I read the novel Dracula years ago. I struggled to read it at first because of the language – not that English isn’t my first language, it is, but this book was written so long ago and our language has changed and evolved so much that it’s getting difficult to understand easily. Because of that, I decided to take Dracula and edit it to fit in better with modern-day language.
Here’s the project I set myself then. I hope you enjoy it… it’s taken quite a while.
Pictures from Google Images - licenced for re-use
DRACULA
by
Bram Stoker
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
Publishers
Copyright, 1897, in the United States of America, according to Act of Congress, by Bram Stoker
[All rights reserved.]
TO MY DEAR FRIEND HOMMY-BEG
5 May. The Castle.
The grey of the morning passed, and the sun is high over the distant, and jagged horizon. I am not tired, and, naturally I’ll write till sleep comes.
I have lots to write about, and, just in case anyone who reads my notes thinks I ate too well before I left Bistritz, this is what I had for dinner. I was served something they called "robber steak" - bits of bacon, onion, and beef, seasoned with red pepper, and strung on sticks and roasted over the fire. The wine was Golden Mediasch, it produces quite a sting on the tongue, which is, however, not unpleasant. I had only a couple of glasses of this, and nothing else.
When I got on the coach, the driver hadn’t taken his seat, and I saw him talking with the landlady. They were talking about me.
Every now and then they looked at me. Some of the people who were sitting on the bench outside the door came and listened, and they looked at me, most of them pityingly. I could hear a lot of words often repeated, odd words, there were many nationalities in the crowd; so I got my dictionary from my bag and looked them out. I must say they were not reassuring. Some of the words were, "Ordog" - Satan, "pokol" - hell, "stregoica" - witch, "vrolok" and "vlkoslak" - one being Slovak and the other Serbian, and both of which mean the same thing, either werewolf or vampire. (Memo, I must ask the Count about these superstitions).
When we started, the crowd at the inn door all made the sign of the cross and pointed two fingers towards me. With some difficulty, I got a fellow-passenger to tell me what they meant; he wouldn’t answer at first, but when he found out I was English, he explained that it was a charm or guard against the evil eye. This was not pleasant for me, just starting for an unknown place to meet an unknown man; but everyone seemed kind-hearted, if also sorrowful, and sympathetic that I was moved.
I’ll never forget the last look back at the inn-yard and its crowd, all crossing themselves as they stood round the wide archway. Then our driver cracked his big whip over his four small horses and we set off on our journey.
I soon lost the memory of ghostly fears in the beauty of the scene as we drove along, although if I’d known the language, or languages, my fellow passengers were speaking, I might not have been able to throw them off so easily.
Before us lay a green sloping land full of forests and woods, with steep hills, crowned with clumps of trees or with farmhouses.
There was a mass of fruit blossom everywhere - apple, plum, pear, cherry; and as we drove by, I could see the green grass under the trees spangled with fallen petals. In and out amongst these green hills ran the road, losing itself as it swept round the grassy curve, or was shut out by the straggling ends of pine woods. The road was rugged, but still we seemed to fly over it at great haste.
I couldn’t understand then why were were travelling at such a rate, but the driver was determined to lose no time in reaching Borgo Prund.
I was told that the road is excellent in summertime, but it had not been put in order after the winter snows. In the Carpathians, it’s traditional to leave the roads in disrepair. The Hospadars would not repair them, in case the Turkish should think they were preparing to bring in foreign troops, and so hurry the war which was always at loading point.
Beyond the hills of the Mittel Land rose mighty slopes of forest up to the lofty steeps of the Carpathians themselves. Right and left of us they towered, with the afternoon sun bringing out all the glorious colours of this beautiful range. Further out, grand and snow-covered, the peaks rose. Through mighty rifts in the mountains, we watched the sun as it began to sink, glinting and gleaming off the white of falling water. One of my companions touched my arm as we swept round the base of a hill and opened up the lofty, snow-covered peak of a mountain, which seemed, as we wound on our serpentine way, to be right before us:--
"Look! Isten szek!" -"God's seat!" And he crossed himself reverently.