Vampyre' and Other Writings

by Polidori, John William; Bishop, Franklin Charles;

  I shall therefore end with this, my examination of the different pretended sources of positive active pleasure, after saying a few words upon the consciousness of existence, which some maintain to be the source of this feeling. The futility of this assertion must, however, be acknowledged by all who reflect maturely upon the subject. For how can this consciousness of being give pleasure, unless from the colouring of the imagination? If it were really a positive active feeling, as we are always conscious of existence, we should always be in a state opposite to pain. The value set upon life by the savage amidst all his privations, and the care with which the prisoner endeavours to preserve existence, though it be to pass on to its end within the walls of a dungeon, are brought forward to prove that this simple consciousness has a charm in itself which binds us to maintain it. But are not the savage and prisoner induced to remain attached to their mortal corpse more by the dread of something in that unknown abyss which surrounds life, than by any pleasure derived from existence?

  I hope, therefore, that though I have not been able either to go fully into the general bearings of my theory or to exhaust even a part of its illustrations, that I have at least traced the way to lead you in the right road in the search of pleasure; and that, by destroying the illusion of positive pleasure, I have put a guiding thread into the hands of some, by pursuing which, they will find that pleasure, depending entirely upon the imagination, depends upon ourselves, and cannot be shut out by the doors of a dungeon, or lost under the immense vault of heaven. I hope, also, that I may induce some to be content with seeking for happiness merely in giving way to their imagination, and never attempting to grasp those pleasures which will prove but phantoms, brilliant indeed to the eye, but unsubstantial, and sinking into airy nothing at the touch.

  Ernestus Berchtold;

  or,

  The Modern Oedipus

  A Tale

  (1819)

  The gods are just –

  But how can finite measure infinite?

  Reason! alas, it does not know itself!

  Yet man, vain man, would with this short-lin’d plummet

  Fathom the vast abyss of heavenly justice.

  Whatever is, is in its causes just,

  Since all things are by fate, but purblind man

  Sees but a part o’ the chain, the nearest links

  His eyes not carrying to that equal beam

  That poises all above.

  Dryden’s Oedipus

  Leila – each thought was only thine! –

  My good, my guilt, my weal, my woe,

  My hope on high – my all below.

  Then deem it evil what thou wilt –

  But say, oh say, hers was not guilt. –

  The Giaour

  Introduction

  The tale here presented to the public is the one I began at Coligny, when Frankenstein was planned, and when a noble author having determined to descend from his lofty range, gave up a few hours to a tale of terror, and wrote the fragment published at the end of Mazeppa.* Though I cannot boast of the horrible imagination of the one, or the elegant classical style of the latter, still I hope the reader will not throw mine away, because it is not equal to these. Whether the use I have made of supernatural agency, and the colouring I have given to the mind of Ernestus Berchtold, are original or not, I leave to the more erudite in novels and romances to declare. I am not conscious of having seen any where a prototype of either; yet I fear that whatever is original, is not always pleasing. Nor is this my only apprehension. A tale that rests upon improbabilities, must generally disgust a rational mind; I am therefore afraid that, though I have thrown the superior agency into the back ground as much as was in my power, still, that many readers will think the same moral, and the same colouring, might have been given to characters acting under the ordinary agencies of life; I believe it, but I had agreed to write a supernatural tale, and that does not allow of a completely every-day narrative.

  THE AUTHOR

  * The tale which lately appeared, and to which his Lordship’s name was wrongfully attached, was founded upon the ground-work upon which this fragment was to have been continued. Two friends were to travel from England into Greece; while there, one of them should die, but before his death, should obtain from his friend an oath of secrecy with regard to his decease. Some short time after, the remaining traveller returning to his native country, should be startled at perceiving his former companion moving about in society, and should be horrified at finding that he made love to his former friend’s sister. Upon this foundation I built the Vampyre, at the request of a lady, who denied the possibility of such a ground-work forming the outline of a tale which should bear the slightest appearance of probability. In the course of three mornings, I produced that tale, and left it with her. From thence it appears to have fallen into the hands of some person, who sent it to the Editor in such a way, as to leave it so doubtful from his words, whether it was his Lordship’s or not, that I found some difficulty in vindicating it to myself. These circumstances were stated in a letter sent to the Morning Chronicle three days after the publication of the tale, but in consequence of the publishers representing to me that they were compromised as well as myself, and that immediately they were certain it was mine, that they themselves would wish to make the amende honorable to the public, I allowed them to recall the letter which had lain some days at that paper’s office.

  Part First

  Upon the left side of the lake of Thun lies the small village of Beatenberg, which, under the care of a simple pastor contains no individual above the rank of a peasant: it was in this village that I was born. Misfortune seemed to be anxious at my very birth to stamp me for its own. – Just at the termination of the short war between Austria and Prussia, of the year 1778, my mother arrived at this village in company with a gentleman severely wounded, as he said, in the slight skirmishes, which had alone formed the military display of this campaign. There was a mystery about them, which they seemed to wish should not be unravelled. The worthy pastor, therefore, whom I have since called father, did not make any inquiries of his guests, though it appeared to him very singular, that the most difficult and steep roads should have been preferred for the route of an invalid towards his home. The tender care of my mother towards this gentleman was exemplary; it seemed as if that courage and firmness, which was wanting in his breast, had taken refuge in hers. They were not Swiss, for the language they spoke was unknown to Berchtold the parish priest. They apparently understood German and French; but they said so very little, and that with such evident embarrassment, that nothing could be learnt from their conversation. There being no inn at the solitary Beatenberg, the pastor, with his usual kindness, on hearing of the arrival of strangers at the close of the evening, had immediately waited on them to offer his services and house. They were to have been his guests, only for the night; but the fatigue of the journey again forced open the wound in the gentleman’s side; determined, however, to proceed, he attempted to walk to the litter prepared for him; the exertion proved too great, he fell into my mother’s arms, and almost instantly expired.

  My mother was distracted; already far advanced in pregnancy, she fell upon the body, no longer capable of that firmness and resolution, which she had shown, when her companion’s safety depended upon it. She listened to no one; but frantic, she sat by the dead body, alternately shedding tears, and bursting into a loud laugh. Berchtold urged those soothing doctrines of which he was minister, but in vain; he spoke in vain of another world, of future hope; none could like him, soothe the pillow of the dying peasant, but here were miseries no hope could assuage. She at last fell exhausted upon the ground, she was conveyed to bed, and in a few hours I and a sister saw the light. But this did not allay her grief, she sunk into a silence that nothing could induce her to break; her eyes were fixed, and she at last died without a struggle. She was buried by him, whom Berchtold imagined, in spite of the disparity of his years, to have been her husband; and over their grave were place
d those simple crosses, which you must have seen in the neighbouring church-yards. The pastor could not place any inscription upon their tomb, for he had been so engaged in attendance upon my mother, that he had not noticed the departure of her only servant, who took with him every thing of value belonging to his former mistress. He knew not what to do, there was no clue in his hands by which he could restore us to our family; for there was nothing to be found, except some linen and a locket, with my mother’s portrait.

  Berchtold was a man whose humble endeavours had always been engaged in the attempt to fulfil those duties his profession imposed upon him. In these mountainous districts, the office of a parish priest is extremely arduous; he is often called up in the middle of the night, while the snow is falling, to go many miles over the frozen glaciers, to administer to the dying peasant the sacraments of the church. Berchtold never allowed the most distant hamlet to want religious comfort; he was old, yet often has he crossed to the foot of the Holgaut, merely to help the unfortunate in their attempt at resignation, under domestic calamity. He was not, therefore, likely to cast us from him; he immediately had us conveyed to the cottage of a married sister, and caused us to be brought up as luxuriously as an Alpine village allowed.

  I remember little of my early years, it seems, that I have vague visions of an age, when were spent whole days in gathering flowers, to adorn my sister’s head and breast, from the precipitous bank that descends to the lake, when, at night, I was lulled half trembling, to sleep by the tales of my foster-mother concerning ogres and spirits from the dead. But all this is indistinct. When about six years of age, I was removed to the house of Berchtold. He called me son, and if the tenderest care and the greatest sacrifices could entitle him to the name of father, which I gave him, it was not wrongfully bestowed. One of the first circumstances which I can remember, is that one day, while sitting with him upon a bank, near the church-yard, gazing on the scene around, and watching the white sails which gleamed upon the lake beneath our feet; I threw my arms around his neck, and asked him, ‘Why they called me orphan?’ He told me that my father and mother were dead. Retreating from him, I started, and trembling, asked him if he were then dead? He did not at first understand me; but upon my calling him by the name of father, he remembered that I had never heard the history of my birth. He took me to his breast, and weeping, told me, that I was indeed an orphan, that I was not his child. He then took me to the church-yard, and pointing to the raised sod, he told me my parents were there. I did not clearly understand him. I had then no idea of death; my mother, for so I called his sister, had told me tales of the dead, but these terrified without being understood. All the graves, save those of my parents, were adorned with flowers; upon my remarking this to him, he told me that they having died strangers there, none were bound to love them. I was hurt to see those flowers, which though faded, showed the attention of some living being, refused to my mother’s tomb; it sunk deeply on my mind. And for years after, I felt a vague pleasure in strewing their graves with the fresh flowers that formerly were employed in adorning my sister’s head. Often have I laid myself down looking upon their grassy covering, as if I expected that some of those tales of my mother would be realised with regard to myself, and that I should see them rising from their grave. My sister soon joined me in these meditations, and almost the first infantile communications which passed between us, rested upon another world. She would sit by me, and often the worthy pastor surprised us, after the sun had set, calling to our memory those tales we had heard when with our foster-mother.

  We did not mingle with the other children of the village, for we delighted too much in each other’s company; we spent hours together in talking about what had in a most unaccountable manner taken possession of our minds, or else we gamboled round Berchtold. He, debarred by his religion from the enjoyment of a domestic circle of his own children, had formed so strong an attachment to us, that his greatest delight was, when not engaged in his parochial duties, to join us in our games and infantile occupations. With all the simplicity of old age, he would lie down and allow us to play with his white locks, or tell us stories, which, though of a different nature from those of his sister, did not interest us the less. He was a good classical scholar, and was well versed in the history of his own country. From these sources he drew his tales, and at an early age he inspired me with an ardent love for independence and liberty, at the same time that he instilled into my heart, a burning thirst for the means of asserting a superiority over my equals. The anecdotes of Themistocles, Alcibiades and others, upon whom the fates of their country had depended, rested on my mind. Berchtold described to me the fallen glories of Rome, of that nation which once held sway over the known world. In short there was a material defect in my education, which is not uncommon, my imagination was stimulated, while my judgement was not called forth, and I was taught to admire public instead of private virtues. I rested upon those situations which one in the million attains, and in which the passions of others are to be guided, while I was not shown how to conduct myself, when my own inclinations and feelings might attempt to lead me astray in the common occurrences of life. With a strongly susceptible mind I imbibed deeply these first impressions, and throughout life this defect in my education has followed me. As I advanced in age, I gradually became acquainted with the Latin and Greek historians. Berchtold rashly, though innocently, took advantage of my thirst for relations of battles and deeds of renown, to induce me to learn. I consequently had Plutarch and Livy in my hands, long before I read any book tending to give man the power of regulating his passions.

  I joined the villagers only in those military exercises, which are constantly performed after the day’s labour in every hamlet. Sometimes I would go with the chamois hunter, and reaching the higher ridges of the Alps, whose snowy summits were visible from the lake, I forced myself to follow him in his venturous pursuit. But it for a long time required a strong exertion of my mind to induce me to venture amidst the vast solitudes of eternal snows. I always felt an inward shuddering and awe at the sight of my native wildnesses. Even now I cannot bear to listen to those, who, amongst our magnificent scenes, which man has not yet overcome, and which mock his power, can talk of pleasure, and dwell upon the beauty of the scenery. I cannot feel this. I seem always to crouch beneath some invisible being whose power is infinite, and which I am conscious I cannot resist. It seems that I hear him laughing audibly at our vain attempts to encroach upon his dominion. It appears to me as if the avalanche were but the weapon of his impatience, while he insidiously steals upon those habitations he has covered with his snows, by the silent, gradual approach of the glaciers. Let mankind labour for ages upon these ribs of the world, and their work shall not be seen. The pyramids might rise unnoticed upon the rocks before my view, undistinguished from the fragment that falls unperceived with the passing torrent. I cannot bear that human strength should be unable to stamp its hand upon these towering memorials of convulsions we could not influence, could not hope to control. This morbid feeling may have been excited by my foster-mother constantly pointing to the Jungfrau, whose white peak forms so prominent a feature in the view from her house, while she related the peasant’s tale of those mischievous spirits who dance upon its glittering icy coat, decked by the moon’s ray. I gained, however, health and vigour from these excursions, and I became at last one of the most noted for activity in all the canton.

  I rapidly arrived at my twentieth year. My kind friend the pastor could not be induced to part with me. I was the only prop of his old age, I latterly always accompanied him in his visits amongst the mountains, often joined him in his prayer over the dying, and frequently have I supported him at the brink of that grave, over which he was calling down the mercy of God, and which was soon to be his own refuge. My sister increased in beauty, and each day added some new charm to her person, and some additional accomplishment to her mind. I often represented to my father that I was of an age when I should begin to do something, and attempt to take th
e burden of myself and my sister off his hands. He would agree with me in my arguments, but when the moment came, he was always so overpowered with sorrow, that I could not induce myself to leave him for the few remaining days he had to live.

  I seldom visited Thun or Interlaken; I did not feel pleasure in the society of men. I there found them engaged in all the petty interests, which pervade human breasts in the narrow sphere of a miserable provincial town. I found they could not sympathise with one whom they looked upon as a wild romantic mountaineer. About this time the French revolution began to exalt my imagination even more than the history of nations gone by, and I burnt with the desire of viewing nearer those actions, which in our solitary village, echoing only a softened sound of their horrors, seemed to wear a certain air of grandeur and glory. I ardently wished to join those soldiers who had driven back the foreign invaders from their native plains. I little thought then how soon I was to be engaged in resisting these very men, amidst my own native mountains.

  When the discussions between Berne and the French concerning the Pays de Vaud arrested the attention of all, anxious to be amongst men in action, and tired of my total want of employment, I again begged my friend to let me depart to the capital; but still, at his prayer, I remained with him. I laid myself down upon the snow, shining as it then was in the first rays of spring, and abandoned myself to visions of battle and renown. My spirits gradually left me, there was a craving for exertion about me, which I found it impossible to overcome. I seized my gun, and going amidst the eternal glaciers and rocks, I sought by forcing myself to exert my body, to lose this feeling of vacuity. But I often lost sight of the chamois, engaged in the thought of my country, and bounded from rock to rock, no longer occupied with what I imagined was before me. My sister would endeavour to soothe me by her caresses. I told her of my visions with regard to my country’s cause, and at moments excited even in her breast the sparks of enthusiasm. But she generally echoed Berchtold’s sentiments with regard to the indecision and incapacity of the government.