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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, I have so much to tell you and yet I hardly know where to start. I suppose I will start with the events of the morning, although it all seems so far away now.
You know, of course, that I shall be twenty in September, and yet I never had a proposal till to-day, not a real proposal. Well, to-day I have had one, and I-- well, I wish an altogether different man proposed, and the thrilling feeling of flattery was intermixed with an awful kind of guilt during the occurrence, and so while you will settle down soon soberly into an old married woman with Jonathan at your side, it seems I have a ways to go before I am of a similar state. I feel sorry, really and truly sorry, for the poor fellow.
I told you once of Dr. John Seward, the lunatic-asylum man, with the strong jaw and the good forehead. Well, he came just before lunch, 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, but I must keep hold of myself. If only that were the full story I could stop with this letter until my sadness eased, but as it is, I must keep writing, or else the story I want to share will remain untold.
Mr. Quincey P. Morris called after lunch. I have told you about him, the quintessential American with his boasts and slang - but I do him a disservice, for he really is well educated with exquisite manners when he desires to display them, and only speaks slang around me because it amuses me so. He found me alone, 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, and that he had the look of a man about to confess something dear to his heart. It didn’t strike me as odd at the time, of course, but in light of what happened next-- although, my dear, here I am somewhat previous.
The fact of the matter is that Mr. Morris took my hand in his, and said ever so sweetly: “‘Miss Lucy, I know I ain’t-”
And then something very strange happened. He sort of- sighed, and swayed. I don’t quite understand it, and still don’t, not even after all that has happened and all that I try to imagine it again, but at the moment it seemed as if he had quite gone to sleep on my shoulder!
I thought at first he was playing, although it seemed terribly improper, and shook him a bit. But his head only lolled, and, oh, Mina, then I saw he might have fainted, or died, and this so suddenly from a man of such formidable character! It frightened me, and I rushed out of the room to call for a servant.
When I returned, he was stirring from where he laid back on the sofa, groaning somewhat, and I rushed to him. His hand fell to his chest, as if straining against an injury, and suddenly he lurched upwards and opened his eyes, focused intently and gravely on his own chest and side. He very nearly ripped his coat open in his haste to put a hand against his skin there.
“Why, I never,” he muttered, seeming in awe, but of what I could not say.
“Mr. Morris?” I asked, and his eyes blew open as he finally saw me before him.
“Lucy?” he asked, his voice breaking, and oh, I could not understand it! Only a minute ago, this man had been talking to me with the firm cadence of a man of strength and not little power, and suddenly he was like a child, alone and afraid! It was as if he hardly recognized me!
I said, “Yes. Are you alright? Can you remember what happened?”
His hand drifted to his side again, though his eyes never left my face, and he nodded wordlessly. His face was very pale. Anemic, perhaps, although I never knew of such an anemia that sets on so quickly and with so violent an effect.
A servant arrived with some brandy, and I handed Mr. Morris the glass. He took it, hands trembling with weakness, raised it to his lips- and stopped.
“I feel thirsty,” he said slowly. “I never dreamed hunger and thirst carried on past death.”
It was such an absurd thing to say, particularly as we both were as alive as ever, yet his face was grave. “If you’re thirsty, drink,” I said, half-laughing, and he stilled.
Slowly, he held the glass out to me. “Drink,” he echoed, but his words had a ring of steel to them. It was a command, although I couldn’t imagine why. I was not in need of the reviving liquid, and in hopes that it would calm him somewhat, I told him so.
In a second, his knife was out and pointed at my throat. I nearly screamed as I scrambled backwards. “What did you do with me, devil?” he demanded. His voice shook with emotion. “I can't be dead, but my wounds are gone. Where is your-” And here his voice darkened. “Where is your master, and Harker and the Professor and the rest?”
I couldn’t begin to imagine what he meant. He looked quite mad, disheveled in attire and ranting utter nonsense. With every word he spoke and every step he took closer to me, his face grew more pale and his trembling more pronounced. “You will fall!” I cautioned him, and he glared at me with eyes of fire the likes of which I have never seen on him or any man.
“I did. But here I am again, little girl,” and I nearly wept at the sound of the familiar address coming from this frightful man I could hardly recognize, “and here you are. I-”
And here he did fall, missing his step and crumpling to the ground. I rushed to him, but he threw me off, frail as he was. “Stay back,” he cried, and held up something bound around his belt - a small crucifix, it seemed, and quite sickening it was to see something divine raised as a defense against me. Still, it was quite clear that the man was not in his right mind, and so I paid it no heed.
“Don’t be foolish,” I said, and took the crucifix from him and placed it aside. He flinched back, eyes rolling in his skull.
“H- How?” he gasped, and went slack, and I was so afraid, Mina, but I had found some calm and so assisted the servants in laying him on a bed while I sent out a maid for a doctor. Help is long in coming, and so I write to you as I wait for Mr. Morris to wake, in part to distract myself and in part so that I might have some record of his sickness when the doctor arrives.
There is the bell!
Later- My dear, it never rains but it pours. What did Hamlet say? When sorrows come, they come not single spies but in battalions. Exactly so.
First, of course, there was Mr. Morris’s sudden illness, and its dreadful onset. Then the doctor arrived, which was not so much a sorrow as terribly awkward, because Arthur happened to arrive back at the house at the same time. I admit that the sight of Arthur blinded me for a moment to all my troubles and anxieties, and I simply beamed to see him. He smiled back.
“Lucy,” Arthur said warmly. He took my hand, as he often does when we are alone. “Are you quite alright?”
“I am,” I said, surprised. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, I saw Jack at the door, and wondered if you were ill.”
And then of course my eyes opened a bit wider, and saw Dr. Seward standing just behind Arthur, looking between the two of us with keen eyes. My smile fell for a moment, and I think he noticed, because his face fell in turn. How clumsy, and how shameful of me! I had hardly realized when sending out a servant to call on the only doctor in the near area that it was the very same who had proposed to me not three hours back, and that Arthur might come beside him!
Still, Dr. Seward recovered splendidly, as did I. “Miss Westenra,” he said, a trifle formally. His gaze darted back and forth before settling somewhere on my shoulder. “I… You called?”
And with that, of course, my mind settled again on my mission. I thought it best to leave the awkwardness behind and smiled gently. “It is Mr. Morris,” I said, leading Dr. Seward and Arthur in. I told them what had happened, though I hesitated when it came time for me to describe what occurred after Mr. Morris woke after his first faint. Both men care for me so, and I feared what they might think of their companion and friend for his actions in a moment of weakness. I must have trembled as I looked down on Mr. Morris’s motionless body, or faltered, and Arthur placed a tender hand on my shoulder.
I quite fell apart at the touch. I explained the fear with which Mr. Morris looked at me, and the nature of his delirious ramblings, and though Arthur’s eyes grew harder, Dr. Seward seemed quite calm.
“I have seen similar cases in my own patients,” he said after a space of a few minutes, having taken out his equipment and conducted a manner of small tests on Mr. Morris.
“Good God- you don’t mean to suggest that the man is mad?”
Dr. Seward turned warm eyes towards Arthur. “Not at all. Quincey may have been under some strain lately, or some anxiety that disturbed his mind. The only treatment is rest and good feeding. With any luck, his fit will have passed when he wakes.”
“Oh,” I said gratefully, and clutched the doctor’s hand with relief. He stiffened for a moment, as did I, but he relaxed just as quickly, squeezing my hand gently before letting go.
“Indeed,” he said, after clearing his throat, gesturing to where Mr. Morris had started to stir on the bed. “I believe he is waking now. Lucy, in the case he is not all the way well again, would you…”
He trailed off a trifle awkwardly, but I understood his meaning and its import. I nodded acquiescence and quickly began to make my way out of the room. Still, I could not resist the temptation of watching Mr. Morris’s revival -- I suppose it is some of the taste of the original apple that remains still in our mouths -- so I stood just outside the door frame, watching just out of view of the patient’s bed.
After a few seconds’ pause, I saw Mr. Morris’s figure jerk up in the bed, as if waking from a nightmare. He seemed to almost pant with fear, yanking against Dr. Seward’s and Arthur’s arms restraining his own.
“Quincey Morris,” Dr. Seward said, very firmly. “Do you know who I am?”
At Dr. Seward’s voice, Mr. Morris stilled. I was not at the angle to see his face, but I saw his shoulders slump, and he fell back against the bed. “Jack,” he sighed, in all his old timber and kindliness. “And Art. Of course. I dreamed-” He laughed. “It doesn’t matter. You were able to patch me up, then? I’ll admit, I didn’t expect that.”
“You’ve been under some strain,” Dr. Seward said, almost accusingly. “Why push yourself so hard?”
Mr. Morris made a noise of amazement. “Why, it ain’t nothing more than what you’ve done, or the Professor, or Harker and his wife.” He jolted suddenly. “The little girl. How is she?”
“She is well. A bit shaken,” Arthur said, although I could make out a furrow in his brow.
I wondered myself at the Harker - is that not the man you are engaged to, Mina? Although, surely, an American like Mr. Morris could have no knowledge of a man even I myself have not met.
“Oh, thank Heaven,” Mr. Morris groaned. “So he is dead? Beheaded, and staked through the heart?”
And this was the third sorrow - the realization that not all in Mr. Morris’s mind was stable, and that his madness had not quite passed. His head was tilted quizzically, almost innocently. It was chilling, hearing such a playful and merry man ask on about someone’s violent death as if it was desired, and perhaps as if he sought to cause it himself. No one spoke for a moment, and then Dr. Seward murmured, “Quincey, who do you mean?”
“Fine, let the past be past,” Mr. Morris said, half-laughing. “I remember killing the devil well enough anyway. Where is the Professor? Harker must be with his wife as she recovers, but-”
“Quincey,” Dr. Seward said firmly. Mr. Morris seemed only now to realize the firm grip Arthur and Dr. Seward had on his arms. “You are speaking nonsense.”
Mr. Morris stilled. “What do you mean?” He looked back and forth between them. “Harker, the Professor-” He sagged. “No. No, they can’t be. Dead?”
“No one is dead,” Arthur said firmly. “Quincey, please-”
“Then where is Van Helsing? Why are we-” He flinched. “Why are we inside? Where are we?”
“Dr. Van Helsing?” Dr. Seward cried, seemingly astonished. “How are you two acquainted?”
“This is Lucy’s house,” Mr. Morris realized, or rather gasped, and began to thrash against his friends’ hold. He became quite incoherent. “How- Why are we here? My wounds- Why am I- We were in Transylvania!”
“Quincey, calm yourself,” Dr. Seward commanded, and Mr. Morris stilled - not at the note of steel in his tone, but through a sort of terror-stillness that froze every part of him.
“My dream. Lucy,” he said, horror suffusing his tone. “Real?”
“Quincey, you need to calm yourself,” Dr. Seward repeated, but Mr. Morris was no longer listening.
“Are you with her? With them?” he cried, breathing rapidly. “Is- Is Harker’s wife- I saw her forehead, she can’t have been- We killed the monster! Dracula is dead!”
“Who is Dracula?” Arthur and Dr. Seward cried in unison, and Mr. Morris- stopped.
“Who is-” He paused, and I wished I could see his expression. “Oh. Oh.”
He breathed heavily for a moment, and looked up at Arthur.
“What’s the date, Art?”
“Why, the 24th of May.”
A strangled laugh escaped Mr. Morris’s throat, full of a kind of emotion I couldn’t name. “May? May? So Lucy-” He raised his voice. “Lucy? Lucy, dear girl, are you there?”
Before I knew what I was doing, I had stepped through the doorway. Mr. Morris gazed at me with a kind of wild delight and awe. “Come here, little girl.”
Dr. Seward gave me a kind of warning glance, but I stepped closer all the same. “Mr. Morris, are you quite alright?”
He reached out to me, and for a moment I thought he was going to lay his hand on my cheek, but instead he rested his fingers against my neck. Taking my pulse, I believe, although I couldn’t see why.
“You’re here,” he said dazedly. “I’m here. It’s only May, and you’re…” He laughed, then, and laughed more, and didn’t stop, and a kind of frantic hysteria bubbled up out of him, warping his face until it was wet with tears and distorted with hilarity. He seemed utterly mad. With only a glance between them, Arthur leaned over to restrain both of Mr. Morris’s arms and Dr. Seward turned to his medical bag and prepared a sedative.
“Art,” Mr. Morris gasped, eyes wide, shifting his hands so he was gripping Arthur as tightly as Arthur held him. “Art. Art. You said no one was dead.”
“No one is dead, Quincey,” Arthur repeated, and Quincey howled with laughter.
“No one is dead,” he shrieked, even as Dr. Seward administered the sedative. “No one is dead. No one is-”
He fell back onto the sheets then, his smile still fixed in a rictus of dark amusement even as his eyes closed. In moments, the only sound in the room was Arthur’s hard breathing.
“I can’t understand it,” Dr. Seward said. “Quincey was fine just yesterday, and by Lucy’s account the onset of his condition was sudden. And his mention of Dr. Van Helsing… It is absurd, but this makes me wish to wire for him. Even if they have never met, he may be able to help me treat Quincey.”
“He also mentioned someone named Harker,” Arthur said, straightening. “Do you know anyone of that name?”
“No one I can recall.”
“I do,” I said, and they turned startled eyes toward me. “The fiance of Mina Murray.”
“You have mentioned her,” Arthur said, brows furrowed. “Your friend.”
“Yes. Although I can’t see why Mr. Morris would know her, or her fiance.”
“It may be best to call for them regardless,” Dr. Seward told me, and so I am. Oh, Mina, I know you are waiting for Jonathan to return from his trip to - oh, I can’t remember now, I must reread your letter - but won’t you come, with him or without, if only for the sake of a dear friend’s health? This has us all so in the dark, and I can’t help hoping that even if you have no light to shed on the matter, your company might comfort me. Wire me if you cannot come, for otherwise I know you love me well enough - and know the train schedule well enough - that you will arrive as early as you might.
Lucy.
- - -
Telegram, Seward, London, to Van Helsing, Amsterdam.
24 May. —Mr. Quincey P. Morris, a patient of mine, seems to hold you in high esteem. Curious case of sudden madness; man obsessed with Transylvania and the death of a man named Dracula. If the man or his condition is familiar, please come.
- - -
Letter, Abraham Van Helsing, M. D., D. Ph., D. Lit., etc., etc., to Dr. Seward.
24 May.
“My good Friend,—
“When I have received your telegram I am already coming to you. By good fortune I can leave just at once, without wrong to any of those who have trusted me. Were fortune other, then it were bad for those who have trusted, for I come to my friend when he call me to aid those he holds dear. Tell your patient that when that time you suck from my wound so swiftly the poison of the gangrene from that knife that our other friend, too nervous, let slip, you did more for him when he wants my aids and you call for them than any great fortune could do.
I recognize not the name Morris, but the other names are well known to me. Be very careful, yes, I say, very careful in how you treat him. Watch him always, seal the windows beside him, and sedate him with haste if he grows violent - I see your puzzlement and frown from my great distance already, but do not fail to heed my so good advice! If he wears a crucifix, you are safe, and if he does not, find one to bind about him. Have then rooms for me at the Great Eastern Hotel, so that I may be near to hand, and please it so arrange that we may see the young man not too late on to-morrow, for it is likely that I may have to return here that night. But if need be I shall come again in three days, and stay longer if it must. Till then good-bye, my friend John.
Van Helsing.