CHAPTER XI

Lucy Westenra’s Diary.

12 September.—How good they all are to me. I quite love that
dear Dr. Van Helsing. I wonder why he was so anxious about these
flowers. He positively frightened me, he was so fierce. And yet he
must have been right, for I feel comfort from them already. Some‐
how, I do not dread being alone to-night, and I can go to sleep
without fear. I shall not mind any flapping outside the window. Oh,
the terrible struggle that I have had against sleep so often of late; the
pain of the sleeplessness, or the pain of the fear of sleep, with such
unknown horrors as it has for me! How blessed are some people,
whose lives have no fears, no dreads; to whom sleep is a blessing that
comes nightly, and brings nothing but sweet dreams. Well, here I am
to-night, hoping for sleep, and lying like Ophelia in the play, with
“virgin crants and maiden strewments.” I never liked garlic before,
but to-night it is delightful! There is peace in its smell; I feel sleep
coming already. Good-night, everybody.
Dr. Seward’s Diary.
13 September.—Called at the Berkeley and found Van Helsing, as
usual, up to time. The carriage ordered from the hotel was waiting.
The Professor took his bag, which he always brings with him now.
382 FRANKENSTEIN, DRACUL A, AND GOTHIC LITERATURE

Let all be put down exactly. Van Helsing and I arrived at

Hillingham at eight o’clock. It was a lovely morning; the bright
sunshine and all the fresh feeling of early autumn seemed like the
completion of nature’s annual work. The leaves were turning to all
kinds of beautiful colours, but had not yet begun to drop from the
trees. When we entered we met Mrs. Westenra coming out of the
morning room. She is always an early riser. She greeted us warmly
and said:—
“You will be glad to know that Lucy is better. The dear child is
still asleep. I looked into her room and saw her, but did not go in,
lest I should disturb her.” The Professor smiled, and looked quite
jubilant. He rubbed his hands together, and said:—
“Aha! I thought I had diagnosed the case. My treatment is work‐
ing,” to which she answered:—
“You must not take all the credit to yourself, doctor. Lucy’s state
this morning is due in part to me.”
“How you do mean, ma’am?” asked the Professor.
“Well, I was anxious about the dear child in the night, and went
into her room. She was sleeping soundly—so soundly that even my
coming did not wake her. But the room was awfully stuffy. There
were a lot of those horrible, strong-smelling flowers about every‐
where, and she had actually a bunch of them round her neck. I
feared that the heavy odour would be too much for the dear child in
her weak state, so I took them all away and opened a bit of the
window to let in a little fresh air. You will be pleased with her, I
am sure.”
She moved off into her boudoir, where she usually breakfasted
early. As she had spoken, I watched the Professor’s face, and saw it
turn ashen grey. He had been able to retain his self-command whilst
the poor lady was present, for he knew her state and how mischie‐
vous a shock would be; he actually smiled on her as he held open
the door for her to pass into her room. But the instant she had
disappeared he pulled me, suddenly and forcibly, into the dining-
room and closed the door.
Then, for the first time in my life, I saw Van Helsing break
down. He raised his hands over his head in a sort of mute despair,
 CHAPTER XI 383

and then beat his palms together in a helpless way; finally he sat
down on a chair, and putting his hands before his face, began to sob,
with loud, dry sobs that seemed to come from the very racking of
his heart. Then he raised his arms again, as though appealing to the
whole universe. “God! God! God!” he said. “What have we done,
what has this poor thing done, that we are so sore beset? Is there fate
amongst us still, sent down from the pagan world of old, that such
things must be, and in such way? This poor mother, all unknowing,
and all for the best as she think, does such thing as lose her daughter
body and soul; and we must not tell her, we must not even warn her,
or she die, and then both die. Oh, how we are beset! How are all the
powers of the devils against us!” Suddenly he jumped to his feet.
“Come,” he said, “come, we must see and act. Devils or no devils, or
all the devils at once, it matters not; we fight him all the same.” He
went to the hall-door for his bag; and together we went up to
Lucy’s room.
Once again I drew up the blind, whilst Van Helsing went
towards the bed. This time he did not start as he looked on the poor
face with the same awful, waxen pallor as before. He wore a look of
stern sadness and infinite pity.
“As I expected,” he murmured, with that hissing inspiration of
his which meant so much. Without a word he went and locked the
door, and then began to set out on the little table the instruments for
yet another operation of transfusion of blood. I had long ago recog‐
nised the necessity, and begun to take off my coat, but he stopped
me with a warning hand. “No!” he said. “To-day you must operate.
I shall provide. You are weakened already.” As he spoke he took off
his coat and rolled up his shirt-sleeve.
Again the operation; again the narcotic; again some return of
colour to the ashy cheeks, and the regular breathing of healthy
sleep. This time I watched whilst Van Helsing recruited himself and
rested.
Presently he took an opportunity of telling Mrs. Westenra that
she must not remove anything from Lucy’s room without consulting
him; that the flowers were of medicinal value, and that the
breathing of their odour was a part of the system of cure. Then he
384 FRANKENSTEIN, DRACUL A, AND GOTHIC LITERATURE

took over the care of the case himself, saying that he would watch
this night and the next and would send me word when to come.
After another hour Lucy waked from her sleep, fresh and bright
and seemingly not much the worse for her terrible ordeal.
What does it all mean? I am beginning to wonder if my long
habit of life amongst the insane is beginning to tell upon my own
brain.
Lucy Westenra’s Diary.
17 September.—Four days and nights of peace. I am getting so
strong again that I hardly know myself. It is as if I had passed
through some long nightmare, and had just awakened to see the
beautiful sunshine and feel the fresh air of the morning around me.
I have a dim half-remembrance of long, anxious times of waiting
and fearing; darkness in which there was not even the pain of hope
to make present distress more poignant: and then long spells of
oblivion, and the rising back to life as a diver coming up through a
great press of water. Since, however, Dr. Van Helsing has been with
me, all this bad dreaming seems to have passed away; the noises that
used to frighten me out of my wits—the flapping against the
windows, the distant voices which seemed so close to me, the harsh
sounds that came from I know not where and commanded me to do
I know not what—have all ceased. I go to bed now without any fear
of sleep. I do not even try to keep awake. I have grown quite fond of
the garlic, and a boxful arrives for me every day from Haarlem. To-
night Dr. Van Helsing is going away, as he has to be for a day in
Amsterdam. But I need not be watched; I am well enough to be left
alone. Thank God for mother’s sake, and dear Arthur’s, and for all
our friends who have been so kind! I shall not even feel the change,
for last night Dr. Van Helsing slept in his chair a lot of the time. I
found him asleep twice when I awoke; but I did not fear to go to
sleep again, although the boughs or bats or something napped
almost angrily against the window-panes.
“The Pall Mall Gazette,” 18 September.
THE ESCAPED WOLF. PERILOUS ADVENTURE OF
OUR INTERVIEWER.
Interview with the Keeper in the Zoölogical Gardens.
 CHAPTER XI 385

After many inquiries and almost as many refusals, and perpetu‐

ally using the words “Pall Mall Gazette” as a sort of talisman, I
managed to find the keeper of the section of the Zoölogical
Gardens in which the wolf department is included. Thomas Bilder
lives in one of the cottages in the enclosure behind the elephant-
house, and was just sitting down to his tea when I found him.
Thomas and his wife are hospitable folk, elderly, and without chil‐
dren, and if the specimen I enjoyed of their hospitality be of the
average kind, their lives must be pretty comfortable. The keeper
would not enter on what he called “business” until the supper was
over, and we were all satisfied. Then when the table was cleared,
and he had lit his pipe, he said:—
“Now, sir, you can go on and arsk me what you want. You’ll
excoose me refoosin’ to talk of perfeshunal subjects afore meals. I
gives the wolves and the jackals and the hyenas in all our section
their tea afore I begins to arsk them questions.”
“How do you mean, ask them questions?” I queried, wishful to
get him into a talkative humour.
“ ’Ittin’ of them over the ’ead with a pole is one way; scratchin’
of their hears is another, when gents as is flush wants a bit of a
show-orf to their gals. I don’t so much mind the fust—the ’ittin’
with a pole afore I chucks in their dinner; but I waits till they’ve ’ad
their sherry and kawffee, so to speak, afore I tries on with the ear-
scratchin’. Mind you,” he added philosophically, “there’s a deal of
the same nature in us as in them theer animiles. Here’s you a-comin’
and arskin’ of me questions about my business, and I that grumpy-
like that only for your bloomin’ ’arf-quid I’d ’a’ seen you blowed fust
’fore I’d answer. Not even when you arsked me sarcastic-like if I’d
like you to arsk the Superintendent if you might arsk me questions.
Without offence did I tell yer to go to ’ell?”
“You did.”
“An’ when you said you’d report me for usin’ of obscene
language that was ’ittin’ me over the ’ead; but the ’arf-quid made
that all right. I weren’t a-goin’ to fight, so I waited for the food,
and did with my ’owl as the wolves, and lions, and tigers does. But,
Lor’ love yer ’art, now that the old ’ooman has stuck a chunk of
386 FRANKENSTEIN, DRACUL A, AND GOTHIC LITERATURE

her tea-cake in me, an’ rinsed me out with her bloomin’ old
teapot, and I’ve lit hup, you may scratch my ears for all you’re
worth, and won’t git even a growl out of me. Drive along with
your questions. I know what yer a-comin’ at, that ’ere
escaped wolf.”
“Exactly. I want you to give me your view of it. Just tell me how
it happened; and when I know the facts I’ll get you to say what you
consider was the cause of it, and how you think the whole affair
will end.”
“All right, guv’nor. This ’ere is about the ’ole story. That ’ere
wolf what we called Bersicker was one of three grey ones that came
from Norway to Jamrach’s, which we bought off him four years ago.
He was a nice well-behaved wolf, that never gave no trouble to talk
of. I’m more surprised at ’im for wantin’ to get out nor any other
animile in the place. But, there, you can’t trust wolves no more nor
women.”
“Don’t you mind him, sir!” broke in Mrs. Tom, with a cheery
laugh. “ ’E’s got mindin’ the animiles so long that blest if he ain’t
like a old wolf ’isself ! But there ain’t no ’arm in ’im.”
“Well, sir, it was about two hours after feedin’ yesterday when I
first hear my disturbance. I was makin’ up a litter in the monkey-
house for a young puma which is ill; but when I heard the yelpin’
and ’owlin’ I kem away straight. There was Bersicker a-tearin’ like a
mad thing at the bars as if he wanted to get out. There wasn’t much
people about that day, and close at hand was only one man, a tall,
thin chap, with a ’ook nose and a pointed beard, with a few white
hairs runnin’ through it. He had a ’ard, cold look and red eyes, and
I took a sort of mislike to him, for it seemed as if it was ’im as they
was hirritated at. He ’ad white kid gloves on ’is ’ands, and he
pointed out the animiles to me and says: ‘Keeper, these wolves seem
upset at something.’
“ ‘Maybe it’s you,’ says I, for I did not like the airs as he give
’isself. He didn’t git angry, as I ’oped he would, but he smiled a kind
of insolent smile, with a mouth full of white, sharp teeth. ‘Oh no,
they wouldn’t like me,’ ’e says.
“ ‘Ow yes, they would,’ says I, a-imitatin’ of him. ‘They always
 CHAPTER XI 387

likes a bone or two to clean their teeth on about tea-time, which you
’as a bagful.’
“Well, it was a odd thing, but when the animiles see us a-talkin’
they lay down, and when I went over to Bersicker he let me stroke
his ears same as ever. That there man kem over, and blessed but if
he didn’t put in his hand and stroke the old wolf ’s ears too!
“ ‘Tyke care,’ says I. ‘Bersicker is quick.’
“ ‘Never mind,’ he says. ‘I’m used to ’em!’
“ ‘Are you in the business yourself ?’ I says, tyking off my ’at, for
a man what trades in wolves, anceterer, is a good friend to keepers.
“ ‘No’ says he, ‘not exactly in the business, but I ’ave made pets
of several.’ And with that he lifts his ’at as perlite as a lord, and
walks away. Old Bersicker kep’ a-lookin’ arter ’im till ’e was out of
sight, and then went and lay down in a corner and wouldn’t come
hout the ’ole hevening. Well, larst night, so soon as the moon was
hup, the wolves here all began a-’owling. There warn’t nothing for
them to ’owl at. There warn’t no one near, except some one that
was evidently a-callin’ a dog somewheres out back of the gardings in
the Park road. Once or twice I went out to see that all was right, and
it was, and then the ’owling stopped. Just before twelve o’clock I just
took a look round afore turnin’ in, an’, bust me, but when I kem
opposite to old Bersicker’s cage I see the rails broken and twisted
about and the cage empty. And that’s all I know for certing.”
“Did any one else see anything?”
“One of our gard’ners was a-comin’ ’ome about that time from
a ’armony, when he sees a big grey dog comin’ out through the
garding ’edges. At least, so he says, but I don’t give much for it
myself, for if he did ’e never said a word about it to his missis when
’e got ’ome, and it was only after the escape of the wolf was made
known, and we had been up all night-a-huntin’ of the Park for
Bersicker, that he remembered seein’ anything. My own belief was
that the ’armony ’ad got into his ’ead.”
“Now, Mr. Bilder, can you account in any way for the escape of
the wolf?”
“Well, sir,” he said, with a suspicious sort of modesty, “I think I
can; but I don’t know as ’ow you’d be satisfied with the theory.”
388 FRANKENSTEIN, DRACUL A, AND GOTHIC LITERATURE

“Certainly I shall. If a man like you, who knows the animals

from experience, can’t hazard a good guess at any rate, who is even
to try?”
“Well then, sir, I accounts for it this way; it seems to me that ’ere
wolf escaped—simply because he wanted to get out.”
From the hearty way that both Thomas and his wife laughed at
the joke I could see that it had done service before, and that the
whole explanation was simply an elaborate sell. I couldn’t cope in
badinage with the worthy Thomas, but I thought I knew a surer way
to his heart, so I said:—
“Now, Mr. Bilder, we’ll consider that first half-sovereign worked
off, and this brother of his is waiting to be claimed when you’ve told
me what you think will happen.”
“Right y’are, sir,” he said briskly. “Ye’ll excoose me, I know, for
a-chaffin’ of ye, but the old woman here winked at me, which was as
much as telling me to go on.”
“Well, I never!” said the old lady.
“My opinion is this: that ’ere wolf is a-’idin’ of, somewheres.
The gard’ner wot didn’t remember said he was a-gallopin’ north‐
ward faster than a horse could go; but I don’t believe him, for, yer
see, sir, wolves don’t gallop no more nor dogs does, they not bein’
built that way. Wolves is fine things in a storybook, and I dessay
when they gets in packs and does be chivyin’ somethin’ that’s
more afeared than they is they can make a devil of a noise and
chop it up, whatever it is. But, Lor’ bless you, in real life a wolf is
only a low creature, not half so clever or bold as a good dog; and
not half a quarter so much fight in ’im. This one ain’t been used
to fightin’ or even to providin’ for hisself, and more like he’s some‐
where round the Park a-’idin’ an’ a-shiverin’ of, and, if he thinks
at all, wonderin’ where he is to get his breakfast from; or maybe
he’s got down some area and is in a coal-cellar. My eye, won’t
some cook get a rum start when she sees his green eyes a-shining
at her out of the dark! If he can’t get food he’s bound to look for
it, and mayhap he may chance to light on a butcher’s shop in
time. If he doesn’t, and some nursemaid goes a-walkin’ orf with a
soldier, leavin’ of the hinfant in the perambulator—well, then I
 CHAPTER XI 389

shouldn’t be surprised if the census is one babby the less.

That’s all.”
I was handing him the half-sovereign, when something came
bobbing up against the window, and Mr. Bilder’s face doubled its
natural length with surprise.
“God bless me!” he said. “If there ain’t old Bersicker come back
by ’isself!”
He went to the door and opened it; a most unnecessary
proceeding it seemed to me. I have always thought that a wild
animal never looks so well as when some obstacle of pronounced
durability is between us; a personal experience has intensified rather
than diminished that idea.
After all, however, there is nothing like custom, for neither
Bilder nor his wife thought any more of the wolf than I should of a
dog. The animal itself was as peaceful and well-behaved as that
father of all picture-wolves—Red Riding Hood’s quondam friend,
whilst moving her confidence in masquerade.
The whole scene was an unutterable mixture of comedy and
pathos. The wicked wolf that for half a day had paralysed London
and set all the children in the town shivering in their shoes, was
there in a sort of penitent mood, and was received and petted like a
sort of vulpine prodigal son. Old Bilder examined him all over with
most tender solicitude, and when he had finished with his
penitent said:—
“There, I knew the poor old chap would get into some kind of
trouble; didn’t I say it all along? Here’s his head all cut and full of
broken glass. ’E’s been a-gettin’ over some bloomin’ wall or other.
It’s a shyme that people are allowed to top their walls with broken
bottles. This ’ere’s what comes of it. Come along, Bersicker.”
He took the wolf and locked him up in a cage, with a piece of
meat that satisfied, in quantity at any rate, the elementary condi‐
tions of the fatted calf, and went off to report.
I came off, too, to report the only exclusive information that is
given to-day regarding the strange escapade at the Zoo.
Dr. Seward’s Diary.
17 September.—I was engaged after dinner in my study posting up
390 FRANKENSTEIN, DRACUL A, AND GOTHIC LITERATURE

my books, which, through press of other work and the many visits to
Lucy, had fallen sadly into arrear. Suddenly the door was burst
open, and in rushed my patient, with his face distorted with passion.
I was thunderstruck, for such a thing as a patient getting of his own
accord into the Superintendent’s study is almost unknown. Without
an instant’s pause he made straight at me. He had a dinner-knife in
his hand, and, as I saw he was dangerous, I tried to keep the table
between us. He was too quick and too strong for me, however; for
before I could get my balance he had struck at me and cut my left
wrist rather severely. Before he could strike again, however, I got in
my right and he was sprawling on his back on the floor. My wrist
bled freely, and quite a little pool trickled on to the carpet. I saw that
my friend was not intent on further effort, and occupied myself
binding up my wrist, keeping a wary eye on the prostrate figure all
the time. When the attendants rushed in, and we turned our atten‐
tion to him, his employment positively sickened me. He was lying on
his belly on the floor licking up, like a dog, the blood which had
fallen from my wounded wrist. He was easily secured, and, to my
surprise, went with the attendants quite placidly, simply repeating
over and over again: “The blood is the life! The blood is the life!”
I cannot afford to lose blood just at present; I have lost too much
of late for my physical good, and then the prolonged strain of
Lucy’s illness and its horrible phases is telling on me. I am over-
excited and weary, and I need rest, rest, rest. Happily Van Helsing
has not summoned me, so I need not forego my sleep; to-night I
could not well do without it.
Telegram, Van Helsing, Antwerp, to Seward, Carfax.
(Sent to Carfax, Sussex, as no county given; delivered late by
twenty-two hours.)
“17 September.—Do not fail to be at Hillingham to-night. If not
watching all the time frequently, visit and see that flowers are as
placed; very important; do not fail. Shall be with you as soon as
possible after arrival.”
Dr. Seward’s Diary.
18 September.—Just off for train to London. The arrival of Van
Helsing’s telegram filled me with dismay. A whole night lost, and I
 CHAPTER XI 391

know by bitter experience what may happen in a night. Of course it

is possible that all may be well, but what may have happened? Surely
there is some horrible doom hanging over us that every possible
accident should thwart us in all we try to do. I shall take this
cylinder with me, and then I can complete my entry on Lucy’s
phonograph.
Memorandum left by Lucy Westenra.
17 September. Night.—I write this and leave it to be seen, so that
no one may by any chance get into trouble through me. This is an
exact record of what took place to-night. I feel I am dying of weak‐
ness, and have barely strength to write, but it must be done if I die
in the doing.
I went to bed as usual, taking care that the flowers were placed
as Dr. Van Helsing directed, and soon fell asleep.
I was waked by the flapping at the window, which had begun
after that sleep-walking on the cliff at Whitby when Mina saved me,
and which now I know so well. I was not afraid, but I did wish that
Dr. Seward was in the next room—as Dr. Van Helsing said he
would be—so that I might have called him. I tried to go to sleep, but
could not. Then there came to me the old fear of sleep, and I deter‐
mined to keep awake. Perversely sleep would try to come then when
I did not want it; so, as I feared to be alone, I opened my door and
called out: “Is there anybody there?” There was no answer. I was
afraid to wake mother, and so closed my door again. Then outside
in the shrubbery I heard a sort of howl like a dog’s, but more fierce
and deeper. I went to the window and looked out, but could see
nothing, except a big bat, which had evidently been buffeting its
wings against the window. So I went back to bed again, but deter‐
mined not to go to sleep. Presently the door opened, and mother
looked in; seeing by my moving that I was not asleep, came in, and
sat by me. She said to me even more sweetly and softly than
her wont:—
“I was uneasy about you, darling, and came in to see that you
were all right.”
I feared she might catch cold sitting there, and asked her to
come in and sleep with me, so she came into bed, and lay down
392 FRANKENSTEIN, DRACUL A, AND GOTHIC LITERATURE

beside me; she did not take off her dressing gown, for she said she
would only stay a while and then go back to her own bed. As she lay
there in my arms, and I in hers, the flapping and buffeting came to
the window again. She was startled and a little frightened, and cried
out: “What is that?” I tried to pacify her, and at last succeeded, and
she lay quiet; but I could hear her poor dear heart still beating terri‐
bly. After a while there was the low howl again out in the shrubbery,
and shortly after there was a crash at the window, and a lot of
broken glass was hurled on the floor. The window blind blew back
with the wind that rushed in, and in the aperture of the broken
panes there was the head of a great, gaunt grey wolf. Mother cried
out in a fright, and struggled up into a sitting posture, and clutched
wildly at anything that would help her. Amongst other things, she
clutched the wreath of flowers that Dr. Van Helsing insisted on my
wearing round my neck, and tore it away from me. For a second or
two she sat up, pointing at the wolf, and there was a strange and
horrible gurgling in her throat; then she fell over—as if struck with
lightning, and her head hit my forehead and made me dizzy for a
moment or two. The room and all round seemed to spin round. I
kept my eyes fixed on the window, but the wolf drew his head back,
and a whole myriad of little specks seemed to come blowing in
through the broken window, and wheeling and circling round like
the pillar of dust that travellers describe when there is a simoon in
the desert. I tried to stir, but there was some spell upon me, and dear
mother’s poor body, which seemed to grow cold already—for her
dear heart had ceased to beat—weighed me down; and I remem‐
bered no more for a while.
The time did not seem long, but very, very awful, till I recovered
consciousness again. Somewhere near, a passing bell was tolling; the
dogs all round the neighbourhood were howling; and in our shrub‐
bery, seemingly just outside, a nightingale was singing. I was dazed
and stupid with pain and terror and weakness, but the sound of the
nightingale seemed like the voice of my dead mother come back to
comfort me. The sounds seemed to have awakened the maids, too,
for I could hear their bare feet pattering outside my door. I called to
them, and they came in, and when they saw what had happened,
 CHAPTER XI 393

and what it was that lay over me on the bed, they screamed out.
The wind rushed in through the broken window, and the door
slammed to. They lifted off the body of my dear mother, and laid
her, covered up with a sheet, on the bed after I had got up. They
were all so frightened and nervous that I directed them to go to the
dining-room and have each a glass of wine. The door flew open for
an instant and closed again. The maids shrieked, and then went in a
body to the dining-room; and I laid what flowers I had on my dear
mother’s breast. When they were there I remembered what Dr. Van
Helsing had told me, but I didn’t like to remove them, and, besides,
I would have some of the servants to sit up with me now. I was
surprised that the maids did not come back. I called them, but got
no answer, so I went to the dining-room to look for them.
My heart sank when I saw what had happened. They all four lay
helpless on the floor, breathing heavily. The decanter of sherry was
on the table half full, but there was a queer, acrid smell about. I was
suspicious, and examined the decanter. It smelt of laudanum, and
looking on the sideboard, I found that the bottle which mother’s
doctor uses for her—oh! did use—was empty. What am I to do?
what am I to do? I am back in the room with mother. I cannot leave
her, and I am alone, save for the sleeping servants, whom some one
has drugged. Alone with the dead! I dare not go out, for I can hear
the low howl of the wolf through the broken window.
The air seems full of specks, floating and circling in the draught
from the window, and the lights burn blue and dim. What am I to
do? God shield me from harm this night! I shall hide this paper in
my breast, where they shall find it when they come to lay me out.
My dear mother gone! It is time that I go too. Good-bye, dear
Arthur, if I should not survive this night. God keep you, dear, and
God help me!