Blog Post #4: Death

Passage: (page 94–99)

‘It be all fool-talk, lock, stock, and barrel, that’s what it be and nowt else. These bans an’ wafts an’ boh-ghosts an’ bar-guests an’ bogles an’ all anent them is only fit to set bairns an’ dizzy women a’belderin’. They be nowt but air-blebs. They, an’ all grims an’ signs an’ warnin’s, be all invented by parsons an’ illsome berk-bodies an’ railway touters to skeer an’ scunner hafflin’s, an’ to get folks to do somethin’ that they don’t other incline to. It makes me ireful to think o’ them. Why, it’s them that, not content with printin’ lies on paper an’ preachin’ them out of pulpits, does want to be cuttin’ them on the tombstones. Look here all around you in what airt ye will. All them steans, holdin’ up their heads as well as they can out of their pride, is acant, simply tumblin’ down with the weight o’ the lies wrote on them, ‘Here lies the body’ or ‘Sacred to the memory’ wrote on all of them, an’ yet in nigh half of them there bean’t no bodies at all, an’ the memories of them bean’t cared a pinch of snuff about, much less sacred. Lies all of them, nothin’ but lies of one kind or another! My gog, but it’ll be a quare scowder-ment at the Day of Judgment when they come tumblin’ up in their death-sarks, all jouped together an’ trying’ to drag their tombsteans with them to prove how good they was, some of them trimmlin’ an’ dithering, with their hands that dozzened an’ slippery from lyin’ in the sea that they can’t even keep their gurp o’ them.’

I could see from the old fellow’s self-satisfied air and the way in which he looked round for the approval of his cro-nies that he was ‘showing off,’ so I put in a word to keep him going.

‘Oh, Mr. Swales, you can’t be serious. Surely these tomb-stones are not all wrong?’

‘Yabblins! There may be a poorish few not wrong, savin’ where they make out the people too good, for there be folk that do think a balm-bowl be like the sea, if only it be their own. The whole thing be only lies. Now look you here. You come here a stranger, an’ you see this kirkgarth.’

I nodded, for I thought it better to assent, though I did not quite understand his dialect. I knew it had something to do with the church.

He went on, ‘And you consate that all these steans be aboon folk that be haped here, snod an’ snog?’ I assented again. ‘Then that be just where the lie comes in. Why, there be scores of these laybeds that be toom as old Dun’s ‘bac-cabox on Friday night.’

He nudged one of his companions, and they all laughed. ‘And, my gog! How could they be otherwise? Look at that one, the aftest abaft the bier-bank, read it!’

I went over and read, ‘Edward Spencelagh, master mari-ner, murdered by pirates off the coast of Andres, April, 1854, age 30.’ When I came back Mr. Swales went on,

‘Who brought him home, I wonder, to hap him here? Murdered off the coast of Andres! An’ you consated his body lay under! Why, I could name ye a dozen whose bones lie in the Greenland seas above,’ he pointed northwards, ‘or where the currants may have drifted them. There be the steans around ye. Ye can, with your young eyes, read the small print of the lies from here. This Braithwaite Lowery, I knew his father, lost in the Lively off Greenland in ’20, or Andrew Woodhouse, drowned in the same seas in 1777, or John Paxton, drowned off Cape Farewell a year later, or old John Rawlings, whose grandfather sailed with me, drowned in the Gulf of Finland in ’50. Do ye think that all these men will have to make a rush to Whitby when the trumpet sounds? I have me antherums aboot it! I tell ye that when they got here they’d be jommlin’ and jostlin’ one another that way that it ‘ud be like a fight up on the ice in the old days, when we’d be at one another from daylight to dark, an’ tryin’ to tie up our cuts by the aurora borealis.’ This was evidently local pleasantry, for the old man cackled over it, and his cronies joined in with gusto.

‘But,’ I said, ‘surely you are not quite correct, for you start on the assumption that all the poor people, or their spirits, will have to take their tombstones with them on the Day of Judgment. Do you think that will be really necessary?’

‘Well, what else be they tombstones for? Answer me that, miss!’

‘To please their relatives, I suppose.’

‘To please their relatives, you suppose!’ This he said with intense scorn. ‘How will it pleasure their relatives to know that lies is wrote over them, and that everybody in the place knows that they be lies?’

He pointed to a stone at our feet which had been laid down as a slab, on which the seat was rested, close to the edge of the cliff. ‘Read the lies on that thruff-stone,’ he said.

The letters were upside down to me from where I sat, but Lucy was more opposite to them, so she leant over and read, ‘Sacred to the memory of George Canon, who died, in the hope of a glorious resurrection, on July 29,1873, fall-ing from the rocks at Kettleness. This tomb was erected by his sorrowing mother to her dearly beloved son.‘He was the only son of his mother, and she was a widow.’ Really, Mr. Swales, I don’t see anything very funny in that!’ She spoke her comment very gravely and somewhat severely.

‘Ye don’t see aught funny! Ha-ha! But that’s because ye don’t gawm the sorrowin’ mother was a hell-cat that hated him because he was acrewk’d, a regular lamiter he was, an’ he hated her so that he committed suicide in order that she mightn’t get an insurance she put on his life. He blew nigh the top of his head off with an old musket that they had for scarin’ crows with. ‘twarn’t for crows then, for it brought the clegs and the dowps to him. That’s the way he fell off the rocks. And, as to hopes of a glorious resurrection, I’ve often heard him say masel’ that he hoped he’d go to hell, for his mother was so pious that she’d be sure to go to heaven, an’ he didn’t want to addle where she was. Now isn’t that stean at any rate,’ he hammered it with his stick as he spoke, ‘a pack of lies? And won’t it make Gabriel keckle when Geor-die comes pantin’ ut the grees with the tompstean balanced on his hump, and asks to be took as evidence!’

I did not know what to say, but Lucy turned the conver-sation as she said, rising up, ‘Oh, why did you tell us of this? It is my favourite seat, and I cannot leave it, and now I find I must go on sitting over the grave of a suicide.’

‘That won’t harm ye, my pretty, an’ it may make poor Geordie gladsome to have so trim a lass sittin’ on his lap. That won’t hurt ye. Why, I’ve sat here off an’ on for nigh twenty years past, an’ it hasn’t done me no harm. Don’t ye fash about them as lies under ye, or that doesn’ lie there ei-ther! It’ll be time for ye to be getting scart when ye see the tombsteans all run away with, and the place as bare as a stubble-field. There’s the clock, and’I must gang. My service to ye, ladies!’ And off he hobbled

Analysis:

A large contributing factor to the prominent threat of Dracula is a lack of knowledge about him and vampires in general. Notably, Victorian people wish to avoid thinking about death, and the resulting lack of documentation on the circumstances of people’s deaths contributes to Dracula’s power.

Though death is common for the Victorian people, it is a difficult topic to ponder for many. Despite this, Lucy and Mina end up listening to an old man, Mr. Swales, talk about how most of the graves in the churchyard have lies written on them. His reasoning for this is that the graves all state “‘Here lies the body’ […] an’ yet in nigh half of them there bean’t no bodies at all” (Stoker, 95) because the owners of the graves died out at sea. Mina asks why this is such a problem to him; the dead don’t need their graves anyways. She says that the purpose of the deads’ gravestones is “to please their relatives” (Stoker, 97). This statement highlights an important detail about Victorian society: people do not like thinking about the unfortunate circumstances of others’ deaths. As a result they tell lies on the gravestones in order to provide a false comfort to those affected. Swales does not elaborate on why the falseness of this comfort is a detriment to society, but he does provide another example of it. He brings up the death of George Canon, who, according to Mr. Swales, committed suicide using a gun in order to prevent his mother from getting any insurance payout from his death. Yet, his grave leaves these details out for a generic statement. Lucy reacts by saying “Oh, why did you tell us of this?” (Stoker, 97). Her reaction of horror to this truth helps reveal the reason why false comfort is preferred over actuality. People would rather think of a death like this as something unfortunate and solemn rather than the difficult truth of an hatred-driven, planned suicide. This line of thinking results in a lack of knowledge about death in the average Victorian person.

My Dracula copy for page number reference: https://www.planetebook.com/free-ebooks/dracula.pdf