The House of the Vampire - 07 - Chapters 13 and 14

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
The House of the Vampire by George Sylvester Viereck, chapter thirteen.
Lazily Earnest stretched his limbs on the beach of Atlantic City.
The sea that perjure of sick souls, had washed away
the fever and the fret of the last few days.
The wind was in his hair, and the spray was
in his breath, while the rays of the sun kissed

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his bare arms and legs. He rolled over in the
glittering sand and the sheer joy of living now. And
then a wavelet stole far into the beach, as if
to caress him, but pined away ere it could reach
its goal. It was as if the enamored sea was
stretching out its arms to him who knows. Perhaps through
the clear water, some green eyed nymph or young sea god,

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with the tang of the sea in his hair, was
peering amorously at the boy's red mouth. The people of
the deep love the red, warm blood of human kind.
It is always the young that they lured their watery haunts,
never the shriveled limbs that totter shivering to the grave.
Such fancies came to Earnest as he lay on the
shore in his bathing attire, happy, thoughtless animal. The sun

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and the sea seemed to him two lovers vying for
his favor. The sudden change of environment had brought complete relaxation,
and had quieted his rebellious, assertive soul. He was no
longer a solitary unit, but one with wind and water,
herb and beach and shell. Almost voluptuously, his hand toyed
with the hot sand that glided caressingly through his fingers

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and buried his breast and shoulder under its glittering burden.
A summer girl who passed lowered her eyes coquettishly. He
watched her without stirring. Even to open his mouth or
to smile, would have seemed too much exertion. Thus he
lay for hours, when at length noon drew nigh. Had
cost him a great effort of will to shake off
his drowsy mood and exchange his airy costume for the

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conventional habiliments of the dining room. He had taken lodgings
in a fashionable hotel, and unus usual stroke of good luck,
hack work that paid outrageously well, had made it possible
for him to idle for a time without a thought
of the unpleasant necessity of making money. One single article,
to which he signed his name only with reluctance, had
brought to him more gear than a series of golden sonnets. Surely,

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he thought the social revolution ought to begin from above.
What right has the bricklayer to grumble when he receives
for a week's work almost more than I for a song.
Thus soliloquising, he reached the dining room. The scene that
unfolded itself before him was typical. The table overloaded, the
women over dressed, the luncheon was already in full course

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when he came. He mumbled an apology and seated himself
on the only remaining chair, next to a youth who
reminded him of a well dressed dummy with slight weariness.
His eyes wandered in all directions for more congenial faces
when they were arrested by a lady on the opposite
side of the table. She was clad in a silk
robe with curiously embroidered net work that revealed a nerve

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and delicate throat. The rich effect of the network was
relieved by the studied simplicity with which her heavy chestnut
colored hair was gathered in a single knot. Her face
was turned away from him, but there was something in
the carriage of her head that struck him as familiar.
When at last she looked him in the face, the
glass almost fell from his hand. It was Ethel Brandenburg.

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She seemed to notice his embarrassment and smiled when she
opened her lips to speak. He knew by the haunting
sweetness of the voice that he was not mistaken. Tell me,
she said, wistfully, you have forgotten me. They all have.
He hastened to assure her that he had not forgotten her.
He recollected now that he had first been introduced to

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her in Walkham's house some years ago, when a mere
college boy he had been privileged to attend one of
that master's famous receptions. She had looked quite resolute and
very happy, then, not at all like the woman who
had stared so strangely at Reginald in the Broadway restaurant.
He regarded this encounter as very fortunate. He knew so
much of her personal history that it almost seemed to

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him as if they had been intimate for years. She too,
felt on familiar ground with him, neither as much as
whispered the name of Reginald Clark. Yet it was he
and the knowledge of what he was to them that
linked their souls with a common bond. Chapter fourteen. It
was the third day after their meeting. Hour by hour,

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their intimacy had increased. Ethel was sitting in a large
wicker chair. She restlessly fingered her parasol, mechanically describing magic
circles in the sand. Ernest lay at her feet, with
his knees clasped between his hands. He gazed into her eyes.
Why are you trying so hard to make love to me?
The woman asked, with the half amused smile with which

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the eve near thirty receives the homage of a boy.
There is an element of insincerity in that smile, but
it is a weapon of defense against love's artillery. Sometimes, indeed,
the pleading in the boy's eyes and the cry of
the blood pierces the woman's smiling superiority. She listens, loves,
and loses. Ethel Brandenburg was listening, but the idea of

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love had not yet entered into her mind. Her interest
in Earnest was due in part to his youth and
the trembling in his voice when he spoke of love.
But what probably attracted her most powerfully was the fact
that he intimately knew the man who still held her
woman's heart in the hollow of his hand. It was
half in play, therefore, that she had asked him that question.
Why did he make love to her? He did not know.

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Perhaps it was the irresistible desire to be petted, which
young poets share with domesticated cats. But what should he
tell her? Polite platitudes were out of place between them. Besides,
he knew the penalty of all tender entanglements. Women treat
love as if it were an extremely tenuous wire that
can be drawn out indefinitely. This is a very expensive process.

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It costs us the most precious, the only irretrievable thing
in the universe, time, And to him time was song
for money. He did not care. The Lord had hallowed
his lips with rhythmic speech. Only in the intervals of
his singing might he listen to the voice of his heart,
strangest of all watches, that tells the time not by
minutes and hours, but by the coming and going of love.

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The woman beside him seemed to read his thoughts. Child, child,
She said, why will you toy with love like Jehovah?
He is a jealous God, and nothing but the whole
heart can placate him. Woe to the woman who takes
a poet for a lover. I admit it is fascinating,
but it is playing vabank. In fact, it is fatal

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art or love will come to harm. No man can
minister equally to both. A genuine poet is incapable of
loving a woman. Pshaw, you exaggerate. Of course, there is
a measure of truth in what you say, but is
only one side of the truth. And the truth you
know is always Janus faced. In fact, it often has
more than two faces. I can assure you that I
have cared deeply for the women to whom my love

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poetry was written, and you will not deny that it
is genuine. God forbid only you have been using the
wrong preposition. You should have said that it was written
at them. Ernest stared at her in childlike wonder. By Jove,
you are too devilishly clever, he exclaimed. After a little silence,
he said, not without hesitation. And do you apply your

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theory to all artists or only to us makers of rhyme?
To all? She replied, He looked at her questioningly. Yes,
she said, with a new sadness in her voice, I
too have paid the price. You mean, I loved and art.
That was the sacrifice. Perhaps you have chosen the better part,

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Ernest said, without conviction. No, she replied, my tribute was
brought in vain. This she said calmly, But Ernest knew
that her words were of tragic import You love him, still,
he observed, simply. F made no reply. Sadness clouded her
face like a veil, or like gray mist over the

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face of the waters. Her eyes went out to the sea,
following the somber flight of the sea. Meuse, in that
moment he could have taken her in his arms and
kissed her with infinite tenderness. But tenderness between man and
woman is like a match in a powder magazine. The
least provocation, and an amorous explosion will ensue tumbling down
the card houses of platonic affection. If he yielded to

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the impulse of the moment, the wine of the spring
tide would set their blood a fire, and from the
flames within us there is no escape. Come, Come, she said,
you do not love me, he protested, Ah, she cried triumphantly.
How many sonnets would you give for me. If you
were a usurer in gold instead of in rhyme, I
would ask how many dollars? But it is unjust to

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pay in a coin that we value little. To a
man starving in gold mines, a piece of bread weighs
more than all the treasures of the earth. To you,
I warrant your poems the standard of appreciation. How many
would you give for me? One, two, three, more? Because
you think love would repay you with compound interest, she

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observed merrily. He laughed. And when love turns to laughter,
the danger is past. For the moment end of Section
seven