Let's Read Dracula [Spoiler-Free]

Thuktun F · May 3, 2024

And so we officially begin our journey into the book Dracula.

JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL
(Kept in shorthand.)

3 May. Bistritz — Left Munich at 8:35 P. M., on 1st May, arriving at Vienna early next morning; should have arrived at 6:46, but train was an hour late. Buda-Pesth seems a wonderful place, from the glimpse which I got of it from the train and the little I could walk through the streets. I feared to go very far from the station, as we had arrived late and would start as near the correct time as possible. The impression I had was that we were leaving the West and entering the East; the most western of splendid bridges over the Danube, which is here of noble width and depth, took us among the traditions of Turkish rule.

Already Stoker makes good on the epistolary format, with a good ol' fashioned journal entry. The mention that it is written in shorthand is of interest to me- owing to the setting of 1897 and Harker being what I assume is an Englishman, he is likely using Pitman shorthand, which was developed in 1837 (Pitman himself actually would've been dead only a few months from Jonathan's perspective). Stenography (also known as phonography at the time) was largely used by journalists and office workers like clerks and lawyers. Given Stoker's own experiences, perhaps our good friend Harker is a journalist?

We left in pretty good time, and came after nightfall to Klausenburgh. Here I stopped for the night at the Hotel Royale. I had for dinner, or rather supper, a chicken done up some way with red pepper, which was very good but thirsty. (Mem., get recipe for Mina.) I asked the waiter, and he said it was called "paprika hendl," and that, as it was a national dish, I should be able to get it anywhere along the Carpathians. I found my smattering of German very useful here; indeed, I don't know how I should be able to get on without it.

Paprika hendl, also known as paprikás czirke or chicken paprikash, is a dish of Hungarian origin, and having made it on many occasions, I have to agree with Jonathan's praise. It's interesting that he describes it as "thirsty", likely meaning spicy. Is Stoker implicitly making a joke about the British palate, as modern paprikash uses sweet paprika, or did he do his research considering that paprikash of the time used the much spicier Hungarian paprika?

It is also here that we get some insight into the region of the time. Despite being already being deep inside what we nowadays call Romania, Harker exclusively uses German terms for cuisine and cities, and his German is able to get him by in the area. It makes sense, as this region was under the jurisdiction of the empire of Austria-Hungary during this time.

Of last note for this section, we have another character name-dropped. I'm guessing that Mina is his wife or fiancee, though her relevance to the story has yet to be determined. Either way, it's very sweet of him to get a recipe for her.

Having had some time at my disposal when in London, I had visited the British Museum, and made search among the books and maps in the library regarding Transylvania; it had struck me that some foreknowledge of the country could hardly fail to have some importance in dealing with a nobleman of that country.

Lawyer it is then. And one who isn't afraid to dive into books to get a grasp of what to expect in Transylvania, which puts him above 99% of tourists.

The journal entry proceeds to talk about Transylvania for a while, which overall demonstrates a sort of romanticism, where the region is treated as a place of mystique and superstition (aka Brits don't often go there).

I did not sleep well, though my bed was comfortable enough, for I had all sorts of queer 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 the paprika, for I had to drink up all the water in my carafe, and was still thirsty.

dog screaming itself hoarse under his window
"Hmmm... chimken hot."

I had for breakfast more paprika, and a sort of porridge of maize flour which they said was "mamaliga," and egg-plant stuffed with forcemeat, a very excellent dish, which they call "impletata." (Mem., get recipe for this also.)

Gotta give Jonathan credit here for going back for seconds. I too understand what it's like to still eat a food that ruins you because the yum-yum is worth it.

For another culinary note, mămăligă is basically Eastern European polenta. It is much coarser and thicker, to the point where you can slice it with a sewing thread and serve it like bread once it's cooled down, and you often smear sour cream or cream cheese on it. Highly recommend.

I had to hurry breakfast, for the train started a little before eight, or rather it ought to have done so, for after rushing to the station at 7:30 I had to sit in the carriage for more than an hour before we began to move. It seems to me that the further east you go the more unpunctual are the trains. What ought they to be in China?

From my personal experience? Pretty punctual, though they smell strongly of cigarettes. Then again, in 1897 Qing China, trains were treated with suspicion from all social levels, albeit for different reasons. The nobility thought they'd just bring more British imperialism (Empress Dowager Cixi also hated the noise of the engine and insisted they be pulled manually by eunuchs in her court), while the peasantry felt they messed with fengshui and would often just yank the rails out of the ground.

Even when China grew more interested in rail following them losing the first Sino-Japanese War in 1895, most of the construction was done by foreign powers, and shit still wasn't going great.

Anyway, Jonathan continues to describe the Transylvanian countryside and locals in ways that seem both products of the time, with his describing Slovaks as "On the stage they would be set down at once as some old Oriental band of brigands", as well as genuinely curious and unjudging, with him saying in the same breath that the Slovaks are just harmless people like all the others. I have seen less open-minded takes from modern tourists, so I'll give Johnny a pass for some of his statements.

Our entry ends with our good friend Jonathan arriving at his hotel in Bistritz (nowadays known as Bistrița), where he is given a letter.

"My Friend.--Welcome to the Carpathians. I am anxiously expecting you. Sleep well to-night. At three to-morrow the diligence will start for Bukovina; a place on it is kept for you. At the Borgo Pass my carriage will await you and 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.

And with that we have been introduced, if only indirectly, to the title character of the book. He seems amiable enough, though I will admit I find the name suspect- in Romanian, dracula means "son of the devil", with etymology deriving from the Latin word for dragon (dragons have been long associated with Satan). It also shares a name with a prince of Wallachia, a state that bordered Transylvania.

Considering said prince's reputation, hopefully it's just a case of Stoker thinking the name was cool.

Thuktun F · May 4, 2024

Today's update of Dracula is rather short, but contains a lot more meat compared to Harker's enthusiastic travelogue.

JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL
(Kept in shorthand.)

4 May.—I found that my landlord had got a letter from the Count, directing him to secure the best place on the coach for me; but on making inquiries as to details he seemed somewhat reticent, and pretended that he could not understand my German. This could not be true, because up to then he had understood it perfectly; at least, he answered my questions exactly as if he did.

And here we seem to get our first sign of trouble, which characterizes both Jonathan and our as of yet unseen title character. Based on the behavior of the landlord, Dracula at once seems like someone who you don't disobey requests from, and also someone you're willing to drag your feet for. Considering that this is evidently a wealthy nobleman that he's lollygagging on, it says a lot about how unliked -or even feared- he must be.

At the same time, we see that Jonathan is not one to boorishly ignore details in a foreign country that indicate something is off. Nevertheless he seems intent on going.

He and his wife, the old lady who had received me, looked at each other in a frightened sort of way. He mumbled out that the money had been sent in a letter, and that was all he knew. When I asked him if he knew Count Dracula, and could tell me anything of his castle, both he and his wife crossed themselves, and, saying that they knew nothing at all, simply refused to speak further. It was so near the time of starting that I had no time to ask any one else, for it was all very mysterious and not by any means comforting.

Nothing at all concerning about the locals crossing themselves when asked about a dude whose name means "son of the devil". No siree. I know that the historical figure Vlad Dracula III of Wallachia was largely despised and feared in local peasant folklore due to his massacres of Transylvanian Saxons, though concurrently there was a Romanian nationalist movement that was shaping him into a hero because he butchered Turks and was a """"strong leader"""".

Irredentist mythmaking. Gotta love it.

Considering Vlad Dracula III was Wallachian, while this is Transylvania, I wonder if perhaps Stoker made a historical error of placing a descendant here, or if simply this Count is of an unrelated line that, ah, earned the name "Dracula".

Just before I was leaving, the old lady came up to my room and said in a very hysterical way:

"Must you go? Oh! young Herr, must you go?" She was in such an excited state that she seemed to have lost her grip of what German she knew, and mixed it all up with some other language which I did not know at all. I was just able to follow her by asking many questions. When I told her that I must go at once, and that I was engaged on important business, she asked again:

"Do you know what day it is?" I answered that it was the fourth of May. She shook her head as she said again:

"Oh, yes! I know that! I know that, but do you know what day it is?" On my saying that I did not understand, she went on:

"It is the eve of St. George's Day. Do you not know that to-night, when the clock strikes midnight, all the evil things in the world will have full sway? Do you know where you are going, and what you are going to?"

This is actually a correct date despite the fact that the Romanian Orthodox Church celebrates St. George's Day on April 23rd, as they use the Julian Calendar, which was 12 days behind the Gregorian in 1897.

Of course, I don't think it's actually the fact that St. George's Eve is coming up that's making her plead tearfully for our good friend Jonathan to not go. Maybe it was the crossing themselves at the mention of Dracula, I dunno.

Funny enough, one of the most famous legends of St. George is him slaying a dragon. What's the original etymology of Dracula again?

Of course, none of this Eastern Orthodox stuff is gonna stop our Anglican boy.

She was in such evident distress that I tried to comfort her, but without effect. Finally she went down on her knees and implored me not to go; at least to wait a day or two before starting. It was all very ridiculous but I did not feel comfortable. However, there was business to be done, and I could allow nothing to interfere with it. I therefore tried to raise her up, and said, as gravely as I could, that I thanked her, but my duty was imperative, and that I must go. She then rose and dried her eyes, and taking a crucifix from her neck offered it to me. I did not know what to do, for, as an English Churchman, I have been taught to regard such things as in some measure idolatrous, and yet it seemed so ungracious to refuse an old lady meaning so well and in such a state of mind. She saw, I suppose, the doubt in my face, for she put the rosary round my neck, and said, "For your mother's sake," and went out of the room.

Considering this is a Brit in 1897 whose POV we're reading, this imperative business that's making him trudge forward despite all of these dread warning signs could be pretty minor stuff. Then again, even in modern times most people would be pretty hesitant to throw their job in the trash even in the face of some seriously bad vibes. I was a delivery driver in 2020, so maybe I sympathize with him more than others might.

Here we also see that our good friend Jonathan is kind enough to commit just a smidge of blasphemy to assuage a kind old lady. He certainly seems like a nice enough guy despite also being a product of Victorian England.

I am writing up this part of the diary whilst I am waiting 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, or the crucifix itself, I do not know, but I am not feeling nearly as easy in my mind as usual. If this book should ever reach Mina before I do, let it bring my good-bye. Here comes the coach!

Methinks he's more rattled than he's admitting even in his own diary. The chafing between societal expectations and his own instincts is most visible here- Jonathan is a pretty sharp fellow all things considered, and he has received enough warnings to know that he's likely in for a rough time, but by God he's a proper Englishman with a job to do and bills to pay.

thinks back to how he got Covid a week into his delivery job but still had to go back because he had student loans

Yeah I feel ya there, buddy.

Thuktun F · May 5, 2024

The journey of our good friend Jonathan Harker continues, and now it looks like we're finally meeting the main man.

JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL
(Kept in shorthand.)

5 May. The Castle. —The grey of the morning has passed, and the sun is high over the distant horizon, which seems jagged, whether with trees or hills I know not, for it is so far off that big things and little are mixed. I am not sleepy, and, as I am not to be called till I awake, naturally I write till sleep comes. There are many odd things to put down, and, lest who reads them may fancy that I dined too well before I left Bistritz, let me put down my dinner exactly.

Looks like those queer dreams from the paprika were a little worse than he let on, and he's assuming we're gonna think what he's writing now will be seen as mere products of indigestion.

I dined on what they called "robber steak"—bits of bacon, onion, and beef, seasoned with red pepper, and strung on sticks and roasted over the fire, in the simple style of the London cat's meat!

No, he's not talking about eating cats. In England at the time, you had ladies (started with dudes, but by Jonathan's time had become a female-dominated profession) who'd go through the streets hauling a wheelbarrow full of scrap meat on skewers, which they'd sell to people as treats for their kitties.

As another note, I literally cannot find any mention of the term "robber steak" that isn't related to this book.

When I got on the coach the driver had not taken his seat, and I saw him talking with the landlady. They were evidently talking of me, for every now and then they looked at me, and some of the people who were sitting on the bench outside the door—which they call by a name meaning "word-bearer"—came and listened, and then looked at me, most of them pityingly. I could hear a lot of words often repeated, queer words, for there were many nationalities in the crowd; so I quietly got my polyglot dictionary from my bag and looked them out. I must say they were not cheering to me, for amongst them were "Ordog"—Satan, "pokol"—hell, "stregoica"—witch, "vrolok" and "vlkoslak"—both of which mean the same thing, one being Slovak and the other Servian for something that is either were-wolf or vampire. (Mem., I must ask the Count about these superstitions)

Buddy, I think the Count is these superstitions. Vlkoslak and vrolok are derived from proto-Slavic, meaning "having the hair of a wolf", though in some Slavic countries of the time it could also be used to describe vampires.

Considering the etymology and the howling of a dog that had kept Jonathan up, I'm starting to think our good Count might actually be a werewolf. So much my for pet theory about him being a dragon, though.

When we started, the crowd round the inn door, which had by this time swelled to a considerable size, all made the sign of the cross and pointed two fingers towards me.

Considering Jonathan is uneasy about this himself rather than just boorishly ignoring it all, this job must really be make or break for him. He definitely strikes me as a younger fellow, though I can't really say without more info.

I will also say that it's quite heartening to see the book depict Eastern Europeans as good-natured people trying to keep a stranger from becoming werewolf chow, rather than just some sort of craven stereotype. Even to this day media depiction of them in the West is not... ideal.

With some difficulty I got a fellow-passenger to tell me what they meant; he would not answer at first, but on learning that I was English, he explained that it was a charm or guard against the evil eye. This was not very pleasant for me, just starting for an unknown place to meet an unknown man; but every one seemed so kind-hearted, and so sorrowful, and so sympathetic that I could not but be touched. I shall never forget the last glimpse which I had of the inn-yard and its crowd of picturesque figures, all crossing themselves, as they stood round the wide archway, with its background of rich foliage of oleander and orange trees in green tubs clustered in the centre of the yard. Then our driver, whose wide linen drawers covered the whole front of the box-seat—"gotza" they call them—cracked his big whip over his four small horses, which ran abreast, and we set off on our journey.

"This is scary, but not having a job in this economy is even scarier!"

After this, Jonathan spends a great deal of time describing the beauty of the countryside as he journeys to the castle, interspersed with some tidbits of history like "the roads aren't 100% because in the past that invited Ottoman reprisal due to them suspecting it was to make soldiers' marches easier". I'm not gonna focus too much on the travelogging, except for this:

Here and there we passed Cszeks and Slovaks, all in picturesque attire, but I noticed that goitre was painfully prevalent.

Goitre is a swelling of the neck caused by your thyroid becoming enlarged. 90% of goitre cases are due to iodine deficiency, which was absolutely a huge problem for people living inland because the easiest way to get iodine back then was from seafood.

Goitre could often get bad enough to hinder breathing, so a common treatment was to remove part or all of the thyroid (my mom actually had to get all of hers removed), and such surgery was even performed back then. The result was usually an ugly scar that people would cover up with cloth, which is what Jonathan seems to be noting is "painfully prevalent".

Remember how the people were shouting about vampires earlier? In Slavic folklore, vampires are said to bite over the heart or between the eyes, which doesn't really add up, but I wouldn't be surprised if Stoker is taking inspiration from fellow Irishman Sheridan Le Fanu's Carmilla, which has the titular vampire bite Laura on the neck.

When it grew dark there seemed to be some excitement amongst the passengers, and they kept speaking to him, one after the other, as though urging him to further speed.

"If we pass the stop too early we can save the foreign blorbo!"

One by one several of the passengers offered me gifts, which they pressed upon me with an earnestness which would take no denial; these were certainly of an odd and varied kind, but each was given in simple good faith, with a kindly word, and a blessing, and that strange mixture of fear-meaning movements which I had seen outside the hotel at Bistritz—the sign of the cross and the guard against the evil eye.

There's something oddly heartwarming about how these people are all trying to keep this poor stranger safe, even if it may mean reprisal from their local lord. Maybe after seeing the abundant selfishness of people in my neck of the woods during the pandemic, such basic decency is a surprise.

Anyway, our good friend Jonathan finally arrives at the stop where he's supposed to be picked up, but no one's there.

The passengers drew back with a sigh of gladness, which seemed to mock my own disappointment. I was already thinking what I had best do, when the driver, looking at his watch, said to the others something which I could hardly hear, it was spoken so quietly and in so low a tone; I thought it was "An hour less than the time." Then turning to me, he said in German worse than my own:—

"There is no carriage here. The Herr is not expected after all. He will now come on to Bukovina, and return to-morrow or the next day; better the next day."

"Maybe if we feed him enough paprika the bad dreams will scare him off for good."

The fact he's noting this in his journal is proof enough Jonathan knows shit is off, but it seems he's in a bit of denial. I wouldn't be surprised if he's just chalking it up to the anxiety of being in a foreign country. Imagine having to explain to your boss that you didn't make an important appointment just because of bad vibes and warnings from -gasp- Orthodox peasants?!

Well anyway, it looks like the helpful Orthodox peasants are taking the choice out of his hands, so maybe-

Whilst he was speaking the horses began to neigh and snort and plunge wildly, so that the driver had to hold them up. Then, amongst a chorus of screams from the peasants and a universal crossing of themselves, a calèche, with four horses, drove up behind us, overtook us, and drew up beside the coach. I could see from the flash of our lamps, as the rays fell on them, that the horses were coal-black and splendid animals. They were driven by a tall man, with a long brown beard and a great black hat, which seemed to hide his face from us. I could only see the gleam of a pair of very bright eyes, which seemed red in the lamplight, as he turned to us.

Fuck.

He said to the driver:—

"You are early to-night, my friend." The man stammered in reply:—

"The English Herr was in a hurry," to which the stranger replied:—

"That is why, I suppose, you wished him to go on to Bukovina. You cannot deceive me, my friend; I know too much, and my horses are swift." As he spoke he smiled, and the lamplight fell on a hard-looking mouth, with very red lips and sharp-looking teeth, as white as ivory.

Imagine straight-up hearing this exchange and realizing you're supposed to go with the scary hat man, alone. I'd yell at Jonathan to run, but I think at this point it wouldn't matter.

One of my companions whispered to another the line from Burger's "Lenore":—

"Denn die Todten reiten schnell"— ("For the dead travel fast.")

And Jonathan's dinner travels faster.

Anyway, Jonathan gets in the hat man's coach, with the casual mention that the dude has a grip like steel, and off they go. The driver is at least polite enough to give him a warm blanky and offer him some plum brandy for the ride. Still, at this point Jonathan is wishing there had been any alternative to the path he is currently on.

That's before the wolves start howling and the ground becomes covered in fog, btw. It looks like Stoker is turning this travelogue into straight-up Gothic horror.

Suddenly, away on our left, I saw a faint flickering blue flame. The driver saw it at the same moment; he at once checked the horses, and, jumping to the ground, disappeared into the darkness. I did not know what to do, the less as the howling of the wolves grew closer; but while I wondered the driver suddenly appeared again, and without a word took his seat, and we resumed our journey. I think I must have fallen asleep and kept dreaming of the incident, for it seemed to be repeated endlessly, and now looking back, it is like a sort of awful nightmare. Once the flame appeared so near the road, that even in the darkness around us I could watch the driver's motions. He went rapidly to where the blue flame arose—it must have been very faint, for it did not seem to illumine the place around it at all—and gathering a few stones, formed them into some device. Once there appeared a strange optical effect: when he stood between me and the flame he did not obstruct it, for I could see its ghostly flicker all the same. This startled me, but as the effect was only momentary, I took it that my eyes deceived me straining through the darkness. Then for a time there were no blue flames, and we sped onwards through the gloom, with the howling of the wolves around us, as though they were following in a moving circle.

He is trying so hard to downplay The Horrors in his journal, but it's blatantly clear that this is terrified denial rather than him being thickheaded. He has no options at this point, really, so might as well try and pretend like it's all cool.

At last there came a time when the driver went further afield than he had yet gone, and during his absence, the horses began to tremble worse than ever and to snort and scream with fright. I could not see any cause for it, for the howling of the wolves had ceased altogether; but just then the moon, sailing through the black clouds, appeared behind the jagged crest of a beetling, pine-clad rock, and by its light I saw around us a ring of wolves, with white teeth and lolling red tongues, with long, sinewy limbs and shaggy hair. They were a hundred times more terrible in the grim silence which held them than even when they howled. For myself, I felt a sort of paralysis of fear. It is only when a man feels himself face to face with such horrors that he can understand their true import.

That is actually a pretty terrifying mental image, thanks.

I shouted and beat the side of the calèche, hoping by the noise to scare the wolves from that side, so as to give him a chance of reaching the trap. How he came there, I know not, but I heard his voice raised in a tone of imperious command, and looking towards the sound, saw him stand in the roadway. As he swept his long arms, as though brushing aside some impalpable obstacle, the wolves fell back and back further still. Just then a heavy cloud passed across the face of the moon, so that we were again in darkness.

Is it a comfort or a terror, to know that something even wolves shy away from is your coach driver?

After this incident, we finally arrive at the castle, and again Jonathan makes note of the driver's immense strength, comparing it to a steel vise that could've crushed his arm if desired. Then the coach disappears (probably so its driver can take off his Grouch Marx disguise and head into his castle), and our good friend finds himself at the door all alone.

I stood in silence where I was, for I did not know what to do. Of bell or knocker there was no sign; through these frowning walls and dark window openings it was not likely that my voice could penetrate. The time I waited seemed endless, and I felt doubts and fears crowding upon me. What sort of place had I come to, and among what kind of people? What sort of grim adventure was it on which I had embarked? Was this a customary incident in the life of a solicitor's clerk sent out to explain the purchase of a London estate to a foreigner? Solicitor's clerk! Mina would not like that. Solicitor—for just before leaving London I got word that my examination was successful; and I am now a full-blown solicitor! I began to rub my eyes and pinch myself to see if I were awake. It all seemed like a horrible nightmare to me, and I expected that I should suddenly awake, and find myself at home, with the dawn struggling in through the windows, as I had now and again felt in the morning after a day of overwork. But my flesh answered the pinching test, and my eyes were not to be deceived. I was indeed awake and among the Carpathians. All I could do now was to be patient, and to wait the coming of the morning.

And at last, we peer past the veil Jonathan has put over his eyes and our own, and we can see just how fucking terrified this guy is, and the context only makes it worse. Owing to the nature of being a solicitor's apprentice and the time frames involved, Harker is probably no older than 23. He's younger than me.

Not to mention dude probably spent the past two months sleeplessly studying for the exam, and without any rest he's then sent to a foreign country where everyone he meets prays for his safety and tries to keep him from meeting this Dracula dude.

At the same time, it also explains why he trucks on anyway- this is literally his first job in a career he's spent the past five years training for, he's young, and he evidently has either a wife or fiancee back home to keep in mind. Victorian expectations, the anxiety of youth, and the need for stable income are all overriding self-preservation instincts he pretty clearly has screaming at him.

But he doesn't have long to think about The Horrors.

Just as I had come to this conclusion I heard a heavy step approaching behind the great door, and saw through the chinks the gleam of a coming light. Then there was the sound of rattling chains and the clanking of massive bolts drawn back. A key was turned with the loud grating noise of long disuse, and the great door swung back.

At last, we get a look at the titular character.

Within, stood a tall old man, clean shaven save for a long white moustache, and clad in black from head to foot, without a single speck of colour about him anywhere. He held in his hand an antique silver lamp, in which the flame burned without chimney or globe of any kind, throwing long quivering shadows as it flickered in the draught of the open door.

"It's always Halloween in my soul..."

The old man motioned me in with his right hand with a courtly gesture, saying in excellent English, but with a strange intonation:—

"Welcome to my house! Enter freely and of your own will!" He made no motion of stepping to meet me, but stood like a statue, as though his gesture of welcome had fixed him into stone. The instant, however, that I had stepped over the threshold, he moved impulsively forward, and holding out his hand grasped mine with a strength which made me wince, an effect which was not lessened by the fact that it seemed as cold as ice—more like the hand of a dead than a living man.

Almost like he is... un-dead or something...

"Welcome to my house. Come freely. Go safely; and leave something of the happiness you bring!" The strength of the handshake was so much akin to that which I had noticed in the driver, whose face I had not seen, that for a moment I doubted if it were not the same person to whom I was speaking; so to make sure, I said interrogatively:—

"Count Dracula?"

This all but confirms that he was the coach driver, which coupled with the fact that he opened the door himself instead of having servants do it, paints an odd picture of a man(?) living all by himself in a crumbling old castle, unable to retain even with a nobleman's wealth some help.

He bowed in a courtly way as he replied:—

"I am Dracula; and I bid you welcome, Mr. Harker, to my house. Come in; the night air is chill, and you must need to eat and rest." As he was speaking, he put the lamp on a bracket on the wall, and stepping out, took my luggage; he had carried it in before I could forestall him. I protested but he insisted:—

"Nay, sir, you are my guest. It is late, and my people are not available. Let me see to your comfort myself." He insisted on carrying my traps along the passage, and then up a great winding stair, and along another great passage, on whose stone floor our steps rang heavily. At the end of this he threw open a heavy door, and I rejoiced to see within a well-lit room in which a table was spread for supper, and on whose mighty hearth a great fire of logs, freshly replenished, flamed and flared.

I now have the mental image of this absolutely terrifying werewolf-or-vampire running into the castle, hurried setting up the table, cooking some dinner, changing out of his disguise, running to the door, then taking a minute to collect himself and pretend he'd just woken up. All to try and pretend nothing's wrong for the sake of this dude who thinks everything is wrong.

Anyway, our good friend Jonathan freshens up and heads to dinner.

I found supper already laid out. My host, who stood on one side of the great fireplace, leaning against the stonework, made a graceful wave of his hand to the table, and said:

"I pray you, be seated and sup how you please. You will, I trust, excuse me that I do not join you; but I have dined already, and I do not sup."

It's still a bit weird to just stand a little to the side while someone eats, dude. Also, as a note for those who aren't sure of the terminology- back in the time this novel was set, "dinner" was just the big meal of the day, usually taking the place of lunch, with supper being the evening/nighttime meal.

I handed to him the sealed letter which Mr. Hawkins had entrusted to me. He opened it and read it gravely; then, with a charming smile, he handed it to me to read. One passage of it, at least, gave me a thrill of pleasure.

"I must regret that an attack of gout, from which malady I am a constant sufferer, forbids absolutely any travelling on my part for some time to come; but I am happy to say I can send a sufficient substitute, one in whom I have every possible confidence. He is a young man, full of energy and talent in his own way, and of a very faithful disposition. He is discreet and silent, and has grown into manhood in my service. He shall be ready to attend on you when you will during his stay, and shall take your instructions in all matters."

Dude's boss literally threw him to the wolves on this one.

The Count himself came forward and took off the cover of a dish, and I fell to at once on an excellent roast chicken. This, with some cheese and a salad and a bottle of old Tokay, of which I had two glasses, was my supper. During the time I was eating it the Count asked me many questions as to my journey, and I told him by degrees all I had experienced.

"So, The Horrors."

"You're welcome."

"What?"

"What?"

I had now an opportunity of observing him, and found him of a very marked physiognomy.

His face was a strong—a very strong—aquiline, with high bridge of the thin nose and peculiarly arched nostrils; with lofty domed forehead, and hair growing scantily round the temples but profusely elsewhere. His eyebrows were very massive, almost meeting over the nose, and with bushy hair that seemed to curl in its own profusion. The mouth, so far as I could see it under the heavy moustache, was fixed and rather cruel-looking, with peculiarly sharp white teeth; these protruded over the lips, whose remarkable ruddiness showed astonishing vitality in a man of his years. For the rest, his ears were pale, and at the tops extremely pointed; the chin was broad and strong, and the cheeks firm though thin. The general effect was one of extraordinary pallor.

Blech, physiognomy. Phrenology, but for the face. At least Stoker isn't leaving such antiquated ideas out of this historical work- this is basically a pseudoscientific way of saying Dracula looks like a deviant criminal.

Hitherto I had noticed the backs of his hands as they lay on his knees in the firelight, and they had seemed rather white and fine; but seeing them now close to me, I could not but notice that they were rather coarse—broad, with squat fingers. Strange to say, there were hairs in the centre of the palm. The nails were long and fine, and cut to a sharp point.

The better to gut you with, my dear. I'm starting to lean back towards werewolf, owing to the whole things with the wolves and the Count's appearance.

As the Count leaned over me and his hands touched me, I could not repress a shudder. It may have been that his breath was rank, but a horrible feeling of nausea came over me, which, do what I would, I could not conceal. The Count, evidently noticing it, drew back; and with a grim sort of smile, which showed more than he had yet done his protuberant teeth, sat himself down again on his own side of the fireplace.

"Like your breath don't stink, Johnny."

We were both silent for a while; and as I looked towards the window I saw the first dim streak of the coming dawn. There seemed a strange stillness over everything; but as I listened I heard as if from down below in the valley the howling of many wolves. The Count's eyes gleamed, and he said:—

"Listen to them—the children of the night. What music they make!" Seeing, I suppose, some expression in my face strange to him, he added:—

"Ah, sir, you dwellers in the city cannot enter into the feelings of the hunter."

Something tells me this isn't the usual kind of hunter you're talking about, Dracula.

Then he rose and said:—

"But you must be tired. Your bedroom is all ready, and to-morrow you shall sleep as late as you will. I have to be away till the afternoon; so sleep well and dream well!" With a courteous bow, he opened for me himself the door to the octagonal room, and I entered my bedroom....

I am all in a sea of wonders. I doubt; I fear; I think strange things, which I dare not confess to my own soul. God keep me, if only for the sake of those dear to me!

It literally took like two days for this guy to go from "Oh man traveling through Austria-Hungary is so cool, I love this paprika chicken they got and I bet the Count will be cool!" to "I will not survive this."

Well, here's hoping you make it, Jonathan. I've grown to like you.

Thuktun F · May 7, 2024

After an agonizing pause, our good friend Jonathan Harker regales us again with his time in Transylvania.

JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL
(Kept in shorthand.)

7 May.—It is again early morning, but I have rested and enjoyed the last twenty-four hours. I slept till late in the day, and awoke of my own accord.

Ya know Johnny, I don't think jetlag was a thing in your time. You shouldn't let your circadian rhythm get so messed up.

Anyway, he finds a nice breakfast (no description of the food this time, alas ;_ with a handwritten note from ~~Mom~~ Dracula saying he has to be absent again. I dunno about you, but personally I think someone being away from their own house for extended periods of time while having a stranger over is... suspect.

When I had done, I looked for a bell, so that I might let the servants know I had finished; but I could not find one.

It's actually rather interesting that a big trope of this time period's literature was the "invisible servant", a reflection of household expectations. You have all of these characters of wealth doing all of these things that would imply servants setting the table, scrubbing the floors, bringing in drinks, etc, yet not once would the narration of the books mention actual servants, because poor people are boring and take up valuable word count.

Here, however, the invisible servants are quite literally unseen, and it's making our good friend -and us too- nervous. It prompts him to make some more observations about Castle Dracula.

There are certainly odd deficiencies in the house, considering the extraordinary evidences of wealth which are round me. The table service is of gold, and so beautifully wrought that it must be of immense value. The curtains and upholstery of the chairs and sofas and the hangings of my bed are of the costliest and most beautiful fabrics, and must have been of fabulous value when they were made, for they are centuries old, though in excellent order. I saw something like them in Hampton Court, but there they were worn and frayed and moth-eaten.

Unnaturally well-preserved, much like the owner himself. It probably helps if you don't sweat or smear skin oils everywhere.

But still in none of the rooms is there a mirror. There is not even a toilet glass on my table, and I had to get the little shaving glass from my bag before I could either shave or brush my hair. I have not yet seen a servant anywhere, or heard a sound near the castle except the howling of wolves.

Mirrors of the time often used silver, and silver was seen in English folklore as a weapon against shapeshifters. Not to mention the more modern association, in that silver has antibacterial properties, and vampires and werewolves are associated with disease.

After musing on this, Jonathan decides he wants something to read, and he finds the Count's library.

In the library I found, to my great delight, a vast number of English books, whole shelves full of them, and bound volumes of magazines and newspapers. A table in the centre was littered with English magazines and newspapers, though none of them were of very recent date. The books were of the most varied kind—history, geography, politics, political economy, botany, geology, law—all relating to England and English life and customs and manners. There were even such books of reference as the London Directory, the "Red" and "Blue" books, Whitaker's Almanac, the Army and Navy Lists, and—it somehow gladdened my heart to see it—the Law List.

Oh dear god help us all. The Count is no werewolf or vampire. He is not even a demon. He is something far worse...

...a teaboo,

It only gets worse when the Count finds Jonathan in the library and talks about it.

"I am glad you found your way in here, for I am sure there is much that will interest you. These companions"—and he laid his hand on some of the books—"have been good friends to me, and for some years past, ever since I had the idea of going to London, have given me many, many hours of pleasure. Through them I have come to know your great England; and to know her is to love her. I long to go through the crowded streets of your mighty London, to be in the midst of the whirl and rush of humanity, to share its life, its change, its death, and all that makes it what it is.

On one hand, I vibe with reading into the literature and customs of foreign lands, in the hopes of one day visiting. On the other, I wonder if Stoker is making a subtle jab by having a supernaturally domineering monster be a colossal stan of the biggest colonial empire of them all.

But alas! as yet I only know your tongue through books. To you, my friend, I look that I know it to speak."

"But, Count," I said, "you know and speak English thoroughly!" He bowed gravely.

"I thank you, my friend, for your all too-flattering estimate, but yet I fear that I am but a little way on the road I would travel. True, I know the grammar and the words, but yet I know not how to speak them."

Ah, the classic "apologies for poor English, now here's the most eloquently written comment you'll ever see on this site".

So far, this has given me the impression that the Count doesn't speak with a Romanian accent, but rather speaks carefully, with the conspicuous care for grammar and pronunciation that native speakers are comfortable ignoring when they feel like it.

"Indeed," I said, "you speak excellently."

"Not so," he answered. "Well, I know that, did I move and speak in your London, none there are who would not know me for a stranger. That is not enough for me. Here I am noble; I am boyar; the common people know me, and I am master. But a stranger in a strange land, he is no one; men know him not—and to know not is to care not for. I am content if I am like the rest, so that no man stops if he see me, or pause in his speaking if he hear my words, 'Ha, ha! a stranger!' I have been so long master that I would be master still—or at least that none other should be master of me. You come to me not alone as agent of my friend Peter Hawkins, of Exeter, to tell me all about my new estate in London. You shall, I trust, rest here with me awhile, so that by our talking I may learn the English intonation; and I would that you tell me when I make error, even of the smallest, in my speaking.

Oh man, I know that feeling all too intimately. I've been studying languages for the better part of my life now, and still I yearn for such fluency that I can blend in rather than stand out. It sucks doubly when you speak a language associated with an ethnic group that you would automatically stick out among.
Also of interest to me is that Dracula calls himself a boyar. Boyars were the upper crust of nobility in regions like Transylvania, equivalent to dukes in that they were second only to the local kings who were themselves only superseded by the tsar. Of course, neither Boyar Dracula nor Duke Dracula really rolls off the tongue like Count, so I can see why that title was chosen instead.

Of course I said all I could about being willing, and asked if I might come into that room when I chose. He answered: "Yes, certainly," and added:—

"You may go anywhere you wish in the castle, except where the doors are locked, where of course you will not wish to go. There is reason that all things are as they are, and did you see with my eyes and know with my knowledge, you would perhaps better understand." I said I was sure of this, and then he went on:—

"We are in Transylvania; and Transylvania is not England. Our ways are not your ways, and there shall be to you many strange things. Nay, from what you have told me of your experiences already, you know something of what strange things there may be."

View: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tnCDJe4MNh4

This led to much conversation; and as it was evident that he wanted to talk, if only for talking's sake, I asked him many questions regarding things that had already happened to me or come within my notice. Sometimes he sheered off the subject, or turned the conversation by pretending not to understand; but generally he answered all I asked most frankly. Then as time went on, and I had got somewhat bolder, I asked him of some of the strange things of the preceding night, as, for instance, why the coachman went to the places where he had seen the blue flames.

"What was with the wolves and the freakishly strong coachman?"

"Well, you know... mumble mumble..."

Poor Jonathan, constrained by expectations of not being a confrontational guest, even when his host is probably gonna eat him. This shit wouldn't happen in America I tell you hwat.

The count gives some weird bullshit story about treasure spots from the old wars being marked by blue flame on certain times of year, which as an answer should already be making Jonathan's worldview crumble, but instead of freaking out he calls out the plot holes.

"But how," said I, "can it have remained so long undiscovered, when there is a sure index to it if men will but take the trouble to look?"

"Listen here, you little shit."

The Count smiled, and as his lips ran back over his gums, the long, sharp, canine teeth showed out strangely; he answered:—

"Because your peasant is at heart a coward and a fool! Those flames only appear on one night; and on that night no man of this land will, if he can help it, stir without his doors. And, dear sir, even if he did he would not know what to do. Why, even the peasant that you tell me of who marked the place of the flame would not know where to look in daylight even for his own work. Even you would not, I dare be sworn, be able to find these places again?"

Yeah, that's definitely a feudal lord all right. Even when being congenial, we see just how nasty a fellow he really is.

Then we drifted into other matters.

"Come," he said at last, "tell me of London and of the house which you have procured for me." With an apology for my remissness, I went into my own room to get the papers from my bag. Whilst I was placing them in order I heard a rattling of china and silver in the next room, and as I passed through, noticed that the table had been cleared and the lamp lit, for it was by this time deep into the dark.

Suspiciously tableware-shaped Dracula: "Ah, the servants must have taken care of that."

Jokes aside, it does simultaneously undercut Dracula's credibility as a feudal lord when he has to do his own dishes out of sight because he can't keep a servant, while also implying this motherfucker is fast.

The lamps were also lit in the study or library, and I found the Count lying on the sofa, reading, of all things in the world, an English Bradshaw's Guide.

Honestly it's a little humanizing to see him reading a train schedule like a nerd. Has he ever actually taken a train before? He doesn't look like the sort of fellow to get out much. Maybe he's just excited at the prospect of trains that run on time. Jonathan can appreciate that.

When I came in he cleared the books and papers from the table; and with him I went into plans and deeds and figures of all sorts. He was interested in everything, and asked me a myriad questions about the place and its surroundings. He clearly had studied beforehand all he could get on the subject of the neighbourhood, for he evidently at the end knew very much more than I did

Drac's been doing his homework. For nefarious purposes, I'm afraid will be the case.

From here we get a description of Carfax Abbey, the abandoned property Dracula is purchasing ostensibly as his new home in England. Of note is that Jonathan has taken photos of the abbey with a Kodak camera, which is interestingly written as simply "kodak", which demonstrates the dominance over the field that Kodak had, much like Kleenex or Band-Aids.

When I had finished, he said:—

"I am glad that it is old and big. I myself am of an old family, and to live in a new house would kill me. A house cannot be made habitable in a day; and, after all, how few days go to make up a century.

"This is totally a mortal human thing to say."

I rejoice also that there is a chapel of old times. We Transylvanian nobles love not to think that our bones may lie amongst the common dead.

Me, a modern commoner: "Well fuck you too buddy."

Something also tells me that it's for a different reason that this guy whose name means "Son of the Devil" might want deconsecrated land to live on.

Presently, with an excuse, he left me, asking me to put all my papers together. He was some little time away, and I began to look at some of the books around me. One was an atlas, which I found opened naturally at England, as if that map had been much used. On looking at it I found in certain places little rings marked, and on examining these I noticed that one was near London on the east side, manifestly where his new estate was situated; the other two were Exeter, and Whitby on the Yorkshire coast.

dracula's sooper sekret plan to conker england (DONUT REED)

It was the better part of an hour when the Count returned. "Aha!" he said; "still at your books? Good! But you must not work always. Come; I am informed that your supper is ready." He took my arm, and we went into the next room, where I found an excellent supper ready on the table. The Count again excused himself, as he had dined out on his being away from home.

Lmfao he's still trying to maintain the illusion of someone else preparing these meals, even though Jonathan's sus meter is already maxxing out. I wonder if it burns inside for someone so proud and elitist as him to be forced to cook meals for some random solicitor.

After supper I smoked, as on the last evening, and the Count stayed with me, chatting and asking questions on every conceivable subject, hour after hour. I felt that it was getting very late indeed, but I did not say anything, for I felt under obligation to meet my host's wishes in every way. I was not sleepy, as the long sleep yesterday had fortified me; but I could not help experiencing that chill which comes over one at the coming of the dawn, which is like, in its way, the turn of the tide. They say that people who are near death die generally at the change to the dawn or at the turn of the tide; any one who has when tired, and tied as it were to his post, experienced this change in the atmosphere can well believe it. All at once we heard the crow of a cock coming up with preternatural shrillness through the clear morning air; Count Dracula, jumping to his feet, said:—

"Why, there is the morning again! How remiss I am to let you stay up so long. You must make your conversation regarding my dear new country of England less interesting, so that I may not forget how time flies by us," and, with a courtly bow, he quickly left me.

I went into my own room and drew the curtains, but there was little to notice; my window opened into the courtyard, all I could see was the warm grey of quickening sky. So I pulled the curtains again, and have written of this day.

I wonder how much of these long conversations are actually Dracula being genuinely interested in what Jonathan has to say (it might have been a long time since he had company) and how much of it is to throw Jonathan's circadian rhythm off so he's more tired, and therefore less likely to notice things. Either that or he's just oblivious to the fact that not everyone is a night owl like him.

Well, with that, our good friend Jonathan Harker has survived another day at Castle Dracula. Here's to hoping for another update from him.

Thuktun F · May 8, 2024

Our good friend Jonathan Harker lives yet! And he's going nuts!

JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL
(Kept in shorthand.)

8 May.—I began to fear as I wrote in this book that I was getting too diffuse; but now I am glad that I went into detail from the first, for there is something so strange about this place and all in it that I cannot but feel uneasy. I wish I were safe out of it, or that I had never come. It may be that this strange night-existence is telling on me; but would that that were all! If there were any one to talk to I could bear it, but there is no one. I have only the Count to speak with, and he!—I fear I am myself the only living soul within the place. Let me be prosaic so far as facts can be; it will help me to bear up, and imagination must not run riot with me. If it does I am lost. Let me say at once how I stand—or seem to.

And at last, Jonathan has completely shed his denial of the supernatural events going on around him. It only took him checks notes three days at this dude's place to go from a secular man of British Enlightenment to one ready to accept the supernatural. Gotta give him credit for rolling with the punches to his worldview.

I only slept a few hours when I went to bed, and feeling that I could not sleep any more, got up. I had hung my shaving glass by the window, and was just beginning to shave. Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder, and heard the Count's voice saying to me, "Good-morning." I started, for it amazed me that I had not seen him, since the reflection of the glass covered the whole room behind me. In starting I had cut myself slightly, but did not notice it at the moment.

That is... well then. None of the folklore ever said anything about vampires or werewolves not having reflections, so kudos to Stoker for coming up with a new thing that both makes sense and would be fucking terrifying to witness in person.

Of course, there's another understated horror here, drawn from inference. Jonathan woke up early, and not soon after Dracula was in the room. I don't think the count was expecting him to be awake when he entered.

I laid down the razor, turning as I did so half round to look for some sticking plaster. When the Count saw my face, his eyes blazed with a sort of demoniac fury, and he suddenly made a grab at my throat. I drew away, and his hand touched the string of beads which held the crucifix. It made an instant change in him, for the fury passed so quickly that I could hardly believe that it was ever there.

Imagine blowing your cover after meticulously trying to maintain the illusion of being a normal dude, just because of a drop of blood. Here we see the brute behind the facade of nobility, an animal held back only by a crucifix. Which, again, is something that actually doesn't show up in folklore, but it makes sense that an unholy creature is repelled by a holy item.

As a note, I've swung from werewolf to vampire after this.

"Take care," he said, "take care how you cut yourself. It is more dangerous than you think in this country." Then seizing the shaving glass, he went on: "And this is the wretched thing that has done the mischief. It is a foul bauble of man's vanity. Away with it!" and opening the heavy window with one wrench of his terrible hand, he flung out the glass, which was shattered into a thousand pieces on the stones of the courtyard far below. Then he withdrew without a word. It is very annoying, for I do not see how I am to shave, unless in my watch-case or the bottom of the shaving-pot, which is fortunately of metal.

Honestly, a modern adaptation could totally keep this scene, but replace the mirror with an iPhone, and it would absolutely work. Also, Jonathan focusing on how annoying Dracula's dick move was is at once funny, and also a likely sign he's focusing on small shit to keep sane.

When I went into the dining-room, breakfast was prepared; but I could not find the Count anywhere. So I breakfasted alone. It is strange that as yet I have not seen the Count eat or drink. He must be a very peculiar man!

On a more serious note, this actually raises an interesting example of how Dracula, so proud to be a noble of this particular land, has become utterly disconnected from his supposed people. He is likely centuries old, older than perhaps even the Columbian Exchange, which radically altered the cuisine of Eastern Europe.

I mean, take note of the dishes Jonathan has described during his travels. Chicken paprikash. Mămăligă. Impletata. All of these dishes, now considered iconic of the region to the point where one of them is the national dish, were only made possible because of the influx of New World plants- corn, peppers, tomato, potato. Transylvania has moved on past the Count, and the food is but one example.

It's quite appropriate to an examination of nobility at large, in that these foods are peasant dishes, just like all of the other iconic foods associated with different regions. The nobles might rule the land and suck the value from the people's labor, but it is the peasantry that defines the land.

After breakfast I did a little exploring in the castle. I went out on the stairs, and found a room looking towards the South. The view was magnificent, and from where I stood there was every opportunity of seeing it. The castle is on the very edge of a terrible precipice. A stone falling from the window would fall a thousand feet without touching anything! As far as the eye can reach is a sea of green tree tops, with occasionally a deep rift where there is a chasm. Here and there are silver threads where the rivers wind in deep gorges through the forests.

But I am not in heart to describe beauty, for when I had seen the view I explored further; doors, doors, doors everywhere, and all locked and bolted. In no place save from the windows in the castle walls is there an available exit.

The castle is a veritable prison, and I am a prisoner!

You know shit is getting real when he puts an exclamation point in his own journal.

When I found that I was a prisoner a sort of wild feeling came over me. I rushed up and down the stairs, trying every door and peering out of every window I could find; but after a little the conviction of my helplessness overpowered all other feelings. When I look back after a few hours I think I must have been mad for the time, for I behaved much as a rat does in a trap. When, however, the conviction had come to me that I was helpless I sat down quietly—as quietly as I have ever done anything in my life—and began to think over what was best to be done. I am thinking still, and as yet have come to no definite conclusion. Of one thing only am I certain; that it is no use making my ideas known to the Count. He knows well that I am imprisoned; and as he has done it himself, and has doubtless his own motives for it, he would only deceive me if I trusted him fully with the facts. So far as I can see, my only plan will be to keep my knowledge and my fears to myself, and my eyes open. I am, I know, either being deceived, like a baby, by my own fears, or else I am in desperate straits; and if the latter be so, I need, and shall need, all my brains to get through.

It's refreshing to see his sharp mind at work in this horror situation. He's absolutely terrified, but he ain't gonna let the Count know that, because he knows maintaining the illusion of being a hapless British solicitor will keep him alive longer. Honestly, I'd give him good odds of surviving most classic horror films as long as he isn't being forced to go there for work.

I had hardly come to this conclusion when I heard the great door below shut, and knew that the Count had returned. He did not come at once into the library, so I went cautiously to my own room and found him making the bed. This was odd, but only confirmed what I had all along thought—that there were no servants in the house.

Imagine the surreal sight of a vampire demon dude who almost ripped your throat out like an hour ago, stopped only by a crucifix, now on your bed with no shoes on as he tries to tuck the sheet under the corner.

Anyway, after this Jonathan does some more spying and confirms his suspicions about Dracula pulling a ruse, and he decides smartly to get him monologue-ing after dinner.

Midnight.—I have had a long talk with the Count. I asked him a few questions on Transylvania history, and he warmed up to the subject wonderfully. In his speaking of things and people, and especially of battles, he spoke as if he had been present at them all.

Gee, I wonder why?

"We Szekelys have a right to be proud, for in our veins flows the blood of many brave races who fought as the lion fights, for lordship. Here, in the whirlpool of European races, the Ugric tribe bore down from Iceland the fighting spirit which Thor and Wodin gave them, which their Berserkers displayed to such fell intent on the seaboards of Europe, ay, and of Asia and Africa too, till the peoples thought that the were-wolves themselves had come. Here, too, when they came, they found the Huns, whose warlike fury had swept the earth like a living flame, till the dying peoples held that in their veins ran the blood of those old witches, who, expelled from Scythia had mated with the devils in the desert. Fools, fools! What devil or what witch was ever so great as Attila, whose blood is in these veins?"

Interesting to note that Dracula says he is a Székely. Székelys are an ethnic group, an offshoot of the Hungarians living in Romania. Despite being almost certainly Magyars like the other Hungarians, Dracula repeats the commonly-held belief of the Székelys that they were descendants of Attila and the Huns instead. Also keep in mind that to an Englishman of the time, someone proudly speaking of Attila would be strange, even vulgar.

Who was it but one of my own race who as Voivode crossed the Danube and beat the Turk on his own ground? This was a Dracula indeed! Woe was it that his own unworthy brother, when he had fallen, sold his people to the Turk and brought the shame of slavery on them! Was it not this Dracula, indeed, who inspired that other of his race who in a later age again and again brought his forces over the great river into Turkey-land; who, when he was beaten back, came again, and again, and again, though he had to come alone from the bloody field where his troops were being slaughtered, since he knew that he alone could ultimately triumph!

Here we get either an authorial error, or an in-universe one. Vlad III Drăculea, also known as Vlad Țepeș (meaning "Impaler") was a Wallachian Voivoide, and certainly not a Székely of Transylvania. I wouldn't put it past Dracula to claim relations to the line, or if perhaps he was a relative of Vlad III who was placed in control of a part of Transylvania following the former's crushing of the Transylvanian Saxons.

They said that he thought only of himself. Bah! what good are peasants without a leader? Where ends the war without a brain and heart to conduct it? Again, when, after the battle of Mohács, we threw off the Hungarian yoke, we of the Dracula blood were amongst their leaders, for our spirit would not brook that we were not free. Ah, young sir, the Szekelys—and the Dracula as their heart's blood, their brains, and their swords—can boast a record that mushroom growths like the Hapsburgs and the Romanoffs can never reach. The warlike days are over. Blood is too precious a thing in these days of dishonourable peace; and the glories of the great races are as a tale that is told."

Here we go again with the elitism. Hey Drac, maybe the reason why the peasants speak poorly of Vlad III is because he impaled Transylvanian Saxon men, women, and children after sacking their villages? Not to mention the method of impalement was particularly cruel, in that it was a blunt pole that would go up the victim's rectum, and slowly work its way through the other side via gravity.

Anyway, it seems that either Dracula or Stoker's history is suspect, but considering this is a dude who wore a Groucho Marx disguise to pretend to be his own stagecoach, I wouldn't put it above the Count to be a poser wrt nobility.

It was by this time close on morning, and we went to bed. (Mem., this diary seems horribly like the beginning of the "Arabian Nights," for everything has to break off at cockcrow—or like the ghost of Hamlet's father.)

Well, as long as you don't try Scherezade's survival technique, I'm sure you'll be fine. I don't think this Dracula guy is fond of Muslims.

And with that, our good friend Jonathan Harker survives another day.

Thuktun F · May 9, 2024

Once again Dracula updates, but this time we are not regaled with another harrowing escapade featuring our good friend Jonathan Harker, but rather an abrupt change to what feels almost like a different novel, starring one Miss Mina. Could this be the Mina that Jonathan has constantly referred to in his journal?

Letter from Miss Mina Murray to Miss Lucy Westenra.
9 May.

My dearest Lucy,—

Forgive my long delay in writing, but I have been simply overwhelmed with work. The life of an assistant schoolmistress is sometimes trying. I am longing to be with you, and by the sea, where we can talk together freely and build our castles in the air.

And they were very good friends. - Historians

Jokes aside, Victorian literature and day-to-day communications were chock full of open-hearted sentiments that nowadays are only reserved for romantic partners (which made it a little easier for the actual gays to slip under the radar).

Side note: "build castles in the air" is an idiom that means having extravagant daydreams that you know aren't gonna happen.

I have been working very hard lately, because I want to keep up with Jonathan's studies, and I have been practising shorthand very assiduously. When we are married I shall be able to be useful to Jonathan, and if I can stenograph well enough I can take down what he wants to say in this way and write it out for him on the typewriter, at which also I am practising very hard. He and I sometimes write letters in shorthand, and he is keeping a stenographic journal of his travels abroad.

Awww, they share a braincell. We have an explanation now for why Jonathan is writing his journal in shorthand beyond faster entries, and it's honestly adorable. It is also interesting to see that Mina's idea of being a good wife is not to engage in the traditional expectations of housework, but rather to assist him in his work. Basically a Victorian-era power couple.

When I am with you I shall keep a diary in the same way. I don't mean one of those two-pages-to-the-week-with-Sunday-squeezed-in-a-corner diaries, but a sort of journal which I can write in whenever I feel inclined. I do not suppose there will be much of interest to other people; but it is not intended for them. I may show it to Jonathan some day if there is in it anything worth sharing, but it is really an exercise book. I shall try to do what I see lady journalists do: interviewing and writing descriptions and trying to remember conversations. I am told that, with a little practice, one can remember all that goes on or that one hears said during a day.

How convenient for the epistolary format of this novel that you're deliberately over-detailing your entries

Also, Mina has already demonstrated more brains and agency than like 90% of women in Victorian literature. She is writing the RECEIPTS.

However, we shall see. I will tell you of my little plans when we meet. I have just had a few hurried lines from Jonathan from Transylvania. He is well, and will be returning in about a week. I am longing to hear all his news. It must be so nice to see strange countries. I wonder if we—I mean Jonathan and I—shall ever see them together.

I don't think he's coming back in a week. I dunno, I just have a feeling about that.

This also raises the question- were these hurried lines from Jonathan before he went to the castle, or is she receiving doctored/fabricated letters from the Count himself?

Good-bye.

Your loving

MINA.

Tell me all the news when you write. You have not told me anything for a long time. I hear rumours, and especially of a tall, handsome, curly-haired man???

Ahhh, a B-plot romance in a Gothic horror novel. I'm sure this will end well.

Thuktun F · May 11, 2024

The letter correspondence continues.

Letter, Lucy Westenra to Mina Murray
17, Chatham Street,
Wednesday.

My dearest Mina,—

"I must say you tax me very unfairly with being a bad correspondent. I wrote to you twice since we parted, and your last letter was only your second. Besides, I have nothing to tell you. There is really nothing to interest you. Town is very pleasant just now, and we go a good deal to picture-galleries and for walks and rides in the park.

"Picture-galleries" in this context basically means art museums. Ngl I did more reading into this than I should have, because for all I knew it could've been some specific Victorian pasttime that has since fallen into obscurity.

As to the tall, curly-haired man, I suppose it was the one who was with me at the last Pop. Some one has evidently been telling tales. That was Mr. Holmwood. He often comes to see us, and he and mamma get on very well together; they have so many things to talk about in common.

Glad to see that trying to play off your crush on someone when chatting with your bestie is an eternal human tradition.

We met some time ago a man that would just do for you, if you were not already engaged to Jonathan. He is an excellent parti, being handsome, well off, and of good birth.

Parti is a now out-of-date slang term meaning "husband material", derived from the word for the central idea of an architectural design. I suppose it means he has solid foundations?

He is a doctor and really clever. Just fancy! He is only nine-and-twenty, and he has an immense lunatic asylum all under his own care.

Remembers that there is an asylum near the property Dracula is purchasing.
Oh. Oh no.

Of course, since Lucy isn't reading Dracula, she doesn't dwell on that detail and instead regales Mina with some of this doctor's mannerisms and habits, including him always trying to read people's faces.

He says that I afford him a curious psychological study, and I humbly think I do. I do not, as you know, take sufficient interest in dress to be able to describe the new fashions. Dress is a bore. That is slang again, but never mind; Arthur says that every day.

Oh hohoho, it's Arthur now, not Mr. Holmwood?

As a side note, it's interesting to see that "slang" as a term is much older than some might think, while at the same time some words we take as more formal like "bore" were seen as new slang.

There, it is all out. Mina, we have told all our secrets to each other since we were children; we have slept together and eaten together, and laughed and cried together; and now, though I have spoken, I would like to speak more. Oh, Mina, couldn't you guess? I love him. I am blushing as I write, for although I think he loves me, he has not told me so in words. But oh, Mina, I love him; I love him; I love him! There, that does me good. I wish I were with you, dear, sitting by the fire undressing, as we used to sit; and I would try to tell you what I feel. I do not know how I am writing this even to you. I am afraid to stop, or I should tear up the letter, and I don't want to stop, for I do so want to tell you all. Let me hear from you at once, and tell me all that you think about it. Mina, I must stop. Good-night. Bless me in your prayers; and, Mina, pray for my happiness.

LUCY.

P.S.—I need not tell you this is a secret. Good-night again.

Aw shucks, this is so endearingly sappy one can almost forget that right now Mina's fiance is in the OG backrooms, with only some sort of demonic vampire boyar as company. It really does set up the sort of idyllic happiness that Dracula is almost certain to smash through like a Szekely Kool-Aid Man.

I can only hope that Lucy survives. She seems like a very nice girl with a big heart.

Thuktun F · May 12, 2024

After the past two updates of besties gushing about their goings-on, we finally return to our good friend Jonathan Harker, and hoo boy things are not going great.

JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL
(Kept in shorthand.)

12 May.—Let me begin with facts—bare, meagre facts, verified by books and figures, and of which there can be no doubt. I must not confuse them with experiences which will have to rest on my own observation, or my memory of them.

It's always a great start when you have to put in your own journal that you are doubting your sanity.

Last evening when the Count came from his room he began by asking me questions on legal matters and on the doing of certain kinds of business. I had spent the day wearily over books, and, simply to keep my mind occupied, went over some of the matters I had been examined in at Lincoln's Inn. There was a certain method in the Count's inquiries, so I shall try to put them down in sequence; the knowledge may somehow or some time be useful to me.

Man is taking notes on his own potential demise. Truly, he is a lawyer. Anyway, these next excerpts are rather long, but they contain too much potentially vital info to leave out.

First, he asked if a man in England might have two solicitors or more. I told him he might have a dozen if he wished, but that it would not be wise to have more than one solicitor engaged in one transaction, as only one could act at a time, and that to change would be certain to militate against his interest. He seemed thoroughly to understand, and went on to ask if there would be any practical difficulty in having one man to attend, say, to banking, and another to look after shipping, in case local help were needed in a place far from the home of the banking solicitor. I asked him to explain more fully, so that I might not by any chance mislead him, so he said:—

"I shall illustrate. Your friend and mine, Mr. Peter Hawkins, from under the shadow of your beautiful cathedral at Exeter, which is far from London, buys for me through your good self my place at London. Good! Now here let me say frankly, lest you should think it strange that I have sought the services of one so far off from London instead of some one resident there, that my motive was that no local interest might be served save my wish only; and as one of London residence might, perhaps, have some purpose of himself or friend to serve, I went thus afield to seek my agent, whose labours should be only to my interest. Now, suppose I, who have much of affairs, wish to ship goods, say, to Newcastle, or Durham, or Harwich, or Dover, might it not be that it could with more ease be done by consigning to one in these ports?"

Definitely nothing shady about how a demonic vampire boyar clearly intends to engage in "business" all over the country, and he wants to make his paper trail as hard to follow as possible. Even if he wasn't a supernatural monster such a line of questioning would be suspect.

I answered that certainly it would be most easy, but that we solicitors had a system of agency one for the other, so that local work could be done locally on instruction from any solicitor, so that the client, simply placing himself in the hands of one man, could have his wishes carried out by him without further trouble.

I like how Jonathan is essentially giving him an 'out', knowing that Dracula won't take it, and thereby self-report.

"But," said he, "I could be at liberty to direct myself. Is it not so?"

"Of course," I replied; and "such is often done by men of business, who do not like the whole of their affairs to be known by any one person."

"I know you're suspect, you bloodsucking little shit."

"Good!" he said, and then went on to ask about the means of making consignments and the forms to be gone through, and of all sorts of difficulties which might arise, but by forethought could be guarded against. I explained all these things to him to the best of my ability, and he certainly left me under the impression that he would have made a wonderful solicitor, for there was nothing that he did not think of or foresee.

Not surprised that one bloodsucker could do well as another bloodsucker.

Jokes aside, it's telling how much homework Dracula himself has been putting into this. He hasn't even left for England yet, but he's already striving to make his plan airtight.

When he had satisfied himself on these points of which he had spoken, and I had verified all as well as I could by the books available, he suddenly stood up and said:—

"Have you written since your first letter to our friend Mr. Peter Hawkins, or to any other?" It was with some bitterness in my heart that I answered that I had not, that as yet I had not seen any opportunity of sending letters to anybody.

"Then write now, my young friend," he said, laying a heavy hand on my shoulder: "write to our friend and to any other; and say, if it will please you, that you shall stay with me until a month from now."

Does it take that long to prepare English blood pudding? It's interesting that at this point Dracula pretty much has everything he needs- his paperwork is set up and he has valuable knowledge about how to hide his paper trail. Yet despite the only weak link in the chain being a single vampire-bite away from being taken care of, Dracula seems to be setting something else up.

Of course, Jonathan is well aware that this is far from ideal, but sadly his consent in this matter is a non-issue.

"Do you wish me to stay so long?" I asked, for my heart grew cold at the thought.

"I desire it much; nay, I will take no refusal. When your master, employer, what you will, engaged that someone should come on his behalf, it was understood that my needs only were to be consulted. I have not stinted. Is it not so?"

What could I do but bow acceptance? It was Mr. Hawkins's interest, not mine, and I had to think of him, not myself; and besides, while Count Dracula was speaking, there was that in his eyes and in his bearing which made me remember that I was a prisoner, and that if I wished it I could have no choice.

That feeling when the social pressure of not bucking your first job as a lawyer in Victorian England is put above the whole "prisoner of a vampire" thing.

The Count saw his victory in my bow, and his mastery in the trouble of my face, for he began at once to use them, but in his own smooth, resistless way:—

"I pray you, my good young friend, that you will not discourse of things other than business in your letters. It will doubtless please your friends to know that you are well, and that you look forward to getting home to them. Is it not so?" As he spoke he handed me three sheets of note-paper and three envelopes. They were all of the thinnest foreign post, and looking at them, then at him, and noticing his quiet smile, with the sharp, canine teeth lying over the red underlip, I understood as well as if he had spoken that I should be careful what I wrote, for he would be able to read it.

There is a definite horror to this situation that doesn't need a vampire. For far too many people, their communications are policed by real life monsters in their homes, their workplaces, their countries. It's in some ways more trapping than the barred doors of this castle. Jonathan is essentially writing out his own execution order, and he knows it, but he's helpless to stop it.

At least, almost helpless.

So I determined to write only formal notes now, but to write fully to Mr. Hawkins in secret, and also to Mina, for to her I could write in shorthand, which would puzzle the Count, if he did see it. When I had written my two letters I sat quiet, reading a book whilst the Count wrote several notes, referring as he wrote them to some books on his table.

Personally I'd probably disguise the shorthand as writing errors, maybe even my signature at the bottom.

Anyway, Jonathan does a little spying while Dracula leaves to grab something, and sees that he's preparing letters for some businesses in England and the continent, but he's unable to learn more before the Count returns and says this.

"I trust you will forgive me, but I have much work to do in private this evening. You will, I hope, find all things as you wish." At the door he turned, and after a moment's pause said:—

"Let me advise you, my dear young friend—nay, let me warn you with all seriousness, that should you leave these rooms you will not by any chance go to sleep in any other part of the castle. It is old, and has many memories, and there are bad dreams for those who sleep unwisely. Be warned! Should sleep now or ever overcome you, or be like to do, then haste to your own chamber or to these rooms, for your rest will then be safe. But if you be not careful in this respect, then"—He finished his speech in a gruesome way, for he motioned with his hands as if he were washing them. I quite understood; my only doubt was as to whether any dream could be more terrible than the unnatural, horrible net of gloom and mystery which seemed closing around me.

It looks like Dracula isn't the only horror lurking in this old castle. I have a feeling both Jonathan and us will find that out soon enough.

Later.—I endorse the last words written, but this time there is no doubt in question. I shall not fear to sleep in any place where he is not. I have placed the crucifix over the head of my bed—I imagine that my rest is thus freer from dreams; and there it shall remain.

Shit is indeed dire when the Anglican engages in "idolatry" with such a desperate zeal. We'll find out why.

When he left me I went to my room. After a little while, not hearing any sound, I came out and went up the stone stair to where I could look out towards the South. There was some sense of freedom in the vast expanse, inaccessible though it was to me, as compared with the narrow darkness of the courtyard. Looking out on this, I felt that I was indeed in prison, and I seemed to want a breath of fresh air, though it were of the night. I am beginning to feel this nocturnal existence tell on me. It is destroying my nerve. I start at my own shadow, and am full of all sorts of horrible imaginings. God knows that there is ground for my terrible fear in this accursed place! I looked out over the beautiful expanse, bathed in soft yellow moonlight till it was almost as light as day. In the soft light the distant hills became melted, and the shadows in the valleys and gorges of velvety blackness. The mere beauty seemed to cheer me; there was peace and comfort in every breath I drew.

It's interesting to see that while so many other gothic stories make even the geography of foreign lands seem evil, the countryside of Transylvania and the peasants living in it are a comfort to Jonathan instead. It emphasizes that the horror is not something inherent to Transylvania, but rather something that has imposed itself.

Anyway, of course it's when Jonathan goes to get some solace in the beauty of nature when he sees something, and this shit happens.

What I saw was the Count's head coming out from the window. I did not see the face, but I knew the man by the neck and the movement of his back and arms. In any case I could not mistake the hands which I had had so many opportunities of studying. I was at first interested and somewhat amused, for it is wonderful how small a matter will interest and amuse a man when he is a prisoner. But my very feelings changed to repulsion and terror when I saw the whole man slowly emerge from the window and begin to crawl down the castle wall over that dreadful abyss, face down with his cloak spreading out around him like great wings. At first I could not believe my eyes. I thought it was some trick of the moonlight, some weird effect of shadow; but I kept looking, and it could be no delusion. I saw the fingers and toes grasp the corners of the stones, worn clear of the mortar by the stress of years, and by thus using every projection and inequality move downwards with considerable speed, just as a lizard moves along a wall.

That's gotta be the most striking mental image of the book so far. It might seem like a lot by our modern expectations, but imagine actually seeing that in person, especially if you never grew up on Spider-Man cartoons or horror movies. The last vestige of normalcy has been stripped away- Jonathan knows utterly without a doubt that Dracula is not human.

The comparison to a lizard is deliberate. Lizards are associated with dragons, and dragons with Satan. What are the two meanings of Dracula's name again?

As an aside, the mention of the toes grasping has me wondering if Dracula went shoeless (and thus exposed Jonathan to the horror of old man feet), if he just hooks the toes of the boots into the crevices, or if he is just straight up grabbing the rock through the shoes like they were little more than thin socks thanks to his hideous strength.

What manner of man is this, or what manner of creature is it in the semblance of man? I feel the dread of this horrible place overpowering me; I am in fear—in awful fear—and there is no escape for me; I am encompassed about with terrors that I dare not think of...

Yeah I feel you there buddy. Here's to hoping we hear from you soon.

Thuktun F · May 15, 2024

And we're back with another update from our good friend Jonathan Harker! This one is on the shorter side (hell, it's all one giant ass paragraph) but it still offers some tantalizing details that move the story forward.

JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL
(Kept in shorthand.)

15 May.—Once more have I seen the Count go out in his lizard fashion.

I find it unintentionally hilarious how inured Jonathan has gotten to the Horrors™️ surrounding him in so short a time, to the point he can just write this shit without feeling the need to explain it more. Yep, there goes my client crawling down the walls again.

Anyway, Jonathan is already probing the castle, hoping to find the means to escape now that he knows when the Count leaves the household.

I knew he had left the castle now, and thought to use the opportunity to explore more than I had dared to do as yet. I went back to the room, and taking a lamp, tried all the doors. They were all locked, as I had expected, and the locks were comparatively new; but I went down the stone stairs to the hall where I had entered originally. I found I could pull back the bolts easily enough and unhook the great chains; but the door was locked, and the key was gone! That key must be in the Count's room; I must watch should his door be unlocked, so that I may get it and escape.

Gotta say, he's got more balls than me. Not everyone could work up the courage to sneak into a vampire's room and steal his shit. During these travels, Jonathan also finds furniture that is actually moth-eaten unlike the freakishly well-preserved fabrics in his own room, which gives me the impression that perhaps Dracula is not the utter and complete master of his domain.

At last, however, I found one door at the top of the stairway which, though it seemed to be locked, gave a little under pressure. I tried it harder, and found that it was not really locked, but that the resistance came from the fact that the hinges had fallen somewhat, and the heavy door rested on the floor. Here was an opportunity which I might not have again, so I exerted myself, and with many efforts forced it back so that I could enter.

I wonder if this was an oversight by the Count, or if this is foreshadowing that Dracula underestimates us mortal humans. Perhaps he assumed a heavy wooden door with crap hinges would be too much for lil Jonathan to move, and so he didn't bother to lock it.

Either way, Jonathan finds himself in a new area of the castle.

From the windows I could see that the suite of rooms lay along to the south of the castle, the windows of the end room looking out both west and south. On the latter side, as well as to the former, there was a great precipice. The castle was built on the corner of a great rock, so that on three sides it was quite impregnable, and great windows were placed here where sling, or bow, or culverin could not reach, and consequently light and comfort, impossible to a position which had to be guarded, were secured. To the west was a great valley, and then, rising far away, great jagged mountain fastnesses, rising peak on peak, the sheer rock studded with mountain ash and thorn, whose roots clung in cracks and crevices and crannies of the stone. This was evidently the portion of the castle occupied by the ladies in bygone days, for the furniture had more air of comfort than any I had seen.

gives the most gothic description to ever goth
"Yep, girly."

Still, it was better than living alone in the rooms which I had come to hate from the presence of the Count, and after trying a little to school my nerves, I found a soft quietude come over me. Here I am, sitting at a little oak table where in old times possibly some fair lady sat to pen, with much thought and many blushes, her ill-spelt love-letter, and writing in my diary in shorthand all that has happened since I closed it last. It is nineteenth century up-to-date with a vengeance. And yet, unless my senses deceive me, the old centuries had, and have, powers of their own which mere "modernity" cannot kill.

I dunno why, but that last line has me wondering if Dracula isn't the only supernatural creature in this castle. Welp, I'm sure we're gonna find out soon, assuming it doesn't eat our good friend Jonathan before he can write another journal entry.

As a side note, I got curious about Pitman shorthand and what Jonathan's journal entries must look like, so I found a translator and made this sample of the opening line from this entry.

Yeah, Drac ain't reading that.

Thuktun F · May 16, 2024

Content warning on this one: Sexual violence and its coding will be shown and discussed in this chapter

Not even a few hours have passed and already our good friend Jonathan Harker is eating his last journal update like it was chicken paprikash.

JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL
(Kept in shorthand.)

Later: the Morning of 16 May.—God preserve my sanity, for to this I am reduced.

Despite Jonathan's previously demonstrated awareness of the Horrors™️ , this opening line still is striking. In previous chapters he has demonstrated more or less an ability to keep his cool, even as he realizes he is trapped in a castle with a vampire who crawls down walls like a lizard. But after his latest adventure? That forced composure has been utterly shattered.

We're gonna find out why.

Safety and the assurance of safety are things of the past. Whilst I live on here there is but one thing to hope for, that I may not go mad, if, indeed, I be not mad already. If I be sane, then surely it is maddening to think that of all the foul things that lurk in this hateful place the Count is the least dreadful to me; that to him alone I can look for safety, even though this be only whilst I can serve his purpose. Great God! merciful God! Let me be calm, for out of that way lies madness indeed.

While foreshadowed with Dracula's warnings and Jonathan going to an unexplored part of the castle, here we are rather abruptly given confirmation that yes, there is something else in the castle, and it scared the ever-living shit out of our boy.

We're gonna find out why soon enough.

When I had written in my diary and had fortunately replaced the book and pen in my pocket I felt sleepy. The Count's warning came into my mind, but I took a pleasure in disobeying it.

Ah, spite overwhelming reason. I know it well. As a side note, we get confirmation here that Jonathan has been using a fountain pen for his journal. It's actually an odd choice as you need an especially fine nib that you can exert pressure on, due to Pitman due to some sounds only being differentiated by the thickness of the stroke (hence why pencils are the most popular choice).

Knowing Jonathan, however, I can totally see him being the kind of person to get a specialty fountain pen for that task.

I drew a great couch out of its place near the corner, so that as I lay, I could look at the lovely view to east and south, and unthinking of and uncaring for the dust, composed myself for sleep. I suppose I must have fallen asleep; I hope so, but I fear, for all that followed was startlingly real—so real that now sitting here in the broad, full sunlight of the morning, I cannot in the least believe that it was all sleep.

My allergy-plagued ass would die from the dust before the Horrors even get me. God my eyes are watering just at the thought of having to sleep with all of that dust.

I was not alone. The room was the same, unchanged in any way since I came into it; I could see along the floor, in the brilliant moonlight, my own footsteps marked where I had disturbed the long accumulation of dust. In the moonlight opposite me were three young women, ladies by their dress and manner. I thought at the time that I must be dreaming when I saw them, for, though the moonlight was behind them, they threw no shadow on the floor.

There's the subtle horror of these three ladies having no shadows, but one that Jonathan himself doesn't seem to piece together despite describing its components is that they didn't leave footprints. Did they glide across the floor like phantoms? Were they always there, and only now do they allow him to see them? Or is Dracula not the only one who likes to play gecko?

They came close to me, and looked at me for some time, and then whispered together. Two were dark, and had high aquiline noses, like the Count, and great dark, piercing eyes that seemed to be almost red when contrasted with the pale yellow moon. The other was fair, as fair as can be, with great wavy masses of golden hair and eyes like pale sapphires. I seemed somehow to know her face, and to know it in connection with some dreamy fear, but I could not recollect at the moment how or where.

The two with dark hair could be relatives of the Count, perhaps, but the blonde raises questions, especially since her eyes don't seem like the obviously-vampiric ones of Dracula and the others.

All three had brilliant white teeth that shone like pearls against the ruby of their voluptuous lips. There was something about them that made me uneasy, some longing and at the same time some deadly fear. I felt in my heart a wicked, burning desire that they would kiss me with those red lips. It is not good to note this down, lest some day it should meet Mina's eyes and cause her pain; but it is the truth.

Scarousal jokes aside, it is clear at this point that they have some unnatural charm that they are working on poor Jonathan. This man loves Mina dearly; gathering recipes that he thinks she'd like, holding her in his thoughts when he's at his most terrified, braving this entire nightmare job because he wants to support her. Yet these three supernatural creatures that terrify him also allure him, like the dangling lure of an anglerfish. He is aware of it, yet helpless.

They whispered together, and then they all three laughed—such a silvery, musical laugh, but as hard as though the sound never could have come through the softness of human lips. It was like the intolerable, tingling sweetness of water-glasses when played on by a cunning hand. The fair girl shook her head coquettishly, and the other two urged her on. One said:—

"Go on! You are first, and we shall follow; yours is the right to begin." The other added:—

"He is young and strong; there are kisses for us all."

"Coquette" means "flirty without affection", which is an apt description of these three.

Also, despite the sexually charged language, it's pretty clear they don't mean it that way- one doesn't have to worry about someone dying from being kissed by three ladies.

One last side note before I continue- the blonde is apparently the first of them, which makes me wonder if she's actually the mother of the other two. It'd explain why the brunettes share Dracula's features while she doesn't.

I lay quiet, looking out under my eyelashes in an agony of delightful anticipation. The fair girl advanced and bent over me till I could feel the movement of her breath upon me. Sweet it was in one sense, honey-sweet, and sent the same tingling through the nerves as her voice, but with a bitter underlying the sweet, a bitter offensiveness, as one smells in blood.

Predatory horror undercutting the intimacy feels far too... real. Too real. It only gets worse.

I was afraid to raise my eyelids, but looked out and saw perfectly under the lashes. The girl went on her knees, and bent over me, simply gloating. There was a deliberate voluptuousness which was both thrilling and repulsive, and as she arched her neck she actually licked her lips like an animal, till I could see in the moonlight the moisture shining on the scarlet lips and on the red tongue as it lapped the white sharp teeth. Lower and lower went her head as the lips went below the range of my mouth and chin and seemed about to fasten on my throat. Then she paused, and I could hear the churning sound of her tongue as it licked her teeth and lips, and could feel the hot breath on my neck. Then the skin of my throat began to tingle as one's flesh does when the hand that is to tickle it approaches nearer—nearer. I could feel the soft, shivering touch of the lips on the super-sensitive skin of my throat, and the hard dents of two sharp teeth, just touching and pausing there. I closed my eyes in a languorous ecstasy and waited—waited with beating heart.

This is arguably gonna be the bulk of my analysis of this chapter, and the heaviest.

While literally this is a vampire about to cure her case of the munchies, metaphorically this is an impending rape. This is an act of predation that is wrapped in a false layer of intimacy which confuses the victim. Jonathan is scared, the most we have seen him so far. Jonathan doesn't want to become vampire food. Yet he is helpless to resist, and the false intimacy (plus vampiric glamor) arouses him, and that gives him shame.

It is something that is distressingly common in survivors of sexual violence, both men and women. Forced sex is still sex, which often means excitation of the body, physical pleasure, even orgasms, and the association of pleasure with such a horrible experience often creates a sense of guilt and shame, where the victim can be left wondering if they had "wanted it". Notice how Jonathan is afraid of how Mina will react to his side of things in this encounter, even though he also mentions being more terrified than when he saw his client crawling down the walls like a fucking lizard.

Thankfully, this impending metaphorical sex violence is put to a stop. I'd never thought I'd be saying this, and it'll probably be the last time in this book, but thank fucking Christ for Count Dracula.

But at that instant, another sensation swept through me as quick as lightning. I was conscious of the presence of the Count, and of his being as if lapped in a storm of fury. As my eyes opened involuntarily I saw his strong hand grasp the slender neck of the fair woman and with giant's power draw it back, the blue eyes transformed with fury, the white teeth champing with rage, and the fair cheeks blazing red with passion.

BEGONE
THOT

As soon as the spell is broken, this sensuous and delicate lady that had our poor blorbo unwillingly enraptured has been reduced to the snarling predator that she actually is.

But the Count! Never did I imagine such wrath and fury, even to the demons of the pit. His eyes were positively blazing. The red light in them was lurid, as if the flames of hell-fire blazed behind them. His face was deathly pale, and the lines of it were hard like drawn wires; the thick eyebrows that met over the nose now seemed like a heaving bar of white-hot metal. With a fierce sweep of his arm, he hurled the woman from him, and then motioned to the others, as though he were beating them back; it was the same imperious gesture that I had seen used to the wolves.

tfw the demonic vampire boyar demonstrates more outrage at (metaphorical) sexual violence against a dude than 90% of people nowadays would have. Granted, it's definitely more him being possessive of his asset, but still.

In a voice which, though low and almost in a whisper seemed to cut through the air and then ring round the room he said:—

"How dare you touch him, any of you? How dare you cast eyes on him when I had forbidden it? Back, I tell you all! This man belongs to me! Beware how you meddle with him, or you'll have to deal with me."

"No means no, unless it's said to me!"

The fair girl, with a laugh of ribald coquetry, turned to answer him:—

"You yourself never loved; you never love!" On this the other women joined, and such a mirthless, hard, soulless laughter rang through the room that it almost made me faint to hear; it seemed like the pleasure of fiends. Then the Count turned, after looking at my face attentively, and said in a soft whisper:—

"Yes, I too can love; you yourselves can tell it from the past.

Jonathan: ifyoulovemeletmegoooo.mp4

I wonder now if the prior nights where they talked for hours and hours was Dracula being genuinely fond of Jonathan, even if he's still willing/planning to dispose of him.

Also, this raises the probability that the three ladies were once possibly family members or lovers he decided to turn immortal. If so then, however, the light has clearly been snuffed out considering these three weren't even helping him maintain the masquerade, and complain of his lack of compassion.

Is it not so? Well, now I promise you that when I am done with him you shall kiss him at your will. Now go! go! I must awaken him, for there is work to be done."

Welp, Jonathan just found out he officially has an expiration date.

"Are we to have nothing to-night?" said one of them, with a low laugh, as she pointed to the bag which he had thrown upon the floor, and which moved as though there were some living thing within it. For answer he nodded his head. One of the women jumped forward and opened it. If my ears did not deceive me there was a gasp and a low wail, as of a half-smothered child. The women closed round, whilst I was aghast with horror; but as I looked they disappeared, and with them the dreadful bag. There was no door near them, and they could not have passed me without my noticing. They simply seemed to fade into the rays of the moonlight and pass out through the window, for I could see outside the dim, shadowy forms for a moment before they entirely faded away.

Then the horror overcame me, and I sank down unconscious.

This section fucked with me so hard that I kept on deleting and rewriting my comments as I tried to put to words my horror. It's the fucking casualness of it that's getting to me the most. A baby, symbol of life and innocence and new beginnings and the future, treated like hole-in-the-wall takeout. Yet it fits so much, with how these symbols of disease take away infants in the night, like my own uncle was taken.

JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL—continued
I awoke in my own bed. If it be that I had not dreamt, the Count must have carried me here. I tried to satisfy myself on the subject, but could not arrive at any unquestionable result. To be sure, there were certain small evidences, such as that my clothes were folded and laid by in a manner which was not my habit.

I'm not sure whether to be horrified for Jonathan, considering he was undressed in his sleep by a possessive vampire planning his demise, or to be amused by the idea of Dracula exhaustedly tucking him into bed like a kid who fell asleep in the car.

My watch was still unwound, and I am rigorously accustomed to wind it the last thing before going to bed, and many such details.

A small but unpleasant detail. His circadian rhythm and sense of time has been fucked up as-is, and now he can no longer even be sure of the time of day. How much was that an oversight, and how much of that was deliberate on Dracula's part?

Of one thing I am glad: if it was that the Count carried me here and undressed me, he must have been hurried in his task, for my pockets are intact. I am sure this diary would have been a mystery to him which he would not have brooked. He would have taken or destroyed it. As I look round this room, although it has been to me so full of fear, it is now a sort of sanctuary, for nothing can be more dreadful than those awful women, who were—who are—waiting to suck my blood.

And so Jonathan is still in dire straits, but hope remains for his eventual escape when Dracula continues to make oversights. Nevertheless, a new obstacle has appeared. Let's hope it doesn't prove to be the final nail in the coffin.

As a side-note, I was curious about the idea of Jonathan panic-writing all of this, and I found that someone skilled with Pitman shorthand can write down about 200 words per minute, which means it took our good friend here about 9 minutes to write down this terrifying encounter.

Let's Read Dracula [Spoiler-Free]

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Thuktun F

You can complain now; I'm no longer a councilor

JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL

Thuktun F

You can complain now; I'm no longer a councilor

JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL

Thuktun F

You can complain now; I'm no longer a councilor

JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL

Thuktun F

You can complain now; I'm no longer a councilor

JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL

Thuktun F

You can complain now; I'm no longer a councilor

JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL

Thuktun F

You can complain now; I'm no longer a councilor

Letter from Miss Mina Murray to Miss Lucy Westenra.

Thuktun F

You can complain now; I'm no longer a councilor

Letter, Lucy Westenra to Mina Murray

Thuktun F

You can complain now; I'm no longer a councilor

JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL

Thuktun F

You can complain now; I'm no longer a councilor

JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL

Thuktun F

You can complain now; I'm no longer a councilor

JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL

JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL—continued

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