No More Learning

He spoke to me before he went
out, never more sweetly or tenderly, but he never mentioned a word of
what had happened in the visit to the Count's house. And yet he must
have known how terribly anxious I was. Poor dear fellow! I suppose it
must have distressed him even more than it did me. They all agreed that
it was best that I should not be drawn further into this awful work, and
I acquiesced. But to think that he keeps anything from me! And now I am
crying like a silly fool, when I _know_ it comes from my husband's great
love and from the good, good wishes of those other strong men. . . .

That has done me good. Well, some day Jonathan will tell me all; and
lest it should ever be that he should think for a moment that I kept
anything from him, I still keep my journal as usual. Then if he has
doubted of my trust I shall show it to him, with every thought of my
heart put down for his dear eyes to read. I feel strangely sad and
low-spirited to-day. I suppose it is the reaction from the terrible
excitement.

Last night I went to bed when the men had gone, simply because they told
me to. I didn't feel sleepy, and I did feel full of devouring anxiety.
I kept thinking over everything that has been ever since Jonathan came
to see me in London, and it all seems like a horrible tragedy, with fate
pressing on relentlessly to some destined end. Everything that one does
seems, no matter how right it may be, to bring on the very thing which
is most to be deplored. If I hadn't gone to Whitby, perhaps poor dear
Lucy would be with us now. She hadn't taken to visiting the churchyard
till I came, and if she hadn't come there in the daytime with me she
wouldn't have walked there in her sleep; and if she hadn't gone there
at night and asleep, that monster couldn't have destroyed her as he
did. Oh, why did I ever go to Whitby? There now, crying again! I wonder
what has come over me to-day. I must hide it from Jonathan, for if he
knew that I had been crying twice in one morning--I, who never cried on
my own account, and whom he has never caused to shed a tear--the dear
fellow would fret his heart out. I shall put a bold face on, and if I do
feel weepy, he shall never see it. I suppose it is one of the lessons
that we poor women have to learn. . . .

I can't quite remember how I fell asleep last night. I remember
hearing the sudden barking of the dogs and a lot of queer sounds, like
praying on a very tumultuous scale, from Mr. Renfield's room, which
is somewhere under this. And then there was silence over everything,
silence so profound that it startled me, and I got up and looked out of
the window. All was dark and silent, the black shadows thrown by the
moonlight seeming full of a silent mystery of their own. Not a thing
seemed to be stirring, but all to be grim and fixed as death or fate; so
that a thin streak of white mist, that crept with almost imperceptible
slowness across the grass towards the house, seemed to have a sentience
and a vitality of its own. I think that the digression of my thoughts
must have done me good, for when I got back to bed I found a lethargy
creeping over me. I lay awhile, but could not quite sleep, so I got out
and looked out of the window again. The mist was spreading, and was now
close up to the house, so that I could see it lying thick against the
wall, as though it were stealing up to the windows. The poor man was
more loud than ever, and though I could not distinguish a word he said,
I could in some way recognise in his tones some passionate entreaty on
his part. Then there was the sound of a struggle, and I knew that the
attendants were dealing with him. I was so frightened that I crept into
bed, and pulled the clothes over my head, putting my fingers in my ears.
I was not then a bit sleepy, at least so I thought; but I must have
fallen asleep, for, except dreams, I do not remember anything until the
morning, when Jonathan woke me. I think that it took me an effort and
a little time to realise where I was, and that it was Jonathan who was
bending over me. My dream was very peculiar, and was almost typical of
the way that waking thoughts become merged in, or continued in, dreams.

I thought that I was asleep, and waiting for Jonathan to come back. I
was very anxious about him, and I was powerless to act; my feet, and
my hands, and my brain were weighted, so that nothing could proceed at
the usual pace. And so I slept uneasily and thought. Then it began to
dawn upon me that the air was heavy, and dank, and cold. I put back the
clothes from my face, and found, to my surprise, that all was dim around
me. The gas-light which I had left lit for Jonathan, but turned down,
came only like a tiny red spark through the fog, which had evidently
grown thicker and poured into the room. Then it occurred to me that I
had shut the window before I had come to bed. I would have got out to
make certain on the point, but some leaden lethargy seemed to chain my
limbs and even my will. I lay still and endured; that was all. I closed
my eyes, but could still see through my eyelids. (It is wonderful what
tricks our dreams play us, and how conveniently we can imagine. ) The
mist grew thicker and thicker, and I could see now how it came in,
for I could see it like smoke--or with the white energy of boiling
water--pouring in, not through the window, but through the joinings of
the door. It got thicker and thicker, till it seemed as if it became
concentrated into a sort of pillar of cloud in the room, through the
top of which I could see the light of the gas shining like a red eye.
Things began to whirl through my brain just as the cloudy column was now
whirling in the room, and through it all came the scriptural words "a
pillar of cloud by day and of fire by night. " Was it indeed some such
spiritual guidance that was coming to me in my sleep? But the pillar was
composed of both the day and the night-guiding, for the fire was in the
red eye, which at the thought got a new fascination for me; till, as I
looked, the fire divided, and seemed to shine on me through the fog like
two red eyes; such as Lucy told me of in her momentary mental wandering
when, on the cliff, the dying sunlight struck the windows of St. Mary's
Church. Suddenly the horror burst upon me that it was thus that Jonathan
had seen those awful women growing into reality through the whirling
mist in the moonlight, and in my dream I must have fainted, for all
became black darkness. The last conscious effort which imagination made
was to show me a livid white face bending over me out of the mist. I
must be careful of such dreams, for they would unseat one's reason if
there was too much of them. I would get Dr. Van Helsing or Dr. Seward to
prescribe something for me which would make me sleep, only that I fear
to alarm them. Such a dream at the present time would become woven into
their fears for me. To-night I shall strive hard to sleep naturally. If
I do not, I shall to-morrow night get them to give me a dose of chloral;
that cannot hurt me for once, and it will give me a good night's sleep.
Last night tired me more than if I had not slept at all.

_2 October, 10 p. m. _--Last night I slept, but did not dream. I must
have slept soundly, for I was not waked by Jonathan coming to bed; but
the sleep has not refreshed me, for to-day I feel terribly weak and
spiritless. I spent all yesterday trying to read, or lying down dozing.
In the afternoon Mr. Renfield asked if he might see me. Poor man, he
was very gentle, and when I came away he kissed my hand and bade God
bless me. Some way it affected me much; I am crying when I think of him.
This is a new weakness, of which I must be careful. Jonathan would be
miserable if he knew I had been crying. He and the others were out until
dinner-time, and they all came in tired. I did what I could to brighten
them up, and I suppose that the effort did me good, for I forgot how
tired I was. After dinner they sent me to bed, and all went off to smoke
together, as they said, but I knew that they wanted to tell each other
of what had occurred to each during the day; I could see from Jonathan's
manner that he had something important to communicate. I was not so
sleepy as I should have been; so before they went I asked Dr. Seward to
give me a little opiate of some kind, as I had not slept well the night
before. He very kindly made me up a sleeping draught, which he gave to
me, telling me that it would do me no harm, as it was very mild. . . . I
have taken it, and am waiting for sleep, which still keeps aloof. I hope
I have not done wrong, for as sleep begins to flirt with me, a new fear
comes: that I may have been foolish in thus depriving myself of the
power of waking. I might want it. Here comes sleep. Good-night.




CHAPTER XX.


/Jonathan Harker's Journal. /

_1 October, evening. _--I found Thomas Snelling in his house at Bethnal
Green, but unhappily he was not in a condition to remember anything.
The very prospect of beer which my expected coming had opened to
him had proved too much, and he had begun too early on his expected
debauch. I learned, however, from his wife, who seemed a decent, poor
soul, that he was only the assistant to Smollet, who of the two mates
was the responsible person. So off I drove to Walworth, and found Mr.
Joseph Smollet at home and in his shirt-sleeves, taking a late tea out
of a saucer. He is a decent, intelligent fellow, distinctly a good,
reliable type of workman, and with a headpiece of his own. He remembered
all about the incident of the boxes, and from a wonderful dog's-eared
notebook, which he produced from some mysterious receptacle about the
seat of his trousers, and which had hieroglyphical entries in thick,
half-obliterated pencil, he gave me the destinations of the boxes.
There were, he said, six in the cartload which he took from Carfax and
left at 197 Chicksand Street, Mile End New Town, and another six which
he deposited at Jamaica Lane, Bermondsey. If then the Count meant to
scatter these ghastly refuges of his over London, these places were
chosen at the first of delivery, so that later he might distribute more
fully. The systematic manner in which this was done made me think that
he could not mean to confine himself to two sides of London. He was now
fixed on the far east of the northern shore, on the east of the southern
shore, and on the south. The north and west were surely never meant to
be left out of his diabolical scheme--let alone the City itself and the
very heart of fashionable London in the south-west and west. I went back
to Smollet and asked him if he could tell us if any other boxes had been
taken from Carfax.

He replied:--

"Well, guv'nor, you've treated me wery 'an'some"--I had given him half
a sovereign--"an' I'll tell yer all I know. I heeard a man by the name
of Bloxam say four nights ago in the 'Are an' 'Ounds, in Pincher's
Alley, as 'ow he an' his mate 'ad 'ad a rare dusty job in a old 'ouse at
Purfleet. There ain't a-many such jobs as this 'ere, an' I'm thinkin'
that maybe Sam Bloxam could tell ye summut. " I asked if he could tell
me where to find him. I told him that if he could get me the address it
would be worth another half-sovereign to him. So he gulped down the rest
of his tea and stood up, saying that he was going to begin the search
then and there. At the door he stopped, and said:--

"Look, 'ere, guv'nor, there ain't no sense in me a-keepin' you 'ere. I
may find Sam soon, or I mayn't; but anyhow he ain't like to be in a way
to tell ye much to-night. Sam is a rare one when he starts on the booze.
If you can give me a envelope with a stamp on it, and put yer address on
it, I'll find out where Sam is to be found and post it ye to-night. But
ye'd better be up arter 'im soon in the mornin', or maybe ye won't ketch
'im; for Sam gets off main early, never mind the booze the night afore. "

This was all practical, so one of the children went off with a penny
to buy an envelope and a sheet of paper, and to keep the change. When
she came back I addressed the envelope and stamped it, and when Smollet
had again faithfully promised to post the address when found, I took my
way to home. We're on the track anyhow. I am tired to-night, and want
sleep. Mina is fast asleep, and looks a little too pale; her eyes look
as though she had been crying. Poor dear, I've no doubt it frets her to
be kept in the dark, and it may make her doubly anxious about me and the
others. But it is best as it is. It is better to be disappointed and
worried in such a way now than to have her nerve broken. The doctors
were quite right to insist on her being kept out of this dreadful
business. I must be firm, for on me this particular burden of silence
must rest. I shall not ever enter on the subject with her under any
circumstances. Indeed, it may not be a hard task, after all, she
herself has become reticent on the subject, and has not spoken of the
Count or his doings ever since we told her of our decision.

_2 October, evening. _--A long and trying and exciting day. By the first
post I got my directed envelope with a dirty scrap of paper enclosed, on
which was written with a carpenter's pencil in a sprawling hand:--

"Sam Bloxam, Korkrans, 4, Poters Cort, Bartel Street, Walworth. Arsk for
the depite. "

I got the letter in bed, and rose without waking Mina. She looked heavy
and sleepy and pale, and far from well. I determined not to wake her,
but that, when I should return from this new search, I would arrange for
her going back to Exeter. I think she would be happier in our own home,
with her daily tasks to interest her, than in being here amongst us and
in ignorance. I only saw Dr. Seward for a moment, and told him where
I was off to, promising to come back and tell the rest so soon as I
should have found out anything. I drove to Walworth and found, with some
difficulty, Potter's Court. Mr. Smollet's spelling misled me, as I asked
for Poter's Court instead of Potter's Court. However, when I had found
the court I had no difficulty in discovering Corcoran's lodging-house.
When I asked the man who came to the door for the "depite," he shook his
head, and said: "I dunno 'im. There ain't no such person 'ere; I never
'eard of 'im in all my bloomin' days. Don't believe there ain't nobody
of that kind livin' 'ere or anywheres. " I took out Smollet's letter, and
as I read it it seemed to me that the lesson of the spelling of the name
of the court might guide me. "What are you? " I asked.

"I'm the depity," he answered. I saw at once that I was on the right
track; phonetic spelling had again misled me. A half-crown tip put
the deputy's knowledge at my disposal, and I learned that Mr. Bloxam,
who had slept off the remains of his beer on the previous night at
Corcoran's, had left for his work at Poplar at five o'clock that
morning. He could not tell me where the place of work was situated, but
he had a vague idea that it was some kind of a "new-fangled ware'us;"
and with this slender clue I had to start for Poplar. It was twelve
o'clock before I got any satisfactory hint of such a building, and this
I got at a coffee-shop, where some workmen were having their dinner.
One of these suggested that there was being erected at Cross Angel
Street a new "cold storage" building; and as this suited the condition
of a "new-fangled ware'us," I at once drove to it. An interview with a
surly gatekeeper and a surlier foreman, both of whom were appeased with
coin of the realm, put me on the track of Bloxam; he was sent for on my
suggesting that I was willing to pay his day's wages to his foreman for
the privilege of asking him a few questions on a private matter. He was
a smart enough fellow, though rough of speech and bearing. When I had
promised to pay for his information and given him an earnest, he told me
that he had made two journeys between Carfax and a house in Piccadilly,
and had taken from this house to the latter nine great boxes--"main
heavy ones"--with a horse and cart hired by him for this purpose. I
asked him if he could tell me the number of the house in Piccadilly, to
which he replied:--

"Well, guv'nor, I forgits the number, but it was only a few doors from
a big white church or somethink of the kind, not long built. It was a
dusty old 'ouse, too, though nothin' to the dustiness of the 'ouse we
tooked the bloomin' boxes from. "

"How did you get into the house if they were both empty? "

"There was the old party what engaged me a-waitin' in the 'ouse at
Purfleet. He 'elped me to lift the boxes and put them in the dray. Curse
me, but he was the strongest chap I ever struck, an' him a old feller,
with a white moustache, one that thin you would think he couldn't throw
a shadder. "

How this phrase thrilled through me!

"Why, 'e took up 'is end o' the boxes like they was pounds of tea, and
me a-puffin' an' a-blowin' afore I could up-end mine anyhow--an' I'm no
chicken, neither. "

"How did you get into the house in Piccadilly? " I asked.

"He was there too. He must 'a' started off and got there afore me, for
when I rung of the bell he kem an' opened the door 'isself an' 'elped me
to carry the boxes into the 'all. "

"The whole nine? " I asked.

"Yus; there was five in the first load an' four in the second. It
was main dry work, an' I don't so well remember 'ow I got 'ome. " I
interrupted him:--

"Were the boxes left in the hall? "

"Yus; it was a big 'all, an' there was nothin' else in it. " I made one
more attempt to further matters:--

"You didn't have any key? "

"Never used no key nor nothink. The old gent, he opened the door 'isself
an' shut it again when I druv off. I don't remember the last time--but
that was the beer. "

"And you can't remember the number of the house? "

"No, sir. But ye needn't have no difficulty about that. It's a 'igh 'un
with a stone front with a bow on it, and 'igh steps up to the door. I
know them steps, 'avin' 'ad to carry the boxes up with three loafers
what come round to earn a copper. The old gent give them shillin's, an'
they seem' they got so much, they wanted more; but 'e took one of them
by the shoulder and was like to throw 'im down the steps, till the lot
of them went away cussin'. " I thought that with this description I could
find the house, so having paid my friend for his information, I started
off for Piccadilly. I had gained a new painful experience: the Count
could, it was evident, handle the earth-boxes himself. If so, time was
precious; for, now he had achieved a certain amount of distribution,
he could, by choosing his own time, complete the task unobserved. At
Piccadilly Circus I discharged my cab, and walked westward; beyond
the Junior Constitutional I came across the house described, and was
satisfied that this was the next of the lairs arranged by Dracula. The
house looked as though it had been long untenanted. The windows were
encrusted with dust, and the shutters were up.
All the framework was
black with time, and from the iron the paint had mostly scaled away.
It was evident that up to lately there had been a large notice-board
in front of the balcony; it had, however, been roughly torn away, the
uprights which had supported it still remaining. Behind the rails of
the balcony I saw there were some loose boards, whose raw edges looked
white. I would have given a good deal to have been able to see the
notice-board intact, as it would, perhaps, have given some clue to the
ownership of the house. I remembered my experience of the investigation
and purchase of Carfax, and I could not but feel that if I could find
the former owner there might be some means of gaining access to the
house.

There was at present nothing to be learned from the Piccadilly side,
and nothing could be done; so I went round to the back to see if
anything could be gathered from this quarter. The mews were active,
the Piccadilly houses being mostly in occupation. I asked one or two
of the grooms and helpers whom I saw around if they could tell me
anything about the empty house. One of them said he had heard it had
lately been taken, but he couldn't say from whom. He told me, however,
that up to very lately there had been a notice-board of "For sale" up,
and that perhaps Mitchell, Sons & Candy, the house agents, could tell
me something, as he thought he remembered seeing the name of that firm
on the board. I did not wish to seem too eager, or to let my informant
know or guess too much, so, thanking him in the usual manner, I strolled
away. It was now growing dusk, and the autumn night was closing in, so
I did not lose any time. Having learned the address of Mitchell, Sons &
Candy from a directory at the Berkeley, I was soon at their office in
Sackville Street.

The gentleman who saw me was particularly suave in manner, but
uncommunicative in equal proportion. Having once told me that
the Piccadilly house--which throughout our interview he called a
"mansion"--was sold, he considered my business as concluded. When I
asked who had purchased it, he opened his eyes a thought wider, and
paused a few seconds before replying:--

"It is sold, sir. "

"Pardon me," I said, with equal politeness, "but I have a special reason
for wishing to know who purchased it. "

Again he paused longer, and raised his eyebrows still more. "It is sold,
sir," was again his laconic reply.

"Surely," I said, "you do not mind letting me know so much. "

"But I do mind," he answered. "The affairs of their clients are
absolutely safe in the hands of Mitchell, Sons & Candy. " This was
manifestly a prig of the first water, and there was no use arguing with
him. I thought I had best meet him on his own ground, so I said:--

"Your clients, sir, are happy in having so resolute a guardian of their
confidence. I am myself a professional man. " Here I handed him my card.
"In this instance I am not prompted by curiosity; I act on the part of
Lord Godalming, who wishes to know something of the property which was,
he understood, lately for sale. " These words put a different complexion
on affairs. He said:--

"I would like to oblige you if I could, Mr. Harker, and especially
would I like to oblige his lordship. We once carried out a small matter
of renting some chambers for him when he was the Honourable Arthur
Holmwood. If you will let me have his lordship's address I will consult
the House on the subject, and will, in any case, communicate with his
lordship by to-night's post. It will be a pleasure if we can so far
deviate from our rules as to give the required information to his
lordship. "

I wanted to secure a friend, and not to make an enemy, so I thanked him,
gave the address at Dr. Seward's, and came away. It was now dark, and I
was tired and hungry. I got a cup of tea at the Aerated Bread Company
and came down to Purfleet by the next train.

I found all the others at home. Mina was looking tired and pale, but
she made a gallant effort to be bright and cheerful; it wrung my heart
to think that I had had to keep anything from her and so caused her
inquietude. Thank God, this will be the last night of her looking
on at our conferences, and feeling the sting of our not showing our
confidence. It took all my courage to hold to the wise resolution of
keeping her out of our grim task. She seems somehow more reconciled; or
else the very subject seems to have become repugnant to her, for when
any accidental allusion is made she actually shudders. I am glad we made
our resolution in time, as with such a feeling as this, our growing
knowledge would be torture to her.

I could not tell the others of the day's discovery till we were alone;
so after dinner--followed by a little music to save appearances even
amongst ourselves--I took Mina to her room and left her to go to bed.
The dear girl was more affectionate with me than ever, and clung to
me as though she would detain me; but there was much to be talked of
and I came away. Thank God, the ceasing of telling things has made no
difference between us.

When I came down again I found the others all gathered round the fire in
the study. In the train I had written my diary so far, and simply read
it off to them as the best means of letting them get abreast of my own
information; when I had finished Van Helsing said:--

"This has been a great day's work, friend Jonathan. Doubtless we are on
the track of the missing boxes. If we find them all in that house, then
our work is near the end. But if there be some missing, we must search
until we find them. Then shall we make our final _coup_, and hunt the
wretch to his real death. " We all sat silent awhile, and all at once Mr.
Morris spoke:--

"Say! how are we going to get into that house? "

"We got into the other," answered Lord Godalming quickly.

"But, Art, this is different. We broke house at Carfax, but we had night
and a walled park to protect us. It will be a mighty different thing
to commit burglary in Piccadilly, either by day or night. I confess I
don't see how we are going to get in unless that agency duck can find
us a key of some sort; perhaps we shall know when you get his letter in
the morning. " Lord Godalming's brows contracted, and he stood up and
walked about the room. By-and-by he stopped and said, turning from one
to another of us:--

"Quincey's head is level. This burglary business is getting serious; we
got off once all right; but we have now a rare job on hand--unless we
can find the Count's key basket. "

As nothing could well be done before morning, and as it would be at
least advisable to wait till Lord Godalming should hear from Mitchell's,
we decided not to take any active step before breakfast time. For a good
while we sat and smoked, discussing the matter in its various lights and
bearings; I took the opportunity of bringing this diary right up to the
moment. I am very sleepy and shall go to bed. . . .

Just a line. Mina sleeps soundly and her breathing is regular. Her
forehead is puckered up into little wrinkles, as though she thinks even
in her sleep. She is still too pale, but does not look so haggard as she
did this morning. To-morrow will, I hope, mend all this; she will be
herself at home in Exeter. Oh, but I am sleepy!


_Dr. Seward's Diary. _

_1 October. _--I am puzzled afresh about Renfield. His moods change so
rapidly that I find it difficult to keep touch of them, and as they
always mean something more than his own well-being, they form a more
than interesting study. This morning, when I went to see him after
his repulse of Van Helsing, his manner was that of a man commanding
destiny. He was, in fact, commanding destiny--subjectively. He did not
really care for any of the things of mere earth; he was in the clouds
and looked down on all the weaknesses and wants of us poor mortals. I
thought I would improve the occasion and learn something, so I asked
him:--

"What about the flies these times? " He smiled on me in quite a superior
sort of way--such a smile as would have become the face of Malvolio--as
he answered me:--

"The fly, my dear sir, has one striking feature: its wings are typical
of the aerial powers of the psychic faculties. The ancients did well
when they typified the soul as a butterfly! "

I thought I would push his analogy to its utmost logically, so I said
quickly:--

"Oh, it is a soul you are after now, is it? " His madness foiled his
reason, and a puzzled look spread over his face as, shaking his head
with a decision which I had but seldom seen in him, he said:--

"Oh no, oh no! I want no souls. Life is all I want. " Here he brightened
up: "I am pretty indifferent about it at present. Life is all right;
I have all I want. You must get a new patient, doctor, if you wish to
study zoophagy! "

This puzzled me a little, so I drew him on:--

"Then you command life; you are a god, I suppose? " He smiled with an
ineffably benign superiority.

"Oh no! Far be it from me to arrogate to myself the attributes of the
Deity. I am not even concerned in His especially spiritual doings. If
I may state my intellectual position I am, so far as concerns things
purely terrestrial, somewhat in the position which Enoch occupied
spiritually! " This was a poser to me. I could not at the moment recall
Enoch's appositeness; so I had to ask a simple question, though I felt
that by doing so I was lowering myself in the eyes of the lunatic:--

"And why Enoch? "

"Because he walked with God. " I could not see the analogy, but did not
like to admit it; so I harked back to what he had denied:--

"So you don't care about life and you don't want souls. Why not? " I put
my question quickly and somewhat sternly, on purpose to disconcert him.
The effort succeeded; for an instant he unconsciously relapsed into his
old servile manner, bent low before me, and actually fawned upon me as
he replied:--

"I don't want any souls, indeed, indeed! I don't. I couldn't use them
if I had them; they would be no manner of use to me. I couldn't eat
them or----" He suddenly stopped and the old cunning look spread over
his face, like a wind-sweep on the surface of the water. "And, Doctor,
as to life, what is it after all? When you've got all you require, and
you know that you will never want, that is all. I have friends--good
friends--like you Doctor Seward;" this was said with a leer of
inexpressible cunning, "I know that I shall never lack the means of
life! "

I think that through the cloudiness of his insanity he saw some
antagonism in me, for he at once fell back on the last refuge of such as
he--a dogged silence. After a short time I saw that for the present it
was useless to speak to him. He was sulky, and so I came away.

Later in the day he sent for me. Ordinarily I would not have come
without special reason, but just at present I am so interested in him
that I would gladly make an effort. Besides, I am glad to have anything
to help to pass the time. Harker is out, following up clues; and so are
Lord Godalming and Quincey. Van Helsing sits in my study poring over
the record prepared by the Harkers; he seems to think that by accurate
knowledge of all details he will light upon some clue. He does not wish
to be disturbed in the work, without cause. I would have taken him with
me to see the patient, only I thought that after his last repulse he
might not care to go again. There was also another reason: Renfield
might not speak so freely before a third person as when he and I were
alone.

I found him sitting out in the middle of the floor on his stool, a pose
which is generally indicative of some mental energy on his part. When I
came in, he said at once, as though the question had been waiting on his
lips:--

"What about souls? " It was evident then that my surmise had been
correct. Unconscious cerebration was doing its work, even with
the lunatic. I determined to have the matter out. "What about them
yourself? " I asked. He did not reply for a moment but looked all round
him, and up and down, as though he expected to find some inspiration for
an answer.

"I don't want any souls! " he said in a feeble, apologetic way. The
matter seemed preying on his mind, and so I determined to use it--to "be
cruel only to be kind. " So I said:--

"You like life, and you want life? "

"Oh yes! but that is all right; you needn't worry about that! "

"But," I asked, "how are we to get the life without getting the soul
also? " This seemed to puzzle him, so I followed it up:--

"A nice time you'll have some time when you're flying out there, with
the souls of thousands of flies and spiders and birds and cats buzzing
and twittering and miauing all round you. You've got their lives, you
know, and you must put up with their souls! " Something seemed to affect
his imagination, for he put his fingers to his ears and shut his eyes,
screwing them up tightly just as a small boy does when his face is being
soaped. There was something pathetic in it that touched me; it also gave
me a lesson, for it seemed that before me was a child--only a child,
though the features were worn, and the stubble on the jaws was white. It
was evident that he was undergoing some process of mental disturbance,
and, knowing how his past moods had interpreted things seemingly foreign
to himself, I thought I would enter into his mind as well as I could and
go with him. The first step was to restore confidence, so I asked him,
speaking pretty loud so that he would hear me through his closed ears:--

"Would you like some sugar to get your flies round again! " He seemed to
wake up all at once, and shook his head. With a laugh he replied:--

"Not much! flies are poor things, after all! " After a pause he added,
"But I don't want their souls buzzing round me, all the same. "

"Or spiders," I went on.

"Blow spiders! What's the use of spiders? There isn't anything in them
to eat or"--he stopped suddenly, as though reminded of a forbidden
topic.

"So, so! " I thought to myself, "this is the second time he has suddenly
stopped at the word 'drink'; what does it mean? " Renfield seemed himself
aware of having made a lapse, for he hurried on, as though to distract
my attention from it:--

"I don't take any stock at all in such matters. 'Rats and mice and such
small deer' as Shakespeare has it; 'chicken-feed of the larder' they
might be called. I'm past all that sort of nonsense. You might as well
ask a man to eat molecules with a pair of chop-sticks, as to try to
interest me about the lesser carnivora, when I know of what is before
me. "

"I see," I said. "You want big things that you can make your teeth meet
in? How would you like to breakfast on elephant? "

"What ridiculous nonsense you are talking! " He was getting too wide
awake, so I thought I would press him hard. "I wonder," I said
reflectively, "what an elephant's soul is like! "

The effect I desired was obtained, for he at once fell from his
high-horse and became a child again.

"I don't want an elephant's soul, or any soul at all! " he said. For a
few moments he sat despondently. Suddenly he jumped to his feet, with
his eyes blazing and all the signs of intense cerebral excitement. "To
hell with you and your souls! " he shouted. "Why do you plague me about
souls? Haven't I got enough to worry, and pain, and distract me already,
without thinking of souls? " He looked so hostile that I thought he
was in for another homicidal fit, so I blew my whistle. The instant,
however, that I did so he became calm, and said apologetically:--

"Forgive me, Doctor; I forgot myself. You do not need any help. I am so
worried in my mind that I am apt to be irritable. If you only knew the
problem I have to face, and that I am working out, you would pity, and
tolerate, and pardon me. Pray do not put me in a strait-waistcoat. I
want to think and I cannot think freely when my body is confined. I am
sure you will understand! " He had evidently self-control; so when the
attendants came I told them not to mind, and they withdrew. Renfield
watched them go; when the door was closed he said, with considerable
dignity and sweetness:--

"Dr. Seward, you have been very considerate towards me. Believe me
that I am very very grateful to you! " I thought it well to leave him in
this mood, and so I came away. There is certainly something to ponder
over in this man's state. Several points seem to make what the American
interviewer calls "a story," if one could only get them in proper order.
Here they are:--

Will not mention "drinking. "

Fears the thought of being burdened with the "soul" of anything.

Has no dread of wanting "life" in the future.

Despises the meaner forms of life altogether, though he dreads being
haunted by their souls.

Logically all these things point one way! he has assurance of some kind
that he will acquire some higher life. He dreads the consequence--the
burden of a soul. Then it is a human life he looks to!

And the assurance--?

Merciful God! the Count has been to him, and there is some new scheme of
terror afoot!

_Later. _--I went after my round to Van Helsing and told him my
suspicion.