The Vampyre and Other Tales of the Macabre

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by John Polidori


  It does a great deal of ill to the constitution to be too frightened for this scourge of God; but temerity is madness, and caution prudence: for this may be depended on, that it is as infectious as fire. But then, when fire is set to the mountain, it is only such parts of its surface as are covered with decayed garbage that is combustible, while over the green and healthy parts of the mountain the flame has no power; and any other reasoning than this is worse than insanity.

  For my part, I have been very hardly used, there having been few harder cases than my own. In Lothian every one shunned me; and the constables stopped me on the road, and would not even suffer me to leave the county,—the terror of infection is so great. So dreadful are the impressions of fear on some minds, that it has caused a number of people both in Scotland and England to hang themselves, or otherwise deprive themselves of life, as the only sure way of escaping its agonies.

  Finding myself without a home and without employment, I made my escape over the tops of the Lammermuirs,* keeping out of sight of any public road, and by that means escaped into Teviotdale,* where I changed my name to Ker, and am now working at day-labour in the town of Roxburgh, and on the farms around; and though my name was Clapperton when I wrought with you, I must now sign myself your humble servant,

  ANDREW KER.

  The next is in some degree different, though likewise narrating very grievous circumstances. It is written by the mate of The Jane Hamilton of Port Glasgow.

  SIR,—I now sit down to give you the dismal account of the arrival of the Cholera in the west of Scotland. I sent it a month ago to a friend in London, to put into the newspapers, but it never appeared; so if you think it worth while, you may publish it. But if there be any paper or periodical that Campbell or Galt* is connected with, I would rather it were sent to one of them, as they are both acquaintances and old schoolfellows, and will remember me very well.

  Well then, Sir, you must know that in our passage from Riga to Liverpool, in January, we were attacked by very squally weather off the western coast of Scotland, and were obliged to put into one of those interminable narrow bays denominated lochs, in Argyleshire, where we cast anchor on very bad ground.

  I cannot aver that our ship was perfectly clean, for we lost one fine old fellow by the way, and several others were very bad; so I was sent off to a mining or fishing village, to procure some medicine and fresh meat. Our captain had an immensely large black Newfoundland dog, whose name was Oakum, and who always attached himself to me, and followed me; but that day he chanced not to go ashore with me. Some time afterwards, some of the sailors going on shore to play themselves, Oakum went with them, and coming on the scent of my track he followed it. Now the natives had some way heard that the Cholera was come with the ship; but so little did they conceive what it was, that they were nothing afraid of coming in contact with me.

  The village grocer, draper, hatter, and apothecary, had no medicines on hand, save Glauber’s salts,* and of these he had two corn-sacks full. I bought some; and while I was standing and bargaining about the price of a pig, I beheld a terrible commotion in the village: the men were stripped, and running as for a race; and the women were screaming and running after them, some of them having a child on their backs, and one below each arm, while the Gaelic was poured and shouted from every tongue. ‘What is it? What in the world is it?’ said I to the merchant, who had a little broken English. ‘Oh, she pe tat tam bhaist te Collara Mòr,’* said he; and away he ran with the rest.

  It so happened that one Donald M’Coll was going down the coast on some errand, and meeting with Oakum with his broad gilded collar about his neck, he instantly knew who he was; and, alarmed beyond expression, he took to his heels, threw off his coat and bonnet and ran, giving the alarm all the way as he went; and men, women, and children, betook them to flight into the recesses of the mountains, where they lay peeping over the rocks and the heath, watching the progress of this destroying angel.

  Honest Oakum was all the while chopping out of one cottage into another, enjoying the scraps exceedingly, which the people had left behind them in their haste. Yea, so well satisfied was he with his adventure, that he did not return until after dark, so that the Highlanders did not know he had returned at all. The people had not returned to their houses when we came away.

  But the most singular circumstance is yet to relate. On our return to the Clyde from Liverpool, where we rode quarantine, we learnt that the Cholera Morbus had actually broken out in that village,—at least a most inveterate diarrhoea, accompanied with excessive pains and vomiting, which carried off a number of the inhabitants; but, the glen being greatly overstocked, they were not much missed. Such a thing as Cholera Morbus or sending for a doctor never entered their heads, but a terrible consumption of the merchant’s Glauber’s salts ensued; and when no more could be done for their friends, they buried them, and then there was no more about it. Whether the disease was communicated to them by the dog, by myself, by the fright, or the heat they got in running, I cannot determine; but it is certain the place suffered severely. They themselves alleged as the cause, their having ‘peen raiter, and te raiter too heafy on te herring and pot-hato.’* It was from thence that the disease was communicated to Kirkintilloch by a single individual. Oakum continues in perfect health; but was obliged to undergo fumigation and a bath, by way of quarantine, which he took highly amiss.

  I am, Sir, your obedient servant,

  ALEXANDER M’ALISTER.

  The next is the most hideous letter of all. We wish the writer may be quite in his right mind. But save in a little improvement in the orthography and grammar, we shall give it in his own words.

  SIR,—Although I sent the following narrative to an Edinburgh newspaper, with the editor of which I was well acquainted; yet he refused to give it publicity, on the ground that it was only a dream of the imagination: but if a man cannot be believed in what he hears and sees, what is he to be believed in? Therefore, as I am told that you have great influence with the printers in London, I will thank you to get this printed; and if you can get me a trifle for it, so much the better.

  I am a poor journeyman tradesman in the town of Fisherrow,* and I always boarded with my mother and two sisters, who were all in the trade;† but my mother was rather fond of gossiping and visiting, and liked to get a dram now and then. So when that awful plague of Cholera came on us for the punishment of our sins, my mother would be running to every one that was affected; and people were very glad of her assistance, and would be giving her drams and little presents; and for all that my sisters and I could say to her, she would not be hindered.

  ‘Mother,’ said I to her, one night, ‘gin ye winna leave aff rinning to infectit houses this gate, I’ll be obliged to gang away an’ leave ye an’ shift for mysel’ some gate else; an’ my sisters shall gang away an’ leave ye too. Do ye no consider, that ye are exposing the whole o’ your family to the most terrible of deaths; an’ if ye should bring infection among us, an’ lose us a’, how will ye answer to God for it?’

  ‘Hout, Jamie, my man, ye make aye sic a wark about naething!’ quoth she; ‘I am sure ye ken an’ believe that we are a’ in our Maker’s hand, and that he can defend us frae destruction that walketh at noonday, and from the pestilence that stealeth in by night?’

  ‘I allow that, mother,’ quoth I; ‘I dinna misbelieve in an overruling Providence. But in the present instance, you are taking up an adder, and trusting in Providence that the serpent winna sting you and yours to death.’

  ‘Tush! Away wi’ your grand similitudes, Jamie,’ said she; ‘ye were aye ower-learned for me. I’ll tell ye what I believe. It is, that if we be to take the disease an’ dee in it, we’ll take the disease an’ dee in it; and if it is otherwise ordained, we’ll neither take it nor dee in it: for my part, I ken fu’ weel that I’ll no be smittit, for the wee drap drink, whilk ye ken I always take in great moderation, will keep me frae taking the infection; an’ if ye keep yoursels a’ tight an’ clean, as ye hae done, the angel o
’ Egypt will still pass by your door an’ hurt you not.’

  ‘I wot weel,’ said my sister Jane, ‘I expect every day to be my last, for my mither will take nae body’s advice but her ain. An’ weel do I ken that if I take it I’ll dee in it. I hae the awfu’est dreams about it! I dreamed the last night that I dee’d o’ the plague, an’ I thought I set my head out o’ the cauld grave at midnight, an’ saw the ghosts of a’ the Cholera fok gaun trailing about the kirk-yard wi’ their white withered faces an’ their glazed een; an’ I thought I crap* out o’ my grave an’ took away my mother and brother to see them, an’ I had some kind o’ impression that I left Annie there behind me.’

  ‘O! for mercy’s sake, haud your tongue, lassie,’ cried Annie; ‘I declare ye gar a’ my flesh creep to hear you. It is nae that I’m ony feard for death in ony other way but that. But the fearsome an’ loathsome sufferings, an’ the fearsome looks gars a’ ane’s heart grue* to think o’. An’ yet our mither rins the hale day frae ane to anither, and seems to take a pleasure in witnessing their cries, their writhings, and contortions. I wonder what kind o’ heart she has, but it fears me it canna be a right ane.’

  My poor dear sister Annie! she fell down in the Cholera the next day, and was a corpse before midnight; and, three days after, her sister followed her to the kirk-yard, where their new graves rise side by side thegither among many more. To describe their sufferings is out of my power, for the thoughts of them turns me giddy, so that I lose the power of measuring time, sometimes feeling as if I had lost my sisters only as it were yesterday, and sometimes an age ago. From the moment that Annie was seized, my state of mind has been deplorable; I expected every hour to fall a victim to it myself: but as for my mother, she bustled about as if it had been some great event in which it behoved her to make an imposing figure. She scolded the surgeon, the officers of the Board of Health, and even the poor dying girls, for their unearthly looks and cries. ‘Ye hae muckle to cry for,’ cried she; ‘afore ye come through what I hae done in life, ye’ll hae mair to cry for nor a bit cramp i’ the stomach.’

  When they both died she was rather taken short, and expressed herself as if she weened that she had not been fairly dealt with by Providence, considering how much she had done for others; but she had that sort of nature in her that nothing could daunt or dismay, and continued her course—running to visit every Cholera patient within her reach, and going out and coming in at all times of the night.

  After nine or ten days, there was one Sabbath night that I was awoke by voices which I thought I knew; and on looking over the bed, I saw my two sisters sitting one on each side of my mother, conversing with her, while she was looking fearfully first to the one and then to the other; but I did not understand their language, for they seemed to be talking keenly of a dance.

  My sisters having both been buried in their Sunday clothes, and the rest burnt, the only impression I had was, that they had actually come alive and risen from the grave; and if I had not been naked at the time I would have flown to embrace them, for there were reports of that kind going. But when I began to speak, Jane held up her hand and shook her head at me; and I held my peace, for there was a chilness and terror came over me; yet it was not for my sisters, for they had no appearance of being ghosts: on the contrary, I thought I never saw them look so beautiful. They continued talking of their dance with apparent fervour; and I heard one of them saying, it was a dance of death, and held in the churchyard. And as the plague of Cholera was a breath of hell, they who died of it got no rest in their graves, so that it behoved all, but parents in particular, to keep out of its influences till the vapour of death passed over.

  ‘But now, dear mother, you must go with us and see,’ said Annie.

  ‘Oh, by all means!’ said Jane, ‘since you have introduced us into such splendid company, you must go with us, and see how we act our parts.’ ‘Come along, come along,’ cried both of them at the same time; and they led my mother off between them: she never spoke, but continued to fix the most hideous looks first on the one and then on the other. She was apparently under the power of some supernatural influence, for she manifested no power of resistance, but walked peaceably away between them. I cried with a tremulous voice, ‘Dear, dear sisters, will you not take me with you too?’ But Annie, who was next me, said, ‘No, dearest brother, lie still and sleep till your Redeemer wakes you—We will come for you again.’

  I then felt the house fall a-wheeling round with me, swifter than a mill-wheel, the bed sank, and I fell I knew not whither. The truth is, that I had fainted, for I remember no more until next day. As I did not go to work at my usual time, my master had sent his ’prentice-boy to inquire about me, thinking I had been attacked by Cholera. He found me insensible, lying bathed in cold sweat, and sent some of the official people to me, who soon brought me to myself. I said nothing of what I had seen; but went straight to the churchyard, persuaded that I would find my sisters’ graves open, and they out of them; but, behold! they were the same as I left them, and I have never seen mother or sisters more. I could almost have persuaded myself that I had been in a dream, had it not been for the loss of my mother; but as she has not been seen or heard of since that night, I must believe all that I saw to have been real. I know it is suspected both here and in Edinburgh, that she has been burked,* as she was always running about by night; but I know what I saw, and must believe in it though I cannot comprehend it.

  Yours most humbly,

  JAMES M’L——.

  THE CURSE

  Anonymous

  ——‘The deed was foul,

  But grievously the forfeit has been paid.’

  ASTOLPHO

  I AM again free—free, save from the torture of my own thoughts, which, like the furies of old, are ever present to lash me. I am once more in the deserted home of my fathers—I am no longer a fettered maniac, crouching spaniel-like before the glare of my savage keeper. There is no one to whom I dare open my mind. It may be a childish morbid feeling, but still I dare not, cannot do it. The presence of man is hateful to me—all seem to look on me with loathing and hatred. I must unload my breast—I must give some vent to the fire which burns within me, and record my tale of desolation; any thing is preferable to unbroken silence; and it is matter of consolation that when I am gone, some perchance may pity me, when they peruse the strange record of my blasted fate.

  The second son of a family more distinguished for unblemished antiquity than possessions or wealth, I was early thrown, in a great measure, on my own resources, and sought in foreign climes that fortune which there was no chance of finding at home. I was successful beyond hope or expectation; and, ere my health had been lost and strength wasted by the withering influence of a tropical clime, I was on my way homeward, rich almost beyond my wildest desires.

  ‘Now am I indeed happy,’ I exclaimed as the palm-clad hills of Bombay faded from my sight—‘now am I happy indeed.’ For home, with all its ecstatic associations, rushed full and strong on my mind; I had a father whom I revered—a brother whom I loved as brother never was loved before; I was going to see them, to live with them, never more to part. But there was one in whom was concentrated the love of father and of brother, and more than both—one who for years, ay ‘even from my boyish days,’* had ever formed a part of my musings by day, my dreams by night; the thoughts of whose love and constancy had been my guiding polar star in all difficulties, the zest of my prosperity, the solace of my darker hours;—deprived of whom life seemed but a ‘salt-sown desert,’ though invested with all that was glorious or great, and with whom a crust of brown bread and a squalid hovel seemed richer than the banquet of a Roman emperor, or the palace of an eastern magician whose slaves were mighty genii, and to whom the elements themselves were ministering spirits.

  Helen Vere—my hand shakes like palsied age as I trace her name—Helen Vere was my first, my only love; I loved her before I knew what the passion was, and it grew with my years, and strengthened with my strength. I see her at this mome
nt before me, plain and distinct, as if she ‘were still in the flesh.’* Her slender, exquisitely formed person; her glorious bust, faultlessly white as uncontaminated snow, delicately intersected with veins vying with the dreamy azure of an Italian sky; her large dark swimming eyes, where passionate love and maiden bashfulness dwelt, twin sisters; her hand—her—but I injure by this attempt at description—her peerless beauty might be dreamt of, but never, never could be painted by poet or limner.

  We were young when we parted—she was but a girl, and I but few steps beyond boyhood—and we loved almost as children love, without a dream of change or alteration. We pledged no vows, made no sworn promises;

  ‘For never having dream’d of falsehood, we

  Had not one word to say of constancy.’*

  I never dreamt of change; I would as soon have thought that the sun could cease to shine, or the planets keep their nightly watch among the countless armies of heaven.

  I had not heard from her for some time; the communication with the East, especially with that quarter where I was situated, was irregular and uncertain, and many months had passed since I had heard from home. I learned afterwards that a letter had come a day after I sailed—would to God I had received it!—but I must not anticipate.

  My passage home was long and tedious, but at last the welcome cry from the mast-head was heard, and in a few hours my foot pressed the sacred soil of Britain: I felt as if inspired by a new existence; the air seemed richer and more balmy than the aromatic gales of Ceylon, for Helen Vere breathed it. That delicious moment richly repaid me for years of toil and privation and grief—I was happy: how strange the word seems now!

  I lost not a moment, but pressed homeward; and soon the proud, free, cloud-mantled mountains of my native Scotland rose before me. The sight brought back my home associations with redoubled force and vividness; and then, for the first time, the thought struck me, what if Helen be sick—be dead? I never dreamt of picturing her as changed—my heart swelled almost to bursting—I trembled like a man at whose strength a raging fever has scoffed—a cold clammy perspiration burst from every pore, and though but twelve miles from home, I felt as if I could as easily have travelled a million—I could not go on, were death itself the penalty of my delay.

 

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