out into a fury, as I expected, but took the matter in simple

seriousness. He thought for a moment, and then said: «May I

have three days? I shall clear them away.» Of course, I said that

would do. I must watch him.

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

several very big fellows in a box. He keeps feeding them with his

Mina Murray’s Journal 65

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

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

from outside to his room.

j July. His spiders are now becoming as great a nuisance as

his flies, and to-day I told him that he must get rid of them. He

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

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

him the same time as before for reduction. He disgusted me much

while with him, for when a horrid blow-fly, bloated with some

carrion food, buzzed into the room, he caught it, held it exult-

antly for a few moments between his finger and thumb, and,

before I knew what he was going to do, put it in his mouth and

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

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

fife to him. This gave me an idea, or the rudiment of one. I must

watch how he gets rid of his spiders. He has evidently some deep

problem in his mind, for he keeps a little note-book in which he

is always jotting down something. Whole pages of it are filled

with masses of figures, generally single numbers added up in

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

were «focussing» some account, as the auditors put it.

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

tary idea in my mind is growing. It will be a whole idea soon, and

then, oh, unconscious cerebration! you will have to give the

wall to your conscious brother. I kept away from my friend for

a few days, so that I might notice if there were any change.

Things remain as they were except that he has parted with

some of his pets and got a new one. He has managed to get a

sparrow, and has already partially tamed it. His means of taming

is simple, for already the spiders have diminished. Those that

do remain, however, are well fed, for he still brings in the flies

by tempting them with his food.

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

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

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

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

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

with a sort of rapture in his voice and bearing:

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

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

66 Dracula

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

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

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

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

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

His eagerness betrayed him as he answered:

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

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

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

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

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

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

undeveloped homicidal maniac. I shall test him with his present

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

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

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

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

tion depended upon it. I was firm, however, and told him that

he could not have it, whereupon he went without a word, and

sat down, gnawing his fingers, in the corner where I had found

him. I shall see him in the morning early.

20 July. Visited Renfield very early, before the attendant

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

spreading out his sugar, which he had saved, in the window, and

was manifestly beginning his fly-catching again; and beginning

it cheerfully and with a good grace. I looked around for his birds,

and not seeing them, asked him where they were. He replied,

without turning round, that they had all flown away. There were

a few feathers about the room and on his pillow a drop of blood.

I said nothing, but went and told the keeper to report to me if

there were anything odd about him during the day.

11 a. m. The attendant has just been to me to say that

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

feathers. «My belief is, doctor,» he said, «that he has eaten his

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

ii p. m. I gave Renfield a strong opiate to-night, enough

to make even him sleep, and took away his pocket-book to

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

lately is complete, and the theory proved. My homicidal maniac

is of a peculiar kind. I shall have to invent a new classification

Mina Murray’s Journal 67

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

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

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

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

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

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

ment. It might be done if there were only a sufficient cause. Men

sneered at vivisection, and yet look at its results to-day! Why

not advance science in its most difficult and vital aspect the

knowledge of the brain? Had I even the secret of one such mind

did I hold the key to the fancy of even one lunatic I might

advance my own branch of science to a pitch compared with

which Burdon-Sanderson’s physiology or Ferrier’s brain-knowl-

edge would be as nothing. If only there were a sufficient cause!

I must not think too much of this, or I may be tempted; a good

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

exceptional brain, congenitally?

How well the man reasoned; lunatics always do within their

own scope. I wonder at how many lives he values a man, or if at

only one. He has closed the account most accurately, and to-day

begun a new record. How many of us begin a new record with

each day of our lives?

To me it seems only yesterday that my whole life ended with

my new hope, and that truly I began a new record. So it will be

until the Great Recorder sums me up and closes my ledger ac-

count with a balance to profit or loss. Oh, Lucy, Lucy, I cannot

be angry with you, nor can I be angry with my friend whose

happiness is yours; but I must only wait on hopeless and work.

Work! work!

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

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

indeed happiness.

Mina Murray’s Journal.

26 July. I am anxious, and it soothes me to express myself

here; it is like whispering to one’s self and listening at the same

time. And there is also something about the shorthand symbols

that makes it different from writing. I am unhappy about Lucy

and about Jonathan. I had not heard from Jonathan for some

time, and was very concerned; but yesterday dear Mr. Hawkins,

who is always so kind, sent me a letter from him. I had written

asking him if he had heard, and he said the enclosed had just

been received. It is only a line dated from Castle Dracula, and

68 Dracula

says that he is just starting for home. That is not like Jonathan;

I do not understand it, and it makes me uneasy. Then, too, Lucy,

although she is so well, has lately taken to her old habit of walk-

ing in her sleep. Her mother has spoken to me about it, and we

have decided that I am to lock the door of our room every night.

Mrs. Westenra has got an idea that sleep-walkers always go out

on roofs of houses and along the edges of cliffs and then get sud-

denly wakened and fall over with a despairing cry that echoes all

over the place. Poor dear, she is naturally anxious about Lucy,

and she tells me that her husband, Lucy’s father, had the same

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

out, if he were not stopped. Lucy is to be married hi the autumn,

and she is already planning out her dresses and how her house is

to be arranged. I sympathise with her, for I do the same, only

Jonathan and I will start in life in a very simply way, and shall

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

Hon. Arthur Holmwood, only son of Lord Godalming is

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

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

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

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

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

when he arrives.

2*7 July. No news from Jonathan. I am getting quite uneasy

about him, though why I should I do not know; but I do wish

that he would write, if it were only a single line. Lucy walks

more than ever, and each night I am awakened by her moving

about the room. Fortunately, the weather is so hot that she

cannot get cold; but still the anxiety and the perpetually being

wakened is beginning to tell on me, and I am getting nervous and

wakeful myself. Thank God, Lucy’s health keeps up. Mr. Holm-

wood has been suddenly called to Ring to see his father, who has

been taken seriously ill. Lucy frets at the postponement of seeing

him, but it does not touch her looks; she is a trifle stouter, and

her cheeks are a lovely rose-pink. She has lost that anaemic look

which she had. I pray it will all last.

5 August. Another week gone, and no news from Jonathan,

not even to Mr. Hawkins, from whom I have heard. Oh, I do

hope he is not ill. He surely would have written. I look at that

last letter of his, but somehow it does not satisfy me. It does not

read like him, and yet it is his writing. There is no mistake of

that. Lucy has not walked much in her sleep the last week, but

Mina Murray’s Journal 69

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

stand; even in her sleep she seems to be watching me. She tries

the door, and finding it locked, goes about the room searching for

the key.

6 August. Another three days, and no news. This suspense

is getting dreadful. If I only knew where to write to or where to

go to, I should feel easier; but no one has heard a word of Jona-

than since that last letter. I must only pray to God for patience.

Lucy is more excitable than ever, but is otherwise well. Last night

was very threatening, and the fishermen say that we are in for a

storm. I must try to watch it and learn the weather signs. To-day

is a grey day, and the sun as I write is hidden in thick clouds,

high over Kettleness. Everything is grey except the green grass,

which seems like emerald amongst it; grey earthy rock; grey

clouds, tinged with the sunburst at the far edge, hang over the

grey sea, into which the sand-points stretch like grey fingers.

The sea is tumbling in over the shallows and the sandy flats with

a roar, muffled in the sea-mists drifting inland. The horizon is lost

in a grey mist. All is vastness; the clouds are piled up like giant

rocks, and there is a «brool» over the sea that sounds like some

presage of doom. Dark figures are on the beach here and there,

sometimes half shrouded in the mist, and seem «men like trees

walking.» The fishing-boats are racing for home, and rise and

dip in the ground swell as they sweep into the harbour, bending

to the scuppers. Here comes old Mr. Swales. He is making straight

for me, and I can see, by the way he lif ts his hat, that he wants to

talk

I have been quite touched by the change in the poor old man.

When he sat down beside me, he said in a very gentle way:

«I want to say something to you, miss.» I could see he was

not at ease, so I took his poor old wrinkled hand in mine and

asked him to speak fully; so he said, leaving his hand in mine:

«I’m afraid, my deary, that I must have shocked you by all

the wicked things I’ve been sayin’ about the dead, and such like,

for weeks past; but I didn’t mean them, and I want ye to remem-

ber that when I’m gone. We aud folks that be daffled, and with

one foot abaft the krok-hooal, don’t altogether like to think of it,

and we don’t want to feel scart of it; an’ that’s why I’ve took to

makin’ light of it, so that I’d cheer up my own heart a bit. But,

Lord love ye, miss, I ain’t afraid of dyin’, not a bit; only I don’t

want to die if I can help it. My time must be nigh at hand now,

for I be aud, and a hundred years is too much for any man to

70 Dracula

expect; and I’m so nigh it that the Aud Man is already whettin’

his scythe. Ye see, I can’t get out o’ the habit of caffin’ about it

all at once; the chafts will wag as they be used to. Some day soon

the Angel of Death will sound his trumpet for me. But don’t ye

dooal an’ greet, my deary!» for he saw that I was crying

«if he should come this very night I’d not refuse to answer his

call. For life be, after all, only a waitin’ for somethin’ else than

what we’re doin '; and death be all that we can rightly depend on.

But I’m content, for it’s comin’ to me, my deary, and comin’

quick. It may be comin’ while we be lookin’ and wonderin’.

Maybe it’s in that wind out over the sea that’s bringin’ with it

loss and wreck, and sore distress, and sad hearts. Look! look!» he

cried suddenly. «There’s something in that wind and in the hoast

beyont that sounds, and looks, and tastes, and smells like death.

It’s in the air; I feel it comin’. Lord, make me answer cheerful

when my call comes!» He held up his arms devoutly, and raised

his hat. His mouth moved as though he were praying. After a

few minutes’ silence, he got up, shook hands with me, and blessed

me, and said good-bye, and hobbled off. It all touched me, and

upset me very much.

I was glad when the coastguard came along, with his spy-glass

under his arm. He stopped to talk with me, as he always does,

but all the time kept looking at a strange ship.

«I can’t make her out,» he said; «she’s a Russian, by the look

of her; but she’s knocking about in the queerest way. She doesn’t

know her mind a bit; she seems to see the storm coming, but can’t

decide whether to run up north in the open, or to put in here.

Look there again! She is steered mighty strangely, for she doesn’t

mind the hand on the wheel; changes about with every puff of

wind. We’ll hear more of her before this time to-morrow.»