fawned on me like a dog. I asked him what it was, and he said,
with a sort of rapture in his voice and bearing:
«A kitten, a nice little, sleek playful kitten, that I can play
with, and teach, and feed and feed and feed!» I was not
66 Dracula
unprepared for this request, for I had noticed how his pets wef. t
on increasing in size and vivacity, but I did not care that his
pretty family of tame sparrows should be wiped out in the same
manner as the flies and the spiders; so I said I would see about it,
and asked him if he would not rather have a cat than a kitten.
His eagerness betrayed him as he answered:
«Oh, yes, I would like a cat! I only asked for a kitten lest you
should refuse me a cat. No one would refuse me a kitten, would
they?» I shook my head, and said that at present I feared it
would not be possible, but that I would see about it. His face
fell, and I could see a warning of danger in it, for there was a
sudden fierce, sidelong look which meant killing. The man is an
undeveloped homicidal maniac. I shall test him with his present
craving and see how it will work out; then I shall know more.
10 p. m. I have visited him again and found him sitting in a
corner brooding. When I came in he threw himself on his knees
before me and implored me to let him have a cat; that his salva-
tion depended upon it. I was firm, however, and told him that
he could not have it, whereupon he went without a word, and
sat down, gnawing his fingers, in the corner where I had found
him. I shall see him in the morning early.
20 July. Visited Renfield very early, before the attendant
went his rounds. Found him up and humming a tune. He was
spreading out his sugar, which he had saved, in the window, and
was manifestly beginning his fly-catching again; and beginning
it cheerfully and with a good grace. I looked around for his birds,
and not seeing them, asked him where they were. He replied,
without turning round, that they had all flown away. There were
a few feathers about the room and on his pillow a drop of blood.
I said nothing, but went and told the keeper to report to me if
there were anything odd about him during the day.
11 a. m. The attendant has just been to me to say that
Renfield has been very sick and has disgorged a whole lot of
feathers. «My belief is, doctor,» he said, «that he has eaten his
birds, and that he just took and ate them raw!»
ii p. m. I gave Renfield a strong opiate to-night, enough
to make even him sleep, and took away his pocket-book to
look at it. The thought that has been buzzing about my brain
lately is complete, and the theory proved. My homicidal maniac
is of a peculiar kind. I shall have to invent a new classification
Mina Murray’s Journal 67
for him, and call him a zoophagous (life-eating) maniac; what he
desires is to absorb as many lives as he can, and he has laid
himself out to achieve it in a cumulative way. He gave many
flies to one spider and many spiders to one bird, and then wanted
a cat to eat the many birds. What would have been his later
steps? It would almost be worth while to complete the experi-
ment. It might be done if there were only a sufficient cause. Men
sneered at vivisection, and yet look at its results to-day! Why
not advance science in its most difficult and vital aspect the
knowledge of the brain? Had I even the secret of one such mind
did I hold the key to the fancy of even one lunatic I might
advance my own branch of science to a pitch compared with
which Burdon-Sanderson’s physiology or Ferrier’s brain-knowl-
edge would be as nothing. If only there were a sufficient cause!
I must not think too much of this, or I may be tempted; a good
cause might turn the scale with me, for may not I too be of an
exceptional brain, congenitally?
How well the man reasoned; lunatics always do within their
own scope. I wonder at how many lives he values a man, or if at
only one. He has closed the account most accurately, and to-day
begun a new record. How many of us begin a new record with
each day of our lives?
To me it seems only yesterday that my whole life ended with
my new hope, and that truly I began a new record. So it will be
until the Great Recorder sums me up and closes my ledger ac-
count with a balance to profit or loss. Oh, Lucy, Lucy, I cannot
be angry with you, nor can I be angry with my friend whose
happiness is yours; but I must only wait on hopeless and work.
Work! work!
If I only could have as strong a cause as my poor mad friend
there a good, unselfish cause to make me work that would be
indeed happiness.
Mina Murray’s Journal.
26 July. I am anxious, and it soothes me to express myself
here; it is like whispering to one’s self and listening at the same
time. And there is also something about the shorthand symbols
that makes it different from writing. I am unhappy about Lucy
and about Jonathan. I had not heard from Jonathan for some
time, and was very concerned; but yesterday dear Mr. Hawkins,
who is always so kind, sent me a letter from him. I had written
asking him if he had heard, and he said the enclosed had just
been received. It is only a line dated from Castle Dracula, and
68 Dracula
says that he is just starting for home. That is not like Jonathan;
I do not understand it, and it makes me uneasy. Then, too, Lucy,
although she is so well, has lately taken to her old habit of walk-
ing in her sleep. Her mother has spoken to me about it, and we
have decided that I am to lock the door of our room every night.
Mrs. Westenra has got an idea that sleep-walkers always go out
on roofs of houses and along the edges of cliffs and then get sud-
denly wakened and fall over with a despairing cry that echoes all
over the place. Poor dear, she is naturally anxious about Lucy,
and she tells me that her husband, Lucy’s father, had the same
nabit; that he would get up in the night and dress himself and go
out, if he were not stopped. Lucy is to be married hi the autumn,
and she is already planning out her dresses and how her house is
to be arranged. I sympathise with her, for I do the same, only
Jonathan and I will start in life in a very simply way, and shall
have to try to make both ends meet. Mr. Holmwood he is the
Hon. Arthur Holmwood, only son of Lord Godalming is
coming up here very shortly as soon as he can leave town, for
his father is not very well, and I think dear Lucy is counting
the moments till he comes. She wants to take him up to the seat
on the churchyard cliff and show him the beauty of Whitby. I
daresay it is the waiting which disturbs her; she will be all right
when he arrives.
2*7 July. No news from Jonathan. I am getting quite uneasy
about him, though why I should I do not know; but I do wish
that he would write, if it were only a single line. Lucy walks
more than ever, and each night I am awakened by her moving
about the room. Fortunately, the weather is so hot that she
cannot get cold; but still the anxiety and the perpetually being
wakened is beginning to tell on me, and I am getting nervous and
wakeful myself. Thank God, Lucy’s health keeps up. Mr. Holm-
wood has been suddenly called to Ring to see his father, who has
been taken seriously ill. Lucy frets at the postponement of seeing
him, but it does not touch her looks; she is a trifle stouter, and
her cheeks are a lovely rose-pink. She has lost that anaemic look
which she had. I pray it will all last.
5 August. Another week gone, and no news from Jonathan,
not even to Mr. Hawkins, from whom I have heard. Oh, I do
hope he is not ill. He surely would have written. I look at that
last letter of his, but somehow it does not satisfy me. It does not
read like him, and yet it is his writing. There is no mistake of
that. Lucy has not walked much in her sleep the last week, but
Mina Murray’s Journal 69
there is an odd concentration about her which I do not under-
stand; even in her sleep she seems to be watching me. She tries
the door, and finding it locked, goes about the room searching for
the key.
6 August. Another three days, and no news. This suspense
is getting dreadful. If I only knew where to write to or where to
go to, I should feel easier; but no one has heard a word of Jona-
than since that last letter. I must only pray to God for patience.
Lucy is more excitable than ever, but is otherwise well. Last night
was very threatening, and the fishermen say that we are in for a
storm. I must try to watch it and learn the weather signs. To-day
is a grey day, and the sun as I write is hidden in thick clouds,
high over Kettleness. Everything is grey except the green grass,
which seems like emerald amongst it; grey earthy rock; grey
clouds, tinged with the sunburst at the far edge, hang over the
grey sea, into which the sand-points stretch like grey fingers.
The sea is tumbling in over the shallows and the sandy flats with
a roar, muffled in the sea-mists drifting inland. The horizon is lost
in a grey mist. All is vastness; the clouds are piled up like giant
rocks, and there is a «brool» over the sea that sounds like some
presage of doom. Dark figures are on the beach here and there,
sometimes half shrouded in the mist, and seem «men like trees
walking.» The fishing-boats are racing for home, and rise and
dip in the ground swell as they sweep into the harbour, bending
to the scuppers. Here comes old Mr. Swales. He is making straight
for me, and I can see, by the way he lif ts his hat, that he wants to
talk
I have been quite touched by the change in the poor old man.
When he sat down beside me, he said in a very gentle way:
«I want to say something to you, miss.» I could see he was
not at ease, so I took his poor old wrinkled hand in mine and
asked him to speak fully; so he said, leaving his hand in mine:
«I’m afraid, my deary, that I must have shocked you by all
the wicked things I’ve been sayin’ about the dead, and such like,
for weeks past; but I didn’t mean them, and I want ye to remem-
ber that when I’m gone. We aud folks that be daffled, and with
one foot abaft the krok-hooal, don’t altogether like to think of it,
and we don’t want to feel scart of it; an’ that’s why I’ve took to
makin’ light of it, so that I’d cheer up my own heart a bit. But,
Lord love ye, miss, I ain’t afraid of dyin’, not a bit; only I don’t
want to die if I can help it. My time must be nigh at hand now,
for I be aud, and a hundred years is too much for any man to
70 Dracula
expect; and I’m so nigh it that the Aud Man is already whettin’
his scythe. Ye see, I can’t get out o’ the habit of caffin’ about it
all at once; the chafts will wag as they be used to. Some day soon
the Angel of Death will sound his trumpet for me. But don’t ye
dooal an’ greet, my deary!» for he saw that I was crying
«if he should come this very night I’d not refuse to answer his
call. For life be, after all, only a waitin’ for somethin’ else than
what we’re doin '; and death be all that we can rightly depend on.
But I’m content, for it’s comin’ to me, my deary, and comin’
quick. It may be comin’ while we be lookin’ and wonderin’.
Maybe it’s in that wind out over the sea that’s bringin’ with it
loss and wreck, and sore distress, and sad hearts. Look! look!» he
cried suddenly. «There’s something in that wind and in the hoast
beyont that sounds, and looks, and tastes, and smells like death.
It’s in the air; I feel it comin’. Lord, make me answer cheerful
when my call comes!» He held up his arms devoutly, and raised
his hat. His mouth moved as though he were praying. After a
few minutes’ silence, he got up, shook hands with me, and blessed
me, and said good-bye, and hobbled off. It all touched me, and
upset me very much.
I was glad when the coastguard came along, with his spy-glass
under his arm. He stopped to talk with me, as he always does,
but all the time kept looking at a strange ship.
«I can’t make her out,» he said; «she’s a Russian, by the look
of her; but she’s knocking about in the queerest way. She doesn’t
know her mind a bit; she seems to see the storm coming, but can’t
decide whether to run up north in the open, or to put in here.
Look there again! She is steered mighty strangely, for she doesn’t
mind the hand on the wheel; changes about with every puff of
wind. We’ll hear more of her before this time to-morrow.»
CHAPTER VII
CUTTING FROM «THE DAILYGRATH,» 8 AUGUST
(Pasted in Mina Murray ’s Journal.)
From a Correspondent.
Whitby.
ONE of the greatest and suddenest storms on record has just been
experienced here, with results both strange and unique. The
weather had been somewhat sultry, but not to any degree un-
common in the month of August. Saturday evening was as fine as
was ever known, and the great body of holiday-makers laid out
yesterday for visits to Mulgrave Woods, Robin Hood’s Bay, Rig
Mill, Runswick, Staithes, and the various trips hi the neighbour-
hood of Whitby. The steamers Emma and Scarborough made
trips up and down the coast, and there was an unusual amount
of «tripping» both to and from Whitby. The day was unusually
fine till the afternoon, when some of the gossips who frequent the
East Cliff churchyard, and from that commanding eminence
watch the wide sweep of sea visible to the north and east, called
attention to a sudden show of" mares’-tails" high in the sky to
the north-west. The wind was then blowing from the south-west
in the mild degree which in barometrical language is ranked
«No. 2: light breeze.» The coastguard on duty at once made
report, and one old fisherman, who for more than half a century
has kept watch on weather* signs from the East Cliff, foretold in
an emphatic manner the coming of a sudden storm. The ap-
proach of sunset was so very beautiful, so grand in its masses of
splendidly-coloured clouds, that there was quite an assemblage
on the walk along the cliff in the old churchyard to enjoy the
beauty. Before the sun dipped below the black mass of Kettle-
ness, standing boldly athwart the western sky, its downward
way was marked by myriad clouds of every sunset-colour
flame, purple, pink, green, violet, and all the tints of gold; with
here and there masses not large, but of seemingly absolute black-
ness, in all sorts of shapes, as well outlined as colossal silhouettes.
The experience was not lost on the painters, and doubtless some
of the sketches of the «Prelude to the Great Storm» will grace
the R. A. and R. I. walls in May next. More than one captain
72 Dracula
made up his mind then and there that his «cobble» or his
«mule,» as they term the different classes of boats, would
remain in the harbour till the storm had passed. The wind fell
away entirely during the evening, and at midnight there was a
dead calm, a sultry heat, and that prevailing intensity which, on
the approach of thunder, affects persons of a sensitive nature.
There were but few lights in sight at sea, for even the coasting
steamers, which usually «hug» the shore so closely, kept well to
seaward, and but few fishing-boats were in sight. The only sail
noticeable was a foreign schooner with all sails set, which was
seemingly going westwards. The foolhardiness or ignorance of
her officers was a prolific theme for comment whilst she remained
in sight, and efforts were made to signal her to reduce sail in face
of her danger. Before the night shut down she was seen with sails
idly flapping as she gently rolled on the undulating swell of the
sea,
«As idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean.»
Shortly before ten o’clock the stillness of the air grew quite
oppressive, and the silence was so marked that the bleating of a
sheep inland or the barking of a dog in the town was distinctly
heard, and the band on the pier, with its li vely French air, was like
a discord in the great harmony of nature’s silence. A little after