dubiously. Finally, Seward spoke. “Mrs. Harker, I have listened carefully to your story. I must say, it appears to me that you are obsessed with this man, or the
“I did not create him!” I said. “He is there-there in the picture!”
Seward put his hand up to stop me from continuing. “But moments ago you claimed it was a photographic trick. Can you not make up your mind?” He turned to my husband. “Mr. Harker-Jon-let us be sensible. It is very easy for one person to resemble another in a photograph. May I submit to you that the gentleman in the newspaper photograph merely looks like the Count? Might you at least entertain that possibility?”
Jonathan nodded slowly, dubiously. “Yes, that is possible, though the resemblance is remarkable.”
“May I suggest to you that because you were so disturbed to see your wife’s picture in the newspaper with another man, and because you associate all recent bad experiences with the Austrian count, that you are imagining that it is he? I can see how this figure in the photograph might resemble many people. The image is rather blurred, is it not?”
“That is possible,” Jonathan said carefully, considering the idea. He examined the photograph again. “Yes, it is a blurry image, especially the face.” I saw that Jonathan was capable of making peace with an explanation that posited that I was insane.
“Now everyone, please try to follow my analysis, especially you, Jon. I have seen hundreds of women suffering from various forms of sexual hysteria, and I know the symptoms and patterns all too well. Could it be that when Mrs. Harker saw the image of the handsome gentleman in the photograph, which this article proves was achieved with a photographic trick, she fell in love with that image? Already she was prone to sleepwalking and hallucinatory dreams. You were away on business, and so she began to transfer her feelings for you onto this phantom, which she associates with the gentleman who interrupted the attack on her at the riverbank. In Whitby, caught up in Lucy’s obsession with Morris Quince, she felt deprived of romance herself and so escalated her fantasy about this man. She began to have dreams about him, dreams of an erotic and fantastic nature.”
Seward looked at me with accusing eyes, but I was paralyzed by the direction of his analysis.
“As the obsession escalated, Mrs. Harker began to imagine that the man was following her, in love with her, appearing wherever and whenever she required him to take part in her fantasy. She even imagined that he sent her a letter about your whereabouts in Austria. And now, Mr. Hawkins, the true sender of that note, is most inconveniently deceased, so that we cannot ask him about the matter.” Seward shook his head sadly.
I wanted to argue with him that the Count was in fact doing the things I claimed, but how could I be certain? The more I insisted, the more I would sound insane, or that was my reasoning at the time.
“Mrs. Harker, you know what I am about to say, do you not?”
I shook my head.
“Yours is a typical case of erotomania.” Seward turned to Jonathan. “If not treated, the patient progresses into nymphomaniacal behavior. Mrs. Harker knows this is true because she is familiar with certain cases in this very institution.”
“And what is nymphomaniacal behavior?” Jonathan asked.
“The indiscriminate seduction of men, which would prove to be humiliating to both of you. Fortunately, there is treatment available.”
My body went cold. “No, I do not need treatment. I am not ill! I am not the patient here!” I remembered how Lucy’s emotional response to the suggestion of treatment in Whitby gave Seward the confirmation of hysteria he sought, so I tried to calm myself. “Can we not discuss this rationally? I am in perfect health. I have had bad dreams, that is all. Dr. Seward, you, yourself, confirmed this just days ago. Why do you now think I am ill?”
“I did not know the extent of your condition, Mrs. Harker. You were not honest with me,” he said, and then he added, “not honest about many things.” He crossed his arms in recrimination. “You remember what I said about lying and cunning being symptoms of the sexual hysteric? I held you above that, but I now see that I was wrong. You came to me for help. You advised me of your imaginings, but you did not give me the whole truth, and I misdiagnosed you. I am the physician, and I should have seen through your carefully constructed version of reality, but you must let me make it up to you by treating you.”
He turned to Jonathan. “You see, of all animals, woman has the most acute faculties, which are exalted by the influence of their reproductive organs. They are most sensitive creatures, easily susceptible to hysteria. The female body conspires with the female mind. We must be compassionate toward them and try to help them, or the spinning of fantastical tales and hallucinations escalate out of control.”
“Mina, you must submit to treatment,” Jonathan said. “You asked me to come here for evaluation, and I did as you asked. Now it is your turn to accommodate my wishes.”
“Do you want this phantom lover of your imagination to haunt you for the rest of your days, Mrs. Harker?” Seward asked.
My only hope lay with my husband. “Jonathan, please do not let them treat me. Their treatments killed Lucy. They force-fed her and gave her fatal blood transfusions and she died!” I tried not to sound desperate. My mind raced for something to say to get out of the situation-anything to free me from being entrapped in this place-but I was too frightened to think. I was, in fact, the antithesis of the cunning liar of Seward’s description. I felt utterly hopeless to affect my situation. Even Lucy, the great liar who had been manipulating people since her childhood, had not been able to escape Seward’s diagnosis and treatment. What hope had I?
Seward easily rebuked me. “Lady Godalming refused food, made herself weak, and contracted a fever. You know all this, or rather, your rational mind knows this, but your disorder is causing your mind to distort the facts.” He turned to Von Helsinger. “Is that not correct?”
Von Helsinger turned his palm up and shrugged as if to say
“Jon, do we have your permission to treat Mrs. Harker?” Seward maintained treacherous calm.
Jonathan picked up the newspaper again and stared at the photograph. “Now that I reexamine it, I see that could be a ghostly image that resembles the Count. I am sorry that I caused a sensation this morning, but I had such a fright when I saw him, or what I thought was him, with my wife. But it is all for the best. God has been at work here, using this situation to expose Mina’s problem.”
“Very well said, sir.” Seward opened his black bag, extracting a hypodermic kit, similar to the one Mr. Hawkins’s doctor had used.
“No!” I protested. “I do not need medication!” The more I talked, the more I sounded like Lucy. I forced myself to be quiet, but when I saw Seward come toward me with the needle, I started to scream.
Dr. Von Helsinger rang the bell beneath his desk, while Jonathan came to me, wrapping his arms around me. “Just let them help you, Mina. Soon, it will all be better,” he said. Seward stood in front of me holding the long, loaded syringe in his hand, needle pointing to the sky. Mrs. Kranz and Mrs. Vogt came through the door.
“We will be admitting Mrs. Harker this morning as a patient,” Seward said. “Make all the preparations to begin the water cure immediately.”
“What is the water cure?” My heart was racing as Jonathan gave way to the two women, who each took one of my arms. I was astonished at how strong they were, how able they were to subdue my efforts to resist.
“It will relax you. It will expunge all the bad humors from your blood that cause nervous debility, and it will give you peace,” Seward said as I squirmed beneath the grip of the two women. “Mrs. Harker, please do not resist. You don’t want me to hurt you.”
The room went silent but for the sound of Von Helsinger sucking on his pipe, and my silken sleeve being pushed above my elbow.
The drug swept through the current of my veins, carrying with it some numbing agent that caused the tension in my muscles to vanish, rapidly giving way to a loss of interest in rebellion. My arguments and logic for self- preservation dissipated like so much smoke, disintegrating into the air like the fumes from Von Helsinger’s pipe. Waves of apathy rolled through my torso, limbs, and loins, and I was vaguely aware of being carried, of being undressed, of lying alone on a soft bed, of caresses, and of murmurs of comfort breathed into my ear. And then, of
