The House of the Vampire - 08 - Chapters 15 and 16

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
The House of the Vampire by George Sylvester Viereck, chapter fifteen. Thus,
three weeks passed without apparent change in their relations. Ernest
possessed a personal magnetism that, always emanating from him, was
felt most deeply when withdrawn. He was at all times
involuntarily exerting his power, which she, ever resisted, always on

(00:23):
the alert, always warding off when at last pressure of
work made his immediate departure for New York. Imparative, he
had not apparently gained the least ground, But Ethel knew
in her heart that she was fascinated, if not in love.
The personal fascination was supplemented by a motherly feeling toward
Ernest that sensuous in an essence, was in itself not

(00:45):
far removed from love. She struggled bravely and with external success,
against her emotions, never losing sight of the fact that
twenty and thirty are fifty. Increasingly aware of her own weakness,
she constantly attempted to lead the conversation into impersonal channels,
speaking preferably of his work. Tell me, she said, negligently,

(01:06):
fanning herself, what new inspiration have you drawn from your
stay at the sea side, why, he exclaimed, enthusiastically, volumes
and volumes of it. I shall write the great novel
of my life after I am once more quietly installed
at riverside drive the great American novel. She rejoined, Perhaps,
who will be your hero? Clark? There was a slight

(01:29):
touch of malice in her words, or rather in the
pause between the penultimate word and the last. Ernest detected
its presence and knew that her love for Reginald was dead,
stiff and cold. It lay in her heart's chamber, beside
how many others, all emboxed in the coffin of memory. No,
he replied, after a while, a little piqued by her suggestion,

(01:50):
Clark is not the hero. What makes you think that
he casts a spell on everything I do? Dear child,
she replied, I know him. He cannot failil to impress
his powerful personality upon all with whom he comes in contact,
to the injury of their intellectual independence. Moreover, he is
so brilliant and says everything so much better than anybody else, that,

(02:11):
by his very splendor he discourages effort in others. At best,
his influence will shape your development according to the tenets
of his mind. Curious, subtle, and corrupted. You will become
mentally distorted, like one of those hunchback Japanese trees, infinitely
wrinkled and infinitely grotesque, whose laws of growth are not
determined by nature but by the diseased imagination of the East.

(02:35):
I am no weakling, Ernest asserted, and your picture of
Clark is altogether out of perspective. His splendid successes are
to me a source of constant inspiration. We have some
things in common, but I realize that it is along
entirely different lines that success will come to me. He
has never sought to influence me. In fact, I never
received the smallest suggestion from him. Here the Princess Marigold

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seemed to peer at him through the veil of the past,
but he waved her aside as for my story, he continued,
you need not go so far out of your way
to find the leading character. Who can it be? Ethel
remarked with a merry twinkle. You Ethel, he said, sulkily,
Be serious, you know that it is you. I am

(03:20):
immensely flattered, she replied, Really, nothing pleases me better than
to be immortalized in print. Since I have little hope
nowadays of perpetuating my name by virtue of pencil or brush.
I have been put into novels before, and am consumed
with curiosity to hear the plot of yours. If you
don't mind, I had rather not tell you just yet.
Ernest said, it's going to be called Laantina. That's you.

(03:43):
But all depends on the treatment. You know, it doesn't
matter much what you say, so long as you say it. Well,
that's what counts. At any rate, any indication of the
plot at this stage would be decidedly inadequate. I think
you are right, she ventured. By all means, choose your
own time to tell me. Let's talk of something else.
Have you written anything since your delightful book of verse

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last spring? Surely now is your singing season. By the
time we are thirty, the springs of pure lyric passion
are usually exhausted. Ethel's inquiry somehow startled him. In truth,
he could find no satisfactory answer a remark relative to
his play. Clark's play rose to the threshold of his lips.
But he almost bit his tongue as soon as he

(04:26):
realized that the strange delusion which had possessed him that
night still dominated the undercurrents of his cerebration. No, he
had accomplished but little during the last few months, at
least by way of creative literature. So he replied that
he had made money. That is something, he said. Besides,
who can turn out a masterpiece every week? An artist's

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brain is not a machine. And in the respite from
creative work, I have gathered strength for the future. But
he said, slightly annoyed, you are not listening. His exclamation
brought her back from the train of thoughts that his
words had suggested. For in his reasoning, she had recognized
the same arguments that she had hourly repeated to herself
in defense of her inactivity when she was living under

(05:09):
the baneful influence of Reginald Clarke. Yes baneful. For the
first time, she dared to confess it to herself. In
a flash, the truth dawned upon her that it was
not her love alone, but something else, something irresistible and
very mysterious, that had dried up the well of creation
in her. Could it be that the same power was
now exerting its influence upon the struggling soul of this

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talented boy. Rack her brains as she might, she could
not definitely formulate her apprehensions, and a troubled look came
into her eyes. Ethel, the boy repeated, impatiently, why are
you not listening? Do you realize that I must leave
you in half an hour? She looked at him with
deep tenderness. Something like a tear lent a soft radiance

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to her large, childlike eyes. Ernest saw it and was
profoundly moved in that moment. He loved her passionately, foolish boy,
she said softly, then lowering her voice to a whisper,
you may kiss me before you go. His lips gently
touched hers, but she took his head between her hands
and pressed her mouth upon his in a long kiss.

(06:14):
Ernest drew back a little awkwardly. He had not been
kissed like this before, poet. Though you are Ethel whispered,
you have not yet learned to kiss. She was deeply
agitated when she noticed that his hand was fumbling for
the watch in his vest pocket. She suddenly released him
and said, a little hurt, No, you must not miss
your train. Go by all means vainly, Ernest remonstrated with her.

(06:38):
Go to him, she said, and again, go to him
with a heavy heart, the boy obeyed. He waved his
hat to her once more from below, and then rapidly
disappeared in the crowd. For a moment, strange misgivings cramped
her heart, and something within her called out to him,
do not go, Do not return to that house, But

(06:58):
no sound issued from her lips. Worldly wisdom had sealed them,
had stifled the inner voice, and soon the boy's golden
head was swallowed up in the distance. Chapter sixteen. While
the train sped to New York, ethel Brandenburg was the
one object engaging Ernest's mind. He still felt the pressure

(07:18):
of her lips upon his and his nostrils dilated at
the thought of the fragrance of her hair brushing against
his forehead. But the moment his foot touched the fairy
boat that was to take him to Manhattan, the past
three weeks were, for the time being at least completely
obliterated from his memory. All his other interests that he
had suppressed in her company because she had no part
in them, came rushing back to him. He anticipated with

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delight his meeting with Reginald Clark. The personal attractiveness of
the man had never seemed so powerful to ernest as
when he had not heard from him for some time.
Reginald's letters were always brief. Professional writers, he was wont
to say, cannot afford to put fine feeling into their
private correspondence, They must turn it into copy. He longed

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to sit with the Master in the studio, when the
last rays of the daylight were tremulously falling through the
stained window, and to discuss far into the darkening night,
philosophies young and old. He longed for Reginald's voice, his
little mannerisms, the very perfume of his rooms. There was
also a deluge of letters likely to await him in
his apartment, for in his hurried departure, he had purposely

(08:23):
left his friends in the dark as to his whereabouts.
Only to Jack he had dropped a little note. The
day after his meeting with Ethel. He earnestly hoped to
find Reginald at home, though it was well nine ten
o'clock in the evening, and he cursed the rapid transit
for its inability to annihilate time and space. It is
indeed disconcerting to think how many months, if not years,

(08:43):
of our earthly sojourn the dwellers in cities spend in
transportation conveyances that must be set down as a dead
loss in the ledger of life. A nervous impatience against
things material overcame Earnest in the subway. It is, ever,
the mere stupid obstacle of matter that weighs down the
wings of the soul and prevents it from soaring upward
to the sun. When at last he had reached the house,

(09:06):
he learned from the hall boy that Clark had gone out.
Ruffled in temper, he entered his rooms and went over
his mail. There were letters from editors with commissions that
he could not afford to reject. Everywhere, newspapers and magazines
opened their yawning mouths to swallow up what time he had.
He realized at once that he would have to postpone
the writing of his novel for several weeks, if not longer.

(09:28):
Among the letters was one from Jack. It bore the
postmark of a little place in the Adirondacks, where he
was staying with his parents. Ernest opened the missive, not
without hesitation. On reading and re reading it. The fine
lines on his forehead that would some day deepen into wrinkles,
became quite pronounced and a look of displeasure darkened his face.
Something was wrong with Jack, a slight change that defied analysis.

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Their souls were out of tune. It might only be
a passing disturbance. Perhaps it was his own fault. It
pained him. Nevertheless, somehow it seemed of late that Jack
was no longer able to follow the vagaries of his mind.
Only one person in the world possessed a similar mental vision.
Only one seemed to understand what he said and what
he left unsaid. Reginald Clarke, being a man and poet,

(10:15):
read in his soul as in an open book. Ethel
might have understood had not love like a cloud, laid
itself between her eyes and the page. It was with
exultation that Ernest heard, near midnight the click of Reginald's
key in the door. He found him unchanged, completely radiantly himself.
Reginald possessed the psychic power of undressing the soul, of

(10:37):
seeing it before him in primal nakedness. Although no word
was said of Ethel Brandenburg, except the mere mention of
her presence in Atlantic City, Ernest intuitively knew that Reginald
was aware of the transformation that absence had wroughten him.
In the presence of this man he could be absolutely himself,
without shame or fear of misunderstanding, and by a strange metamorphosis,

(10:58):
all his affection for Ethel and Jack went out for
the time being to Reginald Clark end of Section eight.