Bram Stoker published Dracula in May 1897, a horror classic that has various literary, stage and film adaptations. We present the first chapter of the translation carried out in Colombia by Juan Fernando Hincapié for Panamericana Editorial.
How these papers have been arranged in sequence will become apparent as you read them. All superfluous matters have been eliminated, so that a story almost at odds with today’s beliefs can be accepted as simple fact. There is not throughout the text a statement of past events in which the memory is wrong, as all the chosen records are strictly contemporary, if the points of view and the range of knowledge of those who made them possible are taken into account. .
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CHAPTER I
Jonathan Harker’s Diary
(Text in shorthand)
May 3. Bistritz. I left Munich at 8:35 pm on May 1 and arrived in Vienna early the next morning; I should have arrived at 6:46, but the train was an hour late. From the glimpse I gave from the train and how little I was able to walk through its streets, Budapest seemed like a wonderful place to me.
I was afraid I was going too far from the station, considering that we had arrived late and would leave as close to the scheduled time as possible. My impression was that we were leaving the western world and entering the eastern one: the most splendid of the bridges over the Danube, of respectable width and depth, recalls the time of Turkish rule. We left at a good time, and after dark we reached Klausenburg. There I spent the night at the Hotel Royale. My dinner was a chicken somehow cooked with red peppers. It was very good, but it left me thirsty. (Note: ask for the recipe for Mina). I asked the waiter, and he said it was called paprika hendl, and since it was a national dish, you could get it anywhere in the Carpathians. My basic knowledge of German was very useful here. In fact, I don’t know what I would have done without them.
On one of my visits to London, with some time, I had gone to the British Museum library to look for books and maps on Transylvania. It seemed to me that some prior knowledge of the country might be important in dealing with a noble from the region. I found that the district he had told me about is in the far eastern part of the country, right on the border of three states, Transylvania, Moldova and Bukovina, in the middle of the Carpathian Mountains, one of the least known and wildest regions in Europe. I could not find anywhere the exact location of Dracula’s castle, given that the maps of that country are not yet compared with our Official Cartography Service. However, I was able to learn that Bistritz, a place that Count Dracula spoke to me so much about, is quite well known. Below I will transcribe some of my notes, which can help me jog my memory when I tell Mina about my travels.
In Transylvania four different nationalities converge: in the south, the Saxons, mixed with the Wallachians, who are descended from the Thracian tribes; the Magyars in the west, and the Skequelians in the east and north. I will have to relate to the latter, who claim to be descendants of Attila and the Huns. This may be the case, because when the Magyars conquered the country in the 11th century, they found that the Huns were already there. I have read that all the known superstitions in the world can be found in the Carpathian horseshoe, as if it were the center of some kind of imaginative maelstrom. If so, it is possible that my stay in these lands will be very interesting. (Note: I must ask the earl to tell me all about it.)
Although my bed was comfortable enough, I did not sleep well. I had all kinds of strange dreams. Under my window a dog howled all night at the moon; maybe this had to do with my dreams. Or it could have been the paprika: I had to drink all the water in my jug, and I was thirsty. Towards morning I was able to fall asleep and was awakened by the continual knocking on the door, so that I did have to have slept soundly. For breakfast I ate more paprika and a kind of cornmeal called mamaliga, as well as aubergines stuffed with minced meat, a delicious dish called impletata. (Note: get the recipe for this dish too). I had to rush breakfast because the train left before eight or, better, it had to leave at eight. After rushing to the station at 7:30, I had to wait in the car for over an hour until we finally moved. It seems that the further you go east, the more unpunctual the trains are. I wonder what they will be like in China.
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All day we glide through a country full of unimaginable beauty. We saw small towns or castles that crowned steep hills, as seen on old postcards. We passed through rivers and streams that seemed, through the wide stone channels on each side, to have caused great floods. It certainly takes a great deal of water, and an impressive current, to overcome a river bank. In all the stations there were groups of people, sometimes veritable crowds, in all kinds of clothing. Some of them looked like the peasants of my country, or those you see when passing through France or Germany, who wear short jackets, round hats and homemade pants; but there were others that were truly picturesque. The women looked pretty, except when you got close, and they all looked wide at the waist. They wore white sleeves of some sort, and most wore wide belts from which straps hung in the manner of ballet tutus. Of course, they all wore petticoats underneath. The Slovaks, more barbarian than the rest, struck me as the strangest in their cowboy hats and dirty baggy pants, linen shirts, and huge leather belts, almost a foot wide, with embedded brass nails. They wore high boots over their pants, and they all sported long black hair and thick mustaches. They are quite picturesque, but they don’t look good. They could pass for a gang of eastern outlaws; however, they tell me that they are completely harmless and even weak in character.
It was getting dark when we got to Bistritz, a very interesting place with a rich history. Being located practically on the border – from there the Borgo gorge flows into Bucovina – it has had a haunted existence, and signs of it can certainly be found. Fifty years ago there was a series of large fires that wreaked havoc on five separate occasions. At the beginning of the seventeenth century it suffered a three-week siege in which 13,000 people died, in addition to war losses added to famine and disease. Count Dracula had instructed me about the Golden Krone Hotel which, to my delight, I found totally outdated, as I certainly wanted to fully experience the customs of the country. It was obvious that they were waiting for me: as soon as I got to the door I found an old woman with a cheerful face, who was dressed like a typical peasant woman: white underwear under two long aprons, front and back, with colored patterns and almost too tight to fit. his modesty. When I approached the door he leaned over and said:
“The English Herr?”
“Yes,” I replied. Jonathan Harker.
The old woman smiled and spoke to a man in shirtsleeves, who had followed her to the door. After a while he came back with a note:
“My friend:
Welcome to the Carpathians. I’m waiting excited. Have a good night.
Tomorrow at three o’clock the transport will leave for Bucovina; do you have a ticket
reserved. In the Borgo gorge my carriage will be waiting for you. I hope
May your journey from London have been a happy one, and I hope you enjoy your stay.
in our beautiful country.
His friend,
Dracula ».
May 4th. I learned that the hotel owner had received a letter from the earl instructing him to buy me the best seat in the car. When I inquired about it, he was reticent, and pretended not to understand my German. This could not be true, because until then he had understood me perfectly. At the very least, he had answered my questions as if he understood me. He and his wife, the old woman who received me, looked at each other as if with fear. He muttered 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 if he could tell me something about the castle, both he and his wife crossed themselves and, saying they knew nothing about it, refused to speak further. It was just a short time before the trip began, so I didn’t have time to ask anyone else, but it seemed mysterious and not at all reassuring.
Just before leaving, the old woman came to my room and said hysterically:
“Does he have to go?” Do I need to go, young Herr?
She was so upset that she seemed to have lost her ability to speak German, and was mixing it with another language that was impossible for me to understand. I could only follow what he was saying by asking him many questions. When I told him that I should go immediately, since I had important business to attend to, he asked again:
“Do you know what day it is today?”
I replied that it was May 4. He shook his head and said:
-Oh yeah! I already know it! But do you know what day it is today?
I said I did not understand and continued.
“It’s Saint George’s Eve.” Did you know that today at midnight all the evil spirits in the world will have full dominance? Do you know where you are going? Do you know what you are going to do?
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I was so distraught that I tried to calm her down, but it was not possible. Finally she got down on her knees and implored me not to go, to at least wait a day before doing it. It all seemed pretty ridiculous, but I felt uneasy. However, I had to fulfill my obligations and could not allow anything to interfere with them. I tried to pick her up and, as seriously as possible, thanked her. I said that my business was not waiting, and that I should go. Then he stood up and wiped away his tears. From his neck he took a chain with a crucifix and offered it to me.
I did not know what to do. As a member of the Anglican Church, I have always been taught that such things have something of idolatry; however, it seemed impolite of me to refuse to receive a gift from the woman, whose intentions were the best and who was so upset. I suppose he saw me doubt, because he hung the rosary around my neck.
“Think of your mother and accept it,” he finally said and left the room.
I write this part of my diary while I wait for the car which, of course, is late. The crucifix remains around my neck. It is possible that the old woman has infected me with her fear, but I do not feel at all calm. If somehow this book reaches Mina before I do, let it take my goodbye with it. Here comes the car!
May 5th. The castle. The gray of the morning has dissipated, and the sun crowns the distant horizon, which seems indented by trees or mountains, I don’t know. It gives the impression that big and small things are mixed. I am awake, and since I will not be called until I wake up, I will write until sleep comes. There are many strange things that I must write down and, so that whoever reads them does not think that I have not eaten well before leaving Bistritz, I will write down my dinner with precision. I ate what they call “thief steak,” which has chunks of bacon, onion, and meat seasoned with red peppers and strung on rods. It is grilled in the same simple way as in the streets of London they roast cat meat. The wine was a golden mediasch, leaving a strange itch on the tongue; however, it is not unpleasant at all. I only had a couple of drinks.
When I got into the car, the driver had not occupied the box. I saw him talking to the old woman. It was evident that they were talking about me, because every so often they turned to look at me, and some of the people sitting on the bench outside the door – who they call here “the bearer of words” – came to listen and looked at me with pity. I could hear several words repeated often, strange words, as there were various nationalities in the crowd, so I took my polyglot dictionary out of my suitcase and looked for them. I confess that they were not encouraging at all. I found Ordog (Satan), pokol (hell), stregoica (witch), vrolok and vlkoslak (with the same meaning, one in Slovak and the other in Serbian, a kind of “werewolf” or “vampire”). (Note: ask the earl about these superstitions).
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As I left, the crowd that gathered at the inn began to cross themselves and point two fingers at me. With some difficulty I managed to get a passenger to tell me what it was about. At first he refused to answer, but when he learned of my English nationality he explained that it was a kind of amulet or protection against the evil eye. Of course, it was not very pleasant to go to an unknown place to meet an unknown man in these terms, but they all seemed so kind and heartbroken, so understanding that I could not help but be moved. I will never forget the last glimpse I took of the inn and the picturesque people who occupied its entrance, all crossing themselves around the arch, with its background of rich oleander foliage and orange trees planted in green barrels and grouped in the center of the courtyard. Then the coachman, whose wide linen trousers — they are called around here, gotza — covered the entire davit, whipped his four little horses, and they set off, and thus began our journey.
Wrapped in the beauty of the landscape, I soon forgot the ghostly fears that haunted me. Perhaps this would not have happened if he knew the language or languages of the other passengers. Ahead of us lay a green slope filled with forests and greenery, with steep hills topped by clumps of trees or farms, their white eaves pointing down the road. In all directions there were overwhelming masses of flowering fruit trees: apple, plum, pear, cherry. As we passed you could see, under the trees, the green grass covered with fallen petals. The road went in and out of the green hills here called “Mittelland”; from time to time he lost himself in grassy curves, or cut himself before the branches of the pines that lined the slopes of the hills like tongues of fire.
The road was rough, but we seemed to be flying over it in a frantic haste. At that time he could not understand why the rush, but it was evident that the coachman was determined not to waste time to reach Borgo Pruna. They told me that in summer the road is magnificent, but that they still did not work on it after the thaw. In this sense it is different from most of the roads in the Carpathians, as it is a tradition that they are not kept in good condition. The inhabitants of the area did not repair them for fear that the Turks would think that they were preparing to receive foreign troops, and in this way they would unleash a war that always seemed about to break out.
Beyond the great green hills of the Mittelland, towering slopes of forest rose in front of us, reaching to the highest peaks of the Carpathians. They enveloped us left and right, and the afternoon sun took away the most splendid colors: deep blue and purple in the shady part of the peaks, green and brown where stone and grass mixed, and an infinite perspective of stone. steep and pointed boulders as far as the eye could see. And there the snowy peaks loomed. In the mountains there were crevices where, as the sun descended, from time to time we caught a glimpse of the white glints of various waterfalls. One of my traveling companions touched my shoulder as we skirted the foot of a hill. Suddenly, as we meandered, it seemed that the high snowy peak of a mountain was only a few meters away.
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-Look! The throne of God! He said and crossed himself fervently.
As we continued our endless path, and the sun fell more and more behind us, the shadows of the night emerged. This was accentuated in the snow-capped mountain tops, which held in the sunset and seemed to glow a delicate pinkish color. Every now and then we would see Czechs and Slovaks, all dressed in a picturesque way, and I realized that the goiter was unpleasantly prevalent. At the edge of the road there were countless crosses, and as we passed, my companions crossed themselves. Every so often we would see a man or a woman kneeling before a tomb: they seemed to be in a state of devotion in which they had neither eyes nor ears for the external world. There were many new things for me. For example, haystacks in the trees and the occasional weeping birch, with its white stems gleaming like silver amid the delicate green of the leaves. We also come across the typical peasant carts, with their long, snake-like structures, calculated to cope with the unevenness of the road. In them sat countrymen returning home after a day’s work: the Czechs, in white sheepskins; the Slovaks, full of color and carrying long sticks like spears, with an ax at the end. As night fell, the cold became intense, and the rising twilight seemed to melt into a dark mist the gloom of the trees – oaks, beech and pines – although in the valleys between the hills, as As we ascended the gorge, the fir trees stood as if leaning against the snow that could still be seen.At times, when the path was interrupted by rows of pines that seemed to approach us in the dark, great gray masses, scattering themselves in the trees, produced a peculiarly rare and solemn effect, which was an extension of thoughts and Gloomy whims aroused in the early afternoon, when sunset brought some relief to the spectral clouds that seem to perpetually envelop the Carpathian valleys.
Sometimes the hills were so steep that, despite our driver’s haste, the horses could barely advance. I wanted to get out and walk beside him, just as we do at home, but the coachman thought it was far-fetched.
“No, no,” he said. You must not walk around here. There are too many wild dogs, ”he added, with what sounded like a bit of black humor, as he glanced at the other passengers for their approving smiles. You will see enough before you go to sleep.
He only stopped for a moment to light the lanterns.
When it got dark, the other passengers seemed to be in a state of shock. They spoke constantly to the coachman, as if asking him to go faster. Mercilessly he lashed the horses with his great whip, and with wild cries of encouragement he urged them to accelerate their pace. Then, in the middle of the darkness, I could make out a kind of gray patch of light in front of us, as if there was a crevice in the hills. The nervousness of the passengers increased. The crazed carriage shook under its great leather piers, as if it were a ship in the middle of a stormy sea. I had to hold on. Little by little the road seemed to stabilize, and came to give the impression that we were flying. At some point it seemed that the mountains were beginning to crush us from the sides and above: we were entering the Borgo gorge. One by one the passengers began to offer me gifts, which they gave me so frankly that there was no possibility of refusing. They were certainly strange and varied things, each offered in good faith and with a kind word and a blessing, much like the mixture of gestures of fear that he had seen outside the inn in Bistritz: the sign of the cross and protection against the evil eye. When we moved a little forward, the coachman leaned forward, and the passengers on either side leaned out of the car windows and stared impatiently into the darkness. It became clear that something fascinating was happening or was about to happen, and even though I asked one after another, no one offered the slightest explanation. The state of excitement remained for a few moments; at last we saw how the gorge revealed itself to us from its eastern side.The sky was tinged with dark, menacing clouds, and the oppressive sensation of a storm could be felt in the air. It seemed that the mountain range was separated into two atmospheres, and that we had to inevitably enter the storm. I was keeping an eye on the transport that would take me to the count. I expected to see the glow of lights in the dark, but everything remained in darkness. The only light came from the flickering rays of our own lanterns, in which the mist emitted by the brave horses condensed into white clouds. Now we could make out the sandy road ahead of us, but there was no sign of a vehicle. I could feel the general relaxation of the passengers, which seemed to mock my own disappointment. I was thinking about what I should do when the coachman, looking at his watch, whispered something to the others that I could barely hear: “We are an hour ahead of schedule.”
Then, looking at me, he said in German worse than mine:
“There is no car here.” Nobody waits for the Herr. The best thing is that you come with us to Bucovina, and come back tomorrow or the day after tomorrow. Better the day after tomorrow.
As he spoke, the horses began to huff and whinny wildly, and the coachman was forced to hold them. And then, amid a chorus of shouts from the peasants, who accompanied themselves crossing themselves, a buggy pulled by four horses caught up with us. I could see through the flashes of the lanterns that the horses were black as coal, truly splendid animals. They were led by a tall man with a long dark beard, who wore a large black hat that hid his face. As soon as he turned to us, I was dazzled by the brightness of his radiant eyes, which seemed reddish in the light. He told our driver:
“You came early tonight, friend.”
“The English Herr was in a hurry,” our coachman stammered in reply.
Hearing this, the stranger replied:
“I suppose that’s why he told you to go on to Bucovina.” You can’t fool me: I know too much, and my horses are fast.
He smiled as he spoke, and the lamplight hit him full on a hard-looking mouth, with very red lips and sharp teeth, as white as ivory. One of my traveling companions whispered to another a verse from Lenore, from Bürger:
“Because the dead ride fast”.
(Because the dead travel fast.)
It was evident that the strange driver had heard these words, as he looked up, which was drawing a resplendent smile. The passenger looked away, and at the same time showed two fingers with which he crossed himself.
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“Give me the Herr’s luggage,” said the driver of the buggy, and with extraordinary promptness my bags were placed in my new transport. Then I got out of the car, and the new driver offered me his hand to get into the buggy. His grip was steel. He must have had prodigious strength. Without a word he shook the reins, the horses turned and we entered the darkness of the gorge. Looking back, I saw the vapor from the breath of the horses in the light of the lanterns, and projected against it the figures of those who had been my traveling companions. They crossed themselves. The coachman lashed out and challenged his horses, which set off for Bucovina.
As they were lost in the dark, I felt a slight chill and a feeling of loneliness overcame me. At that moment the coachman threw a cloak over my shoulders and a blanket over my knees. He said in flawless German:
“The night is cold, mein Herr, and my master, the earl, asked me to take care of you.” There’s a bottle of slivovitz (country plum liqueur) under the chair, in case you want some.
I didn’t try it, but it was a comfort to know it was there. I felt a little strange and scared. I think that if I had had any alternative, surely I would have taken it, instead of continuing that night journey into the unknown. The carriage continued at a good pace in a straight line, then turned completely and proceeded down another straight path. It seemed to me that we were following the same course over and over again, so that I noticed a salient point and could see that we passed it again and again. I would have liked to ask the coachman what this meant, but I was scared to do so. I knew that in my position any protest would have no effect if the order was to delay arrival.
Every now and then, however, he was curious to know how much time had passed. I lit a match and looked at the time. It was only a few minutes to midnight. Possibly due to general superstitions about midnight and my recent experiences, I went into a kind of shock. I waited with a feeling of fear and uncertainty.
In the distance, surely on a distant farm on the road, a dog began to howl. His lament was continuous and agonizing, without a doubt it had terror as its origin. Its sound was picked up by that of another dog, and then another and another, until, driven by the wind that blew gently through the gorge, a wild howl was heard that seemed to come from all over the country, as far away as the imagination dared. to conceive it through the gloom of the night. At the first howl the horses tensed and began to rearing, but the coachman was able to reassure them. However, they were still shaking and sweating as if they had had a great scare. Then, far in the distance, from the mountains around us, louder and sharper howls came to us — of wolves — affecting both the horses and myself. I thought about jumping out of the buggy and running off; they reared again, this time savagely, and the coachman had to use all his strength to prevent them from running wild. After a few minutes, however, my ears became accustomed to the sound, and the horses seemed to calm down as well, for the coachman was able to get out of the buggy and stand beside him. He stroked them and calmed them down, speaking in their ears, as I have heard tamers do. He accomplished his task in an extraordinary way: under his caresses they became manageable again, even though they continued to tremble. Once more the coachman took his place, shook the reins, and we hit the road again at high speed. On this occasion, as soon as we reached the end of the gorge, we suddenly took a narrow path that turned right. Soon we find ourselves surrounded by trees.Some of them arched giving the impression that we were passing through a tunnel, and again menacing boulders could be seen on both sides. Even though we were under cover, we could hear the rising wind moaning and whistling through the rocks. The branches of the trees collided with each other as we passed. Every time the cold was more intense, and a fine and dusty snow began to fall.
Soon everything around us was covered in a white blanket. The biting wind still carried the howls of the dogs, but this sound became more subdued as we advanced. Instead, the howls of the wolves seemed closer and closer, as if they were laying a trap for us. I must confess that I panicked, and so did the horses, but the coachman remained impassive. He kept turning his head left and right, but I couldn’t see anything because of the darkness.
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Suddenly, I spotted a faint, flickering blue flame to our left. The coachman saw her at the same time as me; with a single movement he checked that the horses were all right and leaping to the ground disappeared into the darkness. I did not know what to do and, to make matters worse, the howl of the wolves was heard closer. I was considering my options when the coachman appeared again and, without saying a word, climbed up to his post and we continued on our way. I think I fell asleep and kept dreaming about the incident, as it seemed to repeat itself incessantly, and now, looking back at it, it had all the components of a horrible nightmare. On one occasion the flame appeared so close that even in the dark I could see the movements of the coachman. With great speed he went to where the blue flame was —which seemed quite weak, as it could not illuminate the place that surrounded it— and taking some stones began to form a kind of artifact. Then I thought I saw a strange optical effect: when the coachman stopped between the flame and me, I kept seeing the flame, a kind of ghostly flash. This startled me, but because the effect lasted so shortly, I concluded that the strain of my eyes trying to break through the darkness had misled me. For a moment I saw no blue flame, and we sped through the gloom with the howl of wolves closing in, as if they were following us.
At last the moment came when the driver moved farther away than he had hitherto, and during his absence the horses began to tremble more than before, and huffing and screaming in horror. He could see no cause for it: the howling of the wolves had completely ceased. But then the moon, on its way through the black clouds, appeared behind the jagged crest of a pine-covered crag, illuminating a pack of wolves with white fangs and red dangling tongues, with long, stringy limbs and disheveled hair. His grim silence was a hundred times more terrible than his howls from before. I was paralyzed with fear. Only when a man comes face to face with such horrors does he understand their true meaning.
At that moment, as if the moonlight had had some peculiar effect on them, the wolves began to howl again. The horses then began to skip and back, and helplessly look to the sides. It was a sad thing to see. The wolf pack surrounded us, and they were determined to stay there. I began to call the coachman, because it seemed to me that our only chance was to try to break through that fence of wolves, and in this way allow him to return to us. I screamed with all my might and struck the side of the buggy, hoping thereby to scare away the wolves and thus allow the driver to come that way. How he got there, I don’t know, but I heard the tone of his voice rising in commanding command. Looking in the direction of the sound, I saw him standing on the road. As it moved its long arms, as if to sideways an impalpable obstacle, the wolves began to retreat. Just then a heavy cloud overshadowed the moon, and darkness reigned again.
When I was able to see something again, the coachman got on and disappeared. It was all so strange and mysterious that a hideous fear seized me, and I was terrified to even speak or move. I had the impression that time had frozen as we continued on our way almost in complete darkness, for the clouds had completely covered the moon. We continued to climb, although from time to time we descended briefly and rapidly. Nevertheless, it was clear that we were moving up. From one moment to the next I was aware that the coachman was leading the horses through the courtyard of a huge and dilapidated castle. No ray of light came from the tall, blackened windows, and moonlight streamed through its half-ruined battlements.
