Learn English with a Short Story: The Vampire

In this episode of the Outstanding English Podcast, we unveil the shadows of Jan Neruda's The Vampire. Jan Neruda was a Czech writer in the nineteenth century. Although there are no vampires in this story, fans of this sub-genre should enjoy this story's morbid twist. The story takes place on the island of Prinkipo (Büyükada) in the Sea of Marmara near modern-day Turkey. Listeners of this story will appreciate the descriptive language the author uses to illustrate this lovely nook of the world. The above video contains a narration of the story, a summary, and a guide to the useful vocabulary from the story.

An English translation by Paul Silver was printed in the Anthology of Modern Slavonic Literature in Prose and Verse (1919) and can be found here (some of the text used for this video podcast has been modified for clarity). Below is the full-text used for the video podcast and a summary for your convenience:

Story: The Vampire

The steamboat had brought us from Constantinople to the shore of the island Prinkipo and we disembarked. There were not many in the party. A Polish family, father, mother, daughter, and the daughter’s husband, then us two. And I must not forget to mention that we had been joined on the wooden bridge leading across the Golden Horn in Constantinople by a Greek, quite a young man; a painter perhaps, to judge by the portfolio which he carried under his arm. Long black hair flowed over his shoulders, his face was pale, his dark eyes deeply sunken in their sockets. At first he interested me, especially because of his readiness to chat and his familiarity with local affairs. But he had a good deal too much to say, and I soon turned away from him.

I found the Polish family more pleasant. The father and mother were kind folk, the husband an elegant young man of unassuming and polished manners. They were traveling to Prinkipo to spend the summer months there for the sake of their daughter, who was slightly ailing. Judging from the beautiful girl’s paleness, it appeared either that she was just recovering from a severe illness, or that she was about to be attacked by one. She leaned upon her husband, showed a fondness for sitting down, and a frequent, dry cough interrupted her whispering. Whenever she coughed, her husband stood still in concern. He kept looking at her pityingly, and she at him, as much as to say: “There is really nothing the matter, – how happy I am!” They were clearly convinced of recovery and happiness.

On the recommendation of the Greek, who had left us immediately after docking, the family had rented a lodging at the inn which stands on the hill. The innkeeper was a Frenchman, and his whole house, in accordance with French style, was arranged comfortably and neatly.

We had lunch together, and when the heat of noon had abated a little, we all made our way up the hill to a pinegrove where we could refresh ourselves with the view. Soon after we discovered a suitable spot and had settled down, the Greek once more made his appearance. He greeted us in a casual way, looking around him, and sat down only a few paces from us. He opened his portfolio and began to draw.

“I believe he has purposely sat close against the rock so that we can’t look at his drawing,” I said.

“We need not look,” observed the young Pole, “we can see quite enough in front of us.” And after a while he added: “It seems to me that he is including us in the foreground of his drawing, –let him!”

Truly, there was enough for us to see. There is no lovelier nook in the world than this Prinkipo. The martyr, Irene of Athens, spent a month there “in banishment” –if I could pass a single month of my life there, the memory of it would make me happy for all the remainder of my days. Even that single day I spent there I shall never forget.

The air was as clear as diamond, so soft, so delightful, that it wrapped all of one’s soul. On the right, beyond the sea, towered the brown summits of Asia, on the left, the steep shore of Europe faded into the bluish distance. Close by, Chalki, one of the nine islands that form the “archipelago of the prince,” rose up with its cypress woods into the silent height like a mournful dream, crowned with a large building, –this, a refuge to refresh the spirit.

The waters of the Sea of Marmara were only slightly ruffled, and played in all colors like a sparkling opal. In the distance was the ocean, white as milk, then rose-tinted, then between two islands like a glowing orange, and beneath us of a beautiful greenish-blue like a transparent sapphire. It was alone in its beauty; no large vessels were to be seen. Only two small craft with English flags were slipping along by the shore. One was a steamboat, the size of a watchman’s booth, the other was manned by about twelve rowers, and when all their oars were lifted at the same time, it was as if molten silver were trickling from them. Dolphins were moving in their midst and flew in long curves above the surface of the water. From time to time across the blue sky peaceful eagles soared, measuring out a boundary between two portions of the world.

The whole slope beneath us was hidden by blossoming roses, with whose fragrance the air was saturated. From the cafe near the sea, music, muffled by the distance, vibrated through the air.

The impression was overwhelming. We all grew silent and savored the paradise. The young Polish lady was lying on the turn with her head resting in her husband’s lap. The pale oval of her delicate face gained a slight color and tears suddenly began to flow from her blue eyes. Her husband understood; he bent forward and kissed tear upon tear. Her mother also began to shed tears, and I myself was strangely moved.

“Mind and body must be healed here,” whispered the girl. “What a happy place!”

“God knows, I have no enemies, but if I had, here I would forgive them!” declared the father with a trembling voice.

And again all were silent. A feeling of beauty, of inexpressible sweetness came upon all. Each one felt within him a whole world of happiness, and each one would have shared his happiness with the whole world. Each one felt the same, and so none disturbed the other. We did not even notice that the Greek, after an hour or so, had arisen, closed his portfolio, and after greeting us again, had gently departed. We remained.

Finally, after some hours, when the distance was hiding itself in a dusky violet hue, which in the South is so magically lovely, the mother urged us to make our way back. We arose and strolled down to the inn, our steps as free and elastic as those of children without a care in the world.

Soon after we had sat down we heard quarreling under the veranda. The Greek was quarreling there with the innkeeper and we listened for our amusement.

The quarrel did not last long. “If I had no other guests here—” growled the innkeeper, and came up the steps towards us.

“Would you kindly tell me, sir,” asked the young Pole of the innkeeper, as he came along, “who this gentleman is, and what his name is?”

“Oh, who knows what the fellow’s name is,” growled the innkeeper, giving a vicious glance downwards. “We call him the Vampire.”

“A painter?”

“A fine trade! He only paints corpses. If anyone in Constantinople or round about here dies, he always has a portrait of the corpse ready on the same day. The fellow paints in advance, and never makes a mistake, the vulture.”

The old Polish lady gave a cry of horror, –in her arms lay her daughter, swooning, white as a sheet.

And at the same instant the husband leaped down the small flight of steps, seized the Greek by the throat with one hand, and with the other clutched at the portfolio.

We quickly ran down after him. The two men were already scuffling in the sand.

The portfolio was flung down, and on one sheet, sketched in pencil, was the head of the young Polish girl, –her eyes closed, a sprig of myrtle around her brow.

Story Summary

In this story a group of people travel by steamboat from Constantinople, now Istanbul to the island of Prinkipo to the south. The group includes a Polish family - a mother, father, daughter, and their daughter’s husband, a Greek painter, and the narrator who I assume is a man and his companion. The Greek painter initially intrigues the narrator because he has a lot of local knowledge but becomes too talkative. The focus then shifts to the Polish family which the narrator finds pleasant, in the family, the daughter - a young woman appears seriously unwell. Upon docking The family, recommended by the Greek, rents lodging at an inn on the hill run by a Frenchman and the Greek goes his separate way.

The group, comprised of the Polish family, the narrator and his companion enjoy lunch and later walk up a hill to enjoy its beautiful view which the narrator describes at length. The Greek reappears to sketch, no one can see what the Greek is sketching, but the daughter’s husband notices that from where the Greek is sitting, the group would be in the foreground of the sketch. No one in the group is bothered at all by this, they are too busy enjoying the breathtaking scenery.. The young Polish woman becomes emotional, expressing gratitude for the healing atmosphere atop this hill. The Greek leaves first, and the group overhears part of a quarrel between the Greek and the innkeeper. The mood changes when the innkeeper reveals that the Greek painter is known as the "Vampire" for painting portraits of people who later die the very same day. This revelation shocks and horrifies the Polish family, leading to a confrontation between the young husband and the Greek. After a brief scuffle, the portfolio is flung open revealing a sketch of the young Polish woman with closed eyes and a sprig of myrtle, suggesting he had a premonition of her impending death.