The Vampyre; A Tale E-Book

John William Polidori

• Herausgeber: Edicions Perelló
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Universals - English Letters
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 64

Beschreibung

The Vampyre, written by J. W. Polidori, is a gothic tale following the adventures of Aubrey, a young English gentleman, and his intriguing travel companion, Lord Ruthven. As they journey through Europe, Aubrey begins to suspect that the charismatic nobleman harbours dark secrets. The story, filled with mystery and a chilling atmosphere, is one of the earliest works to shape the modern literary archetype of the vampire, setting the tone for future tales of horror and suspense.

Leseprobe

This collection treasures the most important works of universal literature, each one in its original language.

In the English Letters Series, the following stand out: The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald; The Picture of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde; Alice in Wonderland, by Lewis Carrol; A Christmas Carol, by Charles Dickens; The Autobiography, by Benjamin Franklin; The Best Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, by Arthur Conan Doyle; Self-Reliance, by Ralph Waldo Emerson; The finest story in the world, by Rudyard Kipling; Romeo and Juliet, by William Shakespeare; The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, by Mark Twain; Frankenstein; Or, The Modern Prometheus, by Mary Shelley; The shadow over Innsmouth, by H.P. Lovecraft...

John William Polidori

thE VAMPYRE;A TALE

© Ed. Perelló, SL, 2024

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I.S.B.N.: 978-84-10227-45-3

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INDEX

PROLOGUE

INTRODUCTION

THE VAMPYRE

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

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 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 lightOf a dark eye in woman! Far alongFrom 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!

And this is in the night:—Most glorious night!Thou wer’t not sent for slumber! let me beA 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 gleeOf 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 betweenHeights which appear, as lovers who have partedIn 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 rageWhich blighted their life’s bloom, and then departed—Itself expired, but leaving; them an ageOf years all winter—war within themselves to wage.