by Stoker, Bram
Maybe he’s talking about the bolt of the lock, but it’s Harker who is becoming unhinged: He is attempting to convince himself that what happened was a dream. But he knows better.
From this point on, we cannot always trust the Harker version of what is happening. He is now a variation of the “unreliable narrator,” a literary device in which a narrator can’t be trusted. Either he speaks with a bias, tells flat-out lies (little, big, or gigantic), makes mistakes through ignorance or lack of intellect, is shell-shocked by his circumstances, or is deluded.
However, Harker on the verge of madness is a much more interesting character than Harker the enthusiastic solicitor/youth prig-in-progress. One of the great strengths of Stoker’s characterization is that his people evolve. Like us, they grow and are changed by their experiences.
Having Harker write these letters is not only part of Dracula’s scheme to keep the outer world unaware of Harker’s situation but to cruelly remind the prisoner that he is totally helpless. Harker knows who the boss is now, and the slightest disobedience might be the death of him.
Yes, I know we’ve talked frequently about understatement, but this is so beautifully done, it merits a mention.
Consider the situation. Harker realizes the date of his execution. He has to play it cool; Dracula does not know that Harker is on to him. You are allowed to imagine the stress Harker experiences holding himself in check. Think of the about-to-explode protagonist of Poe’s “Tell-Tale Heart” as he tries to act nonchalant as the police are questioning him. It is a similar brand of stress we see here.
I do think Stoker took away some serious lessons from Poe’s writing. Many authors did. Baudelaire once tossed a Poe collection across the room, demanding, “How could this man have written my stories before I had a chance to?” H.P. Lovecraft learned from Poe, and Ray Bradbury learned from Poe, and if you plan to write horror, you should, too.
From the middle of the nineteenth century on, there was considerable sociological interest in the Romany people, or “Gypsies.” Researching them was hardly easy: Romany was not even a written language until the last part of the nineteenth century, and the Gypsies had a reputation of being very much a closed society.
In literature, Gypsies have developed into a mystical trope of their own, appearing in such works as The Phantom of the Opera. And, of course there’s Maleva, played by Maria Ouspenskaya, the old Gypsy woman in the Universal film of 1941, The Wolfman.
Sneaky, sneaky, Harker. And yet we know you’re going to catch hell for this.
And here he does. Would it be better if the reader had more hope that Harker’s plan had at least a chance? At least for a little longer to heighten the tension in their relationship? But the moment of being caught is also a provocative tension builder. Maybe we are all born with a gene for sensing something bad is about to happen, and when it does, we are gratified by our perception!
Burning the letter—Pathetic Harker, you can have no secrets from me!—is a beautifully calculated moment. Harker’s hope becomes ash, a symbol of what used to be, now dead before his eyes.
Think of the rightness of Harker’s understanding his mental/emotional state. “Abandon hope”; hope that cannot happen cannot torment you.
Harker gets a night’s dreamless sleep. No nightmares. He’s living a nightmare, and it has broken him down to a bare existence. Harker’s demolished psyche is akin to that described by author Primo Levi in Survival in Auschwitz, his memoir of the year he spent imprisoned in the concentration camp.
Stoker is really piling it on poor Harker, isn’t he? That makes for dramatic tension.
When you’ve got your character in dire straits, that’s the time to tell him, “Cheer up! Things could be worse.”
And then make them worse.
Too often characters are not put under sufficient pressure to reveal what they have in the way of inner resources. Hemingway defined courage as “Grace under pressure,” but you can’t exhibit much grace/courage under low pressure. You want a character to have to struggle and struggle and struggle. You want to make it seem as though he is in a nearly hopeless predicament. And when, despite the odds against him, he does manage to solve the problem, the reader will applaud him. Or if the protagonist fails to solve the problem, the reader will feel deep regret.
The ruthless villainy that Harker fears most is his own death. He also fears to say it.
The locals no doubt have a pretty good idea that they don’t want to meet up with the Boyar, but if he is disguised so that the locals don’t know it’s Dracula … or even worse, they think Dracula is you. The horror.
In Chapter 2, I talked about “every word should be a needed word.” Stoker fails to follow that rule here. Imagine if Harker simply said, “It makes me rage to think that this can go on!”
Nothing is lost. Consider what is gained! We fill in all that is at work in the mind and soul of Harker—and we’re better prepared for his desperate actions that follow.
And we’ll see later “hypnotic powers” in action, too! The nightmare continues … and Dracula’s power and influence only increase with each chapter.
Just like in a Kafkaesque dream or vision from Kenneth Patchen’s The Journal of Albion Moonlight! The French Symbolists and American Postmodernists acknowledge their debt to Poe—but I believe more readers should tip their hats to Mr. Stoker, the master of “Keep the Nightmare Real!”
Totally credible reaction from a totally credible character trapped in a totally credible horror situation. Stoker does not ease up on hapless, helpless Harker. Because …
Here come the wolves, called by the command of Dracula! Note the simile of the dam, perfect for conveying the full measure of the wolves’ fury and ferocity.
How do you think this scene would be handled in a modern horror film? What would we see that Stoker does not show us, but instead trusts us to see on the mental movie screen on our own?
It’s catch-your-breath time. We need this bit of a break. The thriller movie that provides no pause leaves us tired, not exhilarated.
Harker has become the rather religious man, hasn’t he? Now he’s thinking in Biblical symbols. The Bible supplies so many cultural references for all of literature; no matter if you’re a devout Catholic, moderate Methodist, or altogether atheist, a knowledge of the Bible can provide all sorts of material for your work.
Harker explains how he has regained the will to act. If he hadn’t done so, we might be asking, “I thought you were totally played out?” But we understand and can relate to “new dawn, new day, new energy.”
This is one of the rare times when Stoker has too much trust in the reader. Later, we’ll understand that the “second father” is Peter Hawkins, but right now, it’s only Harker’s very threatening situation that keeps us from saying, “Who?” and worse, “Huh?”
One more true moment in a book of true moments: Dizziness is taken care of and his sense of time sped up by the adrenalin rush that’s hitting him. Stoker not only knows his psychology, he is aware of physiology.
No matter how fantastic the fantasy, how horrible the horror, the wildest imaginings are most effective when rooted in the world as we know it.
We’ve previously mentioned that the novelist does not have an obligation to “explain everything and at once—preferably in the first twenty pages.” Stoker here gives us the coffin mystery (it’s not boxes, Mr. S!) and lets it remain mysterious for a little bit. You have a lot of information to give your readers in a novel. You can safely ladle it out in small portions if what is transpiring is sufficiently interesting to keep the reader engaged.
Sure, you and I knew this was coming, but we’ve had one hundred years plus of vampire stories to clue us in. Imagine what a surprise it was for Stoker’s audience.
If you can pull off a surprise that is indeed surprising, you have one more valuable arrow in your writing quiver. But caution: If you have to too obviously dictate what your characters say and do to bring about that surprise moment, then you also h
ave to deal with the “contrived” problem!
Now we begin to understand why Stoker had originally thought to call the book The Undead—and why it was wise that he did not. That would have been too much of a giveaway!
If we may also take a moment to pause and think, it seems an opportune moment to ask one of the important process questions writers ask themselves, their peers, and other more experienced writers: To outline or not, that is the question.
And the answer? Peter Straub has said he tries to use no outline at all … except when he uses an outline. James Ellroy develops detailed outlines, sometimes a third as long as his finished novel. Jay Bonansinga co-writes The Walking Dead spin-off novels with Robert Kirkman, the creator of the comic book series that launched the hit TV series. Kirkman provides Bonansinga an eight- to ten-page outline. Bonansinga then crafts the 100,000 or so words of the novel.
Dracula?
Yes, Stoker outlined the novel. His hurried scrawls and his more legible typed notes make up a sometimes sloppy, sometimes disorganized outline that looks like:
The narrative.
This happens.
That happens—which leads to …
… and when that occurs.
The late J.N. (Jerry) Williamson, who in 2002 shared the Horror Writers Association Lifetime Achievement Award honors with Stephen King, devised a simple and effective method of outlining. He used it to create and sell forty-plus novels. It obviously worked for him, and he taught his method to others, this writer among them. In the hopes that it might work for you, I have included his method in the “Outline” section of the study guide in the back of this book.
Foreshadowing for what Van Helsing, the vampire expert, will reveal.
Oh, yes! The zig and the zag! Dracula is setting Harker loose, and then … !
Stoker knows how to plot, doesn’t he? And here come the wolves!
This is also a fine scene to illustrate the concept that the opposite of tragedy (or horror) is really comedy. Imagine the scene enacted just as you have it above, but Dracula is the late Leslie Nielsen, perhaps a bit more over-the-top than in Dracula: Dead and Loving It, and Harker none other than Gene Wilder (Mel Brooks directing, of course). “Shut the door! I shall wait till morning.” It’s all a matter of perspective!
How does Stoker ratchet up the pressure on Harker? By giving us one event after another, each more threatening than the one before. But he follows the dictum of internal logic for his story: Each event in this sequence is unpredictable but also seems inevitable.
Dracula, Harker, and the “three girls,” act in ways true to their nature as that nature has been shared with us. No moments of coincidence or contrivance occur. No event could be termed deux ex machina, (when something happens because it’s the “will of the gods”… or because the author wrote him or herself into a corner).
The ordeal of Jonathan Harker is nightmarish and totally logical. We can fully buy into it, and we do.
Because Magician Stoker has successfully pulled one Surprise Rabbit after another out of his hat, we are now anticipating a surprise, aren’t we? Stoker has manipulated our thinking: He has clued us in to what to expect, and we do.
You weren’t expecting this, though, were you? It’s another key aspect of the vampire mythos that Stoker not only exploits but makes uniquely his own.
Wonderfully evocative in its awfulness, this simile. A leech is well up there on the “yuck” scale—as is Dracula.
The imagery here is unforgettable. The Imagist poets had yet to establish themselves by the time of this writing, but Stoker understood the foundation of their poetic philosophy: Ezra Pound defined the image as “that which presents an intellectual and emotional complex in an instant of time.”
It shows. And what it shows us here, this gashed and bloated face, is a picture that could have come from “the nethermost hell.”
Stoker has us asking, “How can it get any worse?” Oh, yeah, the “three horrible women” (admit it, you’d almost forgotten them), who are here for fun and games with our poor solicitor, unless …
Now to get the hell out of here—Liberty or death!
With one word, what Harker thinks might well be his final word/final written word, we understand the depth of his relationship with Mina. This man is in love. It’s a heartbreakingly beautiful moment on which to end the chapter. It’s also, again, a cliff-hanger!
Chapter 5
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. I have been working very hard lately, because I want to keep up with Jonathan’s studies, and I have been practicing 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 practicing very hard.
He and I sometimes write letters in shorthand, and he is keeping a stenographic journal of his travels abroad. 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. 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 nice to see strange countries. I wonder if we, I mean Jonathan and I, shall ever see them together. There is the ten o’clock bell ringing. Goodbye.
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???
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 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 great deal to picture-galleries and for walks and rides in the park. As to the tall, curly-haired man, I suppose it was the one who was with me at the last Pop. Someone 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.
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. 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. Mr. Holmwood introduced him to me, and he called here to see us, and often comes now. I think he is one of the most resolute men I ever saw, and yet the most calm. He seems absolutely imperturbable. I can fancy what a wonderful power he must have over his patients. He has a curious habit of looking one straight in the face, as if trying to read one’s thoughts. He tries this on very much with me, but I flatter myself he has got a tough nut to crack. I know that from my glass.
Do you ever try to read your own face? I do, and I can tell you it is not a bad study, and gives you more trouble than you can well fancy if you have never tried it.
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.
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! 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. Lt me hear from you at once, and tell me all that you think about it. Mina, pray for my happiness.
Lucy
P.S—I need not tell you this is a secret.
Goodnight again. L.
LETTER, LUCY WESTENRA TO MINA MURRAY
24 May
My dearest Mina,
Thanks, and thanks, and thanks again for your sweet letter. It was so nice to be able to tell you and to have your sympathy.
My dear, it never rains but it pours. How true the old proverbs are. Here am I, who shall be twenty in September, and yet I never had a proposal till today, not a real proposal, and today I had three. Just fancy! Three proposals in one day! Isn’t it awful! I feel sorry, really and truly sorry, for two of the poor fellows.
Oh, Mina, I am so happy that I don’t know what to do with myself. And three proposals! But, for goodness’ sake, don’t tell any of the girls, or they would be getting all sorts of extravagant ideas, and imagining themselves injured and slighted if in their very first day at home they did not get six at least. Some girls are so vain! You and I, Mina dear, who are engaged and are going to settle down soon soberly into old married women, can despise vanity. Well, I must tell you about the three, but you must keep it a secret, dear, from every one except, of course, Jonathan. You will tell him, because I would, if I were in your place, certainly tell Arthur. A woman ought to tell her husband everything. Don’t you think so, dear? And I must be fair. Men like women, certainly their wives, to be quite as fair as they are. And women, I am afraid, are not always quite as fair as they should be.