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    The Vampire Chronicles
    Volume 1
    INTERVIEW with the VAMPIRE
    Anne Rice
    Part One
    "I see . . .' said the vampire thoughtfully, and slowly he walked across the room
    towards the window. For a long time he stood there against the dim light from
    Divisadero Street and the passing beams of traffic. The boy could see the furnishings
    of the room more clearly now, the round oak table, the chairs. A wash basin hung on
    one wall with a mirror. He set his brief case on the table and waited.
    "But how much tape do you have with you?" asked the vampire, turning now so the
    boy could see his profile. "Enough for the story of a life?"
    "Sure, if it's a good life. Sometimes I interview as many as three or four people a night
    if I'm lucky. But it has to be a good story. That's only fair, isn't it?"
    "Admirably fair," the vampire answered. "I would like to tell you the story of my life,
    then. I would like to do that very much."
    "Great," said the boy. And quickly he removed the small tape recorder from his brief
    case, making a check of the cassette and the batteries. "I'm really anxious to hear why
    you believe this, why you . . ."
    "No," said the vampire abruptly. "We can't begin that way. Is your equipment ready?"
    "Yes," said the boy.
    "Then sit down. I'm going to turn on the overhead light."
    "But I thought vampires didn't like light," said the boy. "If you think the dark adds to
    the atmosphere."
    " But then he stopped. The vampire was watching him with his back to the window.
    The boy could make out nothing of his face now, and something about the still figure
    there distracted him. He started to say something again but he said nothing. And then
    he sighed with relief when the vampire moved towards the table and reached for the
    overhead cord.
    At once the room was flooded with a harsh yellow light. And the boy, staring up at the
    vampire, could not repress a gasp. His fingers danced backwards on the table to grasp
    the edge. "Dear God!" he whispered, and then he gazed, speechless, at the vampire.
    The vampire was utterly white and smooth, as if he were sculpted from bleached
    bone, and his face was as seemingly inanimate as a statue, except for two brilliant
    green eyes that looked down at the boy intently like flames in a skull. But then the
    vampire smiled almost wistfully, and the smooth white substance of his face moved
    with the infinitely flexible but minimal lines of a cartoon. "Do you see?" he asked
    softly.
    The boy shuddered, lifting his hand as if to shield himself from a powerful light. His
    eyes moved slowly over the finely tailored black coat he'd only glimpsed in the bar,
    the long folds of the cape, the black silk tie knotted at the throat, and the gleam of the
    white collar that was as white as the vampire's flesh. He stared at the vampire's full
    black hair, the waves that were combed back over the tips of the ears, the curls that
    barely touched the edge of the white collar.
    "Now, do you still want the interview?" the vampire asked.
    The boy's mouth was open before the sound came out. He was nodding. Then he said,
    "Yes."
    The vampire sat down slowly opposite him and, leaning forward, said gently,
    confidentially, "Don't be afraid. Just start the tape."
    And then he reached out over the length of the table. The boy recoiled, sweat running
    down the sides of his face. The vampire clamped a hand on the boy's shoulder and
    said, "Believe me, I won't hurt you. I want this opportunity. It's more important to me
    than you can realize now. I want you to begin." And he withdrew his hand and sat
    collected, waiting.
    It took a moment for the boy to wipe his forehead and his lips with a handkerchief, to
    stammer that the microphone was in the machine, to press the button, to say that the
    machine was on.
    "You weren't always a vampire, were you?" he began.
    "No," answered the vampire. "I was a twenty-five year-old man when I became a
    vampire, and the year was seventeen ninety-one."
    The boy was startled by the preciseness of the date and he repeated it before he asked,
    "How did it come about?"
    "There's a simple answer to that. I don't believe I want to give simple answers," said
    the vampire. "I think I want to tell the real story. . . '
    "Yes," the boy said quickly. He was folding his handkerchief over and over and
    wiping his lips now with it again.
    "There was a tragedy . . ." the vampire started. "It was my younger brother . . . . He
    died." And then he stopped, so that the boy cleared his throat and wiped at his face
    again before stuffing the handkerchief almost impatiently into his pocket.
    "It's not painful, is it?" he asked timidly.
    "Does it seem so?" asked the vampire. "No." He shook his head. "It's simply that I've
    only told this story to one other person. And that was so long ago. No, it's not pa'
    "We were living. in Louisiana then. We'd received a land grant and settled two indigo
    plantations on the Mississippi very near New Orleans . . . ."
    "Ah, that's the accent . . ." the boy said softly.
    For a moment the vampire stared blankly. "I have an accent?" He began to laugh.
    And the boy, flustered, answered quickly. "I noticed it in the bar when I asked you
    what you did for a living. It's just a slight sharpness to the consonants, that's all. I
    never guessed it was French."
    "It's all right," the vampire assured him. "ran not as shocked as I pretend to be. It's
    only that I forget it from time to time. But let me go on. . . . '
    "Please . . " said the boy.
    "I was talking about the plantations. They had a great deal to do with it, really, my
    becoming a vampire. But I'll come to that. Our life there was both luxurious and
    primitive. And we ourselves found it extremely attractive. You see, we lived far better
    there than we could have ever lived in France. Perhaps the sheer wilderness of
    Louisiana only made it seem so, but seeming so, it was. I remember the imported
    furniture that cluttered the house." The vampire smiled. "And the harpsichord; that
    was lovely. My sister used to play it. On summer evenings, she would sit at the keys
    with her back to the open French windows. And I can still remember that thin, rapid
    music and the vision of the swamp rising beyond her, the moss-hung cypresses
    floating against the sky. And there were the sounds of the swamp, a chorus of
    creatures, the cry of the birds. I think we loved it. It made the rosewood furniture all
    the more precious, the music more delicate and desirable. Even when the wisteria tore
    the shutters oft the attic windows and worked its tendrils right into the whitewashed
    brick in less than a year . . . . Yes, we loved it. All except my brother. I don't think I
    ever heard him complain of anything, but I knew how he felt. My father was dead
    then, and I was head of the family and I had to defend him constantly from my mother
    and sister. They wanted to take him visiting, and to New Orleans for parties, but he
    hated these things. I think he stopped going altogether before he was twelve: Prayer
    was what mattered to him, prayer and his leather-bound lives of the saints.
    "Finally I built him an oratory removed from the house, and he began to spend most
    of every day there and often the early evening. It was ironic, really. He was so
    different from us, so different from everyone, and I was so regular! There was nothing
    extraordinary about me whatsoever." The vampire smiled.
    "Sometimes in the evening I would go out to him and find him in the garden near the
    oratory, sitting absolutely composed on a stone bench there, and I'd tell him my
    troubles, the difficulties I had with the slaves, how I distrusted the overseer or the
    weather or my brokers . . . all the problems that made up the length and breadth of my
    existence. And he would listen, making only a few comments, always sympathetic, so
    that when I left him I had the distinct impression he bad solved everything for me. I
    didn't think I could deny him anything, and I vowed that no matter how it would break
    my heart to lose him, he could enter the priesthood when the time came. Of course, I
    was wrong." The vampire stopped.
    For a moment the boy only gazed at him and then he started as if awakened from deep
    thought, and he floundered, as if he could not find the right words. "Ali . he didn't
    want to be a priest?" the boy asked. The vampire studied him as if trying to discern
    the meaning of his expression. Then he said:
    "I meant that I was wrong about myself, about my not denying him anything." His
    eyes moved over the far wall and fixed on the panes of the window. "He began to see
    visions."
    "Real visions?" the boy asked, but again there was hesitation, as if he were thinking of
    something else.
    "I didn't think so," the vampire answered. It happened when he was fifteen. He was
    very handsome then. He had the smoothest skin and the largest blue eyes. He was
    robust, not thin as I am now and was then . . . but his eyes . . . it was as if when I
    looked into his eyes I was standing alone on the edge of the world . . . on a windswept
    ocean beach. There was nothing but the soft roar of the waves. Well," he said, his eyes
    still fixed on the window panes, "he began to see visions. He only hinted at this at
    first, and he stopped taking his meals altogether. He lived in the oratory. At any hour
    of day or night, I could find him on the bare flagstones kneeling before the altar. And
    the oratory itself was neglected. He stopped tending the candles or changing the altar
    cloths or even sweeping out the leaves. One night I became really alarmed when I
    stood in the rose arbor watching him for one solid hour, during which he never moved
    from his knees and never once lowered his arms, which he held outstretched in the
    form of a cross. The slaves all thought he was mad." The vampire raised his eyebrows
    in wonder. "I was convinced that he was only. . . overzealous. That in his love for
    God, he had perhaps gone too far. Then he told me about the visions. Both St.
    Dominic and the Blessed Virgin Mary had come to him in the oratory. They had told
    him he was to sell all our property in Louisiana, everything we owned, and use the
    money to do God's work in France. My brother was to be a great religious leader, to
    return the country to its former fervor, to turn the tide against atheism and the
    Revolution. Of course, he had no money of his own. I was to sell the plantations and
    our town houses in New Orleans and give the money to him."
    Again the vampire stopped. And the boy sat motionless regarding him, astonished.
    "Ali . . . excuse me," he whispered. "What did you say? Did you sell the plantations?"
    "No," said the vampire, his face calm as it had been from the start. "I laughed at him.
    And he . . . he became incensed. He insisted his command came from the Virgin
    herself. Who was I to disregard it? Who indeed?" he asked softly, as if he were
    thinking of this again. "Who indeed? And the more he tried to convince me, the more
    I laughed. It was nonsense, I told him, the product of an immature and even morbid
    mind. The oratory was a mistake, I said to him; I would have it torn down at once. He
    would go to school in New Orleans and get such inane notions out of his head. I don't
    remember all that I said. But I remember the feeling. Behind all this contemptuous
    dismissal on my part was a smoldering anger and a disappointment. I was bitterly
    disappointed. I didn't believe him at all."
    "But that's understandable," said the boy quickly when the vampire paused, his
    expression of astonishment softening. "I mean, would anyone have believed him?"
    "Is it so understandable?" The vampire looked at the boy. "I think perhaps it was
    vicious egotism. Let me explain. I loved my brother, as I told you, and at times I
    believed him to be a living saint. I encouraged him in his prayer and meditations, as I
    said, and I was willing to give him up to the priesthood. And if someone had told me
    of a saint in Arles or Lourdes who saw visions, I would have believed it. I was a
    Catholic; I believed in saints. I lit tapers before their marble statues in churches; I
    knew their pictures, their symbols, their names. But I didn't, couldn't believe my
    brother. Not only did I not believe he saw visions, I couldn't entertain the notion for a
    moment. Now, why? Because he was my brother. Holy he might be, peculiar most
    definitely; but Francis of Assisi, no. Not my brother. No brother of mine could be
    such. That is egotism. Do you see?"
    The boy thought about it before he answered and then he nodded and said that yes, he
    thought that he did.
    "Perhaps he saw the visions," said the vampire.
    "Then you . . . you don't claim to know . . . now . . . whether he did not?"
    "No, but I do know that he never wavered in his conviction for a second. That I know
    now and knew then the night he left my room crazed and grieved. He never wavered
    for an instant. And within minutes, he was dead."
    "How?" the boy asked.
    "He simply w out of the French doors onto the gallery and stood for a moment at the
    head of the brick stairs. And then he fell. He was dead when I reached the bottom, his
    neck broken." The vampire shook his head in consternation, but his face was still
    serene.
    "'Did you see him fall?" asked the boy. "Did he lose his footing?"
    "No, but two of the servants saw it happen. They said that he had looked up as if he
    had just seen something in the air. Then his entire body moved forward as if being
    swept by a wind. One of them said he was about to say something when he fell. I
    thought that he was about to say something too, but it was at that moment I turned
    away from the window. My back was turned when I heard the noise." He glanced at
    the tape recorder. "I could not forgive myself. I felt responsible for his death," he said.
    "And everyone else seemed to think I was responsible also."
    "But how could they? You said they saw him fall"
    "It wasn't a direct accusation. They simply knew that something had passed between
    us that was unpleasant. That we had argued minutes before the fall.
    "The servants had heard us, my mother had heard us. My mother would not stop
    asking me what had happened and why my brother, who was so quiet, had been
    shouting. Then my sister joined in, and of course I refused to say. I was so bitterly
    shocked and miserable that I had no patience with anyone, only the vague
    determination they would not know about his `visions.' They would not know that he
    had become, finally, not a saint, but only a . . fanatic. My sister went to bed rather
    than face the funeral, and my mother told everyone in. the parish that something
    horrible had happened in my room which I would not reveal; and even the police
    questioned me, on the word of my own mother. Finally the priest came to see me and
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