{"id":38,"date":"2019-02-25T20:46:59","date_gmt":"2019-02-25T20:46:59","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.ryerson.ca\/dracula\/chapter\/dracula-14\/"},"modified":"2019-02-26T01:24:12","modified_gmt":"2019-02-26T01:24:12","slug":"dracula-14","status":"publish","type":"chapter","link":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/dracula\/chapter\/dracula-14\/","title":{"raw":"Chapter 14 - Mina Harker's Journal","rendered":"Chapter 14 – Mina Harker’s Journal"},"content":{"raw":"\r\n
\r\n\r\n23 September.\u2014Jonathan is better after a bad night. I am so glad\r\nthat he has plenty of work to do, for that keeps his mind off the\r\nterrible things, and oh, I am rejoiced that he is not now weighed\r\ndown with the responsibility of his new position. I knew he would\r\nbe true to himself, and now how proud I am to see my Jonathan\r\nrising to the height of his advancement and keeping pace in all\r\nways with the duties that come upon him. He will be away all day\r\ntill late, for he said he could not lunch at home. My household\r\nwork is done, so I shall take his foreign journal, and lock myself\r\nup in my room and read it.\r\n\r\n24 September.\u2014I hadn't the heart to write last night, that\r\nterrible record of Jonathan's upset me so. Poor dear! How he must\r\nhave suffered, whether it be true or only imagination. I wonder if\r\nthere is any truth in it at all. Did he get his brain fever, and\r\nthen write all those terrible things, or had he some cause for it\r\nall? I suppose I shall never know, for I dare not open the subject\r\nto him. And yet that man we saw yesterday! He seemed quite certain\r\nof him, poor fellow! I suppose it was the funeral upset him and\r\nsent his mind back on some train of thought.\r\n\r\nHe believes it all himself. I remember how on our wedding day he\r\nsaid \"Unless some solemn duty come upon me to go back to the bitter\r\nhours, asleep or awake, mad or sane\u00a0\u2026 \" There seems to be\r\nthrough it all some thread of continuity. That fearful Count was\r\ncoming to London. If it should be, and he came to London, with its\r\nteeming millions\u00a0\u2026 There may be a solemn duty, and if it come\r\nwe must not shrink from it. I shall be prepared. I shall get my\r\ntypewriter this very hour and begin transcribing. Then we shall be\r\nready for other eyes if required. And if it be wanted, then,\r\nperhaps, if I am ready, poor Jonathan may not be upset, for I can\r\nspeak for him and never let him be troubled or worried with it at\r\nall. If ever Jonathan quite gets over the nervousness he may want\r\nto tell me of it all, and I can ask him questions and find out\r\nthings, and see how I may comfort him.\r\n\r\nLETTER, VAN HELSING TO MRS. HARKER\r\n\r\n24 September\r\n\r\n(Confidence)\r\n\r\n\"Dear Madam,\r\n\r\n\"I pray you to pardon my writing, in that I am so far friend as\r\nthat I sent to you sad news of Miss Lucy Westenra's death. By the\r\nkindness of Lord Godalming, I am empowered to read her letters and\r\npapers, for I am deeply concerned about certain matters vitally\r\nimportant. In them I find some letters from you, which show how\r\ngreat friends you were and how you love her. Oh, Madam Mina, by\r\nthat love, I implore you, help me. It is for others' good that I\r\nask, to redress great wrong, and to lift much and terrible\r\ntroubles, that may be more great than you can know. May it be that\r\nI see you? You can trust me. I am friend of Dr. John Seward and of\r\nLord Godalming (that was Arthur of Miss Lucy). I must keep it\r\nprivate for the present from all. I should come to Exeter to see\r\nyou at once if you tell me I am privilege to come, and where and\r\nwhen. I implore your pardon, Madam. I have read your letters to\r\npoor Lucy, and know how good you are and how your husband suffer.\r\nSo I pray you, if it may be, enlighten him not, least it may harm.\r\nAgain your pardon, and forgive me.\r\n\r\n\"VAN HELSING\"\r\n\r\nTELEGRAM, MRS. HARKER TO VAN HELSING\r\n\r\n25 September.\u2014Come today by quarter past ten train if you can\r\ncatch it. Can see you any time you call. \"WILHELMINA HARKER\"\r\n\r\nMINA HARKER'S JOURNAL\r\n\r\n25 September.\u2014I cannot help feeling terribly excited as the time\r\ndraws near for the visit of Dr. Van Helsing, for somehow I expect\r\nthat it will throw some light upon Jonathan's sad experience, and\r\nas he attended poor dear Lucy in her last illness, he can tell me\r\nall about her. That is the reason of his coming. It is concerning\r\nLucy and her sleepwalking, and not about Jonathan. Then I shall\r\nnever know the real truth now! How silly I am. That awful journal\r\ngets hold of my imagination and tinges everything with something of\r\nits own color. Of course it is about Lucy. That habit came back to\r\nthe poor dear, and that awful night on the cliff must have made her\r\nill. I had almost forgotten in my own affairs how ill she was\r\nafterwards. She must have told him of her sleep-walking adventure\r\non the cliff, and that I knew all about it, and now he wants me to\r\ntell him what I know, so that he may understand. I hope I did right\r\nin not saying anything of it to Mrs. Westenra. I should never\r\nforgive myself if any act of mine, were it even a negative one,\r\nbrought harm on poor dear Lucy. I hope too, Dr. Van Helsing will\r\nnot blame me. I have had so much trouble and anxiety of late that I\r\nfeel I cannot bear more just at present.\r\n\r\nI suppose a cry does us all good at times, clears the air as\r\nother rain does. Perhaps it was reading the journal yesterday that\r\nupset me, and then Jonathan went away this morning to stay away\r\nfrom me a whole day and night, the first time we have been parted\r\nsince our marriage. I do hope the dear fellow will take care of\r\nhimself, and that nothing will occur to upset him. It is two\r\no'clock, and the doctor will be here soon now. I shall say nothing\r\nof Jonathan's journal unless he asks me. I am so glad I have\r\ntypewritten out my own journal, so that, in case he asks about\r\nLucy, I can hand it to him. It will save much questioning.\r\n\r\nLater.\u2014He has come and gone. Oh, what a strange meeting, and how\r\nit all makes my head whirl round. I feel like one in a dream. Can\r\nit be all possible, or even a part of it? If I had not read\r\nJonathan's journal first, I should never have accepted even a\r\npossibility. Poor, poor, dear Jonathan! How he must have suffered.\r\nPlease the good God, all this may not upset him again. I shall try\r\nto save him from it. But it may be even a consolation and a help to\r\nhim, terrible though it be and awful in its consequences, to know\r\nfor certain that his eyes and ears and brain did not deceive him,\r\nand that it is all true. It may be that it is the doubt which\r\nhaunts him, that when the doubt is removed, no matter which, waking\r\nor dreaming, may prove the truth, he will be more satisfied and\r\nbetter able to bear the shock. Dr. Van Helsing must be a good man\r\nas well as a clever one if he is Arthur's friend and Dr. Seward's,\r\nand if they brought him all the way from Holland to look after\r\nLucy. I feel from having seen him that he is good and kind and of a\r\nnoble nature. When he comes tomorrow I shall ask him about\r\nJonathan. And then, please God, all this sorrow and anxiety may\r\nlead to a good end. I used to think I would like to practice\r\ninterviewing. Jonathan's friend on \"The Exeter News\" told him that\r\nmemory is everything in such work, that you must be able to put\r\ndown exactly almost every word spoken, even if you had to refine\r\nsome of it afterwards. Here was a rare interview. I shall try to\r\nrecord it verbatim.\r\n\r\nIt was half-past two o'clock when the knock came. I took my\r\ncourage a deux mains and waited. In a few minutes Mary opened the\r\ndoor, and announced \"Dr. Van Helsing\".\r\n\r\nI rose and bowed, and he came towards me, a man of medium\r\nweight, strongly built, with his shoulders set back over a broad,\r\ndeep chest and a neck well balanced on the trunk as the head is on\r\nthe neck. The poise of the head strikes me at once as indicative of\r\nthought and power. The head is noble, well-sized, broad, and large\r\nbehind the ears. The face, cleanshaven, shows a hard, square chin,\r\na large resolute, mobile mouth, a good-sized nose, rather straight,\r\nbut with quick, sensitive nostrils, that seem to broaden as the big\r\nbushy brows come down and the mouth tightens. The forehead is broad\r\nand fine, rising at first almost straight and then sloping back\r\nabove two bumps or ridges wide apart, such a forehead that the\r\nreddish hair cannot possibly tumble over it, but falls naturally\r\nback and to the sides. Big, dark blue eyes are set widely apart,\r\nand are quick and tender or stern with the man's moods. He said to\r\nme,\r\n\r\n\"Mrs. Harker, is it not?\" I bowed assent.\r\n\r\n\"That was Miss Mina Murray?\" Again I assented.\r\n\r\n\"It is Mina Murray that I came to see that was friend of that\r\npoor dear child Lucy Westenra. Madam Mina, it is on account of the\r\ndead that I come.\"\r\n\r\n\"Sir,\" I said, \"you could have no better claim on me than that\r\nyou were a friend and helper of Lucy Westenra.\"And I held out my\r\nhand. He took it and said tenderly,\r\n\r\n\"Oh, Madam Mina, I know that the friend of that poor little girl\r\nmust be good, but I had yet to learn\u00a0\u2026 \" He finished his\r\nspeech with a courtly bow. I asked him what it was that he wanted\r\nto see me about, so he at once began.\r\n\r\n\"I have read your letters to Miss Lucy. Forgive me, but I had to\r\nbegin to inquire somewhere, and there was none to ask. I know that\r\nyou were with her at Whitby. She sometimes kept a diary, you need\r\nnot look surprised, Madam Mina. It was begun after you had left,\r\nand was an imitation of you, and in that diary she traces by\r\ninference certain things to a sleep-walking in which she puts down\r\nthat you saved her. In great perplexity then I come to you, and ask\r\nyou out of your so much kindness to tell me all of it that you can\r\nremember.\"\r\n\r\n\"I can tell you, I think, Dr. Van Helsing, all about it.\"\r\n\r\n\"Ah, then you have good memory for facts, for details? It is not\r\nalways so with young ladies.\"\r\n\r\n\"No, doctor, but I wrote it all down at the time. I can show it\r\nto you if you like.\"\r\n\r\n\"Oh, Madam Mina, I well be grateful. You will do me much\r\nfavor.\"\r\n\r\nI could not resist the temptation of mystifying him a bit, I\r\nsuppose it is some taste of the original apple that remains still\r\nin our mouths, so I handed him the shorthand diary. He took it with\r\na grateful bow, and said, \"May I read it?\"\r\n\r\n\"If you wish,\" I answered as demurely as I could. He opened it,\r\nand for an instant his face fell. Then he stood up and bowed.\r\n\r\n\"Oh, you so clever woman!\" he said. \"I knew long that Mr.\r\nJonathan was a man of much thankfulness, but see, his wife have all\r\nthe good things. And will you not so much honor me and so help me\r\nas to read it for me? Alas! I know not the shorthand.\"\r\n\r\nBy this time my little joke was over, and I was almost ashamed.\r\nSo I took the typewritten copy from my work basket and handed it to\r\nhim.\r\n\r\n\"Forgive me,\" I said. \"I could not help it, but I had been\r\nthinking that it was of dear Lucy that you wished to ask, and so\r\nthat you might not have time to wait, not on my account, but\r\nbecause I know your time must be precious, I have written it out on\r\nthe typewriter for you.\"\r\n\r\nHe took it and his eyes glistened. \"You are so good,\" he said.\r\n\"And may I read it now? I may want to ask you some things when I\r\nhave read.\"\r\n\r\n\"By all means,\" I said. \"read it over whilst I order lunch, and\r\nthen you can ask me questions whilst we eat.\"\r\n\r\nHe bowed and settled himself in a chair with his back to the\r\nlight, and became so absorbed in the papers, whilst I went to see\r\nafter lunch chiefly in order that he might not be disturbed. When I\r\ncame back, I found him walking hurriedly up and down the room, his\r\nface all ablaze with excitement. He rushed up to me and took me by\r\nboth hands.\r\n\r\n\"Oh, Madam Mina,\" he said, \"how can I say what I owe to you?\r\nThis paper is as sunshine. It opens the gate to me. I am dazed, I\r\nam dazzled, with so much light, and yet clouds roll in behind the\r\nlight every time. But that you do not, cannot comprehend. Oh, but I\r\nam grateful to you, you so clever woman. Madame,\" he said this very\r\nsolemnly, \"if ever Abraham Van Helsing can do anything for you or\r\nyours, I trust you will let me know. It will be pleasure and\r\ndelight if I may serve you as a friend, as a friend, but all I have\r\never learned, all I can ever do, shall be for you and those you\r\nlove. There are darknesses in life, and there are lights. You are\r\none of the lights. You will have a happy life and a good life, and\r\nyour husband will be blessed in you.\"\r\n\r\n\"But, doctor, you praise me too much, and you do not know\r\nme.\"\r\n\r\n\"Not know you, I, who am old, and who have studied all my life\r\nmen and women, I who have made my specialty the brain and all that\r\nbelongs to him and all that follow from him! And I have read your\r\ndiary that you have so goodly written for me, and which breathes\r\nout truth in every line. I, who have read your so sweet letter to\r\npoor Lucy of your marriage and your trust, not know you! Oh, Madam\r\nMina, good women tell all their lives, and by day and by hour and\r\nby minute, such things that angels can read. And we men who wish to\r\nknow have in us something of angels' eyes. Your husband is noble\r\nnature, and you are noble too, for you trust, and trust cannot be\r\nwhere there is mean nature. And your husband, tell me of him. Is he\r\nquite well? Is all that fever gone, and is he strong and\r\nhearty?\"\r\n\r\nI saw here an opening to ask him about Jonathan, so I said,\"He\r\nwas almost recovered, but he has been greatly upset by Mr. Hawkins\r\ndeath.\"\r\n\r\nHe interrupted, \"Oh, yes. I know. I know. I have read your last\r\ntwo letters.\"\r\n\r\nI went on, \"I suppose this upset him, for when we were in town\r\non Thursday last he had a sort of shock.\"\r\n\r\n\"A shock, and after brain fever so soon! That is not good. What\r\nkind of shock was it?\"\r\n\r\n\"He thought he saw some one who recalled something terrible,\r\nsomething which led to his brain fever.\" And here the whole thing\r\nseemed to overwhelm me in a rush. The pity for Jonathan, the horror\r\nwhich he experienced, the whole fearful mystery of his diary, and\r\nthe fear that has been brooding over me ever since, all came in a\r\ntumult. I suppose I was hysterical, for I threw myself on my knees\r\nand held up my hands to him, and implored him to make my husband\r\nwell again. He took my hands and raised me up, and made me sit on\r\nthe sofa, and sat by me. He held my hand in his, and said to me\r\nwith, oh, such infinite sweetness,\r\n\r\n\"My life is a barren and lonely one, and so full of work that I\r\nhave not had much time for friendships, but since I have been\r\nsummoned to here by my friend John Seward I have known so many good\r\npeople and seen such nobility that I feel more than ever, and it\r\nhas grown with my advancing years, the loneliness of my life.\r\nBelieve me, then, that I come here full of respect for you, and you\r\nhave given me hope, hope, not in what I am seeking of, but that\r\nthere are good women still left to make life happy, good women,\r\nwhose lives and whose truths may make good lesson for the children\r\nthat are to be. I am glad, glad, that I may here be of some use to\r\nyou. For if your husband suffer, he suffer within the range of my\r\nstudy and experience. I promise you that I will gladly do all for\r\nhim that I can, all to make his life strong and manly, and your\r\nlife a happy one. Now you must eat. You are over-wrought and\r\nperhaps over-anxious. Husband Jonathan would not like to see you so\r\npale, and what he like not where he love, is not to his good.\r\nTherefore for his sake you must eat and smile. You have told me\r\nabout Lucy, and so now we shall not speak of it, lest it distress.\r\nI shall stay in Exeter tonight, for I want to think much over what\r\nyou have told me, and when I have thought I will ask you questions,\r\nif I may. And then too, you will tell me of husband Jonathan's\r\ntrouble so far as you can, but not yet. You must eat now,\r\nafterwards you shall tell me all.\"\r\n\r\nAfter lunch, when we went back to the drawing room, he said to\r\nme, \"And now tell me all about him.\"\r\n\r\nWhen it came to speaking to this great learned man, I began to\r\nfear that he would think me a weak fool, and Jonathan a madman,\r\nthat journal is all so strange, and I hesitated to go on. But he\r\nwas so sweet and kind, and he had promised to help, and I trusted\r\nhim, so I said,\r\n\r\n\"Dr. Van Helsing, what I have to tell you is so queer that you\r\nmust not laugh at me or at my husband. I have been since yesterday\r\nin a sort of fever of doubt. You must be kind to me, and not think\r\nme foolish that I have even half believed some very strange\r\nthings.\"\r\n\r\nHe reassured me by his manner as well as his words when he said,\r\n\"Oh, my dear, if you only know how strange is the matter regarding\r\nwhich I am here, it is you who would laugh. I have learned not to\r\nthink little of any one's belief, no matter how strange it may be.\r\nI have tried to keep an open mind, and it is not the ordinary\r\nthings of life that could close it, but the strange things, the\r\nextraordinary things, the things that make one doubt if they be mad\r\nor sane.\"\r\n\r\n\"Thank you, thank you a thousand times! You have taken a weight\r\noff my mind. If you will let me, I shall give you a paper to read.\r\nIt is long, but I have typewritten it out. It will tell you my\r\ntrouble and Jonathan's. It is the copy of his journal when abroad,\r\nand all that happened. I dare not say anything of it. You will read\r\nfor yourself and judge. And then when I see you, perhaps, you will\r\nbe very kind and tell me what you think.\"\r\n\r\n\"I promise,\" he said as I gave him the papers. \"I shall in the\r\nmorning, as soon as I can, come to see you and your husband, if I\r\nmay.\"\r\n\r\n\"Jonathan will be here at half-past eleven, and you must come to\r\nlunch with us and see him then. You could catch the quick 3:34\r\ntrain, which will leave you at Paddington before eight.\" He was\r\nsurprised at my knowledge of the trains offhand, but he does not\r\nknow that I have made up all the trains to and from Exeter, so that\r\nI may help Jonathan in case he is in a hurry.\r\n\r\nSo he took the papers with him and went away, and I sit here\r\nthinking, thinking I don't know what.\r\n\r\nLETTER (by hand), VAN HELSING TO MRS. HARKER\r\n\r\n25 September, 6 o'clock\r\n\r\n\"Dear Madam Mina,\r\n\r\n\"I have read your husband's so wonderful diary. You may sleep\r\nwithout doubt. Strange and terrible as it is, it is true! I will\r\npledge my life on it. It may be worse for others, but for him and\r\nyou there is no dread. He is a noble fellow, and let me tell you\r\nfrom experience of men, that one who would do as he did in going\r\ndown that wall and to that room, aye, and going a second time, is\r\nnot one to be injured in permanence by a shock. His brain and his\r\nheart are all right, this I swear, before I have even seen him, so\r\nbe at rest. I shall have much to ask him of other things. I am\r\nblessed that today I come to see you, for I have learn all at once\r\nso much that again I am dazzled, dazzled more than ever, and I must\r\nthink.\r\n\r\n\"Yours the most faithful,\r\n\r\n\"Abraham Van Helsing.\"\r\n\r\nLETTER, MRS. HARKER TO VAN HELSING\r\n\r\n25 September, 6:30 p. m.\r\n\r\n\"My dear Dr. Van Helsing,\r\n\r\n\"A thousand thanks for your kind letter, which has taken a great\r\nweight off my mind. And yet, if it be true, what terrible things\r\nthere are in the world, and what an awful thing if that man, that\r\nmonster, be really in London! I fear to think. I have this moment,\r\nwhilst writing, had a wire from Jonathan, saying that he leaves by\r\nthe 6:25 tonight from Launceston and will be here at 10:18,so that\r\nI shall have no fear tonight. Will you, therefore, instead of\r\nlunching with us, please come to breakfast at eight o'clock, if\r\nthis be not too early for you? You can get away, if you are in a\r\nhurry, by the 10:30 train, which will bring you to Paddington by\r\n2:35. Do not answer this, as I shall take it that, if I do not\r\nhear, you will come to breakfast.\r\n\r\n\"Believe me,\r\n\r\n\"Your faithful and grateful friend,\r\n\r\n\"Mina Harker.\"\r\n\r\nJONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL\r\n\r\n26 September.\u2014I thought never to write in this diary again, but\r\nthe time has come. When I got home last night Mina had supper\r\nready, and when we had supped she told me of Van Helsing's visit,\r\nand of her having given him the two diaries copied out, and of how\r\nanxious she has been about me. She showed me in the doctor's letter\r\nthat all I wrote down was true. It seems to have made a new man of\r\nme. It was the doubt as to the reality of the whole thing that\r\nknocked me over. I felt impotent, and in the dark, and distrustful.\r\nBut, now that I know, I am not afraid, even of the Count. He has\r\nsucceeded after all, then, in his design in getting to London, and\r\nit was he I saw. He has got younger, and how? Van Helsing is the\r\nman to unmask him and hunt him out, if he is anything like what\r\nMina says. We sat late, and talked it over. Mina is dressing, and I\r\nshall call at the hotel in a few minutes and bring him over.\r\n\r\nHe was, I think, surprised to see me. When I came into the room\r\nwhee he was, and introduced myself, he took me by the shoulder, and\r\nturned my face round to the light, and said, after a sharp\r\nscrutiny,\r\n\r\n\"But Madam Mina told me you were ill, that you had had a\r\nshock.\"\r\n\r\nIt was so funny to hear my wife called `Madam Mina' by this\r\nkindly, strong-faced old man. I smiled, and said, \"I was ill, I\r\nhave had a shock, but you have cured me already.\"\r\n\r\n\"And how?\"\r\n\r\n\"By your letter to Mina last night. I was in doubt, and then\r\neverything took a hue of unreality, and I did not know what to\r\ntrust, even the evidence of my own senses. Not knowing what to\r\ntrust, I did not know what to do, and so had only to keep on\r\nworking in what had hitherto been the groove of my life. The groove\r\nceased to avail me, and I mistrusted myself. Doctor, you don't know\r\nwhat it is to doubt everything, even yourself. No, you don't, you\r\ncouldn't with eyebrows like yours.\"\r\n\r\nHe seemed pleased, and laughed as he said, \"So! You are a\r\nphysiognomist. I learn more here with each hour. I am with so much\r\npleasure coming to you to breakfast, and, oh, sir, you will pardon\r\npraise from an old man, but you are blessed in your wife.\"\r\n\r\nI would listen to him go on praising Mina for a day, so I simply\r\nnodded and stood silent.\r\n\r\n\"She is one of God's women, fashioned by His own hand to show us\r\nmen and other women that there is a heaven where we can enter, and\r\nthat its light can be here on earth. So true, so sweet, so noble,\r\nso little an egoist, and that, let me tell you, is much in this\r\nage, so sceptical and selfish. And you, sir\u2026 I have read all the\r\nletters to poor Miss Lucy, and some of them speak of you, so I know\r\nyou since some days from the knowing of others, but I have seen\r\nyour true self since last night. You will give me your hand, will\r\nyou not? And let us be friends for all our lives.\"\r\n\r\nWe shook hands, and he was so earnest and so kind that it made\r\nme quite choky.\r\n\r\n\"and now,\" he said, \"may I ask you for some more help? I have a\r\ngreat task to do, and at the beginning it is to know. You can help\r\nme here. Can you tell me what went before your going to\r\nTransylvania? Later on I may ask more help, and of a different\r\nkind, but at first this will do.\"\r\n\r\n\"Look here, Sir,\" I said, \"does what you have to do concern the\r\nCount?\"\r\n\r\n\"It does,\" he said solemnly.\"\r\n\r\n\"Then I am with you heart and soul. As you go by the 10:30\r\ntrain, you will not have time to read them, but I shall get the\r\nbundle of papers. You can take them with you and read them in the\r\ntrain.\"\r\n\r\nAfter breakfast I saw him to the station. When we were parting\r\nhe said, \"Perhaps you will come to town if I send for you, and take\r\nMadam Mina too.\"\r\n\r\n\"We shall both come when you will,\" I said.\r\n\r\nI had got him the morning papers and the London papers of the\r\nprevious night, and while we were talking at the carriage window,\r\nwaiting for the train to start, he was turning them over. His eyes\r\nsuddenly seemed to catch something in one of them, \"The Westminster\r\nGazette\", I knew it by the color, and he grew quite white. He read\r\nsomething intently, groaning to himself, \"Mein Gott! Mein Gott! So\r\nsoon! So soon!\" I do not think he remembered me at the moment. Just\r\nthen the whistle blew, and the train moved off. This recalled him\r\nto himself, and he leaned out of the window and waved his hand,\r\ncalling out, \"Love to Madam Mina. I shall write so soon as ever I\r\ncan.\"\r\n\r\nDR. SEWARD'S DIARY\r\n\r\n26 September.\u2014Truly there is no such thing as finality. Not a\r\nweek since I said \"Finis,\" and yet here I am starting fresh again,\r\nor rather going on with the record. Until this afternoon I had no\r\ncause to think of what is done. Renfield had become, to all\r\nintents, as sane as he ever was. He was already well ahead with his\r\nfly business, and he had just started in the spider line also, so\r\nhe had not been of any trouble to me. I had a letter from Arthur,\r\nwritten on Sunday, and from it I gather that he is bearing up\r\nwonderfully well. Quincey Morris is with him, and that is much of a\r\nhelp, for he himself is a bubbling well of good spirits. Quincey\r\nwrote me a line too, and from him I hear that Arthur is beginning\r\nto recover something of his old buoyancy, so as to them all my mind\r\nis at rest. As for myself, I was settling down to my work with the\r\nenthusiasm which I used to have for it, so that I might fairly have\r\nsaid that the wound which poor Lucy left on me was becoming\r\ncicatrised.\r\n\r\nEverything is, however, now reopened, and what is to be the end\r\nGod only knows. I have an idea that Van Helsing thinks he knows,\r\ntoo, but he will only let out enough at a time to whet curiosity.\r\nHe went to Exeter yesterday, and stayed there all night. Today he\r\ncame back, and almost bounded into the room at about half-past five\r\no'clock, and thrust last night's \"Westminster Gazette\" into my\r\nhand.\r\n\r\n\"What do you think of that?\" he asked as he stood back and\r\nfolded his arms.\r\n\r\nI looked over the paper, for I really did not know what he\r\nmeant, but he took it from me and pointed out a paragraph about\r\nchildren being decoyed away at Hampstead. It did not convey much to\r\nme, until I reached a passage where it described small puncture\r\nwounds on their throats. An idea struck me, and I looked up.\r\n\r\n\"Well?\" he said.\r\n\r\n\"It is like poor Lucy's.\"\r\n\r\n\"And what do you make of it?\"\r\n\r\n\"Simply that there is some cause in common. Whatever it was that\r\ninjured her has injured them.\" I did not quite understand his\r\nanswer.\r\n\r\n\"That is true indirectly, but not directly.\"\r\n\r\n\"How do you mean, Professor?\" I asked. I was a little inclined\r\nto take his seriousness lightly, for, after all, four days of rest\r\nand freedom from burning, harrowing, anxiety does help to restore\r\none's spirits, but when I saw his face, it sobered me. Never, even\r\nin the midst of our despair about poor Lucy, had he looked more\r\nstern.\r\n\r\n\"Tell me!\" I said. \"I can hazard no opinion. I do not know what\r\nto think, and I have no data on which to found a conjecture.\"\r\n\r\n\"Do you mean to tell me, friend John, that you have no suspicion\r\nas to what poor Lucy died of, not after all the hints given, not\r\nonly by events, but by me?\"\r\n\r\n\"Of nervous prostration following a great loss or waste of\r\nblood.\"\r\n\r\n\"And how was the blood lost or wasted?\" I shook my head.\r\n\r\nHe stepped over and sat down beside me, and went on,\"You are a\r\nclever man, friend John. You reason well, and your wit is bold, but\r\nyou are too prejudiced. You do not let your eyes see nor your ears\r\nhear, and that which is outside your daily life is not of account\r\nto you. Do you not think that there are things which you cannot\r\nunderstand, and yet which are,that some people see things that\r\nothers cannot? But there are things old and new which must not be\r\ncontemplated by men's eyes, because they know, or think they know,\r\nsome things which other men have told them. Ah, it is the fault of\r\nour science that it wants to explain all, and if it explain not,\r\nthen it says there is nothing to explain. But yet we see around us\r\nevery day the growth of new beliefs, which think themselves new,\r\nand which are yet but the old, which pretend to be young, like the\r\nfine ladies at the opera. I suppose now you do not believe in\r\ncorporeal transference. No? Nor in materialization. No? Nor in\r\nastral bodies. No? Nor in the reading of thought. No? Nor in\r\nhypnotism\u00a0\u2026 \"\r\n\r\n\"Yes,\" I said. \"Charcot has proved that pretty well.\"\r\n\r\nHe smiled as he went on, \"Then you are satisfied as to it. Yes?\r\nAnd of course then you understand how it act, and can follow the\r\nmind of the great Charcot, alas that he is no more, into the very\r\nsoul of the patient that he influence. No? Then, friend John, am I\r\nto take it that you simply accept fact, and are satisfied to let\r\nfrom premise to conclusion be a blank? No? Then tell me, for I am a\r\nstudent of the brain, how you accept hypnotism and reject the\r\nthought reading. Let me tell you, my friend, that there are things\r\ndone today in electrical science which would have been deemed\r\nunholy by the very man who discovered electricity, who would\r\nthemselves not so long before been burned as wizards. There are\r\nalways mysteries in life. Why was it that Methuselah lived nine\r\nhundred years, and `Old Parr'one hundred and sixty-nine, and yet\r\nthat poor Lucy, with four men's blood in her poor veins, could not\r\nlive even one day? For, had she live one more day, we could save\r\nher. Do you know all the mystery of life and death? Do you know the\r\naltogether of comparative anatomy and can say wherefore the\r\nqualities of brutes are in some men, and not in others? Can you\r\ntell me why, when other spiders die small and soon, that one great\r\nspider lived for centuries in the tower of the old Spanish church\r\nand grew and grew, till, on descending, he could drink the oil of\r\nall the church lamps? Can you tell me why in the Pampas, ay and\r\nelsewhere, there are bats that come out at night and open the veins\r\nof cattle and horses and suck dry their veins, how in some islands\r\nof the Western seas there are bats which hang on the trees all day,\r\nand those who have seen describe as like giant nuts or pods, and\r\nthat when the sailors sleep on the deck, because that it is hot,\r\nflit down on them and then, and then in the morning are found dead\r\nmen, white as even Miss Lucy was?\"\r\n\r\n\"Good God, Professor!\" I said, starting up. \"Do you mean to tell\r\nme that Lucy was bitten by such a bat, and that such a thing is\r\nhere in London in the nineteenth century?\"\r\n\r\nHe waved his hand for silence, and went on,\"Can you tell me why\r\nthe tortoise lives more long than generations of men, why the\r\nelephant goes on and on till he have sees dynasties, and why the\r\nparrot never die only of bite of cat of dog or other complaint? Can\r\nyou tell me why men believe in all ages and places that there are\r\nmen and women who cannot die? We all know, because science has\r\nvouched for the fact, that there have been toads shut up in rocks\r\nfor thousands of years, shut in one so small hole that only hold\r\nhim since the youth of the world. Can you tell me how the Indian\r\nfakir can make himself to die and have been buried, and his grave\r\nsealed and corn sowed on it, and the corn reaped and be cut and\r\nsown and reaped and cut again, and then men come and take away the\r\nunbroken seal and that there lie the Indian fakir, not dead, but\r\nthat rise up and walk amongst them as before?\"\r\n\r\nHere I interrupted him. I was getting bewildered. He so crowded\r\non my mind his list of nature's eccentricities and possible\r\nimpossibilities that my imagination was getting fired. I had a dim\r\nidea that he was teaching me some lesson, as long ago he used to do\r\nin his study at Amsterdam. But he used them to tell me the thing,\r\nso that I could have the object of thought in mind all the time.\r\nBut now I was without his help, yet I wanted to follow him, so I\r\nsaid,\r\n\r\n\"Professor, let me be your pet student again. Tell me the\r\nthesis, so that I may apply your knowledge as you go on. At present\r\nI am going in my mind from point to point as a madman, and not a\r\nsane one, follows an idea. I feel like a novice lumbering through a\r\nbog in a midst, jumping from one tussock to another in the mere\r\nblind effort to move on without knowing where I am going.\"\r\n\r\n\"That is a good image,\" he said. \"Well, I shall tell you. My\r\nthesis is this, I want you to believe.\"\r\n\r\n\"To believe what?\"\r\n\r\n\"To believe in things that you cannot. Let me illustrate. I\r\nheard once of an American who so defined faith, `that fac ulty\r\nwhich enables us to believe things which we know to be untrue.' For\r\none, I follow that man. He meant that we shall have an open mind,\r\nand not let a little bit of truth check the rush of the big truth,\r\nlike a small rock does a railway truck. We get the small truth\r\nfirst. Good! We keep him, and we value him, but all the same we\r\nmust not let him think himself all the truth in the universe.\"\r\n\r\n\"Then you want me not to let some previous conviction inure the\r\nreceptivity of my mind with regard to some strange matter. Do I\r\nread your lesson aright?\"\r\n\r\n\"Ah, you are my favorite pupil still. It is worth to teach you.\r\nNow that you are willing to understand, you have taken the first\r\nstep to understand. You think then that those so small holes in the\r\nchildren's throats were made by the same that made the holes in\r\nMiss Lucy?\"\r\n\r\n\"I suppose so.\"\r\n\r\nHe stood up and said solemnly, \"Then you are wrong. Oh, would it\r\nwere so! But alas! No. It is worse, far, far worse.\"\r\n\r\n\"In God's name, Professor Van Helsing, what do you mean?\" I\r\ncried.\r\n\r\nHe threw himself with a despairing gesture into a chair, and\r\nplaced his elbows on the table, covering his face with his hands as\r\nhe spoke.\r\n\r\n\"They were made by Miss Lucy!\"\r\n\r\n<\/div>\r\n","rendered":"
\n

23 September.\u2014Jonathan is better after a bad night. I am so glad
\nthat he has plenty of work to do, for that keeps his mind off the
\nterrible things, and oh, I am rejoiced that he is not now weighed
\ndown with the responsibility of his new position. I knew he would
\nbe true to himself, and now how proud I am to see my Jonathan
\nrising to the height of his advancement and keeping pace in all
\nways with the duties that come upon him. He will be away all day
\ntill late, for he said he could not lunch at home. My household
\nwork is done, so I shall take his foreign journal, and lock myself
\nup in my room and read it.<\/p>\n

24 September.\u2014I hadn’t the heart to write last night, that
\nterrible record of Jonathan’s upset me so. Poor dear! How he must
\nhave suffered, whether it be true or only imagination. I wonder if
\nthere is any truth in it at all. Did he get his brain fever, and
\nthen write all those terrible things, or had he some cause for it
\nall? I suppose I shall never know, for I dare not open the subject
\nto him. And yet that man we saw yesterday! He seemed quite certain
\nof him, poor fellow! I suppose it was the funeral upset him and
\nsent his mind back on some train of thought.<\/p>\n

He believes it all himself. I remember how on our wedding day he
\nsaid “Unless some solemn duty come upon me to go back to the bitter
\nhours, asleep or awake, mad or sane\u00a0\u2026 ” There seems to be
\nthrough it all some thread of continuity. That fearful Count was
\ncoming to London. If it should be, and he came to London, with its
\nteeming millions\u00a0\u2026 There may be a solemn duty, and if it come
\nwe must not shrink from it. I shall be prepared. I shall get my
\ntypewriter this very hour and begin transcribing. Then we shall be
\nready for other eyes if required. And if it be wanted, then,
\nperhaps, if I am ready, poor Jonathan may not be upset, for I can
\nspeak for him and never let him be troubled or worried with it at
\nall. If ever Jonathan quite gets over the nervousness he may want
\nto tell me of it all, and I can ask him questions and find out
\nthings, and see how I may comfort him.<\/p>\n

LETTER, VAN HELSING TO MRS. HARKER<\/p>\n

24 September<\/p>\n

(Confidence)<\/p>\n

“Dear Madam,<\/p>\n

“I pray you to pardon my writing, in that I am so far friend as
\nthat I sent to you sad news of Miss Lucy Westenra’s death. By the
\nkindness of Lord Godalming, I am empowered to read her letters and
\npapers, for I am deeply concerned about certain matters vitally
\nimportant. In them I find some letters from you, which show how
\ngreat friends you were and how you love her. Oh, Madam Mina, by
\nthat love, I implore you, help me. It is for others’ good that I
\nask, to redress great wrong, and to lift much and terrible
\ntroubles, that may be more great than you can know. May it be that
\nI see you? You can trust me. I am friend of Dr. John Seward and of
\nLord Godalming (that was Arthur of Miss Lucy). I must keep it
\nprivate for the present from all. I should come to Exeter to see
\nyou at once if you tell me I am privilege to come, and where and
\nwhen. I implore your pardon, Madam. I have read your letters to
\npoor Lucy, and know how good you are and how your husband suffer.
\nSo I pray you, if it may be, enlighten him not, least it may harm.
\nAgain your pardon, and forgive me.<\/p>\n

“VAN HELSING”<\/p>\n

TELEGRAM, MRS. HARKER TO VAN HELSING<\/p>\n

25 September.\u2014Come today by quarter past ten train if you can
\ncatch it. Can see you any time you call. “WILHELMINA HARKER”<\/p>\n

MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL<\/p>\n

25 September.\u2014I cannot help feeling terribly excited as the time
\ndraws near for the visit of Dr. Van Helsing, for somehow I expect
\nthat it will throw some light upon Jonathan’s sad experience, and
\nas he attended poor dear Lucy in her last illness, he can tell me
\nall about her. That is the reason of his coming. It is concerning
\nLucy and her sleepwalking, and not about Jonathan. Then I shall
\nnever know the real truth now! How silly I am. That awful journal
\ngets hold of my imagination and tinges everything with something of
\nits own color. Of course it is about Lucy. That habit came back to
\nthe poor dear, and that awful night on the cliff must have made her
\nill. I had almost forgotten in my own affairs how ill she was
\nafterwards. She must have told him of her sleep-walking adventure
\non the cliff, and that I knew all about it, and now he wants me to
\ntell him what I know, so that he may understand. I hope I did right
\nin not saying anything of it to Mrs. Westenra. I should never
\nforgive myself if any act of mine, were it even a negative one,
\nbrought harm on poor dear Lucy. I hope too, Dr. Van Helsing will
\nnot blame me. I have had so much trouble and anxiety of late that I
\nfeel I cannot bear more just at present.<\/p>\n

I suppose a cry does us all good at times, clears the air as
\nother rain does. Perhaps it was reading the journal yesterday that
\nupset me, and then Jonathan went away this morning to stay away
\nfrom me a whole day and night, the first time we have been parted
\nsince our marriage. I do hope the dear fellow will take care of
\nhimself, and that nothing will occur to upset him. It is two
\no’clock, and the doctor will be here soon now. I shall say nothing
\nof Jonathan’s journal unless he asks me. I am so glad I have
\ntypewritten out my own journal, so that, in case he asks about
\nLucy, I can hand it to him. It will save much questioning.<\/p>\n

Later.\u2014He has come and gone. Oh, what a strange meeting, and how
\nit all makes my head whirl round. I feel like one in a dream. Can
\nit be all possible, or even a part of it? If I had not read
\nJonathan’s journal first, I should never have accepted even a
\npossibility. Poor, poor, dear Jonathan! How he must have suffered.
\nPlease the good God, all this may not upset him again. I shall try
\nto save him from it. But it may be even a consolation and a help to
\nhim, terrible though it be and awful in its consequences, to know
\nfor certain that his eyes and ears and brain did not deceive him,
\nand that it is all true. It may be that it is the doubt which
\nhaunts him, that when the doubt is removed, no matter which, waking
\nor dreaming, may prove the truth, he will be more satisfied and
\nbetter able to bear the shock. Dr. Van Helsing must be a good man
\nas well as a clever one if he is Arthur’s friend and Dr. Seward’s,
\nand if they brought him all the way from Holland to look after
\nLucy. I feel from having seen him that he is good and kind and of a
\nnoble nature. When he comes tomorrow I shall ask him about
\nJonathan. And then, please God, all this sorrow and anxiety may
\nlead to a good end. I used to think I would like to practice
\ninterviewing. Jonathan’s friend on “The Exeter News” told him that
\nmemory is everything in such work, that you must be able to put
\ndown exactly almost every word spoken, even if you had to refine
\nsome of it afterwards. Here was a rare interview. I shall try to
\nrecord it verbatim.<\/p>\n

It was half-past two o’clock when the knock came. I took my
\ncourage a deux mains and waited. In a few minutes Mary opened the
\ndoor, and announced “Dr. Van Helsing”.<\/p>\n

I rose and bowed, and he came towards me, a man of medium
\nweight, strongly built, with his shoulders set back over a broad,
\ndeep chest and a neck well balanced on the trunk as the head is on
\nthe neck. The poise of the head strikes me at once as indicative of
\nthought and power. The head is noble, well-sized, broad, and large
\nbehind the ears. The face, cleanshaven, shows a hard, square chin,
\na large resolute, mobile mouth, a good-sized nose, rather straight,
\nbut with quick, sensitive nostrils, that seem to broaden as the big
\nbushy brows come down and the mouth tightens. The forehead is broad
\nand fine, rising at first almost straight and then sloping back
\nabove two bumps or ridges wide apart, such a forehead that the
\nreddish hair cannot possibly tumble over it, but falls naturally
\nback and to the sides. Big, dark blue eyes are set widely apart,
\nand are quick and tender or stern with the man’s moods. He said to
\nme,<\/p>\n

“Mrs. Harker, is it not?” I bowed assent.<\/p>\n

“That was Miss Mina Murray?” Again I assented.<\/p>\n

“It is Mina Murray that I came to see that was friend of that
\npoor dear child Lucy Westenra. Madam Mina, it is on account of the
\ndead that I come.”<\/p>\n

“Sir,” I said, “you could have no better claim on me than that
\nyou were a friend and helper of Lucy Westenra.”And I held out my
\nhand. He took it and said tenderly,<\/p>\n

“Oh, Madam Mina, I know that the friend of that poor little girl
\nmust be good, but I had yet to learn\u00a0\u2026 ” He finished his
\nspeech with a courtly bow. I asked him what it was that he wanted
\nto see me about, so he at once began.<\/p>\n

“I have read your letters to Miss Lucy. Forgive me, but I had to
\nbegin to inquire somewhere, and there was none to ask. I know that
\nyou were with her at Whitby. She sometimes kept a diary, you need
\nnot look surprised, Madam Mina. It was begun after you had left,
\nand was an imitation of you, and in that diary she traces by
\ninference certain things to a sleep-walking in which she puts down
\nthat you saved her. In great perplexity then I come to you, and ask
\nyou out of your so much kindness to tell me all of it that you can
\nremember.”<\/p>\n

“I can tell you, I think, Dr. Van Helsing, all about it.”<\/p>\n

“Ah, then you have good memory for facts, for details? It is not
\nalways so with young ladies.”<\/p>\n

“No, doctor, but I wrote it all down at the time. I can show it
\nto you if you like.”<\/p>\n

“Oh, Madam Mina, I well be grateful. You will do me much
\nfavor.”<\/p>\n

I could not resist the temptation of mystifying him a bit, I
\nsuppose it is some taste of the original apple that remains still
\nin our mouths, so I handed him the shorthand diary. He took it with
\na grateful bow, and said, “May I read it?”<\/p>\n

“If you wish,” I answered as demurely as I could. He opened it,
\nand for an instant his face fell. Then he stood up and bowed.<\/p>\n

“Oh, you so clever woman!” he said. “I knew long that Mr.
\nJonathan was a man of much thankfulness, but see, his wife have all
\nthe good things. And will you not so much honor me and so help me
\nas to read it for me? Alas! I know not the shorthand.”<\/p>\n

By this time my little joke was over, and I was almost ashamed.
\nSo I took the typewritten copy from my work basket and handed it to
\nhim.<\/p>\n

“Forgive me,” I said. “I could not help it, but I had been
\nthinking that it was of dear Lucy that you wished to ask, and so
\nthat you might not have time to wait, not on my account, but
\nbecause I know your time must be precious, I have written it out on
\nthe typewriter for you.”<\/p>\n

He took it and his eyes glistened. “You are so good,” he said.
\n“And may I read it now? I may want to ask you some things when I
\nhave read.”<\/p>\n

“By all means,” I said. “read it over whilst I order lunch, and
\nthen you can ask me questions whilst we eat.”<\/p>\n

He bowed and settled himself in a chair with his back to the
\nlight, and became so absorbed in the papers, whilst I went to see
\nafter lunch chiefly in order that he might not be disturbed. When I
\ncame back, I found him walking hurriedly up and down the room, his
\nface all ablaze with excitement. He rushed up to me and took me by
\nboth hands.<\/p>\n

“Oh, Madam Mina,” he said, “how can I say what I owe to you?
\nThis paper is as sunshine. It opens the gate to me. I am dazed, I
\nam dazzled, with so much light, and yet clouds roll in behind the
\nlight every time. But that you do not, cannot comprehend. Oh, but I
\nam grateful to you, you so clever woman. Madame,” he said this very
\nsolemnly, “if ever Abraham Van Helsing can do anything for you or
\nyours, I trust you will let me know. It will be pleasure and
\ndelight if I may serve you as a friend, as a friend, but all I have
\never learned, all I can ever do, shall be for you and those you
\nlove. There are darknesses in life, and there are lights. You are
\none of the lights. You will have a happy life and a good life, and
\nyour husband will be blessed in you.”<\/p>\n

“But, doctor, you praise me too much, and you do not know
\nme.”<\/p>\n

“Not know you, I, who am old, and who have studied all my life
\nmen and women, I who have made my specialty the brain and all that
\nbelongs to him and all that follow from him! And I have read your
\ndiary that you have so goodly written for me, and which breathes
\nout truth in every line. I, who have read your so sweet letter to
\npoor Lucy of your marriage and your trust, not know you! Oh, Madam
\nMina, good women tell all their lives, and by day and by hour and
\nby minute, such things that angels can read. And we men who wish to
\nknow have in us something of angels’ eyes. Your husband is noble
\nnature, and you are noble too, for you trust, and trust cannot be
\nwhere there is mean nature. And your husband, tell me of him. Is he
\nquite well? Is all that fever gone, and is he strong and
\nhearty?”<\/p>\n

I saw here an opening to ask him about Jonathan, so I said,”He
\nwas almost recovered, but he has been greatly upset by Mr. Hawkins
\ndeath.”<\/p>\n

He interrupted, “Oh, yes. I know. I know. I have read your last
\ntwo letters.”<\/p>\n

I went on, “I suppose this upset him, for when we were in town
\non Thursday last he had a sort of shock.”<\/p>\n

“A shock, and after brain fever so soon! That is not good. What
\nkind of shock was it?”<\/p>\n

“He thought he saw some one who recalled something terrible,
\nsomething which led to his brain fever.” And here the whole thing
\nseemed to overwhelm me in a rush. The pity for Jonathan, the horror
\nwhich he experienced, the whole fearful mystery of his diary, and
\nthe fear that has been brooding over me ever since, all came in a
\ntumult. I suppose I was hysterical, for I threw myself on my knees
\nand held up my hands to him, and implored him to make my husband
\nwell again. He took my hands and raised me up, and made me sit on
\nthe sofa, and sat by me. He held my hand in his, and said to me
\nwith, oh, such infinite sweetness,<\/p>\n

“My life is a barren and lonely one, and so full of work that I
\nhave not had much time for friendships, but since I have been
\nsummoned to here by my friend John Seward I have known so many good
\npeople and seen such nobility that I feel more than ever, and it
\nhas grown with my advancing years, the loneliness of my life.
\nBelieve me, then, that I come here full of respect for you, and you
\nhave given me hope, hope, not in what I am seeking of, but that
\nthere are good women still left to make life happy, good women,
\nwhose lives and whose truths may make good lesson for the children
\nthat are to be. I am glad, glad, that I may here be of some use to
\nyou. For if your husband suffer, he suffer within the range of my
\nstudy and experience. I promise you that I will gladly do all for
\nhim that I can, all to make his life strong and manly, and your
\nlife a happy one. Now you must eat. You are over-wrought and
\nperhaps over-anxious. Husband Jonathan would not like to see you so
\npale, and what he like not where he love, is not to his good.
\nTherefore for his sake you must eat and smile. You have told me
\nabout Lucy, and so now we shall not speak of it, lest it distress.
\nI shall stay in Exeter tonight, for I want to think much over what
\nyou have told me, and when I have thought I will ask you questions,
\nif I may. And then too, you will tell me of husband Jonathan’s
\ntrouble so far as you can, but not yet. You must eat now,
\nafterwards you shall tell me all.”<\/p>\n

After lunch, when we went back to the drawing room, he said to
\nme, “And now tell me all about him.”<\/p>\n

When it came to speaking to this great learned man, I began to
\nfear that he would think me a weak fool, and Jonathan a madman,
\nthat journal is all so strange, and I hesitated to go on. But he
\nwas so sweet and kind, and he had promised to help, and I trusted
\nhim, so I said,<\/p>\n

“Dr. Van Helsing, what I have to tell you is so queer that you
\nmust not laugh at me or at my husband. I have been since yesterday
\nin a sort of fever of doubt. You must be kind to me, and not think
\nme foolish that I have even half believed some very strange
\nthings.”<\/p>\n

He reassured me by his manner as well as his words when he said,
\n“Oh, my dear, if you only know how strange is the matter regarding
\nwhich I am here, it is you who would laugh. I have learned not to
\nthink little of any one’s belief, no matter how strange it may be.
\nI have tried to keep an open mind, and it is not the ordinary
\nthings of life that could close it, but the strange things, the
\nextraordinary things, the things that make one doubt if they be mad
\nor sane.”<\/p>\n

“Thank you, thank you a thousand times! You have taken a weight
\noff my mind. If you will let me, I shall give you a paper to read.
\nIt is long, but I have typewritten it out. It will tell you my
\ntrouble and Jonathan’s. It is the copy of his journal when abroad,
\nand all that happened. I dare not say anything of it. You will read
\nfor yourself and judge. And then when I see you, perhaps, you will
\nbe very kind and tell me what you think.”<\/p>\n

“I promise,” he said as I gave him the papers. “I shall in the
\nmorning, as soon as I can, come to see you and your husband, if I
\nmay.”<\/p>\n

“Jonathan will be here at half-past eleven, and you must come to
\nlunch with us and see him then. You could catch the quick 3:34
\ntrain, which will leave you at Paddington before eight.” He was
\nsurprised at my knowledge of the trains offhand, but he does not
\nknow that I have made up all the trains to and from Exeter, so that
\nI may help Jonathan in case he is in a hurry.<\/p>\n

So he took the papers with him and went away, and I sit here
\nthinking, thinking I don’t know what.<\/p>\n

LETTER (by hand), VAN HELSING TO MRS. HARKER<\/p>\n

25 September, 6 o’clock<\/p>\n

“Dear Madam Mina,<\/p>\n

“I have read your husband’s so wonderful diary. You may sleep
\nwithout doubt. Strange and terrible as it is, it is true! I will
\npledge my life on it. It may be worse for others, but for him and
\nyou there is no dread. He is a noble fellow, and let me tell you
\nfrom experience of men, that one who would do as he did in going
\ndown that wall and to that room, aye, and going a second time, is
\nnot one to be injured in permanence by a shock. His brain and his
\nheart are all right, this I swear, before I have even seen him, so
\nbe at rest. I shall have much to ask him of other things. I am
\nblessed that today I come to see you, for I have learn all at once
\nso much that again I am dazzled, dazzled more than ever, and I must
\nthink.<\/p>\n

“Yours the most faithful,<\/p>\n

“Abraham Van Helsing.”<\/p>\n

LETTER, MRS. HARKER TO VAN HELSING<\/p>\n

25 September, 6:30 p. m.<\/p>\n

“My dear Dr. Van Helsing,<\/p>\n

“A thousand thanks for your kind letter, which has taken a great
\nweight off my mind. And yet, if it be true, what terrible things
\nthere are in the world, and what an awful thing if that man, that
\nmonster, be really in London! I fear to think. I have this moment,
\nwhilst writing, had a wire from Jonathan, saying that he leaves by
\nthe 6:25 tonight from Launceston and will be here at 10:18,so that
\nI shall have no fear tonight. Will you, therefore, instead of
\nlunching with us, please come to breakfast at eight o’clock, if
\nthis be not too early for you? You can get away, if you are in a
\nhurry, by the 10:30 train, which will bring you to Paddington by
\n2:35. Do not answer this, as I shall take it that, if I do not
\nhear, you will come to breakfast.<\/p>\n

“Believe me,<\/p>\n

“Your faithful and grateful friend,<\/p>\n

“Mina Harker.”<\/p>\n

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL<\/p>\n

26 September.\u2014I thought never to write in this diary again, but
\nthe time has come. When I got home last night Mina had supper
\nready, and when we had supped she told me of Van Helsing’s visit,
\nand of her having given him the two diaries copied out, and of how
\nanxious she has been about me. She showed me in the doctor’s letter
\nthat all I wrote down was true. It seems to have made a new man of
\nme. It was the doubt as to the reality of the whole thing that
\nknocked me over. I felt impotent, and in the dark, and distrustful.
\nBut, now that I know, I am not afraid, even of the Count. He has
\nsucceeded after all, then, in his design in getting to London, and
\nit was he I saw. He has got younger, and how? Van Helsing is the
\nman to unmask him and hunt him out, if he is anything like what
\nMina says. We sat late, and talked it over. Mina is dressing, and I
\nshall call at the hotel in a few minutes and bring him over.<\/p>\n

He was, I think, surprised to see me. When I came into the room
\nwhee he was, and introduced myself, he took me by the shoulder, and
\nturned my face round to the light, and said, after a sharp
\nscrutiny,<\/p>\n

“But Madam Mina told me you were ill, that you had had a
\nshock.”<\/p>\n

It was so funny to hear my wife called `Madam Mina’ by this
\nkindly, strong-faced old man. I smiled, and said, “I was ill, I
\nhave had a shock, but you have cured me already.”<\/p>\n

“And how?”<\/p>\n

“By your letter to Mina last night. I was in doubt, and then
\neverything took a hue of unreality, and I did not know what to
\ntrust, even the evidence of my own senses. Not knowing what to
\ntrust, I did not know what to do, and so had only to keep on
\nworking in what had hitherto been the groove of my life. The groove
\nceased to avail me, and I mistrusted myself. Doctor, you don’t know
\nwhat it is to doubt everything, even yourself. No, you don’t, you
\ncouldn’t with eyebrows like yours.”<\/p>\n

He seemed pleased, and laughed as he said, “So! You are a
\nphysiognomist. I learn more here with each hour. I am with so much
\npleasure coming to you to breakfast, and, oh, sir, you will pardon
\npraise from an old man, but you are blessed in your wife.”<\/p>\n

I would listen to him go on praising Mina for a day, so I simply
\nnodded and stood silent.<\/p>\n

“She is one of God’s women, fashioned by His own hand to show us
\nmen and other women that there is a heaven where we can enter, and
\nthat its light can be here on earth. So true, so sweet, so noble,
\nso little an egoist, and that, let me tell you, is much in this
\nage, so sceptical and selfish. And you, sir\u2026 I have read all the
\nletters to poor Miss Lucy, and some of them speak of you, so I know
\nyou since some days from the knowing of others, but I have seen
\nyour true self since last night. You will give me your hand, will
\nyou not? And let us be friends for all our lives.”<\/p>\n

We shook hands, and he was so earnest and so kind that it made
\nme quite choky.<\/p>\n

“and now,” he said, “may I ask you for some more help? I have a
\ngreat task to do, and at the beginning it is to know. You can help
\nme here. Can you tell me what went before your going to
\nTransylvania? Later on I may ask more help, and of a different
\nkind, but at first this will do.”<\/p>\n

“Look here, Sir,” I said, “does what you have to do concern the
\nCount?”<\/p>\n

“It does,” he said solemnly.”<\/p>\n

“Then I am with you heart and soul. As you go by the 10:30
\ntrain, you will not have time to read them, but I shall get the
\nbundle of papers. You can take them with you and read them in the
\ntrain.”<\/p>\n

After breakfast I saw him to the station. When we were parting
\nhe said, “Perhaps you will come to town if I send for you, and take
\nMadam Mina too.”<\/p>\n

“We shall both come when you will,” I said.<\/p>\n

I had got him the morning papers and the London papers of the
\nprevious night, and while we were talking at the carriage window,
\nwaiting for the train to start, he was turning them over. His eyes
\nsuddenly seemed to catch something in one of them, “The Westminster
\nGazette”, I knew it by the color, and he grew quite white. He read
\nsomething intently, groaning to himself, “Mein Gott! Mein Gott! So
\nsoon! So soon!” I do not think he remembered me at the moment. Just
\nthen the whistle blew, and the train moved off. This recalled him
\nto himself, and he leaned out of the window and waved his hand,
\ncalling out, “Love to Madam Mina. I shall write so soon as ever I
\ncan.”<\/p>\n

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY<\/p>\n

26 September.\u2014Truly there is no such thing as finality. Not a
\nweek since I said “Finis,” and yet here I am starting fresh again,
\nor rather going on with the record. Until this afternoon I had no
\ncause to think of what is done. Renfield had become, to all
\nintents, as sane as he ever was. He was already well ahead with his
\nfly business, and he had just started in the spider line also, so
\nhe had not been of any trouble to me. I had a letter from Arthur,
\nwritten on Sunday, and from it I gather that he is bearing up
\nwonderfully well. Quincey Morris is with him, and that is much of a
\nhelp, for he himself is a bubbling well of good spirits. Quincey
\nwrote me a line too, and from him I hear that Arthur is beginning
\nto recover something of his old buoyancy, so as to them all my mind
\nis at rest. As for myself, I was settling down to my work with the
\nenthusiasm which I used to have for it, so that I might fairly have
\nsaid that the wound which poor Lucy left on me was becoming
\ncicatrised.<\/p>\n

Everything is, however, now reopened, and what is to be the end
\nGod only knows. I have an idea that Van Helsing thinks he knows,
\ntoo, but he will only let out enough at a time to whet curiosity.
\nHe went to Exeter yesterday, and stayed there all night. Today he
\ncame back, and almost bounded into the room at about half-past five
\no’clock, and thrust last night’s “Westminster Gazette” into my
\nhand.<\/p>\n

“What do you think of that?” he asked as he stood back and
\nfolded his arms.<\/p>\n

I looked over the paper, for I really did not know what he
\nmeant, but he took it from me and pointed out a paragraph about
\nchildren being decoyed away at Hampstead. It did not convey much to
\nme, until I reached a passage where it described small puncture
\nwounds on their throats. An idea struck me, and I looked up.<\/p>\n

“Well?” he said.<\/p>\n

“It is like poor Lucy’s.”<\/p>\n

“And what do you make of it?”<\/p>\n

“Simply that there is some cause in common. Whatever it was that
\ninjured her has injured them.” I did not quite understand his
\nanswer.<\/p>\n

“That is true indirectly, but not directly.”<\/p>\n

“How do you mean, Professor?” I asked. I was a little inclined
\nto take his seriousness lightly, for, after all, four days of rest
\nand freedom from burning, harrowing, anxiety does help to restore
\none’s spirits, but when I saw his face, it sobered me. Never, even
\nin the midst of our despair about poor Lucy, had he looked more
\nstern.<\/p>\n

“Tell me!” I said. “I can hazard no opinion. I do not know what
\nto think, and I have no data on which to found a conjecture.”<\/p>\n

“Do you mean to tell me, friend John, that you have no suspicion
\nas to what poor Lucy died of, not after all the hints given, not
\nonly by events, but by me?”<\/p>\n

“Of nervous prostration following a great loss or waste of
\nblood.”<\/p>\n

“And how was the blood lost or wasted?” I shook my head.<\/p>\n

He stepped over and sat down beside me, and went on,”You are a
\nclever man, friend John. You reason well, and your wit is bold, but
\nyou are too prejudiced. You do not let your eyes see nor your ears
\nhear, and that which is outside your daily life is not of account
\nto you. Do you not think that there are things which you cannot
\nunderstand, and yet which are,that some people see things that
\nothers cannot? But there are things old and new which must not be
\ncontemplated by men’s eyes, because they know, or think they know,
\nsome things which other men have told them. Ah, it is the fault of
\nour science that it wants to explain all, and if it explain not,
\nthen it says there is nothing to explain. But yet we see around us
\nevery day the growth of new beliefs, which think themselves new,
\nand which are yet but the old, which pretend to be young, like the
\nfine ladies at the opera. I suppose now you do not believe in
\ncorporeal transference. No? Nor in materialization. No? Nor in
\nastral bodies. No? Nor in the reading of thought. No? Nor in
\nhypnotism\u00a0\u2026 ”<\/p>\n

“Yes,” I said. “Charcot has proved that pretty well.”<\/p>\n

He smiled as he went on, “Then you are satisfied as to it. Yes?
\nAnd of course then you understand how it act, and can follow the
\nmind of the great Charcot, alas that he is no more, into the very
\nsoul of the patient that he influence. No? Then, friend John, am I
\nto take it that you simply accept fact, and are satisfied to let
\nfrom premise to conclusion be a blank? No? Then tell me, for I am a
\nstudent of the brain, how you accept hypnotism and reject the
\nthought reading. Let me tell you, my friend, that there are things
\ndone today in electrical science which would have been deemed
\nunholy by the very man who discovered electricity, who would
\nthemselves not so long before been burned as wizards. There are
\nalways mysteries in life. Why was it that Methuselah lived nine
\nhundred years, and `Old Parr’one hundred and sixty-nine, and yet
\nthat poor Lucy, with four men’s blood in her poor veins, could not
\nlive even one day? For, had she live one more day, we could save
\nher. Do you know all the mystery of life and death? Do you know the
\naltogether of comparative anatomy and can say wherefore the
\nqualities of brutes are in some men, and not in others? Can you
\ntell me why, when other spiders die small and soon, that one great
\nspider lived for centuries in the tower of the old Spanish church
\nand grew and grew, till, on descending, he could drink the oil of
\nall the church lamps? Can you tell me why in the Pampas, ay and
\nelsewhere, there are bats that come out at night and open the veins
\nof cattle and horses and suck dry their veins, how in some islands
\nof the Western seas there are bats which hang on the trees all day,
\nand those who have seen describe as like giant nuts or pods, and
\nthat when the sailors sleep on the deck, because that it is hot,
\nflit down on them and then, and then in the morning are found dead
\nmen, white as even Miss Lucy was?”<\/p>\n

“Good God, Professor!” I said, starting up. “Do you mean to tell
\nme that Lucy was bitten by such a bat, and that such a thing is
\nhere in London in the nineteenth century?”<\/p>\n

He waved his hand for silence, and went on,”Can you tell me why
\nthe tortoise lives more long than generations of men, why the
\nelephant goes on and on till he have sees dynasties, and why the
\nparrot never die only of bite of cat of dog or other complaint? Can
\nyou tell me why men believe in all ages and places that there are
\nmen and women who cannot die? We all know, because science has
\nvouched for the fact, that there have been toads shut up in rocks
\nfor thousands of years, shut in one so small hole that only hold
\nhim since the youth of the world. Can you tell me how the Indian
\nfakir can make himself to die and have been buried, and his grave
\nsealed and corn sowed on it, and the corn reaped and be cut and
\nsown and reaped and cut again, and then men come and take away the
\nunbroken seal and that there lie the Indian fakir, not dead, but
\nthat rise up and walk amongst them as before?”<\/p>\n

Here I interrupted him. I was getting bewildered. He so crowded
\non my mind his list of nature’s eccentricities and possible
\nimpossibilities that my imagination was getting fired. I had a dim
\nidea that he was teaching me some lesson, as long ago he used to do
\nin his study at Amsterdam. But he used them to tell me the thing,
\nso that I could have the object of thought in mind all the time.
\nBut now I was without his help, yet I wanted to follow him, so I
\nsaid,<\/p>\n

“Professor, let me be your pet student again. Tell me the
\nthesis, so that I may apply your knowledge as you go on. At present
\nI am going in my mind from point to point as a madman, and not a
\nsane one, follows an idea. I feel like a novice lumbering through a
\nbog in a midst, jumping from one tussock to another in the mere
\nblind effort to move on without knowing where I am going.”<\/p>\n

“That is a good image,” he said. “Well, I shall tell you. My
\nthesis is this, I want you to believe.”<\/p>\n

“To believe what?”<\/p>\n

“To believe in things that you cannot. Let me illustrate. I
\nheard once of an American who so defined faith, `that fac ulty
\nwhich enables us to believe things which we know to be untrue.’ For
\none, I follow that man. He meant that we shall have an open mind,
\nand not let a little bit of truth check the rush of the big truth,
\nlike a small rock does a railway truck. We get the small truth
\nfirst. Good! We keep him, and we value him, but all the same we
\nmust not let him think himself all the truth in the universe.”<\/p>\n

“Then you want me not to let some previous conviction inure the
\nreceptivity of my mind with regard to some strange matter. Do I
\nread your lesson aright?”<\/p>\n

“Ah, you are my favorite pupil still. It is worth to teach you.
\nNow that you are willing to understand, you have taken the first
\nstep to understand. You think then that those so small holes in the
\nchildren’s throats were made by the same that made the holes in
\nMiss Lucy?”<\/p>\n

“I suppose so.”<\/p>\n

He stood up and said solemnly, “Then you are wrong. Oh, would it
\nwere so! But alas! No. It is worse, far, far worse.”<\/p>\n

“In God’s name, Professor Van Helsing, what do you mean?” I
\ncried.<\/p>\n

He threw himself with a despairing gesture into a chair, and
\nplaced his elbows on the table, covering his face with his hands as
\nhe spoke.<\/p>\n

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