Dracula

by Stoker, Bram

  Now we know! And we can take a deep breath … or our own swig of brandy!

  Very soon, we will all understand Van Helsing’s cryptic remark.

  Fatalistic or not, Van Helsing still plays to win; he counts his little victories.

  Here comes the fourth transfusion!

  And here’s our donor. Isn’t that a fortuitous coincidence? The conventional wisdom has it that coincidence in fiction destroys the fabric of the enveloping dream that a story is supposed to be. Yet real life does give us coincidences we have no choice in accepting. Half of Ripley’s Believe It or Not was coincidence-based anecdotes: The man really did lose his wedding ring when he was fishing and, six years later, caught a fish, and when preparing it for eating, voilà! The ring. So we can use coincidences if we have “something/somewhat” of a credible explanation for them.

  Which Stoker does. “He handed me a telegram.” Or you can have a character remark about the coincidental action before the reader can find fault with it:

  “How did you know I needed rescuing from the burning building where I was tied to a ticking time bomb in the alligator pit?” Pete asked.

  Joe said, “We’ve always had a sort of Corsican Brothers link …”

  “We have?” Pete said. “I thought you would have to have a mind for something like that!”

  “Always the jolly joker,” Joe said.

  (And see, I get to give you an example of unfunny humor in this note, too, showing you why you want to avoid that!)

  Vampire bats typically weigh 0.088 of a pound. They typically consume an ounce or a little less of blood from their victims. But in this period of scientific discovery and exploration, well, why not allow for a giant vampire bat? Jules Verne gave us a giant squid in 1870’s 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wrote of prehistoric monsters in modern times set loose in London in 1912’s The Lost World. Besides, Quincey is a Texan. Everyone knows everything is bigger in Texas!

  Good question.

  Today’s comic book reader recognizes this moment as the real beginning of “The Origin of the Super-Hero” team. The forces of good are beginning to align against the forces of evil, which have run rampant and unchecked for much of the story this far.

  We know, wise as we are about the fate of those “turned” by vampires, but the audience of Stoker’s day would have known only that “something bad is going on.”

  Compare the Dr. Seward who makes this sad and understated declaration to the immature wailing and moaning and overly emotional Dr. Histrionic we first met. He has been toughened by a tough situation. We have said this a few times now, but why did he transform? Stoker put the pressure on him.

  If writers want characters to grow as people, to change, and to act, those characters must find themselves in situations that will foster such change. The well-to-do prep school smarty-pants who has a reasonably successful and satisfying life acting in a prep school smarty-pants way has no reason to change. The well-to-do prep school smarty-pants whose family goes broke in the Crash of 1929, whose father and mother commit suicide, whose dog gets hit by a truck … ah, those scenarios just might have some serious effect on who he is and what he becomes.

  In order for coal to form a diamond, there must be great pressure.

  Interesting to consider how Dracula would be changed if the story took place in a world of cell phones and e-mails and instant communications and surveillance cameras and … did I just give you a prompt for your new novel?

  Because of what this character knows and what that one doesn’t and what you, Dear Reader, know, Stoker can create simple and remarkable moments of poignance like this.

  It’s yet another strength in using the epistolary narrative technique.

  We have excellent reasons to think Renfield is a servant of Dracula. What he’s actually doing now is somewhat ambiguous. But ambiguity does not prevent our understanding that Dracula is present and preparing for a lengthy stay.

  That is the purpose of the entire scene.

  An interesting tactic while using the epistolary format: the unopened letter. The information and commentary within the letter are known only to the writer and the reader (you and I) but not to the intended character. This is one more tactic an author can use to play with POV and to allow some characters to know vital information while withholding it from others.

  There has been considerable “real-world” wing flapping of late. Now Stoker, with his angel of death symbol, enables us to think of Dracula himself in this manner.

  We’ve noted the lengthening and sharpening of teeth previously and now. Stoker is a master of “symptom as symbol,” with teeth being a sign of aggresiveness—the beast showed its teeth—and thus, the metamorphosis from human to inhuman/Undead is both obvious and evocative.

  Admit it, this is a “Gotcha” moment! We did not see it coming. As to what it portends, well, we allow ourselves to hope that Lucy has been cured.

  But … no, that cannot be. The opening remarks of this section of Seward’s diary do not permit us to think that! And so we are just as confused as Stoker wants us to be.

  We read on to find answers.

  Simple, unadorned language and powerful because of it.

  You have a hint as to why hand holding is better than kissing, right? We’ve only recently talked about teeth, located behind the lips in the mouth, and thus likely to be employed by a vampire!

  Wow, that is writing. Van Helsing’s declaration is nothing less than a real declaration! And the use of the simile “like a lion at bay” does just what a figure of speech is meant to: It makes clear just how strong is Van Helsing’s stance on the matter!

  Now, had Harker been on the scene, he would have had some understanding of what Lucy’s up to, thanks to his encounters with Dracula’s three female companions.

  But Harker is not on the scene.

  Plotting a novel means not only figuring out what characters do, but also knowing what characters do not and cannot do—and had better not be allowed or made to do! This of course means that the writer must know thoroughly the world in which characters dwell and act—that world’s science, customs, etc.—and of course the characters and their limitations and strengths. “Write what you know” is your guideline—and likewise an indication that all you need to know is … everything!

  We will take another look at this line and its layers of meaning not too long from now.

  This is meant not as a deduction but almost a statement of faith, if not an optimistic faith …

  Because death, Van Helsing tells us, is not the end for Lucy. Well, what is the end?

  Chapter 13

  DR. SEWARD’S DIARY—CONT.

  The funeral was arranged for the next succeeding day, so that Lucy and her mother might be buried together. I attended to all the ghastly formalities, and the urbane undertaker proved that his staff was afflicted, or blessed, with something of his own obsequious suavity. Even the woman who performed the last offices for the dead remarked to me, in a confidential, brother-professional way, when she had come out from the death chamber:—

  “She makes a very beautiful corpse, sir. It’s quite a privilege to attend on her. It’s not too much to say that she will do credit to our establishment!”

  I noticed that Van Helsing never kept far away. This was possible from the disordered state of things in the household. There were no relatives at hand, and as Arthur had to be back the next day to attend at his father’s funeral, we were unable to notify any one who should have been bidden. Under the circumstances, Van Helsing and I took it upon ourselves to examine papers, etc. He insisted upon looking over Lucy’s papers himself. I asked him why, for I feared that he, being a foreigner, might not be quite aware of English legal requirements, and so might in ignorance make some unnecessary trouble.

  He answered me, “I know, I know. You forget that I am a lawyer as well as a doctor. But this is not altogether for the law. You knew that, when you avoided the coroner. I have more than him to avoid. There ma
y be papers more, such as this.”

  As he spoke he took from his pocket book the memorandum which had been in Lucy’s breast, and which she had torn in her sleep.

  “When you find anything of the solicitor who is for the late Mrs. Westenra, seal all her papers, and write him tonight. For me, I watch here in the room and in Miss Lucy’s old room all night, and I myself search for what may be. It is not well that her very thoughts go into the hands of strangers.”

  I went on with my part of the work, and in another half hour had found the name and address of Mrs. Westenra’s solicitor and had written to him. All the poor lady’s papers were in order. Explicit directions regarding the place of burial were given. I had hardly sealed the letter, when, to my surprise, Van Helsing walked into the room, saying, “Can I help you friend John? I am free, and if I may, my service is to you.”

  “Have you got what you looked for?” I asked.

  To which he replied, “I did not look for any specific thing. I only hoped to find, and find I have, all that there was, only some letters and a few memoranda, and a diary new begun. But I have them here, and we shall for the present say nothing of them. I shall see that poor lad tomorrow evening, and, with his sanction, I shall use some.”

  When we had finished the work in hand, he said to me, “And now, friend John, I think we may to bed. We want sleep, both you and I, and rest to recuperate. Tomorrow we shall have much to do, but for the tonight there is no need of us. Alas!”

  Before turning in we went to look at poor Lucy. The undertaker had certainly done his work well, for the room was turned into a small chapelle ardente. There was a wilderness of beautiful white flowers, and death was made as little repulsive as might be. The end of the winding sheet was laid over the face. When the Professor bent over and turned it gently back, we both started at the beauty before us, the tall wax candles showing a sufficient light to note it well. All Lucy’s loveliness had come back to her in death, and the hours that had passed, instead of leaving traces of ‘decay’s effacing fingers’, had but restored the beauty of life, till positively I could not believe my eyes that I was looking at a corpse.

  The Professor looked sternly grave. He had not loved her as I had, and there was no need for tears in his eyes. He said to me, “Remain till I return,” and left the room. He came back with a handful of wild garlic from the box waiting in the hall, but which had not been opened, and placed the flowers amongst the others on and around the bed. Then he took from his neck, inside his collar, a little gold crucifix, and placed it over the mouth. He restored the sheet to its place, and we came away.

  I was undressing in my own room, when, with a premonitory tap at the door, he entered, and at once began to speak:—

  “Tomorrow I want you to bring me, before night, a set of post-mortem knives.”

  “Must we make an autopsy?” I asked.

  “Yes and no. I want to operate, but not what you think. Let me tell you now, but not a word to another. I want to cut off her head and take out her heart. Ah! You a surgeon, and so shocked! You, whom I have seen with no tremble of hand or heart, do operations of life and death that make the rest shudder. Oh, but I must not forget, my dear friend John, that you loved her, and I have not forgotten it for is I that shall operate, and you must not help. I would like to do it tonight, but for Arthur I must not. He will be free after his father’s funeral tomorrow, and he will want to see her, to see it. Then, when she is coffined ready for the next day, you and I shall come when all sleep. We shall unscrew the coffin lid, and shall do our operation, and then replace all, so that none know, save we alone.”

  “But why do it at all? The girl is dead. Why mutilate her poor body without need? And if there is no necessity for a post-mortem and nothing to gain by it, no good to her, to us, to science, to human knowledge, why do it? Without such it is monstrous.”

  For answer he put his hand on my shoulder, and said, with infinite tenderness:—

  “Friend John, I pity your poor bleeding heart, and I love you the more because it does so bleed. If I could, I would take on myself the burden that you do bear. But there are things that you know not, but that you shall know, and bless me for knowing, though they are not pleasant things. John, my child, you have been my friend now many years, and yet did you ever know me to do any without good cause? I may err, I am but man, but I believe in all I do. Was it not for these causes that you send for me when the great trouble came? Yes! Were you not amazed, nay horrified, when I would not let Arthur kiss his love, though she was dying, and snatched him away by all my strength? Yes! And yet you saw how she thanked me, with her so beautiful dying eyes, her voice, too, so weak, and she kiss my rough old hand and bless me? Yes! And did you not hear me swear promise to her, that so she closed her eyes grateful? Yes!

  “Well, I have good reason now for all I want to do. You have for many years trust me. You have believe me weeks past, when there be things so strange that you might have well doubt. Believe me yet a little, friend John. If you trust me not, then I must tell what I think, and that is not perhaps well. And if I work, as work I shall, no matter trust or no trust, without my friend trust in me, I work with heavy heart and feel oh so lonely when I want all help and courage that may be!” He paused a moment and went on solemnly, “Friend John, there are strange and terrible days before us. Let us not be two, but one, that so we work to a good end. Will you not have faith in me?”

  I took his hand, and promised him. I held my door open as he went away, and watched him go to his room and close the door. As I stood without moving, I saw one of the maids pass silently along the passage, she had her back to me, so did not see me, and go into the room where Lucy lay. The sight touched me. Devotion is so rare, and we are so grateful to those who show it unasked to those we love. Here was a poor girl putting aside the terrors which she naturally had of death to go watch alone by the bier of the mistress whom she loved, so that the poor clay might not be lonely till laid to eternal rest.

  I must have slept long and soundly, for it was broad daylight when Van Helsing waked me by coming into my room. He came over to my bedside and said, “You need not trouble about the knives. We shall not do it.”

  “Why not?” I asked. For his solemnity of the night before had greatly impressed me.

  “Because,” he said sternly, “it is too late, or too early. See!” Here he held up the little golden crucifix. “This was stolen in the night.”

  “How stolen,” I asked in wonder, “since you have it now?”

  “Because I get it back from the worthless wretch who stole it, from the woman who robbed the dead and the living. Her punishment will surely come, but not through me. She knew not altogether what she did, and thus unknowing, she only stole. Now we must wait.”

  He went away on the word, leaving me with a new mystery to think of, a new puzzle to grapple with.

  The forenoon was a dreary time, but at noon the solicitor came, Mr. Marquand, of Wholeman, Sons, Marquand & Lidderdale. He was very genial and very appreciative of what we had done, and took off our hands all cares as to details. During lunch he told us that Mrs. Westenra had for some time expected sudden death from her heart, and had put her affairs in absolute order. He informed us that, with the exception of a certain entailed property of Lucy’s father which now, in default of direct issue, went back to a distant branch of the family, the whole estate, real and personal, was left absolutely to Arthur Holmwood. When he had told us so much he went on:—

  “Frankly we did our best to prevent such a testamentary disposition, and pointed out certain contingencies that might leave her daughter either penniless or not so free as she should be to act regarding a matrimonial alliance. Indeed, we pressed the matter so far that we almost came into collision, for she asked us if we were or were not prepared to carry out her wishes. Of course, we had then no alternative but to accept. We were right in principle, and ninety-nine times out of a hundred we should have proved, by the logic of events, the accuracy of our judgment. Frankly, howe
ver, I must admit that in this case any other form of disposition would have rendered impossible the carrying out of her wishes. For by her predeceasing her daughter the latter would have come into possession of the property, and, even had she only survived her mother by five minutes, her property would, in case there were no will, and a will was a practical impossibility in such a case, have been treated at her decease as under intestacy. In which case Lord Godalming, though so dear a friend, would have had no claim in the world. And the inheritors, being remote, would not be likely to abandon their just rights, for sentimental reasons regarding an entire stranger. I assure you, my dear sirs, I am rejoiced at the result, perfectly rejoiced.”

  He was a good fellow, but his rejoicing at the one little part, in which he was officially interested, of so great a tragedy, was an object-lesson in the limitations of sympathetic understanding.

  He did not remain long, but said he would look in later in the day and see Lord Godalming. His coming, however, had been a certain comfort to us, since it assured us that we should not have to dread hostile criticism as to any of our acts. Arthur was expected at five o’clock, so a little before that time we visited the death chamber. It was so in very truth, for now both mother and daughter lay in it. The undertaker, true to his craft, had made the best display he could of his goods, and there was a mortuary air about the place that lowered our spirits at once. Van Helsing ordered the former arrangement to be adhered to, explaining that, as Lord Godalming was coming very soon, it would be less harrowing to his feelings to see all that was left of his fiancee quite alone. The undertaker seemed shocked at his own stupidity and exerted himself to restore things to the condition in which we left them the night before, so that when Arthur came such shocks to his feelings as we could avoid were saved.

  Poor fellow! He looked desperately sad and broken. Even his stalwart manhood seemed to have shrunk somewhat under the strain of his much-tried emotions. He had, I knew, been very genuinely and devotedly attached to his father, and to lose him, and at such a time, was a bitter blow to him. With me he was warm as ever, and to Van Helsing he was sweetly courteous. But I could not help seeing that there was some constraint with him. The professor noticed it too, and motioned me to bring him upstairs.