Hi everyone! I finished today's chapter something like three weeks ago, but it clearly took a bit longer than I expected to get around to editing it. "Stregoni" chapters usually seem to run long, which means editing takes longer, but really, that's something I enjoy about these stories. It's fun to take the time to dwell on Carlisle's past, and I should probably always say this, but please forgive me for any anachronisms—my knowledge of 18th century history is terribly spotty. :) Thanks as always for your reviews, and I'll see you again soon!
Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer, not I, is the author of "Twilight." I am only borrowing Carlisle for my own amusement. :)
1751: The Pennsylvania Hospital and Art in the New World
Leaves were falling from the trees above him as Carlisle left the Pennsylvania Hospital late one autumn afternoon. It was the first hospital built in the colonies, and as such, Carlisle had entered its ranks under an alias. If he wanted to work at the hospital again in a hundred years, he certainly didn't want to have the same name as one of its first surgeons.
On the whole, the hospital was a testament to the huge improvements that had been made to the state of medicine as it had been when he'd first come to the new world, but Carlisle couldn't help but think that his American contemporaries were still behind European surgeons and physicians when it came to their ideas about human anatomy and surgical techniques. Then again, Carlisle supposed that, as the saying went, another man's farm always seemed more fertile than your own. Probably, medicine was still a deeply flawed science no matter where you went. Much had improved in the past century though, and after a long day at work, Carlisle couldn't help but look forward to the doubtless even greater advances that another hundred years would bring to his profession.
Carlisle was walking toward the book shop, eager to buy some new volumes to occupy him for another lonely night when he spotted the artist. It was a cloudy fall day, but so far, the weather had stayed dry, so there were several people braving the chill in the air to sell their wares on the street. The artist had set himself a bit apart from the other street vendors who sold food, candles, and other goods, presumably to get away from the smell of his neighbors, many of whom clearly hadn't bathed in some time, and might not bathe again until spring.
He had several paintings displayed on wooden easels that he had clearly built himself. There were a number of landscapes, a scene of Philadelphia at sunset which gave Carlisle pause, as well as several portraits of a beautiful dark-haired woman with large green eyes. The paintings were lovely, but after a cursory glance, Carlisle couldn't help but stare at the artist. After all, he was a vampire.
"Hello," the artist said nervously, taking in Carlisle's eyes. Carlisle was nearly a head taller than the painter, so he smiled as reassuringly as possible while sizing up the other man—he was short and stocky, and though of course he didn't need them, he was wearing spectacles, probably to draw attention away from his red eyes. The lenses of the spectacles had been coated in what looked like a thin sheen of blue paint, so even when the man looked you in the eye, his irises looked more purple than red. Of course, a street vendor who could afford eyeglasses was rather conspicuous, but it was still a clever trick. Despite the man's size, Carlisle was wary. Small didn't necessarily equate to harmless, and Carlisle was especially inclined to be cautious upon encountering a strange vampire so close to where he lived and worked.
"Hello," Carlisle said politely, nodding at the man. "Are you new in town? I haven't seen you around here before."
"Yes, my—my wife and I just came here from New York," the man said uneasily. "Is—is this your…" He lowered his voice, though Carlisle was sure that they were already out of human earshot. "Is this your territory?"
"No, I live in this neighborhood, but I don't hunt here, and I'm not with any coven," Carlisle said quietly. "Have any of the covens approached you yet? They can be rather territorial."
"Yes," the man said, looking slightly relieved now. As a rule, a lone vampire without a coven wasn't much of a threat. "Thomas Ebersole's coven has taken us under their protection. My mate and I have no interest in joining a coven, but Ebersole said that he'll let us stay here provided we hunt carefully and that we pay a small fee each month to hunt on his land. That's how we lived in New York as well."
Carlisle raised his eyebrows. He'd known coven leaders to do such things—having vampires not attached to a coven pay the coven a kind of rent to hunt in their territory wasn't unheard of, but Carlisle hadn't known that Thomas Ebersole had adopted the practice. Clearly, the vampires of Philadelphia were becoming better organized and more business-minded.
"Forgive me, but your eyes are a very striking color," the painter said, looking more fascinated than frightened now. "Would you mind…that is, would you consider sitting for me sometime?"
"It's been a long time since anyone's asked me that," Carlisle said with a chuckle. "I haven't met many artists since leaving Europe, but I'd be happy to sit for you, if only so I could see more fine paintings like yours here in the colonies. Your scenes of cities, both this one and New York, are particularly good."
The man smiled, pleased. "Thank you. The state of art in the colonies is…well, it's improving. I've only been here fifteen years, and already, things have gotten better. Oh, but I forget my manners; I'm John Walker."
"Carlisle Cullen," Carlisle said, shaking the man's hand, though they only did so for the sake of any humans who might be watching them—vampires did not generally shake hands, except for show. "So, how do you and your wife find Philadelphia so far?"
"It's been a bit of a challenge, staying inconspicuous," John said with a shrug, lowering his voice even more. "My mate, Prudence, is very young, not a newborn, but only a few years old. When I found her, she was alone, so it would seem that no one ever really taught her to be careful—I can't be certain though, as she doesn't like to speak of it."
Carlisle nodded sympathetically. "It must be difficult for both of you, adjusting to a new territory."
"Prudence is...getting better at controlling herself, but she's often very thirsty," John acknowledged. "Most days, she stays inside and either reads or poses for me, and really, I suppose I only venture outside to hunt with her or to sell my paintings. I've certainly been…less than discreet in the past myself. We left New York at the recommendation of the coven leader whose territory we used. We'd both made too many mistakes, and it was agreed that it would be best for everyone if we left. I don't mind saying that the covens there could be rather intimidating, in situations like that."
"Have you ever thought of…trying things another way?" Carlisle asked casually.
"How do you mean?" John wondered.
"The reason my eyes are this color is because I don't hunt…the way the rest of our kind do. I hunt animals exclusively, and I've been living this way for quite a few years now. Actually, I've never tasted human blood."
"Goodness," John said, eyes widening behind his glasses. "Is that really possible?"
"Well, I'm alive, so to speak, and I'm not very thirsty today, so it certainly seems to be," Carlisle said. This always happened when he met a new immortal: he would try to explain his diet as casually and objectively as possible, and his audience would quickly shift from incredulity to a kind of humoring attitude that humans generally adopted when dealing with children or the infirm of mind or body. Other vampires thought him ridiculous at best and at worst, a lunatic whose insanity might be contagious. Already, it was clear that John was dismissing his claim as impossible, though he was, Carlisle guessed, going to be polite about it.
"Well," John said after a slight pause, "that's certainly an interesting idea. I'll have to give your diet a try the next time Prudence and I go for a stroll in the woods."
Carlisle nodded, smiling slightly. "Please do. You may be pleasantly surprised with the result, though I'll grant you that carnivores taste far better than herbivores."
John smiled too, thoroughly at ease now; Carlisle was bigger than he was, but it was clear that John thought he was also a bit crazy, and thus probably harmless. "Indeed? I'll keep that in mind then."
Having concluded that the dietary portion of the conversation was over, Carlisle turned to examine John Walker's paintings again. Though the paintings of Prudence were lovely, Carlisle had no interest in having a stranger's portrait (let alone the wife of a near-stranger) hanging in his home. In a way, he was a bit surprised that John should want people he didn't know to purchase his wife's likeness and gaze upon it every day, but upon further consideration, Carlisle decided that it wasn't really so strange. John was an artist, so he wanted to share the beautiful things he'd created with the world. He was also, apparently, a proud husband, who was happy to have his wife admired—in any case, it wasn't as though any human man could ever steal her away, so what was there to worry about?
"What's this?" Carlisle asked, pausing before what looked to be a painting of an ape.
"That is a piece I did at the exhibition of the first performing monkey brought to the colonies," John said proudly. "I painted it earlier this year. Fancy it for your personal collection?"
"No, thank you, but I will take that one," Carlisle said, nodding at a streetscape of Philadelphia. "It's very good, especially considering you haven't lived here long. I think you've really captured the spirit of the city."
"Thank you," John said, accepting the money that Carlisle gave him and handing him the painting. "One of my favorite things about immortality is that I have so much time—an endless amount of time, I hope—to enjoy all the beauty that the world has to offer. Seeing amazing things and then painting them was my passion when I was alive, and it's only gotten more intense since I was changed. When I think that I might now spend decades, or even centuries creating art…well, bothersome bloodlust aside, I can honestly say that I've never been happier."
Carlisle smiled—he always loved meeting people who were as passionate about their professions as he was about his—it was a rare treat. "Well then, perhaps I'll make a point of asking you to paint the same street you captured in this painting again in a hundred years time, just to see how things have changed."
They parted with Carlisle promising to visit John and Prudence's home the following day, and as Carlisle walked home that chilly fall evening, he couldn't help but wonder where he'd be in a hundred years. Would he still be as happy in his work in 1851 as he was in 1751, as happy as John seemed to be? And by then, would he have found someone to share his life with?