The Vampyre

by Tom Holland

  ‘“No!” Caro wailed, beating her head against my knees. “No, Byron, no!”

  ‘A servant came in. “Find her ladyship decent clothing,” I ordered. “She is leaving now.”

  ‘“I will reveal your secret,” she screamed. “I will see you destroyed.”

  ‘“Your love of theatricals is notorious, Lady Caroline. Who has ever believed a thing you say?” I watched as she was led by my servant from the room. Then I took out ink and paper, and wrote a note to Lady Melbourne, warning her of all that was happening.

  ‘We both agreed that Caro should be sent away. Her madness now was growing desperate. She sent me a gift of her pubic hair, matted with gore - with it came a note, asking again to be given my blood. She followed me endlessly; she screamed at me in the street; she told her husband she was marrying me. He shrugged coldly at this news, and said he doubted I would have her - as Lady Melbourne had instructed him to. At last, through our combined efforts, we persuaded Caro to leave with her family for Ireland. But already, as she had threatened to do, she had been talking wildly about my taste for blood. The rumours became so dangerous that I even contemplated marrying, as the only way of answering them. I remembered Annabella, Lady Melbourne’s niece - she had been suitably virtuous - ideal, I thought. But Lady Melbourne had only laughed, and when I made her write with my proposal to her niece, Annabella herself turned me down. I was neither hurt, nor greatly surprised by this rejection - I had admired Annabella - and knew she merited a better heart than mine. My matrimonial ambitions began to fade. Instead, to quieten the rumours, I followed a plan only scarcely less enervating: I abandoned London, and went to Cheltenham.

  ‘There I lay low. My affair with Caro had left me wretched and dull. I had loved her - truly loved her - but I had also destroyed her, and been confronted once again by the nature of my doom. I could have no ties - enjoy no love - and so I grew feverish again for travel, to escape England for Italy, as I had always intended to do. I sold Newstead - the money was swallowed up at once by bills; I tried to sort out my finances - the months dragged by. The thought of the eternity to which I was an heir began to numb me. I found it more and more impossible to stir myself. How true Lovelace’s warning had been, not to tarry and delay. Almost every week I would sketch out my plans to go abroad, yet futilely, for my resolution and energy seemed gone, and my existence lacked the tumult that would have stirred them up again. I needed some action, some new great delight, to thrill my blood and reawaken me. Nothing happened - dullness endured. I gave up pretending I would travel abroad. It seemed that England would never let me go.

  ‘I returned to London. There, my sense of desolation grew ever worse. Existence, which in Greece had seemed so various and rich, in England now seemed drained of all colour. What is happiness, after all, but excitement? - and what is excitement, but the frigging of the mind? But I was starting to find that I had spent my passions - when I drank, or gambled, or made love now, it grew ever harder to recapture the spark, that agitation which is the object of all life. I returned to my poetry, to my memories of Haidée - and my fall. I struggled to make sense of the thing I had become. All night, I would scribble furiously, as though the rhythms of my pen might help me recapture what was lost - but I was fooling myself; writing only squandered my energies the more - dissipated them, like seed on barren ground. In Greece, blood had heightened all my pleasures - but in London, I drank it for its own sweet sake, and felt it gradually blotting out my taste for all else. And so, by dimming my other appetites, my vampire nature fed upon itself. More and more, I felt my mortality die - more and more, I felt myself a thing alone.

  ‘It was in the depths of this weary desperation that my sister, Augusta, arrived in town. I had still not seen her since my return from the East - I had known what her blood would do to me. But when I received her note, asking if I would care to meet, it was this very knowledge which excited me, and by stirring up my muddy spirits, made the temptation impossible to resist. I sent a letter back, written in red ink, asking if she would care to be my guest at a meal. I waited for her at the appointed place. Before I had even seen her, I had smelled her blood. Then she came into the room, and it was as though a world of greyness had been lit up by a thousand fiery sparks. She joined me. I kissed her softly, on the side of her cheek, and the delicate tracery of her blood seemed to sing.

  ‘I paused - and was tempted - then decided to delay. We both sat down to eat. The pumping of Augusta’s heart, the rhythm of her veins, sounded in my ears throughout the meal. Yet so also did the soft music of her voice, which charmed me as I had never been charmed before. We spoke of nothing, as usually only the oldest friends can do - we joked and giggled - we found we understood each other perfectly. Dining, talking, laughing with her, the great pleasures of mortality seemed to come back to me. I caught a glimpse of myself in the silverware. Life, in a warm flush, was rising in my cheeks.

  ‘That night, I spared Augusta - and the next. She was not beautiful - but she was lovable - the sister I had longed for, and never known. I began to escort her out. My fever for companionship competed with my thirst. Sometimes, desire for her blood would empty me, and in a dark rush, the scent would cloud my eyes, and I would bow my head. Gently, my lips would caress the smooth skin of her neck. My tongue would dab - I would imagine biting deep, and draining the golden blood. But then Augusta would start, and look at me, and we would both begin to laugh. I would stroke my incisors with the tip of my tongue, but when I reached for her throat again, it was to kiss her and feel the pulse of her life, rich, and deep, and sensuous.

  ‘One night, at a small waltz, she met my kiss. We both broke away at once. Augusta lowered her eyes, embarrassed and upset, but I had felt the passion soaring through her blood, and when I reached for her again, she did not push me away. Shyly, she raised her eyes. The perfume of her blood clouded me. I opened my mouth. Augusta shivered. She tossed her head back, and struggled to break free; then she shivered again, and moaned, and as I lowered my head, she met my lips. This time, we did not break away. Only when I heard a muffled sob did I look up. A woman was running down the passageway towards the waltzing hall. I recognised the back of Lady Caroline Lamb.

  ‘Later that evening, as I walked into supper, Caro confronted me. She had a dagger in her hand. “Use your sister’s body,” she whispered, “but at least take my blood.” I smiled at her wordlessly, then walked past - Caro choked and staggered back - when some ladies tried to take the dagger from her, she slashed the blade across her hand. She held up the wound to me. “You see what I would do for you!” she screamed. “Drink my blood, Lord Byron! If you won’t love me, then at least let me die!” She kissed the gash, so that the blood was smeared across her lips. The scandal, next morning, was the toast of the gossip sheets.

  ‘Lady Melbourne, furious, came to visit me that night. She held up a newspaper. “I do not call this discretion,” she said.

  ‘I shrugged. “Is it my fault I’m pursued by a maniac?”

  ‘“Since you mention it, Byron, yes, it is. I warned you not to destroy Caroline.”

  ‘I stared up at her languidly. “But you didn’t warn me sufficiently, did you, Lady Melbourne? Remember? Your reluctance to tell me about the effect of a vampire’s love?” I shook my head. “Such coyness.”

  ‘I smiled, as a faint lividness touched Lady Melbourne’s cheeks. She swallowed, then composed herself. “I gather,” she said icily, “that the latest victim of your love is to be your sister.”

  ‘“Caro told you that?”

  ‘“ Yes.”

  ‘I shrugged. “Well - I can’t deny it, I suppose. It’s an interesting scrape.”

  ‘Lady Melbourne shook her head. “You’re impossible,” she said at last.

  ‘“ Why?”

  ‘“Because her blood . . .”

  ‘“Yes, I know,” I said, interrupting her. “Her blood is a torture to me. But so is the thought of losing her. With Augusta, Lady Melbourne, I feel I’m a mortal again. With Augus
ta, I can feel that the past is dissolved.”

  ‘“Of course,” said Lady Melbourne, unsurprised.

  ‘I frowned. “What do you mean?”

  ‘“She shares your blood. You are drawn to each other. Your love can’t destroy her.” She paused. “But your thirst, Byron - your thirst will.”

  ‘I stared at her. “My love can’t destroy her?” I repeated slowly.

  ‘Lady Melbourne sighed, and reached out to stroke my hand. “Please,” she whispered. “Do not allow yourself to fall in love with your sister.”

  ‘“Why not?”

  ‘“I would have thought that was evident.”

  ‘“Because it’s incest?”

  ‘Lady Melbourne laughed bitterly. “We are hardly fitted, either of us, to take a stand on morality.” She shook her head. “No, Byron - not because it is incest - but because she shares your blood, and you are drawn to it. Because her blood is irresistible to you.” She took my hand, and squeezed it tightly. “You will have to kill her eventually. You know that. Not now, maybe - but later, as the years pass - you know you will.”

  ‘I frowned. “No. I don’t know that at all.”

  ‘Lady Melbourne shook her head. “You do. I’m sorry - but you do. You have no other relative.” She blinked. Were there tears in her eyes? - or was it just the glint of a vampire’s stare? “The more you love her,” she whispered, “the harder it will be.” She kissed me gently, on the side of my cheek - then, noiselessly, she left the room. I did not try to follow her. Instead, I sat in silence. All that night, I pondered her words.

  ‘Like a splinter of ice, they seemed embedded in my heart. I admired Lady Melbourne - she was the shrewdest, wisest woman I knew - and her certainty had been frightening. From then on, I was in agonies. I would part from Augusta, but at once existence would seem dull and grey, and I would hurry back to her, to her companionship, and the perfume of her blood. How perfect she was for me - how kind and good-hearted - with no real thought but to give me happiness - how could I even think of killing her? And yet I did, of course, all the time - and more and more, I saw how right Lady Melbourne had been. I loved - and I thirsted - and there seemed no escape. “I have tried, and hardly, too, to vanquish my demon,” I wrote to Lady Melbourne, “but to very little purpose.”

  ‘Yet oddly, such torment did serve to stir me. After all - better agony than dullness; better an ocean storm than a placid pond. My mind, scorched by contradictory desires, sought to lose itself again in fierce excess; I re-entered Society, wildly and fervently, and found myself drunk on dissipations to which before I had grown immune. Yet my gaiety was like a fever; in Italy, it is said, in times of plague, orgies were held in the charnel houses, and my own pleasures too, even at their height, were dark with the shadow of my fantasies of death. The image of Augusta fading in my arms, drained a lovely white, haunted me; and the conjunctions of life and death, of joy and despair, of love and thirst, began to disturb me again, as they had not done since my revellings with Lovelace in the East. For a long while now, I had seen my victims as little more than walking sacks of blood; but now, for all that my thirst was as desperate as before, I mourned again for those I had to kill. “That will comfort them,” Lady Melbourne sneered mockingly; and I knew that she was right, that pity, in a vampire, was just another word for cant. Yet still - my self-disgust returned. I began to kill with less savagery - to be conscious of the life that I was draining with the blood, to feel its uniqueness, even as the spark was snuffed out. Sometimes, I would fantasise that my victim was Augusta; my guilt would be heightened - so too would my pleasure. My revulsion and delight began to seem intertwined.

  ‘It was therefore with a certain tortured hope that I began to correspond with Annabella again. In the crisis that tortured me that long, cruel year, her moral strength - yes, her moral beauty - seemed more and more to offer a hope of redemption - and I was desperate enough to grasp at it. Ever since my first glimpse of her, that evening in Lady Melbourne’s salon, Annabella had held a fascination for me; “I know you for what you are,” she had whispered - and indeed, in a strange way, it seemed that she did. For she had sensed the pain in my soul - the longing for a sense of absolution - the blighted love of higher things, and better days. As she wrote to me, appealing not to the creature I was, but to the man I might have become, I found she was renewing feelings in me I had thought were lost - feelings that a vampire should never entertain - feelings entwined within that single word, conscience. It was an unsettling power, then, that she had - and there was awe in the homage she drew from me. Like a spirit herself, she seemed - but of light - seated on a throne apart from the surrounding world, strong in her strength - all most strange in one so young.

  ‘And yet I mustn’t exaggerate. Morality was all very well - when I was feeling sorry for myself - but it couldn’t hold a candle to the taste of living blood. Nor, of course, could my admiration for Annabella compare to my infatuation with my sister, a longing that now began to grow more cruel. For Augusta was pregnant, and I feared - I hoped - that the child might be mine. For weeks after its birth, I delayed in London; when I set out at last for Augusta’s home in the country, it was with the horrified certainty that it was to kill my own child. I arrived; I embraced Augusta; she led me to where my daughter lay. I bent low over the bed. The child smiled up at me. I breathed in deep. The blood was sweet - but it was not golden. The baby began to mewl. I turned round to Augusta, a cold smile writhing on my lips. “You must give my congratulations to your husband,” I said. “He has given you a beautiful child.” Then I walked out, in a fury of disappointment and relief, and galloped across the countryside, until the moon rose pale and calmed my rage.

  ‘Once my frustration had died, I was left with my relief. Augusta stayed with me for three weeks in a house by the sea, and in her company I felt almost happy. I swam, and ate fish, and downed neat brandies - I didn’t kill for the three weeks I was there. At last, of course, the craving grew too great - I returned to London - but the memory of those weeks was to stay with me. I began to imagine that my worst fears might be wrong, that I could live with Augusta, and conquer my thirst. I began to imagine that my very nature might be denied.

  ‘But Lady Melbourne, of course, merely laughed at this idea. “It is a great shame,” she said, one fateful night, “that Augusta’s child was not your own.”

  ‘I looked at her, puzzled. She saw my frown. “I mean,” she said, “it is a shame that Augusta continues to be your only relative.”

  ‘“Yes, so you keep saying,” I replied, frowning again, “but I don’t understand why. I have told you - I believe in the power of my will. I believe that my love is greater than my thirst.”

  ‘Lady Melbourne shook her head sadly. She reached out to stroke my hair, and her smile, as she ran her fingers through my curls, was desolating. “There is grey here,” she said. “You are getting old.”

  ‘I stared up at her. I smiled faintly. “You are joking, of course.”

  ‘Lady Melbourne widened her eyes. “Why?” she asked.

  ‘“I am a vampire. I will never grow old.”

  ‘At once, a look of terrible shock crossed Lady Melbourne’s face. She rose to her feet and almost staggered to the window. Her face in the moonlight, when she turned back to me, was as bleak as winter. “He never told you,” she said.

  ‘“ Who?”

  ‘“Lovelace.”

  ‘“You knew him?”

  ‘“Yes, of course.” She shook her head. “I thought you had guessed.”

  ‘“Guessed?” I asked slowly.

  ‘“You - with Caroline - I thought you understood. Why I begged you to have pity on her.” Lady Melbourne laughed, a terrible sound of pain and regret. “I saw myself in her. And Lovelace in you. That, I suppose, is why I love you so much. Because I still love . . . I still love - him - you see.” Tears, noiselessly, began to slip down her face. Like drops of silver on marble they gleamed. “I will love him for ever - for ever and ever. You were kind, Byr
on, not to give Caroline the kiss of death. Her misery will come to an end.” She bowed her head. “Mine never will.”

  ‘I stayed frozen where I sat. “You,” I said at last, “you were the girl he wrote to.”

  ‘Lady Melbourne nodded. “Of course,” she said.

  ‘“But - your age - you have grown old . . .”

  ‘My voice trailed away. I had never before seen a look so terrible as Lady Melbourne’s then. She crossed to me, and held me in her arms. Her touch was icy, her breasts cold, her kiss on my forehead like that of death. “Tell me,” I said. I stared out at the moon. Its brilliance, suddenly, seemed unforgiving and cruel. “Tell me ever ything.”

  ‘“Dear Byron . . .” Lady Melbourne stroked her breasts, feeling the lines that furrowed them. “You will grow old,” she said. “You will age faster than a mortal. Your beauty will wither and die. Unless . . .”

  ‘Still I gazed out at the blaze of the moon. “Unless?” I asked calmly.

  ‘“Surely you know?”

  ‘“Tell me. Unless.”

  ‘“Unless . . .” Lady Melbourne stroked my hair.

  “Unless you drink the golden blood. Unless you feed on your sister. Then, your form will be preserved, and you will never age. But it must be the blood of a relative.” She bent low, so that her cheek was resting on my head. She cradled me. For a long while, I said nothing at all.

  “Then I rose, and crossed to the window, and stood in the silver wash of the moon. “Well, then,” I said calmly, “I must get a child.”

  ‘Lady Melbourne stared at me. She smiled faintly. “It is a possibility,” she said at last.

  ‘“It is what you did, I presume.”

  ‘Lady Melbourne bowed her head.