Jonathan Harker's Journal
May 3. I left Munich at 8:35 p.m. on May 1
and arrived in Vienna early the next morning.
Next we stopped in Budapest, which looked
like a wonderful place. I would have liked to
get off the train and explore, but there was no
time. But from my look out the window, I had
the impression that I had left the Western
world and entered the mysterious East.
By nightfall of the next day I had arrived at
the city of Klausenburgh. I stopped for the
night at the Hotel Royale, where I ordered a
very good dish of chicken prepared with red
pepper. (Note: Remember to get the recipe for
Mina.) It is certainly lucky that I speak some
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German. I don’t know how I would get along
here otherwise.
Before I left London, I visited the British
Museum and looked at all the books and maps
about Transylvania that I could find. I thought
that knowing something about the region
would help me make a good impression on
Count Dracula, the nobleman with whom I
will be dealing. From what I could make out,
Transylvania is one of the wildest and least
known portions of Europe. I couldn’t find any
map that gave the exact location of the Castle
Dracula, but I did see that Bistritz, the town
nearest the castle, is fairly well known. From
my reading, it seems as though every superstition
in the world is alive in this ancient region.
If that is true, my stay may be very interesting.
(Note: Ask the Count all about those old
beliefs.)
I did not sleep well, although my bed was
comfortable enough, for I had all sorts of odd
dreams. There was a dog howling all night
under my window, which may have had something
to do with it; or it may have been all the
red pepper in my dinner. After I awoke I had
to hurry through breakfast, for my train was
scheduled to leave a little before eight. At least
it ought to have left then. Once I rushed to my
seat, I had to sit there for more than an hour
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before we began to move. It seems to me that
the further east you go, the less punctual are
the trains. I wonder what they are like in
China?
All day long we moved slowly through a
country which was full of beauty of every kind.
Sometimes we saw little towns or castles on
the top of steep hills; sometimes we passed
rivers and streams which had wide stony margins
on each side of them, showing that great
floods were frequent there.
It was on the dark side of twilight when we
got to Bistritz, which is a very interesting old
place. It has had a very stormy existence, and
it shows the marks of it. Fifty years ago a series
of great fires took place. At the very beginning
of the seventeenth century, it underwent an
attack by enemies that lasted three weeks.
Between the fighting and the famine and disease
that went along with it, 13,000 people
lost their lives.
My letter from Count Dracula had
instructed me to stay at the Golden Krone
Hotel. The hotel was very old-fashioned, and
this delighted me, for, of course, I want to see
all the old traditions of this country.
At the hotel I was met by a cheery-looking
elderly woman. She wore the peasant costume
of the region—a white dress, topped with a
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long, brightly-colored apron. Apparently I was
expected, for when I came up she bowed and
said, “You are our English guest?”
“Yes,” I said, “my name is Jonathan
Harker.”
She smiled, and spoke in her language to
an elderly man who had followed her to the
door. He left, but immediately returned with a
letter, which he handed to me. It read:
“My friend—Welcome to my homeland. I
am eagerly expecting you. Sleep well tonight.
At three tomorrow the stagecoach will stop at
your inn. I have reserved a seat on it for you.
My own carriage will be waiting for you at the
Borgo Pass, and it will bring you to me. I trust
that your journey from London has been a
happy one and that you will enjoy your stay in
my beautiful land. —Your friend, Dracula.”
May 4. Today I tried to have a chat with my
host at the inn. But when I asked him a few
questions about the Count and his castle, he
became very quiet and claimed that he could
not understand my German. I’m sure this
wasn’t true, because up until then he had
understood it perfectly.
When I continued to try, he and his wife
looked at each other in a frightened sort of
way. He mumbled that the money for my
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room had been sent in a letter, and that was all
he knew. When I asked him if he knew Count
Dracula, both he and his wife crossed themselves
and said that they knew nothing at all. It
was nearly time for the stagecoach to arrive,
and I had no time to ask anyone else. This was
all very mysterious and not at all comforting.
But just before I was to leave, the host’s
wife came up to my room and said in a hysterical
way: “Must you go? Oh, young man, must
you go?” She was in such an excited state that
she seemed to have forgotten the little
German she knew, and mixed it all up with
some other language. When I told her that I
must go at once, and that I had important
business, she asked, “Do you know what day it
is?” I answered that it was the fourth of May.
She shook her head as she said again, “Yes, I
know that! I know that, but do you know
what day it is?”
I said that I did not understand, and she
went on: “It is the eve of St. George’s Day.
Don’t you know that tonight, when the clock
strikes midnight, all the evil things in the
world will have their full power? Don’t you
know where you are going, and what you are
going to?” She was so upset! I tried to comfort
her, but I failed completely. Finally, she got
down on her knees and begged me not to go,
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or at least to wait a day or two before starting.
It was all nonsense, of course, but it still
made me nervous. However, there was nothing
I could do. So I thanked her and said that my
business could not wait, and that I must go.
She then rose and dried her eyes. Taking a
crucifix on a chain from around her neck, she
offered it to me.
I did not know what to do. The church I
grew up in did not approve of symbols such as
crucifixes, and yet it seemed rude to refuse the
old lady’s gift, especially when she was so
upset.
I suppose she saw the doubt in my face, for
she fastened the chain around my neck herself.
“Wear it for your mother’s sake,” she said, and
went out of the room.
I am writing this part of the diary while I
wait for the coach—which is, of course, late—
and the crucifix is still round my neck.
Whether it is the old lady’s fear, or the
many ghostly traditions of this place, I do not
know, but I am not feeling nearly as relaxed as
usual. But here comes the coach!
May 5. When I got on the coach, the driver
was still outside talking to my landlady. They
seemed to be speaking of me, for every now
and then they looked at me. Then some other
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people who were sitting on the bench outside
the door came and listened, and then stared at
me too, most of them with pity in their eyes. I
could hear words often repeated, strange
words, for there were many nationalities in the
crowd. I quietly got my European languages
dictionary from my bag and looked them up.
I must say they did nothing to cheer me
up, for among them were Ordog, which means
“Satan,” Pokol—“hell,” stregoica—“witch,”
vrolok and vlkoslak—both meaning something
that is either werewolf or vampire. (Note: Ask
the Count about all this.)
When we started, the crowd around the
inn door all made the sign of the cross and
pointed two fingers towards me.
With some difficulty, I got a fellow passenger
to tell me what they meant. He would not
answer at first, but finally explained that the
gesture was a charm against the evil eye.
This was not very pleasant for me, just
starting out for an unknown place to meet an
unknown man. But everyone seemed so kindhearted
that I was sure they meant well.
Then our driver cracked his big whip over
his four small horses, and we set off on our
journey.
I soon forgot my ghostly fears in the beauty
of the scenery. Before us lay a green, sloping
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land full of forests and woods, with steep hills
here and there, crowned with clumps of trees
or with farmhouses. There were fruit blossoms
everywhere—apple, plum, pear, cherry. And as
we drove by, I could see the green grass under
the trees dotted with the fallen petals. In and
out among these green hills ran the road.
Beyond the hills rose the mighty slopes of
the Carpathian Mountains. They towered on
either side of us, with the afternoon sun bringing
out all their glorious colors: deep blue and
purple in the shadows of the peaks, green and
brown where grass and rock mingled, and over
all, the gleam of the snowy peaks.
As we continued on our endless way, and
the sun sank lower and lower, the shadows of
the evening began to creep around us.
Sometimes the hills were so steep that the
horses could only go slowly, no matter how
the driver cracked his whip. I wanted to get
out of the coach and walk, as we do at home,
to make the load lighter, but the driver would
not hear of it. “No, no,” he said. “You must
not walk here. The dogs are too fierce.” And
then he added, “And you may have enough of
such trouble before you go to sleep.” The only
stop he would make was a moment’s pause to
light his lamps.
When it grew dark, the passengers seemed
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to become very excited, and they kept speaking
to him, as though telling him to go faster.
He lashed the horses unmercifully with his
long whip, and shouted at them to gallop
harder. Then through the darkness I could see
a sort of patch of gray light ahead of us. The
excitement of the passengers grew greater. The
coach rocked like a boat tossed on a stormy
sea, so I was forced to hang on. Then the
mountains seemed to come nearer to us on
each side and to frown down upon us. We
were entering the Borgo Pass.
Several of the passengers began to offer me
gifts, refusing to take no for an answer. The
gifts were an odd mixture, but each was given
with great kindness, along with a blessing and
that same strange ges