The Vampyre (27 page)

‘I looked up at her. I thought about the girl that Lovelace had known, and who had not yet come to me. “There are others, then,” I asked, “like us, here in London?”

‘Lady Melbourne tilted her head. “Doubtless,” she said.

‘“But surely you know?”

‘She smiled. “As I said - we are mostly discreet.” She paused. “We also, Byron, it is true to say, lack your power - it makes you extraordinary - but dangerous as well. You have genius and fire - and so - for those very reasons -
you must be careful.
” She held my arms, stared into my face. “Do you doubt that the law, if it finds us, would seek to destroy us? Your fame is something terrible - your exposure could serve to annihilate us all.”

‘“I do not care to skulk,” I said lazily; but her urgency had impressed me, and I was careful, this time, to heed her words. I did not kill Lady Caroline - merely redoubled my efforts to keep her at bay. I did nothing that would draw attention to myself - in other words, I seduced, drank, gambled, talked politics - like any other London gentleman - and, above all, I spent time with Hobhouse - that single fixed point my life still possessed. Hobby had never asked me about my year alone in Greece, and I never told him. Instead, like the true friend he was, he fought hard to keep me out of scrapes, and I trusted him in a way I found hard to trust myself. Only late at night, when we had returned from a party or a gaming club, did I shrug him off. Then I would slip into the dark, and resume an existence that Hobhouse couldn't check, and for a few brief hours, I would be true to myself. But even amongst the docks and the foulest slums, I remembered Lady Melbourne's plea - and I was discreet. My victims, once selected, never escaped.

‘One night, though, my thirst grew more than usually sharp. Caro had created a scene - arriving at my house, very late, in her pageboy's disguise - demanding an elopement. Hobhouse, as ever, had been a pillar of strength, and Caro had been bundled out at last - but I was left feeling feverish with cruelty, and a loathing of the need to disguise what I was. I waited till Hobhouse was gone - then I left for the darkness of the Whitechapel slums. I walked through the loneliest, dimmest streets. My need for blood was desperate. Suddenly, I could smell it, both ahead of me and behind. But I was in no mood now for carefulness. I walked on, into a foul, mud-filled lane, and my footsteps were the only noise to be heard. The smell of blood was very rich now. Then I sensed someone stepping out from behind me. I turned round, and saw an arm coming down - I caught it - I twisted it - I forced the footpad to the ground. He looked into my face, and he screamed, and then I slashed across his throat, and there was silence, save for the sweet, sweet washing of his blood against my face. I drank long and deep, holding the dead man's throat to my lips. At last I was full - I dropped the withered corpse into the mud - and then - I paused. I could smell the perfume of another person's blood. I looked up. Caro was watching me.

‘Slowly, I wiped the blood from my mouth. Caro said nothing, just stared with her wild, desperate eyes, as I rose and walked across to her. I ran my fingers through her hair; she shuddered; I thought she was about to break away. But then she began to shake, her thin body racked by tearless sobs, and she reached for my lips, kissing me, smearing the blood across her mouth and face. I held her. “Caro,” I whispered, deep within her thoughts, “you have seen nothing tonight.” Wordlessly, she nodded. “We must leave,” I said, glancing at the corpse where it lay in the mud. I took Caro's arm. “Come on,” I said. “It isn't safe for either of us here.”

‘Caro was dumb in the carriage. On the way back to Whitehall, I made love to her, tenderly, and still she didn't speak a word. At Melbourne House, I escorted her in, and we parted with a kiss. As I left, I caught sight of myself in a mirror. The soul of passion seemed stamped on every feature. My face was pale with haughtiness and bitter contempt; yet there was an air as well of dejection and woe, which softened and shaded the fierceness of my looks. It was a terrible face, beautiful and wretched - it was my own face. I shuddered, as Caro had done, and saw distress struggling with malignity, till everything was cold and solemn as before. Impassive once again, I swept my cloak about me, and returned into the night.

‘The next day, Caro came to my rooms, forcing her way past my servants and shouting at my friends to leave us alone. “I love you,” she said, when we were alone. “I love you, Byron, with all my heart, my everything - my life. Yes, take my life, if you won't have me.” Suddenly, she ripped open her dress. “Kill me!” she screamed. “Feed on me!”

‘I stared at her, long and hard. Then I shook my head. “Leave me in peace,” I said.

‘But Caro seized my arm, and flung herself at me. “Let me be a creature like you! Let me share in your existence! I will surrender everything!”

‘I laughed. “You don't know what you say.”

‘“I do!” Caro screamed. “I do, I do! I want the kiss of death on my lips! I want to share this darkness you have risen from! I want to taste the magic of your blood!” She began to sob. She fell on her knees. “Please, Byron! Please, I cannot live without you. Give me your blood. Please!”

‘I stared at her, and felt a terrible pity, and a temptation as well. To let her share my existence with me - yes - to ease the burden of my loneliness . . . But then I remembered my vow, never to create another creature like myself, and I turned my back on her. “Your vanity is ridiculous,” I told her, as I rang the servants' bell. “Exert your absurd caprices upon others.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘“Caro told you that?”

‘“ Yes.”

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

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

‘“ Why?”

‘“Because her blood . . .”

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