book, newspaper, or even writing materials, so I opened another
door in the room and found a sort of library. The door opposite
mine I tried, but found locked.
In the library I found, to my great delight, a vast number of
English books, whole shelves full of them, and bound volumes of
magazines and newspapers. A table in the center was littered with
English magazines and newspapers, though none of them were of very
recent date. The books were of the most varied kind, history,
geography, politics, political economy, botany, geology, law, all
relating to England and English life and customs and manners. There
were even such books of reference as the London Directory, the
"Red" and "Blue" books, Whitaker's Almanac, the Army and Navy
Lists, and it somehow gladdened my heart to see it, the Law
List.
Whilst I was looking at the books, the door opened, and the
Count entered. He saluted me in a hearty way, and hoped that I had
had a good night's rest. Then he went on.
"I am glad you found your way in here, for I am sure there is
much that will interest you. These companions," and he laid his
hand on some of the books, "have been good friends to me, and for
some years past, ever since I had the idea of going to London, have
given me many, many hours of pleasure. Through them I have come to
know your great England, and to know her is to love her. I long to
go through the crowded streets of your mighty London, to be in the
midst of the whirl and rush of humanity, to share its life, its
change, its death, and all that makes it what it is. But alas! As
yet I only know your tongue through books. To you, my friend, I
look that I know it to speak."
"But, Count," I said, "You know and speak English thoroughly!"
He bowed gravely.
"I thank you, my friend, for your all too-flattering estimate,
but yet I fear that I am but a little way on the road I would
travel. True, I know the grammar and the words, but yet I know not
how to speak them.
"Indeed," I said, "You speak excellently."how to speak them.
"Indeed," I said, "You speak excellently."
"Not so," he answered. "Well, I know that, did I move and speak
in your London, none there are who would not know me for a
stranger. That is not enough for me. Here I am noble. I am a Boyar.
The common people know me, and I am master. But a stranger in a
strange land, he is no one. Men know him not, and to know not is to
care not for. I am content if I am like the rest, so that no man
stops if he sees me, or pauses in his speaking if he hears my
words, `Ha, ha! A stranger!' I have been so long master that I
would be master still, or at least that none other should be master
of me. You come to me not alone as agent of my friend Peter
Hawkins, of Exeter, to tell me all about my new estate in London.
You shall, I trust, rest here with me a while, so that by our
talking I may learn the English intonation. And I would that you
tell me when I make error, even of the smallest, in my speaking. I
am sorry that I had to be away so long today, but you will, I know
forgive one who has so many important affairs in hand." Of course I
said all I could about being willing, and asked if I might come
into that room when I chose. He answered, "Yes, certainly," and
added.
"You may go anywhere you wish in the castle, except where the
doors are locked, where of course you will not wish to go. There is
reason that all things are as they are, and did you see with my
eyes and know with my knowledge, you would perhaps better
understand." I said I was sure of this, and then he went on.
"We are in Transylvania, and Transylvania is not England. Our
ways are not your ways, and there shall be to you many strange
things. Nay, from what you have told me of your experiences
already, you know something of what strange things there may
be."
This led to much conversation, and as it was evident that he
wanted to talk, if only for talking's sake, I asked him many
questions regarding things that had already happened to me or comequestions regarding things that had already happened to me or come
within my notice. Sometimes he sheered off the subject, or turned
the conversation by pretending not to understand, but generally he
answered all I asked most frankly. Then as time went on, and I had
got somewhat bolder, I asked him of some of the strange things of
the preceding night, as for instance, why the coachman went to the
places where he had seen the blue flames. He then explained to me
that it was commonly believed that on a certain night of the year,
last night, in fact, when all evil spirits are supposed to have
unchecked sway, a blue flame is seen over any place where treasure
has been concealed.
"That treasure has been hidden," he went on, "in the region
through which you came last night, there can be but little doubt.
For it was the ground fought over for centuries by the Wallachian,
the Saxon, and the Turk. Why, there is hardly a foot of soil in all
this region that has not been enriched by the blood of men,
patriots or invaders. In the old days there were stirring times,
when the Austrian and the Hungarian came up in hordes, and the
patriots went out to meet them, men and women, the aged and the
children too, and waited their coming on the rocks above the
passes, that they might sweep destruction on them with their
artificial avalanches. When the invader was triumphant he found but
little, for whatever there was had been sheltered in the friendly
soil."
"But how," said I, "can it have remained so long undiscovered,
when there is a sure index to it if men will but take the trouble
to look? "The Count smiled, and as his lips ran back over his gums,
the long, sharp, canine teeth showed out strangely. He
answered.
"Because your peasant is at heart a coward and a fool! Those
flames only appear on one night, and on that night no man of this
land will, if he can help it, stir without his doors. And, dear
sir, even if he did he would not know what to do. Why, even the
peasant that you tell me of who marked the place of the flame would


peasant that you tell me of who marked the place of the flame would
not know where to look in daylight even for his own work. Even you
would not, I dare be sworn, be able to find these places
again?"
"There you are right," I said. "I know no more than the dead
where even to look for them." Then we drifted into other
matters.
"Come," he said at last, "tell me of London and of the house
which you have procured for me." With an apology for my remissness,
I went into my own room to get the papers from my bag. Whilst I was
placing them in order I heard a rattling of china and silver in the
next room, and as I passed through, noticed that the table had been
cleared and the lamp lit, for it was by this time deep into the
dark. The lamps were also lit in the study or library, and I found
the Count lying on the sofa, reading, of all things in the world,
and English Bradshaw's Guide. When I came in he cleared the books
and papers from the table, and with him I went into plans and deeds
and figures of all sorts. He was interested in everything, and
asked me a myriad questions about the place and its surroundings.
He clearly had studied beforehand all he could get on the subject
of the neighborhood, for he evidently at the end knew very much
more than I did. When I remarked this, he answered.
"Well, but, my friend, is it not needful that I should? When I
go there I shall be all alone, and my friend Harker Jonathan, nay,
pardon me. I fall into my country's habit of putting your
patronymic first, my friend Jonathan Harker will not be by my side
to correct and aid me. He will be in Exeter, miles away, probably
working at papers of the law with my other friend, Peter Hawkins.
So!"
We went thoroughly into the business of the purchase of the
estate at Purfleet. When I had told him the facts and got his
signature to the necessary papers, and had written a letter with
them ready to post to Mr. Hawkins, he began to ask me how I had
come across so suitable a place. I read to him the notes which Icome across so suitable a place. I read to him the notes which I
had made at the time, and which I inscribe here.
"At Purfleet, on a by-road, I came across just such a place as
seemed to be required, and where was displayed a dilapidated notice
that the place was for sale. It was surrounded by a high wall, of
ancient structure, built of heavy stones, and has not been repaired
for a large number of years. The closed gates are of heavy old oak
and iron, all eaten with rust.
"The estate is called Carfax, no doubt a corruption of the old
Quatre Face, as the house is four sided, agreeing with the cardinal
points of the compass. It contains in all some twenty acres, quite
surrounded by the solid stone wall above mentioned. There are many
trees on it, which make it in places gloomy, and there is a deep,
dark-looking pond or small lake, evidently fed by some springs, as
the water is clear and flows away in a fair-sized stream. The house
is very large and of all periods back, I should say, to mediaeval
times, for one part is of stone immensely thick, with only a few
windows high up and heavily barred with iron. It looks like part of
a keep, and is close to an old chapel or church. I could not enter
it, as I had not the key of the door leading to it from the house,
but I have taken with my Kodak views of it from various points. The
house had been added to, but in a very straggling way, and I can
only guess at the amount of ground it covers, which must be very
great. There are but few houses close at hand, one being a very
large house only recently added to and formed into a private
lunatic asylum. It is not, however, visible from the grounds."
When I had finished, he said, "I am glad that it is old and big.
I myself am of an old family, and to live in a new house would kill
me. A house cannot be made habitable in a day, and after all, how
few days go to make up a century. I rejoice also that there is a
chapel of old times. We Transylvanian nobles love not to think thatchapel of old times. We Transylvanian nobles love not to think that
our bones may lie amongst the common dead. I seek not gaiety nor
mirth, not the bright voluptuousness of much sunshine and sparkling
waters which please the young and gay. I am no longer young, and my
heart, through weary years of mourning over the dead, is attuned to
mirth. Moreover, the walls of my castle are broken. The shadows are
many, and the wind breathes cold through the broken battlements and
casements. I love the shade and the shadow, and would be alone with
my thoughts when I may." Somehow his words and his look did not
seem to accord, or else it was that his cast of face made his smile
look malignant and saturnine.
Presently, with an excuse, he left me, asking me to pull my
papers together. He was some little time away, and I began to look
at some of the books around me. One was an atlas, which I found
opened naturally to England, as if that map had been much used. On
looking at it I found in certain places little rings marked, and on
examining these I noticed that one was near London on the east
side, manifestly where his new estate was situated. The other two
were Exeter, and Whitby on the Yorkshire coast.
It was the better part of an hour when the Count returned.
"Aha!" he said. "Still at your books? Good! But you must not work
always. Come! I am informed that your supper is ready." He took my
arm, and we went into the next room, where I found an excellent
supper ready on the table. The Count again excused himself, as he
had dined out on his being away from home. But he sat as on the
previous night, and chatted whilst I ate. After supper I smoked, as
on the last evening, and the Count stayed with me, chatting and
asking questions on every conceivable subject, hour after hour. I
felt that it was getting very late indeed, but I did not say
anything, for I felt under obligation to meet my host's wishes in
every way. I was not sleepy, as the long sleep yesterday had
fortified me, but I could not help experiencing that chill which


fortified me, but I could not help experiencing that chill which
comes over one at the coming of the dawn, which is like, in its
way, the turn of the tide. They say that people who are near death
die generally at the change to dawn or at the turn of the tide.
Anyone who has when tired, and tied as it were to his post,
experienced this change in the atmosphere can well believe it. All
at once we heard the crow of the cock coming up with preternatural
shrillness through the clear morning air.
Count Dracula, jumping to his feet, said, "Why there is the
morning again! How remiss I am to let you stay up so long. You must
make your conversation regarding my dear new country of England
less interesting, so that I may not forget how time flies by us,"
and with a courtly bow, he quickly left me.
I went into my room and drew the curtains, but there was little
to notice. My window opened into the courtyard, all I could see was
the warm grey of quickening sky. So I pulled the curtains again,
and have written of this day.
8 May.—I began to fear as I wrote in this book that I was
getting too diffuse. But now I am glad that I went into detail from
the first, for there is something so strange about this place and
all in it that I cannot but feel uneasy. I wish I were safe out of
it, or that I had never come. It may be that this strange night
existence is telling on me, but would that that were all! If there
were any one to talk to I could bear it, but there is no one. I
have only the Count to speak with, and he— I fear I am myself the
only living soul within the place. Let me be prosaiac so far as
facts can be. It will help me to bear up, and imagination must not
run riot with me. If it does I am lost. Let me say at once how I
stand, or seem to.
I only slept a few hours when I went to bed, and feeling that I
could not sleep any more, got up. I had hung my shaving glass by
the window, and was just beginning to shave. Suddenly I felt a hand
on my shoulder, and heard the Count's voice saying to me, "Goodon my shoulder, and heard the Count's voice saying to me, "Good
morning." I started, for it amazed me that I had not seen him,
since the reflection of the glass covered the whole room behind me.
In starting I had cut myself slightly, but did not notice it at the
moment. Having answered the Count's salutation, I turned to the
glass again to see how I had been mistaken. This time there could
be no error, for the man was close to me, and I could see him over
my shoulder. But there was no reflection of him in the mirror! The
whole room behind me was displayed, but there was no sign of a man
in it, except myself.
This was startling, and coming on the top of so many strange
things, was beginning to increase that vague feeling of uneasiness
which I always have when the Count is near. But at the instant I
saw the the cut had bled a little, and the blood was trickling over
my chin. I laid down the razor, turning as I did so half round to
look for some sticking plaster. When the Count saw my face, his
eyes blazed with a sort of demoniac fury, and he suddenly made a
grab at my throat. I drew away and his hand touched the string of
beads which held the crucifix. It made an instant change in him,
for the fury passed so quickly that I could hardly believe that it
was ever there.
"Take care," he said, "take care how you cut yourself. It is
more dangerous that you think in this country." Then seizing the
shaving glass, he went on, "And this is the wretched thing that has
done the mischief. It is a foul bauble of man's vanity. Away with
it!" And opening the window with one wrench of his terrible hand,
he flung out the glass, which was shattered into a thousand pieces
on the stones of the courtyard far below. Then he withdrew without
a word. It is very annoying, for I do not see how I am to shave,
unless in my watch-case or the bottom of the shaving pot, which is
fortunately of metal.
When I went into the dining room, breakfast was prepared, but I
could not find the Count anywhere. So I breakfasted alone. It iscould not find the Count anywhere. So I breakfasted alone. It is
strange that as yet I have not seen the Count eat or drink. He must
be a very peculiar man! After breakfast I did a little exploring in
the castle. I went out on the stairs, and found a room looking
towards the South.
The view was magnificent, and from where I stood there was every
opportunity of seeing it. The castle is on the very edge of a
terrific precipice. A stone falling from the window would fall a
thousand feet without touching anything! As far as the eye can
reach is a sea of green tree tops, with occasionally a deep rift
where there is a chasm. Here and there are silver threads where the
rivers wind in deep gorges through the forests.
But I am not in heart to describe beauty, for when I had seen
the view I explored further. Doors, doors, doors everywere, and all
locked and bolted. In no place save from the windows in the castle
walls is there an available exit. The castle is a veritable prison,
and I am a prisoner!When I found that I was a prisoner a sort of wild feeling came
over me. I rushed up and down the stairs, trying every door and
peering out of every window I could find, but after a little the
conviction of my helplessness overpowered all other feelings. When
I look back after a few hours I think I must have been mad for the
time, for I behaved much as a rat does in a trap. When, however,
the conviction had come to me that I was helpless I sat down
quietly, as quietly as I have ever done anything in my life, and
began to think over what was best to be done. I am thinking still,
and as yet have come to no definite conclusion. Of one thing only
am I certain. That it is no use making my ideas known to the Count.
He knows well that I am imprisoned, and as he has done it himself,
and has doubtless his own motives for it, he would only deceive me
if I trusted him fully with the facts. So far as I can see, my only
plan will be to keep my knowledge and my fears to myself, and my
eyes open. I am, I know, either being deceived, like a baby, by my
own fears, or else I am in desperate straits, and if the latter be
so, I need, and shall need, all my brains to get through.
I had hardly come to this conclusion when I heard the great door
below shut, and knew that the Count had returned. He did not come
at once into the library, so I went cautiously to my own room and
found him making the bed. This was odd, but only confirmed what I
had all along thought, that there are no servants in the house.
When later I saw him through the chink of the hinges of the door
laying the table in the dining room, I was assured of it. For if he
does himself all these menial offices, surely it is proof that
there is no one else in the castle, it must have been the Count
himself who was the driver of the coach that brought me here. This
is a terrible thought, for if so, what does it mean that he could
control the wolves, as he did, by only holding up his hand for
silence? How was it that all the people at Bistritz and on the


silence? How was it that all the people at Bistritz and on the
coach had some terrible fear for me? What meant the giving of the
crucifix, of the garlic, of the wild rose, of the mountain ash?
Bless that good, good woman who hung the crucifix round my neck!
For it is a comfort and a strength to me whenever I touch it. It is
odd that a thing which I have been taught to regard with disfavour
and as idolatrous should in a time of loneliness and trouble be of
help. Is it that there is something in the essence of the thing
itself, or that it is a medium, a tangible help, in conveying
memories of sympathy and comfort? Some time, if it may be, I must
examine this matter and try to make up my mind about it. In the
meantime I must find out all I can about Count Dracula, as it may
help me to understand. Tonight he may talk of himself, if I turn
the conversation that way. I must be very careful, however, not to
awake his suspicion.
Midnight.—I have had a long talk with the Count. I asked him a
few questions on Transylvania history, and he warmed up to the
subject wonderfully. In his speaking of things and people, and
especially of battles, he spoke as if he had been present at them
all. This he afterwards explained by saying that to a Boyar the
pride of his house and name is his own pride, that their glory is
his glory, that their fate is his fate. Whenever he spoke of his
house he always said "we", and spoke almost in the plural, like a
king speaking. I wish I could put down all he said exactly as he
said it, for to me it was most fascinating. It seemed to have in it
a whole history of the country. He grew excited as he spoke, and
walked about the room pulling his great white moustache and
grasping anything on which he laid his hands as though he would
crush it by main strength. One thing he said which I shall put down
as nearly as I can, for it tells in its way the story of his
race.
"We Szekelys have a right to be proud, for in our veins flows
the blood of many brave races who fought as the lion fights, forthe blood of many brave races who fought as the lion fights, for
lordship. Here, in the whirlpool of European races, the Ugric tribe
bore down from Iceland the fighting spirit which Thor and Wodin
game them, which their Berserkers displayed to such fell intent on
the seaboards of Europe, aye, and of Asia and Africa too, till the
peoples thought that the werewolves themselves had come. Here, too,
when they came, they found the Huns, whose warlike fury had swept
the earth like a living flame, till the dying peoples held that in
their veins ran the blood of those old witches, who, expelled from
Scythia had mated with the devils in the desert. Fools, fools! What
devil or what witch was ever so great as Attila, whose blood is in
these veins?" He held up his arms. "Is it a wonder that we were a
conquering race, that we were proud, that when the Magyar, the
Lombard, the Avar, the Bulgar, or the Turk poured his thousands on
our frontiers, we drove them back? Is it strange that when Arpad
and his legions swept through the Hungarian fatherland he found us
here when he reached the frontier, that the Honfoglalas was
completed there?And when the Hungarian flood swept eastward, the
Szekelys were claimed as kindred by the victorious Magyars, and to
us for centuries was trusted the guarding of the frontier of
Turkeyland. Aye, and more than that, endless duty of the frontier
guard, for as the Turks say, `water sleeps, and the enemy is
sleepless.' Who more gladly than we throughout the Four Nations
received the `bloody sword,' or at its warlike call flocked quicker
to the standard of the King? When was redeemed that great shame of
my nation, the shame of Cassova, when the flags of the Wallach and
the Magyar went down beneath the Crescent?Who was it but one of my
own race who as Voivode crossed the Danube and beat the Turk on his
own ground? This was a Dracula indeed! Woe was it that his own
unworthy brother, when he had fallen, sold his people to the Turk
and brought the shame of slavery on them! Was it not this Dracula,and brought the shame of slavery on them! Was it not this Dracula,
indeed, who inspired that other of his race who in a later age
again and again brought his forces over the great river into
Turkeyland, who, when he was beaten back, came again, and again,
though he had to come alone from the bloody field where his troops
were being slaughtered, since he knew that he alone could
ultimately triumph! They said that he thought only of himself. Bah!
What good are peasants without a leader? Where ends the war without
a brain and heart to conduct it? Again, when, after the battle of
Mohacs, we threw off the Hungarian yoke, we of the Dracula blood
were amongst their leaders, for our spirit would not brook that we
were not free. Ah, young sir, the Szekelys, and the Dracula as
their heart's blood, their brains, and their swords, can boast a
record that mushroom growths like the Hapsburgs and the Romanoffs
can never reach. The warlike days are over. Blood is too precious a
thing in these days of dishonourable peace, and the glories of the
great races are as a tale that is told."
It was by this time close on morning, and we went to bed. (Mem.,
this diary seems horribly like the beginning of the "Arabian
Nights," for everything has to break off at cockcrow, or like the
ghost of Hamlet's father.)
12 May.—Let me begin with facts, bare, meager facts, verified by
books and figures, and of which there can be no doubt. I must not
confuse them with experiences which will have to rest on my own
observation, or my memory of them. Last evening when the Count came
from his room he began by asking me questions on legal matters and
on the doing of certain kinds of business. I had spent the day
wearily over books, and, simply to keep my mind occupied, went over
some of the matters I had been examined in at Lincoln's Inn. There
was a certain method in the Count's inquiries, so I shall try to
put them down in sequence. The knowledge may somehow or some time
be useful to me.
First, he asked if a man in England might have two solicitors or


be useful to me.
First, he asked if a man in England might have two solicitors or
more. I told him he might have a dozen if he wished, but that it
would not be wise to have more than one solicitor engaged in one
transaction, as only one could act at a time, and that to change
would be certain to militate against his interest. He seemed
thoroughly to understand, and went on to ask if there would be any
practical difficulty in having one man to attend, say, to banking,
and another to look after shipping, in case local help were needed
in a place far from the home of the banking solicitor. I asked to
explain more fully, so that I might not by any chance mislead him,
so he said,
"I shall illustrate. Your friend and mine, Mr. Peter Hawkins,
from under the shadow of your beautiful cathedral at Exeter, which
is far from London, buys for me through your good self my place at
London. Good! Now here let me say frankly, lest you should think it
strange that I have sought the services of one so far off from
London instead of some one resident there, that my motive was that
no local interest might be served save my wish only, and as one of
London residence might, perhaps, have some purpose of himself or
friend to serve, I went thus afield to seek my agent, whose labours
should be only to my interest. Now, suppose I, who have much of
affairs, wish to ship goods, say, to Newcastle, or Durham, or
Harwich, or Dover, might it not be that it could with more ease be
done by consigning to one in these ports?"
I answered that certainly it would be most easy, but that we
solicitors had a system of agency one for the other, so that local
work could be done locally on instruction from any solicitor, so
that the client, simply placing himself in the hands of one man,
could have his wishes carried out by him without further
trouble.
"But," said he,"I could be at liberty to direct myself. Is it
not so?"
"Of course, " I replied, and "Such is often done by men of
business, who do not like the whole of their affairs to be known bybusiness, who do not like the whole of their affairs to be known by
any one person."
"Good!" he said, and then went on to ask about the means of
making consignments and the forms to be gone through, and of all
sorts of difficulties which might arise, but by forethought could
be guarded against. I explained all these things to him to the best
of my ability, and he certainly left me under the impression that
he would have made a wonderful solicitor, for there was nothing
that he did not think of or foresee. For a man who was never in the
country, and who did not evidently do much in the way of business,
his knowledge and acumen were wonderful. When he had satisfied
himself on these points of which he had spoken, and I had verified
all as well as I could by the books available, he suddenly stood up
and said, "Have you written since your first letter to our friend
Mr. Peter Hawkins, or to any other?"
It was with some bitterness in my heart that I answered that I
had not, that as yet I had not seen any opportunity of sending
letters to anybody.
"Then write now, my young friend," he said, laying a heavy hand
on my shoulder, "write to our friend and to any other, and say, if
it will please you, that you shall stay with me until a month from
now."
"Do you wish me to stay so long?" I asked, for my heart grew
cold at the thought.
"I desire it much, nay I will take no refusal. When your master,
employer, what you will, engaged that someone should come on his
behalf, it was understood that my needs only were to be consulted.
I have not stinted. Is it not so?"
What could I do but bow acceptance? It was Mr. Hawkins'
interest, not mine, and I had to think of him, not myself, and
besides, while Count Dracula was speaking, there was that in his
eyes and in his bearing which made me remember that I was a
prisoner, and that if I wished it I could have no choice. The Count
saw his victory in my bow, and his mastery in the trouble of my
face, for he began at once to use them, but in his own smooth,
resistless way.face, for he began at once to use them, but in his own smooth,
resistless way.
"I pray you, my good young friend, that you will not discourse
of things other than business in your letters. It will doubtless
please your friends to know that you are well, and that you look
forward to getting home to them. Is it not so?" As he spoke he
handed me three sheets of note paper and three envelopes. They were
all of the thinnest foreign post, and looking at them, then at him,
and noticing his quiet smile, with the sharp, canine teeth lying
over the red underlip, I understood as well as if he had spoken
that I should be more careful what I wrote, for he would be able to
read it. So I determined to write only formal notes now, but to
write fully to Mr. Hawkins in secret, and also to Mina, for to her
I could write shorthand, which would puzzle the Count, if he did
see it. When I had written my two letters I sat quiet, reading a
book whilst the Count wrote several notes, referring as he wrote
them to some books on his table. Then he took up my two and placed
them with his own, and put by his writing materials, after which,
the instant the door had closed behind him, I leaned over and
looked at the letters, which were face down on the table. I felt no
compunction in doing so for under the circumstances I felt that I
should protect myself in every way I could.
One of the letters was directed to Samuel F. Billington, No. 7,
The Crescent, Whitby, another to Herr Leutner, Varna. The third was
to Coutts & Co., London, and the fourth to Herren Klopstock
& Billreuth, bankers, Buda Pesth. The second and fourth were
unsealed. I was just about to look at them when I saw the door
handle move. I sank back in my seat, having just had time to resume
my book before the Count, holding still another letter in his hand,
entered the room. He took up the letters on the table and stamped
them carefully, and then turning to me, said,
"I trust you will forgive me, but I have much work to do in


"I trust you will forgive me, but I have much work to do in
private this evening. You will, I hope, find all things as you
wish." At the door he turned, and after a moment's pause said, "Let
me advise you, my dear young friend. Nay, let me warn you with all
seriousness, that should you leave these rooms you will not by any
chance go to sleep in any other part of the castle. It is old, and
has many memories, and there are bad dreams for those who sleep
unwisely. Be warned! Should sleep now or ever overcome you, or be
like to do, then haste to your own chamber or to these rooms, for
your rest will then be safe. But if you be not careful in this
respect, then," He finished his speech in a gruesome way, for he
motioned with his hands as if he were washing them. I quite
understood. My only doubt was as to whether any dream could be more
terrible than the unnatural, horrible net of gloom and mystery
which seemed closing around me.
Later.—I endorse the last words written, but this time there is
no doubt in question. I shall not fear to sleep in any place where
he is not. I have placed the crucifix over the head of my bed, I
imagine that my rest is thus freer from dreams, and there it shall
remain.
When he left me I went to my room. After a little while, not
hearing any sound, I came out and went up the stone stair to where
I could look out towards the South. There was some sense of freedom
in the vast expanse, inaccessible though it was to me, as compared
with the narrow darkness of the courtyard. Looking out on this, I
felt that I was indeed in prison, and I seemed to want a breath of
fresh air, though it were of the night. I am beginning to feel this
nocturnal existence tell on me. It is destroying my nerve. I start
at my own shadow, and am full of all sorts of horrible imaginings.
God knows that there is ground for my terrible fear in this
accursed place!I looked out over the beautiful expanse, bathed in
soft yellow moonlight till it was almost as light as day. In thesoft yellow moonlight till it was almost as light as day. In the
soft light the distant hills became melted, and the shadows in the
valleys and gorges of velvety blackness. The mere beauty seemed to
cheer me. There was peace and comfort in every breath I drew. As I
leaned from the window my eye was caught by something moving a
storey below me, and somewhat to my left, where I imagined, from
the order of the rooms, that the windows of the Count's own room
would look out. The window at which I stood was tall and deep,
stone-mullioned, and though weatherworn, was still complete. But it
was evidently many a day since the case had been there. I drew back
behind the stonework, and looked carefully out.
What I saw was the Count's head coming out from the window. I
did not see the face, but I knew the man by the neck and the
movement of his back and arms. In any case I could not mistake the
hands which I had had some many opportunities of studying. I was at
first interested and somewhat amused, for it is wonderful how small
a matter will interest and amuse a man when he is a prisoner. But
my very feelings changed to repulsion and terror when I saw the
whole man slowly emerge from the window and begin to crawl down the
castle wall over the dreadful abyss, face down with his cloak
spreading out around him like great wings. At first I could not
believe my eyes. I thought it was some trick of the moonlight, some
weird effect of shadow, but I kept looking, and it could be no
delusion. I saw the fingers and toes grasp the corners of the
stones, worn clear of the mortar by the stress of years, and by
thus using every projection and inequality move downwards with
considerable speed, just as a lizard moves along a wall.
What manner of man is this, or what manner of creature, is it in
the semblance of man? I feel the dread of this horrible place
overpowering me. I am in fear, in awful fear, and there is no
escape for me. I am encompassed about with terrors that I dare not
think of.escape for me. I am encompassed about with terrors that I dare not
think of.
15 May.—Once more I have seen the count go out in his lizard
fashion. He moved downwards in a sidelong way, some hundred feet
down, and a good deal to the left. He vanished into some hole or
window. When his head had disappeared, I leaned out to try and see
more, but without avail. The distance was too great to allow a
proper angle of sight. I knew he had left the castle now, and
thought to use the opportunity to explore more than I had dared to
do as yet. I went back to the room, and taking a lamp, tried all
the doors. They were all locked, as I had expected, and the locks
were comparatively new. But I went down the stone stairs to the
hall where I had entered originally. I found I could pull back the
bolts easily enough and unhook the great chains. But the door was
locked, and the key was gone! That key must be in the Count's room.
I must watch should his door be unlocked, so that I may get it and
escape. I went on to make a thorough examination of the various
stairs and passages, and to try the doors that opened from them.
One or two small rooms near the hall were open, but there was
nothing to see in them except old furniture, dusty with age and
moth-eaten. At last, however, I found one door at the top of the
stairway which, though it seemed locked, gave a little under
pressure. I tried it harder, and found that it was not really
locked, but that the resistance came from the fact that the hinges
had fallen somewhat, and the heavy door rested on the floor. Here
was an opportunity which I might not have again, so I exerted
myself, and with many efforts forced it back so that I could enter.
I was now in a wing of the castle further to the right than the
rooms I knew and a storey lower down. From the windows I could see
that the suite of rooms lay along to the south of the castle, the
windows of the end room looking out both west and south. On the
latter side, as well as to the former, there was a great precipice.


latter side, as well as to the former, there was a great precipice.
The castle was built on the corner of a great rock, so that on
three sides it was quite impregnable, and great windows were placed
here where sling, or bow, or culverin could not reach, and
consequently light and comfort, impossible to a position which had
to be guarded, were secured. To the west was a great valley, and
then, rising far away, great jagged mountain fastnesses, rising
peak on peak, the sheer rock studded with mountain ash and thorn,
whose roots clung in cracks and crevices and crannies of the stone.
This was evidently the portion of the castle occupied by the ladies
in bygone days, for the furniture had more an air of comfort than
any I had seen.
The windows were curtainless, and the yellow moonlight, flooding
in through the diamond panes, enabled one to see even colours,
whilst it softened the wealth of dust which lay over all and
disguised in some measure the ravages of time and moth. My lamp
seemed to be of little effect in the brilliant moonlight, but I was
glad to have it with me, for there was a dread loneliness in the
place which chilled my heart and made my nerves tremble. Still, it
was better than living alone in the rooms which I had come to hate
from the presence of the Count, and after trying a little to school
my nerves, I found a soft quietude come over me. Here I am, sitting
at a little oak table where in old times possibly some fair lady
sat to pen, with much thought and many blushes, her ill-spelt love
letter, and writing in my diary in shorthand all that has happened
since I closed it last. It is the nineteenth century up-to-date
with a vengeance. And yet, unless my senses deceive me, the old
centuries had, and have, powers of their own which mere "modernity"
cannot kill.
Later: The morning of 16 May.—God preserve my sanity, for to
this I am reduced. Safety and the assurance of safety are things of
the past. Whilst I live on here there is but one thing to hope for,the past. Whilst I live on here there is but one thing to hope for,
that I may not go mad, if, indeed, I be not mad already. If I be
sane, then surely it is maddening to think that of all the foul
things that lurk in this hateful place the Count is the least
dreadful to me, that to him alone I can look for safety, even
though this be only whilst I can serve his purpose. Great God!
Merciful God, let me be calm, for out of that way lies madness
indeed. I begin to get new lights on certain things which have
puzzled me. Up to now I never quite knew what Shakespeare meant
when he made Hamlet say, "My tablets! Quick, my tablets! `tis meet
that I put it down," etc., For now, feeling as though my own brain
were unhinged or as if the shock had come which must end in its
undoing, I turn to my diary for repose. The habit of entering
accurately must help to soothe me.
The Count's mysterious warning frightened me at the time. It
frightens me more not when I think of it, for in the future he has
a fearful hold upon me. I shall fear to doubt what he may say!
When I had written in my diary and had fortunately replaced the
book and pen in my pocket I felt sleepy. The Count's warning came
into my mind, but I took pleasure in disobeying it. The sense of
sleep was upon me, and with it the obstinacy which sleep brings as
outrider. The soft moonlight soothed, and the wide expanse without
gave a sense of freedom which refreshed me. I determined not to
return tonight to the gloom-haunted rooms, but to sleep here,
where, of old, ladies had sat and sung and lived sweet lives whilst
their gentle breasts were sad for their menfolk away in the midst
of remorseless wars. I drew a great couch out of its place near the
corner, so that as I lay, I could look at the lovely view to east
and south, and unthinking of and uncaring for the dust, composed
myself for sleep. I suppose I must have fallen asleep. I hope so,
but I fear, for all that followed was startlingly real, so real
that now sitting here in the broad, full sunlight of the morning, Ithat now sitting here in the broad, full sunlight of the morning, I
cannot in the least believe that it was all sleep.
I was not alone. The room was the same, unchanged in any way
since I came into it. I could see along the floor, in the brilliant
moonlight, my own footsteps marked where I had disturbed the long
accumulation of dust. In the moonlight opposite me were three young
women, ladies by their dress and manner. I thought at the time that
I must be dreaming when I saw them, they threw no shadow on the
floor. They came close to me, and looked at me for some time, and
then whispered together. Two were dark, and had high aquiline
noses, like the Count, and great dark, piercing eyes, that seemed
to be almost red when contrasted with the pale yellow moon. The
other was fair, as fair as can be, with great masses of golden hair
and eyes like pale sapphires. I seemed somehow to know her face,
and to know it in connection with some dreamy fear, but I could not
recollect at the moment how or where. All three had brilliant white
teeth that shone like pearls against the ruby of their voluptuous
lips. There was something about them that made me uneasy, some
longing and at the same time some deadly fear. I felt in my heart a
wicked, burning desire that they would kiss me with those red
lips.It is not good to note this down, lest some day it should meet
Mina's eyes and cause her pain, but it is the truth. They whispered
together, and then they all three laughed, such a silvery, musical
laugh, but as hard as though the sound never could have come
through the softness of human lips. It was like the intolerable,
tingling sweetness of waterglasses when played on by a cunning
hand. The fair girl shook her head coquettishly, and the other two
urged her on.
One said, "Go on! You are first, and we shall follow. Yours' is
the right to begin."
The other added, "He is young and strong. There are kisses for
us all."
I lay quiet, looking out from under my eyelashes in an agony of


us all."
I lay quiet, looking out from under my eyelashes in an agony of
delightful anticipation. The fair girl advanced and bent over me
till I could feel the movement of her breath upon me. Sweet it was
in one sense, honey-sweet, and sent the same tingling through the
nerves as her voice, but with a bitter underlying the sweet, a
bitter offensiveness, as one smells in blood.
I was afraid to raise my eyelids, but looked out and saw
perfectly under the lashes. The girl went on her knees, and bent
over me, simply gloating. There was a deliberate voluptuousness
which was both thrilling and repulsive, and as she arched her neck
she actually licked her lips like an animal, till I could see in
the moonlight the moisture shining on the scarlet lips and on the
red tongue as it lapped the white sharp teeth. Lower and lower went
her head as the lips went below the range of my mouth and chin and
seemed to fasten on my throat. Then she paused, and I could hear
the churning sound of her tongue as it licked her teeth and lips,
and I could feel the hot breath on my neck. Then the skin of my
throat began to tingle as one's flesh does when the hand that is to
tickle it approaches nearer, nearer. I could feel the soft,
shivering touch of the lips on the super sensitive skin of my
throat, and the hard dents of two sharp teeth, just touching and
pausing there. I closed my eyes in languorous ecstasy and waited,
waited with beating heart.
But at that instant, another sensation swept through me as quick
as lightning. I was conscious of the presence of the Count, and of
his being as if lapped in a storm of fury. As my eyes opened
involuntarily I saw his strong hand grasp the slender neck of the
fair woman and with giant's power draw it back, the blue eyes
transformed with fury, the white teeth champing with rage, and the
fair cheeks blazing red with passion. But the Count! Never did I
imagine such wrath and fury, even to the demons of the pit. His
eyes were positively blazing. The red light in them was lurid, aseyes were positively blazing. The red light in them was lurid, as
if the flames of hell fire blazed behind them. His face was deathly
pale, and the lines of it were hard like drawn wires. The thick
eyebrows that met over the nose now seemed like a heaving bar of
white-hot metal. With a fierce sweep of his arm, he hurled the
woman from him, and then motioned to the others, as though he were
beating them back. It was the same imperious gesture that I had
seen used to the wolves. In a voice which, though low and almost in
a whisper seemed to cut through the air and then ring in the room
he said,
"How dare you touch him, any of you? How dare you cast eyes on
him when I had forbidden it? Back, I tell you all! This man belongs
to me! Beware how you meddle with him, or you'll have to deal with
me."
The fair girl, with a laugh of ribald coquetry, turned to answer
him. "You yourself never loved. You never love!" On this the other
women joined, and such a mirthless,hard, soulless laughter rang
through the room that it almost made me faint to hear. It seemed
like the pleasure of fiends.
Then the Count turned, after looking at my face attentively, and
said in a soft whisper, "Yes, I too can love. You yourselves can
tell it from the past. Is it not so? Well, now I promise you that
when I am done with him you shall kiss him at your will. Now go!
Go! I must awaken him, for there is work to be done."
"Are we to have nothing tonight?"said one of them, with a low
laugh, as she pointed to the bag which he had thrown upon the
floor, and which moved as though there were some living thing
within it. For answer he nodded his head. One of the women jumped
forward and opened it. If my ears did not deceive me there was a
gasp and a low wail, as of a half smothered child. The women closed
round, whilst I was aghast with horror. But as I looked, they
disappeared, and with them the dreadful bag. There was no door near
them, and they could not have passed me without my noticing. Theythem, and they could not have passed me without my noticing. They
simply seemed to fade into the rays of the moonlight and pass out
through the window, for I could see outside the dim, shadowy forms
for a moment before they entirely faded away.
Then the horror overcame me, and I sank down unconscious.I awoke in my own bed. If it be that I had not dreamt, the Count
must have carried me here. I tried to satisfy myself on the
subject, but could not arrive at any unquestionable result. To be
sure, there were certain small evidences, such as that my clothes
were folded and laid by in a manner which was not my habit. My
watch was still unwound, and I am rigorously accustomed to wind it
the last thing before going to bed, and many such details. But
these things are no proof, for they may have been evidences that my
mind was not as usual, and, for some cause or another, I had
certainly been much upset. I must watch for proof. Of one thing I
am glad. If it was that the Count carried me here and undressed me,
he must have been hurried in his task, for my pockets are intact. I
am sure this diary would have been a mystery to him which he would
not have brooked. He would have taken or destroyed it. As I look
round this room, although it has been to me so full of fear, it is
now a sort of sanctuary, for nothing can be more dreadful than
those awful women, who were, who are, waiting to suck my blood.
18 May.—I have been down to look at that room again in daylight,
for I must know the truth. When I got to the doorway at the top of
the stairs I found it closed. It had been so forcibly driven
against the jamb that part of the woodwork was splintered. I could
see that the bolt of the lock had not been shot, but the door is
fastened from the inside. I fear it was no dream, and must act on
this surmise.
19 May.—I am surely in the toils. Last night the Count asked me
in the sauvest tones to write three letters, one saying that my
work here was nearly done, and that I should start for home within
a few days, another that I was starting on the next morning from
the time of the letter, and the third that I had left the castle
and arrived at Bistritz. I would fain have rebelled, but felt that
in the present state of things it would be madness to quarrel
openly with the Count whilst I am so absolutely in his power. And


openly with the Count whilst I am so absolutely in his power. And
to refuse would be to excite his suspicion and to arouse his anger.
He knows that I know too much, and that I must not live, lest I be
dangerous to him. My only chance is to prolong my opportunities.
Something may occur which will give me a chance to escape. I saw in
his eyes something of that gathering wrath which was manifest when
he hurled that fair woman from him. He explained to me that posts
were few and uncertain, and that my writing now would ensure ease
of mind to my friends. And he assured me with so much
impressiveness that he would countermand the later letters, which
would be held over at Bistritz until due time in case chance would
admit of my prolonging my stay, that to oppose him would have been
to create new suspicion. I therefore pretended to fall in with his
views, and asked him what dates I should put on the letters.
He calculated a minute, and then said, "The first should be June
12,the second June 19,and the third June 29."
I know now the span of my life. God help me!
28 May.—There is a chance of escape, or at any rate of being
able to send word home. A band of Szgany have come to the castle,
and are encamped in the courtyard. These are gipsies. I have notes
of them in my book. They are peculiar to this part of the world,
though allied to the ordinary gipsies all the world over. There are
thousands of them in Hungary and Transylvania, who are almost
outside all law. They attach themselves as a rule to some great
noble or boyar, and call themselves by his name. They are fearless
and without religion, save superstition, and they talk only their
own varieties of the Romany tongue.
I shall write some letters home, and shall try to get them to
have them posted. I have already spoken to them through my window
to begin acquaintanceship. They took their hats off and made
obeisance and many signs, which however, I could not understand any
more than I could their spoken language …more than I could their spoken language …
I have written the letters. Mina's is in shorthand, and I simply
ask Mr. Hawkins to communicate with her. To her I have explained my
situation, but without the horrors which I may only surmise. It
would shock and frighten her to death were I to expose my heart to
her. Should the letters not carry, then the Count shall not yet
know my secret or the extent of my knowledge …
I have given the letters. I threw them through the bars of my
window with a gold piece, and made what signs I could to have them
posted. The man who took them pressed them to his heart and bowed,
and then put them in his cap. I could do no more. I stole back to
the study, and began to read. As the Count did not come in, I have
written here …
The Count has come. He sat down beside me, and said in his
smoothest voice as he opened two letters, "The Szgany has given me
these, of which, though I know not whence they come, I shall, of
course, take care. See!"—He must have looked at it.—"One is from
you, and to my friend Peter Hawkins. The other,"—here he caught
sight of the strange symbols as he opened the envelope, and the
dark look came into his face, and his eyes blazed wickedly,—"The
other is a vile thing, an outrage upon friendship and hospitality!
It is not signed. Well! So it cannot matter to us."And he calmly
held letter and envelope in the flame of the lamp till they were
consumed.
Then he went on, "The letter to Hawkins, that I shall, of course
send on, since it is yours. Your letters are sacred to me. Your
pardon, my friend, that unknowingly I did break the seal. Will you
not cover it again?"He held out the letter to me, and with a
courteous bow handed me a clean envelope.
I could only redirect it and hand it to him in silence. When he
went out of the room I could hear the key turn softly. A minute
later I went over and tried it, and the door was locked.
When, an hour or two after, the Count came quietly into the
room, his coming awakened me, for I had gone to sleep on the sofa.room, his coming awakened me, for I had gone to sleep on the sofa.
He was very courteous and very cheery in his manner, and seeing
that I had been sleeping, he said, "So, my friend, you are tired?
Get to bed. There is the surest rest. I may not have the pleasure
of talk tonight, since there are many labours to me, but you will
sleep, I pray."
I passed to my room and went to bed, and, strange to say, slept
without dreaming. Despair has its own calms.
31 May.—This morning when I woke I thought I would provide
myself with some papers and envelopes from my bag and keep them in
my pocket, so that I might write in case I should get an
opportunity, but again a surprise, again a shock!
Every scrap of paper was gone, and with it all my notes, my
memoranda, relating to railways and travel, my letter of credit, in
fact all that might be useful to me were I once outside the castle.
I sat and pondered awhile, and then some thought occurred to me,
and I made search of my portmanteau and in the wardrobe where I had
placed my clothes.
The suit in which I had travelled was gone, and also my overcoat
and rug. I could find no trace of them anywhere. This looked like
some new scheme of villainy …
17 June.—This morning, as I was sitting on the edge of my bed
cudgelling my brains, I heard without a crackling of whips and
pounding and scraping of horses' feet up the rocky path beyond the
courtyard. With joy I hurried to the window, and saw drive into the
yard two great leiter-wagons, each drawn by eight sturdy horses,
and at the head of each pair a Slovak, with his wide hat, great
nail-studded belt, dirty sheepskin, and high boots. They had also
their long staves in hand. I ran to the door, intending to descend
and try and join them through the main hall, as I thought that way
might be opened for them. Again a shock, my door was fastened on
the outside.
Then I ran to the window and cried to them. They looked up at me
stupidly and pointed, but just then the "hetman" of the Szgany came


stupidly and pointed, but just then the "hetman" of the Szgany came
out, and seeing them pointing to my window, said something, at
which they laughed.
Henceforth no effort of mine, no piteous cry or agonized
entreaty, would make them even look at me. They resolutely turned
away. The leiter-wagons contained great, square boxes, with handles
of thick rope. These were evidently empty by the ease with which
the Slovaks handled them, and by their resonance as they were
roughly moved.
When they were all unloaded and packed in a great heap in one
corner of the yard, the Slovaks were given some money by the
Szgany, and spitting on it for luck, lazily went each to his
horse's head. Shortly afterwards, I heard the crackling of their
whips die away in the distance.
24 June.—Last night the Count left me early, and locked himself
into his own room. As soon as I dared I ran up the winding stair,
and looked out of the window, which opened South. I thought I would
watch for the Count, for there is something going on. The Szgany
are quartered somewhere in the castle and are doing work of some
kind. I know it, for now and then, I hear a far-away muffled sound
as of mattock and spade, and, whatever it is, it must be the end of
some ruthless villainy.
I had been at the window somewhat less than half an hour, when I
saw something coming out of the Count's window. I drew back and
watched carefully, and saw the whole man emerge. It was a new shock
to me to find that he had on the suit of clothes which I had worn
whilst travelling here, and slung over his shoulder the terrible
bag which I had seen the women take away. There could be no doubt
as to his quest, and in my garb, too! This, then, is his new scheme
of evil, that he will allow others to see me, as they think, so
that he may both leave evidence that I have been seen in the towns
or villages posting my own letters, and that any wickedness which
he may do shall by the local people be attributed to me.
It makes me rage to think that this can go on, and whilst I amIt makes me rage to think that this can go on, and whilst I am
shut up here, a veritable prisoner, but without that protection of
the law which is even a criminal's right and consolation.
I thought I would watch for the Count's return, and for a long
time sat doggedly at the window. Then I began to notice that there
were some quaint little specks floating in the rays of the
moonlight. They were like the tiniest grains of dust, and they
whirled round and gathered in clusters in a nebulous sort of way. I
watched them with a sense of soothing, and a sort of calm stole
over me. I leaned back in the embrasure in a more comfortable
position, so that I could enjoy more fully the aerial
gambolling.
Something made me start up, a low, piteous howling of dogs
somewhere far below in the valley, which was hidden from my sight.
Louder it seemed to ring in my ears, and the floating moats of dust
to take new shapes to the sound as they danced in the moonlight. I
felt myself struggling to awake to some call of my instincts. Nay,
my very soul was struggling, and my half-remembered sensibilities
were striving to answer the call. I was becoming hypnotised!
Quicker and quicker danced the dust. The moonbeams seemed to
quiver as they went by me into the mass of gloom beyond. More and
more they gathered till they seemed to take dim phantom shapes. And
then I started, broad awake and in full possession of my senses,
and ran screaming from the place.
The phantom shapes, which were becoming gradually materialised
from the moonbeams, were those three ghostly women to whom I was
doomed.
I fled, and felt somewhat safer in my own room, where there was
no moonlight, and where the lamp was burning brightly.
When a couple of hours had passed I heard something stirring in
the Count's room, something like a sharp wail quickly suppressed.
And then there was silence, deep, awful silence, which chilled me.
With a beating heart, I tried the door, but I was locked in my
prison, and could do nothing. I sat down and simply cried.prison, and could do nothing. I sat down and simply cried.
As I sat I heard a sound in the courtyard without, the agonised
cry of a woman. I rushed to the window, and throwing it up, peered
between the bars.
There, indeed, was a woman with dishevelled hair, holding her
hands over her heart as one distressed with running. She was
leaning against the corner of the gateway. When she saw my face at
the window she threw herself forward, and shouted in a voice laden
with menace, "Monster, give me my child!"
She threw herself on her knees, and raising up her hands, cried
the same words in tones which wrung my heart. Then she tore her
hair and beat her breast, and abandoned herself to all the
violences of extravagant emotion. Finally, she threw herself
forward, and though I could not see her, I could hear the beating
of her naked hands against the door.
Somewhere high overhead, probably on the tower, I heard the
voice of the Count calling in his harsh, metallic whisper. His call
seemed to be answered from far and wide by the howling of wolves.
Before many minutes had passed a pack of them poured, like a
pent-up dam when liberated, through the wide entrance into the
courtyard.
There was no cry from the woman, and the howling of the wolves
was but short. Before long they streamed away singly, licking their
lips.
I could not pity her, for I knew now what had become of her
child, and she was better dead.
What shall I do? What can I do? How can I escape from this
dreadful thing of night, gloom, and fear?
25 June.—No man knows till he has suffered from the night how
sweet and dear to his heart and eye the morning can be. When the
sun grew so high this morning that it struck the top of the great
gateway opposite my window, the high spot which it touched seemed
to me as if the dove from the ark had lighted there. My fear fell
from me as if it had been a vaporous garment which dissolved in the
warmth.
I must take action of some sort whilst the courage of the day is


warmth.
I must take action of some sort whilst the courage of the day is
upon me. Last night one of my post-dated letters went to post, the
first of that fatal series which is to blot out the very traces of
my existence from the earth.
Let me not think of it. Action!
It has always been at night-time that I have been molested or
threatened, or in some way in danger or in fear. I have not yet
seen the Count in the daylight. Can it be that he sleeps when
others wake, that he may be awake whilst they sleep? If I could
only get into his room! But there is no possible way. The door is
always locked, no way for me.
Yes, there is a way, if one dares to take it. Where his body has
gone why may not another body go? I have seen him myself crawl from
his window. Why should not I imitate him, and go in by his window?
The chances are desperate, but my need is more desperate still. I
shall risk it. At the worst it can only be death, and a man's death
is not a calf's, and the dreaded Hereafter may still be open to me.
God help me in my task! Goodbye, Mina, if I fail. Goodbye, my
faithful friend and second father. Goodbye, all, and last of all
Mina!
Same day, later.—I have made the effort, and God helping me,
have come safely back to this room. I must put down every detail in
order. I went whilst my courage was fresh straight to the window on
the south side, and at once got outside on this side. The stones
are big and roughly cut, and the mortar has by process of time been
washed away between them. I took off my boots, and ventured out on
the desperate way. I looked down once, so as to make sure that a
sudden glimpse of the awful depth would not overcome me, but after
that kept my eyes away from it. I know pretty well the direction
and distance of the Count's window, and made for it as well as I
could, having regard to the opportunities available. I did not feel
dizzy, I suppose I was too excited, and the time seemed
ridiculously short till I found myself standing on the window sillridiculously short till I found myself standing on the window sill
and trying to raise up the sash. I was filled with agitation,
however, when I bent down and slid feet foremost in through the
window. Then I looked around for the Count, but with surprise and
gladness, made a discovery. The room was empty! It was barely
furnished with odd things, which seemed to have never been
used.
The furniture was something the same style as that in the south
rooms, and was covered with dust. I looked for the key, but it was
not in the lock, and I could not find it anywhere. The only thing I
found was a great heap of gold in one corner, gold of all kinds,
Roman, and British, and Austrian, and Hungarian,and Greek and
Turkish money, covered with a film of dust, as though it had lain
long in the ground. None of it that I noticed was less than three
hundred years old. There were also chains and ornaments, some
jewelled, but all of them old and stained.
At one corner of the room was a heavy door. I tried it, for,
since I could not find the key of the room or the key of the outer
door, which was the main object of my search, I must make further
examination, or all my efforts would be in vain. It was open, and
led through a stone passage to a circular stairway, which went
steeply down.
I descended, minding carefully where I went for the stairs were
dark, being only lit by loopholes in the heavy masonry. At the
bottom there was a dark, tunnel-like passage, through which came a
deathly, sickly odour, the odour of old earth newly turned. As I
went through the passage the smell grew closer and heavier. At last
I pulled open a heavy door which stood ajar, and found myself in an
old ruined chapel, which had evidently been used as a graveyard.
The roof was broken, and in two places were steps leading to
vaults, but the ground had recently been dug over, and the earth
placed in great wooden boxes, manifestly those which had been
brought by the Slovaks.
There was nobody about, and I made a search over every inch ofbrought by the Slovaks.
There was nobody about, and I made a search over every inch of
the ground, so as not to lose a chance. I went down even into the
vaults, where the dim light struggled, although to do so was a
dread to my very soul. Into two of these I went, but saw nothing
except fragments of old coffins and piles of dust. In the third,
however, I made a discovery.
There, in one of the great boxes, of which there were fifty in
all, on a pile of newly dug earth, lay the Count! He was either
dead or asleep. I could not say which, for eyes were open and
stony, but without the glassiness of death, and the cheeks had the
warmth of life through all their pallor. The lips were as red as
ever. But there was no sign of movement, no pulse, no breath, no
beating of the heart.
I bent over him, and tried to find any sign of life, but in
vain. He could not have lain there long, for the earthy smell would
have passed away in a few hours. By the side of the box was its
cover, pierced with holes here and there. I thought he might have
the keys on him, but when I went to search I saw the dead eyes, and
in them dead though they were, such a look of hate, though
unconscious of me or my presence, that I fled from the place, and
leaving the Count's room by the window, crawled again up the castle
wall. Regaining my room, I threw myself panting upon the bed and
tried to think.
29 June.—Today is the date of my last letter, and the Count has
taken steps to prove that it was genuine, for again I saw him leave
the castle by the same window, and in my clothes. As he went down
the wall, lizard fashion, I wished I had a gun or some lethal
weapon, that I might destroy him. But I fear that no weapon wrought
along by man's hand would have any effect on him. I dared not wait
to see him return, for I feared to see those weird sisters. I came
back to the library, and read there till I fell asleep.
I was awakened by the Count, who looked at me as grimly as a man
could look as he said,"Tomorrow, my friend, we must part. You


could look as he said,"Tomorrow, my friend, we must part. You
return to your beautiful England, I to some work which may have
such an end that we may never meet. Your letter home has been
despatched. Tomorrow I shall not be here, but all shall be ready
for your journey. In the morning come the Szgany, who have some
labours of their own here, and also come some Slovaks. When they
have gone, my carriage shall come for you, and shall bear you to
the Borgo Pass to meet the diligence from Bukovina to Bistritz. But
I am in hopes that I shall see more of you at Castle Dracula."
I suspected him, and determined to test his sincerity.
Sincerity! It seems like a profanation of the word to write it in
connection with such a monster, so I asked him pointblank, "Why may
I not go tonight?"
"Because, dear sir, my coachman and horses are away on a
mission."
"But I would walk with pleasure. I want to get away at
once."
He smiled, such a soft, smooth, diabolical smile that I knew
there was some trick behind his smoothness. He said, "And your
baggage?"
"I do not care about it. I can send for it some other time."
The Count stood up, and said, with a sweet courtesy which made
me rub my eyes, it seemed so real, "You English have a saying which
is close to my heart, for its spirit is that which rules our
boyars, `Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest.' Come with
me, my dear young friend. Not an hour shall you wait in my house
against your will, though sad am I at your going, and that you so
suddenly desire it. Come!" With a stately gravity, he, with the
lamp, preceded me down the stairs and along the hall. Suddenly he
stopped. "Hark!"
Close at hand came the howling of many wolves. It was almost as
if the sound sprang up at the rising of his hand, just as the music
of a great orchestra seems to leap under the baton of the
conductor. After a pause of a moment, he proceeded, in his stately
way, to the door, drew back the ponderous bolts, unhooked the heavy
chains, and began to draw it open.chains, and began to draw it open.
To my intense astonishment I saw that it was unlocked.
Suspiciously, I looked all round, but could see no key of any
kind.
As the door began to open, the howling of the wolves without
grew louder and angrier. Their red jaws, with champing teeth, and
their blunt-clawed feet as they leaped, came in through the opening
door. I knew than that to struggle at the moment against the Count
was useless. With such allies as these at his command, I could do
nothing.
But still the door continued slowly to open, and only the
Count's body stood in the gap. Suddenly it struck me that this
might be the moment and means of my doom. I was to be given to the
wolves, and at my own instigation. There was a diabolical
wickedness in the idea great enough for the Count, and as the last
chance I cried out, "Shut the door! I shall wait till morning." And
I covered my face with my hands to hide my tears of bitter
disappointment.
With one sweep of his powerful arm, the Count threw the door
shut, and the great bolts clanged and echoed through the hall as
they shot back into their places.
In silence we returned to the library, and after a minute or two
I went to my own room. The last I saw of Count Dracula was his
kissing his hand to me, with a red light of triumph in his eyes,
and with a smile that Judas in hell might be proud of.
When I was in my room and about to lie down, I thought I heard a
whispering at my door. I went to it softly and listened. Unless my
ears deceived me, I heard the voice of the Count.
"Back! Back to your own place! Your time is not yet come. Wait!
Have patience! Tonight is mine. Tomorrow night is yours!"
There was a low, sweet ripple of laughter, and in a rage I threw
open the door, and saw without the three terrible women licking
their lips. As I appeared, they all joined in a horrible laugh, and
ran away.
I came back to my room and threw myself on my knees. It is then
so near the end? Tomorrow! Tomorrow! Lord, help me, and those to
whom I am dear!so near the end? Tomorrow! Tomorrow! Lord, help me, and those to
whom I am dear!
30 June.—These may be the last words I ever write in this diary.
I slept till just before the dawn, and when I woke threw myself on
my knees, for I determined that if Death came he should find me
ready.
At last I felt that subtle change in the air, and knew that the
morning had come. Then came the welcome cock-crow, and I felt that
I was safe. With a glad heart, I opened the door and ran down the
hall. I had seen that the door was unlocked, and now escape was
before me. With hands that trembled with eagerness, I unhooked the
chains and threw back the massive bolts.
But the door would not move. Despair seized me. I pulled and
pulled at the door, and shook it till, massive as it was, it
rattled in its casement. I could see the bolt shot. It had been
locked after I left the Count.
Then a wild desire took me to obtain the key at any risk, and I
determined then and there to scale the wall again, and gain the
Count's room. He might kill me, but death now seemed the happier
choice of evils. Without a pause I rushed up to the east window,
and scrambled down the wall, as before, into the Count's room. It
was empty, but that was as I expected. I could not see a key
anywhere, but the heap of gold remained. I went through the door in
the corner and down the winding stair and along the dark passage to
the old chapel. I knew now well enough where to find the monster I
sought.
The great box was in the same place, close against the wall, but
the lid was laid on it, not fastened down, but with the nails ready
in their places to be hammered home.
I knew I must reach the body for the key, so I raised the lid,
and laid it back against the wall. And then I saw something which
filled my very soul with horror. There lay the Count, but looking
as if his youth had been half restored. For the white hair and
moustache were changed to dark irongrey. The cheeks were fuller,
and the white skin seemed ruby-red underneath. The mouth was redder


and the white skin seemed ruby-red underneath. The mouth was redder
than ever, for on the lips were gouts of fresh blood, which
trickled from the corners of the mouth and ran down over the chin
and neck. Even the deep, burning eyes seemed set amongst swollen
flesh, for the lids and pouches underneath were bloated. It seemed
as if the whole awful creature were simply gorged with blood. He
lay like a filthy leech, exhausted with his repletion.
I shuddered as I bent over to touch him, and every sense in me
revolted at the contact, but I had to search, or I was lost. The
coming night might see my own body a banquet in a similar war to
those horrid three. I felt all over the body, but no sign could I
find of the key. Then I stopped and looked at the Count. There was
a mocking smile on the bloated face which seemed to drive me mad.
This was the being I was helping to transfer to London, where,
perhaps, for centuries to come he might, amongst its teeming
millions, satiate his lust for blood, and create a new and
ever-widening circle of semi-demons to batten on the helpless.
The very thought drove me mad. A terrible desire came upon me to
rid the world of such a monster. There was no lethal weapon at
hand, but I seized a shovel which the workmen had been using to
fill the cases, and lifting it high, struck, with the edge
downward, at the hateful face. But as I did so the head turned, and
the eyes fell upon me, with all their blaze of basilisk horror. The
sight seemed to paralyze me, and the shovel turned in my hand and
glanced from the face, merely making a deep gash above the
forehead. The shovel fell from my hand across the box, and as I
pulled it away the flange of the blade caught the edge of the lid
which fell over again, and hid the horrid thing from my sight. The
last glimpse I had was of the bloated face, blood-stained and fixed
with a grin of malice which would have held its own in the
nethermost hell. I thought and thought what should be my next move,nethermost hell. I thought and thought what should be my next move,
but my brain seemed on fire, and I waited with a despairing feeling
growing over me. As I waited I heard in the distance a gipsy song
sung by merry voices coming closer, and through their song the
rolling of heavy wheels and the cracking of whips. The Szgany and
the Slovaks of whom the Count had spoken were coming. With a last
look around and at the box which contained the vile body, I ran
from the place and gained the Count's room, determined to rush out
at the moment the door should be opened. With strained ears, I
listened, and heard downstairs the grinding of the key in the great
lock and the falling back of the heavy door. There must have been
some other means of entry, or some one had a key for one of the
locked doors.
Then there came the sound of many feet tramping and dying away
in some passage which sent up a clanging echo. I turned to run down
again towards the vault, where I might find the new entrance, but
at the moment there seemed to come a violent puff of wind, and the
door to the winding stair blew to with a shock that set the dust
from the lintels flying. When I ran to push it open, I found that
it was hopelessly fast. I was again a prisoner, and the net of doom
was closing round me more closely.
As I write there is in the passage below a sound of many
tramping feet and the crash of weights being set down heavily,
doubtless the boxes, with their freight of earth. There was a sound
of hammering. It is the box being nailed down. Now I can hear the
heavy feet tramping again along the hall, with with many other idle
feet coming behind them.
The door is shut, the chains rattle. There is a grinding of the
key in the lock. I can hear the key withdrawn, then another door
opens and shuts. I hear the creaking of lock and bolt.
Hark! In the courtyard and down the rocky way the roll of heavy
wheels, the crack of whips, and the chorus of the Szgany as they
pass into the distance.wheels, the crack of whips, and the chorus of the Szgany as they
pass into the distance.
I am alone in the castle with those horrible women. Faugh! Mina
is a woman, and there is nought in common. They are devils of the
Pit!
I shall not remain alone with them. I shall try to scale the
castle wall farther than I have yet attempted. I shall take some of
the gold with me, lest I want it later. I may find a way from this
dreadful place.
And then away for home! Away to the quickest and nearest train!
Away from the cursed spot, from this cursed land, where the devil
and his children still walk with earthly feet!
At least God's mercy is better than that of those monsters, and
the precipice is steep and high. At its foot a man may sleep, as a
man. Goodbye, all. Mina!9 May.
My dearest Lucy,
Forgive my long delay in writing, but I have been simply
overwhelmed with work. The life of an assistant schoolmistress is
sometimes trying. I am longing to be with you, and by the sea,
where we can talk together freely and build our castles in the air.
I have been working very hard lately, because I want to keep up
with Jonathan's studies, and I have been practicing shorthand very
assiduously. When we are married I shall be able to be useful to
Jonathan, and if I can stenograph well enough I can take down what
he wants to say in this way and write it out for him on the
typewriter, at which also I am practicing very hard.
He and I sometimes write letters in shorthand, and he is keeping
a stenographic journal of his travels abroad. When I am with you I
shall keep a diary in the same way. I don't mean one of those
two-pages-to-the-week-with-Sunday-squeezed-in-a-corner diaries, but
a sort of journal which I can write in whenever I feel
inclined.
I do not suppose there will be much of interest to other people,
but it is not intended for them. I may show it to Jonathan some day
if there is in it anything worth sharing, but it is really an
exercise book. I shall try to do what I see lady journalists do,
interviewing and writing descriptions and trying to remember
conversations. I am told that, with a little practice, one can
remember all that goes on or that one hears said during a day.
However, we shall see. I will tell you of my little plans when
we meet. I have just had a few hurried lines from Jonathan from
Transylvania. He is well, and will be returning in about a week. I
am longing to hear all his news. It must be nice to see strange
countries. I wonder if we, I mean Jonathan and I, shall ever see
them together. There is the ten o'clock bell ringing. Goodbye. Your
loving Mina
Tell me all the news when you write. You have not told me
anything for a long time. I hear rumours, and especially of a tall,
handsome, curly-haired man.???
LETTER, LUCY WESTENRA TO MINA MURRAY
17, Chatham Street


handsome, curly-haired man.???
LETTER, LUCY WESTENRA TO MINA MURRAY
17, Chatham Street
Wednesday
My dearest Mina,
I must say you tax me very unfairly with being a bad
correspondent. I wrote you twice since we parted, and your last
letter was only your second. Besides, I have nothing to tell you.
There is really nothing to interest you.
Town is very pleasant just now, and we go a great deal to
picture-galleries and for walks and rides in the park. As to the
tall, curly-haired man, I suppose it was the one who was with me at
the last Pop. Someone has evidently been telling tales.
That was Mr. Holmwood. He often comes to see us, and he and
Mamma get on very well together, they have so many things to talk
about in common.
We met some time ago a man that would just do for you, if you
were not already engaged to Jonathan. He is an excellant parti,
being handsome, well off, and of good birth. He is a doctor and
really clever. Just fancy! He is only nine-and twenty, and he has
an immense lunatic asylum all under his own care. Mr. Holmwood
introduced him to me, and he called here to see us, and often comes
now. I think he is one of the most resolute men I ever saw, and yet
the most calm. He seems absolutely imperturbable. I can fancy what
a wonderful power he must have over his patients. He has a curious
habit of looking one straight in the face, as if trying to read
one's thoughts. He tries this on very much with me, but I flatter
myself he has got a tough nut to crack. I know that from my
glass.
Do you ever try to read your own face? I do, and I can tell you
it is not a bad study, and gives you more trouble than you can well
fancy if you have never tried it.
He 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 eachday.
There, it is all out, Mina, we have told all our secrets to each
other since we were children. We have slept together and eaten
together, and laughed and cried together, and now, though I have
spoken, I would like to speak more. Oh, Mina, couldn't you guess? I
love him. I am blushing as I write, for although I think he loves
me, he has not told me so in words. But, oh, Mina, I love him. I
love him! There, that does me good.
I wish I were with you, dear, sitting by the fire undressing, as
we used to sit, and I would try to tell you what I feel. I do not
know how I am writing this even to you. I am afraid to stop, or I
should tear up the letter, and I don't want to stop, for I do so
want to tell you all. Let me hear from you at once, and tell me all
that you think about it. Mina, pray for my happiness.
Lucy
P. S.—I need not tell you this is a secret. Goodnight again.
L.
LETTER, LUCY WESTENRA TO MINA MURRAY
24 May
My dearest Mina,
Thanks, and thanks, and thanks again for your sweet letter. It
was so nice to be able to tell you and to have your sympathy. My
dear, it never rains but it pours. How true the old proverbs are.
Here am I, who shall be twenty in September, and yet I never had a
proposal till today, not a real proposal, and today I had three.
Just fancy! Three proposals in one day! Isn't it awful! I feel
sorry, really and truly sorry, for two of the poor fellows. Oh,
Mina, I am so happy that I don't know what to do with myself. And
three proposals! But, for goodness' sake, don't tell any of the
girls, or they would be getting all sorts of extravagant ideas, and
imagining themselves injured and slighted if in their very first
day at home they did not get six at least. Some girls are so vain!
You and I, Mina dear, who are engaged and are going to settle down
soon soberly into old married women, can despise vanity. Well, I
must tell you about the three, but you must keep it a secret, dear,
from every one except, of course, Jonathan. You will tell him,from every one except, of course, Jonathan. You will tell him,
because I would, if I were in your place, certainly tell Arthur. A
woman ought to tell her husband everything. Don't you think so,
dear? And I must be fair. Men like women, certainly their wives, to
be quite as fair as they are. And women, I am afraid, are not
always quite as fair as they should be.
Well, my dear, number One came just before lunch. I told you of
him, Dr. John Seward, the lunatic asylum man, with the strong jaw
and the good forehead. He was very cool outwardly, but was nervous
all the same. He had evidently been schooling himself as to all
sorts of little things, and remembered them, but he almost managed
to sit down on his silk hat, which men don't generally do when they
are cool, and then when he wanted to appear at ease he kept playing
with a lancet in a way that made me nearly scream. He spoke to me,
Mina, very straightfordwardly. He told me how dear I was to him,
though he had known me so little, and what his life would be with
me to help and cheer him. He was going to tell me how unhappy he
would be if I did not care for him, but when he saw me cry he said
he was a brute and would not add to my present trouble. Then he
broke off and asked if I could love him in time, and when I shook
my head his hands trembled, and then with some hesitation he asked
me if I cared already for any one else. He put it very nicely,
saying that he did not want to wring my confidence from me, but
only to know, because if a woman's heart was free a man might have
hope. And then, Mina, I felt a sort of duty to tell him that there
was some one. I only told him that much, and then he stood up, and
he looked very strong and very grave as he took both my hands in
his and said he hoped I would be happy, and that If I ever wanted a
friend I must count him one of my best.
Oh, Mina dear, I can't help crying, and you must excuse this
letter being all blotted. Being proposed to is all very nice and


letter being all blotted. Being proposed to is all very nice and
all that sort of thing, but it isn't at all a happy thing when you
have to see a poor fellow, whom you know loves you honestly, going
away and looking all broken hearted, and to know that, no matter
what he may say at the moment, you are passing out of his life. My
dear, I must stop here at present, I feel so miserable, though I am
so happy.
Evening.
Arthur has just gone, and I feel in better spirits than when I
left off, so I can go on telling you about the day.
Well, my dear, number Two came after lunch. He is such a nice
fellow, and American from Texas, and he looks so young and so fresh
that it seems almost impossible that he has been to so many places
and has such adventures. I sympathize with poor Desdemona when she
had such a stream poured in her ear, even by a black man. I suppose
that we women are such cowards that we think a man will save us
from fears, and we marry him. I know now what I would do if I were
a man and wanted to make a girl love me. No, I don't, for there was
Mr. Morris telling us his stories, and Arthur never told any, and
yet …
My dear, I am somewhat previous. Mr. Quincy P. Morris found me
alone. It seems that a man always does find a girl alone. No, he
doesn't, for Arthur tried twice to make a chance, and I helping him
all I could, I am not ashamed to say it now. I must tell you
beforehand that Mr. Morris doesn't always speak slang, that is to
say, he never does so to strangers or before them, for he is really
well educated and has exquisite manners, but he found out that it
amused me to hear him talk American slang, and whenever I was
present, and there was no one to be shocked, he said such funny
things. I am afraid, my dear, he has to invent it all, for it fits
exactly into whatever else he has to say. But this is a way slang
has. I do not know myself if I shall ever speak slang. I do not
know if Arthur likes it, as I have never heard him use any as
yet.
Well, Mr. Morris sat down beside me and looked as happy andyet.
Well, Mr. Morris sat down beside me and looked as happy and
jolly as he could, but I could see all the same that he was very
nervous. He took my hand in his, and said ever so
sweetly …
"Miss Lucy, I know I ain't good enough to regulate the fixin's
of your little shoes, but I guess if you wait till you find a man
that is you will go join them seven young women with the lamps when
you quit. Won't you just hitch up along-side of me and let us go
down the long road together, driving in double harness?"
Well, he did look so hood humoured and so jolly that it didn't
seem half so hard to refuse him as it did poor Dr. Seward. So I
said, as lightly as I could, that I did not know anything of
hitching, and that I wasn't broken to harness at all yet. Then he
said that he had spoken in a light manner, and he hoped that if he
had made a mistake in doing so on so grave, so momentous, and
occasion for him, I would forgive him. He really did look serious
when he was saying it, and I couldn't help feeling a sort of
exultation that he was number Two in one day. And then, my dear,
before I could say a word he began pouring out a perfect torrent of
lovemaking, laying his very heart and soul at my feet. He looked so
earnest over it that I shall never again think that a man must be
playful always, and never earnest, because he is merry at times. I
suppose he saw something in my face which checked him, for he
suddenly stopped, and said with a sort of manly fervour that I
could have loved him for if I had been free …
"Lucy, you are an honest hearted girl, I know. I should not be
here speaking to you as I am now if I did not believe you clean
grit, right through to the very depths of your soul. Tell me, like
one good fellow to another, is there any one else that you care
for? And if there is I'll never trouble you a hair's breadth again,
but will be, if you will let me, a very faithful friend."
My dear Mina, why are men so noble when we women are so little
worthy of them? Here was I almost making fun of this great hearted,worthy of them? Here was I almost making fun of this great hearted,
true gentleman. I burst into tears, I am afraid, my dear, you will
think this a very sloppy letter in more ways than one, and I really
felt very badly.
Why can't they let a girl marry three men, or as many as want
her, and save all this trouble? But this is heresy, and I must not
say it. I am glad to say that, though I was crying, I was able to
look into Mr. Morris' brave eyes, and I told him out
straight …
"Yes, there is some one I love, though he has not told me yet
that he even loves me." I was right to speak to him so frankly, for
quite a light came into his face, and he put out both his hands and
took mine, I think I put them into his, and said in a hearty
way …
"That's my brave girl. It's better worth being late for a chance
of winning you than being in time for any other girl in the world.
Don't cry, my dear. If it's for me, I'm a hard nut to crack, and I
take it standing up. If that other fellow doesn't know his
happiness, well, he'd better look for it soon, or he'll have to
deal with me. Little girl, your honesty and pluck have made me a
friend, and that's rarer than a lover, it's more selfish anyhow. My
dear, I'm going to have a pretty lonely walk between this and
Kingdom Come. Won't you give me one kiss? It'll be something to
keep off the darkness now and then. You can, you know, if you like,
for that other good fellow, or you could not love him, hasn't
spoken yet."
That quite won me, Mina, for it was brave and sweet of him, and
noble too, to a rival, wasn't it? And he so sad, so I leant over
and kissed him.
He stood up with my two hands in his, and as he looked down into
my face, I am afraid I was blushing very much, he said, "Little
girl, I hold your hand, and you've kissed me, and if these things
don't make us friends nothing ever will. Thank you for your sweet
honesty to me, and goodbye." He wrung my hand, and taking up his
hat, went straight out of the room without looking back, without a


hat, went straight out of the room without looking back, without a
tear or a quiver or a pause, and I am crying like a baby.
Oh, why must a man like that be made unhappy when there are lots
of girls about who would worship the very ground he trod on? I know
I would if I were free, only I don't want to be free My dear, this
quite upset me, and I feel I cannot write of happiness just at
once, after telling you of it, and I don't wish to tell of the
number Three until it can be all happy. Ever your loving …
Lucy
P. S.—Oh, about number Three, I needn't tell you of number
Three, need I? Besides, it was all so confused. It seemed only a
moment from his coming into the room till both his arms were round
me, and he was kissing me. I am very, very happy, and I don't know
what I have done to deserve it. I must only try in the future to
show that I am not ungrateful to God for all His goodness to me in
sending to me such a lover, such a husband, and such a friend.
Goodbye.
DR. SEWARD'S DIARY (Kept in phonograph)
25 May.—Ebb tide in appetite today. Cannot eat, cannot rest, so
diary instead. since my rebuff of yesterday I have a sort of empty
feeling. Nothing in the world seems of sufficient importance to be
worth the doing. As I knew that the only cure for this sort of
thing was work, I went amongst the patients. I picked out one who
has afforded me a study of much interest. He is so quaint that I am
determined to understand him as well as I can. Today I seemed to
get nearer than ever before to the heart of his mystery.
I questioned him more fully than I had ever done, with a view to
making myself master of the facts of his hallucination. In my
manner of doing it there was, I now see, something of cruelty. I
seemed to wish to keep him to the point of his madness, a thing
which I avoid with the patients as I would the mouth of hell.
(Mem., Under what circumstances would I not avoid the pit of
hell?) Omnia Romae venalia sunt. Hell has its price! If there be
anything behind this instinct it will be valuable to trace itanything behind this instinct it will be valuable to trace it
afterwards accurately, so I had better commence to do so,
therefore …
R. M, Renfield, age 59. Sanguine temperament, great physical
strength, morbidly excitable, periods of gloom, ending in some
fixed idea which I cannot make out. I presume that the sanguine
temperament itself and the disturbing influence end in a
mentally-accomplished finish, a possibly dangerous man, probably
dangerous if unselfish. In selfish men caution is as secure an
armour for their foes as for themselves. What I think of on this
point is, when self is the fixed point the centripetal force is
balanced with the centrifugal. When duty, a cause, etc., is the
fixed point, the latter force is paramount, and only accident of a
series of accidents can balance it.
LETTER, QUINCEY P. MORRIS TO HON. ARTHUR HOLMWOOD
25 May.
My dear Art,
We've told yarns by the campfire in the prairies, and dressed
one another's wounds after trying a landing at the Marquesas, and
drunk healths on the shore of Titicaca. There are more yarns to be
told, and other wounds to be healed, and another health to be
drunk. Won't you let this be at my campfire tomorrow night? I have
no hesitation in asking you, as I know a certain lady is engaged to
a certain dinner party, and that you are free. There will only be
one other, our old pal at the Korea, Jack Seward. He's coming, too,
and we both want to mingle our weeps over the wine cup, and to
drink a health with all our hearts to the happiest man in all the
wide world, who has won the noblest heart that God has made and
best worth winning. We promise you a hearty welcome, and a loving
greeting, and a health as true as your own right hand. We shall
both swear to leave you at home if you drink too deep to a certain
pair of eyes. Come!
Yours, as ever and always,
Quincey P. Morris
TELEGRAM FROM ARTHUR HOLMWOOD TO QUINCEY P. MORRIS
26 May
Count me in every time. I bear messages which will make both
your ears tingle.
Art24 July. Whitby.—Lucy met me at the station, looking sweeter and
lovlier than ever, and we drove up to the house at the Crescent in
which they have rooms. This is a lovely place. The little river,
the Esk, runs through a deep valley, which broadens out as it comes
near the harbour. A great viaduct runs across, with high piers,
through which the view seems somehow further away than it really
is. The valley is beautifully green, and it is so steep that when
you are on the high land on either side you look right across it,
unless you are near enough to see down. The houses of the old
town—the side away from us, are all red-roofed, and seem piled up
one over the other anyhow, like the pictures we see of Nuremberg.
Right over the town is the ruin of Whitby Abbey, which was sacked
by the Danes, and which is the scene of part of "Marmion," where
the girl was built up in the wall. It is a most noble ruin, of
immense size, and full of beautiful and romantic bits. There is a
legend that a white lady is seen in one of the windows. Between it
and the town there is another church, the parish one, round which
is a big graveyard, all full of tombstones. This is to my mind the
nicest spot in Whitby, for it lies right over the town, and has a
full view of the harbour and all up the bay to where the headland
called Kettleness stretches out into the sea. It descends so
steeply over the harbour that part of the bank has fallen away, and
some of the graves have been destroyed.
In one place part of the stonework of the graves stretches out
over the sandy pathway far below. There are walks, with seats
beside them, through the churchyard, and people go and sit there
all day long looking at the beautiful view and enjoying the
breeze.
I shall come and sit here often myself and work. Indeed, I am
writing now, with my book on my knee, and listening to the talk of
three old men who are sitting beside me. They seem to do nothing
all day but sit here and talk.
The harbour lies below me, with, on the far side, one long