Praise for
THE STRESS OF HER REGARD:
“Great ambition and intensity…a complex and satisfying novel.”
—Interzone
“Good serious fantasy doesn’t come much better than The Stress of Her Regard.”
—Oxford Times
“A Tim Powers science fiction novel never falls to titillate and elucidate with the dark and the bizarre, and all with such original, eccentric color and style. This novel—Powers’ seventh—is a shining example.”
—Los Angeles Times
“Set early in the 19th century, Powers’s (The Stress of Her Regard) seventh novel is a horror story that wonderfully evokes the period. On the stormy night before his wedding, Dr. Michael Crawford, in an ill-advised moment while drinking and carousing with two of his friends, slips his intended’s ring on the finger of a statue of a woman in the inn’s courtyard. The next morning the statue has disappeared. Disturbed, Crawford purchases a new ring and goes to his wedding. The night’s celebrations are followed by a morning infinitely more horrifying than the previous one—Crawford awakens to find his bride murdered. Doubting his own sanity, he flees England, becoming aware that he is pursued by a lamia—a malignant female spirit. He seeks help from his friends, the poets Byron and Shelley, who, it turns out, have experience with such a monster. Strewn with literary personages and allusions, the book is entertaining on several levels, but most particularly as a chilling horror-adventure.”
—Publishers Weekly
Praise for
TIM POWERS:
“Tim Powers is a brilliant writer.”
—William Gibson,
author of Neuromancer and Spook Country
“One of the most original and innovative writers…the quality of Powers’ prose never falters…. His writing defies characterization and he never repeats himself.”
—Washington Post Book World
“No one writing today fuses history with fantasy as shrewdly—or as unpredictably—as Tim Powers. The best, most representative Powers novels (The Anubis Gates, The Stress of Her Regard, Last Call) focus on anomalous occurrences in the lives of actual historical figures (Byron, Shelley, Bugsy Siegel) and use those occurrences as jumping-off points for an extravagantly imagined series of fictions.”
—Barnes and Noble Review
“Powers writes action and adventure that Indiana Jones could only dream of. And, just when it threatens to get out of hand, there’s a dash of humor and irony that keeps you reading for the joy of it.”
—Washington Post
“…a reigning master of adult contemporary fantasy.”
—Booklist
“Powers is a brilliant short story writer, and every reader who gets this collection will wish there were more.”
—James P. Blaylock
“Powers orchestrates reality and fantasy so artfully that the reader is not allowed a moment’s doubt.”
—The New Yorker
“One of the field’s truly distinct voices.”
—Locus
“Philip K. Dick felt that one day Tim Powers would be one of our greatest fantasy writers. Phil was right.”
—Roger Zelazny,
author of Nine Princes in Amber and Lord of Light
“Powers has already proved that he is a master of what he terms ‘doing card tricks in the dark,’ referring to the incredible amount of historical, biographical, and practical research that goes into his works.”
—Harvard Review
“Powers plots like a demon.”
—Village Voice Literary Supplement
“Whether writing about zombie pirates of the Caribbean (On Stranger Tides), female vampires preying on Romantic poets (The Stress of Her Regard), or the escapades of a time traveler in 19th-century England (The Anubis Gates), Powers always goes the distance, never taking easy shortcuts that tempt authors with lesser imaginations.”
—San Francisco Chronicle
“…the reigning king of adult historical fantasy.”
—Kirkus
“Powers always goes the distance, never taking easy shortcuts that tempt authors with lesser imaginations.”
—Manchester Guardian
“Tim Powers is a genius.”
—Algis Budrys
“…one of Fantasy’s major stylists.”
—SF Site
THE STRESS OF HER REGARD
Copyright © 1989 by Tim Powers
This is a work of fiction. All events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
Cover design by Ann Monn
Interior design by Jacob McMurray
Tachyon Publications
1459 18th Street #139 # San Francisco, CA 94107
(415) 285-5615 # www.tachyonpublications.com
ISBN 10: 1-892391-79-1 # ISBN 13: 978-1-892391-79-7
Printed in the United States of America by Worzalla
FIRST TACHYON EDITION: 2008
0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Dean and Gerda Koontz,
for thirty years of
cheerful, hospitable and tolerant friendship
And with thanks to
Gregory Santo Arena and Gloria Batsford and
Gregory Benford and Will Griffin and
Dana Holm Howard and Meri Howard and
K. W. Jeter and Jeff Levin and Monique Logan and
Kate Powers and Serena Powers and
Joe Stefko and Brian M. Thomsen and Tom Whitmore
And to Paul Mohney,
for that conversation, many years ago
over beers at the Tinder Box, about Percy Shelley.
…yet thought must see
That eve of time when man no longer yearns,
Grown deaf before Life’s Sphinx, whose lips are barred;
When from the spaces of Eternity,
Silence, a rigorous Medusa, turns
On the lost world the stress of her regard.
—Clark Ashton Smith,
Sphinx and Medusa
PROLOGUE
1816
—Bring with you also … a new Sword cane …
(my last tumbled into this lake—)
—Lord Byron,
to John Cam Hobhouse, 23 June 1816
Until the squall struck, Lake Leman was so still that the two men talking in the bow of the open sailboat could safely set their wine glasses on the thwarts.
The boat’s wake stood like a ripple in glass on either side; it stretched to port far out across the lake, and on the starboard side slowly swept along the shore, and seemed in the late afternoon glare to extend right up the green foothills to move like a mirage across the craggy, snow-fretted face of the Dent d’Oche.
A servant was slumped on one of the seats reading a book, and the sailors had not had to correct their course for several minutes and appeared to be dozing, and when the two travellers’ conversation flagged, the breeze from shore brought the faint wind-chime melody of distant cowbells.
The man in the crook of the bow was staring ahead toward the east shore of the lake. Though he was only twenty-eight, his curly dark red hair was already shot with gray, and the pale skin around his eyes and mouth was scored with creases of ironic humor.
“That castle over there is Chillon,” he remarked to his younger companion, “where the Dukes of Savoy kept political prisoners in dungeons below the water level. Imagine climbing up to peer out of some barred window at all this.” He waved around at the remote white vastnesses of the Alps.
His friend pushed the fingers of one skinny hand through his thatch of fine blond hair and peered ahead. “It
’s on a sort of peninsula, isn’t it? Mostly out in the lake? I imagine they’d be glad of all the surrounding water.”
Lord Byron stared at Percy Shelley, once again not sure what the young man meant. He had met him here in Switzerland less than a month ago and, though they had much in common, he didn’t feel that he knew him.
Both of them were voluntarily in exile from England. Byron had recently fled bankruptcy and a failed marriage and, though it was less well known, the scandal of having fathered a child by his half sister; four years earlier, with the publication of the long, largely autobiographical poem Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, he had become the nation’s most celebrated poet—but the society that had lionized him then reviled him now, and English tourists took delight in pointing him out when they caught glimpses of him on the streets, and the women frequently threw theatrical faints.
Shelley was far less famous, though his offenses against propriety sometimes appalled even Byron. Only twenty-four, he had already been expelled from Oxford for having written a pamphlet advocating atheism, had been disowned by his wealthy father, and had deserted his wife and two children in order to run away with the daughter of the radical London philosopher William Godwin. Godwin had not been pleased to see his daughter putting into all-too-real action his abstract arguments in favor of free love.
Byron was doubting that Shelley would really be “glad of the surrounding water.” The stone walls had to be leaky, and God knew what kinds of damp rot a man would be subject to in such a place. Was it naïveté that made Shelley say such things, or was it some spiritual, unworldly quality, such as made saints devote their lives to sitting on pillars in deserts?
And were his condemnations of religion and marriage sincere, or were they a coward’s devices to have his own way and not acknowledge blame? He certainly didn’t give much of an impression of courage.
Four nights ago Shelley and the two girls he was travelling with had visited Byron, and rainy weather had kept the party indoors. Byron was renting the Villa Diodati, a columned, vineyard-surrounded house in which Milton had been a guest two centuries earlier; and though the place seemed spacious when warm weather let guests explore the terraced gardens or lean on the railing of the wide veranda overlooking the lake, on that night an Alpine thunderstorm and a flooded ground floor had made it seem no roomier than a fisherman’s cottage.
Byron had been especially uncomfortable because Shelley had brought along not only Mary Godwin, but also her stepsister Claire Clairmont, who by a malign coincidence had been Byron’s last mistress before he fled London, and now seemed to be pregnant by him.
What with the storm clamoring beyond the window glass and the candles fluttering in the erratic drafts, the conversation had turned to ghosts and the supernatural—luckily, for it developed that Claire was easily frightened by such topics, and Byron was able to keep her wide-eyed with alarm, and silent except for an occasional horrified gasp.
Shelley was at least as credulous as Claire, but he was delighted with the stories of vampires and phantoms; and after Byron’s personal physician, a vain young man named Polidori, had told a story about a woman who’d been seen walking around with a plain skull for a head, Shelley had leaned forward and in a low voice told the company the reasons he and his now abandoned wife had fled Scotland four years earlier.
The narration consisted more of hints and atmospheric details than of any actual story, but Shelley’s obvious conviction—his long-fingered hands trembling in the candlelight and his big eyes glittering through the disordered halo of his curly hair—made even the sensible Mary Godwin cast an occasional uneasy glance at the rain-streaked windows.
It seemed that at about the same time that the Shelleys had arrived in Scotland, a young farm maid named Mary Jones had been found hacked to death with what the authorities guessed must have been sheep shears. “The culprit,” Shelley whispered, “was supposed to have been a giant, and the locals called it ‘the King of the Mountains.'”
“'It'?” wailed Claire.
Byron shot Shelley a look of gratitude, for he assumed that Shelley too was frightening Claire in order to keep her off the subject of her pregnancy; but the young man was at the moment entirely unaware of him. Byron realized that Shelley simply enjoyed scaring people.
Byron was still grateful.
“They captured a man,” Shelley went on, “one Thomas Edwards—and blamed the crime on him, and eventually hanged him … but I knew he was only a scapegoat. We—”
Polidori sat back in his chair and, in his usual nervously pugnacious way, quavered, “How did you know?”
Shelley frowned and began talking more rapidly, as if the conversation had suddenly become too personal: “Why, I—I knew through my researches—I’d been very ill the year before, in London, with hallucinations, and terrible pains in my side … uh, so I had lots of time for study. I was investigating electricity, the precession of the equinoxes … and the Old Testament, Genesis …” He shook his head impatiently, and Byron got the impression that, despite the apparent irrationality of the answer, the question had surprised some truth out of him. “At any rate,” Shelley continued, “on the twenty-sixth of February—that was a Friday—I knew to take a pair of loaded pistols to bed with me.”
Polidori opened his mouth to speak again, but Byron stopped him with a curt “Shut up.”
“Yes, Pollydolly,” said Mary, “do wait until the story’s over.”
Polidori sat back, pursing his lips.
“And,” said Shelley, “we weren’t in bed half an hour before I heard something downstairs. I went down to investigate, and saw a figure quitting the house through a window. It attacked me, and I managed to shoot it … in the shoulder.”
Byron frowned at Shelley’s poor marksmanship.
“And the thing reeled back and stood over me and said, ‘You would shoot me? By God I will be revenged! I will murder your wife. I will rape your sister.’ And then it fled.”
A pen and inkwell and paper lay on a table near his chair, and Shelley snatched up the pen, dipped it, and quickly sketched a figure. “This is what my assailant looked like,” he said, holding the paper near the candle.
Byron’s first thought was that the man couldn’t draw any better than a child. The figure he’d drawn was a monstrosity, a barrel-chested, keg-legged thing with hands like tree branches and a head like an African mask.
Claire couldn’t look at it, and even Polidori was clearly upset. “It—it’s not any kind of human figure at all!” he said.
“Oh, I don’t know, Polidori,” said Byron, squinting at the thing. “I think it’s a prototypical man. God originally made Adam out of clay, didn’t He? This fellow looks as if he were made out of a Sussex hillside.”
“You presume!” said Shelley, a little wildly. “How can you be certain this isn’t made of Adam’s rib?”
Byron grinned. “What, Eve is it? If Milton ever glimpsed that with his sightless eyes, I hope it wasn’t during his visit here—or if it was, that she isn’t around tonight.”
For the first time during the evening Shelley himself looked nervous. “No,” he said quickly, glancing out the window. “No, I doubt …” He let the sentence hang and sat back in his chair.
Belatedly afraid that all this Adam and Eve talk might lead the conversation into more domestic channels, Byron hastily stood up and crossed to a bookshelf and pulled down a small book. “Coleridge’s latest,” he said, returning to his chair. “There are three poems here, but I think ‘Christabel’ suits us best tonight.”
He began to read the poem aloud, and by the time he had read to the point when the girl Christabel brings the strange woman Geraldine home from the woods, he had everyone’s attention. Then in the poem Geraldine sinks down, “belike through pain,” when they reach the door into the castle of Christabel’s widowed father, and Christabel has to lift her up and carry her over the threshold. Shelley nodded. “There always has to be some token of invitation. They can’t enter without having been as
ked.”
“Did you ask the clay-woman into your house in Scotland?” asked Polidori.
“I didn’t have to,” replied Shelley with surprising bitterness. He turned away, toward the window. “My—someone else had invited it into my presence two decades previous.”
After a pause Byron resumed his reading, and recited Coleridge’s description of Geraldine exposing her withered breast as she disrobes for bed—
Behold! her bosom and half her side—
A sight to dream of, not to tell!
O shield her! shield sweet Christabel!
—And Shelley screamed and jackknifed up out of his chair and in three frantic strides was out of the room, knocking over a chair but managing to grab a lit candle as he blundered past the table.
Claire screamed too, and Polidori yelped and raised his hands like a cornered boxer, and Byron put down the book and glanced sharply at the window Shelley had been looking out of. Nothing was visible on the rain-lashed veranda.
“Go see if he’s well, Polidori,” Byron said.
The young doctor went into the next room for his bag, then followed Shelley. Byron refilled his wine glass and sat down, then looked at Mary with raised eyebrows.
She laughed nervously and then quoted Lady Macbeth: “'My lord is often thus, and hath been from his youth.'”
Byron grinned, a little haggardly. “No doubt ‘the fit is momentary; upon a thought he will again be well.'”
Mary finished the quote. “'If you much note him, you shall offend him and extend his passion.'”
Byron looked around the long room. “So where did he see ‘Banquo’s ghost'? I’m a fair noticer of spirits, but I didn’t see anything.” “He—” Mary began, then halted. “But look, here he is.”
Shelley had walked back into the room, looking both scared and sheepish. His face and hair were wet, indicating that Polidori had splashed water on him, and he reeked of ether. “It was … just a fancy that took momentary hold of me,” he said. “Like a waking nightmare. I’m sorry.”