28 May. There is a chance of escape, or at any rate of being
able to send word home. A band of Szgany have come to the
castle, and are encamped in the courtyard. These Szgany are
gipsies; I have notes of them in my book. They are peculiar to
this part of the world, though allied to the ordinary gipsies all
the world over. There are thousands of them in Hungary and
Transylvania, who are almost outside all law. They attach them-
selves as a rule to some great noble or boyar, and call themselves
by his name. They are fearless and without religion, save super-
stition, and they talk only their own varieties of the Romany
tongue.
I shall write some letters home, and shall try to get them to
have them posted. I have already spoken them through my
window to begin acquaintanceship. They took their hats off
and made obeisance and many signs, which, however, I could
not understand any more than I could their spoken language….
I have written the letters. Mina’s is in shorthand, and I simply
ask Mr. Hawkins to communicate with her. To her I have ex-
plained my situation, but without the horrors which I may only
surmise. It would shock and frighten her to death were I to ex-
pose my heart to her. Should the letters not carry, then the
Count shall not yet know my secret or the extent of my knowl-
edge….
40 Dracula
I have given the letters; I threw them through the bars o!
my window with a gold piece, and made what signs I could to
have them posted. The man who took them pressed them to his
heart and bowed, and then put them in his cap. I could do no
more. I stole back to the study, and began to read. As the Count
did not come in, I have written here….
The Count has come. He sat down beside me, and said in his
smoothest voice as he opened two letters:
«The Szgany has given me these, of which, though I know not
whence they come, I shall, of course, take care. See!» he must
have looked at it «one is from you, and to my friend Peter
Hawkins; the other» here he caught sight of the strange sym-
bols as he opened the envelope, and the dark look came into his
face, and his eyes blazed wickedly «the other is a vile thing,
an outrage upon friendship and hospitality! It is not signed.
Well! so it cannot matter to us.» And he calmly held letter and
envelope in the flame of the lamp till they were consumed.
Then he went on:
«The letter to Hawkins that I shall, of course, send on, since
it is yours. Your letters are sacred to me. Your pardon, my friend,
that unknowingly I did break the seal. Will you not cover it
again? "He held out the letter to me, and with a courteous bow
handed me a clean envelope. I could only redirect it and hand it
to him in silence. When he went out of the room I could hear the
key turn softly. A minute later I went over and tried it, and the
door was locked.
When, an hour or two after, the Count came quietly into the
room, his coming awakened me, for I had gone to sleep on the
sofa. He was very courteous and very cheery in his manner, and
seeing that I had been sleeping, he said:
«So, my friend, you are tired? Get to bed. There is the surest
rest. I may not have the pleasure to talk to-night, since there are
many labours to me; but you will sleep, I pray.» I passed to my
room and went to bed, and, strange to say, slept without dream-
ing. Despair has its own calms.
31 May. This morning when I woke I thought I would pro-
vide myself with some paper and envelopes from my bag and
keep them in my pocket, so that I might write in case I should
get an opportunity, but again a surprise, again a shock!
Every scrap of paper was gone, and with it all my notes, my
memoranda, relating to railways and travel, my letter of credit,
Jonathan Harker’s Journal 41
in fact all that might be useful to me were I once outside the
castle. I sat and pondered awhile, and then some thought oc-
curred to me, and I made search of my portmanteau and in the
wardrobe where I had placed my clothes.
The suit in which I had travelled was gone, and also my over-
coat and rug; I could find no trace of them anywhere. This
looked like some new scheme of villainy
17 June. This morning, as I was sitting on the edge of my
bed cudgelling my brains, I heard without a cracking of whips
and pounding and scraping of horses’ feet up the rocky path
beyond the courtyard. With joy I hurried to the window, and
saw drive into the yard two great leiter-wagons, each drawn by
eight sturdy horses, and at the head of each pair a Slovak, with
his wide hat, great nail-studded belt, dirty sheepskin, and high
boots. They had also their long staves in hand. I ran to the door,
intending to descend and try and join them through the main
hall, as I thought that way might be opened for them. Again a
shock: my door was fastened on the outside.
Then I ran to the window and cried to them. They looked
up at me stupidly and pointed, but just then the «hetman»
of the Szgany came out, and seeing them pointing to my window,
said something, at which they laughed. Henceforth no effort of
mine, no piteous cry or agonised entreaty, would make them
even look at me. They resolutely turned away. The leiter-wagons
contained great, square boxes, with handles of thick rope; these
were evidently empty by the ease with which the Slovaks handled
them, and by their resonance as they were roughly moved.
When they were all unloaded and packed in a great heap in one
corner of the yard, the Slovaks were given some money by the
Szgany, and spitting on it for luck, lazily went each to his
horse’s head. Shortly afterwards, I heard the cracking of their
whips die away in the distance.
24, June, before morning. Last night the Count left me early,
and locked himself into his own room. As soon as I dared I ran up
the winding stair, and looked out of the window, which opened
south. I thought I would watch for the Count, for there is some-
thing going on. The Szgany are quartered somewhere in the’castle
and are doing work of some kind. I know it, for now and then I
hear a far-away muffled sound as of mattock and spade, and,
whatever it is % it must be the end of some ruthless villainy.
42 Dracula
I had been at the window somewhat less than half an hour,
when I saw something coming out of the Count’s window. I
drew back and watched carefully, and saw the whole man
emerge. It was a new shock to me to find that he had on the
suit of clothes which I had worn whilst travelling here, and
slung over his shoulder the terrible bag which I had seen the
women take away. There could be no doubt as to his quest, and
’in my garb, too! This, then, is his new scheme of evil: that he
will allow others to see me, as they think, so that he may both
leave evidence that I have been seen in the towns or villages
posting my own letters, and that any wickedness which he may
do shall by the local people be attributed to me.
It makes me rage to think that this can go on, and whilst I
am shut up here, a veritable prisoner, but without that protec-
tion of the law which is even a criminal’s right and consolation.
I thought I would watch for the Count’s return, and for a
long time sat doggedly at the window. Then I began to notice
that there were some quaint little specks floating hi the rays of
the moonlight. They were like the tiniest grains of dust, and they
whirled round and gathered in clusters in a nebulous sort of way.
I watched them with a sense of soothing, and a sort of calm stole
over me. I leaned back in the embrasure in a more comfortable
position, so that I could enjoy more fully the aerial gambolling.
Something made me start up, a low, piteous howling of dogs
somewhere far below in the valley, which was hidden from my
sight. Louder it seemed to ring in my ears, and the floating motes
of dust to take new shapes to the sound as they danced in the
moonlight. I felt myself struggling to awake to some call of
my instincts; nay, my very soul was struggling, and my half-
remembered sensibilities were striving to answer the call. I was
becoming hypnotised! Quicker and quicker danced the dust;
the moonbeams seemed to quiver as they went by me into the
mass of gloom beyond. More and more they gathered till they
seemed to take dim phantom shapes. And then I started, broad
awake and in full possession of my senses, and ran screaming
from the place. The phantom shapes, which were becoming grad-
ually materialised from the moonbeams, were those of the three
ghostly women to whom I was doomed. I fled, and felt somewhat
safer in my own room, where there was no moonlight and where
the lamp was burning brightly.
When a couple of hours had passed I heard something stirring
in the Count’s room, something like a sharp wail quickly sup-
pressed; and then there was silence, deep, awful silence, which
Jonathan Marker’s Journal 43
chilled me. With a beating heart, I tried the door; but I was
locked in my prison, and could do nothing. I sat down and
simply cried
As I sat I heard a sound in the courtyard without the ago-
nised cry of a woman. I rushed to the window, and throwing it
up, peered out between the bars. There, indeed, was a woman
with dishevelled hair, holding her hands over her heart as one
distressed with running. She was leaning against a corner of the
gateway. When she saw my face at the window she threw her-
self forward, and shouted in a voice laden with menace:
«Monster, give me my child!»
She threw herself on her knees, and raising up her hands, cried
the same words in tones which wrung my heart. Then she tore
her hair and beat her breast, and abandoned herself to all the
violences of extravagant emotion. Finally, she threw herself for-
ward, and, though I could not see her, I could hear the beating
of her naked hands against the door.
Somewhere high overhead, probably on the tower, I heard
the voice of the Count calling in his harsh, metallic whisper.
His call seemed to be answered from far and wide by the howling
of wolves. Before many minutes had passed a pack of them
poured, like a pent-up dam when liberated, through the wide
entrance into the courtyard.
There was no cry from the woman, and the howling of the
wolves was but short. Before long they streamed away singly,
licking their lips.
I could not pity her, for I knew now what had become of her
child, and she was better dead.
What shall I do? what can I do? How can I escape from this
dreadful thing of night and gloom and fear?
25 June, morning. No man knows till he has suffered from
the night how sweet and how dear to his heart and eye the
morning can be. When the sun grew so high this morning that
it struck the top of the great gateway opposite my window, the
high spot which it touched seemed to me as if the dove from the
ark had lighted there. My fear fell from me as if it had been a
vaporous garment which dissolved in the warmth. I must take
action of some sort whilst the courage of the day is upon me.
Last night one of my post-dated letters went to post, the first
of that fatal series which is to blot out the very traces of my ex-
istence from the earth.
Let me not think of it. Action!
44 Dracula
It has always been at night-time that I have been molested
or threatened, or in some way in danger or in fear. I have not
yet seen the Count in the daylight. Can it be that he sleeps when
others wake, that he may be awake whilst they sleep? If I could
only get into his room! But there is no possible way. The door
is always locked, no way for me.
Yes, there is a way, if one dares to take it. Where his body
has gone why may not another body go? I have seen him my-
self crawl from his window. Why should not I imitate him, and
go in by his window? The chances are desperate, but my need
is more desperate still. I shall risk it. At the worst it can only
be death; and a man’s death is not a calf’s, and the dreaded Here-
after may still be open to me. God help me in my task! Good-
bye, Mina, if I fail; good-bye, my faithful friend and second
father; good-bye, all, and last of all Mina!
Same day t later. I have made the effort, and God, helping me,
have come safely back to this room. I must put down every
detail in order. I went whilst my courage was fresh straight to
the window on the south side, and at once got outside on the
narrow ledge of stone which runs around the building on this
side. The stones are big and roughly cut, and the mortar has by
process of time been washed away between them. I took off my
boots, and ventured out on the desperate way. I looked down
once, so as to make sure that a sudden glimpse of the awful
depth would not overcome me, but after that kept my eyes
away from it. I knew pretty well the direction and distance of
the Count’s window, and made for it as well as I could, having
regard to the opportunities available. I did not feel dizzy I
suppose I was too excited and the time seemed ridiculously
short till I found myself standing on the window-sill and trying
to raise up the sash. I was filled with agitation, however, when
I bent down and slid feet foremost in through the window. Then
I looked around for the Count, but, with surprise and gladness,
made a discovery. The room was empty! It was barely furnished
with odd things, which seemed to have never been used; the fur-
niture was something the same style as that in the south rooms,
and was covered with dust. I looked for the key, but it was not
in the lock, and I could not find it anywhere. The only thing I
found was a great heap of gold in one corner gold of all kinds,
Roman, and British, and Austrian, and Hungarian, and Greek
and Turkish money, covered with a film of dust, as though
it had lain long in the ground. None of it that I noticed was
Jonathan Harker’s Journal 45
less than three hundred years old. There were also chains
and ornaments, some jewelled, but all of them old and
stained.
At one corner of the room was a heavy door. I tried it, for,
since I could not find the key of the room or the key of the
outer door, which was the main object of my search, I must make
further examination, or all my efforts would be in vain. It was
open, and led through a stone passage to a circular stairway,
which went steeply down. I descended, minding carefully where
I went, for the stairs were dark, being only lit by loopholes in
the heavy masonry. At the bottom there was a dark, tunnel-
like passage, through which came a deathly, sickly odour, the
odour of old earth newly turned. As I went through the passage
the smell grew closer and heavier. At last I pulled open a heavy
door which stood ajar, and found myself in an old, ruined chapel,
which had evidently been used as a graveyard. The roof was
broken, and in two places were steps leading to vaults, but the
ground had recently been dug over, and the earth placed in great
wooden boxes, manifestly those which had been brought by the
Slovaks. There was nobody about, and I made search for any
further outlet, but there was none. Then I went over every
inch of the ground, so as not to lose a chance. I went down
even into the vaults, where the dim light struggled, although
to do so was a dread to my very soul. Into two of these I went,
but saw nothing except fragments of old coffins and piles of dust;
in the third, however, I made a discovery.
There, in one of the great boxes, of which there were fifty in
all, on a pile of newly dug earth, lay the Count! He was either
dead or asleep, I could not say which for the eyes were open
and stony, but without the glassiness of death and the cheeks
had the warmth of life through all their pallor; the lips were as