by Tom Holland
‘“Shall we be wicked?” Lovelace asked me.
‘I smiled. “Wicked as sin,” I replied.
‘We returned to Athens. Cloaked as we were in our mutual pleasures, dread and guilt became forgotten words - two such libertines had never existed, Lovelace assured me, not since the days of the Restoration rakes. New worlds of delight were opened up to me, and I grew drunk on companionship, sex, and fine wines. And blood, of course - yes - always blood. The fires of joy seemed to have burned away my shame. My cruelty now seemed a beautiful thing - I loved it, I found, in the same way that I loved the blue skies and landscapes of Greece, as an exotic paradise I had made my own. My old world seemed impossibly distant from me now. With Lovelace’s encouragement, I began to think of it as forever gone.
‘Yet sometimes - after I had bathed perhaps, and was sitting on some lonely rock, gazing at the sea - then I would hear its call again. Lovelace, who scorned such moods as hypocrisy, would damn me roundly for my gloom, and lead me out on fresh revelries - yet often, at these moments, it was his very encouragements which most discomforted me. Sometimes, when I felt the call of home, he would hint again at secrets, dark truths, threats that in England might betray me.
‘“And in Greece?” I would ask.
‘“Why no, sir,” Lovelace answered once. “Not if you have wrapped your tizzle in a good sheath of pig-gut.” I pressed him to explain, but he laughed. “No, Byron, your soul is not yet flinty enough. The time shall come, when you are steeped in blood. Then go back to England, but for now - egad, sir, ’tis almost the night - let us venture out and twat-scour the town.” I protested, but Lovelace held up his hands. “Byron - I beg you - let us have an end on’t, please!” And straightaway, he gathered up his cloak and hummed an opera tune, and I knew he was relishing his power over me.
‘But the conversation didn’t worry me for long - nothing worried me - there were far too many pleasures to learn. Much as a lover is instructed by a courtesan, so I was taught the arts of drinking blood. I learned how to enter a victim’s dreams, how to master my own, how to hypnotise and generate illusions and desires. I learned how vampires could be made, and the various orders into which a victim might be transformed - the zombies, whose dead eyes I had seen in the Pasha’s castle, the ghouls, such as Gorgiou and his family had become or, most rarely, the masters - the lords of death - the order of creatures to which I belonged.
‘“But be careful who you choose for that honour,” Lovelace warned me once. “Know ye not, in death as in life, there must be aristocracy?” He smiled at me. “You, Byron, might almost have been chosen as a king.”
‘I shrugged off Lovelace’s flattery. “I damn all kings to Hell,” I said. “I am not a vile Tory like you. If I could, I would teach the very stones to rise against tyranny. I kill - but I shall not enslave.”
‘Lovelace spat with contempt. “What distinction is that?”
‘I stared at him coldly. “One that is clear enough, I would have thought. I need to drink blood or I die - you have said it, Lovelace, we are predators, we cannot defy what is natural in us. But is it ever natural to make our victims slaves? I hope not. I will not be like my creator, that is what I mean - surrounded by mindless serfs, beyond the redemption of love and hope.”
‘“Why? You think you are not already?” Lovelace smiled cruelly at me, but I ignored his mocking questions, his familiar hinting at some dark mystery. For I felt powerful now, and knew that I had passed beyond his authority - I doubted that Lovelace had a secret at all. I thought I understood the thing I had become - I had no self-disgust, only joy and strength. And so I also felt free - free in a way I had never dreamed might be possible - and I trusted myself to this sense of freedom, which rolled as boundless and untamed as the sea.
‘Or so I imagined.’ Lord Byron paused - and for a long moment, stared into the shadows of the candle flame. Then he poured himself a glass of wine, and with a single gulp, emptied it. When he spoke again, his voice sounded dead. ‘One evening, I was passing down a narrow, crowded street. I had drunk recently; I felt no thirst, only a pleasant richness suffusing my veins. But suddenly, above the stenches of the street, I smelt the purest scent I have ever known. I cannot describe it’ - he glanced at Rebecca - ‘even if I could put the perfume into words, since it was something a mortal could never understand. Golden, sensual - perfect. ’
‘It was blood?’ Rebecca asked.
‘Yes.’ Lord Byron nodded. ‘But . . . blood? No - it was more than that. It gave me a craving that seemed to hollow out my bones - my stomach - my very mind. I stood where I was, in the centre of the street, and breathed in deeply. Then I saw it - a baby, held in a woman’s arms - and the scent of the blood was coming from that child. I took a step forwards - but the woman slipped away, and when I crossed to where she had been standing, there was no sign of her. I breathed in again - the scent was fading - and then, as I stumbled desperately on down the street, I saw the woman ahead of me, just as she had been before - and then a second time, she seemed to fade into the air. I pursued her, but soon even the scent of blood was gone and I was left in the grip of agonies. I searched for that baby all night. But his mother’s face had been cloaked beneath a hood and the baby had looked much like any other child of his age, and so at last I despaired and abandoned my search.
‘I rode hard out from Athens. There was a temple perched on a cliff above the sea, where I was in the habit of going to order my thoughts - but that night, its calmness seemed a taunt, and I felt nothing but my hunger still gnawing at me. Always, in my nostrils, there was the perfume of that blood. I knew, with the certainty of revelation, that I would never have true happiness until I had tasted it, and so I rose, and untethered my horse, and prepared myself to return and track the infant down. It was then that I saw Lovelace. He was standing between two columns, and the dawn behind him was the colour of blood. He walked across to me. He stared deep into my eyes - then suddenly, he smiled. He slapped me on the shoulder. “Congratulations,” he said.
‘“On what?” I asked slowly.
‘“Why, sir, on your child, of course.”
‘“Child, Lovelace?”
‘“Yes, Byron - child.” He slapped me on the shoulder again. “You have fathered some bastard on one of your whores.”
‘I licked my lips. “How do you know?” I asked slowly.
‘“Because, Byron, I have seen you running round town all night like some damn bitch on heat. ’Tis the infallible sign, sir, amongst our kind, that a child has been born.”
‘I felt a ghastly coldness creeping over me. “Why?” I asked, staring for some sign of hope in Lovelace’s eyes. But there was none.
‘I think, sir, now, there can be no denying you the fateful truth.” He laughed. “Fateful, I call it, though to me, of course, ’tis not worth a Tom-turd-collector’s cuss.” He grinned. “But you, sir, despite what you are, have still not wholly lost your principles. Presumptuous of you, I call it, Byron - in the circumstances, damn presumptuous.”
‘Slowly, I reached for him, and gripped him round the throat. “Tell me,” I whispered.
‘Lovelace choked, but I did not loosen my grip. “Tell me,” I whispered again. “Tell me that what you hint at isn’t true.”
‘“I cannot,” panted Lovelace. “I would have kept this from you yet longer,” he said, “seeing how feebly your soul is touched by vice, but there is no helping it, you must be told the truth. Know then, Byron,” he whispered, “it is the doom of your nature” - he paused and grinned - “that those who share your blood are most delicious to you.”
‘“No.”
‘“Yes!” shouted Lovelace with enthusiasm.
‘I shook my head. “It cannot be true.”
‘“You smelled the blood. ’Tis a wondrous scent, is it not? Even now, it hangs in your nostrils. It will drive you mad, I have seen it all before.”
‘“So you - you have you known it too?”
‘Lovelace shrugged, and twirled a moustache. “I w
as never much fond of children.”
‘“But . . . your own flesh and blood . . .”
‘“Mmm . . .” Lovelace slapped his lips together. “Believe me, Byron - the little bastards make for a most unparalleled draught.”
‘I took him by the throat again. “Leave me,” I said. Lovelace opened his mouth, to make some further jeering comment, but I met his eyes and slowly he was forced to lower them, and I knew, despite my agony, that my strength was undimmed. But what help was it to know that? - my powers would serve merely to compound my doom. “Leave me,” I whispered again. I threw Lovelace back, so that he staggered and fell - then, with the sound of his horse’s hooves fading in my ears, I sat myself alone on the edge of the cliff. All day I wrestled with my thirst for the blood of my child.’
‘He had told you the truth?’ Rebecca asked softly. ‘Lovelace?’
Lord Byron gazed at her. His eyes glittered. ‘Oh yes,’ he said.
‘Then . . .’
‘Yes?’
Rebecca stared at him. She clutched at her throat. She swallowed. ‘Nothing,’ she said.
Lord Byron smiled at her faintly, then hooded his eyes, and stared far, far away. ‘Everything was changed by what Lovelace had told me,’ he said. ‘That evening, staring into the waves, I imagined I saw a bloody hand, fresh severed from its limb, beckoning me. I raved at it - yet I knew then that I was far more like the Pasha than I had ever dared fear. I returned to Athens. I found Lovelace. I hadn’t smelt my child’s blood again, but I dreaded, and longed for it, all the time. “I must go,” I told Lovelace that night. “Leave Athens at once. There can be no delay.”
‘Lovelace shrugged. “And will you leave Greece as well?”
‘I nodded.
‘“Then where will you go?”
‘I thought. “To England,” I said at last. “I must raise money - sort out my affairs. Then, when that is done, I will leave again, far from anyone who shares my blood.”
‘“You have family in England?”
‘“Yes.” I nodded. “A mother.” I thought. “And a sister - a half-sister.”
‘“ ’Twill make small difference. Avoid them both.”
‘“Yes, of course.” I buried my head in my hands. “Of course.”
‘Lovelace held me in his arms. “When you are ready,” he whispered, “join me again, and we will renew our sport. You are a rare creature, Byron. When your soul is black with vice, you will be a vampire like none I have ever known.”
‘I looked up at him. “Where will you be?” I asked.
‘Lovelace began to hum his favourite opera tune. “Why, sir, in the only place for fun - in Italy.”
‘“I will join you,” I said.
‘Lovelace kissed me. “Excellent!” he cried. “But, Byron - come quickly. Do not delay in England. Stay there too long, and you will find it hard - perhaps impossible - to leave.”
‘I nodded. “I understand,” I said.
‘“There is a girl I know in London. She is of our kind.” He winked. “The damnedest pair of bubbies you ever saw. I will write to her. She will guide you, I hope.” He kissed me again. “Guide you, while you are apart from me.” He smiled. “Do not delay, though. It has taken me a long time, Byron, to find a companion as agreeable as you. Zounds, sir, together again, what riots we shall have. And now” - he bowed - “God’s speed to you. We shall meet again in Italy.”
‘With that, he left me - and a week later, I too had left Athens behind. The voyage, as you can imagine, was not a pleasant one. Not a day went by when I did not contemplate leaving the ship - setting up in some foreign city - never returning to England again. Yet I needed money - and I was homesick - for my friends - for my home - for a final glimpse of my native land. I was homesick too for my mother and for Augusta, my sister - but those, of course, were thoughts I tried to banish from my mind. At last, after a voyage of a month, two years of travel, and the utter transformation of my life, I felt English soil beneath my feet once again.’
Chapter IX
It happened that in the midst of the dissipations attendant upon a London winter, there appeared at the various parties of the leaders of the ‘ton’ a nobleman, more remarkable for his singularities, than his rank. He gazed upon the mirth around him, as if he could not participate therein. Apparently, the light laughter of the fair only attracted his attention, that he might by a look quell it, and throw fear into those breasts where thoughtlessness reigned. Those who felt this sensation of awe, could not explain whence it arose: some attributed it to the dead grey eye, which, fixing upon the object’s face, did not seem to penetrate, and at once glance to pierce through to the inward workings of the heart; but fell upon the cheek with a leaden ray that weighed upon the skin it could not pass. His peculiarities caused him to be invited to every house; all wished to see him, and those who had been accustomed to violent excitement, and now felt the weight of ennui, were pleased at having something in their presence capable of engaging their attention. In spite of the deadly hue of his face, which never gained a warmer tint, either from the blush of modesty, or from the strong emotion of passion, though its form and outline were beautiful, many of the female hunters after notoriety attempted to win his attentions, and gain, at least, some marks of what they might term affection: Lady Mercer, who had been the mockery of every monster shewn in drawing-rooms since her marriage, threw herself in his way, and did all but put on the dress of a mountebank, to attract his notice . . .
DR JOHN POLIDORI, ‘The Vampyre’
I had to be in England before I truly understood how cursed I had become. I was my mother’s only son - for two years, she had been running Newstead, my home, for me - I knew how deeply she had longed for my return. Yet I couldn’t even visit her. I remembered the golden scent from Athens too well, and I knew that to breathe it again would be fatal, to my mother, and to myself. So instead, I travelled to London. I had business to sort out, friends to meet. One of them asked if I had written any poems while abroad. I gave him the manuscript of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. My friend came back to me a day later, full of excitement and praise.
‘“Please, don’t be insulted,” he said, “but you must pretend that this Childe Harold is a portrait of yourself.” He narrowed his eyes, as he studied me. “A pale, beautiful wanderer, gloomy with thoughts of decay and death, bringing wretchedness on all who come close to him. Yes, it’s going to work, you could really do it.” He studied me again, and then he frowned. “Do you know, Byron, there is something strange about you, something almost - well - unsettling. I never noticed it before.” Then he grinned, and slapped me on the back. “So just play it up, all right?” He winked. “It’s going to sell, this poem, and make you very famous indeed.”
‘I laughed, when he had gone, to think how little he or anyone knew. Then I wrapped myself in my cloak, and left my rooms to stalk the London streets. I did this almost every night now. My thirst seemed to have become insatiable. It ached all the time, a promise of delight that made all other pleasures seem like dust. Yet even as I fed, I knew that I was denying myself the sweetest joy of all. As the moon started to wax, so too did the craving for my mother’s blood continue to grow. Several times, I ordered a carriage to take me up to Newstead - only to cancel it at the last moment, and seek out other, lesser, prey. Yet I knew the temptation would defeat me in the end; it could only be a matter of time. And then, almost a month after my return, came news that my mother had fallen ill. My resolve snapped - I ordered a carriage - I set out at once. The horror and desire I felt cannot be described. I seemed to be melting with anticipation. I would kill my mother - drain her - I would do it - I would feel her golden blood filling up my veins. I was shaking, even before I had left London - and it was on the outskirts of London that the servant found me, with his message that my mother was dead.
‘I was numbed. For the whole journey I felt nothing at all. I reached Newstead. I stood by my mother’s corpse, and began to sob, and laugh, and kiss her icy face. To my surprise,
I realised that I felt no frustration - it was almost as though, with her death, my knowledge of how her blood would have tasted was dead as well. So I mourned her as any son would mourn his mother, and, for a few days, I savoured the forgotten pleasure of a mortal’s grief. I was alone in the world now - alone save for my half-sister, Augusta, and she I hardly knew. She wrote to me, a kind letter of condolence, but she did not come and stay at Newstead, and I was happy to realise that I did not want her to. If I smelled her blood, I knew that the craving would return - but I felt none of the temptation I had suffered with my mother, to search her out. Instead, I vowed that our lives would continue separate. A week after my mother’s death, I went hunting in the Abbey woods. I drank with a delight I had almost forgotten. The pleasure seemed as profound as it had ever been - as profound as before that fatal afternoon, when I had paused in the Athens street, and first smelled the golden blood of my child. Might it really be possible, I wondered, that the memory of that scent had died with my mother? I prayed that it had, and as the months passed, began to believe that it was indeed dead.
‘Yet even so, things were not as they had been before. The creature I had been in the East, so free, so in love with the freshness of his crimes, was gone - instead, in England, my thirst seemed crueller, more impatient with a world too dull to recognise it. I sheathed my soul in guarded coldness, and moved, a restless hunter, through the uncomprehending mortal crowds. More and more, I understood what it was to be a thing apart - a spirit amongst clay, a stranger amongst scenes that had once been my own. Yet I felt a pride in my desolation, and longed to soar, like a wild-born falcon, high and boundless above the limiting earth. I returned to London, that mighty vortex of all pleasure and vice, and climbed the giddy circles of its delights. In the dark places of the city, where misery bred nightmares far worse than myself, I became a whispered rumour of horror, stalking the drunk and the criminal; I fed with a greedy compulsion, glutting my hunger where it could not be witnessed, cloaked in the filthy mists of the slums. Yet I had no wish to skulk for ever in the city’s underworld, living like a rat in the foulest recesses - I was a vampire, yes, but I was also a creature of mighty, of terrifying power, and I knew that all of London was mine to subdue. And so I rose, and entered the bright salons of Society, that glittering world of great mansions and balls - I passed through it - and as I did so - so also I conquered it.