by Tom Holland
‘“No!” I said. Shelley looked surprised. “No,” I repeated, “you mustn’t let them - guess. There are mysteries, Shelley, which have to be kept.” Shelley stared at me. His face was expressionless. I thought I had lost him.
‘But then, at last, he nodded his head. “Soon,” he whispered. He pressed my hand. “But if I cannot tell them - at least give me time - a few more months - to be with them in my mortal form.”
‘I nodded. “Of course,” I said. But I did not tell Shelley the truth - that a vampire must say farewell to all mortal love - and nor did I tell him of a truth darker even than that. I felt troubled by this need for silence - of course - and even more so when Claire, through Shelley, began to pester me, demanding that I move Allegra from the convent, and return her back to her mother’s care.
‘“Claire has bad dreams,” Shelley tried to explain. “She imagines that Allegra will die in that place. She is quite convinced of it. Please, Byron - her nightmares are terrible. Take Allegra back. Let her come and live with us.”
‘“No.” I shook my head. “Impossible.”
‘“Please.” Shelley caught my arm. “Claire is almost frantic.”
‘“So what?” I shrugged impatiently. “Women are always making scenes.”
‘Shelley tensed. The blood left his face, and I saw him clench his fists. But he controlled himself. He bowed. “You know best, of course, My Lord.”
‘“I’m sorry,” I said. “Really, Shelley, I am. But I can’t remove Allegra. You will just have to tell Claire that.”
‘And Shelley did. But still Claire’s nightmares grew worse, and her fears for her daughter ever more wild. Shelley, who had looked after Allegra as a baby, was sympathetic to Claire, I knew, and I could sense that the issue was coming between us. But what could I do? Nothing. I couldn’t risk seeing Allegra now. She was five - her blood would be irresistible to me. So I continued to reject all Claire’s appeals, while hoping that Shelley would soon make up his mind. But he didn’t. Instead, I watched him grow distant and cold.
‘And then the news came that Allegra was ill. She was faint and feverish - she seemed to be suffering from a loss of blood. Shelley came to me that afternoon. He told me that Claire was full of wild plans, to rescue Allegra, to steal her from the convent. I was appalled. I hid my agitation though, and only let Teresa glimpse how unsettled I was. That night, we dined with the Shelleys, as we normally did. We broke up early. I went for a long, long ride. Then, towards dawn, I returned to my room. I paused on the steps . . .’ Lord Byron’s voice fell away.
He swallowed. ‘I paused on the steps,’ he said a second time. ‘I staggered. I could smell the most delicious scent. It was more beautiful than anything in the world. I knew at once what it was. I tried to fight it - but I could not - I went to my room. The scent filled me now, every vein, every nerve, every cell. I was its slave. I looked around. There, on my desk, was a bottle . . . I crossed to it. It was uncorked. I shook. The room seemed to melt into oblivion. I drank. I tasted wine - and mixed with it - and mixed with it . . .’ Lord Byron paused. His eyes seemed to gleam with a feverish light. ‘I drank. The blood - Allegra’s blood - it . . . What can I say? It showed me a glimpse of paradise. But a glimpse was not enough. A glimpse, and nothing more, would drive me mad. I needed more. I had to have more. I filled the bottle with wine again, to flush out every last remaining dreg. A second time, I drained it. The thirst seemed even more terrible. I stared at the bottle. I smashed it on the ground. I had to have more. I had to have more.’ He swallowed, and paused. He closed his burning eyes.
‘Where had it come from?’ Rebecca asked quietly. ‘Who had left it there?’
Lord Byron laughed. ‘I didn’t dare to think. No - that’s wrong - I was too intoxicated to think. I only knew that I had to have more. I struggled with temptation all the next day. News came from the convent - Allegra was worse - weaker - she was still losing blood - no one knew how. Shelley frowned when he met me - he looked away. The thought of losing him steeled me - I would not do it - I would not succumb. The afternoon, and then the evening, came and went. Again I rode. Again I returned to my rooms late at night. Again’ - Lord Byron paused - ‘again, a bottle stood waiting on my desk. I drank it. I felt life like silver flood my veins. I saddled my horse. As I did so, I heard a low laugh, and the smell of acid came to me on the wind. But I was mad with need. I didn’t pause. I galloped all night. I came to the convent where Allegra lay near death. A guilty thing, I slunk through the shadows, unseen, unsuspected by the nuns. Allegra sensed me though. She opened her eyes. They were burning. Her fingers reached for me. I held her in my arms. I kissed her. Her skin seemed to scald my lips. Then I bit. Her blood . . . Her blood . . .’
Lord Byron tried to speak on, but his voice choked, and died. He clasped his fingers, and stared into the dark. Then he bowed his head.
Rebecca watched him. Did she feel pity? she wondered. She remembered the tramp by Waterloo Bridge. She remembered the vision of herself on the hook. ‘It gave you what you wanted?’ she asked. Her voice sounded cold and remote in her ears.
Lord Byron looked up. ‘Wanted?’ he echoed.
‘Your ageing - your daughter’s blood froze it for you?’
Lord Byron stared at her. The fire had left his eyes; they seemed quite dead. ‘Yes,’ he said at last.
‘And Shelley?’
‘Shelley?’
‘Did he . . .?’
Lord Byron glanced up. His face was still numb, his eyes still dead.
‘Did he guess?’ Rebecca asked quietly. ‘Did he know?’
Slowly, Lord Byron smiled. ‘I told you, I think, about Polidori’s thesis.’
‘On somnambulism.’
‘Somnambulism - and the nature of dreams.’
‘I see.’ Rebecca paused. ‘He invaded Shelley’s dreams? He was able to?’
‘Shelley was mortal,’ said Lord Byron shortly. His lip curled in a sudden flickering of pain. ‘From the day of Allegra’s death, he began to avoid my company. He spoke to friends of my “detested intimacy”. He complained of suffering from unnatural terror. Walking by the sea, watching the effect of moonlight on the water, he had visions of a naked child rising from the waves. All this was reported back to me. I thought of searching Polidori out, of annihilating him utterly, as I had promised I would do. But that, I knew, would not be enough. It was Shelley now who was my enemy. It was Shelley I had to confront and persuade. He had bought a yacht recently. I knew he was planning a voyage down the coast. I had to face him before he left.
‘It was swelteringly hot, the day before Shelley was due to sail. As I rode to his house, prayers were being offered in the streets for rain. It was twilight when I reached my destination, and still the heat was unbearable. I kept to the shadows, waiting for the household to retire. Only Shelley did not go to bed. He was reading, I could see. I came to him. Unnoticed, I sat in the chair by his side. Still Shelley did not look up. He was shaking, though. His lips sounded the words he read - from Dante - The Inferno. I spoke a phrase of verse with him: “Nessun maggior dolore” - “there is no greater sorrow”. Shelley looked up. I completed the line: “Than to remember happiness when miserable.”
‘There was silence. Then I spoke again. “Have you decided?” I asked.
‘Shelley’s look of shock froze and darkened into hate. “You have a face like Murder,” he whispered. “Yes. Very smooth, but bloody too.”
‘“Bloody? What are you saying, Shelley? None of this cant. You knew I was a creature of blood.”
‘“But I did not know everything.” He rose to his feet. “I have been having strange dreams. Let me tell you about them, My Lord.” He spoke the title as Polidori did, with scalding bitterness. “Last night, I dreamed that Mary was pregnant. I saw a foul creature bending over her. I pulled the creature away - I looked into its face - that face was my own.” He swallowed. “Then I had a second dream. I met myself again, walking on the terrace. This figure, who looked like me, and yet was paler,
with a terrible sadness in his eye, stopped. ‘How long do you mean to be content?’ he asked. ‘How long?’ I asked him what he meant. He smiled. ‘Have you not heard?’ he said. ‘Lord Byron killed his baby girl. And now I must go to kill my own child.’ I screamed. I woke up. I was in Mary’s arms. Not yours, Lord Byron - not ever yours.”
‘He stared at me, his deep eyes fierce with revulsion. I felt a desperate loneliness sweep across my soul. I tried to hold him, but he backed away. “The dreams were sent by an enemy,” I said.
‘“But were they false, the warnings they gave?”
‘I shrugged despairingly.
‘“Did you kill Allegra, My Lord?”
‘“Shelley . . .” I held out my hands. “Shelley - do not leave me alone.” But he turned his back on me. He walked from the room. He did not look round. I did not pursue him - what point would there have been? Instead, I returned to the garden, and mounted my horse. I rode back through the burning night. The heat, if anything, was growing more cruel.
‘For the first time in several months, I slept. Teresa did not disturb me. My dreams were unpleasant - heavy with guilt - sullen with foreboding. I woke at four. The heat was still stifling. As I dressed, though, I heard a distant roar of thunder, rolling in from the sea. I stared out through my window. The horizon was darkening into a purple haze. I rode to the shore, then along the sands. The sea was still crystalline, brilliant against clouds which had deepened now to black. Thunder rolled again and then lightning, in a silver sheet, illumined the sky, and the sea, suddenly, was a chaos of boiling surf, as the gale swept in across the bay. I reined in my horse, and stared out to sea. I glimpsed a boat. It rose and plunged, and rose again, and then it disappeared behind mountains of waves. The wind shrieked in my ears. “I cannot swim.” Shelley’s words, from all those years before, seemed to rise up in my mind. He had refused my offer to save him then. I stared out again at the boat. It was labouring. Then I saw it turn and start to capsize.
‘I slashed my wrist. I drank my blood. I rose up on the gale. I became the breath of darkness, sweeping out across the sea. I saw the wreckage of the boat as it was pounded by the waves. I recognised it. I searched desperately for Shelley. Then I saw him. He was clinging to a shattered board. “Be mine,” I whispered to his thoughts. “Be mine, and I will save you.” Shelley stared around wildly. I reached for him. I held him.
‘“No!” Shelley screamed. “No!” He slipped from my grasp. He struggled in the water. He looked up to the sky, and seemed to smile, and then he was swept away, and the waves pounded over his head. Down he went, down, down, down. He did not rise again.’
Chapter XIII
But I have lived, and have not lived in vain:
My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire,
And my frame perish even in conquering pain;
But there is that within me which shall tire
Torture and Time, and breathe when I expire;
Something unearthly, which they deem not of,
Like the remember’d tone of a mute lyre,
Shall on their soften’d spirits sink, and move
In hearts all rocky now the late remorse of love.
LORD BYRON, Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage
His body was washed up ten days later. The exposed flesh had been eaten away; what was left had been bleached by the sea; the corpse was unrecognisable. It might have been the carcass of a sheep for all that I could tell. I thought of Haidée. I hoped that her body had never been found, a rotten mess in a hessian sack - I hoped that her bones still lay undisturbed beneath the water. Shelley’s corpse, stripped of its clothes, was a nauseous and degrading sight. We built a pyre on the beach, and burned it there. As the flames began to spread, I found the scent of dripping flesh unbearable. It was sweet and rotten, and stank of my failure.
‘I wandered down to the sea. I stripped to my shirt. As I did so, I glanced round and saw, standing on the hill, the figure of Polidori. Our eyes met; his puffy lips thinned and spread into a sneer. A billow of smoke from the pyre passed between us. I turned again. I wandered into the sea. I swam until the flames were extinct. I did not feel purified. I returned to the pyre. There was nothing but ash. I scooped the dust up and let it run through my fingers. An attendant showed me a charred lump of flesh. It was Shelley’s heart, he explained - it hadn’t burned - perhaps I would like it? I shook my head. It was too late now. Too late to own Shelley’s heart . . .’
Lord Byron paused. Rebecca waited, a frown on her face. ‘And Polidori?’ she asked
Lord Byron stared at her.
‘You hadn’t won Shelley’s heart. You had lost. And yet - when you saw Polidori - you didn’t confront him - you let him go. And he’s still alive now. Why? Why didn’t you destroy him, as you had said you would?’
Lord Byron smiled faintly. ‘Do not underestimate the joys of hatred. It is a pleasure fit for eternity.’
‘No.’ Rebecca shook her head. ‘No, I don’t understand. ’
‘Men love in haste - but to detest - leisure is needed - and I had - I have’ - he hissed the word - ‘leisure.’
Rebecca’s frown deepened. ‘How can I tell if you’re being serious?’ she asked with sudden anger and fear. She hugged herself. ‘You could have destroyed him?’
Lord Byron stared at her coldly. ‘I believe so,’ he said at last.
Rebecca felt her heart slow. She was afraid of Lord Byron - but not as afraid as she had been the night before, when Dr Polidori had surprised her by the Thames, with madness in his face, and poison on his breath. ‘Only believe?’ she asked.
Lord Byron’s eyes were still cold as he replied. ‘Of course. How can we be certain of anything? Polidori is infused with a part of myself. That is the Gift - that is what it means. Yes,’ he said with sudden vehemence, ‘I could destroy him - yes - of course I could. But you ask why I don’t, and why I didn’t in Italy, after Shelley drowned. It is the same reason. Polidori was given my blood. He was my creature. He, who had bequeathed me my loneliness, had become by that act almost precious to me. The more I hated him, the more I understood that I had no one else. Perhaps Polidori had intended such a paradox. I don’t know. Even Jehovah, when he sent the flood, could not bear the total destruction of his world. How could I have outraged Shelley’s ghost by behaving worse than the Christian Divinity?’
Lord Byron smiled grimly. ‘Because it was Shelley’s ghost, you see, and Haidée’s, which haunted me. Not literally - not even any longer as visions in my dreams - but as a blankness - a desolation. My days were listless - my nights restless - and yet I could not stir myself, nor do anything but kill, and brood, and scribble poetry. I remembered my youth, when my heart overflowed with affection and emotions; and yet now - at thirty-six - still no very terrible age - I could rake up all the dying embers in that same heart of mine, and stir scarcely even a temporary flame. I had squandered my summer before May was yet ended. Haidée was dead - Shelley was dead - my days of love were dead.
‘And yet from torpor, those same memories aroused me at last. All that long, ditch-water year, the revolt in Greece had been gathering apace. The cause of which Haidée had dreamed - the revolution which Shelley had longed to lead - the lovers of freedom, amongst which, once, I had counted myself - now looked to me. I was famous - I was rich - would I not offer the Greeks my support? I laughed at this request. The Greeks didn’t realise what they were asking for - I was a deathly thing - my kiss polluted all it touched. And yet, to my surprise, I found I was moved - a thing I had come to believe quite impossible. Greece - romantic and beautiful land; freedom - the cause of all those I had loved. And so I agreed. I would not just support the Greeks with my wealth - I would fight amongst them. I would leave Italy. I would tread, once again, upon the sacred soil of Greece.
‘For this, I knew, might be my last chance - to redeem my existence, perhaps, and exorcise the ghosts of those I had betrayed. And yet, for myself, I had no illusions. I could not escape what I was - the freedom I fought for
would not be my own - and though I fought for liberty, I would still be more bloodstained than the cruellest of the Turks. I felt a terrible agitation when I glimpsed the distant coast of Greece again. I remembered my first sight of it, all those years before. What an eternity of experience I had undergone since then! What an eternity of change . . . These were the same scenes - the very soil - where I had loved Haidée - and last been mortal - and free of blood. Sad - so sad - to look upon the mountains of Greece, and think of all that was dead and gone. And yet there was joy too, intertwined with my misery, so that it was impossible to distinguish between the two. I did not try. I was here to direct and lead a war. Why else, after all, had I come to Greece, if not to occupy my stagnant mind? I redoubled my efforts. I sought to think of nothing but the fight against the Turks.
‘And yet when it was proposed that I should sail to Missolonghi, the shadows of horror and regret returned, blacker than ever. As my ship crossed the lagoon towards the harbour, the guns of the Greek fleet boomed out to welcome me, and crowds were gathered on the walls to cheer. But I barely noticed them. Above me, distant against the blue sky, was Mount Arakynthos; beyond it, I knew, was Lake Trihonida. And now, waiting for me - Missolonghi - where I had ridden to after killing the Pasha - and rejoined Hobhouse - not a mortal any longer - but - a vampire. I remembered the vividness of my sensations that day, fifteen years before, watching the colours of the swamps and the sky. The colours were just as rich now, but when I looked at them, I saw death in their beauty - disease in the greens and yellows of the swamps, rain and fever in the purples of the clouds. And Missolonghi itself, I could see now, was a wretched and squalid place - built on mud, surrounded by lagoons, fetid and crowded and pestilential. It seemed a doomed place for heroism.