{"id":33,"date":"2019-02-25T20:46:59","date_gmt":"2019-02-25T20:46:59","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.ryerson.ca\/dracula\/chapter\/dracula-9\/"},"modified":"2019-02-26T01:18:39","modified_gmt":"2019-02-26T01:18:39","slug":"dracula-9","status":"publish","type":"chapter","link":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/dracula\/chapter\/dracula-9\/","title":{"raw":"Chapter 9 Letter, Mina Harker to Lucy Westenra","rendered":"Chapter 9 Letter, Mina Harker to Lucy Westenra"},"content":{"raw":"\r\n
\r\n\r\nBuda-Pesth, 24 August.\r\n\r\n\"My dearest Lucy,\r\n\r\n\"I know you will be anxious to hear all that has happened since\r\nwe parted at the railway station at Whitby.\r\n\r\n\"Well, my dear, I got to Hull all right, and caught the boat to\r\nHamburg, and then the train on here. I feel that I can hardly\r\nrecall anything of the journey, except that I knew I was coming to\r\nJonathan, and that as I should have to do some nursing, I had\r\nbetter get all the sleep I could. I found my dear one, oh, so thin\r\nand pale and weaklooking. All the resolution has gone out of his\r\ndear eyes, and that quiet dignity which I told you was in his face\r\nhas vanished. He is only a wreck of himself, and he does not\r\nremember anything that has happened to him for a long time past. At\r\nleast, he wants me to believe so, and I shall never ask.\r\n\r\n\"He has had some terrible shock, and I fear it might tax his\r\npoor brain if he were to try to recall it. Sister Agatha, who is a\r\ngood creature and a born nurse, tells me that he wanted her to tell\r\nme what they were, but she would only cross herself, and say she\r\nwould never tell. That the ravings of the sick were the secrets of\r\nGod, and that if a nurse through her vocation should hear them, she\r\nshould respect her trust..\r\n\r\n\"She is a sweet, good soul, and the next day, when she saw I was\r\ntroubled, she opened up the subject my poor dear raved about,\r\nadded, `I can tell you this much, my dear. That it was not about\r\nanything which he has done wrong himself, and you, as his wife to\r\nbe, have no cause to be concerned. He has not forgotten you or what\r\nhe owes to you. His fear was of great and terrible things, which no\r\nmortal can treat of.'\r\n\r\n\"I do believe the dear soul thought I might be jealous lest my\r\npoor dear should have fallen in love with any other girl. The idea\r\nof my being jealous about Jonathan! And yet, my dear, let me\r\nwhisper, I felt a thrill of joy through me when I knew that no\r\nother woman was a cause for trouble. I am now sitting by his\r\nbedside, where I can see his face while he sleeps. He is\r\nwaking!\r\n\r\n\"When he woke he asked me for his coat, as he wanted to get\r\nsomething from the pocket. I asked Sister Agatha, and she brought\r\nall his things. I saw amongst them was his notebook, and was was\r\ngoing to ask him to let me look at it, for I knew that I might find\r\nsome clue to his trouble, but I suppose he must have seen my wish\r\nin my eyes, for he sent me over to the window, saying he wanted to\r\nbe quite alone for a moment.\r\n\r\n\"Then he called me back, and he said to me very solemnly,\r\n`Wilhelmina', I knew then that he was in deadly earnest, for he has\r\nnever called me by that name since he asked me to marry him, `You\r\nknow, dear, my ideas of the trust between husband and wife. There\r\nshould be no secret, no concealment. I have had a great shock, and\r\nwhen I try to think of what it is I feel my head spin round, and I\r\ndo not know if it was real of the dreaming of a madman. You know I\r\nhad brain fever, and that is to be mad. The secret is here, and I\r\ndo not want to know it. I want to take up my life here, with our\r\nmarriage.' For, my dear, we had decided to be married as soon as\r\nthe formalities are complete. `Are you willing, Wilhelmina, to\r\nshare my ignorance? Here is the book. Take it and keep it, read it\r\nif you will,but never let me know unless, indeed, some solemn duty\r\nshould come upon me to go back to the bitter hours, asleep or\r\nawake, sane or mad, recorded here.' He fell back exhausted, and I\r\nput the book under his pillow, and kissed him. have asked Sister\r\nAgatha to beg the Superior to let our wedding be this afternoon,\r\nand am waiting her reply\u00a0\u2026 \"\r\n\r\n\"She has come and told me that the Chaplain of the English\r\nmission church has been sent for. We are to be married in an hour,\r\nor as soon after as Jonathan awakes.\"\r\n\r\n\"Lucy, the time has come and gone. I feel very solemn, but very,\r\nvery happy. Jonathan woke a little after the hour, and all was\r\nready, and he sat up in bed, propped up with pillows. He answered\r\nhis `I will' firmly and strong. I could hardly speak. My heart was\r\nso full that even those words seemed to choke me.\r\n\r\n\"The dear sisters were so kind. Please, God, I shall never,\r\nnever forget them, nor the grave and sweet responsibilities I have\r\ntaken upon me. I must tell you of my wedding present. When the\r\nchaplain and the sisters had left me alone with my husband\u2014oh,\r\nLucy, it is the first time I have written the words `my\r\nhusband'\u2014left me alone with my husband, I took the book from under\r\nhis pillow, and wrapped it up in white paper, and tied it with a\r\nlittle bit of pale blue ribbon which was round my neck, and sealed\r\nit over the knot with sealing wax, and for my seal I used my\r\nwedding ring. Then I kissed it and showed it to my husband, and\r\ntold him that I would keep it so, and then it would be an outward\r\nand visible sign for us all our lives that we trusted each other,\r\nthat I would never open it unless it were for his own dear sake or\r\nfor the sake of some stern duty. Then he took my hand in his, and\r\noh, Lucy, it was the first time he took his wifes' hand, and said\r\nthat it was the dearest thing in all the wide world, and that he\r\nwould go through all the past again to win it, if need be. The poor\r\ndear meant to have said a part of the past, but he cannot think of\r\ntime yet, and I shall not wonder if at first he mixes up not only\r\nthe month, but the year.\r\n\r\n\"Well, my dear, could I say? I could only tell him that I was\r\nthe happiest woman in all the wide world, and that I had nothing to\r\ngive him except myself, my life, and my trust, and that with these\r\nwent my love and duty for all the days of my life. And, my dear,\r\nwhen he kissed me, and drew me to him with his poor weak hands, it\r\nwas like a solemn pledge between us.\r\n\r\n\"Lucy dear, do you know why I tell you all this? It is not only\r\nbecause it is all sweet to me, but because you have been, and are,\r\nvery dear to me. It was my privilege to be your friend and guide\r\nwhen you came from the schoolroom to prepare for the world of life.\r\nI want you to see now, and with the eyes of a very happy wife,\r\nwhither duty has led me, so that in your own married life you too\r\nmay be all happy, as I am. My dear, please Almighty God, your life\r\nmay be all it promises, a long day of sunshine, with no harsh wind,\r\nno forgetting duty, no distrust. I must not wish you no pain, for\r\nthat can never be, but I do hope you will be always as happy as I\r\nam now. Goodbye, my dear. I shall post this at once, and perhaps,\r\nwrite you very soon again. I must stop, for Jonathan is waking. I\r\nmust attend my husband! \"Your ever-loving \"Mina Harker.\"\r\n\r\nLETTER, LUCY WESTENRA TO MINA HARKER.\r\n\r\nWhitby, 30 August.\r\n\r\n\"My dearest Mina,\r\n\r\n\"Oceans of love and millions of kisses, and may you soon be in\r\nyour own home with your husband. I wish you were coming home soon\r\nenough to stay with us here. The strong air would soon restore\r\nJonathan. It has quite restored me. I have an appetite like a\r\ncormorant, am full of life, and sleep well. You will be glad to\r\nknow that I have quite given up walking in my sleep. I think I have\r\nnot stirred out of my bed for a week, that is when I once got into\r\nit at night. Arthur says I am getting fat. By the way, I forgot to\r\ntell you that Arthur is here. We have such walks and drives, and\r\nrides, and rowing, and tennis, and fishing together, and I love him\r\nmore than ever. He tells me that he loves me more, but I doubt\r\nthat, for at first he told me that he couldn't love me more than he\r\ndid then. But this is nonsense. There he is, calling to me. So no\r\nmore just at present from your loving, \"Lucy.\r\n\r\n\"P. S.\u2014Mother sends her love. She seems better, poor dear.\r\n\r\n\"P. P.S.\u2014We are to be married on 28 September.\"\r\n\r\nDR. SEWARDS DIARY\r\n\r\n20 August.\u2014The case of Renfield grows even more interesting. He\r\nhas now so far quieted that there are spells of cessation from his\r\npassion. For the first week after his attack he was perpetually\r\nviolent. Then one night, just as the moon rose, he grew quiet, and\r\nkept murmuring to himself. \"Now I can wait. Now I can wait.\"\r\n\r\nThe attendant came to tell me, so I ran down at once to have a\r\nlook at him. He was still in the strait waistcoat and in the padded\r\nroom, but the suffused look had gone from his face, and his eyes\r\nhad something of their old pleading. I might almost say, cringing,\r\nsoftness. I was satisfied with his present condition, and directed\r\nhim to be relieved. The attendants hesitated, but finally carried\r\nout my wishes without protest.\r\n\r\nIt was a strange thing that the patient had humour enough to see\r\ntheir distrust, for, coming close to me, he said in a whisper, all\r\nthe while looking furtively at them, \"They think I could hurt you!\r\nFancy me hurting you! The fools!\"\r\n\r\nIt was soothing, somehow, to the feelings to find myself\r\ndisassociated even in the mind of this poor madman from the others,\r\nbut all the same I do not follow his thought. Am I to take it that\r\nI have anything in common with him, so that we are, as it were, to\r\nstand together. Or has he to gain from me some good so stupendous\r\nthat my well being is needful to Him? I must find out later on.\r\nTonight he will not speak. Even the offer of a kitten or even a\r\nfull-grown cat will not tempt him.\r\n\r\nHe will only say, \"I don't take any stock in cats. I have more\r\nto think of now, and I can wait. I can wait.\"\r\n\r\nAfter a while I left him. The attendant tells me that he was\r\nquiet until just before dawn, and that then he began to get uneasy,\r\nand at length violent, until at last he fell into a paroxysm which\r\nexhausted him so that he swooned into a sort of coma.\r\n\r\n\u2026 Three nights has the same thing happened, violent all\r\nday then quiet from moonrise to sunrise. I wish I could get some\r\nclue to the cause. It would almost seem as if there was some\r\ninfluence which came and went. Happy thought! We shall tonight play\r\nsane wits against mad ones. He escaped before without our help.\r\nTonight he shall escape with it. We shall give him a chance, and\r\nhave the men ready to follow in case they are required.\r\n\r\n23 August.\u2014\"The expected always happens.\" How well Disraeli knew\r\nlife. Our bird when he found the cage open would not fly, so all\r\nour subtle arrangements were for nought. At any rate, we have\r\nproved one thing, that the spells of quietness last a reasonable\r\ntime. We shall in future be able to ease his bonds for a few hours\r\neach day. I have given orders to the night attendant merely to shut\r\nhim in the padded room, when once he is quiet, until the hour\r\nbefore sunrise. The poor soul's body will enjoy the relief even if\r\nhis mind cannot appreciate it. Hark! The unexpected again! I am\r\ncalled. The patient has once more escaped.\r\n\r\nLater.\u2014Another night adventure. Renfield artfully waited until\r\nthe attendant was entering the room to inspect. Then he dashed out\r\npast him and flew down the passage. I sent word for the attendants\r\nto follow. Again he went into the grounds of the deserted house,\r\nand we found him in the same place, pressed against the old chapel\r\ndoor. When he saw me he became furious, and had not the attendants\r\nseized him in time, he would have tried to kill me. As we sere\r\nholding him a strange thing happened. He suddenly redoubled his\r\nefforts, and then as suddenly grew calm. I looked round\r\ninstinctively, but could see nothing. Then I caught the patient's\r\neye and followed it, but could trace nothing as it looked into the\r\nmoonlight sky, except a big bat, which was flapping its silent and\r\nghostly way to the west. Bats usually wheel about, but this one\r\nseemed to go straight on, as if it knew where it was bound for or\r\nhad some intention of its own.\r\n\r\nThe patient grew calmer every instant, and presently said, \"You\r\nneedn't tie me. I shall go quietly!\" Without trouble, we came back\r\nto the house. I feel there is something ominous in his calm, and\r\nshall not forget this night.\r\n\r\nLUCY WESTENRA'S DIARY\r\n\r\nHillingham, 24 August.\u2014I must imitate Mina, and keep writing\r\nthings down. Then we can have long talks when we do meet. I wonder\r\nwhen it will be. I wish she were with me again, for I feel so\r\nunhappy. Last night I seemed to be dreaming again just as I was at\r\nWhitby. Perhaps it is the change of air, or getting home again. It\r\nis all dark and horrid to me, for I can remember nothing. But I am\r\nfull of vague fear, and I feel so weak and worn out. When Arthur\r\ncame to lunch he looked quite grieved when he saw me, and I hadn't\r\nthe spirit to try to be cheerful. I wonder if I could sleep in\r\nmother's room tonight. I shall make an excuse to try.\r\n\r\n25 August.\u2014Another bad night. Mother did not seem to take to my\r\nproposal. She seems not too well herself, and doubtless she fears\r\nto worry me. I tried to keep awake, and succeeded for a while, but\r\nwhen the clock struck twelve it waked me from a doze, so I must\r\nhave been falling asleep. There was a sort of scratching or\r\nflapping at the window, but I did not mind it, and as I remember no\r\nmore, I suppose I must have fallen asleep. More bad dreams. I wish\r\nI could remember them. This morning I am horribly weak. My face is\r\nghastly pale, and my throat pains me. It must be something wrong\r\nwith my lungs, for I don't seem to be getting air enough. I shall\r\ntry to cheer up when Arthur comes, or else I know he will be\r\nmiserable to see me so.\r\n\r\nLETTER, ARTHUR TO DR. SEWARD\r\n\r\n\"Albemarle Hotel, 31 August \"My dear Jack,\r\n\r\n\"I want you to do me a favour. Lucy is ill, that is she has no\r\nspecial disease, but she looks awful, and is getting worse every\r\nday. I have asked her if there is any cause, I not dare to ask her\r\nmother, for to disturb the poor lady's mind about her daughter in\r\nher present state of health would be fatal. Mrs. Westenra has\r\nconfided to me that her doom is spoken, disease of the heart,\r\nthough poor Lucy does not know it yet. I am sure that there is\r\nsomething preying on my dear girl's mind. I am almost distracted\r\nwhen I think of her. To look at her gives me a pang. I told her I\r\nshould ask you to see her, and though she demurred at first, I know\r\nwhy, old fellow, she finally consented. It will be a painful task\r\nfor you, I know, old friend, but it is for her sake, and I must not\r\nhesitate to ask, or you to act. You are to come to lunch at\r\nHillingham tomorrow, two o'clock, so as not to arouse any suspicion\r\nin Mrs. Westenra, and after lunch Lucy will take an opportunity of\r\nbeing alone with you. I am filled with anxiety, and want to consult\r\nwith you alone as soon as I can after you have seen her. Do not\r\nfail! \"Arthur.\" TELEGRAM, ARTHUR HOLMWOOD TO SEWARD\r\n\r\n1 September\r\n\r\n\"Am summoned to see my father, who is worse. Am writing. Write\r\nme fully by tonight's post to Ring. Wire me if necessary.\"\r\n\r\nLETTER FROM DR. SEWARD TO ARTHUR HOLMWOOD\r\n\r\n2 September\r\n\r\n\"My dear old fellow,\r\n\r\n\"With regard to Miss Westenra's health I hasten to let you know\r\nat once that in my opinion there is not any functal disturbance or\r\nany malady that I know of. At the same time, I am not by any means\r\nsatisfied with her appearance. She is woefully different from what\r\nshe was when I saw her last. Of course you must bear in mind that I\r\ndid not have full opportunity of examination such as I should wish.\r\nOur very friendship makes a little difficulty which not even\r\nmedical science or custom can bridge over. I had better tell you\r\nexactly what happened, leaving you to draw, in a measure, your own\r\nconclusions. I shall then say what I have done and propose\r\ndoing.\r\n\r\n\"I found Miss Westenra in seemingly gay spirits. Her mother was\r\npresent, and in a few seconds I made up my mind that she was trying\r\nall she knew to mislead her mother and prevent her from being\r\nanxious. I have no doubt she guesses, if she does not know, what\r\nneed of caution there is.\r\n\r\n\"We lunched alone, and as we all exerted ourselves to be\r\ncheerful, we got, as some kind of reward for our labours, some real\r\ncheerfulness amongst us. Then Mrs. Westenra went to lie down, and\r\nLucy was left with me. We went into her boudoir, and till we got\r\nthere her gaiety remained, for the servants were coming and\r\ngoing.\r\n\r\n\"As soon as the door was closed, however, the mask fell from her\r\nface, and she sank down into a chair with a great sigh, and hid her\r\neyes with her hand. When I saw that her high spirits had failed, I\r\nat once took advantage of her reaction to make a diagnosis.\r\n\r\n\"She said to me very sweetly, `I cannot tell you how I loathe\r\ntalking about myself.' I reminded her that a doctor's confidence\r\nwas sacred, but that you were grievously anxious about her. She\r\ncaught on to my meaning at once, and settled that matter in a word.\r\n`Tell Arthur everything you choose. I do not care for myself, but\r\nfor him!' So I am quite free.\r\n\r\n\"I could easily see that she was somewhat bloodless, but I could\r\nnot see the usual anemic signs, and by the chance ,I was able to\r\ntest the actual quality of her blood, for in opening a window which\r\nwas stiff a cord gave way, and she cut her hand slightly with\r\nbroken glass. It was a slight matter in itself, but it gave me an\r\nevident chance, and I secured a few drops of the blood and have\r\nanalysed them.\r\n\r\n\"The qualitative analysis give a quite normal condition, and\r\nshows, I should infer, in itself a vigorous state of health. In\r\nother physical matters I was quite satisfied that there is no need\r\nfor anxiety, but as there must be a cause somewhere, I have come to\r\nthe conclusion that it must be something mental.\r\n\r\n\"She complains of difficulty breathing satisfactorily at times,\r\nand of heavy, lethargic sleep, with dreams that frighten her, but\r\nregarding which she can remember nothing. She says that as a child,\r\nshe used to walk in her sleep, and that when in Whitby the habit\r\ncame back, and that once she walked out in the night and went to\r\nEast Cliff, where Miss Murray found her. But she assures me that of\r\nlate the habit has not returned.\r\n\r\n\"I am in doubt, and so have done the best thing I know of. I\r\nhave written to my old friend and master, Professor Van Helsing, of\r\nAmsterdam, who knows as much about obscure diseases as any one in\r\nthe world. I have asked him to come over, and as you told me that\r\nall things were to be at your charge, I have mentioned to him who\r\nyou are and your relations to Miss Westenra. This, my dear fellow,\r\nis in obedience to your wishes, for I am only too proud and happy\r\nto do anything I can for her.\r\n\r\n\"Van Helsing would, I know, do anything for me for a personal\r\nreason, so no matter on what ground he comes, we must accept his\r\nwishes. He is a seemingly arbitrary man, this is because he knows\r\nwhat he is talking about better than any one else. He is a\r\nphilosopher and a metaphysician, and one of the most advanced\r\nscientists of his day, and he has, I believe, an absolutely open\r\nmind. This, with an iron nerve, a temper of the ice-brook, and\r\nindomitable resolution, self-command, and toleration exalted from\r\nvirtues to blessings, and the kindliest and truest heart that\r\nbeats, these form his equipment for the noble work that he is doing\r\nfor mankind, work both in theory and practice, for his views are as\r\nwide as his all-embracing sympathy. I tell you these facts that you\r\nmay know why I have such confidence in him. I have asked him to\r\ncome at once. I shall see Miss Westenra tomorrow again. She is to\r\nmeet me at the Stores, so that I may not alarm her mother by too\r\nearly a repetition of my call.\r\n\r\n\"Yours always.\"\r\n\r\nJohn Seward\r\n\r\nLETTER, ABRAHAM VAN HELSING, MD, DPh, D. LiT, ETC, ETC, TO DR.\r\nSEWARD\r\n\r\n2 September.\r\n\r\n\"My good Friend,\r\n\r\n\"When I received your letter I am already coming to you. By good\r\nfortune I can leave just at once, without wrong to any of those who\r\nhave trusted me. Were fortune other, then it were bad for those who\r\nhave trusted, for I come to my friend when he call me to aid those\r\nhe holds dear. Tell your friend that when that time you suck from\r\nmy wound so swiftly the poison of the gangrene from that knife that\r\nour other friend, too nervous, let slip, you did more for him when\r\nhe wants my aids and you call for them than all his great fortune\r\ncould do. But it is pleasure added to do for him, your friend, it\r\nis to you that I come. Have near at hand, and please it so arrange\r\nthat we may see the young lady not too late on tomorrow, for it is\r\nlikely that I may have to return here that night. But if need be I\r\nshall come again in three days, and stay longer if it must. Till\r\nthen goodbye, my friend John.\r\n\r\n\"Van Helsing.\"\r\n\r\nLETTER, DR. SEWARD TO HON. ARTHUR HOLMWOOD\r\n\r\n3 September\r\n\r\n\"My dear Art,\r\n\r\n\"Van Helsing has come and gone. He came on with me to\r\nHillingham, and found that, by Lucy's discretion, her mother was\r\nlunching out, so that we were alone with her.\r\n\r\n\"Van Helsing made a very careful examination of the patient. He\r\nis to report to me, and I shall advise you, for of course I was not\r\npresent all the time. He is, I fear, much concerned, but says he\r\nmust think. When I told him of our friendship and how you trust to\r\nme in the matter, he said, `You must tell him all you think. Tell\r\nhim him what I think, if you can guess it, if you will. Nay, I am\r\nnot jesting. This is no jest, but life and death, perhaps more.' I\r\nasked what he meant by that, for he was very serious. This was when\r\nwe had come back to town, and he was having a cup of tea before\r\nstarting on his return to Amsterdam. He would not give me any\r\nfurther clue. You must not be angry with me, Art, because his very\r\nreticence means that all his brains are working for her good. He\r\nwill speak plainly enough when the time comes, be sure. So I told\r\nhim I would simply write an account of our visit, just as if I were\r\ndoing a descriptive special article for THE DAILY TELEGRAPH. He\r\nseemed not to notice, but remarked that the smuts of London were\r\nnot quite so bad as they used to be when he was a student here. I\r\nam to get his report tomorrow if he can possibly make it. In any\r\ncase I am to have a letter.\r\n\r\n\"Well, as to the visit, Lucy was more cheerful than on the day I\r\nfirst saw her, and certainly looked better. She had lost something\r\nof the ghastly look that so upset you, and her breathing was\r\nnormal. She was very sweet to the Professor (as she always is),and\r\ntried to make him feel at ease, though I could see the poor girl\r\nwas making a hard struggle for it.\r\n\r\n\"I believe Van Helsing saw it, too, for I saw the quick look\r\nunder his bushy brows that I knew of old. Then he began to chat of\r\nall things except ourselves and diseases and with such an infinite\r\ngeniality that I could see poor Lucy's pretense of animation merge\r\ninto reality. Then, without any seeming change, he brought the\r\nconversation gently round to his visit, and sauvely said,\r\n\r\n\"`My dear young miss, I have the so great pleasure because you\r\nare so much beloved. That is much, my dear, even were there that\r\nwhich I do not see. They told me you were down in the spirit, and\r\nthat you were of a ghastly pale. To them I say \"Pouf!\" ' And he\r\nsnapped his fingers at me and went on. `But you and I shall show\r\nthem how wrong they are. How can he', and he pointed at me with the\r\nsame look and gesture as that with which he pointed me out in his\r\nclass, on, or rather after, a particular occasion which he never\r\nfails to remind me of, `know anything of a young ladies? He has his\r\nmadmen to play with, and to bring them back to happiness, and to\r\nthose that love them. It is much to do, and, oh, but there are\r\nrewards in that we can bestow such happiness. But the young ladies!\r\nHe has no wife nor daughter, and the young do not tell themselves\r\nto the young, but to the old, like me, who have known so many\r\nsorrows and the causes of them. So, my dear, we will send him away\r\nto smoke the cigarette in the garden, whiles you and I have little\r\ntalk all to ourselves.' I took the hint, and strolled about, and\r\npresently the professor came to the window and called me in. He\r\nlooked grave, but said, ` I have made careful examination, but\r\nthere is no functional cause. With you I agree that there has been\r\nmuch blood lost, it has been but is not. But the conditions of her\r\nare in no way anemic. I have asked her to send me her maid, that I\r\nmay ask just one or two questions, that so I may not chance to miss\r\nnothing. I know well what she will say. And yet there is cause.\r\nThere is always cause for everything. I must go back home and\r\nthink. You must send me the telegram every day, and if there be\r\ncause I shall come again. The disease, for not to be well is a\r\ndisease, interest me, and the sweet, young dear, she interest me\r\ntoo. She charm me, and for her, if not for you or disease, I\r\ncome.'\r\n\r\n\"As I tell you, he would not say a word more, even when we were\r\nalone. And so now, Art, you know all I know. I shall keep stern\r\nwatch. I trust your poor father is rallying. It must be a terrible\r\nthing to you, my dear old fellow, to be placed in such a position\r\nbetween two people who are both so dear to you. I know your idea of\r\nduty to your father, and you are right to stick to it. But if need\r\nbe, I shall send you word to come at once to Lucy, so do not be\r\nover-anxious unless you hear from me.\"\r\n\r\nDR. SEWARD'S DIARY\r\n\r\n4 September.\u2014Zoophagous patient still keeps up our interest in\r\nhim. He had only one outburst and that was yesterday at an unusual\r\ntime. Just before the stroke of noon he began to grow restless. The\r\nattendant knew the symptoms, and at once summoned aid. Fortunately\r\nthe men came at a run, and were just in time, for at the stroke of\r\nnoon he became so violent that it took all their strength to hold\r\nhim. In about five minutes, however, he began to get more quiet,and\r\nfinally sank into a sort of melancholy, in which state he has\r\nremained up to now. The attendant tells me that his screams whilst\r\nin the paroxysm were really appalling. I found my hands full when I\r\ngot in, attending to some of the other patients who were frightened\r\nby him. Indeed, I can quite understand the effect, for the sounds\r\ndisturbed even me, though I was some distance away. It is now after\r\nthe dinner hour of the asylum, and as yet my patient sits in a\r\ncorner brooding, with a dull, sullen, woe-begone look in his face,\r\nwhich seems rather to indicate than to show something directly. I\r\ncannot quite understand it.\r\n\r\nLater.\u2014Another change in my patient. At five o'clock I looked in\r\non him, and found him seemingly as happy and contented as he used\r\nto be. He was catching flies and eating them, and was keeping note\r\nof his capture by making nailmarks on the edge of the door between\r\nthe ridges of padding. When he saw me, he came over and apologized\r\nfor his bad conduct, and asked me in a very humble, cringing way to\r\nbe led back to his own room, and to have his notebook again. I\r\nthought it well to humour him, so he is back in his room with the\r\nwindow open. He has the sugar of his tea spread out on the window\r\nsill, and is reaping quite a harvest of flies. He is not now eating\r\nthem, but putting them into a box, as of old, and is already\r\nexamining the corners of his room to find a spider. I tried to get\r\nhim to talk about the past few days, for any clue to his thoughts\r\nwould be of immense help to me, but he would not rise. For a moment\r\nor two he looked very sad, and said in a sort of far away voice, as\r\nthough saying it rather to himself than to me.\r\n\r\n\"All over! All over! He has deserted me. No hope for me now\r\nunless I do it myself!\" Then suddenly turning to me in a resolute\r\nway, he said,\"Doctor, won't you be very good to me and let me have\r\na little more sugar? I think it would be very good for me.\"\r\n\r\n\"And the flies?\" I said.\r\n\r\n\"Yes! The flies like it, too, and I like the flies, therefore I\r\nlike it.\"And there are people who know so little as to think that\r\nmadmen do not argue. I procured him a double supply, and left him\r\nas happy a man as, I suppose, any in the world. I wish I could\r\nfathom his mind.\r\n\r\nMidnight.\u2014Another change in him. I had been to see Miss\r\nWestenra, whom I found much better, and had just returned, and was\r\nstanding at our own gate looking at the sunset, when once more I\r\nheard him yelling. As his room is on this side of the house, I\r\ncould hear it better than in the morning. It was a shock to me to\r\nturn from the wonderful smoky beauty of a sunset over London, with\r\nits lurid lights and inky shadows and all the marvellous tints that\r\ncome on foul clouds even as on foul water, and to realize all the\r\ngrim sternness of my own cold stone building, with its wealth of\r\nbreathing misery, and my own desolate heart to endure it all. I\r\nreached him just as the sun was going down, and from his window saw\r\nthe red disc sink. As it sank he became less and less frenzied, and\r\njust as it dipped he slid from the hands that held him, an inert\r\nmass, on the floor. It is wonderful, however, what intellectual\r\nrecuperative power lunatics have, for within a few minutes he stood\r\nup quite calmly and looked around him. I signalled to the\r\nattendants not to hold him, for I was anxious to see what he would\r\ndo. He went straight over to the window and brushed out the crumbs\r\nof sugar. Then he took his fly box, and emptied it outside, and\r\nthrew away the box. Then he shut the window, and crossing over, sat\r\ndown on his bed. All this surprised me, so I asked him,\"Are you\r\ngoing to keep flies any more?\"\r\n\r\n\"No,\" said he. \"I am sick of all that rubbish!\" He certainly is\r\na wonderfully interesting study. I wish I could get some glimpse of\r\nhis mind or of the cause of his sudden passion. Stop. There may be\r\na clue after all, if we can find why today his paroxysms came on at\r\nhigh noon and at sunset. Can it be that there is a malign influence\r\nof the sun at periods which affects certain natures, as at times\r\nthe moon does others? We shall see.\r\n\r\nTELEGRAM. SEWARD, LONDON, TO VAN HELSING, AMSTERDAM\r\n\r\n\"4 September.\u2014Patient still better today.\"\r\n\r\nTELEGRAM, SEWARD, LONDON, TO VAN HELSING, AMSTERDAM\r\n\r\n\"5 September.\u2014Patient greatly improved. Good appetite, sleeps\r\nnaturally, good spirits, color coming back.\"\r\n\r\nTELEGRAM, SEWARD, LONDON, TO VAN HELSING, AMSTERDAM\r\n\r\n\"6 September.\u2014Terrible change for the worse. Come at once. Do\r\nnot lose an hour. I hold over telegram to Holmwood till have seen\r\nyou.\"\r\n\r\n\r\n<\/div>","rendered":"
\n

Buda-Pesth, 24 August.<\/p>\n

“My dearest Lucy,<\/p>\n

“I know you will be anxious to hear all that has happened since
\nwe parted at the railway station at Whitby.<\/p>\n

“Well, my dear, I got to Hull all right, and caught the boat to
\nHamburg, and then the train on here. I feel that I can hardly
\nrecall anything of the journey, except that I knew I was coming to
\nJonathan, and that as I should have to do some nursing, I had
\nbetter get all the sleep I could. I found my dear one, oh, so thin
\nand pale and weaklooking. All the resolution has gone out of his
\ndear eyes, and that quiet dignity which I told you was in his face
\nhas vanished. He is only a wreck of himself, and he does not
\nremember anything that has happened to him for a long time past. At
\nleast, he wants me to believe so, and I shall never ask.<\/p>\n

“He has had some terrible shock, and I fear it might tax his
\npoor brain if he were to try to recall it. Sister Agatha, who is a
\ngood creature and a born nurse, tells me that he wanted her to tell
\nme what they were, but she would only cross herself, and say she
\nwould never tell. That the ravings of the sick were the secrets of
\nGod, and that if a nurse through her vocation should hear them, she
\nshould respect her trust..<\/p>\n

“She is a sweet, good soul, and the next day, when she saw I was
\ntroubled, she opened up the subject my poor dear raved about,
\nadded, `I can tell you this much, my dear. That it was not about
\nanything which he has done wrong himself, and you, as his wife to
\nbe, have no cause to be concerned. He has not forgotten you or what
\nhe owes to you. His fear was of great and terrible things, which no
\nmortal can treat of.’<\/p>\n

“I do believe the dear soul thought I might be jealous lest my
\npoor dear should have fallen in love with any other girl. The idea
\nof my being jealous about Jonathan! And yet, my dear, let me
\nwhisper, I felt a thrill of joy through me when I knew that no
\nother woman was a cause for trouble. I am now sitting by his
\nbedside, where I can see his face while he sleeps. He is
\nwaking!<\/p>\n

“When he woke he asked me for his coat, as he wanted to get
\nsomething from the pocket. I asked Sister Agatha, and she brought
\nall his things. I saw amongst them was his notebook, and was was
\ngoing to ask him to let me look at it, for I knew that I might find
\nsome clue to his trouble, but I suppose he must have seen my wish
\nin my eyes, for he sent me over to the window, saying he wanted to
\nbe quite alone for a moment.<\/p>\n

“Then he called me back, and he said to me very solemnly,
\n`Wilhelmina’, I knew then that he was in deadly earnest, for he has
\nnever called me by that name since he asked me to marry him, `You
\nknow, dear, my ideas of the trust between husband and wife. There
\nshould be no secret, no concealment. I have had a great shock, and
\nwhen I try to think of what it is I feel my head spin round, and I
\ndo not know if it was real of the dreaming of a madman. You know I
\nhad brain fever, and that is to be mad. The secret is here, and I
\ndo not want to know it. I want to take up my life here, with our
\nmarriage.’ For, my dear, we had decided to be married as soon as
\nthe formalities are complete. `Are you willing, Wilhelmina, to
\nshare my ignorance? Here is the book. Take it and keep it, read it
\nif you will,but never let me know unless, indeed, some solemn duty
\nshould come upon me to go back to the bitter hours, asleep or
\nawake, sane or mad, recorded here.’ He fell back exhausted, and I
\nput the book under his pillow, and kissed him. have asked Sister
\nAgatha to beg the Superior to let our wedding be this afternoon,
\nand am waiting her reply\u00a0\u2026 ”<\/p>\n

“She has come and told me that the Chaplain of the English
\nmission church has been sent for. We are to be married in an hour,
\nor as soon after as Jonathan awakes.”<\/p>\n

“Lucy, the time has come and gone. I feel very solemn, but very,
\nvery happy. Jonathan woke a little after the hour, and all was
\nready, and he sat up in bed, propped up with pillows. He answered
\nhis `I will’ firmly and strong. I could hardly speak. My heart was
\nso full that even those words seemed to choke me.<\/p>\n

“The dear sisters were so kind. Please, God, I shall never,
\nnever forget them, nor the grave and sweet responsibilities I have
\ntaken upon me. I must tell you of my wedding present. When the
\nchaplain and the sisters had left me alone with my husband\u2014oh,
\nLucy, it is the first time I have written the words `my
\nhusband’\u2014left me alone with my husband, I took the book from under
\nhis pillow, and wrapped it up in white paper, and tied it with a
\nlittle bit of pale blue ribbon which was round my neck, and sealed
\nit over the knot with sealing wax, and for my seal I used my
\nwedding ring. Then I kissed it and showed it to my husband, and
\ntold him that I would keep it so, and then it would be an outward
\nand visible sign for us all our lives that we trusted each other,
\nthat I would never open it unless it were for his own dear sake or
\nfor the sake of some stern duty. Then he took my hand in his, and
\noh, Lucy, it was the first time he took his wifes’ hand, and said
\nthat it was the dearest thing in all the wide world, and that he
\nwould go through all the past again to win it, if need be. The poor
\ndear meant to have said a part of the past, but he cannot think of
\ntime yet, and I shall not wonder if at first he mixes up not only
\nthe month, but the year.<\/p>\n

“Well, my dear, could I say? I could only tell him that I was
\nthe happiest woman in all the wide world, and that I had nothing to
\ngive him except myself, my life, and my trust, and that with these
\nwent my love and duty for all the days of my life. And, my dear,
\nwhen he kissed me, and drew me to him with his poor weak hands, it
\nwas like a solemn pledge between us.<\/p>\n

“Lucy dear, do you know why I tell you all this? It is not only
\nbecause it is all sweet to me, but because you have been, and are,
\nvery dear to me. It was my privilege to be your friend and guide
\nwhen you came from the schoolroom to prepare for the world of life.
\nI want you to see now, and with the eyes of a very happy wife,
\nwhither duty has led me, so that in your own married life you too
\nmay be all happy, as I am. My dear, please Almighty God, your life
\nmay be all it promises, a long day of sunshine, with no harsh wind,
\nno forgetting duty, no distrust. I must not wish you no pain, for
\nthat can never be, but I do hope you will be always as happy as I
\nam now. Goodbye, my dear. I shall post this at once, and perhaps,
\nwrite you very soon again. I must stop, for Jonathan is waking. I
\nmust attend my husband! “Your ever-loving “Mina Harker.”<\/p>\n

LETTER, LUCY WESTENRA TO MINA HARKER.<\/p>\n

Whitby, 30 August.<\/p>\n

“My dearest Mina,<\/p>\n

“Oceans of love and millions of kisses, and may you soon be in
\nyour own home with your husband. I wish you were coming home soon
\nenough to stay with us here. The strong air would soon restore
\nJonathan. It has quite restored me. I have an appetite like a
\ncormorant, am full of life, and sleep well. You will be glad to
\nknow that I have quite given up walking in my sleep. I think I have
\nnot stirred out of my bed for a week, that is when I once got into
\nit at night. Arthur says I am getting fat. By the way, I forgot to
\ntell you that Arthur is here. We have such walks and drives, and
\nrides, and rowing, and tennis, and fishing together, and I love him
\nmore than ever. He tells me that he loves me more, but I doubt
\nthat, for at first he told me that he couldn’t love me more than he
\ndid then. But this is nonsense. There he is, calling to me. So no
\nmore just at present from your loving, “Lucy.<\/p>\n

“P. S.\u2014Mother sends her love. She seems better, poor dear.<\/p>\n

“P. P.S.\u2014We are to be married on 28 September.”<\/p>\n

DR. SEWARDS DIARY<\/p>\n

20 August.\u2014The case of Renfield grows even more interesting. He
\nhas now so far quieted that there are spells of cessation from his
\npassion. For the first week after his attack he was perpetually
\nviolent. Then one night, just as the moon rose, he grew quiet, and
\nkept murmuring to himself. “Now I can wait. Now I can wait.”<\/p>\n

The attendant came to tell me, so I ran down at once to have a
\nlook at him. He was still in the strait waistcoat and in the padded
\nroom, but the suffused look had gone from his face, and his eyes
\nhad something of their old pleading. I might almost say, cringing,
\nsoftness. I was satisfied with his present condition, and directed
\nhim to be relieved. The attendants hesitated, but finally carried
\nout my wishes without protest.<\/p>\n

It was a strange thing that the patient had humour enough to see
\ntheir distrust, for, coming close to me, he said in a whisper, all
\nthe while looking furtively at them, “They think I could hurt you!
\nFancy me hurting you! The fools!”<\/p>\n

It was soothing, somehow, to the feelings to find myself
\ndisassociated even in the mind of this poor madman from the others,
\nbut all the same I do not follow his thought. Am I to take it that
\nI have anything in common with him, so that we are, as it were, to
\nstand together. Or has he to gain from me some good so stupendous
\nthat my well being is needful to Him? I must find out later on.
\nTonight he will not speak. Even the offer of a kitten or even a
\nfull-grown cat will not tempt him.<\/p>\n

He will only say, “I don’t take any stock in cats. I have more
\nto think of now, and I can wait. I can wait.”<\/p>\n

After a while I left him. The attendant tells me that he was
\nquiet until just before dawn, and that then he began to get uneasy,
\nand at length violent, until at last he fell into a paroxysm which
\nexhausted him so that he swooned into a sort of coma.<\/p>\n

\u2026 Three nights has the same thing happened, violent all
\nday then quiet from moonrise to sunrise. I wish I could get some
\nclue to the cause. It would almost seem as if there was some
\ninfluence which came and went. Happy thought! We shall tonight play
\nsane wits against mad ones. He escaped before without our help.
\nTonight he shall escape with it. We shall give him a chance, and
\nhave the men ready to follow in case they are required.<\/p>\n

23 August.\u2014”The expected always happens.” How well Disraeli knew
\nlife. Our bird when he found the cage open would not fly, so all
\nour subtle arrangements were for nought. At any rate, we have
\nproved one thing, that the spells of quietness last a reasonable
\ntime. We shall in future be able to ease his bonds for a few hours
\neach day. I have given orders to the night attendant merely to shut
\nhim in the padded room, when once he is quiet, until the hour
\nbefore sunrise. The poor soul’s body will enjoy the relief even if
\nhis mind cannot appreciate it. Hark! The unexpected again! I am
\ncalled. The patient has once more escaped.<\/p>\n

Later.\u2014Another night adventure. Renfield artfully waited until
\nthe attendant was entering the room to inspect. Then he dashed out
\npast him and flew down the passage. I sent word for the attendants
\nto follow. Again he went into the grounds of the deserted house,
\nand we found him in the same place, pressed against the old chapel
\ndoor. When he saw me he became furious, and had not the attendants
\nseized him in time, he would have tried to kill me. As we sere
\nholding him a strange thing happened. He suddenly redoubled his
\nefforts, and then as suddenly grew calm. I looked round
\ninstinctively, but could see nothing. Then I caught the patient’s
\neye and followed it, but could trace nothing as it looked into the
\nmoonlight sky, except a big bat, which was flapping its silent and
\nghostly way to the west. Bats usually wheel about, but this one
\nseemed to go straight on, as if it knew where it was bound for or
\nhad some intention of its own.<\/p>\n

The patient grew calmer every instant, and presently said, “You
\nneedn’t tie me. I shall go quietly!” Without trouble, we came back
\nto the house. I feel there is something ominous in his calm, and
\nshall not forget this night.<\/p>\n

LUCY WESTENRA’S DIARY<\/p>\n

Hillingham, 24 August.\u2014I must imitate Mina, and keep writing
\nthings down. Then we can have long talks when we do meet. I wonder
\nwhen it will be. I wish she were with me again, for I feel so
\nunhappy. Last night I seemed to be dreaming again just as I was at
\nWhitby. Perhaps it is the change of air, or getting home again. It
\nis all dark and horrid to me, for I can remember nothing. But I am
\nfull of vague fear, and I feel so weak and worn out. When Arthur
\ncame to lunch he looked quite grieved when he saw me, and I hadn’t
\nthe spirit to try to be cheerful. I wonder if I could sleep in
\nmother’s room tonight. I shall make an excuse to try.<\/p>\n

25 August.\u2014Another bad night. Mother did not seem to take to my
\nproposal. She seems not too well herself, and doubtless she fears
\nto worry me. I tried to keep awake, and succeeded for a while, but
\nwhen the clock struck twelve it waked me from a doze, so I must
\nhave been falling asleep. There was a sort of scratching or
\nflapping at the window, but I did not mind it, and as I remember no
\nmore, I suppose I must have fallen asleep. More bad dreams. I wish
\nI could remember them. This morning I am horribly weak. My face is
\nghastly pale, and my throat pains me. It must be something wrong
\nwith my lungs, for I don’t seem to be getting air enough. I shall
\ntry to cheer up when Arthur comes, or else I know he will be
\nmiserable to see me so.<\/p>\n

LETTER, ARTHUR TO DR. SEWARD<\/p>\n

“Albemarle Hotel, 31 August “My dear Jack,<\/p>\n

“I want you to do me a favour. Lucy is ill, that is she has no
\nspecial disease, but she looks awful, and is getting worse every
\nday. I have asked her if there is any cause, I not dare to ask her
\nmother, for to disturb the poor lady’s mind about her daughter in
\nher present state of health would be fatal. Mrs. Westenra has
\nconfided to me that her doom is spoken, disease of the heart,
\nthough poor Lucy does not know it yet. I am sure that there is
\nsomething preying on my dear girl’s mind. I am almost distracted
\nwhen I think of her. To look at her gives me a pang. I told her I
\nshould ask you to see her, and though she demurred at first, I know
\nwhy, old fellow, she finally consented. It will be a painful task
\nfor you, I know, old friend, but it is for her sake, and I must not
\nhesitate to ask, or you to act. You are to come to lunch at
\nHillingham tomorrow, two o’clock, so as not to arouse any suspicion
\nin Mrs. Westenra, and after lunch Lucy will take an opportunity of
\nbeing alone with you. I am filled with anxiety, and want to consult
\nwith you alone as soon as I can after you have seen her. Do not
\nfail! “Arthur.” TELEGRAM, ARTHUR HOLMWOOD TO SEWARD<\/p>\n

1 September<\/p>\n

“Am summoned to see my father, who is worse. Am writing. Write
\nme fully by tonight’s post to Ring. Wire me if necessary.”<\/p>\n

LETTER FROM DR. SEWARD TO ARTHUR HOLMWOOD<\/p>\n

2 September<\/p>\n

“My dear old fellow,<\/p>\n

“With regard to Miss Westenra’s health I hasten to let you know
\nat once that in my opinion there is not any functal disturbance or
\nany malady that I know of. At the same time, I am not by any means
\nsatisfied with her appearance. She is woefully different from what
\nshe was when I saw her last. Of course you must bear in mind that I
\ndid not have full opportunity of examination such as I should wish.
\nOur very friendship makes a little difficulty which not even
\nmedical science or custom can bridge over. I had better tell you
\nexactly what happened, leaving you to draw, in a measure, your own
\nconclusions. I shall then say what I have done and propose
\ndoing.<\/p>\n

“I found Miss Westenra in seemingly gay spirits. Her mother was
\npresent, and in a few seconds I made up my mind that she was trying
\nall she knew to mislead her mother and prevent her from being
\nanxious. I have no doubt she guesses, if she does not know, what
\nneed of caution there is.<\/p>\n

“We lunched alone, and as we all exerted ourselves to be
\ncheerful, we got, as some kind of reward for our labours, some real
\ncheerfulness amongst us. Then Mrs. Westenra went to lie down, and
\nLucy was left with me. We went into her boudoir, and till we got
\nthere her gaiety remained, for the servants were coming and
\ngoing.<\/p>\n

“As soon as the door was closed, however, the mask fell from her
\nface, and she sank down into a chair with a great sigh, and hid her
\neyes with her hand. When I saw that her high spirits had failed, I
\nat once took advantage of her reaction to make a diagnosis.<\/p>\n

“She said to me very sweetly, `I cannot tell you how I loathe
\ntalking about myself.’ I reminded her that a doctor’s confidence
\nwas sacred, but that you were grievously anxious about her. She
\ncaught on to my meaning at once, and settled that matter in a word.
\n`Tell Arthur everything you choose. I do not care for myself, but
\nfor him!’ So I am quite free.<\/p>\n

“I could easily see that she was somewhat bloodless, but I could
\nnot see the usual anemic signs, and by the chance ,I was able to
\ntest the actual quality of her blood, for in opening a window which
\nwas stiff a cord gave way, and she cut her hand slightly with
\nbroken glass. It was a slight matter in itself, but it gave me an
\nevident chance, and I secured a few drops of the blood and have
\nanalysed them.<\/p>\n

“The qualitative analysis give a quite normal condition, and
\nshows, I should infer, in itself a vigorous state of health. In
\nother physical matters I was quite satisfied that there is no need
\nfor anxiety, but as there must be a cause somewhere, I have come to
\nthe conclusion that it must be something mental.<\/p>\n

“She complains of difficulty breathing satisfactorily at times,
\nand of heavy, lethargic sleep, with dreams that frighten her, but
\nregarding which she can remember nothing. She says that as a child,
\nshe used to walk in her sleep, and that when in Whitby the habit
\ncame back, and that once she walked out in the night and went to
\nEast Cliff, where Miss Murray found her. But she assures me that of
\nlate the habit has not returned.<\/p>\n

“I am in doubt, and so have done the best thing I know of. I
\nhave written to my old friend and master, Professor Van Helsing, of
\nAmsterdam, who knows as much about obscure diseases as any one in
\nthe world. I have asked him to come over, and as you told me that
\nall things were to be at your charge, I have mentioned to him who
\nyou are and your relations to Miss Westenra. This, my dear fellow,
\nis in obedience to your wishes, for I am only too proud and happy
\nto do anything I can for her.<\/p>\n

“Van Helsing would, I know, do anything for me for a personal
\nreason, so no matter on what ground he comes, we must accept his
\nwishes. He is a seemingly arbitrary man, this is because he knows
\nwhat he is talking about better than any one else. He is a
\nphilosopher and a metaphysician, and one of the most advanced
\nscientists of his day, and he has, I believe, an absolutely open
\nmind. This, with an iron nerve, a temper of the ice-brook, and
\nindomitable resolution, self-command, and toleration exalted from
\nvirtues to blessings, and the kindliest and truest heart that
\nbeats, these form his equipment for the noble work that he is doing
\nfor mankind, work both in theory and practice, for his views are as
\nwide as his all-embracing sympathy. I tell you these facts that you
\nmay know why I have such confidence in him. I have asked him to
\ncome at once. I shall see Miss Westenra tomorrow again. She is to
\nmeet me at the Stores, so that I may not alarm her mother by too
\nearly a repetition of my call.<\/p>\n

“Yours always.”<\/p>\n

John Seward<\/p>\n

LETTER, ABRAHAM VAN HELSING, MD, DPh, D. LiT, ETC, ETC, TO DR.
\nSEWARD<\/p>\n

2 September.<\/p>\n

“My good Friend,<\/p>\n

“When I received your letter I am already coming to you. By good
\nfortune I can leave just at once, without wrong to any of those who
\nhave trusted me. Were fortune other, then it were bad for those who
\nhave trusted, for I come to my friend when he call me to aid those
\nhe holds dear. Tell your friend that when that time you suck from
\nmy wound so swiftly the poison of the gangrene from that knife that
\nour other friend, too nervous, let slip, you did more for him when
\nhe wants my aids and you call for them than all his great fortune
\ncould do. But it is pleasure added to do for him, your friend, it
\nis to you that I come. Have near at hand, and please it so arrange
\nthat we may see the young lady not too late on tomorrow, for it is
\nlikely that I may have to return here that night. But if need be I
\nshall come again in three days, and stay longer if it must. Till
\nthen goodbye, my friend John.<\/p>\n

“Van Helsing.”<\/p>\n

LETTER, DR. SEWARD TO HON. ARTHUR HOLMWOOD<\/p>\n

3 September<\/p>\n

“My dear Art,<\/p>\n

“Van Helsing has come and gone. He came on with me to
\nHillingham, and found that, by Lucy’s discretion, her mother was
\nlunching out, so that we were alone with her.<\/p>\n

“Van Helsing made a very careful examination of the patient. He
\nis to report to me, and I shall advise you, for of course I was not
\npresent all the time. He is, I fear, much concerned, but says he
\nmust think. When I told him of our friendship and how you trust to
\nme in the matter, he said, `You must tell him all you think. Tell
\nhim him what I think, if you can guess it, if you will. Nay, I am
\nnot jesting. This is no jest, but life and death, perhaps more.’ I
\nasked what he meant by that, for he was very serious. This was when
\nwe had come back to town, and he was having a cup of tea before
\nstarting on his return to Amsterdam. He would not give me any
\nfurther clue. You must not be angry with me, Art, because his very
\nreticence means that all his brains are working for her good. He
\nwill speak plainly enough when the time comes, be sure. So I told
\nhim I would simply write an account of our visit, just as if I were
\ndoing a descriptive special article for THE DAILY TELEGRAPH. He
\nseemed not to notice, but remarked that the smuts of London were
\nnot quite so bad as they used to be when he was a student here. I
\nam to get his report tomorrow if he can possibly make it. In any
\ncase I am to have a letter.<\/p>\n

“Well, as to the visit, Lucy was more cheerful than on the day I
\nfirst saw her, and certainly looked better. She had lost something
\nof the ghastly look that so upset you, and her breathing was
\nnormal. She was very sweet to the Professor (as she always is),and
\ntried to make him feel at ease, though I could see the poor girl
\nwas making a hard struggle for it.<\/p>\n

“I believe Van Helsing saw it, too, for I saw the quick look
\nunder his bushy brows that I knew of old. Then he began to chat of
\nall things except ourselves and diseases and with such an infinite
\ngeniality that I could see poor Lucy’s pretense of animation merge
\ninto reality. Then, without any seeming change, he brought the
\nconversation gently round to his visit, and sauvely said,<\/p>\n

“`My dear young miss, I have the so great pleasure because you
\nare so much beloved. That is much, my dear, even were there that
\nwhich I do not see. They told me you were down in the spirit, and
\nthat you were of a ghastly pale. To them I say “Pouf!” ‘ And he
\nsnapped his fingers at me and went on. `But you and I shall show
\nthem how wrong they are. How can he’, and he pointed at me with the
\nsame look and gesture as that with which he pointed me out in his
\nclass, on, or rather after, a particular occasion which he never
\nfails to remind me of, `know anything of a young ladies? He has his
\nmadmen to play with, and to bring them back to happiness, and to
\nthose that love them. It is much to do, and, oh, but there are
\nrewards in that we can bestow such happiness. But the young ladies!
\nHe has no wife nor daughter, and the young do not tell themselves
\nto the young, but to the old, like me, who have known so many
\nsorrows and the causes of them. So, my dear, we will send him away
\nto smoke the cigarette in the garden, whiles you and I have little
\ntalk all to ourselves.’ I took the hint, and strolled about, and
\npresently the professor came to the window and called me in. He
\nlooked grave, but said, ` I have made careful examination, but
\nthere is no functional cause. With you I agree that there has been
\nmuch blood lost, it has been but is not. But the conditions of her
\nare in no way anemic. I have asked her to send me her maid, that I
\nmay ask just one or two questions, that so I may not chance to miss
\nnothing. I know well what she will say. And yet there is cause.
\nThere is always cause for everything. I must go back home and
\nthink. You must send me the telegram every day, and if there be
\ncause I shall come again. The disease, for not to be well is a
\ndisease, interest me, and the sweet, young dear, she interest me
\ntoo. She charm me, and for her, if not for you or disease, I
\ncome.’<\/p>\n

“As I tell you, he would not say a word more, even when we were
\nalone. And so now, Art, you know all I know. I shall keep stern
\nwatch. I trust your poor father is rallying. It must be a terrible
\nthing to you, my dear old fellow, to be placed in such a position
\nbetween two people who are both so dear to you. I know your idea of
\nduty to your father, and you are right to stick to it. But if need
\nbe, I shall send you word to come at once to Lucy, so do not be
\nover-anxious unless you hear from me.”<\/p>\n

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY<\/p>\n

4 September.\u2014Zoophagous patient still keeps up our interest in
\nhim. He had only one outburst and that was yesterday at an unusual
\ntime. Just before the stroke of noon he began to grow restless. The
\nattendant knew the symptoms, and at once summoned aid. Fortunately
\nthe men came at a run, and were just in time, for at the stroke of
\nnoon he became so violent that it took all their strength to hold
\nhim. In about five minutes, however, he began to get more quiet,and
\nfinally sank into a sort of melancholy, in which state he has
\nremained up to now. The attendant tells me that his screams whilst
\nin the paroxysm were really appalling. I found my hands full when I
\ngot in, attending to some of the other patients who were frightened
\nby him. Indeed, I can quite understand the effect, for the sounds
\ndisturbed even me, though I was some distance away. It is now after
\nthe dinner hour of the asylum, and as yet my patient sits in a
\ncorner brooding, with a dull, sullen, woe-begone look in his face,
\nwhich seems rather to indicate than to show something directly. I
\ncannot quite understand it.<\/p>\n

Later.\u2014Another change in my patient. At five o’clock I looked in
\non him, and found him seemingly as happy and contented as he used
\nto be. He was catching flies and eating them, and was keeping note
\nof his capture by making nailmarks on the edge of the door between
\nthe ridges of padding. When he saw me, he came over and apologized
\nfor his bad conduct, and asked me in a very humble, cringing way to
\nbe led back to his own room, and to have his notebook again. I
\nthought it well to humour him, so he is back in his room with the
\nwindow open. He has the sugar of his tea spread out on the window
\nsill, and is reaping quite a harvest of flies. He is not now eating
\nthem, but putting them into a box, as of old, and is already
\nexamining the corners of his room to find a spider. I tried to get
\nhim to talk about the past few days, for any clue to his thoughts
\nwould be of immense help to me, but he would not rise. For a moment
\nor two he looked very sad, and said in a sort of far away voice, as
\nthough saying it rather to himself than to me.<\/p>\n

“All over! All over! He has deserted me. No hope for me now
\nunless I do it myself!” Then suddenly turning to me in a resolute
\nway, he said,”Doctor, won’t you be very good to me and let me have
\na little more sugar? I think it would be very good for me.”<\/p>\n

“And the flies?” I said.<\/p>\n

“Yes! The flies like it, too, and I like the flies, therefore I
\nlike it.”And there are people who know so little as to think that
\nmadmen do not argue. I procured him a double supply, and left him
\nas happy a man as, I suppose, any in the world. I wish I could
\nfathom his mind.<\/p>\n

Midnight.\u2014Another change in him. I had been to see Miss
\nWestenra, whom I found much better, and had just returned, and was
\nstanding at our own gate looking at the sunset, when once more I
\nheard him yelling. As his room is on this side of the house, I
\ncould hear it better than in the morning. It was a shock to me to
\nturn from the wonderful smoky beauty of a sunset over London, with
\nits lurid lights and inky shadows and all the marvellous tints that
\ncome on foul clouds even as on foul water, and to realize all the
\ngrim sternness of my own cold stone building, with its wealth of
\nbreathing misery, and my own desolate heart to endure it all. I
\nreached him just as the sun was going down, and from his window saw
\nthe red disc sink. As it sank he became less and less frenzied, and
\njust as it dipped he slid from the hands that held him, an inert
\nmass, on the floor. It is wonderful, however, what intellectual
\nrecuperative power lunatics have, for within a few minutes he stood
\nup quite calmly and looked around him. I signalled to the
\nattendants not to hold him, for I was anxious to see what he would
\ndo. He went straight over to the window and brushed out the crumbs
\nof sugar. Then he took his fly box, and emptied it outside, and
\nthrew away the box. Then he shut the window, and crossing over, sat
\ndown on his bed. All this surprised me, so I asked him,”Are you
\ngoing to keep flies any more?”<\/p>\n

“No,” said he. “I am sick of all that rubbish!” He certainly is
\na wonderfully interesting study. I wish I could get some glimpse of
\nhis mind or of the cause of his sudden passion. Stop. There may be
\na clue after all, if we can find why today his paroxysms came on at
\nhigh noon and at sunset. Can it be that there is a malign influence
\nof the sun at periods which affects certain natures, as at times
\nthe moon does others? We shall see.<\/p>\n

TELEGRAM. SEWARD, LONDON, TO VAN HELSING, AMSTERDAM<\/p>\n

“4 September.\u2014Patient still better today.”<\/p>\n

TELEGRAM, SEWARD, LONDON, TO VAN HELSING, AMSTERDAM<\/p>\n

“5 September.\u2014Patient greatly improved. Good appetite, sleeps
\nnaturally, good spirits, color coming back.”<\/p>\n

TELEGRAM, SEWARD, LONDON, TO VAN HELSING, AMSTERDAM<\/p>\n

“6 September.\u2014Terrible change for the worse. Come at once. Do
\nnot lose an hour. I hold over telegram to Holmwood till have seen
\nyou.”<\/p>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"menu_order":9,"template":"","meta":{"pb_show_title":"on","pb_short_title":"","pb_subtitle":"","pb_authors":[],"pb_section_license":""},"chapter-type":[],"contributor":[],"license":[],"class_list":["post-33","chapter","type-chapter","status-publish","hentry"],"part":3,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/dracula\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/33","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/dracula\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/dracula\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/chapter"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/dracula\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/dracula\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/33\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":69,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/dracula\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/33\/revisions\/69"}],"part":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/dracula\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/parts\/3"}],"metadata":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/dracula\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/33\/metadata\/"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/dracula\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=33"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"chapter-type","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/dracula\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapter-type?post=33"},{"taxonomy":"contributor","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/dracula\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/contributor?post=33"},{"taxonomy":"license","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/dracula\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/license?post=33"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}