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.