

E-text prepared by Suzanne Lybarger, Janet Blenkinship, Brian Janes, and
the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
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THE HOUSE OF THE VAMPIRE

by


GEORGE SYLVESTER VIERECK

Author of
Nineveh and Other Poems







New York
Moffat, Yard & Company
1912
Copyright, 1907, by
Moffat, Yard & Company
New York
Published September, 1907
Reprinted October, 1907
The Premier Press
New York




_To My Mother_




THE HOUSE

OF THE

VAMPIRE




I


The freakish little leader of the orchestra, newly imported from Sicily
to New York, tossed his conductor's wand excitedly through the air,
drowning with musical thunders the hum of conversation and the clatter
of plates. Yet neither his apish demeanour nor the deafening noises that responded
to every movement of his agile body detracted attention from the figure
of Reginald Clarke and the young man at his side as they smilingly wound
their way to the exit. The boy's expression was pleasant, with an inkling of wistfulness, while
the soft glimmer of his lucid eyes betrayed the poet and the dreamer. The smile of Reginald Clarke was the smile of a conqueror. A suspicion
of silver in his crown of dark hair only added dignity to his bearing,
while the infinitely ramified lines above the heavy-set mouth spoke at
once of subtlety and of strength. Without stretch of the imagination one
might have likened him to a Roman cardinal of the days of the Borgias,
who had miraculously stepped forth from the time-stained canvas and
slipped into twentieth century evening-clothes. With the affability of complete self-possession he nodded in response to
greetings from all sides, inclining his head with special politeness to
a young woman whose sea-blue eyes were riveted upon his features with a
look of mingled hate and admiration. The woman, disregarding his silent salutation, continued to stare at him
wild-eyed, as a damned soul in purgatory might look at Satan passing in
regal splendour through the seventy times sevenfold circles of hell. Reginald Clarke walked on unconcernedly through the rows of gay diners,
still smiling, affable, calm. But his companion bethought himself of
certain rumours he had heard concerning Ethel Brandenbourg's mad love
for the man from whose features she could not even now turn her eyes. Evidently her passion was unreciprocated. It had not always been so. There was a time in her career, some years ago in Paris, when it was
whispered that she had secretly married him and, not much later,
obtained a divorce. The matter was never cleared up, as both preserved
an uncompromising silence upon the subject of their matrimonial
experience. Certain it was that, for a space, the genius of Reginald
Clarke had completely dominated her brush, and that, ever since he had
thrown her aside, her pictures were but plagiarisms of her former
artistic self. The cause of the rupture between them was a matter only of surmise; but
the effect it had on the woman testified clearly to the remarkable power
of Reginald Clarke. He had entered her life and, behold! the world was
transfixed on her canvases in myriad hues of transcending radiance; he
had passed from it, and with him vanished the brilliancy of her
colouring, as at sunset the borrowed amber and gold fade from the face
of the clouds. The glamour of Clarke's name may have partly explained the secret of his
charm, but, even in circles where literary fame is no passport, he
could, if he chose, exercise an almost terrible fascination. Subtle and
profound, he had ransacked the coffers of mediæval dialecticians and
plundered the arsenals of the Sophists. Many years later, when the
vultures of misfortune had swooped down upon him, and his name was no
longer mentioned without a sneer, he was still remembered in New York
drawing-rooms as the man who had brought to perfection the art of
talking. Even to dine with him was a liberal education. Clarke's marvellous conversational power was equalled only by his
marvellous style. Ernest Fielding's heart leaped in him at the thought
that henceforth he would be privileged to live under one roof with the
only writer of his generation who could lend to the English language the
rich strength and rugged music of the Elizabethans. Reginald Clarke was a master of many instruments. Milton's mighty organ
was no less obedient to his touch than the little lute of the
troubadour. He was never the same; that was his strength. Clarke's
style possessed at once the chiselled chasteness of a Greek marble
column and the elaborate deviltry of the late Renaissance. At times his
winged words seemed to flutter down the page frantically like Baroque
angels; at other times nothing could have more adequately described his
manner than the timeless calm of the gaunt pyramids. The two men had reached the street. Reginald wrapped his long spring
coat round him. "I shall expect you to-morrow at four," he said. The tone of his voice was deep and melodious, suggesting hidden depths
and cadences. "I shall be punctual." The younger man's voice trembled as he spoke. "I look forward to your coming with much pleasure. I am interested in
you." The glad blood mounted to Ernest's cheeks at praise from the austere
lips of this arbiter of literary elegance. An almost imperceptible smile crept over the other man's features. "I am proud that my work interests you," was all the boy could say. "I think it is quite amazing, but at present," here Clarke drew out a
watch set with jewels, "I am afraid I must bid you good-bye." He held Ernest's hand for a moment in a firm genial grasp, then turned
away briskly, while the boy remained standing open-mouthed. The crowd
jostling against him carried him almost off his feet, but his eyes
followed far into the night the masterful figure of Reginald Clarke,
toward whom he felt himself drawn with every fiber of his body and the
warm enthusiasm of his generous youth. II


With elastic step, inhaling the night-air with voluptuous delight,
Reginald Clarke made his way down Broadway, lying stretched out before
him, bathed in light and pulsating with life. His world-embracing intellect was powerfully attracted by the Giant
City's motley activities. On the street, as in the salon, his magnetic
power compelled recognition, and he stepped through the midst of the
crowd as a Circassian blade cleaves water. After walking a block or two, he suddenly halted before a jeweller's
shop. Arrayed in the window were priceless gems that shone in the glare
of electricity, like mystical serpent-eyes--green, pomegranate and
water-blue. And as he stood there the dazzling radiance before him was
transformed in the prism of his mind into something great and very
wonderful that might, some day, be a poem. Then his attention was diverted by a small group of tiny girls dancing
on the sidewalk to the husky strains of an old hurdy-gurdy.