DRACULA
PART 5
CHAPTER V
Letter from Miss Mina Murray to
Miss Lucy Westenra.
“9 May.
“My dearest Lucy,—
“Forgive
my long delay in writing, but I have been simply overwhelmed with work. The
life of an assistant schoolmistress is sometimes trying. I am longing to be
with you, and by the sea, where we can talk together freely and build our
castles in the air. I have been working very hard lately, because I want to
keep up with Jonathan’s studies, and I have been practising shorthand very
assiduously. When we are married I shall be able to be useful to Jonathan, and
if I can stenograph well enough I can take down what he wants to say in this
way and write it out for him on the typewriter, at which also I am practising
very hard. He and I sometimes write letters in shorthand, and he is keeping a
stenographic journal of his travels abroad. When I am with you I shall keep a
diary in the same way. I don’t mean one of those
two-pages-to-the-week-with-Sunday-squeezed-in-a-corner diaries, but a sort of
journal which I can write in whenever I feel inclined. I do not suppose there
will be much of interest to other people; but it is not intended for them. I
may show it to Jonathan some day if there is in it anything worth sharing, but
it is really an exercise book. I shall try to do what I see lady journalists
do: interviewing and writing descriptions and trying to remember conversations.
I am told that, with a little practice, one can remember all that goes on or
that one hears said during a day. However, we shall see. I will tell you of my
little plans when we meet. I have just had a few hurried lines from Jonathan
from Transylvania. He is well, and will be returning in about a week. I am
longing to hear all his news. It must be so nice to see strange countries. I
wonder if we—I mean Jonathan and I—shall ever see them together. There is the
ten o’clock bell ringing. Good-bye.
“Your loving
“Mina.
“Mina.
“Tell me
all the news when you write. You have not told me anything for a long time. I
hear rumours, and especially of a tall, handsome, curly-haired man???”
Letter, Lucy Westenra to Mina
Murray.
“17, Chatham Street,
“Wednesday.
“Wednesday.
“My dearest Mina,—
“I must
say you tax me very unfairly with being a bad correspondent. I wrote to
you twice since we parted, and your last letter was only your second.
Besides, I have nothing to tell you. There is really nothing to interest you.
Town is very pleasant just now, and we go a good deal to picture-galleries and
for walks and rides in the park. As to the tall, curly-haired man, I suppose it
was the one who was with me at the last Pop. Some one has evidently been
telling tales. That was Mr. Holmwood. He often comes to see us, and he and
mamma get on very well together; they have so many things to talk about in
common. We met some time ago a man that would just do for you, if you
were not already engaged to Jonathan. He is an excellent parti, being
handsome, well off, and of good birth. He is a doctor and really clever. Just
fancy! He is only nine-and-twenty, and he has an immense lunatic asylum all
under his own care. Mr. Holmwood introduced him to me, and he called here to
see us, and often comes now. I think he is one of the most resolute men I ever
saw, and yet the most calm. He seems absolutely imperturbable. I can fancy what
a wonderful power he must have over his patients. He has a curious habit of
looking one straight in the face, as if trying to read one’s thoughts. He tries
this on very much with me, but I flatter myself he has got a tough nut to
crack. I know that from my glass. Do you ever try to read your own face? I
do, and I can tell you it is not a bad study, and gives you more trouble
than you can well fancy if you have never tried it. He says that I afford him a
curious psychological study, and I humbly think I do. I do not, as you know,
take sufficient interest in dress to be able to describe the new fashions.
Dress is a bore. That is slang again, but never mind; Arthur says that every
day. There, it is all out. Mina, we have told all our secrets to each other
since we were children; we have slept together and eaten together, and
laughed and cried together; and now, though I have spoken, I would like to
speak more. Oh, Mina, couldn’t you guess? I love him. I am blushing as I write,
for although I think he loves me, he has not told me so in words. But
oh, Mina, I love him; I love him; I love him! There, that does me good. I wish
I were with you, dear, sitting by the fire undressing, as we used to sit; and I
would try to tell you what I feel. I do not know how I am writing this even to you. I am afraid to stop, or I should tear up
the letter, and I don’t want to stop, for I do so want to tell you all.
Let me hear from you at once, and tell me all that you think about it.
Mina, I must stop. Good-night. Bless me in your prayers; and, Mina, pray for my
happiness.
“LUCY.
“P.S.—I
need not tell you this is a secret. Good-night again.
“L.”
Letter, Lucy Westenra to Mina
Murray.
“24 May.
“My dearest Mina,—
“Thanks,
and thanks, and thanks again for your sweet letter. It was so nice to be able
to tell you and to have your sympathy.
“My dear,
it never rains but it pours. How true the old proverbs are. Here am I, who
shall be twenty in September, and yet I never had a proposal till to-day, not a
real proposal, and to-day I have had three. Just fancy! THREE proposals in one
day! Isn’t it awful! I feel sorry, really and truly sorry, for two of the poor
fellows. Oh, Mina, I am so happy that I don’t know what to do with myself. And
three proposals! But, for goodness’ sake, don’t tell any of the girls, or they
would be getting all sorts of extravagant ideas and imagining themselves
injured and slighted if in their very first day at home they did not get six at
least. Some girls are so vain! You and I, Mina dear, who are engaged and are
going to settle down soon soberly into old married women, can despise vanity.
Well, I must tell you about the three, but you must keep it a secret, dear,
from every one, except, of course, Jonathan. You will tell him, because
I would, if I were in your place, certainly tell Arthur. A woman ought to tell
her husband everything—don’t you think so, dear?—and I must be fair. Men like
women, certainly their wives, to be quite as fair as they are; and women, I am
afraid, are not always quite as fair as they should be. Well, my dear, number
One came just before lunch. I told you of him, Dr. John Seward, the
lunatic-asylum man, with the strong jaw and the good forehead. He was very cool
outwardly, but was nervous all the same. He had evidently been schooling
himself as to all sorts of little things, and remembered them; but he almost
managed to sit down on his silk hat, which men don’t generally do when they are
cool, and then when he wanted to appear at ease he kept playing with a lancet
in a way that made me nearly scream. He spoke to me, Mina,
very straightforwardly. He told me how dear I was to him, though he had known
me so little, and what his life would be with me to help and cheer him. He was
going to tell me how unhappy he would be if I did not care for him, but when he
saw me cry he said that he was a brute and would not add to my present trouble.
Then he broke off and asked if I could love him in time; and when I shook my
head his hands trembled, and then with some hesitation he asked me if I cared
already for any one else. He put it very nicely, saying that he did not want to
wring my confidence from me, but only to know, because if a woman’s heart was
free a man might have hope. And then, Mina, I felt a sort of duty to tell him
that there was some one. I only told him that much, and then he stood up, and
he looked very strong and very grave as he took both my hands in his and said
he hoped I would be happy, and that if I ever wanted a friend I must count him
one of my best. Oh, Mina dear, I can’t help crying: and you must excuse this
letter being all blotted. Being proposed to is all very nice and all that sort
of thing, but it isn’t at all a happy thing when you have to see a poor fellow,
whom you know loves you honestly, going away and looking all broken-hearted,
and to know that, no matter what he may say at the moment, you are passing
quite out of his life. My dear, I must stop here at present, I feel so
miserable, though I am so happy.
“Evening.
“Arthur
has just gone, and I feel in better spirits than when I left off, so I can go
on telling you about the day. Well, my dear, number Two came after lunch. He is
such a nice fellow, an American from Texas, and he looks so young and so fresh
that it seems almost impossible that he has been to so many places and has had
such adventures. I sympathise with poor Desdemona when she had such a dangerous
stream poured in her ear, even by a black man. I suppose that we women are such
cowards that we think a man will save us from fears, and we marry him. I know
now what I would do if I were a man and wanted to make a girl love me. No, I
don’t, for there was Mr. Morris telling us his stories, and Arthur never told
any, and yet—— My dear, I am somewhat previous. Mr. Quincey P. Morris found me
alone. It seems that a man always does find a girl alone. No, he doesn’t, for
Arthur tried twice to make a chance, and I helping him all I could; I am
not ashamed to say it now. I must tell you beforehand that Mr. Morris doesn’t
always speak slang—that is to say, he never does so to strangers or before
them, for he is really well educated and has exquisite
manners—but he found out that it amused me to hear him talk American slang, and
whenever I was present, and there was no one to be shocked, he said such funny
things. I am afraid, my dear, he has to invent it all, for it fits exactly into
whatever else he has to say. But this is a way slang has. I do not know myself
if I shall ever speak slang; I do not know if Arthur likes it, as I have never
heard him use any as yet. Well, Mr. Morris sat down beside me and looked as
happy and jolly as he could, but I could see all the same that he was very
nervous. He took my hand in his, and said ever so sweetly:—
“ ‘Miss
Lucy, I know I ain’t good enough to regulate the fixin’s of your little shoes,
but I guess if you wait till you find a man that is you will go join them seven
young women with the lamps when you quit. Won’t you just hitch up alongside of
me and let us go down the long road together, driving in double harness?’
“Well, he
did look so good-humoured and so jolly that it didn’t seem half so hard to
refuse him as it did poor Dr. Seward; so I said, as lightly as I could, that I
did not know anything of hitching, and that I wasn’t broken to harness at all
yet. Then he said that he had spoken in a light manner, and he hoped that if he
had made a mistake in doing so on so grave, so momentous, an occasion for him,
I would forgive him. He really did look serious when he was saying it, and I
couldn’t help feeling a bit serious too—I know, Mina, you will think me a
horrid flirt—though I couldn’t help feeling a sort of exultation that he was
number two in one day. And then, my dear, before I could say a word he began
pouring out a perfect torrent of love-making, laying his very heart and soul at
my feet. He looked so earnest over it that I shall never again think that a man
must be playful always, and never earnest, because he is merry at times. I
suppose he saw something in my face which checked him, for he suddenly stopped,
and said with a sort of manly fervour that I could have loved him for if I had been
free:—
“ ‘Lucy,
you are an honest-hearted girl, I know. I should not be here speaking to you as
I am now if I did not believe you clean grit, right through to the very depths
of your soul. Tell me, like one good fellow to another, is there any one else
that you care for? And if there is I’ll never trouble you a hair’s breadth
again, but will be, if you will let me, a very faithful friend.’
“My dear
Mina, why are men so noble when we women are so little worthy of them? Here was
I almost making fun of this great-hearted, true gentleman. I burst into tears—I
am afraid, my dear, you will think this a very sloppy
letter in more ways than one—and I really felt very badly. Why can’t they let a
girl marry three men, or as many as want her, and save all this trouble? But
this is heresy, and I must not say it. I am glad to say that, though I was
crying, I was able to look into Mr. Morris’s brave eyes, and I told him out
straight:—
“ ‘Yes,
there is some one I love, though he has not told me yet that he even loves me.’
I was right to speak to him so frankly, for quite a light came into his face,
and he put out both his hands and took mine—I think I put them into his—and
said in a hearty way:—
“ ‘That’s
my brave girl. It’s better worth being late for a chance of winning you than
being in time for any other girl in the world. Don’t cry, my dear. If it’s for
me, I’m a hard nut to crack; and I take it standing up. If that other fellow
doesn’t know his happiness, well, he’d better look for it soon, or he’ll have
to deal with me. Little girl, your honesty and pluck have made me a friend, and
that’s rarer than a lover; it’s more unselfish anyhow. My dear, I’m going to
have a pretty lonely walk between this and Kingdom Come. Won’t you give me one
kiss? It’ll be something to keep off the darkness now and then. You can, you
know, if you like, for that other good fellow—he must be a good fellow, my
dear, and a fine fellow, or you could not love him—hasn’t spoken yet.’ That
quite won me, Mina, for it was brave and sweet of him, and noble, too,
to a rival—wasn’t it?—and he so sad; so I leant over and kissed him. He stood
up with my two hands in his, and as he looked down into my face—I am afraid I
was blushing very much—he said:—
“ ‘Little
girl, I hold your hand, and you’ve kissed me, and if these things don’t make us
friends nothing ever will. Thank you for your sweet honesty to me, and
good-bye.’ He wrung my hand, and taking up his hat, went straight out of the
room without looking back, without a tear or a quiver or a pause; and I am
crying like a baby. Oh, why must a man like that be made unhappy when there are
lots of girls about who would worship the very ground he trod on? I know I
would if I were free—only I don’t want to be free. My dear, this quite upset
me, and I feel I cannot write of happiness just at once, after telling you of
it; and I don’t wish to tell of the number three until it can be all happy.
“Ever your loving
“Lucy.
“Lucy.
“P.S.—Oh, about number Three—I needn’t tell you of
number Three, need I? Besides, it was all so confused; it seemed only a moment
from his coming into the room till both his arms were round me, and he was
kissing me. I am very, very happy, and I don’t know what I have done to deserve
it. I must only try in the future to show that I am not ungrateful to God for
all His goodness to me in sending to me such a lover, such a husband, and such
a friend.
“Good-bye.”
Dr. Seward’s Diary.
(Kept in phonograph)
25 May.—Ebb tide in appetite to-day. Cannot eat, cannot rest,
so diary instead. Since my rebuff of yesterday I have a sort of empty feeling;
nothing in the world seems of sufficient importance to be worth the doing....
As I knew that the only cure for this sort of thing was work, I went down
amongst the patients. I picked out one who has afforded me a study of much
interest. He is so quaint that I am determined to understand him as well as I
can. To-day I seemed to get nearer than ever before to the heart of his
mystery.
I
questioned him more fully than I had ever done, with a view to making myself
master of the facts of his hallucination. In my manner of doing it there was, I
now see, something of cruelty. I seemed to wish to keep him to the point of his
madness—a thing which I avoid with the patients as I would the mouth of hell.
(Mem.,
under what circumstances would I not avoid the pit of hell?) Omnia
Romæ venalia sunt. Hell has its price! verb. sap. If there be
anything behind this instinct it will be valuable to trace it afterwards accurately,
so I had better commence to do so, therefore—
R. M.
Renfield, ætat 59.—Sanguine temperament; great physical strength; morbidly
excitable; periods of gloom, ending in some fixed idea which I cannot make out.
I presume that the sanguine temperament itself and the disturbing influence end
in a mentally-accomplished finish; a possibly dangerous man, probably dangerous
if unselfish. In selfish men caution is as secure an armour for their foes as
for themselves. What I think of on this point is, when self is the fixed point
the centripetal force is balanced with the centrifugal; when duty, a cause,
etc., is the fixed point, the latter force is paramount,
and only accident or a series of accidents can balance it.
Letter, Quincey P. Morris to
Hon. Arthur Holmwood.
“25 May.
“My dear Art,—
“We’ve
told yarns by the camp-fire in the prairies; and dressed one another’s wounds
after trying a landing at the Marquesas; and drunk healths on the shore of
Titicaca. There are more yarns to be told, and other wounds to be healed, and
another health to be drunk. Won’t you let this be at my camp-fire to-morrow
night? I have no hesitation in asking you, as I know a certain lady is engaged
to a certain dinner-party, and that you are free. There will only be one other,
our old pal at the Korea, Jack Seward. He’s coming, too, and we both want to
mingle our weeps over the wine-cup, and to drink a health with all our hearts
to the happiest man in all the wide world, who has won the noblest heart that
God has made and the best worth winning. We promise you a hearty welcome, and a
loving greeting, and a health as true as your own right hand. We shall both
swear to leave you at home if you drink too deep to a certain pair of eyes.
Come!
“Yours, as ever and always,
“Quincey P. Morris.”
“Quincey P. Morris.”
Telegram from Arthur Holmwood
to Quincey P. Morris.
“26 May.
“Count me
in every time. I bear messages which will make both your ears tingle.
“Art.”
To be continued
