Chapter 81 end

A few years ago, I had an extraordinary opportunity at a conference in Philadelphia.The conference is an international gathering of historians of the Middle Ages. I've never been to Philadelphia before.What intrigues me is that historians are so distinct that their research can be divided into federal history and monastic history.I was equally intrigued by the vibrant metropolis around us, with its more recent history of Enlightenment republicanism and revolution.I looked down from the 14th-story hotel room, skyscrapers mixed with old houses from the 17th and 18th centuries, and the old houses were like miniature versions of new buildings.

I spent a few hours at leisure, avoiding the endless talk of Byzantine artefacts, and slipping away to see real history in magnificent art museums. There I picked up a pamphlet introducing the small literary museum and the city-centre library, the name of which my father had told me years before, and whose collections I had reason to know.It is as important as many archives in Europe to scholars of Dracula.The number of researchers in this area has grown considerably since my father's first field investigation of Dracula.It occurred to me that researchers had access to Bram Stoker's notes for writing Dracula, which he had collected from the British Museum library, and an important loose-leaf copy.The opportunity is hard to resist.

Father has always wanted to see these materials.I'm going to spend an hour there for him.More than a decade ago, he was killed by a landmine in Sarajevo while mediating the worst war in Europe in decades.It took nearly a week before I found out about the news, and it kept me reticent and self-imposed for a year.I still think about him every day, sometimes every hour. So I sat in an air-conditioned cabin in a nineteenth-century brownstone in the city, flipping through the literature.Not only do they smell of distant history, but they also hint at the urgency of my father's research.

Looking out of the window, there are a few trees with soft green leaves on the street, and more brownstone houses across the road. No modern decoration can suppress the elegant style of the front. There was only one other scholar in the small library that morning, an Italian woman.After a few minutes of low-pitched calls on her cell phone, she opened someone's handwritten diary—I tried not to look at it—and started reading. I sat near the air conditioner with my notebook and a light sweater while the librarian brought me Stoker's first manuscript and a little card case tied with a ribbon.

Stoker's notes are sprawling, which is just what I like.His notes were a mess, some densely written, some typed on ancient onion paper, with clippings of mysterious events and pages torn from his personal calendar.How my father would have liked the material, I thought, how he would have laughed at Stoker's love of the supernatural. However, half an hour later, I carefully put the material aside and opened another box. Inside was a thin book with a neat cover, probably from the nineteenth century—forty pages printed in almost It is a miracle that a medieval treasure, on the flawless fifteenth-century parchment, remains so intact after being read for a long time.The frontispiece was a face that I knew so well from years of painstaking research: large eyes, somewhat deceitful, piercing eyes looking at me across the page, a bushy beard that fell over a square chin, a long nose that was beautiful but Fierce, sexy lips are looming.

Printed in 1491, this book comes from Nuremberg and tells of the crimes of Dracul Wanda (that is, Dracula), his cruelty, and his bloodthirsty pleasures. The first few lines are in Medieval German, which I am familiar with, and I can guess that it means: "Dracula did many terrible and strange things in the year 1456 of my AD." In fact, the library provided translations, and I reread some of Dracula's crimes against humanity and trembled.He roasted the living, he skinned them, buried them up to their necks, and crucified babies to their mothers' breasts. My father had studied other similar volumes, but he would certainly value this one because it was astonishingly new, the parchment still crisp and handy, and so well preserved.Five hundred years later, it looks as if it was just printed.Uncomfortably clean.

After a while, I re-tied the ribbon and put it back in place.I'm glad I can't see it.I wondered why I would want to see this thing for myself.That proud gaze stared at me until I closed the book. I packed my things with the mood of a pilgrim completing a mission, and thanked the kind librarian.She seemed pleased with my visit, and she was partial to the booklet.I even wrote an article about it.We say goodbye and shake hands in a friendly way. I went downstairs to the gift shop, and from there to the warm street, which smelled of car exhaust and a nearby lunch. The simplicity of the museum's atmosphere was so different from the hustle and bustle of the city outside that the closed oak door behind me seemed so dignified that I was taken aback when the caretaker hurried out.

"I think you've forgotten that," she said, "I'm glad I caught up with you." Her smile is the kind that realizes the treasure she is giving back to someone else—"You sure don't want to lose this—the wallet, the keys, a nice bracelet." I thanked her, took the book and notebook she handed me, nodded acquiescingly, surprised again.She disappeared into the old building just as quickly as she had descended the steps toward me. The notebook is mine, for sure, I thought I put it back in the briefcase before I left.That book—now I can't say what I thought it was when I first saw it, except that the cover was scuffed velvet, very, very old, and it was both familiar and strange in my hand.The parchment inside was not as bright as the one I was looking at in the library—even though the pages were blank, it felt strongly that it was hundreds of years old.There was only a ferocious portrait in the center of the page, and it was opened in my hand. I couldn't stop it, and I couldn't close the page, so I could only stare at it for a long time.

I stood quietly on the street, feeling an unreal feeling in my heart.The traffic passing by was the same as before, really, a car honked its horn, and a man led a dog trying to bypass me and pass between me and the ginkgo tree. I looked up at the museum window, thinking of the librarian, but the windows only reflected the houses across the street, and no one had moved the curtains there, and I looked around, and no door was gently closed.Everything is fine on this street. I went back to my hotel room, put the book on the glass top, and washed my face and hands.I went to the window and looked out at the city.

Down the street, the ugly, aristocratic style of Philadelphia City Hall, with only peace-loving William?A statue of Penn balances the roof.Seen from here, the park is just a square of green trees and the towers of Changchang Bank shining brightly.Far to the left is the federal building that was bombed a month ago. Red and yellow cranes are picking up the rubble in the center again and again, and the roar of rebuilding the building can be heard. But it wasn't these scenes that caught my eye, and I couldn't help thinking of another scene.I seem to have seen this scene before.I stood by the window, feeling the summer sun, feeling strangely safe despite being in the air, as if the danger belonged to another world altogether.

In my fancy it was a bright morning in the autumn of 1476, with a cool air and mist rising from the lake.A small boat is moored at the edge of the island, under the walls and the dome with the iron cross.There was the sound of wooden paddles scraping against rocks on the water, and two monks hurried up from under the tree and dragged the boat ashore.Only one man stepped off the boat and stepped onto the stone embankment.He was shorter than the two young monks, but seemed taller than them.He wore well-made red leather boots with spurs, a tight purple and red waistcoat, and a long black velvet cloak fastened to his broad chest by a delicate brooch. With red feathers.His hand fiddled with the short sword on his belt, and the back of his hand was covered with scars.His large green eyes were always wide open, his mouth and nose were cruel, and his black hair and beard showed more coarse strands of silver. The abbot of the monastery has been notified and rushed to meet him under the tree. "It is our honor, my lord," he said, holding out his hand. Dracula kissed his ring, and the Abbot crossed him. "Bless you, my child." He added, seemingly expressing gratitude from the bottom of his heart. He knew that the king's presence here was almost miraculous.Dracula probably came here through the Turks. It was not the first time that the dean's benefactor could appear here because of divine help.The abbot had heard that the archbishop of Cotia de Arges was soon to re-crowned Dracula as ruler of Wallachia.There is no doubt that this dragon will eventually wrest all Wallachia from the Turks. The abbot gently touched the king's broad forehead with his benevolent fingers: "You didn't come in spring, we made the worst assumption. Thank God." Dracula smiled, but said nothing, looking at the dean for a long time. The Dean remembered that they had argued about death before.Dracula asked the dean several times during his confession, since the dean is a person who serves God, does he think that every sinner can go to heaven after sincere repentance.The Abbot was particularly concerned that his benefactor would be given a proper ceremony when that final hour came, but he dared not mention it to him.At the Gentle insistence of the Abbot, however, Dracula was rebaptized in the true faith as a confession of his temporary conversion to Western paganism.The Dean had privately forgiven him everything—everything.Didn't Dracula spend his life fighting against heretics?The devilish sultan was tearing down the iron walls of Christendom. But he wondered if God would be merciful to the eccentric.He hoped Dracula would not bring up the subject of heaven. He was relieved when the king asked how they were doing in his absence. Together they walked around the monastery yard as the chickens scattered before them.Dracula inspected the newly completed house and thriving vegetable garden with a look of satisfaction.The dean hurriedly asked Dracula to look at the sidewalk, which he had repaired since he left last time. The two drank tea in the dean's room. Dracula placed a velvet bag in front of the dean. "Open it," he said, smoothing his beard, his strong legs spread apart, and the short sword that never left his body was still hanging by his side. The Dean wanted Dracula to hand him the gift in a more humble gesture, but he unwrapped it quietly. "Turkish treasure," said Dracula, with a wider smile.One of his lower teeth was missing, but the rest were white and strong. The abbot found in the bag the most beautiful gold and silver jewels: large clusters of emeralds, rubies, heavy gold chains and gold brooches made in Turkey, among other items, including a carved gold cross set with deep sapphires, very delicate. The dean doesn't want to know where these things come from. "We will use them to fill out the sacristy, to make a new baptismal font," said Dracula, "and I want you to call craftsmen, from anywhere, for the money, and to do the work for my tomb." Set aside enough stuff." "Your grave, my master?" Out of respect, the dean only looked at the floor. "Yes, sir." He touched the scabbard again. "I've been thinking about it. I want to be buried in front of the altar, covered with marble. Of course, you will give me the best Mass, and add a choir." The Dean bowed and agreed, but the man's look, the shrewdness in the green eyes, disturbed him. "Also, I have a request, you remember it clearly. I only want my portrait on my tombstone, not the cross." The dean raised his head, surprised. "No cross, my lord?" "No cross," said the king firmly.He stared at the dean. For a while, the dean didn't dare to ask any more questions.However, he is the person's spiritual advisor.After a while, he spoke again. "Every grave bears the sign of the Saviour's crucifixion, and you deserve that honor too." Dracula scowled. "I do not intend to succumb to death for long." "This is the only way of escaping death," said the Abbot courageously. "The way is through the grace of our Savior." Dracula stared at him for a moment, and he tried to meet his gaze. "Maybe," he said at last. "But recently I met a man, a merchant who had been to a monastery in the west. He said there was a church in Gaul, and it was the oldest in that part of the world. Some Roman Catholic monks escaped death by secret means. He In a book, he tried to sell me those secrets." The dean trembled. "God bless us from these heresies," he said hastily, "my boy, I am sure you have resisted these temptations." Dracula smiled. "You know, I like books." “There is only one true book, and we should all love this book with all our hearts and all our souls,” said the dean. But as he spoke, he couldn't keep his eyes off the king's scarred hand and the scabbard that hand was playing with.Dracula wore a ring on his little finger.It was already clear to the dean not to look, it was a vicious and curly symbol. "Come on," Dracula let out a sigh of relief, clearly tired of the argument. Dracula stood up suddenly energetically. "I want to see your scriptorium, I have work for them soon." Together they entered the small scriptorium. Three monks sat copying manuscripts in the traditional way, and one was carving letters for a page about the life of St. Anthony.The printing press was in one corner.It was Wallachia's first printing press, and Dracula caressed it proudly.It was a big square hand.The eldest monk in the scriptorium stood at a table near the printing press, chiseling blocks of wood. Dracula leaned over. "What is this, Priest?" "Saint Michael Slaying the Dragon, Your Excellency," the old monk whispered.He raised his head, his eyes were dim, and his white eyebrows were gray, covering his eyes. "Let the dragon kill the heretics," Dracula said, giggling. The monk nodded, but the headmaster trembled secretly again. "I want you to do something special," Dracula said to the Friar. "I'll tell the dean about it." In the sunny yard, he stopped. "I'm going to stay for worship and take communion with you." He turned to the abbot with a smile, "Did you leave me a bed in the small room for the night?" "Always, my lord. The house of God is your home." "Now let's go up to my tower." The abbot was well acquainted with this habit of his benefactor.Dracula always likes to survey the lake and the surrounding embankments from the highest point of the church, as if to observe the enemy's situation.He has a reason for doing so, the Headmaster thought.The Turks offered a reward for his head year after year, the Hungarian king turned against him, and the nobles in the country feared and hated him.Who is not his enemy but the inhabitants of this island? The Dean followed, walking slowly up the winding staircase, bracing for the imminent ringing of the bell.The bells are amazingly loud up here. The dome of the tower is quite open on all sides. When the dean climbed to the top floor, Dracula was already standing in his favorite position, gazing at the lake, with his hands behind his back, which was a typical posture of thinking and planning. The dean had seen him stand in front of his warriors like this, explaining the offensive tactics for the next day. The dean thought that his expression did not resemble that of a man who is always in danger, or a leader who may die at any moment, so he was always thinking about the salvation of souls. On the contrary, his eyes showed that the whole world was unfolding in front of him. in front of you.