Dracula, My Love: The Secret Journals of Mina Harker

by Syrie James

  “I have an objection.”

  A communal gasp went through the congregation; I turned to find Mr. Wagner standing a few yards away in the centre of the aisle.

  “What do you mean by this, sir?” Jonathan cried. “Who are you?”

  Mr. Wagner strode up to me and lifted my veil, uncovering my face. “You cannot marry this man,” he said urgently. “You are mine.”

  I awoke as I always did, startled and gasping for breath, stunned by the sudden shock of being thrust from one vivid reality into another. I was trembling so hard, and was so greatly unnerved, that I was unable to sleep any more that night, or the next day. I arrived at the station in Buda-Pesth so exhausted, I could take no more than a passing notice of the massive, ancient buildings around me, as a cab delivered me out of the city and into the hills beyond.

  THE HOSPITAL OF SAINT JOSEPH AND SAINT MARY WAS A MASSIVE old building surrounded by spacious grounds. I had some difficulty at first in making my errand understood by the elderly nun at the reception desk, for she spoke not a word of English. At last, she made it clear through gestures that she wished me to write my name on a piece of paper. She disappeared for a few minutes, then returned with a tiny, robust nurse in a starched black habit, who rushed up to me and, taking both my hands in hers, cried out in thickly accented English:

  “Miss Murray! At last! I am so happy you are here. I am Sister Agatha, who wrote to you. I received your telegram, and Mr. Harker is expecting you.”

  She gave some direction in her own tongue to the receptionist, which I deduced had something to do with the disposition of my luggage, and then beckoned me to follow her.

  “Your poor, dear man was given into my care, because I speak English,” Sister Agatha said, as she led me through a pair of heavy, wooden doors, to a wide stone staircase, and up two long flights of stairs. “My mother was from London, and I spent part of my childhood there, so I have a natural affinity for people from your country. Mr. Harker has told me all about you. He said you are shortly to be his wife. I can only say, all blessings to you both! He is such a sweet and gentle man, he has won all our hearts.”

  “How is he, sister?” I asked urgently, as we walked. “You said he had some kind of fearful shock. Is he recovering?”

  “He is, but slowly. When he first came here—ach!—he raved of such dreadful things, I have never heard the like of it.”

  “You said in your letter that he spoke of—of wolves and demons and blood. What exactly did he say in his delirium?”

  Sister Agatha shook her head and crossed herself. “The ravings of the sick are the secrets of God, my dear. If a nurse through her vocation should hear them, she must respect that trust. But I can tell you this: his fear was not about anything which he has done wrong himself, but of great and terrible things he has seen, which are beyond the treatment of mortal hands. When he arrived, the doctor diagnosed him as a lunatic, and would have immediately sent him to an asylum had I not pleaded with him to reconsider. I saw something in Mr. Harker’s eyes, and heard something in his voice, that told me: this man is not insane, he is merely ill and frightened, and needs a safe, quiet place to rest. The doctor, thanks be to God, came to a similar conclusion, only he calls it brain fever. It has taken many weeks of treatment, but Mr. Harker has at last come round to himself—or a version of himself, at least.”

  “A version of himself?” I repeated apprehensively.

  “He is still very weak—too weak to stand—and easily excitable. You will see. You must be careful what you say to him.”

  We emerged onto an upper floor. Our footsteps echoed as we progressed down a long, dark corridor, whose stark grey walls opened onto a succession of patient’s rooms, where I glimpsed two other nurses busily at work.

  “I am a great reader, and we were discussing English literature one day,” Sister Agatha went on. “He mentioned that he had enjoyed the works of Dickens when he was in school. Thinking to do him a kindness, I borrowed a copy of A Christmas Carol in English, and sat down to read to him. I had never heard the story myself, and he had no memory of it. He listened quietly, until we came to a part about a door-knocker and a locomotive and the loud ringing of bells, and I don’t know what—during which he became increasingly agitated. Then there came a bit about a clanking of chains, and a ghost passing through a door—and suddenly Mr. Harker grabbed the book from my hands and hurled it across the room, shouting, ‘Enough! I cannot listen any more! Pray, throw that foul book away!’”

  Sister Agatha crossed herself again, clicking her tongue in distress. “It was my fault. I heard him raving all those weeks on end about ghosts and demons; I would never have read him that book had I known what it was about.” She stopped outside a closed door and heaved a sigh. “I believe it has been many months since you last saw him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you should prepare yourself, miss, for a shock. We have not allowed him a razor since he came; but this morning he insisted that we shave him, for your coming. Still, you may find him much changed.”

  A sense of dread came over me, but I fought it back, struggling to get ready for whatever lay beyond that door. He is here, I reminded myself. He is alive and safe, and you love him.

  Sister Agatha opened the door, and I preceded her into the room. My eyes flew immediately to the bed, and to the man who lay sleeping there beneath a grey blanket. My breath caught in my throat, and my eyes filled with sudden tears. There was no mistaking that it was Jonathan; but Sister Agatha was right; oh, how he had changed! His brown hair, which he had always kept so carefully trimmed and groomed, now fell in long, straggly locks across his ears and forehead. His face, once so ruddy, full-cheeked, and handsome, was gaunt and ghastly pale.

  “Mr. Harker?” Sister Agatha prompted gently. “Miss Murray is here.”

  Jonathan opened his eyes. Upon catching sight of me, a weak smile spread across his ravaged countenance, and he whispered, “Mina? Mina…Thank God you have come.”

  He reached out a thin hand to me. I took it and kissed it, my heart full and aching, as tears rolled down my cheeks. “Dearest Jonathan. How glad I am to see you. I have worried about you so.”

  “Do not worry, my love,” he replied, with quiet affection. “I am getting better, and will progress even faster now that you are here.” There was little conviction in his voice, however, and no resolve in his eyes as he spoke. All that quiet dignity, which I had always so admired in him, had vanished completely from his face; he was like a very wreck of himself.

  “I will leave you two alone together for a few minutes,” Sister Agatha said, after helping Jonathan to sit up in bed and propping him with pillows. “If you need me, I will be sitting just outside the door.”

  After she left the room (leaving the door slightly ajar), I pulled up a chair to the bedside and took Jonathan’s hand in mine again. There was so much I longed to ask him, but he looked so tired and frail, I was afraid to say anything that might upset him. “Did you get my letters?” I said at last.

  “What letters?”

  “The ones I sent to you in Transylvania.”

  “You wrote to me there?” he replied, astonished.

  “Yes, twice. I had not heard from you in so long. I did not even know if you had safely arrived. I asked Mr. Hawkins for the address.”

  “What address? Where did you send them?”

  “To Castle Dracula.” I saw him visibly start at this pronouncement. “Did I do wrong? Was that not where you were staying in Transylvania?”

  “It is where I was staying,” he replied with a sudden grim, angry look. “I should have guessed it. I never saw your letters, Mina. He must have kept them.”

  “Who?”

  “The Count.” He practically spit the words out, with such venom that it alarmed me; then he fell silent and seemed lost in thought, as the angry look on his countenance changed to something else entirely, a sort of confusion laced with fear.

  “Jonathan: what happened?”

  He fell si
lent again and looked away, his mouth set in a determined line. Shaking his head, and sounding very tired, he finally said, “These past few months, they are like a grey, murky quagmire. Whenever I try to think about it, my head spins round, and I do not know if it was all real, or if I dreamed it. They say I have had brain fever, Mina. Do you know what that means?”

  “It means that you have been very ill. That you have suffered a great shock of some kind, which has affected your brain.”

  “It means that I went mad.”

  “Jonathan, no! Do not think like that.”

  “It is the truth. Brain fever, by definition, is madness. When I try to remember what happened, I know it cannot be so; therefore, I must have gone mad. All these weeks, even when I found myself safe in this bed, tended by these good nurses, the memories have continued to haunt me. I cannot think about it, Mina—or talk about it—or I fear I shall go mad again.”

  “I understand, my dearest,” I replied, leaning down to kiss his thin cheek. “I shall never ask about it again, I promise.”

  He looked so grateful—whether it was for my promise, or for my kiss, or both, I could not be certain—but I now pressed my lips to his lips and held them there for a long moment.

  When the kiss ended, his hands came up to cradle my face just inches from his, and he said softly, “Oh, Mina, dearest Mina. How I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  “Thinking of you, planning for our future, that is the only thing that has kept me alive through all this. I have missed you so. I want to be married as soon as possible. Would that suit you?”

  The question caught me off guard. A fluttering began in the pit of my stomach, and I sat back in my chair, my heart pounding in sudden surprise. “Do you mean—be married here, in Buda-Pesth?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you are so ill, and you are still confined to bed.”

  “I know. But—I have given this a great deal of thought, dearest, ever since the sister brought me your telegram, and I knew you were coming. They tell me I will be here for some weeks yet. Mr. Hawkins sent me some money, but it is not enough to pay for a long hotel stay for you, Mina, or for a separate room here. For propriety’s sake, we ought to marry at once. That way, you can share my room. Sister Agatha said she can summon the chaplain of the British legation, who could no doubt perform the ceremony as early as to-morrow.”

  “To-morrow?”

  A profound sense of disappointment enveloped me. I saw the logic in what he was saying, of course; I had had the same thoughts about cost and propriety and such, on my journey over. Even old Mr. Hawkins had suggested, in his letter, that it might not be a bad thing if we were married out here. However, I had not expected it to happen quite so soon; and when I had pictured the ceremony in my mind—not my rapturous dream on the train, but in my actual, waking imagination—I had seen it taking place in a quaint, old church, with Jonathan standing at my side. I had never conceived that my wedding might take place in a hospital room, at the bedside of a man who was as yet too frail and sickly to stand.

  “I realise,” Jonathan said, “that the circumstances are not what you would have wished for in a wedding, but—”

  “No; no, you are quite right. We should not wait.” I forced a smile and gave Jonathan the most loving look I could muster. “I will be happy to marry you, Jonathan Harker, whenever you think best.”

  I spent that night in an empty room graciously provided for me by the sisters. When Jonathan woke the next morning, I told him that the arrangements for our wedding were being made.

  He smiled and said, “Dear, would you get me my coat? I have need of it.”

  I thought it an odd request for a bedridden man, but I asked Sister Agatha to bring me the coat. She soon returned saying, “Here are all his things.”

  “All his things?” I glanced in surprise at the items as she set them on the bed. They comprised but one suit of clothes and a note-book.

  “This is everything he had with him when he arrived,” she answered, before leaving the room.

  Jonathan had left home with a trunk full of clothing, including his best suit and hat, which were missing; his pocketbook was also gone, along with whatever money it may have contained, and the photograph of me that I knew he always carried with him. What, I wondered, had become of it all? I had promised, however, that I would not ask; and so I stood in silence as Jonathan reached into his coat-pocket and pulled from it a tiny box. With a gentle smile, he offered the box to me.

  “I know how much you wanted a wedding ring, dear, and I did not want you to be married without one. So I sent Sister Agatha out on a little errand the day before you arrived. I hope you like it.”

  Astonished, I opened the little box. Nestled inside the blue velvet interior was a solid gold wedding ring, engraved with an elegant pattern. “Oh! It is beautiful! But Jonathan—however could you afford such a thing? Tell me you did not spend the money Mr. Harker sent you for your hospital stay, to buy this ring!”

  “I did not,” he replied, with a mysterious smile. “I had another source. Thank goodness I had the sense to ask for your ring size months ago. Please, try it on.”

  I did so; it was a perfect fit, and looked lovely on my hand. “I see that you do not wish to tell me of your ‘source’—and as this is a gift, I will leave it be. Thank you so much, my dearest, for thinking of this. It means all the world to me.” I bent and kissed him, then removed the ring and returned it to the box. “Keep it for now, until the ceremony.” As I picked up his coat and other garments, intending to place them on a near-by chair, my eye fell on the note-book, which lay beside him on the bed. “Is this your journal?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  I knew that Jonathan had intended to keep a stenographic record of his trip to Transylvania, to practice and perfect the art of shorthand, just as I had done during my stay in Whitby. It suddenly occurred to me that the answers to all his troubles might lie on the pages within. Did I dare ask him to let me look at it?

  He must have read my thoughts, for his face fell, and he said quietly: “Forgive me; would you mind—I would like to be alone for a moment.”

  I went to the window, where I stood gazing out at the trees and landscaped grounds below in silence, quite upset with myself; for I had not wished to cause him any distress. At length, he called me back.

  Holding the note-book, he said, in deadly earnest, “Wilhelmina”—(it was the first time he had addressed me by that formal name, since the day he asked me to marry him)—“My account of what happened to me in Transylvania is here, in this book. I wrote it all down in shorthand, as we discussed; but I think now that it may just be the account of a madman. I never want to look at these pages again. I want to take up my life here and now, with our marriage. But—you know how I feel about the bond of trust between husband and wife. I want no secrets or concealments between us. In that spirit of honesty, I want you to take this book.” So saying, he placed the note-book in my hands. “Keep it. You have my full permission to read it, if you will—but do not tell me, and let us never mention it again—unless, one day, some solemn duty should command me to go back to the bitter hours, asleep or awake, sane or mad, that are recorded here.” So saying, he fell back on his pillow, exhausted.

  “I will honour your wish, my dearest,” I promised. “I will put the book away, and I will not read it now—if ever. We will concentrate on your getting well.” Later, I wrapped the note-book in white paper, tied it with a ribbon, and sealed it over with sealing-wax, so that it could serve as an outward and visible sign of our trust.

  WE WERE MARRIED THAT AFTERNOON. THE CEREMONY WAS BRIEF and solemn. Fortunately, of the two dresses I had brought with me, one was my best dress—the embroidered black silk—which I had always intended to wear at my wedding. It was odd, I thought, as I glanced in the mirror to arrange my hair; but Lucy’s worried interpretation of the wedding poem had come true. Against her wishes, I was marrying in black—and I was indeed far away from home, “w
ishing myself back.”

  I donned my black kid gloves; Sister Klara—another good, kind soul—found me a veil; and dear Sister Agatha brought me a small bouquet of multicoloured flowers, which she had gathered in the garden. The two nurses stood up with us as witnesses. Jonathan woke from his nap just as all was in readiness. I helped him to sit up in bed, leaning against the pillows, and took my place at his bedside.

  As the chaplain moved into position before us, I could not help but glance at our grim surroundings with a little pang. Jonathan reached out and squeezed my hand, regret in his eyes. “I know this is not the wedding you dreamed of, Mina, but I hope to make it up to you some day.”

  “I am marrying you, my dear; that is all that matters,” I replied sincerely.

  I was aware of the grave responsibilities I was undertaking: I was to be Jonathan’s wife. I would be his, and only his, for the rest of my life. It was what I wanted, and I was happy. Yet, as the chaplain performed the service, I found my thoughts drifting to another place and time—to the dance floor of the pavilion at Whitby—and to the blissful hours I had spent there in Mr. Wagner’s arms. I recalled how alive I had felt in his company and the way I had felt as the object of his admiring gaze. What, I wondered, would it be like to stand beside him at the altar—to be his bride? These thoughts caused me such a paroxysm of guilt that my throat closed and my face became flushed with heat.

  I broke from my reverie to hear the clergyman saying, “Will you, Jonathan Harker, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, from this day forward, to have and to hold for all the days of your life, until death do you part?”

  “I will,” Jonathan replied, in a firm, strong voice.

  When it came my turn to answer that question, although I replied with a willing heart, even those two small words seemed to choke me. We were pronounced man and wife; Jonathan drew me down into his embrace with his poor, weak hands, and kissed me: a long, sweet kiss.

  After the chaplain and sisters left, my new husband took my hand in his and kissed it, saying: “This is the first time I have taken my wife’s hand—and it is the dearest thing in all the world. I would go through all the past again to win this hand, if need be.”