Letter, Count Dracula to Abraham Van Helsing, 2 June 1892
Old friend,
Word has reached my ears that Elisabet ails for something, that some terrible affliction has beset her. I have heard that she is committed to an asylum, at your word. At first I could not believe this to be true, but now I think it is, and it brings great sorrow to my heart.
You know that I loved her, and it must hurt you to admit that. Yet she chose you, Abraham, and left me alone to live out my time in this castle, which has been a prison for me since that day. I wish for nothing but her happiness, and that perhaps you can forgive me for the transgression all those years ago. Yet it seems, if recent reports be true, forgiveness is not a quality you possess. I fancy that you never forgave Elisabet, either—for how long have you made her suffer? Was it not enough that she should give up her only child for you? Was it not enough that she was forced to live an existence almost as wretched as mine for more than twenty years? And have you not suffered also? If this anger that you bear us has never left you, then can you not see what a bitter, twilit existence you have led? I wonder if your petty revenge was worth the destruction of three lives.
If there is truth to these latest rumours, then have the courage to make it plain. That Elisabet rots in a madhouse, while you carouse with the women of Amsterdam is bad enough. But I have heard tell of something more troubling still—that Elisabet’s son is alive. That he did not die, as you told me. And that can mean only one thing, can it not?
Now, an Englishman has come to my home, and he comes to secure me passage to England, where I can see for myself if you truly have done this terrible thing. I go because we are far beyond honest questions and truthful answers, you and I. I hope my intelligence is false. If it is, then I hope beyond hope that we may still reconcile. But what if it is true? What if Count Dracula, alone in his crumbling palace, should discover that he has a mortal enemy still, set in opposition to his every desire? What then could Count Dracula do?
Believe me, old friend, when I say that there is nothing I would not do! I am an exile from the world because I choose to be. I attempt to atone for the wrongs I did you. But if Elisabet is hurt because of you, I swear there will be nowhere on this earth you can hide from me. You think me without influence? This is your greatest mistake. For twenty-three years you have harboured me ill will. It is you who forces me to re-join the world—you who drags me from my solitude. Remember, old friend, that the blood of conquerors flows in these veins, and such blood can boil with passions that your German line may never understand. Here in Transylvania we have a saying: the blood is the life! It does not translate well, perhaps, but I am sure you take the meaning well enough.
But again I say it; these rumours cannot be true. And when you tell me that they are not—when you look me in the eye and tell me that you still honour the last vestige of friendship that ever was between us—then I shall put back the sword of my ancestors, and perhaps, at long last, we shall have peace.
Whether you believe it or no, I am ever your friend,
D.