The Vampyre

by Tom Holland

  ‘“Why,” I asked, “are the rumours that bad?”

  ‘Hobby paused - then nodded.

  ‘“Tell me.”

  ‘Hobhouse smiled. “Oh - you know,” he said, waving his hand. “Adultery, sodomy, incest . . .”

  ‘“And worse?”

  ‘Hobhouse stared at me. He poured out a drink, and handed it to me. “It’s that bitch, Caroline Lamb,” he said at last. “She is telling people . . . well, you can guess.”

  ‘I smiled faintly, and downed the drink - then smashed the glass onto the floor. Hobhouse shook his head. “You will have to go abroad,” he said again. “Please, old man. You really don’t have any choice.”

  ‘Of course I didn’t. And yet still I couldn’t bear to leave. The more I was damned in the newspapers, or hissed at in the streets, the more desperately I longed for my stolen mortality, to deny what it seemed the whole world now knew. But my doom was fixed - Caro had done her work too well. One night, I went to a dance with Augusta on my arm. As we walked into the hall, the whole room fell still. All eyes were on me - and then they looked away. No one came up to us. No one spoke to us. But I heard the single word whispered from behind our backs - vampire. That night, I thought I heard it everywhere.

  ‘I knew then my exile was irrevocable. A few days later, I sent Augusta away. Through everything, she had stood by me, and her love had never failed. Without her, my life would be a solitude. And yet there was relief too when we parted, for I could be certain now I would never drink her blood. I renewed my travel plans. My despair became mixed with a wild sense of freedom. The world hated me - well, I hated it. I remembered my old intentions. I would travel - and I would search. As Lady Melbourne had put it - I would chart the nature of my vampire state. I ordered a carriage to be made, based on the design of Napoleon’s. It contained a double bed, a wine cellar and a library. In the wine cellar, I stored bottles of Madeira mixed with blood - in the library, books on science and the occult. I also hired a physician, a young man who had written on properties of the blood. He had a reputation for dabbling in the darker fringes of medicine. Such knowledge, I thought, might prove stimulating. I gave him samples of my own blood to study. The name of this doctor was John Polidori.

  ‘The departure date grew nearer and nearer. My house in Piccadilly was steadily packed up. I roamed the echoing, empty corridors. In the nursery, and Augusta’s room, a faint, mocking tang of blood still hung. I tried to ignore it. I rarely went out now - my face and name were notorious - but I was fully occupied with business and friends. I had also taken a lover. Her name was Claire, and she was only seventeen. She was pretty enough, I suppose, but odd-headed - she had thrown herself at me - I used her to keep my mind off things. One afternoon, she brought her sister with her. “This is Mary,” she said.

  ‘The sister was pretty too - solemn though, less wild than Claire. She flicked through the books I was packing for my trip. She picked one up, and read the title from the spine: “Electricity and the Principles of Life. My husband is interested in such things,” she said, fixing me with her deep, serious eyes. “He is a poet too. Perhaps you know him?” I raised an eyebrow. “Shelley,” Mary said. “Percy Shelley. I think you might enjoy his company.”

  ‘“Sadly,” I said, gesturing at my trunks, “you see that I am about to travel abroad.”

  ‘“So are we,” said Mary. “Who knows? Perhaps we will meet up on the Continent.”

  ‘I smiled faintly. “Yes - perhaps we will.” But I doubted it. I could see, from the gathering madness in Claire’s eyes, that her brain was being turned by her passion for me. From then on, I discouraged her visits. I would not have her cracking, and following me. If she did - well - that would be too bad for her.

  ‘On my last night in London, I stayed in Augusta’s room. The scent of blood now was almost gone. I lay on her couch, breathing in its last faint traces. The house was dark and still; emptiness hung in the air like dust. For hours I lay there alone. I felt hunger and regret contending in my veins.

  ‘Suddenly, I thought I heard a footfall. At once, I sensed the presence of something not human in the house. I looked up. There was nothing. I summoned all my power to compel the creature to show himself, but still the room was as empty as before. I shook my head. My loneliness was deluding me. Suddenly, the emptiness seemed unbearable, and though I knew it would be a phantom, I longed to see Augusta’s face again. From her fading perfume, I conjured up her form. She stood before me. “Augusta,” I whispered. I held out my hands. She seemed impossibly real. I tried to stroke her cheek. To my shock, I felt the glow of living flesh.

  ‘“Augusta?”

  ‘She said nothing, but desire and love seemed to glow in her eyes. I bent to kiss her. As I did so, I realised for the first time that I couldn’t smell her blood. “Augusta?” I whispered again. She pulled me gently to her. Our cheeks brushed. We kissed.

  ‘And then I screamed. Her lips seemed to be alive with a thousand moving things. I stepped back - and saw how my sister was covered in a shimmering, twisting white. I reached out to touch her again - and the maggots fell, and coiled along my finger. My sister raised her arms, as though appealing for help, and then slowly, her body crumbled away, and the floor was carpeted with writhing worms.

  ‘I staggered back. I felt something behind me. I turned. Bell was holding up Ada to me. I tried to brush her away. I saw Ada start to bleed and melt; I saw Bell’s flesh freeze and shrivel on the bone. All around me were the forms of people I had loved, imploring, beckoning, reaching for me. I pushed past them - they seemed destroyed by my touch - and then they rose again, and ghoul-like, followed me. They held me with their soft, dead fingers; I looked despairingly around; I thought I saw a figure, ahead of me, cloaked in black. He turned. I looked into his face. It seemed very like the Pasha’s. But if it was, it had changed. It was perfectly smooth, and the paleness was touched with a livid, hectic yellow. But I saw it only for a fraction of a second. “Wait!” I shouted. “What are these visions you are conjuring for me? Wait, I order you to wait!” But the figure had turned and was gone, so soon that I thought it had surely been a fantasy, and I realised that the other phantoms had disappeared as well, and I was alone again. I stood on the stairway. All was silent. Nothing moved. I took a step forwards. And it was then I realised I was still not quite alone.

  ‘I smelled her blood before I heard her faint sobs. It was Claire. I found her hiding behind one of the chests. She was dumb with fear. I asked her what she had seen. She shook her head. I held her with my eyes. Her terror was arousing me. I knew I needed blood. The visions, the dreams I had had - I knew that only blood would keep them away.

  ‘I reached for Claire’s throat - I touched it - and then I paused. I could feel the life beating deep within her. I placed my finger below her chin. Slowly, I guided her lips towards my own. I shook - I closed my eyes - I kissed her. Then I kissed her again. She stayed solid in my arms. I took her. I gasped. Still she was alive. I folded her in my dissolving embrace. I flooded her. “I give you life,” I whispered. I rose up from her. “Go now,” I told her. “And for both our sakes - never try to see me again.” Claire nodded, wide-eyed; she straightened her clothes; she left me, still without saying a word. It was now almost morning.

  ‘Hobhouse came an hour later, to see me off. Polidori was with him. By eight o’clock, we were on the road.’

  Chapter XI

  Many and long were the conversations between Lord Byron and Shelley, to which I was a devout but nearly silent listener. During one of these, various philosophical doctrines were discussed, and among others the nature of the principle of life, and whether there was any probability of its ever being discovered and communicated . . . Perhaps a corpse would be reanimated; galvanism had given token of such things: perhaps the component parts of a creature might be manufactured, brought together, and endued with vital warmth.

  Night waned upon this talk, and even the witching hour had gone by before we retired to rest. When I placed my
head on my pillow, I did not sleep, nor could I be said to think. My imagination, unbidden, possessed and guided me, gifting the successive images that arose in my mind with a vividness far beyond the usual bounds of reverie. I saw - with shut eyes, but acute mental vision - I saw the pale student of unhallowed arts kneeling beside the thing he had put together. I saw the hideous phantasm of a man stretched out, and then, on the working of some powerful engine, show signs of life, and stir with an uneasy, half-vital motion. Frightful must it be; for supremely frightful would be the effect of any human endeavour to mock the stupendous mechanism of the Creator of the world . . .

  MARY SHELLEY, INTRODUCTION TO Frankenstein

  And so ended,’ said Lord Byron, ‘my vain attempt to live like a mortal man.’ He paused; and his face, as he studied Rebecca, seemed lit by a mingling of defiance and regret. ‘Henceforth,’ he said, ‘I was to be myself, a thing alone.

  ‘Alone?’ Rebecca hugged herself. Her voice, after such a long silence, seemed to intrude on her ears. ‘Then who . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ Lord Byron raised a mocking eyebrow.

  ‘Who . . .’ Rebecca stared transfixed into the paleness of her ancestor’s face. ‘Whose descendant am I?’ she whispered at last. ‘Not Annabella’s? - not Ada’s?’

  ‘No.’ He stared through her, into the darkness beyond. Again, there seemed defiance and pain on his brow. ‘Not now,’ he said faintly.

  ‘But . . .’

  His look seemed to stab her. ‘I said, not now!’

  Rebecca swallowed, but though she tried, she couldn’t conceal her frown. It was not his sudden anger that had shocked her - rather, the way he seemed disturbed by it himself. After so long, she thought - so long to grow accustomed to the thing he had become - his loneliness still seemed to take him by surprise. And she felt pity for him, and Lord Byron, as though reading her thoughts, stared suddenly at her and started to laugh.

  ‘Do not insult me,’ he said.

  Rebecca frowned, pretending not to understand.

  ‘There is a great freedom in despair,’ said Lord Byron.

  ‘Freedom?’

  ‘Yes.’ Lord Byron smiled. ‘Once reached, even despair can be a paradise.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Of course not. You are mortal. How can you know what it is to be damned? I knew, that morning of my flight from England’s shores - and yet, somehow, hopelessness seemed sweeter by far than hope had ever done. I stood below the fluttering sail, and watched the white cliffs of Dover disappear behind the waves. I was an exile. I had been driven, a damned thing, from my native land. I had lost my family, my friends, and all I had loved. I would never be otherwise than what I was - the wandering outlaw of my own dark mind. And yet my despair, like my face, wore a guarded smile.’ Lord Byron paused. He stared deep into Rebecca’s eyes, as though willing her to try to understand. He sighed at last, and looked away, yet his smile remained, touched with mockery, and proud.

  ‘I kept to the deck. Again and again, the white cliffs would rise, then disappear. “I am a vampire,” I said to myself. The wind shrieked, the mast quivered, and my words seemed lost on the breath of the storm. And yet they were not. For they, like me, belonged on the tempest’s roar. I clung to the sides of the ship, as the waves heaved and bounded like a horse that knows his rider. I had a bottle in my hand. It was uncorked. I breathed in the scent of mingled wine and blood. I longed to hurl the bottle out into the sea. The blood would arc and be scattered on the winds; I would rise with it, then soar, as free and wild as the storm itself. I felt a laughing exhilaration fill my blood. Yes, I thought, I would keep my promise, I would search out the secrets of my own vampire nature - I would become a pilgrim of eternity. All I had to do was ride the storm.

  ‘I drank from my bottle, then I lifted it, ready to hurl it at the winds. Blood from the rim was splashed across my hand. I tensed - and then I felt a touch on my arm. “My Lord.” I looked round. “My Lord . . .” It was Polidori. He scrabbled with a folder he held under his arm. “My Lord - I was wondering if you would look at my tragedy?”

  ‘I stared at him in cold disbelief. “Tragedy?” I said at last.

  ‘“Yes, My Lord,” nodded Polidori. He held out a sheaf of papers. “Cajetan, a tragedy in five acts, being the Tragical History of Cajetan.” He fumbled with his folder. “I’m particularly stuck with this line. ‘So, groaning, did the mighty Cajetan—”’

  ‘I waited. “Well,” I asked, “what did the mighty Cajetan do?”

  ‘“That’s the problem,” said Polidori. “I’m not sure.” He handed me the sheet of paper. The wind snatched it from his grasp. I watched it as it fluttered above the ship, then out across the waves.

  ‘I turned round. “I am not interested in your tragedy,” I said.

  ‘Polidori’s eyes, which bulged at the best of times, seemed ready to burst from his skull. “My Lord,” he spluttered, “I really think . . .”

  ‘“No.”

  ‘His eyes popped again with indignation. “You’re a poet,” he complained. “Why can’t I be one?”

  ‘“Because I pay you to carry out medical research, not to waste your time on scribbling trash.” I turned back to stare out at the waves. Polidori spluttered something else, then I heard him turn and leave. I wondered if it was too late to send him back. Yes, I thought, and sighed - it probably was.

  ‘And so I tried hard, in the days that followed, to improve our relationship. Polidori was vain and ridiculous - but he was brilliant as well, with a searching mind, and his knowledge of the frontiers of science was profound. As we travelled south, I would ask him about theories of the nature of life, of creation, of immortality. To these topics at least, Polidori brought a wealth of expertise. He knew about all the latest experiments, of the search for cells that would endlessly reproduce, of the potential - he would use no stronger word - for the spontaneous electrical generation of life. Often, he mentioned texts I had seen in the Pasha’s laboratory. I began to wonder about these. Why had the Pasha been so interested in galvanism and chemistry? Had he too been seeking a scientific explanation of his immortality? Had he too been searching for a principle of life? - a principle which, once found, might obviate the need to survive on blood? If such had indeed been the case, then perhaps Lady Melbourne had been right after all - I shared more with the Pasha than I had ever thought.

  ‘Once or twice, as I had done in London, I imagined I saw him. It was always only the faintest glimpse, and his face, as before, had a hectic yellow gleam. Yet I never had the sense, which I knew I possessed, of being close to another creature of my kind - and the Pasha, anyway, I knew was dead. I began to ask Polidori about the workings of the mind, of hallucinations, and the nature of dreams. Again, Polidori’s theories were daring and profound. He had written a thesis, he told me, on somnambulism. He offered to mesmerise me. I laughed, and agreed, but Polidori’s mortal eyes could gain no hold on mine. Instead, it was I who invaded Polidori’s brain. Appearing in his dreams, I whispered to him to give up poetry, and show the due respect which his employer was owed. When he woke, Polidori’s response was a lengthy sulk. “Damn you,” he muttered, “even in my subconscious you insist on lording it.” For the whole day, he scarcely spoke a further word. Instead - pointedly - he sat working on his tragedy.

  ‘By now we were in Brussels. I was keen to see the fields of Waterloo, where the great battle had been fought a year before. The morning after he had begun his sulk, Polidori was sufficiently recovered to accompany me. “Is it true, My Lord,” he asked, as we rode out, “that you like to be known as the Napoleon of rhyme?”

  ‘“It is what other people have called me.” I glanced at him. “Why, Polidori? Is that why you’re coming with me now? - to see me at Waterloo?”

  ‘Polidori nodded stiffly. “Certainly, My Lord, I believe you have been unchallenged as a poet for far too long. I think” - he coughed - “no, I believe that my tragedy may prove to be your Wellington.”

  ‘Again, I laughed, but
I made no further reply, for by now I was starting to smell stale blood. I cantered forwards. Ahead of me, the gently rolling hills seemed deserted and calm. But yes - I breathed it in again - the scent of death was heavy on the air. “This is the site of the battle?” I called back to our guide. He nodded. I stared around, then galloped on. Mud sucked at my horse’s hooves, and as it was churned, so it seemed to ooze with blood. I rode to where Napoleon had camped on the day of his fatal defeat. I sat in my saddle, and stared out at that plain of skulls.

  ‘The fields of corn swayed in a gentle breeze. I could almost imagine they were whispering my name. I felt a strange lightness filling me, and I rode forwards, to try to shake it off. As I did so, the mud I was passing through seemed to suck more and more. I cantered across to a stretch of grass. Still the mud oozed. I looked down. It was then I saw that the grass was staining red. Wherever my horse trod, bubbles of blood welled up from the earth.

  ‘I looked around. I was alone. There was no trace of my riding companions, and the sky seemed suddenly purple and dark. All sounds had fallen and faded away - the birds, the insects, the rustling of the corn. The silence, like the sky, was cold and dead. Across the whole wide plain, not a living thing moved.

  ‘And then, from beyond the crest of a distant ridge, very faint, I heard a sound. It was the beating of a drum. It paused - and then, louder than before, it began again. I rode my horse forwards. The drum beat quickened. As I rode up to the ridge, it seemed to echo through the skies. I reached the ridge. I reined in my horse. I sat and stared at the scene below.

  ‘Blood was seeping up from the fields, as though the soil were a bandage laid across an unstaunchable wound. The earth began to melt, and blend with the pools of gore, so that across the battlefield, clots of dirt and blood began to form. Soon, I could recognise human forms, staggering free from the hold of their graves. Lines of them began to form, and I could see the rotting shreds of their uniforms. I was staring at regiments - battalions - armies of the dead. They met my gaze with idiot eyes. Their skins were putrid, their noses collapsed, their bodies rank with blood and slime. For a second, all was still. Then, as though swayed by a single mind, the soldiers took a pace forward. They took off their hats. With a terrible slowness, they waved them in the air, saluting me. “Vive l’Empereur! ” they shouted; “Long live our Emperor! - the Emperor of the Dead!”