I am too tired and battered to study these texts as I might-as I should-but wherever I see something new and strange I pick it up with an urgency out of proportion to my complete helplessness here. Now I must sleep again, a little, while Dracula does, so that I can face my next ordeal somewhat rested, whatever happens.
Fourth Day?
My mind itself begins to crumble, I feel; try as I may, I can’t keep proper track of time or of my efforts to look through the library. I do not simply feel weak but ill, and today I had a sensation that sent fresh misery through what remains of my heart. I was looking at a work in Dracula’s unparalleled archive on torture, and I saw in a fine French quarto there the design for a new machine that would cleave heads instantaneously from their bodies. There was an engraving to illustrate this-the parts of the machine, the man in elegant dress whose theoretical head had just been separated from its theoretical body. As I looked at this design, I felt not only disgust at its purpose, not only wonder at the wonderful condition of the book, but also a sudden longing to see the real scene, to hear the shouts of the crowd and see the spurt of blood over that lace jabot and velvet jacket. Every historian knows the thirst to see the reality of the past, but this was something new, a different sort of hunger. I flung the book aside, put my throbbing head down on the table, and wept for the first time since my imprisonment began. I had not wept in years, in fact, not since my mother’s funeral. The salt of my own tears comforted me a little-it was so ordinary.
Day
The monster sleeps, but he did not speak to me all of yesterday, except to ask me how the catalogue is coming along, and to examine my work on it for a few minutes. I am too tired to continue the task just now, or even to type much. I will sit in front of the fire and try to collect a little of my old self there.
Day
Last night he sat me before the fire again, as if we were still holding civilized discourse, and told me that he will move the library soon, sooner than he had originally intended, because some threat to it is drawing closer. “This will be your last night, and then I will leave you here a little,” he said, “but you will come to me when I call for you. Then you may resume your work in a new and safer place. Later we shall see about sending you out into the world. Think all you can about whom you will bring to me, to help us in our task. For now, I shall leave you where you will not be found, in any case.” He smiled, which made my vision blur, and I tried to watch the fire instead. “You have been most obstinate. Perhaps we will disguise you as a holy relic.” I had no desire to ask him what he meant by this.
So it is only a matter of a short time before he finishes my mortal life. Now all my energy goes to strengthening myself for the last moments. I am careful not to think of the people I have loved, in the hope that I will be less likely to think of them in my next, damned state. I will hide this record in the most beautiful book I have found here-one of the few works in the library that does not now give me a horrified pleasure-and then I will hide that book as well, so that it will cease to belong to this archive. If only I could consign myself to dust with it. I feel sunset approaching, somewhere out in the world where light and dark still exist, and I will use all my waning energy to remain myself to the last moment. If there is any good in life, in history, in my own past, I invoke it now. I invoke it with all the passion with which I have lived.
Chapter 74
“Helen touched her father’s forehead with two fingers, as if conferring a blessing. She was fighting sobs now. ‘How can we move him out of here? I want to bury him.’
“‘There’s no time,’ I said bitterly. ‘He’d rather we got out alive, I’m sure.’
“I took my jacket off and spread it gently over him, covering his face. The stone lid was too heavy to put back on. Helen picked up her little pistol, carefully checking it even in the midst of her emotion. ‘The library,’ she whispered. ‘We must find it immediately. And did you hear something a moment ago?’
“I nodded. ‘I think I did, but I couldn’t tell where it was coming from.’ We stood listening hard. The silence hung unbroken above us. Helen was trying the walls now, feeling along them with her pistol in one hand. The candlelight was frustratingly dim. We went around and around, pressing and tapping. There were no niches, no oddly protruding rocks, no possible openings, nothing that looked suspicious.
“‘It must be almost dark outside,’ Helen muttered.
“‘I know,’ I said. ‘We’ve probably got ten minutes and then we shouldn’t be here, I’m sure of that.’ We went around the little room again, checking every inch. The air was chill, especially now that I wasn’t wearing my jacket, but sweat began to trail down my back. ‘Maybe the library is in another part of the church, or in the foundation.’
“‘It has to be completely hidden, probably underground,’ Helen whispered. ‘Otherwise someone would have known of it long ago. Also, if my father is in this grave -’ She didn’t finish, but it was the question that had tormented me even in the first moment of shock, seeing Rossi there: where was Dracula?
“‘Isn’t there anything unusual here?’ Helen was looking at the low, vaulted ceiling now, trying to reach it with her fingertips.
“‘I don’t see anything.’ Then a sudden thought made me snatch a candle from the stand and crouch down. Helen followed me swiftly.
“‘Yes,’ she breathed. I was touching the carved dragon on the vertical of the lowest step. I had stroked it with my finger during our first visit to the crypt; now I pushed it hard, put my weight into it. It was firm in the wall. But Helen’s sensitive hands were already feeling the stones around it, and she suddenly found a loose one; it simply came out in her hand, like a tooth, from where it was embedded next to the dragon carving. A small dark hole gaped where it had been; I put my hand in and waved it around, but encountered only space. Helen slipped hers in, however, and brought it back toward the dragon, behind the carving. ‘Paul!’ she cried softly.
“I followed her grasp into the dark. There was certainly a handle there, a large handle of cold iron, and when I pushed on it the dragon lifted easily out of its space under the step without disturbing any of the other stones around it or the step above it. It was a finely chiseled piece of work, we saw now, with an iron handle in the shape of a horned beast drilled into it, presumably so you could pull it shut behind you when you went down the narrow stone steps opening before us. Helen took a second candle and I grabbed the matches. We entered on hands and knees-I remembered suddenly Rossi’s bruised and scraped appearance, his torn clothes, and wondered if he’d been dragged more than once through this opening-but we were soon able to stand upright on the steps.
“The air that came up to meet us was cold and dank in the extreme, and I fought to control a trembling deep inside and to keep a firm hold on Helen, who was also trembling, during the steep descent. At the bottom of fifteen steps was a passage, infernally dark, although our candlelight showed iron sconces pinned high on the walls, as if it had once been illuminated. At the end of the passageway-again, it seemed to me about fifteen steps forward, and I was careful to count them-was a door of heavy and clearly very old wood, wearing into splinters near the bottom, and again that eerie door handle, a long-horned creature wrought in iron. I felt more than saw Helen raise her pistol. The door was wedged firm, but on examining it closely I found it bolted from the side we were on. I put all my weight under the heavy latch, and then I pulled the door open with a slow fear that nearly melted my bones.