea, Jack Seward. He's coming, too, and
we both want to mingle our weeps over the wine cup, and to drink a
health with all our hearts to the happiest man in all the wide
world, who has won the noblest heart that God has made and best
worth winning. We promise you a hearty welcome, and a loving
greeting, and a health as true as your own right hand. We shall
both swear to leave you at home if you drink too deep to a certain
pair of eyes. Come!
Yours, as ever and always,
Quincey P. Morris
26 May
Count me in every time. I bear messages which will make both
your ears tingle.
24 July. Whitby.--Lucy met me at the station, looking sweeter and
lovelier than ever, and we drove up to the house at the Crescent in
which they have rooms. This is a lovely place. The little river, the
Esk, runs through a deep valley, which broadens out as it comes near
the harbour. A great viaduct runs across, with high piers, through
which the view seems somehow further away than it really is. The
valley is beautifully green, and it is so steep that when you are on
the high land on either side you look right across it, unless you are
near enough to see down. The houses of the old town--the side away
from us, are all red-roofed, and seem piled up one over the other
anyhow, like the pictures we see of Nuremberg. Right over the town is
the ruin of Whitby Abbey, which was sacked by the Danes, and which is
the scene of part of "Marmion," where the girl was built up in the
wall. It is a most noble ruin, of immense size, and full of beautiful
and romantic bits. There is a legend that a white lady is seen in one
of the windows. Between it and the town there is another church, the
parish one, round which is a big graveyard, all full of tombstones.
This is to my mind the nicest spot in Whitby, for it lies right over
the town, and has a full view of the harbour and all up the bay to
where the headland called Kettleness stretches out into the sea. It
descends so steeply over the harbour that part of the bank has fallen
away, and some of the graves have been destroyed.
In one place part of the stonework of the graves stretches out over
the sandy pathway far below. There are walks, with seats beside them,
through the churchyard, and people go and sit there all day long
looking at the beautiful view and enjoying the breeze.
I shall come and sit here often myself and work. Indeed, I am writing
now, with my book on my knee, and listening to the talk of three old
men who are sitting beside me. They seem to do nothing all day but
sit here and talk.
The harbour lies below me, with, on the far side, one long granite
wall stretching out into the sea, with a curve outwards at the end of
it, in the middle of which is a lighthouse. A heavy seawall runs
along outside of it. On the near side, the seawall makes an elbow
crooked inversely, and its end too has a lighthouse. Between the two
piers there is a narrow opening into the harbour, which then suddenly
It is nice at high water, but when the tide is out it shoals away to
nothing, and there is merely the stream of the Esk, running between
banks of sand, with rocks here and there. Outside the harbour on this
side there rises for about half a mile a great reef, the sharp of
which runs straight out from behind the south lighthouse. At the end
of it is a buoy with a bell, which swings in bad weather, and sends in
a mournful sound on the wind.
They have a legend here that when a ship is lost bells are heard out at
sea. I must ask the old man about this. He is coming this way…
He is a funny old man. He must be awfully old, for his face is
gnarled and twisted like the bark of a tree. He tells me that he is
nearly a hundred, and that he was a sailor in the Greenland fishing
fleet when Waterloo was fought. He is, I am afraid, a very sceptical
person, for when I asked him about the bells at sea and the White Lady
at the abbey he said very brusquely,
"I wouldn't fash masel' about them, miss. Them things be all wore
out. Mind, I don't say that they never was, but I do say that they
wasn't in my time. They be all very well for comers and trippers, an'
the like, but not for a nice young lady like you. Them feet-folks
from York and Leeds that be always eatin' cured herrin's and drinkin'
tea an' lookin' out to buy cheap jet would creed aught. I wonder
masel' who'd be bothered tellin' lies to them, even the newspapers,
which is full of fool-talk."
I thought he would be a good person to learn interesting things from,
so I asked him if he would mind telling me something about the whale
fishing in the old days. He was just settling himself to begin when
the clock struck six, whereupon he laboured to get up, and said,
"I must gang ageeanwards home now, miss. My grand-daughter doesn't
like to be kept waitin' when the tea is ready, for it takes me time to
crammle aboon the grees, for there be a many of 'em, and miss, I lack
belly-timber sairly by the clock."
He hobbled away, and I could see him hurrying, as well as he could,
down the steps. The steps are a great feature on the place. They
lead from the town to the church, there are hundreds of them, I do not
know how many, and they wind up in a delicate curve. The slope is so
gentle that a horse could easily walk up and down them.
I think they must originally have had something to do with the abbey.
I shall go home too. Lucy went out, visiting with her mother, and as
they were only duty calls, I did not go.
1 August.--I came up here an hour ago with Lucy, and we had a most
interesting talk with my old friend and the two others who always come
and join him. He is evidently the Sir Oracle of them, and I should
think must have been in his time a most dictatorial person.
He will not admit anything, and down faces everybody. If he can't
out-argue them he bullies them, and then takes their silence for
agreement with his views.
Lucy was looking sweetly pretty in her white lawn frock. She has got
a beautiful colour since she has been here.
I noticed that the old men did not lose any time in coming and sitting
near her when we sat down. She is so sweet with old people, I think
they all fell in love with her on the spot. Even my old man succumbed
and did not contradict her, but gave me double share instead. I got
him on the subject of the legends, and he went off at once into a sort
of sermon. I must try to remember it and put it down.
"It be all fool-talk, lock, stock, and barrel, that's what it be and
nowt else. These bans an' wafts an' boh-ghosts an' bar-guests an'
bogles an' all anent them is only fit to set bairns an' dizzy women
a'belderin'. They be nowt but air-blebs. They, an' all grims an' signs
an' warnin's, be all invented by parsons an' illsome berk-bodies an'
railway touters to skeer an' scunner hafflin's, an' to get folks to do
somethin' that they don't other incline to. It makes me ireful to
think o' them. Why, it's them that, not content with printin' lies on
paper an' preachin' them out of pulpits, does want to be cuttin' them
on the tombstones. Look here all around you in what airt ye will. All
them steans, holdin' up their heads as well as they can out of their
pride, is acant, simply tumblin' down with the weight o' the lies
wrote on them, 'Here lies the body' or 'Sacred to the memory' wrote on
all of them, an' yet in nigh half of them there bean't no bodies at
all, an' the memories of them bean't cared a pinch of snuff about,
much less sacred. Lies all of them, nothin' but lies of one kind or
another! My gog, but it'll be a quare scowderment at the Day of
Judgment when they come tumblin' up in their death-sarks, all jouped
together an' trying' to drag their tombsteans with them to prove how
good they was, some of them trimmlin' an' dithering, with their hands
that dozzened an' slippery from lyin' in the sea that they can't even
keep their gurp o' them."
I could see from the old fellow's self-satisfied air and the way in
which he looked round for the approval of his cronies that he was
"showing off," so I put in a word to keep him going.
"Oh, Mr. Swales, you can't be serious. Surely these tombstones are
not all wrong?"
"Yabblins! There may be a poorish few not wrong, savin' where they
make out the people too good, for there be folk that do think a
balm-bowl be like the sea, if only it be their own. The whole thing
be only lies. Now look you here. You come here a stranger, an' you
see this kirkgarth."
I nodded, for I thought it better to assent, though I did not quite
understand his dialect. I knew it had something to do with the
He went on, "And you consate that all these steans be aboon folk that
be haped here, snod an' snog?" I assented again. "Then that be just
where the lie comes in. Why, there be scores of these laybeds that be
toom as old Dun's 'baccabox on Friday night."
He nudged one of his companions, and they all laughed. "And, my gog!
How could they be otherwise? Look at that one, the aftest abaft the
bier-bank, read it!"
I went over and read, "Edward Spencelagh, master mariner, murdered by
pirates off the coast of Andres, April, 1854, age 30." When I came
back Mr. Swales went on,
"Who brought him home, I wonder, to hap him here? Murdered off the
coast of Andres! An' you consated his body lay under! Why, I could
name ye a dozen whose bones lie in the Greenland seas above," he
pointed northwards, "or where the currants may have drifted them.
There be the steans around ye. Ye can, with your young eyes, read the
small print of the lies from here. This Braithwaite Lowery, I knew
his father, lost in the Lively off Greenland in '20, or Andrew
Woodhouse, drowned in the same seas in 1777, or John Paxton, drowned
off Cape Farewell a year later, or old John Rawlings, whose
grandfather sailed with me, drowned in the Gulf of Finland in '50. Do
ye think that all these men will have to make a rush to Whitby when
the trumpet sounds? I have me antherums aboot it! I tell ye that
when they got here they'd be jommlin' and jostlin' one another that
way that it 'ud be like a fight up on the ice in the old days, when
we'd be at one another from daylight to dark, an' tryin' to tie up our
cuts by the aurora borealis." This was evidently local pleasantry, for
the old man cackled over it, and his cronies joined in with gusto.
"But," I said, "surely you are not quite correct, for you start on the
assumption that all the poor people, or their spirits, will have to
take their tombstones with them on the Day of Judgment. Do you think
that will be really necessary?"
"Well, what else be they tombstones for? Answer me that, miss!"
"To please their relatives, I suppose."
"To please their relatives, you suppose!" This he said with intense
scorn. "How will it pleasure their relatives to know that lies is
wrote over them, and that everybody in the place knows that they be
He pointed to a stone at our feet which had been laid down as a slab,
on which the seat was rested, close to the edge of the cliff. "Read
the lies on that thruff-stone," he said.
The letters were upside down to me from where I sat, but Lucy was more
opposite to them, so she leant over and read, "Sacred to the memory of
George Canon, who died, in the hope of a glorious resurrection, on
July 29, 1873, falling from the rocks at Kettleness. This tomb was
erected by his sorrowing mother to her dearly beloved son. 'He was the
only son of his mother, and she was a widow.' Really, Mr. Swales, I
don't see anything very funny in that!" She spoke her comment very
gravely and somewhat severely.
"Ye don't see aught funny! Ha-ha! But that's because ye don't gawm
the sorrowin' mother was a hell-cat that hated him because he was
acrewk'd, a regular lamiter he was, an' he hated her so that he
committed suicide in order that she mightn't get an insurance she put
on his life. He blew nigh the top of his head off with an old musket
that they had for scarin' crows with. 'Twarn't for crows then, for it
brought the clegs and the dowps to him. That's the way he fell off
the rocks. And, as to hopes of a glorious resurrection, I've often
heard him say masel' that he hoped he'd go to hell, for his mother was
so pious that she'd be sure to go to heaven, an' he didn't want to
addle where she was. Now isn't that stean at any rate," he hammered
it with his stick as he spoke, "a pack of lies? And won't it make
Gabriel keckle when Geordie comes pantin' ut the grees with the
tompstean balanced on his hump, and asks to be took as evidence!"
I did not know what to say, but Lucy turned the conversation as she
said, rising up, "Oh, why did you tell us of this? It is my favourite
seat, and I cannot leave it, and now I find I must go on sitting over
the grave of a suicide."
"That won't harm ye, my pretty, an' it may make poor Geordie gladsome
to have so trim a lass sittin' on his lap. That won't hurt ye. Why,
I've sat here off an' on for nigh twenty years past, an' it hasn't
done me no harm. Don't ye fash about them as lies under ye, or that
doesn' lie there either! It'll be time for ye to be getting scart
when ye see the tombsteans all run away with, and the place as bare as
a stubble-field. There's the clock, and I must gang. My service to
ye, ladies!" And off he hobbled.
Lucy and I sat awhile, and it was all so beautiful before us that we
took hands as we sat, and she told me all over again about Arthur and
their coming marriage. That made me just a little heart-sick, for I
haven't heard from Jonathan for a whole month.
The same day. I came up here alone, for I am very sad. There was no
letter for me. I hope there cannot be anything the matter with
Jonathan. The clock has just struck nine. I see the lights scattered
all over the town, sometimes in rows where the streets are, and
sometimes singly. They run right up the Esk and die away in the curve
of the valley. To my left the view is cut off by a black line of roof
of the old house next to the abbey. The sheep and lambs are bleating
in the fields away behind me, and there is a clatter of donkeys' hoofs
up the paved road below. The band on the pier is playing a harsh
waltz in good time, and further along the quay there is a Salvation
Army meeting in a back street. Neither of the bands hears the other,
but up here I hear and see them both. I wonder where Jonathan is and
if he is thinking of me! I wish he were here.
5 June.--The case of Renfield grows more interesting the more I get to
understand the man. He has certain qualities very largely developed,
selfishness, secrecy, and purpose.
I wish I could get at what is the object of the latter. He seems to
have some settled scheme of his own, but what it is I do not know.
His redeeming quality is a love of animals, though, indeed, he has
such curious turns in it that I sometimes imagine he is only
abnormally cruel. His pets are of odd sorts.
Just now his hobby is catching flies. He has at present such a
quantity that I have had myself to expostulate. To my astonishment,
he did not break out into a fury, as I expected, but took the matter
in simple seriousness. He thought for a moment, and then said, "May I
have three days? I shall clear them away." Of course, I said that
would do. I must watch him.
18 June.--He has turned his mind now to spiders, and has got several
very big fellows in a box. He keeps feeding them his flies, and the
number of the latter is becoming sensibly diminished, although he has
used half his food in attracting more flies from outside to his room.
1 July.--His spiders are now becoming as great a nuisance as his
flies, and today I told him that he must get rid of them.
He looked very sad at this, so I said that he must some of them, at
all events. He cheerfully acquiesced in this, and I gave him the same
time as before for reduction.
He disgusted me much while with him, for when a horrid blowfly,
bloated with some carrion food, buzzed into the room, he caught it,
held it exultantly for a few moments between his finger and thumb, and
before I knew what he was going to do, put it in his mouth and ate it.
I scolded him for it, but he argued quietly that it was very good and
very wholesome, that it was life, strong life, and gave life to him.
This gave me an idea, or the rudiment of one. I must watch how he
gets rid of his spiders.
He has evidently some deep problem in his mind, for he keeps a little
notebook in which he is always jotting down something. Whole pages of
it are filled with masses of figures, generally single numbers added
up in batches, and then the totals added in batches again, as though
he were focussing some account, as the auditors put it.
8 July.--There is a method in his madness, and the rudimentary idea in
my mind is growing. It will be a whole idea soon, and then, oh,
unconscious cerebration, you will have to give the wall to your
conscious brother.
I kept away from my friend for a few days, so that I might notice if
there were any change. Things remain as they were except that he has
parted with some of his pets and got a new one.
He has managed to get a sparrow, and has already partially tamed it.
His means of taming is simple, for already the spiders have
diminished. Those that do remain, however, are well fed, for he still
brings in the flies by tempting them with his food.
19 July--We are progressing. My friend has now a whole colony of
sparrows, and his flies and spiders are almost obliterated. When I
came in he ran to me and said he wanted to ask me a great favour, a
very, very great favour. And as he spoke, he fawned on me like a dog.
I asked him what it was, and he said, with a sort of rapture in his
voice and bearing, "A kitten, a nice, little, sleek playful kitten,
that I can play with, and teach, and feed, and feed, and feed!"
I was not unprepared for this request, for I had noticed how his pets
went on increasing in size and vivacity, but I did not care that his
pretty family of tame sparrows should be wiped out in the same manner
as the flies and spiders. So I said I would see about it, and asked
him if he would not rather have a cat than a kitten.
His eagerness betrayed him as he answered, "Oh, yes, I would like a
cat! I only asked for a kitten lest you should refuse me a cat. No
one would refuse me a kitten, would they?"
I shook my head, and said that at present I feared it would not be
possible, but that I would see about it. His face fell, and I could
see a warning of danger in it, for there was a sudden fierce, sidelong
look which meant killing. The man is an undeveloped homicidal
maniac. I shall test him with his present craving and see how it will
work out, then I shall know more.
10 pm.--I have visited him again and found him sitting in a corner
brooding. When I came in he threw himself on his knees before me and
implored me to let him have a cat, that his salvation depended upon
I was firm, however, and told him that he could not have it, whereupon
he went without a word, and sat down, gnawing his fingers, in the
corner where I had found him. I shall see him in the morning early.
20 July.--Visited Renfield very early, before attendant went his
rounds. Found him up and humming a tune. He was spreading out his
sugar, which he had saved, in the window, and was manifestly beginning
his fly catching again, and beginning it cheerfully and with a good
I looked around for his birds, and not seeing them, asked him where
they were. He replied, without turning round, that they had all flown
away. There were a few feathers about the room and on his pillow a
drop of blood. I said nothing, but went and told the keeper to report
to me if there were anything odd about him during the day.
11 am.--The attendant has just been to see me to say that Renfield has
been very sick and has disgorged a whole lot of feathers. "My belief
is, doctor," he said, "that he has eaten his birds, and that he just
took and ate them raw!"
11 pm.--I gave Renfield a strong opiate tonight, enough to make even
him sleep, and took away his pocketbook to look at it. The thought
that has been buzzing about my brain lately is complete, and the
theory proved.
My homicidal maniac is of a peculiar kind. I shall have to invent a
new classification for him, and call him a zoophagous (life-eating)
maniac. What he desires is to absorb as many lives as he can, and he
has laid himself out to achieve it in a cumulative way. He gave many
flies to one spider and many spiders to one bird, and then wanted a
cat to eat the many birds. What would have been his later steps?
It would almost be worth while to complete the experiment. It might
be done if there were only a sufficient cause. Men sneered at
vivisection, and yet look at its results today! Why not advance
science in its most difficult and vital aspect, the knowledge of the
Had I even the secret of one such mind, did I hold the key to the
fancy of even one lunatic, I might advance my own branch of science to
a pitch compared with which Burdon-Sanderson's physiology or Ferrier's
brain knowledge would be as nothing. If only there were a sufficient
cause! I must not think too much of this, or I may be tempted. A
good cause might turn the scale with me, for may not I too be of an
exceptional brain, congenitally?
How well the man reasoned. Lunatics always do within their own scope.
I wonder at how many lives he values a man, or if at only one. He has
closed the account most accurately, and today begun a new record. How
many of us begin a new record with each day of our lives?
To me it seems only yesterday that my whole life ended with my new
hope, and that truly I began a new record. So it shall be until the
Great Recorder sums me up and closes my ledger account with a balance
to profit or loss.
Oh, Lucy, Lucy, I cannot be angry with you, nor can I be angry with my
friend whose happiness is yours, but I must only wait on hopeless and
work. Work! Work!
If I could have as strong a cause as my poor mad friend there, a good,
unselfish cause to make me work, that would be indeed happiness.
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
Mrs. Westenra has got an idea that sleep-walkers always go out on
roofs of houses and along the edges of cliffs and then get suddenly
wakened and fall over with a despairing cry that echoes all over the
Poor dear, she is naturally anxious about Lucy, and she tells me that
her husband, Lucy's father, had the same habit, that he would get up
in the night and dress himself and go out, if he were not stopped.
Lucy is to be married in the autumn, and she is already planning out
her dresses and how her house is to be arranged. I sympathise with
her, for I do the same, only Jonathan and I will start in life in a
very simple way, and shall have to try to make both ends meet.
Mr. Holmwood, he is the Hon. Arthur Holmwood, only son of Lord
Godalming, is coming up here very shortly, as soon as he can leave
town, for his father is not very well, and I think dear Lucy is
counting the moments till he comes.
She wants to take him up in the seat on the churchyard cliff and show
him the beauty of Whitby. I daresay it is the waiting which disturbs
her. She will be all right when he arrives.
27 July.--No news from Jonathan. I am getting quite uneasy about him,
though why I should I do not know, but I do wish that he would write,
if it were only a single line.
Lucy walks more than ever, and each night I am awakened by her moving
about the room. Fortunately, the weather is so hot that she cannot
get cold. But still, the anxiety and the perpetually being awakened
is beginning to tell on me, and I am getting nervous and wakeful
myself. Thank God, Lucy's health keeps up. Mr. Holmwood has been
suddenly called to Ring to see his father, who has been taken
seriously ill. Lucy frets at the postponement of seeing him, but it
does not touch her looks. She is a trifle stouter, and her cheeks are
a lovely rose-pink. She has lost the anemic look which she had. I
pray it will all last.
3 August.--Another week gone by, and no news from Jonathan, not even
to Mr. Hawkins, from whom I have heard. Oh, I do hope he is not ill.
He surely would have written. I look at that last letter of his, but
somehow it does not satisfy me. It does not read like him, and yet it
is his writing. There is no mistake of that.
Lucy has not walked much in her sleep the last week, but there is an
odd concentration about her which I do not understand, even in her
sleep she seems to be watching me. She tries the door, and finding it
locked, goes about the room searching for the key.
6 August.--Another three days, and no news. This suspense is getting
dreadful. If I only knew where to write to or where to go to, I
should feel easier. But no one has heard a word of Jonathan since
that last letter. I must only pray to God for patience.
Lucy is more excitable than ever, but is otherwise well. Last night
was very threatening, and the fishermen say that we are in for a
storm. I must try to watch it and learn the weather signs.
Today is a gray day, and the sun as I write is hidden in thick clouds,
high over Kettleness. Everything is gray except the green grass,
which seems like emerald amongst it, gray earthy rock, gray clouds,
tinged with the sunburst at the far edge, hang over the gray sea, into
which the sandpoints stretch like gray figures. The sea is tumbling
in over the shallows and the sandy flats with a roar, muffled in the
sea-mists drifting inland. The horizon is lost in a gray mist. All
vastness, the clouds are piled up like giant rocks, and there is a
'brool' over the sea that sounds like some passage of doom. Dark
figures are on the beach here and there, sometimes half shrouded in
the mist, and seem 'men like trees walking'. The fishing boats are
racing for home, and rise and dip in the ground swell as they sweep
into the harbour, bending to the scuppers. Here comes old Mr. Swales.
He is making straight for me, and I can see, by the way he lifts his
hat, that he wants to talk.
I have been quite touched by the change in the poor old man. When he
sat down beside me, he said in a very gentle way, "I want to say
something to you, miss."
I could see he was not at ease, so I took his poor old wrinkled hand in
mine and asked him to speak fully.
So he said, leaving his hand in mine, "I'm afraid, my deary, that I
must have shocked you by all the wicked things I've been sayin' about
the dead, and such like, for weeks past, but I didn't mean them, and I
want ye to remember that when I'm gone. We aud folks that be daffled,
and with one foot abaft the krok-hooal, don't altogether like to think
of it, and we don't want to feel scart of it, and that's why I've took
to makin' light of it, so that I'd cheer up my own heart a bit. But,
Lord love ye, miss, I ain't afraid of dyin', not a bit, only I don't
want to die if I can help it. My time must be nigh at hand now, for I
be aud, and a hundred years is too much for any man to expect. And
I'm so nigh it that the Aud Man is already whettin' his scythe. Ye
see, I can't get out o' the habit of caffin' about it all at once.
The chafts will wag as they be used to. Some day soon the Angel of
Death will sound his trumpet for me. But don't ye dooal an' greet, my
deary!"--for he saw that I was crying--"if he should come this very
night I'd not refuse to answer his call. For life be, after all, only
a waitin' for somethin' else than what we're doin', and death be all
that we can rightly depend on. But I'm content, for it's comin' to
me, my deary, and comin' quick. It may be comin' while we be lookin'
and wonderin'. Maybe it's in that wind out over the sea that's
bringin' with it loss and wreck, and sore distress, and sad hearts.
Look! Look!" he cried suddenly. "There's something in that wind and
in the hoast beyont that sounds, and looks, and tastes, and smells
like death. It's in the air. I feel it comin'. Lord, make me answer
cheerful, when my call comes!" He held up his arms devoutly, and
raised his hat. His mouth moved as though he were praying. After a
few minutes' silence, he got up, shook hands with me, and blessed me,
and said goodbye, and hobbled off. It all touched me, and upset me
very much.
I was glad when the coastguard came along, with his spyglass under his
arm. He stopped to talk with me, as he always does, but all the time
kept looking at a strange ship.
"I can't make her out," he said. "She's a Russian, by the look of
her. But she's knocking about in the queerest way. She doesn't know
her mind a bit. She seems to see the storm coming, but can't decide
whether to run up north in the open, or to put in here. Look there
again! She is steered mighty strangely, for she doesn't mind the hand
on the wheel, changes about with every puff of wind. We'll hear more
of her before this time tomorrow."
From a correspondent.
One of the greatest and suddenest storms on record has just been
experienced here, with results both strange and unique. The weather
had been somewhat sultry, but not to any degree uncommon in the
month of August. Saturday evening was as fine as was ever known,
and the great body of holiday-makers laid out yesterday for visits
to Mulgrave Woods, Robin Hood's Bay, Rig Mill, Runswick, Staithes,
and the various trips in the neighborhood of Whitby. The steamers
Emma and Scarborough made trips up and down the coast, and there was
an unusual amount of 'tripping' both to and from Whitby. The day
was unusually fine till the afternoon, when some of the gossips who
frequent the East Cliff churchyard, and from the commanding eminence
watch the wide sweep of sea visible to the north and east, called
attention to a sudden show of 'mares tails' high in the sky to the
northwest. The wind was then blowing from the south-west in the
mild degree which in barometrical language is ranked 'No. 2, light
The coastguard on duty at once made report, and one old fisherman,
who for more than half a century has kept watch on weather signs
from the East Cliff, foretold in an emphatic manner the coming of a
sudden storm. The approach of sunset was so very beautiful, so
grand in its masses of splendidly coloured clouds, that there was
quite an assemblage on the walk along the cliff in the old
churchyard to enjoy the beauty. Before the sun dipped below the
black mass of Kettleness, standing boldly athwart the western sky,
its downward way was marked by myriad clouds of every sunset colour,
flame, purple, pink, green, violet, and all the tints of gold, with
here and there masses not large, but of seemingly absolute
blackness, in all sorts of shapes, as well outlined as colossal
silhouettes. The experience was not lost on the painters, and
doubtless some of the sketches of the 'Prelude to the Great Storm'
will grace the R. A and R. I. walls in May next.
More than one captain made up his mind then and there that his
'cobble' or his 'mule', as they term the different classes of boats,
would remain in the harbour till the storm had passed. The wind
fell away entirely during the evening, and at midnight there was a
dead calm, a sultry heat, and that prevailing intensity which, on
the approach of thunder, affects persons of a sensitive nature.
There were but few lights in sight at sea, for even the coasting
steamers, which usually hug the shore so closely, kept well to
seaward, and but few fishing boats were in sight. The only sail
noticeable was a foreign schooner with all sails set, which was
seemingly going westwards. The foolhardiness or ignorance of her
officers was a prolific theme for comment whilst she remained in
sight, and efforts were made to signal her to reduce sail in the
face of her danger. Before the night shut down she was seen with
sails idly flapping as she gently rolled on the undulating swell of
the sea.
"As idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean."
Shortly before ten o'clock the stillness of the air grew quite
oppressive, and the silence was so marked that the bleating of a
sheep inland or the barking of a dog in the town was distinctly
heard, and the band on the pier, with its lively French air, was
like a dischord in the great harmony of nature's silence. A little
after midnight came a strange sound from over the sea, and high
overhead the air began to carry a strange, faint, hollow booming.
Then without warning the tempest broke. With a rapidity which, at
the time, seemed incredible, and even afterwards is impossible to
realize, the whole aspect of nature at once became convulsed. The
waves rose in growing fury, each over-topping its fellow, till in a
very few minutes the lately glassy sea was like a roaring and
devouring monster. White-crested waves beat madly on the level
sands and rushed up the shelving cliffs. Others broke over the
piers, and with their spume swept the lanthorns of the lighthouses
which rise from the end of either pier of Whitby Harbour.
The wind roared like thunder, and blew with such force that it was
with difficulty that even strong men kept their feet, or clung with
grim clasp to the iron stanchions. It was found necessary to clear
the entire pier from the mass of onlookers, or else the fatalities
of the night would have increased manifold. To add to the
difficulties and dangers of the time, masses of sea-fog came
drifting inland. White, wet clouds, which swept by in ghostly
fashion, so dank and damp and cold that it needed but little effort
of imagination to think that the spirits of those lost at sea were
touching their living brethren with the clammy hands of death, and
many a one shuddered as the wreaths of sea-mist swept by.
At times the mist cleared, and the sea for some distance could be
seen in the glare of the lightning, which came thick and fast,
followed by such peals of thunder that the whole sky overhead seemed
trembling under the shock of the footsteps of the storm.
Some of the scenes thus revealed were of immeasurable grandeur and
of absorbing interest. The sea, running mountains high, threw
skywards with each wave mighty masses of white foam, which the
tempest seemed to snatch at and whirl away into space. Here and
there a fishing boat, with a rag of sail, running madly for shelter
before the blast, now and again the white wings of a storm-tossed
seabird. On the summit of the East Cliff the new searchlight was
ready for experiment, but had not yet been tried. The officers in
charge of it got it into working order, and in the pauses of
onrushing mist swept with it the surface of the sea. Once or twice
its service was most effective, as when a fishing boat, with gunwale
under water, rushed into the harbour, able, by the guidance of the
sheltering light, to avoid the danger of dashing against the piers.
As each boat achieved the safety of the port there was a shout of
joy from the mass of people on the shore, a shout which for a moment
seemed to cleave the gale and was then swept away in its rush.
Before long the searchlight discovered some distance away a schooner
with all sails set, apparently the same vessel which had been
noticed earlier in the evening. The wind had by this time backed to
the east, and there was a shudder amongst the watchers on the cliff
as they realized the terrible danger in which she now was.
Between her and the port lay the great flat reef on which so many
good ships have from time to time suffered, and, with the wind
blowing from its present quarter, it would be quite impossible that
she should fetch the entrance of the harbour.
It was now nearly the hour of high tide, but the waves were so great
that in their troughs the shallows of the shore were almost visible,
and the schooner, with all sails set, was rushing with such speed
that, in the words of one old salt, "she must fetch up somewhere, if
it was only in hell". Then came another rush of sea-fog, greater
than any hitherto, a mass of dank mist, which seemed to close on all
things like a gray pall, and left available to men only the organ of
hearing, for the roar of the tempest, and the crash of the thunder,
and the booming of the mighty billows came through the damp oblivion
even louder than before. The rays of the searchlight were kept fixed
on the harbour mouth across the East Pier, where the shock was
expected, and men waited breathless.
The wind suddenly shifted to the northeast, and the remnant of the
sea fog melted in the blast. And then, mirabile dictu, between the
piers, leaping from wave to wave as it rushed at headlong speed,
swept the strange schooner before the blast, with all sail set, and
gained the safety of the harbour. The searchlight followed her, and
a shudder ran through all who saw her, for lashed to the helm was a
corpse, with drooping head, which swung horribly to and fro at each
motion of the ship. No other form could be seen on the deck at all.
A great awe came on all as they realised that the ship, as if by a
miracle, had found the harbour, unsteered save by the hand of a dead
man! However, all took place more quickly than it takes to write
these words. The schooner paused not, but rushing across the
harbour, pitched herself on that accumulation of sand and gravel
washed by many tides and many storms into the southeast corner of
the pier jutting under the East Cliff, known locally as Tate Hill
There was of course a considerable concussion as the vessel drove up
on the sand heap. Every spar, rope, and stay was strained, and some
of the 'top-hammer' came crashing down. But, strangest of all, the
very instant the shore was touched, an immense dog sprang up on deck
from below, as if shot up by the concussion, and running forward,
jumped from the bow on the sand.
Making straight for the steep cliff, where the churchyard hangs over
the laneway to the East Pier so steeply that some of the flat
tombstones, thruffsteans or through-stones, as they call them in
Whitby vernacular, actually project over where the sustaining cliff
has fallen away, it disappeared in the darkness, which seemed
intensified just beyond the focus of the searchlight.
It so happened that there was no one at the moment on Tate Hill
Pier, as all those whose houses are in close proximity were either
in bed or were out on the heights above. Thus the coastguard on
duty on the eastern side of the harbour, who at once ran down to the
little pier, was the first to climb aboard. The men working the
searchlight, after scouring the entrance of the harbour without
seeing anything, then turned the light on the derelict and kept it
there. The coastguard ran aft, and when he came beside the wheel,
bent over to examine it, and recoiled at once as though under some
sudden emotion. This seemed to pique general curiosity, and quite a
number of people began to run.
It is a good way round from the West Cliff by the Draw-bridge to
Tate Hill Pier, but your correspondent is a fairly good runner, and
came well ahead of the crowd. When I arrived, however, I found
already assembled on the pier a crowd, whom the coastguard and
police refused to allow to come on board. By the courtesy of the
chief boatman, I was, as your correspondent, permitted to climb on
deck, and was one of a small group who saw the dead seaman whilst
actually lashed to the wheel.
It was no wonder that the coastguard was surprised, or even awed,
for not often can such a sight have been seen. The man was simply
fastened by his hands, tied one over the other, to a spoke of the
wheel. Between the inner hand and the wood was a crucifix, the set
of beads on which it was fastened being around both wrists and
wheel, and all kept fast by the binding cords. The poor fellow may
have been seated at one time, but the flapping and buffeting of the
sails had worked through the rudder of the wheel and had dragged him
to and fro, so that the cords with which he was tied had cut the
flesh to the bone.
Accurate note was made of the state of things, and a doctor, Surgeon
J. M. Caffyn, of 33, East Elliot Place, who came immediately after
me, declared, after making examination, that the man must have been
dead for quite two days.
In his pocket was a bottle, carefully corked, empty save for
a little roll of paper, which proved to be the addendum to
the log.
The coastguard said the man must have tied up his own hands,
fastening the knots with his teeth. The fact that a coastguard was
the first on board may save some complications later on, in the
Admiralty Court, for coastguards cannot claim the salvage which is
the right of the first civilian entering on a derelict. Already,
however, the legal tongues are wagging, and one young law student is
loudly asserting that the rights of the owner are already completely
sacrificed, his property being held in contravention of the statues
of mortmain, since the tiller, as emblemship, if not proof, of
delegated possession, is held in a dead hand.
It is needless to say that the dead steersman has been reverently
removed from the place where he held his honourable watch and ward
till death, a steadfastness as noble as that of the young
Casabianca, and placed in the mortuary to await inquest.
Already the sudden storm is passing, and its fierceness is
abating. Crowds are scattering backward, and the sky is
beginning to redden over the Yorkshire wolds.
I shall send, in time for your next issue, further details
of the derelict ship which found her way so miraculously
into harbour in the storm.
9 August.--The sequel to the strange arrival of the derelict in the
storm last night is almost more startling than the thing itself. It
turns out that the schooner is Russian from Varna, and is called the
Demeter. She is almost entirely in ballast of silver sand, with
only a small amount of cargo, a number of great wooden boxes filled
with mould.
This cargo was consigned to a Whitby solicitor, Mr. S.F. Billington,
of 7, The Crescent, who this morning went aboard and took formal
possession of the goods consigned to him.
The Russian consul, too, acting for the charter-party, took formal
possession of the ship, and paid all harbour dues, etc.
Nothing is talked about here today except the strange coincidence.
The officials of the Board of Trade have been most exacting in
seeing that every compliance has been made with existing
regulations. As the matter is to be a 'nine days wonder', they are
evidently determined that there shall be no cause of other
A good deal of interest was abroad concerning the dog which landed
when the ship struck, and more than a few of the members of the
S.P.C.A., which is very strong in Whitby, have tried to befriend the
animal. To the general disappointment, however, it was not to be
found. It seems to have disappeared entirely from the town. It may
be that it was frightened and made its way on to the moors, where it
is still hiding in terror.
There are some who look with dread on such a possibility, lest later
on it should in itself become a danger, for it is evidently a fierce
brute. Early this morning a large dog, a half-bred mastiff
belonging to a coal merchant close to Tate Hill Pier, was found dead
in the roadway opposite its master's yard. It had been fighting,
and manifestly had had a savage opponent, for its throat was torn
away, and its belly was slit open as if with a savage claw.
Later.--By the kindness of the Board of Trade inspector, I have been
permitted to look over the log book of the Demeter, which was in
order up to within three days, but contained nothing of special
interest except as to facts of missing men. The greatest interest,
however, is with regard to the paper found in the bottle, which was
today produced at the inquest. And a more strange narrative than
the two between them unfold it has not been my lot to come across.
As there is no motive for concealment, I am permitted to use them,
and accordingly send you a transcript, simply omitting technical
details of seamanship and supercargo. It almost seems as though the
captain had been seized with some kind of mania before he had got
well into blue water, and that this had developed persistently
throughout the voyage. Of course my statement must be taken cum
grano, since I am writing from the dictation of a clerk of the
Russian consul, who kindly translated for me, time being short.
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'.
8 August.--Lucy was very restless all night, and I too, could not
sleep. The storm was fearful, and as it boomed loudly among the
chimney pots, it made me shudder. When a sharp puff came it seemed to
be like a distant gun. Strangely enough, Lucy did not wake, but she
got up twice and dressed herself. Fortunately, each time I awoke in
time and managed to undress her without waking her, and got her back to
bed. It is a very strange thing, this sleep-walking, for as soon as
her will is thwarted in any physical way, her intention, if there be
any, disappears, and she yields herself almost exactly to the routine
of her life.
Early in the morning we both got up and went down to the harbour to see
if anything had happened in the night. There were very few people
about, and though the sun was bright, and the air clear and fresh, the
big, grim-looking waves, that seemed dark themselves because the foam
that topped them was like snow, forced themselves in through the mouth
of the harbour, like a bullying man going through a crowd. Somehow I
felt glad that Jonathan was not on the sea last night, but on land.
But, oh, is he on land or sea? Where is he, and how? I am getting
fearfully anxious about him. If I only knew what to do, and could do
10 August.--The funeral of the poor sea captain today was most
touching. Every boat in the harbour seemed to be there, and the coffin
was carried by captains all the way from Tate Hill Pier up to the
churchyard. Lucy came with me, and we went early to our old seat,
whilst the cortege of boats went up the river to the Viaduct and came
down again. We had a lovely view, and saw the procession nearly all
the way. The poor fellow was laid to rest near our seat so that we
stood on it, when the time came and saw everything.
Poor Lucy seemed much upset. She was restless and uneasy all the time,
and I cannot but think that her dreaming at night is telling on her.
She is quite odd in one thing. She will not admit to me that there is
any cause for restlessness, or if there be, she does not understand it
There is an additional cause in that poor Mr. Swales was found dead
this morning on our seat, his neck being broken. He had evidently, as
the doctor said, fallen back in the seat in some sort of fright, for
there was a look of fear and horror on his face that the men said made
them shudder. Poor dear old man!
Lucy is so sweet and sensitive that she feels influences more acutely
than other people do. Just now she was quite upset by a little thing
which I did not much heed, though I am myself very fond of animals.
One of the men who came up here often to look for the boats was
followed by his dog. The dog is always with him. They are both quiet
persons, and I never saw the man angry, nor heard the dog bark. During
the service the dog would not come to its master, who was on the seat
with us, but kept a few yards off, barking and howling. Its master
spoke to it gently, and then harshly, and then angrily. But it would
neither come nor cease to make a noise. It was in a fury, with its
eyes savage, and all its hair bristling out like a cat's tail when puss
is on the war path.
Finally the man too got angry, and jumped down and kicked the dog, and
then took it by the scruff of the neck and half dragged and half threw
it on the tombstone on which the seat is fixed. The moment it touched
the stone the poor thing began to tremble. It did not try to get away,
but crouched down, quivering and cowering, and was in such a pitiable
state of terror that I tried, though without effect, to comfort it.
Lucy was full of pity, too, but she did not attempt to touch the dog,
but looked at it in an agonised sort of way. I greatly fear that she
is of too super sensitive a nature to go through the world without
trouble. She will be dreaming of this tonight, I am sure. The whole
agglomeration of things, the ship steered into port by a dead man, his
attitude, tied to the wheel with a crucifix and beads, the touching
funeral, the dog, now furious and now in terror, will all afford
material for her dreams.
I think it will be best for her to go to bed tired out physically, so I
shall take her for a long walk by the cliffs to Robin Hood's Bay and
back. She ought not to have much inclination for sleep-walking then.
Same day, 11 o'clock P.M.--Oh, but I am tired! If it were not that I
had made my diary a duty I should not open it tonight. We had a lovely
walk. Lucy, after a while, was in gay spirits, owing, I think, to some
dear cows who came nosing towards us in a field close to the
lighthouse, and frightened the wits out of us. I believe we forgot
everything, except of course, personal fear, and it seemed to wipe the
slate clean and give us a fresh start. We had a capital 'severe tea'
at Robin Hood's Bay in a sweet little old-fashioned inn, with a bow
window right over the seaweed-covered rocks of the strand. I believe
we should have shocked the 'New Woman' with our appetites. Men are
more tolerant, bless them! Then we walked home with some, or rather
many, stoppages to rest, and with our hearts full of a constant dread
of wild bulls.
Lucy was really tired, and we intended to creep off to bed as soon as
we could. The young curate came in, however, and Mrs. Westenra asked
him to stay for supper. Lucy and I had both a fight for it with the
dusty miller. I know it was a hard fight on my part, and I am quite
heroic. I think that some day the bishops must get together and see
about breeding up a new class of curates, who don't take supper, no
matter how hard they may be pressed to, and who will know when girls
are tired.
Lucy is asleep and breathing softly. She has more colour in her cheeks
than usual, and looks, oh so sweet. If Mr. Holmwood fell in love with
her seeing her only in the drawing room, I wonder what he would say if
he saw her now. Some of the 'New Women' writers will some day start an
idea that men and women should be allowed to see each other asleep
before proposing or accepting. But I suppose the 'New Woman' won't
condescend in future to accept. She will do the proposing herself. And
a nice job she will make of it too! There's some consolation in that.
I am so happy tonight, because dear Lucy seems better. I really
believe she has turned the corner, and that we are over her troubles
with dreaming. I should be quite happy if I only knew if Jonathan…
God bless and keep him.
11 August.--Diary again. No sleep now, so I may as well write. I am
too agitated to sleep. We have had such an adventure, such an
agonizing experience. I fell asleep as soon as I had closed my diary.
. . . Suddenly I became broad awake, and sat up, with a horrible sense
of fear upon me, and of some feeling of emptiness around me. The room
was dark, so I could not see Lucy's bed. I stole across and felt for
her. The bed was empty. I lit a match and found that she was not in
the room. The door was shut, but not locked, as I had left it. I feared
to wake her mother, who has been more than usually ill lately, so threw
on some clothes and got ready to look for her. As I was leaving the
room it struck me that the clothes she wore might give me some clue to
her dreaming intention. Dressing-gown would mean house, dress outside.
Dressing-gown and dress were both in their places. "Thank God," I said
to myself, "she cannot be far, as she is only in her nightdress."
I ran downstairs and looked in the sitting room. Not there! Then I
looked in all the other rooms of the house, with an ever-growing fear
chilling my heart. Finally, I came to the hall door and found it open.
It was not wide open, but the catch of the lock had not caught. The
people of the house are careful to lock the door every night, so I
feared that Lucy must have gone out as she was. There was no time to
think of what might happen. A vague over-mastering fear obscured all
I took a big, heavy shawl and ran out. The clock was striking one as I
was in the Crescent, and there was not a soul in sight. I ran along
the North Terrace, but could see no sign of the white figure which I
expected. At the edge of the West Cliff above the pier I looked across
the harbour to the East Cliff, in the hope or fear, I don't know which,
of seeing Lucy in our favourite seat.
There was a bright full moon, with heavy black, driving clouds, which
threw the whole scene into a fleeting diorama of light and shade as
they sailed across. For a moment or two I could see nothing, as the
shadow of a cloud obscured St. Mary's Church and all around it. Then
as the cloud passed I could see the ruins of the abbey coming into
view, and as the edge of a narrow band of light as sharp as a sword-cut
moved along, the church and churchyard became gradually visible.
Whatever my expectation was, it was not disappointed, for there, on our
favourite seat, the silver light of the moon struck a half-reclining
figure, snowy white. The coming of the cloud was too quick for me to
see much, for shadow shut down on light almost immediately, but it
seemed to me as though something dark stood behind the seat where the
white figure shone, and bent over it. What it was, whether man or
beast, I could not tell.
I did not wait to catch another glance, but flew down the steep steps
to the pier and along by the fish-market to the bridge, which was the
only way to reach the East Cliff. The town seemed as dead, for not a
soul did I see. I rejoiced that it was so, for I wanted no witness of
poor Lucy's condition. The time and distance seemed endless, and my
knees trembled and my breath came laboured as I toiled up the endless
steps to the abbey. I must have gone fast, and yet it seemed to me as
if my feet were weighted with lead, and as though every joint in my
body were rusty.
When I got almost to the top I could see the seat and the white figure,
for I was now close enough to distinguish it even through the spells of
shadow. There was undoubtedly something, long and black, bending over
the half-reclining white figure. I called in fright, "Lucy! Lucy!"
and something raised a head, and from where I was I could see a white
face and red, gleaming eyes.
Lucy did not answer, and I ran on to the entrance of the churchyard.
As I entered, the church was between me and the seat, and for a minute
or so I lost sight of her. When I came in view again the cloud had
passed, and the moonlight struck so brilliantly that I could see Lucy
half reclining with her head lying over the back of the seat. She was
quite alone, and there was not a sign of any living thing about.
When I bent over her I could see that she was still asleep. Her lips
were parted, and she was breathing, not softly as usual with her, but
in long, heavy gasps, as though striving to get her lungs full at every
breath. As I came close, she put up her hand in her sleep and pulled
the collar of her nightdress close around her, as though she felt the
cold. I flung the warm shawl over her, and drew the edges tight around
her neck, for I dreaded lest she should get some deadly chill from the
night air, unclad as she was. I feared to wake her all at once, so, in
order to have my hands free to help her, I fastened the shawl at her
throat with a big safety pin. But I must have been clumsy in my
anxiety and pinched or pricked her with it, for by-and-by, when her
breathing became quieter, she put her hand to her throat again and
moaned. When I had her carefully wrapped up I put my shoes on her
feet, and then began very gently to wake her.
At first she did not respond, but gradually she became more and more
uneasy in her sleep, moaning and sighing occasionally. At last, as
time was passing fast, and for many other reasons, I wished to get her
home at once, I shook her forcibly, till finally she opened her eyes
and awoke. She did not seem surprised to see me, as, of course, she
did not realize all at once where she was.
Lucy always wakes prettily, and even at such a time, when her body must
have been chilled with cold, and her mind somewhat appalled at waking
unclad in a churchyard at night, she did not lose her grace. She
trembled a little, and clung to me. When I told her to come at once
with me home, she rose without a word, with the obedience of a child.
As we passed along, the gravel hurt my feet, and Lucy noticed me wince.
She stopped and wanted to insist upon my taking my shoes, but I would
not. However, when we got to the pathway outside the churchyard, where
there was a puddle of water, remaining from the storm, I daubed my feet
with mud, using each foot in turn on the other, so that as we went
home, no one, in case we should meet any one, should notice my bare
Fortune favoured us, and we got home without meeting a soul. Once we
saw a man, who seemed not quite sober, passing along a street in front
of us. But we hid in a door till he had disappeared up an opening such
as there are here, steep little closes, or 'wynds', as they call them
in Scotland. My heart beat so loud all the time sometimes I thought I
should faint. I was filled with anxiety about Lucy, not only for her
health, lest she should suffer from the exposure, but for her
reputation in case the story should get wind. When we got in, and had
washed our feet, and had said a prayer of thankfulness together, I
tucked her into bed. Before falling asleep she asked, even implored,
me not to say a word to any one, even her mother, about her
sleep-walking adventure.
I hesitated at first, to promise, but on thinking of the state of her
mother's health, and how the knowledge of such a thing would fret her,
and think too, of how such a story might become distorted, nay,
infallibly would, in case it should leak out, I thought it wiser to do
so. I hope I did right. I have locked the door, and the key is tied
to my wrist, so perhaps I shall not be again disturbed. Lucy is
sleeping soundly. The reflex of the dawn is high and far over the
Same day, noon.--All goes well. Lucy slept till I woke her and seemed
not to have even changed her side. The adventure of the night does not
seem to have harmed her, on the contrary, it has benefited her, for she
looks better this morning than she has done for weeks. I was sorry to
notice that my clumsiness with the safety-pin hurt her. Indeed, it
might have been serious, for the skin of her throat was pierced. I
must have pinched up a piece of loose skin and have transfixed it, for
there are two little red points like pin-pricks, and on the band of her
nightdress was a drop of blood. When I apologised and was concerned
about it, she laughed and petted me, and said she did not even feel it.
Fortunately it cannot leave a scar, as it is so tiny.
Same day, night.--We passed a happy day. The air was clear, and the
sun bright, and there was a cool breeze. We took our lunch to Mulgrave
Woods, Mrs. Westenra driving by the road and Lucy and I walking by the
cliff-path and joining her at the gate. I felt a little sad myself,
for I could not but feel how absolutely happy it would have been had
Jonathan been with me. But there! I must only be patient. In the
evening we strolled in the Casino Terrace, and heard some good music by
Spohr and Mackenzie, and went to bed early. Lucy seems more restful
than she has been for some time, and fell asleep at once. I shall lock
the door and secure the key the same as before, though I do not expect
any trouble tonight.
12 August.--My expectations were wrong, for twice during the night I
was wakened by Lucy trying to get out. She seemed, even in her sleep,
to be a little impatient at finding the door shut, and went back to bed
under a sort of protest. I woke with the dawn, and heard the birds
chirping outside of the window. Lucy woke, too, and I was glad to see,
was even better than on the previous morning. All her old gaiety of
manner seemed to have come back, and she came and snuggled in beside me
and told me all about Arthur. I told her how anxious I was about
Jonathan, and then she tried to comfort me. Well, she succeeded
somewhat, for, though sympathy can't alter facts, it can make them more
13 August.--Another quiet day, and to bed with the key on my wrist as
before. Again I awoke in the night, and found Lucy sitting up in bed,
still asleep, pointing to the window. I got up quietly, and pulling
aside the blind, looked out. It was brilliant moonlight, and the soft
effect of the light over the sea and sky, merged together in one great
silent mystery, was beautiful beyond words. Between me and the
moonlight flitted a great bat, coming and going in great whirling
circles. Once or twice it came quite close, but was, I suppose,
frightened at seeing me, and flitted away across the harbour towards
the abbey. When I came back from the window Lucy had lain down again,
and was sleeping peacefully. She did not stir again all night.
14 August.--On the East Cliff, reading and writing all day. Lucy seems
to have become as much in love with the spot as I am, and it is hard to
get her away from it when it is time to come home for lunch or tea or
dinner. This afternoon she made a funny remark. We were coming home
for dinner, and had come to the top of the steps up from the West Pier
and stopped to look at the view, as we generally do. The setting sun,
low down in the sky, was just dropping behind Kettleness. The red
light was thrown over on the East Cliff and the old abbey, and seemed
to bathe everything in a beautiful rosy glow. We were silent for a
while, and suddenly Lucy murmured as if to herself…
"His red eyes again! They are just the same." It was such an odd
expression, coming apropos of nothing, that it quite startled me. I
slewed round a little, so as to see Lucy well without seeming to stare
at her, and saw that she was in a half dreamy state, with an odd look
on her face that I could not quite make out, so I said nothing, but
followed her eyes. She appeared to be looking over at our own seat,
whereon was a dark figure seated alone. I was quite a little startled
myself, for it seemed for an instant as if the stranger had great eyes
like burning flames, but a second look dispelled the illusion. The red
sunlight was shining on the windows of St. Mary's Church behind our
seat, and as the sun dipped there was just sufficient change in the
refraction and reflection to make it appear as if the light moved. I
called Lucy's attention to the peculiar effect, and she became herself
with a start, but she looked sad all the same. It may have been that
she was thinking of that terrible night up there. We never refer to
it, so I said nothing, and we went home to dinner. Lucy had a headache
and went early to bed. I saw her asleep, and went out for a little
stroll myself.
I walked along the cliffs to the westward, and was full of sweet
sadness, for I was thinking of Jonathan. When coming home, it was then
bright moonlight, so bright that, though the front of our part of the
Crescent was in shadow, everything could be well seen, I threw a glance
up at our window, and saw Lucy's head leaning out. I opened my
handkerchief and waved it. She did not notice or make any movement
whatever. Just then, the moonlight crept round an angle of the
building, and the light fell on the window. There distinctly was Lucy
with her head lying up against the side of the window sill and her eyes
shut. She was fast asleep, and by her, seated on the window sill, was
something that looked like a good-sized bird. I was afraid she might
get a chill, so I ran upstairs, but as I came into the room she was
moving back to her bed, fast asleep, and breathing heavily. She was
holding her hand to her throat, as though to protect if from the cold.
I did not wake her, but tucked her up warmly. I have taken care that
the door is locked and the window securely fastened.
She looks so sweet as she sleeps, but she is paler than is her wont,
and there is a drawn, haggard look under her eyes which I do not like.
I fear she is fretting about something. I wish I could find out what it
15 August.--Rose later than usual. Lucy was languid and tired, and
slept on after we had been called. We had a happy surprise at
breakfast. Arthur's father is better, and wants the marriage to come
off soon. Lucy is full of quiet joy, and her mother is glad and sorry
at once. Later on in the day she told me the cause. She is grieved to
lose Lucy as her very own, but she is rejoiced that she is soon to have
some one to protect her. Poor dear, sweet lady! She confided to me
that she has got her death warrant. She has not told Lucy, and made me
promise secrecy. Her doctor told her that within a few months, at
most, she must die, for her heart is weakening. At any time, even now,
a sudden shock would be almost sure to kill her. Ah, we were wise to
keep from her the affair of the dreadful night of Lucy's sleep-walking.
17 August.--No diary for two whole days. I have not had the heart to
write. Some sort of shadowy pall seems to be coming over our
happiness. No news from Jonathan, and Lucy seems to be growing weaker,
whilst her mother's hours are numbering to a close. I do not
understand Lucy's fading away as she is doing. She eats well and
sleeps well, and enjoys the fresh air, but all the time the roses in
her cheeks are fading, and she gets weaker and more languid day by day.
At night I hear her gasping as if for air.
I keep the key of our door always fastened to my wrist at night, but
she gets up and walks about the room, and sits at the open window.
Last night I found her leaning out when I woke up, and when I tried to
wake her I could not.
She was in a faint. When I managed to restore her, she was weak as
water, and cried silently between long, painful struggles for breath.
When I asked her how she came to be at the window she shook her head
and turned away.
I trust her feeling ill may not be from that unlucky prick of the
safety-pin. I looked at her throat just now as she lay asleep, and the
tiny wounds seem not to have healed. They are still open, and, if
anything, larger than before, and the edges of them are faintly white.
They are like little white dots with red centres. Unless they heal
within a day or two, I shall insist on the doctor seeing about them.
17 August
"Dear Sirs,--Herewith please receive invoice of goods sent by Great
Northern Railway. Same are to be delivered at Carfax, near
Purfleet, immediately on receipt at goods station King's Cross. The
house is at present empty, but enclosed please find keys, all of
which are labelled.
"You will please deposit the boxes, fifty in number, which form the
consignment, in the partially ruined building forming part of the
house and marked 'A' on rough diagrams enclosed. Your agent will
easily recognize the locality, as it is the ancient chapel of the
mansion. The goods leave by the train at 9:30 tonight, and will be
due at King's Cross at 4:30 tomorrow afternoon. As our client
wishes the delivery made as soon as possible, we shall be obliged by
your having teams ready at King's Cross at the time named and
forthwith conveying the goods to destination. In order to obviate
any delays possible through any routine requirements as to payment
in your departments, we enclose cheque herewith for ten pounds,
receipt of which please acknowledge. Should the charge be less than
this amount, you can return balance, if greater, we shall at once
send cheque for difference on hearing from you. You are to leave
the keys on coming away in the main hall of the house, where the
proprietor may get them on his entering the house by means of his
duplicate key.
"Pray do not take us as exceeding the bounds of business courtesy
in pressing you in all ways to use the utmost expedition.
"We are, dear Sirs,
Faithfully yours,
21 August.
"Dear Sirs,--We beg to acknowledge 10 pounds received and to return
cheque of 1 pound, 17s, 9d, amount of overplus, as shown in
receipted account herewith. Goods are delivered in exact accordance
with instructions, and keys left in parcel in main hall, as
"We are, dear Sirs,
Yours respectfully,
18 August.--I am happy today, and write sitting on the seat in the
churchyard. Lucy is ever so much better. Last night she slept well
all night, and did not disturb me once.
The roses seem coming back already to her cheeks, though she is still
sadly pale and wan-looking. If she were in any way anemic I could
understand it, but she is not. She is in gay spirits and full of life
and cheerfulness. All the morbid reticence seems to have passed from
her, and she has just reminded me, as if I needed any reminding, of
that night, and that it was here, on this very seat, I found her
As she told me she tapped playfully with the heel of her boot on the
stone slab and said,
"My poor little feet didn't make much noise then! I daresay poor old
Mr. Swales would have told me that it was because I didn't want to wake
up Geordie."
As she was in such a communicative humour, I asked her if she had
dreamed at all that night.
Before she answered, that sweet, puckered look came into her forehead,
which Arthur, I call him Arthur from her habit, says he loves, and
indeed, I don't wonder that he does. Then she went on in a
half-dreaming kind of way, as if trying to recall it to herself.
"I didn't quite dream, but it all seemed to be real. I only wanted to
be here in this spot. I don't know why, for I was afraid of something,
I don't know what. I remember, though I suppose I was asleep, passing
through the streets and over the bridge. A fish leaped as I went by,
and I leaned over to look at it, and I heard a lot of dogs howling. The
whole town seemed as if it must be full of dogs all howling at once, as
I went up the steps. Then I had a vague memory of something long and
dark with red eyes, just as we saw in the sunset, and something very
sweet and very bitter all around me at once. And then I seemed sinking
into deep green water, and there was a singing in my ears, as I have
heard there is to drowning men, and then everything seemed passing away
from me. My soul seemed to go out from my body and float about the
air. I seem to remember that once the West Lighthouse was right under
me, and then there was a sort of agonizing feeling, as if I were in an
earthquake, and I came back and found you shaking my body. I saw you
do it before I felt you."
Then she began to laugh. It seemed a little uncanny to me, and I
listened to her breathlessly. I did not quite like it, and thought it
better not to keep her mind on the subject, so we drifted on to another
subject, and Lucy was like her old self again. When we got home the
fresh breeze had braced her up, and her pale cheeks were really more
rosy. Her mother rejoiced when she saw her, and we all spent a very
happy evening together.
19 August.--Joy, joy, joy! Although not all joy. At last, news of
Jonathan. The dear fellow has been ill, that is why he did not write.
I am not afraid to think it or to say it, now that I know. Mr. Hawkins
sent me on the letter, and wrote himself, oh so kindly. I am to leave
in the morning and go over to Jonathan, and to help to nurse him if
necessary, and to bring him home. Mr. Hawkins says it would not be a
bad thing if we were to be married out there. I have cried over the
good Sister's letter till I can feel it wet against my bosom, where it
lies. It is of Jonathan, and must be near my heart, for he is in my
heart. My journey is all mapped out, and my luggage ready. I am only
taking one change of dress. Lucy will bring my trunk to London and
keep it till I send for it, for it may be that… I must write no
more. I must keep it to say to Jonathan, my husband. The letter that
he has seen and touched must comfort me till we meet.
12 August,
"Dear Madam.
"I write by desire of Mr. Jonathan Harker, who is himself not strong
enough to write, though progressing well, thanks to God and St.
Joseph and Ste. Mary. He has been under our care for nearly six
weeks, suffering from a violent brain fever. He wishes me to convey
his love, and to say that by this post I write for him to Mr. Peter
Hawkins, Exeter, to say, with his dutiful respects, that he is sorry
for his delay, and that all of his work is completed. He will
require some few weeks' rest in our sanatorium in the hills, but
will then return. He wishes me to say that he has not sufficient
money with him, and that he would like to pay for his staying here,
so that others who need shall not be wanting for help.
"Believe me,
"Yours, with sympathy
and all blessings.
Sister Agatha
"P.S.--My patient being asleep, I open this to let you know
something more. He has told me all about you, and that you are
shortly to be his wife. All blessings to you both! He has had some
fearful shock, so says our doctor, and in his delirium his ravings
have been dreadful, of wolves and poison and blood, of ghosts and
demons, and I fear to say of what. Be careful of him always that
there may be nothing to excite him of this kind for a long time to
come. The traces of such an illness as his do not lightly die away.
We should have written long ago, but we knew nothing of his friends,
and there was nothing on him, nothing that anyone could understand.
He came in the train from Klausenburg, and the guard was told by the
station master there that he rushed into the station shouting for a
ticket for home. Seeing from his violent demeanour that he was
English, they gave him a ticket for the furthest station on the way
thither that the train reached.
"Be assured that he is well cared for. He has won all hearts by his
sweetness and gentleness. He is truly getting on well, and I have
no doubt will in a few weeks be all himself. But be careful of him
for safety's sake. There are, I pray God and St. Joseph and Ste.
Mary, many, many, happy years for you both."
19 August.--Strange and sudden change in Renfield last night. About
eight o'clock he began to get excited and sniff about as a dog does
when setting. The attendant was struck by his manner, and knowing my
interest in him, encouraged him to talk. He is usually respectful to
the attendant and at times servile, but tonight, the man tells me, he
was quite haughty. Would not condescend to talk with him at all.
All he would say was, "I don't want to talk to you. You don't count
now. The master is at hand."
The attendant thinks it is some sudden form of religious mania which
has seized him. If so, we must look out for squalls, for a strong man
with homicidal and religious mania at once might be dangerous. The
combination is a dreadful one.
At nine o'clock I visited him myself. His attitude to me was the same
as that to the attendant. In his sublime self-feeling the difference
between myself and the attendant seemed to him as nothing. It looks
like religious mania, and he will soon think that he himself is God.
These infinitesimal distinctions between man and man are too paltry for
an Omnipotent Being. How these madmen give themselves away! The real
God taketh heed lest a sparrow fall. But the God created from human
vanity sees no difference between an eagle and a sparrow. Oh, if men
only knew!
For half an hour or more Renfield kept getting excited in greater and
greater degree. I did not pretend to be watching him, but I kept
strict observation all the same. All at once that shifty look came
into his eyes which we always see when a madman has seized an idea, and
with it the shifty movement of the head and back which asylum
attendants come to know so well. He became quite quiet, and went and
sat on the edge of his bed resignedly, and looked into space with
lack-luster eyes.
I thought I would find out if his apathy were real or only assumed, and
tried to lead him to talk of his pets, a theme which had never failed
to excite his attention.
At first he made no reply, but at length said testily, "Bother them
all! I don't care a pin about them."
"What?" I said. "You don't mean to tell me you don't care about
spiders?" (Spiders at present are his hobby and the notebook is filling
up with columns of small figures.)
To this he answered enigmatically, "The Bride maidens rejoice the eyes
that wait the coming of the bride. But when the bride draweth nigh,
then the maidens shine not to the eyes that are filled."
He would not explain himself, but remained obstinately seated on his
bed all the time I remained with him.
I am weary tonight and low in spirits. I cannot but think of Lucy, and
how different things might have been. If I don't sleep at once,
chloral, the modern Morpheus! I must be careful not to let it grow
into a habit. No, I shall take none tonight! I have thought of Lucy,
and I shall not dishonour her by mixing the two. If need be, tonight
shall be sleepless.
Later.--Glad I made the resolution, gladder that I kept to it. I had
lain tossing about, and had heard the clock strike only twice, when the
night watchman came to me, sent up from the ward, to say that Renfield
had escaped. I threw on my clothes and ran down at once. My patient
is too dangerous a person to be roaming about. Those ideas of his
might work out dangerously with strangers.
The attendant was waiting for me. He said he had seen him not ten
minutes before, seemingly asleep in his bed, when he had looked through
the observation trap in the door. His attention was called by the
sound of the window being wrenched out. He ran back and saw his feet
disappear through the window, and had at once sent up for me. He was
only in his night gear, and cannot be far off.
The attendant thought it would be more useful to watch where he should
go than to follow him, as he might lose sight of him whilst getting out
of the building by the door. He is a bulky man, and couldn't get
through the window.
I am thin, so, with his aid, I got out, but feet foremost, and as we
were only a few feet above ground landed unhurt.
The attendant told me the patient had gone to the left, and had taken a
straight line, so I ran as quickly as I could. As I got through the
belt of trees I saw a white figure scale the high wall which separates
our grounds from those of the deserted house.
I ran back at once, told the watchman to get three or four men
immediately and follow me into the grounds of Carfax, in case our
friend might be dangerous. I got a ladder myself, and crossing the
wall, dropped down on the other side. I could see Renfield's figure
just disappearing behind the angle of the house, so I ran after him. On
the far side of the house I found him pressed close against the old
iron-bound oak door of the chapel.
He was talking, apparently to some one, but I was afraid to go near
enough to hear what he was saying, lest I might frighten him, and he
should run off.
Chasing an errant swarm of bees is nothing to following a naked
lunatic, when the fit of escaping is upon him! After a few minutes,
however, I could see that he did not take note of anything around him,
and so ventured to draw nearer to him, the more so as my men had now
crossed the wall and were closing him in. I heard him say…
"I am here to do your bidding, Master. I am your slave, and you will
reward me, for I shall be faithful. I have worshipped you long and afar
off. Now that you are near, I await your commands, and you will not
pass me by, will you, dear Master, in your distribution of good
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.
Buda-Pesth, 24 August.
"My dearest Lucy,
"I know you will be anxious to hear all that has happened
since we parted at the railway station at Whitby.
"Well, my dear, I got to Hull all right, and caught the boat to
Hamburg, and then the train on here. I feel that I can hardly
recall anything of the journey, except that I knew I was coming to
Jonathan, and that as I should have to do some nursing, I had better
get all the sleep I could. I found my dear one, oh, so thin and
pale and weak-looking. All the resolution has gone out of his dear
eyes, and that quiet dignity which I told you was in his face has
vanished. He is only a wreck of himself, and he does not remember
anything that has happened to him for a long time past. At least,
he wants me to believe so, and I shall never ask.
"He has had some terrible shock, and I fear it might tax his poor
brain if he were to try to recall it. Sister Agatha, who is a good
creature and a born nurse, tells me that he wanted her to tell me
what they were, but she would only cross herself, and say she would
never tell. That the ravings of the sick were the secrets of God,
and that if a nurse through her vocation should hear them, she
should respect her trust.
"She is a sweet, good soul, and the next day, when she saw I was
troubled, she opened up the subject my poor dear raved about, added,
'I can tell you this much, my dear. That it was not about anything
which he has done wrong himself, and you, as his wife to be, have no
cause to be concerned. He has not forgotten you or what he owes to
you. His fear was of great and terrible things, which no mortal can
treat of.'
"I do believe the dear soul thought I might be jealous lest my poor
dear should have fallen in love with any other girl. The idea of my
being jealous about Jonathan! And yet, my dear, let me whisper, I
felt a thrill of joy through me when I knew that no other woman was
a cause for trouble. I am now sitting by his bedside, where I can
see his face while he sleeps. He is waking!
"When he woke he asked me for his coat, as he wanted to get
something from the pocket. I asked Sister Agatha, and she brought
all his things. I saw amongst them was his notebook, and was
going to ask him to let me look at it, for I knew that I might find
some clue to his trouble, but I suppose he must have seen my wish in
my eyes, for he sent me over to the window, saying he wanted to be
quite alone for a moment.
"Then he called me back, and he said to me very solemnly,
'Wilhelmina', I knew then that he was in deadly earnest, for he has
never called me by that name since he asked me to marry him, 'You
know, dear, my ideas of the trust between husband and wife. There
should be no secret, no concealment. I have had a great shock, and
when I try to think of what it is I feel my head spin round, and I
do not know if it was real of the dreaming of a madman. You know I
had brain fever, and that is to be mad. The secret is here, and I
do not want to know it. I want to take up my life here, with our
marriage.' For, my dear, we had decided to be married as soon as
the formalities are complete. 'Are you willing, Wilhelmina, to
share my ignorance? Here is the book. Take it and keep it, read it
if you will, but never let me know unless, indeed, some solemn duty
should come upon me to go back to the bitter hours, asleep or awake,
sane or mad, recorded here.' He fell back exhausted, and I put the
book under his pillow, and kissed him. I have asked Sister Agatha
to beg the Superior to let our wedding be this afternoon, and am
waiting her reply…"
"She has come and told me that the Chaplain of the English mission
church has been sent for. We are to be married in an hour, or as
soon after as Jonathan awakes."
"Lucy, the time has come and gone. I feel very solemn, but very,
very happy. Jonathan woke a little after the hour, and all was
ready, and he sat up in bed, propped up with pillows. He answered