Vampyre & Hard-Times Stories Essay

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Title: The Vampyre; A Tale
Author: John William Polidori
Posting Date: October 21, 2009 [EBook #6087]
Release Date: July, 2004
First Posted: November 3, 2002
[Last updated: May 25, 2012]
Language: English
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1
THE
VAMPYRE;
A Tale.
By John William Polidori
LONDON
PRINTED FOR SHERWOOD, NEELY, AND JONES
PATERNOSTER ROW
1819
[Entered at Stationers’ Hall, March 27, 1819]
Gillet, Printer, Crown Court, Fleet Street, London.
EXTRACT OF A LETTER
FROM GENEVA.
“I breathe freely in the neighbourhood of this lake; the ground upon which I tread
has been subdued from the earliest ages; the principal objects which immediately strike
my eye, bring to my recollection scenes, in which man acted the hero and was the chief
object of interest. Not to look back to earlier times of battles and sieges, here is the bust
of Rousseau—here is a house with an inscription denoting that the Genevan philosopher
first drew breath under its roof. A little out of the town is Ferney, the residence of
Voltaire; where that wonderful, though certainly in many respects contemptible,
character, received, like the hermits of old, the visits of pilgrims, not only from his own
nation, but from the farthest boundaries of Europe. Here too is Bonnet’s abode, and, a
2
few steps beyond, the house of that astonishing woman Madame de Stael: perhaps the
first of her sex, who has really proved its often claimed equality with, the nobler man.
We have before had women who have written interesting novels and poems, in which
their tact at observing drawing-room characters has availed them; but never since the
days of Heloise have those faculties which are peculiar to man, been developed as the
possible inheritance of woman. Though even here, as in the case of Heloise, our sex
have not been backward in alledging the existence of an Abeilard in the person of M.
Schlegel as the inspirer of her works. But to proceed: upon the same side of the lake,
Gibbon, Bonnivard, Bradshaw, and others mark, as it were, the stages for our progress;
whilst upon the other side there is one house, built by Diodati, the friend of Milton,
which has contained within its walls, for several months, that poet whom we have so
often read together, and who—if human passions remain the same, and human feelings,
like chords, on being swept by nature’s impulses shall vibrate as before—will be placed
by posterity in the first rank of our English Poets. You must have heard, or the Third
Canto of Childe Harold will have informed you, that Lord Byron resided many months
in this neighbourhood. I went with some friends a few days ago, after having seen
Ferney, to view this mansion. I trod the floors with the same feelings of awe and respect
as we did, together, those of Shakespeare’s dwelling at Stratford. I sat down in a chair
of the saloon, and satisfied myself that I was resting on what he had made his constant
seat. I found a servant there who had lived with him; she, however, gave me but little
information. She pointed out his bed-chamber upon the same level as the saloon and
dining-room, and informed me that he retired to rest at three, got up at two, and
employed himself a long time over his toilette; that he never went to sleep without a
pair of pistols and a dagger by his side, and that he never ate animal food. He apparently
spent some part of every day upon the lake in an English boat. There is a balcony from
the saloon which looks upon the lake and the mountain Jura; and I imagine, that it must
have been hence, he contemplated the storm so magnificently described in the Third
Canto; for you have from here a most extensive view of all the points he has therein
depicted. I can fancy him like the scathed pine, whilst all around was sunk to repose,
still waking to observe, what gave but a weak image of the storms which had desolated
his own breast.
The sky is changed!—and such a change; Oh, night!
And storm and darkness, ye are wond’rous strong,
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light
Of a dark eye in woman! Far along
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among,
Leaps the lire thunder! Not from one lone cloud,
But every mountain now hath found a tongue,
And Jura answers thro’ her misty shroud,
Back to the joyous Alps who call to her aloud!
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And this is in the night:—Most glorious night!
Thou wer’t not sent for slumber! let me be
A sharer in thy far and fierce delight,—
A portion of the tempest and of me!
How the lit lake shines a phosphoric sea,
And the big rain comet dancing to the earth!
And now again ’tis black,—and now the glee
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain mirth,
As if they did rejoice o’er a young; earthquake’s birth,
Now where the swift Rhine cleaves his way between
Heights which appear, as lovers who have parted
In haste, whose mining depths so intervene,
That they can meet no more, tho’ broken hearted;
Tho’ in their souls which thus each other thwarted,
Love was the very root of the fond rage
Which blighted their life’s bloom, and then departed—
Itself expired, but leaving; them an age
Of years all winter—war within themselves to wage.
I went down to the little port, if I may use the expression, wherein his vessel used
to lay, and conversed with the cottager, who had the care of it. You may smile, but I
have my pleasure in thus helping my personification of the individual I admire, by
attaining to the knowledge of those circumstances which were daily around him. I have
made numerous enquiries in the town concerning him, but can learn nothing. He only
went into society there once, when M. Pictet took him to the house of a lady to spend
the evening. They say he is a very singular man, and seem to think him very uncivil.
Amongst other things they relate, that having invited M. Pictet and Bonstetten to dinner,
he went on the lake to Chillon, leaving a gentleman who travelled with him to receive
them and make his apologies. Another evening, being invited to the house of Lady D—
— H——, he promised to attend, but upon approaching the windows of her ladyship’s
villa, and perceiving the room to be full of company, he set down his friend, desiring
him to plead his excuse, and immediately returned home. This will serve as a
contradiction to the report which you tell me is current in England, of his having been
avoided by his countrymen on the continent. The case happens to be directly the reverse,
as he has been generally sought by them, though on most occasions, apparently without
success. It is said, indeed, that upon paying his first visit at Coppet, following the
servant who had announced his name, he was surprised to meet a lady carried out
fainting; but before he had been seated many minutes, the same lady, who had been so
affected at the sound of his name, returned and conversed with him a considerable
time—such is female curiosity and affectation! He visited Coppet frequently, and of
course associated there with several of his countrymen, who evinced no reluctance to
meet him whom his enemies alone would represent as an outcast.
4
Though I have been so unsuccessful in this town, I have been more fortunate in my
enquiries elsewhere. There is a society three or four miles from Geneva, the centre of
which is the Countess of Breuss, a Russian lady, well acquainted with the agrémens de
la Société, and who has collected them round herself at her mansion. It was chiefly here,
I find, that the gentleman who travelled with Lord Byron, as physician, sought for
society. He used almost every day to cross the lake by himself, in one of their flatbottomed boats, and return after passing the evening with his friends, about eleven or
twelve at night, often whilst the storms were raging in the circling summits of the
mountains around. As he became intimate, from long acquaintance, with several of the
families in this neighbourhood, I have gathered from their accounts some excellent traits
of his lordship’s character, which I will relate to you at some future opportunity. I must,
however, free him from one imputation attached to him—of having in his house two
sisters as the partakers of his revels. This is, like many other charges which have been
brought against his lordship, entirely destitute of truth. His only companion was the
physician I have already mentioned. The report originated from the following
circumstance: Mr. Percy Bysshe Shelly, a gentleman well known for extravagance of
doctrine, and for his daring, in their profession, even to sign himself with the title of
ATHeos in the Album at Chamouny, having taken a house below, in which he resided
with Miss M. W. Godwin and Miss Clermont, (the daughters of the celebrated Mr.
Godwin) they were frequently visitors at Diodati, and were often seen upon the lake
with his Lordship, which gave rise to the report, the truth of which is here positively
denied.
Among other things which the lady, from whom I procured these anecdotes, related
to me, she mentioned the outline of a ghost story by Lord Byron. It appears that one
evening Lord B., Mr. P. B. Shelly, the two ladies and the gentleman before alluded to,
after having perused a German work, which was entitled Phantasmagoriana, began
relating ghost stories; when his lordship having recited the beginning of Christabel, then
unpublished, the whole took so strong a hold of Mr. Shelly’s mind, that he suddenly
started up and ran out of the room. The physician and Lord Byron followed, and
discovered him leaning against a mantle-piece, with cold drops of perspiration trickling
down his face. After having given him something to refresh him, upon enquiring into
the cause of his alarm, they found that his wild imagination having pictured to him the
bosom of one of the ladies with eyes (which was reported of a lady in the neighbourhood
where he lived) he was obliged to leave the room in order to destroy the impression. It
was afterwards proposed, in the course of conversation, that each of the company
present should write a tale depending upon some supernatural agency, which was
undertaken by Lord B., the physician, and Miss M. W. Godwin.[1] My friend, the lady
above referred to, had in her possession the outline of each of these stories; I obtained
them as a great favour, and herewith forward them to you, as I was assured you would
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feel as much curiosity as myself, to peruse the ebauches of so great a genius, and those
immediately under his influence.”
[1] Since published under the title of “Frankenstein; or, The
Modern Prometheus.”
THE VAMPYRE.
INTRODUCTION.
THE superstition upon which this tale is founded is very general in the East.
Among the Arabians it appears to be common: it did not, however, extend itself to the
Greeks until after the establishment of Christianity; and it has only assumed its present
form since the division of the Latin and Greek churches; at which time, the idea
becoming prevalent, that a Latin body could not corrupt if buried in their territory, it
gradually increased, and formed the subject of many wonderful stories, still extant, of
the dead rising from their graves, and feeding upon the blood of the young and beautiful.
In the West it spread, with some slight variation, all over Hungary, Poland, Austria, and
Lorraine, where the belief existed, that vampyres nightly imbibed a certain portion of
the blood of their victims, who became emaciated, lost their strength, and speedily died
of consumptions; whilst these human blood-suckers fattened—and their veins became
distended to such a state of repletion, as to cause the blood to flow from all the passages
of their bodies, and even from the very pores of their skins.
In the London Journal, of March, 1732, is a curious, and, of course, credible
account of a particular case of vampyrism, which is stated to have occurred at
Madreyga, in Hungary. It appears, that upon an examination of the commander-in-chief
and magistrates of the place, they positively and unanimously affirmed, that, about five
6
years before, a certain Heyduke, named Arnold Paul, had been heard to say, that, at
Cassovia, on the frontiers of the Turkish Servia, he had been tormented by a vampyre,
but had found a way to rid himself of the evil, by eating some of the earth out of the
vampyre’s grave, and rubbing himself with his blood. This precaution, however, did not
prevent him from becoming a vampyre[2] himself; for, about twenty or thirty days after
his death and burial, many persons complained of having been tormented by him, and
a deposition was made, that four persons had been deprived of life by his attacks. To
prevent further mischief, the inhabitants having consulted their Hadagni,[3] took up the
body, and found it (as is supposed to be usual in cases of vampyrism) fresh, and entirely
free from corruption, and emitting at the mouth, nose, and ears, pure and florid blood.
Proof having been thus obtained, they resorted to the accustomed remedy. A stake was
driven entirely through the heart and body of Arnold Paul, at which he is reported to
have cried out as dreadfully as if he had been alive. This done, they cut off his head,
burned his body, and threw the ashes into his grave. The same measures were adopted
with the corses of those persons who had previously died from vampyrism, lest they
should, in their turn, become agents upon others who survived them.
[2] The universal belief is, that a person sucked by a vampyre
becomes a vampyre himself, and sucks in his turn.
[3] Chief bailiff.
This monstrous rodomontade is here related, because it seems better adapted to
illustrate the subject of the present observations than any other instance which could be
adduced. In many parts of Greece it is considered as a sort of punishment after death,
for some heinous crime committed whilst in existence, that the deceased is not only
doomed to vampyrise, but compelled to confine his infernal visitations solely to those
beings he loved most while upon earth—those to whom he was bound by ties of kindred
and affection.—A supposition alluded to in the “Giaour.”
But first on earth, as Vampyre sent,
Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent;
Then ghastly haunt the native place,
And suck the blood of all thy race;
There from thy daughter, sister, wife,
At midnight drain the stream of life;
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Yet loathe the banquet which perforce
Must feed thy livid living corse,
Thy victims, ere they yet expire,
Shall know the demon for their sire;
As cursing thee, thou cursing them,
Thy flowers are withered on the stem.
But one that for thy crime must fall,
The youngest, best beloved of all,
Shall bless thee with a father’s name—
That word shall wrap thy heart in flame!
Yet thou must end thy task and mark
Her cheek’s last tinge—her eye’s last spark,
And the last glassy glance must view
Which freezes o’er its lifeless blue;
Then with unhallowed hand shall tear
The tresses of her yellow hair,
Of which, in life a lock when shorn
Affection’s fondest pledge was worn—
But now is borne away by thee
Memorial of thine agony!
Yet with thine own best blood shall drip;
Thy gnashing tooth, and haggard lip;
Then stalking to thy sullen grave,
Go—and with Gouls and Afrits rave,
Till these in horror shrink away
From spectre more accursed than they.
Mr. Southey has also introduced in his wild but beautiful poem of “Thalaba,” the
vampyre corse of the Arabian maid Oneiza, who is represented as having returned from
the grave for the purpose of tormenting him she best loved whilst in existence. But this
cannot be supposed to have resulted from the sinfulness of her life, she being pourtrayed
throughout the whole of the tale as a complete type of purity and innocence. The
veracious Tournefort gives a long account in his travels of several astonishing cases of
vampyrism, to which he pretends to have been an eyewitness; and Calmet, in his great
work upon this subject, besides a variety of anecdotes, and traditionary narratives
illustrative of its effects, has put forth some learned dissertations, tending to prove it to
be a classical, as well as barbarian error.
Many curious and interesting notices on this singularly horrible superstition might
be added; though the present may suffice for the limits of a note, necessarily devoted to
explanation, and which may now be concluded by merely remarking, that though the
term Vampyre is the one in most general acceptation, there are several others
synonymous with it, made use of in various parts of the world: as Vroucolocha,
Vardoulacha, Goul, Broucoloka, &c.
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THE VAMPYRE.
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 one 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 drawingrooms since her marriage, threw herself in his way, and did all but put on the dress of a
mountebank, to attract his notice:—though in vain:—when she stood before him,
though his eyes were apparently fixed upon her’s, still it seemed as if they were
unperceived;—even her unappalled impudence was baffled, and she left the field. But
though the common adultress could not influence even the guidance of his eyes, it was
not that the female sex was indifferent to him: yet such was the apparent caution with
which he spoke to the virtuous wife and innocent daughter, that few knew he ever
addressed himself to females. He had, however, the reputation of a winning tongue; and
whether it was that it even overcame the dread of his singular character, or that they
were moved by his apparent hatred of vice, he was as often among those females who
form the boast of their sex from their domestic virtues, as among those who sully it by
their vices.
9
About the same time, there came to London a young gentleman of the name of
Aubrey: he was an orphan left with an only sister in the possession of great wealth, by
parents who died while he was yet in childhood. Left also to himself by guardians, who
thought it their duty merely to take care of his fortune, while they relinquished the more
important charge of his mind to the care of mercenary subalterns, he cultivated more
his imagination than his judgment. He had, hence, that high romantic feeling of honour
and candour, which daily ruins so many milliners’ apprentices. He believed all to
sympathise with virtue, and thought that vice was thrown in by Providence merely for
the picturesque effect of the scene, as we see in romances: he thought that the misery
of a cottage merely consisted in the vesting of clothes, which were as warm, but which
were better adapted to the painter’s eye by their irregular folds and various coloured
patches. He thought, in fine, that the dreams of poets were the realities of life. He was
handsome, frank, and rich: for these reasons, upon his entering into the gay circles,
many mothers surrounded him, striving which should describe with least truth their
languishing or romping favourites: the daughters at the same time, by their brightening
countenances when he approached, and by their sparkling eyes, when he opened his
lips, soon led him into false notions of his talents and his merit. Attached as he was to
the romance of his solitary hours, he was startled at finding, that, except in the tallow
and wax candles that flickered, not from the presence of a ghost, but from want of
snuffing, there was no foundation in real life for any of that congeries of pleasing
pictures and descriptions contained in those volumes, from which he had formed his
study. Finding, however, some compensation in his gratified vanity, he was about to
relinquish his dreams, when the extraordinary being we have above described, crossed
him in his career.
He watched him; and the very impossibility of forming an idea of the character of
a man entirely absorbed in himself, who gave few other signs of his observation of
external objects, than the tacit assent to their existence, implied by the avoidance of
their contact: allowing his imagination to picture every thing that flattered its propensity
to extravagant ideas, he soon formed this object into the hero of a romance, and
determined to observe the offspring of his fancy, rather than the person before him. He
became acquainted with him, paid him attentions, and so far advanced upon his notice,
that his presence was always recognised. He gradually learnt that Lord Ruthven’s affairs
were embarrassed, and soon found, from the notes of preparation in —— Street, that he
was about to travel. Desirous of gaining some information respecting this singular
character, who, till now, had only whetted his curiosity, he hinted to his guardians, that
it was time for him to perform the tour, which for many generations has been thought
necessary to enable the young to take some rapid steps in the career of vice towards
putting themselves upon an equality with the aged, and not allowing them to appear as
if fallen from the skies, whenever scandalous intrigues are mentioned as the subjects of
pleasantry or of praise, according to the degree of skill shewn in carrying them on. They
10
consented: and Aubrey immediately mentioning his intentions to Lord Ruthven, was
surprised to receive from him a proposal to join him. Flattered by such a mark of esteem
from him, who, apparently, had nothing in common with other men, he gladly accepted
it, and in a few days they had passed the circling waters.
Hitherto, Aubrey had had no opportunity of studying Lord Ruthven’s character, and
now he found, that, though many more of his actions were exposed to his view, the
results offered different conclusions from the apparent motives to his conduct. His
companion was profuse in his liberality;—the idle, the vagabond, and the beggar,
received from his hand more than enough to relieve their immediate wants. But Aubrey
could not avoid remarking, that it was not upon the virtuous, reduced to indigence by
the misfortunes attendant even upon virtue, that he bestowed his alms;—these were sent
from the door with hardly suppressed sneers; but when the profligate came to ask
something, not to relieve his wants, but to allow him to wallow in his lust, or to sink
him still deeper in his iniquity, he was sent away with rich charity. This was, however,
attributed by him to the greater importunity of the vicious, which generally prevails
over the retiring bashfulness of the virtuous indigent. There was one circumstance about
the charity of his Lordship, which was still more impressed upon his mind: all those
upon whom it was bestowed, inevitably found that there was a curse upon it, for they
were all either led to the scaffold, or sunk to the lowest and the most abject misery. At
Brussels and other towns through which they passed, Aubrey was surprized at the
apparent eagerness with which his companion sought for the centres of all fashionable
vice; there he entered into all the spirit of the faro table: he betted, and always gambled
with success, except where the known sharper was his antagonist, and then he lost even
more than he gained; but it was always with the same unchanging face, with which he
generally watched the society around: it was not, however, so when he encountered the
rash youthful novice, or the luckless father of a numerous family; then his very wish
seemed fortune’s law—this apparent abstractedness of mind was laid aside, and his eyes
sparkled with more fire than that of the cat whilst dallying with the half-dead mouse. In
every town, he left the formerly affluent youth, torn from the circle he adorned, cursing,
in the solitude of a dungeon, the fate that had drawn him within the reach of this fiend;
whilst many a father sat frantic, amidst the speaking looks of mute hungry children,
without a single farthing of his late immense wealth, wherewith to buy even sufficient
to satisfy their present craving. Yet he took no money from the gambling table; but
immediately lost, to the ruiner of many, the last gilder he had just snatched from the
convulsive grasp of the innocent: this might but be the result of a certain degree of
knowledge, which was not, however, capable of combating the cunning of the more
experienced. Aubrey often wished to represent this to his friend, and beg him to resign
that charity and pleasure which proved the ruin of all, and did not tend to his own
profit;—but he delayed it—for each day he hoped his friend would give him some
opportunity of speaking frankly and openly to him; however, this never occurred. Lord
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Ruthven in his carriage, and amidst the various wild and rich scenes of nature, was
always the same: his eye spoke less than his lip; and though Aubrey was near the object
of his curiosity, he obtained no greater gratification from it than the constant excitement
of vainly wishing to break that mystery, which to his exalted imagination began to
assume the appearance of something supernatural.
They soon arrived at Rome, and Aubrey for a time lost sight of his companion; he
left him in daily attendance upon the morning circle of an Italian countess, whilst he
went in search of the memorials of another almost deserted city. Whilst he was thus
engaged, letters arrived from England, which he opened with eager impatience; the first
was from his sister, breathing nothing but affection; the others were from his guardians,
the latter astonished him; if it had before entered into his imagination that there was an
evil power resident in his companion, these seemed to give him sufficient reason for
the belief. His guardians insisted upon his immediately leaving his friend, and urged,
that his character was dreadfully vicious, for that the possession of irresistible powers
of seduction, rendered his licentious habits more dangerous to society. It had been
discovered, that his contempt for the adultress had not originated in hatred of her
character; but that he had required, to enhance his gratification, that his victim, the
partner of his guilt, should be hurled from the pinnacle of unsullied virtue, down to the
lowest abyss of infamy and degradation: in fine, that all those females whom he had
sought, apparently on account of their virtue, had, since his departure, thrown even the
mask aside, and had not scrupled to expose the whole deformity of their vices to the
public gaze.
Aubrey determined upon leaving one, whose character had not yet shown a single
bright point on which to rest the eye. He resolved to invent some plausible pretext for
abandoning him altogether, purposing, in the mean while, to watch him more closely,
and to let no slight circumstances pass by unnoticed. He entered into the same circle,
and soon perceived, that his Lordship was endeavouring to work upon the inexperience
of the daughter of the lady whose house he chiefly frequented. In Italy, it is seldom that
an unmarried female is met with in society; he was therefore obliged to carry on his
plans in secret; but Aubrey’s eye followed him in all his windings, and soon discovered
that an assignation had been appointed, which would most likely end in the ruin of an
innocent, though thoughtless girl. Losing no time, he entered the apartment of Lord
Ruthven, and abruptly asked him his intentions with respect to the lady, informing him
at the same time that he was aware of his being about to meet her that very night. Lord
Ruthven answered, that his intentions were such as he supposed all would have upon
such an occasion; and upon being pressed whether he intended to marry her, merely
laughed. Aubrey retired; and, immediately writing a note, to say, that from that moment
he must decline accompanying his Lordship in the remainder of their proposed tour, he
ordered his servant to seek other apartments, and calling upon the mother of the lady,
12
informed her of all he knew, not only with regard to her daughter, but also concerning
the character of his Lordship. The assignation was prevented. Lord Ruthven next day
merely sent his servant to notify his complete assent to a separation; but did not hint
any suspicion of his plans having been foiled by Aubrey’s interposition.
Having left Rome, Aubrey directed his steps towards Greece, and crossing the
Peninsula, soon found himself at Athens. He then fixed his residence in the house of a
Greek; and soon occupied himself in tracing the faded records of ancient glory upon
monuments that apparently, ashamed of chronicling the deeds of freemen only before
slaves, had hidden themselves beneath the sheltering soil or many coloured lichen.
Under the same roof as himself, existed a being, so beautiful and delicate, that she might
have formed the model for a painter wishing to pourtray on canvass the promised hope
of the faithful in Mahomet’s paradise, save that her eyes spoke too much mind for any
one to think she could belong to those who had no souls. As she danced upon the plain,
or tripped along the mountain’s side, one would have thought the gazelle a poor type of
her beauties; for who would have exchanged her eye, apparently the eye of animated
nature, for that sleepy luxurious look of the animal suited but to the taste of an epicure.
The light step of Ianthe often accompanied Aubrey in his search after antiquities, and
often would the unconscious girl, engaged in the pursuit of a Kashmere butterfly, show
the whole beauty of her form, floating as it were upon the wind, to the eager gaze of
him, who forgot the letters he had just decyphered upon an almost effaced tablet, in the
contemplation of her sylph-like figure. Often would her tresses falling, as she flitted
around, exhibit in the sun’s ray such delicately brilliant and swiftly fading hues, it might
well excuse the forgetfulness of the antiquary, who let escape from his mind the very
object he had before thought of vital importance to the proper interpretation of a passage
in Pausanias. But why attempt to describe charms which all feel, but none can
appreciate?—It was innocence, youth, and beauty, unaffected by crowded drawingrooms and stifling balls. Whilst he drew those remains of which he wished to preserve
a memorial for his future hours, she would stand by, and watch the magic effects of his
pencil, in tracing the scenes of her native place; she would then describe to him the
circling dance upon the open plain, would paint, to him in all the glowing colours of
youthful memory, the marriage pomp she remembered viewing in her infancy; and then,
turning to subjects that had evidently made a greater impression upon her mind, would
tell him all the supernatural tales of her nurse. Her earnestness and apparent belief of
what she narrated, excited the interest even of Aubrey; and often as she told him the
tale of the living vampyre, who had passed years amidst his friends, and dearest ties,
forced every year, by feeding upon the life of a lovely female to prolong his existence
for the ensuing months, his blood would run cold, whilst he attempted to laugh her out
of such idle and horrible fantasies; but Ianthe cited to him the names of old men, who
had at last detected one living among themselves, after several of their near relatives
and children had been found marked with the stamp of the fiend’s appetite; and when
13
she found him so incredulous, she begged of him to believe her, for it had been,
remarked, that those who had dared to question their existence, always had some proof
given, which obliged them, with grief and heartbreaking, to confess it was true. She
detailed to him the traditional appearance of these monsters, and his horror was
increased, by hearing a pretty accurate description of Lord Ruthven; he, however, still
persisted in persuading her, that there could be no truth in her fears, though at the same
time he wondered at the many coincidences which had all tended to excite a belief in
the supernatural power of Lord Ruthven.
Aubrey began to attach himself more and more to Ianthe; her innocence, so
contrasted with all the affected virtues of the women among whom he had sought for
his vision of romance, won his heart; and while he ridiculed the idea of a young man of
English habits, marrying an uneducated Greek girl, still he found himself more and
more attached to the almost fairy form before him. He would tear himself at times from
her, and, forming a plan for some antiquarian research, he would depart, determined not
to return until his object was attained; but he always found it impossible to fix his
attention upon the ruins around him, whilst in his mind he retained an image that seemed
alone the rightful possessor of his thoughts. Ianthe was unconscious of his love, and
was ever the same frank infantile being he had first known. She always seemed to part
from him with reluctance; but it was because she had no longer any one with whom she
could visit her favourite haunts, whilst her guardian was occupied in sketching or
uncovering some fragment which had yet escaped the destructive hand of time. She had
appealed to her parents on the subject of Vampyres, and they both, with several present,
affirmed their existence, pale with horror at the very name. Soon after, Aubrey
determined to proceed upon one of his excursions, which was to detain him for a few
hours; when they heard the name of the place, they all at once begged of him not to
return at night, as he must necessarily pass through a wood, where no Greek would ever
remain, after the day had closed, upon any consideration. They described it as the resort
of the vampyres in their nocturnal orgies, and denounced the most heavy evils as
impending upon him who dared to cross their path. Aubrey made light of their
representations, and tried to laugh them out of the idea; but when he saw them shudder
at his daring thus to mock a superior, infernal power, the very name of which apparently
made their blood freeze, he was silent.
Next morning Aubrey set off upon his excursion unattended; he was surprised to
observe the melancholy face of his host, and was concerned to find that his words,
mocking the belief of those horrible fiends, had inspired them with such terror. When
he was about to depart, Ianthe came to the side of his horse, and earnestly begged of
him to return, ere night allowed the power of these beings to be put in action;—he
promised. He was, however, so occupied in his research, that he did not perceive that
day-light would soon end, and that in the horizon there was one of those specks which,
14
in the warmer climates, so rapidly gather into a tremendous mass, and pour all their rage
upon the devoted country.—He at last, however, mounted his horse, determined to
make up by speed for his delay: but it was too late. Twilight, in these southern climates,
is almost unknown; immediately the sun sets, night begins: and ere he had advanced
far, the power of the storm was above—its echoing thunders had scarcely an interval of
rest—its thick heavy rain forced its way through the canopying foliage, whilst the blue
forked lightning seemed to fall and radiate at his very feet. Suddenly his horse took
fright, and he was carried with dreadful rapidity through the entangled forest. The
animal at last, through fatigue, stopped, and he found, by the glare of lightning, that he
was in the neighbourhood of a hovel that hardly lifted itself up from the masses of dead
leaves and brushwood which surrounded it. Dismounting, he approached, hoping to find
some one to guide him to the town, or at least trusting to obtain shelter from the pelting
of the storm. As he approached, the thunders, for a moment silent, allowed him to hear
the dreadful shrieks of a woman mingling with the stifled, exultant mockery of a laugh,
continued in one almost unbroken sound;—he was startled: but, roused by the thunder
which again rolled over his head, he, with a sudden effort, forced open the door of the
hut. He found himself in utter darkness: the sound, however, guided him. He was
apparently unperceived; for, though he called, still the sounds continued, and no notice
was taken of him. He found himself in contact with some one, whom he immediately
seized; when a voice cried, “Again baffled!” to which a loud laugh succeeded; and he
felt himself grappled by one whose strength seemed superhuman: determined to sell his
life as dearly as he could, he struggled; but it was in vain: he was lifted from his feet
and hurled with enormous force against the ground:—his enemy threw himself upon
him, and kneeling upon his breast, had placed his hands upon his throat—when the glare
of many torches penetrating through the hole that gave light in the day, disturbed him;—
he instantly rose, and, leaving his prey, rushed through the door, and in a moment the
crashing of the branches, as he broke through the wood, was no longer heard. The storm
was now still; and Aubrey, incapable of moving, was soon heard by those without. They
entered; the light of their torches fell upon the mud walls, and the thatch loaded on every
individual straw with heavy flakes of soot. At the desire of Aubrey they searched for
her who had attracted him by her cries; he was again left in darkness; but what was his
horror, when the light of the torches once more burst upon him, to perceive the airy
form of his fair conductress brought in a lifeless corse. He shut his eyes, hoping that it
was but a vision arising from his disturbed imagination; but he again saw the same form,
when he unclosed them, stretched by his side. There was no colour upon her cheek, not
even upon her lip; yet there was a stillness about her face that seemed almost as
attaching as the life that once dwelt there:—upon her neck and breast was blood, and
upon her throat were the marks of teeth having opened the vein:—to this the men
pointed, crying, simultaneously struck with horror, “A Vampyre! a Vampyre!” A litter
was quickly formed, and Aubrey was laid by the side of her who had lately been to him
the object of so many bright and fairy visions, now fallen with the flower of life that
15
had died within her. He knew not what his thoughts were—his mind was benumbed and
seemed to shun reflection, and take refuge in vacancy—he held almost unconsciously
in his hand a naked dagger of a particular construction, which had been found in the
hut. They were soon met by different parties who had been engaged in the search of her
whom a mother had missed. Their lamentable cries, as they approached the city,
forewarned the parents of some dreadful catastrophe. —To describe their grief would
be impossible; but when they ascertained the cause of their child’s death, they looked at
Aubrey, and pointed to the corse. They were inconsolable; both died broken-hearted.
Aubrey being put to bed was seized with a most violent fever, and was often
delirious; in these intervals he would call upon Lord Ruthven and upon Ianthe—by
some unaccountable combination he seemed to beg of his former companion to spare
the being he loved. At other times he would imprecate maledictions upon his head, and
curse him as her destroyer. Lord Ruthven, chanced at this time to arrive at Athens, and,
from whatever motive, upon hearing of the state of Aubrey, immediately placed himself
in the same house, and became his constant attendant. When the latter recovered from
his delirium, he was horrified and startled at the sight of him whose image he had now
combined with that of a Vampyre; but Lord Ruthven, by his kind words, implying
almost repentance for the fault that had caused their separation, and still more by the
attention, anxiety, and care which he showed, soon reconciled him to his presence. His
lordship seemed quite changed; he no longer appeared that apathetic being who had so
astonished Aubrey; but as soon as his convalescence began to be rapid, he again
gradually retired into the same state of mind, and Aubrey perceived no difference from
the former man, except that at times he was surprised to meet his gaze fixed intently
upon him, with a smile of malicious exultation playing upon his lips: he knew not why,
but this smile haunted him. During the last stage of the invalid’s recovery, Lord Ruthven
was apparently engaged in watching the tideless waves raised by the cooling breeze, or
in marking the progress of those orbs, circling, like our world, the moveless sun;—
indeed, he appeared to wish to avoid the eyes of all.
Aubrey’s mind, by this shock, was much weakened, and that elasticity of spirit
which had once so distinguished him now seemed to have fled for ever. He was now as
much a lover of solitude and silence as Lord Ruthven; but much as he wished for
solitude, his mind could not find it in the neighbourhood of Athens; if he sought it
amidst the ruins he had formerly frequented, Ianthe’s form stood by his side—if he
sought it in the woods, her light step would appear wandering amidst the underwood,
in quest of the modest violet; then suddenly turning round, would show, to his wild
imagination, her pale face and wounded throat, with a meek smile upon her lips. He
determined to fly scenes, every feature of which created such bitter associations in his
mind. He proposed to Lord Ruthven, to whom he held himself bound by the tender care
he had taken of him during his illness, that they should visit those parts of Greece neither
16
had yet seen. They travelled in every direction, and sought every spot to which a
recollection could be attached: but though they thus hastened from place to place, yet
they seemed not to heed what they gazed upon. They heard much of robbers, but they
gradually began to slight these reports, which they imagined were only the invention of
individuals, whose interest it was to excite the generosity of those whom they defended
from pretended dangers. In consequence of thus neglecting the advice of the inhabitants,
on one occasion they travelled with only a few guards, more to serve as guides than as
a defence. Upon entering, however, a narrow defile, at the bottom of which was the bed
of a torrent, with large masses of rock brought down from the neighbouring precipices,
they had reason to repent their negligence; for scarcely were the whole of the party
engaged in the narrow pass, when they were startled by the whistling of bullets close to
their heads, and by the echoed report of several guns. In an instant their guards had left
them, and, placing themselves behind rocks, had begun to fire in the direction whence
the report came. Lord Ruthven and Aubrey, imitating their example, retired for a
moment behind the sheltering turn of the defile: but ashamed of being thus detained by
a foe, who with insulting shouts bade them advance, and being exposed to unresisting
slaughter, if any of the robbers should climb above and take them in the rear, they
determined at once to rush forward in search of the enemy. Hardly had they lost the
shelter of the rock, when Lord Ruthven received a shot in the shoulder, which brought
him to the ground. Aubrey hastened to his assistance; and, no longer heeding the contest
or his own peril, was soon surprised by seeing the robbers’ faces around him—his
guards having, upon Lord Ruthven’s being wounded, immediately thrown up their arms
and surrendered.
By promises of great reward, Aubrey soon induced them to convey his wounded
friend to a neighbouring cabin; and having agreed upon a ransom, he was no more
disturbed by their presence—they being content merely to guard the entrance till their
comrade should return with the promised sum, for which he had an order. Lord
Ruthven’s strength rapidly decreased; in two days mortification ensued, and death
seemed advancing with hasty steps. His conduct and appearance had not changed; he
seemed as unconscious of pain as he had been of the objects about him: but towards the
close of the last evening, his mind became apparently uneasy, and his eye often fixed
upon Aubrey, who was induced to offer his assistance with more than usual
earnestness—”Assist me! you may save me—you may do more than that—I mean not
my life, I heed the death of my existence as little as that of the passing day; but you may
save my honour, your friend’s honour.”—”How? tell me how? I would do any thing,”
replied Aubrey.—”I need but little—my life ebbs apace—I cannot explain the whole—
but if you would conceal all you know of me, my honour were free from stain in the
world’s mouth—and if my death were unknown for some time in England—I—I—but
life.”—”It shall not be known.”—”Swear!” cried the dying man, raising himself with
exultant violence, “Swear by all your soul reveres, by all your nature fears, swear that,
17
for a year and a day you will not impart your knowledge of my crimes or death to any
living being in any way, whatever may happen, or whatever you may see. “—His eyes
seemed bursting from their sockets: “I swear!” said Aubrey; he sunk laughing upon his
pillow, and breathed no more.
Aubrey retired to rest, but did not sleep; the many circumstances attending his
acquaintance with this man rose upon his mind, and he knew not why; when he
remembered his oath a cold shivering came over him, as if from the presentiment of
something horrible awaiting him. Rising early in the morning, he was about to enter the
hovel in which he had left the corpse, when a robber met him, and informed him that it
was no longer there, having been conveyed by himself and comrades, upon his retiring,
to the pinnacle of a neighbouring mount, according to a promise they had given his
lordship, that it should be exposed to the first cold ray of the moon that rose after his
death. Aubrey astonished, and taking several of the men, determined to go and bury it
upon the spot where it lay. But, when he had mounted to the summit he found no trace
of either the corpse or the clothes, though the robbers swore they pointed out the
identical rock on which they had laid the body. For a time his mind was bewildered in
conjectures, but he at last returned, convinced that they had buried the corpse for the
sake of the clothes.
Weary of a country in which he had met with such terrible misfortunes, and in
which all apparently conspired to heighten that superstitious melancholy that had seized
upon his mind, he resolved to leave it, and soon arrived at Smyrna. While waiting for a
vessel to convey him to Otranto, or to Naples, he occupied himself in arranging those
effects he had with him belonging to Lord Ruthven. Amongst other things there was a
case containing several weapons of offence, more or less adapted to ensure the death of
the victim. There were several daggers and ataghans. Whilst turning them over, and
examining their curious forms, what was his surprise at finding a sheath apparently
ornamented in the same style as the dagger discovered in the fatal hut—he shuddered—
hastening to gain further proof, he found the weapon, and his horror may be imagined
when he discovered that it fitted, though peculiarly shaped, the sheath he held in his
hand. His eyes seemed to need no further certainty—they seemed gazing to be bound
to the dagger; yet still he wished to disbelieve; but the particular form, the same varying
tints upon the haft and sheath were alike in splendour on both, and left no room for
doubt; there were also drops of blood on each.
He left Smyrna, and on his way home, at Rome, his first inquiries were concerning
the lady he had attempted to snatch from Lord Ruthven’s seductive arts. Her parents
were in distress, their fortune ruined, and she had not been heard of since the departure
of his lordship. Aubrey’s mind became almost broken under so many repeated horrors;
he was afraid that this lady had fallen a victim to the destroyer of Ianthe. He became
morose and silent; and his only occupation consisted in urging the speed of the
18
postilions, as if he were going to save the life of some one he held dear. He arrived at
Calais; a breeze, which seemed obedient to his will, soon wafted him to the English
shores; and he hastened to the mansion of his fathers, and there, for a moment, appeared
to lose, in the embraces and caresses of his sister, all memory of the past. If she before,
by her infantine caresses, had gained his affection, now that the woman began to appear,
she was still more attaching as a companion.
Miss Aubrey had not that winning grace which gains the gaze and applause of the
drawing-room assemblies. There was none of that light brilliancy which only exists in
the heated atmosphere of a crowded apartment. Her blue eye was never lit up by the
levity of the mind beneath. There was a melancholy charm about it which did not seem
to arise from misfortune, but from some feeling within, that appeared to indicate a soul
conscious of a brighter realm. Her step was not that light footing, which strays where’er
a butterfly or a colour may attract—it was sedate and pensive. When alone, her face
was never brightened by the smile of joy; but when her brother breathed to her his
affection, and would in her presence forget those griefs she knew destroyed his rest,
who would have exchanged her smile for that of the voluptuary? It seemed as if those
eyes,—that face were then playing in the light of their own native sphere. She was yet
only eighteen, and had not been presented to the world, it having been thought by her
guardians more fit that her presentation should be delayed until her brother’s return from
the continent, when he might be her protector. It was now, therefore, resolved that the
next drawing-room, which was fast approaching, should be the epoch of her entry into
the “busy scene.” Aubrey would rather have remained in the mansion of his fathers, and
fed upon the melancholy which overpowered him. He could not feel interest about the
frivolities of fashionable strangers, when his mind had been so torn by the events he
had witnessed; but he determined to sacrifice his own comfort to the protection of his
sister. They soon arrived in town, and prepared for the next day, which had been
announced as a drawing-room.
The crowd was excessive—a drawing-room had not been held for a long time, and
all who were anxious to bask in the smile of royalty, hastened thither. Aubrey was there
with his sister. While he was standing in a corner by himself, heedless of all around
him, engaged in the remembrance that the first time he had seen Lord Ruthven was in
that very place—he felt himself suddenly seized by the arm, and a voice he recognized
too well, sounded in his ear—”Remember your oath.” He had hardly courage to turn,
fearful of seeing a spectre that would blast him, when he perceived, at a little distance,
the same figure which had attracted his notice on this spot upon his first entry into
society. He gazed till his limbs almost refusing to bear their weight, he was obliged to
take the arm of a friend, and forcing a passage through the crowd, he threw himself into
his carriage, and was driven home. He paced the room with hurried steps, and fixed his
hands upon his head, as if he were afraid his thoughts were bursting from his brain.
19
Lord Ruthven again before him—circumstances started up in dreadful array—the
dagger—his oath.—He roused himself, he could not believe it possible—the dead rise
again!—He thought his imagination had conjured up the image his mind was resting
upon. It was impossible that it could be real—he determined, therefore, to go again into
society; for though he attempted to ask concerning Lord Ruthven, the name hung upon
his lips, and he could not succeed in gaining information. He went a few nights after
with his sister to the assembly of a near relation. Leaving her under the protection of a
matron, he retired into a recess, and there gave himself up to his own devouring
thoughts. Perceiving, at last, that many were leaving, he roused himself, and entering
another room, found his sister surrounded by several, apparently in earnest
conversation; he attempted to pass and get near her, when one, whom he requested to
move, turned round, and revealed to him those features he most abhorred. He sprang
forward, seized his sister’s arm, and, with hurried step, forced her towards the street: at
the door he found himself impeded by the crowd of servants who were waiting for their
lords; and while he was engaged in passing them, he again heard that voice whisper
close to him—”Remember your oath!”—He did not dare to turn, but, hurrying his sister,
soon reached home.
Aubrey became almost distracted. If before his mind had been absorbed by one
subject, how much more completely was it engrossed, now that the certainty of the
monster’s living again pressed upon his thoughts. His sister’s attentions were now
unheeded, and it was in vain that she intreated him to explain to her what had caused
his abrupt conduct. He only uttered a few words, and those terrified her. The more he
thought, the more he was bewildered. His oath startled him;—was he then to allow this
monster to roam, bearing ruin upon his breath, amidst all he held dear, and not avert its
progress? His very sister might have been touched by him. But even if he were to break
his oath, and disclose his suspicions, who would believe him? He thought of employing
his own hand to free the world from such a wretch; but death, he remembered, had been
already mocked. For days he remained in this state; shut up in his room, he saw no one,
and ate only when his sister came, who, with eyes streaming with tears, besought him,
for her sake, to support nature. At last, no longer capable of bearing stillness and
solitude, he left his house, roamed from street to street, anxious to fly that image which
haunted him. His dress became neglected, and he wandered, as often exposed to the
noon-day sun as to the midnight damps. He was no longer to be recognized; at first he
returned with the evening to the house; but at last he laid him down to rest wherever
fatigue overtook him. His sister, anxious for his safety, employed people to follow him;
but they were soon distanced by him who fled from a pursuer swifter than any—from
thought. His conduct, however, suddenly changed. Struck with the idea that he left by
his absence the whole of his friends, with a fiend amongst them, of whose presence they
were unconscious, he determined to enter again into society, and watch him closely,
anxious to forewarn, in spite of his oath, all whom Lord Ruthven approached with
20
intimacy. But when he entered into a room, his haggard and suspicious looks were so
striking, his inward shudderings so visible, that his sister was at last obliged to beg of
him to abstain from seeking, for her sake, a society which affected him so strongly.
When, however, remonstrance proved unavailing, the guardians thought proper to
interpose, and, fearing that his mind was becoming alienated, they thought it high time
to resume again that trust which had been before imposed upon them by Aubrey’s
parents.
Desirous of saving him from the injuries and sufferings he had daily encountered
in his wanderings, and of preventing him from exposing to the general eye those marks
of what they considered folly, they engaged a physician to reside in the house, and take
constant care of him. He hardly appeared to notice it, so completely was his mind
absorbed by one terrible subject. His incoherence became at last so great, that he was
confined to his chamber. There he would often lie for days, incapable of being roused.
He had become emaciated, his eyes had attained a glassy lustre;—the only sign of
affection and recollection remaining displayed itself upon the entry of his sister; then
he would sometimes start, and, seizing her hands, with looks that severely afflicted her,
he would desire her not to touch him. “Oh, do not touch him—if your love for me is
aught, do not go near him!” When, however, she inquired to whom he referred, his only
answer was, “True! true!” and again he sank into a state, whence not even she could
rouse him. This lasted many months: gradually, however, as the year was passing, his
incoherences became less frequent, and his mind threw off a portion of its gloom, whilst
his guardians observed, that several times in the day he would count upon his fingers a
definite number, and then smile.
The time had nearly elapsed, when, upon the last day of the year, one of his
guardians entering his room, began to converse with his physician upon the melancholy
circumstance of Aubrey’s being in so awful a situation, when his sister was going next
day to be married. Instantly Aubrey’s attention was attracted; he asked anxiously to
whom. Glad of this mark of returning intellect, of which they feared he had been
deprived, they mentioned the name of the Earl of Marsden. Thinking this was a young
Earl whom he had met with in society, Aubrey seemed pleased, and astonished them
still more by his expressing his intention to be present at the nuptials, and desiring to
see his sister. They answered not, but in a few minutes his sister was with him. He was
apparently again capable of being affected by the influence of her lovely smile; for he
pressed her to his breast, and kissed her cheek, wet with tears, flowing at the thought of
her brother’s being once more alive to the feelings of affection. He began to speak with
all his wonted warmth, and to congratulate her upon her marriage with a person so
distinguished for rank and every accomplishment; when he suddenly perceived a locket
upon her breast; opening it, what was his surprise at beholding the features of the
monster who had so long influenced his life. He seized the portrait in a paroxysm of
21
rage, and trampled it under foot. Upon her asking him why he thus destroyed the
resemblance of her future husband, he looked as if he did not understand her—then
seizing her hands, and gazing on her with a frantic expression of countenance, he bade
her swear that she would never wed this monster, for he—— But he could not
advance—it seemed as if that voice again bade him remember his oath—he turned
suddenly round, thinking Lord Ruthven was near him but saw no one. In the meantime
the guardians and physician, who had heard the whole, and thought this was but a return
of his disorder, entered, and forcing him from Miss Aubrey, desired her to leave him.
He fell upon his knees to them, he implored, he begged of them to delay but for one
day. They, attributing this to the insanity they imagined had taken possession of his
mind, endeavoured to pacify him, and retired.
Lord Ruthven had called the morning after the drawing-room, and had been refused
with every one else. When he heard of Aubrey’s ill health, he readily understood himself
to be the cause of it; but when he learned that he was deemed insane, his exultation and
pleasure could hardly be concealed from those among whom he had gained this
information. He hastened to the house of his former companion, and, by constant
attendance, and the pretence of great affection for the brother and interest in his fate, he
gradually won the ear of Miss Aubrey. Who could resist his power? His tongue had
dangers and toils to recount—could speak of himself as of an individual having no
sympathy with any being on the crowded earth, save with her to whom he addressed
himself;—could tell how, since he knew her, his existence, had begun to seem worthy
of preservation, if it were merely that he might listen to her soothing accents;—in fine,
he knew so well how to use the serpent’s art, or such was the will of fate, that he gained
her affections. The title of the elder branch falling at length to him, he obtained an
important embassy, which served as an excuse for hastening the marriage, (in spite of
her brother’s deranged state,) which was to take place the very day before his departure
for the continent.
Aubrey, when he was left by the physician and his guardians, attempted to bribe
the servants, but in vain. He asked for pen and paper; it was given him; he wrote a letter
to his sister, conjuring her, as she valued her own happiness, her own honour, and the
honour of those now in the grave, who once held her in their arms as their hope and the
hope of their house, to delay but for a few hours that marriage, on which he denounced
the most heavy curses. The servants promised they would deliver it; but giving it to the
physician, he thought it better not to harass any more the mind of Miss Aubrey by, what
he considered, the ravings of a maniac. Night passed on without rest to the busy inmates
of the house; and Aubrey heard, with a horror that may more easily be conceived than
described, the notes of busy preparation. Morning came, and the sound of carriages
broke upon his ear. Aubrey grew almost frantic. The curiosity of the servants at last
overcame their vigilance, they gradually stole away, leaving him in the custody of an
22
helpless old woman. He seized the opportunity, with one bound was out of the room,
and in a moment found himself in the apartment where all were nearly assembled. Lord
Ruthven was the first to perceive him: he immediately approached, and, taking his arm
by force, hurried him from the room, speechless with rage. When on the staircase, Lord
Ruthven whispered in his ear—”Remember your oath, and know, if not my bride to
day, your sister is dishonoured. Women are frail!” So saying, he pushed him towards
his attendants, who, roused by the old woman, had come in search of him. Aubrey could
no longer support himself; his rage not finding vent, had broken a blood-vessel, and he
was conveyed to bed. This was not mentioned to his sister, who was not present when
he entered, as the physician was afraid of agitating her. The marriage was solemnized,
and the bride and bridegroom left London.
Aubrey’s weakness increased; the effusion of blood produced symptoms of the near
approach of death. He desired his sister’s guardians might be called, and when the
midnight hour had struck, he related composedly what the reader has perused—he died
immediately after.
The guardians hastened to protect Miss Aubrey; but when they arrived, it was too
late. Lord Ruthven had disappeared, and Aubrey’s sister had glutted the thirst of a
VAMPYRE!
23

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