The Cursed Castle

Journal two

her comment very gravely and somewhat severely.

‘Ye don’t see aught funny! Ha-ha! But that’s because ye

don’t gawm the sorrowin’ mother was a hell-cat that hated

him because he was acrewk’d, a regular lamiter he was, an’

he hated her so that he committed suicide in order that she

mightn’t get an insurance she put on his life. He blew nigh

the top of his head off with an old musket that they had for

scarin’ crows with. ‘twarn’t for crows then, for it brought

the clegs and the dowps to him. That’s the way he fell off the

rocks. And, as to hopes of a glorious resurrection, I’ve often

heard him say masel’ that he hoped he’d go to hell, for his

mother was so pious that she’d be sure to go to heaven, an’

he didn’t want to addle where she was. Now isn’t that stean

at any rate,’ he hammered it with his stick as he spoke, ‘a

pack of lies? And won’t it make Gabriel keckle when Geordie comes pantin’ ut the grees with the tompstean balanced

on his hump, and asks to be took as evidence!’

I did not know what to say, but Lucy turned the conversation as she said, rising up, ‘Oh, why did you tell us of this?

It is my favourite seat, and I cannot leave it, and now I find I

must go on sitting over the grave of a suicide.’

‘That won’t harm ye, my pretty, an’ it may make poor

Geordie gladsome to have so trim a lass sittin’ on his lap.

That won’t hurt ye. Why, I’ve sat here off an’ on for nigh

twenty years past, an’ it hasn’t done me no harm. Don’t ye

fash about them as lies under ye, or that doesn’ lie there either! It’ll be time for ye to be getting scart when ye see the

tombsteans all run away with, and the place as bare as a

stubble-field. There’s the clock, and’I must gang. My service to ye, ladies!’ And off he hobbled.

Skyler and I sat awhile, and it was all so beautiful before

us that we took hands as we sat, and she told me all over

again about Arthur and their coming marriage. That made

me just a little heart-sick, for I haven’t heard from Jonathan

for a whole month.

The same day. I came up here alone, for I am very sad.

There was no letter for me. I hope there cannot be anything

the matter with Jonathan. The clock has just struck nine. I

see the lights scattered all over the town, sometimes in rows

where the streets are, and sometimes singly. They run right

up the Esk and die away in the curve of the valley. To my

left the view is cut off by a black line of roof of the old house

next to the abbey. The sheep and lambs are bleating in the

fields away behind me, and there is a clatter of donkeys’

hoofs up the paved road below. The band on the pier is playing a harsh waltz in good time, and further along the quay

there is a Salvation Army meeting in a back street. Neither

of the bands hears the other, but up here I hear and see them

both. I wonder where Jonathan is and if he is thinking of

me! I wish he were here.

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY

5 June.—The case of Renfield grows more interesting the

more I get to understand the man. He has certain qualities

very largely developed, selfishness, secrecy, and purpose.

I wish I could get at what is the object of the latter. He

seems to have some settled scheme of his own, but what it

is I do not know. His redeeming quality is a love of animals,

though, indeed, he has such curious turns in it that I some times imagine he is only abnormally cruel. His pets are of

odd sorts.

Just now his hobby is catching flies. He has at present

such a quantity that I have had myself to expostulate. To my

astonishment, he did not break out into a fury, as I expected,

but took the matter in simple seriousness. He thought for a

moment, and then said, ‘May I have three days? I shall clear

them away.’ Of course, I said that would do. I must watch

him.

18 June.—He has turned his mind now to spiders, and

has got several very big fellows in a box. He keeps feeding

them his flies, and the number of the latter is becoming

sensibly diminished, although he has used half his food in

attracting more flies from outside to his room.

1 July.—His spiders are now becoming as great a nuisance as his flies, and today I told him that he must get rid

of them.

He looked very sad at this, so I said that he must some of

them, at all events. He cheerfully acquiesced in this, and I

gave him the same time as before for reduction.

He disgusted me much while with him, for when a horrid blowfly, bloated with some carrion food, buzzed into the

room, he caught it, held it exultantly for a few moments between his finger and thumb, and before I knew what he was

going to do, put it in his mouth and ate it.

I scolded him for it, but he argued quietly that it was very

good and very wholesome, that it was life, strong life, and

gave life to him. This gave me an idea, or the rudiment of

one. I must watch how he gets rid of his spiders. He has evidently some deep problem in his mind, for he

keeps a little notebook in which he is always jotting down

something. whole pages of it are filled with masses of figures, generally single numbers added up in batches, and

then the totals added in batches again, as though he were

focussing some account, as the auditors put it.

8 July.—There is a method in his madness, and the rudimentary idea in my mind is growing. It will be a whole idea

soon, and then, oh, unconscious cerebration, you will have

to give the wall to your conscious brother.

I kept away from my friend for a few days, so that I might

notice if there were any change. Things remain as they were

except that he has parted with some of his pets and got a

new one.

He has managed to get a sparrow, and has already partially tamed it. His means of taming is simple, for already

the spiders have diminished. Those that do remain, however, are well fed, for he still brings in the flies by tempting

them with his food.

19 July—We are progressing. My friend has now a whole

colony of sparrows, and his flies and spiders are almost

obliterated. When I came in he ran to me and said he wanted to ask me a great favour, a very, very great favour. And as

he spoke, he fawned on me like a dog.

I asked him what it was, and he said, with a sort of rapture in his voice and bearing, ‘A kitten, a nice, little, sleek

playful kitten, that I can play with, and teach, and feed, and

feed, and feed!’

I was not unprepared for this request, for I had noticed how his pets went on increasing in size and vivacity, but I

did not care that his pretty family of tame sparrows should

be wiped out in the same manner as the flies and spiders. So

I said I would see about it, and asked him if he would not

rather have a cat than a kitten.

His eagerness betrayed him as he answered, ‘Oh, yes, I

would like a cat! I only asked for a kitten lest you should

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

they?’

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

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

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

a sudden fierce, sidelong look which meant killing. The man

is an undeveloped homicidal maniac. I shall test him with

his present craving and see how it will work out, then I shall

know more.

10 pm.—I have visited him again and found him sitting

in a corner brooding. When I came in he threw himself on

his knees before me and implored me to let him have a cat,

that his salvation depended upon it.

I was firm, however, and told him that he could not have

it, whereupon he went without a word, and sat down, gnawing his fingers, in the corner where I had found him. I shall

see him in the morning early.

20 July.—Visited Renfield very early, before attendant

went his rounds. Found him up and humming a tune. He

was spreading out his sugar, which he had saved, in the window, and was manifestly beginning his fly catching again,

and beginning it cheerfully and with a good Grace I looked around for his birds, and not seeing them, asked

him where they were. He replied, without turning round,

that they had all flown away. There were a few feathers about

the room and on his pillow a drop of blood. I said nothing,

but went and told the keeper to report to me if there were

anything odd about him during the day.

11 am.—The attendant has just been to see me to say that

Renfield has been very sick and has disgorged a whole lot of

feathers. ‘My belief is, doctor,’ he said, ‘that he has eaten his

birds, and that he just took and ate them raw!’

11 pm.—I gave Renfield a strong opiate tonight, enough

to make even him sleep, and took away his pocketbook to

look at it. The thought that has been buzzing about my brain

lately is complete, and the theory proved.

My homicidal maniac is of a peculiar kind. I shall have

to invent a new classification for him, and call him a zoophagous (life-eating) maniac. What he desires is to absorb as

many lives as he can, and he has laid himself out to achieve

it in a cumulative way. He gave many flies to one spider and

many spiders to one bird, and then wanted a cat to eat the

many birds. What would have been his later steps?

It would almost be worth while to complete the experiment. It might be done if there were only a sufficient cause.

Men sneered at vivisection, and yet look at its results today!

Why not advance science in its most difficult and vital aspect, the knowledge of the brain?

Had I even the secret of one such mind, did I hold the key

to the fancy of even one lunatic, I might advance my own

branch of science to a pitch compared with which Burdon Sanderson’s physiology or Ferrier’s brain knowledge would

be as nothing. If only there were a sufficient cause! I must

not think too much of this, or I may be tempted. A good

cause might turn the scale with me, for may not I too be of

an exceptional brain, congenitally?

How well the man reasoned. Lunatics always do within

their own scope. I wonder at how many lives he values a

man, or if at only one. He has closed the account most accurately, and today begun a new record. How many of us

begin a new record with each day of our lives?

To me it seems only yesterday that my whole life ended

with my new hope, and that truly I began a new record. So

it shall be until the Great Recorder sums me up and closes

my ledger account with a balance to profit or loss.

Oh, Skyler, Skyler, I cannot be angry with you, nor can I be

angry with my friend whose happiness is yours, but I must

only wait on hopeless and work. Work! Work!

If I could have as strong a cause as my poor mad friend

there, a good, unselfish cause to make me work, that would

be indeed happiness.

MINA MURRAY’S JOURNAL

—I am anxious, and it soothes me to express myself here. It is like whispering to one’s self and listening at

the same time. And there is also something about the shorthand symbols that makes it different from writing. I am

unhappy about Skyler and about Jonathan. I had not heard

from Jonathan for some time, and was very concerned, but

yesterday dear Mr. Hawkins, who is always so kind, sent me

a letter from him. I had written asking him if he had heard,