Bram   Stoker





Copyright, 1897, in the United States of America, according

to Act of Congress, by Bram Stoker

[All rights reserved.]










Jonathan Harker’s Journal1
Jonathan Harker’s Journal14
Jonathan Harker’s Journal26
Jonathan Harker’s Journal38
Letters—Lucy and Mina51
Mina Murray’s Journal59
Cutting from “The Dailygraph,” 8 August71
Mina Murray’s Journal84
Mina Murray’s Journal98
Mina Murray’s Journal111
Lucy Westenra’s Diary124
Dr. Seward’s Diary136
Dr. Seward’s Diary152
Mina Harker’s Journal167
Dr. Seward’s Diary181
Dr. Seward’s Diary194
Dr. Seward’s Diary204
Dr. Seward’s Diary216
Jonathan Harker’s Journal231
Jonathan Harker’s Journal243
Dr. Seward’s Diary256
Jonathan Harker’s Journal269
Dr. Seward’s Diary281
Dr. Seward’s Phonograph Diary, spoken by Van Helsing   294
Dr. Seward’s Diary308
Dr. Seward’s Diary322
Mina Harker’s Journal338





(Kept in shorthand.)

3 May. Bistritz.—Left Munich at 8:35 P. M., on 1st May, arriving at
Vienna early next morning; should have arrived at 6:46, but train was an
hour late. Buda-Pesth seems a wonderful place, from the glimpse which I
got of it from the train and the little I could walk through the
streets. I feared to go very far from the station, as we had arrived
late and would start as near the correct time as possible. The
impression I had was that we were leaving the West and entering the
East; the most western of splendid bridges over the Danube, which is
here of noble width and depth, took us among the traditions of Turkish

We left in pretty good time, and came after nightfall to Klausenburgh.
Here I stopped for the night at the Hotel Royale. I had for dinner, or
rather supper, a chicken done up some way with red pepper, which was
very good but thirsty. (Mem., get recipe for Mina.) I asked the
waiter, and he said it was called “paprika hendl,” and that, as it was a
national dish, I should be able to get it anywhere along the
Carpathians. I found my smattering of German very useful here; indeed, I
don’t know how I should be able to get on without it.

Having had some time at my disposal when in London, I had visited the
British Museum, and made search among the books and maps in the library
regarding Transylvania; it had struck me that some foreknowledge of the
country could hardly fail to have some importance in dealing with a
nobleman of that country. I find that the district he named is in the
extreme east of the country, just on the borders of three states,
Transylvania, Moldavia and Bukovina, in the midst of the Carpathian
mountains; one of the wildest and least known portions of Europe. I was
not able to light on any map or work giving the exact locality of the
Castle Dracula, as there are no maps of this country as yet to compare
with our own Ordnance Survey maps; but I found that Bistritz, the post
town named by Count Dracula, is a fairly well-known place. I shall enter
here some of my notes, as they may refresh my memory when I talk over my
travels with Mina.

In the population of Transylvania there are four distinct nationalities:
Saxons in the South, and mixed with them the Wallachs, who are the
descendants of the Dacians; Magyars in the West, and Szekelys in the
East and North. I am going among the latter, who claim to be descended
from Attila and the Huns. This may be so, for when the Magyars conquered
the country in the eleventh century they found the Huns settled in it. I
read that every known superstition in the world is gathered into the
horseshoe of the Carpathians, as if it were the centre of some sort of
imaginative whirlpool; if so my stay may be very interesting. (Mem., I
must ask the Count all about them.)

I did not sleep well, though my bed was comfortable enough, for I had
all sorts of queer dreams. There was a dog howling all night under my
window, which may have had something to do with it; or it may have been
the paprika, for I had to drink up all the water in my carafe, and was
still thirsty. Towards morning I slept and was wakened by the continuous
knocking at my door, so I guess I must have been sleeping soundly then.
I had for breakfast more paprika, and a sort of porridge of maize flour
which they said was “mamaliga,” and egg-plant stuffed with forcemeat, a
very excellent dish, which they call “impletata.” (Mem., get recipe
for this also.) I had to hurry breakfast, for the train started a little
before eight, or rather it ought to have done so, for after rushing to
the station at 7:30 I had to sit in the carriage for more than an hour
before we began to move. It seems to me that the further east you go the
more unpunctual are the trains. What ought they to be in China?

All day long we seemed to dawdle through a country which was full of
beauty of every kind. Sometimes we saw little towns or castles on the
top of steep hills such as we see in old missals; sometimes we ran by
rivers and streams which seemed from the wide stony margin on each side
of them to be subject to great floods. It takes a lot of water, and
running strong, to sweep the outside edge of a river clear. At every
station there were groups of people, sometimes crowds, and in all sorts
of attire. Some of them were just like the peasants at home or those I
saw coming through France and Germany, with short jackets and round hats
and home-made trousers; but others were very picturesque. The women
looked pretty, except when you got near them, but they were very clumsy
about the waist. They had all full white sleeves of some kind or other,
and most of them had big belts with a lot of strips of something
fluttering from them like the dresses in a ballet, but of course there
were petticoats under them. The strangest figures we saw were the
Slovaks, who were more barbarian than the rest, with their big cow-boy
hats, great baggy dirty-white trousers, white linen shirts, and enormous
heavy leather belts, nearly a foot wide, all studded over with brass
nails. They wore high boots, with their trousers tucked into them, and
had long black hair and heavy black moustaches. They are very
picturesque, but do not look prepossessing. On the stage they would be
set down at once as some old Oriental band of brigands. They are,
however, I am told, very harmless and rather wanting in natural

It was on the dark side of twilight when we got to Bistritz, which is a
very interesting old place. Being practically on the frontier—for the
Borgo Pass leads from it into Bukovina—it has had a very stormy
existence, and it certainly shows marks of it. Fifty years ago a series
of great fires took place, which made terrible havoc on five separate
occasions. At the very beginning of the seventeenth century it underwent
a siege of three weeks and lost 13,000 people, the casualties of war
proper being assisted by famine and disease.

Count Dracula had directed me to go to the Golden Krone Hotel, which I
found, to my great delight, to be thoroughly old-fashioned, for of
course I wanted to see all I could of the ways of the country. I was
evidently expected, for when I got near the door I faced a
cheery-looking elderly woman in the usual peasant dress—white
undergarment with long double apron, front, and back, of coloured stuff
fitting almost too tight for modesty. When I came close she bowed and
said, “The Herr Englishman?” “Yes,” I said, “Jonathan Harker.” She
smiled, and gave some message to an elderly man in white shirt-sleeves,
who had followed her to the door. He went, but immediately returned with
a letter:—

“My Friend.—Welcome to the Carpathians. I am anxiously expecting
you. Sleep well to-night. At three to-morrow 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,


4 May.—I found that my landlord had got a letter from the Count,
directing him to secure the best place on the coach for me; but on
making inquiries as to details he seemed somewhat reticent, and
pretended that he could not understand my German. This could not be
true, because up to then he had understood it perfectly; at least, he
answered my questions exactly as if he did. He and his wife, the old
lady who had received me, looked at each other in a frightened sort of
way. He mumbled out that the money had been sent in a letter, and that
was all he knew. When I asked him if he knew Count Dracula, and could
tell me anything of his castle, both he and his wife crossed themselves,
and, saying that they knew nothing at all, simply refused to speak
further. It was so near the time of starting that I had no time to ask
any one else, for it was all very mysterious and not by any means

Just before I was leaving, the old lady came up to my room and said in a
very hysterical way:

“Must you go? Oh! young Herr, must you go?” She was in such an excited
state that she seemed to have lost her grip of what German she knew, and
mixed it all up with some other language which I did not know at all. I
was just able to follow her by asking many questions. When I told her
that I must go at once, and that I was engaged on important business,
she asked again:

“Do you know what day it is?” I answered that it was the fourth of May.
She shook her head as she said again:

“Oh, yes! I know that! I know that, but do you know what day it is?” On
my saying that I did not understand, she went on:

“It is the eve of St. George’s Day. Do you not know that to-night, when
the clock strikes midnight, all the evil things in the world will have
full sway? Do you know where you are going, and what you are going to?”
She was in such evident distress that I tried to comfort her, but
without effect. Finally she went down on her knees and implored me not
to go; at least to wait a day or two before starting. It was all very
ridiculous but I did not feel comfortable. However, there was business
to be done, and I could allow nothing to interfere with it. I therefore
tried to raise her up, and said, as gravely as I could, that I thanked
her, but my duty was imperative, and that I must go. She then rose and
dried her eyes, and taking a crucifix from her neck offered it to me. I
did not know what to do, for, as an English Churchman, I have been
taught to regard such things as in some measure idolatrous, and yet it
seemed so ungracious to refuse an old lady meaning so well and in such a
state of mind. She saw, I suppose, the doubt in my face, for she put the
rosary round my neck, and said, “For your mother’s sake,” and went out
of the room. I am writing up this part of the diary whilst I am waiting
for the coach, which is, of course, late; and the crucifix is still
round my neck. Whether it is the old lady’s fear, or the many ghostly
traditions of this place, or the crucifix itself, I do not know, but I
am not feeling nearly as easy in my mind as usual. If this book should
ever reach Mina before I do, let it bring my good-bye. Here comes the


5 May. The Castle.—The grey of the morning has passed, and the sun is
high over the distant horizon, which seems jagged, whether with trees or
hills I know not, for it is so far off that big things and little are
mixed. I am not sleepy, and, as I am not to be called till I awake,
naturally I write till sleep comes. There are many odd things to put
down, and, lest who reads them may fancy that I dined too well before I
left Bistritz, let me put down my dinner exactly. I dined on what they
called “robber steak”—bits of bacon, onion, and beef, seasoned with red
pepper, and strung on sticks and roasted over the fire, in the simple
style of the London cat’s meat! The wine was Golden Mediasch, which
produces a queer sting on the tongue, which is, however, not
disagreeable. I had only a couple of glasses of this, and nothing else.

When I got on the coach the driver had not taken his seat, and I saw him
talking with the landlady. They were evidently talking of me, for every
now and then they looked at me, and some of the people who were sitting
on the bench outside the door—which they call by a name meaning
“word-bearer”—came and listened, and then looked at me, most of them
pityingly. I could hear a lot of words often repeated, queer words, for
there were many nationalities in the crowd; so I quietly got my polyglot
dictionary from my bag and looked them out. I must say they were not
cheering to me, for amongst them were “Ordog”—Satan, “pokol”—hell,
“stregoica”—witch, “vrolok” and “vlkoslak”—both of which mean the same
thing, one being Slovak and the other Servian for something that is
either were-wolf or vampire. (Mem., I must ask the Count about these

When we started, the crowd round the inn door, which had by this time
swelled to a considerable size, all made the sign of the cross and
pointed two fingers towards me. With some difficulty I got a
fellow-passenger to tell me what they meant; he would not answer at
first, but on learning that I was English, he explained that it was a
charm or guard against the evil eye. This was not very pleasant for me,
just starting for an unknown place to meet an unknown man; but every one
seemed so kind-hearted, and so sorrowful, and so sympathetic that I
could not but be touched. I shall never forget the last glimpse which I
had of the inn-yard and its crowd of picturesque figures, all crossing
themselves, as they stood round the wide archway, with its background of
rich foliage of oleander and orange trees in green tubs clustered in the
centre of the yard. Then our driver, whose wide linen drawers covered
the whole front of the box-seat—“gotza” they call them—cracked his big
whip over his four small horses, which ran abreast, and we set off on
our journey.

I soon lost sight and recollection of ghostly fears in the beauty of the
scene as we drove along, although had I known the language, or rather
languages, which my fellow-passengers were speaking, I might not have
been able to throw them off so easily. Before us lay a green sloping
land full of forests and woods, with here and there steep hills, crowned
with clumps of trees or with farmhouses, the blank gable end to the
road. There was everywhere a bewildering mass of fruit blossom—apple,
plum, pear, cherry; and as we drove by I could see the green grass under
the trees spangled with the fallen petals. In and out amongst these
green hills of what they call here the “Mittel Land” ran the road,
losing itself as it swept round the grassy curve, or was shut out by the
straggling ends of pine woods, which here and there ran down the
hillsides like tongues of flame. The road was rugged, but still we
seemed to fly over it with a feverish haste. I could not understand then
what the haste meant, but the driver was evidently bent on losing no
time in reaching Borgo Prund. I was told that this road is in summertime
excellent, but that it had not yet been put in order after the winter
snows. In this respect it is different from the general run of roads in
the Carpathians, for it is an old tradition that they are not to be kept
in too good order. Of old the Hospadars would not repair them, lest the
Turk should think that they were preparing to bring in foreign troops,
and so hasten the war which was always really at loading point.

Beyond the green swelling hills of the Mittel Land rose mighty slopes
of forest up to the lofty steeps of the Carpathians themselves. Right
and left of us they towered, with the afternoon sun falling full upon
them and bringing out all the glorious colours of this beautiful range,
deep blue and purple in the shadows of the peaks, green and brown where
grass and rock mingled, and an endless perspective of jagged rock and
pointed crags, till these were themselves lost in the distance, where
the snowy peaks rose grandly. Here and there seemed mighty rifts in the
mountains, through which, as the sun began to sink, we saw now and again
the white gleam of falling water. One of my companions touched my arm as
we swept round the base of a hill and opened up the lofty, snow-covered
peak of a mountain, which seemed, as we wound on our serpentine way, to
be right before us:—

“Look! Isten szek!”—“God’s seat!”—and he crossed himself reverently.

As we wound on our endless way, and the sun sank lower and lower behind
us, the shadows of the evening began to creep round us. This was
emphasised by the fact that the snowy mountain-top still held the
sunset, and seemed to glow out with a delicate cool pink. Here and there
we passed Cszeks and Slovaks, all in picturesque attire, but I noticed
that goitre was painfully prevalent. By the roadside were many crosses,
and as we swept by, my companions all crossed themselves. Here and there
was a peasant man or woman kneeling before a shrine, who did not even
turn round as we approached, but seemed in the self-surrender of
devotion to have neither eyes nor ears for the outer world. There were
many things new to me: for instance, hay-ricks in the trees, and here
and there very beautiful masses of weeping birch, their white stems
shining like silver through the delicate green of the leaves. Now and
again we passed a leiter-wagon—the ordinary peasant’s cart—with its
long, snake-like vertebra, calculated to suit the inequalities of the
road. On this were sure to be seated quite a group of home-coming
peasants, the Cszeks with their white, and the Slovaks with their
coloured, sheepskins, the latter carrying lance-fashion their long
staves, with axe at end. As the evening fell it began to get very cold,
and the growing twilight seemed to merge into one dark mistiness the
gloom of the trees, oak, beech, and pine, though in the valleys which
ran deep between the spurs of the hills, as we ascended through the
Pass, the dark firs stood out here and there against the background of
late-lying snow. Sometimes, as the road was cut through the pine woods
that seemed in the darkness to be closing down upon us, great masses of
greyness, which here and there bestrewed the trees, produced a
peculiarly weird and solemn effect, which carried on the thoughts and
grim fancies engendered earlier in the evening, when the falling sunset
threw into strange relief the ghost-like clouds which amongst the
Carpathians seem to wind ceaselessly through the valleys. Sometimes the
hills were so steep that, despite our driver’s haste, the horses could
only go slowly. I wished to get down and walk up them, as we do at home,
but the driver would not hear of it. “No, no,” he said; “you must not
walk here; the dogs are too fierce”; and then he added, with what he
evidently meant for grim pleasantry—for he looked round to catch the
approving smile of the rest—“and you may have enough of such matters
before you go to sleep.” The only stop he would make was a moment’s
pause to light his lamps.

When it grew dark there seemed to be some excitement amongst the
passengers, and they kept speaking to him, one after the other, as
though urging him to further speed. He lashed the horses unmercifully
with his long whip, and with wild cries of encouragement urged them on
to further exertions. Then through the darkness I could see a sort of
patch of grey light ahead of us, as though there were a cleft in the
hills. The excitement of the passengers grew greater; the crazy coach
rocked on its great leather springs, and swayed like a boat tossed on a
stormy sea. I had to hold on. The road grew more level, and we appeared
to fly along. Then the mountains seemed to come nearer to us on each
side and to frown down upon us; we were entering on the Borgo Pass. One
by one several of the passengers offered me gifts, which they pressed
upon me with an earnestness which would take no denial; these were
certainly of an odd and varied kind, but each was given in simple good
faith, with a kindly word, and a blessing, and that strange mixture of
fear-meaning movements which I had seen outside the hotel at
Bistritz—the sign of the cross and the guard against the evil eye.
Then, as we flew along, the driver leaned forward, and on each side the
passengers, craning over the edge of the coach, peered eagerly into the
darkness. It was evident that something very exciting was either
happening or expected, but though I asked each passenger, no one would
give me the slightest explanation. This state of excitement kept on for
some little time; and at last we saw before us the Pass opening out on
the eastern side. There were dark, rolling clouds overhead, and in the
air the heavy, oppressive sense of thunder. It seemed as though the
mountain range had separated two atmospheres, and that now we had got
into the thunderous one. I was now myself looking out for the conveyance
which was to take me to the Count. Each moment I expected to see the
glare of lamps through the blackness; but all was dark. The only light
was the flickering rays of our own lamps, in which the steam from our
hard-driven horses rose in a white cloud. We could see now the sandy
road lying white before us, but there was on it no sign of a vehicle.
The passengers drew back with a sigh of gladness, which seemed to mock
my own disappointment. I was already thinking what I had best do, when
the driver, looking at his watch, said to the others something which I
could hardly hear, it was spoken so quietly and in so low a tone; I
thought it was “An hour less than the time.” Then turning to me, he said
in German worse than my own:—

“There is no carriage here. The Herr is not expected after all. He will
now come on to Bukovina, and return to-morrow or the next day; better
the next day.” Whilst he was speaking the horses began to neigh and
snort and plunge wildly, so that the driver had to hold them up. Then,
amongst a chorus of screams from the peasants and a universal crossing
of themselves, a calèche, with four horses, drove up behind us, overtook
us, and drew up beside the coach. I could see from the flash of our
lamps, as the rays fell on them, that the horses were coal-black and
splendid animals. They were driven by a tall man, with a long brown
beard and a great black hat, which seemed to hide his face from us. I
could only see the gleam of a pair of very bright eyes, which seemed red
in the lamplight, as he turned to us. He said to the driver:—

“You are early to-night, my friend.” The man stammered in reply:—

“The English Herr was in a hurry,” to which the stranger replied:—

“That is why, I suppose, you wished him to go on to Bukovina. You cannot
deceive me, my friend; I know too much, and my horses are swift.” As he
spoke he smiled, and the lamplight fell on a hard-looking mouth, with
very red lips and sharp-looking teeth, as white as ivory. One of my
companions whispered to another the line from Burger’s “Lenore”:—

“Denn die Todten reiten schnell”—

(“For the dead travel fast.”)

The strange driver evidently heard the words, for he looked up with a
gleaming smile. The passenger turned his face away, at the same time
putting out his two fingers and crossing himself. “Give me the Herr’s
luggage,” said the driver; and with exceeding alacrity my bags were
handed out and put in the calèche. Then I descended from the side of the
coach, as the calèche was close alongside, the driver helping me with a
hand which caught my arm in a grip of steel; his strength must have been
prodigious. Without a word he shook his reins, the horses turned, and we
swept into the darkness of the Pass. As I looked back I saw the steam
from the horses of the coach by the light of the lamps, and projected
against it the figures of my late companions crossing themselves. Then
the driver cracked his whip and called to his horses, and off they swept
on their way to Bukovina. As they sank into the darkness I felt a
strange chill, and a lonely feeling came over me; but a cloak was thrown
over my shoulders, and a rug across my knees, and the driver said in
excellent German:—

“The night is chill, mein Herr, and my master the Count bade me take all
care of you. There is a flask of slivovitz (the plum brandy of the
country) underneath the seat, if you should require it.” I did not take
any, but it was a comfort to know it was there all the same. I felt a
little strangely, and not a little frightened. I think had there been
any alternative I should have taken it, instead of prosecuting that
unknown night journey. The carriage went at a hard pace straight along,
then we made a complete turn and went along another straight road. It
seemed to me that we were simply going over and over the same ground
again; and so I took note of some salient point, and found that this was
so. I would have liked to have asked the driver what this all meant, but
I really feared to do so, for I thought that, placed as I was, any
protest would have had no effect in case there had been an intention to
delay. By-and-by, however, as I was curious to know how time was
passing, I struck a match, and by its flame looked at my watch; it was
within a few minutes of midnight. This gave me a sort of shock, for I
suppose the general superstition about midnight was increased by my
recent experiences. I waited with a sick feeling of suspense.

Then a dog began to howl somewhere in a farmhouse far down the road—a
long, agonised wailing, as if from fear. The sound was taken up by
another dog, and then another and another, till, borne on the wind which
now sighed softly through the Pass, a wild howling began, which seemed
to come from all over the country, as far as the imagination could grasp
it through the gloom of the night. At the first howl the horses began to
strain and rear, but the driver spoke to them soothingly, and they
quieted down, but shivered and sweated as though after a runaway from
sudden fright. Then, far off in the distance, from the mountains on each
side of us began a louder and a sharper howling—that of wolves—which
affected both the horses and myself in the same way—for I was minded to
jump from the calèche and run, whilst they reared again and plunged
madly, so that the driver had to use all his great strength to keep them
from bolting. In a few minutes, however, my own ears got accustomed to
the sound, and the horses so far became quiet that the driver was able
to descend and to stand before them. He petted and soothed them, and
whispered something in their ears, as I have heard of horse-tamers
doing, and with extraordinary effect, for under his caresses they became
quite manageable again, though they still trembled. The driver again
took his seat, and shaking his reins, started off at a great pace. This
time, after going to the far side of the Pass, he suddenly turned down a
narrow roadway which ran sharply to the right.

Soon we were hemmed in with trees, which in places arched right over the
roadway till we passed as through a tunnel; and again great frowning
rocks guarded us boldly on either side. Though we were in shelter, we
could hear the rising wind, for it moaned and whistled through the
rocks, and the branches of the trees crashed together as we swept along.
It grew colder and colder still, and fine, powdery snow began to fall,
so that soon we and all around us were covered with a white blanket. The
keen wind still carried the howling of the dogs, though this grew
fainter as we went on our way. The baying of the wolves sounded nearer
and nearer, as though they were closing round on us from every side. I
grew dreadfully afraid, and the horses shared my fear. The driver,
however, was not in the least disturbed; he kept turning his head to
left and right, but I could not see anything through the darkness.

Suddenly, away on our left, I saw a faint flickering blue flame. The
driver saw it at the same moment; he at once checked the horses, and,
jumping to the ground, disappeared into the darkness. I did not know
what to do, the less as the howling of the wolves grew closer; but while
I wondered the driver suddenly appeared again, and without a word took
his seat, and we resumed our journey. I think I must have fallen asleep
and kept dreaming of the incident, for it seemed to be repeated
endlessly, and now looking back, it is like a sort of awful nightmare.
Once the flame appeared so near the road, that even in the darkness
around us I could watch the driver’s motions. He went rapidly to where
the blue flame arose—it must have been very faint, for it did not seem
to illumine the place around it at all—and gathering a few stones,
formed them into some device. Once there appeared a strange optical
effect: when he stood between me and the flame he did not obstruct it,
for I could see its ghostly flicker all the same. This startled me, but
as the effect was only momentary, I took it that my eyes deceived me
straining through the darkness. Then for a time there were no blue
flames, and we sped onwards through the gloom, with the howling of the
wolves around us, as though they were following in a moving circle.

At last there came a time when the driver went further afield than he
had yet gone, and during his absence, the horses began to tremble worse
than ever and to snort and scream with fright. I could not see any cause
for it, for the howling of the wolves had ceased altogether; but just
then the moon, sailing through the black clouds, appeared behind the
jagged crest of a beetling, pine-clad rock, and by its light I saw
around us a ring of wolves, with white teeth and lolling red tongues,
with long, sinewy limbs and shaggy hair. They were a hundred times more
terrible in the grim silence which held them than even when they howled.
For myself, I felt a sort of paralysis of fear. It is only when a man
feels himself face to face with such horrors that he can understand
their true import.

All at once the wolves began to howl as though the moonlight had had
some peculiar effect on them. The horses jumped about and reared, and
looked helplessly round with eyes that rolled in a way painful to see;
but the living ring of terror encompassed them on every side; and they
had perforce to remain within it. I called to the coachman to come, for
it seemed to me that our only chance was to try to break out through the
ring and to aid his approach. I shouted and beat the side of the
calèche, hoping by the noise to scare the wolves from that side, so as
to give him a chance of reaching the trap. How he came there, I know
not, but I heard his voice raised in a tone of imperious command, and
looking towards the sound, saw him stand in the roadway. As he swept his
long arms, as though brushing aside some impalpable obstacle, the wolves
fell back and back further still. Just then a heavy cloud passed across
the face of the moon, so that we were again in darkness.

When I could see again the driver was climbing into the calèche, and the
wolves had disappeared. This was all so strange and uncanny that a
dreadful fear came upon me, and I was afraid to speak or move. The time
seemed interminable as we swept on our way, now in almost complete
darkness, for the rolling clouds obscured the moon. We kept on
ascending, with occasional periods of quick descent, but in the main
always ascending. Suddenly, I became conscious of the fact that the
driver was in the act of pulling up the horses in the courtyard of a
vast ruined castle, from whose tall black windows came no ray of light,
and whose broken battlements showed a jagged line against the moonlit



5 May.—I must have been asleep, for certainly if I had been fully
awake I must have noticed the approach of such a remarkable place. In
the gloom the courtyard looked of considerable size, and as several dark
ways led from it under great round arches, it perhaps seemed bigger than
it really is. I have not yet been able to see it by daylight.

When the calèche stopped, the driver jumped down and held out his hand
to assist me to alight. Again I could not but notice his prodigious
strength. His hand actually seemed like a steel vice that could have
crushed mine if he had chosen. Then he took out my traps, and placed
them on the ground beside me as I stood close to a great door, old and
studded with large iron nails, and set in a projecting doorway of
massive stone. I could see even in the dim light that the stone was
massively carved, but that the carving had been much worn by time and
weather. As I stood, the driver jumped again into his seat and shook the
reins; the horses started forward, and trap and all disappeared down one
of the dark openings.

I stood in silence where I was, for I did not know what to do. Of bell
or knocker there was no sign; through these frowning walls and dark
window openings it was not likely that my voice could penetrate. The
time I waited seemed endless, and I felt doubts and fears crowding upon
me. What sort of place had I come to, and among what kind of people?
What sort of grim adventure was it on which I had embarked? Was this a
customary incident in the life of a solicitor’s clerk sent out to
explain the purchase of a London estate to a foreigner? Solicitor’s
clerk! Mina would not like that. Solicitor—for just before leaving
London I got word that my examination was successful; and I am now a
full-blown solicitor! I began to rub my eyes and pinch myself to see if
I were awake. It all seemed like a horrible nightmare to me, and I
expected that I should suddenly awake, and find myself at home, with
the dawn struggling in through the windows, as I had now and again felt
in the morning after a day of overwork. But my flesh answered the
pinching test, and my eyes were not to be deceived. I was indeed awake
and among the Carpathians. All I could do now was to be patient, and to
wait the coming of the morning.

Just as I had come to this conclusion I heard a heavy step approaching
behind the great door, and saw through the chinks the gleam of a coming
light. Then there was the sound of rattling chains and the clanking of
massive bolts drawn back. A key was turned with the loud grating noise
of long disuse, and the great door swung back.

Within, stood a tall old man, clean shaven save for a long white
moustache, and clad in black from head to foot, without a single speck
of colour about him anywhere. He held in his hand an antique silver
lamp, in which the flame burned without chimney or globe of any kind,
throwing long quivering shadows as it flickered in the draught of the
open door. The old man motioned me in with his right hand with a courtly
gesture, saying in excellent English, but with a strange intonation:—

“Welcome to my house! Enter freely and of your own will!” He made no
motion of stepping to meet me, but stood like a statue, as though his
gesture of welcome had fixed him into stone. The instant, however, that
I had stepped over the threshold, he moved impulsively forward, and
holding out his hand grasped mine with a strength which made me wince,
an effect which was not lessened by the fact that it seemed as cold as
ice—more like the hand of a dead than a living man. Again he said:—

“Welcome to my house. Come freely. Go safely; and leave something of the
happiness you bring!” The strength of the handshake was so much akin to
that which I had noticed in the driver, whose face I had not seen, that
for a moment I doubted if it were not the same person to whom I was
speaking; so to make sure, I said interrogatively:—

“Count Dracula?” He bowed in a courtly way as he replied:—

“I am Dracula; and I bid you welcome, Mr. Harker, to my house. Come in;
the night air is chill, and you must need to eat and rest.” As he was
speaking, he put the lamp on a bracket on the wall, and stepping out,
took my luggage; he had carried it in before I could forestall him. I
protested but he insisted:—

“Nay, sir, you are my guest. It is late, and my people are not
available. Let me see to your comfort myself.” He insisted on carrying
my traps along the passage, and then up a great winding stair, and
along another great passage, on whose stone floor our steps rang
heavily. At the end of this he threw open a heavy door, and I rejoiced
to see within a well-lit room in which a table was spread for supper,
and on whose mighty hearth a great fire of logs, freshly replenished,
flamed and flared.

The Count halted, putting down my bags, closed the door, and crossing
the room, opened another door, which led into a small octagonal room lit
by a single lamp, and seemingly without a window of any sort. Passing
through this, he opened another door, and motioned me to enter. It was a
welcome sight; for here was a great bedroom well lighted and warmed with
another log fire,—also added to but lately, for the top logs were
fresh—which sent a hollow roar up the wide chimney. The Count himself
left my luggage inside and withdrew, saying, before he closed the

“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

“I must regret that an attack of gout, from which malady I am a constant
sufferer, forbids absolutely any travelling on my part for some time to
come; but I am happy to say I can send a sufficient substitute, one in
whom I have every possible confidence. He is a young man, full of energy
and talent in his own way, and of a very faithful disposition. He is
discreet and silent, and has grown into manhood in my service. He shall
be ready to attend on you when you will during his stay, and shall take
your instructions in all matters.”

The Count himself came forward and took off the cover of a dish, and I
fell to at once on an excellent roast chicken. This, with some cheese
and a salad and a bottle of old Tokay, of which I had two glasses, was
my supper. During the time I was eating it the Count asked me many
questions as to my journey, and I told him by degrees all I had

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

His face was a strong—a very strong—aquiline, with high bridge of the
thin nose and peculiarly arched nostrils; with lofty domed forehead, and
hair growing scantily round the temples but profusely elsewhere. His
eyebrows were very massive, almost meeting over the nose, and with bushy
hair that seemed to curl in its own profusion. The mouth, so far as I
could see it under the heavy moustache, was fixed and rather
cruel-looking, with peculiarly sharp white teeth; these protruded over
the lips, whose remarkable ruddiness showed astonishing vitality in a
man of his years. For the rest, his ears were pale, and at the tops
extremely pointed; the chin was broad and strong, and the cheeks firm
though thin. The general effect was one of extraordinary pallor.

Hitherto I had noticed the backs of his hands as they lay on his knees
in the firelight, and they had seemed rather white and fine; but seeing
them now close to me, I could not but notice that they were rather
coarse—broad, with squat fingers. Strange to say, there were hairs in
the centre of the palm. The nails were long and fine, and cut to a sharp
point. As the Count leaned over me and his hands touched me, I could not
repress a shudder. It may have been that his breath was rank, but a
horrible feeling of nausea came over me, which, do what I would, I could
not conceal. The Count, evidently noticing it, drew back; and with a
grim sort of smile, which showed more than he had yet done his
protuberant teeth, sat himself down again on his own side of the
fireplace. We were both silent for a while; and as I looked towards the
window I saw the first dim streak of the coming dawn. There seemed a
strange stillness over everything; but as I listened I heard as if from
down below in the valley the howling of many wolves. The Count’s eyes
gleamed, and he said:—

“Listen to them—the children of the night. What music they make!”
Seeing, I suppose, some expression in my face strange to him, he

“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 to-morrow you
shall sleep as late as you will. I have to be away till the afternoon;
so sleep well and dream well!” With a courteous bow, he opened for me
himself the door to the octagonal room, and I entered my bedroom....

I am all in a sea of wonders. I doubt; I fear; I think strange things,
which I dare not confess to my own soul. God keep me, if only for the
sake of those dear to me!


7 May.—It is again early morning, but I have rested and enjoyed the
last twenty-four hours. I slept till late in the day, and awoke of my
own accord. When I had dressed myself I went into the room where we had
supped, and found a cold breakfast laid out, with coffee kept hot by the
pot being placed on the hearth. There was a card on the table, on which
was written:—

“I have to be absent for a while. Do not wait for me.—D.” I set to and
enjoyed a hearty meal. When I had done, I looked for a bell, so that I
might let the servants know I had finished; but I could not find one.
There are certainly odd deficiencies in the house, considering the
extraordinary evidences of wealth which are round me. The table service
is of gold, and so beautifully wrought that it must be of immense value.
The curtains and upholstery of the chairs and sofas and the hangings of
my bed are of the costliest and most beautiful fabrics, and must have
been of fabulous value when they were made, for they are centuries old,
though in excellent order. I saw something like them in Hampton Court,
but there they were worn and frayed and moth-eaten. But still in none of
the rooms is there a mirror. There is not even a toilet glass on my
table, and I had to get the little shaving glass from my bag before I
could either shave or brush my hair. I have not yet seen a servant
anywhere, or heard a sound near the castle except the howling of wolves.
Some time after I had finished my meal—I do not know whether to call it
breakfast or dinner, for it was between five and six o’clock when I had
it—I looked about for something to read, for I did not like to go about
the castle until I had asked the Count’s permission. There was
absolutely nothing in the room, book, newspaper, or even writing
materials; so I opened another door in the room and found a sort of
library. The door opposite mine I tried, but found it locked.

In the library I found, to my great delight, a vast number of English
books, whole shelves full of them, and bound volumes of magazines and
newspapers. A table in the centre was littered with English magazines
and newspapers, though none of them were of very recent date. The books
were of the most varied kind—history, geography, politics, political
economy, botany, geology, law—all relating to England and English life
and customs and manners. There were even such books of reference as the
London Directory, the “Red” and “Blue” books, Whitaker’s Almanac, the
Army and Navy Lists, and—it somehow gladdened my heart to see it—the
Law List.

Whilst I was looking at the books, the door opened, and the Count
entered. He saluted me in a hearty way, and hoped that I had had a good
night’s rest. Then he went on:—

“I am glad you found your way in here, for I am sure there is much that
will interest you. These companions”—and he laid his hand on some of
the books—“have been good friends to me, and for some years past, ever
since I had the idea of going to London, have given me many, many hours
of pleasure. Through them I have come to know your great England; and to
know her is to love her. I long to go through the crowded streets of
your mighty London, to be in the midst of the whirl and rush of
humanity, to share its life, its change, its death, and all that makes
it what it is. But alas! as yet I only know your tongue through books.
To you, my friend, I look that I know it to speak.”

“But, Count,” I said, “you know and speak English thoroughly!” He bowed

“I thank you, my friend, for your all too-flattering estimate, but yet I
fear that I am but a little way on the road I would travel. True, I know
the grammar and the words, but yet I know not how to speak them.”

“Indeed,” I said, “you speak excellently.”

“Not so,” he answered. “Well, I know that, did I move and speak in your
London, none there are who would not know me for a stranger. That is not
enough for me. Here I am noble; I am boyar; the common people know me,
and I am master. But a stranger in a strange land, he is no one; men
know him not—and to know not is to care not for. I am content if I am
like the rest, so that no man stops if he see me, or pause in his
speaking if he hear my words, ‘Ha, ha! a stranger!’ I have been so long
master that I would be master still—or at least that none other should
be master of me. You come to me not alone as agent of my friend Peter
Hawkins, of Exeter, to tell me all about my new estate in London. You
shall, I trust, rest here with me awhile, so that by our talking I may
learn the English intonation; and I would that you tell me when I make
error, even of the smallest, in my speaking. I am sorry that I had to be
away so long to-day; 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 old days there were stirring times, when the
Austrian and the Hungarian came up in hordes, and the patriots went out
to meet them—men and women, the aged and the children too—and waited
their coming on the rocks above the passes, that they might sweep
destruction on them with their artificial avalanches. When the invader
was triumphant he found but little, for whatever there was had been
sheltered in the friendly soil.”

“But how,” said I, “can it have remained so long undiscovered, when
there is a sure index to it if men will but take the trouble to look?”
The Count smiled, and as his lips ran back over his gums, the long,
sharp, canine teeth showed out strangely; he answered:—

“Because your peasant is at heart a coward and a fool! Those flames only
appear on one night; and on that night no man of this land will, if he
can help it, stir without his doors. And, dear sir, even if he did he
would not know what to do. Why, even the peasant that you tell me of who
marked the place of the flame would not know where to look in daylight
even for his own work. Even you would not, I dare be sworn, be able to
find these places again?”

“There you are right,” I said. “I know no more than the dead where even
to look for them.” Then we drifted into other matters.

“Come,” he said at last, “tell me of London and of the house which you
have procured for me.” With an apology for my remissness, I went into my
own room to get the papers from my bag. Whilst I was placing them in
order I heard a rattling of china and silver in the next room, and as I
passed through, noticed that the table had been cleared and the lamp
lit, for it was by this time deep into the dark. The lamps were also lit
in the study or library, and I found the Count lying on the sofa,
reading, of all things in the world, an English Bradshaw’s Guide. When I
came in he cleared the books and papers from the table; and with him I
went into plans and deeds and figures of all sorts. He was interested in
everything, and asked me a myriad questions about the place and its
surroundings. He clearly had studied beforehand all he could get on the
subject of the neighbourhood, for he evidently at the end knew very much
more than I did. When I remarked this, he answered:—

“Well, but, my friend, is it not needful that I should? When I go there
I shall be all alone, and my friend Harker Jonathan—nay, pardon me, I
fall into my country’s habit of putting your patronymic first—my friend
Jonathan Harker will not be by my side to correct and aid me. He will be
in Exeter, miles away, probably working at papers of the law with my
other friend, Peter Hawkins. So!”

We went thoroughly into the business of the purchase of the estate at
Purfleet. When I had told him the facts and got his signature to the
necessary papers, and had written a letter with them ready to post to
Mr. Hawkins, he began to ask me how I had come across so suitable a
place. I read to him the notes which I had made at the time, and which I
inscribe here:—

“At Purfleet, on a by-road, I came across just such a place as seemed to
be required, and where was displayed a dilapidated notice that the place
was for sale. It is surrounded by a high wall, of ancient structure,
built of heavy stones, and has not been repaired for a large number of
years. The closed gates are of heavy old oak and iron, all eaten with

“The estate is called Carfax, no doubt a corruption of the old Quatre
, 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 mediæval times, for one part is of stone
immensely thick, with only a few windows high up and heavily barred with
iron. It looks like part of a keep, and is close to an old chapel or
church. I could not enter it, as I had not the key of the door leading
to it from the house, but I have taken with my kodak views of it from
various points. The house has been added to, but in a very straggling
way, and I can only guess at the amount of ground it covers, which must
be very great. There are but few houses close at hand, one being a very
large house only recently added to and formed into a private lunatic
asylum. It is not, however, visible from the grounds.”

When I had finished, he said:—

“I am glad that it is old and big. I myself am of an old family, and to
live in a new house would kill me. A house cannot be made habitable in a
day; and, after all, how few days go to make up a century. I rejoice
also that there is a chapel of old times. We Transylvanian nobles love
not to think that our bones may lie amongst the common dead. I seek not
gaiety nor mirth, not the bright voluptuousness of much sunshine and
sparkling waters which please the young and gay. I am no longer young;
and my heart, through weary years of mourning over the dead, is not
attuned to mirth. Moreover, the walls of my castle are broken; the
shadows are many, and the wind breathes cold through the broken
battlements and casements. I love the shade and the shadow, and would
be alone with my thoughts when I may.” Somehow his words and his look
did not seem to accord, or else it was that his cast of face made his
smile look malignant and saturnine.

Presently, with an excuse, he left me, asking me to put all my papers
together. He was some little time away, and I began to look at some of
the books around me. One was an atlas, which I found opened naturally at
England, as if that map had been much used. On looking at it I found in
certain places little rings marked, and on examining these I noticed
that one was near London on the east side, manifestly where his new
estate was situated; the other two were Exeter, and Whitby on the
Yorkshire coast.

It was the better part of an hour when the Count returned. “Aha!” he
said; “still at your books? Good! But you must not work always. Come; I
am informed that your supper is ready.” He took my arm, and we went into
the next room, where I found an excellent supper ready on the table. The
Count again excused himself, as he had dined out on his being away from
home. But he sat as on the previous night, and chatted whilst I ate.
After supper I smoked, as on the last evening, and the Count stayed with
me, chatting and asking questions on every conceivable subject, hour
after hour. I felt that it was getting very late indeed, but I did not
say anything, for I felt under obligation to meet my host’s wishes in
every way. I was not sleepy, as the long sleep yesterday had fortified
me; but I could not help experiencing that chill which comes over one at
the coming of the dawn, which is like, in its way, the turn of the tide.
They say that people who are near death die generally at the change to
the dawn or at the turn of the tide; any one who has when tired, and
tied as it were to his post, experienced this change in the atmosphere
can well believe it. All at once we heard the crow of a cock coming up
with preternatural shrillness through the clear morning air; Count
Dracula, jumping to his feet, said:—

“Why, there is the morning again! How remiss I am to let you stay up so
long. You must make your conversation regarding my dear new country of
England less interesting, so that I may not forget how time flies by
us,” and, with a courtly bow, he quickly left me.

I went into my own room and drew the curtains, but there was little to
notice; my window opened into the courtyard, all I could see was the
warm grey of quickening sky. So I pulled the curtains again, and have
written of this day.


8 May.—I began to fear as I wrote in this book that I was getting too
diffuse; but now I am glad that I went into detail from the first, for
there is something so strange about this place and all in it that I
cannot but feel uneasy. I wish I were safe out of it, or that I had
never come. It may be that this strange night-existence is telling on
me; but would that that were all! If there were any one to talk to I
could bear it, but there is no one. I have only the Count to speak with,
and he!—I fear I am myself the only living soul within the place. Let
me be prosaic so far as facts can be; it will help me to bear up, and
imagination must not run riot with me. If it does I am lost. Let me say
at once how I stand—or seem to.

I only slept a few hours when I went to bed, and feeling that I could
not sleep any more, got up. I had hung my shaving glass by the window,
and was just beginning to shave. Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder,
and heard the Count’s voice saying to me, “Good-morning.” I started, for
it amazed me that I had not seen him, since the reflection of the glass
covered the whole room behind me. In starting I had cut myself slightly,
but did not notice it at the moment. Having answered the Count’s
salutation, I turned to the glass again to see how I had been mistaken.
This time there could be no error, for the man was close to me, and I
could see him over my shoulder. But there was no reflection of him in
the mirror! The whole room behind me was displayed; but there was no
sign of a man in it, except myself. This was startling, and, coming on
the top of so many strange things, was beginning to increase that vague
feeling of uneasiness which I always have when the Count is near; but at
the instant I saw that the cut had bled a little, and the blood was
trickling over my chin. I laid down the razor, turning as I did so half
round to look for some sticking plaster. When the Count saw my face, his
eyes blazed with a sort of demoniac fury, and he suddenly made a grab at
my throat. I drew away, and his hand touched the string of beads which
held the crucifix. It made an instant change in him, for the fury passed
so quickly that I could hardly believe that it was ever there.

“Take care,” he said, “take care how you cut yourself. It is more
dangerous than you think in this country.” Then seizing the shaving
glass, he went on: “And this is the wretched thing that has done the
mischief. It is a foul bauble of man’s vanity. Away with it!” and
opening the heavy window with one wrench of his terrible hand, he flung
out the glass, which was shattered into a thousand pieces on the stones
of the courtyard far below. Then he withdrew without a word. It is very
annoying, for I do not see how I am to shave, unless in my watch-case or
the bottom of the shaving-pot, which is fortunately of metal.

When I went into the dining-room, breakfast was prepared; but I could
not find the Count anywhere. So I breakfasted alone. It is strange that
as yet I have not seen the Count eat or drink. He must be a very
peculiar man! After breakfast I did a little exploring in the castle. I
went out on the stairs, and found a room looking towards the South. The
view was magnificent, and from where I stood there was every opportunity
of seeing it. The castle is on the very edge of a terrible precipice. A
stone falling from the window would fall a thousand feet without
touching anything! As far as the eye can reach is a sea of green tree
tops, with occasionally a deep rift where there is a chasm. Here and
there are silver threads where the rivers wind in deep gorges through
the forests.

But I am not in heart to describe beauty, for when I had seen the view I
explored further; doors, doors, doors everywhere, and all locked and
bolted. In no place save from the windows in the castle walls is there
an available exit.

The castle is a veritable prison, and I am a prisoner!



WHEN I found that I was a prisoner a sort of wild feeling came over me.
I rushed up and down the stairs, trying every door and peering out of
every window I could find; but after a little the conviction of my
helplessness overpowered all other feelings. When I look back after a
few hours I think I must have been mad for the time, for I behaved much
as a rat does in a trap. When, however, the conviction had come to me
that I was helpless I sat down quietly—as quietly as I have ever done
anything in my life—and began to think over what was best to be done. I
am thinking still, and as yet have come to no definite conclusion. Of
one thing only am I certain; that it is no use making my ideas known to
the Count. He knows well that I am imprisoned; and as he has done it
himself, and has doubtless his own motives for it, he would only deceive
me if I trusted him fully with the facts. So far as I can see, my only
plan will be to keep my knowledge and my fears to myself, and my eyes
open. I am, I know, either being deceived, like a baby, by my own fears,
or else I am in desperate straits; and if the latter be so, I need, and
shall need, all my brains to get through.

I had hardly come to this conclusion when I heard the great door below
shut, and knew that the Count had returned. He did not come at once into
the library, so I went cautiously to my own room and found him making
the bed. This was odd, but only confirmed what I had all along
thought—that there were no servants in the house. When later I saw him
through the chink of the hinges of the door laying the table in the
dining-room, I was assured of it; for if he does himself all these
menial offices, surely it is proof that there is no one else to do them.
This gave me a fright, for if there is no one else in the castle, it
must have been the Count himself who was the driver of the coach that
brought me here. This is a terrible thought; for if so, what does it
mean that he could control the wolves, as he did, by only holding up his
hand in silence. How was it that all the people at Bistritz and on the
coach had some terrible fear for me? What meant the giving of the
crucifix, of the garlic, of the wild rose, of the mountain ash? Bless
that good, good woman who hung the crucifix round my neck! for it is a
comfort and a strength to me whenever I touch it. It is odd that a thing
which I have been taught to regard with disfavour and as idolatrous
should in a time of loneliness and trouble be of help. Is it that there
is something in the essence of the thing itself, or that it is a medium,
a tangible help, in conveying memories of sympathy and comfort? Some
time, if it may be, I must examine this matter and try to make up my
mind about it. In the meantime I must find out all I can about Count
Dracula, as it may help me to understand. To-night he may talk of
himself, if I turn the conversation that way. I must be very careful,
however, not to awake his suspicion.


Midnight.—I have had a long talk with the Count. I asked him a few
questions on Transylvania history, and he warmed up to the subject
wonderfully. In his speaking of things and people, and especially of
battles, he spoke as if he had been present at them all. This he
afterwards explained by saying that to a boyar the pride of his house
and name is his own pride, that their glory is his glory, that their
fate is his fate. Whenever he spoke of his house he always said “we,”
and spoke almost in the plural, like a king speaking. I wish I could put
down all he said exactly as he said it, for to me it was most
fascinating. It seemed to have in it a whole history of the country. He
grew excited as he spoke, and walked about the room pulling his great
white moustache and grasping anything on which he laid his hands as
though he would crush it by main strength. One thing he said which I
shall put down as nearly as I can; for it tells in its way the story of
his race:—

“We Szekelys have a right to be proud, for in our veins flows the blood
of many brave races who fought as the lion fights, for lordship. Here,
in the whirlpool of European races, the Ugric tribe bore down from
Iceland the fighting spirit which Thor and Wodin gave them, which their
Berserkers displayed to such fell intent on the seaboards of Europe, ay,
and of Asia and Africa too, till the peoples thought that the
were-wolves themselves had come. Here, too, when they came, they found
the Huns, whose warlike fury had swept the earth like a living flame,
till the dying peoples held that in their veins ran the blood of those
old witches, who, expelled from Scythia had mated with the devils in the
desert. Fools, fools! What devil or what witch was ever so great as
Attila, whose blood is in these veins?” He held up his arms. “Is it a
wonder that we were a conquering race; that we were proud; that when the
Magyar, the Lombard, the Avar, the Bulgar, or the Turk poured his
thousands on our frontiers, we drove them back? Is it strange that when
Arpad and his legions swept through the Hungarian fatherland he found us
here when he reached the frontier; that the Honfoglalas was completed
there? And when the Hungarian flood swept eastward, the Szekelys were
claimed as kindred by the victorious Magyars, and to us for centuries
was trusted the guarding of the frontier of Turkey-land; ay, and more
than that, endless duty of the frontier guard, for, as the Turks say,
‘water sleeps, and enemy is sleepless.’ Who more gladly than we
throughout the Four Nations received the ‘bloody sword,’ or at its
warlike call flocked quicker to the standard of the King? When was
redeemed that great shame of my nation, the shame of Cassova, when the
flags of the Wallach and the Magyar went down beneath the Crescent? Who
was it but one of my own race who as Voivode crossed the Danube and beat
the Turk on his own ground? This was a Dracula indeed! Woe was it that
his own unworthy brother, when he had fallen, sold his people to the
Turk and brought the shame of slavery on them! Was it not this Dracula,
indeed, who inspired that other of his race who in a later age again and
again brought his forces over the great river into Turkey-land; who,
when he was beaten back, came again, and again, and again, though he had
to come alone from the bloody field where his troops were being
slaughtered, since he knew that he alone could ultimately triumph! They
said that he thought only of himself. Bah! what good are peasants
without a leader? Where ends the war without a brain and heart to
conduct it? Again, when, after the battle of Mohács, we threw off the
Hungarian yoke, we of the Dracula blood were amongst their leaders, for
our spirit would not brook that we were not free. Ah, young sir, the
Szekelys—and the Dracula as their heart’s blood, their brains, and
their swords—can boast a record that mushroom growths like the
Hapsburgs and the Romanoffs can never reach. The warlike days are over.
Blood is too precious a thing in these days of dishonourable peace; and
the glories of the great races are as a tale that is told.”

It was by this time close on morning, and we went to bed. (Mem., this
diary seems horribly like the beginning of the “Arabian Nights,” for
everything has to break off at cockcrow—or like the ghost of Hamlet’s


12 May.—Let me begin with facts—bare, meagre facts, verified by
books and figures, and of which there can be no doubt. I must not
confuse them with experiences which will have to rest on my own
observation, or my memory of them. Last evening when the Count came from
his room he began by asking me questions on legal matters and on the
doing of certain kinds of business. I had spent the day wearily over
books, and, simply to keep my mind occupied, went over some of the
matters I had been examined in at Lincoln’s Inn. There was a certain
method in the Count’s inquiries, so I shall try to put them down in
sequence; the knowledge may somehow or some time be useful to me.

First, he asked if a man in England might have two solicitors or more. I
told him he might have a dozen if he wished, but that it would not be
wise to have more than one solicitor engaged in one transaction, as only
one could act at a time, and that to change would be certain to militate
against his interest. He seemed thoroughly to understand, and went on to
ask if there would be any practical difficulty in having one man to
attend, say, to banking, and another to look after shipping, in case
local help were needed in a place far from the home of the banking
solicitor. I asked him to explain more fully, so that I might not by any
chance mislead him, so he said:—

“I shall illustrate. Your friend and mine, Mr. Peter Hawkins, from under
the shadow of your beautiful cathedral at Exeter, which is far from
London, buys for me through your good self my place at London. Good! Now
here let me say frankly, lest you should think it strange that I have
sought the services of one so far off from London instead of some one
resident there, that my motive was that no local interest might be
served save my wish only; and as one of London residence might, perhaps,
have some purpose of himself or friend to serve, I went thus afield to
seek my agent, whose labours should be only to my interest. Now, suppose
I, who have much of affairs, wish to ship goods, say, to Newcastle, or
Durham, or Harwich, or Dover, might it not be that it could with more
ease be done by consigning to one in these ports?” I answered that
certainly it would be most easy, but that we solicitors had a system of
agency one for the other, so that local work could be done locally on
instruction from any solicitor, so that the client, simply placing
himself in the hands of one man, could have his wishes carried out by
him without further trouble.

“But,” said he, “I could be at liberty to direct myself. Is it not so?”

“Of course,” I replied; and “such is often done by men of business, who
do not like the whole of their affairs to be known by any one person.”

“Good!” he said, and then went on to ask about the means of making
consignments and the forms to be gone through, and of all sorts of
difficulties which might arise, but by forethought could be guarded
against. I explained all these things to him to the best of my ability,
and he certainly left me under the impression that he would have made a
wonderful solicitor, for there was nothing that he did not think of or
foresee. For a man who was never in the country, and who did not
evidently do much in the way of business, his knowledge and acumen were
wonderful. When he had satisfied himself on these points of which he had
spoken, and I had verified all as well as I could by the books
available, he suddenly stood up and said:—

“Have you written since your first letter to our friend Mr. Peter
Hawkins, or to any other?” It was with some bitterness in my heart that
I answered that I had not, that as yet I had not seen any opportunity of
sending letters to anybody.

“Then write now, my young friend,” he said, laying a heavy hand on my
shoulder: “write to our friend and to any other; and say, if it will
please you, that you shall stay with me until a month from now.”

“Do you wish me to stay so long?” I asked, for my heart grew cold at the

“I desire it much; nay, I will take no refusal. When your master,
employer, what you will, engaged that someone should come on his behalf,
it was understood that my needs only were to be consulted. I have not
stinted. Is it not so?”

What could I do but bow acceptance? It was Mr. Hawkins’s interest, not
mine, and I had to think of him, not myself; and besides, while Count
Dracula was speaking, there was that in his eyes and in his bearing
which made me remember that I was a prisoner, and that if I wished it I
could have no choice. The Count saw his victory in my bow, and his
mastery in the trouble of my face, for he began at once to use them, but
in his own smooth, resistless way:—

“I pray you, my good young friend, that you will not discourse of things
other than business in your letters. It will doubtless please your
friends to know that you are well, and that you look forward to getting
home to them. Is it not so?” As he spoke he handed me three sheets of
note-paper and three envelopes. They were all of the thinnest foreign
post, and looking at them, then at him, and noticing his quiet smile,
with the sharp, canine teeth lying over the red underlip, I understood
as well as if he had spoken that I should be careful what I wrote, for
he would be able to read it. So I determined to write only formal notes
now, but to write fully to Mr. Hawkins in secret, and also to Mina, for
to her I could write in shorthand, which would puzzle the Count, if he
did see it. When I had written my two letters I sat quiet, reading a
book whilst the Count wrote several notes, referring as he wrote them to
some books on his table. Then he took up my two and placed them with his
own, and put by his writing materials, after which, the instant the door
had closed behind him, I leaned over and looked at the letters, which
were face down on the table. I felt no compunction in doing so, for
under the circumstances I felt that I should protect myself in every way
I could.

One of the letters was directed to Samuel F. Billington, No. 7, The
Crescent, Whitby, another to Herr Leutner, Varna; the third was to
Coutts & Co., London, and the fourth to Herren Klopstock & Billreuth,
bankers, Buda-Pesth. The second and fourth were unsealed. I was just
about to look at them when I saw the door-handle move. I sank back in my
seat, having just had time to replace the letters as they had been and
to resume my book before the Count, holding still another letter in his
hand, entered the room. He took up the letters on the table and stamped
them carefully, and then turning to me, said:—

“I trust you will forgive me, but I have much work to do in private this
evening. You will, I hope, find all things as you wish.” At the door he
turned, and after a moment’s pause said:—

“Let me advise you, my dear young friend—nay, let me warn you with all
seriousness, that should you leave these rooms you will not by any
chance go to sleep in any other part of the castle. It is old, and has
many memories, and there are bad dreams for those who sleep unwisely. Be
warned! Should sleep now or ever overcome you, or be like to do, then
haste to your own chamber or to these rooms, for your rest will then be
safe. But if you be not careful in this respect, then”—He finished his
speech in a gruesome way, for he motioned with his hands as if he were
washing them. I quite understood; my only doubt was as to whether any
dream could be more terrible than the unnatural, horrible net of gloom
and mystery which seemed closing around me.


Later.—I endorse the last words written, but this time there is no
doubt in question. I shall not fear to sleep in any place where he is
not. I have placed the crucifix over the head of my bed—I imagine that
my rest is thus freer from dreams; and there it shall remain.

When he left me I went to my room. After a little while, not hearing any
sound, I came out and went up the stone stair to where I could look out
towards the South. There was some sense of freedom in the vast expanse,
inaccessible though it was to me, as compared with the narrow darkness
of the courtyard. Looking out on this, I felt that I was indeed in
prison, and I seemed to want a breath of fresh air, though it were of
the night. I am beginning to feel this nocturnal existence tell on me.
It is destroying my nerve. I start at my own shadow, and am full of all
sorts of horrible imaginings. God knows that there is ground for my
terrible fear in this accursed place! I looked out over the beautiful
expanse, bathed in soft yellow moonlight till it was almost as light as
day. In the soft light the distant hills became melted, and the shadows
in the valleys and gorges of velvety blackness. The mere beauty seemed
to cheer me; there was peace and comfort in every breath I drew. As I
leaned from the window my eye was caught by something moving a storey
below me, and somewhat to my left, where I imagined, from the order of
the rooms, that the windows of the Count’s own room would look out. The
window at which I stood was tall and deep, stone-mullioned, and though
weatherworn, was still complete; but it was evidently many a day since
the case had been there. I drew back behind the stonework, and looked
carefully out.

What I saw was the Count’s head coming out from the window. I did not
see the face, but I knew the man by the neck and the movement of his
back and arms. In any case I could not mistake the hands which I had had
so many opportunities of studying. I was at first interested and
somewhat amused, for it is wonderful how small a matter will interest
and amuse a man when he is a prisoner. But my very feelings changed to
repulsion and terror when I saw the whole man slowly emerge from the
window and begin to crawl down the castle wall over that dreadful abyss,
face down with his cloak spreading out around him like great wings. At
first I could not believe my eyes. I thought it was some trick of the
moonlight, some weird effect of shadow; but I kept looking, and it could
be no delusion. I saw the fingers and toes grasp the corners of the
stones, worn clear of the mortar by the stress of years, and by thus
using every projection and inequality move downwards with considerable
speed, just as a lizard moves along a wall.

What manner of man is this, or what manner of creature is it in the
semblance of man? I feel the dread of this horrible place overpowering
me; I am in fear—in awful fear—and there is no escape for me; I am
encompassed about with terrors that I dare not think of....


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


Later: the Morning of 16 May.—God preserve my sanity, for to this I
am reduced. Safety and the assurance of safety are things of the past.
Whilst I live on here there is but one thing to hope for, that I may not
go mad, if, indeed, I be not mad already. If I be sane, then surely it
is maddening to think that of all the foul things that lurk in this
hateful place the Count is the least dreadful to me; that to him alone I
can look for safety, even though this be only whilst I can serve his
purpose. Great God! merciful God! Let me be calm, for out of that way
lies madness indeed. I begin to get new lights on certain things which
have puzzled me. Up to now I never quite knew what Shakespeare meant
when he made Hamlet say:—

“My tablets! quick, my tablets!

’Tis meet that I put it down,” etc.,

for now, feeling as though my own brain were unhinged or as if the shock
had come which must end in its undoing, I turn to my diary for repose.
The habit of entering accurately must help to soothe me.

The Count’s mysterious warning frightened me at the time; it frightens
me more now when I think of it, for in future he has a fearful hold upon
me. I shall fear to doubt what he may say!

When I had written in my diary and had fortunately replaced the book and
pen in my pocket I felt sleepy. The Count’s warning came into my mind,
but I took a pleasure in disobeying it. The sense of sleep was upon me,
and with it the obstinacy which sleep brings as outrider. The soft
moonlight soothed, and the wide expanse without gave a sense of freedom
which refreshed me. I determined not to return to-night to the
gloom-haunted rooms, but to sleep here, where, of old, ladies had sat
and sung and lived sweet lives whilst their gentle breasts were sad for
their menfolk away in the midst of remorseless wars. I drew a great
couch out of its place near the corner, so that as I lay, I could look
at the lovely view to east and south, and unthinking of and uncaring for
the dust, composed myself for sleep. I suppose I must have fallen
asleep; I hope so, but I fear, for all that followed was startlingly
real—so real that now sitting here in the broad, full sunlight of the
morning, I cannot in the least believe that it was all sleep.

I was not alone. The room was the same, unchanged in any way since I
came into it; I could see along the floor, in the brilliant moonlight,
my own footsteps marked where I had disturbed the long accumulation of
dust. In the moonlight opposite me were three young women, ladies by
their dress and manner. I thought at the time that I must be dreaming
when I saw them, for, though the moonlight was behind them, they threw
no shadow on the floor. They came close to me, and looked at me for some
time, and then whispered together. Two were dark, and had high aquiline
noses, like the Count, and great dark, piercing eyes that seemed to be
almost red when contrasted with the pale yellow moon. The other was
fair, as fair as can be, with great wavy masses of golden hair and eyes
like pale sapphires. I seemed somehow to know her face, and to know it
in connection with some dreamy fear, but I could not recollect at the
moment how or where. All three had brilliant white teeth that shone like
pearls against the ruby of their voluptuous lips. There was something
about them that made me uneasy, some longing and at the same time some
deadly fear. I felt in my heart a wicked, burning desire that they would
kiss me with those red lips. It is not good to note this down, lest some
day it should meet Mina’s eyes and cause her pain; but it is the truth.
They whispered together, and then they all three laughed—such a
silvery, musical laugh, but as hard as though the sound never could have
come through the softness of human lips. It was like the intolerable,
tingling sweetness of water-glasses when played on by a cunning hand.
The fair girl shook her head coquettishly, and the other two urged her
on. One said:—

“Go on! You are first, and we shall follow; yours is the right to
begin.” The other added:—

“He is young and strong; there are kisses for us all.” I lay quiet,
looking out under my eyelashes in an agony of delightful anticipation.
The fair girl advanced and bent over me till I could feel the movement
of her breath upon me. Sweet it was in one sense, honey-sweet, and sent
the same tingling through the nerves as her voice, but with a bitter
underlying the sweet, a bitter offensiveness, as one smells in blood.

I was afraid to raise my eyelids, but looked out and saw perfectly under
the lashes. The girl went on her knees, and bent over me, simply
gloating. There was a deliberate voluptuousness which was both thrilling
and repulsive, and as she arched her neck she actually licked her lips
like an animal, till I could see in the moonlight the moisture shining
on the scarlet lips and on the red tongue as it lapped the white sharp
teeth. Lower and lower went her head as the lips went below the range of
my mouth and chin and seemed about to fasten on my throat. Then she
paused, and I could hear the churning sound of her tongue as it licked
her teeth and lips, and could feel the hot breath on my neck. Then the
skin of my throat began to tingle as one’s flesh does when the hand that
is to tickle it approaches nearer—nearer. I could feel the soft,
shivering touch of the lips on the super-sensitive skin of my throat,
and the hard dents of two sharp teeth, just touching and pausing there.
I closed my eyes in a languorous ecstasy and waited—waited with beating

But at that instant, another sensation swept through me as quick as
lightning. I was conscious of the presence of the Count, and of his
being as if lapped in a storm of fury. As my eyes opened involuntarily I
saw his strong hand grasp the slender neck of the fair woman and with
giant’s power draw it back, the blue eyes transformed with fury, the
white teeth champing with rage, and the fair cheeks blazing red with
passion. But the Count! Never did I imagine such wrath and fury, even to
the demons of the pit. His eyes were positively blazing. The red light
in them was lurid, as if the flames of hell-fire blazed behind them. His
face was deathly pale, and the lines of it were hard like drawn wires;
the thick eyebrows that met over the nose now seemed like a heaving bar
of white-hot metal. With a fierce sweep of his arm, he hurled the woman
from him, and then motioned to the others, as though he were beating
them back; it was the same imperious gesture that I had seen used to the
wolves. In a voice which, though low and almost in a whisper seemed to
cut through the air and then ring round the room 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 to-night?” 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.



I AWOKE in my own bed. If it be that I had not dreamt, the Count must
have carried me here. I tried to satisfy myself on the subject, but
could not arrive at any unquestionable result. To be sure, there were
certain small evidences, such as that my clothes were folded and laid by
in a manner which was not my habit. My watch was still unwound, and I am
rigorously accustomed to wind it the last thing before going to bed, and
many such details. But these things are no proof, for they may have been
evidences that my mind was not as usual, and, from some cause or
another, I had certainly been much upset. I must watch for proof. Of one
thing I am glad: if it was that the Count carried me here and undressed
me, he must have been hurried in his task, for my pockets are intact. I
am sure this diary would have been a mystery to him which he would not
have brooked. He would have taken or destroyed it. As I look round this
room, although it has been to me so full of fear, it is now a sort of
sanctuary, for nothing can be more dreadful than those awful women, who
were—who are—waiting to suck my blood.


18 May.—I have been down to look at that room again in daylight, for
I must know the truth. When I got to the doorway at the top of the
stairs I found it closed. It had been so forcibly driven against the
jamb that part of the woodwork was splintered. I could see that the bolt
of the lock had not been shot, but the door is fastened from the inside.
I fear it was no dream, and must act on this surmise.


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

“The first should be June 12, the second June 19, and the third June

I know now the span of my life. God help me!


28 May.—There is a chance of escape, or at any rate of being able to
send word home. A band of Szgany have come to the castle, and are
encamped in the courtyard. These Szgany are gipsies; I have notes of
them in my book. They are peculiar to this part of the world, though
allied to the ordinary gipsies all the world over. There are thousands
of them in Hungary and Transylvania, who are almost outside all law.
They attach themselves as a rule to some great noble or boyar, and
call themselves by his name. They are fearless and without religion,
save superstition, and they talk only their own varieties of the Romany

I shall write some letters home, and shall try to get them to have them
posted. I have already spoken them through my window to begin
acquaintanceship. They took their hats off and made obeisance and many
signs, which, however, I could not understand any more than I could
their spoken language....


I have written the letters. Mina’s is in shorthand, and I simply ask Mr.
Hawkins to communicate with her. To her I have explained my situation,
but without the horrors which I may only surmise. It would shock and
frighten her to death were I to expose my heart to her. Should the
letters not carry, then the Count shall not yet know my secret or the
extent of my knowledge....


I have given the letters; I threw them through the bars of my window
with a gold piece, and made what signs I could to have them posted. The
man who took them pressed them to his heart and bowed, and then put them
in his cap. I could do no more. I stole back to the study, and began to
read. As the Count did not come in, I have written here....


The Count has come. He sat down beside me, and said in his smoothest
voice as he opened two letters:—

“The Szgany has given me these, of which, though I know not whence they
come, I shall, of course, take care. See!”—he must have looked at
it—“one is from you, and to my friend Peter Hawkins; the other”—here
he caught sight of the strange symbols as he opened the envelope, and
the dark look came into his face, and his eyes blazed wickedly—“the
other is a vile thing, an outrage upon friendship and hospitality! It is
not signed. Well! so it cannot matter to us.” And he calmly held letter
and envelope in the flame of the lamp till they were consumed. Then he
went on:—

“The letter to Hawkins—that I shall, of course, send on, since it is
yours. Your letters are sacred to me. Your pardon, my friend, that
unknowingly I did break the seal. Will you not cover it again?” He held
out the letter to me, and with a courteous bow handed me a clean
envelope. I could only redirect it and hand it to him in silence. When
he went out of the room I could hear the key turn softly. A minute later
I went over and tried it, and the door was locked.

When, an hour or two after, the Count came quietly into the room, his
coming awakened me, for I had gone to sleep on the sofa. He was very
courteous and very cheery in his manner, and seeing that I had been
sleeping, he said:—

“So, my friend, you are tired? Get to bed. There is the surest rest. I
may not have the pleasure to talk to-night, since there are many labours
to me; but you will sleep, I pray.” I passed to my room and went to bed,
and, strange to say, slept without dreaming. Despair has its own calms.


31 May.—This morning when I woke I thought I would provide myself
with some paper and envelopes from my bag and keep them in my pocket, so
that I might write in case I should get an opportunity, but again a
surprise, again a shock!

Every scrap of paper was gone, and with it all my notes, my memoranda,
relating to railways and travel, my letter of credit, in fact all that
might be useful to me were I once outside the castle. I sat and pondered
awhile, and then some thought occurred to me, and I made search of my
portmanteau and in the wardrobe where I had placed my clothes.

The suit in which I had travelled was gone, and also my overcoat and
rug; I could find no trace of them anywhere. This looked like some new
scheme of villainy....


17 June.—This morning, as I was sitting on the edge of my bed
cudgelling my brains, I heard without a cracking of whips and pounding
and scraping of horses’ feet up the rocky path beyond the courtyard.
With joy I hurried to the window, and saw drive into the yard two great
leiter-wagons, each drawn by eight sturdy horses, and at the head of
each pair a Slovak, with his wide hat, great nail-studded belt, dirty
sheepskin, and high boots. They had also their long staves in hand. I
ran to the door, intending to descend and try and join them through the
main hall, as I thought that way might be opened for them. Again a
shock: my door was fastened on the outside.

Then I ran to the window and cried to them. They looked up at me
stupidly and pointed, but just then the “hetman” of the Szgany came out,
and seeing them pointing to my window, said something, at which they
laughed. Henceforth no effort of mine, no piteous cry or agonised
entreaty, would make them even look at me. They resolutely turned away.
The leiter-wagons contained great, square boxes, with handles of thick
rope; these were evidently empty by the ease with which the Slovaks
handled them, and by their resonance as they were roughly moved. When
they were all unloaded and packed in a great heap in one corner of the
yard, the Slovaks were given some money by the Szgany, and spitting on
it for luck, lazily went each to his horse’s head. Shortly afterwards, I
heard the cracking of their whips die away in the distance.


24 June, before morning.—Last night the Count left me early, and
locked himself into his own room. As soon as I dared I ran up the
winding stair, and looked out of the window, which opened south. I
thought I would watch for the Count, for there is something going on.
The Szgany are quartered somewhere in the castle and are doing work of
some kind. I know it, for now and then I hear a 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 aërial gambolling.

Something made me start up, a low, piteous howling of dogs somewhere far
below in the valley, which was hidden from my sight. Louder it seemed to
ring in my ears, and the floating motes of dust to take new shapes to
the sound as they danced in the moonlight. I felt myself struggling to
awake to some call of my instincts; nay, my very soul was struggling,
and my half-remembered sensibilities were striving to answer the call. I
was becoming hypnotised! Quicker and quicker danced the dust; the
moonbeams seemed to quiver as they went by me into the mass of gloom
beyond. More and more they gathered till they seemed to take dim phantom
shapes. And then I started, broad awake and in full possession of my
senses, and ran screaming from the place. The phantom shapes, which were
becoming gradually materialised from the moonbeams, were those of the
three ghostly women to whom I was doomed. I fled, and felt somewhat
safer in my own room, where there was no moonlight and where the lamp
was burning brightly.

When a couple of hours had passed I heard something stirring in the
Count’s room, something like a sharp wail quickly suppressed; and then
there was silence, deep, awful silence, which chilled me. With a
beating heart, I tried the door; but I was locked in my prison, and
could do nothing. I sat down and simply cried.

As I sat I heard a sound in the courtyard without—the agonised cry of a
woman. I rushed to the window, and throwing it up, peered out between
the bars. There, indeed, was a woman with dishevelled hair, holding her
hands over her heart as one distressed with running. She was leaning
against a corner of the gateway. When she saw my face at the window she
threw herself forward, and shouted in a voice laden with menace:—

“Monster, give me my child!”

She threw herself on her knees, and raising up her hands, cried the same
words in tones which wrung my heart. Then she tore her hair and beat her
breast, and abandoned herself to all the violences of extravagant
emotion. Finally, she threw herself forward, and, though I could not see
her, I could hear the beating of her naked hands against the door.

Somewhere high overhead, probably on the tower, I heard the voice of the
Count calling in his harsh, metallic whisper. His call seemed to be
answered from far and wide by the howling of wolves. Before many minutes
had passed a pack of them poured, like a pent-up dam when liberated,
through the wide entrance into the courtyard.

There was no cry from the woman, and the howling of the wolves was but
short. Before long they streamed away singly, licking their lips.

I could not pity her, for I knew now what had become of her child, and
she was better dead.

What shall I do? what can I do? How can I escape from this dreadful
thing of night and gloom and fear?


25 June, morning.—No man knows till he has suffered from the night
how sweet and how dear to his heart and eye the morning can be. When the
sun grew so high this morning that it struck the top of the great
gateway opposite my window, the high spot which it touched seemed to me
as if the dove from the ark had lighted there. My fear fell from me as
if it had been a vaporous garment which dissolved in the warmth. I must
take action of some sort whilst the courage of the day is upon me. Last
night one of my 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

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! Good-bye, Mina, if I fail; good-bye, my faithful friend and
second father; good-bye, all, and last of all Mina!


Same day, later.—I have made the effort, and God, helping me, have
come safely back to this room. I must put down every detail in order. I
went whilst my courage was fresh straight to the window on the south
side, and at once got outside on the narrow ledge of stone which runs
around the building on this side. The stones are big and roughly cut,
and the mortar has by process of time been washed away between them. I
took off my boots, and ventured out on the desperate way. I looked down
once, so as to make sure that a sudden glimpse of the awful depth would
not overcome me, but after that kept my eyes away from it. I knew pretty
well the direction and distance of the Count’s window, and made for it
as well as I could, having regard to the opportunities available. I did
not feel dizzy—I suppose I was too excited—and the time seemed
ridiculously short till I found myself standing on the window-sill and
trying to raise up the sash. I was filled with agitation, however, when
I bent down and slid feet foremost in through the window. Then I looked
around for the Count, but, with surprise and gladness, made a discovery.
The room was empty! It was barely furnished with odd things, which
seemed to have never been used; the furniture was something the same
style as that in the south rooms, and was covered with dust. I looked
for the key, but it was not in the lock, and I could not find it
anywhere. The only thing I found was a great heap of gold in one
corner—gold of all kinds, Roman, and British, and Austrian, and
Hungarian, and Greek and Turkish money, covered with a film of dust, as
though it had lain long in the ground. None of it that I noticed was
less than three hundred years old. There were also chains and ornaments,
some jewelled, but all of them old and stained.

At one corner of the room was a heavy door. I tried it, for, since I
could not find the key of the room or the key of the outer door, which
was the main object of my search, I must make further examination, or
all my efforts would be in vain. It was open, and led through a stone
passage to a circular stairway, which went steeply down. I descended,
minding carefully where I went, for the stairs were dark, being only lit
by loopholes in the heavy masonry. At the bottom there was a dark,
tunnel-like passage, through which came a deathly, sickly odour, the
odour of old earth newly turned. As I went through the passage the smell
grew closer and heavier. At last I pulled open a heavy door which stood
ajar, and found myself in an old, ruined chapel, which had evidently
been used as a graveyard. The roof was broken, and in two places were
steps leading to vaults, but the ground had recently been dug over, and
the earth placed in great wooden boxes, manifestly those which had been
brought by the Slovaks. There was nobody about, and I made search for
any further outlet, but there was none. Then I went over every inch of
the ground, so as not to lose a chance. I went down even into the
vaults, where the dim light struggled, although to do so was a dread to
my very soul. Into two of these I went, but saw nothing except fragments
of old coffins and piles of dust; in the third, however, I made a

There, in one of the great boxes, of which there were fifty in all, on a
pile of newly dug earth, lay the Count! He was either dead or asleep, I
could not say which—for the eyes were open and stony, but without the
glassiness of death—and the cheeks had the warmth of life through all
their pallor; the lips were as red as ever. But there was no sign of
movement, no pulse, no breath, no beating of the heart. I bent over him,
and tried to find any sign of life, but in vain. He could not have lain
there long, for the earthy smell would have passed away in a few hours.
By the side of the box was its cover, pierced with holes here and there.
I thought he might have the keys on him, but when I went to search I saw
the dead eyes, and in them, dead though they were, such a look of hate,
though unconscious of me or my presence, that I fled from the place, and
leaving the Count’s room by the window, crawled again up the castle
wall. Regaining my room, I threw myself panting upon the bed and tried
to think....


29 June.—To-day is the date of my last letter, and the Count has
taken steps to prove that it was genuine, for again I saw him leave the
castle by the same window, and in my clothes. As he went down the wall,
lizard fashion, I wished I had a gun or some lethal weapon, that I might
destroy him; but I fear that no weapon wrought alone by man’s hand would
have any effect on him. I dared not wait to see him return, for I feared
to see those weird sisters. I came back to the library, and read there
till I fell asleep.

I was awakened by the Count, who looked at me as grimly as a man can
look as he said:—

“To-morrow, 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; to-morrow I shall not be
here, but all shall be ready for your journey. In the morning come the
Szgany, who have some labours of their own here, and also come some
Slovaks. When they have gone, my carriage shall come for you, and shall
bear you to the Borgo Pass to meet the diligence from Bukovina to
Bistritz. But I am in hopes that I shall see more of you at Castle
Dracula.” I suspected him, and determined to test his sincerity.
Sincerity! It seems like a profanation of the word to write it in
connection with such a monster, so asked him point-blank:—

“Why may I not go to-night?”

“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


Close at hand came the howling of many wolves. It was almost as if the
sound sprang up at the rising of his hand, just as the music of a great
orchestra seems to leap under the bâton of the conductor. After a pause
of a moment, he proceeded, in his stately way, to the door, drew back
the ponderous bolts, unhooked the heavy chains, and began to draw it

To my intense astonishment I saw that it was unlocked. Suspiciously, I
looked all round, but could see no key of any kind.

As the door began to open, the howling of the wolves without grew louder
and angrier; their red jaws, with champing teeth, and their blunt-clawed
feet as they leaped, came in through the opening door. I knew then that
to struggle at the moment against the Count was useless. With such
allies as these at his command, I could do nothing. But still the door
continued slowly to open, and only the Count’s body stood in the gap.
Suddenly it struck me that this might be the moment and means of my
doom; I was to be given to the wolves, and at my own instigation. There
was a diabolical wickedness in the idea great enough for the Count, and
as a last chance I cried out:—

“Shut the door; I shall wait till morning!” and covered my face with my
hands to hide my tears of bitter disappointment. With one sweep of his
powerful arm, the Count threw the door shut, and the great bolts clanged
and echoed through the hall as they shot back into their places.

In silence we returned to the library, and after a minute or two I went
to my own room. The last I saw of Count Dracula was his kissing his hand
to me; with a red light of triumph in his eyes, and with a smile that
Judas in hell might be proud of.

When I was in my room and about to lie down, I thought I heard a
whispering at my door. I went to it softly and listened. Unless my ears
deceived me, I heard the voice of the Count:—

“Back, back, to your own place! Your time is not yet come. Wait! Have
patience! To-night is mine. To-morrow 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? To-morrow! to-morrow! Lord, help me, and those to whom I am


30 June, morning.—These may be the last words I ever write in this
diary. I slept till just before the dawn, and when I woke threw myself
on my knees, for I determined that if Death came he should find me

At last I felt that subtle change in the air, and knew that the morning
had come. Then came the welcome cock-crow, and I felt that I was safe.
With a glad heart, I opened my door and ran down to the hall. I had seen
that the door was unlocked, and now escape was before me. With hands
that trembled with eagerness, I unhooked the chains and drew back the
massive bolts.

But the door would not move. Despair seized me. I pulled, and pulled, at
the door, and shook it till, massive as it was, it rattled in its
casement. I could see the bolt shot. It had been locked after I left the

Then a wild desire took me to obtain that key at any risk, and I
determined then and there to scale the wall again and gain the Count’s
room. He might kill me, but death now seemed the happier choice of
evils. Without a pause I rushed up to the east window, and scrambled
down the wall, as before, into the Count’s room. It was empty, but that
was as I expected. I could not see a key anywhere, but the heap of gold
remained. I went through the door in the corner and down the winding
stair and along the dark passage to the old chapel. I knew now well
enough where to find the monster I sought.

The great box was in the same place, close against the wall, but the lid
was laid on it, not fastened down, but with the nails ready in their
places to be hammered home. I knew I must reach the body for the key, so
I raised the lid, and laid it back against the wall; and then I saw
something which filled my very soul with horror. There lay the Count,
but looking as if his youth had been half renewed, for the white hair
and moustache were changed to dark iron-grey; the cheeks were fuller,
and the white skin seemed ruby-red underneath; the mouth was redder than
ever, for on the lips were gouts of fresh blood, which trickled from the
corners of the mouth and ran over the chin and neck. Even the deep,
burning eyes seemed set amongst swollen flesh, for the lids and pouches
underneath were bloated. It seemed as if the whole awful creature were
simply gorged with blood. He lay like a filthy leech, exhausted with his
repletion. I shuddered as I bent over to touch him, and every sense in
me revolted at the contact; but I had to search, or I was lost. The
coming night might see my own body a banquet in a similar way to those
horrid three. I felt all over the body, but no sign could I find of the
key. Then I stopped and looked at the Count. There was a mocking smile
on the bloated face which seemed to drive me mad. This was the being I
was helping to transfer to London, where, perhaps, for centuries to come
he might, amongst its teeming millions, satiate his lust for blood, and
create a new and ever-widening circle of semi-demons to batten on the
helpless. The very thought drove me mad. A terrible desire came upon me
to rid the world of such a monster. There was no lethal weapon at hand,
but I seized a shovel which the workmen had been using to fill the
cases, and lifting it high, struck, with the edge downward, at the
hateful face. But as I did so the head turned, and the eyes fell full
upon me, with all their blaze of basilisk horror. The sight seemed to
paralyse me, and the shovel turned in my hand and glanced from the face,
merely making a deep gash above the forehead. The shovel fell from my
hand across the box, and as I pulled it away the flange of the blade
caught the edge of the lid which fell over again, and hid the horrid
thing from my sight. The last glimpse I had was of the bloated face,
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 is a sound of hammering; it is the
box being nailed down. Now I can hear the heavy feet tramping again
along the hall, with many other idle feet coming behind them.

The door is shut, and the chains rattle; there is a grinding of the key
in the lock; I can hear the key withdraw: then another door opens and
shuts; I hear the creaking of lock and bolt.

Hark! in the courtyard and down the rocky way the roll of heavy wheels,
the crack of whips, and the chorus of the Szgany as they pass into the

I am alone in the castle with those awful women. Faugh! Mina is a woman,
and there is nought in common. They are devils of the Pit!

I shall not remain alone with them; I shall try to scale the castle wall
farther than I have yet attempted. I shall take some of the gold with
me, lest I want it later. I may find a way from this dreadful place.

And then away for home! away to the quickest and nearest train! away
from this cursed spot, from this cursed land, where the devil and his
children still walk with earthly feet!

At least God’s mercy is better than that of these monsters, and the
precipice is steep and high. At its foot a man may sleep—as a man.
Good-bye, all! Mina!


Letter from Miss Mina Murray to Miss Lucy Westenra.

9 May.

“My dearest Lucy,—

“Forgive my long delay in writing, but I have been simply overwhelmed
with work. The life of an assistant schoolmistress is sometimes trying.
I am longing to be with you, and by the sea, where we can talk together
freely and build our castles in the air. I have been working very hard
lately, because I want to keep up with Jonathan’s studies, and I have
been practising shorthand very assiduously. When we are married I shall
be able to be useful to Jonathan, and if I can stenograph well enough I
can take down what he wants to say in this way and write it out for him
on the typewriter, at which also I am practising very hard. He and I
sometimes write letters in shorthand, and he is keeping a stenographic
journal of his travels abroad. When I am with you I shall keep a diary
in the same way. I don’t mean one of those
two-pages-to-the-week-with-Sunday-squeezed-in-a-corner diaries, but a
sort of journal which I can write in whenever I feel inclined. I do not
suppose there will be much of interest to other people; but it is not
intended for them. I may show it to Jonathan some day if there is in it
anything worth sharing, but it is really an exercise book. I shall try
to do what I see lady journalists do: interviewing and writing
descriptions and trying to remember conversations. I am told that, with
a little practice, one can remember all that goes on or that one hears
said during a day. However, we shall see. I will tell you of my little
plans when we meet. I have just had a few hurried lines from Jonathan
from Transylvania. He is well, and will be returning in about a week. I
am longing to hear all his news. It must be so nice to see strange
countries. I wonder if we—I mean Jonathan and I—shall ever see them
together. There is the ten o’clock bell ringing. Good-bye.

“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???

Letter, Lucy Westenra to Mina Murray.

17, Chatham Street,


“My dearest Mina,—

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


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


Letter, Lucy Westenra to Mina Murray.

24 May.

“My dearest Mina,—

“Thanks, and thanks, and thanks again for your sweet letter. It was so
nice to be able to tell you and to have your sympathy.

“My dear, it never rains but it pours. How true the old proverbs are.
Here am I, who shall be twenty in September, and yet I never had a
proposal till to-day, not a real proposal, and to-day I have had three.
Just fancy! THREE proposals in one day! Isn’t it awful! I feel sorry,
really and truly sorry, for two of the poor fellows. Oh, Mina, I am so
happy that I don’t know what to do with myself. And three proposals!
But, for goodness’ sake, don’t tell any of the girls, or they would be
getting all sorts of extravagant ideas and imagining themselves injured
and slighted if in their very first day at home they did not get six at
least. Some girls are so vain! You and I, Mina dear, who are engaged and
are going to settle down soon soberly into old married women, can
despise vanity. Well, I must tell you about the three, but you must keep
it a secret, dear, from every one, except, of course, Jonathan. You
will tell him, because I would, if I were in your place, certainly tell
Arthur. A woman ought to tell her husband everything—don’t you think
so, dear?—and I must be fair. Men like women, certainly their wives, to
be quite as fair as they are; and women, I am afraid, are not always
quite as fair as they should be. Well, my dear, number One came just
before lunch. I told you of him, Dr. John Seward, the lunatic-asylum
man, with the strong jaw and the good forehead. He was very cool
outwardly, but was nervous all the same. He had evidently been schooling
himself as to all sorts of little things, and remembered them; but he
almost managed to sit down on his silk hat, which men don’t generally do
when they are cool, and then when he wanted to appear at ease he kept
playing with a lancet in a way that made me nearly scream. He spoke to
me, Mina, very straightforwardly. He told me how dear I was to him,
though he had known me so little, and what his life would be with me to
help and cheer him. He was going to tell me how unhappy he would be if I
did not care for him, but when he saw me cry he said that he was a brute
and would not add to my present trouble. Then he broke off and asked if
I could love him in time; and when I shook my head his hands trembled,
and then with some hesitation he asked me if I cared already for any one
else. He put it very nicely, saying that he did not want to wring my
confidence from me, but only to know, because if a woman’s heart was
free a man might have hope. And then, Mina, I felt 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
quite 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 had such adventures. I sympathise
with poor Desdemona when she had such a dangerous stream poured in her
ear, even by a black man. I suppose that we women are such cowards that
we think a man will save us from fears, and we marry him. I know now
what I would do if I were a man and wanted to make a girl love me. No, I
don’t, for there was Mr. Morris telling us his stories, and Arthur never
told any, and yet—— My dear, I am somewhat previous. Mr. Quincey P.
Morris found me alone. It seems that a man always does find a girl
alone. No, he doesn’t, for Arthur tried twice to make a chance, and I
helping him all I could; I am not ashamed to say it now. I must tell you
beforehand that Mr. Morris doesn’t always speak slang—that is to say,
he never does so to strangers or before them, for he is really well
educated and has exquisite manners—but he found out that it amused me
to hear him talk American slang, and whenever I was present, and there
was no one to be shocked, he said such funny things. I am afraid, my
dear, he has to invent it all, for it fits exactly into whatever else he
has to say. But this is a way slang has. I do not know myself if I shall
ever speak slang; I do not know if Arthur likes it, as I have never
heard him use any as yet. Well, Mr. Morris sat down beside me and looked
as happy and jolly as he could, but I could see all the same that he was
very nervous. He took my hand in his, and said ever so sweetly:—

“ ‘Miss Lucy, I know I ain’t good enough to regulate the fixin’s of your
little shoes, but I guess if you wait till you find a man that is you
will go join them seven young women with the lamps when you quit. Won’t
you just hitch up alongside of me and let us go down the long road
together, driving in double harness?’

“Well, he did look so good-humoured and so jolly that it didn’t seem
half so hard to refuse him as it did poor Dr. Seward; so I said, as
lightly as I could, that I did not know anything of hitching, and that I
wasn’t broken to harness at all yet. Then he said that he had spoken in
a light manner, and he hoped that if he had made a mistake in doing so
on so grave, so momentous, an occasion for him, I would forgive him. He
really did look serious when he was saying it, and I couldn’t help
feeling a bit serious too—I know, Mina, you will think me a horrid
flirt—though I couldn’t help feeling a sort of exultation that he was
number two in one day. And then, my dear, before I could say a word he
began pouring out a perfect torrent of love-making, laying his very
heart and soul at my feet. He looked so earnest over it that I shall
never again think that a man must be playful always, and never earnest,
because he is merry at times. I suppose he saw something in my face
which checked him, for he suddenly stopped, and said with a sort of
manly fervour that I could have loved him for if I had been free:—

“ ‘Lucy, you are an honest-hearted girl, I know. I should not be here
speaking to you as I am now if I did not believe you clean grit, right
through to the very depths of your soul. Tell me, like one good fellow
to another, is there any one else that you care for? And if there is
I’ll never trouble you a hair’s breadth again, but will be, if you will
let me, a very faithful friend.’

“My dear Mina, why are men so noble when we women are so little worthy
of them? Here was I almost making fun of this great-hearted, true
gentleman. I burst into tears—I am afraid, my dear, you will think
this a very sloppy letter in more ways than one—and I really felt very
badly. Why can’t they let a girl marry three men, or as many as want
her, and save all this trouble? But this is heresy, and I must not say
it. I am glad to say that, though I was crying, I was able to look into
Mr. Morris’s brave eyes, and I told him out straight:—

“ ‘Yes, there is some one I love, though he has not told me yet that he
even loves me.’ I was right to speak to him so frankly, for quite a
light came into his face, and he put out both his hands and took mine—I
think I put them into his—and said in a hearty way:—

“ ‘That’s my brave girl. It’s better worth being late for a chance of
winning you than being in time for any other girl in the world. Don’t
cry, my dear. If it’s for me, I’m a hard nut to crack; and I take it
standing up. If that other fellow doesn’t know his happiness, well, he’d
better look for it soon, or he’ll have to deal with me. Little girl,
your honesty and pluck have made me a friend, and that’s rarer than a
lover; it’s more unselfish anyhow. My dear, I’m going to have a pretty
lonely walk between this and Kingdom Come. Won’t you give me one kiss?
It’ll be something to keep off the darkness now and then. You can, you
know, if you like, for that other good fellow—he must be a good fellow,
my dear, and a fine fellow, or you could not love him—hasn’t spoken
yet.’ That quite won me, Mina, for it was brave and sweet of him, and
noble, too, to a rival—wasn’t it?—and he so sad; so I leant over and
kissed him. He stood up with my two hands in his, and as he looked down
into my face—I am afraid I was blushing very much—he said:—

“ ‘Little girl, I hold your hand, and you’ve kissed me, and if these
things don’t make us friends nothing ever will. Thank you for your sweet
honesty to me, and good-bye.’ He wrung my hand, and taking up his hat,
went straight out of the room without looking back, without a tear or a
quiver or a pause; and I am crying like a baby. Oh, why must a man like
that be made unhappy when there are lots of girls about who would
worship the very ground he trod on? I know I would if I were free—only
I don’t want to be free. My dear, this quite upset me, and I feel I
cannot write of happiness just at once, after telling you of it; and I
don’t wish to tell of the number three 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 to-day. Cannot eat, cannot rest, so
diary instead. Since my rebuff of yesterday I have a sort of empty
feeling; nothing in the world seems of sufficient importance to be worth
the doing.... As I knew that the only cure for this sort of thing was
work, I went down amongst the patients. I picked out one who has
afforded me a study of much interest. He is so quaint that I am
determined to understand him as well as I can. To-day I seemed to get
nearer than ever before to the heart of his mystery.

I questioned him more fully than I had ever done, with a view to making
myself master of the facts of his hallucination. In my manner of doing
it there was, I now see, something of cruelty. I seemed to wish to keep
him to the point of his madness—a thing which I avoid with the patients
as I would the mouth of hell.

(Mem., under what circumstances would I not avoid the pit of hell?)
Omnia Romæ venalia sunt. Hell has its price! verb. sap. If there be
anything behind this instinct it will be valuable to trace it afterwards
accurately, so I had better commence to do so, therefore—

R. M. Renfield, ætat 59.—Sanguine temperament; great physical strength;
morbidly excitable; periods of gloom, ending in some fixed idea which I
cannot make out. I presume that the sanguine temperament itself and the
disturbing influence end in a mentally-accomplished finish; a possibly
dangerous man, probably dangerous if unselfish. In selfish men caution
is as secure an armour for their foes as for themselves. What I think of
on this point is, when self is the fixed point the centripetal force is
balanced with the centrifugal; when duty, a cause, etc., is the fixed
point, the latter force is paramount, and only accident or a series of
accidents can balance it.

Letter, Quincey P. Morris to Hon. Arthur Holmwood.

25 May.

“My dear Art,—

“We’ve told yarns by the camp-fire in the prairies; and dressed one
another’s wounds after trying a landing at the Marquesas; and drunk
healths on the shore of Titicaca. There are more yarns to be told, and
other wounds to be healed, and another health to be drunk. Won’t you let
this be at my camp-fire to-morrow night? I have no hesitation in asking
you, as I know a certain lady is engaged to a certain dinner-party, and
that you are free. There will only be one other, our old pal at the
Korea, Jack Seward. He’s coming, too, and we both want to mingle our
weeps over the wine-cup, and to drink a health with all our hearts to
the happiest man in all the wide world, who has won the noblest heart
that God has made and the best worth winning. We promise you a hearty
welcome, and a loving greeting, and a health as true as your own right
hand. We shall both swear to leave you at home if you drink too deep to
a certain pair of eyes. Come!

“Yours, as ever and always,

Quincey P. Morris.

Telegram from Arthur Holmwood to Quincey P. Morris.

26 May.

“Count me in every time. I bear messages which will make both your ears




24 July. Whitby.—Lucy met me at the station, looking sweeter and
lovelier than ever, and we drove up to the house at the Crescent in
which they have rooms. This is a lovely place. The little river, the
Esk, runs through a deep valley, which broadens out as it comes near the
harbour. A great viaduct runs across, with high piers, through which the
view seems somehow further away than it really is. The valley is
beautifully green, and it is so steep that when you are on the high land
on either side you look right across it, unless you are near enough to
see down. The houses of the old town—the side away from us—are all
red-roofed, and seem piled up one over the other anyhow, like the
pictures we see of Nuremberg. Right over the town is the ruin of Whitby
Abbey, which was sacked by the Danes, and which is the scene of part of
“Marmion,” where the girl was built up in the wall. It is a most noble
ruin, of immense size, and full of beautiful and romantic bits; there is
a legend that a white lady is seen in one of the windows. Between it and
the town there is another church, the parish one, round which is a big
graveyard, all full of tombstones. This is to my mind the nicest spot in
Whitby, for it lies right over the town, and has a full view of the
harbour and all up the bay to where the headland called Kettleness
stretches out into the sea. It descends so steeply over the harbour that
part of the bank has fallen away, and some of the graves have been
destroyed. In one place part of the stonework of the graves stretches
out over the sandy pathway far below. There are walks, with seats beside
them, through the churchyard; and people go and sit there all day long
looking at the beautiful view and enjoying the breeze. I shall come and
sit here very often myself and work. Indeed, I am writing now, with my
book on my knee, and listening to the talk of three old men who are
sitting beside me. They seem to do nothing all day but sit up here and

The harbour lies below me, with, on the far side, one long granite wall
stretching out into the sea, with a curve outwards at the end of it, in
the middle of which is a lighthouse. A heavy sea-wall runs along outside
of it. On the near side, the sea-wall makes an elbow crooked inversely,
and its end too has a lighthouse. Between the two piers there is a
narrow opening into the harbour, which then suddenly widens.

It is nice at high water; but when the tide is out it shoals away to
nothing, and there is merely the stream of the Esk, running between
banks of sand, with rocks here and there. Outside the harbour on this
side there rises for about half a mile a great reef, the sharp edge of
which runs straight out from behind the south lighthouse. At the end of
it is a buoy with a bell, which swings in bad weather, and sends in a
mournful sound on the wind. They have a legend here that when a ship is
lost bells are heard out at sea. I must ask the old man about this; he
is coming this way....

He is a funny old man. He must be awfully old, for his face is all
gnarled and twisted like the bark of a tree. He tells me that he is
nearly a hundred, and that he was a sailor in the Greenland fishing
fleet when Waterloo was fought. He is, I am afraid, a very sceptical
person, for when I asked him about the bells at sea and the White Lady
at the abbey he said very brusquely:—

“I wouldn’t fash masel’ about them, miss. Them things be all wore out.
Mind, I don’t say that they never was, but I do say that they wasn’t in
my time. They be all very well for comers and trippers, an’ the like,
but not for a nice young lady like you. Them feet-folks from York and
Leeds that be always eatin’ cured herrin’s an’ drinkin’ tea an’ lookin’
out to buy cheap jet would creed aught. I wonder masel’ who’d be
bothered tellin’ lies to them—even the newspapers, which is full of
fool-talk.” I thought he would be a good person to learn interesting
things from, so I asked him if he would mind telling me something about
the whale-fishing in the old days. He was just settling himself to begin
when the clock struck six, whereupon he laboured to get up, and said:—

“I must gang ageeanwards home now, miss. My grand-daughter doesn’t like
to be kept waitin’ when the tea is ready, for it takes me time to
crammle aboon the grees, for there be a many of ’em; an’, miss, I lack
belly-timber sairly by the clock.”

He hobbled away, and I could see him hurrying, as well as he could, down
the steps. The steps are a great feature on the place. They lead from
the town up to the church, there are hundreds of them—I do not know how
many—and they wind up in a delicate curve; the slope is so gentle that
a horse could easily walk up and down them. I think they must originally
have had something to do with the abbey. I shall go home too. Lucy went
out visiting with her mother, and as they were only duty calls, I did
not go. They will be home by this.


1 August.—I came up here an hour ago with Lucy, and we had a most
interesting talk with my old friend and the two others who always come
and join him. He is evidently the Sir Oracle of them, and I should think
must have been in his time a most dictatorial person. He will not admit
anything, and downfaces everybody. If he can’t out-argue them he bullies
them, and then takes their silence for agreement with his views. Lucy
was looking sweetly pretty in her white lawn frock; she has got a
beautiful colour since she has been here. I noticed that the old men did
not lose any time in coming up and sitting near her when we sat down.
She is so sweet with old people; I think they all fell in love with her
on the spot. Even my old man succumbed and did not contradict her, but
gave me double share instead. I got him on the subject of the legends,
and he went off at once into a sort of sermon. I must try to remember it
and put it down:—

“It be all fool-talk, lock, stock, and barrel; that’s what it be, an’
nowt else. These bans an’ wafts an’ boh-ghosts an’ barguests an’ bogles
an’ all anent them is only fit to set bairns an’ dizzy women
a-belderin’. They be nowt but air-blebs. They, an’ all grims an’ signs
an’ warnin’s, be all invented by parsons an’ illsome beuk-bodies an’
railway touters to skeer an’ scunner hafflin’s, an’ to get folks to do
somethin’ that they don’t other incline to. It makes me ireful to think
o’ them. Why, it’s them that, not content with printin’ lies on paper
an’ preachin’ them out of pulpits, does want to be cuttin’ them on the
tombstones. Look here all around you in what airt ye will; all them
steans, holdin’ up their heads as well as they can out of their pride,
is acant—simply tumblin’ down with the weight o’ the lies wrote on
them, ‘Here lies the body’ or ‘Sacred to the memory’ wrote on all of
them, an’ yet in nigh half of them there bean’t no bodies at all; an’
the memories of them bean’t cared a pinch of snuff about, much less
sacred. Lies all of them, nothin’ but lies of one kind or another! My
gog, but it’ll be a quare scowderment at the Day of Judgment when they
come tumblin’ up in their death-sarks, all jouped together an’ tryin’ to
drag their tombsteans with them to prove how good they was; some of them
trimmlin’ and ditherin’, with their hands that dozzened an’ slippy from
lyin’ in the sea that they can’t even keep their grup o’ them.”

I could see from the old fellow’s self-satisfied air and the way in
which he looked round for the approval of his cronies that he was
“showing off,” so I put in a word to keep him going:—

“Oh, Mr. Swales, you can’t be serious. Surely these tombstones are not
all wrong?”

“Yabblins! There may be a poorish few not wrong, savin’ where they make
out the people too good; for there be folk that do think a balm-bowl be
like the sea, if only it be their own. The whole thing be only lies. Now
look you here; you come here a stranger, an’ you see this kirk-garth.” I
nodded, for I thought it better to assent, though I did not quite
understand his dialect. I knew it had something to do with the church.
He went on: “And you consate that all these steans be aboon folk that be
happed here, snod an’ snog?” I assented again. “Then that be just where
the lie comes in. Why, there be scores of these lay-beds that be toom as
old Dun’s ’bacca-box on Friday night.” He nudged one of his companions,
and they all laughed. “And my gog! how could they be otherwise? Look at
that one, the aftest abaft the bier-bank: read it!” I went over and

“Edward Spencelagh, master mariner, murdered by pirates off the coast of
Andres, April, 1854, æt. 30.” When I came back Mr. Swales went on:—

“Who brought him home, I wonder, to hap him here? Murdered off the coast
of Andres! an’ you consated his body lay under! Why, I could name ye a
dozen whose bones lie in the Greenland seas above”—he pointed
northwards—“or where the currents may have drifted them. There be the
steans around ye. Ye can, with your young eyes, read the small-print of
the lies from here. This Braithwaite Lowrey—I knew his father, lost in
the Lively off Greenland in ’20; or Andrew Woodhouse, drowned in the
same seas in 1777; or John Paxton, drowned off Cape Farewell a year
later; or old John Rawlings, whose grandfather sailed with me, drowned
in the Gulf of Finland in ’50. Do ye think that all these men will have
to make a rush to Whitby when the trumpet sounds? I have me antherums
aboot it! I tell ye that when they got here they’d be jommlin’ an’
jostlin’ one another that way that it ’ud be like a fight up on the ice
in the old days, when we’d be at one another from daylight to dark, an’
tryin’ to tie up our cuts by the light of the aurora borealis.” This was
evidently local pleasantry, for the old man cackled over it, and his
cronies joined in with gusto.

“But,” I said, “surely you are not quite correct, for you start on the
assumption that all the poor people, or their spirits, will have to
take their tombstones with them on the Day of Judgment. Do you think
that will be really necessary?”

“Well, what else be they tombstones for? Answer me that, miss!”

“To please their relatives, I suppose.”

“To please their relatives, you suppose!” This he said with intense
scorn. “How will it pleasure their relatives to know that lies is wrote
over them, and that everybody in the place knows that they be lies?” He
pointed to a stone at our feet which had been laid down as a slab, on
which the seat was rested, close to the edge of the cliff. “Read the
lies on that thruff-stean,” he said. The letters were upside down to me
from where I sat, but Lucy was more opposite to them, so she leant over
and read:—

“Sacred to the memory of George Canon, who died, in the hope of a
glorious resurrection, on July, 29, 1873, falling from the rocks at
Kettleness. This tomb was erected by his sorrowing mother to her dearly
beloved son. ‘He was the only son of his mother, and she was a widow.’
Really, Mr. Swales, I don’t see anything very funny in that!” She spoke
her comment very gravely and somewhat severely.

“Ye don’t see aught funny! Ha! ha! But that’s because ye don’t gawm the
sorrowin’ mother was a hell-cat that hated him because he was
acrewk’d—a regular lamiter he was—an’ he hated her so that he
committed suicide in order that she mightn’t get an insurance she put on
his life. He blew nigh the top of his head off with an old musket that
they had for scarin’ the crows with. ’Twarn’t for crows then, for it
brought the clegs and the dowps to him. That’s the way he fell off the
rocks. And, as to hopes of a glorious resurrection, I’ve often heard him
say masel’ that he hoped he’d go to hell, for his mother was so pious
that she’d be sure to go to heaven, an’ he didn’t want to addle where
she was. Now isn’t that stean at any rate”—he hammered it with his
stick as he spoke—“a pack of lies? and won’t it make Gabriel keckle
when Geordie comes pantin’ up the grees with the tombstean balanced on
his hump, and asks it to be took as evidence!”

I did not know what to say, but Lucy turned the conversation as she
said, rising up:—

“Oh, why did you tell us of this? It is my favourite seat, and I cannot
leave it; and now I find I must go on sitting over the grave of a

“That won’t harm ye, my pretty; an’ it may make poor Geordie gladsome to
have so trim a lass sittin’ on his lap. That won’t hurt ye. Why, I’ve
sat here off an’ on for nigh twenty years past, an’ it hasn’t done me
no harm. Don’t ye fash about them as lies under ye, or that doesn’ lie
there either! It’ll be time for ye to be getting scart when ye see the
tombsteans all run away with, and the place as bare as a stubble-field.
There’s the clock, an’ I must gang. My service to ye, ladies!” And off
he hobbled.

Lucy and I sat awhile, and it was all so beautiful before us that we
took hands as we sat; and she told me all over again about Arthur and
their coming marriage. That made me just a little heart-sick, for I
haven’t heard from Jonathan for a whole month.


The same day. I came up here alone, for I am very sad. There was no
letter for me. I hope there cannot be anything the matter with Jonathan.
The clock has just struck nine. I see the lights scattered all over the
town, sometimes in rows where the streets are, and sometimes singly;
they run right up the Esk and die away in the curve of the valley. To my
left the view is cut off by a black line of roof of the old house next
the abbey. The sheep and lambs are bleating in the fields away behind
me, and there is a clatter of a donkey’s hoofs up the paved road below.
The band on the pier is playing a harsh waltz in good time, and further
along the quay there is a Salvation Army meeting in a back street.
Neither of the bands hears the other, but up here I hear and see them
both. I wonder where Jonathan is and if he is thinking of me! I wish he
were here.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

5 June.—The case of Renfield grows more interesting the more I get to
understand the man. He has certain qualities very largely developed;
selfishness, secrecy, and purpose. I wish I could get at what is the
object of the latter. He seems to have some settled scheme of his own,
but what it is I do not yet know. His redeeming quality is a love of
animals, though, indeed, he has such curious turns in it that I
sometimes imagine he is only abnormally cruel. His pets are of odd
sorts. Just now his hobby is catching flies. He has at present such a
quantity that I have had myself to expostulate. To my astonishment, he
did not break out into a fury, as I expected, but took the matter in
simple seriousness. He thought for a moment, and then said: “May I have
three days? I shall clear them away.” Of course, I said that would do. I
must watch him.


18 June.—He has turned his mind now to spiders, and has got several
very big fellows in a box. He keeps feeding them with his flies, and
the number of the latter is becoming sensibly diminished, although he
has used half his food in attracting more flies from outside to his


1 July.—His spiders are now becoming as great a nuisance as his
flies, and to-day I told him that he must get rid of them. He looked
very sad at this, so I said that he must clear out some of them, at all
events. He cheerfully acquiesced in this, and I gave him the same time
as before for reduction. He disgusted me much while with him, for when a
horrid blow-fly, bloated with some carrion food, buzzed into the room,
he caught it, held it 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 note-book 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

“A kitten, a nice little, sleek playful kitten, that I can play with,
and teach, and feed—and feed—and feed!” I was not unprepared for this
request, for I had noticed how his pets went on increasing in size and
vivacity, but I did not care that his pretty family of tame sparrows
should be wiped out in the same manner as the flies and the spiders; so
I said I would see about it, and asked him if he would not rather have a
cat than a kitten. His eagerness betrayed him as he answered:—

“Oh, yes, I would like a cat! I only asked for a kitten lest you should
refuse me a cat. No one would refuse me a kitten, would they?” I shook
my head, and said that at present I feared it would not be possible, but
that I would see about it. His face fell, and I could see a warning of
danger in it, for there was a sudden fierce, sidelong look which meant
killing. The man is an undeveloped homicidal maniac. I shall test him
with his present craving and see how it will work out; then I shall know


10 p. m.—I have visited him again and found him sitting in a corner
brooding. When I came in he threw himself on his knees before me and
implored me to let him have a cat; that his salvation depended upon it.
I was firm, however, and told him that he could not have it, whereupon
he went without a word, and sat down, gnawing his fingers, in the corner
where I had found him. I shall see him in the morning early.


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


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


11 p. m.—I gave Renfield a strong opiate to-night, enough to make
even him sleep, and took away his pocket-book to look at it. The thought
that has been buzzing about my brain lately is complete, and the theory
proved. My homicidal maniac is of a peculiar kind. I shall have to
invent a new classification for him, and call him a zoöphagous
(life-eating) maniac; what he desires is to absorb as many lives as he
can, and he has laid himself out to achieve it in a cumulative way. He
gave many flies to one spider and many spiders to one bird, and then
wanted a cat to eat the many birds. What would have been his later
steps? It would almost be worth while to complete the experiment. It
might be done if there were only a sufficient cause. Men sneered at
vivisection, and yet look at its results to-day! Why not advance science
in its most difficult and vital aspect—the knowledge of the brain? Had
I even the secret of one such mind—did I hold the key to the fancy of
even one lunatic—I might advance my own branch of science to a pitch
compared with which Burdon-Sanderson’s physiology or Ferrier’s
brain-knowledge would be as nothing. If only there were a sufficient
cause! I must not think too much of this, or I may be tempted; a good
cause might turn the scale with me, for may not I too be of an
exceptional brain, congenitally?

How well the man reasoned; lunatics always do within their own scope. I
wonder at how many lives he values a man, or if at only one. He has
closed the account most accurately, and to-day begun a new record. How
many of us begin a new record with each day of our lives?

To me it seems only yesterday that my whole life ended with my new hope,
and that truly I began a new record. So it will be until the Great
Recorder sums me up and closes my ledger account with a balance to
profit or loss. Oh, Lucy, Lucy, I cannot be angry with you, nor can I be
angry with my friend whose happiness is yours; but I must only wait on
hopeless and work. Work! work!

If I only could have as strong a cause as my poor mad friend there—a
good, unselfish cause to make me work—that would be indeed happiness.

Mina Murray’s Journal.

26 July.—I am anxious, and it soothes me to express myself here; it
is like whispering to one’s self and listening at the same time. And
there is also something about the shorthand symbols that makes it
different from writing. I am unhappy about Lucy and about Jonathan. I
had not heard from Jonathan for some time, and was very concerned; but
yesterday dear Mr. Hawkins, who is always so kind, sent me a letter from
him. I had written asking him if he had heard, and he said the enclosed
had just been received. It is only a line dated from Castle Dracula,
and says that he is just starting for home. That is not like Jonathan;
I do not understand it, and it makes me uneasy. Then, too, Lucy,
although she is so well, has lately taken to her old habit of walking in
her sleep. Her mother has spoken to me about it, and we have decided
that I am to lock the door of our room every night. Mrs. Westenra has
got an idea that sleep-walkers always go out on roofs of houses and
along the edges of cliffs and then get suddenly wakened and fall over
with a despairing cry that echoes all over the place. Poor dear, she is
naturally anxious about Lucy, and she tells me that her husband, Lucy’s
father, had the same habit; that he would get up in the night and dress
himself and go out, if he were not stopped. Lucy is to be married in the
autumn, and she is already planning out her dresses and how her house is
to be arranged. I sympathise with her, for I do the same, only Jonathan
and I will start in life in a very simple way, and shall have to try to
make both ends meet. Mr. Holmwood—he is the Hon. Arthur Holmwood, only
son of Lord Godalming—is coming up here very shortly—as soon as he can
leave town, for his father is not very well, and I think dear Lucy is
counting the moments till he comes. She wants to take him up to the seat
on the churchyard cliff and show him the beauty of Whitby. I daresay it
is the waiting which disturbs her; she will be all right when he


27 July.—No news from Jonathan. I am getting quite uneasy about him,
though why I should I do not know; but I do wish that he would write, if
it were only a single line. Lucy walks more than ever, and each night I
am awakened by her moving about the room. Fortunately, the weather is so
hot that she cannot get cold; but still the anxiety and the perpetually
being wakened is beginning to tell on me, and I am getting nervous and
wakeful myself. Thank God, Lucy’s health keeps up. Mr. Holmwood has been
suddenly called to Ring to see his father, who has been taken seriously
ill. Lucy frets at the postponement of seeing him, but it does not touch
her looks; she is a trifle stouter, and her cheeks are a lovely
rose-pink. She has lost that anæmic look which she had. I pray it will
all last.


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

6 August.—Another three days, and no news. This suspense is getting
dreadful. If I only knew where to write to or where to go to, I should
feel easier; but no one has heard a word of Jonathan since that last
letter. I must only pray to God for patience. Lucy is more excitable
than ever, but is otherwise well. Last night was very threatening, and
the fishermen say that we are in for a storm. I must try to watch it and
learn the weather signs. To-day is a grey day, and the sun as I write is
hidden in thick clouds, high over Kettleness. Everything is grey—except
the green grass, which seems like emerald amongst it; grey earthy rock;
grey clouds, tinged with the sunburst at the far edge, hang over the
grey sea, into which the sand-points stretch like grey fingers. The sea
is tumbling in over the shallows and the sandy flats with a roar,
muffled in the sea-mists drifting inland. The horizon is lost in a grey
mist. All is vastness; the clouds are piled up like giant rocks, and
there is a “brool” over the sea that sounds like some presage of doom.
Dark figures are on the beach here and there, sometimes half shrouded in
the mist, and seem “men like trees walking.” The fishing-boats are
racing for home, and rise and dip in the ground swell as they sweep into
the harbour, bending to the scuppers. Here comes old Mr. Swales. He is
making straight for me, and I can see, by the way he lifts his hat, that
he wants to talk....

I have been quite touched by the change in the poor old man. When he sat
down beside me, he said in a very gentle way:—

“I want to say something to you, miss.” I could see he was not at ease,
so I took his poor old wrinkled hand in mine and asked him to speak
fully; so he said, leaving his hand in mine:—

“I’m afraid, my deary, that I must have shocked you by all the wicked
things I’ve been sayin’ about the dead, and 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;
an’ that’s why I’ve took to makin’ light of it, so that I’d cheer up my
own heart a bit. But, Lord love ye, miss, I ain’t afraid of dyin’, not a
bit; only I don’t want to die if I can help it. My time must be nigh at
hand now, for I be aud, and a hundred years is too much for any man to
expect; and I’m so nigh it that the Aud Man is already whettin’ his
scythe. Ye see, I can’t get out o’ the habit of caffin’ about it all at
once; the chafts will wag as they be used to. Some day soon the Angel of
Death will sound his trumpet for me. But don’t ye dooal an’ greet, my
deary!”—for he saw that I was crying—“if he should come this very
night I’d not refuse to answer his call. For life be, after all, only a
waitin’ for somethin’ else than what we’re doin’; and death be all that
we can rightly depend on. But I’m content, for it’s comin’ to me, my
deary, and comin’ quick. It may be comin’ while we be lookin’ and
wonderin’. Maybe it’s in that wind out over the sea that’s bringin’ with
it loss and wreck, and sore distress, and sad hearts. Look! look!” he
cried suddenly. “There’s something in that wind and in the hoast beyont
that sounds, and looks, and tastes, and smells like death. It’s in the
air; I feel it comin’. Lord, make me answer cheerful when my call
comes!” He held up his arms devoutly, and raised his hat. His mouth
moved as though he were praying. After a few minutes’ silence, he got
up, shook hands with me, and blessed me, and said good-bye, and hobbled
off. It all touched me, and upset me very much.

I was glad when the coastguard came along, with his spy-glass under his
arm. He stopped to talk with me, as he always does, but all the time
kept looking at a strange ship.

“I can’t make her out,” he said; “she’s a Russian, by the look of her;
but she’s knocking about in the queerest way. She doesn’t know her mind
a bit; she seems to see the storm coming, but can’t decide whether to
run up north in the open, or to put in here. Look there again! She is
steered mighty strangely, for she doesn’t mind the hand on the wheel;
changes about with every puff of wind. We’ll hear more of her before
this time to-morrow.



(Pasted in Mina Murray’s Journal.)

From a Correspondent.


ONE greatest and suddenest storms on record has just been
experienced here, with results both strange and unique. The weather had
been somewhat sultry, but not to any degree uncommon in the month of
August. Saturday evening was as fine as was ever known, and the great
body of holiday-makers laid out yesterday for visits to Mulgrave Woods,
Robin Hood’s Bay, Rig Mill, Runswick, Staithes, and the various trips in
the neighbourhood of Whitby. The steamers Emma and Scarborough made
trips up and down the coast, and there was an unusual amount of
“tripping” both to and from Whitby. The day was unusually fine till the
afternoon, when some of the gossips who frequent the East Cliff
churchyard, and from that commanding eminence watch the wide sweep of
sea visible to the north and east, called attention to a sudden show of
“mares’-tails” high in the sky to the north-west. The wind was then
blowing from the south-west in the mild degree which in barometrical
language is ranked “No. 2: light breeze.” The coastguard on duty at once
made report, and one old fisherman, who for more than half a century has
kept watch on weather signs from the East Cliff, foretold in an emphatic
manner the coming of a sudden storm. The approach of sunset was so very
beautiful, so grand in its masses of splendidly-coloured clouds, that
there was quite an assemblage on the walk along the cliff in the old
churchyard to enjoy the beauty. Before the sun dipped below the black
mass of Kettleness, standing boldly athwart the western sky, its
downward way was marked by myriad clouds of every sunset-colour—flame,
purple, pink, green, violet, and all the tints of gold; with here and
there masses not large, but of seemingly absolute blackness, in all
sorts of shapes, as well outlined as colossal silhouettes. The
experience was not lost on the painters, and doubtless some of the
sketches of the “Prelude to the Great Storm” will grace the R. A. and R.
I. walls in May next. More than one captain made up his mind then and
there that his “cobble” or his “mule,” as they term the different
classes of boats, would remain in the harbour till the storm had passed.
The wind fell away entirely during the evening, and at midnight there
was a dead calm, a sultry heat, and that prevailing intensity which, on
the approach of thunder, affects persons of a sensitive nature. There
were but few lights in sight at sea, for even the coasting steamers,
which usually “hug” the shore so closely, kept well to seaward, and but
few fishing-boats were in sight. The only sail noticeable was a foreign
schooner with all sails set, which was seemingly going westwards. The
foolhardiness or ignorance of her officers was a prolific theme for
comment whilst she remained in sight, and efforts were made to signal
her to reduce sail in face of her danger. Before the night shut down she
was seen with sails idly flapping as she gently rolled on the undulating
swell of the sea,

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

Shortly before ten o’clock the stillness of the air grew quite
oppressive, and the silence was so marked that the bleating of a sheep
inland or the barking of a dog in the town was distinctly heard, and the
band on the pier, with its lively French air, was like a discord in the
great harmony of nature’s silence. A little after midnight came a
strange sound from over the sea, and high overhead the air began to
carry a strange, faint, hollow booming.

Then without warning the tempest broke. With a rapidity which, at the
time, seemed incredible, and even afterwards is impossible to realize,
the whole aspect of nature at once became convulsed. The waves rose in
growing fury, each overtopping its fellow, till in a very few minutes
the lately glassy sea was like a roaring and devouring monster.
White-crested waves beat madly on the level sands and rushed up the
shelving cliffs; others broke over the piers, and with their spume swept
the lanthorns of the lighthouses which rise from the end of either pier
of Whitby Harbour. The wind roared like thunder, and blew with such
force that it was with difficulty that even strong men kept their feet,
or clung with grim clasp to the iron stanchions. It was found necessary
to clear the entire piers from the mass of onlookers, or else the
fatalities of the night would have been increased manifold. To add to
the difficulties and dangers of the time, masses of sea-fog came
drifting inland—white, wet clouds, which swept by in ghostly fashion,
so dank and damp and cold that it needed but little effort of
imagination to think that the spirits of those lost at sea were
touching their living brethren with the clammy hands of death, and many
a one shuddered as the wreaths of sea-mist swept by. At times the mist
cleared, and the sea for some distance could be seen in the glare of the
lightning, which now came thick and fast, followed by such sudden peals
of thunder that the whole sky overhead seemed trembling under the shock
of the footsteps of the storm.

Some of the scenes thus revealed were of immeasurable grandeur and of
absorbing interest—the sea, running mountains high, threw skywards with
each wave mighty masses of white foam, which the tempest seemed to
snatch at and whirl away into space; here and there a fishing-boat, with
a rag of sail, running madly for shelter before the blast; now and again
the white wings of a storm-tossed sea-bird. On the summit of the East
Cliff the new searchlight was ready for experiment, but had not yet been
tried. The officers in charge of it got it into working order, and in
the pauses of the inrushing mist swept with it the surface of the sea.
Once or twice its service was most effective, as when a fishing-boat,
with gunwale under water, rushed into the harbour, able, by the guidance
of the sheltering light, to avoid the danger of dashing against the
piers. As each boat achieved the safety of the port there was a shout of
joy from the mass of people on shore, a shout which for a moment seemed
to cleave the gale and was then swept away in its rush.

Before long the searchlight discovered some distance away a schooner
with all sails set, apparently the same vessel which had been noticed
earlier in the evening. The wind had by this time backed to the east,
and there was a shudder amongst the watchers on the cliff as they
realized the terrible danger in which she now was. Between her and the
port lay the great flat reef on which so many good ships have from time
to time suffered, and, with the wind blowing from its present quarter,
it would be quite impossible that she should fetch the entrance of the
harbour. It was now nearly the hour of high tide, but the waves were so
great that in their troughs the shallows of the shore were almost
visible, and the schooner, with all sails set, was rushing with such
speed that, in the words of one old salt, “she must fetch up somewhere,
if it was only in hell.” Then came another rush of sea-fog, greater than
any hitherto—a mass of dank mist, which seemed to close on all things
like a grey pall, and left available to men only the organ of hearing,
for the roar of the tempest, and the crash of the thunder, and the
booming of the mighty billows came through the damp oblivion even louder
than before. The rays of the searchlight were kept fixed on the harbour
mouth across the East Pier, where the shock was expected, and men waited
breathless. The wind suddenly shifted to the north-east, and the remnant
of the sea-fog melted in the blast; and then, mirabile dictu, between
the piers, leaping from wave to wave as it rushed at headlong speed,
swept the strange schooner before the blast, with all sail set, and
gained the safety of the harbour. The searchlight followed her, and a
shudder ran through all who saw her, for lashed to the helm was a
corpse, with drooping head, which swung horribly to and fro at each
motion of the ship. No other form could be seen on deck at all. A great
awe came on all as they 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 south-east corner of the pier jutting under the East
Cliff, known locally as Tate Hill Pier.

There was of course a considerable concussion as the vessel drove up on
the sand heap. Every spar, rope, and stay was strained, and some of the
“top-hammer” came crashing down. But, strangest of all, the very instant
the shore was touched, an immense dog sprang up on deck from below, as
if shot up by the concussion, and running forward, jumped from the bow
on the sand. Making straight for the steep cliff, where the churchyard
hangs over the laneway to the East Pier so steeply that some of the flat
tombstones—“thruff-steans” or “through-stones,” as they call them in
the Whitby vernacular—actually project over where the sustaining cliff
has fallen away, it disappeared in the darkness, which seemed
intensified just beyond the focus of the searchlight.

It so happened that there was no one at the moment on Tate Hill Pier, as
all those whose houses are in close proximity were either in bed or were
out on the heights above. Thus the coastguard on duty on the eastern
side of the harbour, who at once ran down to the little pier, was the
first to climb on board. The men working the searchlight, after scouring
the entrance of the harbour without seeing anything, then turned the
light on the derelict and kept it there. The coastguard ran aft, and
when he came beside the wheel, bent over to examine it, and recoiled at
once as though under some sudden emotion. This seemed to pique general
curiosity, and quite a number of people began to run. It is a good way
round from the West Cliff by the Drawbridge to Tate Hill Pier, but your
correspondent is a fairly good runner, and came well ahead of the crowd.
When I arrived, however, I found already assembled on the pier a crowd,
whom the coastguard and police refused to allow to come on board. By the
courtesy of the chief boatman, I was, as your correspondent, permitted
to climb on deck, and was one of a small group who saw the dead seaman
whilst actually lashed to the wheel.

It was no wonder that the coastguard was surprised, or even awed, for
not often can such a sight have been seen. The man was simply fastened
by his hands, tied one over the other, to a spoke of the wheel. Between
the inner hand and the wood was a crucifix, the set of beads on which it
was fastened being around both wrists and wheel, and all kept fast by
the binding cords. The poor fellow may have been seated at one time, but
the flapping and buffeting of the sails had worked through the rudder of
the wheel and dragged him to and fro, so that the cords with which he
was tied had cut the flesh to the bone. Accurate note was made of the
state of things, and a doctor—Surgeon J. M. Caffyn, of 33, East Elliot
Place—who came immediately after me, declared, after making
examination, that the man must have been dead for quite two days. In his
pocket was a bottle, carefully corked, empty save for a little roll of
paper, which proved to be the addendum to the log. The coastguard said
the man must have tied up his own hands, fastening the knots with his
teeth. The fact that a coastguard was the first on board may save some
complications, later on, in the Admiralty Court; for coastguards cannot
claim the salvage which is the right of the first civilian entering on a
derelict. Already, however, the legal tongues are wagging, and one young
law student is loudly asserting that the rights of the owner are already
completely sacrificed, his property being held in contravention of the
statutes of mortmain, since the tiller, as emblemship, if not proof, of
delegated possession, is held in a dead hand. It is needless to say
that the dead steersman has been reverently removed from the place where
he held his honourable watch and ward till death—a steadfastness as
noble as that of the young Casabianca—and placed in the mortuary to
await inquest.

Already the sudden storm is passing, and its fierceness is abating;
crowds are scattering homeward, and the sky is beginning to redden over
the Yorkshire wolds. I shall send, in time for your next issue, further
details of the derelict ship which found her way so miraculously into
harbour in the storm.


9 August.—The sequel to the strange arrival of the derelict in the
storm last night is almost more startling than the thing itself. It
turns out that the schooner is a Russian from Varna, and is called the
Demeter. She is almost entirely in ballast of silver sand, with only a
small amount of cargo—a number of great wooden boxes filled with mould.
This cargo was consigned to a Whitby solicitor, Mr. S. F. Billington, of
7, The Crescent, who this morning went aboard and formally took
possession of the goods consigned to him. The Russian consul, too,
acting for the charter-party, took formal possession of the ship, and
paid all harbour dues, etc. Nothing is talked about here to-day except
the strange coincidence; the officials of the Board of Trade have been
most exacting in seeing that every compliance has been made with
existing regulations. As the matter is to be a “nine days’ wonder,” they
are evidently determined that there shall be no cause of after
complaint. A good deal of interest was abroad concerning the dog which
landed when the ship struck, and more than a few of the members of the
S. P. C. A., which is very strong in Whitby, have tried to befriend the
animal. To the general disappointment, however, it was not to be found;
it seems to have disappeared entirely from the town. It may be that it
was frightened and made its way on to the moors, where it is still
hiding in terror. There are some who look with dread on such a
possibility, lest later on it should in itself become a danger, for it
is evidently a fierce brute. Early this morning a large dog, a half-bred
mastiff belonging to a coal merchant close to Tate Hill Pier, was found
dead in the roadway opposite to its master’s yard. It had been fighting,
and manifestly had had a savage opponent, for its throat was torn away,
and its belly was slit open as if with a savage claw.


Later.—By the kindness of the Board of Trade inspector, I have been
permitted to look over the 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 to-day produced
at the inquest; and a more strange narrative than the two between them
unfold it has not been my lot to come across. As there is no motive for
concealment, I am permitted to use them, and accordingly send you a
rescript, simply omitting technical details of seamanship and
supercargo. It almost seems as though the captain had been seized with
some kind of mania before he had got well into blue water, and that
this had developed persistently throughout the voyage. Of course my
statement must be taken cum grano, since I am writing from the
dictation of a clerk of the Russian consul, who kindly translated for
me, time being short.


Varna to Whitby.

Written 18 July, things so strange happening, that I shall keep
accurate note henceforth till we land.


On 6 July we finished taking in cargo, silver sand and boxes of earth.
At noon set sail. East wind, fresh. Crew, five hands ... two mates,
cook, and myself (captain).


On 11 July at dawn entered Bosphorus. Boarded by Turkish Customs
officers. Backsheesh. All correct. Under way at 4 p. m.


On 12 July through Dardanelles. More Customs officers and flagboat of
guarding squadron. Backsheesh again. Work of officers thorough, but
quick. Want us off soon. At dark passed into Archipelago.


On 13 July passed Cape Matapan. Crew dissatisfied about something.
Seemed scared, but would not speak out.


On 14 July was somewhat anxious about crew. Men all steady fellows, who
sailed with me before. Mate could not make out what was wrong; they only
told him there was something, and crossed themselves. Mate lost temper
with one of them that day and struck him. Expected fierce quarrel, but
all was quiet.


On 16 July mate reported in the morning that one of crew, Petrofsky, was
missing. Could not account for it. Took larboard watch eight bells last
night; was relieved by Abramoff, but did not go to bunk. Men more
downcast than ever. All said they expected something of the kind, but
would not say more than there was something aboard. Mate getting very
impatient with them; feared some trouble ahead.


On 17 July, yesterday, one of the men, Olgaren, came to my cabin, and in
an awestruck way confided to me that he thought there was a strange man
aboard the ship. He said that in his watch he had been sheltering
behind the deck-house, as there was a rain-storm, when he saw a tall,
thin man, who was not like any of the crew, come up the companion-way,
and go along the deck forward, and disappear. He followed cautiously,
but when he got to bows found no one, and the hatchways were all closed.
He was in a panic of superstitious fear, and I am afraid the panic may
spread. To allay it, I shall to-day search entire ship carefully from
stem to stern.


Later in the day I got together the whole crew, and told them, as they
evidently thought there was some one in the ship, we would search from
stem to stern. First mate angry; said it was folly, and to yield to such
foolish ideas would demoralise the men; said he would engage to keep
them out of trouble with a handspike. I let him take the helm, while the
rest began thorough search, all keeping abreast, with lanterns: we left
no corner unsearched. As there were only the big wooden boxes, there
were no odd corners where a man could hide. Men much relieved when
search over, and went back to work cheerfully. First mate scowled, but
said nothing.


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


24 July.—There seems some doom over this ship. Already a hand short,
and entering on the Bay of Biscay with wild weather ahead, and yet last
night another man lost—disappeared. Like the first, he came off his
watch and was not seen again. Men all in a panic of fear; sent a round
robin, asking to have double watch, as they fear to be alone. Mate
angry. Fear there will be some trouble, as either he or the men will do
some violence.


28 July.—Four days in hell, knocking about in a sort of maelstrom,
and the wind a tempest. No sleep for any one. Men all worn out. Hardly
know how to set a watch, since no one fit to go on. Second mate
volunteered to steer and watch, and let men snatch a few hours’ sleep.
Wind abating; seas still terrific, but feel them less, as ship is


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


30 July.—Last night. Rejoiced we are nearing England. Weather fine,
all sails set. Retired worn out; slept soundly; awaked by mate telling
me that both man of watch and steersman missing. Only self and mate and
two hands left to work ship.


1 August.—Two days of fog, and not a sail sighted. Had hoped when in
the English Channel to be able to signal for help or get in somewhere.
Not having power to work sails, have to run before wind. Dare not lower,
as could not raise them again. We seem to be drifting to some terrible
doom. Mate now more demoralised than either of men. His stronger nature
seems to have worked inwardly against himself. Men are beyond fear,
working stolidly and patiently, with minds made up to worst. They are
Russian, he Roumanian.


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


3 August.—At midnight I went to relieve the man at the wheel, and
when I got to it found no one there. The wind was steady, and as we ran
before it there was no yawing. I dared not leave it, so shouted for the
mate. After a few seconds he rushed up on deck in his flannels. He
looked wild-eyed and haggard, and I greatly fear his reason has given
way. He came close to me and whispered hoarsely, with his mouth to my
ear, as though fearing the very air might hear: “It is here; I know
it, now. On the watch last night I saw It, like a man, tall and thin,
and ghastly pale. It was in the bows, and looking out. I crept behind
It, and gave It my knife; but the knife went through It, empty as the
air.” And as he spoke he took his knife and drove it savagely into
space. Then he went on: “But It is here, and I’ll find It. It is in the
hold, perhaps in one of those boxes. I’ll unscrew them one by one and
see. You work the helm.” And, with a warning look and his finger on his
lip, he went below. There was springing up a choppy wind, and I could
not leave the helm. I saw him come out on deck again with a tool-chest
and a lantern, and go down the forward hatchway. He is mad, stark,
raving mad, and it’s no use my trying to stop him. He can’t hurt those
big boxes: they are invoiced as “clay,” and to pull them about is as
harmless a thing as he can do. So here I stay, and mind the helm, and
write these notes. I can only trust in God and wait till the fog clears.
Then, if I can’t steer to any harbour with the wind that is, I shall cut
down sails and lie by, and signal for help....


It is nearly all over now. Just as I was beginning to hope that the mate
would come out calmer—for I heard him knocking away at something in the
hold, and work is good for him—there came up the hatchway a sudden,
startled scream, which made my blood run cold, and up on the deck he
came as if shot from a gun—a raging madman, with his eyes rolling and
his face convulsed with fear. “Save me! save me!” he cried, and then
looked round on the blanket of fog. His horror turned to despair, and in
a steady voice he said: “You had better come too, captain, before it is
too late. He is there. I know the secret now. The sea will save me
from Him, and it is all that is left!” Before I could say a word, or
move forward to seize him, he sprang on the bulwark and deliberately
threw himself into the sea. I suppose I know the secret too, now. It was
this madman who had got rid of the men one by one, and now he has
followed them himself. God help me! How am I to account for all these
horrors when I get to port? When I get to port! Will that ever be?


4 August.—Still fog, which the sunrise cannot pierce. I know there is
sunrise because I am a sailor, why else I know not. I dared not go
below, I dared not leave the helm; so here all night I stayed, and in
the dimness of the night I saw It—Him! God forgive me, but the mate was
right to jump overboard. It was better to die like a man; to die like a
sailor in blue water no man can object. But I am captain, and I must not
leave my ship. But I shall baffle this fiend or monster, for I shall tie
my hands to the wheel when my strength begins to fail, and along with
them I shall tie that which He—It!—dare not touch; and then, come good
wind or foul, I shall save my soul, and my honour as a captain. I am
growing weaker, and the night is coming on. If He can look me in the
face again, I may not have time to act.... If we are wrecked, mayhap
this bottle may be found, and those who find it may understand; if not,
... well, then all men shall know that I have been true to my trust. God
and the Blessed Virgin and the saints help a poor ignorant soul trying
to do his duty....


Of course the verdict was an open one. There is no evidence to adduce;
and whether or not the man himself committed the murders there is now
none to say. The folk here hold almost universally that the captain is
simply a hero, and he is to be given a public funeral. Already it is
arranged that his body is to be taken with a train of boats up the Esk
for a piece and then brought back to Tate Hill Pier and up the abbey
steps; for he is to be buried in the churchyard on the cliff. The owners
of more than a hundred boats have already given in their names as
wishing to follow him to the grave.

No trace has ever been found of the great dog; at which there is much
mourning, for, with public opinion in its present state, he would, I
believe, be adopted by the town. To-morrow will see the funeral; and so
will end this one more “mystery of the sea.”

Mina Murray’s Journal.

8 August.—Lucy was very restless all night, and I, too, could not
sleep. The storm was fearful, and as it boomed loudly among the
chimney-pots, it made me shudder. When a sharp puff came it seemed to be
like a distant gun. Strangely enough, Lucy did not wake; but she got up
twice and dressed herself. Fortunately, each time I awoke in time and
managed to undress her without waking her, and got her back to bed. It
is a very strange thing, this sleep-walking, for as soon as her will is
thwarted in any physical way, her intention, if there be any,
disappears, and she yields herself almost exactly to the routine of her

Early in the morning we both got up and went down to the harbour to see
if anything had happened in the night. There were very few people about,
and though the sun was bright, and the air clear and fresh, the big,
grim-looking waves, that seemed dark themselves because the foam that
topped them was like snow, forced themselves in through the narrow mouth
of the harbour—like a bullying man going through a crowd. Somehow I
felt glad that Jonathan was not on the sea last night, but on land. But,
oh, is he on land or sea? Where is he, and how? I am getting fearfully
anxious about him. If I only knew what to do, and could do anything!


10 August.—The funeral of the poor sea-captain to-day was most
touching. Every boat in the harbour seemed to be there, and the coffin
was carried by captains all the way from Tate Hill Pier up to the
churchyard. Lucy came with me, and we went early to our old seat, whilst
the cortège of boats went up the river to the Viaduct and came down
again. We had a lovely view, and saw the procession nearly all the way.
The poor fellow was laid to rest quite near our seat so that we stood on
it when the time came and saw everything. Poor Lucy seemed much upset.
She was restless and uneasy all the time, and I cannot but think that
her dreaming at night is telling on her. She is quite odd in one thing:
she will not admit to me that there is any cause for restlessness; or if
there be, she does not understand it herself. There is an additional
cause in that poor old Mr. Swales was found dead this morning on our
seat, his neck being broken. He had evidently, as the doctor said,
fallen back in the seat in some sort of fright, for there was a look of
fear and horror on his face that the men said made them shudder. Poor
dear old man! Perhaps he had seen Death with his dying eyes! Lucy is so
sweet and sensitive that she feels influences more acutely than other
people do. Just now she was quite upset by a little thing which I did
not much heed, though I am myself very fond of animals. One of the men
who came up here often to look for the boats was followed by his dog.
The dog is always with him. They are both quiet persons, and I never saw
the man angry, nor heard the dog bark. During the service the dog would
not come to its master, who was on the seat with us, but kept a few
yards off, barking and howling. Its master spoke to it gently, and then
harshly, and then angrily; but it would neither come nor cease to make a
noise. It was in a sort of fury, with its eyes savage, and all its hairs
bristling out like a cat’s tail when puss is on the war-path. Finally
the man, too, got angry, and jumped down and kicked the dog, and then
took it by the scruff of the neck and half dragged and half threw it on
the tombstone on which the seat is fixed. The moment it touched the
stone the poor thing became quiet and fell all into a tremble. It did
not try to get away, but crouched down, quivering and cowering, and was
in such a pitiable state of terror that I tried, though without effect,
to comfort it. Lucy was full of pity, too, but she did not attempt to
touch the dog, but looked at it in an 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 to-night, 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 to-night. We had a lovely
walk. Lucy, after a while, was in gay spirits, owing, I think, to some
dear cows who came nosing towards us in a field close to the lighthouse,
and frightened the wits out of us. I believe we forgot everything
except, of course, personal fear, and it seemed to wipe the slate clean
and give us a fresh start. We had a capital “severe tea” at Robin Hood’s
Bay in a sweet little old-fashioned inn, with a bow-window right over
the seaweed-covered rocks of the strand. I believe we should have
shocked the “New Woman” with our appetites. Men are more tolerant, bless
them! Then we walked home with some, or rather many, stoppages to rest,
and with our hearts full of a constant dread of wild bulls. Lucy was
really tired, and we intended to creep off to bed as soon as we could.
The young curate came in, however, and Mrs. Westenra asked him to stay
for supper. Lucy and I had both a fight for it with the dusty miller; I
know it was a hard fight on my part, and I am quite heroic. I think that
some day the bishops must get together and see about breeding up a new
class of curates, who don’t take supper, no matter how they may be
pressed to, and who will know when girls are tired. Lucy is asleep and
breathing softly. She has more colour in her cheeks than usual, and
looks, oh, so sweet. If Mr. Holmwood fell in love with her seeing her
only in the drawing-room, I wonder what he would say if he saw her now.
Some of the “New Women” writers will some day start an idea that men and
women should be allowed to see each other asleep before proposing or
accepting. But I suppose the New Woman won’t condescend in future to
accept; she will do the proposing herself. And a nice job she will make
of it, too! There’s some consolation in that. I am so happy to-night,
because dear Lucy seems better. I really believe she has turned the
corner, and that we are over her troubles with dreaming. I should be
quite happy if I only knew if Jonathan.... God bless and keep him.


11 August, 3 a. m.—Diary again. No sleep now, so I may as well write.
I am too agitated to sleep. We have had such an adventure, such an
agonising experience. I fell asleep as soon as I had closed my diary....
Suddenly I became broad awake, and sat up, with a horrible sense of fear
upon me, and of some feeling of emptiness around me. The room was dark,
so I could not see Lucy’s bed; I stole across and felt for her. The bed
was empty. I lit a match and found that she was not in the room. The
door was shut, but not locked, as I had left it. I feared to wake her
mother, who has been more than usually ill lately, so threw on some
clothes and got ready to look for her. As I was leaving the room it
struck me that the clothes she wore might give me some clue to her
dreaming intention. Dressing-gown would mean house; dress, outside.
Dressing-gown and dress were both in their places. “Thank God,” I said
to myself, “she cannot be far, as she is only in her nightdress.” I ran
downstairs and looked in the sitting-room. Not there! Then I looked in
all the other open rooms of the house, with an ever-growing fear
chilling my heart. Finally I came to the hall door and found it open. It
was not wide open, but the catch of the lock had not caught. The people
of the house are careful to lock the door every night, so I feared that
Lucy must have gone out as she was. There was no time to think of what
might happen; a vague, overmastering fear obscured all details. I took a
big, heavy shawl and ran out. The clock was striking one as I was in the
Crescent, and there was not a soul in sight. I ran along the North
Terrace, but could see no sign of the white figure which I expected. At
the edge of the West Cliff above the pier I looked across the harbour to
the East Cliff, in the hope or fear—I don’t know which—of seeing Lucy
in our favourite seat. There was a bright full moon, with heavy black,
driving clouds, which threw the whole scene into a fleeting diorama of
light and shade as they sailed across. For a moment or two I could see
nothing, as the shadow of a cloud obscured St. Mary’s Church and all
around it. Then as the cloud passed I could see the ruins of the abbey
coming into view; and as the edge of a narrow band of light as sharp as
a sword-cut moved along, the church and the churchyard became gradually
visible. Whatever my expectation was, it was not disappointed, for
there, on our favourite seat, the silver light of the moon struck a
half-reclining figure, snowy white. The coming of the cloud was too
quick for me to see much, for shadow shut down on light almost
immediately; but it seemed to me as though something dark stood behind
the seat where the white figure shone, and bent over it. What it was,
whether man or beast, I could not tell; I did not wait to catch another
glance, but flew down the steep steps to the pier and along by the
fish-market to the bridge, which was the only way to reach the East
Cliff. The town seemed as dead, for not a soul did I see; I rejoiced
that it was so, for I wanted no witness of poor Lucy’s condition. The
time and distance seemed endless, and my knees trembled and my breath
came laboured as I toiled up the endless steps to the abbey. I must have
gone fast, and yet it seemed to me as if my feet were weighted with
lead, and as though every joint in my body were rusty. When I got almost
to the top I could see the seat and the white figure, for I was now
close enough to distinguish it even through the spells of shadow. There
was undoubtedly something, long and black, bending over the
half-reclining white figure. I called in fright, “Lucy! Lucy!” and
something raised a head, and from where I was I could see a white face
and red, gleaming eyes. Lucy did not answer, and I ran on to the
entrance of the churchyard. As I entered, the church was between me and
the seat, and for a minute or so I lost sight of her. When I came in
view again the cloud had passed, and the moonlight struck so brilliantly
that I could see Lucy half reclining with her head lying over the back
of the seat. She was quite alone, and there was not a sign of any living
thing about.

When I bent over her I could see that she was still asleep. Her lips
were parted, and she was breathing—not softly as usual with her, but in
long, heavy gasps, as though striving to get her lungs full at every
breath. As I came close, she put up her hand in her sleep and pulled the
collar of her nightdress close around her throat. Whilst she did so
there came a little shudder through her, as though she felt the cold. I
flung the warm shawl over her, and drew the edges tight round her neck,
for I dreaded lest she should get some deadly chill from the night air,
unclad as she was. I feared to wake her all at once, so, in order to
have my hands free that I might help her, I fastened the shawl at her
throat with a big safety-pin; but I must have been clumsy in my anxiety
and pinched or pricked her with it, for by-and-by, when her breathing
became quieter, she put her hand to her throat again and moaned. When I
had her carefully wrapped up I put my shoes on her feet and then began
very gently to wake her. At first she did not respond; but gradually she
became more and more uneasy in her sleep, moaning and sighing
occasionally. At last, as time was passing fast, and, for many other
reasons, I wished to get her home at once, I shook her more forcibly,
till finally she opened her eyes and awoke. She did not seem surprised
to see me, as, of course, she did not realise all at once where she was.
Lucy always wakes prettily, and even at such a time, when her body must
have been chilled with cold, and her mind somewhat appalled at waking
unclad in a churchyard at night, she did not lose her grace. She
trembled a little, and clung to me; when I told her to come at once with
me home she rose without a word, with the obedience of a child. As we
passed along, the gravel hurt my feet, and Lucy noticed me wince. She
stopped and wanted to insist upon my taking my shoes; but I would not.
However, when we got to the pathway outside the churchyard, where there
was a puddle of water, remaining from the storm, I daubed my feet with
mud, using each foot in turn on the other, so that as we went home, no
one, in case we should meet any one, should notice my bare feet.

Fortune favoured us, and we got home without meeting a soul. Once we saw
a man, who seemed not quite sober, passing along a street in front of
us; but we hid in a door till he had disappeared up an opening such as
there are here, steep little closes, or “wynds,” as they call them in
Scotland. My heart beat so loud all the time that sometimes I thought I
should faint. I was filled with anxiety about Lucy, not only for her
health, lest she should suffer from the exposure, but for her reputation
in case the story should get wind. When we got in, and had washed our
feet, and had said a prayer of thankfulness together, I tucked her into
bed. Before falling asleep she asked—even implored—me not to say a
word to any one, even her mother, about her sleep-walking adventure. I
hesitated at first to promise; but on thinking of the state of her
mother’s health, and how the knowledge of such a thing would fret her,
and thinking, too, of how such a story might become distorted—nay,
infallibly would—in case it should leak out, I thought it wiser to do
so. I hope I did right. I have locked the door, and the key is tied to
my wrist, so perhaps I shall not be again disturbed. Lucy is sleeping
soundly; the reflex of the dawn is high and far over the sea....


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


12 August.—My expectations were wrong, for twice during the night I
was wakened by Lucy trying to get out. She seemed, even in her sleep, to
be a little impatient at finding the door shut, and went back to bed
under a sort of protest. I woke with the dawn, and heard the birds
chirping outside of the window. Lucy woke, too, and, I was glad to see,
was even better than on the previous morning. All her old gaiety of
manner seemed to have come back, and she came and snuggled in beside me
and told me all about Arthur. I told her how anxious I was about
Jonathan, and then she tried to comfort me. Well, she succeeded
somewhat, for, though sympathy can’t alter facts, it can help to make
them more bearable.


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


14 August.—On the East Cliff, reading and writing all day. Lucy seems
to have become as much in love with the spot as I am, and it is hard to
get her away from it when it is time to come home for lunch or tea or
dinner. This afternoon she made a funny remark. We were coming home for
dinner, and had come to the top of the steps up from the West Pier and
stopped to look at the view, as we generally do. The setting sun, low
down in the sky, was just dropping behind Kettleness; the red light was
thrown over on the East Cliff and the old abbey, and seemed to bathe
everything in a beautiful rosy glow. We were silent for a while, and
suddenly Lucy murmured as if to herself:—

“His red eyes again! They are just the same.” It was such an odd
expression, coming apropos of nothing, that it quite startled me. I
slewed round a little, so as to see Lucy well without seeming to stare
at her, and saw that she was in a half-dreamy state, with an odd look on
her face that I could not quite make out; so I said nothing, but
followed her eyes. She appeared to be looking over at our own seat,
whereon was a dark figure seated alone. I was a little startled myself,
for it seemed for an instant as if the stranger had great eyes like
burning flames; but a second look dispelled the illusion. The red
sunlight was shining on the windows of St. Mary’s Church behind our
seat, and as the sun dipped there was just sufficient change in the
refraction and reflection to make it appear as if the light moved. I
called Lucy’s attention to the peculiar effect, and she became herself
with a start, but she looked sad all the same; it may have been that she
was thinking of that terrible night up there. We never refer to it; so I
said nothing, and we went home to dinner. Lucy had a headache and went
early to bed. I saw her asleep, and went out for a little stroll myself;
I walked along the cliffs to the westward, and was full of sweet
sadness, for I was thinking of Jonathan. When coming home—it was then
bright moonlight, so bright that, though the front of our part of the
Crescent was in shadow, everything could be well seen—I threw a glance
up at our window, and saw Lucy’s head leaning out. I thought that
perhaps she was looking out for me, so I opened my handkerchief and
waved it. She did not notice or make any movement whatever. Just then,
the moonlight crept round an angle of the building, and the light fell
on the window. There distinctly was Lucy with her head lying up against
the side of the window-sill and her eyes shut. She was fast asleep, and
by her, seated on the window-sill, was something that looked like a
good-sized bird. I was afraid she might get a chill, so I ran upstairs,
but as I came into the room she was moving back to her bed, fast
asleep, and breathing heavily; she was holding her hand to her throat,
as though to protect it from cold.

I did not wake her, but tucked her up warmly; I have taken care that the
door is locked and the window securely fastened.

She looks so sweet as she sleeps; but she is paler than is her wont, and
there is a drawn, haggard look under her eyes which I do not like. I
fear she is fretting about something. I wish I could find out what it


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 as weak as water, and cried silently between long,
painful struggles for breath. When I asked her how she came to be at the
window she shook her head and turned away. I trust her feeling ill may
not be from that unlucky prick of the safety-pin. I looked at her throat
just now as she lay asleep, and the tiny wounds seem not to have healed.
They are still open, and, if anything, larger than before, and the
edges of them are faintly white. They are like little white dots with
red centres. Unless they heal within a day or two, I shall insist on the
doctor seeing about them.

Letter, Samuel F. Billington & Son, Solicitors, Whitby, to Messrs.
Carter, Paterson & Co., London.

17 August.

“Dear Sirs,—

“Herewith please receive invoice of goods sent by Great Northern
Railway. Same are to be delivered at Carfax, near Purfleet, immediately
on receipt at goods station King’s Cross. The house is at present empty,
but enclosed please find keys, all of which are labelled.

“You will please deposit the boxes, fifty in number, which form the
consignment, in the partially ruined building forming part of the house
and marked ‘A’ on rough diagram enclosed. Your agent will easily
recognise the locality, as it is the ancient chapel of the mansion. The
goods leave by the train at 9:30 to-night, and will be due at King’s
Cross at 4:30 to-morrow afternoon. As our client wishes the delivery
made as soon as possible, we shall be obliged by your having teams ready
at King’s Cross at the time named and forthwith conveying the goods to
destination. In order to obviate any delays possible through any routine
requirements as to payment in your departments, we enclose cheque
herewith for ten pounds (£10), receipt of which please acknowledge.
Should the charge be less than this amount, you can return balance; if
greater, we shall at once send cheque for difference on hearing from
you. You are to leave the keys on coming away in the main hall of the
house, where the proprietor may get them on his entering the house by
means of his duplicate key.

“Pray do not take us as exceeding the bounds of business courtesy in
pressing you in all ways to use the utmost expedition.

“We are, dear Sirs,

“Faithfully yours,

Samuel F. Billington & Son.”

Letter, Messrs. Carter, Paterson & Co., London, to Messrs. Billington &
Son, Whitby.

21 August.

“Dear Sirs,—

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

“We are, dear Sirs,

“Yours respectfully.

Pro Carter, Paterson & Co.

Mina Murray’s Journal.

18 August.—I am happy to-day, and write sitting on the seat in the
churchyard. Lucy is ever so much better. Last night she slept well all
night, and did not disturb me once. The roses seem coming back already
to her cheeks, though she is still sadly pale and wan-looking. If she
were in any way anæmic I could understand it, but she is not. She is in
gay spirits and full of life and cheerfulness. All the morbid reticence
seems to have passed from her, and she has just reminded me, as if I
needed any reminding, of that night, and that it was here, on this
very seat, I found her asleep. As she told me she tapped playfully with
the heel of her boot on the stone slab and said:—

“My poor little feet didn’t make much noise then! I daresay poor old Mr.
Swales would have told me that it was because I didn’t want to wake up
Geordie.” As she was in such a communicative humour, I asked her if she
had dreamed at all that night. Before she answered, that sweet, puckered
look came into her forehead, which Arthur—I call him Arthur from her
habit—says he loves; and, indeed, I don’t wonder that he does. Then she
went on in a half-dreaming kind of way, as if trying to recall it to

“I didn’t quite dream; but it all seemed to be real. I only wanted to be
here in this spot—I don’t know why, for I was afraid of something—I
don’t know what. I remember, though I suppose I was asleep, passing
through the streets and over the bridge. A fish leaped as I went by, and
I leaned over to look at it, and I heard a lot of dogs howling—the
whole town seemed as if it must be full of dogs all howling at once—as
I went up the steps. Then I had a vague memory of something long and
dark with red eyes, just as we saw in the sunset, and something very
sweet and very bitter all around me at once; and then I seemed sinking
into deep green water, and there was a singing in my ears, as I have
heard there is to drowning men; and then everything seemed passing away
from me; my soul seemed to go out from my body and float about the air.
I seem to remember that once the West Lighthouse was right under me,
and then there was a sort of agonising feeling, as if I were in an
earthquake, and I came back and found you shaking my body. I saw you do
it before I felt you.”

Then she began to laugh. It seemed a little uncanny to me, and I
listened to her breathlessly. I did not quite like it, and thought it
better not to keep her mind on the subject, so we drifted on to other
subjects, and Lucy was like her old self again. When we got home the
fresh breeze had braced her up, and her pale cheeks were really more
rosy. Her mother rejoiced when she saw her, and we all spent a very
happy evening together.


19 August.—Joy, joy, joy! although not all joy. At last, news of
Jonathan. The dear fellow has been ill; that is why he did not write. I
am not afraid to think it or say it, now that I know. Mr. Hawkins sent
me on the letter, and wrote himself, oh, so kindly. I am to leave in the
morning and go over to Jonathan, and to help to nurse him if necessary,
and to bring him home. Mr. Hawkins says it would not be a bad thing if
we were to be married out there. I have cried over the good Sister’s
letter till I can feel it wet against my bosom, where it lies. It is of
Jonathan, and must be next my heart, for he is in my heart. My journey
is all mapped out, and my luggage ready. I am only taking one change of
dress; Lucy will bring my trunk to London and keep it till I send for
it, for it may be that ... I must write no more; I must keep it to say
to Jonathan, my husband. The letter that he has seen and touched must
comfort me till we meet.

Letter, Sister Agatha, Hospital of St. Joseph and Ste. Mary,
Buda-Pesth, to Miss Wilhelmina Murray.

12 August.

“Dear Madam,—

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

“Believe me,

“Yours, with sympathy and all blessings,

Sister Agatha.

“P. S.—My patient being asleep, I open this to let you know something
more. He has told me all about you, and that you are shortly to be his
wife. All blessings to you both! He has had some fearful shock—so says
our doctor—and in his delirium his ravings have been dreadful; of
wolves and poison and blood; of ghosts and demons; and I fear to say of
what. Be careful with him always that there may be nothing to excite him
of this kind for a long time to come; the traces of such an illness as
his do not lightly die away. We should have written long ago, but we
knew nothing of his friends, and there was on him nothing that any one
could understand. He came in the train from Klausenburg, and the guard
was told by the station-master there that he rushed into the station
shouting for a ticket for home. Seeing from his violent demeanour that
he was English, they gave him a ticket for the furthest station on the
way thither that the train reached.

“Be assured that he is well cared for. He has won all hearts by his
sweetness and gentleness. He is truly getting on well, and I have no
doubt will in a few weeks be all himself. But be careful of him for
safety’s sake. There are, I pray God and St. Joseph and Ste. Mary, many,
many, happy years for you both.”

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

19 August.—Strange and sudden change in Renfield last night. About
eight o’clock he began to get excited and sniff about as a dog does when
setting. The attendant was struck by his manner, and knowing my interest
in him, encouraged him to talk. He is usually respectful to the
attendant and at times servile; but to-night, 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

The attendant thinks it is some sudden form of religious mania which has
seized him. If so, we must look out for squalls, for a strong man with
homicidal and religious mania at once might be dangerous. The
combination is a dreadful one. At nine o’clock I visited him myself. His
attitude to me was the same as that to the attendant; in his sublime
self-feeling the difference between myself and attendant seemed to him
as nothing. It looks like religious mania, and he will soon think that
he himself is God. These infinitesimal distinctions between man and man
are too paltry for an Omnipotent Being. How these madmen give themselves
away! The real God taketh heed lest a sparrow fall; but the God created
from human vanity sees no difference between an eagle and a sparrow. Oh,
if men only knew!

For half an hour or more Renfield kept getting excited in greater and
greater degree. I did not pretend to be watching him, but I kept strict
observation all the same. All at once that shifty look came into his
eyes which we always see when a madman has seized an idea, and with it
the shifty movement of the head and back which asylum attendants come to
know so well. He became quite quiet, and went and sat on the edge of his
bed resignedly, and looked into space with lack-lustre 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 note-book 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 to-night and low in spirits. I cannot but think of Lucy, and
how different things might have been. If I don’t sleep at once, chloral,
the modern Morpheus—C2HCl3O. H2O! I must be careful not to let
it grow into a habit. No, I shall take none to-night! I have thought of
Lucy, and I shall not dishonour her by mixing the two. If need be,
to-night shall be sleepless....


Later.—Glad I made the resolution; gladder that I kept to it. I had
lain tossing about, and had heard the clock strike only twice, when the
night-watchman came to me, sent up from the ward, to say that Renfield
had escaped. I threw on my clothes and ran down at once; my patient is
too dangerous a person to be roaming about. Those ideas of his might
work out dangerously with strangers. The attendant was waiting for me.
He said he had seen him not ten minutes before, seemingly asleep in his
bed, when he had looked through the observation-trap in the door. His
attention was called by the sound of the window being wrenched out. He
ran back and saw his feet disappear through the window, and had at once
sent up for me. He was only in his night-gear, and cannot be far off.
The attendant thought it would be more useful to watch where he should
go than to follow him, as he might lose sight of him whilst getting out
of the building by the door. He is a bulky man, and couldn’t get through
the window. I am thin, so, with his aid, I got out, but feet foremost,
and, as we were only a few feet above ground, landed unhurt. The
attendant told me the patient had gone to the left, and had taken a
straight line, so I ran as quickly as I could. As I got through the belt
of trees I saw a white figure scale the high wall which separates our
grounds from those of the deserted house.

I ran back at once, told the watchman to get three or four men
immediately and follow me into the grounds of Carfax, in case our friend
might be dangerous. I got a ladder myself, and crossing the wall,
dropped down on the other side. I could see Renfield’s figure just
disappearing behind the angle of the house, so I ran after him. On the
far side of the house I found him pressed close against the old
ironbound oak door of the chapel. He was talking, apparently to some
one, but I was afraid to go near enough to hear what he was saying, lest
I might frighten him, and he should run off. Chasing an errant swarm of
bees is nothing to following a naked lunatic, when the fit of escaping
is upon him! After a few minutes, however, I could see that he did not
take note of anything around him, and so ventured to draw nearer to
him—the more so as my men had now crossed the wall and were closing him
in. I heard him say:—

“I am here to do Your bidding, Master. I am Your slave, and You will
reward me, for I shall be faithful. I have worshipped You long and afar
off. Now that You are near, I await Your commands, and You will not pass
me by, will You, dear Master, in Your distribution of good things?”

He is a selfish old beggar anyhow. He thinks of the loaves and fishes
even when he believes he is in a Real Presence. His manias make a
startling combination. When we closed in on him he fought like a tiger.
He is immensely strong, for he was more like a wild beast than a man. I
never saw a lunatic in such a paroxysm of rage before; and I hope I
shall not again. It is a mercy that we have found out his strength and
his danger in good time. With strength and determination like his, he
might have done wild work before he was caged. He is safe now at any
rate. Jack Sheppard himself couldn’t get free from the strait-waistcoat
that keeps him restrained, and he’s chained to the wall in the padded
room. His cries are at times awful, but the silences that follow are
more deadly still, for he means murder in every turn and movement.

Just now he spoke coherent words for the first time:—

“I shall be patient, Master. It is coming—coming—coming!”

So I took the hint, and came too. I was too excited to sleep, but this
diary has quieted me, and I feel I shall get some sleep to-night.


Letter, Mina Harker to Lucy Westenra.

Buda-Pesth, 24 August.

“My dearest Lucy,—

“I know you will be anxious to hear all that has happened since we
parted at the railway station at Whitby. Well, my dear, I got to Hull
all right, and caught the boat to Hamburg, and then the train on here. I
feel that I can hardly recall anything of the journey, except that I
knew I was coming to Jonathan, and, that as I should have to do some
nursing, I had better get all the sleep I could.... I found my dear one,
oh, so thin and pale and weak-looking. All the resolution has gone out
of his dear eyes, and that quiet dignity which I told you was in his
face has vanished. He is only a wreck of himself, and he does not
remember anything that has happened to him for a long time past. At
least, he wants me to believe so, and I shall never ask. He has had some
terrible shock, and I fear it might tax his poor brain if he were to try
to recall it. Sister Agatha, who is a good creature and a born nurse,
tells me that he raved of dreadful things whilst he was off his head. I
wanted her to tell me what they were; but she would only cross herself,
and say she would never tell; that the ravings of the sick were the
secrets of God, and that if a nurse through her vocation should hear
them, she should respect her trust. She is a sweet, good soul, and the
next day, when she saw I was troubled, she opened up the subject again,
and after saying that she could never mention what my poor dear raved
about, added: ‘I can tell you this much, my dear: that it was not about
anything which he has done wrong himself; and you, as his wife to be,
have no cause to be concerned. He has not forgotten you or what he owes
to you. His fear was of great and terrible things, which no mortal can
treat of.’ I do believe the dear soul thought I might be jealous lest my
poor dear should have fallen in love with any other girl. The idea of
my being jealous about Jonathan! And yet, my dear, let me whisper, I
felt a thrill of joy through me when I knew that no other woman was a
cause of trouble. I am now sitting by his bedside, where I can see his
face while he sleeps. He is waking!...

“When he woke he asked me for his coat, as he wanted to get something
from the pocket; I asked Sister Agatha, and she brought all his things.
I saw that amongst them was his note-book, and was going to ask him to
let me look at it—for I knew then that I might find some clue to his
trouble—but I suppose he must have seen my wish in my eyes, for he sent
me over to the window, saying he wanted to be quite alone for a moment.
Then he called me back, and when I came he had his hand over the
note-book, and he said to me very solemnly:—

“ ‘Wilhelmina’—I knew then that he was in deadly earnest, for he has
never called me by that name since he asked me to marry him—‘you know,
dear, my ideas of the trust between husband and wife: there should be no
secret, no concealment. I have had a great shock, and when I try to
think of what it is I feel my head spin round, and I do not know if it
was all real or the dreaming of a madman. You know I have had brain
fever, and that is to be mad. The secret is here, and I do not want to
know it. I want to take up my life here, with our marriage.’ For, my
dear, we had decided to be married as soon as the formalities are
complete. ‘Are you willing, Wilhelmina, to share my ignorance? Here is
the book. Take it and keep it, read it if you will, but never let me
know; unless, indeed, some solemn duty should come upon me to go back to
the bitter hours, asleep or awake, sane or mad, recorded here.’ He fell
back exhausted, and I put the book under his pillow, and kissed him. I
have asked Sister Agatha to beg the Superior to let our wedding be this
afternoon, and am waiting her reply....


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


“Lucy, the time has come and gone. I feel very solemn, but very, very
happy. Jonathan woke a little after the hour, and all was ready, and he
sat up in bed, propped up with pillows. He answered his ‘I will’ firmly
and strongly. I could hardly speak; my heart was so full that even those
words seemed to choke me. The dear sisters were so kind. Please God, I
shall never, never forget them, nor the grave and sweet responsibilities
I have taken upon me. I must tell you of my wedding present. When the
chaplain and the sisters had left me alone with my husband—oh, Lucy, it
is the first time I have written the words ‘my husband’—left me alone
with my husband, I took the book from under his pillow, and wrapped it
up in white paper, and tied it with a little bit of pale blue ribbon
which was round my neck, and sealed it over the knot with sealing-wax,
and for my seal I used my wedding ring. Then I kissed it and showed it
to my husband, and told him that I would keep it so, and then it would
be an outward and visible sign for us all our lives that we trusted each
other; that I would never open it unless it were for his own dear sake
or for the sake of some stern duty. Then he took my hand in his, and oh,
Lucy, it was the first time he took his wife’s hand, and said that it
was the dearest thing in all the wide world, and that he would go
through all the past again to win it, if need be. The poor dear meant to
have said a part of the past, but he cannot think of time yet, and I
shall not wonder if at first he mixes up not only the month, but the

“Well, my dear, what could I say? I could only tell him that I was the
happiest woman in all the wide world, and that I had nothing to give him
except myself, my life, and my trust, and that with these went my love
and duty for all the days of my life. And, my dear, when he kissed me,
and drew me to him with his poor weak hands, it was like a very solemn
pledge between us....

“Lucy dear, do you know why I tell you all this? It is not only because
it is all sweet to me, but because you have been, and are, very dear to
me. It was my privilege to be your friend and guide when you came from
the schoolroom to prepare for the world of life. I want you to see now,
and with the eyes of a very happy wife, whither duty has led me; so that
in your own married life you too may be all happy as I am. My dear,
please Almighty God, your life may be all it promises: a long day of
sunshine, with no harsh wind, no forgetting duty, no distrust. I must
not wish you no pain, for that can never be; but I do hope you will be
always as happy as I am now. Good-bye, my dear. I shall post this at
once, and, perhaps, write you very soon again. I must stop, for Jonathan
is waking—I must attend to my husband!

“Your ever-loving

Mina Harker.”

Letter, Lucy Westenra to Mina Harker.

Whitby, 30 August.

“My dearest Mina,—

“Oceans of love and millions of kisses, and may you soon be in your own
home with your husband. I wish you could be coming home soon enough to
stay with us here. The strong air would soon restore Jonathan; it has
quite restored me. I have an appetite like a cormorant, am full of
life, and sleep well. You will be glad to know that I have quite given
up walking in my sleep. I think I have not stirred out of my bed for a
week, that is when I once got into it at night. Arthur says I am getting
fat. By the way, I forgot to tell you that Arthur is here. We have such
walks and drives, and rides, and rowing, and tennis, and fishing
together; and I love him more than ever. He tells me that he loves me
more, but I doubt that, for at first he told me that he couldn’t love me
more than he did then. But this is nonsense. There he is, calling to me.
So no more just at present from your loving


“P. S.—Mother sends her love. She seems better, poor dear.

“P. P. S.—We are to be married on 28 September.”

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

20 August.—The case of Renfield grows even more interesting. He has
now so far quieted that there are spells of cessation from his passion.
For the first week after his attack he was perpetually violent. Then one
night, just as the moon rose, he grew quiet, and kept murmuring to
himself: “Now I can wait; now I can wait.” The attendant came to tell
me, so I ran down at once to have a look at him. He was still in the
strait-waistcoat and in the padded room, but the suffused look had gone
from his face, and his eyes had something of their old pleading—I might
almost say, “cringing”—softness. I was satisfied with his present
condition, and directed him to be relieved. The attendants hesitated,
but finally carried out my wishes without protest. It was a strange
thing that the patient had humour enough to see their distrust, for,
coming close to me, he said in a whisper, all the while looking
furtively at them:—

“They think I could hurt you! Fancy me hurting you! The fools!”

It was soothing, somehow, to the feelings to find myself dissociated
even in the mind of this poor madman from the others; but all the same I
do not follow his thought. Am I to take it that I have anything in
common with him, so that we are, as it were, to stand together; or has
he to gain from me some good so stupendous that my well-being is needful
to him? I must find out later on. To-night he will not speak. Even the
offer of a kitten or even a full-grown cat will not tempt him. He will
only say: “I don’t take any stock in cats. I have more to think of now,
and I can wait; I can wait.”

After a while I left him. The attendant tells me that he was quiet
until just before dawn, and that then he began to get uneasy, and at
length violent, until at last he fell into a paroxysm which exhausted
him so that he swooned into a sort of coma.


... Three nights has the same thing happened—violent all day then quiet
from moonrise to sunrise. I wish I could get some clue to the cause. It
would almost seem as if there was some influence which came and went.
Happy thought! We shall to-night play sane wits against mad ones. He
escaped before without our help; to-night he shall escape with it. We
shall give him a chance, and have the men ready to follow in case they
are required....


23 August.—“The unexpected always happens.” How well Disraeli knew
life. Our bird when he found the cage open would not fly, so all our
subtle arrangements were for nought. At any rate, we have proved one
thing; that the spells of quietness last a reasonable time. We shall in
future be able to ease his bonds for a few hours each day. I have given
orders to the night attendant merely to shut him in the padded room,
when once he is quiet, until an hour before sunrise. The poor soul’s
body will enjoy the relief even if his mind cannot appreciate it. Hark!
The unexpected again! I am called; the patient has once more escaped.


Later.—Another night adventure. Renfield artfully waited until the
attendant was entering the room to inspect. Then he dashed out past him
and flew down the passage. I sent word for the attendants to follow.
Again he went into the grounds of the deserted house, and we found him
in the same place, pressed against the old chapel door. When he saw me
he became furious, and had not the attendants seized him in time, he
would have tried to kill me. As we were holding him a strange thing
happened. He suddenly redoubled his efforts, and then as suddenly grew
calm. I looked round instinctively, but could see nothing. Then I caught
the patient’s eye and followed it, but could trace nothing as it looked
into the moonlit sky except a big bat, which was flapping its silent and
ghostly way to the west. Bats usually wheel and flit about, but this one
seemed to go straight on, as if it knew where it was bound for or had
some intention of its own. The patient grew calmer every instant, and
presently said:—

“You needn’t tie me; I shall go quietly!” Without trouble we came back
to the house. I feel there is something ominous in his calm, and shall
not forget this night....

Lucy Westenra’s Diary

Hillingham, 24 August.—I must imitate Mina, and keep writing things
down. Then we can have long talks when we do meet. I wonder when it will
be. I wish she were with me again, for I feel so unhappy. Last night I
seemed to be dreaming again just as I was at Whitby. Perhaps it is the
change of air, or getting home again. It is all dark and horrid to me,
for I can remember nothing; but I am full of vague fear, and I feel so
weak and worn out. When Arthur came to lunch he looked quite grieved
when he saw me, and I hadn’t the spirit to try to be cheerful. I wonder
if I could sleep in mother’s room to-night. I shall make an excuse and


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

Letter, Arthur Holmwood to Dr. Seward.

Albemarle Hotel, 31 August.

“My dear Jack,—

“I want you to do me a favour. Lucy is ill; that is, she has no special
disease, but she looks awful, and is getting worse every day. I have
asked her if there is any cause; I do not dare to ask her mother, for to
disturb the poor lady’s mind about her daughter in her present state of
health would be fatal. Mrs. Westenra has confided to me that her doom is
spoken—disease of the heart—though poor Lucy does not know it yet. I
am sure that there is something preying on my dear girl’s mind. I am
almost distracted when I think of her; to look at her gives me a pang. I
told her I should ask you to see her, and though she demurred at
first—I know why, old fellow—she finally consented. It will be a
painful task for you, I know, old friend, but it is for her sake, and
I must not hesitate to ask, or you to act. You are to come to lunch at
Hillingham to-morrow, two o’clock, so as not to arouse any suspicion in
Mrs. Westenra, and after lunch Lucy will take an opportunity of being
alone with you. I shall come in for tea, and we can go away together; I
am filled with anxiety, and want to consult with you alone as soon as I
can after you have seen her. Do not fail!


Telegram, Arthur Holmwood to Seward.

1 September.

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

Letter from Dr. Seward to Arthur Holmwood.

2 September.

“My dear old fellow,—

“With regard to Miss Westenra’s health I hasten to let you know at once
that in my opinion there is not any functional disturbance or any malady
that I know of. At the same time, I am not by any means satisfied with
her appearance; she is woefully different from what she was when I saw
her last. Of course you must bear in mind that I did not have full
opportunity of examination such as I should wish; our very friendship
makes a little difficulty which not even medical science or custom can
bridge over. I had better tell you exactly what happened, leaving you to
draw, in a measure, your own conclusions. I shall then say what I have
done and propose doing.

“I found Miss Westenra in seemingly gay spirits. Her mother was present,
and in a few seconds I made up my mind that she was trying all she knew
to mislead her mother and prevent her from being anxious. I have no
doubt she guesses, if she does not know, what need of caution there is.
We lunched alone, and as we all exerted ourselves to be cheerful, we
got, as some kind of reward for our labours, some real cheerfulness
amongst us. Then Mrs. Westenra went to lie down, and Lucy was left with
me. We went into her boudoir, and till we got there her gaiety remained,
for the servants were coming and going. As soon as the door was closed,
however, the mask fell from her face, and she sank down into a chair
with a great sigh, and hid her eyes with her hand. When I saw that her
high spirits had failed, I at once took advantage of her reaction to
make a diagnosis. She said to me very sweetly:—

“ ‘I cannot tell you how I loathe talking about myself.’ I reminded her
that a doctor’s confidence was sacred, but that you were grievously
anxious about her. She caught on to my meaning at once, and settled that
matter in a word. ‘Tell Arthur everything you choose. I do not care for
myself, but all for him!’ So I am quite free.

“I could easily see that she is somewhat bloodless, but I could not see
the usual anæmic signs, and by a chance I was actually able to test the
quality of her blood, for in opening a window which was stiff a cord
gave way, and she cut her hand slightly with broken glass. It was a
slight matter in itself, but it gave me an evident chance, and I secured
a few drops of the blood and have analysed them. The qualitative
analysis gives a quite normal condition, and shows, I should infer, in
itself a vigorous state of health. In other physical matters I was quite
satisfied that there is no need for anxiety; but as there must be a
cause somewhere, I have come to the conclusion that it must be something
mental. She complains of difficulty in breathing satisfactorily at
times, and of heavy, lethargic sleep, with dreams that frighten her, but
regarding which she can remember nothing. She says that as a child she
used to walk in her sleep, and that when in Whitby the habit came back,
and that once she walked out in the night and went to East Cliff, where
Miss Murray found her; but she assures me that of late the habit has not
returned. I am in doubt, and so have done the best thing I know of; I
have written to my old friend and master, Professor Van Helsing, of
Amsterdam, who knows as much about obscure diseases as any one in the
world. I have asked him to come over, and as you told me that all things
were to be at your charge, I have mentioned to him who you are and your
relations to Miss Westenra. This, my dear fellow, is in obedience to
your wishes, for I am only too proud and happy to do anything I can for
her. Van Helsing would, I know, do anything for me for a personal
reason, so, no matter on what ground he comes, we must accept his
wishes. He is a seemingly arbitrary man, but this is because he knows
what he is talking about better than any one else. He is a philosopher
and a metaphysician, and one of the most advanced scientists of his day;
and he has, I believe, an absolutely open mind. This, with an iron
nerve, a temper of the ice-brook, an indomitable resolution,
self-command, and toleration exalted from virtues to blessings, and the
kindliest and truest heart that beats—these form his equipment for the
noble work that he is doing for mankind—work both in theory and
practice, for his views are as wide as his all-embracing sympathy. I
tell you these facts that you may know why I have such confidence in
him. I have asked him to come at once. I shall see Miss Westenra
to-morrow again. She is to meet me at the Stores, so that I may not
alarm her mother by too early a repetition of my call.

“Yours always,

John Seward.”

Letter, Abraham Van Helsing, M. D., D. Ph., D. Lit., etc., etc., to Dr.

2 September.

“My good Friend,—

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

Van Helsing.

Letter, Dr. Seward to Hon. Arthur Holmwood.

3 September.

“My dear Art,—

“Van Helsing has come and gone. He came on with me to Hillingham, and
found that, by Lucy’s discretion, her mother was lunching out, so that
we were alone with her. Van Helsing made a very careful examination of
the patient. He is to report to me, and I shall advise you, for of
course I was not present all the time. He is, I fear, much concerned,
but says he must think. When I told him of our friendship and how you
trust to me in the matter, he said: ‘You must tell him all you think.
Tell him what I think, if you can guess it, if you will. Nay, I am not
jesting. This is no jest, but life and death, perhaps more.’ I asked
what he meant by that, for he was very serious. This was when we had
come back to town, and he was having a cup of tea before starting on his
return to Amsterdam. He would not give me any further clue. You must not
be angry with me, Art, because his very reticence means that all his
brains are working for her good. He will speak plainly enough when the
time comes, be sure. So I told him I would simply write an account of
our visit, just as if I were doing a descriptive special article for
The Daily Telegraph. He seemed not to notice, but remarked that the
smuts in London were not quite so bad as they used to be when he was a
student here. I am to get his report to-morrow if he can possibly make
it. In any case I am to have a letter.

“Well, as to the visit. Lucy was more cheerful than on the day I first
saw her, and certainly looked better. She had lost something of the
ghastly look that so upset you, and her breathing was normal. She was
very sweet to the professor (as she always is), and tried to make him
feel at ease; though I could see that the poor girl was making a hard
struggle for it. I believe Van Helsing saw it, too, for I saw the quick
look under his bushy brows that I knew of old. Then he began to chat of
all things except ourselves and diseases and with such an infinite
geniality that I could see poor Lucy’s pretense of animation merge into
reality. Then, without any seeming change, he brought the conversation
gently round to his visit, and suavely said:—

“ ‘My dear young miss, I have the so great pleasure because you are so
much beloved. That is much, my dear, ever were there that which I do not
see. They told me you were down in the spirit, and that you were of a
ghastly pale. To them I say: “Pouf!” ’ And he snapped his fingers at me
and went on: ‘But you and I shall show them how wrong they are. How can
he’—and he pointed at me with the same look and gesture as that with
which once he pointed me out to his class, on, or rather after, a
particular occasion which he never fails to remind me of—‘know anything
of a young ladies? He has his madams to play with, and to bring them
back to happiness, and to those that love them. It is much to do, and,
oh, but there are rewards, in that we can bestow such happiness. But the
young ladies! He has no wife nor daughter, and the young do not tell
themselves to the young, but to the old, like me, who have known so many
sorrows and the causes of them. So, my dear, we will send him away to
smoke the cigarette in the garden, whiles you and I have little talk all
to ourselves.’ I took the hint, and strolled about, and presently the
professor came to the window and called me in. He looked grave, but
said: ‘I have made careful examination, but there is no functional
cause. With you I agree that there has been much blood lost; it has
been, but is not. But the conditions of her are in no way anæmic. I have
asked her to send me her maid, that I may ask just one or two question,
that so I may not chance to miss nothing. I know well what she will say.
And yet there is cause; there is always cause for everything. I must go
back home and think. You must send to me the telegram every day; and if
there be cause I shall come again. The disease—for not to be all well
is a disease—interest me, and the sweet young dear, she interest me
too. She charm me, and for her, if not for you or disease, I come.’

“As I tell you, he would not say a word more, even when we were alone.
And so now, Art, you know all I know. I shall keep stern watch. I trust
your poor father is rallying. It must be a terrible thing to you, my
dear old fellow, to be placed in such a position between two people who
are both so dear to you. I know your idea of duty to your father, and
you are right to stick to it; but, if need be, I shall send you word to
come at once to Lucy; so do not be over-anxious unless you hear from

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

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


Later.—Another change in my patient. At five o’clock I looked in on
him, and found him seemingly as happy and contented as he used to be. He
was catching flies and eating them, and was keeping note of his capture
by making nail-marks on the edge of the door between the ridges of
padding. When he saw me, he came over and apologised for his bad
conduct, and asked me in a very humble, cringing way to be led back to
his own room and to have his note-book again. I thought it well to
humour him: so he is back in his room with the window open. He has the
sugar of his tea spread out on the window-sill, and is reaping quite a
harvest of flies. He is not now eating them, but putting them into a
box, as of old, and is already examining the corners of his room to find
a spider. I tried to get him to talk about the past few days, for any
clue to his thoughts would be of immense help to me; but he would not
rise. For a moment or two he looked very sad, and said in a sort of
far-away voice, as though saying it rather to himself than to me:—

“All over! all over! He has deserted me. No hope for me now unless I do
it for myself!” Then suddenly turning to me in a resolute way, he said:
“Doctor, won’t you be very good to me and let me have a little more
sugar? I think it would be good for me.”

“And the flies?” I said.

“Yes! The flies like it, too, and I like the flies; therefore I like
it.” And there are people who know so little as to think that madmen do
not argue. I procured him a double supply, and left him as happy a man
as, I suppose, any in the world. I wish I could fathom his mind.


Midnight.—Another change in him. I had been to see Miss Westenra,
whom I found much better, and had just returned, and was standing at our
own gate looking at the sunset, when once more I heard him yelling. As
his room is on this side of the house, I could hear it better than in
the morning. It was a shock to me to turn from the wonderful smoky
beauty of a sunset over London, with its lurid lights and inky shadows
and all the marvellous tints that come on foul clouds even as on foul
water, and to realise all the grim sternness of my own cold stone
building, with its wealth of breathing misery, and my own desolate heart
to endure it all. I reached him just as the sun was going down, and from
his window saw the red disc sink. As it sank he became less and less
frenzied; and just as it dipped he slid from the hands that held him, an
inert mass, on the floor. It is wonderful, however, what intellectual
recuperative power lunatics have, for within a few minutes he stood up
quite calmly and looked around him. I signalled to the attendants not to
hold him, for I was anxious to see what he would do. He went straight
over to the window and brushed out the crumbs of sugar; then he took his
fly-box, and emptied it outside, and threw away the box; then he shut
the window, and crossing over, sat down on his bed. All this surprised
me, so I asked him: “Are you not going to keep flies any more?”

“No,” said he; “I am sick of all that rubbish!” He certainly is a
wonderfully interesting study. I wish I could get some glimpse of his
mind or of the cause of his sudden passion. Stop; there may be a clue
after all, if we can find why to-day his paroxysms came on at high noon
and at sunset. Can it be that there is a malign influence of the sun at
periods which affects certain natures—as at times the moon does others?
We shall see.

Telegram, Seward, London, to Van Helsing, Amsterdam.

4 September.—Patient still better to-day.”

Telegram, Seward, London, to Van Helsing, Amsterdam.

5 September.—Patient greatly improved. Good appetite; sleeps
naturally; good spirits; colour coming back.”

Telegram, Seward, London, to Van Helsing, Amsterdam.

6 September.—Terrible change for the worse. Come at once; do not
lose an hour. I hold over telegram to Holmwood till have seen you.


Letter, Dr. Seward to Hon. Arthur Holmwood.

6 September.

“My dear Art,—

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

Yours ever,

John Seward.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

7 September.—The first thing Van Helsing said to me when we met at
Liverpool Street was:—

“Have you said anything to our young friend the lover of her?”

“No,” I said. “I waited till I had seen you, as I said in my telegram. I
wrote him a letter simply telling him that you were coming, as Miss
Westenra was not so well, and that I should let him know if need be.”

“Right, my friend,” he said, “quite right! Better he not know as yet;
perhaps he shall never know. I pray so; but if it be needed, then he
shall know all. And, my good friend John, let me caution you. You deal
with the madmen. All men are mad in some way or the other; and inasmuch
as you deal discreetly with your madmen, so deal with God’s madmen,
too—the rest of the world. You tell not your madmen what you do nor why
you do it; you tell them not what you think. So you shall keep knowledge
in its place, where it may rest—where it may gather its kind around it
and breed. You and I shall keep as yet what we know here, and here.” He
touched me on the heart and on the forehead, and then touched himself
the same way. “I have for myself thoughts at the present. Later I shall
unfold to you.”

“Why not now?” I asked. “It may do some good; we may arrive at some
decision.” He stopped and looked at me, and said:—

“My friend John, when the corn is grown, even before it has
ripened—while the milk of its mother-earth is in him, and the sunshine
has not yet begun to paint him with his gold, the husbandman he pull the
ear and rub him between his rough hands, and blow away the green chaff,
and say to you: ‘Look! he’s good corn; he will make good crop when the
time comes.’ ” I did not see the application, and told him so. For reply
he reached over and took my ear in his hand and pulled it playfully, as
he used long ago to do at lectures, and said: “The good husbandman tell
you so then because he knows, but not till then. But you do not find the
good husbandman dig up his planted corn to see if he grow; that is for
the children who play at husbandry, and not for those who take it as of
the work of their life. See you now, friend John? I have sown my corn,
and Nature has her work to do in making it sprout; if he sprout at all,
there’s some promise; and I wait till the ear begins to swell.” He broke
off, for he evidently saw that I understood. Then he went on, and very

“You were always a careful student, and your case-book was ever more
full than the rest. You were only student then; now you are master, and
I trust that good habit have not fail. Remember, my friend, that
knowledge is stronger than memory, and we should not trust the weaker.
Even if you have not kept the good practise, let me tell you that this
case of our dear miss is one that may be—mind, I say may be—of such
interest to us and others that all the rest may not make him kick the
beam, as your peoples say. Take then good note of it. Nothing is too
small. I counsel you, put down in record even your doubts and surmises.
Hereafter it may be of interest to you to see how true you guess. We
learn from failure, not from success!”

When I described Lucy’s symptoms—the same as before, but infinitely
more marked—he looked very grave, but said nothing. He took with him a
bag in which were many instruments and drugs, “the ghastly paraphernalia
of our beneficial trade,” as he once called, in one of his lectures, the
equipment of a professor of the healing craft. When we were shown in,
Mrs. Westenra met us. She was alarmed, but not nearly so much as I
expected to find her. Nature in one of her beneficent moods has ordained
that even death has some antidote to its own terrors. Here, in a case
where any shock may prove fatal, matters are so ordered that, from some
cause or other, the things not personal—even the terrible change in her
daughter to whom she is so attached—do not seem to reach her. It is
something like the way Dame Nature gathers round a foreign body an
envelope of some insensitive tissue which can protect from evil that
which it would otherwise harm by contact. If this be an ordered
selfishness, then we should pause before we condemn any one for the vice
of egoism, for there may be deeper root for its causes than we have
knowledge of.

I used my knowledge of this phase of spiritual pathology, and laid down
a rule that she should not be present with Lucy or think of her illness
more than was absolutely required. She assented readily, so readily that
I saw again the hand of Nature fighting for life. Van Helsing and I were
shown up to Lucy’s room. If I was shocked when I saw her yesterday, I
was horrified when I saw her to-day. She was ghastly, chalkily pale; the
red seemed to have gone even from her lips and gums, and the bones of
her face stood out prominently; her breathing was painful to see or
hear. Van Helsing’s face grew set as marble, and his eyebrows converged
till they almost touched over his nose. Lucy lay motionless, and did not
seem to have strength to speak, so for a while we were all silent. Then
Van Helsing beckoned to me, and we went gently out of the room. The
instant we had closed the door he stepped quickly along the passage to
the next door, which was open. Then he pulled me quickly in with him and
closed the door. “My God!” he said; “this is dreadful. There is no time
to be lost. She will die for sheer want of blood to keep the heart’s
action as it should be. There must be transfusion of blood at once. Is
it you or me?”

“I am younger and stronger, Professor. It must be me.”

“Then get ready at once. I will bring up my bag. I am prepared.”

I went downstairs with him, and as we were going there was a knock at
the hall-door. When we reached the hall the maid had just opened the
door, and Arthur was stepping quickly in. He rushed up to me, saying in
an eager whisper:—

“Jack, I was so anxious. I read between the lines of your letter, and
have been in an agony. The dad was better, so I ran down here to see for
myself. Is not that gentleman Dr. Van Helsing? I am so thankful to you,
sir, for coming.” When first the Professor’s eye had lit upon him he had
been angry at his interruption at such a time; but now, as he took in
his stalwart proportions and recognised the strong young manhood which
seemed to emanate from him, his eyes gleamed. Without a pause he said to
him gravely as he held out his hand:—

“Sir, you have come in time. You are the lover of our dear miss. She is
bad, very, very bad. Nay, my child, do not go like that.” For he
suddenly grew pale and sat down in a chair almost fainting. “You are to
help her. You can do more than any that live, and your courage is your
best help.”

“What can I do?” asked Arthur hoarsely. “Tell me, and I shall do it. My
life is hers, and I would give the last drop of blood in my body for
her.” The Professor has a strongly humorous side, and I could from old
knowledge detect a trace of its origin in his answer:—

“My young sir, I do not ask so much as that—not the last!”

“What shall I do?” There was fire in his eyes, and his open nostril
quivered with intent. Van Helsing slapped him on the shoulder. “Come!”
he said. “You are a man, and it is a man we want. You are better than
me, better than my friend John.” Arthur looked bewildered, and the
Professor went on by explaining in a kindly way:—

“Young miss is bad, very bad. She wants blood, and blood she must have
or die. My friend John and I have consulted; and we are about to perform
what we call transfusion of blood—to transfer from full veins of one to
the empty veins which pine for him. John was to give his blood, as he is
the more young and strong than me”—here Arthur took my hand and wrung
it hard in silence—“but, now you are here, you are more good than us,
old or young, who toil much in the world of thought. Our nerves are not
so calm and our blood not so bright than yours!” Arthur turned to him
and said:—

“If you only knew how gladly I would die for her you would

He stopped, with a sort of choke in his voice.

“Good boy!” said Van Helsing. “In the not-so-far-off you will be happy
that you have done all for her you love. Come now and be silent. You
shall kiss her once before it is done, but then you must go; and you
must leave at my sign. Say no word to Madame; you know how it is with
her! There must be no shock; any knowledge of this would be one. Come!”

We all went up to Lucy’s room. Arthur by direction remained outside.
Lucy turned her head and looked at us, but said nothing. She was not
asleep, but she was simply too weak to make the effort. Her eyes spoke
to us; that was all. Van Helsing took some things from his bag and laid
them on a little table out of sight. Then he mixed a narcotic, and
coming over to the bed, said cheerily:—

“Now, little miss, here is your medicine. Drink it off, like a good
child. See, I lift you so that to swallow is easy. Yes.” She had made
the effort with success.

It astonished me how long the drug took to act. This, in fact, marked
the extent of her weakness. The time seemed endless until sleep began to
flicker in her eyelids. At last, however, the narcotic began to manifest
its potency; and she fell into a deep sleep. When the Professor was
satisfied he called Arthur into the room, and bade him strip off his
coat. Then he added: “You may take that one little kiss whiles I bring
over the table. Friend John, help to me!” So neither of us looked whilst
he bent over her.

Van Helsing turning to me, said:

“He is so young and strong and of blood so pure that we need not
defibrinate it.”

Then with swiftness, but with absolute method, Van Helsing performed the
operation. As the transfusion went on something like life seemed to come
back to poor Lucy’s cheeks, and through Arthur’s growing pallor the joy
of his face seemed absolutely to shine. After a bit I began to grow
anxious, for the loss of blood was telling on Arthur, strong man as he
was. It gave me an idea of what a terrible strain Lucy’s system must
have undergone that what weakened Arthur only partially restored her.
But the Professor’s face was set, and he stood watch in hand and with
his eyes fixed now on the patient and now on Arthur. I could hear my own
heart beat. Presently he said in a soft voice: “Do not stir an instant.
It is enough. You attend him; I will look to her.” When all was over I
could see how much Arthur was weakened. I dressed the wound and took his
arm to bring him away, when Van Helsing spoke without turning round—the
man seems to have eyes in the back of his head:—

“The brave lover, I think, deserve another kiss, which he shall have
presently.” And as he had now finished his operation, he adjusted the
pillow to the patient’s head. As he did so the narrow black velvet band
which she seems always to wear round her throat, buckled with an old
diamond buckle which her lover had given her, was dragged a little up,
and showed a red mark on her throat. Arthur did not notice it, but I
could hear the deep hiss of indrawn breath which is one of Van Helsing’s
ways of betraying emotion. He said nothing at the moment, but turned to
me, saying: “Now take down our brave young lover, give him of the port
wine, and let him lie down a while. He must then go home and rest, sleep
much and eat much, that he may be recruited of what he has so given to
his love. He must not stay here. Hold! a moment. I may take it, sir,
that you are anxious of result. Then bring it with you that in all ways
the operation is successful. You have saved her life this time, and you
can go home and rest easy in mind that all that can be is. I shall tell
her all when she is well; she shall love you none the less for what you
have done. Good-bye.”

When Arthur had gone I went back to the room. Lucy was sleeping gently,
but her breathing was stronger; I could see the counterpane move as her
breast heaved. By the bedside sat Van Helsing, looking at her intently.
The velvet band again covered the red mark. I asked the Professor in a

“What do you make of that mark on her throat?”

“What do you make of it?”

“I have not examined it yet,” I answered, and then and there proceeded
to loose the band. Just over the external jugular vein there were two
punctures, not large, but not wholesome-looking. There was no sign of
disease, but the edges were white and worn-looking, as if by some
trituration. It at once occurred to me that this wound, or whatever it
was, might be the means of that manifest loss of blood; but I abandoned
the idea as soon as formed, for such a thing could not be. The whole bed
would have been drenched to a scarlet with the blood which the girl must
have lost to leave such a pallor as she had before the transfusion.

“Well?” said Van Helsing.

“Well,” said I, “I can make nothing of it.” The Professor stood up. “I
must go back to Amsterdam to-night,” he said. “There are books and
things there which I want. You must remain here all the night, and you
must not let your sight pass from her.”

“Shall I have a nurse?” I asked.

“We are the best nurses, you and I. You keep watch all night; see that
she is well fed, and that nothing disturbs her. You must not sleep all
the night. Later on we can sleep, you and I. I shall be back as soon as
possible. And then we may begin.”

“May begin?” I said. “What on earth do you mean?”

“We shall see!” he answered, as he hurried out. He came back a moment
later and put his head inside the door and said with warning finger held

“Remember, she is your charge. If you leave her, and harm befall, you
shall not sleep easy hereafter!”

Dr. Seward’s Diary—continued.

8 September.—I sat up all night with Lucy. The opiate worked itself
off towards dusk, and she waked naturally; she looked a different being
from what she had been before the operation. Her spirits even were good,
and she was full of a happy vivacity, but I could see evidences of the
absolute prostration which she had undergone. When I told Mrs. Westenra
that Dr. Van Helsing had directed that I should sit up with her she
almost pooh-poohed the idea, pointing out her daughter’s renewed
strength and excellent spirits. I was firm, however, and made
preparations for my long vigil. When her maid had prepared her for the
night I came in, having in the meantime had supper, and took a seat by
the bedside. She did not in any way make objection, but looked at me
gratefully whenever I caught her eye. After a long spell she seemed
sinking off to sleep, but with an effort seemed to pull herself together
and shook it off. This was repeated several times, with greater effort
and with shorter pauses as the time moved on. It was apparent that she
did not want to sleep, so I tackled the subject at once:—

“You do not want to go to sleep?”

“No; I am afraid.”

“Afraid to go to sleep! Why so? It is the boon we all crave for.”

“Ah, not if you were like me—if sleep was to you a presage of horror!”

“A presage of horror! What on earth do you mean?”

“I don’t know; oh, I don’t know. And that is what is so terrible. All
this weakness comes to me in sleep; until I dread the very thought.”

“But, my dear girl, you may sleep to-night. I am here watching you, and
I can promise that nothing will happen.”

“Ah, I can trust you!” I seized the opportunity, and said: “I promise
you that if I see any evidence of bad dreams I will wake you at once.”

“You will? Oh, will you really? How good you are to me. Then I will
sleep!” And almost at the word she gave a deep sigh of relief, and sank
back, asleep.

All night long I watched by her. She never stirred, but slept on and on
in a deep, tranquil, life-giving, health-giving sleep. Her lips were
slightly parted, and her breast rose and fell with the regularity of a
pendulum. There was a smile on her face, and it was evident that no bad
dreams had come to disturb her peace of mind.

In the early morning her maid came, and I left her in her care and took
myself back home, for I was anxious about many things. I sent a short
wire to Van Helsing and to Arthur, telling them of the excellent result
of the operation. My own work, with its manifold arrears, took me all
day to clear off; it was dark when I was able to inquire about my
zoöphagous patient. The report was good; he had been quite quiet for the
past day and night. A telegram came from Van Helsing at Amsterdam whilst
I was at dinner, suggesting that I should be at Hillingham to-night, as
it might be well to be at hand, and stating that he was leaving by the
night mail and would join me early in the morning.


9 September.—I was pretty tired and worn out when I got to
Hillingham. For two nights I had hardly had a wink of sleep, and my
brain was beginning to feel that numbness which marks cerebral
exhaustion. Lucy was up and in cheerful spirits. When she shook hands
with me she looked sharply in my face and said:—

“No sitting up to-night for you. You are worn out. I am quite well
again; indeed, I am; and if there is to be any sitting up, it is I who
will sit up with you.” I would not argue the point, but went and had my
supper. Lucy came with me, and, enlivened by her charming presence, I
made an excellent meal, and had a couple of glasses of the more than
excellent port. Then Lucy took me upstairs, and showed me a room next
her own, where a cozy fire was burning. “Now,” she said, “you must stay
here. I shall leave this door open and my door too. You can lie on the
sofa for I know that nothing would induce any of you doctors to go to
bed whilst there is a patient above the horizon. If I want anything I
shall call out, and you can come to me at once.” I could not but
acquiesce, for I was “dog-tired,” and could not have sat up had I tried.
So, on her renewing her promise to call me if she should want anything,
I lay on the sofa, and forgot all about everything.

Lucy Westenra’s Diary.

9 September.—I feel so happy to-night. I have been so miserably weak,
that to be able to think and move about is like feeling sunshine after
a long spell of east wind out of a steel sky. Somehow Arthur feels very,
very close to me. I seem to feel his presence warm about me. I suppose
it is that sickness and weakness are selfish things and turn our inner
eyes and sympathy on ourselves, whilst health and strength give Love
rein, and in thought and feeling he can wander where he wills. I know
where my thoughts are. If Arthur only knew! My dear, my dear, your ears
must tingle as you sleep, as mine do waking. Oh, the blissful rest of
last night! How I slept, with that dear, good Dr. Seward watching me.
And to-night I shall not fear to sleep, since he is close at hand and
within call. Thank everybody for being so good to me! Thank God!
Good-night, Arthur.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

10 September.—I was conscious of the Professor’s hand on my head, and
started awake all in a second. That is one of the things that we learn
in an asylum, at any rate.

“And how is our patient?”

“Well, when I left her, or rather when she left me,” I answered.

“Come, let us see,” he said. And together we went into the room.

The blind was down, and I went over to raise it gently, whilst Van
Helsing stepped, with his soft, cat-like tread, over to the bed.

As I raised the blind, and the morning sunlight flooded the room, I
heard the Professor’s low hiss of inspiration, and knowing its rarity, a
deadly fear shot through my heart. As I passed over he moved back, and
his exclamation of horror, “Gott in Himmel!” needed no enforcement from
his agonised face. He raised his hand and pointed to the bed, and his
iron face was drawn and ashen white. I felt my knees begin to tremble.

There on the bed, seemingly in a swoon, lay poor Lucy, more horribly
white and wan-looking than ever. Even the lips were white, and the gums
seemed to have shrunken back from the teeth, as we sometimes see in a
corpse after a prolonged illness. Van Helsing raised his foot to stamp
in anger, but the instinct of his life and all the long years of habit
stood to him, and he put it down again softly. “Quick!” he said. “Bring
the brandy.” I flew to the dining-room, and returned with the decanter.
He wetted the poor white lips with it, and together we rubbed palm and
wrist and heart. He felt her heart, and after a few moments of agonising
suspense said:—

“It is not too late. It beats, though but feebly. All our work is
undone; we must begin again. There is no young Arthur here now; I have
to call on you yourself this time, friend John.” As he spoke, he was
dipping into his bag and producing the instruments for transfusion; I
had taken off my coat and rolled up my shirt-sleeve. There was no
possibility of an opiate just at present, and no need of one; and so,
without a moment’s delay, we began the operation. After a time—it did
not seem a short time either, for the draining away of one’s blood, no
matter how willingly it be given, is a terrible feeling—Van Helsing
held up a warning finger. “Do not stir,” he said, “but I fear that with
growing strength she may wake; and that would make danger, oh, so much
danger. But I shall precaution take. I shall give hypodermic injection
of morphia.” He proceeded then, swiftly and deftly, to carry out his
intent. The effect on Lucy was not bad, for the faint seemed to merge
subtly into the narcotic sleep. It was with a feeling of personal pride
that I could see a faint tinge of colour steal back into the pallid
cheeks and lips. No man knows, till he experiences it, what it is to
feel his own life-blood drawn away into the veins of the woman he loves.

The Professor watched me critically. “That will do,” he said. “Already?”
I remonstrated. “You took a great deal more from Art.” To which he
smiled a sad sort of smile as he replied:—

“He is her lover, her fiancé. You have work, much work, to do for her
and for others; and the present will suffice.”

When we stopped the operation, he attended to Lucy, whilst I applied
digital pressure to my own incision. I laid down, whilst I waited his
leisure to attend to me, for I felt faint and a little sick. By-and-by
he bound up my wound, and sent me downstairs to get a glass of wine for
myself. As I was leaving the room, he came after me, and half

“Mind, nothing must be said of this. If our young lover should turn up
unexpected, as before, no word to him. It would at once frighten him and
enjealous him, too. There must be none. So!”

When I came back he looked at me carefully, and then said:—

“You are not much the worse. Go into the room, and lie on your sofa, and
rest awhile; then have much breakfast, and come here to me.”

I followed out his orders, for I knew how right and wise they were. I
had done my part, and now my next duty was to keep up my strength. I
felt very weak, and in the weakness lost something of the amazement at
what had occurred. I fell asleep on the sofa, however, wondering over
and over again how Lucy had made such a retrograde movement, and how
she could have been drained of so much blood with no sign anywhere to
show for it. I think I must have continued my wonder in my dreams, for,
sleeping and waking, my thoughts always came back to the little
punctures in her throat and the ragged, exhausted appearance of their
edges—tiny though they were.

Lucy slept well into the day, and when she woke she was fairly well and
strong, though not nearly so much so as the day before. When Van Helsing
had seen her, he went out for a walk, leaving me in charge, with strict
injunctions that I was not to leave her for a moment. I could hear his
voice in the hall, asking the way to the nearest telegraph office.

Lucy chatted with me freely, and seemed quite unconscious that anything
had happened. I tried to keep her amused and interested. When her mother
came up to see her, she did not seem to notice any change whatever, but
said to me gratefully:—

“We owe you so much, Dr. Seward, for all you have done, but you really
must now take care not to overwork yourself. You are looking pale
yourself. You want a wife to nurse and look after you a bit; that you
do!” As she spoke, Lucy turned crimson, though it was only momentarily,
for her poor wasted veins could not stand for long such an unwonted
drain to the head. The reaction came in excessive pallor as she turned
imploring eyes on me. I smiled and nodded, and laid my finger on my
lips; with a sigh, she sank back amid her pillows.

Van Helsing returned in a couple of hours, and presently said to me:
“Now you go home, and eat much and drink enough. Make yourself strong. I
stay here to-night, and I shall sit up with little miss myself. You and
I must watch the case, and we must have none other to know. I have grave
reasons. No, do not ask them; think what you will. Do not fear to think
even the most not-probable. Good-night.”

In the hall two of the maids came to me, and asked if they or either of
them might not sit up with Miss Lucy. They implored me to let them; and
when I said it was Dr. Van Helsing’s wish that either he or I should sit
up, they asked me quite piteously to intercede with the “foreign
gentleman.” I was much touched by their kindness. Perhaps it is because
I am weak at present, and perhaps because it was on Lucy’s account, that
their devotion was manifested; for over and over again have I seen
similar instances of woman’s kindness. I got back here in time for a
late dinner; went my rounds—all well; and set this down whilst waiting
for sleep. It is coming.


11 September.—This afternoon I went over to Hillingham. Found Van
Helsing in excellent spirits, and Lucy much better. Shortly after I had
arrived, a big parcel from abroad came for the Professor. He opened it
with much impressment—assumed, of course—and showed a great bundle of
white flowers.

“These are for you, Miss Lucy,” he said.

“For me? Oh, Dr. Van Helsing!”

“Yes, my dear, but not for you to play with. These are medicines.” Here
Lucy made a wry face. “Nay, but they are not to take in a decoction or
in nauseous form, so you need not snub that so charming nose, or I shall
point out to my friend Arthur what woes he may have to endure in seeing
so much beauty that he so loves so much distort. Aha, my pretty miss,
that bring the so nice nose all straight again. This is medicinal, but
you do not know how. I put him in your window, I make pretty wreath, and
hang him round your neck, so that you sleep well. Oh yes! they, like the
lotus flower, make your trouble forgotten. It smell so like the waters
of Lethe, and of that fountain of youth that the Conquistadores sought
for in the Floridas, and find him all too late.”

Whilst he was speaking, Lucy had been examining the flowers and smelling
them. Now she threw them down, saying, with half-laughter, and

“Oh, Professor, I believe you are only putting up a joke on me. Why,
these flowers are only common garlic.”

To my surprise, Van Helsing rose up and said with all his sternness, his
iron jaw set and his bushy eyebrows meeting:—

“No trifling with me! I never jest! There is grim purpose in all I do;
and I warn you that you do not thwart me. Take care, for the sake of
others if not for your own.” Then seeing poor Lucy scared, as she might
well be, he went on more gently: “Oh, little miss, my dear, do not fear
me. I only do for your good; but there is much virtue to you in those so
common flowers. See, I place them myself in your room. I make myself the
wreath that you are to wear. But hush! no telling to others that make so
inquisitive questions. We must obey, and silence is a part of obedience;
and obedience is to bring you strong and well into loving arms that wait
for you. Now sit still awhile. Come with me, friend John, and you shall
help me deck the room with my garlic, which is all the way from Haarlem,
where my friend Vanderpool raise herb in his glass-houses all the year.
I had to telegraph yesterday, or they would not have been here.”

We went into the room, taking the flowers with us. The Professor’s
actions were certainly odd and not to be found in any pharmacopœia
that I ever heard of. First he fastened up the windows and latched them
securely; next, taking a handful of the flowers, he rubbed them all over
the sashes, as though to ensure that every whiff of air that might get
in would be laden with the garlic smell. Then with the wisp he rubbed
all over the jamb of the door, above, below, and at each side, and round
the fireplace in the same way. It all seemed grotesque to me, and
presently I said:—

“Well, Professor, I know you always have a reason for what you do, but
this certainly puzzles me. It is well we have no sceptic here, or he
would say that you were working some spell to keep out an evil spirit.”

“Perhaps I am!” he answered quietly as he began to make the wreath which
Lucy was to wear round her neck.

We then waited whilst Lucy made her toilet for the night, and when she
was in bed he came and himself fixed the wreath of garlic round her
neck. The last words he said to her were:—

“Take care you do not disturb it; and even if the room feel close, do
not to-night open the window or the door.”

“I promise,” said Lucy, “and thank you both a thousand times for all
your kindness to me! Oh, what have I done to be blessed with such

As we left the house in my fly, which was waiting, Van Helsing said:—

“To-night I can sleep in peace, and sleep I want—two nights of travel,
much reading in the day between, and much anxiety on the day to follow,
and a night to sit up, without to wink. To-morrow in the morning early
you call for me, and we come together to see our pretty miss, so much
more strong for my ‘spell’ which I have work. Ho! ho!”

He seemed so confident that I, remembering my own confidence two nights
before and with the baneful result, felt awe and vague terror. It must
have been my weakness that made me hesitate to tell it to my friend, but
I felt it all the more, like unshed tears.


Lucy Westenra’s Diary.

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

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

13 September.—Called at the Berkeley and found Van Helsing, as usual,
up to time. The carriage ordered from the hotel was waiting. The
Professor took his bag, which he always brings with him now.

Let all be put down exactly. Van Helsing and I arrived at Hillingham at
eight o’clock. It was a lovely morning; the bright sunshine and all the
fresh feeling of early autumn seemed like the completion of nature’s
annual work. The leaves were turning to all kinds of beautiful colours,
but had not yet begun to drop from the trees. When we entered we met
Mrs. Westenra coming out of the morning room. She is always an early
riser. She greeted us warmly and said:—

“You will be glad to know that Lucy is better. The dear child is still
asleep. I looked into her room and saw her, but did not go in, lest I
should disturb her.” The Professor smiled, and looked quite jubilant. He
rubbed his hands together, and said:—

“Aha! I thought I had diagnosed the case. My treatment is working,” to
which she answered:—

“You must not take all the credit to yourself, doctor. Lucy’s state this
morning is due in part to me.”

“How you do mean, ma’am?” asked the Professor.

“Well, I was anxious about the dear child in the night, and went into
her room. She was sleeping soundly—so soundly that even my coming did
not wake her. But the room was awfully stuffy. There were a lot of those
horrible, strong-smelling flowers about everywhere, and she had actually
a bunch of them round her neck. I feared that the heavy odour would be
too much for the dear child in her weak state, so I took them all away
and opened a bit of the window to let in a little fresh air. You will be
pleased with her, I am sure.”

She moved off into her boudoir, where she usually breakfasted early. As
she had spoken, I watched the Professor’s face, and saw it turn ashen
grey. He had been able to retain his self-command whilst the poor lady
was present, for he knew her state and how mischievous a shock would be;
he actually smiled on her as he held open the door for her to pass into
her room. But the instant she had disappeared he pulled me, suddenly and
forcibly, into the dining-room and closed the door.

Then, for the first time in my life, I saw Van Helsing break down. He
raised his hands over his head in a sort of mute despair, and then beat
his palms together in a helpless way; finally he sat down on a chair,
and putting his hands before his face, began to sob, with loud, dry sobs
that seemed to come from the very racking of his heart. Then he raised
his arms again, as though appealing to the whole universe. “God! God!
God!” he said. “What have we done, what has this poor thing done, that
we are so sore beset? Is there fate amongst us still, sent down from the
pagan world of old, that such things must be, and in such way? This poor
mother, all unknowing, and all for the best as she think, does such
thing as lose her daughter body and soul; and we must not tell her, we
must not even warn her, or she die, and then both die. Oh, how we are
beset! How are all the powers of the devils against us!” Suddenly he
jumped to his feet. “Come,” he said, “come, we must see and act. Devils
or no devils, or all the devils at once, it matters not; we fight him
all the same.” He went to the hall-door for his bag; and together we
went up to Lucy’s room.

Once again I drew up the blind, whilst Van Helsing went towards the bed.
This time he did not start as he looked on the poor face with the same
awful, waxen pallor as before. He wore a look of stern sadness and
infinite pity.

“As I expected,” he murmured, with that hissing inspiration of his which
meant so much. Without a word he went and locked the door, and then
began to set out on the little table the instruments for yet another
operation of transfusion of blood. I had long ago recognised the
necessity, and begun to take off my coat, but he stopped me with a
warning hand. “No!” he said. “To-day you must operate. I shall provide.
You are weakened already.” As he spoke he took off his coat and rolled
up his shirt-sleeve.

Again the operation; again the narcotic; again some return of colour to
the ashy cheeks, and the regular breathing of healthy sleep. This time I
watched whilst Van Helsing recruited himself and rested.

Presently he took an opportunity of telling Mrs. Westenra that she must
not remove anything from Lucy’s room without consulting him; that the
flowers were of medicinal value, and that the breathing of their odour
was a part of the system of cure. Then he took over the care of the case
himself, saying that he would watch this night and the next and would
send me word when to come.

After another hour Lucy waked from her sleep, fresh and bright and
seemingly not much the worse for her terrible ordeal.

What does it all mean? I am beginning to wonder if my long habit of life
amongst the insane is beginning to tell upon my own brain.

Lucy Westenra’s Diary.

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

“The Pall Mall Gazette,” 18 September.



Interview with the Keeper in the Zoölogical Gardens.

After many inquiries and almost as many refusals, and perpetually using
the words “Pall Mall Gazette” as a sort of talisman, I managed to find
the keeper of the section of the Zoölogical Gardens in which the wolf
department is included. Thomas Bilder lives in one of the cottages in
the enclosure behind the elephant-house, and was just sitting down to
his tea when I found him. Thomas and his wife are hospitable folk,
elderly, and without children, and if the specimen I enjoyed of their
hospitality be of the average kind, their lives must be pretty
comfortable. The keeper would not enter on what he called “business”
until the supper was over, and we were all satisfied. Then when the
table was cleared, and he had lit his pipe, he said:—

“Now, sir, you can go on and arsk me what you want. You’ll excoose me
refoosin’ to talk of perfeshunal subjects afore meals. I gives the
wolves and the jackals and the hyenas in all our section their tea afore
I begins to arsk them questions.”

“How do you mean, ask them questions?” I queried, wishful to get him
into a talkative humour.

“ ’Ittin’ of them over the ’ead with a pole is one way; scratchin’ of
their hears is another, when gents as is flush wants a bit of a show-orf
to their gals. I don’t so much mind the fust—the ’ittin’ with a pole
afore I chucks in their dinner; but I waits till they’ve ’ad their
sherry and kawffee, so to speak, afore I tries on with the
ear-scratchin’. Mind you,” he added philosophically, “there’s a deal of
the same nature in us as in them theer animiles. Here’s you a-comin’ and
arskin’ of me questions about my business, and I that grumpy-like that
only for your bloomin’ ’arf-quid I’d ’a’ seen you blowed fust ’fore I’d
answer. Not even when you arsked me sarcastic-like if I’d like you to
arsk the Superintendent if you might arsk me questions. Without offence
did I tell yer to go to ’ell?”

“You did.”

“An’ when you said you’d report me for usin’ of obscene language that
was ’ittin’ me over the ’ead; but the ’arf-quid made that all right. I
weren’t a-goin’ to fight, so I waited for the food, and did with my ’owl
as the wolves, and lions, and tigers does. But, Lor’ love yer ’art, now
that the old ’ooman has stuck a chunk of her tea-cake in me, an’ rinsed
me out with her bloomin’ old teapot, and I’ve lit hup, you may scratch
my ears for all you’re worth, and won’t git even a growl out of me.
Drive along with your questions. I know what yer a-comin’ at, that ’ere
escaped wolf.”

“Exactly. I want you to give me your view of it. Just tell me how it
happened; and when I know the facts I’ll get you to say what you
consider was the cause of it, and how you think the whole affair will

“All right, guv’nor. This ’ere is about the ’ole story. That ’ere wolf
what we called Bersicker was one of three grey ones that came from
Norway to Jamrach’s, which we bought off him four years ago. He was a
nice well-behaved wolf, that never gave no trouble to talk of. I’m more
surprised at ’im for wantin’ to get out nor any other animile in the
place. But, there, you can’t trust wolves no more nor women.”

“Don’t you mind him, sir!” broke in Mrs. Tom, with a cheery laugh. “ ’E’s
got mindin’ the animiles so long that blest if he ain’t like a old wolf
’isself! But there ain’t no ’arm in ’im.”

“Well, sir, it was about two hours after feedin’ yesterday when I first
hear my disturbance. I was makin’ up a litter in the monkey-house for a
young puma which is ill; but when I heard the yelpin’ and ’owlin’ I kem
away straight. There was Bersicker a-tearin’ like a mad thing at the
bars as if he wanted to get out. There wasn’t much people about that
day, and close at hand was only one man, a tall, thin chap, with a ’ook
nose and a pointed beard, with a few white hairs runnin’ through it. He
had a ’ard, cold look and red eyes, and I took a sort of mislike to him,
for it seemed as if it was ’im as they was hirritated at. He ’ad white
kid gloves on ’is ’ands, and he pointed out the animiles to me and says:
‘Keeper, these wolves seem upset at something.’

“ ‘Maybe it’s you,’ says I, for I did not like the airs as he give
’isself. He didn’t git angry, as I ’oped he would, but he smiled a kind
of insolent smile, with a mouth full of white, sharp teeth. ‘Oh no, they
wouldn’t like me,’ ’e says.

“ ‘Ow yes, they would,’ says I, a-imitatin’ of him. ‘They always likes a
bone or two to clean their teeth on about tea-time, which you ’as a

“Well, it was a odd thing, but when the animiles see us a-talkin’ they
lay down, and when I went over to Bersicker he let me stroke his ears
same as ever. That there man kem over, and blessed but if he didn’t put
in his hand and stroke the old wolf’s ears too!

“ ‘Tyke care,’ says I. ‘Bersicker is quick.’

“ ‘Never mind,’ he says. ‘I’m used to ’em!’

“ ‘Are you in the business yourself?’ I says, tyking off my ’at, for a
man what trades in wolves, anceterer, is a good friend to keepers.

“ ‘No’ says he, ‘not exactly in the business, but I ’ave made pets of
several.’ And with that he lifts his ’at as perlite as a lord, and walks
away. Old Bersicker kep’ a-lookin’ arter ’im till ’e was out of sight,
and then went and lay down in a corner and wouldn’t come hout the ’ole
hevening. Well, larst night, so soon as the moon was hup, the wolves
here all began a-’owling. There warn’t nothing for them to ’owl at.
There warn’t no one near, except some one that was evidently a-callin’ a
dog somewheres out back of the gardings in the Park road. Once or twice
I went out to see that all was right, and it was, and then the ’owling
stopped. Just before twelve o’clock I just took a look round afore
turnin’ in, an’, bust me, but when I kem opposite to old Bersicker’s
cage I see the rails broken and twisted about and the cage empty. And
that’s all I know for certing.”

“Did any one else see anything?”

“One of our gard’ners was a-comin’ ’ome about that time from a ’armony,
when he sees a big grey dog comin’ out through the garding ’edges. At
least, so he says, but I don’t give much for it myself, for if he did ’e
never said a word about it to his missis when ’e got ’ome, and it was
only after the escape of the wolf was made known, and we had been up all
night-a-huntin’ of the Park for Bersicker, that he remembered seein’
anything. My own belief was that the ’armony ’ad got into his ’ead.

“Now, Mr. Bilder, can you account in any way for the escape of the

“Well, sir,” he said, with a suspicious sort of modesty, “I think I can;
but I don’t know as ’ow you’d be satisfied with the theory.”

“Certainly I shall. If a man like you, who knows the animals from
experience, can’t hazard a good guess at any rate, who is even to try?”

“Well then, sir, I accounts for it this way; it seems to me that ’ere
wolf escaped—simply because he wanted to get out.”

From the hearty way that both Thomas and his wife laughed at the joke I
could see that it had done service before, and that the whole
explanation was simply an elaborate sell. I couldn’t cope in badinage
with the worthy Thomas, but I thought I knew a surer way to his heart,
so I said:—

“Now, Mr. Bilder, we’ll consider that first half-sovereign worked off,
and this brother of his is waiting to be claimed when you’ve told me
what you think will happen.”

“Right y’are, sir,” he said briskly. “Ye’ll excoose me, I know, for
a-chaffin’ of ye, but the old woman here winked at me, which was as much
as telling me to go on.”

“Well, I never!” said the old lady.

“My opinion is this: that ’ere wolf is a-’idin’ of, somewheres. The
gard’ner wot didn’t remember said he was a-gallopin’ northward faster
than a horse could go; but I don’t believe him, for, yer see, sir,
wolves don’t gallop no more nor dogs does, they not bein’ built that
way. Wolves is fine things in a storybook, and I dessay when they gets
in packs and does be chivyin’ somethin’ that’s more afeared than they is
they can make a devil of a noise and chop it up, whatever it is. But,
Lor’ bless you, in real life a wolf is only a low creature, not half so
clever or bold as a good dog; and not half a quarter so much fight in
’im. This one ain’t been used to fightin’ or even to providin’ for
hisself, and more like he’s somewhere round the Park a-’idin’ an’
a-shiverin’ of, and, if he thinks at all, wonderin’ where he is to get
his breakfast from; or maybe he’s got down some area and is in a
coal-cellar. My eye, won’t some cook get a rum start when she sees his
green eyes a-shining at her out of the dark! If he can’t get food he’s
bound to look for it, and mayhap he may chance to light on a butcher’s
shop in time. If he doesn’t, and some nursemaid goes a-walkin’ orf with
a soldier, leavin’ of the hinfant in the perambulator—well, then I
shouldn’t be surprised if the census is one babby the less. That’s

I was handing him the half-sovereign, when something came bobbing up
against the window, and Mr. Bilder’s face doubled its natural length
with surprise.

“God bless me!” he said. “If there ain’t old Bersicker come back by

He went to the door and opened it; a most unnecessary proceeding it
seemed to me. I have always thought that a wild animal never looks so
well as when some obstacle of pronounced durability is between us; a
personal experience has intensified rather than diminished that idea.

After all, however, there is nothing like custom, for neither Bilder nor
his wife thought any more of the wolf than I should of a dog. The animal
itself was as peaceful and well-behaved as that father of all
picture-wolves—Red Riding Hood’s quondam friend, whilst moving her
confidence in masquerade.

The whole scene was an unutterable mixture of comedy and pathos. The
wicked wolf that for half a day had paralysed London and set all the
children in the town shivering in their shoes, was there in a sort of
penitent mood, and was received and petted like a sort of vulpine
prodigal son. Old Bilder examined him all over with most tender
solicitude, and when he had finished with his penitent said:—

“There, I knew the poor old chap would get into some kind of trouble;
didn’t I say it all along? Here’s his head all cut and full of broken
glass. ’E’s been a-gettin’ over some bloomin’ wall or other. It’s a
shyme that people are allowed to top their walls with broken bottles.
This ’ere’s what comes of it. Come along, Bersicker.”

He took the wolf and locked him up in a cage, with a piece of meat that
satisfied, in quantity at any rate, the elementary conditions of the
fatted calf, and went off to report.

I came off, too, to report the only exclusive information that is given
to-day regarding the strange escapade at the Zoo.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

17 September.—I was engaged after dinner in my study posting up my
books, which, through press of other work and the many visits to Lucy,
had fallen sadly into arrear. Suddenly the door was burst open, and in
rushed my patient, with his face distorted with passion. I was
thunderstruck, for such a thing as a patient getting of his own accord
into the Superintendent’s study is almost unknown. Without an instant’s
pause he made straight at me. He had a dinner-knife in his hand, and,
as I saw he was dangerous, I tried to keep the table between us. He was
too quick and too strong for me, however; for before I could get my
balance he had struck at me and cut my left wrist rather severely.
Before he could strike again, however, I got in my right and he was
sprawling on his back on the floor. My wrist bled freely, and quite a
little pool trickled on to the carpet. I saw that my friend was not
intent on further effort, and occupied myself binding up my wrist,
keeping a wary eye on the prostrate figure all the time. When the
attendants rushed in, and we turned our attention to him, his employment
positively sickened me. He was lying on his belly on the floor licking
up, like a dog, the blood which had fallen from my wounded wrist. He was
easily secured, and, to my surprise, went with the attendants quite
placidly, simply repeating over and over again: “The blood is the life!
The blood is the life!”

I cannot afford to lose blood just at present; I have lost too much of
late for my physical good, and then the prolonged strain of Lucy’s
illness and its horrible phases is telling on me. I am over-excited and
weary, and I need rest, rest, rest. Happily Van Helsing has not summoned
me, so I need not forego my sleep; to-night I could not well do without

Telegram, Van Helsing, Antwerp, to Seward, Carfax.

(Sent to Carfax, Sussex, as no county given; delivered late by
twenty-two hours.)

17 September.—Do not fail to be at Hillingham to-night. If not
watching all the time frequently, visit and see that flowers are as
placed; very important; do not fail. Shall be with you as soon as
possible after arrival.”

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

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

Memorandum left by Lucy Westenra.

17 September. Night.—I write this and leave it to be seen, so that no
one may by any chance get into trouble through me. This is an exact
record of what took place to-night. I feel I am dying of weakness, and
have barely strength to write, but it must be done if I die in the

I went to bed as usual, taking care that the flowers were placed as Dr.
Van Helsing directed, and soon fell asleep.

I was waked by the flapping at the window, which had begun after that
sleep-walking on the cliff at Whitby when Mina saved me, and which now I
know so well. I was not afraid, but I did wish that Dr. Seward was in
the next room—as Dr. Van Helsing said he would be—so that I might have
called him. I tried to go to sleep, but could not. Then there came to me
the old fear of sleep, and I determined to keep awake. Perversely sleep
would try to come then when I did not want it; so, as I feared to be
alone, I opened my door and called out: “Is there anybody there?” There
was no answer. I was afraid to wake mother, and so closed my door again.
Then outside in the shrubbery I heard a sort of howl like a dog’s, but
more fierce and deeper. I went to the window and looked out, but could
see nothing, except a big bat, which had evidently been buffeting its
wings against the window. So I went back to bed again, but determined
not to go to sleep. Presently the door opened, and mother looked in;
seeing by my moving that I was not asleep, came in, and sat by me. She
said to me even more sweetly and softly than her wont:—

“I was uneasy about you, darling, and came in to see that you were all

I feared she might catch cold sitting there, and asked her to come in
and sleep with me, so she came into bed, and lay down beside me; she did
not take off her dressing gown, for she said she would only stay a while
and then go back to her own bed. As she lay there in my arms, and I in
hers, the flapping and buffeting came to the window again. She was
startled and a little frightened, and cried out: “What is that?” I tried
to pacify her, and at last succeeded, and she lay quiet; but I could
hear her poor dear heart still beating terribly. After a while there was
the low howl again out in the shrubbery, and shortly after there was a
crash at the window, and a lot of broken glass was hurled on the floor.
The window blind blew back with the wind that rushed in, and in the
aperture of the broken panes there was the head of a great, gaunt grey
wolf. Mother cried out in a fright, and struggled up into a sitting
posture, and clutched wildly at anything that would help her. Amongst
other things, she clutched the wreath of flowers that Dr. Van Helsing
insisted on my wearing round my neck, and tore it away from me. For a
second or two she sat up, pointing at the wolf, and there was a strange
and horrible gurgling in her throat; then she fell over—as if struck
with lightning, and her head hit my forehead and made me dizzy for a
moment or two. The room and all round seemed to spin round. I kept my
eyes fixed on the window, but the wolf drew his head back, and a whole
myriad of little specks seemed to come blowing in through the broken
window, and wheeling and circling round like the pillar of dust that
travellers describe when there is a simoon in the desert. I tried to
stir, but there was some spell upon me, and dear mother’s poor body,
which seemed to grow cold already—for her dear heart had ceased to
beat—weighed me down; and I remembered no more for a while.

The time did not seem long, but very, very awful, till I recovered
consciousness again. Somewhere near, a passing bell was tolling; the
dogs all round the neighbourhood were howling; and in our shrubbery,
seemingly just outside, a nightingale was singing. I was dazed and
stupid with pain and terror and weakness, but the sound of the
nightingale seemed like the voice of my dead mother come back to comfort
me. The sounds seemed to have awakened the maids, too, for I could hear
their bare feet pattering outside my door. I called to them, and they
came in, and when they saw what had happened, and what it was that lay
over me on the bed, they screamed out. The wind rushed in through the
broken window, and the door slammed to. They lifted off the body of my
dear mother, and laid her, covered up with a sheet, on the bed after I
had got up. They were all so frightened and nervous that I directed them
to go to the dining-room and have each a glass of wine. The door flew
open for an instant and closed again. The maids shrieked, and then went
in a body to the dining-room; and I laid what flowers I had on my dear
mother’s breast. When they were there I remembered what Dr. Van Helsing
had told me, but I didn’t like to remove them, and, besides, I would
have some of the servants to sit up with me now. I was surprised that
the maids did not come back. I called them, but got no answer, so I went
to the dining-room to look for them.

My heart sank when I saw what had happened. They all four lay helpless
on the floor, breathing heavily. The decanter of sherry was on the table
half full, but there was a queer, acrid smell about. I was suspicious,
and examined the decanter. It smelt of laudanum, and looking on the
sideboard, I found that the bottle which mother’s doctor uses for
her—oh! did use—was empty. What am I to do? what am I to do? I am back
in the room with mother. I cannot leave her, and I am alone, save for
the sleeping servants, whom some one has drugged. Alone with the dead! I
dare not go out, for I can hear the low howl of the wolf through the
broken window.

The air seems full of specks, floating and circling in the draught from
the window, and the lights burn blue and dim. What am I to do? God
shield me from harm this night! I shall hide this paper in my breast,
where they shall find it when they come to lay me out. My dear mother
gone! It is time that I go too. Good-bye, dear Arthur, if I should not
survive this night. God keep you, dear, and God help me!



18 September.—I drove at once to Hillingham and arrived early.
Keeping my cab at the gate, I went up the avenue alone. I knocked gently
and rang as quietly as possible, for I feared to disturb Lucy or her
mother, and hoped to only bring a servant to the door. After a while,
finding no response, I knocked and rang again; still no answer. I cursed
the laziness of the servants that they should lie abed at such an
hour—for it was now ten o’clock—and so rang and knocked again, but
more impatiently, but still without response. Hitherto I had blamed only
the servants, but now a terrible fear began to assail me. Was this
desolation but another link in the chain of doom which seemed drawing
tight around us? Was it indeed a house of death to which I had come, too
late? I knew that minutes, even seconds of delay, might mean hours of
danger to Lucy, if she had had again one of those frightful relapses;
and I went round the house to try if I could find by chance an entry

I could find no means of ingress. Every window and door was fastened and
locked, and I returned baffled to the porch. As I did so, I heard the
rapid pit-pat of a swiftly driven horse’s feet. They stopped at the
gate, and a few seconds later I met Van Helsing running up the avenue.
When he saw me, he gasped out:—

“Then it was you, and just arrived. How is she? Are we too late? Did you
not get my telegram?”

I answered as quickly and coherently as I could that I had only got his
telegram early in the morning, and had not lost a minute in coming here,
and that I could not make any one in the house hear me. He paused and
raised his hat as he said solemnly:—

“Then I fear we are too late. God’s will be done!” With his usual
recuperative energy, he went on: “Come. If there be no way open to get
in, we must make one. Time is all in all to us now.”

We went round to the back of the house, where there was a kitchen
window. The Professor took a small surgical saw from his case, and
handing it to me, pointed to the iron bars which guarded the window. I
attacked them at once and had very soon cut through three of them. Then
with a long, thin knife we pushed back the fastening of the sashes and
opened the window. I helped the Professor in, and followed him. There
was no one in the kitchen or in the servants’ rooms, which were close at
hand. We tried all the rooms as we went along, and in the dining-room,
dimly lit by rays of light through the shutters, found four
servant-women lying on the floor. There was no need to think them dead,
for their stertorous breathing and the acrid smell of laudanum in the
room left no doubt as to their condition. Van Helsing and I looked at
each other, and as we moved away he said: “We can attend to them later.”
Then we ascended to Lucy’s room. For an instant or two we paused at the
door to listen, but there was no sound that we could hear. With white
faces and trembling hands, we opened the door gently, and entered the

How shall I describe what we saw? On the bed lay two women, Lucy and her
mother. The latter lay farthest in, and she was covered with a white
sheet, the edge of which had been blown back by the draught through the
broken window, showing the drawn, white face, with a look of terror
fixed upon it. By her side lay Lucy, with face white and still more
drawn. The flowers which had been round her neck we found upon her
mother’s bosom, and her throat was bare, showing the two little wounds
which we had noticed before, but looking horribly white and mangled.
Without a word the Professor bent over the bed, his head almost touching
poor Lucy’s breast; then he gave a quick turn of his head, as of one who
listens, and leaping to his feet, he cried out to me:—

“It is not yet too late! Quick! quick! Bring the brandy!”

I flew downstairs and returned with it, taking care to smell and taste
it, lest it, too, were drugged like the decanter of sherry which I found
on the table. The maids were still breathing, but more restlessly, and I
fancied that the narcotic was wearing off. I did not stay to make sure,
but returned to Van Helsing. He rubbed the brandy, as on another
occasion, on her lips and gums and on her wrists and the palms of her
hands. He said to me:—

“I can do this, all that can be at the present. You go wake those maids.
Flick them in the face with a wet towel, and flick them hard. Make them
get heat and fire and a warm bath. This poor soul is nearly as cold as
that beside her. She will need be heated before we can do anything

I went at once, and found little difficulty in waking three of the
women. The fourth was only a young girl, and the drug had evidently
affected her more strongly, so I lifted her on the sofa and let her
sleep. The others were dazed at first, but as remembrance came back to
them they cried and sobbed in a hysterical manner. I was stern with
them, however, and would not let them talk. I told them that one life
was bad enough to lose, and that if they delayed they would sacrifice
Miss Lucy. So, sobbing and crying, they went about their way, half clad
as they were, and prepared fire and water. Fortunately, the kitchen and
boiler fires were still alive, and there was no lack of hot water. We
got a bath and carried Lucy out as she was and placed her in it. Whilst
we were busy chafing her limbs there was a knock at the hall door. One
of the maids ran off, hurried on some more clothes, and opened it. Then
she returned and whispered to us that there was a gentleman who had come
with a message from Mr. Holmwood. I bade her simply tell him that he
must wait, for we could see no one now. She went away with the message,
and, engrossed with our work, I clean forgot all about him.

I never saw in all my experience the Professor work in such deadly
earnest. I knew—as he knew—that it was a stand-up fight with death,
and in a pause told him so. He answered me in a way that I did not
understand, but with the sternest look that his face could wear:—

“If that were all, I would stop here where we are now, and let her fade
away into peace, for I see no light in life over her horizon.” He went
on with his work with, if possible, renewed and more frenzied vigour.

Presently we both began to be conscious that the heat was beginning to
be of some effect. Lucy’s heart beat a trifle more audibly to the
stethoscope, and her lungs had a perceptible movement. Van Helsing’s
face almost beamed, and as we lifted her from the bath and rolled her in
a hot sheet to dry her he said to me:—

“The first gain is ours! Check to the King!”

We took Lucy into another room, which had by now been prepared, and laid
her in bed and forced a few drops of brandy down her throat. I noticed
that Van Helsing tied a soft silk handkerchief round her throat. She was
still unconscious, and was quite as bad as, if not worse than, we had
ever seen her.

Van Helsing called in one of the women, and told her to stay with her
and not to take her eyes off her till we returned, and then beckoned me
out of the room.

“We must consult as to what is to be done,” he said as we descended the
stairs. In the hall he opened the dining-room door, and we passed in, he
closing the door carefully behind him. The shutters had been opened, but
the blinds were already down, with that obedience to the etiquette of
death which the British woman of the lower classes always rigidly
observes. The room was, therefore, dimly dark. It was, however, light
enough for our purposes. Van Helsing’s sternness was somewhat relieved
by a look of perplexity. He was evidently torturing his mind about
something, so I waited for an instant, and he spoke:—

“What are we to do now? Where are we to turn for help? We must have
another transfusion of blood, and that soon, or that poor girl’s life
won’t be worth an hour’s purchase. You are exhausted already; I am
exhausted too. I fear to trust those women, even if they would have
courage to submit. What are we to do for some one who will open his
veins for her?”

“What’s the matter with me, anyhow?”

The voice came from the sofa across the room, and its tones brought
relief and joy to my heart, for they were those of Quincey Morris. Van
Helsing started angrily at the first sound, but his face softened and a
glad look came into his eyes as I cried out: “Quincey Morris!” and
rushed towards him with outstretched hands.

“What brought you here?” I cried as our hands met.

“I guess Art is the cause.”

He handed me a telegram:—

“Have not heard from Seward for three days, and am terribly anxious.
Cannot leave. Father still in same condition. Send me word how Lucy is.
Do not delay.—Holmwood.”

“I think I came just in the nick of time. You know you have only to tell
me what to do.”

Van Helsing strode forward, and took his hand, looking him straight in
the eyes as he said:—

“A brave man’s blood is the best thing on this earth when a woman is in
trouble. You’re a man and no mistake. Well, the devil may work against
us for all he’s worth, but God sends us men when we want them.”

Once again we went through that ghastly operation. I have not the heart
to go through with the details. Lucy had got a terrible shock and it
told on her more than before, for though plenty of blood went into her
veins, her body did not respond to the treatment as well as on the other
occasions. Her struggle back into life was something frightful to see
and hear. However, the action of both heart and lungs improved, and Van
Helsing made a subcutaneous injection of morphia, as before, and with
good effect. Her faint became a profound slumber. The Professor watched
whilst I went downstairs with Quincey Morris, and sent one of the maids
to pay off one of the cabmen who were waiting. I left Quincey lying down
after having a glass of wine, and told the cook to get ready a good
breakfast. Then a thought struck me, and I went back to the room where
Lucy now was. When I came softly in, I found Van Helsing with a sheet or
two of note-paper in his hand. He had evidently read it, and was
thinking it over as he sat with his hand to his brow. There was a look
of grim satisfaction in his face, as of one who has had a doubt solved.
He handed me the paper saying only: “It dropped from Lucy’s breast when
we carried her to the bath.”

When I had read it, I stood looking at the Professor, and after a pause
asked him: “In God’s name, what does it all mean? Was she, or is she,
mad; or what sort of horrible danger is it?” I was so bewildered that I
did not know what to say more. Van Helsing put out his hand and took the
paper, saying:—

“Do not trouble about it now. Forget it for the present. You shall know
and understand it all in good time; but it will be later. And now what
is it that you came to me to say?” This brought me back to fact, and I
was all myself again.

“I came to speak about the certificate of death. If we do not act
properly and wisely, there may be an inquest, and that paper would have
to be produced. I am in hopes that we need have no inquest, for if we
had it would surely kill poor Lucy, if nothing else did. I know, and you
know, and the other doctor who attended her knows, that Mrs. Westenra
had disease of the heart, and we can certify that she died of it. Let us
fill up the certificate at once, and I shall take it myself to the
registrar and go on to the undertaker.”

“Good, oh my friend John! Well thought of! Truly Miss Lucy, if she be
sad in the foes that beset her, is at least happy in the friends that
love her. One, two, three, all open their veins for her, besides one old
man. Ah yes, I know, friend John; I am not blind! I love you all the
more for it! Now go.”

In the hall I met Quincey Morris, with a telegram for Arthur telling him
that Mrs. Westenra was dead; that Lucy also had been ill, but was now
going on better; and that Van Helsing and I were with her. I told him
where I was going, and he hurried me out, but as I was going said:—

“When you come back, Jack, may I have two words with you all to
ourselves?” I nodded in reply and went out. I found no difficulty about
the registration, and arranged with the local undertaker to come up in
the evening to measure for the coffin and to make arrangements.

When I got back Quincey was waiting for me. I told him I would see him
as soon as I knew about Lucy, and went up to her room. She was still
sleeping, and the Professor seemingly had not moved from his seat at her
side. From his putting his finger to his lips, I gathered that he
expected her to wake before long and was afraid of forestalling nature.
So I went down to Quincey and took him into the breakfast-room, where
the blinds were not drawn down, and which was a little more cheerful, or
rather less cheerless, than the other rooms. When we were alone, he said
to me:—

“Jack Seward, I don’t want to shove myself in anywhere where I’ve no
right to be; but this is no ordinary case. You know I loved that girl
and wanted to marry her; but, although that’s all past and gone, I can’t
help feeling anxious about her all the same. What is it that’s wrong
with her? The Dutchman—and a fine old fellow he is; I can see
that—said, that time you two came into the room, that you must have
another transfusion of blood, and that both you and he were exhausted.
Now I know well that you medical men speak in camera, and that a man
must not expect to know what they consult about in private. But this is
no common matter, and, whatever it is, I have done my part. Is not that

“That’s so,” I said, and he went on:—

“I take it that both you and Van Helsing had done already what I did
to-day. Is not that so?”

“That’s so.”

“And I guess Art was in it too. When I saw him four days ago down at his
own place he looked queer. I have not seen anything pulled down so quick
since I was on the Pampas and had a mare that I was fond of go to grass
all in a night. One of those big bats that they call vampires had got at
her in the night, and what with his gorge and the vein left open, there
wasn’t enough blood in her to let her stand up, and I had to put a
bullet through her as she lay. Jack, if you may tell me without
betraying confidence, Arthur was the first, is not that so?” As he spoke
the poor fellow looked terribly anxious. He was in a torture of suspense
regarding the woman he loved, and his utter ignorance of the terrible
mystery which seemed to surround her intensified his pain. His very
heart was bleeding, and it took all the manhood of him—and there was a
royal lot of it, too—to keep him from breaking down. I paused before
answering, for I felt that I must not betray anything which the
Professor wished kept secret; but already he knew so much, and guessed
so much, that there could be no reason for not answering, so I answered
in the same phrase: “That’s so.”

“And how long has this been going on?”

“About ten days.”

“Ten days! Then I guess, Jack Seward, that that poor pretty creature
that we all love has had put into her veins within that time the blood
of four strong men. Man alive, her whole body wouldn’t hold it.” Then,
coming close to me, he spoke in a fierce half-whisper: “What took it

I shook my head. “That,” I said, “is the crux. Van Helsing is simply
frantic about it, and I am at my wits’ end. I can’t even hazard a guess.
There has been a series of little circumstances which have thrown out
all our calculations as to Lucy being properly watched. But these shall
not occur again. Here we stay until all be well—or ill.” Quincey held
out his hand. “Count me in,” he said. “You and the Dutchman will tell me
what to do, and I’ll do it.”

When she woke late in the afternoon, Lucy’s first movement was to feel
in her breast, and, to my surprise, produced the paper which Van Helsing
had given me to read. The careful Professor had replaced it where it had
come from, lest on waking she should be alarmed. Her eye then lit on Van
Helsing and on me too, and gladdened. Then she looked around the room,
and seeing where she was, shuddered; she gave a loud cry, and put her
poor thin hands before her pale face. We both understood what that
meant—that she had realised to the full her mother’s death; so we tried
what we could to comfort her. Doubtless sympathy eased her somewhat, but
she was very low in thought and spirit, and wept silently and weakly for
a long time. We told her that either or both of us would now remain with
her all the time, and that seemed to comfort her. Towards dusk she fell
into a doze. Here a very odd thing occurred. Whilst still asleep she
took the paper from her breast and tore it in two. Van Helsing stepped
over and took the pieces from her. All the same, however, she went on
with the action of tearing, as though the material were still in her
hands; finally she lifted her hands and opened them as though scattering
the fragments. Van Helsing seemed surprised, and his brows gathered as
if in thought, but he said nothing.


19 September.—All last night she slept fitfully, being always afraid
to sleep, and something weaker when she woke from it. The Professor and
I took it in turns to watch, and we never left her for a moment
unattended. Quincey Morris said nothing about his intention, but I knew
that all night long he patrolled round and round the house.

When the day came, its searching light showed the ravages in poor Lucy’s
strength. She was hardly able to turn her head, and the little
nourishment which she could take seemed to do her no good. At times she
slept, and both Van Helsing and I noticed the difference in her, between
sleeping and waking. Whilst asleep she looked stronger, although more
haggard, and her breathing was softer; her open mouth showed the pale
gums drawn back from the teeth, which thus looked positively longer and
sharper than usual; when she woke the softness of her eyes evidently
changed the expression, for she looked her own self, although a dying
one. In the afternoon she asked for Arthur, and we telegraphed for him.
Quincey went off to meet him at the station.

When he arrived it was nearly six o’clock, and the sun was setting full
and warm, and the red light streamed in through the window and gave more
colour to the pale cheeks. When he saw her, Arthur was simply choking
with emotion, and none of us could speak. In the hours that had passed,
the fits of sleep, or the comatose condition that passed for it, had
grown more frequent, so that the pauses when conversation was possible
were shortened. Arthur’s presence, however, seemed to act as a
stimulant; she rallied a little, and spoke to him more brightly than she
had done since we arrived. He too pulled himself together, and spoke as
cheerily as he could, so that the best was made of everything.

It was now nearly one o’clock, and he and Van Helsing are sitting with
her. I am to relieve them in a quarter of an hour, and I am entering
this on Lucy’s phonograph. Until six o’clock they are to try to rest. I
fear that to-morrow will end our watching, for the shock has been too
great; the poor child cannot rally. God help us all.

Letter, Mina Harker to Lucy Westenra.

(Unopened by her.)

17 September.

“My dearest Lucy,—

“It seems an age since I heard from you, or indeed since I wrote. You
will pardon me, I know, for all my faults when you have read all my
budget of news. Well, I got my husband back all right; when we arrived
at Exeter there was a carriage waiting for us, and in it, though he had
an attack of gout, Mr. Hawkins. He took us to his house, where there
were rooms for us all nice and comfortable, and we dined together. After
dinner Mr. Hawkins said:—

“ ‘My dears, I want to drink your health and prosperity; and may every
blessing attend you both. I know you both from children, and have, with
love and pride, seen you grow up. Now I want you to make your home here
with me. I have left to me neither chick nor child; all are gone, and in
my will I have left you everything.’ I cried, Lucy dear, as Jonathan and
the old man clasped hands. Our evening was a very, very happy one.

“So here we are, installed in this beautiful old house, and from both my
bedroom and the drawing-room I can see the great elms of the cathedral
close, with their great black stems standing out against the old yellow
stone of the cathedral and I can hear the rooks overhead cawing and
cawing and chattering and gossiping all day, after the manner of
rooks—and humans. I am busy, I need not tell you, arranging things and
housekeeping. Jonathan and Mr. Hawkins are busy all day; for, now that
Jonathan is a partner, Mr. Hawkins wants to tell him all about the

“How is your dear mother getting on? I wish I could run up to town for a
day or two to see you, dear, but I dare not go yet, with so much on my
shoulders; and Jonathan wants looking after still. He is beginning to
put some flesh on his bones again, but he was terribly weakened by the
long illness; even now he sometimes starts out of his sleep in a sudden
way and awakes all trembling until I can coax him back to his usual
placidity. However, thank God, these occasions grow less frequent as the
days go on, and they will in time pass away altogether, I trust. And now
I have told you my news, let me ask yours. When are you to be married,
and where, and who is to perform the ceremony, and what are you to wear,
and is it to be a public or a private wedding? Tell me all about it,
dear; tell me all about everything, for there is nothing which interests
you which will not be dear to me. Jonathan asks me to send his
‘respectful duty,’ but I do not think that is good enough from the
junior partner of the important firm Hawkins & Harker; and so, as you
love me, and he loves me, and I love you with all the moods and tenses
of the verb, I send you simply his ‘love’ instead. Good-bye, my dearest
Lucy, and all blessings on you.


Mina Harker.

Report from Patrick Hennessey, M. D., M. R. C. S. L. K. Q. C. P. I.,
etc., etc., to John Seward, M. D.

20 September.

“My dear Sir,—

“In accordance with your wishes, I enclose report of the conditions of
everything left in my charge.... With regard to patient, Renfield, there
is more to say. He has had another outbreak, which might have had a
dreadful ending, but which, as it fortunately happened, was unattended
with any unhappy results. This afternoon a carrier’s cart with two men
made a call at the empty house whose grounds abut on ours—the house to
which, you will remember, the patient twice ran away. The men stopped at
our gate to ask the porter their way, as they were strangers. I was
myself looking out of the study window, having a smoke after dinner, and
saw one of them come up to the house. As he passed the window of
Renfield’s room, the patient began to rate him from within, and called
him all the foul names he could lay his tongue to. The man, who seemed a
decent fellow enough, contented himself by telling him to “shut up for a
foul-mouthed beggar,” whereon our man accused him of robbing him and
wanting to murder him and said that he would hinder him if he were to
swing for it. I opened the window and signed to the man not to notice,
so he contented himself after looking the place over and making up his
mind as to what kind of a place he had got to by saying: ‘Lor’ bless
yer, sir, I wouldn’t mind what was said to me in a bloomin’ madhouse. I
pity ye and the guv’nor for havin’ to live in the house with a wild
beast like that.’ Then he asked his way civilly enough, and I told him
where the gate of the empty house was; he went away, followed by threats
and curses and revilings from our man. I went down to see if I could
make out any cause for his anger, since he is usually such a
well-behaved man, and except his violent fits nothing of the kind had
ever occurred. I found him, to my astonishment, quite composed and most
genial in his manner. I tried to get him to talk of the incident, but he
blandly asked me questions as to what I meant, and led me to believe
that he was completely oblivious of the affair. It was, I am sorry to
say, however, only another instance of his cunning, for within half an
hour I heard of him again. This time he had broken out through the
window of his room, and was running down the avenue. I called to the
attendants to follow me, and ran after him, for I feared he was intent
on some mischief. My fear was justified when I saw the same cart which
had passed before coming down the road, having on it some great wooden
boxes. The men were wiping their foreheads, and were flushed in the
face, as if with violent exercise. Before I could get up to him the
patient rushed at them, and pulling one of them off the cart, began to
knock his head against the ground. If I had not seized him just at the
moment I believe he would have killed the man there and then. The other
fellow jumped down and struck him over the head with the butt-end of his
heavy whip. It was a terrible blow; but he did not seem to mind it, but
seized him also, and struggled with the three of us, pulling us to and
fro as if we were kittens. You know I am no light weight, and the others
were both burly men. At first he was silent in his fighting; but as we
began to master him, and the attendants were putting a strait-waistcoat
on him, he began to shout: ‘I’ll frustrate them! They shan’t rob me!
they shan’t murder me by inches! I’ll fight for my Lord and Master!’ and
all sorts of similar incoherent ravings. It was with very considerable
difficulty that they got him back to the house and put him in the padded
room. One of the attendants, Hardy, had a finger broken. However, I set
it all right; and he is going on well.

“The two carriers were at first loud in their threats of actions for
damages, and promised to rain all the penalties of the law on us. Their
threats were, however, mingled with some sort of indirect apology for
the defeat of the two of them by a feeble madman. They said that if it
had not been for the way their strength had been spent in carrying and
raising the heavy boxes to the cart they would have made short work of
him. They gave as another reason for their defeat the extraordinary
state of drouth to which they had been reduced by the dusty nature of
their occupation and the reprehensible distance from the scene of their
labours of any place of public entertainment. I quite understood their
drift, and after a stiff glass of grog, or rather more of the same, and
with each a sovereign in hand, they made light of the attack, and swore
that they would encounter a worse madman any day for the pleasure of
meeting so ‘bloomin’ good a bloke’ as your correspondent. I took their
names and addresses, in case they might be needed. They are as
follows:—Jack Smollet, of Dudding’s Rents, King George’s Road, Great
Walworth, and Thomas Snelling, Peter Farley’s Row, Guide Court, Bethnal
Green. They are both in the employment of Harris & Sons, Moving and
Shipment Company, Orange Master’s Yard, Soho.

“I shall report to you any matter of interest occurring here, and shall
wire you at once if there is anything of importance.

“Believe me, dear Sir,

“Yours faithfully,

Patrick Hennessey.”

Letter, Mina Harker to Lucy Westenra.

(Unopened by her.)

18 September.

“My dearest Lucy,—

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

“Your loving

Mina Harker.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

20 September.—Only resolution and habit can let me make an entry
to-night. I am too miserable, too low-spirited, too sick of the world
and all in it, including life itself, that I would not care if I heard
this moment the flapping of the wings of the angel of death. And he has
been flapping those grim wings to some purpose of late—Lucy’s mother
and Arthur’s father, and now.... Let me get on with my work.

I duly relieved Van Helsing in his watch over Lucy. We wanted Arthur to
go to rest also, but he refused at first. It was only when I told him
that we should want him to help us during the day, and that we must not
all break down for want of rest, lest Lucy should suffer, that he agreed
to go. Van Helsing was very kind to him. “Come, my child,” he said;
“come with me. You are sick and weak, and have had much sorrow and much
mental pain, as well as that tax on your strength that we know of. You
must not be alone; for to be alone is to be full of fears and alarms.
Come to the drawing-room, where there is a big fire, and there are two
sofas. You shall lie on one, and I on the other, and our sympathy will
be comfort to each other, even though we do not speak, and even if we
sleep.” Arthur went off with him, casting back a longing look on Lucy’s
face, which lay in her pillow, almost whiter than the lawn. She lay
quite still, and I looked round the room to see that all was as it
should be. I could see that the Professor had carried out in this room,
as in the other, his purpose of using the garlic; the whole of the
window-sashes reeked with it, and round Lucy’s neck, over the silk
handkerchief which Van Helsing made her keep on, was a rough chaplet of
the same odorous flowers. Lucy was breathing somewhat stertorously, and
her face was at its worst, for the open mouth showed the pale gums. Her
teeth, in the dim, uncertain light, seemed longer and sharper than they
had been in the morning. In particular, by some trick of the light, the
canine teeth looked longer and sharper than the rest. I sat down by her,
and presently she moved uneasily. At the same moment there came a sort
of dull flapping or buffeting at the window. I went over to it softly,
and peeped out by the corner of the blind. There was a full moonlight,
and I could see that the noise was made by a great bat, which wheeled
round—doubtless attracted by the light, although so dim—and every now
and again struck the window with its wings. When I came back to my seat,
I found that Lucy had moved slightly, and had torn away the garlic
flowers from her throat. I replaced them as well as I could, and sat
watching her.

Presently she woke, and I gave her food, as Van Helsing had prescribed.
She took but a little, and that languidly. There did not seem to be with
her now the unconscious struggle for life and strength that had hitherto
so marked her illness. It struck me as curious that the moment she
became conscious she pressed the garlic flowers close to her. It was
certainly odd that whenever she got into that lethargic state, with the
stertorous breathing, she put the flowers from her; but that when she
waked she clutched them close. There was no possibility of making any
mistake about this, for in the long hours that followed, she had many
spells of sleeping and waking and repeated both actions many times.

At six o’clock Van Helsing came to relieve me. Arthur had then fallen
into a doze, and he mercifully let him sleep on. When he saw Lucy’s face
I could hear the sissing indraw of his breath, and he said to me in a
sharp whisper: “Draw up the blind; I want light!” Then he bent down,
and, with his face almost touching Lucy’s, examined her carefully. He
removed the flowers and lifted the silk handkerchief from her throat. As
he did so he started back, and I could hear his ejaculation, “Mein
Gott!” as it was smothered in his throat. I bent over and looked, too,
and as I noticed some queer chill came over me.

The wounds on the throat had absolutely disappeared.

For fully five minutes Van Helsing stood looking at her, with his face
at its sternest. Then he turned to me and said calmly:—

“She is dying. It will not be long now. It will be much difference, mark
me, whether she dies conscious or in her sleep. Wake that poor boy, and
let him come and see the last; he trusts us, and we have promised him.”

I went to the dining-room and waked him. He was dazed for a moment, but
when he saw the sunlight streaming in through the edges of the shutters
he thought he was late, and expressed his fear. I assured him that Lucy
was still asleep, but told him as gently as I could that both Van
Helsing and I feared that the end was near. He covered his face with his
hands, and slid down on his knees by the sofa, where he remained,
perhaps a minute, with his head buried, praying, whilst his shoulders
shook with grief. I took him by the hand and raised him up. “Come,” I
said, “my dear old fellow, summon all your fortitude: it will be best
and easiest for her.”

When we came into Lucy’s room I could see that Van Helsing had, with
his usual forethought, been putting matters straight and making
everything look as pleasing as possible. He had even brushed Lucy’s
hair, so that it lay on the pillow in its usual sunny ripples. When we
came into the room she opened her eyes, and seeing him, whispered

“Arthur! Oh, my love, I am so glad you have come!” He was stooping to
kiss her, when Van Helsing motioned him back. “No,” he whispered, “not
yet! Hold her hand; it will comfort her more.”

So Arthur took her hand and knelt beside her, and she looked her best,
with all the soft lines matching the angelic beauty of her eyes. Then
gradually her eyes closed, and she sank to sleep. For a little bit her
breast heaved softly, and her breath came and went like a tired child’s.

And then insensibly there came the strange change which I had noticed in
the night. Her breathing grew stertorous, the mouth opened, and the pale
gums, drawn back, made the teeth look longer and sharper than ever. In a
sort of sleep-waking, vague, unconscious way she opened her eyes, which
were now dull and hard at once, and said in a soft, voluptuous voice,
such as I had never heard from her lips:—

“Arthur! Oh, my love, I am so glad you have come! Kiss me!” Arthur bent
eagerly over to kiss her; but at that instant Van Helsing, who, like me,
had been startled by her voice, swooped upon him, and catching him by
the neck with both hands, dragged him back with a fury of strength which
I never thought he could have possessed, and actually hurled him almost
across the room.

“Not for your life!” he said; “not for your living soul and hers!” And
he stood between them like a lion at bay.

Arthur was so taken aback that he did not for a moment know what to do
or say; and before any impulse of violence could seize him he realised
the place and the occasion, and stood silent, waiting.

I kept my eyes fixed on Lucy, as did Van Helsing, and we saw a spasm as
of rage flit like a shadow over her face; the sharp teeth champed
together. Then her eyes closed, and she breathed heavily.

Very shortly after she opened her eyes in all their softness, and
putting out her poor, pale, thin hand, took Van Helsing’s great brown
one; drawing it to her, she kissed it. “My true friend,” she said, in a
faint voice, but with untellable pathos, “My true friend, and his! Oh,
guard him, and give me peace!

“I swear it!” he said solemnly, kneeling beside her and holding up his
hand, as one who registers an oath. Then he turned to Arthur, and said
to him: “Come, my child, take her hand in yours, and kiss her on the
forehead, and only once.”

Their eyes met instead of their lips; and so they parted.

Lucy’s eyes closed; and Van Helsing, who had been watching closely, took
Arthur’s arm, and drew him away.

And then Lucy’s breathing became stertorous again, and all at once it

“It is all over,” said Van Helsing. “She is dead!”

I took Arthur by the arm, and led him away to the drawing-room, where he
sat down, and covered his face with his hands, sobbing in a way that
nearly broke me down to see.

I went back to the room, and found Van Helsing looking at poor Lucy, and
his face was sterner than ever. Some change had come over her body.
Death had given back part of her beauty, for her brow and cheeks had
recovered some of their flowing lines; even the lips had lost their
deadly pallor. It was as if the blood, no longer needed for the working
of the heart, had gone to make the harshness of death as little rude as
might be.

“We thought her dying whilst she slept,

And sleeping when she died.”

I stood beside Van Helsing, and said:—

“Ah, well, poor girl, there is peace for her at last. It is the end!”

He turned to me, and said with grave solemnity:—

“Not so; alas! not so. It is only the beginning!”

When I asked him what he meant, he only shook his head and answered:—

“We can do nothing as yet. Wait and see.


DR. SEWARD’S DIARY—continued.

THE funeral was arranged for the next succeeding day, so that Lucy and
her mother might be buried together. I attended to all the ghastly
formalities, and the urbane undertaker proved that his staff were
afflicted—or blessed—with something of his own obsequious suavity.
Even the woman who performed the last offices for the dead remarked to
me, in a confidential, brother-professional way, when she had come out
from the death-chamber:—

“She makes a very beautiful corpse, sir. It’s quite a privilege to
attend on her. It’s not too much to say that she will do credit to our

I noticed that Van Helsing never kept far away. This was possible from
the disordered state of things in the household. There were no relatives
at hand; and as Arthur had to be back the next day to attend at his
father’s funeral, we were unable to notify any one who should have been
bidden. Under the circumstances, Van Helsing and I took it upon
ourselves to examine papers, etc. He insisted upon looking over Lucy’s
papers himself. I asked him why, for I feared that he, being a
foreigner, might not be quite aware of English legal requirements, and
so might in ignorance make some unnecessary trouble. He answered me:—

“I know; I know. You forget that I am a lawyer as well as a doctor. But
this is not altogether for the law. You knew that, when you avoided the
coroner. I have more than him to avoid. There may be papers more—such
as this.”

As he spoke he took from his pocket-book the memorandum which had been
in Lucy’s breast, and which she had torn in her sleep.

“When you find anything of the solicitor who is for the late Mrs.
Westenra, seal all her papers, and write him to-night. For me, I watch
here in the room and in Miss Lucy’s old room all night, and I myself
search for what may be. It is not well that her very thoughts go into
the hands of strangers.”

I went on with my part of the work, and in another half hour had found
the name and address of Mrs. Westenra’s solicitor and had written to
him. All the poor lady’s papers were in order; explicit directions
regarding the place of burial were given. I had hardly sealed the
letter, when, to my surprise, Van Helsing walked into the room,

“Can I help you, friend John? I am free, and if I may, my service is to

“Have you got what you looked for?” I asked, to which he replied:—

“I did not look for any specific thing. I only hoped to find, and find I
have, all that there was—only some letters and a few memoranda, and a
diary new begun. But I have them here, and we shall for the present say
nothing of them. I shall see that poor lad to-morrow evening, and, with
his sanction, I shall use some.”

When we had finished the work in hand, he said to me:—

“And now, friend John, I think we may to bed. We want sleep, both you
and I, and rest to recuperate. To-morrow we shall have much to do, but
for the to-night there is no need of us. Alas!”

Before turning in we went to look at poor Lucy. The undertaker had
certainly done his work well, for the room was turned into a small
chapelle ardente. There was a wilderness of beautiful white flowers,
and death was made as little repulsive as might be. The end of the
winding-sheet was laid over the face; when the Professor bent over and
turned it gently back, we both started at the beauty before us, the tall
wax candles showing a sufficient light to note it well. All Lucy’s
loveliness had come back to her in death, and the hours that had passed,
instead of leaving traces of “decay’s effacing fingers,” had but
restored the beauty of life, till positively I could not believe my eyes
that I was looking at a corpse.

The Professor looked sternly grave. He had not loved her as I had, and
there was no need for tears in his eyes. He said to me: “Remain till I
return,” and left the room. He came back with a handful of wild garlic
from the box waiting in the hall, but which had not been opened, and
placed the flowers amongst the others on and around the bed. Then he
took from his neck, inside his collar, a little gold crucifix, and
placed it over the mouth. He restored the sheet to its place, and we
came away.

I was undressing in my own room, when, with a premonitory tap at the
door, he entered, and at once began to speak:—

“To-morrow I want you to bring me, before night, a set of post-mortem

“Must we make an autopsy?” I asked.

“Yes and no. I want to operate, but not as you think. Let me tell you
now, but not a word to another. I want to cut off her head and take out
her heart. Ah! you a surgeon, and so shocked! You, whom I have seen with
no tremble of hand or heart, do operations of life and death that make
the rest shudder. Oh, but I must not forget, my dear friend John, that
you loved her; and I have not forgotten it, for it is I that shall
operate, and you must only help. I would like to do it to-night, but for
Arthur I must not; he will be free after his father’s funeral to-morrow,
and he will want to see her—to see it. Then, when she is coffined
ready for the next day, you and I shall come when all sleep. We shall
unscrew the coffin-lid, and shall do our operation: and then replace
all, so that none know, save we alone.”

“But why do it at all? The girl is dead. Why mutilate her poor body
without need? And if there is no necessity for a post-mortem and nothing
to gain by it—no good to her, to us, to science, to human
knowledge—why do it? Without such it is monstrous.”

For answer he put his hand on my shoulder, and said, with infinite

“Friend John, I pity your poor bleeding heart; and I love you the more
because it does so bleed. If I could, I would take on myself the burden
that you do bear. But there are things that you know not, but that you
shall know, and bless me for knowing, though they are not pleasant
things. John, my child, you have been my friend now many years, and yet
did you ever know me to do any without good cause? I may err—I am but
man; but I believe in all I do. Was it not for these causes that you
send for me when the great trouble came? Yes! Were you not amazed, nay
horrified, when I would not let Arthur kiss his love—though she was
dying—and snatched him away by all my strength? Yes! And yet you saw
how she thanked me, with her so beautiful dying eyes, her voice, too, so
weak, and she kiss my rough old hand and bless me? Yes! And did you not
hear me swear promise to her, that so she closed her eyes grateful? Yes!

“Well, I have good reason now for all I want to do. You have for many
years trust me; you have believe me weeks past, when there be things so
strange that you might have well doubt. Believe me yet a little, friend
John. If you trust me not, then I must tell what I think; and that is
not perhaps well. And if I work—as work I shall, no matter trust or no
trust—without my friend trust in me, I work with heavy heart and feel,
oh! so lonely when I want all help and courage that may be!” He paused a
moment and went on solemnly: “Friend John, there are strange and
terrible days before us. Let us not be two, but one, that so we work to
a good end. Will you not have faith in me?”

I took his hand, and promised him. I held my door open as he went away,
and watched him go into his room and close the door. As I stood without
moving, I saw one of the maids pass silently along the passage—she had
her back towards me, so did not see me—and go into the room where Lucy
lay. The sight touched me. Devotion is so rare, and we are so grateful
to those who show it unasked to those we love. Here was a poor girl
putting aside the terrors which she naturally had of death to go watch
alone by the bier of the mistress whom she loved, so that the poor clay
might not be lonely till laid to eternal rest....


I must have slept long and soundly, for it was broad daylight when Van
Helsing waked me by coming into my room. He came over to my bedside and

“You need not trouble about the knives; we shall not do it.”

“Why not?” I asked. For his solemnity of the night before had greatly
impressed me.

“Because,” he said sternly, “it is too late—or too early. See!” Here he
held up the little golden crucifix. “This was stolen in the night.”

“How, stolen,” I asked in wonder, “since you have it now?”

“Because I get it back from the worthless wretch who stole it, from the
woman who robbed the dead and the living. Her punishment will surely
come, but not through me; she knew not altogether what she did and thus
unknowing, she only stole. Now we must wait.”

He went away on the word, leaving me with a new mystery to think of, a
new puzzle to grapple with.

The forenoon was a dreary time, but at noon the solicitor came: Mr.
Marquand, of Wholeman, Sons, Marquand & Lidderdale. He was very genial
and very appreciative of what we had done, and took off our hands all
cares as to details. During lunch he told us that Mrs. Westenra had for
some time expected sudden death from her heart, and had put her affairs
in absolute order; he informed us that, with the exception of a certain
entailed property of Lucy’s father’s which now, in default of direct
issue, went back to a distant branch of the family, the whole estate,
real and personal, was left absolutely to Arthur Holmwood. When he had
told us so much he went on:—

“Frankly we did our best to prevent such a testamentary disposition, and
pointed out certain contingencies that might leave her daughter either
penniless or not so free as she should be to act regarding a matrimonial
alliance. Indeed, we pressed the matter so far that we almost came into
collision, for she asked us if we were or were not prepared to carry out
her wishes. Of course, we had then no alternative but to accept. We were
right in principle, and ninety-nine times out of a hundred we should
have proved, by the logic of events, the accuracy of our judgment.
Frankly, however, I must admit that in this case any other form of
disposition would have rendered impossible the carrying out of her
wishes. For by her predeceasing her daughter the latter would have come
into possession of the property, and, even had she only survived her
mother by five minutes, her property would, in case there were no
will—and a will was a practical impossibility in such a case—have been
treated at her decease as under intestacy. In which case Lord Godalming,
though so dear a friend, would have had no claim in the world; and the
inheritors, being remote, would not be likely to abandon their just
rights, for sentimental reasons regarding an entire stranger. I assure
you, my dear sirs, I am rejoiced at the result, perfectly rejoiced.”

He was a good fellow, but his rejoicing at the one little part—in which
he was officially interested—of so great a tragedy, was an
object-lesson in the limitations of sympathetic understanding.

He did not remain long, but said he would look in later in the day and
see Lord Godalming. His coming, however, had been a certain comfort to
us, since it assured us that we should not have to dread hostile
criticism as to any of our acts. Arthur was expected at five o’clock, so
a little before that time we visited the death-chamber. It was so in
very truth, for now both mother and daughter lay in it. The undertaker,
true to his craft, had made the best display he could of his goods, and
there was a mortuary air about the place that lowered our spirits at
once. Van Helsing ordered the former arrangement to be adhered to,
explaining that, as Lord Godalming was coming very soon, it would be
less harrowing to his feelings to see all that was left of his fiancée
quite alone. The undertaker seemed shocked at his own stupidity and
exerted himself to restore things to the condition in which we left them
the night before, so that when Arthur came such shocks to his feelings
as we could avoid were saved.

Poor fellow! He looked desperately sad and broken; even his stalwart
manhood seemed to have shrunk somewhat under the strain of his
much-tried emotions. He had, I knew, been very genuinely and devotedly
attached to his father; and to lose him, and at such a time, was a
bitter blow to him. With me he was warm as ever, and to Van Helsing he
was sweetly courteous; but I could not help seeing that there was some
constraint with him. The Professor noticed it, too, and motioned me to
bring him upstairs. I did so, and left him at the door of the room, as I
felt he would like to be quite alone with her, but he took my arm and
led me in, saying huskily:—

“You loved her too, old fellow; she told me all about it, and there was
no friend had a closer place in her heart than you. I don’t know how to
thank you for all you have done for her. I can’t think yet....”

Here he suddenly broke down, and threw his arms round my shoulders and
laid his head on my breast, crying:—

“Oh, Jack! Jack! What shall I do! The whole of life seems gone from me
all at once, and there is nothing in the wide world for me to live for.”

I comforted him as well as I could. In such cases men do not need much
expression. A grip of the hand, the tightening of an arm over the
shoulder, a sob in unison, are expressions of sympathy dear to a man’s
heart. I stood still and silent till his sobs died away, and then I said
softly to him:—

“Come and look at her.”

Together we moved over to the bed, and I lifted the lawn from her face.
God! how beautiful she was. Every hour seemed to be enhancing her
loveliness. It frightened and amazed me somewhat; and as for Arthur, he
fell a-trembling, and finally was shaken with doubt as with an ague. At
last, after a long pause, he said to me in a faint whisper:—

“Jack, is she really dead?”

I assured him sadly that it was so, and went on to suggest—for I felt
that such a horrible doubt should not have life for a moment longer than
I could help—that it often happened that after death faces became
softened and even resolved into their youthful beauty; that this was
especially so when death had been preceded by any acute or prolonged
suffering. It seemed to quite do away with any doubt, and, after
kneeling beside the couch for a while and looking at her lovingly and
long, he turned aside. I told him that that must be good-bye, as the
coffin had to be prepared; so he went back and took her dead hand in his
and kissed it, and bent over and kissed her forehead. He came away,
fondly looking back over his shoulder at her as he came.

I left him in the drawing-room, and told Van Helsing that he had said
good-bye; so the latter went to the kitchen to tell the undertaker’s men
to proceed with the preparations and to screw up the coffin. When he
came out of the room again I told him of Arthur’s question, and he

“I am not surprised. Just now I doubted for a moment myself!”

We all dined together, and I could see that poor Art was trying to make
the best of things. Van Helsing had been silent all dinner-time; but
when we had lit our cigars he said—

“Lord——”; but Arthur interrupted him:—

“No, no, not that, for God’s sake! not yet at any rate. Forgive me, sir:
I did not mean to speak offensively; it is only because my loss is so

The Professor answered very sweetly:—

“I only used that name because I was in doubt. I must not call you
‘Mr.,’ and I have grown to love you—yes, my dear boy, to love you—as

Arthur held out his hand, and took the old man’s warmly.

“Call me what you will,” he said. “I hope I may always have the title of
a friend. And let me say that I am at a loss for words to thank you for
your goodness to my poor dear.” He paused a moment, and went on: “I know
that she understood your goodness even better than I do; and if I was
rude or in any way wanting at that time you acted so—you remember”—the
Professor nodded—“you must forgive me.”

He answered with a grave kindness:—

“I know it was hard for you to quite trust me then, for to trust such
violence needs to understand; and I take it that you do not—that you
cannot—trust me now, for you do not yet understand. And there may be
more times when I shall want you to trust when you cannot—and may
not—and must not yet understand. But the time will come when your trust
shall be whole and complete in me, and when you shall understand as
though the sunlight himself shone through. Then you shall bless me from
first to last for your own sake, and for the sake of others and for her
dear sake to whom I swore to protect.”

“And, indeed, indeed, sir,” said Arthur warmly, “I shall in all ways
trust you. I know and believe you have a very noble heart, and you are
Jack’s friend, and you were hers. You shall do what you like.”

The Professor cleared his throat a couple of times, as though about to
speak, and finally said:—

“May I ask you something now?”


“You know that Mrs. Westenra left you all her property?”

“No, poor dear; I never thought of it.”

“And as it is all yours, you have a right to deal with it as you will. I
want you to give me permission to read all Miss Lucy’s papers and
letters. Believe me, it is no idle curiosity. I have a motive of which,
be sure, she would have approved. I have them all here. I took them
before we knew that all was yours, so that no strange hand might touch
them—no strange eye look through words into her soul. I shall keep
them, if I may; even you may not see them yet, but I shall keep them
safe. No word shall be lost; and in the good time I shall give them back
to you. It’s a hard thing I ask, but you will do it, will you not, for
Lucy’s sake?”

Arthur spoke out heartily, like his old self:—

“Dr. Van Helsing, you may do what you will. I feel that in saying this I
am doing what my dear one would have approved. I shall not trouble you
with questions till the time comes.”

The old Professor stood up as he said solemnly:—

“And you are right. There will be pain for us all; but it will not be
all pain, nor will this pain be the last. We and you too—you most of
all, my dear boy—will have to pass through the bitter water before we
reach the sweet. But we must be brave of heart and unselfish, and do our
duty, and all will be well!”

I slept on a sofa in Arthur’s room that night. Van Helsing did not go to
bed at all. He went to and fro, as if patrolling the house, and was
never out of sight of the room where Lucy lay in her coffin, strewn with
the wild garlic flowers, which sent, through the odour of lily and rose,
a heavy, overpowering smell into the night.

Mina Harker’s Journal.

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

It seems only yesterday that the last entry was made, and yet how much
between then, in Whitby and all the world before me, Jonathan away and
no news of him; and now, married to Jonathan, Jonathan a solicitor, a
partner, rich, master of his business, Mr. Hawkins dead and buried, and
Jonathan with another attack that may harm him. Some day he may ask me
about it. Down it all goes. I am rusty in my shorthand—see what
unexpected prosperity does for us—so it may be as well to freshen it up
again with an exercise anyhow....

The service was very simple and very solemn. There were only ourselves
and the servants there, one or two old friends of his from Exeter, his
London agent, and a gentleman representing Sir John Paxton, the
President of the Incorporated Law Society. Jonathan and I stood hand in
hand, and we felt that our best and dearest friend was gone from us....

We came back to town quietly, taking a ’bus to Hyde Park Corner.
Jonathan thought it would interest me to go into the Row for a while, so
we sat down; but there were very few people there, and it was
sad-looking and desolate to see so many empty chairs. It made us think
of the empty chair at home; so we got up and walked down Piccadilly.
Jonathan was holding me by the arm, the way he used to in old days
before I went to school. I felt it very improper, for you can’t go on
for some years teaching etiquette and decorum to other girls without the
pedantry of it biting into yourself a bit; but it was Jonathan, and he
was my husband, and we didn’t know anybody who saw us—and we didn’t
care if they did—so on we walked. I was looking at a very beautiful
girl, in a big cart-wheel hat, sitting in a victoria outside Guiliano’s,
when I felt Jonathan clutch my arm so tight that he hurt me, and he said
under his breath: “My God!” I am always anxious about Jonathan, for I
fear that some nervous fit may upset him again; so I turned to him
quickly, and asked him what it was that disturbed him.

He was very pale, and his eyes seemed bulging out as, half in terror and
half in amazement, he gazed at a tall, thin man, with a beaky nose and
black moustache and pointed beard, who was also observing the pretty
girl. He was looking at her so hard that he did not see either of us,
and so I had a good view of him. His face was not a good face; it was
hard, and cruel, and sensual, and his big white teeth, that looked all
the whiter because his lips were so red, were pointed like an animal’s.
Jonathan kept staring at him, till I was afraid he would notice. I
feared he might take it ill, he looked so fierce and nasty. I asked
Jonathan why he was disturbed, and he answered, evidently thinking that
I knew as much about it as he did: “Do you see who it is?”

“No, dear,” I said; “I don’t know him; who is it?” His answer seemed to
shock and thrill me, for it was said as if he did not know that it was
to me, Mina, to whom he was speaking:—

“It is the man himself!”

The poor dear was evidently terrified at something—very greatly
terrified; I do believe that if he had not had me to lean on and to
support him he would have sunk down. He kept staring; a man came out of
the shop with a small parcel, and gave it to the lady, who then drove
off. The dark man kept his eyes fixed on her, and when the carriage
moved up Piccadilly he followed in the same direction, and hailed a
hansom. Jonathan kept looking after him, and said, as if to himself:—

“I believe it is the Count, but he has grown young. My God, if this be
so! Oh, my God! my God! If I only knew! if I only knew!” He was
distressing himself so much that I feared to keep his mind on the
subject by asking him any questions, so I remained silent. I drew him
away quietly, and he, holding my arm, came easily. We walked a little
further, and then went in and sat for a while in the Green Park. It was
a hot day for autumn, and there was a comfortable seat in a shady place.
After a few minutes’ staring at nothing, Jonathan’s eyes closed, and he
went quietly into a sleep, with his head on my shoulder. I thought it
was the best thing for him, so did not disturb him. In about twenty
minutes he woke up, and said to me quite cheerfully:—

“Why, Mina, have I been asleep! Oh, do forgive me for being so rude.
Come, and we’ll have a cup of tea somewhere.” He had evidently forgotten
all about the dark stranger, as in his illness he had forgotten all that
this episode had reminded him of. I don’t like this lapsing into
forgetfulness; it may make or continue some injury to the brain. I must
not ask him, for fear I shall do more harm than good; but I must somehow
learn the facts of his journey abroad. The time is come, I fear, when I
must open that parcel, and know what is written. Oh, Jonathan, you will,
I know, forgive me if I do wrong, but it is for your own dear sake.


Later.—A sad home-coming in every way—the house empty of the dear
soul who was so good to us; Jonathan still pale and dizzy under a slight
relapse of his malady; and now a telegram from Van Helsing, whoever he
may be:—

“You will be grieved to hear that Mrs. Westenra died five days ago, and
that Lucy died the day before yesterday. They were both buried to-day.”

Oh, what a wealth of sorrow in a few words! Poor Mrs. Westenra! poor
Lucy! Gone, gone, never to return to us! And poor, poor Arthur, to have
lost such sweetness out of his life! God help us all to bear our

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

22 September.—It is all over. Arthur has gone back to Ring, and has
taken Quincey Morris with him. What a fine fellow is Quincey! I believe
in my heart of hearts that he suffered as much about Lucy’s death as any
of us; but he bore himself through it like a moral Viking. If America
can go on breeding men like that, she will be a power in the world
indeed. Van Helsing is lying down, having a rest preparatory to his
journey. He goes over to Amsterdam to-night, but says he returns
to-morrow night; that he only wants to make some arrangements which can
only be made personally. He is to stop with me then, if he can; he says
he has work to do in London which may take him some time. Poor old
fellow! I fear that the strain of the past week has broken down even his
iron strength. All the time of the burial he was, I could see, putting
some terrible restraint on himself. When it was all over, we were
standing beside Arthur, who, poor fellow, was speaking of his part in
the operation where his blood had been transfused to his Lucy’s veins; I
could see Van Helsing’s face grow white and purple by turns. Arthur was
saying that he felt since then as if they two had been really married
and that she was his wife in the sight of God. None of us said a word of
the other operations, and none of us ever shall. Arthur and Quincey went
away together to the station, and Van Helsing and I came on here. The
moment we were alone in the carriage he gave way to a regular fit of
hysterics. He has denied to me since that it was hysterics, and insisted
that it was only his sense of humour asserting itself under very
terrible conditions. He laughed till he cried, and I had to draw down
the blinds lest any one should see us and misjudge; and then he cried,
till he laughed again; and laughed and cried together, just as a woman
does. I tried to be stern with him, as one is to a woman under the
circumstances; but it had no effect. Men and women are so different in
manifestations of nervous strength or weakness! Then when his face grew
grave and stern again I asked him why his mirth, and why at such a time.
His reply was in a way characteristic of him, for it was logical and
forceful and mysterious. He said:—

“Ah, you don’t comprehend, friend John. Do not think that I am not sad,
though I laugh. See, I have cried even when the laugh did choke me. But
no more think that I am all sorry when I cry, for the laugh he come
just the same. Keep it always with you that laughter who knock at your
door and say, ‘May I come in?’ is not the true laughter. No! he is a
king, and he come when and how he like. He ask no person; he choose no
time of suitability. He say, ‘I am here.’ Behold, in example I grieve my
heart out for that so sweet young girl; I give my blood for her, though
I am old and worn; I give my time, my skill, my sleep; I let my other
sufferers want that so she may have all. And yet I can laugh at her very
grave—laugh when the clay from the spade of the sexton drop upon her
coffin and say ‘Thud! thud!’ to my heart, till it send back the blood
from my cheek. My heart bleed for that poor boy—that dear boy, so of
the age of mine own boy had I been so blessed that he live, and with his
hair and eyes the same. There, you know now why I love him so. And yet
when he say things that touch my husband-heart to the quick, and make my
father-heart yearn to him as to no other man—not even to you, friend
John, for we are more level in experiences than father and son—yet even
at such moment King Laugh he come to me and shout and bellow in my ear,
‘Here I am! here I am!’ till the blood come dance back and bring some of
the sunshine that he carry with him to my cheek. Oh, friend John, it is
a strange world, a sad world, a world full of miseries, and woes, and
troubles; and yet when King Laugh come he make them all dance to the
tune he play. Bleeding hearts, and dry bones of the churchyard, and
tears that burn as they fall—all dance together to the music that he
make with that smileless mouth of him. And believe me, friend John, that
he is good to come, and kind. Ah, we men and women are like ropes drawn
tight with strain that pull us different ways. Then tears come; and,
like the rain on the ropes, they brace us up, until perhaps the strain
become too great, and we break. But King Laugh he come like the
sunshine, and he ease off the strain again; and we bear to go on with
our labour, what it may be.”

I did not like to wound him by pretending not to see his idea; but, as I
did not yet understand the cause of his laughter, I asked him. As he
answered me his face grew stern, and he said in quite a different

“Oh, it was the grim irony of it all—this so lovely lady garlanded with
flowers, that looked so fair as life, till one by one we wondered if she
were truly dead; she laid in that so fine marble house in that lonely
churchyard, where rest so many of her kin, laid there with the mother
who loved her, and whom she loved; and that sacred bell going ‘Toll!
toll! toll!’ so sad and slow; and those holy men, with the white
garments of the angel, pretending to read books, and yet all the time
their eyes never on the page; and all of us with the bowed head. And all
for what? She is dead; so! Is it not?”

“Well, for the life of me, Professor,” I said, “I can’t see anything to
laugh at in all that. Why, your explanation makes it a harder puzzle
than before. But even if the burial service was comic, what about poor
Art and his trouble? Why, his heart was simply breaking.”

“Just so. Said he not that the transfusion of his blood to her veins had
made her truly his bride?”

“Yes, and it was a sweet and comforting idea for him.”

“Quite so. But there was a difficulty, friend John. If so that, then
what about the others? Ho, ho! Then this so sweet maid is a polyandrist,
and me, with my poor wife dead to me, but alive by Church’s law, though
no wits, all gone—even I, who am faithful husband to this now-no-wife,
am bigamist.”

“I don’t see where the joke comes in there either!” I said; and I did
not feel particularly pleased with him for saying such things. He laid
his hand on my arm, and said:—

“Friend John, forgive me if I pain. I showed not my feeling to others
when it would wound, but only to you, my old friend, whom I can trust.
If you could have looked into my very heart then when I want to laugh;
if you could have done so when the laugh arrived; if you could do so
now, when King Laugh have pack up his crown, and all that is to him—for
he go far, far away from me, and for a long, long time—maybe you would
perhaps pity me the most of all.”

I was touched by the tenderness of his tone, and asked why.

“Because I know!”

And now we are all scattered; and for many a long day loneliness will
sit over our roofs with brooding wings. Lucy lies in the tomb of her
kin, a lordly death-house in a lonely churchyard, away from teeming
London; where the air is fresh, and the sun rises over Hampstead Hill,
and where wild flowers grow of their own accord.

So I can finish this diary; and God only knows if I shall ever begin
another. If I do, or if I even open this again, it will be to deal with
different people and different themes; for here at the end, where the
romance of my life is told, ere I go back to take up the thread of my
life-work, I say sadly and without hope,


“The Westminster Gazette,” 25 September.


The neighbourhood of Hampstead is just at present exercised with a
series of events which seem to run on lines parallel to those of what
was known to the writers of headlines as “The Kensington Horror,” or
“The Stabbing Woman,” or “The Woman in Black.” During the past two or
three days several cases have occurred of young children straying from
home or neglecting to return from their playing on the Heath. In all
these cases the children were too young to give any properly
intelligible account of themselves, but the consensus of their excuses
is that they had been with a “bloofer lady.” It has always been late in
the evening when they have been missed, and on two occasions the
children have not been found until early in the following morning. It is
generally supposed in the neighbourhood that, as the first child missed
gave as his reason for being away that a “bloofer lady” had asked him to
come for a walk, the others had picked up the phrase and used it as
occasion served. This is the more natural as the favourite game of the
little ones at present is luring each other away by wiles. A
correspondent writes us that to see some of the tiny tots pretending to
be the “bloofer lady” is supremely funny. Some of our caricaturists
might, he says, take a lesson in the irony of grotesque by comparing the
reality and the picture. It is only in accordance with general
principles of human nature that the “bloofer lady” should be the popular
rôle at these al fresco performances. Our correspondent naïvely says
that even Ellen Terry could not be so winningly attractive as some of
these grubby-faced little children pretend—and even imagine
themselves—to be.

There is, however, possibly a serious side to the question, for some of
the children, indeed all who have been missed at night, have been
slightly torn or wounded in the throat. The wounds seem such as might be
made by a rat or a small dog, and although of not much importance
individually, would tend to show that whatever animal inflicts them has
a system or method of its own. The police of the division have been
instructed to keep a sharp look-out for straying children, especially
when very young, in and around Hampstead Heath, and for any stray dog
which may be about.

“The Westminster Gazette,” 25 September.

Extra Special.



The “Bloofer Lady.”

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



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

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

Letter, Van Helsing to Mrs. Harker.

24 September.


“Dear Madam,—

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

Van Helsing.

Telegram, Mrs. Harker to Van Helsing.

25 September.—Come to-day by quarter-past ten train if you can catch
it. Can see you any time you call.

Wilhelmina Harker.


25 September.—I cannot help feeling terribly excited as the time
draws near for the visit of Dr. Van Helsing, for somehow I expect that
it will throw some light upon Jonathan’s sad experience; and as he
attended poor dear Lucy in her last illness, he can tell me all about
her. That is the reason of his coming; it is concerning Lucy and her
sleep-walking, and not about Jonathan. Then I shall never know the real
truth now! How silly I am. That awful journal gets hold of my
imagination and tinges everything with something of its own colour. Of
course it is about Lucy. That habit came back to the poor dear, and that
awful night on the cliff must have made her ill. I had almost forgotten
in my own affairs how ill she was afterwards. She must have told him
of her sleep-walking adventure on the cliff, and that I knew all about
it; and now he wants me to tell him what she knows, so that he may
understand. I hope I did right in not saying anything of it to Mrs.
Westenra; I should never forgive myself if any act of mine, were it even
a negative one, brought harm on poor dear Lucy. I hope, too, Dr. Van
Helsing will not blame me; I have had so much trouble and anxiety of
late that I feel I cannot bear more just at present.

I suppose a cry does us all good at times—clears the air as other rain
does. Perhaps it was reading the journal yesterday that upset me, and
then Jonathan went away this morning to stay away from me a whole day
and night, the first time we have been parted since our marriage. I do
hope the dear fellow will take care of himself, and that nothing will
occur to upset him. It is two o’clock, and the doctor will be here soon
now. I shall say nothing of Jonathan’s journal unless he asks me. I am
so glad I have type-written out my own journal, so that, in case he asks
about Lucy, I can hand it to him; it will save much questioning.


Later.—He has come and gone. Oh, what a strange meeting, and how it
all makes my head whirl round! I feel like one in a dream. Can it be all
possible, or even a part of it? If I had not read Jonathan’s journal
first, I should never have accepted even a possibility. Poor, poor, dear
Jonathan! How he must have suffered. Please the good God, all this may
not upset him again. I shall try to save him from it; but it may be even
a consolation and a help to him—terrible though it be and awful in its
consequences—to know for certain that his eyes and ears and brain did
not deceive him, and that it is all true. It may be that it is the doubt
which haunts him; that when the doubt is removed, no matter
which—waking or dreaming—may prove the truth, he will be more
satisfied and better able to bear the shock. Dr. Van Helsing must be a
good man as well as a clever one if he is Arthur’s friend and Dr.
Seward’s, and if they brought him all the way from Holland to look after
Lucy. I feel from having seen him that he is good and kind and of a
noble nature. When he comes to-morrow I shall ask him about Jonathan;
and then, please God, all this sorrow and anxiety may lead to a good
end. I used to think I would like to practise interviewing; Jonathan’s
friend on “The Exeter News” told him that memory was everything in such
work—that you must be able to put down exactly almost every word
spoken, even if you had to refine some of it afterwards. Here was a rare
interview; I shall try to record it verbatim.

It was half-past two o’clock when the knock came. I took my courage à
deux mains
and waited. In a few minutes Mary opened the door, and
announced “Dr. Van Helsing.”

I rose and bowed, and he came towards me; a man of medium weight,
strongly built, with his shoulders set back over a broad, deep chest and
a neck well balanced on the trunk as the head is on the neck. The poise
of the head strikes one at once as indicative of thought and power; the
head is noble, well-sized, broad, and large behind the ears. The face,
clean-shaven, shows a hard, square chin, a large, resolute, mobile
mouth, a good-sized nose, rather straight, but with quick, sensitive
nostrils, that seem to broaden as the big, bushy brows come down and the
mouth tightens. The forehead is broad and fine, rising at first almost
straight and then sloping back above two bumps or ridges wide apart;
such a forehead that the reddish hair cannot possibly tumble over it,
but falls naturally back and to the sides. Big, dark blue eyes are set
widely apart, and are quick and tender or stern with the man’s moods. He
said to me:—

“Mrs. Harker, is it not?” I bowed assent.

“That was Miss Mina Murray?” Again I assented.

“It is Mina Murray that I came to see that was friend of that poor dear
child Lucy Westenra. Madam Mina, it is on account of the dead I come.”

“Sir,” I said, “you could have no better claim on me than that you were
a friend and helper of Lucy Westenra.” And I held out my hand. He took
it and said tenderly:—

“Oh, Madam Mina, I knew that the friend of that poor lily girl must be
good, but I had yet to learn——” He finished his speech with a courtly
bow. I asked him what it was that he wanted to see me about, so he at
once began:—

“I have read your letters to Miss Lucy. Forgive me, but I had to begin
to inquire somewhere, and there was none to ask. I know that you were
with her at Whitby. She sometimes kept a diary—you need not look
surprised, Madam Mina; it was begun after you had left, and was in
imitation of you—and in that diary she traces by inference certain
things to a sleep-walking in which she puts down that you saved her. In
great perplexity then I come to you, and ask you out of your so much
kindness to tell me all of it that you can remember.”

“I can tell you, I think, Dr. Van Helsing, all about it.

“Ah, then you have good memory for facts, for details? It is not always
so with young ladies.”

“No, doctor, but I wrote it all down at the time. I can show it to you
if you like.”

“Oh, Madam Mina, I will be grateful; you will do me much favour.” I
could not resist the temptation of mystifying him a bit—I suppose it is
some of the taste of the original apple that remains still in our
mouths—so I handed him the shorthand diary. He took it with a grateful
bow, and said:—

“May I read it?”

“If you wish,” I answered as demurely as I could. He opened it, and for
an instant his face fell. Then he stood up and bowed.

“Oh, you so clever woman!” he said. “I knew long that Mr. Jonathan was a
man of much thankfulness; but see, his wife have all the good things.
And will you not so much honour me and so help me as to read it for me?
Alas! I know not the shorthand.” By this time my little joke was over,
and I was almost ashamed; so I took the typewritten copy from my
workbasket and handed it to him.

“Forgive me,” I said: “I could not help it; but I had been thinking that
it was of dear Lucy that you wished to ask, and so that you might not
have time to wait—not on my account, but because I know your time must
be precious—I have written it out on the typewriter for you.”

He took it and his eyes glistened. “You are so good,” he said. “And may
I read it now? I may want to ask you some things when I have read.”

“By all means,” I said, “read it over whilst I order lunch; and then you
can ask me questions whilst we eat.” He bowed and settled himself in a
chair with his back to the light, and became absorbed in the papers,
whilst I went to see after lunch chiefly in order that he might not be
disturbed. When I came back, I found him walking hurriedly up and down
the room, his face all ablaze with excitement. He rushed up to me and
took me by both hands.

“Oh, Madam Mina,” he said, “how can I say what I owe to you? This paper
is as sunshine. It opens the gate to me. I am daze, I am dazzle, with so
much light, and yet clouds roll in behind the light every time. But that
you do not, cannot, comprehend. Oh, but I am grateful to you, you so
clever woman. Madam”—he said this very solemnly—“if ever Abraham Van
Helsing can do anything for you or yours, I trust you will let me know.
It will be pleasure and delight if I may serve you as a friend; as a
friend, but all I have ever learned, all I can ever do, shall be for you
and those you love. There are darknesses in life, and there are lights;
you are one of the lights. You will have happy life and good life, and
your husband will be blessed in you.”

“But, doctor, you praise me too much, and—and you do not know me.”

“Not know you—I, who am old, and who have studied all my life men and
women; I, who have made my specialty the brain and all that belongs to
him and all that follow from him! And I have read your diary that you
have so goodly written for me, and which breathes out truth in every
line. I, who have read your so sweet letter to poor Lucy of your
marriage and your trust, not know you! Oh, Madam Mina, good women tell
all their lives, and by day and by hour and by minute, such things that
angels can read; and we men who wish to know have in us something of
angels’ eyes. Your husband is noble nature, and you are noble too, for
you trust, and trust cannot be where there is mean nature. And your
husband—tell me of him. Is he quite well? Is all that fever gone, and
is he strong and hearty?” I saw here an opening to ask him about
Jonathan, so I said:—

“He was almost recovered, but he has been greatly upset by Mr. Hawkins’s
death.” He interrupted:—

“Oh, yes, I know, I know. I have read your last two letters.” I went

“I suppose this upset him, for when we were in town on Thursday last he
had a sort of shock.”

“A shock, and after brain fever so soon! That was not good. What kind of
a shock was it?”

“He thought he saw some one who recalled something terrible, something
which led to his brain fever.” And here the whole thing seemed to
overwhelm me in a rush. The pity for Jonathan, the horror which he
experienced, the whole fearful mystery of his diary, and the fear that
has been brooding over me ever since, all came in a tumult. I suppose I
was hysterical, for I threw myself on my knees and held up my hands to
him, and implored him to make my husband well again. He took my hands
and raised me up, and made me sit on the sofa, and sat by me; he held my
hand in his, and said to me with, oh, such infinite sweetness:—

“My life is a barren and lonely one, and so full of work that I have not
had much time for friendships; but since I have been summoned to here by
my friend John Seward I have known so many good people and seen such
nobility that I feel more than ever—and it has grown with my advancing
years—the loneliness of my life. Believe, me, then, that I come here
full of respect for you, and you have given me hope—hope, not in what I
am seeking of, but that there are good women still left to make life
happy—good women, whose lives and whose truths may make good lesson for
the children that are to be. I am glad, glad, that I may here be of some
use to you; for if your husband suffer, he suffer within the range of my
study and experience. I promise you that I will gladly do all for him
that I can—all to make his life strong and manly, and your life a happy
one. Now you must eat. You are overwrought and perhaps over-anxious.
Husband Jonathan would not like to see you so pale; and what he like not
where he love, is not to his good. Therefore for his sake you must eat
and smile. You have told me all about Lucy, and so now we shall not
speak of it, lest it distress. I shall stay in Exeter to-night, for I
want to think much over what you have told me, and when I have thought I
will ask you questions, if I may. And then, too, you will tell me of
husband Jonathan’s trouble so far as you can, but not yet. You must eat
now; afterwards you shall tell me all.”

After lunch, when we went back to the drawing-room, he said to me:—

“And now tell me all about him.” When it came to speaking to this great
learned man, I began to fear that he would think me a weak fool, and
Jonathan a madman—that journal is all so strange—and I hesitated to go
on. But he was so sweet and kind, and he had promised to help, and I
trusted him, so I said:—

“Dr. Van Helsing, what I have to tell you is so queer that you must not
laugh at me or at my husband. I have been since yesterday in a sort of
fever of doubt; you must be kind to me, and not think me foolish that I
have even half believed some very strange things.” He reassured me by
his manner as well as his words when he said:—

“Oh, my dear, if you only know how strange is the matter regarding which
I am here, it is you who would laugh. I have learned not to think little
of any one’s belief, no matter how strange it be. I have tried to keep
an open mind; and it is not the ordinary things of life that could close
it, but the strange things, the extraordinary things, the things that
make one doubt if they be mad or sane.”

“Thank you, thank you, a thousand times! You have taken a weight off my
mind. If you will let me, I shall give you a paper to read. It is long,
but I have typewritten it out. It will tell you my trouble and
Jonathan’s. It is the copy of his journal when abroad, and all that
happened. I dare not say anything of it; you will read for yourself and
judge. And then when I see you, perhaps, you will be very kind and tell
me what you think.”

“I promise,” he said as I gave him the papers; “I shall in the morning,
so soon as I can, come to see you and your husband, if I may.”

“Jonathan will be here at half-past eleven, and you must come to lunch
with us and see him then; you could catch the quick 3:34 train, which
will leave you at Paddington before eight.” He was surprised at my
knowledge of the trains off-hand, but he does not know that I have made
up all the trains to and from Exeter, so that I may help Jonathan in
case he is in a hurry.

So he took the papers with him and went away, and I sit here
thinking—thinking I don’t know what.

Letter (by hand), Van Helsing to Mrs. Harker.

25 September, 6 o’clock.

“Dear Madam Mina,—

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

“Yours the most faithful,

Abraham Van Helsing.

Letter, Mrs. Harker to Van Helsing.

25 September, 6:30 p. m.

“My dear Dr. Van Helsing,—

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

“Believe me,

“Your faithful and grateful friend,

Mina Harker.”

Jonathan Harker’s Journal.

26 September.—I thought never to write in this diary again, but the
time has come. When I got home last night Mina had supper ready, and
when we had supped she told me of Van Helsing’s visit, and of her having
given him the two diaries copied out, and of how anxious she has been
about me. She showed me in the doctor’s letter that all I wrote down was
true. It seems to have made a new man of me. It was the doubt as to the
reality of the whole thing that knocked me over. I felt impotent, and in
the dark, and distrustful. But, now that I know, I am not afraid, even
of the Count. He has succeeded after all, then, in his design in getting
to London, and it was he I saw. He has got younger, and how? Van Helsing
is the man to unmask him and hunt him out, if he is anything like what
Mina says. We sat late, and talked it all over. Mina is dressing, and I
shall call at the hotel in a few minutes and bring him over....

He was, I think, surprised to see me. When I came into the room where he
was, and introduced myself, he took me by the shoulder, and turned my
face round to the light, and said, after a sharp scrutiny:—

“But Madam Mina told me you were ill, that you had had a shock.” It was
so funny to hear my wife called “Madam Mina” by this kindly,
strong-faced old man. I smiled, and said:—

“I was ill, I have had a shock; but you have cured me already.”

“And how?”

“By your letter to Mina last night. I was in doubt, and then everything
took a hue of unreality, and I did not know what to trust, even the
evidence of my own senses. Not knowing what to trust, I did not know
what to do; and so had only to keep on working in what had hitherto been
the groove of my life. The groove ceased to avail me, and I mistrusted
myself. Doctor, you don’t know what it is to doubt everything, even
yourself. No, you don’t; you couldn’t with eyebrows like yours.” He
seemed pleased, and laughed as he said:—

“So! You are physiognomist. I learn more here with each hour. I am with
so much pleasure coming to you to breakfast; and, oh, sir, you will
pardon praise from an old man, but you are blessed in your wife.” I
would listen to him go on praising Mina for a day, so I simply nodded
and stood silent.

“She is one of God’s women, fashioned by His own hand to show us men and
other women that there is a heaven where we can enter, and that its
light can be here on earth. So true, so sweet, so noble, so little an
egoist—and that, let me tell you, is much in this age, so sceptical and
selfish. And you, sir—I have read all the letters to poor Miss Lucy,
and some of them speak of you, so I know you since some days from the
knowing of others; but I have seen your true self since last night. You
will give me your hand, will you not? And let us be friends for all our

We shook hands, and he was so earnest and so kind that it made me quite

“And now,” he said, “may I ask you for some more help? I have a great
task to do, and at the beginning it is to know. You can help me here.
Can you tell me what went before your going to Transylvania? Later on I
may ask more help, and of a different kind; but at first this will do.”

“Look here, sir,” I said, “does what you have to do concern the Count?”

“It does,” he said solemnly.

“Then I am with you heart and soul. As you go by the 10:30 train, you
will not have time to read them; but I shall get the bundle of papers.
You can take them with you and read them in the train.”

After breakfast I saw him to the station. When we were parting he

“Perhaps you will come to town if I send to you, and take Madam Mina

“We shall both come when you will,” I said.

I had got him the morning papers and the London papers of the previous
night, and while we were talking at the carriage window, waiting for the
train to start, he was turning them over. His eyes suddenly seemed to
catch something in one of them, “The Westminster Gazette”—I knew it by
the colour—and he grew quite white. He read something intently,
groaning to himself: “Mein Gott! Mein Gott! So soon! so soon!” I do not
think he remembered me at the moment. Just then the whistle blew, and
the train moved off. This recalled him to himself, and he leaned out of
the window and waved his hand, calling out: “Love to Madam Mina; I shall
write so soon as ever I can.”

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

26 September.—Truly there is no such thing as finality. Not a week
since I said “Finis,” and yet here I am starting fresh again, or rather
going on with the same record. Until this afternoon I had no cause to
think of what is done. Renfield had become, to all intents, as sane as
he ever was. He was already well ahead with his fly business; and he had
just started in the spider line also; so he had not been of any trouble
to me. I had a letter from Arthur, written on Sunday, and from it I
gather that he is bearing up wonderfully well. Quincey Morris is with
him, and that is much of a help, for he himself is a bubbling well of
good spirits. Quincey wrote me a line too, and from him I hear that
Arthur is beginning to recover something of his old buoyancy; so as to
them all my mind is at rest. As for myself, I was settling down to my
work with the enthusiasm which I used to have for it, so that I might
fairly have said that the wound which poor Lucy left on me was becoming
cicatrised. Everything is, however, now reopened; and what is to be the
end God only knows. I have an idea that Van Helsing thinks he knows,
too, but he will only let out enough at a time to whet curiosity. He
went to Exeter yesterday, and stayed there all night. To-day he came
back, and almost bounded into the room at about half-past five o’clock,
and thrust last night’s “Westminster Gazette” into my hand.

“What do you think of that?” he asked as he stood back and folded his

I looked over the paper, for I really did not know what he meant; but he
took it from me and pointed out a paragraph about children being decoyed
away at Hampstead. It did not convey much to me, until I reached a
passage where it described small punctured wounds on their throats. An
idea struck me, and I looked up. “Well?” he said.

“It is like poor Lucy’s.”

“And what do you make of it?”

“Simply that there is some cause in common. Whatever it was that injured
her has injured them.” I did not quite understand his answer:—

“That is true indirectly, but not directly.

“How do you mean, Professor?” I asked. I was a little inclined to take
his seriousness lightly—for, after all, four days of rest and freedom
from burning, harrowing anxiety does help to restore one’s spirits—but
when I saw his face, it sobered me. Never, even in the midst of our
despair about poor Lucy, had he looked more stern.

“Tell me!” I said. “I can hazard no opinion. I do not know what to
think, and I have no data on which to found a conjecture.”

“Do you mean to tell me, friend John, that you have no suspicion as to
what poor Lucy died of; not after all the hints given, not only by
events, but by me?”

“Of nervous prostration following on great loss or waste of blood.”

“And how the blood lost or waste?” I shook my head. He stepped over and
sat down beside me, and went on:—

“You are clever man, friend John; you reason well, and your wit is bold;
but you are too prejudiced. You do not let your eyes see nor your ears
hear, and that which is outside your daily life is not of account to
you. Do you not think that there are things which you cannot understand,
and yet which are; that some people see things that others cannot? But
there are things old and new which must not be contemplate by men’s
eyes, because they know—or think they know—some things which other men
have told them. Ah, it is the fault of our science that it wants to
explain all; and if it explain not, then it says there is nothing to
explain. But yet we see around us every day the growth of new beliefs,
which think themselves new; and which are yet but the old, which pretend
to be young—like the fine ladies at the opera. I suppose now you do not
believe in corporeal transference. No? Nor in materialisation. No? Nor
in astral bodies. No? Nor in the reading of thought. No? Nor in

“Yes,” I said. “Charcot has proved that pretty well.” He smiled as he
went on: “Then you are satisfied as to it. Yes? And of course then you
understand how it act, and can follow the mind of the great
Charcot—alas that he is no more!—into the very soul of the patient
that he influence. No? Then, friend John, am I to take it that you
simply accept fact, and are satisfied to let from premise to conclusion
be a blank? No? Then tell me—for I am student of the brain—how you
accept the hypnotism and reject the thought reading. Let me tell you, my
friend, that there are things done to-day in electrical science which
would have been deemed unholy by the very men who discovered
electricity—who would themselves not so long before have been burned
as wizards. There are always mysteries in life. Why was it that
Methuselah lived nine hundred years, and ‘Old Parr’ one hundred and
sixty-nine, and yet that poor Lucy, with four men’s blood in her poor
veins, could not live even one day? For, had she live one more day, we
could have save her. Do you know all the mystery of life and death? Do
you know the altogether of comparative anatomy and can say wherefore the
qualities of brutes are in some men, and not in others? Can you tell me
why, when other spiders die small and soon, that one great spider lived
for centuries in the tower of the old Spanish church and grew and grew,
till, on descending, he could drink the oil of all the church lamps? Can
you tell me why in the Pampas, ay and elsewhere, there are bats that
come at night and open the veins of cattle and horses and suck dry their
veins; how in some islands of the Western seas there are bats which hang
on the trees all day, and those who have seen describe as like giant
nuts or pods, and that when the sailors sleep on the deck, because that
it is hot, flit down on them, and then—and then in the morning are
found dead men, white as even Miss Lucy was?”

“Good God, Professor!” I said, starting up. “Do you mean to tell me that
Lucy was bitten by such a bat; and that such a thing is here in London
in the nineteenth century?” He waved his hand for silence, and went

“Can you tell me why the tortoise lives more long than generations of
men; why the elephant goes on and on till he have seen dynasties; and
why the parrot never die only of bite of cat or dog or other complaint?
Can you tell me why men believe in all ages and places that there are
some few who live on always if they be permit; that there are men and
women who cannot die? We all know—because science has vouched for the
fact—that there have been toads shut up in rocks for thousands of
years, shut in one so small hole that only hold him since the youth of
the world. Can you tell me how the Indian fakir can make himself to die
and have been buried, and his grave sealed and corn sowed on it, and the
corn reaped and be cut and sown and reaped and cut again, and then men
come and take away the unbroken seal and that there lie the Indian
fakir, not dead, but that rise up and walk amongst them as before?” Here
I interrupted him. I was getting bewildered; he so crowded on my mind
his list of nature’s eccentricities and possible impossibilities that my
imagination was getting fired. I had a dim idea that he was teaching me
some lesson, as long ago he used to do in his study at Amsterdam; but
he used then to tell me the thing, so that I could have the object of
thought in mind all the time. But now I was without this help, yet I
wanted to follow him, so I said:—

“Professor, let me be your pet student again. Tell me the thesis, so
that I may apply your knowledge as you go on. At present I am going in
my mind from point to point as a mad man, and not a sane one, follows an
idea. I feel like a novice lumbering through a bog in a mist, jumping
from one tussock to another in the mere blind effort to move on without
knowing where I am going.”

“That is good image,” he said. “Well, I shall tell you. My thesis is
this: I want you to believe.”

“To believe what?”

“To believe in things that you cannot. Let me illustrate. I heard once
of an American who so defined faith: ‘that faculty which enables us to
believe things which we know to be untrue.’ For one, I follow that man.
He meant that we shall have an open mind, and not let a little bit of
truth check the rush of a big truth, like a small rock does a railway
truck. We get the small truth first. Good! We keep him, and we value
him; but all the same we must not let him think himself all the truth in
the universe.”

“Then you want me not to let some previous conviction injure the
receptivity of my mind with regard to some strange matter. Do I read
your lesson aright?”

“Ah, you are my favourite pupil still. It is worth to teach you. Now
that you are willing to understand, you have taken the first step to
understand. You think then that those so small holes in the children’s
throats were made by the same that made the hole in Miss Lucy?”

“I suppose so.” He stood up and said solemnly:—

“Then you are wrong. Oh, would it were so! but alas! no. It is worse,
far, far worse.”

“In God’s name, Professor Van Helsing, what do you mean?” I cried.

He threw himself with a despairing gesture into a chair, and placed his
elbows on the table, covering his face with his hands as he spoke:—

“They were made by Miss Lucy!


DR. SEWARD’S DIARY—continued.

FOR a while sheer anger mastered me; it was as if he had during her life
struck Lucy on the face. I smote the table hard and rose up as I said to

“Dr. Van Helsing, are you mad?” He raised his head and looked at me, and
somehow the tenderness of his face calmed me at once. “Would I were!” he
said. “Madness were easy to bear compared with truth like this. Oh, my
friend, why, think you, did I go so far round, why take so long to tell
you so simple a thing? Was it because I hate you and have hated you all
my life? Was it because I wished to give you pain? Was it that I wanted,
now so late, revenge for that time when you saved my life, and from a
fearful death? Ah no!”

“Forgive me,” said I. He went on:—

“My friend, it was because I wished to be gentle in the breaking to you,
for I know you have loved that so sweet lady. But even yet I do not
expect you to believe. It is so hard to accept at once any abstract
truth, that we may doubt such to be possible when we have always
believed the ‘no’ of it; it is more hard still to accept so sad a
concrete truth, and of such a one as Miss Lucy. To-night I go to prove
it. Dare you come with me?”

This staggered me. A man does not like to prove such a truth; Byron
excepted from the category, jealousy.

“And prove the very truth he most abhorred.”

He saw my hesitation, and spoke:—

“The logic is simple, no madman’s logic this time, jumping from tussock
to tussock in a misty bog. If it be not true, then proof will be relief;
at worst it will not harm. If it be true! Ah, there is the dread; yet
very dread should help my cause, for in it is some need of belief. Come,
I tell you what I propose: first, that we go off now and see that child
in the hospital. Dr. Vincent, of the North Hospital, where the papers
say the child is, is friend of mine, and I think of yours since you were
in class at Amsterdam. He will let two scientists see his case, if he
will not let two friends. We shall tell him nothing, but only that we
wish to learn. And then——”

“And then?” He took a key from his pocket and held it up. “And then we
spend the night, you and I, in the churchyard where Lucy lies. This is
the key that lock the tomb. I had it from the coffin-man to give to
Arthur.” My heart sank within me, for I felt that there was some fearful
ordeal before us. I could do nothing, however, so I plucked up what
heart I could and said that we had better hasten, as the afternoon was

We found the child awake. It had had a sleep and taken some food, and
altogether was going on well. Dr. Vincent took the bandage from its
throat, and showed us the punctures. There was no mistaking the
similarity to those which had been on Lucy’s throat. They were smaller,
and the edges looked fresher; that was all. We asked Vincent to what he
attributed them, and he replied that it must have been a bite of some
animal, perhaps a rat; but, for his own part, he was inclined to think
that it was one of the bats which are so numerous on the northern
heights of London. “Out of so many harmless ones,” he said, “there may
be some wild specimen from the South of a more malignant species. Some
sailor may have brought one home, and it managed to escape; or even from
the Zoölogical Gardens a young one may have got loose, or one be bred
there from a vampire. These things do occur, you know. Only ten days ago
a wolf got out, and was, I believe, traced up in this direction. For a
week after, the children were playing nothing but Red Riding Hood on the
Heath and in every alley in the place until this ‘bloofer lady’ scare
came along, since when it has been quite a gala-time with them. Even
this poor little mite, when he woke up to-day, asked the nurse if he
might go away. When she asked him why he wanted to go, he said he wanted
to play with the ‘bloofer lady.’ ”

“I hope,” said Van Helsing, “that when you are sending the child home
you will caution its parents to keep strict watch over it. These fancies
to stray are most dangerous; and if the child were to remain out another
night, it would probably be fatal. But in any case I suppose you will
not let it away for some days?”

“Certainly not, not for a week at least; longer if the wound is not

Our visit to the hospital took more time than we had reckoned on, and
the sun had dipped before we came out. When Van Helsing saw how dark it
was, he said:—

“There is no hurry. It is more late than I thought. Come, let us seek
somewhere that we may eat, and then we shall go on our way.”

We dined at “Jack Straw’s Castle” along with a little crowd of
bicyclists and others who were genially noisy. About ten o’clock we
started from the inn. It was then very dark, and the scattered lamps
made the darkness greater when we were once outside their individual
radius. The Professor had evidently noted the road we were to go, for he
went on unhesitatingly; but, as for me, I was in quite a mixup as to
locality. As we went further, we met fewer and fewer people, till at
last we were somewhat surprised when we met even the patrol of horse
police going their usual suburban round. At last we reached the wall of
the churchyard, which we climbed over. With some little difficulty—for
it was very dark, and the whole place seemed so strange to us—we found
the Westenra tomb. The Professor took the key, opened the creaky door,
and standing back, politely, but quite unconsciously, motioned me to
precede him. There was a delicious irony in the offer, in the
courtliness of giving preference on such a ghastly occasion. My
companion followed me quickly, and cautiously drew the door to, after
carefully ascertaining that the lock was a falling, and not a spring,
one. In the latter case we should have been in a bad plight. Then he
fumbled in his bag, and taking out a matchbox and a piece of candle,
proceeded to make a light. The tomb in the day-time, and when wreathed
with fresh flowers, had looked grim and gruesome enough; but now, some
days afterwards, when the flowers hung lank and dead, their whites
turning to rust and their greens to browns; when the spider and the
beetle had resumed their accustomed dominance; when time-discoloured
stone, and dust-encrusted mortar, and rusty, dank iron, and tarnished
brass, and clouded silver-plating gave back the feeble glimmer of a
candle, the effect was more miserable and sordid than could have been
imagined. It conveyed irresistibly the idea that life—animal life—was
not the only thing which could pass away.

Van Helsing went about his work systematically. Holding his candle so
that he could read the coffin plates, and so holding it that the sperm
dropped in white patches which congealed as they touched the metal, he
made assurance of Lucy’s coffin. Another search in his bag, and he took
out a turnscrew.

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

“To open the coffin. You shall yet be convinced.” Straightway he began
taking out the screws, and finally lifted off the lid, showing the
casing of lead beneath. The sight was almost too much for me. It seemed
to be as much an affront to the dead as it would have been to have
stripped off her clothing in her sleep whilst living; I actually took
hold of his hand to stop him. He only said: “You shall see,” and again
fumbling in his bag, took out a tiny fret-saw. Striking the turnscrew
through the lead with a swift downward stab, which made me wince, he
made a small hole, which was, however, big enough to admit the point of
the saw. I had expected a rush of gas from the week-old corpse. We
doctors, who have had to study our dangers, have to become accustomed to
such things, and I drew back towards the door. But the Professor never
stopped for a moment; he sawed down a couple of feet along one side of
the lead coffin, and then across, and down the other side. Taking the
edge of the loose flange, he bent it back towards the foot of the
coffin, and holding up the candle into the aperture, motioned to me to

I drew near and looked. The coffin was empty.

It was certainly a surprise to me, and gave me a considerable shock, but
Van Helsing was unmoved. He was now more sure than ever of his ground,
and so emboldened to proceed in his task. “Are you satisfied now, friend
John?” he asked.

I felt all the dogged argumentativeness of my nature awake within me as
I answered him:—

“I am satisfied that Lucy’s body is not in that coffin; but that only
proves one thing.”

“And what is that, friend John?”

“That it is not there.”

“That is good logic,” he said, “so far as it goes. But how do you—how
can you—account for it not being there?”

“Perhaps a body-snatcher,” I suggested. “Some of the undertaker’s people
may have stolen it.” I felt that I was speaking folly, and yet it was
the only real cause which I could suggest. The Professor sighed. “Ah
well!” he said, “we must have more proof. Come with me.”

He put on the coffin-lid again, gathered up all his things and placed
them in the bag, blew out the light, and placed the candle also in the
bag. We opened the door, and went out. Behind us he closed the door and
locked it. He handed me the key, saying: “Will you keep it? You had
better be assured.” I laughed—it was not a very cheerful laugh, I am
bound to say—as I motioned him to keep it. “A key is nothing,” I said;
“there may be duplicates; and anyhow it is not difficult to pick a lock
of that kind.” He said nothing, but put the key in his pocket. Then he
told me to watch at one side of the churchyard whilst he would watch at
the other. I took up my place behind a yew-tree, and I saw his dark
figure move until the intervening headstones and trees hid it from my

It was a lonely vigil. Just after I had taken my place I heard a distant
clock strike twelve, and in time came one and two. I was chilled and
unnerved, and angry with the Professor for taking me on such an errand
and with myself for coming. I was too cold and too sleepy to be keenly
observant, and not sleepy enough to betray my trust so altogether I had
a dreary, miserable time.

Suddenly, as I turned round, I thought I saw something like a white
streak, moving between two dark yew-trees at the side of the churchyard
farthest from the tomb; at the same time a dark mass moved from the
Professor’s side of the ground, and hurriedly went towards it. Then I
too moved; but I had to go round headstones and railed-off tombs, and I
stumbled over graves. The sky was overcast, and somewhere far off an
early cock crew. A little way off, beyond a line of scattered
juniper-trees, which marked the pathway to the church, a white, dim
figure flitted in the direction of the tomb. The tomb itself was hidden
by trees, and I could not see where the figure disappeared. I heard the
rustle of actual movement where I had first seen the white figure, and
coming over, found the Professor holding in his arms a tiny child. When
he saw me he held it out to me, and said:—

“Are you satisfied now?”

“No,” I said, in a way that I felt was aggressive.

“Do you not see the child?”

“Yes, it is a child, but who brought it here? And is it wounded?” I

“We shall see,” said the Professor, and with one impulse we took our way
out of the churchyard, he carrying the sleeping child.

When we had got some little distance away, we went into a clump of
trees, and struck a match, and looked at the child’s throat. It was
without a scratch or scar of any kind.

“Was I right?” I asked triumphantly.

“We were just in time,” said the Professor thankfully.

We had now to decide what we were to do with the child, and so consulted
about it. If we were to take it to a police-station we should have to
give some account of our movements during the night; at least, we should
have had to make some statement as to how we had come to find the child.
So finally we decided that we would take it to the Heath, and when we
heard a policeman coming, would leave it where he could not fail to find
it; we would then seek our way home as quickly as we could. All fell out
well. At the edge of Hampstead Heath we heard a policeman’s heavy
tramp, and laying the child on the pathway, we waited and watched until
he saw it as he flashed his lantern to and fro. We heard his exclamation
of astonishment, and then we went away silently. By good chance we got a
cab near the “Spaniards,” and drove to town.

I cannot sleep, so I make this entry. But I must try to get a few hours’
sleep, as Van Helsing is to call for me at noon. He insists that I shall
go with him on another expedition.


27 September.—It was two o’clock before we found a suitable
opportunity for our attempt. The funeral held at noon was all completed,
and the last stragglers of the mourners had taken themselves lazily
away, when, looking carefully from behind a clump of alder-trees, we saw
the sexton lock the gate after him. We knew then that we were safe till
morning did we desire it; but the Professor told me that we should not
want more than an hour at most. Again I felt that horrid sense of the
reality of things, in which any effort of imagination seemed out of
place; and I realised distinctly the perils of the law which we were
incurring in our unhallowed work. Besides, I felt it was all so useless.
Outrageous as it was to open a leaden coffin, to see if a woman dead
nearly a week were really dead, it now seemed the height of folly to
open the tomb again, when we knew, from the evidence of our own
eyesight, that the coffin was empty. I shrugged my shoulders, however,
and rested silent, for Van Helsing had a way of going on his own road,
no matter who remonstrated. He took the key, opened the vault, and again
courteously motioned me to precede. The place was not so gruesome as
last night, but oh, how unutterably mean-looking when the sunshine
streamed in. Van Helsing walked over to Lucy’s coffin, and I followed.
He bent over and again forced back the leaden flange; and then a shock
of surprise and dismay shot through me.

There lay Lucy, seemingly just as we had seen her the night before her
funeral. She was, if possible, more radiantly beautiful than ever; and I
could not believe that she was dead. The lips were red, nay redder than
before; and on the cheeks was a delicate bloom.

“Is this a juggle?” I said to him.

“Are you convinced now?” said the Professor in response, and as he spoke
he put over his hand, and in a way that made me shudder, pulled back the
dead lips and showed the white teeth.

“See,” he went on, “see, they are even sharper than before. With this
and this”—and he touched one of the canine teeth and that below
it—“the little children can be bitten. Are you of belief now, friend
John?” Once more, argumentative hostility woke within me. I could not
accept such an overwhelming idea as he suggested; so, with an attempt to
argue of which I was even at the moment ashamed, I said:—

“She may have been placed here since last night.”

“Indeed? That is so, and by whom?”

“I do not know. Some one has done it.”

“And yet she has been dead one week. Most peoples in that time would not
look so.” I had no answer for this, so was silent. Van Helsing did not
seem to notice my silence; at any rate, he showed neither chagrin nor
triumph. He was looking intently at the face of the dead woman, raising
the eyelids and looking at the eyes, and once more opening the lips and
examining the teeth. Then he turned to me and said:—

“Here, there is one thing which is different from all recorded; here is
some dual life that is not as the common. She was bitten by the vampire
when she was in a trance, sleep-walking—oh, you start; you do not know
that, friend John, but you shall know it all later—and in trance could
he best come to take more blood. In trance she died, and in trance she
is Un-Dead, too. So it is that she differ from all other. Usually when
the Un-Dead sleep at home”—as he spoke he made a comprehensive sweep of
his arm to designate what to a vampire was “home”—“their face show what
they are, but this so sweet that was when she not Un-Dead she go back to
the nothings of the common dead. There is no malign there, see, and so
it make hard that I must kill her in her sleep.” This turned my blood
cold, and it began to dawn upon me that I was accepting Van Helsing’s
theories; but if she were really dead, what was there of terror in the
idea of killing her? He looked up at me, and evidently saw the change in
my face, for he said almost joyously:—

“Ah, you believe now?”

I answered: “Do not press me too hard all at once. I am willing to
accept. How will you do this bloody work?”

“I shall cut off her head and fill her mouth with garlic, and I shall
drive a stake through her body.” It made me shudder to think of so
mutilating the body of the woman whom I had loved. And yet the feeling
was not so strong as I had expected. I was, in fact, beginning to
shudder at the presence of this being, this Un-Dead, as Van Helsing
called it, and to loathe it. Is it possible that love is all subjective,
or all objective?

I waited a considerable time for Van Helsing to begin, but he stood as
if wrapped in thought. Presently he closed the catch of his bag with a
snap, and said:—

“I have been thinking, and have made up my mind as to what is best. If I
did simply follow my inclining I would do now, at this moment, what is
to be done; but there are other things to follow, and things that are
thousand times more difficult in that them we do not know. This is
simple. She have yet no life taken, though that is of time; and to act
now would be to take danger from her for ever. But then we may have to
want Arthur, and how shall we tell him of this? If you, who saw the
wounds on Lucy’s throat, and saw the wounds so similar on the child’s at
the hospital; if you, who saw the coffin empty last night and full
to-day with a woman who have not change only to be more rose and more
beautiful in a whole week, after she die—if you know of this and know
of the white figure last night that brought the child to the churchyard,
and yet of your own senses you did not believe, how, then, can I expect
Arthur, who know none of those things, to believe? He doubted me when I
took him from her kiss when she was dying. I know he has forgiven me
because in some mistaken idea I have done things that prevent him say
good-bye as he ought; and he may think that in some more mistaken idea
this woman was buried alive; and that in most mistake of all we have
killed her. He will then argue back that it is we, mistaken ones, that
have killed her by our ideas; and so he will be much unhappy always. Yet
he never can be sure; and that is the worst of all. And he will
sometimes think that she he loved was buried alive, and that will paint
his dreams with horrors of what she must have suffered; and again, he
will think that we may be right, and that his so beloved was, after all,
an Un-Dead. No! I told him once, and since then I learn much. Now, since
I know it is all true, a hundred thousand times more do I know that he
must pass through the bitter waters to reach the sweet. He, poor fellow,
must have one hour that will make the very face of heaven grow black to
him; then we can act for good all round and send him peace. My mind is
made up. Let us go. You return home for to-night to your asylum, and see
that all be well. As for me, I shall spend the night here in this
churchyard in my own way. To-morrow night you will come to me to the
Berkeley Hotel at ten of the clock. I shall send for Arthur to come too,
and also that so fine young man of America that gave his blood. Later we
shall all have work to do. I come with you so far as Piccadilly and
there dine, for I must be back here before the sun set.

So we locked the tomb and came away, and got over the wall of the
churchyard, which was not much of a task, and drove back to Piccadilly.

Note left by Van Helsing in his portmanteau, Berkeley Hotel directed to
John Seward, M. D.

(Not delivered.)

27 September.

“Friend John,—

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

“Therefore I write this in case.... Take the papers that are with this,
the diaries of Harker and the rest, and read them, and then find this
great Un-Dead, and cut off his head and burn his heart or drive a stake
through it, so that the world may rest from him.

“If it be so, farewell.

Van Helsing.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

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


29 September, morning..... Last night, at a little before ten o’clock,
Arthur and Quincey came into Van Helsing’s room; he told us all that he
wanted us to do, but especially addressing himself to Arthur, as if all
our wills were centred in his. He began by saying that he hoped we would
all come with him too, “for,” he said, “there is a grave duty to be done
there. You were doubtless surprised at my letter?” This query was
directly addressed to Lord Godalming.

“I was. It rather upset me for a bit. There has been so much trouble
around my house of late that I could do without any more. I have been
curious, too, as to what you mean. Quincey and I talked it over; but the
more we talked, the more puzzled we got, till now I can say for myself
that I’m about up a tree as to any meaning about anything.”

“Me too,” said Quincey Morris laconically.

“Oh,” said the Professor, “then you are nearer the beginning, both of
you, than friend John here, who has to go a long way back before he can
even get so far as to begin.”

It was evident that he recognised my return to my old doubting frame of
mind without my saying a word. Then, turning to the other two, he said
with intense gravity:—

“I want your permission to do what I think good this night. It is, I
know, much to ask; and when you know what it is I propose to do you will
know, and only then, how much. Therefore may I ask that you promise me
in the dark, so that afterwards, though you may be angry with me for a
time—I must not disguise from myself the possibility that such may
be—you shall not blame yourselves for anything.

“That’s frank anyhow,” broke in Quincey. “I’ll answer for the Professor.
I don’t quite see his drift, but I swear he’s honest; and that’s good
enough for me.”

“I thank you, sir,” said Van Helsing proudly. “I have done myself the
honour of counting you one trusting friend, and such endorsement is dear
to me.” He held out a hand, which Quincey took.

Then Arthur spoke out:—

“Dr. Van Helsing, I don’t quite like to ‘buy a pig in a poke,’ as they
say in Scotland, and if it be anything in which my honour as a gentleman
or my faith as a Christian is concerned, I cannot make such a promise.
If you can assure me that what you intend does not violate either of
these two, then I give my consent at once; though for the life of me, I
cannot understand what you are driving at.”

“I accept your limitation,” said Van Helsing, “and all I ask of you is
that if you feel it necessary to condemn any act of mine, you will first
consider it well and be satisfied that it does not violate your

“Agreed!” said Arthur; “that is only fair. And now that the
pourparlers are over, may I ask what it is we are to do?”

“I want you to come with me, and to come in secret, to the churchyard at

Arthur’s face fell as he said in an amazed sort of way:—

“Where poor Lucy is buried?” The Professor bowed. Arthur went on: “And
when there?”

“To enter the tomb!” Arthur stood up.

“Professor, are you in earnest; or it is some monstrous joke? Pardon me,
I see that you are in earnest.” He sat down again, but I could see that
he sat firmly and proudly, as one who is on his dignity. There was
silence until he asked again:—

“And when in the tomb?”

“To open the coffin.”

“This is too much!” he said, angrily rising again. “I am willing to be
patient in all things that are reasonable; but in this—this desecration
of the grave—of one who——” He fairly choked with indignation. The
Professor looked pityingly at him.

“If I could spare you one pang, my poor friend,” he said, “God knows I
would. But this night our feet must tread in thorny paths; or later, and
for ever, the feet you love must walk in paths of flame!”

Arthur looked up with set white face and said:—

“Take care, sir, take care!

“Would it not be well to hear what I have to say?” said Van Helsing.
“And then you will at least know the limit of my purpose. Shall I go

“That’s fair enough,” broke in Morris.

After a pause Van Helsing went on, evidently with an effort:—

“Miss Lucy is dead; is it not so? Yes! Then there can be no wrong to
her. But if she be not dead——”

Arthur jumped to his feet.

“Good God!” he cried. “What do you mean? Has there been any mistake; has
she been buried alive?” He groaned in anguish that not even hope could

“I did not say she was alive, my child; I did not think it. I go no
further than to say that she might be Un-Dead.”

“Un-Dead! Not alive! What do you mean? Is this all a nightmare, or what
is it?”

“There are mysteries which men can only guess at, which age by age they
may solve only in part. Believe me, we are now on the verge of one. But
I have not done. May I cut off the head of dead Miss Lucy?”

“Heavens and earth, no!” cried Arthur in a storm of passion. “Not for
the wide world will I consent to any mutilation of her dead body. Dr.
Van Helsing, you try me too far. What have I done to you that you should
torture me so? What did that poor, sweet girl do that you should want to
cast such dishonour on her grave? Are you mad that speak such things, or
am I mad to listen to them? Don’t dare to think more of such a
desecration; I shall not give my consent to anything you do. I have a
duty to do in protecting her grave from outrage; and, by God, I shall do

Van Helsing rose up from where he had all the time been seated, and
said, gravely and sternly:—

“My Lord Godalming, I, too, have a duty to do, a duty to others, a duty
to you, a duty to the dead; and, by God, I shall do it! All I ask you
now is that you come with me, that you look and listen; and if when
later I make the same request you do not be more eager for its
fulfilment even than I am, then—then I shall do my duty, whatever it
may seem to me. And then, to follow of your Lordship’s wishes I shall
hold myself at your disposal to render an account to you, when and where
you will.” His voice broke a little, and he went on with a voice full of

“But, I beseech you, do not go forth in anger with me. In a long life of
acts which were often not pleasant to do, and which sometimes did wring
my heart, I have never had so heavy a task as now. Believe me that if
the time comes for you to change your mind towards me, one look from
you will wipe away all this so sad hour, for I would do what a man can
to save you from sorrow. Just think. For why should I give myself so
much of labour and so much of sorrow? I have come here from my own land
to do what I can of good; at the first to please my friend John, and
then to help a sweet young lady, whom, too, I came to love. For her—I
am ashamed to say so much, but I say it in kindness—I gave what you
gave; the blood of my veins; I gave it, I, who was not, like you, her
lover, but only her physician and her friend. I gave to her my nights
and days—before death, after death; and if my death can do her good
even now, when she is the dead Un-Dead, she shall have it freely.” He
said this with a very grave, sweet pride, and Arthur was much affected
by it. He took the old man’s hand and said in a broken voice:—

“Oh, it is hard to think of it, and I cannot understand; but at least I
shall go with you and wait.


DR. SEWARD’S DIARY—continued

IT was just a quarter before twelve o’clock when we got into the
churchyard over the low wall. The night was dark with occasional gleams
of moonlight between the rents of the heavy clouds that scudded across
the sky. We all kept somehow close together, with Van Helsing slightly
in front as he led the way. When we had come close to the tomb I looked
well at Arthur, for I feared that the proximity to a place laden with so
sorrowful a memory would upset him; but he bore himself well. I took it
that the very mystery of the proceeding was in some way a counteractant
to his grief. The Professor unlocked the door, and seeing a natural
hesitation amongst us for various reasons, solved the difficulty by
entering first himself. The rest of us followed, and he closed the door.
He then lit a dark lantern and pointed to the coffin. Arthur stepped
forward hesitatingly; Van Helsing said to me:—

“You were with me here yesterday. Was the body of Miss Lucy in that

“It was.” The Professor turned to the rest saying:—

“You hear; and yet there is no one who does not believe with me.” He
took his screwdriver and again took off the lid of the coffin. Arthur
looked on, very pale but silent; when the lid was removed he stepped
forward. He evidently did not know that there was a leaden coffin, or,
at any rate, had not thought of it. When he saw the rent in the lead,
the blood rushed to his face for an instant, but as quickly fell away
again, so that he remained of a ghastly whiteness; he was still silent.
Van Helsing forced back the leaden flange, and we all looked in and

The coffin was empty!

For several minutes no one spoke a word. The silence was broken by
Quincey Morris:—

“Professor, I answered for you. Your word is all I want. I wouldn’t ask
such a thing ordinarily—I wouldn’t so dishonour you as to imply a
doubt; but this is a mystery that goes beyond any honour or dishonour.
Is this your doing?”

“I swear to you by all that I hold sacred that I have not removed nor
touched her. What happened was this: Two nights ago my friend Seward and
I came here—with good purpose, believe me. I opened that coffin, which
was then sealed up, and we found it, as now, empty. We then waited, and
saw something white come through the trees. The next day we came here in
day-time, and she lay there. Did she not, friend John?”


“That night we were just in time. One more so small child was missing,
and we find it, thank God, unharmed amongst the graves. Yesterday I came
here before sundown, for at sundown the Un-Dead can move. I waited here
all the night till the sun rose, but I saw nothing. It was most probable
that it was because I had laid over the clamps of those doors garlic,
which the Un-Dead cannot bear, and other things which they shun. Last
night there was no exodus, so to-night before the sundown I took away my
garlic and other things. And so it is we find this coffin empty. But
bear with me. So far there is much that is strange. Wait you with me
outside, unseen and unheard, and things much stranger are yet to be.
So”—here he shut the dark slide of his lantern—“now to the outside.”
He opened the door, and we filed out, he coming last and locking the
door behind him.

Oh! but it seemed fresh and pure in the night air after the terror of
that vault. How sweet it was to see the clouds race by, and the passing
gleams of the moonlight between the scudding clouds crossing and
passing—like the gladness and sorrow of a man’s life; how sweet it was
to breathe the fresh air, that had no taint of death and decay; how
humanising to see the red lighting of the sky beyond the hill, and to
hear far away the muffled roar that marks the life of a great city. Each
in his own way was solemn and overcome. Arthur was silent, and was, I
could see, striving to grasp the purpose and the inner meaning of the
mystery. I was myself tolerably patient, and half inclined again to
throw aside doubt and to accept Van Helsing’s conclusions. Quincey
Morris was phlegmatic in the way of a man who accepts all things, and
accepts them in the spirit of cool bravery, with hazard of all he has to
stake. Not being able to smoke, he cut himself a good-sized plug of
tobacco and began to chew. As to Van Helsing, he was employed in a
definite way. First he took from his bag a mass of what looked like
thin, wafer-like biscuit, which was carefully rolled up in a white
napkin; next he took out a double-handful of some whitish stuff, like
dough or putty. He crumbled the wafer up fine and worked it into the
mass between his hands. This he then took, and rolling it into thin
strips, began to lay them into the crevices between the door and its
setting in the tomb. I was somewhat puzzled at this, and being close,
asked him what it was that he was doing. Arthur and Quincey drew near
also, as they too were curious. He answered:—

“I am closing the tomb, so that the Un-Dead may not enter.”

“And is that stuff you have put there going to do it?” asked Quincey.
“Great Scott! Is this a game?”

“It is.”

“What is that which you are using?” This time the question was by
Arthur. Van Helsing reverently lifted his hat as he answered:—

“The Host. I brought it from Amsterdam. I have an Indulgence.” It was an
answer that appalled the most sceptical of us, and we felt individually
that in the presence of such earnest purpose as the Professor’s, a
purpose which could thus use the to him most sacred of things, it was
impossible to distrust. In respectful silence we took the places
assigned to us close round the tomb, but hidden from the sight of any
one approaching. I pitied the others, especially Arthur. I had myself
been apprenticed by my former visits to this watching horror; and yet I,
who had up to an hour ago repudiated the proofs, felt my heart sink
within me. Never did tombs look so ghastly white; never did cypress, or
yew, or juniper so seem the embodiment of funereal gloom; never did tree
or grass wave or rustle so ominously; never did bough creak so
mysteriously; and never did the far-away howling of dogs send such a
woeful presage through the night.

There was a long spell of silence, a big, aching void, and then from the
Professor a keen “S-s-s-s!” He pointed; and far down the avenue of yews
we saw a white figure advance—a dim white figure, which held something
dark at its breast. The figure stopped, and at the moment a ray of
moonlight fell upon the masses of driving clouds and showed in startling
prominence a dark-haired woman, dressed in the cerements of the grave.
We could not see the face, for it was bent down over what we saw to be a
fair-haired child. There was a pause and a sharp little cry, such as a
child gives in sleep, or a dog as it lies before the fire and dreams. We
were starting forward, but the Professor’s warning hand, seen by us as
he stood behind a yew-tree, kept us back; and then as we looked the
white figure moved forwards again. It was now near enough for us to see
clearly, and the moonlight still held. My own heart grew cold as ice,
and I could hear the gasp of Arthur, as we recognised the features of
Lucy Westenra. Lucy Westenra, but yet how changed. The sweetness was
turned to adamantine, heartless cruelty, and the purity to voluptuous
wantonness. Van Helsing stepped out, and, obedient to his gesture, we
all advanced too; the four of us ranged in a line before the door of the
tomb. Van Helsing raised his lantern and drew the slide; by the
concentrated light that fell on Lucy’s face we could see that the lips
were crimson with fresh blood, and that the stream had trickled over her
chin and stained the purity of her lawn death-robe.

We shuddered with horror. I could see by the tremulous light that even
Van Helsing’s iron nerve had failed. Arthur was next to me, and if I had
not seized his arm and held him up, he would have fallen.

When Lucy—I call the thing that was before us Lucy because it bore her
shape—saw us she drew back with an angry snarl, such as a cat gives
when taken unawares; then her eyes ranged over us. Lucy’s eyes in form
and colour; but Lucy’s eyes unclean and full of hell-fire, instead of
the pure, gentle orbs we knew. At that moment the remnant of my love
passed into hate and loathing; had she then to be killed, I could have
done it with savage delight. As she looked, her eyes blazed with unholy
light, and the face became wreathed with a voluptuous smile. Oh, God,
how it made me shudder to see it! With a careless motion, she flung to
the ground, callous as a devil, the child that up to now she had
clutched strenuously to her breast, growling over it as a dog growls
over a bone. The child gave a sharp cry, and lay there moaning. There
was a cold-bloodedness in the act which wrung a groan from Arthur; when
she advanced to him with outstretched arms and a wanton smile he fell
back and hid his face in his hands.

She still advanced, however, and with a languorous, voluptuous grace,

“Come to me, Arthur. Leave these others and come to me. My arms are
hungry for you. Come, and we can rest together. Come, my husband, come!”

There was something diabolically sweet in her tones—something of the
tingling of glass when struck—which rang through the brains even of us
who heard the words addressed to another. As for Arthur, he seemed under
a spell; moving his hands from his face, he opened wide his arms. She
was leaping for them, when Van Helsing sprang forward and held between
them his little golden crucifix. She recoiled from it, and, with a
suddenly distorted face, full of rage, dashed past him as if to enter
the tomb.

When within a foot or two of the door, however, she stopped, as if
arrested by some irresistible force. Then she turned, and her face was
shown in the clear burst of moonlight and by the lamp, which had now no
quiver from Van Helsing’s iron nerves. Never did I see such baffled
malice on a face; and never, I trust, shall such ever be seen again by
mortal eyes. The beautiful colour became livid, the eyes seemed to throw
out sparks of hell-fire, the brows were wrinkled as though the folds of
the flesh were the coils of Medusa’s snakes, and the lovely,
blood-stained mouth grew to an open square, as in the passion masks of
the Greeks and Japanese. If ever a face meant death—if looks could
kill—we saw it at that moment.

And so for full half a minute, which seemed an eternity, she remained
between the lifted crucifix and the sacred closing of her means of
entry. Van Helsing broke the silence by asking Arthur:—

“Answer me, oh my friend! Am I to proceed in my work?”

Arthur threw himself on his knees, and hid his face in his hands, as he

“Do as you will, friend; do as you will. There can be no horror like
this ever any more;” and he groaned in spirit. Quincey and I
simultaneously moved towards him, and took his arms. We could hear the
click of the closing lantern as Van Helsing held it down; coming close
to the tomb, he began to remove from the chinks some of the sacred
emblem which he had placed there. We all looked on in horrified
amazement as we saw, when he stood back, the woman, with a corporeal
body as real at that moment as our own, pass in through the interstice
where scarce a knife-blade could have gone. We all felt a glad sense of
relief when we saw the Professor calmly restoring the strings of putty
to the edges of the door.

When this was done, he lifted the child and said:

“Come now, my friends; we can do no more till to-morrow. There is a
funeral at noon, so here we shall all come before long after that. The
friends of the dead will all be gone by two, and when the sexton lock
the gate we shall remain. Then there is more to do; but not like this of
to-night. As for this little one, he is not much harm, and by to-morrow
night he shall be well. We shall leave him where the police will find
him, as on the other night; and then to home.” Coming close to Arthur,
he said:—

“My friend Arthur, you have had a sore trial; but after, when you look
back, you will see how it was necessary. You are now in the bitter
waters, my child. By this time to-morrow you will, please God, have
passed them, and have drunk of the sweet waters; so do not mourn
overmuch. Till then I shall not ask you to forgive me.”

Arthur and Quincey came home with me, and we tried to cheer each other
on the way. We had left the child in safety, and were tired; so we all
slept with more or less reality of sleep.


29 September, night.—A little before twelve o’clock we three—Arthur,
Quincey Morris, and myself—called for the Professor. It was odd to
notice that by common consent we had all put on black clothes. Of
course, Arthur wore black, for he was in deep mourning, but the rest of
us wore it by instinct. We got to the churchyard by half-past one, and
strolled about, keeping out of official observation, so that when the
gravediggers had completed their task and the sexton under the belief
that every one had gone, had locked the gate, we had the place all to
ourselves. Van Helsing, instead of his little black bag, had with him a
long leather one, something like a cricketing bag; it was manifestly of
fair weight.

When we were alone and had heard the last of the footsteps die out up
the road, we silently, and as if by ordered intention, followed the
Professor to the tomb. He unlocked the door, and we entered, closing it
behind us. Then he took from his bag the lantern, which he lit, and also
two wax candles, which, when lighted, he stuck, by melting their own
ends, on other coffins, so that they might give light sufficient to work
by. When he again lifted the lid off Lucy’s coffin we all looked—Arthur
trembling like an aspen—and saw that the body lay there in all its
death-beauty. But there was no love in my own heart, nothing but
loathing for the foul Thing which had taken Lucy’s shape without her
soul. I could see even Arthur’s face grow hard as he looked. Presently
he said to Van Helsing:—

“Is this really Lucy’s body, or only a demon in her shape?”

“It is her body, and yet not it. But wait a while, and you all see her
as she was, and is.”

She seemed like a nightmare of Lucy as she lay there; the pointed teeth,
the bloodstained, voluptuous mouth—which it made one shudder to
see—the whole carnal and unspiritual appearance, seeming like a
devilish mockery of Lucy’s sweet purity. Van Helsing, with his usual
methodicalness, began taking the various contents from his bag and
placing them ready for use. First he took out a soldering iron and some
plumbing solder, and then a small oil-lamp, which gave out, when lit in
a corner of the tomb, gas which burned at fierce heat with a blue
flame; then his operating knives, which he placed to hand; and last a
round wooden stake, some two and a half or three inches thick and about
three feet long. One end of it was hardened by charring in the fire, and
was sharpened to a fine point. With this stake came a heavy hammer, such
as in households is used in the coal-cellar for breaking the lumps. To
me, a doctor’s preparations for work of any kind are stimulating and
bracing, but the effect of these things on both Arthur and Quincey was
to cause them a sort of consternation. They both, however, kept their
courage, and remained silent and quiet.

When all was ready, Van Helsing said:—

“Before we do anything, let me tell you this; it is out of the lore and
experience of the ancients and of all those who have studied the powers
of the Un-Dead. When they become such, there comes with the change the
curse of immortality; they cannot die, but must go on age after age
adding new victims and multiplying the evils of the world; for all that
die from the preying of the Un-Dead becomes themselves Un-Dead, and prey
on their kind. And so the circle goes on ever widening, like as the
ripples from a stone thrown in the water. Friend Arthur, if you had met
that kiss which you know of before poor Lucy die; or again, last night
when you open your arms to her, you would in time, when you had died,
have become nosferatu, as they call it in Eastern Europe, and would
all time make more of those Un-Deads that so have fill us with horror.
The career of this so unhappy dear lady is but just begun. Those
children whose blood she suck are not as yet so much the worse; but if
she live on, Un-Dead, more and more they lose their blood and by her
power over them they come to her; and so she draw their blood with that
so wicked mouth. But if she die in truth, then all cease; the tiny
wounds of the throats disappear, and they go back to their plays
unknowing ever of what has been. But of the most blessed of all, when
this now Un-Dead be made to rest as true dead, then the soul of the poor
lady whom we love shall again be free. Instead of working wickedness by
night and growing more debased in the assimilating of it by day, she
shall take her place with the other Angels. So that, my friend, it will
be a blessed hand for her that shall strike the blow that sets her free.
To this I am willing; but is there none amongst us who has a better
right? Will it be no joy to think of hereafter in the silence of the
night when sleep is not: ‘It was my hand that sent her to the stars; it
was the hand of him that loved her best; the hand that of all she would
herself have chosen, had it been to her to choose?’ Tell me if there be
such a one amongst us?”

We all looked at Arthur. He saw, too, what we all did, the infinite
kindness which suggested that his should be the hand which would restore
Lucy to us as a holy, and not an unholy, memory; he stepped forward and
said bravely, though his hand trembled, and his face was as pale as

“My true friend, from the bottom of my broken heart I thank you. Tell me
what I am to do, and I shall not falter!” Van Helsing laid a hand on his
shoulder, and said:—

“Brave lad! A moment’s courage, and it is done. This stake must be
driven through her. It will be a fearful ordeal—be not deceived in
that—but it will be only a short time, and you will then rejoice more
than your pain was great; from this grim tomb you will emerge as though
you tread on air. But you must not falter when once you have begun. Only
think that we, your true friends, are round you, and that we pray for
you all the time.”

“Go on,” said Arthur hoarsely. “Tell me what I am to do.”

“Take this stake in your left hand, ready to place the point over the
heart, and the hammer in your right. Then when we begin our prayer for
the dead—I shall read him, I have here the book, and the others shall
follow—strike in God’s name, that so all may be well with the dead that
we love and that the Un-Dead pass away.”

Arthur took the stake and the hammer, and when once his mind was set on
action his hands never trembled nor even quivered. Van Helsing opened
his missal and began to read, and Quincey and I followed as well as we
could. Arthur placed the point over the heart, and as I looked I could
see its dint in the white flesh. Then he struck with all his might.

The Thing in the coffin writhed; and a hideous, blood-curdling screech
came from the opened red lips. The body shook and quivered and twisted
in wild contortions; the sharp white teeth champed together till the
lips were cut, and the mouth was smeared with a crimson foam. But Arthur
never faltered. He looked like a figure of Thor as his untrembling arm
rose and fell, driving deeper and deeper the mercy-bearing stake, whilst
the blood from the pierced heart welled and spurted up around it. His
face was set, and high duty seemed to shine through it; the sight of it
gave us courage so that our voices seemed to ring through the little

And then the writhing and quivering of the body became less, and the
teeth seemed to champ, and the face to quiver. Finally it lay still. The
terrible task was over.

The hammer fell from Arthur’s hand. He reeled and would have fallen had
we not caught him. The great drops of sweat sprang from his forehead,
and his breath came in broken gasps. It had indeed been an awful strain
on him; and had he not been forced to his task by more than human
considerations he could never have gone through with it. For a few
minutes we were so taken up with him that we did not look towards the
coffin. When we did, however, a murmur of startled surprise ran from one
to the other of us. We gazed so eagerly that Arthur rose, for he had
been seated on the ground, and came and looked too; and then a glad,
strange light broke over his face and dispelled altogether the gloom of
horror that lay upon it.

There, in the coffin lay no longer the foul Thing that we had so dreaded
and grown to hate that the work of her destruction was yielded as a
privilege to the one best entitled to it, but Lucy as we had seen her in
her life, with her face of unequalled sweetness and purity. True that
there were there, as we had seen them in life, the traces of care and
pain and waste; but these were all dear to us, for they marked her truth
to what we knew. One and all we felt that the holy calm that lay like
sunshine over the wasted face and form was only an earthly token and
symbol of the calm that was to reign for ever.

Van Helsing came and laid his hand on Arthur’s shoulder, and said to

“And now, Arthur my friend, dear lad, am I not forgiven?”

The reaction of the terrible strain came as he took the old man’s hand
in his, and raising it to his lips, pressed it, and said:—

“Forgiven! God bless you that you have given my dear one her soul again,
and me peace.” He put his hands on the Professor’s shoulder, and laying
his head on his breast, cried for a while silently, whilst we stood
unmoving. When he raised his head Van Helsing said to him:—

“And now, my child, you may kiss her. Kiss her dead lips if you will, as
she would have you to, if for her to choose. For she is not a grinning
devil now—not any more a foul Thing for all eternity. No longer she is
the devil’s Un-Dead. She is God’s true dead, whose soul is with Him!”

Arthur bent and kissed her, and then we sent him and Quincey out of the
tomb; the Professor and I sawed the top off the stake, leaving the point
of it in the body. Then we cut off the head and filled the mouth with
garlic. We soldered up the leaden coffin, screwed on the coffin-lid,
and gathering up our belongings, came away. When the Professor locked
the door he gave the key to Arthur.

Outside the air was sweet, the sun shone, and the birds sang, and it
seemed as if all nature were tuned to a different pitch. There was
gladness and mirth and peace everywhere, for we were at rest ourselves
on one account, and we were glad, though it was with a tempered joy.

Before we moved away Van Helsing said:—

“Now, my friends, one step of our work is done, one the most harrowing
to ourselves. But there remains a greater task: to find out the author
of all this our sorrow and to stamp him out. I have clues which we can
follow; but it is a long task, and a difficult, and there is danger in
it, and pain. Shall you not all help me? We have learned to believe, all
of us—is it not so? And since so, do we not see our duty? Yes! And do
we not promise to go on to the bitter end?”

Each in turn, we took his hand, and the promise was made. Then said the
Professor as we moved off:—

“Two nights hence you shall meet with me and dine together at seven of
the clock with friend John. I shall entreat two others, two that you
know not as yet; and I shall be ready to all our work show and our plans
unfold. Friend John, you come with me home, for I have much to consult
about, and you can help me. To-night I leave for Amsterdam, but shall
return to-morrow night. And then begins our great quest. But first I
shall have much to say, so that you may know what is to do and to dread.
Then our promise shall be made to each other anew; for there is a
terrible task before us, and once our feet are on the ploughshare we
must not draw back.


DR. SEWARD’S DIARY—continued

WHEN we arrived at the Berkeley Hotel, Van Helsing found a telegram
waiting for him:—

“Am coming up by train. Jonathan at Whitby. Important news.—Mina

The Professor was delighted. “Ah, that wonderful Madam Mina,” he said,
“pearl among women! She arrive, but I cannot stay. She must go to your
house, friend John. You must meet her at the station. Telegraph her en
, so that she may be prepared.”

When the wire was despatched he had a cup of tea; over it he told me of
a diary kept by Jonathan Harker when abroad, and gave me a typewritten
copy of it, as also of Mrs. Harker’s diary at Whitby. “Take these,” he
said, “and study them well. When I have returned you will be master of
all the facts, and we can then better enter on our inquisition. Keep
them safe, for there is in them much of treasure. You will need all your
faith, even you who have had such an experience as that of to-day. What
is here told,” he laid his hand heavily and gravely on the packet of
papers as he spoke, “may be the beginning of the end to you and me and
many another; or it may sound the knell of the Un-Dead who walk the
earth. Read all, I pray you, with the open mind; and if you can add in
any way to the story here told do so, for it is all-important. You have
kept diary of all these so strange things; is it not so? Yes! Then we
shall go through all these together when we meet.” He then made ready
for his departure, and shortly after drove off to Liverpool Street. I
took my way to Paddington, where I arrived about fifteen minutes before
the train came in.

The crowd melted away, after the bustling fashion common to arrival
platforms; and I was beginning to feel uneasy, lest I might miss my
guest, when a sweet-faced, dainty-looking girl stepped up to me, and,
after a quick glance, said: “Dr. Seward, is it not?”

“And you are Mrs. Harker!” I answered at once; whereupon she held out
her hand.

“I knew you from the description of poor dear Lucy; but——” She stopped
suddenly, and a quick blush overspread her face.

The blush that rose to my own cheeks somehow set us both at ease, for it
was a tacit answer to her own. I got her luggage, which included a
typewriter, and we took the Underground to Fenchurch Street, after I had
sent a wire to my housekeeper to have a sitting-room and bedroom
prepared at once for Mrs. Harker.

In due time we arrived. She knew, of course, that the place was a
lunatic asylum, but I could see that she was unable to repress a shudder
when we entered.

She told me that, if she might, she would come presently to my study, as
she had much to say. So here I am finishing my entry in my phonograph
diary whilst I await her. As yet I have not had the chance of looking at
the papers which Van Helsing left with me, though they lie open before
me. I must get her interested in something, so that I may have an
opportunity of reading them. She does not know how precious time is, or
what a task we have in hand. I must be careful not to frighten her. Here
she is!

Mina Harker’s Journal.

29 September.—After I had tidied myself, I went down to Dr. Seward’s
study. At the door I paused a moment, for I thought I heard him talking
with some one. As, however, he had pressed me to be quick, I knocked at
the door, and on his calling out, “Come in,” I entered.

To my intense surprise, there was no one with him. He was quite alone,
and on the table opposite him was what I knew at once from the
description to be a phonograph. I had never seen one, and was much

“I hope I did not keep you waiting,” I said; “but I stayed at the door
as I heard you talking, and thought there was some one with you.”

“Oh,” he replied with a smile, “I was only entering my diary.”

“Your diary?” I asked him in surprise.

“Yes,” he answered. “I keep it in this.” As he spoke he laid his hand on
the phonograph. I felt quite excited over it, and blurted out:—

“Why, this beats even shorthand! May I hear it say something?”

“Certainly,” he replied with alacrity, and stood up to put it in train
for speaking. Then he paused, and a troubled look overspread his face.

“The fact is,” he began awkwardly, “I only keep my diary in it; and as
it is entirely—almost entirely—about my cases, it may be awkward—that
is, I mean——” He stopped, and I tried to help him out of his

“You helped to attend dear Lucy at the end. Let me hear how she died;
for all that I know of her, I shall be very grateful. She was very, very
dear to me.”

To my surprise, he answered, with a horrorstruck look in his face:—

“Tell you of her death? Not for the wide world!”

“Why not?” I asked, for some grave, terrible feeling was coming over me.
Again he paused, and I could see that he was trying to invent an excuse.
At length he stammered out:—

“You see, I do not know how to pick out any particular part of the
diary.” Even while he was speaking an idea dawned upon him, and he said
with unconscious simplicity, in a different voice, and with the naïveté
of a child: “That’s quite true, upon my honour. Honest Indian!” I could
not but smile, at which he grimaced. “I gave myself away that time!” he
said. “But do you know that, although I have kept the diary for months
past, it never once struck me how I was going to find any particular
part of it in case I wanted to look it up?” By this time my mind was
made up that the diary of a doctor who attended Lucy might have
something to add to the sum of our knowledge of that terrible Being, and
I said boldly:—

“Then, Dr. Seward, you had better let me copy it out for you on my
typewriter.” He grew to a positively deathly pallor as he said:—

“No! no! no! For all the world, I wouldn’t let you know that terrible

Then it was terrible; my intuition was right! For a moment I thought,
and as my eyes ranged the room, unconsciously looking for something or
some opportunity to aid me, they lit on a great batch of typewriting on
the table. His eyes caught the look in mine, and, without his thinking,
followed their direction. As they saw the parcel he realised my meaning.

“You do not know me,” I said. “When you have read those papers—my own
diary and my husband’s also, which I have typed—you will know me
better. I have not faltered in giving every thought of my own heart in
this cause; but, of course, you do not know me—yet; and I must not
expect you to trust me so far.”

He is certainly a man of noble nature; poor dear Lucy was right about
him. He stood up and opened a large drawer, in which were arranged in
order a number of hollow cylinders of metal covered with dark wax, and

“You are quite right. I did not trust you because I did not know you.
But I know you now; and let me say that I should have known you long
ago. I know that Lucy told you of me; she told me of you too. May I make
the only atonement in my power? Take the cylinders and hear them—the
first half-dozen of them are personal to me, and they will not horrify
you; then you will know me better. Dinner will by then be ready. In the
meantime I shall read over some of these documents, and shall be better
able to understand certain things.” He carried the phonograph himself up
to my sitting-room and adjusted it for me. Now I shall learn something
pleasant, I am sure; for it will tell me the other side of a true love
episode of which I know one side already....

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

29 September.—I was so absorbed in that wonderful diary of Jonathan
Harker and that other of his wife that I let the time run on without
thinking. Mrs. Harker was not down when the maid came to announce
dinner, so I said: “She is possibly tired; let dinner wait an hour,” and
I went on with my work. I had just finished Mrs. Harker’s diary, when
she came in. She looked sweetly pretty, but very sad, and her eyes were
flushed with crying. This somehow moved me much. Of late I have had
cause for tears, God knows! but the relief of them was denied me; and
now the sight of those sweet eyes, brightened with recent tears, went
straight to my heart. So I said as gently as I could:—

“I greatly fear I have distressed you.”

“Oh, no, not distressed me,” she replied, “but I have been more touched
than I can say by your grief. That is a wonderful machine, but it is
cruelly true. It told me, in its very tones, the anguish of your heart.
It was like a soul crying out to Almighty God. No one must hear them
spoken ever again! See, I have tried to be useful. I have copied out the
words on my typewriter, and none other need now hear your heart beat, as
I did.”

“No one need ever know, shall ever know,” I said in a low voice. She
laid her hand on mine and said very gravely:—

“Ah, but they must!”

“Must! But why?” I asked.

“Because it is a part of the terrible story, a part of poor dear Lucy’s
death and all that led to it; because in the struggle which we have
before us to rid the earth of this terrible monster we must have all
the knowledge and all the help which we can get. I think that the
cylinders which you gave me contained more than you intended me to know;
but I can see that there are in your record many lights to this dark
mystery. You will let me help, will you not? I know all up to a certain
point; and I see already, though your diary only took me to 7 September,
how poor Lucy was beset, and how her terrible doom was being wrought
out. Jonathan and I have been working day and night since Professor Van
Helsing saw us. He is gone to Whitby to get more information, and he
will be here to-morrow to help us. We need have no secrets amongst us;
working together and with absolute trust, we can surely be stronger than
if some of us were in the dark.” She looked at me so appealingly, and at
the same time manifested such courage and resolution in her bearing,
that I gave in at once to her wishes. “You shall,” I said, “do as you
like in the matter. God forgive me if I do wrong! There are terrible
things yet to learn of; but if you have so far travelled on the road to
poor Lucy’s death, you will not be content, I know, to remain in the
dark. Nay, the end—the very end—may give you a gleam of peace. Come,
there is dinner. We must keep one another strong for what is before us;
we have a cruel and dreadful task. When you have eaten you shall learn
the rest, and I shall answer any questions you ask—if there be anything
which you do not understand, though it was apparent to us who were

Mina Harker’s Journal.

29 September.—After dinner I came with Dr. Seward to his study. He
brought back the phonograph from my room, and I took my typewriter. He
placed me in a comfortable chair, and arranged the phonograph so that I
could touch it without getting up, and showed me how to stop it in case
I should want to pause. Then he very thoughtfully took a chair, with his
back to me, so that I might be as free as possible, and began to read. I
put the forked metal to my ears and listened.

When the terrible story of Lucy’s death, and—and all that followed, was
done, I lay back in my chair powerless. Fortunately I am not of a
fainting disposition. When Dr. Seward saw me he jumped up with a
horrified exclamation, and hurriedly taking a case-bottle from a
cupboard, gave me some brandy, which in a few minutes somewhat restored
me. My brain was all in a whirl, and only that there came through all
the multitude of horrors, the holy ray of light that my dear, dear Lucy
was at last at peace, I do not think I could have borne it without
making a scene. It is all so wild, and mysterious, and strange that if I
had not known Jonathan’s experience in Transylvania I could not have
believed. As it was, I didn’t know what to believe, and so got out of my
difficulty by attending to something else. I took the cover off my
typewriter, and said to Dr. Seward:—

“Let me write this all out now. We must be ready for Dr. Van Helsing
when he comes. I have sent a telegram to Jonathan to come on here when
he arrives in London from Whitby. In this matter dates are everything,
and I think that if we get all our material ready, and have every item
put in chronological order, we shall have done much. You tell me that
Lord Godalming and Mr. Morris are coming too. Let us be able to tell him
when they come.” He accordingly set the phonograph at a slow pace, and I
began to typewrite from the beginning of the seventh cylinder. I used
manifold, and so took three copies of the diary, just as I had done with
all the rest. It was late when I got through, but Dr. Seward went about
his work of going his round of the patients; when he had finished he
came back and sat near me, reading, so that I did not feel too lonely
whilst I worked. How good and thoughtful he is; the world seems full of
good men—even if there are monsters in it. Before I left him I
remembered what Jonathan put in his diary of the Professor’s
perturbation at reading something in an evening paper at the station at
Exeter; so, seeing that Dr. Seward keeps his newspapers, I borrowed the
files of “The Westminster Gazette” and “The Pall Mall Gazette,” and took
them to my room. I remember how much “The Dailygraph” and “The Whitby
Gazette,” of which I had made cuttings, helped us to understand the
terrible events at Whitby when Count Dracula landed, so I shall look
through the evening papers since then, and perhaps I shall get some new
light. I am not sleepy, and the work will help to keep me quiet.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

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


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

Strange that it never struck me that the very next house might be
the Count’s hiding-place! Goodness knows that we had enough clues
from the conduct of the patient Renfield! The bundle of letters
relating to the purchase of the house were with the typescript. Oh,
if we had only had them earlier we might have saved poor Lucy!
Stop; that way madness lies! Harker has gone back, and is again
collating his material. He says that by dinner-time they will be
able to show a whole connected narrative. He thinks that in the
meantime I should see Renfield, as hitherto he has been a sort of
index to the coming and going of the Count. I hardly see this yet,
but when I get at the dates I suppose I shall. What a good thing
that Mrs. Harker put my cylinders into type! We never could have
found the dates otherwise....

I found Renfield sitting placidly in his room with his hands
folded, smiling benignly. At the moment he seemed as sane as any
one I ever saw. I sat down and talked with him on a lot of
subjects, all of which he treated naturally. He then, of his own
accord, spoke of going home, a subject he has never mentioned to my
knowledge during his sojourn here. In fact, he spoke quite
confidently of getting his discharge at once. I believe that, had I
not had the chat with Harker and read the letters and the dates of
his outbursts, I should have been prepared to sign for him after a
brief time of observation. As it is, I am darkly suspicious. All
those outbreaks were in some way linked with the proximity of the
Count. What then does this absolute content mean? Can it be that
his instinct is satisfied as to the vampire’s ultimate triumph?
Stay; he is himself zoöphagous, and in his wild ravings outside the
chapel door of the deserted house he always spoke of “master.” This
all seems confirmation of our idea. However, after a while I came
away; my friend is just a little too sane at present to make it
safe to probe him too deep with questions. He might begin to think,
and then—! So I came away. I mistrust these quiet moods of his; so
I have given the attendant a hint to look closely after him, and to
have a strait-waistcoat ready in case of need.

Jonathan Harker’s Journal.

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


30 September.—The station-master was good enough to give me a line to
his old companion the station-master at King’s Cross, so that when I
arrived there in the morning I was able to ask him about the arrival of
the boxes. He, too, put me at once in communication with the proper
officials, and I saw that their tally was correct with the original
invoice. The opportunities of acquiring an abnormal thirst had been here
limited; a noble use of them had, however, been made, and again I was
compelled to deal with the result in an ex post facto manner.

From thence I went on to Carter Paterson’s central office, where I met
with the utmost courtesy. They looked up the transaction in their
day-book and letter-book, and at once telephoned to their King’s Cross
office for more details. By good fortune, the men who did the teaming
were waiting for work, and the official at once sent them over, sending
also by one of them the way-bill and all the papers connected with the
delivery of the boxes at Carfax. Here again I found the tally agreeing
exactly; the carriers’ men were able to supplement the paucity of the
written words with a few details. These were, I shortly found, connected
almost solely with the dusty nature of the job, and of the consequent
thirst engendered in the operators. On my affording an opportunity,
through the medium of the currency of the realm, of the allaying, at a
later period, this beneficial evil, one of the men remarked:—

“That ’ere ’ouse, guv’nor, is the rummiest I ever was in. Blyme! but it
ain’t been touched sence a hundred years. There was dust that thick in
the place that you might have slep’ on it without ’urtin’ of yer bones;
an’ the place was that neglected that yer might ’ave smelled ole
Jerusalem in it. But the ole chapel—that took the cike, that did! Me
and my mate, we thort we wouldn’t never git out quick enough. Lor’, I
wouldn’t take less nor a quid a moment to stay there arter dark.”

Having been in the house, I could well believe him; but if he knew what
I know, he would, I think, have raised his terms.

Of one thing I am now satisfied: that all the boxes which arrived at
Whitby from Varna in the Demeter were safely deposited in the old
chapel at Carfax. There should be fifty of them there, unless any have
since been removed—as from Dr. Seward’s diary I fear.

I shall try to see the carter who took away the boxes from Carfax when
Renfield attacked them. By following up this clue we may learn a good


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

Mina Harker’s Journal

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


Later.—Lord Godalming and Mr. Morris arrived earlier than we
expected. Dr. Seward was out on business, and had taken Jonathan with
him, so I had to see them. It was to me a painful meeting, for it
brought back all poor dear Lucy’s hopes of only a few months ago. Of
course they had heard Lucy speak of me, and it seemed that Dr. Van
Helsing, too, has been quite “blowing my trumpet,” as Mr. Morris
expressed it. Poor fellows, neither of them is aware that I know all
about the proposals they made to Lucy. They did not quite know what to
say or do, as they were ignorant of the amount of my knowledge; so they
had to keep on neutral subjects. However, I thought the matter over, and
came to the conclusion that the best thing I could do would be to post
them in affairs right up to date. I knew from Dr. Seward’s diary that
they had been at Lucy’s death—her real death—and that I need not fear
to betray any secret before the time. So I told them, as well as I
could, that I had read all the papers and diaries, and that my husband
and I, having typewritten them, had just finished putting them in order.
I gave them each a copy to read in the library. When Lord Godalming got
his and turned it over—it does make a pretty good pile—he said:—

“Did you write all this, Mrs. Harker?”

I nodded, and he went on:—

“I don’t quite see the drift of it; but you people are all so good and
kind, and have been working so earnestly and so energetically, that all
I can do is to accept your ideas blindfold and try to help you. I have
had one lesson already in accepting facts that should make a man humble
to the last hour of his life. Besides, I know you loved my poor Lucy—”
Here he turned away and covered his face with his hands. I could hear
the tears in his voice. Mr. Morris, with instinctive delicacy, just laid
a hand for a moment on his shoulder, and then walked quietly out of the
room. I suppose there is something in woman’s nature that makes a man
free to break down before her and express his feelings on the tender or
emotional side without feeling it derogatory to his manhood; for when
Lord Godalming found himself alone with me he sat down on the sofa and
gave way utterly and openly. I sat down beside him and took his hand. I
hope he didn’t think it forward of me, and that if he ever thinks of it
afterwards he never will have such a thought. There I wrong him; I
know he never will—he is too true a gentleman. I said to him, for I
could see that his heart was breaking:—

“I loved dear Lucy, and I know what she was to you, and what you were to
her. She and I were like sisters; and now she is gone, will you not let
me be like a sister to you in your trouble? I know what sorrows you have
had, though I cannot measure the depth of them. If sympathy and pity can
help in your affliction, won’t you let me be of some little service—for
Lucy’s sake?”

In an instant the poor dear fellow was overwhelmed with grief. It seemed
to me that all that he had of late been suffering in silence found a
vent at once. He grew quite hysterical, and raising his open hands, beat
his palms together in a perfect agony of grief. He stood up and then sat
down again, and the tears rained down his cheeks. I felt an infinite
pity for him, and opened my arms unthinkingly. With a sob he laid his
head on my shoulder and cried like a wearied child, whilst he shook with

We women have something of the mother in us that makes us rise above
smaller matters when the mother-spirit is invoked; I felt this big
sorrowing man’s head resting on me, as though it were that of the baby
that some day may lie on my bosom, and I stroked his hair as though he
were my own child. I never thought at the time how strange it all was.

After a little bit his sobs ceased, and he raised himself with an
apology, though he made no disguise of his emotion. He told me that for
days and nights past—weary days and sleepless nights—he had been
unable to speak with any one, as a man must speak in his time of
sorrow. There was no woman whose sympathy could be given to him, or with
whom, owing to the terrible circumstance with which his sorrow was
surrounded, he could speak freely. “I know now how I suffered,” he said,
as he dried his eyes, “but I do not know even yet—and none other can
ever know—how much your sweet sympathy has been to me to-day. I shall
know better in time; and believe me that, though I am not ungrateful
now, my gratitude will grow with my understanding. You will let me be
like a brother, will you not, for all our lives—for dear Lucy’s sake?”

“For dear Lucy’s sake,” I said as we clasped hands. “Ay, and for your
own sake,” he added, “for if a man’s esteem and gratitude are ever worth
the winning, you have won mine to-day. If ever the future should bring
to you a time when you need a man’s help, believe me, you will not call
in vain. God grant that no such time may ever come to you to break the
sunshine of your life; but if it should ever come, promise me that you
will let me know.” He was so earnest, and his sorrow was so fresh, that
I felt it would comfort him, so I said:—

“I promise.”

As I came along the corridor I saw Mr. Morris looking out of a window.
He turned as he heard my footsteps. “How is Art?” he said. Then noticing
my red eyes, he went on: “Ah, I see you have been comforting him. Poor
old fellow! he needs it. No one but a woman can help a man when he is in
trouble of the heart; and he had no one to comfort him.”

He bore his own trouble so bravely that my heart bled for him. I saw the
manuscript in his hand, and I knew that when he read it he would realise
how much I knew; so I said to him:—

“I wish I could comfort all who suffer from the heart. Will you let me
be your friend, and will you come to me for comfort if you need it? You
will know, later on, why I speak.” He saw that I was in earnest, and
stooping, took my hand, and raising it to his lips, kissed it. It seemed
but poor comfort to so brave and unselfish a soul, and impulsively I
bent over and kissed him. The tears rose in his eyes, and there was a
momentary choking in his throat; he said quite calmly:—

“Little girl, you will never regret that true-hearted kindness, so long
as ever you live!” Then he went into the study to his friend.

“Little girl!”—the very words he had used to Lucy, and oh, but he
proved himself a friend!



30 September.—I got home at five o’clock, and found that Godalming
and Morris had not only arrived, but had already studied the transcript
of the various diaries and letters which Harker and his wonderful wife
had made and arranged. Harker had not yet returned from his visit to the
carriers’ men, of whom Dr. Hennessey had written to me. Mrs. Harker gave
us a cup of tea, and I can honestly say that, for the first time since I
have lived in it, this old house seemed like home. When we had
finished, Mrs. Harker said:—

“Dr. Seward, may I ask a favour? I want to see your patient, Mr.
Renfield. Do let me see him. What you have said of him in your diary
interests me so much!” She looked so appealing and so pretty that I
could not refuse her, and there was no possible reason why I should; so
I took her with me. When I went into the room, I told the man that a
lady would like to see him; to which he simply answered: “Why?”

“She is going through the house, and wants to see every one in it,” I
answered. “Oh, very well,” he said; “let her come in, by all means; but
just wait a minute till I tidy up the place.” His method of tidying was
peculiar: he simply swallowed all the flies and spiders in the boxes
before I could stop him. It was quite evident that he feared, or was
jealous of, some interference. When he had got through his disgusting
task, he said cheerfully: “Let the lady come in,” and sat down on the
edge of his bed with his head down, but with his eyelids raised so that
he could see her as she entered. For a moment I thought that he might
have some homicidal intent; I remembered how quiet he had been just
before he attacked me in my own study, and I took care to stand where I
could seize him at once if he attempted to make a spring at her. She
came into the room with an easy gracefulness which would at once command
the respect of any lunatic—for easiness is one of the qualities mad
people most respect. She walked over to him, smiling pleasantly, and
held out her hand.

“Good-evening, Mr. Renfield,” said she. “You see, I know you, for Dr.
Seward has told me of you.” He made no immediate reply, but eyed her all
over intently with a set frown on his face. This look gave way to one
of wonder, which merged in doubt; then, to my intense astonishment, he

“You’re not the girl the doctor wanted to marry, are you? You can’t be,
you know, for she’s dead.” Mrs. Harker smiled sweetly as she replied:—

“Oh no! I have a husband of my own, to whom I was married before I ever
saw Dr. Seward, or he me. I am Mrs. Harker.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“My husband and I are staying on a visit with Dr. Seward.”

“Then don’t stay.”

“But why not?” I thought that this style of conversation might not be
pleasant to Mrs. Harker, any more than it was to me, so I joined in:—

“How did you know I wanted to marry any one?” His reply was simply
contemptuous, given in a pause in which he turned his eyes from Mrs.
Harker to me, instantly turning them back again:—

“What an asinine question!”

“I don’t see that at all, Mr. Renfield,” said Mrs. Harker, at once
championing me. He replied to her with as much courtesy and respect as
he had shown contempt to me:—

“You will, of course, understand, Mrs. Harker, that when a man is so
loved and honoured as our host is, everything regarding him is of
interest in our little community. Dr. Seward is loved not only by his
household and his friends, but even by his patients, who, being some of
them hardly in mental equilibrium, are apt to distort causes and
effects. Since I myself have been an inmate of a lunatic asylum, I
cannot but notice that the sophistic tendencies of some of its inmates
lean towards the errors of non causa and ignoratio elenchi.” I
positively opened my eyes at this new development. Here was my own pet
lunatic—the most pronounced of his type that I had ever met
with—talking elemental philosophy, and with the manner of a polished
gentleman. I wonder if it was Mrs. Harker’s presence which had touched
some chord in his memory. If this new phase was spontaneous, or in any
way due to her unconscious influence, she must have some rare gift or

We continued to talk for some time; and, seeing that he was seemingly
quite reasonable, she ventured, looking at me questioningly as she
began, to lead him to his favourite topic. I was again astonished, for
he addressed himself to the question with the impartiality of the
completest sanity; he even took himself as an example when he mentioned
certain things.

“Why, I myself am an instance of a man who had a strange belief. Indeed,
it was no wonder that my friends were alarmed, and insisted on my being
put under control. I used to fancy that life was a positive and
perpetual entity, and that by consuming a multitude of live things, no
matter how low in the scale of creation, one might indefinitely prolong
life. At times I held the belief so strongly that I actually tried to
take human life. The doctor here will bear me out that on one occasion I
tried to kill him for the purpose of strengthening my vital powers by
the assimilation with my own body of his life through the medium of his
blood—relying, of course, upon the Scriptural phrase, ‘For the blood is
the life.’ Though, indeed, the vendor of a certain nostrum has
vulgarised the truism to the very point of contempt. Isn’t that true,
doctor?” I nodded assent, for I was so amazed that I hardly knew what to
either think or say; it was hard to imagine that I had seen him eat up
his spiders and flies not five minutes before. Looking at my watch, I
saw that I should go to the station to meet Van Helsing, so I told Mrs.
Harker that it was time to leave. She came at once, after saying
pleasantly to Mr. Renfield: “Good-bye, and I hope I may see you often,
under auspices pleasanter to yourself,” to which, to my astonishment, he

“Good-bye, my dear. I pray God I may never see your sweet face again.
May He bless and keep you!”

When I went to the station to meet Van Helsing I left the boys behind
me. Poor Art seemed more cheerful than he has been since Lucy first took
ill, and Quincey is more like his own bright self than he has been for
many a long day.

Van Helsing stepped from the carriage with the eager nimbleness of a
boy. He saw me at once, and rushed up to me, saying:—

“Ah, friend John, how goes all? Well? So! I have been busy, for I come
here to stay if need be. All affairs are settled with me, and I have
much to tell. Madam Mina is with you? Yes. And her so fine husband? And
Arthur and my friend Quincey, they are with you, too? Good!”

As I drove to the house I told him of what had passed, and of how my own
diary had come to be of some use through Mrs. Harker’s suggestion; at
which the Professor interrupted me:—

“Ah, that wonderful Madam Mina! She has man’s brain—a brain that a man
should have were he much gifted—and a woman’s heart. The good God
fashioned her for a purpose, believe me, when He made that so good
combination. Friend John, up to now fortune has made that woman of help
to us; after to-night she must not have to do with this so terrible
affair. It is not good that she run a risk so great. We men are
determined—nay, are we not pledged?—to destroy this monster; but it is
no part for a woman. Even if she be not harmed, her heart may fail her
in so much and so many horrors; and hereafter she may suffer—both in
waking, from her nerves, and in sleep, from her dreams. And, besides,
she is young woman and not so long married; there may be other things to
think of some time, if not now. You tell me she has wrote all, then she
must consult with us; but to-morrow she say good-bye to this work, and
we go alone.” I agreed heartily with him, and then I told him what we
had found in his absence: that the house which Dracula had bought was
the very next one to my own. He was amazed, and a great concern seemed
to come on him. “Oh that we had known it before!” he said, “for then we
might have reached him in time to save poor Lucy. However, ‘the milk
that is spilt cries not out afterwards,’ as you say. We shall not think
of that, but go on our way to the end.” Then he fell into a silence that
lasted till we entered my own gateway. Before we went to prepare for
dinner he said to Mrs. Harker:—

“I am told, Madam Mina, by my friend John that you and your husband have
put up in exact order all things that have been, up to this moment.”

“Not up to this moment, Professor,” she said impulsively, “but up to
this morning.”

“But why not up to now? We have seen hitherto how good light all the
little things have made. We have told our secrets, and yet no one who
has told is the worse for it.”

Mrs. Harker began to blush, and taking a paper from her pockets, she

“Dr. Van Helsing, will you read this, and tell me if it must go in. It
is my record of to-day. I too have seen the need of putting down at
present everything, however trivial; but there is little in this except
what is personal. Must it go in?” The Professor read it over gravely,
and handed it back, saying:—

“It need not go in if you do not wish it; but I pray that it may. It can
but make your husband love you the more, and all us, your friends, more
honour you—as well as more esteem and love.” She took it back with
another blush and a bright smile.

And so now, up to this very hour, all the records we have are complete
and in order. The Professor took away one copy to study after dinner,
and before our meeting, which is fixed for nine o’clock. The rest of us
have already read everything; so when we meet in the study we shall all
be informed as to facts, and can arrange our plan of battle with this
terrible and mysterious enemy.

Mina Harker’s Journal.

30 September.—When we met in Dr. Seward’s study two hours after
dinner, which had been at six o’clock, we unconsciously formed a sort of
board or committee. Professor Van Helsing took the head of the table, to
which Dr. Seward motioned him as he came into the room. He made me sit
next to him on his right, and asked me to act as secretary; Jonathan sat
next to me. Opposite us were Lord Godalming, Dr. Seward, and Mr.
Morris—Lord Godalming being next the Professor, and Dr. Seward in the
centre. The Professor said:—

“I may, I suppose, take it that we are all acquainted with the facts
that are in these papers.” We all expressed assent, and he went on:—

“Then it were, I think good that I tell you something of the kind of
enemy with which we have to deal. I shall then make known to you
something of the history of this man, which has been ascertained for me.
So we then can discuss how we shall act, and can take our measure

“There are such beings as vampires; some of us have evidence that they
exist. Even had we not the proof of our own unhappy experience, the
teachings and the records of the past give proof enough for sane
peoples. I admit that at the first I was sceptic. Were it not that
through long years I have train myself to keep an open mind, I could not
have believe until such time as that fact thunder on my ear. ‘See! see!
I prove; I prove.’ Alas! Had I known at the first what now I know—nay,
had I even guess at him—one so precious life had been spared to many of
us who did love her. But that is gone; and we must so work, that other
poor souls perish not, whilst we can save. The nosferatu do not die
like the bee when he sting once. He is only stronger; and being
stronger, have yet more power to work evil. This vampire which is
amongst us is of himself so strong in person as twenty men; he is of
cunning more than mortal, for his cunning be the growth of ages; he have
still the aids of necromancy, which is, as his etymology imply, the
divination by the dead, and all the dead that he can come nigh to are
for him at command; he is brute, and more than brute; he is devil in
callous, and the heart of him is not; he can, within limitations, appear
at will when, and where, and in any of the forms that are to him; he
can, within his range, direct the elements; the storm, the fog, the
thunder; he can command all the meaner things: the rat, and the owl, and
the bat—the moth, and the fox, and the wolf; he can grow and become
small; and he can at times vanish and come unknown. How then are we to
begin our strike to destroy him? How shall we find his where; and having
found it, how can we destroy? My friends, this is much; it is a terrible
task that we undertake, and there may be consequence to make the brave
shudder. For if we fail in this our fight he must surely win; and then
where end we? Life is nothings; I heed him not. But to fail here, is not
mere life or death. It is that we become as him; that we henceforward
become foul things of the night like him—without heart or conscience,
preying on the bodies and the souls of those we love best. To us for
ever are the gates of heaven shut; for who shall open them to us again?
We go on for all time abhorred by all; a blot on the face of God’s
sunshine; an arrow in the side of Him who died for man. But we are face
to face with duty; and in such case must we shrink? For me, I say, no;
but then I am old, and life, with his sunshine, his fair places, his
song of birds, his music and his love, lie far behind. You others are
young. Some have seen sorrow; but there are fair days yet in store. What
say you?”

Whilst he was speaking, Jonathan had taken my hand. I feared, oh so
much, that the appalling nature of our danger was overcoming him when I
saw his hand stretch out; but it was life to me to feel its touch—so
strong, so self-reliant, so resolute. A brave man’s hand can speak for
itself; it does not even need a woman’s love to hear its music.

When the Professor had done speaking my husband looked in my eyes, and I
in his; there was no need for speaking between us.

“I answer for Mina and myself,” he said.

“Count me in, Professor,” said Mr. Quincey Morris, laconically as usual.

“I am with you,” said Lord Godalming, “for Lucy’s sake, if for no other

Dr. Seward simply nodded. The Professor stood up and, after laying his
golden crucifix on the table, held out his hand on either side. I took
his right hand, and Lord Godalming his left; Jonathan held my right with
his left and stretched across to Mr. Morris. So as we all took hands our
solemn compact was made. I felt my heart icy cold, but it did not even
occur to me to draw back. We resumed our places, and Dr. Van Helsing
went on with a sort of cheerfulness which showed that the serious work
had begun. It was to be taken as gravely, and in as businesslike a way,
as any other transaction of life:—

“Well, you know what we have to contend against; but we, too, are not
without strength. We have on our side power of combination—a power
denied to the vampire kind; we have sources of science; we are free to
act and think; and the hours of the day and the night are ours equally.
In fact, so far as our powers extend, they are unfettered, and we are
free to use them. We have self-devotion in a cause, and an end to
achieve which is not a selfish one. These things are much.

“Now let us see how far the general powers arrayed against us are
restrict, and how the individual cannot. In fine, let us consider the
limitations of the vampire in general, and of this one in particular.

“All we have to go upon are traditions and superstitions. These do not
at the first appear much, when the matter is one of life and death—nay
of more than either life or death. Yet must we be satisfied; in the
first place because we have to be—no other means is at our control—and
secondly, because, after all, these things—tradition and
superstition—are everything. Does not the belief in vampires rest for
others—though not, alas! for us—on them? A year ago which of us would
have received such a possibility, in the midst of our scientific,
sceptical, matter-of-fact nineteenth century? We even scouted a belief
that we saw justified under our very eyes. Take it, then, that the
vampire, and the belief in his limitations and his cure, rest for the
moment on the same base. For, let me tell you, he is known everywhere
that men have been. In old Greece, in old Rome; he flourish in Germany
all over, in France, in India, even in the Chernosese; and in China, so
far from us in all ways, there even is he, and the peoples fear him at
this day. He have follow the wake of the berserker Icelander, the
devil-begotten Hun, the Slav, the Saxon, the Magyar. So far, then, we
have all we may act upon; and let me tell you that very much of the
beliefs are justified by what we have seen in our own so unhappy
experience. The vampire live on, and cannot die by mere passing of the
time; he can flourish when that he can fatten on the blood of the
living. Even more, we have seen amongst us that he can even grow
younger; that his vital faculties grow strenuous, and seem as though
they refresh themselves when his special pabulum is plenty. But he
cannot flourish without this diet; he eat not as others. Even friend
Jonathan, who lived with him for weeks, did never see him to eat, never!
He throws no shadow; he make in the mirror no reflect, as again
Jonathan observe. He has the strength of many of his hand—witness again
Jonathan when he shut the door against the wolfs, and when he help him
from the diligence too. He can transform himself to wolf, as we gather
from the ship arrival in Whitby, when he tear open the dog; he can be as
bat, as Madam Mina saw him on the window at Whitby, and as friend John
saw him fly from this so near house, and as my friend Quincey saw him at
the window of Miss Lucy. He can come in mist which he create—that noble
ship’s captain proved him of this; but, from what we know, the distance
he can make this mist is limited, and it can only be round himself. He
come on moonlight rays as elemental dust—as again Jonathan saw those
sisters in the castle of Dracula. He become so small—we ourselves saw
Miss Lucy, ere she was at peace, slip through a hairbreadth space at the
tomb door. He can, when once he find his way, come out from anything or
into anything, no matter how close it be bound or even fused up with
fire—solder you call it. He can see in the dark—no small power this,
in a world which is one half shut from the light. Ah, but hear me
through. He can do all these things, yet he is not free. Nay; he is even
more prisoner than the slave of the galley, than the madman in his cell.
He cannot go where he lists; he who is not of nature has yet to obey
some of nature’s laws—why we know not. He may not enter anywhere at the
first, unless there be some one of the household who bid him to come;
though afterwards he can come as he please. His power ceases, as does
that of all evil things, at the coming of the day. Only at certain times
can he have limited freedom. If he be not at the place whither he is
bound, he can only change himself at noon or at exact sunrise or sunset.
These things are we told, and in this record of ours we have proof by
inference. Thus, whereas he can do as he will within his limit, when he
have his earth-home, his coffin-home, his hell-home, the place
unhallowed, as we saw when he went to the grave of the suicide at
Whitby; still at other time he can only change when the time come. It is
said, too, that he can only pass running water at the slack or the flood
of the tide. Then there are things which so afflict him that he has no
power, as the garlic that we know of; and as for things sacred, as this
symbol, my crucifix, that was amongst us even now when we resolve, to
them he is nothing, but in their presence he take his place far off and
silent with respect. There are others, too, which I shall tell you of,
lest in our seeking we may need them. The branch of wild rose on his
coffin keep him that he move not from it; a sacred bullet fired into the
coffin kill him so that he be true dead; and as for the stake through
him, we know already of its peace; or the cut-off head that giveth rest.
We have seen it with our eyes.

“Thus when we find the habitation of this man-that-was, we can confine
him to his coffin and destroy him, if we obey what we know. But he is
clever. I have asked my friend Arminius, of Buda-Pesth University, to
make his record; and, from all the means that are, he tell me of what he
has been. He must, indeed, have been that Voivode Dracula who won his
name against the Turk, over the great river on the very frontier of
Turkey-land. If it be so, then was he no common man; for in that time,
and for centuries after, he was spoken of as the cleverest and the most
cunning, as well as the bravest of the sons of the ‘land beyond the
forest.’ That mighty brain and that iron resolution went with him to his
grave, and are even now arrayed against us. The Draculas were, says
Arminius, a great and noble race, though now and again were scions who
were held by their coevals to have had dealings with the Evil One. They
learned his secrets in the Scholomance, amongst the mountains over Lake
Hermanstadt, where the devil claims the tenth scholar as his due. In the
records are such words as ‘stregoica’—witch, ‘ordog,’ and
‘pokol’—Satan and hell; and in one manuscript this very Dracula is
spoken of as ‘wampyr,’ which we all understand too well. There have been
from the loins of this very one great men and good women, and their
graves make sacred the earth where alone this foulness can dwell. For it
is not the least of its terrors that this evil thing is rooted deep in
all good; in soil barren of holy memories it cannot rest.”

Whilst they were talking Mr. Morris was looking steadily at the window,
and he now got up quietly, and went out of the room. There was a little
pause, and then the Professor went on:—

“And now we must settle what we do. We have here much data, and we must
proceed to lay out our campaign. We know from the inquiry of Jonathan
that from the castle to Whitby came fifty boxes of earth, all of which
were delivered at Carfax; we also know that at least some of these boxes
have been removed. It seems to me, that our first step should be to
ascertain whether all the rest remain in the house beyond that wall
where we look to-day; or whether any more have been removed. If the
latter, we must trace——”

Here we were interrupted in a very startling way. Outside the house came
the sound of a pistol-shot; the glass of the window was shattered with a
bullet, which, ricochetting from the top of the embrasure, struck the
far wall of the room. I am afraid I am at heart a coward, for I shrieked
out. The men all jumped to their feet; Lord Godalming flew over to the
window and threw up the sash. As he did so we heard Mr. Morris’s voice

“Sorry! I fear I have alarmed you. I shall come in and tell you about
it.” A minute later he came in and said:—

“It was an idiotic thing of me to do, and I ask your pardon, Mrs.
Harker, most sincerely; I fear I must have frightened you terribly. But
the fact is that whilst the Professor was talking there came a big bat
and sat on the window-sill. I have got such a horror of the damned
brutes from recent events that I cannot stand them, and I went out to
have a shot, as I have been doing of late of evenings, whenever I have
seen one. You used to laugh at me for it then, Art.”

“Did you hit it?” asked Dr. Van Helsing.

“I don’t know; I fancy not, for it flew away into the wood.” Without
saying any more he took his seat, and the Professor began to resume his

“We must trace each of these boxes; and when we are ready, we must
either capture or kill this monster in his lair; or we must, so to
speak, sterilise the earth, so that no more he can seek safety in it.
Thus in the end we may find him in his form of man between the hours of
noon and sunset, and so engage with him when he is at his most weak.

“And now for you, Madam Mina, this night is the end until all be well.
You are too precious to us to have such risk. When we part to-night, you
no more must question. We shall tell you all in good time. We are men
and are able to bear; but you must be our star and our hope, and we
shall act all the more free that you are not in the danger, such as we

All the men, even Jonathan, seemed relieved; but it did not seem to me
good that they should brave danger and, perhaps, lessen their
safety—strength being the best safety—through care of me; but their
minds were made up, and, though it was a bitter pill for me to swallow,
I could say nothing, save to accept their chivalrous care of me.

Mr. Morris resumed the discussion:—

“As there is no time to lose, I vote we have a look at his house right
now. Time is everything with him; and swift action on our part may save
another victim.”

I own that my heart began to fail me when the time for action came so
close, but I did not say anything, for I had a greater fear that if I
appeared as a drag or a hindrance to their work, they might even leave
me out of their counsels altogether. They have now gone off to Carfax,
with means to get into the house.

Manlike, they had told me to go to bed and sleep; as if a woman can
sleep when those she loves are in danger! I shall lie down and pretend
to sleep, lest Jonathan have added anxiety about me when he returns.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

1 October, 4 a. m.—Just as we were about to leave the house, an
urgent message was brought to me from Renfield to know if I would see
him at once, as he had something of the utmost importance to say to me.
I told the messenger to say that I would attend to his wishes in the
morning; I was busy just at the moment. The attendant added:—

“He seems very importunate, sir. I have never seen him so eager. I don’t
know but what, if you don’t see him soon, he will have one of his
violent fits.” I knew the man would not have said this without some
cause, so I said: “All right; I’ll go now”; and I asked the others to
wait a few minutes for me, as I had to go and see my “patient.”

“Take me with you, friend John,” said the Professor. “His case in your
diary interest me much, and it had bearing, too, now and again on our
case. I should much like to see him, and especial when his mind is

“May I come also?” asked Lord Godalming.

“Me too?” said Quincey Morris. “May I come?” said Harker. I nodded, and
we all went down the passage together.

We found him in a state of considerable excitement, but far more
rational in his speech and manner than I had ever seen him. There was an
unusual understanding of himself, which was unlike anything I had ever
met with in a lunatic; and he took it for granted that his reasons would
prevail with others entirely sane. We all four went into the room, but
none of the others at first said anything. His request was that I would
at once release him from the asylum and send him home. This he backed up
with arguments regarding his complete recovery, and adduced his own
existing sanity. “I appeal to your friends,” he said, “they will,
perhaps, not mind sitting in judgment on my case. By the way, you have
not introduced me.” I was so much astonished, that the oddness of
introducing a madman in an asylum did not strike me at the moment; and,
besides, there was a certain dignity in the man’s manner, so much of
the habit of equality, that I at once made the introduction: “Lord
Godalming; Professor Van Helsing; Mr. Quincey Morris, of Texas; Mr.
Renfield.” He shook hands with each of them, saying in turn:—

“Lord Godalming, I had the honour of seconding your father at the
Windham; I grieve to know, by your holding the title, that he is no
more. He was a man loved and honoured by all who knew him; and in his
youth was, I have heard, the inventor of a burnt rum punch, much
patronised on Derby night. Mr. Morris, you should be proud of your great
state. Its reception into the Union was a precedent which may have
far-reaching effects hereafter, when the Pole and the Tropics may hold
alliance to the Stars and Stripes. The power of Treaty may yet prove a
vast engine of enlargement, when the Monroe doctrine takes its true
place as a political fable. What shall any man say of his pleasure at
meeting Van Helsing? Sir, I make no apology for dropping all forms of
conventional prefix. When an individual has revolutionised therapeutics
by his discovery of the continuous evolution of brain-matter,
conventional forms are unfitting, since they would seem to limit him to
one of a class. You, gentlemen, who by nationality, by heredity, or by
the possession of natural gifts, are fitted to hold your respective
places in the moving world, I take to witness that I am as sane as at
least the majority of men who are in full possession of their liberties.
And I am sure that you, Dr. Seward, humanitarian and medico-jurist as
well as scientist, will deem it a moral duty to deal with me as one to
be considered as under exceptional circumstances.” He made this last
appeal with a courtly air of conviction which was not without its own

I think we were all staggered. For my own part, I was under the
conviction, despite my knowledge of the man’s character and history,
that his reason had been restored; and I felt under a strong impulse to
tell him that I was satisfied as to his sanity, and would see about the
necessary formalities for his release in the morning. I thought it
better to wait, however, before making so grave a statement, for of old
I knew the sudden changes to which this particular patient was liable.
So I contented myself with making a general statement that he appeared
to be improving very rapidly; that I would have a longer chat with him
in the morning, and would then see what I could do in the direction of
meeting his wishes. This did not at all satisfy him, for he said

“But I fear, Dr. Seward, that you hardly apprehend my wish. I desire to
go at once—here—now—this very hour—this very moment, if I may. Time
presses, and in our implied agreement with the old scytheman it is of
the essence of the contract. I am sure it is only necessary to put
before so admirable a practitioner as Dr. Seward so simple, yet so
momentous a wish, to ensure its fulfilment.” He looked at me keenly, and
seeing the negative in my face, turned to the others, and scrutinised
them closely. Not meeting any sufficient response, he went on:—

“Is it possible that I have erred in my supposition?”

“You have,” I said frankly, but at the same time, as I felt, brutally.
There was a considerable pause, and then he said slowly:—

“Then I suppose I must only shift my ground of request. Let me ask for
this concession—boon, privilege, what you will. I am content to implore
in such a case, not on personal grounds, but for the sake of others. I
am not at liberty to give you the whole of my reasons; but you may, I
assure you, take it from me that they are good ones, sound and
unselfish, and spring from the highest sense of duty. Could you look,
sir, into my heart, you would approve to the full the sentiments which
animate me. Nay, more, you would count me amongst the best and truest of
your friends.” Again he looked at us all keenly. I had a growing
conviction that this sudden change of his entire intellectual method was
but yet another form or phase of his madness, and so determined to let
him go on a little longer, knowing from experience that he would, like
all lunatics, give himself away in the end. Van Helsing was gazing at
him with a look of utmost intensity, his bushy eyebrows almost meeting
with the fixed concentration of his look. He said to Renfield in a tone
which did not surprise me at the time, but only when I thought of it
afterwards—for it was as of one addressing an equal:—

“Can you not tell frankly your real reason for wishing to be free
to-night? I will undertake that if you will satisfy even me—a stranger,
without prejudice, and with the habit of keeping an open mind—Dr.
Seward will give you, at his own risk and on his own responsibility, the
privilege you seek.” He shook his head sadly, and with a look of
poignant regret on his face. The Professor went on:—

“Come, sir, bethink yourself. You claim the privilege of reason in the
highest degree, since you seek to impress us with your complete
reasonableness. You do this, whose sanity we have reason to doubt, since
you are not yet released from medical treatment for this very defect. If
you will not help us in our effort to choose the wisest course, how can
we perform the duty which you yourself put upon us? Be wise, and help
us; and if we can we shall aid you to achieve your wish.” He still shook
his head as he said:—

“Dr. Van Helsing, I have nothing to say. Your argument is complete, and
if I were free to speak I should not hesitate a moment; but I am not my
own master in the matter. I can only ask you to trust me. If I am
refused, the responsibility does not rest with me.” I thought it was now
time to end the scene, which was becoming too comically grave, so I went
towards the door, simply saying:—

“Come, my friends, we have work to do. Good-night.”

As, however, I got near the door, a new change came over the patient. He
moved towards me so quickly that for the moment I feared that he was
about to make another homicidal attack. My fears, however, were
groundless, for he held up his two hands imploringly, and made his
petition in a moving manner. As he saw that the very excess of his
emotion was militating against him, by restoring us more to our old
relations, he became still more demonstrative. I glanced at Van Helsing,
and saw my conviction reflected in his eyes; so I became a little more
fixed in my manner, if not more stern, and motioned to him that his
efforts were unavailing. I had previously seen something of the same
constantly growing excitement in him when he had to make some request of
which at the time he had thought much, such, for instance, as when he
wanted a cat; and I was prepared to see the collapse into the same
sullen acquiescence on this occasion. My expectation was not realised,
for, when he found that his appeal would not be successful, he got into
quite a frantic condition. He threw himself on his knees, and held up
his hands, wringing them in plaintive supplication, and poured forth a
torrent of entreaty, with the tears rolling down his cheeks, and his
whole face and form expressive of the deepest emotion:—

“Let me entreat you, Dr. Seward, oh, let me implore you, to let me out
of this house at once. Send me away how you will and where you will;
send keepers with me with whips and chains; let them take me in a
strait-waistcoat, manacled and leg-ironed, even to a gaol; but let me go
out of this. You don’t know what you do by keeping me here. I am
speaking from the depths of my heart—of my very soul. You don’t know
whom you wrong, or how; and I may not tell. Woe is me! I may not tell.
By all you hold sacred—by all you hold dear—by your love that is
lost—by your hope that lives—for the sake of the Almighty, take me out
of this and save my soul from guilt! Can’t you hear me, man? Can’t you
understand? Will you never learn? Don’t you know that I am sane and
earnest now; that I am no lunatic in a mad fit, but a sane man fighting
for his soul? Oh, hear me! hear me! Let me go! let me go! let me go!”

I thought that the longer this went on the wilder he would get, and so
would bring on a fit; so I took him by the hand and raised him up.

“Come,” I said sternly, “no more of this; we have had quite enough
already. Get to your bed and try to behave more discreetly.”

He suddenly stopped and looked at me intently for several moments. Then,
without a word, he rose and moving over, sat down on the side of the
bed. The collapse had come, as on former occasion, just as I had

When I was leaving the room, last of our party, he said to me in a
quiet, well-bred voice:—

“You will, I trust, Dr. Seward, do me the justice to bear in mind, later
on, that I did what I could to convince you to-night.



1 October, 5 a. m.—I went with the party to the search with an easy
mind, for I think I never saw Mina so absolutely strong and well. I am
so glad that she consented to hold back and let us men do the work.
Somehow, it was a dread to me that she was in this fearful business at
all; but now that her work is done, and that it is due to her energy and
brains and foresight that the whole story is put together in such a way
that every point tells, she may well feel that her part is finished, and
that she can henceforth leave the rest to us. We were, I think, all a
little upset by the scene with Mr. Renfield. When we came away from his
room we were silent till we got back to the study. Then Mr. Morris said
to Dr. Seward:—

“Say, Jack, if that man wasn’t attempting a bluff, he is about the
sanest lunatic I ever saw. I’m not sure, but I believe that he had some
serious purpose, and if he had, it was pretty rough on him not to get a
chance.” Lord Godalming and I were silent, but Dr. Van Helsing added:—

“Friend John, you know more of lunatics than I do, and I’m glad of it,
for I fear that if it had been to me to decide I would before that last
hysterical outburst have given him free. But we live and learn, and in
our present task we must take no chance, as my friend Quincey would say.
All is best as they are.” Dr. Seward seemed to answer them both in a
dreamy kind of way:—

“I don’t know but that I agree with you. If that man had been an
ordinary lunatic I would have taken my chance of trusting him; but he
seems so mixed up with the Count in an indexy kind of way that I am
afraid of doing anything wrong by helping his fads. I can’t forget how
he prayed with almost equal fervour for a cat, and then tried to tear my
throat out with his teeth. Besides, he called the Count ‘lord and
master,’ and he may want to get out to help him in some diabolical way.
That horrid thing has the wolves and the rats and his own kind to help
him, so I suppose he isn’t above trying to use a respectable lunatic. He
certainly did seem earnest, though. I only hope we have done what is
best. These things, in conjunction with the wild work we have in hand,
help to unnerve a man.” The Professor stepped over, and laying his hand
on his shoulder, said in his grave, kindly way:—

“Friend John, have no fear. We are trying to do our duty in a very sad
and terrible case; we can only do as we deem best. What else have we to
hope for, except the pity of the good God?” Lord Godalming had slipped
away for a few minutes, but now he returned. He held up a little silver
whistle, as he remarked:—

“That old place may be full of rats, and if so, I’ve got an antidote on
call.” Having passed the wall, we took our way to the house, taking care
to keep in the shadows of the trees on the lawn when the moonlight shone
out. When we got to the porch the Professor opened his bag and took out
a lot of things, which he laid on the step, sorting them into four
little groups, evidently one for each. Then he spoke:—

“My friends, we are going into a terrible danger, and we need arms of
many kinds. Our enemy is not merely spiritual. Remember that he has the
strength of twenty men, and that, though our necks or our windpipes are
of the common kind—and therefore breakable or crushable—his are not
amenable to mere strength. A stronger man, or a body of men more strong
in all than him, can at certain times hold him; but they cannot hurt him
as we can be hurt by him. We must, therefore, guard ourselves from his
touch. Keep this near your heart”—as he spoke he lifted a little silver
crucifix and held it out to me, I being nearest to him—“put these
flowers round your neck”—here he handed to me a wreath of withered
garlic blossoms—“for other enemies more mundane, this revolver and this
knife; and for aid in all, these so small electric lamps, which you can
fasten to your breast; and for all, and above all at the last, this,
which we must not desecrate needless.” This was a portion of Sacred
Wafer, which he put in an envelope and handed to me. Each of the others
was similarly equipped. “Now,” he said, “friend John, where are the
skeleton keys? If so that we can open the door, we need not break house
by the window, as before at Miss Lucy’s.”

Dr. Seward tried one or two skeleton keys, his mechanical dexterity as a
surgeon standing him in good stead. Presently he got one to suit; after
a little play back and forward the bolt yielded, and, with a rusty
clang, shot back. We pressed on the door, the rusty hinges creaked, and
it slowly opened. It was startlingly like the image conveyed to me in
Dr. Seward’s diary of the opening of Miss Westenra’s tomb; I fancy that
the same idea seemed to strike the others, for with one accord they
shrank back. The Professor was the first to move forward, and stepped
into the open door.

In manus tuas, Domine!” he said, crossing himself as he passed over
the threshold. We closed the door behind us, lest when we should have
lit our lamps we should possibly attract attention from the road. The
Professor carefully tried the lock, lest we might not be able to open it
from within should we be in a hurry making our exit. Then we all lit our
lamps and proceeded on our search.

The light from the tiny lamps fell in all sorts of odd forms, as the
rays crossed each other, or the opacity of our bodies threw great
shadows. I could not for my life get away from the feeling that there
was some one else amongst us. I suppose it was the recollection, so
powerfully brought home to me by the grim surroundings, of that terrible
experience in Transylvania. I think the feeling was common to us all,
for I noticed that the others kept looking over their shoulders at every
sound and every new shadow, just as I felt myself doing.

The whole place was thick with dust. The floor was seemingly inches
deep, except where there were recent footsteps, in which on holding down
my lamp I could see marks of hobnails where the dust was cracked. The
walls were fluffy and heavy with dust, and in the corners were masses of
spider’s webs, whereon the dust had gathered till they looked like old
tattered rags as the weight had torn them partly down. On a table in the
hall was a great bunch of keys, with a time-yellowed label on each. They
had been used several times, for on the table were several similar rents
in the blanket of dust, similar to that exposed when the Professor
lifted them. He turned to me and said:—

“You know this place, Jonathan. You have copied maps of it, and you know
it at least more than we do. Which is the way to the chapel?” I had an
idea of its direction, though on my former visit I had not been able to
get admission to it; so I led the way, and after a few wrong turnings
found myself opposite a low, arched oaken door, ribbed with iron bands.
“This is the spot,” said the Professor as he turned his lamp on a small
map of the house, copied from the file of my original correspondence
regarding the purchase. With a little trouble we found the key on the
bunch and opened the door. We were prepared for some unpleasantness, for
as we were opening the door a faint, malodorous air seemed to exhale
through the gaps, but none of us ever expected such an odour as we
encountered. None of the others had met the Count at all at close
quarters, and when I had seen him he was either in the fasting stage of
his existence in his rooms or, when he was gloated with fresh blood, in
a ruined building open to the air; but here the place was small and
close, and the long disuse had made the air stagnant and foul. There was
an earthy smell, as of some dry miasma, which came through the fouler
air. But as to the odour itself, how shall I describe it? It was not
alone that it was composed of all the ills of mortality and with the
pungent, acrid smell of blood, but it seemed as though corruption had
become itself corrupt. Faugh! it sickens me to think of it. Every breath
exhaled by that monster seemed to have clung to the place and
intensified its loathsomeness.

Under ordinary circumstances such a stench would have brought our
enterprise to an end; but this was no ordinary case, and the high and
terrible purpose in which we were involved gave us a strength which rose
above merely physical considerations. After the involuntary shrinking
consequent on the first nauseous whiff, we one and all set about our
work as though that loathsome place were a garden of roses.

We made an accurate examination of the place, the Professor saying as we

“The first thing is to see how many of the boxes are left; we must then
examine every hole and corner and cranny and see if we cannot get some
clue as to what has become of the rest.” A glance was sufficient to show
how many remained, for the great earth chests were bulky, and there was
no mistaking them.

There were only twenty-nine left out of the fifty! Once I got a fright,
for, seeing Lord Godalming suddenly turn and look out of the vaulted
door into the dark passage beyond, I looked too, and for an instant my
heart stood still. Somewhere, looking out from the shadow, I seemed to
see the high lights of the Count’s evil face, the ridge of the nose, the
red eyes, the red lips, the awful pallor. It was only for a moment, for,
as Lord Godalming said, “I thought I saw a face, but it was only the
shadows,” and resumed his inquiry, I turned my lamp in the direction,
and stepped into the passage. There was no sign of any one; and as there
were no corners, no doors, no aperture of any kind, but only the solid
walls of the passage, there could be no hiding-place even for him. I
took it that fear had helped imagination, and said nothing.

A few minutes later I saw Morris step suddenly back from a corner, which
he was examining. We all followed his movements with our eyes, for
undoubtedly some nervousness was growing on us, and we saw a whole mass
of phosphorescence, which twinkled like stars. We all instinctively drew
back. The whole place was becoming alive with rats.

For a moment or two we stood appalled, all save Lord Godalming, who was
seemingly prepared for such an emergency. Rushing over to the great
iron-bound oaken door, which Dr. Seward had described from the outside,
and which I had seen myself, he turned the key in the lock, drew the
huge bolts, and swung the door open. Then, taking his little silver
whistle from his pocket, he blew a low, shrill call. It was answered
from behind Dr. Seward’s house by the yelping of dogs, and after about a
minute three terriers came dashing round the corner of the house.
Unconsciously we had all moved towards the door, and as we moved I
noticed that the dust had been much disturbed: the boxes which had been
taken out had been brought this way. But even in the minute that had
elapsed the number of the rats had vastly increased. They seemed to
swarm over the place all at once, till the lamplight, shining on their
moving dark bodies and glittering, baleful eyes, made the place look
like a bank of earth set with fireflies. The dogs dashed on, but at the
threshold suddenly stopped and snarled, and then, simultaneously lifting
their noses, began to howl in most lugubrious fashion. The rats were
multiplying in thousands, and we moved out.

Lord Godalming lifted one of the dogs, and carrying him in, placed him
on the floor. The instant his feet touched the ground he seemed to
recover his courage, and rushed at his natural enemies. They fled before
him so fast that before he had shaken the life out of a score, the other
dogs, who had by now been lifted in the same manner, had but small prey
ere the whole mass had vanished.

With their going it seemed as if some evil presence had departed, for
the dogs frisked about and barked merrily as they made sudden darts at
their prostrate foes, and turned them over and over and tossed them in
the air with vicious shakes. We all seemed to find our spirits rise.
Whether it was the purifying of the deadly atmosphere by the opening of
the chapel door, or the relief which we experienced by finding ourselves
in the open I know not; but most certainly the shadow of dread seemed to
slip from us like a robe, and the occasion of our coming lost something
of its grim significance, though we did not slacken a whit in our
resolution. We closed the outer door and barred and locked it, and
bringing the dogs with us, began our search of the house. We found
nothing throughout except dust in extraordinary proportions, and all
untouched save for my own footsteps when I had made my first visit.
Never once did the dogs exhibit any symptom of uneasiness, and even when
we returned to the chapel they frisked about as though they had been
rabbit-hunting in a summer wood.

The morning was quickening in the east when we emerged from the front.
Dr. Van Helsing had taken the key of the hall-door from the bunch, and
locked the door in orthodox fashion, putting the key into his pocket
when he had done.

“So far,” he said, “our night has been eminently successful. No harm has
come to us such as I feared might be and yet we have ascertained how
many boxes are missing. More than all do I rejoice that this, our
first—and perhaps our most difficult and dangerous—step has been
accomplished without the bringing thereinto our most sweet Madam Mina or
troubling her waking or sleeping thoughts with sights and sounds and
smells of horror which she might never forget. One lesson, too, we have
learned, if it be allowable to argue a particulari: that the brute
beasts which are to the Count’s command are yet themselves not amenable
to his spiritual power; for look, these rats that would come to his
call, just as from his castle top he summon the wolves to your going and
to that poor mother’s cry, though they come to him, they run pell-mell
from the so little dogs of my friend Arthur. We have other matters
before us, other dangers, other fears; and that monster—he has not used
his power over the brute world for the only or the last time to-night.
So be it that he has gone elsewhere. Good! It has given us opportunity
to cry ‘check’ in some ways in this chess game, which we play for the
stake of human souls. And now let us go home. The dawn is close at hand,
and we have reason to be content with our first night’s work. It may be
ordained that we have many nights and days to follow, if full of peril;
but we must go on, and from no danger shall we shrink.”

The house was silent when we got back, save for some poor creature who
was screaming away in one of the distant wards, and a low, moaning sound
from Renfield’s room. The poor wretch was doubtless torturing himself,
after the manner of the insane, with needless thoughts of pain.

I came tiptoe into our own room, and found Mina asleep, breathing so
softly that I had to put my ear down to hear it. She looks paler than
usual. I hope the meeting to-night has not upset her. I am truly
thankful that she is to be left out of our future work, and even of our
deliberations. It is too great a strain for a woman to bear. I did not
think so at first, but I know better now. Therefore I am glad that it is
settled. There may be things which would frighten her to hear; and yet
to conceal them from her might be worse than to tell her if once she
suspected that there was any concealment. Henceforth our work is to be a
sealed book to her, till at least such time as we can tell her that all
is finished, and the earth free from a monster of the nether world. I
daresay it will be difficult to begin to keep silence after such
confidence as ours; but I must be resolute, and to-morrow I shall keep
dark over to-night’s doings, and shall refuse to speak of anything that
has happened. I rest on the sofa, so as not to disturb her.


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

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

1 October.—It was towards noon when I was awakened by the Professor
walking into my room. He was more jolly and cheerful than usual, and it
is quite evident that last night’s work has helped to take some of the
brooding weight off his mind. After going over the adventure of the
night he suddenly said:—

“Your patient interests me much. May it be that with you I visit him
this morning? Or if that you are too occupy, I can go alone if it may
be. It is a new experience to me to find a lunatic who talk philosophy,
and reason so sound.” I had some work to do which pressed, so I told him
that if he would go alone I would be glad, as then I should not have to
keep him waiting; so I called an attendant and gave him the necessary
instructions. Before the Professor left the room I cautioned him against
getting any false impression from my patient. “But,” he answered, “I
want him to talk of himself and of his delusion as to consuming live
things. He said to Madam Mina, as I see in your diary of yesterday, that
he had once had such a belief. Why do you smile, friend John?”

“Excuse me,” I said, “but the answer is here.” I laid my hand on the
type-written matter. “When our sane and learned lunatic made that very
statement of how he used to consume life, his mouth was actually
nauseous with the flies and spiders which he had eaten just before Mrs.
Harker entered the room.” Van Helsing smiled in turn. “Good!” he said.
“Your memory is true, friend John. I should have remembered. And yet it
is this very obliquity of thought and memory which makes mental disease
such a fascinating study. Perhaps I may gain more knowledge out of the
folly of this madman than I shall from the teaching of the most wise.
Who knows?” I went on with my work, and before long was through that in
hand. It seemed that the time had been very short indeed, but there was
Van Helsing back in the study. “Do I interrupt?” he asked politely as he
stood at the door.

“Not at all,” I answered. “Come in. My work is finished, and I am free.
I can go with you now, if you like.

“It is needless; I have seen him!”


“I fear that he does not appraise me at much. Our interview was short.
When I entered his room he was sitting on a stool in the centre, with
his elbows on his knees, and his face was the picture of sullen
discontent. I spoke to him as cheerfully as I could, and with such a
measure of respect as I could assume. He made no reply whatever. “Don’t
you know me?” I asked. His answer was not reassuring: “I know you well
enough; you are the old fool Van Helsing. I wish you would take yourself
and your idiotic brain theories somewhere else. Damn all thick-headed
Dutchmen!” Not a word more would he say, but sat in his implacable
sullenness as indifferent to me as though I had not been in the room at
all. Thus departed for this time my chance of much learning from this so
clever lunatic; so I shall go, if I may, and cheer myself with a few
happy words with that sweet soul Madam Mina. Friend John, it does
rejoice me unspeakable that she is no more to be pained, no more to be
worried with our terrible things. Though we shall much miss her help, it
is better so.”

“I agree with you with all my heart,” I answered earnestly, for I did
not want him to weaken in this matter. “Mrs. Harker is better out of it.
Things are quite bad enough for us, all men of the world, and who have
been in many tight places in our time; but it is no place for a woman,
and if she had remained in touch with the affair, it would in time
infallibly have wrecked her.”

So Van Helsing has gone to confer with Mrs. Harker and Harker; Quincey
and Art are all out following up the clues as to the earth-boxes. I
shall finish my round of work and we shall meet to-night.

Mina Harker’s Journal.

1 October.—It is strange to me to be kept in the dark as I am to-day;
after Jonathan’s full confidence for so many years, to see him
manifestly avoid certain matters, and those the most vital of all. This
morning I slept late after the fatigues of yesterday, and though
Jonathan was late too, he was the earlier. He spoke to me before he went
out, never more sweetly or tenderly, but he never mentioned a word of
what had happened in the visit to the Count’s house. And yet he must
have known how terribly anxious I was. Poor dear fellow! I suppose it
must have distressed him even more than it did me. They all agreed that
it was best that I should not be drawn further into this awful work, and
I acquiesced. But to think that he keeps anything from me! And now I am
crying like a silly fool, when I know it comes from my husband’s great
love and from the good, good wishes of those other strong men.

That has done me good. Well, some day Jonathan will tell me all; and
lest it should ever be that he should think for a moment that I kept
anything from him, I still keep my journal as usual. Then if he has
feared of my trust I shall show it to him, with every thought of my
heart put down for his dear eyes to read. I feel strangely sad and
low-spirited to-day. I suppose it is the reaction from the terrible

Last night I went to bed when the men had gone, simply because they told
me to. I didn’t feel sleepy, and I did feel full of devouring anxiety. I
kept thinking over everything that has been ever since Jonathan came to
see me in London, and it all seems like a horrible tragedy, with fate
pressing on relentlessly to some destined end. Everything that one does
seems, no matter how right it may be, to bring on the very thing which
is most to be deplored. If I hadn’t gone to Whitby, perhaps poor dear
Lucy would be with us now. She hadn’t taken to visiting the churchyard
till I came, and if she hadn’t come there in the day-time with me she
wouldn’t have walked there in her sleep; and if she hadn’t gone there at
night and asleep, that monster couldn’t have destroyed her as he did.
Oh, why did I ever go to Whitby? There now, crying again! I wonder what
has come over me to-day. I must hide it from Jonathan, for if he knew
that I had been crying twice in one morning—I, who never cried on my
own account, and whom he has never caused to shed a tear—the dear
fellow would fret his heart out. I shall put a bold face on, and if I do
feel weepy, he shall never see it. I suppose it is one of the lessons
that we poor women have to learn....

I can’t quite remember how I fell asleep last night. I remember hearing
the sudden barking of the dogs and a lot of queer sounds, like praying
on a very tumultuous scale, from Mr. Renfield’s room, which is somewhere
under this. And then there was silence over everything, silence so
profound that it startled me, and I got up and looked out of the window.
All was dark and silent, the black shadows thrown by the moonlight
seeming full of a silent mystery of their own. Not a thing seemed to be
stirring, but all to be grim and fixed as death or fate; so that a thin
streak of white mist, that crept with almost imperceptible slowness
across the grass towards the house, seemed to have a sentience and a
vitality of its own. I think that the digression of my thoughts must
have done me good, for when I got back to bed I found a lethargy
creeping over me. I lay a while, but could not quite sleep, so I got out
and looked out of the window again. The mist was spreading, and was now
close up to the house, so that I could see it lying thick against the
wall, as though it were stealing up to the windows. The poor man was
more loud than ever, and though I could not distinguish a word he said,
I could in some way recognise in his tones some passionate entreaty on
his part. Then there was the sound of a struggle, and I knew that the
attendants were dealing with him. I was so frightened that I crept into
bed, and pulled the clothes over my head, putting my fingers in my ears.
I was not then a bit sleepy, at least so I thought; but I must have
fallen asleep, for, except dreams, I do not remember anything until the
morning, when Jonathan woke me. I think that it took me an effort and a
little time to realise where I was, and that it was Jonathan who was
bending over me. My dream was very peculiar, and was almost typical of
the way that waking thoughts become merged in, or continued in, dreams.

I thought that I was asleep, and waiting for Jonathan to come back. I
was very anxious about him, and I was powerless to act; my feet, and my
hands, and my brain were weighted, so that nothing could proceed at the
usual pace. And so I slept uneasily and thought. Then it began to dawn
upon me that the air was heavy, and dank, and cold. I put back the
clothes from my face, and found, to my surprise, that all was dim
around. The gaslight which I had left lit for Jonathan, but turned down,
came only like a tiny red spark through the fog, which had evidently
grown thicker and poured into the room. Then it occurred to me that I
had shut the window before I had come to bed. I would have got out to
make certain on the point, but some leaden lethargy seemed to chain my
limbs and even my will. I lay still and endured; that was all. I closed
my eyes, but could still see through my eyelids. (It is wonderful what
tricks our dreams play us, and how conveniently we can imagine.) The
mist grew thicker and thicker and I could see now how it came in, for I
could see it like smoke—or with the white energy of boiling
water—pouring in, not through the window, but through the joinings of
the door. It got thicker and thicker, till it seemed as if it became
concentrated into a sort of pillar of cloud in the room, through the top
of which I could see the light of the gas shining like a red eye. Things
began to whirl through my brain just as the cloudy column was now
whirling in the room, and through it all came the scriptural words “a
pillar of cloud by day and of fire by night.” Was it indeed some such
spiritual guidance that was coming to me in my sleep? But the pillar was
composed of both the day and the night-guiding, for the fire was in the
red eye, which at the thought got a new fascination for me; till, as I
looked, the fire divided, and seemed to shine on me through the fog like
two red eyes, such as Lucy told me of in her momentary mental wandering
when, on the cliff, the dying sunlight struck the windows of St. Mary’s
Church. Suddenly the horror burst upon me that it was thus that Jonathan
had seen those awful women growing into reality through the whirling mist
in the moonlight, and in my dream I must have fainted, for all became
black darkness. The last conscious effort which imagination made was to
show me a livid white face bending over me out of the mist. I must be
careful of such dreams, for they would unseat one’s reason if there were
too much of them. I would get Dr. Van Helsing or Dr. Seward to prescribe
something for me which would make me sleep, only that I fear to alarm
them. Such a dream at the present time would become woven into their
fears for me. To-night I shall strive hard to sleep naturally. If I do
not, I shall to-morrow night get them to give me a dose of chloral; that
cannot hurt me for once, and it will give me a good night’s sleep. Last
night tired me more than if I had not slept at all.


2 October 10 p. m.—Last night I slept, but did not dream. I must have
slept soundly, for I was not waked by Jonathan coming to bed; but the
sleep has not refreshed me, for to-day I feel terribly weak and
spiritless. I spent all yesterday trying to read, or lying down dozing.
In the afternoon Mr. Renfield asked if he might see me. Poor man, he was
very gentle, and when I came away he kissed my hand and bade God bless
me. Some way it affected me much; I am crying when I think of him. This
is a new weakness, of which I must be careful. Jonathan would be
miserable if he knew I had been crying. He and the others were out till
dinner-time, and they all came in tired. I did what I could to brighten
them up, and I suppose that the effort did me good, for I forgot how
tired I was. After dinner they sent me to bed, and all went off to smoke
together, as they said, but I knew that they wanted to tell each other
of what had occurred to each during the day; I could see from Jonathan’s
manner that he had something important to communicate. I was not so
sleepy as I should have been; so before they went I asked Dr. Seward to
give me a little opiate of some kind, as I had not slept well the night
before. He very kindly made me up a sleeping draught, which he gave to
me, telling me that it would do me no harm, as it was very mild.... I
have taken it, and am waiting for sleep, which still keeps aloof. I hope
I have not done wrong, for as sleep begins to flirt with me, a new fear
comes: that I may have been foolish in thus depriving myself of the
power of waking. I might want it. Here comes sleep. Good-night.



1 October, evening.—I found Thomas Snelling in his house at Bethnal
Green, but unhappily he was not in a condition to remember anything. The
very prospect of beer which my expected coming had opened to him had
proved too much, and he had begun too early on his expected debauch. I
learned, however, from his wife, who seemed a decent, poor soul, that he
was only the assistant to Smollet, who of the two mates was the
responsible person. So off I drove to Walworth, and found Mr. Joseph
Smollet at home and in his shirtsleeves, taking a late tea out of a
saucer. He is a decent, intelligent fellow, distinctly a good, reliable
type of workman, and with a headpiece of his own. He remembered all
about the incident of the boxes, and from a wonderful dog’s-eared
notebook, which he produced from some mysterious receptacle about the
seat of his trousers, and which had hieroglyphical entries in thick,
half-obliterated pencil, he gave me the destinations of the boxes. There
were, he said, six in the cartload which he took from Carfax and left at
197, Chicksand Street, Mile End New Town, and another six which he
deposited at Jamaica Lane, Bermondsey. If then the Count meant to
scatter these ghastly refuges of his over London, these places were
chosen as the first of delivery, so that later he might distribute more
fully. The systematic manner in which this was done made me think that
he could not mean to confine himself to two sides of London. He was now
fixed on the far east of the northern shore, on the east of the southern
shore, and on the south. The north and west were surely never meant to
be left out of his diabolical scheme—let alone the City itself and the
very heart of fashionable London in the south-west and west. I went back
to Smollet, and asked him if he could tell us if any other boxes had
been taken from Carfax.

He replied:—

“Well, guv’nor, you’ve treated me wery ’an’some”—I had given him half a
sovereign—“an’ I’ll tell yer all I know. I heard a man by the name of
Bloxam say four nights ago in the ’Are an’ ’Ounds, in Pincher’s Alley,
as ’ow he an’ his mate ’ad ’ad a rare dusty job in a old ’ouse at
Purfect. There ain’t a-many such jobs as this ’ere, an’ I’m thinkin’
that maybe Sam Bloxam could tell ye summut.” I asked if he could tell me
where to find him. I told him that if he could get me the address it
would be worth another half-sovereign to him. So he gulped down the rest
of his tea and stood up, saying that he was going to begin the search
then and there. At the door he stopped, and said:—

“Look ’ere, guv’nor, there ain’t no sense in me a-keepin’ you ’ere. I
may find Sam soon, or I mayn’t; but anyhow he ain’t like to be in a way
to tell ye much to-night. Sam is a rare one when he starts on the booze.
If you can give me a envelope with a stamp on it, and put yer address on
it, I’ll find out where Sam is to be found and post it ye to-night. But
ye’d better be up arter ’im soon in the mornin’, or maybe ye won’t ketch
’im; for Sam gets off main early, never mind the booze the night afore.”

This was all practical, so one of the children went off with a penny to
buy an envelope and a sheet of paper, and to keep the change. When she
came back, I addressed the envelope and stamped it, and when Smollet had
again faithfully promised to post the address when found, I took my way
to home. We’re on the track anyhow. I am tired to-night, and want sleep.
Mina is fast asleep, and looks a little too pale; her eyes look as
though she had been crying. Poor dear, I’ve no doubt it frets her to be
kept in the dark, and it may make her doubly anxious about me and the
others. But it is best as it is. It is better to be disappointed and
worried in such a way now than to have her nerve broken. The doctors
were quite right to insist on her being kept out of this dreadful
business. I must be firm, for on me this particular burden of silence
must rest. I shall not ever enter on the subject with her under any
circumstances. Indeed, it may not be a hard task, after all, for she
herself has become reticent on the subject, and has not spoken of the
Count or his doings ever since we told her of our decision.


2 October, evening.—A long and trying and exciting day. By the first
post I got my directed envelope with a dirty scrap of paper enclosed, on
which was written with a carpenter’s pencil in a sprawling hand:—

“Sam Bloxam, Korkrans, 4, Poters Cort, Bartel Street, Walworth. Arsk for
the depite.”

I got the letter in bed, and rose without waking Mina. She looked heavy
and sleepy and pale, and far from well. I determined not to wake her,
but that, when I should return from this new search, I would arrange for
her going back to Exeter. I think she would be happier in our own home,
with her daily tasks to interest her, than in being here amongst us and
in ignorance. I only saw Dr. Seward for a moment, and told him where I
was off to, promising to come back and tell the rest so soon as I should
have found out anything. I drove to Walworth and found, with some
difficulty, Potter’s Court. Mr. Smollet’s spelling misled me, as I asked
for Poter’s Court instead of Potter’s Court. However, when I had found
the court, I had no difficulty in discovering Corcoran’s lodging-house.
When I asked the man who came to the door for the “depite,” he shook his
head, and said: “I dunno ’im. There ain’t no such a person ’ere; I never
’eard of ’im in all my bloomin’ days. Don’t believe there ain’t nobody
of that kind livin’ ere or anywheres.” I took out Smollet’s letter, and
as I read it it seemed to me that the lesson of the spelling of the name
of the court might guide me. “What are you?” I asked.

“I’m the depity,” he answered. I saw at once that I was on the right
track; phonetic spelling had again misled me. A half-crown tip put the
deputy’s knowledge at my disposal, and I learned that Mr. Bloxam, who
had slept off the remains of his beer on the previous night at
Corcoran’s, had left for his work at Poplar at five o’clock that
morning. He could not tell me where the place of work was situated, but
he had a vague idea that it was some kind of a “new-fangled ware’us”;
and with this slender clue I had to start for Poplar. It was twelve
o’clock before I got any satisfactory hint of such a building, and this
I got at a coffee-shop, where some workmen were having their dinner. One
of these suggested that there was being erected at Cross Angel Street a
new “cold storage” building; and as this suited the condition of a
“new-fangled ware’us,” I at once drove to it. An interview with a surly
gatekeeper and a surlier foreman, both of whom were appeased with the
coin of the realm, put me on the track of Bloxam; he was sent for on my
suggesting that I was willing to pay his day’s wages to his foreman for
the privilege of asking him a few questions on a private matter. He was
a smart enough fellow, though rough of speech and bearing. When I had
promised to pay for his information and given him an earnest, he told me
that he had made two journeys between Carfax and a house in Piccadilly,
and had taken from this house to the latter nine great boxes—“main
heavy ones”—with a horse and cart hired by him for this purpose. I
asked him if he could tell me the number of the house in Piccadilly, to
which he replied:—

“Well, guv’nor, I forgits the number, but it was only a few doors from a
big white church or somethink of the kind, not long built. It was a
dusty old ’ouse, too, though nothin’ to the dustiness of the ’ouse we
tooked the bloomin’ boxes from.”

“How did you get into the houses if they were both empty?”

“There was the old party what engaged me a-waitin’ in the ’ouse at
Purfleet. He ’elped me to lift the boxes and put them in the dray. Curse
me, but he was the strongest chap I ever struck, an’ him a old feller,
with a white moustache, one that thin you would think he couldn’t throw
a shadder.”

How this phrase thrilled through me!

“Why, ’e took up ’is end o’ the boxes like they was pounds of tea, and
me a-puffin’ an’ a-blowin’ afore I could up-end mine anyhow—an’ I’m no
chicken, neither.”

“How did you get into the house in Piccadilly?” I asked.

“He was there too. He must ’a’ started off and got there afore me, for
when I rung of the bell he kem an’ opened the door ’isself an’ ’elped me
to carry the boxes into the ’all.”

“The whole nine?” I asked.

“Yus; there was five in the first load an’ four in the second. It was
main dry work, an’ I don’t so well remember ’ow I got ’ome.” I
interrupted him:—

“Were the boxes left in the hall?”

“Yus; it was a big ’all, an’ there was nothin’ else in it.” I made one
more attempt to further matters:—

“You didn’t have any key?”

“Never used no key nor nothink. The old gent, he opened the door ’isself
an’ shut it again when I druv off. I don’t remember the last time—but
that was the beer.”

“And you can’t remember the number of the house?”

“No, sir. But ye needn’t have no difficulty about that. It’s a ’igh ’un
with a stone front with a bow on it, an’ ’igh steps up to the door. I
know them steps, ’avin’ ’ad to carry the boxes up with three loafers
what come round to earn a copper. The old gent give them shillin’s, an’
they seein’ they got so much, they wanted more; but ’e took one of them
by the shoulder and was like to throw ’im down the steps, till the lot
of them went away cussin’.” I thought that with this description I could
find the house, so, having paid my friend for his information, I started
off for Piccadilly. I had gained a new painful experience; the Count
could, it was evident, handle the earth-boxes himself. If so, time was
precious; for, now that he had achieved a certain amount of
distribution, he could, by choosing his own time, complete the task
unobserved. At Piccadilly Circus I discharged my cab, and walked
westward; beyond the Junior Constitutional I came across the house
described, and was satisfied that this was the next of the lairs
arranged by Dracula. The house looked as though it had been long
untenanted. The windows were encrusted with dust, and the shutters were
up. All the framework was black with time, and from the iron the paint
had mostly scaled away. It was evident that up to lately there had been
a large notice-board in front of the balcony; it had, however, been
roughly torn away, the uprights which had supported it still remaining.
Behind the rails of the balcony I saw there were some loose boards,
whose raw edges looked white. I would have given a good deal to have
been able to see the notice-board intact, as it would, perhaps, have
given some clue to the ownership of the house. I remembered my
experience of the investigation and purchase of Carfax, and I could not
but feel that if I could find the former owner there might be some means
discovered of gaining access to the house.

There was at present nothing to be learned from the Piccadilly side, and
nothing could be done; so I went round to the back to see if anything
could be gathered from this quarter. The mews were active, the
Piccadilly houses being mostly in occupation. I asked one or two of the
grooms and helpers whom I saw around if they could tell me anything
about the empty house. One of them said that he heard it had lately been
taken, but he couldn’t say from whom. He told me, however, that up to
very lately there had been a notice-board of “For Sale” up, and that
perhaps Mitchell, Sons, & Candy, the house agents, could tell me
something, as he thought he remembered seeing the name of that firm on
the board. I did not wish to seem too eager, or to let my informant know
or guess too much, so, thanking him in the usual manner, I strolled
away. It was now growing dusk, and the autumn night was closing in, so I
did not lose any time. Having learned the address of Mitchell, Sons, &
Candy from a directory at the Berkeley, I was soon at their office in
Sackville Street.

The gentleman who saw me was particularly suave in manner, but
uncommunicative in equal proportion. Having once told me that the
Piccadilly house—which throughout our interview he called a
“mansion”—was sold, he considered my business as concluded. When I
asked who had purchased it, he opened his eyes a thought wider, and
paused a few seconds before replying:—

“It is sold, sir.”

“Pardon me,” I said, with equal politeness, “but I have a special reason
for wishing to know who purchased it.”

Again he paused longer, and raised his eyebrows still more. “It is sold,
sir,” was again his laconic reply.

“Surely,” I said, “you do not mind letting me know so much.”

“But I do mind,” he answered. “The affairs of their clients are
absolutely safe in the hands of Mitchell, Sons, & Candy.” This was
manifestly a prig of the first water, and there was no use arguing with
him. I thought I had best meet him on his own ground, so I said:—

“Your clients, sir, are happy in having so resolute a guardian of their
confidence. I am myself a professional man.” Here I handed him my card.
“In this instance I am not prompted by curiosity; I act on the part of
Lord Godalming, who wishes to know something of the property which was,
he understood, lately for sale.” These words put a different complexion
on affairs. He said:—

“I would like to oblige you if I could, Mr. Harker, and especially would
I like to oblige his lordship. We once carried out a small matter of
renting some chambers for him when he was the Honourable Arthur
Holmwood. If you will let me have his lordship’s address I will consult
the House on the subject, and will, in any case, communicate with his
lordship by to-night’s post. It will be a pleasure if we can so far
deviate from our rules as to give the required information to his

I wanted to secure a friend, and not to make an enemy, so I thanked him,
gave the address at Dr. Seward’s and came away. It was now dark, and I
was tired and hungry. I got a cup of tea at the Aërated Bread Company
and came down to Purfleet by the next train.

I found all the others at home. Mina was looking tired and pale, but she
made a gallant effort to be bright and cheerful, it wrung my heart to
think that I had had to keep anything from her and so caused her
inquietude. Thank God, this will be the last night of her looking on at
our conferences, and feeling the sting of our not showing our
confidence. It took all my courage to hold to the wise resolution of
keeping her out of our grim task. She seems somehow more reconciled; or
else the very subject seems to have become repugnant to her, for when
any accidental allusion is made she actually shudders. I am glad we
made our resolution in time, as with such a feeling as this, our growing
knowledge would be torture to her.

I could not tell the others of the day’s discovery till we were alone;
so after dinner—followed by a little music to save appearances even
amongst ourselves—I took Mina to her room and left her to go to bed.
The dear girl was more affectionate with me than ever, and clung to me
as though she would detain me; but there was much to be talked of and I
came away. Thank God, the ceasing of telling things has made no
difference between us.

When I came down again I found the others all gathered round the fire in
the study. In the train I had written my diary so far, and simply read
it off to them as the best means of letting them get abreast of my own
information; when I had finished Van Helsing said:—

“This has been a great day’s work, friend Jonathan. Doubtless we are on
the track of the missing boxes. If we find them all in that house, then
our work is near the end. But if there be some missing, we must search
until we find them. Then shall we make our final coup, and hunt the
wretch to his real death.” We all sat silent awhile and all at once Mr.
Morris spoke:—

“Say! how are we going to get into that house?”

“We got into the other,” answered Lord Godalming quickly.

“But, Art, this is different. We broke house at Carfax, but we had night
and a walled park to protect us. It will be a mighty different thing to
commit burglary in Piccadilly, either by day or night. I confess I don’t
see how we are going to get in unless that agency duck can find us a key
of some sort; perhaps we shall know when you get his letter in the
morning.” Lord Godalming’s brows contracted, and he stood up and walked
about the room. By-and-by he stopped and said, turning from one to
another of us:—

“Quincey’s head is level. This burglary business is getting serious; we
got off once all right; but we have now a rare job on hand—unless we
can find the Count’s key basket.”

As nothing could well be done before morning, and as it would be at
least advisable to wait till Lord Godalming should hear from Mitchell’s,
we decided not to take any active step before breakfast time. For a good
while we sat and smoked, discussing the matter in its various lights and
bearings; I took the opportunity of bringing this diary right up to the
moment. I am very sleepy and shall go to bed....

Just a line. Mina sleeps soundly and her breathing is regular. Her
forehead is puckered up into little wrinkles, as though she thinks even
in her sleep. She is still too pale, but does not look so haggard as she
did this morning. To-morrow will, I hope, mend all this; she will be
herself at home in Exeter. Oh, but I am sleepy!

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

1 October.—I am puzzled afresh about Renfield. His moods change so
rapidly that I find it difficult to keep touch of them, and as they
always mean something more than his own well-being, they form a more
than interesting study. This morning, when I went to see him after his
repulse of Van Helsing, his manner was that of a man commanding destiny.
He was, in fact, commanding destiny—subjectively. He did not really
care for any of the things of mere earth; he was in the clouds and
looked down on all the weaknesses and wants of us poor mortals. I
thought I would improve the occasion and learn something, so I asked

“What about the flies these times?” He smiled on me in quite a superior
sort of way—such a smile as would have become the face of Malvolio—as
he answered me:—

“The fly, my dear sir, has one striking feature; its wings are typical
of the aërial powers of the psychic faculties. The ancients did well
when they typified the soul as a butterfly!”

I thought I would push his analogy to its utmost logically, so I said

“Oh, it is a soul you are after now, is it?” His madness foiled his
reason, and a puzzled look spread over his face as, shaking his head
with a decision which I had but seldom seen in him, he said:—

“Oh, no, oh no! I want no souls. Life is all I want.” Here he brightened
up; “I am pretty indifferent about it at present. Life is all right; I
have all I want. You must get a new patient, doctor, if you wish to
study zoöphagy!”

This puzzled me a little, so I drew him on:—

“Then you command life; you are a god, I suppose?” He smiled with an
ineffably benign superiority.

“Oh no! Far be it from me to arrogate to myself the attributes of the
Deity. I am not even concerned in His especially spiritual doings. If I
may state my intellectual position I am, so far as concerns things
purely terrestrial, somewhat in the position which Enoch occupied
spiritually!” This was a poser to me. I could not at the moment recall
Enoch’s appositeness; so I had to ask a simple question, though I felt
that by so doing I was lowering myself in the eyes of the lunatic:—

“And why with Enoch?”

“Because he walked with God.” I could not see the analogy, but did not
like to admit it; so I harked back to what he had denied:—

“So you don’t care about life and you don’t want souls. Why not?” I put
my question quickly and somewhat sternly, on purpose to disconcert him.
The effort succeeded; for an instant he unconsciously relapsed into his
old servile manner, bent low before me, and actually fawned upon me as
he replied:—

“I don’t want any souls, indeed, indeed! I don’t. I couldn’t use them if
I had them; they would be no manner of use to me. I couldn’t eat them
or——” He suddenly stopped and the old cunning look spread over his
face, like a wind-sweep on the surface of the water. “And doctor, as to
life, what is it after all? When you’ve got all you require, and you
know that you will never want, that is all. I have friends—good
friends—like you, Dr. Seward”; this was said with a leer of
inexpressible cunning. “I know that I shall never lack the means of

I think that through the cloudiness of his insanity he saw some
antagonism in me, for he at once fell back on the last refuge of such as
he—a dogged silence. After a short time I saw that for the present it
was useless to speak to him. He was sulky, and so I came away.

Later in the day he sent for me. Ordinarily I would not have come
without special reason, but just at present I am so interested in him
that I would gladly make an effort. Besides, I am glad to have anything
to help to pass the time. Harker is out, following up clues; and so are
Lord Godalming and Quincey. Van Helsing sits in my study poring over the
record prepared by the Harkers; he seems to think that by accurate
knowledge of all details he will light upon some clue. He does not wish
to be disturbed in the work, without cause. I would have taken him with
me to see the patient, only I thought that after his last repulse he
might not care to go again. There was also another reason: Renfield
might not speak so freely before a third person as when he and I were

I found him sitting out in the middle of the floor on his stool, a pose
which is generally indicative of some mental energy on his part. When I
came in, he said at once, as though the question had been waiting on his

“What about souls?” It was evident then that my surmise had been
correct. Unconscious cerebration was doing its work, even with the
lunatic. I determined to have the matter out. “What about them
yourself?” I asked. He did not reply for a moment but looked all round
him, and up and down, as though he expected to find some inspiration for
an answer.

“I don’t want any souls!” he said in a feeble, apologetic way. The
matter seemed preying on his mind, and so I determined to use it—to “be
cruel only to be kind.” So I said:—

“You like life, and you want life?”

“Oh yes! but that is all right; you needn’t worry about that!”

“But,” I asked, “how are we to get the life without getting the soul
also?” This seemed to puzzle him, so I followed it up:—

“A nice time you’ll have some time when you’re flying out there, with
the souls of thousands of flies and spiders and birds and cats buzzing
and twittering and miauing all round you. You’ve got their lives, you
know, and you must put up with their souls!” Something seemed to affect
his imagination, for he put his fingers to his ears and shut his eyes,
screwing them up tightly just as a small boy does when his face is being
soaped. There was something pathetic in it that touched me; it also gave
me a lesson, for it seemed that before me was a child—only a child,
though the features were worn, and the stubble on the jaws was white. It
was evident that he was undergoing some process of mental disturbance,
and, knowing how his past moods had interpreted things seemingly foreign
to himself, I thought I would enter into his mind as well as I could and
go with him. The first step was to restore confidence, so I asked him,
speaking pretty loud so that he would hear me through his closed ears:—

“Would you like some sugar to get your flies round again?” He seemed to
wake up all at once, and shook his head. With a laugh he replied:—

“Not much! flies are poor things, after all!” After a pause he added,
“But I don’t want their souls buzzing round me, all the same.”

“Or spiders?” I went on.

“Blow spiders! What’s the use of spiders? There isn’t anything in them
to eat or”—he stopped suddenly, as though reminded of a forbidden

“So, so!” I thought to myself, “this is the second time he has suddenly
stopped at the word ‘drink’; what does it mean?” Renfield seemed himself
aware of having made a lapse, for he hurried on, as though to distract
my attention from it:—

“I don’t take any stock at all in such matters. ‘Rats and mice and such
small deer,’ as Shakespeare has it, ‘chicken-feed of the larder’ they
might be called. I’m past all that sort of nonsense. You might as well
ask a man to eat molecules with a pair of chop-sticks, as to try to
interest me about the lesser carnivora, when I know of what is before

“I see,” I said. “You want big things that you can make your teeth meet
in? How would you like to breakfast on elephant?”

“What ridiculous nonsense you are talking!” He was getting too wide
awake, so I thought I would press him hard. “I wonder,” I said
reflectively, “what an elephant’s soul is like!”

The effect I desired was obtained, for he at once fell from his
high-horse and became a child again.

“I don’t want an elephant’s soul, or any soul at all!” he said. For a
few moments he sat despondently. Suddenly he jumped to his feet, with
his eyes blazing and all the signs of intense cerebral excitement. “To
hell with you and your souls!” he shouted. “Why do you plague me about
souls? Haven’t I got enough to worry, and pain, and distract me already,
without thinking of souls!” He looked so hostile that I thought he was
in for another homicidal fit, so I blew my whistle. The instant,
however, that I did so he became calm, and said apologetically:—

“Forgive me, Doctor; I forgot myself. You do not need any help. I am so
worried in my mind that I am apt to be irritable. If you only knew the
problem I have to face, and that I am working out, you would pity, and
tolerate, and pardon me. Pray do not put me in a strait-waistcoat. I
want to think and I cannot think freely when my body is confined. I am
sure you will understand!” He had evidently self-control; so when the
attendants came I told them not to mind, and they withdrew. Renfield
watched them go; when the door was closed he said, with considerable
dignity and sweetness:—

“Dr. Seward, you have been very considerate towards me. Believe me that
I am very, very grateful to you!” I thought it well to leave him in this
mood, and so I came away. There is certainly something to ponder over in
this man’s state. Several points seem to make what the American
interviewer calls “a story,” if one could only get them in proper order.
Here they are:—

Will not mention “drinking.”

Fears the thought of being burdened with the “soul” of anything.

Has no dread of wanting “life” in the future.

Despises the meaner forms of life altogether, though he dreads being
haunted by their souls.

Logically all these things point one way! he has assurance of some kind
that he will acquire some higher life. He dreads the consequence—the
burden of a soul. Then it is a human life he looks to!

And the assurance—?

Merciful God! the Count has been to him, and there is some new scheme of
terror afoot!


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

His is a curious case indeed; we must watch him to-night.

Letter, Mitchell, Sons and Candy to Lord Godalming.

“1 October.

“My Lord,

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

“We are, my Lord,

“Your Lordship’s humble servants,

Mitchell, Sons & Candy.”

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

2 October.—I placed a man in the corridor last night, and told him to
make an accurate note of any sound he might hear from Renfield’s room,
and gave him instructions that if there should be anything strange he
was to call me. After dinner, when we had all gathered round the fire
in the study—Mrs. Harker having gone to bed—we discussed the attempts
and discoveries of the day. Harker was the only one who had any result,
and we are in great hopes that his clue may be an important one.

Before going to bed I went round to the patient’s room and looked in
through the observation trap. He was sleeping soundly, and his heart
rose and fell with regular respiration.

This morning the man on duty reported to me that a little after midnight
he was restless and kept saying his prayers somewhat loudly. I asked him
if that was all; he replied that it was all he heard. There was
something about his manner so suspicious that I asked him point blank if
he had been asleep. He denied sleep, but admitted to having “dozed” for
a while. It is too bad that men cannot be trusted unless they are

To-day Harker is out following up his clue, and Art and Quincey are
looking after horses. Godalming thinks that it will be well to have
horses always in readiness, for when we get the information which we
seek there will be no time to lose. We must sterilise all the imported
earth between sunrise and sunset; we shall thus catch the Count at his
weakest, and without a refuge to fly to. Van Helsing is off to the
British Museum looking up some authorities on ancient medicine. The old
physicians took account of things which their followers do not accept,
and the Professor is searching for witch and demon cures which may be
useful to us later.

I sometimes think we must be all mad and that we shall wake to sanity in


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


The attendant came bursting into my room and told me that Renfield had
somehow met with some accident. He had heard him yell; and when he went
to him found him lying on his face on the floor, all covered with blood.
I must go at once....



3 October.—Let me put down with exactness all that happened, as well
as I can remember it, since last I made an entry. Not a detail that I
can recall must be forgotten; in all calmness I must proceed.

When I came to Renfield’s room I found him lying on the floor on his
left side in a glittering pool of blood. When I went to move him, it
became at once apparent that he had received some terrible injuries;
there seemed none of that unity of purpose between the parts of the body
which marks even lethargic sanity. As the face was exposed I could see
that it was horribly bruised, as though it had been beaten against the
floor—indeed it was from the face wounds that the pool of blood
originated. The attendant who was kneeling beside the body said to me as
we turned him over:—

“I think, sir, his back is broken. See, both his right arm and leg and
the whole side of his face are paralysed.” How such a thing could have
happened puzzled the attendant beyond measure. He seemed quite
bewildered, and his brows were gathered in as he said:—

“I can’t understand the two things. He could mark his face like that by
beating his own head on the floor. I saw a young woman do it once at the
Eversfield Asylum before anyone could lay hands on her. And I suppose he
might have broke his neck by falling out of bed, if he got in an awkward
kink. But for the life of me I can’t imagine how the two things
occurred. If his back was broke, he couldn’t beat his head; and if his
face was like that before the fall out of bed, there would be marks of
it.” I said to him:—

“Go to Dr. Van Helsing, and ask him to kindly come here at once. I want
him without an instant’s delay.” The man ran off, and within a few
minutes the Professor, in his dressing gown and slippers, appeared. When
he saw Renfield on the ground, he looked keenly at him a moment, and
then turned to me. I think he recognised my thought in my eyes, for he
said very quietly, manifestly for the ears of the attendant:—

“Ah, a sad accident! He will need very careful watching, and much
attention. I shall stay with you myself; but I shall first dress myself.
If you will remain I shall in a few minutes join you.”

The patient was now breathing stertorously and it was easy to see that
he had suffered some terrible injury. Van Helsing returned with
extraordinary celerity, bearing with him a surgical case. He had
evidently been thinking and had his mind made up; for, almost before he
looked at the patient, he whispered to me:—

“Send the attendant away. We must be alone with him when he becomes
conscious, after the operation.” So I said:—

“I think that will do now, Simmons. We have done all that we can at
present. You had better go your round, and Dr. Van Helsing will operate.
Let me know instantly if there be anything unusual anywhere.”

The man withdrew, and we went into a strict examination of the patient.
The wounds of the face was superficial; the real injury was a depressed
fracture of the skull, extending right up through the motor area. The
Professor thought a moment and said:—

“We must reduce the pressure and get back to normal conditions, as far
as can be; the rapidity of the suffusion shows the terrible nature of
his injury. The whole motor area seems affected. The suffusion of the
brain will increase quickly, so we must trephine at once or it may be
too late.” As he was speaking there was a soft tapping at the door. I
went over and opened it and found in the corridor without, Arthur and
Quincey in pajamas and slippers: the former spoke:—

“I heard your man call up Dr. Van Helsing and tell him of an accident.
So I woke Quincey or rather called for him as he was not asleep. Things
are moving too quickly and too strangely for sound sleep for any of us
these times. I’ve been thinking that to-morrow night will not see things
as they have been. We’ll have to look back—and forward a little more
than we have done. May we come in?” I nodded, and held the door open
till they had entered; then I closed it again. When Quincey saw the
attitude and state of the patient, and noted the horrible pool on the
floor, he said softly:—

“My God! what has happened to him? Poor, poor devil!” I told him
briefly, and added that we expected he would recover consciousness after
the operation—for a short time, at all events. He went at once and sat
down on the edge of the bed, with Godalming beside him; we all watched
in patience.

“We shall wait,” said Van Helsing, “just long enough to fix the best
spot for trephining, so that we may most quickly and perfectly remove
the blood clot; for it is evident that the hæmorrhage is increasing.”

The minutes during which we waited passed with fearful slowness. I had a
horrible sinking in my heart, and from Van Helsing’s face I gathered
that he felt some fear or apprehension as to what was to come. I dreaded
the words that Renfield might speak. I was positively afraid to think;
but the conviction of what was coming was on me, as I have read of men
who have heard the death-watch. The poor man’s breathing came in
uncertain gasps. Each instant he seemed as though he would open his eyes
and speak; but then would follow a prolonged stertorous breath, and he
would relapse into a more fixed insensibility. Inured as I was to sick
beds and death, this suspense grew, and grew upon me. I could almost
hear the beating of my own heart; and the blood surging through my
temples sounded like blows from a hammer. The silence finally became
agonising. I looked at my companions, one after another, and saw from
their flushed faces and damp brows that they were enduring equal
torture. There was a nervous suspense over us all, as though overhead
some dread bell would peal out powerfully when we should least expect

At last there came a time when it was evident that the patient was
sinking fast; he might die at any moment. I looked up at the Professor
and caught his eyes fixed on mine. His face was sternly set as he

“There is no time to lose. His words may be worth many lives; I have
been thinking so, as I stood here. It may be there is a soul at stake!
We shall operate just above the ear.”

Without another word he made the operation. For a few moments the
breathing continued to be stertorous. Then there came a breath so
prolonged that it seemed as though it would tear open his chest.
Suddenly his eyes opened, and became fixed in a wild, helpless stare.
This was continued for a few moments; then it softened into a glad
surprise, and from the lips came a sigh of relief. He moved
convulsively, and as he did so, said:—

“I’ll be quiet, Doctor. Tell them to take off the strait-waistcoat. I
have had a terrible dream, and it has left me so weak that I cannot
move. What’s wrong with my face? it feels all swollen, and it smarts
dreadfully.” He tried to turn his head; but even with the effort his
eyes seemed to grow glassy again so I gently put it back. Then Van
Helsing said in a quiet grave tone:—

“Tell us your dream, Mr. Renfield.” As he heard the voice his face
brightened, through its mutilation, and he said:—

“That is Dr. Van Helsing. How good it is of you to be here. Give me some
water, my lips are dry; and I shall try to tell you. I dreamed”—he
stopped and seemed fainting, I called quietly to Quincey—“The
brandy—it is in my study—quick!” He flew and returned with a glass,
the decanter of brandy and a carafe of water. We moistened the parched
lips, and the patient quickly revived. It seemed, however, that his poor
injured brain had been working in the interval, for, when he was quite
conscious, he looked at me piercingly with an agonised confusion which I
shall never forget, and said:—

“I must not deceive myself; it was no dream, but all a grim reality.”
Then his eyes roved round the room; as they caught sight of the two
figures sitting patiently on the edge of the bed he went on:—

“If I were not sure already, I would know from them.” For an instant his
eyes closed—not with pain or sleep but voluntarily, as though he were
bringing all his faculties to bear; when he opened them he said,
hurriedly, and with more energy than he had yet displayed:—

“Quick, Doctor, quick. I am dying! I feel that I have but a few minutes;
and then I must go back to death—or worse! Wet my lips with brandy
again. I have something that I must say before I die; or before my poor
crushed brain dies anyhow. Thank you! It was that night after you left
me, when I implored you to let me go away. I couldn’t speak then, for I
felt my tongue was tied; but I was as sane then, except in that way, as
I am now. I was in an agony of despair for a long time after you left
me; it seemed hours. Then there came a sudden peace to me. My brain
seemed to become cool again, and I realised where I was. I heard the
dogs bark behind our house, but not where He was!” As he spoke, Van
Helsing’s eyes never blinked, but his hand came out and met mine and
gripped it hard. He did not, however, betray himself; he nodded slightly
and said: “Go on,” in a low voice. Renfield proceeded:—

“He came up to the window in the mist, as I had seen him often before;
but he was solid then—not a ghost, and his eyes were fierce like a
man’s when angry. He was laughing with his red mouth; the sharp white
teeth glinted in the moonlight when he turned to look back over the belt
of trees, to where the dogs were barking. I wouldn’t ask him to come in
at first, though I knew he wanted to—just as he had wanted all along.
Then he began promising me things—not in words but by doing them.” He
was interrupted by a word from the Professor:—


“By making them happen; just as he used to send in the flies when the
sun was shining. Great big fat ones with steel and sapphire on their
wings; and big moths, in the night, with skull and cross-bones on their
backs.” Van Helsing nodded to him as he whispered to me unconsciously:—

“The Acherontia Aitetropos of the Sphinges—what you call the
‘Death’s-head Moth’?” The patient went on without stopping.

“Then he began to whisper: ‘Rats, rats, rats! Hundreds, thousands,
millions of them, and every one a life; and dogs to eat them, and cats
too. All lives! all red blood, with years of life in it; and not merely
buzzing flies!’ I laughed at him, for I wanted to see what he could do.
Then the dogs howled, away beyond the dark trees in His house. He
beckoned me to the window. I got up and looked out, and He raised his
hands, and seemed to call out without using any words. A dark mass
spread over the grass, coming on like the shape of a flame of fire; and
then He moved the mist to the right and left, and I could see that there
were thousands of rats with their eyes blazing red—like His, only
smaller. He held up his hand, and they all stopped; and I thought he
seemed to be saying: ‘All these lives will I give you, ay, and many more
and greater, through countless ages, if you will fall down and worship
me!’ And then a red cloud, like the colour of blood, seemed to close
over my eyes; and before I knew what I was doing, I found myself opening
the sash and saying to Him: ‘Come in, Lord and Master!’ The rats were
all gone, but He slid into the room through the sash, though it was only
open an inch wide—just as the Moon herself has often come in through
the tiniest crack and has stood before me in all her size and

His voice was weaker, so I moistened his lips with the brandy again, and
he continued; but it seemed as though his memory had gone on working in
the interval for his story was further advanced. I was about to call him
back to the point, but Van Helsing whispered to me: “Let him go on. Do
not interrupt him; he cannot go back, and maybe could not proceed at all
if once he lost the thread of his thought.” He proceeded:—

“All day I waited to hear from him, but he did not send me anything, not
even a blow-fly, and when the moon got up I was pretty angry with him.
When he slid in through the window, though it was shut, and did not even
knock, I got mad with him. He sneered at me, and his white face looked
out of the mist with his red eyes gleaming, and he went on as though he
owned the whole place, and I was no one. He didn’t even smell the same
as he went by me. I couldn’t hold him. I thought that, somehow, Mrs.
Harker had come into the room.”

The two men sitting on the bed stood up and came over, standing behind
him so that he could not see them, but where they could hear better.
They were both silent, but the Professor started and quivered; his face,
however, grew grimmer and sterner still. Renfield went on without

“When Mrs. Harker came in to see me this afternoon she wasn’t the same;
it was like tea after the teapot had been watered.” Here we all moved,
but no one said a word; he went on:—

“I didn’t know that she was here till she spoke; and she didn’t look the
same. I don’t care for the pale people; I like them with lots of blood
in them, and hers had all seemed to have run out. I didn’t think of it
at the time; but when she went away I began to think, and it made me mad
to know that He had been taking the life out of her.” I could feel that
the rest quivered, as I did, but we remained otherwise still. “So when
He came to-night I was ready for Him. I saw the mist stealing in, and I
grabbed it tight. I had heard that madmen have unnatural strength; and
as I knew I was a madman—at times anyhow—I resolved to use my power.
Ay, and He felt it too, for He had to come out of the mist to struggle
with me. I held tight; and I thought I was going to win, for I didn’t
mean Him to take any more of her life, till I saw His eyes. They burned
into me, and my strength became like water. He slipped through it, and
when I tried to cling to Him, He raised me up and flung me down. There
was a red cloud before me, and a noise like thunder, and the mist seemed
to steal away under the door.” His voice was becoming fainter and his
breath more stertorous. Van Helsing stood up instinctively.

“We know the worst now,” he said. “He is here, and we know his purpose.
It may not be too late. Let us be armed—the same as we were the other
night, but lose no time; there is not an instant to spare.” There was no
need to put our fear, nay our conviction, into words—we shared them in
common. We all hurried and took from our rooms the same things that we
had when we entered the Count’s house. The Professor had his ready, and
as we met in the corridor he pointed to them significantly as he said:—

“They never leave me; and they shall not till this unhappy business is
over. Be wise also, my friends. It is no common enemy that we deal with.
Alas! alas! that that dear Madam Mina should suffer!” He stopped; his
voice was breaking, and I do not know if rage or terror predominated in
my own heart.

Outside the Harkers’ door we paused. Art and Quincey held back, and the
latter said:—

“Should we disturb her?”

“We must,” said Van Helsing grimly. “If the door be locked, I shall
break it in.”

“May it not frighten her terribly? It is unusual to break into a lady’s

Van Helsing said solemnly, “You are always right; but this is life and
death. All chambers are alike to the doctor; and even were they not they
are all as one to me to-night. Friend John, when I turn the handle, if
the door does not open, do you put your shoulder down and shove; and you
too, my friends. Now!”

He turned the handle as he spoke, but the door did not yield. We threw
ourselves against it; with a crash it burst open, and we almost fell
headlong into the room. The Professor did actually fall, and I saw
across him as he gathered himself up from hands and knees. What I saw
appalled me. I felt my hair rise like bristles on the back of my neck,
and my heart seemed to stand still.

The moonlight was so bright that through the thick yellow blind the room
was light enough to see. On the bed beside the window lay Jonathan
Harker, his face flushed and breathing heavily as though in a stupor.
Kneeling on the near edge of the bed facing outwards was the white-clad
figure of his wife. By her side stood a tall, thin man, clad in black.
His face was turned from us, but the instant we saw we all recognised
the Count—in every way, even to the scar on his forehead. With his left
hand he held both Mrs. Harker’s hands, keeping them away with her arms
at full tension; his right hand gripped her by the back of the neck,
forcing her face down on his bosom. Her white nightdress was smeared
with blood, and a thin stream trickled down the man’s bare breast which
was shown by his torn-open dress. The attitude of the two had a terrible
resemblance to a child forcing a kitten’s nose into a saucer of milk to
compel it to drink. As we burst into the room, the Count turned his
face, and the hellish look that I had heard described seemed to leap
into it. His eyes flamed red with devilish passion; the great nostrils
of the white aquiline nose opened wide and quivered at the edge; and the
white sharp teeth, behind the full lips of the blood-dripping mouth,
champed together like those of a wild beast. With a wrench, which threw
his victim back upon the bed as though hurled from a height, he turned
and sprang at us. But by this time the Professor had gained his feet,
and was holding towards him the envelope which contained the Sacred
Wafer. The Count suddenly stopped, just as poor Lucy had done outside
the tomb, and cowered back. Further and further back he cowered, as we,
lifting our crucifixes, advanced. The moonlight suddenly failed, as a
great black cloud sailed across the sky; and when the gaslight sprang up
under Quincey’s match, we saw nothing but a faint vapour. This, as we
looked, trailed under the door, which with the recoil from its bursting
open, had swung back to its old position. Van Helsing, Art, and I moved
forward to Mrs. Harker, who by this time had drawn her breath and with
it had given a scream so wild, so ear-piercing, so despairing that it
seems to me now that it will ring in my ears till my dying day. For a
few seconds she lay in her helpless attitude and disarray. Her face was
ghastly, with a pallor which was accentuated by the blood which smeared
her lips and cheeks and chin; from her throat trickled a thin stream of
blood; her eyes were mad with terror. Then she put before her face her
poor crushed hands, which bore on their whiteness the red mark of the
Count’s terrible grip, and from behind them came a low desolate wail
which made the terrible scream seem only the quick expression of an
endless grief. Van Helsing stepped forward and drew the coverlet gently
over her body, whilst Art, after looking at her face for an instant
despairingly, ran out of the room. Van Helsing whispered to me:—

“Jonathan is in a stupor such as we know the Vampire can produce. We can
do nothing with poor Madam Mina for a few moments till she recovers
herself; I must wake him!” He dipped the end of a towel in cold water
and with it began to flick him on the face, his wife all the while
holding her face between her hands and sobbing in a way that was
heart-breaking to hear. I raised the blind, and looked out of the
window. There was much moonshine; and as I looked I could see Quincey
Morris run across the lawn and hide himself in the shadow of a great
yew-tree. It puzzled me to think why he was doing this; but at the
instant I heard Harker’s quick exclamation as he woke to partial
consciousness, and turned to the bed. On his face, as there might well
be, was a look of wild amazement. He seemed dazed for a few seconds, and
then full consciousness seemed to burst upon him all at once, and he
started up. His wife was aroused by the quick movement, and turned to
him with her arms stretched out, as though to embrace him; instantly,
however, she drew them in again, and putting her elbows together, held
her hands before her face, and shuddered till the bed beneath her shook.

“In God’s name what does this mean?” Harker cried out. “Dr. Seward, Dr.
Van Helsing, what is it? What has happened? What is wrong? Mina, dear,
what is it? What does that blood mean? My God, my God! has it come to
this!” and, raising himself to his knees, he beat his hands wildly
together. “Good God help us! help her! oh, help her!” With a quick
movement he jumped from bed, and began to pull on his clothes,—all the
man in him awake at the need for instant exertion. “What has happened?
Tell me all about it!” he cried without pausing. “Dr. Van Helsing, you
love Mina, I know. Oh, do something to save her. It cannot have gone too
far yet. Guard her while I look for him!” His wife, through her terror
and horror and distress, saw some sure danger to him: instantly
forgetting her own grief, she seized hold of him and cried out:—

“No! no! Jonathan, you must not leave me. I have suffered enough
to-night, God knows, without the dread of his harming you. You must stay
with me. Stay with these friends who will watch over you!” Her
expression became frantic as she spoke; and, he yielding to her, she
pulled him down sitting on the bed side, and clung to him fiercely.

Van Helsing and I tried to calm them both. The Professor held up his
little golden crucifix, and said with wonderful calmness:—

“Do not fear, my dear. We are here; and whilst this is close to you no
foul thing can approach. You are safe for to-night; and we must be calm
and take counsel together.” She shuddered and was silent, holding down
her head on her husband’s breast. When she raised it, his white
night-robe was stained with blood where her lips had touched, and where
the thin open wound in her neck had sent forth drops. The instant she
saw it she drew back, with a low wail, and whispered, amidst choking

“Unclean, unclean! I must touch him or kiss him no more. Oh, that it
should be that it is I who am now his worst enemy, and whom he may have
most cause to fear.” To this he spoke out resolutely:—

“Nonsense, Mina. It is a shame to me to hear such a word. I would not
hear it of you; and I shall not hear it from you. May God judge me by my
deserts, and punish me with more bitter suffering than even this hour,
if by any act or will of mine anything ever come between us!” He put out
his arms and folded her to his breast; and for a while she lay there
sobbing. He looked at us over her bowed head, with eyes that blinked
damply above his quivering nostrils; his mouth was set as steel. After a
while her sobs became less frequent and more faint, and then he said to
me, speaking with a studied calmness which I felt tried his nervous
power to the utmost:—

“And now, Dr. Seward, tell me all about it. Too well I know the broad
fact; tell me all that has been.” I told him exactly what had happened,
and he listened with seeming impassiveness; but his nostrils twitched
and his eyes blazed as I told how the ruthless hands of the Count had
held his wife in that terrible and horrid position, with her mouth to
the open wound in his breast. It interested me, even at that moment, to
see, that, whilst the face of white set passion worked convulsively over
the bowed head, the hands tenderly and lovingly stroked the ruffled
hair. Just as I had finished, Quincey and Godalming knocked at the door.
They entered in obedience to our summons. Van Helsing looked at me
questioningly. I understood him to mean if we were to take advantage of
their coming to divert if possible the thoughts of the unhappy husband
and wife from each other and from themselves; so on nodding acquiescence
to him he asked them what they had seen or done. To which Lord Godalming

“I could not see him anywhere in the passage, or in any of our rooms. I
looked in the study but, though he had been there, he had gone. He had,
however——” He stopped suddenly, looking at the poor drooping figure on
the bed. Van Helsing said gravely:—

“Go on, friend Arthur. We want here no more concealments. Our hope now
is in knowing all. Tell freely!” So Art went on:—

“He had been there, and though it could only have been for a few
seconds, he made rare hay of the place. All the manuscript had been
burned, and the blue flames were flickering amongst the white ashes; the
cylinders of your phonograph too were thrown on the fire, and the wax
had helped the flames.” Here I interrupted. “Thank God there is the
other copy in the safe!” His face lit for a moment, but fell again as he
went on: “I ran downstairs then, but could see no sign of him. I looked
into Renfield’s room; but there was no trace there except——!” Again he
paused. “Go on,” said Harker hoarsely; so he bowed his head and
moistening his lips with his tongue, added: “except that the poor fellow
is dead.” Mrs. Harker raised her head, looking from one to the other of
us she said solemnly:—

“God’s will be done!” I could not but feel that Art was keeping back
something; but, as I took it that it was with a purpose, I said nothing.
Van Helsing turned to Morris and asked:—

“And you, friend Quincey, have you any to tell?”

“A little,” he answered. “It may be much eventually, but at present I
can’t say. I thought it well to know if possible where the Count would
go when he left the house. I did not see him; but I saw a bat rise from
Renfield’s window, and flap westward. I expected to see him in some
shape go back to Carfax; but he evidently sought some other lair. He
will not be back to-night; for the sky is reddening in the east, and the
dawn is close. We must work to-morrow!”

He said the latter words through his shut teeth. For a space of perhaps
a couple of minutes there was silence, and I could fancy that I could
hear the sound of our hearts beating; then Van Helsing said, placing his
hand very tenderly on Mrs. Harker’s head:—

“And now, Madam Mina—poor, dear, dear Madam Mina—tell us exactly what
happened. God knows that I do not want that you be pained; but it is
need that we know all. For now more than ever has all work to be done
quick and sharp, and in deadly earnest. The day is close to us that must
end all, if it may be so; and now is the chance that we may live and

The poor, dear lady shivered, and I could see the tension of her nerves
as she clasped her husband closer to her and bent her head lower and
lower still on his breast. Then she raised her head proudly, and held
out one hand to Van Helsing who took it in his, and, after stooping and
kissing it reverently, held it fast. The other hand was locked in that
of her husband, who held his other arm thrown round her protectingly.
After a pause in which she was evidently ordering her thoughts, she

“I took the sleeping draught which you had so kindly given me, but for a
long time it did not act. I seemed to become more wakeful, and myriads
of horrible fancies began to crowd in upon my mind—all of them
connected with death, and vampires; with blood, and pain, and trouble.”
Her husband involuntarily groaned as she turned to him and said
lovingly: “Do not fret, dear. You must be brave and strong, and help me
through the horrible task. If you only knew what an effort it is to me
to tell of this fearful thing at all, you would understand how much I
need your help. Well, I saw I must try to help the medicine to its work
with my will, if it was to do me any good, so I resolutely set myself to
sleep. Sure enough sleep must soon have come to me, for I remember no
more. Jonathan coming in had not waked me, for he lay by my side when
next I remember. There was in the room the same thin white mist that I
had before noticed. But I forget now if you know of this; you will find
it in my diary which I shall show you later. I felt the same vague
terror which had come to me before and the same sense of some presence.
I turned to wake Jonathan, but found that he slept so soundly that it
seemed as if it was he who had taken the sleeping draught, and not I. I
tried, but I could not wake him. This caused me a great fear, and I
looked around terrified. Then indeed, my heart sank within me: beside
the bed, as if he had stepped out of the mist—or rather as if the mist
had turned into his figure, for it had entirely disappeared—stood a
tall, thin man, all in black. I knew him at once from the description of
the others. The waxen face; the high aquiline nose, on which the light
fell in a thin white line; the parted red lips, with the sharp white
teeth showing between; and the red eyes that I had seemed to see in the
sunset on the windows of St. Mary’s Church at Whitby. I knew, too, the
red scar on his forehead where Jonathan had struck him. For an instant
my heart stood still, and I would have screamed out, only that I was
paralysed. In the pause he spoke in a sort of keen, cutting whisper,
pointing as he spoke to Jonathan:—

“ ‘Silence! If you make a sound I shall take him and dash his brains out
before your very eyes.’ I was appalled and was too bewildered to do or
say anything. With a mocking smile, he placed one hand upon my shoulder
and, holding me tight, bared my throat with the other, saying as he did
so, ‘First, a little refreshment to reward my exertions. You may as well
be quiet; it is not the first time, or the second, that your veins have
appeased my thirst!’ I was bewildered, and, strangely enough, I did not
want to hinder him. I suppose it is a part of the horrible curse that
such is, when his touch is on his victim. And oh, my God, my God, pity
me! He placed his reeking lips upon my throat!” Her husband groaned
again. She clasped his hand harder, and looked at him pityingly, as if
he were the injured one, and went on:—

“I felt my strength fading away, and I was in a half swoon. How long
this horrible thing lasted I know not; but it seemed that a long time
must have passed before he took his foul, awful, sneering mouth away. I
saw it drip with the fresh blood!” The remembrance seemed for a while to
overpower her, and she drooped and would have sunk down but for her
husband’s sustaining arm. With a great effort she recovered herself and
went on:—

“Then he spoke to me mockingly, ‘And so you, like the others, would play
your brains against mine. You would help these men to hunt me and
frustrate me in my designs! You know now, and they know in part already,
and will know in full before long, what it is to cross my path. They
should have kept their energies for use closer to home. Whilst they
played wits against me—against me who commanded nations, and intrigued
for them, and fought for them, hundreds of years before they were
born—I was countermining them. And you, their best beloved one, are now
to me, flesh of my flesh; blood of my blood; kin of my kin; my bountiful
wine-press for a while; and shall be later on my companion and my
helper. You shall be avenged in turn; for not one of them but shall
minister to your needs. But as yet you are to be punished for what you
have done. You have aided in thwarting me; now you shall come to my
call. When my brain says “Come!” to you, you shall cross land or sea to
do my bidding; and to that end this!’ With that he pulled open his
shirt, and with his long sharp nails opened a vein in his breast. When
the blood began to spurt out, he took my hands in one of his, holding
them tight, and with the other seized my neck and pressed my mouth to
the wound, so that I must either suffocate or swallow some of the—— Oh
my God! my God! what have I done? What have I done to deserve such a
fate, I who have tried to walk in meekness and righteousness all my
days. God pity me! Look down on a poor soul in worse than mortal peril;
and in mercy pity those to whom she is dear!” Then she began to rub her
lips as though to cleanse them from pollution.

As she was telling her terrible story, the eastern sky began to quicken,
and everything became more and more clear. Harker was still and quiet;
but over his face, as the awful narrative went on, came a grey look
which deepened and deepened in the morning light, till when the first
red streak of the coming dawn shot up, the flesh stood darkly out
against the whitening hair.

We have arranged that one of us is to stay within call of the unhappy
pair till we can meet together and arrange about taking action.

Of this I am sure: the sun rises to-day on no more miserable house in
all the great round of its daily course.



3 October.—As I must do something or go mad, I write this diary. It
is now six o’clock, and we are to meet in the study in half an hour and
take something to eat; for Dr. Van Helsing and Dr. Seward are agreed
that if we do not eat we cannot work our best. Our best will be, God
knows, required to-day. I must keep writing at every chance, for I dare
not stop to think. All, big and little, must go down; perhaps at the end
the little things may teach us most. The teaching, big or little, could
not have landed Mina or me anywhere worse than we are to-day. However,
we must trust and hope. Poor Mina told me just now, with the tears
running down her dear cheeks, that it is in trouble and trial that our
faith is tested—that we must keep on trusting; and that God will aid us
up to the end. The end! oh my God! what end?... To work! To work!

When Dr. Van Helsing and Dr. Seward had come back from seeing poor
Renfield, we went gravely into what was to be done. First, Dr. Seward
told us that when he and Dr. Van Helsing had gone down to the room below
they had found Renfield lying on the floor, all in a heap. His face was
all bruised and crushed in, and the bones of the neck were broken.

Dr. Seward asked the attendant who was on duty in the passage if he had
heard anything. He said that he had been sitting down—he confessed to
half dozing—when he heard loud voices in the room, and then Renfield
had called out loudly several times, “God! God! God!” after that there
was a sound of falling, and when he entered the room he found him lying
on the floor, face down, just as the doctors had seen him. Van Helsing
asked if he had heard “voices” or “a voice,” and he said he could not
say; that at first it had seemed to him as if there were two, but as
there was no one in the room it could have been only one. He could swear
to it, if required, that the word “God” was spoken by the patient. Dr.
Seward said to us, when we were alone, that he did not wish to go into
the matter; the question of an inquest had to be considered, and it
would never do to put forward the truth, as no one would believe it. As
it was, he thought that on the attendant’s evidence he could give a
certificate of death by misadventure in falling from bed. In case the
coroner should demand it, there would be a formal inquest, necessarily
to the same result.

When the question began to be discussed as to what should be our next
step, the very first thing we decided was that Mina should be in full
confidence; that nothing of any sort—no matter how painful—should be
kept from her. She herself agreed as to its wisdom, and it was pitiful
to see her so brave and yet so sorrowful, and in such a depth of
despair. “There must be no concealment,” she said, “Alas! we have had
too much already. And besides there is nothing in all the world that can
give me more pain than I have already endured—than I suffer now!
Whatever may happen, it must be of new hope or of new courage to me!”
Van Helsing was looking at her fixedly as she spoke, and said, suddenly
but quietly:—

“But dear Madam Mina, are you not afraid; not for yourself, but for
others from yourself, after what has happened?” Her face grew set in its
lines, but her eyes shone with the devotion of a martyr as she

“Ah no! for my mind is made up!”

“To what?” he asked gently, whilst we were all very still; for each in
our own way we had a sort of vague idea of what she meant. Her answer
came with direct simplicity, as though she were simply stating a fact:—

“Because if I find in myself—and I shall watch keenly for it—a sign of
harm to any that I love, I shall die!”

“You would not kill yourself?” he asked, hoarsely.

“I would; if there were no friend who loved me, who would save me such a
pain, and so desperate an effort!” She looked at him meaningly as she
spoke. He was sitting down; but now he rose and came close to her and
put his hand on her head as he said solemnly:

“My child, there is such an one if it were for your good. For myself I
could hold it in my account with God to find such an euthanasia for you,
even at this moment if it were best. Nay, were it safe! But my
child——” For a moment he seemed choked, and a great sob rose in his
throat; he gulped it down and went on:—

“There are here some who would stand between you and death. You must not
die. You must not die by any hand; but least of all by your own. Until
the other, who has fouled your sweet life, is true dead you must not
die; for if he is still with the quick Un-Dead, your death would make
you even as he is. No, you must live! You must struggle and strive to
live, though death would seem a boon unspeakable. You must fight Death
himself, though he come to you in pain or in joy; by the day, or the
night; in safety or in peril! On your living soul I charge you that you
do not die—nay, nor think of death—till this great evil be past.” The
poor dear grew white as death, and shock and shivered, as I have seen a
quicksand shake and shiver at the incoming of the tide. We were all
silent; we could do nothing. At length she grew more calm and turning to
him said, sweetly, but oh! so sorrowfully, as she held out her hand:—

“I promise you, my dear friend, that if God will let me live, I shall
strive to do so; till, if it may be in His good time, this horror may
have passed away from me.” She was so good and brave that we all felt
that our hearts were strengthened to work and endure for her, and we
began to discuss what we were to do. I told her that she was to have all
the papers in the safe, and all the papers or diaries and phonographs we
might hereafter use; and was to keep the record as she had done before.
She was pleased with the prospect of anything to do—if “pleased” could
be used in connection with so grim an interest.

As usual Van Helsing had thought ahead of everyone else, and was
prepared with an exact ordering of our work.

“It is perhaps well,” he said, “that at our meeting after our visit to
Carfax we decided not to do anything with the earth-boxes that lay
there. Had we done so, the Count must have guessed our purpose, and
would doubtless have taken measures in advance to frustrate such an
effort with regard to the others; but now he does not know our
intentions. Nay, more, in all probability, he does not know that such a
power exists to us as can sterilise his lairs, so that he cannot use
them as of old. We are now so much further advanced in our knowledge as
to their disposition that, when we have examined the house in
Piccadilly, we may track the very last of them. To-day, then, is ours;
and in it rests our hope. The sun that rose on our sorrow this morning
guards us in its course. Until it sets to-night, that monster must
retain whatever form he now has. He is confined within the limitations
of his earthly envelope. He cannot melt into thin air nor disappear
through cracks or chinks or crannies. If he go through a doorway, he
must open the door like a mortal. And so we have this day to hunt out
all his lairs and sterilise them. So we shall, if we have not yet catch
him and destroy him, drive him to bay in some place where the catching
and the destroying shall be, in time, sure.” Here I started up for I
could not contain myself at the thought that the minutes and seconds so
preciously laden with Mina’s life and happiness were flying from us,
since whilst we talked action was impossible. But Van Helsing held up
his hand warningly. “Nay, friend Jonathan,” he said, “in this, the
quickest way home is the longest way, so your proverb say. We shall all
act and act with desperate quick, when the time has come. But think, in
all probable the key of the situation is in that house in Piccadilly.
The Count may have many houses which he has bought. Of them he will have
deeds of purchase, keys and other things. He will have paper that he
write on; he will have his book of cheques. There are many belongings
that he must have somewhere; why not in this place so central, so quiet,
where he come and go by the front or the back at all hour, when in the
very vast of the traffic there is none to notice. We shall go there and
search that house; and when we learn what it holds, then we do what our
friend Arthur call, in his phrases of hunt ‘stop the earths’ and so we
run down our old fox—so? is it not?”

“Then let us come at once,” I cried, “we are wasting the precious,
precious time!” The Professor did not move, but simply said:—

“And how are we to get into that house in Piccadilly?”

“Any way!” I cried. “We shall break in if need be.”

“And your police; where will they be, and what will they say?”

I was staggered; but I knew that if he wished to delay he had a good
reason for it. So I said, as quietly as I could:—

“Don’t wait more than need be; you know, I am sure, what torture I am

“Ah, my child, that I do; and indeed there is no wish of me to add to
your anguish. But just think, what can we do, until all the world be at
movement. Then will come our time. I have thought and thought, and it
seems to me that the simplest way is the best of all. Now we wish to get
into the house, but we have no key; is it not so?” I nodded.

“Now suppose that you were, in truth, the owner of that house, and could
not still get it; and think there was to you no conscience of the
housebreaker, what would you do?”

“I should get a respectable locksmith, and set him to work to pick the
lock for me.”

“And your police, they would interfere, would they not?”

“Oh, no! not if they knew the man was properly employed.”

“Then,” he looked at me as keenly as he spoke, “all that is in doubt is
the conscience of the employer, and the belief of your policemen as to
whether or no that employer has a good conscience or a bad one. Your
police must indeed be zealous men and clever—oh, so clever!—in reading
the heart, that they trouble themselves in such matter. No, no, my
friend Jonathan, you go take the lock off a hundred empty house in this
your London, or of any city in the world; and if you do it as such
things are rightly done, and at the time such things are rightly done,
no one will interfere. I have read of a gentleman who owned a so fine
house in London, and when he went for months of summer to Switzerland
and lock up his house, some burglar came and broke window at back and
got in. Then he went and made open the shutters in front and walk out
and in through the door, before the very eyes of the police. Then he
have an auction in that house, and advertise it, and put up big notice;
and when the day come he sell off by a great auctioneer all the goods of
that other man who own them. Then he go to a builder, and he sell him
that house, making an agreement that he pull it down and take all away
within a certain time. And your police and other authority help him all
they can. And when that owner come back from his holiday in Switzerland
he find only an empty hole where his house had been. This was all done
en règle; and in our work we shall be en règle too. We shall not go
so early that the policemen who have then little to think of, shall deem
it strange; but we shall go after ten o’clock, when there are many
about, and such things would be done were we indeed owners of the

I could not but see how right he was and the terrible despair of Mina’s
face became relaxed a thought; there was hope in such good counsel. Van
Helsing went on:—

“When once within that house we may find more clues; at any rate some of
us can remain there whilst the rest find the other places where there be
more earth-boxes—at Bermondsey and Mile End.”

Lord Godalming stood up. “I can be of some use here,” he said. “I shall
wire to my people to have horses and carriages where they will be most

“Look here, old fellow,” said Morris, “it is a capital idea to have all
ready in case we want to go horsebacking; but don’t you think that one
of your snappy carriages with its heraldic adornments in a byway of
Walworth or Mile End would attract too much attention for our purposes?
It seems to me that we ought to take cabs when we go south or east; and
even leave them somewhere near the neighbourhood we are going to.”

“Friend Quincey is right!” said the Professor. “His head is what you
call in plane with the horizon. It is a difficult thing that we go to
do, and we do not want no peoples to watch us if so it may.”

Mina took a growing interest in everything and I was rejoiced to see
that the exigency of affairs was helping her to forget for a time the
terrible experience of the night. She was very, very pale—almost
ghastly, and so thin that her lips were drawn away, showing her teeth in
somewhat of prominence. I did not mention this last, lest it should give
her needless pain; but it made my blood run cold in my veins to think of
what had occurred with poor Lucy when the Count had sucked her blood. As
yet there was no sign of the teeth growing sharper; but the time as yet
was short, and there was time for fear.

When we came to the discussion of the sequence of our efforts and of the
disposition of our forces, there were new sources of doubt. It was
finally agreed that before starting for Piccadilly we should destroy the
Count’s lair close at hand. In case he should find it out too soon, we
should thus be still ahead of him in our work of destruction; and his
presence in his purely material shape, and at his weakest, might give us
some new clue.

As to the disposal of forces, it was suggested by the Professor that,
after our visit to Carfax, we should all enter the house in Piccadilly;
that the two doctors and I should remain there, whilst Lord Godalming
and Quincey found the lairs at Walworth and Mile End and destroyed them.
It was possible, if not likely, the Professor urged, that the Count
might appear in Piccadilly during the day, and that if so we might be
able to cope with him then and there. At any rate, we might be able to
follow him in force. To this plan I strenuously objected, and so far as
my going was concerned, for I said that I intended to stay and protect
Mina, I thought that my mind was made up on the subject; but Mina would
not listen to my objection. She said that there might be some law matter
in which I could be useful; that amongst the Count’s papers might be
some clue which I could understand out of my experience in Transylvania;
and that, as it was, all the strength we could muster was required to
cope with the Count’s extraordinary power. I had to give in, for Mina’s
resolution was fixed; she said that it was the last hope for her that
we should all work together. “As for me,” she said, “I have no fear.
Things have been as bad as they can be; and whatever may happen must
have in it some element of hope or comfort. Go, my husband! God can, if
He wishes it, guard me as well alone as with any one present.” So I
started up crying out: “Then in God’s name let us come at once, for we
are losing time. The Count may come to Piccadilly earlier than we

“Not so!” said Van Helsing, holding up his hand.

“But why?” I asked.

“Do you forget,” he said, with actually a smile, “that last night he
banqueted heavily, and will sleep late?”

Did I forget! shall I ever—can I ever! Can any of us ever forget that
terrible scene! Mina struggled hard to keep her brave countenance; but
the pain overmastered her and she put her hands before her face, and
shuddered whilst she moaned. Van Helsing had not intended to recall her
frightful experience. He had simply lost sight of her and her part in
the affair in his intellectual effort. When it struck him what he said,
he was horrified at his thoughtlessness and tried to comfort her. “Oh,
Madam Mina,” he said, “dear, dear Madam Mina, alas! that I of all who so
reverence you should have said anything so forgetful. These stupid old
lips of mine and this stupid old head do not deserve so; but you will
forget it, will you not?” He bent low beside her as he spoke; she took
his hand, and looking at him through her tears, said hoarsely:—

“No, I shall not forget, for it is well that I remember; and with it I
have so much in memory of you that is sweet, that I take it all
together. Now, you must all be going soon. Breakfast is ready, and we
must all eat that we may be strong.”

Breakfast was a strange meal to us all. We tried to be cheerful and
encourage each other, and Mina was the brightest and most cheerful of
us. When it was over, Van Helsing stood up and said:—

“Now, my dear friends, we go forth to our terrible enterprise. Are we
all armed, as we were on that night when first we visited our enemy’s
lair; armed against ghostly as well as carnal attack?” We all assured
him. “Then it is well. Now, Madam Mina, you are in any case quite safe
here until the sunset; and before then we shall return—if—— We shall
return! But before we go let me see you armed against personal attack. I
have myself, since you came down, prepared your chamber by the placing
of things of which we know, so that He may not enter. Now let me guard
yourself. On your forehead I touch this piece of Sacred Wafer in the
name of the Father, the Son, and——”

There was a fearful scream which almost froze our hearts to hear. As he
had placed the Wafer on Mina’s forehead, it had seared it—had burned
into the flesh as though it had been a piece of white-hot metal. My poor
darling’s brain had told her the significance of the fact as quickly as
her nerves received the pain of it; and the two so overwhelmed her that
her overwrought nature had its voice in that dreadful scream. But the
words to her thought came quickly; the echo of the scream had not ceased
to ring on the air when there came the reaction, and she sank on her
knees on the floor in an agony of abasement. Pulling her beautiful hair
over her face, as the leper of old his mantle, she wailed out:—

“Unclean! Unclean! Even the Almighty shuns my polluted flesh! I must
bear this mark of shame upon my forehead until the Judgment Day.” They
all paused. I had thrown myself beside her in an agony of helpless
grief, and putting my arms around held her tight. For a few minutes our
sorrowful hearts beat together, whilst the friends around us turned away
their eyes that ran tears silently. Then Van Helsing turned and said
gravely; so gravely that I could not help feeling that he was in some
way inspired, and was stating things outside himself:—

“It may be that you may have to bear that mark till God himself see fit,
as He most surely shall, on the Judgment Day, to redress all wrongs of
the earth and of His children that He has placed thereon. And oh, Madam
Mina, my dear, my dear, may we who love you be there to see, when that
red scar, the sign of God’s knowledge of what has been, shall pass away,
and leave your forehead as pure as the heart we know. For so surely as
we live, that scar shall pass away when God sees right to lift the
burden that is hard upon us. Till then we bear our Cross, as His Son did
in obedience to His Will. It may be that we are chosen instruments of
His good pleasure, and that we ascend to His bidding as that other
through stripes and shame; through tears and blood; through doubts and
fears, and all that makes the difference between God and man.”

There was hope in his words, and comfort; and they made for resignation.
Mina and I both felt so, and simultaneously we each took one of the old
man’s hands and bent over and kissed it. Then without a word we all
knelt down together, and, all holding hands, swore to be true to each
other. We men pledged ourselves to raise the veil of sorrow from the
head of her whom, each in his own way, we loved; and we prayed for help
and guidance in the terrible task which lay before us.

It was then time to start. So I said farewell to Mina, a parting which
neither of us shall forget to our dying day; and we set out.

To one thing I have made up my mind: if we find out that Mina must be a
vampire in the end, then she shall not go into that unknown and terrible
land alone. I suppose it is thus that in old times one vampire meant
many; just as their hideous bodies could only rest in sacred earth, so
the holiest love was the recruiting sergeant for their ghastly ranks.

We entered Carfax without trouble and found all things the same as on
the first occasion. It was hard to believe that amongst so prosaic
surroundings of neglect and dust and decay there was any ground for such
fear as already we knew. Had not our minds been made up, and had there
not been terrible memories to spur us on, we could hardly have proceeded
with our task. We found no papers, or any sign of use in the house; and
in the old chapel the great boxes looked just as we had seen them last.
Dr. Van Helsing said to us solemnly as we stood before them:—

“And now, my friends, we have a duty here to do. We must sterilise this
earth, so sacred of holy memories, that he has brought from a far
distant land for such fell use. He has chosen this earth because it has
been holy. Thus we defeat him with his own weapon, for we make it more
holy still. It was sanctified to such use of man, now we sanctify it to
God.” As he spoke he took from his bag a screwdriver and a wrench, and
very soon the top of one of the cases was thrown open. The earth smelled
musty and close; but we did not somehow seem to mind, for our attention
was concentrated on the Professor. Taking from his box a piece of the
Sacred Wafer he laid it reverently on the earth, and then shutting down
the lid began to screw it home, we aiding him as he worked.

One by one we treated in the same way each of the great boxes, and left
them as we had found them to all appearance; but in each was a portion
of the Host.

When we closed the door behind us, the Professor said solemnly:—

“So much is already done. If it may be that with all the others we can
be so successful, then the sunset of this evening may shine on Madam
Mina’s forehead all white as ivory and with no stain!”

As we passed across the lawn on our way to the station to catch our
train we could see the front of the asylum. I looked eagerly, and in the
window of my own room saw Mina. I waved my hand to her, and nodded to
tell that our work there was successfully accomplished. She nodded in
reply to show that she understood. The last I saw, she was waving her
hand in farewell. It was with a heavy heart that we sought the station
and just caught the train, which was steaming in as we reached the

I have written this in the train.


Piccadilly, 12:30 o’clock.—Just before we reached Fenchurch Street
Lord Godalming said to me:—

“Quincey and I will find a locksmith. You had better not come with us in
case there should be any difficulty; for under the circumstances it
wouldn’t seem so bad for us to break into an empty house. But you are a
solicitor and the Incorporated Law Society might tell you that you
should have known better.” I demurred as to my not sharing any danger
even of odium, but he went on: “Besides, it will attract less attention
if there are not too many of us. My title will make it all right with
the locksmith, and with any policeman that may come along. You had
better go with Jack and the Professor and stay in the Green Park,
somewhere in sight of the house; and when you see the door opened and
the smith has gone away, do you all come across. We shall be on the
lookout for you, and shall let you in.”

“The advice is good!” said Van Helsing, so we said no more. Godalming
and Morris hurried off in a cab, we following in another. At the corner
of Arlington Street our contingent got out and strolled into the Green
Park. My heart beat as I saw the house on which so much of our hope was
centred, looming up grim and silent in its deserted condition amongst
its more lively and spruce-looking neighbours. We sat down on a bench
within good view, and began to smoke cigars so as to attract as little
attention as possible. The minutes seemed to pass with leaden feet as we
waited for the coming of the others.

At length we saw a four-wheeler drive up. Out of it, in leisurely
fashion, got Lord Godalming and Morris; and down from the box descended
a thick-set working man with his rush-woven basket of tools. Morris paid
the cabman, who touched his hat and drove away. Together the two
ascended the steps, and Lord Godalming pointed out what he wanted done.
The workman took off his coat leisurely and hung it on one of the spikes
of the rail, saying something to a policeman who just then sauntered
along. The policeman nodded acquiescence, and the man kneeling down
placed his bag beside him. After searching through it, he took out a
selection of tools which he produced to lay beside him in orderly
fashion. Then he stood up, looked into the keyhole, blew into it, and
turning to his employers, made some remark. Lord Godalming smiled, and
the man lifted a good-sized bunch of keys; selecting one of them, he
began to probe the lock, as if feeling his way with it. After fumbling
about for a bit he tried a second, and then a third. All at once the
door opened under a slight push from him, and he and the two others
entered the hall. We sat still; my own cigar burnt furiously, but Van
Helsing’s went cold altogether. We waited patiently as we saw the
workman come out and bring in his bag. Then he held the door partly
open, steadying it with his knees, whilst he fitted a key to the lock.
This he finally handed to Lord Godalming, who took out his purse and
gave him something. The man touched his hat, took his bag, put on his
coat and departed; not a soul took the slightest notice of the whole

When the man had fairly gone, we three crossed the street and knocked at
the door. It was immediately opened by Quincey Morris, beside whom stood
Lord Godalming lighting a cigar.

“The place smells so vilely,” said the latter as we came in. It did
indeed smell vilely—like the old chapel at Carfax—and with our
previous experience it was plain to us that the Count had been using the
place pretty freely. We moved to explore the house, all keeping together
in case of attack; for we knew we had a strong and wily enemy to deal
with, and as yet we did not know whether the Count might not be in the
house. In the dining-room, which lay at the back of the hall, we found
eight boxes of earth. Eight boxes only out of the nine, which we sought!
Our work was not over, and would never be until we should have found the
missing box. First we opened the shutters of the window which looked out
across a narrow stone-flagged yard at the blank face of a stable,
pointed to look like the front of a miniature house. There were no
windows in it, so we were not afraid of being over-looked. We did not
lose any time in examining the chests. With the tools which we had
brought with us we opened them, one by one, and treated them as we had
treated those others in the old chapel. It was evident to us that the
Count was not at present in the house, and we proceeded to search for
any of his effects.

After a cursory glance at the rest of the rooms, from basement to attic,
we came to the conclusion that the dining-room contained any effects
which might belong to the Count; and so we proceeded to minutely examine
them. They lay in a sort of orderly disorder on the great dining-room
table. There were title deeds of the Piccadilly house in a great bundle;
deeds of the purchase of the houses at Mile End and Bermondsey;
note-paper, envelopes, and pens and ink. All were covered up in thin
wrapping paper to keep them from the dust. There were also a clothes
brush, a brush and comb, and a jug and basin—the latter containing
dirty water which was reddened as if with blood. Last of all was a
little heap of keys of all sorts and sizes, probably those belonging to
the other houses. When we had examined this last find, Lord Godalming
and Quincey Morris taking accurate notes of the various addresses of the
houses in the East and the South, took with them the keys in a great
bunch, and set out to destroy the boxes in these places. The rest of us
are, with what patience we can, waiting their return—or the coming of
the Count.



3 October.—The time seemed terrible long whilst we were waiting for
the coming of Godalming and Quincey Morris. The Professor tried to keep
our minds active by using them all the time. I could see his beneficent
purpose, by the side glances which he threw from time to time at Harker.
The poor fellow is overwhelmed in a misery that is appalling to see.
Last night he was a frank, happy-looking man, with strong, youthful
face, full of energy, and with dark brown hair. To-day he is a drawn,
haggard old man, whose white hair matches well with the hollow burning
eyes and grief-written lines of his face. His energy is still intact; in
fact, he is like a living flame. This may yet be his salvation, for, if
all go well, it will tide him over the despairing period; he will then,
in a kind of way, wake again to the realities of life. Poor fellow, I
thought my own trouble was bad enough, but his——! The Professor knows
this well enough, and is doing his best to keep his mind active. What he
has been saying was, under the circumstances, of absorbing interest. So
well as I can remember, here it is:—

“I have studied, over and over again since they came into my hands, all
the papers relating to this monster; and the more I have studied, the
greater seems the necessity to utterly stamp him out. All through there
are signs of his advance; not only of his power, but of his knowledge of
it. As I learned from the researches of my friend Arminus of Buda-Pesth,
he was in life a most wonderful man. Soldier, statesman, and
alchemist—which latter was the highest development of the
science-knowledge of his time. He had a mighty brain, a learning beyond
compare, and a heart that knew no fear and no remorse. He dared even to
attend the Scholomance, and there was no branch of knowledge of his time
that he did not essay. Well, in him the brain powers survived the
physical death; though it would seem that memory was not all complete.
In some faculties of mind he has been, and is, only a child; but he is
growing, and some things that were childish at the first are now of
man’s stature. He is experimenting, and doing it well; and if it had not
been that we have crossed his path he would be yet—he may be yet if we
fail—the father or furtherer of a new order of beings, whose road must
lead through Death, not Life.”

Harker groaned and said, “And this is all arrayed against my darling!
But how is he experimenting? The knowledge may help us to defeat him!”

“He has all along, since his coming, been trying his power, slowly but
surely; that big child-brain of his is working. Well for us, it is, as
yet, a child-brain; for had he dared, at the first, to attempt certain
things he would long ago have been beyond our power. However, he means
to succeed, and a man who has centuries before him can afford to wait
and to go slow. Festina lente may well be his motto.”

“I fail to understand,” said Harker wearily. “Oh, do be more plain to
me! Perhaps grief and trouble are dulling my brain.”

The Professor laid his hand tenderly on his shoulder as he spoke:—

“Ah, my child, I will be plain. Do you not see how, of late, this
monster has been creeping into knowledge experimentally. How he has been
making use of the zoöphagous patient to effect his entry into friend
John’s home; for your Vampire, though in all afterwards he can come when
and how he will, must at the first make entry only when asked thereto by
an inmate. But these are not his most important experiments. Do we not
see how at the first all these so great boxes were moved by others. He
knew not then but that must be so. But all the time that so great
child-brain of his was growing, and he began to consider whether he
might not himself move the box. So he began to help; and then, when he
found that this be all-right, he try to move them all alone. And so he
progress, and he scatter these graves of him; and none but he know where
they are hidden. He may have intend to bury them deep in the ground. So
that he only use them in the night, or at such time as he can change his
form, they do him equal well; and none may know these are his
hiding-place! But, my child, do not despair; this knowledge come to him
just too late! Already all of his lairs but one be sterilise as for him;
and before the sunset this shall be so. Then he have no place where he
can move and hide. I delayed this morning that so we might be sure. Is
there not more at stake for us than for him? Then why we not be even
more careful than him? By my clock it is one hour and already, if all be
well, friend Arthur and Quincey are on their way to us. To-day is our
day, and we must go sure, if slow, and lose no chance. See! there are
five of us when those absent ones return.

Whilst he was speaking we were startled by a knock at the hall door, the
double postman’s knock of the telegraph boy. We all moved out to the
hall with one impulse, and Van Helsing, holding up his hand to us to
keep silence, stepped to the door and opened it. The boy handed in a
despatch. The Professor closed the door again, and, after looking at the
direction, opened it and read aloud.

“Look out for D. He has just now, 12:45, come from Carfax hurriedly and
hastened towards the South. He seems to be going the round and may want
to see you: Mina.”

There was a pause, broken by Jonathan Harker’s voice:—

“Now, God be thanked, we shall soon meet!” Van Helsing turned to him
quickly and said:—

“God will act in His own way and time. Do not fear, and do not rejoice
as yet; for what we wish for at the moment may be our undoings.”

“I care for nothing now,” he answered hotly, “except to wipe out this
brute from the face of creation. I would sell my soul to do it!”

“Oh, hush, hush, my child!” said Van Helsing. “God does not purchase
souls in this wise; and the Devil, though he may purchase, does not keep
faith. But God is merciful and just, and knows your pain and your
devotion to that dear Madam Mina. Think you, how her pain would be
doubled, did she but hear your wild words. Do not fear any of us, we are
all devoted to this cause, and to-day shall see the end. The time is
coming for action; to-day this Vampire is limit to the powers of man,
and till sunset he may not change. It will take him time to arrive
here—see, it is twenty minutes past one—and there are yet some times
before he can hither come, be he never so quick. What we must hope for
is that my Lord Arthur and Quincey arrive first.”

About half an hour after we had received Mrs. Harker’s telegram, there
came a quiet, resolute knock at the hall door. It was just an ordinary
knock, such as is given hourly by thousands of gentlemen, but it made
the Professor’s heart and mine beat loudly. We looked at each other, and
together moved out into the hall; we each held ready to use our various
armaments—the spiritual in the left hand, the mortal in the right. Van
Helsing pulled back the latch, and, holding the door half open, stood
back, having both hands ready for action. The gladness of our hearts
must have shown upon our faces when on the step, close to the door, we
saw Lord Godalming and Quincey Morris. They came quickly in and closed
the door behind them, the former saying, as they moved along the

“It is all right. We found both places; six boxes in each and we
destroyed them all!”

“Destroyed?” asked the Professor.

“For him!” We were silent for a minute, and then Quincey said:—

“There’s nothing to do but to wait here. If, however, he doesn’t turn up
by five o’clock, we must start off; for it won’t do to leave Mrs. Harker
alone after sunset.”

“He will be here before long now,” said Van Helsing, who had been
consulting his pocket-book. “Nota bene, in Madam’s telegram he went
south from Carfax, that means he went to cross the river, and he could
only do so at slack of tide, which should be something before one
o’clock. That he went south has a meaning for us. He is as yet only
suspicious; and he went from Carfax first to the place where he would
suspect interference least. You must have been at Bermondsey only a
short time before him. That he is not here already shows that he went to
Mile End next. This took him some time; for he would then have to be
carried over the river in some way. Believe me, my friends, we shall not
have long to wait now. We should have ready some plan of attack, so that
we may throw away no chance. Hush, there is no time now. Have all your
arms! Be ready!” He held up a warning hand as he spoke, for we all could
hear a key softly inserted in the lock of the hall door.

I could not but admire, even at such a moment, the way in which a
dominant spirit asserted itself. In all our hunting parties and
adventures in different parts of the world, Quincey Morris had always
been the one to arrange the plan of action, and Arthur and I had been
accustomed to obey him implicitly. Now, the old habit seemed to be
renewed instinctively. With a swift glance around the room, he at once
laid out our plan of attack, and, without speaking a word, with a
gesture, placed us each in position. Van Helsing, Harker, and I were
just behind the door, so that when it was opened the Professor could
guard it whilst we two stepped between the incomer and the door.
Godalming behind and Quincey in front stood just out of sight ready to
move in front of the window. We waited in a suspense that made the
seconds pass with nightmare slowness. The slow, careful steps came along
the hall; the Count was evidently prepared for some surprise—at least
he feared it.

Suddenly with a single bound he leaped into the room, winning a way past
us before any of us could raise a hand to stay him. There was something
so panther-like in the movement—something so unhuman, that it seemed
to sober us all from the shock of his coming. The first to act was
Harker, who, with a quick movement, threw himself before the door
leading into the room in the front of the house. As the Count saw us, a
horrible sort of snarl passed over his face, showing the eye-teeth long
and pointed; but the evil smile as quickly passed into a cold stare of
lion-like disdain. His expression again changed as, with a single
impulse, we all advanced upon him. It was a pity that we had not some
better organised plan of attack, for even at the moment I wondered what
we were to do. I did not myself know whether our lethal weapons would
avail us anything. Harker evidently meant to try the matter, for he had
ready his great Kukri knife and made a fierce and sudden cut at him. The
blow was a powerful one; only the diabolical quickness of the Count’s
leap back saved him. A second less and the trenchant blade had shorne
through his heart. As it was, the point just cut the cloth of his coat,
making a wide gap whence a bundle of bank-notes and a stream of gold
fell out. The expression of the Count’s face was so hellish, that for a
moment I feared for Harker, though I saw him throw the terrible knife
aloft again for another stroke. Instinctively I moved forward with a
protective impulse, holding the Crucifix and Wafer in my left hand. I
felt a mighty power fly along my arm; and it was without surprise that I
saw the monster cower back before a similar movement made spontaneously
by each one of us. It would be impossible to describe the expression of
hate and baffled malignity—of anger and hellish rage—which came over
the Count’s face. His waxen hue became greenish-yellow by the contrast
of his burning eyes, and the red scar on the forehead showed on the
pallid skin like a palpitating wound. The next instant, with a sinuous
dive he swept under Harker’s arm, ere his blow could fall, and, grasping
a handful of the money from the floor, dashed across the room, threw
himself at the window. Amid the crash and glitter of the falling glass,
he tumbled into the flagged area below. Through the sound of the
shivering glass I could hear the “ting” of the gold, as some of the
sovereigns fell on the flagging.

We ran over and saw him spring unhurt from the ground. He, rushing up
the steps, crossed the flagged yard, and pushed open the stable door.
There he turned and spoke to us:—

“You think to baffle me, you—with your pale faces all in a row, like
sheep in a butcher’s. You shall be sorry yet, each one of you! You think
you have left me without a place to rest; but I have more. My revenge is
just begun! I spread it over centuries, and time is on my side. Your
girls that you all love are mine already; and through them you and
others shall yet be mine—my creatures, to do my bidding and to be my
jackals when I want to feed. Bah!” With a contemptuous sneer, he passed
quickly through the door, and we heard the rusty bolt creak as he
fastened it behind him. A door beyond opened and shut. The first of us
to speak was the Professor, as, realising the difficulty of following
him through the stable, we moved toward the hall.

“We have learnt something—much! Notwithstanding his brave words, he
fears us; he fear time, he fear want! For if not, why he hurry so? His
very tone betray him, or my ears deceive. Why take that money? You
follow quick. You are hunters of wild beast, and understand it so. For
me, I make sure that nothing here may be of use to him, if so that he
return.” As he spoke he put the money remaining into his pocket; took
the title-deeds in the bundle as Harker had left them, and swept the
remaining things into the open fireplace, where he set fire to them with
a match.

Godalming and Morris had rushed out into the yard, and Harker had
lowered himself from the window to follow the Count. He had, however,
bolted the stable door; and by the time they had forced it open there
was no sign of him. Van Helsing and I tried to make inquiry at the back
of the house; but the mews was deserted and no one had seen him depart.

It was now late in the afternoon, and sunset was not far off. We had to
recognise that our game was up; with heavy hearts we agreed with the
Professor when he said:—

“Let us go back to Madam Mina—poor, poor dear Madam Mina. All we can do
just now is done; and we can there, at least, protect her. But we need
not despair. There is but one more earth-box, and we must try to find
it; when that is done all may yet be well.” I could see that he spoke as
bravely as he could to comfort Harker. The poor fellow was quite broken
down; now and again he gave a low groan which he could not suppress—he
was thinking of his wife.

With sad hearts we came back to my house, where we found Mrs. Harker
waiting us, with an appearance of cheerfulness which did honour to her
bravery and unselfishness. When she saw our faces, her own became as
pale as death: for a second or two her eyes were closed as if she were
in secret prayer; and then she said cheerfully:—

“I can never thank you all enough. Oh, my poor darling!” As she spoke,
she took her husband’s grey head in her hands and kissed it—“Lay your
poor head here and rest it. All will yet be well, dear! God will protect
us if He so will it in His good intent.” The poor fellow groaned. There
was no place for words in his sublime misery.

We had a sort of perfunctory supper together, and I think it cheered us
all up somewhat. It was, perhaps, the mere animal heat of food to hungry
people—for none of us had eaten anything since breakfast—or the sense
of companionship may have helped us; but anyhow we were all less
miserable, and saw the morrow as not altogether without hope. True to
our promise, we told Mrs. Harker everything which had passed; and
although she grew snowy white at times when danger had seemed to
threaten her husband, and red at others when his devotion to her was
manifested, she listened bravely and with calmness. When we came to the
part where Harker had rushed at the Count so recklessly, she clung to
her husband’s arm, and held it tight as though her clinging could
protect him from any harm that might come. She said nothing, however,
till the narration was all done, and matters had been brought right up
to the present time. Then without letting go her husband’s hand she
stood up amongst us and spoke. Oh, that I could give any idea of the
scene; of that sweet, sweet, good, good woman in all the radiant beauty
of her youth and animation, with the red scar on her forehead, of which
she was conscious, and which we saw with grinding of our
teeth—remembering whence and how it came; her loving kindness against
our grim hate; her tender faith against all our fears and doubting; and
we, knowing that so far as symbols went, she with all her goodness and
purity and faith, was outcast from God.

“Jonathan,” she said, and the word sounded like music on her lips it was
so full of love and tenderness, “Jonathan dear, and you all my true,
true friends, I want you to bear something in mind through all this
dreadful time. I know that you must fight—that you must destroy even as
you destroyed the false Lucy so that the true Lucy might live hereafter;
but it is not a work of hate. That poor soul who has wrought all this
misery is the saddest case of all. Just think what will be his joy when
he, too, is destroyed in his worser part that his better part may have
spiritual immortality. You must be pitiful to him, too, though it may
not hold your hands from his destruction.”

As she spoke I could see her husband’s face darken and draw together, as
though the passion in him were shrivelling his being to its core.
Instinctively the clasp on his wife’s hand grew closer, till his
knuckles looked white. She did not flinch from the pain which I knew she
must have suffered, but looked at him with eyes that were more appealing
than ever. As she stopped speaking he leaped to his feet, almost tearing
his hand from hers as he spoke:—

“May God give him into my hand just for long enough to destroy that
earthly life of him which we are aiming at. If beyond it I could send
his soul for ever and ever to burning hell I would do it!”

“Oh, hush! oh, hush! in the name of the good God. Don’t say such things,
Jonathan, my husband; or you will crush me with fear and horror. Just
think, my dear—I have been thinking all this long, long day of it—that
... perhaps ... some day ... I, too, may need such pity; and that some
other like you—and with equal cause for anger—may deny it to me! Oh,
my husband! my husband, indeed I would have spared you such a thought
had there been another way; but I pray that God may not have treasured
your wild words, except as the heart-broken wail of a very loving and
sorely stricken man. Oh, God, let these poor white hairs go in evidence
of what he has suffered, who all his life has done no wrong, and on whom
so many sorrows have come.”

We men were all in tears now. There was no resisting them, and we wept
openly. She wept, too, to see that her sweeter counsels had prevailed.
Her husband flung himself on his knees beside her, and putting his arms
round her, hid his face in the folds of her dress. Van Helsing beckoned
to us and we stole out of the room, leaving the two loving hearts alone
with their God.

Before they retired the Professor fixed up the room against any coming
of the Vampire, and assured Mrs. Harker that she might rest in peace.
She tried to school herself to the belief, and, manifestly for her
husband’s sake, tried to seem content. It was a brave struggle; and was,
I think and believe, not without its reward. Van Helsing had placed at
hand a bell which either of them was to sound in case of any emergency.
When they had retired, Quincey, Godalming, and I arranged that we should
sit up, dividing the night between us, and watch over the safety of the
poor stricken lady. The first watch falls to Quincey, so the rest of us
shall be off to bed as soon as we can. Godalming has already turned in,
for his is the second watch. Now that my work is done I, too, shall go
to bed.

Jonathan Harker’s Journal.

3-4 October, close to midnight.—I thought yesterday would never end.
There was over me a yearning for sleep, in some sort of blind belief
that to wake would be to find things changed, and that any change must
now be for the better. Before we parted, we discussed what our next step
was to be, but we could arrive at no result. All we knew was that one
earth-box remained, and that the Count alone knew where it was. If he
chooses to lie hidden, he may baffle us for years; and in the
meantime!—the thought is too horrible, I dare not think of it even now.
This I know: that if ever there was a woman who was all perfection, that
one is my poor wronged darling. I love her a thousand times more for her
sweet pity of last night, a pity that made my own hate of the monster
seem despicable. Surely God will not permit the world to be the poorer
by the loss of such a creature. This is hope to me. We are all drifting
reefwards now, and faith is our only anchor. Thank God! Mina is
sleeping, and sleeping without dreams. I fear what her dreams might be
like, with such terrible memories to ground them in. She has not been so
calm, within my seeing, since the sunset. Then, for a while, there came
over her face a repose which was like spring after the blasts of March.
I thought at the time that it was the softness of the red sunset on her
face, but somehow now I think it has a deeper meaning. I am not sleepy
myself, though I am weary—weary to death. However, I must try to sleep;
for there is to-morrow to think of, and there is no rest for me


Later.—I must have fallen asleep, for I was awaked by Mina, who was
sitting up in bed, with a startled look on her face. I could see easily,
for we did not leave the room in darkness; she had placed a warning hand
over my mouth, and now she whispered in my ear:—

“Hush! there is someone in the corridor!” I got up softly, and crossing
the room, gently opened the door.

Just outside, stretched on a mattress, lay Mr. Morris, wide awake. He
raised a warning hand for silence as he whispered to me:—

“Hush! go back to bed; it is all right. One of us will be here all
night. We don’t mean to take any chances!”

His look and gesture forbade discussion, so I came back and told Mina.
She sighed and positively a shadow of a smile stole over her poor, pale
face as she put her arms round me and said softly:—

“Oh, thank God for good brave men!” With a sigh she sank back again to
sleep. I write this now as I am not sleepy, though I must try again.


4 October, morning.—Once again during the night I was wakened by
Mina. This time we had all had a good sleep, for the grey of the coming
dawn was making the windows into sharp oblongs, and the gas flame was
like a speck rather than a disc of light. She said to me hurriedly:—

“Go, call the Professor. I want to see him at once.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I have an idea. I suppose it must have come in the night, and matured
without my knowing it. He must hypnotise me before the dawn, and then I
shall be able to speak. Go quick, dearest; the time is getting close.” I
went to the door. Dr. Seward was resting on the mattress, and, seeing
me, he sprang to his feet.

“Is anything wrong?” he asked, in alarm.

“No,” I replied; “but Mina wants to see Dr. Van Helsing at once.”

“I will go,” he said, and hurried into the Professor’s room.

In two or three minutes later Van Helsing was in the room in his
dressing-gown, and Mr. Morris and Lord Godalming were with Dr. Seward at
the door asking questions. When the Professor saw Mina a smile—a
positive smile ousted the anxiety of his face; he rubbed his hands as he

“Oh, my dear Madam Mina, this is indeed a change. See! friend Jonathan,
we have got our dear Madam Mina, as of old, back to us to-day!” Then
turning to her, he said, cheerfully: “And what am I do for you? For at
this hour you do not want me for nothings.”

“I want you to hypnotise me!” she said. “Do it before the dawn, for I
feel that then I can speak, and speak freely. Be quick, for the time is
short!” Without a word he motioned her to sit up in bed.

Looking fixedly at her, he commenced to make passes in front of her,
from over the top of her head downward, with each hand in turn. Mina
gazed at him fixedly for a few minutes, during which my own heart beat
like a trip hammer, for I felt that some crisis was at hand. Gradually
her eyes closed, and she sat, stock still; only by the gentle heaving of
her bosom could one know that she was alive. The Professor made a few
more passes and then stopped, and I could see that his forehead was
covered with great beads of perspiration. Mina opened her eyes; but she
did not seem the same woman. There was a far-away look in her eyes, and
her voice had a sad dreaminess which was new to me. Raising his hand to
impose silence, the Professor motioned to me to bring the others in.
They came on tip-toe, closing the door behind them, and stood at the
foot of the bed, looking on. Mina appeared not to see them. The
stillness was broken by Van Helsing’s voice speaking in a low level tone
which would not break the current of her thoughts:—

“Where are you?” The answer came in a neutral way:—

“I do not know. Sleep has no place it can call its own.” For several
minutes there was silence. Mina sat rigid, and the Professor stood
staring at her fixedly; the rest of us hardly dared to breathe. The room
was growing lighter; without taking his eyes from Mina’s face, Dr. Van
Helsing motioned me to pull up the blind. I did so, and the day seemed
just upon us. A red streak shot up, and a rosy light seemed to diffuse
itself through the room. On the instant the Professor spoke again:—

“Where are you now?” The answer came dreamily, but with intention; it
were as though she were interpreting something. I have heard her use the
same tone when reading her shorthand notes.

“I do not know. It is all strange to me!”

“What do you see?”

“I can see nothing; it is all dark.”

“What do you hear?” I could detect the strain in the Professor’s patient

“The lapping of water. It is gurgling by, and little waves leap. I can
hear them on the outside.”

“Then you are on a ship?” We all looked at each other, trying to glean
something each from the other. We were afraid to think. The answer came

“Oh, yes!”

“What else do you hear?”

“The sound of men stamping overhead as they run about. There is the
creaking of a chain, and the loud tinkle as the check of the capstan
falls into the rachet.”

“What are you doing?”

“I am still—oh, so still. It is like death!” The voice faded away into
a deep breath as of one sleeping, and the open eyes closed again.

By this time the sun had risen, and we were all in the full light of
day. Dr. Van Helsing placed his hands on Mina’s shoulders, and laid her
head down softly on her pillow. She lay like a sleeping child for a few
moments, and then, with a long sigh, awoke and stared in wonder to see
us all around her. “Have I been talking in my sleep?” was all she said.
She seemed, however, to know the situation without telling, though she
was eager to know what she had told. The Professor repeated the
conversation, and she said:—

“Then there is not a moment to lose: it may not be yet too late!” Mr.
Morris and Lord Godalming started for the door but the Professor’s calm
voice called them back:—

“Stay, my friends. That ship, wherever it was, was weighing anchor
whilst she spoke. There are many ships weighing anchor at the moment in
your so great Port of London. Which of them is it that you seek? God be
thanked that we have once again a clue, though whither it may lead us we
know not. We have been blind somewhat; blind after the manner of men,
since when we can look back we see what we might have seen looking
forward if we had been able to see what we might have seen! Alas, but
that sentence is a puddle; is it not? We can know now what was in the
Count’s mind, when he seize that money, though Jonathan’s so fierce
knife put him in the danger that even he dread. He meant escape. Hear
me, ESCAPE! He saw that with but one earth-box left, and a pack of men
following like dogs after a fox, this London was no place for him. He
have take his last earth-box on board a ship, and he leave the land. He
think to escape, but no! we follow him. Tally Ho! as friend Arthur would
say when he put on his red frock! Our old fox is wily; oh! so wily, and
we must follow with wile. I, too, am wily and I think his mind in a
little while. In meantime we may rest and in peace, for there are waters
between us which he do not want to pass, and which he could not if he
would—unless the ship were to touch the land, and then only at full or
slack tide. See, and the sun is just rose, and all day to sunset is to
us. Let us take bath, and dress, and have breakfast which we all need,
and which we can eat comfortably since he be not in the same land with
us.” Mina looked at him appealingly as she asked:—

“But why need we seek him further, when he is gone away from us?” He
took her hand and patted it as he replied:—

“Ask me nothings as yet. When we have breakfast, then I answer all
questions.” He would say no more, and we separated to dress.

After breakfast Mina repeated her question. He looked at her gravely for
a minute and then said sorrowfully:—

“Because my dear, dear Madam Mina, now more than ever must we find him
even if we have to follow him to the jaws of Hell!” She grew paler as
she asked faintly:—


“Because,” he answered solemnly, “he can live for centuries, and you are
but mortal woman. Time is now to be dreaded—since once he put that mark
upon your throat.”

I was just in time to catch her as she fell forward in a faint.



THIS to Jonathan Harker.

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

Van Helsing.

Jonathan Harker’s Journal.

4 October.—When I read to Mina, Van Helsing’s message in the
phonograph, the poor girl brightened up considerably. Already the
certainty that the Count is out of the country has given her comfort;
and comfort is strength to her. For my own part, now that his horrible
danger is not face to face with us, it seems almost impossible to
believe in it. Even my own terrible experiences in Castle Dracula seem
like a long-forgotten dream. Here in the crisp autumn air in the bright

Alas! how can I disbelieve! In the midst of my thought my eye fell on
the red scar on my poor darling’s white forehead. Whilst that lasts,
there can be no disbelief. And afterwards the very memory of it will
keep faith crystal clear. Mina and I fear to be idle, so we have been
over all the diaries again and again. Somehow, although the reality
seems greater each time, the pain and the fear seem less. There is
something of a guiding purpose manifest throughout, which is comforting.
Mina says that perhaps we are the instruments of ultimate good. It may
be! I shall try to think as she does. We have never spoken to each other
yet of the future. It is better to wait till we see the Professor and
the others after their investigations.

The day is running by more quickly than I ever thought a day could run
for me again. It is now three o’clock.

Mina Harker’s Journal.

5 October, 5 p. m.—Our meeting for report. Present: Professor Van
Helsing, Lord Godalming, Dr. Seward, Mr. Quincey Morris, Jonathan
Harker, Mina Harker.

Dr. Van Helsing described what steps were taken during the day to
discover on what boat and whither bound Count Dracula made his escape:—

“As I knew that he wanted to get back to Transylvania, I felt sure that
he must go by the Danube mouth; or by somewhere in the Black Sea, since
by that way he come. It was a dreary blank that was before us. Omne
ignotum pro magnifico
; and so with heavy hearts we start to find what
ships leave for the Black Sea last night. He was in sailing ship, since
Madam Mina tell of sails being set. These not so important as to go in
your list of the shipping in the Times, and so we go, by suggestion of
Lord Godalming, to your Lloyd’s, where are note of all ships that sail,
however so small. There we find that only one Black-Sea-bound ship go
out with the tide. She is the Czarina Catherine, and she sail from
Doolittle’s Wharf for Varna, and thence on to other parts and up the
Danube. ‘Soh!’ said I, ‘this is the ship whereon is the Count.’ So off
we go to Doolittle’s Wharf, and there we find a man in an office of wood
so small that the man look bigger than the office. From him we inquire
of the goings of the Czarina Catherine. He swear much, and he red face
and loud of voice, but he good fellow all the same; and when Quincey
give him something from his pocket which crackle as he roll it up, and
put it in a so small bag which he have hid deep in his clothing, he
still better fellow and humble servant to us. He come with us, and ask
many men who are rough and hot; these be better fellows too when they
have been no more thirsty. They say much of blood and bloom, and of
others which I comprehend not, though I guess what they mean; but
nevertheless they tell us all things which we want to know.

“They make known to us among them, how last afternoon at about five
o’clock comes a man so hurry. A tall man, thin and pale, with high nose
and teeth so white, and eyes that seem to be burning. That he be all in
black, except that he have a hat of straw which suit not him or the
time. That he scatter his money in making quick inquiry as to what ship
sails for the Black Sea and for where. Some took him to the office and
then to the ship, where he will not go aboard but halt at shore end of
gang-plank, and ask that the captain come to him. The captain come, when
told that he will be pay well; and though he swear much at the first he
agree to term. Then the thin man go and some one tell him where horse
and cart can be hired. He go there and soon he come again, himself
driving cart on which a great box; this he himself lift down, though it
take several to put it on truck for the ship. He give much talk to
captain as to how and where his box is to be place; but the captain like
it not and swear at him in many tongues, and tell him that if he like he
can come and see where it shall be. But he say ‘no’; that he come not
yet, for that he have much to do. Whereupon the captain tell him that he
had better be quick—with blood—for that his ship will leave the
place—of blood—before the turn of the tide—with blood. Then the thin
man smile and say that of course he must go when he think fit; but he
will be surprise if he go quite so soon. The captain swear again,
polyglot, and the thin man make him bow, and thank him, and say that he
will so far intrude on his kindness as to come aboard before the
sailing. Final the captain, more red than ever, and in more tongues tell
him that he doesn’t want no Frenchmen—with bloom upon them and also
with blood—in his ship—with blood on her also. And so, after asking
where there might be close at hand a ship where he might purchase ship
forms, he departed.

“No one knew where he went ‘or bloomin’ well cared,’ as they said, for
they had something else to think of—well with blood again; for it soon
became apparent to all that the Czarina Catherine would not sail as
was expected. A thin mist began to creep up from the river, and it grew,
and grew; till soon a dense fog enveloped the ship and all around her.
The captain swore polyglot—very polyglot—polyglot with bloom and
blood; but he could do nothing. The water rose and rose; and he began to
fear that he would lose the tide altogether. He was in no friendly mood,
when just at full tide, the thin man came up the gang-plank again and
asked to see where his box had been stowed. Then the captain replied
that he wished that he and his box—old and with much bloom and
blood—were in hell. But the thin man did not be offend, and went down
with the mate and saw where it was place, and came up and stood awhile
on deck in fog. He must have come off by himself, for none notice him.
Indeed they thought not of him; for soon the fog begin to melt away, and
all was clear again. My friends of the thirst and the language that was
of bloom and blood laughed, as they told how the captain’s swears
exceeded even his usual polyglot, and was more than ever full of
picturesque, when on questioning other mariners who were on movement up
and down on the river that hour, he found that few of them had seen any
of fog at all, except where it lay round the wharf. However, the ship
went out on the ebb tide; and was doubtless by morning far down the
river mouth. She was by then, when they told us, well out to sea.

“And so, my dear Madam Mina, it is that we have to rest for a time, for
our enemy is on the sea, with the fog at his command, on his way to the
Danube mouth. To sail a ship takes time, go she never so quick; and when
we start we go on land more quick, and we meet him there. Our best hope
is to come on him when in the box between sunrise and sunset; for then
he can make no struggle, and we may deal with him as we should. There
are days for us, in which we can make ready our plan. We know all about
where he go; for we have seen the owner of the ship, who have shown us
invoices and all papers that can be. The box we seek is to be landed in
Varna, and to be given to an agent, one Ristics who will there present
his credentials; and so our merchant friend will have done his part.
When he ask if there be any wrong, for that so, he can telegraph and
have inquiry made at Varna, we say ‘no’; for what is to be done is not
for police or of the customs. It must be done by us alone and in our own

When Dr. Van Helsing had done speaking, I asked him if he were certain
that the Count had remained on board the ship. He replied: “We have the
best proof of that: your own evidence, when in the hypnotic trance this
morning.” I asked him again if it were really necessary that they should
pursue the Count, for oh! I dread Jonathan leaving me, and I know that
he would surely go if the others went. He answered in growing passion,
at first quietly. As he went on, however, he grew more angry and more
forceful, till in the end we could not but see wherein was at least some
of that personal dominance which made him so long a master amongst

“Yes, it is necessary—necessary—necessary! For your sake in the first,
and then for the sake of humanity. This monster has done much harm
already, in the narrow scope where he find himself, and in the short
time when as yet he was only as a body groping his so small measure in
darkness and not knowing. All this have I told these others; you, my
dear Madam Mina, will learn it in the phonograph of my friend John, or
in that of your husband. I have told them how the measure of leaving his
own barren land—barren of peoples—and coming to a new land where life
of man teems till they are like the multitude of standing corn, was the
work of centuries. Were another of the Un-Dead, like him, to try to do
what he has done, perhaps not all the centuries of the world that have
been, or that will be, could aid him. With this one, all the forces of
nature that are occult and deep and strong must have worked together in
some wondrous way. The very place, where he have been alive, Un-Dead for
all these centuries, is full of strangeness of the geologic and chemical
world. There are deep caverns and fissures that reach none know whither.
There have been volcanoes, some of whose openings still send out waters
of strange properties, and gases that kill or make to vivify. Doubtless,
there is something magnetic or electric in some of these combinations of
occult forces which work for physical life in strange way; and in
himself were from the first some great qualities. In a hard and warlike
time he was celebrate that he have more iron nerve, more subtle brain,
more braver heart, than any man. In him some vital principle have in
strange way found their utmost; and as his body keep strong and grow and
thrive, so his brain grow too. All this without that diabolic aid which
is surely to him; for it have to yield to the powers that come from,
and are, symbolic of good. And now this is what he is to us. He have
infect you—oh, forgive me, my dear, that I must say such; but it is for
good of you that I speak. He infect you in such wise, that even if he do
no more, you have only to live—to live in your own old, sweet way; and
so in time, death, which is of man’s common lot and with God’s sanction,
shall make you like to him. This must not be! We have sworn together
that it must not. Thus are we ministers of God’s own wish: that the
world, and men for whom His Son die, will not be given over to monsters,
whose very existence would defame Him. He have allowed us to redeem one
soul already, and we go out as the old knights of the Cross to redeem
more. Like them we shall travel towards the sunrise; and like them, if
we fall, we fall in good cause.” He paused and I said:—

“But will not the Count take his rebuff wisely? Since he has been driven
from England, will he not avoid it, as a tiger does the village from
which he has been hunted?”

“Aha!” he said, “your simile of the tiger good, for me, and I shall
adopt him. Your man-eater, as they of India call the tiger who has once
tasted blood of the human, care no more for the other prey, but prowl
unceasing till he get him. This that we hunt from our village is a
tiger, too, a man-eater, and he never cease to prowl. Nay, in himself he
is not one to retire and stay afar. In his life, his living life, he go
over the Turkey frontier and attack his enemy on his own ground; he be
beaten back, but did he stay? No! He come again, and again, and again.
Look at his persistence and endurance. With the child-brain that was to
him he have long since conceive the idea of coming to a great city. What
does he do? He find out the place of all the world most of promise for
him. Then he deliberately set himself down to prepare for the task. He
find in patience just how is his strength, and what are his powers. He
study new tongues. He learn new social life; new environment of old
ways, the politic, the law, the finance, the science, the habit of a new
land and a new people who have come to be since he was. His glimpse that
he have had, whet his appetite only and enkeen his desire. Nay, it help
him to grow as to his brain; for it all prove to him how right he was at
the first in his surmises. He have done this alone; all alone! from a
ruin tomb in a forgotten land. What more may he not do when the greater
world of thought is open to him. He that can smile at death, as we know
him; who can flourish in the midst of diseases that kill off whole
peoples. Oh, if such an one was to come from God, and not the Devil,
what a force for good might he not be in this old world of ours. But we
are pledged to set the world free. Our toil must be in silence, and our
efforts all in secret; for in this enlightened age, when men believe not
even what they see, the doubting of wise men would be his greatest
strength. It would be at once his sheath and his armour, and his weapons
to destroy us, his enemies, who are willing to peril even our own souls
for the safety of one we love—for the good of mankind, and for the
honour and glory of God.”

After a general discussion it was determined that for to-night nothing
be definitely settled; that we should all sleep on the facts, and try to
think out the proper conclusions. To-morrow, at breakfast, we are to
meet again, and, after making our conclusions known to one another, we
shall decide on some definite cause of action.

. . . . .
. . . . .
. . . . .
. . . . .
. . . . .
. . . . .
. . . . .

I feel a wonderful peace and rest to-night. It is as if some haunting
presence were removed from me. Perhaps ...

My surmise was not finished, could not be; for I caught sight in the
mirror of the red mark upon my forehead; and I knew that I was still

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

5 October.—We all rose early, and I think that sleep did much for
each and all of us. When we met at early breakfast there was more
general cheerfulness than any of us had ever expected to experience

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

Van Helsing is coming to my study a little before the others. I shall
try to open the subject with him.


Later.—When the Professor came in, we talked over the state of
things. I could see that he had something on his mind which he wanted to
say, but felt some hesitancy about broaching the subject. After beating
about the bush a little, he said suddenly:—

“Friend John, there is something that you and I must talk of alone, just
at the first at any rate. Later, we may have to take the others into our
confidence”; then he stopped, so I waited; he went on:—

“Madam Mina, our poor, dear Madam Mina is changing.” A cold shiver ran
through me to find my worst fears thus endorsed. Van Helsing

“With the sad experience of Miss Lucy, we must this time be warned
before things go too far. Our task is now in reality more difficult than
ever, and this new trouble makes every hour of the direst importance. I
can see the characteristics of the vampire coming in her face. It is now
but very, very slight; but it is to be seen if we have eyes to notice
without to prejudge. Her teeth are some sharper, and at times her eyes
are more hard. But these are not all, there is to her the silence now
often; as so it was with Miss Lucy. She did not speak, even when she
wrote that which she wished to be known later. Now my fear is this. If
it be that she can, by our hypnotic trance, tell what the Count see and
hear, is it not more true that he who have hypnotise her first, and who
have drink of her very blood and make her drink of his, should, if he
will, compel her mind to disclose to him that which she know?” I nodded
acquiescence; he went on:—

“Then, what we must do is to prevent this; we must keep her ignorant of
our intent, and so she cannot tell what she know not. This is a painful
task! Oh, so painful that it heart-break me to think of; but it must be.
When to-day we meet, I must tell her that for reason which we will not
to speak she must not more be of our council, but be simply guarded by
us.” He wiped his forehead, which had broken out in profuse perspiration
at the thought of the pain which he might have to inflict upon the poor
soul already so tortured. I knew that it would be some sort of comfort
to him if I told him that I also had come to the same conclusion; for at
any rate it would take away the pain of doubt. I told him, and the
effect was as I expected.

It is now close to the time of our general gathering. Van Helsing has
gone away to prepare for the meeting, and his painful part of it. I
really believe his purpose is to be able to pray alone.


Later.—At the very outset of our meeting a great personal relief was
experienced by both Van Helsing and myself. Mrs. Harker had sent a
message by her husband to say that she would not join us at present, as
she thought it better that we should be free to discuss our movements
without her presence to embarrass us. The Professor and I looked at each
other for an instant, and somehow we both seemed relieved. For my own
part, I thought that if Mrs. Harker realised the danger herself, it was
much pain as well as much danger averted. Under the circumstances we
agreed, by a questioning look and answer, with finger on lip, to
preserve silence in our suspicions, until we should have been able to
confer alone again. We went at once into our Plan of Campaign. Van
Helsing roughly put the facts before us first:—

“The Czarina Catherine left the Thames yesterday morning. It will take
her at the quickest speed she has ever made at least three weeks to
reach Varna; but we can travel overland to the same place in three days.
Now, if we allow for two days less for the ship’s voyage, owing to such
weather influences as we know that the Count can bring to bear; and if
we allow a whole day and night for any delays which may occur to us,
then we have a margin of nearly two weeks. Thus, in order to be quite
safe, we must leave here on 17th at latest. Then we shall at any rate
be in Varna a day before the ship arrives, and able to make such
preparations as may be necessary. Of course we shall all go armed—armed
against evil things, spiritual as well as physical.” Here Quincey Morris

“I understand that the Count comes from a wolf country, and it may be
that he shall get there before us. I propose that we add Winchesters to
our armament. I have a kind of belief in a Winchester when there is any
trouble of that sort around. Do you remember, Art, when we had the pack
after us at Tobolsk? What wouldn’t we have given then for a repeater

“Good!” said Van Helsing, “Winchesters it shall be. Quincey’s head is
level at all times, but most so when there is to hunt, metaphor be more
dishonour to science than wolves be of danger to man. In the meantime we
can do nothing here; and as I think that Varna is not familiar to any of
us, why not go there more soon? It is as long to wait here as there.
To-night and to-morrow we can get ready, and then, if all be well, we
four can set out on our journey.”

“We four?” said Harker interrogatively, looking from one to another of

“Of course!” answered the Professor quickly, “you must remain to take
care of your so sweet wife!” Harker was silent for awhile and then said
in a hollow voice:—

“Let us talk of that part of it in the morning. I want to consult with
Mina.” I thought that now was the time for Van Helsing to warn him not
to disclose our plans to her; but he took no notice. I looked at him
significantly and coughed. For answer he put his finger on his lips and
turned away.

Jonathan Harker’s Journal.

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


Later.—How strange it all is. I sat watching Mina’s happy sleep, and
came as near to being happy myself as I suppose I shall ever be. As the
evening drew on, and the earth took its shadows from the sun sinking
lower, the silence of the room grew more and more solemn to me. All at
once Mina opened her eyes, and looking at me tenderly, said:—

“Jonathan, I want you to promise me something on your word of honour. A
promise made to me, but made holily in God’s hearing, and not to be
broken though I should go down on my knees and implore you with bitter
tears. Quick, you must make it to me at once.”

“Mina,” I said, “a promise like that, I cannot make at once. I may have
no right to make it.”

“But, dear one,” she said, with such spiritual intensity that her eyes
were like pole stars, “it is I who wish it; and it is not for myself.
You can ask Dr. Van Helsing if I am not right; if he disagrees you may
do as you will. Nay, more, if you all agree, later, you are absolved
from the promise.”

“I promise!” I said, and for a moment she looked supremely happy; though
to me all happiness for her was denied by the red scar on her forehead.
She said:—

“Promise me that you will not tell me anything of the plans formed for
the campaign against the Count. Not by word, or inference, or
implication; not at any time whilst this remains to me!” and she
solemnly pointed to the scar. I saw that she was in earnest, and said

“I promise!” and as I said it I felt that from that instant a door had
been shut between us.


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


6 October, morning.—Another surprise. Mina woke me early, about the
same time as yesterday, and asked me to bring Dr. Van Helsing. I thought
that it was another occasion for hypnotism, and without question went
for the Professor. He had evidently expected some such call, for I found
him dressed in his room. His door was ajar, so that he could hear the
opening of the door of our room. He came at once; as he passed into the
room, he asked Mina if the others might come, too.

“No,” she said quite simply, “it will not be necessary. You can tell
them just as well. I must go with you on your journey.”

Dr. Van Helsing was as startled as I was. After a moment’s pause he

“But why?”

“You must take me with you. I am safer with you, and you shall be safer,

“But why, dear Madam Mina? You know that your safety is our solemnest
duty. We go into danger, to which you are, or may be, more liable than
any of us from—from circumstances—things that have been.” He paused,

As she replied, she raised her finger and pointed to her forehead:—

“I know. That is why I must go. I can tell you now, whilst the sun is
coming up; I may not be able again. I know that when the Count wills me
I must go. I know that if he tells me to come in secret, I must come by
wile; by any device to hoodwink—even Jonathan.” God saw the look that
she turned on me as she spoke, and if there be indeed a Recording Angel
that look is noted to her everlasting honour. I could only clasp her
hand. I could not speak; my emotion was too great for even the relief of
tears. She went on:—

“You men are brave and strong. You are strong in your numbers, for you
can defy that which would break down the human endurance of one who had
to guard alone. Besides, I may be of service, since you can hypnotise me
and so learn that which even I myself do not know.” Dr. Van Helsing said
very gravely:—

“Madam Mina, you are, as always, most wise. You shall with us come; and
together we shall do that which we go forth to achieve.” When he had
spoken, Mina’s long spell of silence made me look at her. She had fallen
back on her pillow asleep; she did not even wake when I had pulled up
the blind and let in the sunlight which flooded the room. Van Helsing
motioned to me to come with him quietly. We went to his room, and within
a minute Lord Godalming, Dr. Seward, and Mr. Morris were with us also.
He told them what Mina had said, and went on:—

“In the morning we shall leave for Varna. We have now to deal with a
new factor: Madam Mina. Oh, but her soul is true. It is to her an agony
to tell us so much as she has done; but it is most right, and we are
warned in time. There must be no chance lost, and in Varna we must be
ready to act the instant when that ship arrives.”

“What shall we do exactly?” asked Mr. Morris laconically. The Professor
paused before replying:—

“We shall at the first board that ship; then, when we have identified
the box, we shall place a branch of the wild rose on it. This we shall
fasten, for when it is there none can emerge; so at least says the
superstition. And to superstition must we trust at the first; it was
man’s faith in the early, and it have its root in faith still. Then,
when we get the opportunity that we seek, when none are near to see, we
shall open the box, and—and all will be well.”

“I shall not wait for any opportunity,” said Morris. “When I see the box
I shall open it and destroy the monster, though there were a thousand
men looking on, and if I am to be wiped out for it the next moment!” I
grasped his hand instinctively and found it as firm as a piece of steel.
I think he understood my look; I hope he did.

“Good boy,” said Dr. Van Helsing. “Brave boy. Quincey is all man. God
bless him for it. My child, believe me none of us shall lag behind or
pause from any fear. I do but say what we may do—what we must do. But,
indeed, indeed we cannot say what we shall do. There are so many things
which may happen, and their ways and their ends are so various that
until the moment we may not say. We shall all be armed, in all ways; and
when the time for the end has come, our effort shall not be lack. Now
let us to-day put all our affairs in order. Let all things which touch
on others dear to us, and who on us depend, be complete; for none of us
can tell what, or when, or how, the end may be. As for me, my own
affairs are regulate; and as I have nothing else to do, I shall go make
arrangements for the travel. I shall have all tickets and so forth for
our journey.”

There was nothing further to be said, and we parted. I shall now settle
up all my affairs of earth, and be ready for whatever may come....


Later.—It is all done; my will is made, and all complete. Mina if she
survive is my sole heir. If it should not be so, then the others who
have been so good to us shall have remainder.

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

She is calling to me.



11 October, Evening.—Jonathan Harker has asked me to note this, as he
says he is hardly equal to the task, and he wants an exact record kept.

I think that none of us were surprised when we were asked to see Mrs.
Harker a little before the time of sunset. We have of late come to
understand that sunrise and sunset are to her times of peculiar freedom;
when her old self can be manifest without any controlling force subduing
or restraining her, or inciting her to action. This mood or condition
begins some half hour or more before actual sunrise or sunset, and lasts
till either the sun is high, or whilst the clouds are still aglow with
the rays streaming above the horizon. At first there is a sort of
negative condition, as if some tie were loosened, and then the absolute
freedom quickly follows; when, however, the freedom ceases the
change-back or relapse comes quickly, preceded only by a spell of
warning silence.

To-night, when we met, she was somewhat constrained, and bore all the
signs of an internal struggle. I put it down myself to her making a
violent effort at the earliest instant she could do so. A very few
minutes, however, gave her complete control of herself; then, motioning
her husband to sit beside her on the sofa where she was half reclining,
she made the rest of us bring chairs up close. Taking her husband’s hand
in hers began:—

“We are all here together in freedom, for perhaps the last time! I know,
dear; I know that you will always be with me to the end.” This was to
her husband whose hand had, as we could see, tightened upon hers. “In
the morning we go out upon our task, and God alone knows what may be in
store for any of us. You are going to be so good to me as to take me
with you. I know that all that brave earnest men can do for a poor weak
woman, whose soul perhaps is lost—no, no, not yet, but is at any rate
at stake—you will do. But you must remember that I am not as you are.
There is a poison in my blood, in my soul, which may destroy me; which
must destroy me, unless some relief comes to us. Oh, my friends, you
know as well as I do, that my soul is at stake; and though I know there
is one way out for me, you must not and I must not take it!” She looked
appealingly to us all in turn, beginning and ending with her husband.

“What is that way?” asked Van Helsing in a hoarse voice. “What is that
way, which we must not—may not—take?”

“That I may die now, either by my own hand or that of another, before
the greater evil is entirely wrought. I know, and you know, that were I
once dead you could and would set free my immortal spirit, even as you
did my poor Lucy’s. Were death, or the fear of death, the only thing
that stood in the way I would not shrink to die here, now, amidst the
friends who love me. But death is not all. I cannot believe that to die
in such a case, when there is hope before us and a bitter task to be
done, is God’s will. Therefore, I, on my part, give up here the
certainty of eternal rest, and go out into the dark where may be the
blackest things that the world or the nether world holds!” We were all
silent, for we knew instinctively that this was only a prelude. The
faces of the others were set and Harker’s grew ashen grey; perhaps he
guessed better than any of us what was coming. She continued:—

“This is what I can give into the hotch-pot.” I could not but note the
quaint legal phrase which she used in such a place, and with all
seriousness. “What will each of you give? Your lives I know,” she went
on quickly, “that is easy for brave men. Your lives are God’s, and you
can give them back to Him; but what will you give to me?” She looked
again questioningly, but this time avoided her husband’s face. Quincey
seemed to understand; he nodded, and her face lit up. “Then I shall tell
you plainly what I want, for there must be no doubtful matter in this
connection between us now. You must promise me, one and all—even you,
my beloved husband—that, should the time come, you will kill me.”

“What is that time?” The voice was Quincey’s, but it was low and

“When you shall be convinced that I am so changed that it is better that
I die that I may live. When I am thus dead in the flesh, then you will,
without a moment’s delay, drive a stake through me and cut off my head;
or do whatever else may be wanting to give me rest!”

Quincey was the first to rise after the pause. He knelt down before her
and taking her hand in his said solemnly:—

“I’m only a rough fellow, who hasn’t, perhaps, lived as a man should to
win such a distinction, but I swear to you by all that I hold sacred and
dear that, should the time ever come, I shall not flinch from the duty
that you have set us. And I promise you, too, that I shall make all
certain, for if I am only doubtful I shall take it that the time has

“My true friend!” was all she could say amid her fast-falling tears, as,
bending over, she kissed his hand.

“I swear the same, my dear Madam Mina!” said Van Helsing.

“And I!” said Lord Godalming, each of them in turn kneeling to her to
take the oath. I followed, myself. Then her husband turned to her
wan-eyed and with a greenish pallor which subdued the snowy whiteness of
his hair, and asked:—

“And must I, too, make such a promise, oh, my wife?”

“You too, my dearest,” she said, with infinite yearning of pity in her
voice and eyes. “You must not shrink. You are nearest and dearest and
all the world to me; our souls are knit into one, for all life and all
time. Think, dear, that there have been times when brave men have killed
their wives and their womenkind, to keep them from falling into the
hands of the enemy. Their hands did not falter any the more because
those that they loved implored them to slay them. It is men’s duty
towards those whom they love, in such times of sore trial! And oh, my
dear, if it is to be that I must meet death at any hand, let it be at
the hand of him that loves me best. Dr. Van Helsing, I have not
forgotten your mercy in poor Lucy’s case to him who loved”—she stopped
with a flying blush, and changed her phrase—“to him who had best right
to give her peace. If that time shall come again, I look to you to make
it a happy memory of my husband’s life that it was his loving hand which
set me free from the awful thrall upon me.”

“Again I swear!” came the Professor’s resonant voice. Mrs. Harker
smiled, positively smiled, as with a sigh of relief she leaned back and

“And now one word of warning, a warning which you must never forget:
this time, if it ever come, may come quickly and unexpectedly, and in
such case you must lose no time in using your opportunity. At such a
time I myself might be—nay! if the time ever comes, shall be—leagued
with your enemy against you.”

“One more request;” she became very solemn as she said this, “it is not
vital and necessary like the other, but I want you to do one thing for
me, if you will.” We all acquiesced, but no one spoke; there was no need
to speak:—

“I want you to read the Burial Service.” She was interrupted by a deep
groan from her husband; taking his hand in hers, she held it over her
heart, and continued: “You must read it over me some day. Whatever may
be the issue of all this fearful state of things, it will be a sweet
thought to all or some of us. You, my dearest, will I hope read it, for
then it will be in your voice in my memory for ever—come what may!”

“But oh, my dear one,” he pleaded, “death is afar off from you.”

“Nay,” she said, holding up a warning hand. “I am deeper in death at
this moment than if the weight of an earthly grave lay heavy upon me!”

“Oh, my wife, must I read it?” he said, before he began.

“It would comfort me, my husband!” was all she said; and he began to
read when she had got the book ready.

“How can I—how could any one—tell of that strange scene, its
solemnity, its gloom, its sadness, its horror; and, withal, its
sweetness. Even a sceptic, who can see nothing but a travesty of bitter
truth in anything holy or emotional, would have been melted to the heart
had he seen that little group of loving and devoted friends kneeling
round that stricken and sorrowing lady; or heard the tender passion of
her husband’s voice, as in tones so broken with emotion that often he
had to pause, he read the simple and beautiful service from the Burial
of the Dead. I—I cannot go on—words—and—v-voice—f-fail m-me!”


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

Jonathan Harker’s Journal.

15 October, Varna.—We left Charing Cross on the morning of the 12th,
got to Paris the same night, and took the places secured for us in the
Orient Express. We travelled night and day, arriving here at about five
o’clock. Lord Godalming went to the Consulate to see if any telegram had
arrived for him, whilst the rest of us came on to this hotel—“the
Odessus.” The journey may have had incidents; I was, however, too eager
to get on, to care for them. Until the Czarina Catherine comes into
port there will be no interest for me in anything in the wide world.
Thank God! Mina is well, and looks to be getting stronger; her colour is
coming back. She sleeps a great deal; throughout the journey she slept
nearly all the time. Before sunrise and sunset, however, she is very
wakeful and alert; and it has become a habit for Van Helsing to
hypnotise her at such times. At first, some effort was needed, and he
had to make many passes; but now, she seems to yield at once, as if by
habit, and scarcely any action is needed. He seems to have power at
these particular moments to simply will, and her thoughts obey him. He
always asks her what she can see and hear. She answers to the first:—

“Nothing; all is dark.” And to the second:—

“I can hear the waves lapping against the ship, and the water rushing
by. Canvas and cordage strain and masts and yards creak. The wind is
high—I can hear it in the shrouds, and the bow throws back the foam.”
It is evident that the Czarina Catherine is still at sea, hastening on
her way to Varna. Lord Godalming has just returned. He had four
telegrams, one each day since we started, and all to the same effect:
that the Czarina Catherine had not been reported to Lloyd’s from
anywhere. He had arranged before leaving London that his agent should
send him every day a telegram saying if the ship had been reported. He
was to have a message even if she were not reported, so that he might be
sure that there was a watch being kept at the other end of the wire.

We had dinner and went to bed early. To-morrow we are to see the
Vice-Consul, and to arrange, if we can, about getting on board the ship
as soon as she arrives. Van Helsing says that our chance will be to get
on the boat between sunrise and sunset. The Count, even if he takes the
form of a bat, cannot cross the running water of his own volition, and
so cannot leave the ship. As he dare not change to man’s form without
suspicion—which he evidently wishes to avoid—he must remain in the
box. If, then, we can come on board after sunrise, he is at our mercy;
for we can open the box and make sure of him, as we did of poor Lucy,
before he wakes. What mercy he shall get from us will not count for
much. We think that we shall not have much trouble with officials or the
seamen. Thank God! this is the country where bribery can do anything,
and we are well supplied with money. We have only to make sure that the
ship cannot come into port between sunset and sunrise without our being
warned, and we shall be safe. Judge Moneybag will settle this case, I


16 October.—Mina’s report still the same: lapping waves and rushing
water, darkness and favouring winds. We are evidently in good time, and
when we hear of the Czarina Catherine we shall be ready. As she must
pass the Dardanelles we are sure to have some report.

. . . . .
. . . . .
. . . . .
. . . . .
. . . . .
. . . . .
. . . . .

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


24 October.—A whole week of waiting. Daily telegrams to Godalming,
but only the same story: “Not yet reported.” Mina’s morning and evening
hypnotic answer is unvaried: lapping waves, rushing water, and creaking

Telegram, October 24th.

Rufus Smith, Lloyd’s, London, to Lord Godalming, care of H. B. M.

Vice-Consul, Varna.

Czarina Catherine reported this morning from Dardanelles.”

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

25 October.—How I miss my phonograph! To write diary with a pen is
irksome to me; but Van Helsing says I must. We were all wild with
excitement yesterday when Godalming got his telegram from Lloyd’s. I
know now what men feel in battle when the call to action is heard. Mrs.
Harker, alone of our party, did not show any signs of emotion. After
all, it is not strange that she did not; for we took special care not to
let her know anything about it, and we all tried not to show any
excitement when we were in her presence. In old days she would, I am
sure, have noticed, no matter how we might have tried to conceal it; but
in this way she is greatly changed during the past three weeks. The
lethargy grows upon her, and though she seems strong and well, and is
getting back some of her colour, Van Helsing and I are not satisfied. We
talk of her often; we have not, however, said a word to the others. It
would break poor Harker’s heart—certainly his nerve—if he knew that we
had even a suspicion on the subject. Van Helsing examines, he tells me,
her teeth very carefully, whilst she is in the hypnotic condition, for
he says that so long as they do not begin to sharpen there is no active
danger of a change in her. If this change should come, it would be
necessary to take steps!... We both know what those steps would have to
be, though we do not mention our thoughts to each other. We should
neither of us shrink from the task—awful though it be to contemplate.
“Euthanasia” is an excellent and a comforting word! I am grateful to
whoever invented it.

It is only about 24 hours’ sail from the Dardanelles to here, at the
rate the Czarina Catherine has come from London. She should therefore
arrive some time in the morning; but as she cannot possibly get in
before then, we are all about to retire early. We shall get up at one
o’clock, so as to be ready.


25 October, Noon.—No news yet of the ship’s arrival. Mrs. Harker’s
hypnotic report this morning was the same as usual, so it is possible
that we may get news at any moment. We men are all in a fever of
excitement, except Harker, who is calm; his hands are cold as ice, and
an hour ago I found him whetting the edge of the great Ghoorka knife
which he now always carries with him. It will be a bad lookout for the
Count if the edge of that “Kukri” ever touches his throat, driven by
that stern, ice-cold hand!

Van Helsing and I were a little alarmed about Mrs. Harker to-day. About
noon she got into a sort of lethargy which we did not like; although we
kept silence to the others, we were neither of us happy about it. She
had been restless all the morning, so that we were at first glad to know
that she was sleeping. When, however, her husband mentioned casually
that she was sleeping so soundly that he could not wake her, we went to
her room to see for ourselves. She was breathing naturally and looked so
well and peaceful that we agreed that the sleep was better for her than
anything else. Poor girl, she has so much to forget that it is no wonder
that sleep, if it brings oblivion to her, does her good.


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


26 October.—Another day and no tidings of the Czarina Catherine.
She ought to be here by now. That she is still journeying somewhere is
apparent, for Mrs. Harker’s hypnotic report at sunrise was still the
same. It is possible that the vessel may be lying by, at times, for fog;
some of the steamers which came in last evening reported patches of fog
both to north and south of the port. We must continue our watching, as
the ship may now be signalled any moment.


27 October, Noon.—Most strange; no news yet of the ship we wait for.
Mrs. Harker reported last night and this morning as usual: “lapping
waves and rushing water,” though she added that “the waves were very
faint.” The telegrams from London have been the same: “no further
report.” Van Helsing is terribly anxious, and told me just now that he
fears the Count is escaping us. He added significantly:—

“I did not like that lethargy of Madam Mina’s. Souls and memories can do
strange things during trance.” I was about to ask him more, but Harker
just then came in, and he held up a warning hand. We must try to-night
at sunset to make her speak more fully when in her hypnotic state.


28 October.—Telegram. Rufus Smith, London, to Lord Godalming,
care H. B. M. Vice Consul, Varna.

Czarina Catherine reported entering Galatz at one o’clock

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

28 October.—When the telegram came announcing the arrival in Galatz I
do not think it was such a shock to any of us as might have been
expected. True, we did not know whence, or how, or when, the bolt would
come; but I think we all expected that something strange would happen.
The delay of arrival at Varna made us individually satisfied that things
would not be just as we had expected; we only waited to learn where the
change would occur. None the less, however, was it a surprise. I suppose
that nature works on such a hopeful basis that we believe against
ourselves that things will be as they ought to be, not as we should know
that they will be. Transcendentalism is a beacon to the angels, even if
it be a will-o’-the-wisp to man. It was an odd experience and we all
took it differently. Van Helsing raised his hand over his head for a
moment, as though in remonstrance with the Almighty; but he said not a
word, and in a few seconds stood up with his face sternly set. Lord
Godalming grew very pale, and sat breathing heavily. I was myself half
stunned and looked in wonder at one after another. Quincey Morris
tightened his belt with that quick movement which I knew so well; in our
old wandering days it meant “action.” Mrs. Harker grew ghastly white, so
that the scar on her forehead seemed to burn, but she folded her hands
meekly and looked up in prayer. Harker smiled—actually smiled—the
dark, bitter smile of one who is without hope; but at the same time his
action belied his words, for his hands instinctively sought the hilt of
the great Kukri knife and rested there. “When does the next train start
for Galatz?” said Van Helsing to us generally.

“At 6:30 to-morrow morning!” We all started, for the answer came from
Mrs. Harker.

“How on earth do you know?” said Art.

“You forget—or perhaps you do not know, though Jonathan does and so
does Dr. Van Helsing—that I am the train fiend. At home in Exeter I
always used to make up the time-tables, so as to be helpful to my
husband. I found it so useful sometimes, that I always make a study of
the time-tables now. I knew that if anything were to take us to Castle
Dracula we should go by Galatz, or at any rate through Bucharest, so I
learned the times very carefully. Unhappily there are not many to learn,
as the only train to-morrow leaves as I say.”

“Wonderful woman!” murmured the Professor.

“Can’t we get a special?” asked Lord Godalming. Van Helsing shook his
head: “I fear not. This land is very different from yours or mine; even
if we did have a special, it would probably not arrive as soon as our
regular train. Moreover, we have something to prepare. We must think.
Now let us organize. You, friend Arthur, go to the train and get the
tickets and arrange that all be ready for us to go in the morning. Do
you, friend Jonathan, go to the agent of the ship and get from him
letters to the agent in Galatz, with authority to make search the ship
just as it was here. Morris Quincey, you see the Vice-Consul, and get
his aid with his fellow in Galatz and all he can do to make our way
smooth, so that no times be lost when over the Danube. John will stay
with Madam Mina and me, and we shall consult. For so if time be long you
may be delayed; and it will not matter when the sun set, since I am here
with Madam to make report.”

“And I,” said Mrs. Harker brightly, and more like her old self than she
had been for many a long day, “shall try to be of use in all ways, and
shall think and write for you as I used to do. Something is shifting
from me in some strange way, and I feel freer than I have been of late!”
The three younger men looked happier at the moment as they seemed to
realise the significance of her words; but Van Helsing and I, turning to
each other, met each a grave and troubled glance. We said nothing at the
time, however.

When the three men had gone out to their tasks Van Helsing asked Mrs.
Harker to look up the copy of the diaries and find him the part of
Harker’s journal at the Castle. She went away to get it; when the door
was shut upon her he said to me:—

“We mean the same! speak out!”

“There is some change. It is a hope that makes me sick, for it may
deceive us.”

“Quite so. Do you know why I asked her to get the manuscript?”

“No!” said I, “unless it was to get an opportunity of seeing me alone.”

“You are in part right, friend John, but only in part. I want to tell
you something. And oh, my friend, I am taking a great—a terrible—risk;
but I believe it is right. In the moment when Madam Mina said those
words that arrest both our understanding, an inspiration came to me. In
the trance of three days ago the Count sent her his spirit to read her
mind; or more like he took her to see him in his earth-box in the ship
with water rushing, just as it go free at rise and set of sun. He learn
then that we are here; for she have more to tell in her open life with
eyes to see and ears to hear than he, shut, as he is, in his coffin-box.
Now he make his most effort to escape us. At present he want her not.

“He is sure with his so great knowledge that she will come at his call;
but he cut her off—take her, as he can do, out of his own power, that
so she come not to him. Ah! there I have hope that our man-brains that
have been of man so long and that have not lost the grace of God, will
come higher than his child-brain that lie in his tomb for centuries,
that grow not yet to our stature, and that do only work selfish and
therefore small. Here comes Madam Mina; not a word to her of her trance!
She know it not; and it would overwhelm her and make despair just when
we want all her hope, all her courage; when most we want all her great
brain which is trained like man’s brain, but is of sweet woman and have
a special power which the Count give her, and which he may not take away
altogether—though he think not so. Hush! let me speak, and you shall
learn. Oh, John, my friend, we are in awful straits. I fear, as I never
feared before. We can only trust the good God. Silence! here she comes!”

I thought that the Professor was going to break down and have hysterics,
just as he had when Lucy died, but with a great effort he controlled
himself and was at perfect nervous poise when Mrs. Harker tripped into
the room, bright and happy-looking and, in the doing of work, seemingly
forgetful of her misery. As she came in, she handed a number of sheets
of typewriting to Van Helsing. He looked over them gravely, his face
brightening up as he read. Then holding the pages between his finger and
thumb he said:—

“Friend John, to you with so much of experience already—and you, too,
dear Madam Mina, that are young—here is a lesson: do not fear ever to
think. A half-thought has been buzzing often in my brain, but I fear to
let him loose his wings. Here now, with more knowledge, I go back to
where that half-thought come from and I find that he be no half-thought
at all; that be a whole thought, though so young that he is not yet
strong to use his little wings. Nay, like the “Ugly Duck” of my friend
Hans Andersen, he be no duck-thought at all, but a big swan-thought that
sail nobly on big wings, when the time come for him to try them. See I
read here what Jonathan have written:—

“That other of his race who, in a later age, again and again, brought
his forces over The Great River into Turkey Land; who, when he was
beaten back, came again, and again, and again, though he had to come
alone from the bloody field where his troops were being slaughtered,
since he knew that he alone could ultimately triumph.”

“What does this tell us? Not much? no! The Count’s child-thought see
nothing; therefore he speak so free. Your man-thought see nothing; my
man-thought see nothing, till just now. No! But there comes another word
from some one who speak without thought because she, too, know not what
it mean—what it might mean. Just as there are elements which rest,
yet when in nature’s course they move on their way and they touch—then
pouf! and there comes a flash of light, heaven wide, that blind and kill
and destroy some; but that show up all earth below for leagues and
leagues. Is it not so? Well, I shall explain. To begin, have you ever
study the philosophy of crime? ‘Yes’ and ‘No.’ You, John, yes; for it is
a study of insanity. You, no, Madam Mina; for crime touch you not—not
but once. Still, your mind works true, and argues not a particulari ad
. There is this peculiarity in criminals. It is so constant,
in all countries and at all times, that even police, who know not much
from philosophy, come to know it empirically, that it is. That is to
be empiric. The criminal always work at one crime—that is the true
criminal who seems predestinate to crime, and who will of none other.
This criminal has not full man-brain. He is clever and cunning and
resourceful; but he be not of man-stature as to brain. He be of
child-brain in much. Now this criminal of ours is predestinate to crime
also; he, too, have child-brain, and it is of the child to do what he
have done. The little bird, the little fish, the little animal learn not
by principle, but empirically; and when he learn to do, then there is to
him the ground to start from to do more. ‘Dos pou sto,’ said
Archimedes. ‘Give me a fulcrum, and I shall move the world!’ To do once,
is the fulcrum whereby child-brain become man-brain; and until he have
the purpose to do more, he continue to do the same again every time,
just as he have done before! Oh, my dear, I see that your eyes are
opened, and that to you the lightning flash show all the leagues,” for
Mrs. Harker began to clap her hands and her eyes sparkled. He went on:—

“Now you shall speak. Tell us two dry men of science what you see with
those so bright eyes.” He took her hand and held it whilst she spoke.
His finger and thumb closed on her pulse, as I thought instinctively and
unconsciously, as she spoke:—

“The Count is a criminal and of criminal type. Nordau and Lombroso would
so classify him, and quâ criminal he is of imperfectly formed mind.
Thus, in a difficulty he has to seek resource in habit. His past is a
clue, and the one page of it that we know—and that from his own
lips—tells that once before, when in what Mr. Morris would call a
‘tight place,’ he went back to his own country from the land he had
tried to invade, and thence, without losing purpose, prepared himself
for a new effort. He came again better equipped for his work; and won.
So he came to London to invade a new land. He was beaten, and when all
hope of success was lost, and his existence in danger, he fled back over
the sea to his home; just as formerly he had fled back over the Danube
from Turkey Land.”

“Good, good! oh, you so clever lady!” said Van Helsing,
enthusiastically, as he stooped and kissed her hand. A moment later he
said to me, as calmly as though we had been having a sick-room

“Seventy-two only; and in all this excitement. I have hope.” Turning to
her again, he said with keen expectation:—

“But go on. Go on! there is more to tell if you will. Be not afraid;
John and I know. I do in any case, and shall tell you if you are right.
Speak, without fear!”

“I will try to; but you will forgive me if I seem egotistical.”

“Nay! fear not, you must be egotist, for it is of you that we think.”

“Then, as he is criminal he is selfish; and as his intellect is small
and his action is based on selfishness, he confines himself to one
purpose. That purpose is remorseless. As he fled back over the Danube,
leaving his forces to be cut to pieces, so now he is intent on being
safe, careless of all. So his own selfishness frees my soul somewhat
from the terrible power which he acquired over me on that dreadful
night. I felt it! Oh, I felt it! Thank God, for His great mercy! My soul
is freer than it has been since that awful hour; and all that haunts me
is a fear lest in some trance or dream he may have used my knowledge for
his ends.” The Professor stood up:—

“He has so used your mind; and by it he has left us here in Varna,
whilst the ship that carried him rushed through enveloping fog up to
Galatz, where, doubtless, he had made preparation for escaping from us.
But his child-mind only saw so far; and it may be that, as ever is in
God’s Providence, the very thing that the evil-doer most reckoned on for
his selfish good, turns out to be his chiefest harm. The hunter is taken
in his own snare, as the great Psalmist says. For now that he think he
is free from every trace of us all, and that he has escaped us with so
many hours to him, then his selfish child-brain will whisper him to
sleep. He think, too, that as he cut himself off from knowing your mind,
there can be no knowledge of him to you; there is where he fail! That
terrible baptism of blood which he give you makes you free to go to him
in spirit, as you have as yet done in your times of freedom, when the
sun rise and set. At such times you go by my volition and not by his;
and this power to good of you and others, as you have won from your
suffering at his hands. This is now all the more precious that he know
it not, and to guard himself have even cut himself off from his
knowledge of our where. We, however, are not selfish, and we believe
that God is with us through all this blackness, and these many dark
hours. We shall follow him; and we shall not flinch; even if we peril
ourselves that we become like him. Friend John, this has been a great
hour; and it have done much to advance us on our way. You must be scribe
and write him all down, so that when the others return from their work
you can give it to them; then they shall know as we do.”

And so I have written it whilst we wait their return, and Mrs. Harker
has written with her typewriter all since she brought the MS. to us.



29 October.—This is written in the train from Varna to Galatz. Last
night we all assembled a little before the time of sunset. Each of us
had done his work as well as he could; so far as thought, and endeavour,
and opportunity go, we are prepared for the whole of our journey, and
for our work when we get to Galatz. When the usual time came round Mrs.
Harker prepared herself for her hypnotic effort; and after a longer and
more serious effort on the part of Van Helsing than has been usually
necessary, she sank into the trance. Usually she speaks on a hint; but
this time the Professor had to ask her questions, and to ask them pretty
resolutely, before we could learn anything; at last her answer came:—

“I can see nothing; we are still; there are no waves lapping, but only a
steady swirl of water softly running against the hawser. I can hear
men’s voices calling, near and far, and the roll and creak of oars in
the rowlocks. A gun is fired somewhere; the echo of it seems far away.
There is tramping of feet overhead, and ropes and chains are dragged
along. What is this? There is a gleam of light; I can feel the air
blowing upon me.”

Here she stopped. She had risen, as if impulsively, from where she lay
on the sofa, and raised both her hands, palms upwards, as if lifting a
weight. Van Helsing and I looked at each other with understanding.
Quincey raised his eyebrows slightly and looked at her intently, whilst
Harker’s hand instinctively closed round the hilt of his Kukri. There
was a long pause. We all knew that the time when she could speak was
passing; but we felt that it was useless to say anything. Suddenly she
sat up, and, as she opened her eyes, said sweetly:—

“Would none of you like a cup of tea? You must all be so tired!” We
could only make her happy, and so acquiesced. She bustled off to get
tea; when she had gone Van Helsing said:—

“You see, my friends. He is close to land: he has left his
earth-chest. But he has yet to get on shore. In the night he may lie
hidden somewhere; but if he be not carried on shore, or if the ship do
not touch it, he cannot achieve the land. In such case he can, if it be
in the night, change his form and can jump or fly on shore, as he did
at Whitby. But if the day come before he get on shore, then, unless he
be carried he cannot escape. And if he be carried, then the customs men
may discover what the box contain. Thus, in fine, if he escape not on
shore to-night, or before dawn, there will be the whole day lost to him.
We may then arrive in time; for if he escape not at night we shall come
on him in daytime, boxed up and at our mercy; for he dare not be his
true self, awake and visible, lest he be discovered.”

There was no more to be said, so we waited in patience until the dawn;
at which time we might learn more from Mrs. Harker.

Early this morning we listened, with breathless anxiety, for her
response in her trance. The hypnotic stage was even longer in coming
than before; and when it came the time remaining until full sunrise was
so short that we began to despair. Van Helsing seemed to throw his whole
soul into the effort; at last, in obedience to his will she made

“All is dark. I hear lapping water, level with me, and some creaking as
of wood on wood.” She paused, and the red sun shot up. We must wait till

And so it is that we are travelling towards Galatz in an agony of
expectation. We are due to arrive between two and three in the morning;
but already, at Bucharest, we are three hours late, so we cannot
possibly get in till well after sun-up. Thus we shall have two more
hypnotic messages from Mrs. Harker; either or both may possibly throw
more light on what is happening.


Later.—Sunset has come and gone. Fortunately it came at a time when
there was no distraction; for had it occurred whilst we were at a
station, we might not have secured the necessary calm and isolation.
Mrs. Harker yielded to the hypnotic influence even less readily than
this morning. I am in fear that her power of reading the Count’s
sensations may die away, just when we want it most. It seems to me that
her imagination is beginning to work. Whilst she has been in the trance
hitherto she has confined herself to the simplest of facts. If this goes
on it may ultimately mislead us. If I thought that the Count’s power
over her would die away equally with her power of knowledge it would be
a happy thought; but I am afraid that it may not be so. When she did
speak, her words were enigmatical:—

“Something is going out; I can feel it pass me like a cold wind. I can
hear, far off, confused sounds—as of men talking in strange tongues,
fierce-falling water, and the howling of wolves.” She stopped and a
shudder ran through her, increasing in intensity for a few seconds,
till, at the end, she shook as though in a palsy. She said no more, even
in answer to the Professor’s imperative questioning. When she woke from
the trance, she was cold, and exhausted, and languid; but her mind was
all alert. She could not remember anything, but asked what she had said;
when she was told, she pondered over it deeply for a long time and in


30 October, 7 a. m.—We are near Galatz now, and I may not have time
to write later. Sunrise this morning was anxiously looked for by us all.
Knowing of the increasing difficulty of procuring the hypnotic trance,
Van Helsing began his passes earlier than usual. They produced no
effect, however, until the regular time, when she yielded with a still
greater difficulty, only a minute before the sun rose. The Professor
lost no time in his questioning; her answer came with equal quickness:—

“All is dark. I hear water swirling by, level with my ears, and the
creaking of wood on wood. Cattle low far off. There is another sound, a
queer one like——” She stopped and grew white, and whiter still.

“Go on; go on! Speak, I command you!” said Van Helsing in an agonised
voice. At the same time there was despair in his eyes, for the risen sun
was reddening even Mrs. Harker’s pale face. She opened her eyes, and we
all started as she said, sweetly and seemingly with the utmost

“Oh, Professor, why ask me to do what you know I can’t? I don’t remember
anything.” Then, seeing the look of amazement on our faces, she said,
turning from one to the other with a troubled look:—

“What have I said? What have I done? I know nothing, only that I was
lying here, half asleep, and heard you say go on! speak, I command you!’
It seemed so funny to hear you order me about, as if I were a bad

“Oh, Madam Mina,” he said, sadly, “it is proof, if proof be needed, of
how I love and honour you, when a word for your good, spoken more
earnest than ever, can seem so strange because it is to order her whom I
am proud to obey!”

The whistles are sounding; we are nearing Galatz. We are on fire with
anxiety and eagerness.

Mina Harker’s Journal.

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


Later.—Lord Godalming has returned. The Consul is away, and the
Vice-Consul sick; so the routine work has been attended to by a clerk.
He was very obliging, and offered to do anything in his power.

Jonathan Harker’s Journal.

30 October.—At nine o’clock Dr. Van Helsing, Dr. Seward, and I called
on Messrs. Mackenzie & Steinkoff, the agents of the London firm of
Hapgood. They had received a wire from London, in answer to Lord
Godalming’s telegraphed request, asking us to show them any civility in
their power. They were more than kind and courteous, and took us at once
on board the Czarina Catherine, which lay at anchor out in the river
harbour. There we saw the Captain, Donelson by name, who told us of his
voyage. He said that in all his life he had never had so favourable a

“Man!” he said, “but it made us afeard, for we expeckit that we should
have to pay for it wi’ some rare piece o’ ill luck, so as to keep up the
average. It’s no canny to run frae London to the Black Sea wi’ a wind
ahint ye, as though the Deil himself were blawin’ on yer sail for his
ain purpose. An’ a’ the time we could no speer a thing. Gin we were nigh
a ship, or a port, or a headland, a fog fell on us and travelled wi’ us,
till when after it had lifted and we looked out, the deil a thing could
we see. We ran by Gibraltar wi’oot bein’ able to signal; an’ till we
came to the Dardanelles and had to wait to get our permit to pass, we
never were within hail o’ aught. At first I inclined to slack off sail
and beat about till the fog was lifted; but whiles, I thocht that if the
Deil was minded to get us into the Black Sea quick, he was like to do it
whether we would or no. If we had a quick voyage it would be no to our
miscredit wi’ the owners, or no hurt to our traffic; an’ the Old Mon who
had served his ain purpose wad be decently grateful to us for no
hinderin’ him.” This mixture of simplicity and cunning, of superstition
and commercial reasoning, aroused Van Helsing, who said:—

“Mine friend, that Devil is more clever than he is thought by some; and
he know when he meet his match!” The skipper was not displeased with the
compliment, and went on:—

“When we got past the Bosphorus the men began to grumble; some o’ them,
the Roumanians, came and asked me to heave overboard a big box which had
been put on board by a queer lookin’ old man just before we had started
frae London. I had seen them speer at the fellow, and put out their twa
fingers when they saw him, to guard against the evil eye. Man! but the
supersteetion of foreigners is pairfectly rideeculous! I sent them aboot
their business pretty quick; but as just after a fog closed in on us I
felt a wee bit as they did anent something, though I wouldn’t say it was
agin the big box. Well, on we went, and as the fog didn’t let up for
five days I joost let the wind carry us; for if the Deil wanted to get
somewheres—well, he would fetch it up a’reet. An’ if he didn’t, well,
we’d keep a sharp lookout anyhow. Sure eneuch, we had a fair way and
deep water all the time; and two days ago, when the mornin’ sun came
through the fog, we found ourselves just in the river opposite Galatz.
The Roumanians were wild, and wanted me right or wrong to take out the
box and fling it in the river. I had to argy wi’ them aboot it wi’ a
handspike; an’ when the last o’ them rose off the deck wi’ his head in
his hand, I had convinced them that, evil eye or no evil eye, the
property and the trust of my owners were better in my hands than in the
river Danube. They had, mind ye, taken the box on the deck ready to
fling in, and as it was marked Galatz via Varna, I thocht I’d let it
lie till we discharged in the port an’ get rid o’t althegither. We
didn’t do much clearin’ that day, an’ had to remain the nicht at anchor;
but in the mornin’, braw an’ airly, an hour before sun-up, a man came
aboard wi’ an order, written to him from England, to receive a box
marked for one Count Dracula. Sure eneuch the matter was one ready to
his hand. He had his papers a’ reet, an’ glad I was to be rid o’ the
dam’ thing, for I was beginnin’ masel’ to feel uneasy at it. If the Deil
did have any luggage aboord the ship, I’m thinkin’ it was nane ither
than that same!”

“What was the name of the man who took it?” asked Dr. Van Helsing with
restrained eagerness.

“I’ll be tellin’ ye quick!” he answered, and, stepping down to his
cabin, produced a receipt signed “Immanuel Hildesheim.” Burgen-strasse
16 was the address. We found out that this was all the Captain knew; so
with thanks we came away.

We found Hildesheim in his office, a Hebrew of rather the Adelphi
Theatre type, with a nose like a sheep, and a fez. His arguments were
pointed with specie—we doing the punctuation—and with a little
bargaining he told us what he knew. This turned out to be simple but
important. He had received a letter from Mr. de Ville of London, telling
him to receive, if possible before sunrise so as to avoid customs, a box
which would arrive at Galatz in the Czarina Catherine. This he was to
give in charge to a certain Petrof Skinsky, who dealt with the Slovaks
who traded down the river to the port. He had been paid for his work by
an English bank note, which had been duly cashed for gold at the Danube
International Bank. When Skinsky had come to him, he had taken him to
the ship and handed over the box, so as to save porterage. That was all
he knew.

We then sought for Skinsky, but were unable to find him. One of his
neighbours, who did not seem to bear him any affection, said that he had
gone away two days before, no one knew whither. This was corroborated by
his landlord, who had received by messenger the key of the house
together with the rent due, in English money. This had been between ten
and eleven o’clock last night. We were at a standstill again.

Whilst we were talking one came running and breathlessly gasped out that
the body of Skinsky had been found inside the wall of the churchyard of
St. Peter, and that the throat had been torn open as if by some wild
animal. Those we had been speaking with ran off to see the horror, the
women crying out “This is the work of a Slovak!” We hurried away lest we
should have been in some way drawn into the affair, and so detained.

As we came home we could arrive at no definite conclusion. We were all
convinced that the box was on its way, by water, to somewhere; but where
that might be we would have to discover. With heavy hearts we came home
to the hotel to Mina.

When we met together, the first thing was to consult as to taking Mina
again into our confidence. Things are getting desperate, and it is at
least a chance, though a hazardous one. As a preliminary step, I was
released from my promise to her.

Mina Harker’s Journal.

30 October, evening.—They were so tired and worn out and dispirited
that there was nothing to be done till they had some rest; so I asked
them all to lie down for half an hour whilst I should enter everything
up to the moment. I feel so grateful to the man who invented the
“Traveller’s” typewriter, and to Mr. Morris for getting this one for
me. I should have felt quite; astray doing the work if I had to write
with a pen....

It is all done; poor dear, dear Jonathan, what he must have suffered,
what must he be suffering now. He lies on the sofa hardly seeming to
breathe, and his whole body appears in collapse. His brows are knit; his
face is drawn with pain. Poor fellow, maybe he is thinking, and I can
see his face all wrinkled up with the concentration of his thoughts. Oh!
if I could only help at all.... I shall do what I can.

I have asked Dr. Van Helsing, and he has got me all the papers that I
have not yet seen.... Whilst they are resting, I shall go over all
carefully, and perhaps I may arrive at some conclusion. I shall try to
follow the Professor’s example, and think without prejudice on the facts
before me....


I do believe that under God’s providence I have made a discovery. I
shall get the maps and look over them....


I am more than ever sure that I am right. My new conclusion is ready, so
I shall get our party together and read it. They can judge it; it is
well to be accurate, and every minute is precious.

Mina Harker’s Memorandum.

(Entered in her Journal.)

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

(a) He must be brought back by some one. This is evident; for had he
power to move himself as he wished he could go either as man, or wolf,
or bat, or in some other way. He evidently fears discovery or
interference, in the state of helplessness in which he must be—confined
as he is between dawn and sunset in his wooden box.

(b) How is he to be taken?—Here a process of exclusions may help
us. By road, by rail, by water?

1. By Road.—There are endless difficulties, especially in leaving the

(x) There are people; and people are curious, and investigate. A hint,
a surmise, a doubt as to what might be in the box, would destroy him.

(y) There are, or there may be, customs and octroi officers to pass.

(z) His pursuers might follow. This is his highest fear; and in order
to prevent his being betrayed he has repelled, so far as he can, even
his victim—me!

2. By Rail.—There is no one in charge of the box. It would have to
take its chance of being delayed; and delay would be fatal, with enemies
on the track. True, he might escape at night; but what would he be, if
left in a strange place with no refuge that he could fly to? This is not
what he intends; and he does not mean to risk it.

3. By Water.—Here is the safest way, in one respect, but with most
danger in another. On the water he is powerless except at night; even
then he can only summon fog and storm and snow and his wolves. But were
he wrecked, the living water would engulf him, helpless; and he would
indeed be lost. He could have the vessel drive to land; but if it were
unfriendly land, wherein he was not free to move, his position would
still be desperate.

We know from the record that he was on the water; so what we have to do
is to ascertain what water.

The first thing is to realise exactly what he has done as yet; we may,
then, get a light on what his later task is to be.

Firstly.—We must differentiate between what he did in London as part
of his general plan of action, when he was pressed for moments and had
to arrange as best he could.

Secondly we must see, as well as we can surmise it from the facts we
know of, what he has done here.

As to the first, he evidently intended to arrive at Galatz, and sent
invoice to Varna to deceive us lest we should ascertain his means of
exit from England; his immediate and sole purpose then was to escape.
The proof of this, is the letter of instructions sent to Immanuel
Hildesheim to clear and take away the box before sunrise. There is
also the instruction to Petrof Skinsky. These we must only guess at; but
there must have been some letter or message, since Skinsky came to

That, so far, his plans were successful we know. The Czarina Catherine
made a phenomenally quick journey—so much so that Captain Donelson’s
suspicions were aroused; but his superstition united with his canniness
played the Count’s game for him, and he ran with his favouring wind
through fogs and all till he brought up blindfold at Galatz. That the
Count’s arrangements were well made, has been proved. Hildesheim cleared
the box, took it off, and gave it to Skinsky. Skinsky took it—and here
we lose the trail. We only know that the box is somewhere on the water,
moving along. The customs and the octroi, if there be any, have been

Now we come to what the Count must have done after his arrival—on
, at Galatz.

The box was given to Skinsky before sunrise. At sunrise the Count could
appear in his own form. Here, we ask why Skinsky was chosen at all to
aid in the work? In my husband’s diary, Skinsky is mentioned as dealing
with the Slovaks who trade down the river to the port; and the man’s
remark, that the murder was the work of a Slovak, showed the general
feeling against his class. The Count wanted isolation.

My surmise is, this: that in London the Count decided to get back to his
castle by water, as the most safe and secret way. He was brought from
the castle by Szgany, and probably they delivered their cargo to Slovaks
who took the boxes to Varna, for there they were shipped for London.
Thus the Count had knowledge of the persons who could arrange this
service. When the box was on land, before sunrise or after sunset, he
came out from his box, met Skinsky and instructed him what to do as to
arranging the carriage of the box up some river. When this was done, and
he knew that all was in train, he blotted out his traces, as he thought,
by murdering his agent.

I have examined the map and find that the river most suitable for the
Slovaks to have ascended is either the Pruth or the Sereth. I read in
the typescript that in my trance I heard cows low and water swirling
level with my ears and the creaking of wood. The Count in his box, then,
was on a river in an open boat—propelled probably either by oars or
poles, for the banks are near and it is working against stream. There
would be no such sound if floating down stream.

Of course it may not be either the Sereth or the Pruth, but we may
possibly investigate further. Now of these two, the Pruth is the more
easily navigated, but the Sereth is, at Fundu, joined by the Bistritza
which runs up round the Borgo Pass. The loop it makes is manifestly as
close to Dracula’s castle as can be got by water.

Mina Harker’s Journal—continued.

When I had done reading, Jonathan took me in his arms and kissed me. The
others kept shaking me by both hands, and Dr. Van Helsing said:—

“Our dear Madam Mina is once more our teacher. Her eyes have been where
we were blinded. Now we are on the track once again, and this time we
may succeed. Our enemy is at his most helpless; and if we can come on
him by day, on the water, our task will be over. He has a start, but he
is powerless to hasten, as he may not leave his box lest those who carry
him may suspect; for them to suspect would be to prompt them to throw
him in the stream where he perish. This he knows, and will not. Now men,
to our Council of War; for, here and now, we must plan what each and all
shall do.”

“I shall get a steam launch and follow him,” said Lord Godalming.

“And I, horses to follow on the bank lest by chance he land,” said Mr.

“Good!” said the Professor, “both good. But neither must go alone. There
must be force to overcome force if need be; the Slovak is strong and
rough, and he carries rude arms.” All the men smiled, for amongst them
they carried a small arsenal. Said Mr. Morris:—

“I have brought some Winchesters; they are pretty handy in a crowd, and
there may be wolves. The Count, if you remember, took some other
precautions; he made some requisitions on others that Mrs. Harker could
not quite hear or understand. We must be ready at all points.” Dr.
Seward said:—

“I think I had better go with Quincey. We have been accustomed to hunt
together, and we two, well armed, will be a match for whatever may come
along. You must not be alone, Art. It may be necessary to fight the
Slovaks, and a chance thrust—for I don’t suppose these fellows carry
guns—would undo all our plans. There must be no chances, this time; we
shall, not rest until the Count’s head and body have been separated, and
we are sure that he cannot re-incarnate.” He looked at Jonathan as he
spoke, and Jonathan looked at me. I could see that the poor dear was
torn about in his mind. Of course he wanted to be with me; but then the
boat service would, most likely, be the one which would destroy the ...
the ... the ... Vampire. (Why did I hesitate to write the word?) He was
silent awhile, and during his silence Dr. Van Helsing spoke:—

“Friend Jonathan, this is to you for twice reasons. First, because you
are young and brave and can fight, and all energies may be needed at the
last; and again that it is your right to destroy him—that—which has
wrought such woe to you and yours. Be not afraid for Madam Mina; she
will be my care, if I may. I am old. My legs are not so quick to run as
once; and I am not used to ride so long or to pursue as need be, or to
fight with lethal weapons. But I can be of other service; I can fight in
other way. And I can die, if need be, as well as younger men. Now let
me say that what I would is this: while you, my Lord Godalming and
friend Jonathan go in your so swift little steamboat up the river, and
whilst John and Quincey guard the bank where perchance he might be
landed, I will take Madam Mina right into the heart of the enemy’s
country. Whilst the old fox is tied in his box, floating on the running
stream whence he cannot escape to land—where he dares not raise the lid
of his coffin-box lest his Slovak carriers should in fear leave him to
perish—we shall go in the track where Jonathan went,—from Bistritz
over the Borgo, and find our way to the Castle of Dracula. Here, Madam
Mina’s hypnotic power will surely help, and we shall find our way—all
dark and unknown otherwise—after the first sunrise when we are near
that fateful place. There is much to be done, and other places to be
made sanctify, so that that nest of vipers be obliterated.” Here
Jonathan interrupted him hotly:—

“Do you mean to say, Professor Van Helsing, that you would bring Mina,
in her sad case and tainted as she is with that devil’s illness, right
into the jaws of his death-trap? Not for the world! Not for Heaven or
Hell!” He became almost speechless for a minute, and then went on:—

“Do you know what the place is? Have you seen that awful den of hellish
infamy—with the very moonlight alive with grisly shapes, and every
speck of dust that whirls in the wind a devouring monster in embryo?
Have you felt the Vampire’s lips upon your throat?” Here he turned to
me, and as his eyes lit on my forehead he threw up his arms with a cry:
“Oh, my God, what have we done to have this terror upon us!” and he sank
down on the sofa in a collapse of misery. The Professor’s voice, as he
spoke in clear, sweet tones, which seemed to vibrate in the air, calmed
us all:—

“Oh, my friend, it is because I would save Madam Mina from that awful
place that I would go. God forbid that I should take her into that
place. There is work—wild work—to be done there, that her eyes may not
see. We men here, all save Jonathan, have seen with their own eyes what
is to be done before that place can be purify. Remember that we are in
terrible straits. If the Count escape us this time—and he is strong and
subtle and cunning—he may choose to sleep him for a century, and then
in time our dear one”—he took my hand—“would come to him to keep him
company, and would be as those others that you, Jonathan, saw. You have
told us of their gloating lips; you heard their ribald laugh as they
clutched the moving bag that the Count threw to them. You shudder; and
well may it be. Forgive me that I make you so much pain, but it is
necessary. My friend, is it not a dire need for the which I am giving,
possibly my life? If it were that any one went into that place to stay,
it is I who would have to go to keep them company.”

“Do as you will,” said Jonathan, with a sob that shook him all over, “we
are in the hands of God!”


Later.—Oh, it did me good to see the way that these brave men worked.
How can women help loving men when they are so earnest, and so true, and
so brave! And, too, it made me think of the wonderful power of money!
What can it not do when it is properly applied; and what might it do
when basely used. I felt so thankful that Lord Godalming is rich, and
that both he and Mr. Morris, who also has plenty of money, are willing
to spend it so freely. For if they did not, our little expedition could
not start, either so promptly or so well equipped, as it will within
another hour. It is not three hours since it was arranged what part each
of us was to do; and now Lord Godalming and Jonathan have a lovely steam
launch, with steam up ready to start at a moment’s notice. Dr. Seward
and Mr. Morris have half a dozen good horses, well appointed. We have
all the maps and appliances of various kinds that can be had. Professor
Van Helsing and I are to leave by the 11:40 train to-night for Veresti,
where we are to get a carriage to drive to the Borgo Pass. We are
bringing a good deal of ready money, as we are to buy a carriage and
horses. We shall drive ourselves, for we have no one whom we can trust
in the matter. The Professor knows something of a great many languages,
so we shall get on all right. We have all got arms, even for me a
large-bore revolver; Jonathan would not be happy unless I was armed like
the rest. Alas! I cannot carry one arm that the rest do; the scar on my
forehead forbids that. Dear Dr. Van Helsing comforts me by telling me
that I am fully armed as there may be wolves; the weather is getting
colder every hour, and there are snow-flurries which come and go as


Later.—It took all my courage to say good-bye to my darling. We may
never meet again. Courage, Mina! the Professor is looking at you keenly;
his look is a warning. There must be no tears now—unless it may be that
God will let them fall in gladness.

Jonathan Harker’s Journal.

October 30. Night.—I am writing this in the light from the furnace
door of the steam launch: Lord Godalming is firing up. He is an
experienced hand at the work, as he has had for years a launch of his
own on the Thames, and another on the Norfolk Broads. Regarding our
plans, we finally decided that Mina’s guess was correct, and that if any
waterway was chosen for the Count’s escape back to his Castle, the
Sereth and then the Bistritza at its junction, would be the one. We took
it, that somewhere about the 47th degree, north latitude, would be the
place chosen for the crossing the country between the river and the
Carpathians. We have no fear in running at good speed up the river at
night; there is plenty of water, and the banks are wide enough apart to
make steaming, even in the dark, easy enough. Lord Godalming tells me to
sleep for a while, as it is enough for the present for one to be on
watch. But I cannot sleep—how can I with the terrible danger hanging
over my darling, and her going out into that awful place.... My only
comfort is that we are in the hands of God. Only for that faith it would
be easier to die than to live, and so be quit of all the trouble. Mr.
Morris and Dr. Seward were off on their long ride before we started;
they are to keep up the right bank, far enough off to get on higher
lands where they can see a good stretch of river and avoid the following
of its curves. They have, for the first stages, two men to ride and lead
their spare horses—four in all, so as not to excite curiosity. When
they dismiss the men, which shall be shortly, they shall themselves look
after the horses. It may be necessary for us to join forces; if so they
can mount our whole party. One of the saddles has a movable horn, and
can be easily adapted for Mina, if required.

It is a wild adventure we are on. Here, as we are rushing along through
the darkness, with the cold from the river seeming to rise up and strike
us; with all the mysterious voices of the night around us, it all comes
home. We seem to be drifting into unknown places and unknown ways; into
a whole world of dark and dreadful things. Godalming is shutting the
furnace door....


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


1 November, evening.—No news all day; we have found nothing of the
kind we seek. We have now passed into the Bistritza; and if we are wrong
in our surmise our chance is gone. We have over-hauled every boat, big
and little. Early this morning, one crew took us for a Government boat,
and treated us accordingly. We saw in this a way of smoothing matters,
so at Fundu, where the Bistritza runs into the Sereth, we got a
Roumanian flag which we now fly conspicuously. With every boat which we
have over-hauled since then this trick has succeeded; we have had every
deference shown to us, and not once any objection to whatever we chose
to ask or do. Some of the Slovaks tell us that a big boat passed them,
going at more than usual speed as she had a double crew on board. This
was before they came to Fundu, so they could not tell us whether the
boat turned into the Bistritza or continued on up the Sereth. At Fundu
we could not hear of any such boat, so she must have passed there in the
night. I am feeling very sleepy; the cold is perhaps beginning to tell
upon me, and nature must have rest some time. Godalming insists that he
shall keep the first watch. God bless him for all his goodness to poor
dear Mina and me.


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

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

2 November.—Three days on the road. No news, and no time to write it
if there had been, for every moment is precious. We have had only the
rest needful for the horses; but we are both bearing it wonderfully.
Those adventurous days of ours are turning up useful. We must push on;
we shall never feel happy till we get the launch in sight again.


3 November.—We heard at Fundu that the launch had gone up the
Bistritza. I wish it wasn’t so cold. There are signs of snow coming; and
if it falls heavy it will stop us. In such case we must get a sledge and
go on, Russian fashion.


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

Mina Harker’s Journal.

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


Later.—Dr. Van Helsing has returned. He has got the carriage and
horses; we are to have some dinner, and to start in an hour. The
landlady is putting us up a huge basket of provisions; it seems enough
for a company of soldiers. The Professor encourages her, and whispers to
me that it may be a week before we can get any good food again. He has
been shopping too, and has sent home such a wonderful lot of fur coats
and wraps, and all sorts of warm things. There will not be any chance of
our being cold.

. . . . .
. . . . .
. . . . .
. . . . .
. . . . .
. . . . .
. . . . .

We shall soon be off. I am afraid to think what may happen to us. We are
truly in the hands of God. He alone knows what may be, and I pray Him,
with all the strength of my sad and humble soul, that He will watch over
my beloved husband; that whatever may happen, Jonathan may know that I
loved him and honoured him more than I can say, and that my latest and
truest thought will be always for him.



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


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


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

Memorandum by Abraham Van Helsing.

4 November.—This to my old and true friend John Seward, M.D., of
Purfleet, London, in case I may not see him. It may explain. It is
morning, and I write by a fire which all the night I have kept
alive—Madam Mina aiding me. It is cold, cold; so cold that the grey
heavy sky is full of snow, which when it falls will settle for all
winter as the ground is hardening to receive it. It seems to have
affected Madam Mina; she has been so heavy of head all day that she was
not like herself. She sleeps, and sleeps, and sleeps! She who is usual
so alert, have done literally nothing all the day; she even have lost
her appetite. She make no entry into her little diary, she who write so
faithful at every pause. Something whisper to me that all is not well.
However, to-night she is more vif. Her long sleep all day have refresh
and restore her, for now she is all sweet and bright as ever. At sunset
I try to hypnotise her, but alas! with no effect; the power has grown
less and less with each day, and to-night it fail me altogether. Well,
God’s will be done—whatever it may be, and whithersoever it may lead!

Now to the historical, for as Madam Mina write not in her stenography, I
must, in my cumbrous old fashion, that so each day of us may not go

We got to the Borgo Pass just after sunrise yesterday morning. When I
saw the signs of the dawn I got ready for the hypnotism. We stopped our
carriage, and got down so that there might be no disturbance. I made a
couch with furs, and Madam Mina, lying down, yield herself as usual, but
more slow and more short time than ever, to the hypnotic sleep. As
before, came the answer: “darkness and the swirling of water.” Then she
woke, bright and radiant and we go on our way and soon reach the Pass.
At this time and place, she become all on fire with zeal; some new
guiding power be in her manifested, for she point to a road and say:—

“This is the way.”

“How know you it?” I ask.

“Of course I know it,” she answer, and with a pause, add: “Have not my
Jonathan travelled it and wrote of his travel?”

At first I think somewhat strange, but soon I see that there be only one
such by-road. It is used but little, and very different from the coach
road from the Bukovina to Bistritz, which is more wide and hard, and
more of use.

So we came down this road; when we meet other ways—not always were we
sure that they were roads at all, for they be neglect and light snow
have fallen—the horses know and they only. I give rein to them, and
they go on so patient. By-and-by we find all the things which Jonathan
have note in that wonderful diary of him. Then we go on for long, long
hours and hours. At the first, I tell Madam Mina to sleep; she try, and
she succeed. She sleep all the time; till at the last, I feel myself to
suspicious grow, and attempt to wake her. But she sleep on, and I may
not wake her though I try. I do not wish to try too hard lest I harm
her; for I know that she have suffer much, and sleep at times be
all-in-all to her. I think I drowse myself, for all of sudden I feel
guilt, as though I have done something; I find myself bolt up, with the
reins in my hand, and the good horses go along jog, jog, just as ever. I
look down and find Madam Mina still sleep. It is now not far off sunset
time, and over the snow the light of the sun flow in big yellow flood,
so that we throw great long shadow on where the mountain rise so steep.
For we are going up, and up; and all is oh! so wild and rocky, as though
it were the end of the world.

Then I arouse Madam Mina. This time she wake with not much trouble, and
then I try to put her to hypnotic sleep. But she sleep not, being as
though I were not. Still I try and try, till all at once I find her and
myself in dark; so I look round, and find that the sun have gone down.
Madam Mina laugh, and I turn and look at her. She is now quite awake,
and look so well as I never saw her since that night at Carfax when we
first enter the Count’s house. I am amaze, and not at ease then; but she
is so bright and tender and thoughtful for me that I forget all fear. I
light a fire, for we have brought supply of wood with us, and she
prepare food while I undo the horses and set them, tethered in shelter,
to feed. Then when I return to the fire she have my supper ready. I go
to help her; but she smile, and tell me that she have eat already—that
she was so hungry that she would not wait. I like it not, and I have
grave doubts; but I fear to affright her, and so I am silent of it. She
help me and I eat alone; and then we wrap in fur and lie beside the
fire, and I tell her to sleep while I watch. But presently I forget all
of watching; and when I sudden remember that I watch, I find her lying
quiet, but awake, and looking at me with so bright eyes. Once, twice
more the same occur, and I get much sleep till before morning. When I
wake I try to hypnotise her; but alas! though she shut her eyes
obedient, she may not sleep. The sun rise up, and up, and up; and then
sleep come to her too late, but so heavy that she will not wake. I have
to lift her up, and place her sleeping in the carriage when I have
harnessed the horses and made all ready. Madam still sleep, and she look
in her sleep more healthy and more redder than before. And I like it
not. And I am afraid, afraid, afraid!—I am afraid of all things—even
to think but I must go on my way. The stake we play for is life and
death, or more than these, and we must not flinch.


5 November, morning.—Let me be accurate in everything, for though you
and I have seen some strange things together, you may at the first think
that I, Van Helsing, am mad—that the many horrors and the so long
strain on nerves has at the last turn my brain.

All yesterday we travel, ever getting closer to the mountains, and
moving into a more and more wild and desert land. There are great,
frowning precipices and much falling water, and Nature seem to have held
sometime her carnival. Madam Mina still sleep and sleep; and though I
did have hunger and appeased it, I could not waken her—even for food. I
began to fear that the fatal spell of the place was upon her, tainted as
she is with that Vampire baptism. “Well,” said I to myself, “if it be
that she sleep all the day, it shall also be that I do not sleep at
night.” As we travel on the rough road, for a road of an ancient and
imperfect kind there was, I held down my head and slept. Again I waked
with a sense of guilt and of time passed, and found Madam Mina still
sleeping, and the sun low down. But all was indeed changed; the frowning
mountains seemed further away, and we were near the top of a
steep-rising hill, on summit of which was such a castle as Jonathan tell
of in his diary. At once I exulted and feared; for now, for good or ill,
the end was near.

I woke Madam Mina, and again tried to hypnotise her; but alas!
unavailing till too late. Then, ere the great dark came upon us—for
even after down-sun the heavens reflected the gone sun on the snow, and
all was for a time in a great twilight—I took out the horses and fed
them in what shelter I could. Then I make a fire; and near it I make
Madam Mina, now awake and more charming than ever, sit comfortable amid
her rugs. I got ready food: but she would not eat, simply saying that
she had not hunger. I did not press her, knowing her unavailingness. But
I myself eat, for I must needs now be strong for all. Then, with the
fear on me of what might be, I drew a ring so big for her comfort, round
where Madam Mina sat; and over the ring I passed some of the wafer, and
I broke it fine so that all was well guarded. She sat still all the
time—so still as one dead; and she grew whiter and ever whiter till the
snow was not more pale; and no word she said. But when I drew near, she
clung to me, and I could know that the poor soul shook her from head to
feet with a tremor that was pain to feel. I said to her presently, when
she had grown more quiet:—

“Will you not come over to the fire?” for I wished to make a test of
what she could. She rose obedient, but when she have made a step she
stopped, and stood as one stricken.

“Why not go on?” I asked. She shook her head, and, coming back, sat
down in her place. Then, looking at me with open eyes, as of one waked
from sleep, she said simply:—

“I cannot!” and remained silent. I rejoiced, for I knew that what she
could not, none of those that we dreaded could. Though there might be
danger to her body, yet her soul was safe!

Presently the horses began to scream, and tore at their tethers till I
came to them and quieted them. When they did feel my hands on them, they
whinnied low as in joy, and licked at my hands and were quiet for a
time. Many times through the night did I come to them, till it arrive to
the cold hour when all nature is at lowest; and every time my coming was
with quiet of them. In the cold hour the fire began to die, and I was
about stepping forth to replenish it, for now the snow came in flying
sweeps and with it a chill mist. Even in the dark there was a light of
some kind, as there ever is over snow; and it seemed as though the
snow-flurries and the wreaths of mist took shape as of women with
trailing garments. All was in dead, grim silence only that the horses
whinnied and cowered, as if in terror of the worst. I began to
fear—horrible fears; but then came to me the sense of safety in that
ring wherein I stood. I began, too, to think that my imaginings were of
the night, and the gloom, and the unrest that I have gone through, and
all the terrible anxiety. It was as though my memories of all Jonathan’s
horrid experience were befooling me; for the snow flakes and the mist
began to wheel and circle round, till I could get as though a shadowy
glimpse of those women that would have kissed him. And then the horses
cowered lower and lower, and moaned in terror as men do in pain. Even
the madness of fright was not to them, so that they could break away. I
feared for my dear Madam Mina when these weird figures drew near and
circled round. I looked at her, but she sat calm, and smiled at me; when
I would have stepped to the fire to replenish it, she caught me and held
me back, and whispered, like a voice that one hears in a dream, so low
it was:—

“No! No! Do not go without. Here you are safe!” I turned to her, and
looking in her eyes, said:—

“But you? It is for you that I fear!” whereat she laughed—a laugh, low
and unreal, and said:—

“Fear for me! Why fear for me? None safer in all the world from them
than I am,” and as I wondered at the meaning of her words, a puff of
wind made the flame leap up, and I see the red scar on her forehead.
Then, alas! I knew. Did I not, I would soon have learned, for the
wheeling figures of mist and snow came closer, but keeping ever without
the Holy circle. Then they began to materialise till—if God have not
take away my reason, for I saw it through my eyes—there were before me
in actual flesh the same three women that Jonathan saw in the room, when
they would have kissed his throat. I knew the swaying round forms, the
bright hard eyes, the white teeth, the ruddy colour, the voluptuous
lips. They smiled ever at poor dear Madam Mina; and as their laugh came
through the silence of the night, they twined their arms and pointed to
her, and said in those so sweet tingling tones that Jonathan said were
of the intolerable sweetness of the water-glasses:—

“Come, sister. Come to us. Come! Come!” In fear I turned to my poor
Madam Mina, and my heart with gladness leapt like flame; for oh! the
terror in her sweet eyes, the repulsion, the horror, told a story to my
heart that was all of hope. God be thanked she was not, yet, of them. I
seized some of the firewood which was by me, and holding out some of the
Wafer, advanced on them towards the fire. They drew back before me, and
laughed their low horrid laugh. I fed the fire, and feared them not; for
I knew that we were safe within our protections. They could not
approach, me, whilst so armed, nor Madam Mina whilst she remained within
the ring, which she could not leave no more than they could enter. The
horses had ceased to moan, and lay still on the ground; the snow fell on
them softly, and they grew whiter. I knew that there was for the poor
beasts no more of terror.

And so we remained till the red of the dawn to fall through the
snow-gloom. I was desolate and afraid, and full of woe and terror; but
when that beautiful sun began to climb the horizon life was to me again.
At the first coming of the dawn the horrid figures melted in the
whirling mist and snow; the wreaths of transparent gloom moved away
towards the castle, and were lost.

Instinctively, with the dawn coming, I turned to Madam Mina, intending
to hypnotise her; but she lay in a deep and sudden sleep, from which I
could not wake her. I tried to hypnotise through her sleep, but she made
no response, none at all; and the day broke. I fear yet to stir. I have
made my fire and have seen the horses, they are all dead. To-day I have
much to do here, and I keep waiting till the sun is up high; for there
may be places where I must go, where that sunlight, though snow and mist
obscure it, will be to me a safety.

I will strengthen me with breakfast, and then I will to my terrible
work. Madam Mina still sleeps; and, God be thanked! she is calm in her

Jonathan Harker’s Journal.

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

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

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

Dr. Van Helsing’s Memorandum.

5 November, afternoon.—I am at least sane. Thank God for that mercy
at all events, though the proving it has been dreadful. When I left
Madam Mina sleeping within the Holy circle, I took my way to the castle.
The blacksmith hammer which I took in the carriage from Veresti was
useful; though the doors were all open I broke them off the rusty
hinges, lest some ill-intent or ill-chance should close them, so that
being entered I might not get out. Jonathan’s bitter experience served
me here. By memory of his diary I found my way to the old chapel, for I
knew that here my work lay. The air was oppressive; it seemed as if
there was some sulphurous fume, which at times made me dizzy. Either
there was a roaring in my ears or I heard afar off the howl of wolves.
Then I bethought me of my dear Madam Mina, and I was in terrible plight.
The dilemma had me between his horns.

Her, I had not dare to take into this place, but left safe from the
Vampire in that Holy circle; and yet even there would be the wolf! I
resolve me that my work lay here, and that as to the wolves we must
submit, if it were God’s will. At any rate it was only death and
freedom beyond. So did I choose for her. Had it but been for myself the
choice had been easy, the maw of the wolf were better to rest in than
the grave of the Vampire! So I make my choice to go on with my work.

I knew that there were at least three graves to find—graves that are
inhabit; so I search, and search, and I find one of them. She lay in her
Vampire sleep, so full of life and voluptuous beauty that I shudder as
though I have come to do murder. Ah, I doubt not that in old time, when
such things were, many a man who set forth to do such a task as mine,
found at the last his heart fail him, and then his nerve. So he delay,
and delay, and delay, till the mere beauty and the fascination of the
wanton Un-Dead have hypnotise him; and he remain on and on, till sunset
come, and the Vampire sleep be over. Then the beautiful eyes of the fair
woman open and look love, and the voluptuous mouth present to a
kiss—and man is weak. And there remain one more victim in the Vampire
fold; one more to swell the grim and grisly ranks of the Un-Dead!...

There is some fascination, surely, when I am moved by the mere presence
of such an one, even lying as she lay in a tomb fretted with age and
heavy with the dust of centuries, though there be that horrid odour such
as the lairs of the Count have had. Yes, I was moved—I, Van Helsing,
with all my purpose and with my motive for hate—I was moved to a
yearning for delay which seemed to paralyse my faculties and to clog my
very soul. It may have been that the need of natural sleep, and the
strange oppression of the air were beginning to overcome me. Certain it
was that I was lapsing into sleep, the open-eyed sleep of one who yields
to a sweet fascination, when there came through the snow-stilled air a
long, low wail, so full of woe and pity that it woke me like the sound
of a clarion. For it was the voice of my dear Madam Mina that I heard.

Then I braced myself again to my horrid task, and found by wrenching
away tomb-tops one other of the sisters, the other dark one. I dared not
pause to look on her as I had on her sister, lest once more I should
begin to be enthrall; but I go on searching until, presently, I find in
a high great tomb as if made to one much beloved that other fair sister
which, like Jonathan I had seen to gather herself out of the atoms of
the mist. She was so fair to look on, so radiantly beautiful, so
exquisitely voluptuous, that the very instinct of man in me, which calls
some of my sex to love and to protect one of hers, made my head whirl
with new emotion. But God be thanked, that soul-wail of my dear Madam
Mina had not died out of my ears; and, before the spell could be wrought
further upon me, I had nerved myself to my wild work. By this time I had
searched all the tombs in the chapel, so far as I could tell; and as
there had been only three of these Un-Dead phantoms around us in the
night, I took it that there were no more of active Un-Dead existent.
There was one great tomb more lordly than all the rest; huge it was, and
nobly proportioned. On it was but one word


This then was the Un-Dead home of the King-Vampire, to whom so many more
were due. Its emptiness spoke eloquent to make certain what I knew.
Before I began to restore these women to their dead selves through my
awful work, I laid in Dracula’s tomb some of the Wafer, and so banished
him from it, Un-Dead, for ever.

Then began my terrible task, and I dreaded it. Had it been but one, it
had been easy, comparative. But three! To begin twice more after I had
been through a deed of horror; for if it was terrible with the sweet
Miss Lucy, what would it not be with these strange ones who had survived
through centuries, and who had been strengthened by the passing of the
years; who would, if they could, have fought for their foul lives....

Oh, my friend John, but it was butcher work; had I not been nerved by
thoughts of other dead, and of the living over whom hung such a pall of
fear, I could not have gone on. I tremble and tremble even yet, though
till all was over, God be thanked, my nerve did stand. Had I not seen
the repose in the first place, and the gladness that stole over it just
ere the final dissolution came, as realisation that the soul had been
won, I could not have gone further with my butchery. I could not have
endured the horrid screeching as the stake drove home; the plunging of
writhing form, and lips of bloody foam. I should have fled in terror and
left my work undone. But it is over! And the poor souls, I can pity them
now and weep, as I think of them placid each in her full sleep of death
for a short moment ere fading. For, friend John, hardly had my knife
severed the head of each, before the whole body began to melt away and
crumble in to its native dust, as though the death that should have come
centuries agone had at last assert himself and say at once and loud “I
am here!”

Before I left the castle I so fixed its entrances that never more can
the Count enter there Un-Dead.

When I stepped into the circle where Madam Mina slept, she woke from her
sleep, and, seeing, me, cried out in pain that I had endured too much.

“Come!” she said, “come away from this awful place! Let us go to meet my
husband who is, I know, coming towards us.” She was looking thin and
pale and weak; but her eyes were pure and glowed with fervour. I was
glad to see her paleness and her illness, for my mind was full of the
fresh horror of that ruddy vampire sleep.

And so with trust and hope, and yet full of fear, we go eastward to meet
our friends—and him—whom Madam Mina tell me that she know are
coming to meet us.

Mina Harker’s Journal.

6 November.—It was late in the afternoon when the Professor and I
took our way towards the east whence I knew Jonathan was coming. We did
not go fast, though the way was steeply downhill, for we had to take
heavy rugs and wraps with us; we dared not face the possibility of being
left without warmth in the cold and the snow. We had to take some of our
provisions, too, for we were in a perfect desolation, and, so far as we
could see through the snowfall, there was not even the sign of
habitation. When we had gone about a mile, I was tired with the heavy
walking and sat down to rest. Then we looked back and saw where the
clear line of Dracula’s castle cut the sky; for we were so deep under
the hill whereon it was set that the angle of perspective of the
Carpathian mountains was far below it. We saw it in all its grandeur,
perched a thousand feet on the summit of a sheer precipice, and with
seemingly a great gap between it and the steep of the adjacent mountain
on any side. There was something wild and uncanny about the place. We
could hear the distant howling of wolves. They were far off, but the
sound, even though coming muffled through the deadening snowfall, was
full of terror. I knew from the way Dr. Van Helsing was searching about
that he was trying to seek some strategic point, where we would be less
exposed in case of attack. The rough roadway still led downwards; we
could trace it through the drifted snow.

In a little while the Professor signalled to me, so I got up and joined
him. He had found a wonderful spot, a sort of natural hollow in a rock,
with an entrance like a doorway between two boulders. He took me by the
hand and drew me in: “See!” he said, “here you will be in shelter; and
if the wolves do come I can meet them one by one.” He brought in our
furs, and made a snug nest for me, and got out some provisions and
forced them upon me. But I could not eat; to even try to do so was
repulsive to me, and, much as I would have liked to please him, I could
not bring myself to the attempt. He looked very sad, but did not
reproach me. Taking his field-glasses from the case, he stood on the top
of the rock, and began to search the horizon. Suddenly he called out:—

“Look! Madam Mina, look! look!” I sprang up and stood beside him on the
rock; he handed me his glasses and pointed. The snow was now falling
more heavily, and swirled about fiercely, for a high wind was beginning
to blow. However, there were times when there were pauses between the
snow flurries and I could see a long way round. From the height where we
were it was possible to see a great distance; and far off, beyond the
white waste of snow, I could see the river lying like a black ribbon in
kinks and curls as it wound its way. Straight in front of us and not far
off—in fact, so near that I wondered we had not noticed before—came a
group of mounted men hurrying along. In the midst of them was a cart, a
long leiter-wagon which swept from side to side, like a dog’s tail
wagging, with each stern inequality of the road. Outlined against the
snow as they were, I could see from the men’s clothes that they were
peasants or gypsies of some kind.

On the cart was a great square chest. My heart leaped as I saw it, for I
felt that the end was coming. The evening was now drawing close, and
well I knew that at sunset the Thing, which was till then imprisoned
there, would take new freedom and could in any of many forms elude all
pursuit. In fear I turned to the Professor; to my consternation,
however, he was not there. An instant later, I saw him below me. Round
the rock he had drawn a circle, such as we had found shelter in last
night. When he had completed it he stood beside me again, saying:—

“At least you shall be safe here from him!” He took the glasses from
me, and at the next lull of the snow swept the whole space below us.
“See,” he said, “they come quickly; they are flogging the horses, and
galloping as hard as they can.” He paused and went on in a hollow

“They are racing for the sunset. We may be too late. God’s will be
done!” Down came another blinding rush of driving snow, and the whole
landscape was blotted out. It soon passed, however, and once more his
glasses were fixed on the plain. Then came a sudden cry:—

“Look! Look! Look! See, two horsemen follow fast, coming up from the
south. It must be Quincey and John. Take the glass. Look before the snow
blots it all out!” I took it and looked. The two men might be Dr. Seward
and Mr. Morris. I knew at all events that neither of them was Jonathan.
At the same time I knew that Jonathan was not far off; looking around
I saw on the north side of the coming party two other men, riding at
break-neck speed. One of them I knew was Jonathan, and the other I took,
of course, to be Lord Godalming. They, too, were pursuing the party with
the cart. When I told the Professor he shouted in glee like a schoolboy,
and, after looking intently till a snow fall made sight impossible, he
laid his Winchester rifle ready for use against the boulder at the
opening of our shelter. “They are all converging,” he said. “When the
time comes we shall have gypsies on all sides.” I got out my revolver
ready to hand, for whilst we were speaking the howling of wolves came
louder and closer. When the snow storm abated a moment we looked again.
It was strange to see the snow falling in such heavy flakes close to us,
and beyond, the sun shining more and more brightly as it sank down
towards the far mountain tops. Sweeping the glass all around us I could
see here and there dots moving singly and in twos and threes and larger
numbers—the wolves were gathering for their prey.

Every instant seemed an age whilst we waited. The wind came now in
fierce bursts, and the snow was driven with fury as it swept upon us in
circling eddies. At times we could not see an arm’s length before us;
but at others, as the hollow-sounding wind swept by us, it seemed to
clear the air-space around us so that we could see afar off. We had of
late been so accustomed to watch for sunrise and sunset, that we knew
with fair accuracy when it would be; and we knew that before long the
sun would set. It was hard to believe that by our watches it was less
than an hour that we waited in that rocky shelter before the various
bodies began to converge close upon us. The wind came now with fiercer
and more bitter sweeps, and more steadily from the north. It seemingly
had driven the snow clouds from us, for, with only occasional bursts,
the snow fell. We could distinguish clearly the individuals of each
party, the pursued and the pursuers. Strangely enough those pursued did
not seem to realise, or at least to care, that they were pursued; they
seemed, however, to hasten with redoubled speed as the sun dropped lower
and lower on the mountain tops.

Closer and closer they drew. The Professor and I crouched down behind
our rock, and held our weapons ready; I could see that he was determined
that they should not pass. One and all were quite unaware of our

All at once two voices shouted out to: “Halt!” One was my Jonathan’s,
raised in a high key of passion; the other Mr. Morris’ strong resolute
tone of quiet command. The gypsies may not have known the language, but
there was no mistaking the tone, in whatever tongue the words were
spoken. Instinctively they reined in, and at the instant Lord Godalming
and Jonathan dashed up at one side and Dr. Seward and Mr. Morris on the
other. The leader of the gypsies, a splendid-looking fellow who sat his
horse like a centaur, waved them back, and in a fierce voice gave to his
companions some word to proceed. They lashed the horses which sprang
forward; but the four men raised their Winchester rifles, and in an
unmistakable way commanded them to stop. At the same moment Dr. Van
Helsing and I rose behind the rock and pointed our weapons at them.
Seeing that they were surrounded the men tightened their reins and drew
up. The leader turned to them and gave a word at which every man of the
gypsy party drew what weapon he carried, knife or pistol, and held
himself in readiness to attack. Issue was joined in an instant.

The leader, with a quick movement of his rein, threw his horse out in
front, and pointing first to the sun—now close down on the hill
tops—and then to the castle, said something which I did not understand.
For answer, all four men of our party threw themselves from their horses
and dashed towards the cart. I should have felt terrible fear at seeing
Jonathan in such danger, but that the ardour of battle must have been
upon me as well as the rest of them; I felt no fear, but only a wild,
surging desire to do something. Seeing the quick movement of our
parties, the leader of the gypsies gave a command; his men instantly
formed round the cart in a sort of undisciplined endeavour, each one
shouldering and pushing the other in his eagerness to carry out the

In the midst of this I could see that Jonathan on one side of the ring
of men, and Quincey on the other, were forcing a way to the cart; it was
evident that they were bent on finishing their task before the sun
should set. Nothing seemed to stop or even to hinder them. Neither the
levelled weapons nor the flashing knives of the gypsies in front, nor
the howling of the wolves behind, appeared to even attract their
attention. Jonathan’s impetuosity, and the manifest singleness of his
purpose, seemed to overawe those in front of him; instinctively they
cowered, aside and let him pass. In an instant he had jumped upon the
cart, and, with a strength which seemed incredible, raised the great
box, and flung it over the wheel to the ground. In the meantime, Mr.
Morris had had to use force to pass through his side of the ring of
Szgany. All the time I had been breathlessly watching Jonathan I had,
with the tail of my eye, seen him pressing desperately forward, and had
seen the knives of the gypsies flash as he won a way through them, and
they cut at him. He had parried with his great bowie knife, and at first
I thought that he too had come through in safety; but as he sprang
beside Jonathan, who had by now jumped from the cart, I could see that
with his left hand he was clutching at his side, and that the blood was
spurting through his fingers. He did not delay notwithstanding this, for
as Jonathan, with desperate energy, attacked one end of the chest,
attempting to prize off the lid with his great Kukri knife, he attacked
the other frantically with his bowie. Under the efforts of both men the
lid began to yield; the nails drew with a quick screeching sound, and
the top of the box was thrown back.

By this time the gypsies, seeing themselves covered by the Winchesters,
and at the mercy of Lord Godalming and Dr. Seward, had given in and made
no resistance. The sun was almost down on the mountain tops, and the
shadows of the whole group fell long upon the snow. I saw the Count
lying within the box upon the earth, some of which the rude falling from
the cart had scattered over him. He was deathly pale, just like a waxen
image, and the red eyes glared with the horrible vindictive look which I
knew too well.

As I looked, the eyes saw the sinking sun, and the look of hate in them
turned to triumph.

But, on the instant, came the sweep and flash of Jonathan’s great knife.
I shrieked as I saw it shear through the throat; whilst at the same
moment Mr. Morris’s bowie knife plunged into the heart.

It was like a miracle; but before our very eyes, and almost in the
drawing of a breath, the whole body crumble into dust and passed from
our sight.

I shall be glad as long as I live that even in that moment of final
dissolution, there was in the face a look of peace, such as I never
could have imagined might have rested there.

The Castle of Dracula now stood out against the red sky, and every stone
of its broken battlements was articulated against the light of the
setting sun.

The gypsies, taking us as in some way the cause of the extraordinary
disappearance of the dead man, turned, without a word, and rode away as
if for their lives. Those who were unmounted jumped upon the
leiter-wagon and shouted to the horsemen not to desert them. The wolves,
which had withdrawn to a safe distance, followed in their wake, leaving
us alone.

Mr. Morris, who had sunk to the ground, leaned on his elbow, holding his
hand pressed to his side; the blood still gushed through his fingers. I
flew to him, for the Holy circle did not now keep me back; so did the
two doctors. Jonathan knelt behind him and the wounded man laid back his
head on his shoulder. With a sigh he took, with a feeble effort, my hand
in that of his own which was unstained. He must have seen the anguish of
my heart in my face, for he smiled at me and said:—

“I am only too happy to have been of any service! Oh, God!” he cried
suddenly, struggling up to a sitting posture and pointing to me, “It was
worth for this to die! Look! look!”

The sun was now right down upon the mountain top, and the red gleams
fell upon my face, so that it was bathed in rosy light. With one impulse
the men sank on their knees and a deep and earnest “Amen” broke from all
as their eyes followed the pointing of his finger. The dying man

“Now God be thanked that all has not been in vain! See! the snow is not
more stainless than her forehead! The curse has passed away!”

And, to our bitter grief, with a smile and in silence, he died, a
gallant gentleman.


Seven years ago we all went through the flames; and the happiness of
some of us since then is, we think, well worth the pain we endured. It
is an added joy to Mina and to me that our boy’s birthday is the same
day as that on which Quincey Morris died. His mother holds, I know, the
secret belief that some of our brave friend’s spirit has passed into
him. His bundle of names links all our little band of men together; but
we call him Quincey.

In the summer of this year we made a journey to Transylvania, and went
over the old ground which was, and is, to us so full of vivid and
terrible memories. It was almost impossible to believe that the things
which we had seen with our own eyes and heard with our own ears were
living truths. Every trace of all that had been was blotted out. The
castle stood as before, reared high above a waste of desolation.

When we got home we were talking of the old time—which we could all
look back on without despair, for Godalming and Seward are both happily
married. I took the papers from the safe where they had been ever since
our return so long ago. We were struck with the fact, that in all the
mass of material of which the record is composed, there is hardly one
authentic document; nothing but a mass of typewriting, except the later
note-books of Mina and Seward and myself, and Van Helsing’s memorandum.
We could hardly ask any one, even did we wish to, to accept these as
proofs of so wild a story. Van Helsing summed it all up as he said, with
our boy on his knee:—

“We want no proofs; we ask none to believe us! This boy will some day
know what a brave and gallant woman his mother is. Already he knows her
sweetness and loving care; later on he will understand how some men so
loved her, that they did dare much for her sake.”

Jonathan Harker.