I said that he spoke English very well. The Count thanked me for the compliment and said: “I know the grammar and the words, but yet I do not know how to speak them. If I moved and spoke in your London, everybody would know at once that I am a foreigner. That is not enough for me. Here I am noble; common people know me; I am master. But a stranger in a strange land, he is no one; men do not know him and do not pay attention to him. I am contented 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 master so long that I would like to stay master, or at least that none other would be master of me. You came to me not only as agent of my friend Peter Hawkins to tell me all about my new estate in London. You will, I hope, stay here with me for awhile, so that by our talking I may learn the English intonation. And, please, correct my mistakes, even the smallest ones. I am sorry that I had to be away so long to-day, but you will, I know, forgive one who has so many important affairs in hand.”

Of course, I said I would willingly help him, and asked if I might come into the library 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 if you could see with my eyes and know what I know, you would perhaps understand better.” 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 many things will be strange to you. No, from what you have told me of your experiences already, you know something of what strange things there may be.”

It seemed that he wanted to talk, so I asked him many questions about things that had already happened to me or I had noticed. In general he answered my questions most frankly, but sometimes he avoided the subject, or pretended not to understand. When I asked him, for instance, why the coachman went to the places where he had seen the blue flames, he told me that there was a legend that on a certain night of the year – last night, in fact, when all evil spirits have uncontrolled power, a blue flame is seen over any place where treasure has been hidden. Then he explained that last night I had travelled through the region of a very stormy past, that a lot of men's blood, patriots or invaders, had been spilled in that region. He said that the the patriots – men and women, the aged and the children, had fought the invaders bravely, but if the invader was triumphant, he found little, for everything valuable had been hidden in the friendly soil.

I was surprised that with such clear sign – a blue flame – the treasure had remained undiscovered so long. The Count smiled, and his 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, go outdoors. And, dear sir, even if he did go out, he would not know what to do. Why, even the peasant who marked the place of the flame would not know where to look in daylight even for his own mark.”

We talked a little of some other matters. Then the Count asked me to tell him of London and of his house there. I apologized for my negligence and went into my own room to get the papers from my bag. While I was in my room, I heard a rattling of china and silver in the next room, and as I passed through it, I noticed that the table had been cleared and the lamp lighted, for it was by this time quite dark. The lamps were also lighted in the library. When I came in, the Count cleared the books and papers from the table, and we 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. I understood that he had studied the subject of the surroundings beforehand, for he evidently knew very much more than I did.

After I told him the facts of the purchase of the estate at Purfleet and he signed the necessary papers, he asked me how I had come across so suitable a place. I read to him the following notes which I had made at the time of that search: “At Purfleet, on a by-road, it seems I came across just such a place as is required, and it was for sale. The estate is surrounded by a high wall, of ancient structure, built of heavy stones, and has not been repaired for a large number of years. The closed gates are of heavy old oak and iron, all eaten with rust.

“The area of the estate is some twenty acres. There are many trees on it, which make it in places shadowy, and there is a deep, dark-looking pond or small lake. The house is very large and it dates, I think, to medieval times, for one part of it looks like part of a main tower of a medieval castle, and is close to an old chapel or church. There are straggling additions to the house, so I can only guess what area it covers. I think it is very large. There are very few houses near the estate. A very large house was recently added 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 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 make up a century! I am also glad that there is a chapel of old times. We, Transylvanian nobles, do not love to think that our bones may lie amongst the common dead. I do not look for merriment or the bright sensual pleasure of much sunshine and sparkling waters which please the young and merry. I am no longer young, and my heart, through arduous years of mourning over the dead, is not attuned to merriment. Moreover, the walls of my castle are broken; the wind breathes cold through the broken battlements and casements. I love the shade and the shadow, and prefer to be alone with my thoughts when I may.” However, it seemed that somehow his words and his appearance did not agree, or perhaps the form of his face made his smile look malevolent and gloomy.

Presently, the Count asked me to put all my papers together, excused himself and left the room. While he was away, I began to look at some of the books around me. One was an atlas. It was opened naturally at England, as though that map had been much used. Several places were marked by little circles. One was near London on the east side, where his new estate was situated; the other two were Exeter, and Whitby on the Yorkshire coast.

The Count was absent nearly an hour. “Still at your books?” he said when he returned. “Good! But you must not work all the time. Come, I am informed that your supper is ready.” He took my arm, and we went into the next room, where I saw an excellent supper ready on the table. The Count again excused himself, as he had dined out while he was away from home. But he sat as on the previous night, and chatted while I ate.

After supper I smoked, as on the last evening, and the Count continued to chat with me and ask all sorts of questions. Though I was not sleepy, I felt that it was getting very late indeed but I did not say anything, for I felt I was obliged to meet my host's wishes in every way. All at once we heard the crow of a cock. It sounded supernaturally shrill in the clear morning air. Count Dracula jumped to his feet and said: “Why, there is the morning again! How thoughtless of me to let you stay up so long. You must make your conversation about 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 bedroom and wrote of this day in my journal before I went to bed.

8 May. I am glad that from the beginning I went into detail when I wrote in this book, for there is something very strange about this place and I wish I had never come here. May be this strange night-existence is telling on me. But that is not all! If there were any one to talk to, I could endure 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. I will write down prosaic facts; imagination must not run riot with me. If it does, I am lost.

I only slept a few hours; I woke up and felt that I could not sleep any more, so I got up. My shaving glass hung by the window; the whole room was reflected in it. I was just beginning to shave when I felt a hand on my shoulder, and heard the Count's voice: “Good-morning,” but I did not see his reflection in the glass. I jerked and cut my chin slightly, but did not notice it at the moment. I turned around and answered the Count's salutation. Then I turned to the glass again, and again there was no reflection of the Count in the mirror! But the man was close to me, and I could see him over my shoulder! The whole room behind me was reflected, but there was no sign of a man in it, except myself. This increased that vague feeling of uneasiness which I always have when the Count is near. At that moment I saw that the blood from the cut was trickling over my chin. I wanted to find some sticking plaster and half turned from the mirror. When the Count saw my face, his eyes blazed with a sort of demoniac fury, and he suddenly grabbed 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.

“Be careful,” he said, “do not cut yourself. It is more dangerous than you think in this country.” Then he grabbed the shaving glass and with the words: “And this wretched thing has done the injury” he threw the glass out of the window. Then he left the room without a word. It is very annoying. How am I to shave? If only with the help of my watch-case.

When I went into the dining-room, breakfast was on the table, but the Count was absent. So I breakfasted alone. It is strange that the Count has not yet shared any meal with me. He must be a very peculiar man! After breakfast I explored the castle a little. I went out on the stairs, and found a room that looked towards the South. The view from the window was magnificent. The castle is on the very edge of a terrible precipice. And there is a sea of green tree tops below. Here and there are silver threads where the rivers wind in deep gorges through the forests.

But now I am not in the mood to describe beauty, for when I had seen the view I explored further; doors, doors, doors everywhere, and all locked. There is no exit anywhere except from the windows in the castle walls.

The castle is a real prison, and I am a prisoner!