letter, along with the post address, as I had done in the past when writing to David though David had never replied.
Then I went on a pilgrimage of sorts, revisiting the paintings ofRembrandt in the great collections of the world. I saw nothing in my travels to sway me in my belief in Rembrandt’s goodness. The pilgrimage proved penitential, for I clung to my fiction about Rembrandt. But I resolved anew never to bother David again.
Then I had the dream.
Tyger, tyger
… David in danger. I woke with a start in my chair in Louis’s little shack—as if I’d been shaken by a warning hand.
Night had almost ended in England. I had to hurry. But when I finally found David, he was in a quaint little tavern in a village in the Cotswolds which can only be reached by one narrow and treacherous road.
This was his home village, not far from his ancestral manor, I quickly divined from scanning those around him—a little one-street place of sixteenth-century buildings, housing shops and an inn now dependent upon the fickleness of tourists, which David had restored from his own pocket, and visited more and more often to escape his London life.
Positively eerie little spot!
All David was doing, however, was guzzling his beloved single-malt Scotch and scribbling drawings of the Devil on napkins. Mephistopheles with his lute? The homed Satan dancing under the light of the moon? It must have been his dejection I had sensed over the miles, or more truly the concern of those watching him. It was their image of him which I had caught.
I wanted so to talk to him. I didn’t dare to do it. I would have created too much of a stir in the little tavern, where the concerned old proprietor and his two hulking and silent nephews remained awake and smoking their odoriferous pipes only on account of the august presence of the local lord—who was getting as drunk as a lord.
For an hour, I had stood near, peering through the little window. Then I’d gone away.
Now—many, many months later—as the snow fell over London, as it fell in big silent flakes over the high facade of the Motherhouse of the Talamasca, I searched for him, in a dull weary state, thinking that there was no one in all the world whom I must see but him. I scanned the minds of the members, sleeping and awake. I roused them. I heard them come to attention as clearly as if they had snapped on their lights on rising from bed.
But I had what I wanted before they could shut me out.
David was gone to the manor house in the Cotswolds, somewhere, no doubt, in the vicinity of that curious little village with its quaint tavern.
Well, I could find it, couldn’t I? I went to seek him there.
The snow was falling ever more heavily as I traveled close to the earth, cold and angry, with all memory of the blood I’d drunk now wiped away.
Other dreams came back to me, as they always do in bitter winter, of the harsh and miserable snows of my mortal boyhood, of the chill stone rooms of my father’s castle, and of the little fire, and my great mastiffs snoring in the hay beside me, keeping me snug and warm.
Those dogs had been slain on my last wolf hunt.
I hated so to remember it, and yet it was always sweet to think I was there again—with the clean smell of the little fire and of those powerful dogs tumbled against me, and that I was alive, truly alive!—and the hunt had never taken place. I’d never gone to Paris, I’d never seduced the powerful and demented vampire Magnus. The little stone room was full of the good scent of the dogs, and I could sleep now beside them, and be safe.
At last I drew near to a small Elizabethan manor house in the mountains, a very beautiful stone structure of deep-pitched roofs and narrow gables, of deep-set thick glass windows, far smaller than the Motherhouse, yet very grand on its own scale.
Only one set of windows was lighted, and when I approached I saw that it was the library and David was there, seated by a great noisily burning fire.
He
Then I went on a pilgrimage of sorts, revisiting the paintings ofRembrandt in the great collections of the world. I saw nothing in my travels to sway me in my belief in Rembrandt’s goodness. The pilgrimage proved penitential, for I clung to my fiction about Rembrandt. But I resolved anew never to bother David again.
Then I had the dream.
Tyger, tyger
… David in danger. I woke with a start in my chair in Louis’s little shack—as if I’d been shaken by a warning hand.
Night had almost ended in England. I had to hurry. But when I finally found David, he was in a quaint little tavern in a village in the Cotswolds which can only be reached by one narrow and treacherous road.
This was his home village, not far from his ancestral manor, I quickly divined from scanning those around him—a little one-street place of sixteenth-century buildings, housing shops and an inn now dependent upon the fickleness of tourists, which David had restored from his own pocket, and visited more and more often to escape his London life.
Positively eerie little spot!
All David was doing, however, was guzzling his beloved single-malt Scotch and scribbling drawings of the Devil on napkins. Mephistopheles with his lute? The homed Satan dancing under the light of the moon? It must have been his dejection I had sensed over the miles, or more truly the concern of those watching him. It was their image of him which I had caught.
I wanted so to talk to him. I didn’t dare to do it. I would have created too much of a stir in the little tavern, where the concerned old proprietor and his two hulking and silent nephews remained awake and smoking their odoriferous pipes only on account of the august presence of the local lord—who was getting as drunk as a lord.
For an hour, I had stood near, peering through the little window. Then I’d gone away.
Now—many, many months later—as the snow fell over London, as it fell in big silent flakes over the high facade of the Motherhouse of the Talamasca, I searched for him, in a dull weary state, thinking that there was no one in all the world whom I must see but him. I scanned the minds of the members, sleeping and awake. I roused them. I heard them come to attention as clearly as if they had snapped on their lights on rising from bed.
But I had what I wanted before they could shut me out.
David was gone to the manor house in the Cotswolds, somewhere, no doubt, in the vicinity of that curious little village with its quaint tavern.
Well, I could find it, couldn’t I? I went to seek him there.
The snow was falling ever more heavily as I traveled close to the earth, cold and angry, with all memory of the blood I’d drunk now wiped away.
Other dreams came back to me, as they always do in bitter winter, of the harsh and miserable snows of my mortal boyhood, of the chill stone rooms of my father’s castle, and of the little fire, and my great mastiffs snoring in the hay beside me, keeping me snug and warm.
Those dogs had been slain on my last wolf hunt.
I hated so to remember it, and yet it was always sweet to think I was there again—with the clean smell of the little fire and of those powerful dogs tumbled against me, and that I was alive, truly alive!—and the hunt had never taken place. I’d never gone to Paris, I’d never seduced the powerful and demented vampire Magnus. The little stone room was full of the good scent of the dogs, and I could sleep now beside them, and be safe.
At last I drew near to a small Elizabethan manor house in the mountains, a very beautiful stone structure of deep-pitched roofs and narrow gables, of deep-set thick glass windows, far smaller than the Motherhouse, yet very grand on its own scale.
Only one set of windows was lighted, and when I approached I saw that it was the library and David was there, seated by a great noisily burning fire.
He
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