My first piece of fanfic, from a time when I didn't write fanfic, probably about 15 years ago. It retells a passage of The Vampyre, written by Lord Byron's personal physician, Mr. Polidori. Reposting it here after all this time just because, well, it's a fanfic, and written in English... And I was for some reason reminded of it today.
Lord Byron himself was used as the model for the story's rather decidedly evil antagonist, Lord Ruthven. The protagonist is a young handsome gentleman of the name Aubrey. In the beginning of the story, they leave for the Continent together. Aubrey's motives for following Lord Ruthven are not very well explained. This is how the passage reads in the story:
"(Aubrey) became acquainted with (Lord Ruthven), 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 ... They consented: and Aubrey immediately mentioning his intentions to Lord Ruthven, was surprised to receive from him a proposal to join him. Flattered 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."
Good God! It has happened!
What else can I write?
The words seem to imply I have already for some time been aware of the possibility of this incident; and indeed, I cannot insist some deepest, most secret part of my mind did not foresee it. And yet this possibility was so frightful, that I can still hardly believe myself capable of even dreaming of the kind of thing; and now it has taken place - the fullfillment half of me recalls with horror, like the utter madness it is, whilst the other embraces this discovery with dark, overwhelming joy!
Utter madness, writes my trembling hand!
Am I to think myself mad? Am I condemned?
But off with such thoughts! Were I eventually to sink back into the suffocating bosom of my former prejudices and repentances, I wish theretofore to enjoy my forbidden happiness - whether condemnable or not. And I am determined to write it down - all of it; otherwise, I am in dread I shall quite rapidly fall into disbelieving myself, and dispell the whole incident as a fit of feverish hallucination.
What an unbearable thought!
But now to what actually has happened.
Like I noted down yester-week, I was quite shocked with the thought of Lord Ruthven quitting England so abruptly. The simple memory of my rash behaviour at these tidings still brings on me a healthy feeling of abashment. (No, I cannot deny I find myself sometimes prey to impulsiveness, wont to run into conclusions instead of carefully reflecting on matters, like a gentleman should always do. I am not, however, so completely unable to perceive the dreadfullness of my past conduct, as some of my acquaintances are willing to profess.) I had contemplated on Lord Ruthven's brisk decision and come to the conclusion, that it must undoubtedly have come about because of some affair de coeur, the likes of which he has oft indulged in, scattering broken-hearted flowers of the ton about him like so many used handkerchiefs. As to the escapade with Countess D- , however, I believe he must have surpassed the forbearance of genteel society. Ruthven's usual callousness had betrayed him; he was on the verge of being scolded by the moral pillars of beau monde, the simple prospect of which must have powerfully vexed him. Such a scene is altogether beyond his dignity - even more so, inasmuch as all his previous adventures have so compleatly escaped condescension. Wherein is he to find reprieve, if not retreat? I know that now, whereas I have been too disordered to realise it before. And although my own reason quite fails me, Ruthven's has ever been unclouded; I am forced to acknowledge it, and to admire him even more. How could I ever mistake his resourcefullness for frivolity, his pride for superficiality, or his despise of the commonplace for mere snobbery - the conjectures others seem to adopt out of simple envy, as well as fear of something they are pitifully unable to understand? Were the whole incident to be taken under scrutiny, Ruthven is certainly above censure, whereas I remain pitifully deserving of it.
But I digress. On with the story, which, I assure you, my reader - presumably only my own very self! - is more than faithful to every detail.
For three days, I tried to get into Ruthven's presence in order to apologise my uncivility; but, until yesterday, all those efforts were to fail, him being quite taken up with the preparations of his forthcoming journey. In time, I grew somewhat desperate; were he to part London without I as much as seeing him once more? Leaving a message, with my greetings and ambition in calling again therein, was all I could do; determined to brood upon the state of things, I set myself sulking in my chambers, awaiting the news of Ruthven's having crossed the Channel - for certainly, after having eyed with disdain several prospects of acquaintances more renowned than I, he was scarcely likely to spare a farthing's worth of thought on my humble offer of company, even to the extent of accepting my fare-wells.
Well! You can imagine how surprised I was to receive an invitation to meet him the very same evening!
I was fearfully excited. The grave mood - shall I say, the spleen - which had had my servants and dear sister quite vexing over my well-being, was swept away. I regarded everything with restored brightness and expectation. As the evening approached, I had myself attired with as much care and attention as I dared to venture, positively tormenting my poor manservant; I had the better Phaeton brought out, the new chestnut four harnessed in front of this magnificent contraption, and up and made to - Street as regally as any prince of the old regime. - Vanity! I confess myself given to its moments of foolishness; quite childishly I intended to make an impression upon the object of my esteem, whilst in truth I was merely strutting to my disgrace. After all, how is one to impress a man, who himself provides an example of wealth and taste born to its highest pinnacle? Certainly not by trying to outshine him, and making a rather poor spectacle of it.
I was presented at Lord Ruthven's in his library, which - like everyone who has ever visited it must admit - splendidly manifests the best of last century's efforts at proportions and style. Ruthven himself, pale as always and impeccably dressed, was seated in a heavy armchair behind his mahogany writing desk, in perfect accord with the imposing surroundings. Noting with satisfaction that the books had not been taken down and packed (for this seemed to indicate that Ruthven's journeys would not take exceedingly long,) I offered my apologies, barely allowing my host to greet me. Oh, how I longed for him to approve of me, to smile at me, as he has oft done before! The mere knowledge of his proximity rendered me completely disconcerted - hopeless and happy and fearful en même temps. I rattled on, hardly aware of the purport of my words - and indeed, to my horror, I cannot recall one of the sentences which flowed from my mouth. I was possessed by a physical need to talk, borne out of simple despair. Everything I said felt, at the time, quite reasonable and effortless; yet I know now that my nonchalance must have appeared superficial at best, and quite absurd at worst.
Then, quite abruptly, I fell short of breath. I had to desist; the flow of words withered, and whilst it did, I realized the ridicule I was putting myself into. As to Lord Ruthven, he stirred not, he spoke not; his white countenance wore a mask of undisguised boredom, expression the purport of which I now humiliatingly beheld for what it was. I stood there like a schoolboy who realises that he is to be punished by his teacher, a few steps from the desk, a-colouring and ashamed.
Upon my persistent silence, Lord Ruthven, who had the slightest of creases between his dark eyebrows, raised himself from the chair, and paced around his desk in the princely manner of his which incites, I know, much jealous grudge in many a London buck's heart. Without uttering a word he approached a small commode, furnished with a decanter and some glasses. He poured himself liquor, which he thereupon quaffed with little ceremony. Having his back turned towards me, I saw none of his expression; the way he threw the tumbler back on the table, however, betrayed something of his present state of mind. My discomfiture grew more intense with each oppressive second of silence.
Then, after one more moment of letting me fret in fear of reproach, Ruthven finally turned to face me. And such was the coldness of his expression, such the calculating look of his eye, such the arrogance of his bearing, that I found myself bereft of any remaining determination, and the last of my self-confidence quite leaving me.
"I must admit having hardly remembered the incident you speak of," said he, referring, of course, to the wretched occasion of my bolting from the room upon his announcement of departing England shortly. "And I cannot trust in your having arrived - after so many days - only to apologise such an insignificant misdemeanour. Therefore, I am compelled to believe that you have some other matter on your mind."
I remember stammering something to the contrary, words which he waved off with a graceful gesture of his hand. "Please, spare me. The truth now, young Aubrey - I can be a very reasonable man. But I have to be approached in earnest; I have never held much sympathy for trifles, and the best way to rouse my anger is to be ambiguous. So, what is it? Something about your sister? A friend of yours in trouble, perhaps? Or have you, yourself, finally given up your virtuous manner and gone to the dice and the card? A gambling debt, of course, would be most inconvenient to present to your guardians, would it not?.. Ah, you keep quiet. I believe I have found the crux. So, how much shall it be, Aubrey?"
With each disillusioned, cynical word Ruthven flicked at me, I became more aware of the vanity of my thoughts. What a conceited fool had I been to consider myself so worthy an acquaintance as to induce any concern in Lord Ruthven - nay, indeed, what a fool to think he considered me an acquaintance at all. He was completely and utterly above me, and I was an insolent mercenary to have offered myself as a choice companion, indeed, as a friend! He had forgotten my impunity! Perhaps he had not even as much as noticed it? Oh, how I wallowed now in regret of my own folly, of the padded coat and Corinthian curls, even of the Phaeton and four. Indeed, so little thought I of myself at the moment, that my reason quite failed me, and left me but some foolish words which I - the fool - must repeat.
"No - no, my lord, you are mistaken," say I, "I only wish for your forgiveness, in order for us not to part in discord."
"My forgiveness!" Ruthven laughed, impatience for the first time evident in his voice. "I am not the one who stands here in misconception. There is nothing to forgive, the more so since I remember nothing of the misdeed you seem to think so gravely of. I would lead quite a miserable life, were I disposed to dwell on every sign of disapproval I encounter at my actions - I believe you know enough of my reputation as for me to spare us the inconvenience of further explanation. And as to my understanding, Aubrey, I understand you quite well; you are one of those innocent, adventurous youths who seek amusement where the likes of them can only find misfortune, and who, at the inevitable moment misfortune finds them, have no idea how to handle it. I do believe you have fashioned of me some kind of untruthful concept. I suggest you dispose of it directly. Aye, I may be the superior of most men in certain matters, but mind you, I also lack several of their virtues. And yet you seem to think of me as some manner or a hero in a romance, when, in fact, I am no such thing. What I am, you cannot begin to comprehend, and I believe you are more fortunate - if not more content - that way."
"I beseech you, my lord," cried I, deeply shocked by Ruthven's contempt, "you are horribly in the wrong. Why must you say such things? I remember many a time you have given me to understand you are not indifferent."
At hearing this, Lord Ruthven knitted his eyebrows as if before an unsolvable riddle, or an uninterpretable phrase of Latin. "Dear Aubrey," he stated in a soft voice; it was now evident he was both bored and amused; whatever that might have meant, I am not to know. "You seem to be under the misconception that I feel something for you. Why should I be anything but indifferent? It would hardly suit my style of life, or my character. One must not grow attached to things - they are so easily broken."
My hand shudders as I write down these words. Even now, I cannot think of them without dread. As to my anguish at that moment, I am unable to describe it, or the depth whereto I was insulted by Lord Ruthven's disdain at my intentions, which I had held in such high esteem. My thoughts were hardly lucid anymore; the mortification was almost enough to strike me dead where I stood. I no more recalled the purpose of my calling on him; indeed, had I been able to think of it, I believe I would have realised the falsity of my designs, meant only to disguise the actual motive - the secret attachment even my dreams had been cautious of revealing, and
of which, I now know, Lord Ruthven stood in no misunderstanding whatsoever.
"Then, my lord," I succeeded in uttering, "there is nothing more for me to say about the matter. I wish you a most satisfying journey. Farewell." My eyes clouded by despair, I turned to quit the accursed place, and paced towards the door quite senseless and blind, and with tears streaming down my face.
And now - now - at the moment of my compleat and utter misery, the unthinkable happened! I managed to reach the door, and even open it, though I barely remember how; and now, something moved behind me, and a white hand pushed back the door. I nigh fell with startlement, and indeed would I have collapsed, had it not been for the strong arms that seized me and held me, turning me back to face Lord Ruthven, who it was that had caught me. I saw his face through my tears; it was pale as always, and there was a queer, narrow smile on his lips, more than a little upsetting. But his frown was altogether gone. "Aubrey, you fool!" he whispered. "You are truly innocent, to come to me like this!" And thenceforth became I senseless again, as Lord Ruthven held the back of my neck with one hand, and clasped my waist with the other, and seized his lips upon mine, which were opened in a silent cry of surprize.
It took some time ere he volunteered to straighten his head, and even more for me to dare open my eyes; as I did, I perceived on his face an unintelligible combination of amusement and arrogance. It would have mocked me, had I been but able to feel anything save astonishment.
"So, dear Aubrey, do you know what you wanted, now?" asked Ruthven, his voice so soft, do delighted in such an evil manner, that it was nearly something other than human. I might have sworn something burned deep in his eye, an intense hunger, a horrendous, fiery flicker of black fire, but I must be in the wrong.
I could not make an answer, having quite forgotten how to speak. I closed my eyes and wished I would never be required to utter a word again. Yet it befell that I was, indeed, not expected to make reply; for, having taken a look at my face, which must have assumed a state of flushed stupefaction, the arbiter of my emotions was satisfied and once again proceeded to claim my mouth. This time he did it with a possessiveness nigh on cruelty, such as quite efficiently robbed me of what little remained of my senses. Strength was drained from my limbs, thought obliterated; and my body, never before held in such a manner by another man, forthwith surrendered unto the will of him who was my superior in all things - mind, flesh, age and vigour. I shall not venture to explain my abandon, nor shall I seek reasons for the longing which was, paradoxically, only increased by the assailant's brutality. Neither will I ever understand why my meekness seemed to urge, rather than pacify, the attacker. My only attempt at elucidation is the inevitable observation, that what took place came to me quite naturally; it was not that I did not feel its wickedness; Ruthven's powers were just too great for me to resist. God help me! for I am impenitent. The more he depraved me, the more I wanted it.
Finally, when my legs were giving in and my head was swimming toward merciful darkness, Ruthven allowed me to breath. I saw his handsome face through a mist that allowed me no particulars of his expression; I felt his hand, cool and graceful despite its proportionate largeness, stealing beneath my dress-coat, and wandering there with such boldness as made me concurrently blush with embarrassment and moan with a novel and unexpected pleasure.
"Would you like me to take you to the continent, Aubrey?" Ruthven asked, with malicious laughter in his voice. Ere these words, his hand had found its way to my nether parts; the feelings which ensued were nigh too powerful to bear; the import of his inquiry seeped into my mind only with effort.
"Yes!" I gasped after a fleeting moment of clarity. I sobbed that word over and over again, pleading in miserable despair, all my pride quite cast aside by those slow, maddening strokes.
"Well!" chuckled my tormentor, apparently quite unconcerned with the nature of his actions, "Tell me, why should I? What have you to possibly offer?"
I knew where he was getting at. Tears were running down my face, tears of utter humiliation and of the fiery lust which steals away man's reason and makes him no better than an animal.
I could not answer; he insisted. "What can you offer?" repeated he, taking hold of my hair and drawing my head back with a strength that hurt; I remember squeezing my eyes shut, crying out with shame at my own willingness. "Myself," I stammered with a breaking voice. From afar, Ruthven seemed to smile triumphantly; he pulled my head against his shoulder, allowing me to weep against the lavender-scented cloth of his coat. And whether I wept out of shame, fear, pleasure or happiness, I cannot say. I only know that had I had a choice of all the alternatives, I would not have wanted anything else than what little he, at that moment, allowed me to have.
I must have lost consciousness, for when I came to, I was lying on a chaise-longue. I felt utterly depleted, undoubtedly by shock.
"Good, you have awoken," I heard a familiar voice intone. "We shall leave tonight."
Tonight? cried my fumbled mind. But I found no power to speak. I felt as though a man saved from the verge of drowning.
"You need none of your belongings, nor your fancy Phaeton and four," said Ruthven, appearing in my sight, as handsome, composed and terrifying as only a great poet or a fallen angel can be. "I am to provide for all your needs. This is my condition; you must be utterly at my mercy. Drink this."
Seating himself on the chaise-longue beside me, he handed me a gilded Venetian glass, half filled with some golden potion. Alas, I was too weak to hold it; he made me lean my head on his arm and brought the drink to my lips. I tasted French cognac, finer of which I have never had the chance to enjoy. This strong nectar made me cough powerfully, but it also gave back some of my strength; soon I would have been able to raise my own hand, but having the newly realised object of my longing so close to me, my senses were intoxicated by more than the golden liquor and I pretended to be too weak to raise my head from where it lay against Ruthven's strong arm. His expression was such that he might as well have noticed my small act; but he only seemed darkly amused by it, and I noticed that he had even gained some colour to his face, a strange ruddiness which made me realise how pale he normally was. He served the cognac to me like a wet-nurse serves milk to an infant, and then he set the glass aside and felt my neck, making me notice for the first time how he had released me of my painfully tight, tall neck-tie, dictated by the mores of our fashion, undoubtedly to ease my breath while I was still aware of nothing.
"You feel warm," said he, "good; you are strong. Are you an active man, Aubrey?"
It took me a minute to understand his purport. "I ride in the Park, and take a walk", answered I.
"You must continue this while travelling," said he, "for I have no taste for weaklings, nor do they last long in my company. I also encourage you to take up boxing; I know a few excellent teachers. A man should have a strong limb and a powerful heart. It is good for his blood."
Immediately I felt exceedingly weak; my diminutive habits of riding and walking seemed ridiculous beside this man, who tended to his health in such a rigid manner.
"And how about mistresses, young Aubrey? Do you enjoy the female sex?"
I blushed powerfully and, striving for conciseness, stammered out my pitiful escapades with a few tutors and maids. I must admit the subject excited me strongly; the shame of it - I only had to think of Ruthven's recent liberties with me, and again I wished his hands on any part of my disobedient body.
"Indeed, you are quite strong, young Aubrey," said he then, glancing at my fashionable trousers, the tight fit of which I now desperately regretted. "I will have a woman at your disposal every night; soon you shall know all that human flesh has to offer. That will, I dare say, make of you more pleasant company."
I recall almost weeping with longing now. I tried to say something, but failed, unable to finish what I had, abominably, started. With new-found unabashedness I lifted my hand to his coat-sleeve, feeling as if I was lifting my whole being toward him.
He looked at me, as if pondering at my pitiful state.
"Well, perhaps it will do more harm to leave you like this than not," quoth he.
And though it shames me to the verge of tears, I must tell you how it happened, in the end; on that chaise-longue which became the stage of my fall from grace, he embraced me; he held my face and looked at me while his other hand unbuttoned my clothes. And so abominably excited was I, that had it not been for his cruel sense of humour, I would have had my release there and then; but since he so fancied, he hurt me deliberately, making me cry out, knowing exactly what to do to prolong my misery. Good God! I cannot think of how it was; my body betrays me, even now I shame myself. I will only tell that it took me a long time to reach that state which I longed for; and when it finally came, Lord Ruthven had hardly touched the member of which most of life's misery ensues. I had been reduced to a mad being, an animal which begs and cries and finally spends his seed when his foulest orifice is penetrated with - I dare not say what; it was an object from the writing desk.
And so it is that I have become his creature. No longer concerned by the happiness of my dear father or mother, or that of my sister, I have only left them a brief message, stating there my intention to depart to the Continent, as well as Lord Ruthven's decision to take over my tutorship.