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(Kept in shorthand.)

3 May. Bistritz. Left Munich at 8:35 p. M., on ist May, ar-

riving at Vienna early next morning; should have arrived at

6:46, but train was an hour late. Buda-Pesth seems a wonderful

place, from the glimpse which I got of it from the train and the

little I could walk through the streets. I feared to go very far

from the station, as we had arrived late and would start as near

the correct time as possible. The impression I had was that we

were leaving the West and entering the East; the most western

of splendid bridges over the Danube, which is here of noble width

and depth, took us among the traditions of Turkish rule.

We left in pretty good time, and came after nightfall to Klaus-

enburgh. 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 moun-

2 Dracula

tains; 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 Wal-

lachs, 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. 1^

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 interest-

ing. (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 castl^ 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 oi

Jonathan Harker’s Journal 3

them were just like the peasants at home or those I saw coming

through France and Germany, with short jackets and round hats

and home-made trousers; but others were very picturesque.

The women looked pretty, except when you got near them, but

they were very clumsy about the waist. They had all full white

sleeves of some kind or other, and most of them had big belts

with a lot of strips of something fluttering from them like the

dresses in a ballet, but of course there were petticoats under

them. The strangest figures we saw were the Slovaks, who were

more barbarian than the rest, with their big cow-boy hats, great

baggy dirty-white trousers, white linen shirts, and enormous

heavy leather belts, nearly a foot wide, all studded over with

brass nails. They wore high boots, with their trousers tucked

into them, and had long black hair and heavy black moustaches.

They are very picturesque, but do not look prepossessing. On

the stage they would be set down at once as some old Oriental

band of brigands. They are, however, I am told, very harmless

and rather wanting in natural self-assertion.

It was on the dark side of twilight when we got to Bistritz,

which is a very interesting old place. Being practically on the

frontier for the Borgo Pass leads from it into Bukovina it

has had a very stormy existence, and it certainly shows marks

of it. Fifty years ago a series of great fires took place, which

made terrible havoc on five separate occasions. At the very be-

ginning 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 peas-

ant 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 English-

man?» «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 dili-

gence will start for Bukovina; a place on it is kept for you. At

4 Dracula

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 Ger-

man. This could not be true, because up to then he had under-

stood 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

r _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 comforting.

Just before I was levying, the old lady came up to my room

and said in a very liysteric^L 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 o|j^GegreJs^^

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

Jonathan Marker’s Journal 5

my duty was imperative, and that I must go. She then rose and

dried her eyes, and taking a crucifix from her neck offered it to

me. I did not know what to do, for, as an English Churchman,

I have been taught to regard such things as in some measure

idolatrous, and yet it seemed so ungracious to refuse an old lady

meaning so well and in such a state of mind. She saw, I suppose,

the doubt in my face, for she put the rosary round my neck;

and said, «For your mother’s sake,» and went out of the room.

I am writing up this part of the diary whilst I am waiting for

the coach, which is, of course, late; and the crucifix is still round

my neck. Whether it is the old lady’s fear, or the many ghostly

traditions of this place, or the crucifix itself, I do not know, but

I am not feeling nearly as easy in my mind as usual. If this book

should ever reach Mina before I do, let it bring my good-bye.

Here comes the coach!

5 May. The Castle. The 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»

j 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 dis-

agreeable. 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 pity-

ingly. 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, "vrolokj» and» vlko-

slak» 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 superstitions>

6 Dracula

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 diffi-

culty 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 plel^nt 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 cross-

ing 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 lan-

guage, 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 every-

where 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 re-

pair them, lest the Turk should think that they were preparing

to bring in foreign troops, and so hasten the war which was al-

ways really at loading point.

Beyond the green swelling hills of the Mittel Land rose mighty

Jonathan Harker’s Journal 7

slopes of forest up to the lofty steeps of the Carpathians them-

selves. 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 moun-

tains, 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 en our serpentine way, to be right before us:

«Look! Isten szek!» «God’s seat!» and he crossed him-

self 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 Slo-

vaks, all in picturesque attire, but I noticed that goitre was

painfully prevalent. By the roadside were many crosses, and as

w^sw^r^b^mj^mp_a_nions jill 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 peas-

ants, 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

8 Dracula

of greyness, which here and there bestrewed the trees, pro-

duced 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 excite-

ment 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 earnest-

ness 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

Jonathan Marker’s Journal 9

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 passen-

gers 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


«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

caleche, with four horses, drove up behind us, overtook us, and

drew up beside the coach. I could see from the flash of our

lamps, as the rays fell on them, that the horses were coal-black

and splendid animals. They were driven by a tall man, with a

long brown beard and a great black hat, which seemed to hide

his face from us. I could only see the gleam of a pair of very

bright eyes, which seemed red in the lamplight, as he turned to

us. He said to the driver:

«You are early to-night, my friend.» The man stammered in


«The English Herr was in a hurry,» to which the stranger


«That is why, I suppose, you wished him to go on to Buko-

vina. 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-look-

ing teeth, as white as ivory. One of my companions whispered

to another the line from Burger’s" Lenore " :

«Denri die Todten reiten schnelPV-

(«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

io Dracula

the same time putting out his two fingers and crossing himself.

«Give me the Herr’s luggage,» said the driver; and with exceed-

ing alacrity my bags were handed out and put in the caleche.

Then I descended from the side of the coach, as the caleche was

close alongside, the driver helping me with a hand which caught

my arm in a grip of steel; his strength must have been prodi-

gious. 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 cross-

ing 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

feefing came over me; but a cloak was thrown over my shoul-

ders, and a rug across my knees, and the driver said in excellent


«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 re-

quire 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 fright-

ened. 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 min-

utes 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

Jonathan Marker’s Journal n

and rear, but the driver spoke to them soothingly, and they

quieted down, but shivered and sweated as though after a run-

away from sudden fright. Then, far off in the distance, from the

mountains on each side of us began a louder and a sharper howl-

ing that of wolves which affected both the horses and myself

in the same way for I was minded to jump from the caleche

and run, whilst they reared again and plunged madly, so that

the driver had to use all his great strength to keep them from

bolting. In a few minutes, however, my own ears got accustomed

to the sound, and the horses so far became quiet that the driver

was able to descend and to stand before them. He petted and

soothed them, and whispered something in their ears, as I have

heard of horse-tamers doing, and with extraordinary effect, for

under his caresses they became quite manageable again, though

they still trembled. The driver again took his seat, and shaking

his reins, started off at a great pace. This tune, after going to

the far side of the Pass, he suddenly turned down a narrow road-

way 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 any-

thing 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 dark-

ness. 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 re-

sumed 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

12 -Dracula

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 beet-

ling, pine-clad rock, and by its light I saw around us a ring of

wolves, with white teeth and lolling red tongues, with long,

sinewy limbs and shaggy hair. They were a hundred times more

terrible in the grim silence which held them than even when they

howled. For myself, I felt a sort of paralysis of fear. It is only

when a man feels himself face to face with such horrors that he

can understand their true import.

All at once the wolves began to howl as though the moonlight

had had some peculiar effect on them. The horses jumped about

and reared, and looked helplessly round with eyes that rolled in

a way painful to see; but the living ring of terror encompassed

them on every side; and they had perforce to remain within it.

I called to the coachman to come, for it seemed to me that our

only chance was to try to break out through the ring and to aid

his approach. I shouted and beat the side of the caleche, hoping

by the noise to scare the wolves from 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 hi the roadway.

As he swept his long arms, as though brushing aside some im-

palpable 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 hi darkness.

When I could see again the driver was climbing into the

caleche, and the wolves had disappeared. This was all so strange

and uncanny that a dreadful fear came upon me, and I was

Jonathan Marker’s Journal 13

afraid to speak or move. The time seemed interminable as we

swept on our way, now in almost complete darkness, for the roll-

ing clouds obscured the moon. We kept on ascending, with oc-

casional periods of quick descent, but in the main always

ascending. Suddenly, I became conscious of the fact that the

driver was in the act of pulling up the horses in the courtyard of

a vast ruined castle, from whose tall black windows came no ray

of light, and whose broken battlements showed a jagged line

against the moonlit sky.



5 May. I must have been asleep, for certainly if I had been

fully awake I must have noticed the approach of such a remark-

able place. In the gloom the courtyard looked of considerable

size, and as several dark ways led from it under great round

arches, it perhaps seemed bigger than it really is. I have not yet

been able to see it by daylight.

When the caleche stopped, the driver jumped down and held

out his hand to assist me to alight. Again I could not but notice

his prodigious strength. His hand actually seemed like a steel

vice that could have crushed mine if he had chosen. Then he

took 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, fc~ 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 ad-

venture 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 Lon-

don 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 night-

mare to me, and I expected that I should suddenly awake, and


Jonathan Marker’s Journal 15

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. oot, 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 vith a courtly gesture, saying in excel-

lent 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 wind-

16 Dracula

ing 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 with-

out a window of any sort. Passing through this, he opened an-

other door, and motioned me to enter. It was a welcome sight;

for here was a great bedroom well lighted and warmed with

another log fire, also added to but lately, for the top logs were

fresh which sent a hollow roar up the wide chimney. The Count

himself left my luggage inside and withdrew, saying, before he

closed the door:

«You will need, after your journey, to refresh yourself by

making your toilet. I trust you will find all you wish. When you

are ready, come into the other room, where you will find your

supper prepared.»

The light and warmth and the Count’s courteous welcome

seemed to have dissipated all my doubts and fears. Having then

reached my normal state, I discovered that I was half famished

with hunger; so making a hasty toilet, I went into the other room.

I found supper already laid out. My host, who stood on one

side of the great fireplace, leaning against the stonework, made

a graceful wave of his hand to the table, and said:

«I pray you, be seated and sup how you please. You will, I

trust, excuse me that I do not join you; but I have dined already,

and I do not sup.»

I handed to him the sealed letter which Mr. Hawkins had en-

trusted to me. He opened it and read it gravely; then, with a

charming smile, he handed it to me to read. One passage of it.

at least, gave me a thrill of pleasure.

«I must regret that an attack of gout, from which malady 1

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 confi-

dence. 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

Jonathan Harker’s Journal 17

dish, and I fell to at once on an excellent roast chicken. This,

with some cheese and a salad and a bottle of old Tokay, of which

I had two glasses, was my supper. During the time I was eating

it the Count asked me many questions as to my journey, and I

told him by degrees all I had experienced.

By this time I had finished my supper, and by my host’s de-

sire had drawn up a chair by the fire and begun to smoke a cigaf

which he offered me, at the same time excusing himself that he

did not smoke. I had now an opportunity of observing him, and

found him of a very marked physiognomy.

His face was a strong a very strong aquiline, with high

Bridge of the thin nose and peculiarly arched nostrils; with lofty

domed forehead, and hair growing scantily round the temples

but profusely elsewhere. His eyebrows were very massive, almost

meeting over the nose, and with bushy hair that seemed to curl

in its own profusion. The mouth, so far as I could see it under

the heavy-jnDJUs^Ux^'^aj.^ecr’and ratheTTriiel-looking, with

peculiarly sharp ~^bffiL&&pEKese protnifer"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 extraor-

dinary 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 pahn. 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 o\ er me, which, do what I would, I could not con-

ceal. 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 fr^m down below in the valley the howling

of many wolves. The Count’s eyes gleamed, and he said:

«Listen to them the children of the night. What music they

make!» Seeing, I suppose, some expression in my face strange

to him. he added:

i8 Dracula

«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 cour-

teous 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 en-

joyed 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

heartK. 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 beauti-

fully 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

Jonathan Marker’s Journal 19

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 cus-

toms and manners. There were even such books of reference as

the London Directory, the «Red» and «Blue» books, Whit-

aker’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 tr^p

Count entered. He saluted me in a hearty way, and hoped that

I had had a good night’s rest. Then he went on:

«I am glad you found your way in here, for I am sure there is

much that will interest you. These companions» and he laid

his hand on some of the books «have been good friends to me,

and for some years past, ever since I had the idea of going to

London, have given me many, many hours of pleasure. Through

them I have come to know your great England; and to know her

is to love her. I long to go through the crowded streets of your

mighty London, to be in the midst of the whirl and rush of

humanity, to share its life, its change, its death, and all that

makes it what it is. But alas! as yet I only know your tongue

through books. To you, my friend, I look that I know it to


«But, Count,» I said, «you know and speak English thor-

oughly!» He bowed gravely.

«I thank you, my friend, for your all too-flattering estimate,

but yet I fear that I am but a little way on the road I would

travel. True, I know the grammar and the words, but yet I

know not how to speak them.»

«Indeed,» I said, «you speak excellently.»

«Not so,» he answered. «Well, I know that, did I move and

speak in your London, none there are who would not know me

for a stranger. That is not enough for me. Here I am noble; I

am boyar; the common people know me, and I am master. But

a stranger in a strange land, he is no one; men know him not

and to know not is to care not for. I am content if I am like the

rest, so that no man stops if he see me, or pause in his speaking

if he hear my words, «Ha, ha! a stranger!» I have been so long

master that I would be master still or at least that none other

should be master of me. You come to me not alone as agent of

my friend Peter Hawkins, of Exeter, to tell me all about my new

2O Dracula

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 added:

«You may go anywhere you wish in the castle, except where

the doors are locked, where of course you will not wish to go.

There is reason that all things are as they are, and did you see

with my eyes and know with my knowledge, you would perhaps

better understand.» I said I was sure of this, and then he went


«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 ex-

periences 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 ques-

tions 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

Jonathan Marker’s Journal 21

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 undis-

covered, 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


«There you are right,» I said. «I know no more than the dead

where even to look for them.» Then we drifted into other mat-


«Come, ' he said at last, «tell me of London and 01 the house

which you have procured for me.» With an apology for my re-

missness, 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, no-

ticed 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, read-

ing, 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 neigh-

bourhood, 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

22 Dracula

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 rust.

«The estate is called Carfax, no doubt a corruption of the old

Quatre Face, as the house is four-sided, agreeing with the car-

dinal 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

t> y some springs, as the water is clear and flows away in a fair-

sized stream. The house is very large and of all periods back, I

should say, to mediaeval times, for one part is of stone im-

mensely 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

Jonathan Marker’s Journal 23

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, asidng 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 York-

shire 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 in-

deed, 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 ex-

periencing 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 regard-

ing 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.

24 Dracula

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

ting too diffuse; but now I am glad that I went into detail from

s 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 wiirhelp 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 lacCj, Jiis eyes blazed_with a sort of demoniac

fury, ancThe suddenly made a grab at myj^roat.,! drewaway,

and his hand touched the.string of beads which held the crucifix.

It made an instant change ir> Mm, 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.

Jonathan Marker’s Journal 25

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 bot-

tom 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 help-

less 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 conclu-

sion. 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 impris-

oned; 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 hold-

ing up his hand in silence. How was it that all the people at Bis-

tritz 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


Jonathan Harker’s Journal 27

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 com-

fort? 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 pres-

ent 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 them-

selves 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

28 Dracula

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 east-

ward, 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 re-

deemed that great shame of my nation, the shame of Cassova,

when the flags of the Wallach and the Magyar went down be-

neath 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 con-

duct it? Again, when, after the battle of Mohacs> we threw off

the Hungarian yoke, we of the Dracula blood were amongst

their leaders, for our spirit would not brook that we were not

free. Ah, young sir, the Szekelys and the Dracula as their

heart’s blood, their brains, and their swords can boast a rec-

ord that mushroom growths like the Hapsburgs and the Roman-

offs 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 «Ara-

bian Nights,» for everything has to break off at cockcrow or

like the ghost of Hamlet’s father.)

12 May. Let me begin with facts bare, meagre facts, veri-

fied by books and figures, and of which there can be no doubt.

Jonathan Harker’s Journal 29

I must not confuse them with experiences which will have to

rest on my own observation, or my memory of them. Last eve-

ning 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 sell

my place at London. Good! Now here let me say frankly, lest

you should think it strange that I have sought the services oi

one so far off from London instead of some one resident therCj

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 con-

signing 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 instruc-

tion 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

30 Dracula

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 im-

pression that he would have made a wonderful solicitor, for there

was nothing that he did not think of or foresee. For a man who

was never in the country, and who did not evidently do much in

the way of business, his knowledge and acumen were wonderful.

When he had satisfied himself on these points of which he had

spoken, and I had verified all as well as I could by the books

available, he suddenly stood up and said:

«Have you written since your first letter to our friend Mr.

Peter Hawkins, or to any other?» It was with some bitterness

in my heart that I answered that I had not, that as yet I had

not seen any opportunity of sending letters to anybody.

«Then write now, my young friend/' he said, laying a heavy

hand on my shoulder: «write to our friend and to any other;

and say, if it will please you, that you shall stay with me until

a month from now.»

«Do you wish me to stay so long?» I asked, for my heart

grew cold at the thought.

«I desire it much; nay, I will take no refusal. When your

master, employer, what you will, engaged that someone should

come on his behalf, it was understood that my needs only were

to be consulted. I have not stinted. Is it not so?»

What could I do but bow acceptance? It was Mr. Hawkins’s

interest, not mine, and I had to think of him, not myself; and

besides, while Count Dracula was speaking, there was that in

his eyes and in his bearing which made me remember that i

was a prisoner, and that if I wished it I could have no choice.

The Count saw his victory in my bow, and his mastery in the

trouble of my face, for he began at once to use them, but in his

own smooth, resistless way:

«I pray you, my good young friend, that you will not dis-

course of things other than business in your letters. It will doubt-

less 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

Jonathan Harker’s Journal 31

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. Billingtonj

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 speecn.-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


Later. I endorse the last words written, but this time there

(s no doubt in question. I shall not fear to sleep in any place where

32 Dracula

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. Look-

ing 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 destroy-

ing 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 beau-

tiful expanse, bathed in soft yellow moonlight till it was al-

most 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 win>

dow 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 win-

dow. 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 mis-

take the hands which I had had so many opportunities of study-

ing. I was at first interested and somewhat amused, for it is won-

derful 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 whQle_maa_slowly. emerge_ from the win-

dow 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, anr> by thus using every projection and

inequality move downwaius with considerable speed, just as a

lizard moves along a wall.

Jonathan Marker’s Journal 33

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 liz-

ard fashion. He moved downwards in a sidelong way, some hun-

dred 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 tak-

ing 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 moun-

34 Dracula

tain fastnesses, rising peak on peak, the sheer rock studded with

mountain ash and thorn, whose roots clung in cracks and crev-

ices and crannies of the stone. This was evidently the portion

of the castle occupied by the ladies in bygone days, for the fur-

niture had more air» of comfort than any I had seen. The win-

dows 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 dis-

guised in some measure the ravages of time and the moth. My

lamp seemed to be of little effect in the brilliant moonlight^ut

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 pos-

sibly some fair lady sat to pen, with much thought and many

blushes, her ill-spelt love-letter, and writing in my diary in short —

hand 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 j

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 al-

ready. 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 Shake-

speare 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

Jonathan Marker’s Journal 35

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 warn-

ing 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

rne. 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 comer, 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 fol-

lowed 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 yo-ung 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 howl

or where./All three had brilliant white teeth that shone like pearls

against the ruby of their voluptuous lips. There was something f

about them that made me uneasy, some longing and at thej

same time some deadly fear. I felt in my heart a wicked, burn-

ing 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

dnd cause her pain; but it is the truth jThey 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

36 Dracula

the softness of human lips. It was like the intolerable, tinglii _

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:

/’jHe is^.young_and steragjJtkCTeareJuaaesJoj^jjsaJi^I lay

quietTlooking out under my eyelashes in an agony of~delightf ul

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 per-

fectly 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, ft 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 beat-

ing heartj

JtJut aTthat 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 slendef

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 heft-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

Jonathan Marker’s Journal 37

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 laugh-

ter 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 wo-

men 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

rnay 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


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 splin-

tered. 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.

ip 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


Jonathan Marker’s Journal 39

absolutely in his power; and to refuse would be to excite his sus-

picion 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 impressive-

ness that he would countermand the later letters, which would

be held over at Bistritz until due time in case chance would

admit of my prolonging my stay, that to oppose him would have

been to create new suspicion. I therefore pretended to fall in

with his views, and asked him what dates I should put on the

letters. He calculated a minute, and then said:

«The first should be June 12, the second June 19, and the

third June 29.»

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

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

able to send word home. A band of Szgany have come to the

castle, and are encamped in the courtyard. These Szgany are

gipsies; I have notes of them in my book. They are peculiar to

this part of the world, though allied to the ordinary gipsies all

the world over. There are thousands of them in Hungary and

Transylvania, who are almost outside all law. They attach them-

selves as a rule to some great noble or boyar, and call themselves

by his name. They are fearless and without religion, save super-

stition, 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 ex-

plained my situation, but without the horrors which I may only

surmise. It would shock and frighten her to death were I to ex-

pose my heart to her. Should the letters not carry, then the

Count shall not yet know my secret or the extent of my knowl-


40 Dracula

I have given the letters; I threw them through the bars o!

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 sym-

bols 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 dream-

ing. Despair has its own calms.

31 May. This morning when I woke I thought I would pro-

vide 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,

Jonathan Harker’s Journal 41

in fact all that might be useful to me were I once outside the

castle. I sat and pondered awhile, and then some thought oc-

curred 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 over-

coat 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 some-

thing 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.

42 Dracula

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 protec-

tion 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 hi the rays of

the moonlight. They were like the tiniest grains of dust, and they

whirled round and gathered in clusters in a nebulous sort of way.

I watched them with a sense of soothing, and a sort of calm stole

over me. I leaned back in the embrasure in a more comfortable

position, so that I could enjoy more fully the aerial gambolling.

Something made me start up, a low, piteous howling of dogs

somewhere far below in the valley, which was hidden from my

sight. Louder it seemed to ring in my ears, and the floating 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 grad-

ually 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 sup-

pressed; and then there was silence, deep, awful silence, which

Jonathan Marker’s Journal 43

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 ago-

nised 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 her-

self 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 for-

ward, 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 ex-

istence from the earth.

Let me not think of it. Action!

44 Dracula

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 my-

self 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 Here-

after 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 t 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 fur-

niture 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

Jonathan Harker’s Journal 45

less than three hundred years old. There were also chains

and ornaments, some jewelled, but all of them old and


At one corner of the room was a heavy door. I tried it, for,

since I could not find the key of the room or the key of the

outer door, which was the main object of my search, I must make

further examination, or all my efforts would be in vain. It was

open, and led through a stone passage to a circular stairway,

which went steeply down. I descended, minding carefully where

I went, for the stairs were dark, being only lit by loopholes in

the heavy masonry. At the bottom there was a dark, tunnel-

like passage, through which came a deathly, sickly odour, the

odour of old earth newly turned. As I went through the passage

the smell grew closer and heavier. At last I pulled open a heavy

door which stood ajar, and found myself in an old, ruined chapel,

which had evidently been used as a graveyard. The roof was

broken, and in two places were steps leading to vaults, but the

ground had recently been dug over, and the earth placed in great

wooden boxes, manifestly those which had been brought by the

Slovaks. There was nobody about, and I made search for any

further outlet, but there was none. Then I went over every

inch of the ground, so as not to lose a chance. I went down

even into the vaults, where the dim light struggled, although

to do so was a dread to my very soul. Into two of these I went,

but saw nothing except fragments of old coffins and piles of dust;

in the third, however, I made a discovery.

There, in one of the great boxes, of which there were fifty in

all, on a pile of newly dug earth, lay the Count! He was either

dead or asleep, I could not say which for the eyes were open

and stony, but without the glassiness of death and the cheeks

had the warmth of life through all their pallor; the lips were as

red as ever. But there was no sign of movement, no pulse, no

breath, no beating of the heart. I bent over him, and tried to

find any sign of life, but in vain. He could not have lain there

long, for the earthy smell would have passed away in a few

hours. By the side of the box was its cover, pierced with holes

here and there. I thought he might have the keys on him, but

when I went to search I saw the dead eyes, and in them, dead

though they were, such a look of hate, though unconscious of

me or my presence, that I fled from the place, and leaving the

Count’s room by the window, crawled again up the castle wall.

Regaining my room, I threw myself panting upon the bed and

tried to think..

46 Dracula

2Q 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 wea-

pon 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 la-

bours 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 froir Bukovina to Bis-

tritz. 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


«But I would walk with pleasure. I want to get away at once.»

He smiled, such a soft, smooth, diabolical smile that I knew there

was some trick behind his smoothness. He said*

«And your baggage?»

«I do not care about it. I can send for it some other time.»»

The Count stood up, and said, with a sweet courtesy which

made me rub my eyes, it seemed so real:

«You English have a saying which is close to my heart, for

its spirit is that which rules our boyars: «Welcome the coming;

speed the parting guest. ' Come with me, my dear young friend.

Not an hour shall you wait in my house against your will,

though sad am I at your going, and that you so suddenly desire

it. Come!» With a stately gravity, he, with the lamp, preceded

me down the stairs and along the hall. Suddenly he stopped.


Close at hand came the howling of many wolves. It was al-

most as if the sound sprang up at the rising of his hand, just

Jonathan Marker’s Journal 47

as the music of a great orchestra seems to leap under the baton

of the conductor. After a pause of a moment, he proceeded, in

his stately way, to the door, drew back the ponderous bolts,

unhooked the heavy chains, and began to draw it open.

To my intense astonishment I saw that it was unlocked. Sus-

piciously, 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 instiga-

tion. 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 hor-

rible 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 dear!

30 June, morning. These may be the last words I ever write

in this diary. I slept till just before the clawn, and when I woke

threw myself on my knees, for I determined that if Death came

he should find me ready.

48 Dracula

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 Count.

Then a wild desire took me to obtain that key at any risk, and

I determined then and there to scale the wall again and gain

the Count’s room. He might kill me, but death now seemed the

happier choice of evils. Without a pause I rushed up to the east

window, and scrambled down the wall, as before, into the

Count’s room. It was empty, but that was as I expected. I could

not see a key anywhere, but the heap of gold remained. I went

through the door in the corner and down the winding stair and

along the dark passage to the old chapel. I knew now well enough

where to find the monster I sought.

The great box was in the same place, close against the wall,

but the lid fras laid on it, not fastened down, but with the nails

ready in their places to be hammered home. I knew I must

reach the 6ody for the key, so I raised the lid, and laid it back

against foe wall; and then I saw something which filled my very

soul with horror. There lay the Count, but looking as if his

youtA 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 reple-

tion. 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, amongs t

Jonathan Marker’s Journal 49

its teeming millions, satiate his lust for blood, and create a new

and ever-widening circle of semi-demons to batten on the help-

less. The very thought drove me mad. A terrible desire came upon

me to rid the world of such a monster. There was no lethal wea-

pon 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 grow-

ing over me. As I waited I heard in the distance a gipsy song sung

by merry voices coming closer, and through their song the roll-

ing 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 mo-

ment 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

jvas closing round me more closely.

As I write there is in the passage below a sound of many tramp-

ing feet and the crash of weights being set down heavily, doubt-

less 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.

5O Dracula

The door is shut, and the chains rattle; there is a grinding of

the key in the lock; I can hear the key withdraw: then another

door opens and shuts; I hear the creaking of lock and bolt.

Hark! in the courtyard and down the rocky way the roll of

heavy wheels, the crack of whips, and the chorus of the Szgany

as they pass into the distance.

I am alone in the castle with those awful women. Faugh! Mina

is a woman, and there is nought in common. They are devils of

the Pit!

I shall not remain alone with them; I shall try to scale the

castle wall farther than I have yet attempted. I shall take some

of the gold with me, lest I want it later. I may find a way from

this dreadful place.

And then away for home! away to the quickest and nearest

train! away from this cursed spot, from this cursed land, where

the devil and his children still walk with earthly feet!

At least God’s mercy is better than that of these monsters,

and the precipice is steep and high. At its foot a man may sleep

as a man. 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 ring-

ing. 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???»

32 Dracula

Letter, Lucy Westenra to Mina Murray.

«17, Chatham Street,


«My dearest Mina,

«I must say you tax me very unfairly with being a bad corre-

spondent. 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 al-

ready engaged to Jonathan. He is an excellent parti, being hand-

some, 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? / 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

Letters, Etc. 53

this even to you. I am afraid to stop, or I should tear up the let-

ter, 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 prov-

erbs 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 wo-

men, 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 re-

membered 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,

54 Dracula

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

aL present, I feel so miserable, though I am so happy.

11 Evening.

«Arthur has just gone, and I feel in better spirits than when

I left off, so I can go on telling you about the day. Well, my dear,

number Two came after lunch. He is such a nice fellow, an Ameri-

can from Texas, and he looks so youug 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 before-

hand 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

Letters, Etc. 55

well educated and has exquisite manners but he f ouna 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 air 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


«' 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, 1

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 sup-

pose 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.»

«M} 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- aearted, true gentleman. 1 burst into tears I am afraid.

56 Dracula

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 t\iis

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. Mor-

ris’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


«« 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 un-

selfish anyhow. My dear, I’m going to have a pretty lonely

walk between this and Kingdom Come. Won’t you give me one

kiss? It’ll be something to keep off the darkness now and then.

You can, you know, if you like, for that other good fellow he

must be a good fellow, my dear, and a fine fellow, or you could

not love him hasn’t spoken yet. 7 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


««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 JL*am

cryiifg like a baby. Oh, why must a man like that be made un-

happy 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 crji be all


«Ever your loving

«I. UCY.

Letters, Etc. 57

«P.S. Oh, about number Three I needn’t tell you of num-

ber 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 good*

ness to me in sending to me such a lover, such a husband, and

such a friend.


Dr. Seward’s Diary.

(Kept in phonograph)

25 M ay. 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 impor-

tance to be worth the doing. … As I knew that the only cure

for this sort of thing was work, I went down amongst the pa-

tients. 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 Ronuz 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, aetat 59. Sanguine temperament; R 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, f

58 Dracula

is the fixed point, the latter force is paramount, and only acci*

dent or a series of accidents can balance it.

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

11 25 May.

f>: 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 hi 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 dr-ink 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 whining.

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.


«Yours, as ever and always,


Telegram from Arthur Holmwood to Quincey P. Morris.

«26 May.

u Count me in every time. I bear messages which will make

both your ears tingle.



24 July. Whitby. Lucy met me at the station, jookingsweeter

and loj/elie^thaiLe^er, and we drove up to the houseTftnTCres-

cen t irTwhlcf they have rooms. This is a lovely place. The little

river, the Esk, runs through a deep valley, which broadens out

as it comes near the harbour. A great viaduct runs across, with

high piers, through which the view seems somehow further away

than it really is. The valley is beautifully green, and it is so

steep that when you are on the high land on either side you look

right across it, unless you are near enough to see down. The

houses of the old town the side away from us are all red-

roofed, and seem piled up one over the other anyhow, like the

pictures we see of Nuremberg. Right over the town is the ruin

of Whitby Abbey, which was sacked by the Danes, and which

is the scene of part of «Marmion,» where the girl was built up

in the wall. It is a most noble ruin, of immense size, and full of

beautiful and romantic bits; there is a legend that a white lady

is seen in one of the windows. Between it and the town there is

another church, the parish one, round which is a big graveyard,

all full of tombstones. This is to my mind the nicest spot in

Whitby, for it lies right over the town, and has a full view of

the harbour and all up the bay to where the headland called

Kettleness stretches out into the sea. It descends so steeply

over the harbour that part of the bank has fallen away, and some

of the graves have been destroyed. In one place part of the

stonework of the graves stretches out over the sandy pathway

far below. There are walks, with seats beside them, through

the churchyard; and people go and sit there all day long looking

at the beautiful view and enjoying the breeze. I shall come

and sit here very often myself and work. Indeed, I am writing

now, with my book on my knee, and listening to the talk of three

old men who are sitting beside me. They seem to do nothing

all day but sit up here and talk.

The harbour lies below me, with, on the far side, one long

granite wall stretching out into the sea, with a curve outwards

at the end of it, in the middle of which is a lighthouse. A heavy

sea-wall runs along outside of it. On the near side, the sea-wall


60 Dracula

makes an elbow crooked inversely, and its end too has a light-

house. 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 mourn-

ful 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 maseP 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 some-

thing to do with the abbey. I shall go home too. Lucy went out

Mina Murray’s Journal 61

visiting with her mother, and as they were only duty calls, I did

not go. They will be home by this.

i 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 tune 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 7 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 j 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 scowderrnent at the Day

of Judgment when they come tumblin’ up hi their death-sarks,

all jouped together an’ tryin’ to drag their tombsteans with them

to prove how good they was; some of them trimrnlin’ and

ditherin’, with their hands that dozzened an’ slippy from lyin 7

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

62 Dracula

that he was «showing off,» so I put in a word to keep him


«Oh, Mr. Swales, you can’t be serious. Surely these tomb-

stones are not all wrong?»

«Yabblins! There may be a poorish few not wrong, savin :

where they make out the people too good; for there be folk

that do think a balm-bowl be like the sea, if only it be their

own. The whole thing be only lies. Now look you here; you come

here a stranger, an’ you see this kirk-garth.» I nodded, for I

thought it better to assent, though I did not quite understand

his dialect. I knew it had something to do with the church. He

went on: «And you consate that all these steans be aboon folk

that be happed here, snod an’ snog?“ I assented again. „Then

that be just where the lie comes in. Why, there be scores of

these lay-beds that be toom as old Dun’s ’bacca-box on

Friday night.» He nudged one of his companions, and they all

laughed. «And my gog! how could they be otherwise? Look at

that one, the aftest abaft the bier-bank: read it!» I went over

and read:

«Edward Spencelagh, master mariner, murdered by pirates

off the coast of Andres, April, 1854, set. 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

Mina Murray’s Journal 63

have to take their tombstones with them on the Day of Judg-

ment. Do you think that will be really necessary?»

«Well, what else be they tombstones for? Answer me that,


«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 tomb-

stean balanced on his hump, and asks it to be took as evidence!»

I did not know what to say, but Lucy turned the conversation

as she said, rising up:

«Oh, why did you tell us of this? It is my favourite seat, and

I cannot leave it; and now I find I must go on sitting over the

grave of a suicide

«That won’t harm ye, my pretty; an’ it may make poor Geor-

die 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.

64 Dracula

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 redeem-

ing quality is a love of animals, though, indeed, he has such

curious turns in it that I sometimes imagine he is only abnorm-

ally cruel. His pets are of odd sorts. Just now his hobby is catch-

ing 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

Mina Murray’s Journal 65

flies, and the number of the latter is becoming sensibly dimin-

ished, although he has used half his food in attracting more flies

from outside to his room.

j 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 exult-

antly 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

fife 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 Jiily. There is a method in his madness, and the rudimen-

tary 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.

ig July. We are progressing. My friend has now a whole

colony of sparrows, and his flies and spiders are almost obliter-

ated. When I came in he ran to me and said he wanted to ask

me a great favour a very, very great favour; and as he spoke he

fawned on me like a dog. I asked him what it was, and he said,

with a sort of rapture in his voice and bearing:

«A kitten, a nice little, sleek playful kitten, that I can play

with, and teach, and feed and feed and feed!» I was not

66 Dracula

unprepared for this request, for I had noticed how his pets wef. t

on increasing in size and vivacity, but I did not care that his

pretty family of tame sparrows should be wiped out in the same

manner as the flies and the spiders; so I said I would see about it,

and asked him if he would not rather have a cat than a kitten.

His eagerness betrayed him as he answered:

«Oh, yes, I would like a cat! I only asked for a kitten lest you

should refuse me a cat. No one would refuse me a kitten, would

they?» I shook my head, and said that at present I feared it

would not be possible, but that I would see about it. His face

fell, and I could see a warning of danger in it, for there was a

sudden fierce, sidelong look which meant killing. The man is an

undeveloped homicidal maniac. I shall test him with his present

craving and see how it will work out; then I shall know more.

10 p. m. I have visited him again and found him sitting in a

corner brooding. When I came in he threw himself on his knees

before me and implored me to let him have a cat; that his salva-

tion 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!»

ii 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

Mina Murray’s Journal 67

for him, and call him a zoophagous (life-eating) maniac; what he

desires is to absorb as many lives as he can, and he has laid

himself out to achieve it in a cumulative way. He gave many

flies to one spider and many spiders to one bird, and then wanted

a cat to eat the many birds. What would have been his later

steps? It would almost be worth while to complete the experi-

ment. 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-knowl-

edge 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 ac-

count 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

68 Dracula

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 walk-

ing 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 sud-

denly 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

nabit; that he would get up in the night and dress himself and go

out, if he were not stopped. Lucy is to be married hi 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 simply way, and shall

have to try to make both ends meet. Mr. Holmwood he is the

Hon. Arthur Holmwood, only son of Lord Godalming is

coming up here very shortly as soon as he can leave town, for

his father is not very well, and I think dear Lucy is counting

the moments till he comes. She wants to take him up to the seat

on the churchyard cliff and show him the beauty of Whitby. I

daresay it is the waiting which disturbs her; she will be all right

when he arrives.

2*7 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. Holm-

wood 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 anaemic look

which she had. I pray it will all last.

5 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

Mina Murray’s Journal 69

there is an odd concentration about her which I do not under-

stand; 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 Jona-

than 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 lif ts his hat, that he wants to


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 remem-

ber 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

70 Dracula

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 of the greatest and suddenest storms on record has just been

experienced here, with results both strange and unique. The

weather had been somewhat sultry, but not to any degree un-

common 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 hi the neighbour-

hood 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 ap-

proach 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 Kettle-

ness, 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 black-

ness, 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

72 Dracula

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


«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 li vely 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 na. ture 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

Cutting from «The Dailygraph» 7,S

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 thun-

der 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, run-

ning 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

M -r Dracula

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 air

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


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 coast-

guard 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 exarrTne 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

Cutting from «The Dailygraph» 75

Tate H21 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, de-

clared, 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 prop-

erty being held in contravention of the statutes of mortmain,

since the tiller, as emblemship, if not proof, of delegated posses-

sion, 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 begin-

ning 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.

76 Dracula


p 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 hi 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/ 7 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 hi 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

Cutting from «The Dailygraph» 77

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 trans-

lated for me, tune 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 ii 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 1 6 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 th/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

78 Dracula

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 disap-

peared. 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


28 July. Four days in hell, knocking about in a sort of mael-

strom, and the wind a tempest. No sleep for any one. Men all

worn out. Hardly know how to set a watch, since no one fit to go

on. Second mate volunteered to steer and watch, and let men

snatch a few hours’ sleep. Wind abating; seas still terrific, but

feel them less, as ship is steadier.

29 July. Another tragedy. Had single watch to-night, as

crew too tired to double. When morning watch came on deck

Cutting from «The Dailygraph» 79

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.

jo 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. Alter 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

8o Dracula

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 harm-

less 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 de-

liberately 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

Cutting from «The Dailygraph» 81

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


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 wish-

ing 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 life.

Early in the morning we both got up and went down to the

harbour to see if anything had happened in the night. There

were very few people about, and though the sun was bright, and

the air clear and fresh, the big, grim-looking waves, that seemed

dark themselves because the foam that topped them was like

snow, forced themselves in through the narrow mouth of the

harbour like a bullying man going through a crowd. Somehow

I felt glad that Jonathan was not on the sea last night, but on

land. But, oh, is he on land or sea? Where is he, and how? I am

getting fearfully anxious about him. If I only knew what to do,

aad could do anything!

82 Dracula

10 August. The funeral of the poor sea-captain to-day was

most touching. Every boat in the harbour seeme’oV to be there,

and the coffin was carried by captains all the way from’TTate Hill

Pier up to the churchyard. Lucy came with me, and we went

early to our old seat, whilst the cortege of boats went up the river

to the Viaduct and came down again. We had a lovely view, and

saw the procession nearly all the way. The poor fellow was laid

to rest 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 rest-

lessness; 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

d’o». 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 bris-

tling 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. Ij^eatly, f par that

she is_of Jtoo super-sensitive a nature to go through the world

without trouble. She will be dreaming of this to-night, I am sure.

TEe whole agglomeration of things the ship steered into port

Cutting from «The Dailygraph» 83

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 wi 1! 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, n 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 the>

may be pressed to, and who will know when girls are tired. Luc}

is asleep and breathing softly. She has more colour in her cheek

than usual, and looks, oh, so sweet. If Mr. Holmwood fell in lov

with her seeing her only in the drawing-room, I wonder what h

would say if he saw her now. Some of the «New Women" writer

will some day start an idea that men and women should

allowed to see each other asleep before proposing or accepting

But I suppose the New Woman won’t condescend in future t

accept; she will do the proposing herself. And a nice job she wi

make of it, too! There’s some consolation in that. I am so happ

to-night, because dear Lucy seems better. I really believe sh

has turned the corner, and that we are over her troubles wit

dreaming. I should be quite happy if I only knew if Jonathan..

God bless and keep him.


Mina Murray’s Journal 8$

ii 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 ad-

venture, 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

^ucy’s bed; I stole across and felt for her. The bed was empty. I

it 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

t 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 ob-

scured 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 dio-

rama 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. What-

ever 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

86 Dracula

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 1

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. Hei

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 he:

sleep and pulled the collar of her nightdress close around he

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, an <

drew the edges tight round her neck, for I dreaded lest she shouL

get some deadly chill from the night air, unclad as she was.

feared to wake her all at once, so, in order to have my hands fre

that I might help her, I fastened the shawl at her throat with

big safety-pin; but I must have been clumsy in my anxiety an

pinched or pricked her with it, for by-and-by, when her breathir

became quieter, she put her hand to her throat again and moane’

When I had her carefully wrapped up I put my shoes on her fee

and then began very gently to wake her. At first she did n

respond; but gradually she became more and more uneasy in h

sleep, moaning and sighing occasionally. At last, as time w

passing fast, and, for many other reasons, I wished to get h

home at once, I shook her more forcibly, till finally she open

Mina Murray’s Journal 87

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

vas a puddle of water, remaining from the storm, I daubed my

eet with mud, using each foot in turn on the other, so that as

ve went home, no one, in case we should meet any one, should,

lotice my bare feet.

Fortune favoured us, and we got home without meeting a

oul. Once we saw a man, who seemed not quite sober, passing

Jong a street in front of us; but we hid in a door till he had

isappeared up an opening such as there are here, steep little

loses, or «wynds,» as they call them in Scotland. My heart

3eat so loud all the time that sometimes I thought I should faint,

was filled with anxiety about Lucy, not only for her health,

est she should suffer from the exposure, but for her reputation

n case the story should get wind. When we got in, and had

vashed our feet, and had said a prayer of thankfulness together,

tucked her into bed. Before falling asleep she asked even

mplored me not to: say a word to any one, even her mother,

.bout her sleep-walking adventure. I hesitated at first to prom-

se; but on thinking of the state of her mother’s health, and how

he knowledge of such a thing would fret her, and thinking, too,

> f howi such a story might become distorted nay, infallibly

vould in case it should leak out, I thought it wiser to do so. I

lope I did right. I have locked the door, and the key is tied to my

s r rist, so perhaps I shall not be again disturbed. Lucy is sleeping

oundly; the reflex of the dawn is high and far over the sea….

Sams day, noon. All goes well. Lucy slept till I woke her and

eemed not to have even changed her side. The adventure of the

tight does not seem to have harmed her; on the contrary, it has

> enefited her, for she looks better this morning than she has done

or weeks. I was sorry to notice that my clumsiness with the

afety-pin hurt her. Indeed, it might have been serious, for the

kin of her throat was pierced. I must have pinched up a piece

88 Dracula

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. Fortu-

nately it cannot leave a scar, as it is so tiny.

Same day t 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

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