The Vampyre
John William Polidori
Initial release: April 1, 1819 (UK)
 |
| The Kiss, Gilbert Baldry |
Vampires are a staple of gothic fiction, to the point where they're almost the definition of it, the mascot, the symbol of the entire genre. But there’s another archetypal gothic horror figure that, while not as frequently commented on, is just as much a part of the gothic fiction genre as Dracula and his bloodsucking friends: that of the rapacious fuckboy, mad, bad and dangerous to know. The quintessential example can be found in the genre’s foundational work, Horace Walpole’s 1764 classic The Castle of Otranto. But in truth, while on paper the two archetypes aren't necessarily the same thing, more often than not, villains in these stories might be seen as examples of both, and no greater example can be found than in John William Polidori's The Vampyre.
There’s an argument to be made in which that fateful sleepover in Geneva in the wet summer of 1816 was an important moment in horror history, not just for Frankenstein, Mary Shelley’s blockbuster tale of alchemy and hubris, but also the contributions of the other people present at that little ghost writing contest. While Lord Byron never actually finished his story, it was Polidori’s take, building on Byron’s ideas (including borrowing the “tell nobody of my death” plot point,) that would lay out a lot of the modern ideas of vampires, and their ability to hide hide easily among society. What, you thought Bram Stoker invented this stuff? What's more, when you consider that the titular vampire, Lord Ruthven, is named after a thinly-disguised parody of Lord Byron by Lady Caroline Lamb, a jilted former lover of Byron’s, it makes sense that rather than hiding in a castle and going “blah!” a lot, Ruthven is instead a fuckboy who revels in ruining lives, often literally draining them of life via some vague means.
The story goes something like this: A
young Englishman enters high society; he meets an enigmatic stranger,
Lord Ruthven, who despite an unsettling countenance seems to cause
noblewomen to debase themselves to catch his attention. Wanting to
figure this guy out — perhaps to learn his secrets — our nameless hero travels with
Ruthven to Italy, observing how he seems to enjoy watching people
destroy themselves. The protagonist leaves Ruthven after learning of how the latter had left a trail of disgraced adultresses in his wake in England (much
like how Byron had recently left England to escape his debts and all the
women he’d jilted, including his own wife.) After traveling to Greece, he
meets up with Ruthven again, and they travel together until Ruthven is
shot and the two are held hostage. Ruthven dies, his body rotting before
he even expires, but not before demanding that our hero not tell of his
death for a year and a day. Returning to England, our hero re-enters
high society, but guess who’s there and guess whose sister he’s gonna
marry? The rest is a lot of wash about our hero going mad, etc. etc. — you know, typical 19th century literary claptrap.
Claptrap it may be, it’s wise to remember that much of what we take for granted, in terms of the tropes and themes in horror fiction, was invented almost out of whole cloth in 19th century gothic fiction, in stories like this. This was one of the defining stories of the early vampire genre. It pretty much cemented the idea of the modern vampire as an aristocratic fuckboy — modeled very much after the likes of Lord Byron — who preys on the pretty girls of high society, especially the English ones. In fact, it’s that very same Byron connection that shot this story into popularity, because in a case of supreme irony, it was initially published under Byron’s name, a fact that displeased both Polidori and Byron. Byron would declare in 1819 that he hated vampires and vampire fiction, and Polidori was ultimately ruined in part due to the story and his relationship with Byron. But because it was believed that Byron wrote it, it became immensely popular, because society loves a tortured fuckboy and the fuckboy fiction he writes about himself for an audience of fuckboys. (See also: most “classic literature,” Richard Dawkins, Lenin, R. Crumb, etc.) I doubt Polidori would see the irony of this, as he fought for some time to get publications to put his name on the story he wrote to make fun of a fuckboy.
 |
| Hark, A Vagrant #319, Kate Beaton |
God, 19th century Brits were fucking weird.
While Dracula might be the poster boy for the whole genre, Lord Ruthven has become a stock character in his own right, lurking about in the background in various forms in one thing or another — one recent book even outright makes him into a disguised Lord Byron! So in that sense, and as the apparent template for the bloodsucking fuckboy that seems to populate much of vampire fiction, he’s earned a seat in the pantheon of lesser-known vampire characters that have entered the public consciousness, alongside Carmilla, Lestat, Orlok, Alucard, and so on. So while this story might be much lesser known than Dracula, it’s just as important, if not moreso, in transitioning the vampire of folklore into something much more relatable, even tragic — inasmuch as thinly-disguised parodies of Byron can be considered tragic.