You need to understand that, during this period of intense concentration, the character of Count Dracula became even more alive to me than he was during the years of research it took to create him and write the novel. He was so alive to me, in fact, that I often found myself talking with him as I would stagger home nights after hours of emotionally draining rehearsal. “My dear Count,” I would say, “have I lost all perspective where you are concerned?” I did this to relieve my anxiety: if the novel were not reduced to an acceptable three-hour theatrical entertainment,
Sir Henry made it quite clear to me that he would not permit me to present the work to the public… not in his precious theatre. And so the Count became my constant companion, sir, my father-confessor, my only true friend.
I began to realize that the only way for the work to be made right was to necessarily make the cast believe in the Count as fiercely as did I. I spoke to them one night of my imaginary conversations with the Count, and though they were at first amused, they came to understand that my dedication to the project was unflappable. I have to say, they were far more accommodating to me than Sir Henry’s personal players would ever be with him; being unknowns, there were no egos to soothe or feed. Until the last rehearsal, it was the purest, most enjoyable theatrical experience of my life.
Soon, all of the cast were holding conversations with the Count. I recall encountering the actress who portrayed Mina Murray one night during a break in the rehearsaclass="underline" I found her offstage left, sitting with her book, eyes closed, whispering, “Why does someone as remarkable as you, dear Count, have to be so very, very wicked?” It moved me, sir, to hear that—and not only from her, but from all of the cast members. Oh, the stories I could tell you of their conversations with the Count. They came to believe in his existence as much as I.
Remember: emotions resonate. They seethe, trapped, waiting for release, waiting to be given form.
The deadline for my final draft of the performance text was rapidly approaching, and still I had not found an actor who I felt would adequately convey the essence of Van Helsing. It may seem a somewhat selfish point, but the other actors had so refined their vocal interpretations of my characters, had given them such life, that to bring in an actor who would be less than their equal would have been an insult to them.
Then one evening, after having ended rehearsal early, I found myself in this area of Little Russell Street, and came upon this very bookshop. As I wandered among its many volumes, the proprietor took me aside and asked, “Are you Mr. Bram Stoker, author of After Sunset?” “I am,” I replied, seeing with some delight that he held a well-read copy of that very short story collection in his hands. “I am a great admirer of your stories,” he said, offering the book to me, “and I would be honored if you would inscribe my copy.”
I took the book from him with thanks, and proceeded to uncap the pen he offered, but somehow I managed to cut the tip of my thumb in the process. I bled a little upon the first page— not enough to ruin it, but enough that it could not be easily or neatly wiped away. “Please do not worry yourself,” said the proprietor to me as I signed my name to the title. “It can be taken care of.”
After I returned the volume to him, he took it behind the counter and knelt down behind a shelf of books. A few moments later he emerged and showed me—much to my surprise—that the blood had been successfully removed from the title paper. I noticed—but did not think much of—his licking his lips several times after rising from behind the counter. “I must say, Mr. Stoker, that I am greatly anticipating the release of your new novel.” “You may be one of the few persons in England who is,” I replied, and we shared a jovial laugh at my remark.
Something about him seemed terribly familiar to me, and as I listened to his voice with its weary, sand-like quality, I came to realize that I was looking at my Van Helsing. I proceeded to tell the proprietor of my problem, and asked him if he would be willing to read the part of Van Helsing for my presentation to Sir Henry at the end of the week. He was deeply flattered, and of course accepted my offer.
When the time came for the rehearsal, I found him outside the theatre, nervously pacing by the performers’ entrance. “My dear fellow, we are all waiting,” I said. When he said nothing in reply, I opened the door wider and said, “Please, come in and join us.” He did so, and the rehearsal began.
It was the most magnificent reading of the novel I have ever witnessed. He captured not only Van Helsing’s weariness, but his near-mad drive to destroy Dracula, as well. His performance was a prism of compassion, fury, wariness, dedication, sadness, and strength. When it came time for his “This so sad hour” speech, he had all of us transfixed. He was Van Helsing.
Then, at the conclusion of the scene, he began to laugh.
It was the sound of an ancient crypt door being wrenched open.
The spell was immediately broken. “My dear fellow,” I said to him. “May I inquire what you find so humorous about this very tragic scene?”
“That you see it as tragic at all is what amuses me,” he replied, only this time his voice was not that of either Van Helsing or the sandy-voiced proprietor I had met at the bookshop the previous day: it was the voice of Count Dracula—not only as I had heard it in my imaginary conversations with him, but as the others in the cast had heard it, as well. I looked upon all their faces and knew that this was the voice of the Count as we had come to believe it would sound.
Speak of damned places, Mr. Fort, and you speak, on some level, of belief. Emotions resonate. Electrons dance. Equations collapse and are replaced by newer, equally possible equations. Call it the collective unconscious or the hive mind of the masses, but the emotional charge had built and surged down the cumulative lines of our psyche and found not only focus but form.
He changed before our shocked eyes; from man to bat to wolf to rodent to owl to insect, then back again, then a hybrid of all creatures, plus man—a sight so unspeakable I have never been able to bring myself to put its description onto paper for fear of being labeled mad.
Count Dracula rose up before us in all his dark, majestic, terrifying glory. “My thanks to all of you for our little talks at night,” he said, smiling a lizard-grin and exposing his awful teeth. “I have searched for centuries for a proper form in which I could enter your world, and you have so thoughtfully provided one for me.”
We began to run for the doors, but he became shadow and beast and speed itself: none of the cast made it any farther than the stage-left dressing room entrance before he fell upon them and opened their veins with his teeth. His strength was superhuman, his speed that of the wrath of God Himself—if indeed such a Being exists at all.