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The Picture of Dorian Gray is all about youth and retaining youthful beauty–but underneath, it is about wanting to be able to freeze time: to exist as you are, unchanged, forever. The novel has a dream-like quality and a strange sense of being both hyper-aware of time passing and also a-temporal, or out of the linear fashion of time itself, as we know it. As Dorian begins to become more and more aware of his own soul’s corruption—and his everlasting beauty—he loses his empathy altogether. Killing his one-time friend and creator of the painting that allows him to retain his visual youth and beauty did not weigh terribly on his conscience, nor was it some sort of cathartic release. Dorian is simply apathetic about the whole thing. He systematically removes of the body and all traces of Basil’s existence from his life. His overall impression of the ordeal was that it was pretty bad that there was “a dead thing” in his room upstairs next to his portrait. The actual murder itself does not resonate much with his conscience—until he sees the portrait and realizes the effect the murder had on his own soul. Still, after the fact, Dorian is not much bothered by the fact that he is now a killer, and seeks out other things to busy himself with. One thing that struck me particularly was the chapter about the opium dens.

“To cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the soul.’ Yes, that was the secret. He had often tried it, and would try it again now. There were opium-dens, where one could buy oblivion—dens of horror, where the memory of old sins could be destroyed by the madness of sins that were new” (189). Dorian is determined to forget, to pause time, to escape, at least for a little while, what he has done, what has happened to him and what he has caused. This reminded me of the poem by Arthur Symons, “The Absinthe Drinker”. In this poem, the speaker also feels the need to lose himself for a little while, although he knows that grim reality will inevitably come back just like the tides come back to the shores. He uses absinthe, a mind-altering, hallucinogen drink, to erase whatever troubles he has, and rocks away on a “dreamy and indifferent tide”, similar to Dorian’s use of opium to dull his pain and the marring of his own soul.

Putting both of these literary works into a greater theme, we can read into the need to stop time as part of the anxiety of modernity at the fin de siècle. Inevitably, the new age is coming, and there is no stopping it. It must be faced, just as Dorian must eventually face his sins and the Absinthe Drinker must face problems as well. But for the time being, we can pretend, or fool ourselves, into enjoying this time of false peace.

Dorian Grey is portrayed as an immoral and sinful individual many times throughout the book. Whether portrayed through the literal morphing within his own portrait as the book progresses, or during Basil’s intense confrontation of Dorian in Chapter 12 the reader is constantly reminded that Dorian is infected with an immoral conscious that forces him to commit evil acts. In chapter 12 Basil states, “They say that you corrupt every one with whom you become intimate, and that it is quite sufficient for you to enter a house, for shame of some kind to follow after. I don’t know whether it is so or not” (145). The reader discovers Basil’s own conflicting feelings surrounding his friend Dorian yet, the reader is also given a window into Basil’s misconceptions surrounding Dorian and his “vices” which one cannot conceal, “I can’t believe them when I see you. Sin is a thing that writes itself on its face. It cannot be concealed” (143). Basil firmly states that had Dorian actually been a man of sin he would’ve been able to see it upon his friend’s face. However, unbeknownst to Basil the reader is aware that Dorian’s face has been changing accordingly to his immoral actions, yet it is not his physical face but rather a representation of Dorian and not the real person of Dorian. Dorian’s “representation” just as Basil’s discussion of his reputation in chapter 12 is extremely tarnished heavily due to his literal actions yet I think they may stem from Dorian’s surroundings and those who project their beliefs surrounding Dorian as “immoral” to which Dorian then wholly agrees with because he can’t break out of a societal ideal surrounding him as evil. Relating this idea back to class and our discussion surrounding how much the artist is within the art, or the artist within the text, I wonder how much of the “art” is able to transform to its “audience”. What I mean to say in relation to Dorian Grey is to what extent do those surrounding Dorian Grey morph him into their own preconceptions surrounding his being?

Upon Dorian’s murder of Basil the reader is left with feelings of horror. Undoubtedly one finds it difficult to observe Dorian as an individual other than sinful and evil. Yet Wilde refuses to leave the reader solely with these feelings as he strangely enough is able to create sympathy for his character Dorian. This sympathy is achieved in chapter 14 as the reader observes Dorian reflecting upon his violent actions towards Basil, “It was a thing to be driven out of the mind, to be drugged with poppies, to be strangled lest it might strangle one itself” (156). In this instance Basil cannot think of the murder or it will end up killing him. Dorian is then seen trying to comprehend his emotions as he reads a poem which only leads him to further degradations, “Poor Basil! what a horrible way to die!” (157) Dorian is regretful and isn’t void of compassion for Basil unlike how one would associate an immoral person of his kind to be. Rather than Dorian’s immorality stemming from something innately within his person, it is rooted within an outer source that I believe to be society and he has absorbed the idea surrounding him as immoral which causes his immoral actions.

In the final scene of The Picture of Dorian Gray, Dorian determines to destroy the portrait of himself in an effort to also destroy “all that that meant” (212). For Dorian, to kill his portrait “would kill the past, and when that was dead he would be free. It would kill this monstrous soul-life, and without its hideous warnings, he would be at peace” (212). Dorian’s resolution to destroy his portrait is a futile effort to alleviate his anxieties about the past, the power of conscious, and ultimately, about the existence of a higher universal design. Dorian’s stabbing of the painting constitutes his final attempt to achieve the pleasurable existence that Lord Henry seduced him with, which Walter Pater describes in the conclusion of The Renaissance as “Not the fruit of experience, but experience itself’ (152). However, Dorian is unsuccessful, and Wilde leaves us with a final image of Dorian’s physical body visibly marked with the accumulation of his sins, “withered, wrinkled, and loathsome of visage” (213). Dorian’s failed attempt to “maintain [the] ecstasy” of the present moment represents the triumph of conscience and morality over the aesthetic possibilities of art.

At the heart of Dorian Gray is the reversal of the physical forms of art and conscience that occurs when Dorian wishes for his portrait to age so that he might remain eternally young. From the moment that the painting first changes to reflect the state of Dorian’s soul, it is evident that the painting has taken on the role of conscience, while Dorian’s now-eternal beauty enables him to realize the purpose of art: “to give nothing but the highest quality to your moments as they pass, and simply for those moments’ sake” (153). Initially, the physical separation of Dorian’s conscience, or the painting, allows him to pursue “experience itself,” a life of the senses, quite successfully. However, his portrait, or conscience, continues to haunt him, and his perception of the portrait at the end of the novel indicates that he believes that its destruction will allow him to pursue a sensual life unhindered. In order to continue to embrace the beauty of the present moment, Dorian believes that he must “kill the past,” and kill the “monstrous soul-life” that sends him “hideous warnings” with each transgression that he commits (212). For Dorian, this piece of art has come to represent the anxiety-producing concepts of the past, conscience, and a higher universal design. The portrait now performs the exact opposite function of art; instead of offering the “highest quality” to each moment, “simply for those moments’ sake,” the portrait now simultaneously pulls Dorian backwards towards the past and forwards into an afterlife in which he will surely be punished by his sins.

Dorian’s effort to eradicate the perversion of art that his portrait has become and to reap the benefits of his own existence as a piece of art results in his demise. After Dorian stabs the painting, the initial reversal between the painting and himself occurs once more: the portrait becomes art, and Dorian is marked with the physical evidence of his conscience. This final transformation emphasizes the futility of truly living for the sake of the current moment, and of seeking only experience in itself. As Dorian’s fate indicates, to live such a life would require a separation of the body and soul, and such a separation is not truly possible.

 

Dracula and The Portrait of Dorian Gray have a lot in common. They share a fear of the outsider. Our discussion of vampires and werewolves made me think about how the fear of the outsider operates in Wilde’s novel. Given Wilde’s later trial and his sexuality, I think a lot of The Portrait of Dorian Gray exposes the fear of the outsider, or uses it to generate interest in the plot. As with Dracula and the feeling that “vampires walk among us,” perhaps in Wilde’s novel the fear is that “gay men walk among us,” or that murderers/people who look harmless but are dangerous go unnoticed in our society.

If fin de siècle fears revolved around the worry that regardless of modernization, things still fell through the cracks, then perhaps Dorian Gray re-expresses that. Everyone praises Dorian for his beauty and assumes his character is pristine and “innocent” because of his “youth” and “beauty.” But as the novel progresses, Dorian becomes more of a criminal. At the end of the novel, he has killed someone and covered up the murder. According to law, he should be in jail. But Henry continues to praise Dorian’s unblemished character, making Dorian feel unbearably guilty. “I am so glad that have never done anything, never carved a statue, or painted a picture, or produced anything outside of yourself. Life has been your art” (Wilde 207).

Vampires, homosexual men, and murderers are all illegal members of Victorian society. In Dracula and The Portrait of Dorian Gray, it is difficult to catch the outsider and tease out who deviates from society, because everyone fits in, whether by looking human but being a vampire, or by being extremely beautiful. These both represent the fear of overlooking clandestine threats to a stable society.

Another way The Portrait of Dorian Gray is another iteration of “missing” something is that fact that Oscar Wilde was accused of illegal homosexual behavior, and people used this novel as evidence in court. I believe a lot of Wilde’s feelings hide behind Dorian’s guilt. There are moments when Wilde writes something that is more of a pondering, unrelated to the story, and it feels confessional. Throughout the novel, Dorian struggles with trying to confess or unburden himself, but his friends silence him because they already believe he is so good. Perhaps Wilde’s guilt for living contrary to England’s law made its way into the character of Dorian Gray. Henry says, “The books that the world calls immoral are books that show the world its own shame” (208). Is this a moment when Wilde speaks directly to his reader, hoping they will understand that this book is a form of confession, exposing “shame[ful]” aspects of society and Wilde himself? Later, Dorian ponders his life. “He knew that he had tarnished himself, filled his mind with corruption and given horror to his fancy; that he had been an evil influence to others, and had experienced a terrible joy in being so; and that of the lives that had crossed his own it had been the fairest and the most full of promise that he had brought to shame. But was it all irretrievable? Was there no hope for him?” (209). I view this passage as a desperate outcry from Wilde, trying to atone for his “sins” under the guise of Dorian’s character.

To me, Dorian represents Wilde’s guilt, and Wilde used Dorian’s character to try tell the world his sins, as well as to think through them himself. The book represents a fear that we cannot see what is right under our nose: people overlook Dorian’s sins and he walks free; Wilde wrote a book in which he seemingly hints at his feelings for men. The Picture of Dorian Gray is another iteration of fearing what we can’t “catch.”

Dorian Gray is presented in the beginning of the novel as “a young man of extraordinary personal beauty” (Wilde 5) with a “charming personality” (Wilde 11) to match. Wilde even goes so far as to compare his figure to the “Greek Gods”. Basil Hallward, the artist who painted the portrait of this majestic figure, captured the pure physical and emotional beauty of Dorian Gray.

This recognition of beauty does not last long, as Dorian learns from Lord Henry that his beauty is fleeting and that he only “has a few years in which to live really, perfectly, and fully […] when your youth goes, your beauty will go with it” (Wilde 24). Dorian becomes extremely hostile of this fact, going so far as to curse the portrait – causing it to reflect his transformation from youth to old age, and from beauty to inelegance.

Meanwhile, Dorian is in the midst of falling in love with a young female actor, Sibyl Vane, while watching her extravagant performances where she illustrates the characters of Desdemona, Juliet, and the likes. Although he is internal worried about becoming less beautiful and youthful, he lets himself love this young lady freely.

A short few chapters later, and this portrayal of Dorian Gray is sharply contrasted with a new character with much less consideration for the emotion’s of others, and with less physical elegance and youthfulness than what was described throughout the first few chapters.

Dorian not only renounces his love of Sibyl and breaks their engagement after seeing her fail to perform to her full ability, but Dorian also becomes a disgraced member of the London society. Basil returns to talk to Dorian years later and makes him aware of the “most dreadful things being said against you [Dorian] in London” (Wilde 143) in response to Dorian’s disregard for appropriate social relationships.

Dorian undergoes what seems to be a complete transformation – or maybe it is that he himself embodies two separate types of people within himself. This phenomenon is discussed as a major theme of the Fin De Siècle when the modern psychiatric diagnosis of “multiple personality disorder” or “double consciousness” (Ledger and Luckhurst xix) was first coined during the turn of the century.

Dorian presents all of the symptoms of this Freudian term, such as “hysteria and alternating personalities” (Ledger and Luckhurst xix), throughout the novel as his character develops. He becomes hysteric over Lord Henry’s evaluation of Dorian’s fleeting beauty, and even more so as he visibly witnesses his portrait change as time goes on with age, stress and fatigue. He also presents two conflicting personalities to two main characters in the novel, Sibyl and Basil, as he goes from extreme devotion and care towards them in the beginning of the novel, to animosity and distrust of the two characters in the later chapters.

The portrait that was created of him in the past seems to represent his true self as he changes with age, while Dorian puts on a façade of togetherness and youth that falsely represents his true self. This disparity eats away at his character, which is what causes him to become such a dishonor in London, despite his “pure, bright, innocent face, and his marvelous untroubled youth” (Wilde 143).

Dorian figuratively and literally presents two distinctly different “faces”; one that is reflected in the changing portrait that he cursed shortly after its creation, and one that is conveyed to people in society.

A name contains a wealth of meaning, especially in this case. Sibyl Vane is a relatively minor character in Dorian Gray – or seems to be at first. She is Dorian’s first love, a wonderful actress he insists on marrying despite their large status gap. However, his rejection of her after her lackluster performance as Juliet ends up beginning his descent into sin – her suicide after his rejection is the first sin to mar the painting that reflects his soul. With that in mind, the name given to this actress – Sibyl Vane – suddenly reveals the importance of her role.

According to the OED, the word Sibyl means: 1. one or other certain women of antiquity who were reputed to possess powers of prophecy and divination; 2. A prophetess; a fortune-teller, a witch (OED).

As an actress, Sibyl is described as “divine beyond all living things. When she acts you will forget everything” (79). This description sounds like Sibyl casting a spell over the audience with her ability to act – aligning with the “witch” aspect of her name.

She “move[s] like a creature from a finer world” (81), fitting for a prophetess chosen by the gods (usually Apollo, the god of foresight) to see the future; thus, someone connected to deities and not fully of this earth.

Ironically, as someone who is supposed to see more clearly than the rest of the world, Sibyl explains “It was only in the theatre that I lived. I thought that it was all true. I was Rosalind for one night, and Portia the other…The painted scenes were my world” (84). However, Dorian’s love “taught her what reality is [and she] saw through the hollowness, the sham, the silliness of the empty pageant” (84). In continuing the irony, the role she finally acted falsely was Juliet – and by the end of the night, Sibyl commits suicide after the death of her love (that is, the rejection from Dorian) just as Juliet does. Sibyl’s last role foretold the manner of her death – that is, a prophecy. Fitting for a Sibyl.

Sibyl’s last name, Vane, is also important. A vane is: 1a. A plate of metal, usually of an ornamental form, fixed at an elevation upon a vertical spindle, so as to turn readily with the wind and show the direction from which this is blowing; a weather-cock; 1b. (fig): An unstable or constantly changing person or thing (OED) (the bold is my addition, for emphasis).

On a literal level, Sibyl Vane is an actress, constantly changing her identity; night to night she is different Shakespearean female leads – “Rosalind for one night, and Portia the other” (84)).

On a metaphorical level, Dorian’s treatment of Miss Vane is overly cruel, marking the beginning of the downward spiral (or slippery slope, whichever metaphor you prefer) of his demise. His callous treatment leads to her suicide, staining his soul irredeemably and indicating the beginning of the end. Miss Vane is the metaphorical wind vane revealing the direction the wind of Dorian Gray’s fate is blowing.

Names have power. Sibyl Vane’s name gave her the power to suggest the course of people’s fates – both her own and that of Dorian Gray.

Vampires are constantly in the cultural spotlight. In literature and on the screen, we are bombarded with sexy portrayals of immortal bloodsuckers, and two that stand out to me are Interview with a Vampire and, very sadly, Twilight. Both of these narratives take basic elements of Dracula and mix them with very different versions of what it means to be a vampire.

All of the vampires have some inherent attractiveness that is also seen as threatening, in some indescribable way, either to society as a whole or to heterosexuality or to basic physical safety. In addition, this magnetism allows them to seduce their human prey, as well as overwhelming strength to subdue them if they are able to resist their sexual appeal. The humans that see Dracula and the Cullens remark about the strange colors and fury in their eyes. Dracula and Lestat both feel that they should be masters wherever they go – Dracula wanting to be able to imitate the British upper class so as to not lose his aristocratic standing, and Lestat believing that vampires are the ultimate predators that have the right to anything and everything they want.

However, these other stories delve further into questions the Dracula leaves unanswered. Both play with the idea of child vampires. The female vampires in Dracula only eat children, and none of Stoker’s vampires are pictured having sex with other vampires or with humans. It is also made very explicit through the timeline mentioned in the closing note that the Harker child Quincey is the offspring of both Harkers, not of Mina and Dracula.

In Interview with a Vampire, Lestat turns the young Claudia into a vampire so that Louis could have someone to take care of. At first, everything seems to be alright, but Claudia eventually starts to abuse her newfound power like Lestat does, and spirals out of control when she realizes that she will never change. She will never grow up, she will never be a mother, she will only ever be a doll like girl. In the end, she is destroyed for her recklessness, and because of some trouble with the Paris coven.

In the Twilight series, Edward and Bella consummate their marriage before Bella becomes a vampire, and this results in their half-human-half-vampire daughter Renesmee. She is able to grow and change into an adult, but does so extremely rapidly. The Cullens then find out about the existence of other half children, and a war breaks out with the Volturi, the vampire royalty of sorts that tries to keep vampires from being discovered by humans, because immortal children are uncontrollable and thus forbidden.

Both of these tales show the danger of vampire children, a question that Stoker did not even try to address, and I think that is because of what the question society is facing today is. The Victorians were afraid of reverse invasion, the mysterious, uncivilized, possibly colonized other coming back to Britain and taking over. Today, I think people are more worried about reproduction. The other is already here, our society is (somewhat) more integrated, and now bloodlines between races and religions are mixing, and we don’t know what to do about it. If we don’t know how to classify someone as exclusively one attribute, like black or Muslim, we don’t know what think of or expect from them, and that terrifies us. We like to have clear cut groupings, but that doesn’t exist anymore – so now the vampires in our literature are reproducing for us to look at this new problem through the lens of fiction just like the Victorians did.

The most curious linguistic oddity within Dracula occurs when Bram Stoker makes the conscious decision to capitalize the first letter in the pronouns ‘He’ or ‘Him’ in reference to Dracula whilst they are not positioned at the beginning of a sentence. This choice would not be considered strange if the capitalization of mid-sentence male pronouns were not intrinsically linked to religious implications. Normally, the capitalization of ‘He’ and ‘Him’ is reserved for references to God or statements about God’s actions. As a result, the pronoun capitalization that Bram Stoker employs in various sections throughout the text is abnormal because it is quite possibly blasphemous. The sporadic pronoun capitalization within Dracula creates an uncertainty between what is asked of him and what is required of Him- By this, I mean to say that the reader is unsure of whether God or Dracula is being addressed within these crucial passages.

 

In the article “Pronoun Capitalisation in the New King James Version: A Style in Translation and Communication,” Ekpenyong states that the Bible utilized capital pronouns (in reference to God) in order to more greatly differentiate between God and man- and to also establish the concept that God should be placed “above everyone else” (Ekpenong, 58). For the reader’s sake, the pronoun capitalization within the Bible eradicated subject ambiguity and distinctly established a division between God and human beings. Ekpenyong suggests that using capital letters (or ‘divine pronouns’) instead of small letters brought “insight to the reader” (Ekpenong, 60). Incongruously, Dracula’s perversion of capital pronouns creates a blurred line between what appears to be divine (God) and what is horrific (Dracula).

If it is true that Dracula is, in fact, a distorted deity, then we must also explore the circumstances in which divine pronouns are ascribed to him in order for us to decode the meaning beneath Stoker’s religious undertones. More specifically, in Dr. Seward’s diary, Renfield describes his eexperience with Count Dracula:

 

“Then the dogs howled, away beyond the dark trees in His house…A dark mass spread over the grass, coming on like the shape of a flame of fire; and then He moved the mist to the right and left, and I could see that these were thousands of rats with their eyes blazing red- like His, only smaller” (298, Stoker).

 

Stoker’s “divine pronoun” usage implies that Dracula is not only magical, but holy in a sense. The relationship between Renfield and the Count is odd because he [Renfield] describes Him [Dracula] with great reverence despite the terror that is associated with the encounter. Perhaps, an argument can be made that Renfield is Dracula’s apprentice and thus treats him with a great deal of respect. The manner in which Renfield speaks, for instance, “I don’t care for the pale people; I like them with lots of blood in them” (Stoker, 299) implies a twisted likeness between both Dracula and Renfield. This godlike pedestal that Renfield places Dracula upon could explain the religious reverence, however, Renfield is not the only character within Dracula to refer to ‘Him’ using capital pronouns.

Comparatively, the Log of the Demeter contains references to Dracula’s presence aboard the ship. The log includes the shipmate’s fears about the Count, but his capital pronoun usage is extremely alarming.

“You had better come too, captain, before it is too late. He is there. I know the secret now. The sea will save me from him…I dared not go below, I dared not leave the helm; so here all night, I stayed, and in the dimness of the night I saw it- Him! God forgive me” (Stoker, 95).

 

With this new discovery, I am led to think that Stoker’s usage of “divine pronouns” is reserved for moments of complete wonderment at the prospect of the Dracula’s unknown powers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Works Referenced:

 

Ekpenyong, Effiong. “Pronoun Capitalisation in the New King James Version: A Style in Translation and Communication.” Babel Revue Internationale De La Traduction / International Journal of Translation Babel 55.1 (2009): 58-68. University of Uyo. Web.

 

Stoker, Bram. Dracula (Revised Edition). Ed. Maurice Hindle. New York, NY: Penguin Classics, 1993. Print.

 

 

The narrative style of Dracula is generally a pleasant surprise to modern-day readers who may be expecting another fervent Victorian melodrama. Dracula’s narrative skips back and forth between several narrators, in the form of diary entries, medical notes, newspaper articles, telegrams, letters, and so on, enabling the author to depict events happening at the same time in different places, and the reader to see the characters and actions from different points of view. The epistolary novel was a common form of the period, but the extraordinary nature of the events in Dracula gives the collected narrative the air of an official case study (consciously heightened by the preface informing readers that the documents have been placed in order). When considering this case-study aspect of the book, it is interesting to compare Dracula to another groundbreaking Victorian novel: The Moonstone. Published some thirty years before Dracula, The Moonstone is generally considered the first detective novel in the English language; like Dracula, it deals with violent aberrations in the settled life of ordinary English people; and like Dracula, it is told in a collection of narratives, from the rich Verinders’ lifelong servant, to their insufferable cousin, to the opium-addicted doctor who solves the mystery. Like Dracula, The Moonstone uses its changing narrative to establish an “official” narrative and, by jumping from narrator to narrator, effectively keeps the reader from becoming too wedded to any one version of events, or too attached to any single character.

Why is the case study technique so important in these particular books? I suggested earlier that the extraordinary story of Dracula gives the narrative an official power; in fact, both Dracula and The Moonstone use the distancing technique of multiple narrators to keep horrible events at arm’s length, suggesting that the way Victorian authors – and readers – could best deal with occurrences so far beyond the pale of ordinary life was to experience them through the prism of a reassuringly orderly study. The documents in both novels were written after the fact by the characters; therefore we know that they survived whatever horrible experience they are describing, because they are able to write about it. Both novels deal with threats to England – Dracula’s in the person of the Transylvanian count, The Moonstone’s in the titular jewel, which is Indian, and the “exotic” opium that is revealed to have been a vital element of the crime – but we know that England survived, because some reassuringly English hand has ordered the narratives for us.

The similarities in narrative between Dracula and The Moonstone – both unusual at publication, both regarded as seminal genre works today – are striking. I am too cautious (and too ignorant) to expand this argument into one about Victorian society as a whole, but I will leave it as an open question: what does this distancing of reader from story, in this particular genre of shocking stories, tell us about the Victorian psyche? Why did potentially disruptive stories like Dracula and The Moonstone need to be “officialized” for an audience? And finally, what kinds of stories do we in the 21^st century treat in this way, and what does it say about us?

Dracula as a novel is one deeply associated with the history of British literature, especially since the main chunk of the novel itself takes place in London. To herald the book as a British masterpiece is to erase some of its own history. This novel holding currents of British anxiety of reverse invasion by those they once conquered was written by an Irishman. Though Stoker was a Protestant and a Loyalist in his time, he grew up in County Sligo and would have seen first hand the oppression of Irish Catholicism by the English Church. Even in his higher education at Trinity College Dublin, Stoker would have been made aware of the British attempts to extinguish Irish culture and religion, as until the early 1900s only Protestant students were admitted into the university. By acknowledging the religious climate that Stoker was raised and educated in, the way that religion works within Dracula becomes incredibly interesting.

It can’t be a coincidence that the only effective ways of warding off Dracula and other vampires stem from religious traditions that the British Empire would have been trying to erase in Ireland. When Harker was first offered the crucifix, he almost did not accept it because of his idea of himself as a “Good English Churchman” (Stoker, 11). According to Longman in his Anthology of the Victorian Age the religious life of England was very strict in its simplicity: “Anti-Catholic, Bible-oriented, concerned with humanitarian issues, and focused on the salvation of individual souls within a rigid framework of Christian conduct, Evangelicalism dominated the religious and often the social life of working- and middle class- Britons” (Longman, 1056). Therefore, the crucifix, a commonly worn item among Catholics during this time, would have been seen as straying from the straight-forward path of religion laid out by the Bible and other rigid constructs of the Victorian Age. This makes it interesting that even though Britain was so anti-Catholic at this time, it is the Catholic symbol that is effective against Dracula.

The coach ride that Harker takes to meet Dracula’s coach in the woods is a particularly lasting image of the importance of and faith in catholic tradition in this region. “By the roadside were many crosses, and as we swept by, my companions all crossed themselves. Here and there was a peasant man or woman kneeling before a shrine, who did not even turn round as we approached…” (Stoker, 14). The shrines that Harker described were not an acceptable form of worship in Evangelical England, as shrines tended to be decorated and elaborate, and they are physical representations of what is being worshiped, which would not have been accepted out of fear of idol worship. Therefore, a solution for the evil that awaits Harker does not reside in his own religious traditions, but in those of the land he is exploring.

Catholicism is a strong factor in what makes both the Transylvanians and the Irish ‘other’ in the eyes of the Evangelical British. Therefore the implications of the Catholic traditions being capable of defending people against Dracula, while simple faith in God that Evangelicals subscribe to so as to not complicate worship not being able to accomplish the same, appears to be a commentary on the whether or not the English are truly correct, or best, in their religious traditions. This then calls into question their legitimacy in forcing colonized nations, like Stoker’s Ireland, into adopting British religious preferences.