Dracula, My Love: The Secret Journals of Mina Harker

by Syrie James

  “I see you have Lippincott’s Monthly Magazine with you,” he said, as we made steady progress up the river. “Is that the July issue?”

  “It is. How is it that you are familiar with Lippincott’s?”

  “I am a regular subscriber to the new London edition. It is one of many English periodicals I have sent to me, to improve my command of your language and to keep abreast of the latest and best in literature. Did you read Arthur Conan Doyle’s story in February’s edition?”

  “The Sign of Four? Yes! It was most engaging. This issue has a new story by Oscar Wilde, called The Picture of Dorian Gray, about a man who makes a wish to stay young for ever—and then it comes true. Have you read it?”

  “I have. I left home before my own copy could arrive, but I bought one at a newsstand yesterday. Did you like the tale?”

  “No; not at all. I found it shocking, at times horrifying, and very crude—but all the same, I could not put it down. I have read it twice already!”

  Mr. Wagner laughed. “It is an interesting concept, is it not—the idea of never aging? Would it appeal to you, to be rich, beautiful, and eternally young?”

  “I think everyone has a desire for perennial youth,” I admitted, “but in the end, this is a Faustian, cautionary tale, about vanity and frivolity, and the dangers of trying to interfere with the basic laws of life and death. When I really think about it, I would not wish to be young for ever.”

  “No? And why not?”

  “Because I would be obliged to watch everyone I loved grow old and die.”

  “What if that were not the case? What if there was one person whom you loved deeply, with whom you could live on for ever, under the same terms?”

  I hesitated, then said: “Perhaps then it would prove agreeable, as long as it did not involve selling my soul to the Devil. But until I meet a sorcerer who can put both me and Jonathan under the same spell with impunity, I will be happy to age gracefully like any other mortal.”

  I suddenly caught myself, wishing that I had not mentioned Jonathan; even though my comment was honest, surely it was awkward to talk about one’s fiancé, while out on the river with another man. Mr. Wagner, however, did not seem to notice any awkwardness, and said: “I believe you said your fiancé was away on a business trip. Have you heard from him?”

  “No.” I frowned, all my worry returning with sudden force. “I expect a letter every day, but he has not written in quite some time.”

  “I am sorry. Where did you say he went?”

  “Transylvania.”

  “I know it well.”

  “Do you? What is it like?”

  “The country-side is very beautiful. Mountains, forests, and quaint little towns, with here and there an old castle perched on a hilltop. But it is far too quiet and isolated for me. Tell me—what is your fiancé’s name again?”

  “Jonathan.”

  “Where did he go in Transylvania?”

  “Bistritz was the closest town. The client he went to see lives in a castle near some sort of mountain pass—the Borgo, I think.”

  “The Borgo Pass? Well! Surely this explains everything.”

  “Does it? How?”

  “The Borgo Pass is in the extreme east of Transylvania, in the midst of the Carpathian Mountains, on the border of Bukovina. It is on the very frontier: one of the wildest and least known portions of Europe, very sparsely populated, with few good maps to be had. Even the most seasoned traveller would have difficulty navigating its twisting highways.” In an ominous tone, he added: “I would venture to guess that he became lost for a time, and then was waylaid by gipsies.”

  “Gipsies?” I repeated in alarm.

  “Many a victim has found him or herself a willing captive of a Szgany camp-fire for weeks on end,” he said, his eyes twinkling, “unable to leave—like the king in One Thousand and One Nights—for fear of missing the next installment in their nightly tales.”

  I laughed at his gentle teasing. “That might explain it, sir, if you or I were the missing party; but Jonathan has a very practical nature. Although he enjoys literature, he is far more enamoured of architecture and history.”

  “Architecture and history, you say? Well, then: Buda-Pesth is a fascinating city, not to mention Vienna, and the City of Light. Has Jonathan been to Paris before?”

  “Never.”

  “You see? A man who enjoys travel, and who loves architecture and history, could lose himself in any one of those cities for months. Why, it can take half a year just to see the collection in the Louvre, alone.”

  I nodded. However, the cheerful mood he had induced soon evaporated, and we both fell silent. I knew in my heart that there was no good explanation for Jonathan’s absence, and I think he sensed that, for me, it was no longer a joking matter.

  A silence fell as we glided on, passing a stretch of idyllically beautiful country-side. He took me to a lovely spot called Cock-mill Creek, where we disembarked and strolled for a while along the river-bank. When Mr. Wagner asked if I would like anything to eat, I admitted that I was very hungry. We stopped at a little inn at Glen Esk, where we were shown to a table on the veranda overlooking the river, and I ordered a sandwich and a lemonade. To my surprise, Mr. Wagner did not order any food or drink himself.

  “Forgive me, but I dined earlier, and I have an engagement this evening which promises to include a large and memorable dinner. I would rather not ruin my appetite.”

  We sat quietly for a while as I ate my lunch, listening to the murmur of the near-by river, which blended delightfully with the buzzing of insects and the twittering of birds. It was still cloudy, but a slight breeze, redolent with the fragrance of summer blooms, pleasantly stirred the leaves of the trees in the surrounding groves.

  “This is a beautiful place,” I said. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

  “It is my pleasure.”

  When I glanced at him now, and caught the full weight of his expression as he watched me—his eyes were so sincere, admiring, and full of interest—I suddenly felt that I could tell him anything, as if I knew with the utmost certainty that he held only my best interests at heart.

  “The other night at the pavilion, Mr. Wagner, you asked about my parents.”

  He nodded, waiting.

  “I am an orphan. I was left on the steps of a London orphanage when I was just a year old. I was dressed in rags and wrapped in an old blanket, pinned with a crude note that said my name was Wilhelmina Murray, and would they please care for me.”

  “From what little you said, I had guessed as much.”

  “I spent all my childhood at the orphanage. That is where I met Jonathan. He was the son of the widowed cook, and they lived in rooms on the top floor. For years, we regarded each other as the brother and sister we never had. His father’s best friend, Mr. Peter Hawkins, paid for Jonathan’s education, sending him to an excellent school when he was twelve. My own education would never have progressed beyond the three years of compulsory elementary education had our institution not become the recipient of a generous grant. I was sent to a boarding-school on the outskirts of London. Jonathan and I became avid correspondents, and saw each other whenever we both happened to visit his mother at the orphanage at the same time. Sadly, she passed away last autumn. It was when Jonathan and I met again at her funeral that we discovered our feelings for each other had grown and changed.”

  My thoughts drifted briefly to that day, when Jonathan had asked me to marry him: it was three days after his mother’s service, and we were walking through a London park. He had stopped beneath a large tree, and said, “Wilhelmina, I have never known a girl I love as much you. I think we were meant to be together. Do you feel the same? Will you be my wife?” I had said yes happily, and kissed him: our first kiss. We had grown even closer since then, as we planned out our future together; and everything had, of course, been very proper and chaste between us.

  “A nice story with a happy ending,” Mr. Wagner was saying now, “and yet you seemed relu
ctant to share it. Why?”

  “I have not told you everything.” Taking a deep breath, I went on: “As a little girl, I used to dream about my mother and father. I imagined that they were the king and queen of a distant land, and as the future heir to the throne, I had been hidden away for my own protection. I knew it was a fairy tale, of course, but it pleased me for a time to believe it. Later, I told myself that my parents were just a poor English couple who could not afford to keep me, but that they would come for me one day. Needless to say, no one ever came. When I was eight years old, I overheard the servants at the orphanage gossiping. One of them said—” I felt a heat of mortification rise to my cheeks. “She said my mother was a housemaid who—who became with child—and was dismissed from her post.”

  “Was that true?”

  “Apparently so. She did not mention my mother’s name and did not seem to know what had become of her; but somehow she was very well apprised of this fact. Ever since I learned it, I have felt so ashamed.”

  “Why? Because your mother conceived you out of wedlock?”

  “Yes! To grow up knowing that my own mother fell so scandalously from grace—it is a fact that has haunted me all my life.”

  “It is a sad fate, indeed, to grow up without parents, and sadder still to feel shame with regard to the circumstances of one’s birth. But truly, Miss Murray, this is not such a dreadful tale. We all are victims of some kind of past misfortune, and clearly you have not been permanently scarred by yours. Look at you now: a beautiful young woman, finely educated, and about to be married.”

  “Please do not think that I am ungrateful. I give thanks every day for all that I have.”

  “I merely wish to help set your mind at ease about something over which you had no control. I think you have come out far ahead of most. In fact, I am quite envious of you.”

  “Envious of me? Why? I am a poor orphan, with barely a penny to my name. Whereas you, sir—you are wealthy, you travel the world, you have everything a person could want.”

  A cloud seemed to wash over his countenance at my last remark. “No, Miss Murray, it is you who has everything a person could want: the one, true source of happiness on this earth.”

  “What is that?” I asked, in puzzlement.

  “You have found the person with whom you wish to share all the days of your life.” His eyes lifted to mine and settled there, and he added, his voice soft and deep, “I have been searching for such a person for…a very long time.”

  Under his gaze, I found it hard to breathe. “You will find her one day,” I managed.

  “Yes,” he returned quietly, his eyes never leaving mine, “I believe I shall.”

  OUR RETURN TRIP DOWN THE RIVER WAS AS SERENE AND PEACEFUL as that which had preceded it, and when we parted ways, I thanked Mr. Wagner earnestly for arranging the expedition.

  “I will be at the pavilion to-night,” he said, as he kissed my gloved hand. “Will you join me?”

  I gave him no definite answer but turned and ran home, awash in a fresh wave of guilt. Our conversation that day had reminded me of how much I missed Jonathan. I felt a deep pang of longing for him. One day soon, I hoped, I would hear from Jonathan, and go to him—but once I did that—once I left Whitby—I knew I would never see Mr. Wagner again. The thought brought anguished tears to my eyes. Oh! What was I to do with all these improper feelings, for a man I should not be seeing and could never have?

  All evening, I could think of nothing but the night before me, and the fact that Mr. Wagner would be waiting for me at the pavilion. A line from The Picture of Dorian Gray kept running through my head—a line which, I thought, might have been written by the Devil himself:

  “The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself.”

  As I dined with Lucy and her mother, I felt sick with anxiety, and had to keep reminding myself to stay true to the lie I had told them—that I had spent the day reading and writing in the churchyard.

  Mrs. Westenra, apparently sensing my distress, reached across the table to squeeze my hand and said, “Do not worry, my dear. You will see him soon.”

  “See who?” I replied, alarmed and confused for a moment, thinking that she had somehow found out about Mr. Wagner and my secret desire to meet him that night.

  “Why, Jonathan, of course.”

  “Oh yes, I hope so,” I responded quickly.

  I felt Lucy’s eyes on me throughout the meal but could not bring myself to look at her.

  The moment Lucy fell asleep, I rose and put on my blue evening dress. I was so distracted that I nearly forgot to lock the door to our room and secure the key inside my glove.

  I hurried out into the night, flushed with nervous anticipation. I entered the pavilion and eagerly scanned the crowd. At first, I saw no sign of him, and my spirits wavered; but then he appeared as if by magic at my elbow and silently offered me his arm. Our eyes met; I moved onto the dance floor and into his arms; the music began; and once again, I was transported into what seemed like another world.

  We danced together for hours. Later, as we strolled outside with the music filtering around us, Mr. Wagner drew me into his arms again, and we waltzed under the stars. He twirled me to a spot that was out of view of the other people on the terrace, then stopped and drew me even closer, until my body touched his, and his face was only inches from mine. As we stood in heated silence in each other’s arms, my heart began to pound so loudly, I felt certain that despite the layers of our clothing, he could detect its beat against his chest.

  His gaze fell to my lips, and then lower, to my throat, which lay exposed to his view. A sudden, fiery look came into his eyes, like a hunger that must be assuaged. My head began to swim; I caught and held my breath; for I felt a similar desire. At that moment, I wanted, needed, more than anything in the world, for Mr. Wagner to kiss me.

  A sudden, hard look came into his eyes, as if he was summoning every bit of strength he possessed to resist this temptation, and he roughly pushed me away.

  Just then, a sharp peal of laughter pierced the darkness. The sound, which emanated from a pair of night strollers walking by, brought me back to my senses.

  “Go!” Mr. Wagner said, averting his eyes, apparently struggling to regain control of himself. “Now! Before I—”

  I murmured an abrupt good-night and darted away. Tears stung my eyes as I raced home, my heart hammering with shame. If he had not stopped us, I thought, I would have kissed him. What was I doing? What kind of woman was I, to act so shamefully? I knew I must put an end to this…but I did not know how.

  AS I STEALTHILY ENTERED OUR CHAMBER AND RELOCKED THE door, I heard Lucy’s accusing voice out of the darkness:

  “Where have you been?”

  I lit a lamp. Lucy was lying in bed, staring at me. Was she awake or asleep? I could not tell. “I was taking a night walk,” I replied quickly. “I often do so.”

  As I began to undress, Lucy sat up, her blue eyes—luminous against the strange pallor of her face—still fixed on me. “It must have been a very long walk. I awoke earlier, and you were gone. I was frightened.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Why are you so flushed and perspiring?”

  “I saw someone in the shadows as I returned, so I ran.”

  “I do not believe you. You went up to the pavilion, didn’t you? You danced with Mr. Wagner!”

  My cheeks burned. “I did no such thing.”

  “You are a terrible liar, Mina. Look at you blushing! You can speak freely with me. If any one can understand that temptation, believe me, it is I.”

  “I do not know what you mean.”

  “Have it your way.” Lucy drew up her knees and hugged them to her chest, smiling. “Mina: do you recall that night? The night you found me in the churchyard, fast asleep?”

  “How could I forget it?”

  “It has been coming back to me, slowly. I remember bits and pieces of
my dream now. I felt compelled to go up to that very spot, although I did not know why. I passed over the bridge, and I went up the steps. I heard dogs howling—and then music—beautiful music. And then—” A half-dreamy expression settled on Lucy’s face, and she ran her fingers across the bedclothes with a motion as gentle as a caress. “Everything is a jumble, and then I have a vague memory of something long and dark with red eyes.”

  “Red eyes?”

  “The next thing I remember is a strange singing in my ears. Then it seemed as if my soul left my body and floated up into the air. I only came back to myself when you began shaking me.”

  Just then, there came a strange sound from outside the window. Lucy leapt up and pulled aside the blind. I was startled to observe a large, black-winged creature flitting near-by in whirling circles against the moonlight.

  “What is that?” I said. “A great bird?”

  “It is a bat.”

  I had seen bats before, but this creature was bigger and blacker than most, with immense, flapping wings. Once or twice, the creature flew in quite close to the window, and—perhaps I fancied it—I seemed to feel its tiny, piercing eyes fasten on me; then it darted away rapidly to the east.

  The dreamy look on Lucy’s face vanished, replaced by a sort of wanton expression which I had never witnessed before. She lay back down on the bed and let out an uncanny laugh—a laugh that made me shudder.

  “Lucy: why did you laugh like that?”

  “Don’t you know, Mina dearest?” Lucy said, directing her sultry gaze at me. Then she turned her back to me and seemed to fall instantly asleep.

  EVERYTHING CHANGED THE VERY NEXT MORNING.

  FIVE

  SHORTLY AFTER BREAKFAST, I WENT OUT ON MY OWN TO A stationer’s shop a few blocks away to buy ink for my fountain-pen. After I completed my transaction and stepped out into the street, I ran into Mr. Wagner.

  “Good morning,” he said with a smile.

  “Mr. Wagner.” My spirits lifted at the sight of him; and yet I could not bring myself to smile.