Dracula [replicate]

CHAPTER III

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL—continued

WHEN I found that I was a prisoner a sort of wild feeling came over me. I rushed

up and down the stairs, trying every door and peering out of every window I

could find; but after a little the conviction of my helplessness overpowered all

other feelings. When I look back after a few hours I think I must have been mad

for the time, for I behaved much as a rat does in a trap. When, however, the

conviction had come to me that I was helpless I sat down quietly—as quietly as I

have ever done anything in my life—and began to think over what was best to be

done. I am thinking still, and as yet have come to no definite conclusion. Of one

thing only am I certain; that it is no use making my ideas known to the Count.

He knows well that I am imprisoned; and as he has done it himself, and has

doubtless his own motives for it, he would only deceive me if I trusted him fully

with the facts. So far as I can see, my only plan will be to keep my knowledge

and my fears to myself, and my eyes open. I am, I know, either being deceived,

like a baby, by my own fears, or else I am in desperate straits; and if the latter be

so, I need, and shall need, all my brains to get through.

I had hardly come to this conclusion when I heard the great door below shut,

and knew that the Count had returned. He did not come at once into the library,

so I went cautiously to my own room and found him making the bed. This was

odd, but only confirmed what I had all along thought—that there were no

servants in the house. When later I saw him through the c***k of the hinges of

the door laying the table in the dining-room, I was assured of it; for if he does

himself all these menial offices, surely it is proof that there is no one else to do

them. This gave me a fright, for if there is no one else in the castle, it must have

been the Count himself who was the driver of the coach that brought me here.

This is a terrible thought; for if so, what does it mean that he could control the

wolves, as he did, by only holding up his hand in silence. How was it that all the

people at Bistritz and on the coach had some terrible fear for me? What meant

the giving of the crucifix, of the garlic, of the wild rose, of the mountain ash?

Bless that good, good woman who hung the crucifix round my neck! for it is a

comfort and a strength to me whenever I touch it. It is odd that a thing which I

have been taught to regard with disfavour and as idolatrous should in a time of

loneliness and trouble be of help. Is it that there is something in the essence of

the thing itself, or that it is a medium, a tangible help, in conveying memories of

sympathy and comfort? Some time, if it may be, I must examine this matter and

try to make up my mind about it. In the meantime I must find out all I can about

Count Dracula, as it may help me to understand. To-night he may talk of himself,

if I turn the conversation that way. I must be very careful, however, not to awake

his suspicion.

Midnight.—I have had a long talk with the Count. I asked him a few

questions on Transylvania history, and he warmed up to the subject wonderfully.

In his speaking of things and people, and especially of battles, he spoke as if he

had been present at them all. This he afterwards explained by saying that to a

boyar the pride of his house and name is his own pride, that their glory is his

glory, that their fate is his fate. Whenever he spoke of his house he always said

“we,” and spoke almost in the plural, like a king speaking. I wish I could put

down all he said exactly as he said it, for to me it was most fascinating. It

seemed to have in it a whole history of the country. He grew excited as he spoke,

and walked about the room pulling his great white moustache and grasping

anything on which he laid his hands as though he would crush it by main

strength. One thing he said which I shall put down as nearly as I can; for it tells

in its way the story of his race:—

“We Szekelys have a right to be proud, for in our veins flows the blood of

many brave races who fought as the lion fights, for lordship. Here, in the

whirlpool of European races, the Ugric tribe bore down from Iceland the fighting

spirit which Thor and Wodin gave them, which their Berserkers displayed to

such fell intent on the seaboards of Europe, ay, and of Asia and Africa too, till

the peoples thought that the were-wolves themselves had come. Here, too, when

they came, they found the Huns, whose warlike fury had swept the earth like a

living flame, till the dying peoples held that in their veins ran the blood of those

old witches, who, expelled from Scythia had mated with the devils in the desert.

Fools, fools! What devil or what witch was ever so great as Attila, whose blood

is in these veins?” He held up his arms. “Is it a wonder that we were a

conquering race; that we were proud; that when the Magyar, the Lombard, the

Avar, the Bulgar, or the Turk poured his thousands on our frontiers, we drove

them back? Is it strange that when Arpad and his legions swept through the

Hungarian fatherland he found us here when he reached the frontier; that the

Honfoglalas was completed there? And when the Hungarian flood swept

eastward, the Szekelys were claimed as kindred by the victorious Magyars, and

to us for centuries was trusted the guarding of the frontier of Turkey-land; ay,

and more than that, endless duty of the frontier guard, for, as the Turks say,

‘water sleeps, and enemy is sleepless.’ Who more gladly than we throughout the

Four Nations received the ‘bloody sword,’ or at its warlike call flocked quicker

to the standard of the King? When was redeemed that great shame of my nation,

the shame of Cassova, when the flags of the Wallach and the Magyar went down

beneath the Crescent? Who was it but one of my own race who as Voivode

crossed the Danube and beat the Turk on his own ground? This was a Dracula

indeed! Woe was it that his own unworthy brother, when he had fallen, sold his

people to the Turk and brought the shame of slavery on them! Was it not this

Dracula, indeed, who inspired that other of his race who in a later age again and

again brought his forces over the great river into Turkey-land; who, when he was

beaten back, came again, and again, and again, though he had to come alone

from the bloody field where his troops were being slaughtered, since he knew

that he alone could ultimately triumph! They said that he thought only of

himself. Bah! what good are peasants without a leader? Where ends the war

without a brain and heart to conduct it? Again, when, after the battle of Mohács,

we threw off the Hungarian yoke, we of the Dracula blood were amongst their

leaders, for our spirit would not brook that we were not free. Ah, young sir, the

Szekelys—and the Dracula as their heart’s blood, their brains, and their swords

—can boast a record that mushroom growths like the Hapsburgs and the

Romanoffs can never reach. The warlike days are over. Blood is too precious a

thing in these days of dishonourable peace; and the glories of the great races are

as a tale that is told.”

It was by this time close on morning, and we went to bed. (Mem., this diary

seems horribly like the beginning of the “Arabian Nights,” for everything has to

break off at cockcrow—or like the ghost of Hamlet’s father.)

12 May.—Let me begin with facts—bare, meagre facts, verified by books and

figures, and of which there can be no doubt. I must not confuse them with

experiences which will have to rest on my own observation, or my memory of

them. Last evening when the Count came from his room he began by asking me

questions on legal matters and on the doing of certain kinds of business. I had

spent the day wearily over books, and, simply to keep my mind occupied, went

over some of the matters I had been examined in at Lincoln’s Inn. There was a

certain method in the Count’s inquiries, so I shall try to put them down in

sequence; the knowledge may somehow or some time be useful to me.

First, he asked if a man in England might have two solicitors or more. I told

him he might have a dozen if he wished, but that it would not be wise to have

more than one solicitor engaged in one transaction, as only one could act at a

time, and that to change would be certain to militate against his interest. He

seemed thoroughly to understand, and went on to ask if there would be any

practical difficulty in having one man to attend, say, to banking, and another to

look after shipping, in case local help were needed in a place far from the home

of the banking solicitor. I asked him to explain more fully, so that I might not by

any chance mislead him, so he said:—

“I shall illustrate. Your friend and mine, Mr. Peter Hawkins, from under the

shadow of your beautiful cathedral at Exeter, which is far from London, buys for

me through your good self my place at London. Good! Now here let me say

frankly, lest you should think it strange that I have sought the services of one so

far off from London instead of some one resident there, that my motive was that

no local interest might be served save my wish only; and as one of London

residence might, perhaps, have some purpose of himself or friend to serve, I

went thus afield to seek my agent, whose labours should be only to my interest.

Now, suppose I, who have much of affairs, wish to ship goods, say, to

Newcastle, or Durham, or Harwich, or Dover, might it not be that it could with

more ease be done by consigning to one in these ports?” I answered that

certainly it would be most easy, but that we solicitors had a system of agency

one for the other, so that local work could be done locally on instruction from

any solicitor, so that the client, simply placing himself in the hands of one man,

could have his wishes carried out by him without further trouble.

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

“Of course,” I replied; and “such is often done by men of business, who do

not like the whole of their affairs to be known by any one person.”

“Good!” he said, and then went on to ask about the means of making

consignments and the forms to be gone through, and of all sorts of difficulties

which might arise, but by forethought could be guarded against. I explained all

these things to him to the best of my ability, and he certainly left me under the

impression that he would have made a wonderful solicitor, for there was nothing

that he did not think of or foresee. For a man who was never in the country, and

who did not evidently do much in the way of business, his knowledge and

acumen were wonderful. When he had satisfied himself on these points of which

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

suddenly stood up and said:—

“Have you written since your first letter to our friend Mr. Peter Hawkins, or

to any other?” It was with some bitterness in my heart that I answered that I had

not, that as yet I had not seen any opportunity of sending letters to anybody.

“Then write now, my young friend,” he said, laying a heavy hand on my

shoulder: “write to our friend and to any other; and say, if it will please you, that

you shall stay with me until a month from now.”

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

thought.

“I desire it much; nay, I will take no refusal. When your master, employer,

what you will, engaged that someone should come on his behalf, it was

understood that my needs only were to be consulted. I have not stinted. Is it not

so?”

What could I do but bow acceptance? It was Mr. Hawkins’s interest, not

mine, and I had to think of him, not myself; and besides, while Count Dracula

was speaking, there was that in his eyes and in his bearing which made me

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

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

for he began at once to use them, but in his own smooth, resistless way:—

“I pray you, my good young friend, that you will not discourse of things other

than business in your letters. It will doubtless please your friends to know that

you are well, and that you look forward to getting home to them. Is it not so?”

As he spoke he handed me three sheets of note-paper and three envelopes. They

were all of the thinnest foreign post, and looking at them, then at him, and

noticing his quiet smile, with the sharp, canine teeth lying over the red underlip,

I understood as well as if he had spoken that I should be careful what I wrote, for

he would be able to read it. So I determined to write only formal notes now, but

to write fully to Mr. Hawkins in secret, and also to Mina, for to her I could write

in shorthand, which would puzzle the Count, if he did see it. When I had written

my two letters I sat quiet, reading a book whilst the Count wrote several notes,

referring as he wrote them to some books on his table. Then he took up my two

and placed them with his own, and put by his writing materials, after which, the

instant the door had closed behind him, I leaned over and looked at the letters,

which were face down on the table. I felt no compunction in doing so, for under

the circumstances I felt that I should protect myself in every way I could.

One of the letters was directed to Samuel F. Billington, No. 7, The Crescent,

Whitby, another to Herr Leutner, Varna; the third was to Coutts & Co., London,

and the fourth to Herren Klopstock & Billreuth, bankers, Buda-Pesth. The

second and fourth were unsealed. I was just about to look at them when I saw the

door-handle move. I sank back in my seat, having just had time to replace the

letters as they had been and to resume my book before the Count, holding still

another letter in his hand, entered the room. He took up the letters on the table

and stamped them carefully, and then turning to me, said:—

“I trust you will forgive me, but I have much work to do in private this

evening. You will, I hope, find all things as you wish.” At the door he turned,

and after a moment’s pause said:—

“Let me advise you, my dear young friend—nay, let me warn you with all

seriousness, that should you leave these rooms you will not by any chance go to

sleep in any other part of the castle. It is old, and has many memories, and there

are bad dreams for those who sleep unwisely. Be warned! Should sleep now or

ever overcome you, or be like to do, then haste to your own chamber or to these

rooms, for your rest will then be safe. But if you be not careful in this respect,

then”—He finished his speech in a gruesome way, for he motioned with his

hands as if he were washing them. I quite understood; my only doubt was as to

whether any dream could be more terrible than the unnatural, horrible net of

gloom and mystery which seemed closing around me.

Later.—I endorse the last words written, but this time there is no doubt in

question. I shall not fear to sleep in any place where he is not. I have placed the

crucifix over the head of my bed—I imagine that my rest is thus freer from

dreams; and there it shall remain.

When he left me I went to my room. After a little while, not hearing any

sound, I came out and went up the stone stair to where I could look out towards

the South. There was some sense of freedom in the vast expanse, inaccessible

though it was to me, as compared with the narrow darkness of the courtyard.

Looking out on this, I felt that I was indeed in prison, and I seemed to want a

breath of fresh air, though it were of the night. I am beginning to feel this

nocturnal existence tell on me. It is destroying my nerve. I start at my own

shadow, and am full of all sorts of horrible imaginings. God knows that there is

ground for my terrible fear in this accursed place! I looked out over the beautiful

expanse, bathed in soft yellow moonlight till it was almost as light as day. In the

soft light the distant hills became melted, and the shadows in the valleys and

gorges of velvety blackness. The mere beauty seemed to cheer me; there was

peace and comfort in every breath I drew. As I leaned from the window my eye

was caught by something moving a storey below me, and somewhat to my left,

where I imagined, from the order of the rooms, that the windows of the Count’s

own room would look out. The window at which I stood was tall and deep,

stone-mullioned, and though weatherworn, was still complete; but it was

evidently many a day since the case had been there. I drew back behind the

stonework, and looked carefully out.

What I saw was the Count’s head coming out from the window. I did not see

the face, but I knew the man by the neck and the movement of his back and

arms. In any case I could not mistake the hands which I had had so many

opportunities of studying. I was at first interested and somewhat amused, for it is

wonderful how small a matter will interest and amuse a man when he is a

prisoner. But my very feelings changed to repulsion and terror when I saw the

whole man slowly emerge from the window and begin to crawl down the castle

wall over that dreadful abyss, face down with his cloak spreading out around him

like great wings. At first I could not believe my eyes. I thought it was some trick

of the moonlight, some weird effect of shadow; but I kept looking, and it could

be no delusion. I saw the fingers and toes grasp the corners of the stones, worn

clear of the mortar by the stress of years, and by thus using every projection and

inequality move downwards with considerable speed, just as a lizard moves

along a wall.

What manner of man is this, or what manner of creature is it in the semblance

of man? I feel the dread of this horrible place overpowering me; I am in fear—in

awful fear—and there is no escape for me; I am encompassed about with terrors

that I dare not think of....

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

moved downwards in a sidelong way, some hundred feet down, and a good deal

to the left. He vanished into some hole or window. When his head had

disappeared, I leaned out to try and see more, but without avail—the distance

was too great to allow a proper angle of sight. I knew he had left the castle now,

and thought to use the opportunity to explore more than I had dared to do as yet.

I went back to the room, and taking a lamp, tried all the doors. They were all

locked, as I had expected, and the locks were comparatively new; but I went

down the stone stairs to the hall where I had entered originally. I found I could

pull back the bolts easily enough and unhook the great chains; but the door was

locked, and the key was gone! That key must be in the Count’s room; I must

watch should his door be unlocked, so that I may get it and escape. I went on to

make a thorough examination of the various stairs and passages, and to try the

doors that opened from them. One or two small rooms near the hall were open,

but there was nothing to see in them except old furniture, dusty with age and

moth-eaten. At last, however, I found one door at the top of the stairway which,

though it seemed to be locked, gave a little under pressure. I tried it harder, and

found that it was not really locked, but that the resistance came from the fact that

the hinges had fallen somewhat, and the heavy door rested on the floor. Here was

an opportunity which I might not have again, so I exerted myself, and with many

efforts forced it back so that I could enter. I was now in a wing of the castle

further to the right than the rooms I knew and a storey lower down. From the

windows I could see that the suite of rooms lay along to the south of the castle,

the windows of the end room looking out both west and south. On the latter side,

as well as to the former, there was a great precipice. The castle was built on the

corner of a great rock, so that on three sides it was quite impregnable, and great

windows were placed here where sling, or bow, or culverin could not reach, and

consequently light and comfort, impossible to a position which had to be

guarded, were secured. To the west was a great valley, and then, rising far away,

great jagged mountain fastnesses, rising peak on peak, the sheer rock studded

with mountain ash and thorn, whose roots clung in cracks and crevices and

crannies of the stone. This was evidently the portion of the castle occupied by

the ladies in bygone days, for the furniture had more air of comfort than any I

had seen. The windows were curtainless, and the yellow moonlight, flooding in

through the diamond panes, enabled one to see even colours, whilst it softened

the wealth of dust which lay over all and disguised in some measure the ravages

of time and the moth. My lamp seemed to be of little effect in the brilliant

moonlight, but I was glad to have it with me, for there was a dread loneliness in

the place which chilled my heart and made my nerves tremble. Still, it was better

than living alone in the rooms which I had come to hate from the presence of the

Count, and after trying a little to school my nerves, I found a soft quietude come

over me. Here I am, sitting at a little oak table where in old times possibly some

fair lady sat to pen, with much thought and many blushes, her ill-spelt love-

letter, and writing in my diary in shorthand all that has happened since I closed it

last. It is nineteenth century up-to-date with a vengeance. And yet, unless my

senses deceive me, the old centuries had, and have, powers of their own which

mere “modernity” cannot kill.

Later: the Morning of 16 May.—God preserve my sanity, for to this I am

reduced. Safety and the assurance of safety are things of the past. Whilst I live

on here there is but one thing to hope for, that I may not go mad, if, indeed, I be

not mad already. If I be sane, then surely it is maddening to think that of all the

foul things that lurk in this hateful place the Count is the least dreadful to me;

that to him alone I can look for safety, even though this be only whilst I can

serve his purpose. Great God! merciful God! Let me be calm, for out of that way

lies madness indeed. I begin to get new lights on certain things which have

puzzled me. Up to now I never quite knew what Shakespeare meant when he

made Hamlet say:—

“My tablets! quick, my tablets!

’Tis meet that I put it down,” etc.,

for now, feeling as though my own brain were unhinged or as if the shock had

come which must end in its undoing, I turn to my diary for repose. The habit of

entering accurately must help to soothe me.

The Count’s mysterious warning frightened me at the time; it frightens me

more now when I think of it, for in future he has a fearful hold upon me. I shall

fear to doubt what he may say!

When I had written in my diary and had fortunately replaced the book and

pen in my pocket I felt sleepy. The Count’s warning came into my mind, but I

took a pleasure in disobeying it. The sense of sleep was upon me, and with it the

obstinacy which sleep brings as outrider. The soft moonlight soothed, and the

wide expanse without gave a sense of freedom which refreshed me. I determined

not to return to-night to the gloom-haunted rooms, but to sleep here, where, of

old, ladies had sat and sung and lived sweet lives whilst their gentle breasts were

sad for their menfolk away in the midst of remorseless wars. I drew a great

couch out of its place near the corner, so that as I lay, I could look at the lovely

view to east and south, and unthinking of and uncaring for the dust, composed

myself for sleep. I suppose I must have fallen asleep; I hope so, but I fear, for all

that followed was startlingly real—so real that now sitting here in the broad, full

sunlight of the morning, I cannot in the least believe that it was all sleep.

I was not alone. The room was the same, unchanged in any way since I came

into it; I could see along the floor, in the brilliant moonlight, my own footsteps

marked where I had disturbed the long accumulation of dust. In the moonlight

opposite me were three young women, ladies by their dress and manner. I

thought at the time that I must be dreaming when I saw them, for, though the

moonlight was behind them, they threw no shadow on the floor. They came

close to me, and looked at me for some time, and then whispered together. Two

were dark, and had high aquiline noses, like the Count, and great dark, piercing

eyes that seemed to be almost red when contrasted with the pale yellow moon.

The other was fair, as fair as can be, with great wavy masses of golden hair and

eyes like pale sapphires. I seemed somehow to know her face, and to know it in

connection with some dreamy fear, but I could not recollect at the moment how

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

ruby of their voluptuous lips. There was something about them that made me

uneasy, some longing and at the same time some deadly fear. I felt in my heart a

wicked, burning desire that they would kiss me with those red lips. It is not good

to note this down, lest some day it should meet Mina’s eyes and cause her pain;

but it is the truth. They whispered together, and then they all three laughed—

such a silvery, musical laugh, but as hard as though the sound never could have

come through the softness of human lips. It was like the intolerable, tingling

sweetness of water-glasses when played on by a cunning hand. The fair girl

shook her head coquettishly, and the other two urged her on. One said:—

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

other added:—

“He is young and strong; there are kisses for us all.” I lay quiet, looking out

under my eyelashes in an agony of delightful anticipation. The fair girl advanced

and bent over me till I could feel the movement of her breath upon me. Sweet it

was in one sense, honey-sweet, and sent the same tingling through the nerves as

her voice, but with a bitter underlying the sweet, a bitter offensiveness, as one

smells in blood.

I was afraid to raise my eyelids, but looked out and saw perfectly under the

lashes. The girl went on her knees, and bent over me, simply gloating. There was

a deliberate voluptuousness which was both thrilling and repulsive, and as she

arched her neck she actually licked her lips like an animal, till I could see in the

moonlight the moisture shining on the scarlet lips and on the red tongue as it

lapped the white sharp teeth. Lower and lower went her head as the lips went

below the range of my mouth and chin and seemed about to fasten on my throat.

Then she paused, and I could hear the churning sound of her tongue as it licked

her teeth and lips, and could feel the hot breath on my neck. Then the skin of my

throat began to tingle as one’s flesh does when the hand that is to tickle it

approaches nearer—nearer. I could feel the soft, shivering touch of the lips on

the super-sensitive skin of my throat, and the hard dents of two sharp teeth, just

touching and pausing there. I closed my eyes in a languorous ecstasy and waited

—waited with beating heart.

But at that instant, another sensation swept through me as quick as lightning.

I was conscious of the presence of the Count, and of his being as if lapped in a

storm of fury. As my eyes opened involuntarily I saw his strong hand grasp the

slender neck of the fair woman and with giant’s power draw it back, the blue

eyes transformed with fury, the white teeth champing with rage, and the fair

cheeks blazing red with passion. But the Count! Never did I imagine such wrath

and fury, even to the demons of the pit. His eyes were positively blazing. The red

light in them was lurid, as if the flames of hell-fire blazed behind them. His face

was deathly pale, and the lines of it were hard like drawn wires; the thick

eyebrows that met over the nose now seemed like a heaving bar of white-hot

metal. With a fierce sweep of his arm, he hurled the woman from him, and then

motioned to the others, as though he were beating them back; it was the same

imperious gesture that I had seen used to the wolves. In a voice which, though

low and almost in a whisper seemed to cut through the air and then ring round

the room he said:—

“How dare you touch him, any of you? How dare you cast eyes on him when

I had forbidden it? Back, I tell you all! This man belongs to me! Beware how

you meddle with him, or you’ll have to deal with me.” The fair girl, with a laugh

of ribald coquetry, turned to answer him:—

“You yourself never loved; you never love!” On this the other women joined,

and such a mirthless, hard, soulless laughter rang through the room that it almost

made me faint to hear; it seemed like the pleasure of fiends. Then the Count

turned, after looking at my face attentively, and said in a soft whisper:—

“Yes, I too can love; you yourselves can tell it from the past. Is it not so?

Well, now I promise you that when I am done with him you shall kiss him at

your will. Now go! go! I must awaken him, for there is work to be done.”

“Are we to have nothing to-night?” said one of them, with a low laugh, as she

pointed to the bag which he had thrown upon the floor, and which moved as

though there were some living thing within it. For answer he nodded his head.

One of the women jumped forward and opened it. If my ears did not deceive me

there was a gasp and a low wail, as of a half-smothered child. The women closed

round, whilst I was aghast with horror; but as I looked they disappeared, and

with them the dreadful bag. There was no door near them, and they could not

have passed me without my noticing. They simply seemed to fade into the rays

of the moonlight and pass out through the window, for I could see outside the

dim, shadowy forms for a moment before they entirely faded away.

Then the horror overcame me, and I sank down unconscious.