#I like to imagine Clarimonde hiring a portrait artist explicitly to paint likenesses of Dracula and Ruthven

[see-arcane]

Lord Ruthven, the Unbeaten Vampire Bastard Who Spread Misery and Murder Long Before Dracula Ever Left the Castle

A while ago I talked about my favorite underappreciated vampire babe, Clarimonde, who is well overdue for a modern day debut. But now I want to shed a little light on a gentleman of wealth and bad taste that some vampire lit fans may have come across while deep-diving through the old stories. Specifically, the grandaddy of all psychologically torturous, enigmatic, undiluted evil undead villains, Lord Ruthven.

Ruthven is the masterfully malevolent antagonist of John William Polidori’s short story, “The Vampyre,” published in 1819. He technically had his pre-publishing literary birthday in the same period as Mary Shelley’s, Frankenstein, as he was a product of the infamous challenge made by Lord Byron in the Villa Diodati to pass the time, urging his scribbling companions to write the scariest story they could. That was back in the summer of 1816, so hey, happy birthday to you, you old Nosferasshole!

Now, who is Lord Ruthven?

Spoilers for, “The Vampyre,” below

We’re introduced to him on the very first page like so:

It happened that in the midst of the dissipations attendant upon a London winter, there appeared at the various parties of the leaders of the ton a nobleman, more remarkable for his singularities, than his rank. He gazed upon the mirth around him, as if he could not participate therein. Apparently, the light laughter of the fair only attracted his attention, that he might by a look quell it, and throw fear into those breasts where thoughtlessness reigned. Those who felt this sensation of awe, could not explain whence it arose: some attributed it to the dead grey eye, which, fixing upon the object's face, did not seem to penetrate, and at one glance to pierce through to the inward workings of the heart; but fell upon the cheek with a leaden ray that weighed upon the skin it could not pass.

His peculiarities caused him to be invited to every house; all wished to see him, and those who had been accustomed to violent excitement, and now felt the weight of ennui, were pleased at having something in their presence capable of engaging their attention. In spite of the deadly hue of his face, which never gained a warmer tint, either from the blush of modesty, or from the strong emotion of passion, though its form and outline were beautiful, many of the female hunters after notoriety attempted to win his attentions, and gain, at least, some marks of what they might term affection: Lady Mercer, who had been the mockery of every monster shewn in drawing-rooms since her marriage, threw herself in his way, and did all but put on the dress of a mountebank, to attract his notice—though in vain—when she stood before him, though his eyes were apparently fixed upon hers, still it seemed as if they were unperceived;—even her unappalled impudence was baffled, and she left the field.

But though the common adulteress could not influence even the guidance of his eyes, it was not that the female sex was indifferent to him: yet such was the apparent caution with which he spoke to the virtuous wife and innocent daughter, that few knew he ever addressed himself to females. He had, however, the reputation of a winning tongue; and whether it was that it even overcame the dread of his singular character, or that they were moved by his apparent hatred of vice, he was as often among those females who form the boast of their sex from their domestic virtues, as among those who sully it by their vices.

Lord Ruthven: What’s up, I’m pretty, I hate you all, my goal in life is to ruin any and all happiness happening near me, thirsty chicks DNI, sinners ditto, y’all got any virtuous ladies around here? Asking for non-nefarious purposes, honest

The well-to-do of London, apparently: Guys, guys, check out this sexy well-spoken goth we found, he makes us miserable, we love him

Following this, we’re introduced to the protagonist, a well-off young man named Aubrey who is, the narrative points out, a wee bit sheltered due to a lot of soft living, general naivete, and a big mushy Romantic’s heart about things like honor and art and so on. He meets Lord Ruthven. He becomes fascinated by his character. One line in particular spells out his mistake perfectly:

—allowing his imagination to picture everything that flattered its propensity to extravagant ideas, he soon formed this object into the hero of a romance, and determined to observe the offspring of his fancy, rather than the person before him.

The young man attaches himself to Ruthven like a puppy, even going out of his way to schedule his traveling to time itself with Ruthven’s own plans to move on.

Aubrey: Hey, buddy! :) I just happened to overhear you were going to do some traveling! :) So am I! :) What a coincidence! :) Would be super awesome not to go alone, though, being my first time really out and about, with no learned and mysterious handsome older gentleman to wander around with, ha ha! :)

Lord Ruthven:

Aubrey: :)

Lord Ruthven: …Would you like to join m—

Aubrey, already dragging his luggage: YesYeahSureIfYouInsist

So off they go, enjoying the tourist spots. Aubrey just wishes Ruthven was more interested in, you know, the vacation aspect versus abjectly, almost supernaturally, casting ruin upon everyone he comes in contact with. In true Devil-in-All-But-Name fashion, Ruthven has a habit of turning every interaction with others into one resulting in an act of cruelty. One of the most interesting points is the way he gambles.

Namely, if he’s in a game with some lout who will only use his gains to sink deeper into personal vices, he always loses, with great sums and not a tear shed. If he enters a game with a desperate player whose every cent is precious, needed for their life and the well-being of loved ones, the tables being a last recourse between themselves and destitution? Ruthven wins. Every time.

The rule holds the same when he gives out charity as plain old alms. Desperate and good and simply an unfortunate trying to get by or get a leg up? Fuck off. Begging for money to feed a wretched and self-destructive habit? He empties his pockets. Reading this, it could just be taken for an ordinary combo of skill and sadism, or a manner of psychic vampirism. Either way, our guy is showing his true colors.

Aubrey also discovers what happens to all the virtuous ladies Ruthven appeared to prefer over less scrupulous babes back home. All of them, without fail, fell apart into degeneracy in a way that suggests a total deformation of their former selves. Yeah, we’re going full ‘corruption of the innocent’ here. Dude just needs horns and a pitchfork. So where does the vampire stuff come in? We’re getting there. (Also, note that said degeneracy is later revealed to be him at his tamest when he picks out a nice girl. Not all of them get to live.)

Aubrey, now informed of his traveling companion’s MO and freshly wary for some new sweet girl Ruthven’s been sniffing after, leaves a warning for the targeted family and straight up ditches the guy. He heads to Greece solo. He falls in love with the daughter of a family he stays with, Ianthe, who shares horror stories of the vampire. And their predilection for feasting on young girls.

Guess who gets vamp-murdered, with her cries and a very familiar voice reaching Aubrey’s ear in the night? RIP Ianthe.

Aubrey falls to grief and a fever. While he’s in bed, guess who shows up?

Lord Ruthven: :)

Aubrey: >:(

Lord Ruthven: Sorry about your girlfriend. I was conveniently very far away in Alibi Land when I heard of the tragedy. Want to be friends and travel again?

Aubrey: :)

Obviously there’s more nuance, but Ruthven is very much the absolute king of persuasive wordsmithing (or else is just too handsome to stay creeped out at). They travel some more. Then Lord Ruthven dies.*

*Mostly. Poor Ruthven is shot by robbers and the wound necrotizes over a few days. As he’s near ‘death,’ he forces Aubrey to swear a vow of silence about both his illicit deeds and his being dead to anyone for at least a year and a day from now. A bit Fae in the wording there, Ruthy. So much so that, even after the corpse is laid out under the moonlight as was requested by the dying man, even after Aubrey is well away from the place, every time Aubrey feels the urge to mention something of Ruthven to others—including his sweet younger sister—he senses/hears/is grasped by Ruthven.

“Remember your oath.”

It doesn’t help that, surprise, Lord Ruthven is back in town! Alive! And now courting Aubrey’s own sister! Again, fever and a sort of madness locks down on Aubrey, making him seem wild and incoherent even as he tries to work around the binding power of the oath to warn his sister against marrying the man. The ending scenes should scratch a particular itch when it comes to us folks who have theorized about what fate might have befallen Jonathan Harker if he was counted so loony that he needed protection from himself.

Namely …

Aubrey, when he was left by the physician and his guardians, attempted to bribe the servants, but in vain. He asked for pen and paper; it was given him; he wrote a letter to his sister, conjuring her, as she valued her own happiness, her own honour, and the honour of those now in the grave, who once held her in their arms as their hope and the hope of their house, to delay but for a few hours that marriage, on which he denounced the most heavy curses. The servants promised they would deliver it; but giving it to the physician, he thought it better not to harass any more the mind of Miss Aubrey by, what he considered, the ravings of a maniac. Night passed on without rest to the busy inmates of the house; and Aubrey heard, with a horror that may more easily be conceived than described, the notes of busy preparation.

Morning came, and the sound of carriages broke upon his ear. Aubrey grew almost frantic. The curiosity of the servants at last overcame their vigilance, they gradually stole away, leaving him in the custody of a helpless old woman. He seized the opportunity, with one bound was out of the room, and in a moment found himself in the apartment where all were nearly assembled.

Lord Ruthven was the first to perceive him: he immediately approached, and, taking his arm by force, hurried him from the room, speechless with rage. When on the staircase, Lord Ruthven whispered in his ear—"Remember your oath, and know, if not my bride today, your sister is dishonoured. Women are frail!"

So saying, he pushed him towards his attendants, who, roused by the old woman, had come in search of him. Aubrey could no longer support himself; his rage not finding vent, had broken a blood-vessel, and he was conveyed to bed. This was not mentioned to his sister, who was not present when he entered, as the physician was afraid of agitating her. The marriage was solemnized, and the bride and bridegroom left London.

Aubrey's weakness increased; the effusion of blood produced symptoms of the near approach of death. He desired his sister's guardians might be called, and when the midnight hour had struck, he related composedly what the reader has perused—he died immediately after.

The guardians hastened to protect Miss Aubrey; but when they arrived, it was too late. Lord Ruthven had disappeared, and Aubrey's sister had glutted the thirst of a VAMPYRE!

Yeah.

He gets away with all of it. The absolute fucker.

It honestly stuns me that he doesn’t get any modern mileage, same as Clarimonde. These two are at the perfect polar opposite ends of the vampire spectrum.

Clarimonde = Full Bacchanalia Mode, Baby, Let’s Bang, Let’s Bleed, Let’s Party Like the Church Isn’t Watching (and If They Are, See If I Give a Fuck!)

Lord Ruthven = I Can, Must, and Will Ruin Everything and Everyone in Reach, I’ll Drink Your Girlfriend, I’ll Drink Your Sister, I’ll Blow a Fucking Blood Vessel in Your Brain, Try Me

“The Vampyre,” is available to read on Project Gutenberg (though you have to scroll a bit to pass the introduction), same as Clarimonde’s story, “La Morte Amoureuse.” I sincerely recommend both as prime Classic Vampire © ™ tales that precede the more well-known, “Carmilla,” and Dracula. They deserve more love (or, in Ruthven’s case, more loathing). If we’re heading into some Draculean Old School Vampire Renaissance in the midst of all our Dracula Daily/The Invitation/Last Voyage of the Demeter/Renfield/yes, even Moffat’s wet fart of a Dracula series goings-on, these guys deserve to catch some belated bloodsucker limelight too.

 (Credit to @theskyismadeofpenguins​ for the cropped illustration, the original art is a thing of majesty, it deserves a spot in the MoMA)