The Vampyre (34 page)

‘Mary too rose to her feet. “This evening has been too much for all of us,” she said, after a long pause. She glanced out at the night. “I trust we may sleep here?”

‘I nodded. “Of course.” Then I smiled at her. “You must anyway. We still haven't heard your story.”

‘“I know. I am very bad at invention. But I shall try to think of something.” She bowed her head, then turned to go.

‘“Mary,” I called after her.

‘She turned to look at me.

‘“Do not worry about Shelley. He will be well enough.”

‘Mary stared straight at me. She smiled faintly. Then, without a further word, she left me alone.

‘I stood on the balcony. The rain had stopped, but the storm was still violent. I sniffed the winds, for the scent of the thing that Mary had seen. There was nothing. She must, after all, have imagined it. It was odd though, I thought, that her hallucination should have been so like my own. I shrugged. It had been a strange, intoxicating night. I stared out again at the raging of the storm. In the distance, the mountains gleamed like fangs, and the moon, behind the clouds, I knew was full. Knowledge of my own power screamed in my blood. From distant Geneva, the clocks struck two. I turned, and closed the balcony doors. Then, silently, I passed through the villa to the Shelleys' room.

‘They lay naked and pale in each other's arms. Mary moaned as my shadow crossed her; she turned in her sleep; Shelley too stirred, so that his chest and face were upturned towards me. I stood by his side. How beautiful he was. Like a father stroking his sleeping daughter's cheeks, I scanned his dreams. They were lovely and strange. I had never met such a mortal before. He had spoken of wanting the secret power, the power of the world that lay beyond man, and his mind, I knew, was worthy of it. That evening, down in the drawing-room, I had given him a glimpse of what lay beyond mortality. And yet I could give him more - I could create him in my own image - I could give him existence for eternity.

‘I felt a sudden desperate pain. How I longed for a companion of my own kind I could love! We would still be vampires, it was true, cut off from all the world, but not wretched and alone as I was now. I bent low over Shelley's sleeping form. It would be no sin to make him a being like myself. It was life I would give him, and life, after all, was the gift of God. I laid my hand on his chest. I felt his heart beating, waiting to be opened to my kiss. No. It would not be a slave I was creating, not a monster, but a lover for all time. No. No fault, no sin. I ran my finger across Shelley's chest.

‘He didn't stir, but Mary moaned again, as though struggling to wake up from some terrible dream. I glanced at her - and then beyond - and, slowly, I raised my lips from Shelley's chest.

‘The Pasha was watching me. He stood by the door, cloaked in shadow, no expression on his smooth, pale face. His eyes though seemed to pierce like light into my soul. Then he turned and disappeared. I rose from Shelley's bed, and glided after him.

‘But he was gone. The house seemed empty, and there was still no scent of his presence in the air. Then a door slammed, and I heard the wind screaming down the passageway. I hurried along it. The door at the end was swinging in the gale. Beyond it waited the garden. I passed outside, and searched for my quarry. All was dark and tossed by the storm. Then, as lightning stabbed above the mountain peaks, I saw a black form lit up against the waves of the lake. I hurried on the wind, down towards the shore. As I approached him, the dark form turned and looked at me. His face still blazed with a yellow gleam, and his features seemed even more cruel than I remembered them. But it was him. I was certain now. It was him.

‘“From what depths of Hell, what impossible abyss, have you returned?”

‘The Pasha smiled, but said nothing.

‘“And now - damn you -
damn you
- of all times - to reappear now . . .” I thought of Shelley, still asleep in the house. “Would you deny me a companion? Am I not to create, as you created me?” The Pasha's smile broadened. His yellow teeth were unbearably foul. Anger, as fierce as the wind at my back, swept me forwards. I took the Pasha by the throat. “Remember,” I whispered, “that I am your creature. Everywhere I see bliss, from which I alone am excluded. I was human; you have made me a fiend. Do not mock me then for desiring happiness, nor try to frustrate me when I search for it.” Still the Pasha grinned mockingly. I tightened my grip. “Leave me,” I whispered, “my creator - and because of that - my eternal -
enemy
.”

‘The Pasha's neck snapped in my grip. His head lolled, and blood from his throat began to pump across my hands. I dropped the corpse onto the ground. I stared at it - and saw that the Pasha now had Shelley's face. I bent down beside him. Slowly, the corpse reached up for me. It kissed me on the lips. It opened its mouth. Its tongue was a worm, fat and soft. I shrunk back. I saw I had been kissing the teeth of a skull.

‘I looked away - and when I glanced down again, the corpse was gone. I heard a wild laughter deep within my mind. I stared frantically around. I was alone now on the shore, but still the laughter rose, until the lake and mountains seemed to echo with it, and I thought that it would deafen me. It reached a peak and then was silent, and at the very same moment, the glass in the balcony windows was smashed - the doors flew open - books and papers were scattered on the gale. Like a plague of insects they were swept out across the lawns to the shore where I stood, fluttering and landing all about me, trapped in the mud, or sinking slowly into the waters of the lake. I picked up a book which lay sodden at my feet. I looked at its spine.
Galvanism and the Principles of Human Life
. I remembered it. I had read the same title in the Pasha's tower. I gathered up more books, more scattered sheets - the debris of the library I had brought with me. I piled them in a mound on the pebbles of the shore. When the storm was dead, I lit a fire. Dully, the pyre began to burn. As the sun rose, it was greeted by a pall of black smoke across the lake.'

 

Lord Byron paused. Rebecca stared at him. ‘I don't understand,' she said at last.

Lord Byron hooded his eyes. ‘I had felt mocked,' he said quietly.

‘Mocked?'

‘Yes. My hopes - they had been taunted.'

Rebecca frowned. ‘You mean your search for the principle of life?'

‘You see' - Lord Byron smiled bitterly - ‘how empty, how melodramatic such words must always sound?' He shook his head. ‘And yet I had thought I was exempt. I was a vampire, after all - who was I to say what was impossible? Yet standing by the lake that morning, as the ash was scattered from my pyre of books, I felt nothing but impotence. I had great powers, yes - but I knew now there were others with greater powers still - and beyond us all - fathomless - the universe. How could I presume to find the spark of life? It was a hopeless ambition - an ambition better suited to some Gothic tale - some science fiction or fantasy.' Lord Byron paused, and twisted his lips into a smile. ‘And so my hatred for the Pasha - my creator who it seemed I could not destroy - blazed more fiercely than ever before. I longed for one final, fatal confrontation. But the Pasha, like a true god, now stayed hidden from me.

‘My restlessness began to gnaw at me again. I thought of leaving for Italy, but my reluctance to part from Shelley was too great, and we set off instead on a tour round the lake. I still longed for him - to give him my blood - to make him a vampire lord like myself - but I was no longer willing to impose this by force. My loathing of the Pasha was a warning to me; I did not want what he had - an eternity of his creation's hate. And so I tempted Shelley - hinted at what I could give to him - whispered of dark secrets and strange mysteries. Did Shelley understand? Perhaps - yes, perhaps - even then. It happened once, we were boating on the lake. A storm blew up. Our rudder broke. It seemed we would be swamped. I stripped my jacket off, but Shelley sat still and just stared at me. “Don't you know?” he said. “I can't swim.”

‘“Then let me save you,” I shouted, reaching for him, but Shelley shrunk back. “I am afraid of any gift of life from you,” he said.

‘“You will drown.”

‘“Rather that than . . .”

‘“Than” - I smiled - “than what, Shelley?
Life?
”

‘He gripped the sides of the boat, and stared into the waters, then up again, into my eyes. “I am afraid,” he said, “of being dragged down, down,
down
.” And he sat where he was, his arms folded, and I knew then I had failed, for that summer at least. The storm abated - the boat was safe - and so were we. Neither of us mentioned what had passed between us. But I was ready now to leave for Italy.

‘And yet still I stayed on. It was the blood of my unborn child, of course, which kept me there. As before, it tortured and tantalised me. The danger was growing steadily worse. I refused to have Claire alone with me. Shelley too I felt uneasy with now, and Polidori, of course, was insufferable. Of all that group, I saw Mary the most. She was writing a book. It had been inspired, she said, by the nightmares she had had during the terrible storm. Her novel told the story of a scientist. He created life. His creation hated and was hated by him. Mary called this novel
Frankenstein
.

‘I read some of it in manuscript. It had a profound and terrible effect on me. There was much - too much - in it I recognised. “Oh Frankenstein,” the monster told his maker, “I ought to be thy Adam, but I am rather the fallen angel, whom thou drivest from joy for no misdeed.” I shuddered at these words. From then on, I encouraged Shelley to leave, to take Claire with him and look after her child. At last, they did. Now I was ready. I would hunt down my own Frankenstein. And yet' - Lord Byron paused - ‘no - the Pasha wasn't wholly a Frankenstein - and the effect of the book didn't lie altogether in its truth. The novel, for all its power, was fiction still. There was no science capable of generating life. Creation remained a mystery. I was struck again by how ridiculous my ambitions had been. I was glad I had watched my library burn.

‘I dismissed Polidori. I had no need of him now. I paid him off handsomely, but he took my decision with typical bad grace. “Why should it be you,” he said, counting through the money, “who has the power to do this? Why not me?”

‘“Because I am of a different order to you.”

‘“Yes.” Polidori narrowed his eyes. “Yes, My Lord, I think you are.”

‘I laughed. “I have never denied you your great insight, Polidori.”

‘He leered back at me, then took out a tiny phial from his pocket. He held it to the light. “Your blood, My Lord.”

‘“What of it?”

‘“You have been paying me to carry out tests on it. Remember?”

‘“Yes. What have you found?”

‘Again, Polidori leered. “Do you dare,” he chuckled lowly, “
do you dare
despise me, when I know what I know?”

‘I stared at him. Polidori began to shudder and mutter beneath his breath. I invaded his mind, filled it with blank terror. “Do not menace me,” I whispered. I took the phial of blood from his hands. “Now go.” Polidori rose to his feet. He stumbled from the room. The next day, without having seen him again, I left.

‘I rode high up the road that passed across the Alps. Hobhouse had come to join me. We travelled together. The further we went, the more dizzying rose the walls of toppling rock. Above us, crags of ice towered, and vast ravines; over peaks of snow, wide-winged eagles soared.

‘“This is like Greece,” Hobhouse said. “You remember, Byron? In Albania . . .” His voice trailed away. He looked over his shoulder, as though in involuntary fear. I too looked round. The track was empty. Above it stretched a wood of withered pines. Their trunks were stripped and barkless, their branches without life. Their appearance reminded me of me and my family. On the other side of the path, a glacier stretched like a frozen hurricane. Yes, I thought - if he comes at all - it will be here. I braced myself. I was ready for him. But still the path was as empty as before.

‘Then, around twilight beyond the Grindenwald, we heard a horse's hooves. We looked round and waited. A man, alone, was coming up behind us. His face, I saw, had a yellow gleam. I unholstered my pistol - and then, as the horseman drew up to us, I slipped it back again. “Who are you?” I shouted. It was not the Pasha.

‘The traveller smiled. “Ahasver,” he said.

‘“ What are you?” asked Hobhouse, his own pistol cocked and still ready in his hand.

‘“A wanderer,” said the horseman. His accent was strange, but of the most beautiful and soul-searching melody. He smiled again, and bowed his head to me. “I am a wanderer, like your friend here, Mr Hobhouse, just a wanderer.”

‘“You know us?”

‘“
Ja, natürlich
.”

‘“You are German?” I asked.

‘The traveller laughed. “No, no,
milord
! It is true, I love the Germans. They are a race of such philosophers, and without philosophy - who would there be to believe in me?”

‘Hobhouse frowned. “Why shouldn't they believe in you?”

‘“Perhaps, Mr Hobhouse, because my existence is an impossibility.” He smiled and turned back to me, as though feeling the gleam of my eyes.

‘“What are you?” I whispered.

‘The traveller met me with a stare as deep as my own. “If you must call me anything,
milord
, let it be” - he paused - “Jew.” He smiled. “Yes - Jew. For, like the members of that extraordinary and estimable race, I belong to all countries - and yet, to none of them.”

‘Hobhouse frowned. “The man's a damned lunatic,” he hissed in my ear. I motioned him to be quiet. I studied the traveller's face. It was an extraordinary blend of age and youth. His hair was long and white, but his eyes were as deep and brilliant as mine, and his face quite unwrinkled. He was not a vampire - at least he seemed not to be - and yet there was an air of remarkable mystery about him, which I found both repugnant and awe-inspiring. “Do you wish to ride with us?” I asked.