Listening to the Children of the Night
by Anne Williams
University of Georgia
Listen to them—the children of the night—what music they make!
Bram Stoker, Dracula (1897; Chapter 2)
I.
The first important vampire in English literature is less a vampire than a figure of speech. He appears in a melodramatic curse spoken by a character in Lord Byron’s early poem, The Giaour (1813). Byron had recently returned to England from a Grand Tour that included Greece, Turkey, and Albania in addition to the more conventional capitals of western Europe. He brought back a picturesque Albanian costume that he wore to costume balls and a store of information about those distant and exotic lands. "If I am a poet," he told his friend Edward Trelawny, "the air of Greece has made me one." Byron began publishing verse romances at the rate of two a year. These included the spectacularly best-selling Childe Harold I and II (1812) and the so-called "oriental" or "eastern" tales. Besides The Giaour, he wrote The Bride of Abydos (1813), The Corsair and Lara (1814), and Parisina and The Seige of Corinth (1816). These poems offered his adoring public pleasures nowadays promised by summer blockbuster movies: sex and violence in an exotic location. "I awoke to find myself famous," he duly noted in his journal.
To give his tales an authentic flavor, Byron sprinkled them with words likely to be unfamiliar to his audience, which he helpfully annotated. "Vampire," like "Rahmadan" (as he spelled it) and "Giaour" itself, was one of these:
The Vampire superstition is still general in the Levant. Honest Tournefort tells a long story, which Mr. Southey, in the notes on Thalaba quotes about those ‘Vroucolochas’, as he calls them. The Romaic term is ‘Vardoulacha’. I recollect a whole family being terrified by the scream of a child, which they imagined must proceed from such a visitation. The Greeks never mention the word without horror. I find that ‘Broucolokas’ is an old legitimate Hellenic appellation–at least is so applied to Arsenius, who, according to the Greeks, was after his death animated by the Devil–the moderns, however, use the word I mention.
Anchoring the most improbable narratives in a semblance of reality is a time-honored technique for the writer of romantic, and especially horror, fiction. Even Coleridge, more than a decade after publishing "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,"decided to add marginal glosses to his poem, a mode of annotation that already seemed a bit old-fashioned to an early nineteenth-century audience. But the notes’ archaic language and learned if sometimes irrelevant comments implied that a thorough if unimaginative scholar had taken this peculiar and puzzling tale seriously. Hence they lend a certain authenticity to the Mariner’s fantastic voyage.. Juxtaposing the learned discourse with the improbable tale offers the reader a certain reassurance that there is a rational explanation for all this. Psychologically, the technique of mixing the seemingly factual with the completely implausible creates a Freudian "compromise formation": on the one hand, the fantasy seems anchored in the real world, often by a supposed eyewitness account. On the other, the more rational commentary also frames the tale as genuinely "other," as something weird and desperately in need of explanation, encouraging the reader to suspend his disbelief that anything could happen in a place so remote from ours.
The Giaour created a sensation. Even the ironic Jane Austen was apparently one of its attentive readers. In Persuasion (1818), the heroine Anne Elliot and her acquaintance, the bookish and melancholy Captain Harville, discuss how Byron’s title word, which means "infidel," should be pronounced. (The "g" is soft, thus jowr). Although the O.E.D. records the use of the word "vampire " in a traveler’s account as early as 1734, one may safely assume that it became widely familiar to a moderately well-educated audience only after 1813.
Here is the curse Byron composed:
But first, on earth as Vampire sent,
Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent;
Then ghastly haunt thy native place,
And suck the blood of all thy race,
There from thy daughter, sister, wife,
At midnight drain the stream of life;
Yet loathe the banquet which perforce
Must feed thy livid living corse;
Thy victims ere they yet expire
Shall know the daemon as their sire
As cursing thee, thou cursing them,
Thy flowers are withered on the stem.
(755-766)
The object of this ghastly curse is Byron’s hero, the Giaour himself. A Christian living in a Muslim country, he has fallen in love with Leila, one of the sultan’s harem. Somehow the two manage to consummate this relationship, though the reader never learns how. As the Giaour evasively says, "I lov’d her-- love will find its way / Through paths where wolves would fear to prey" (1058-59). When the affair is discovered, Leila suffers the cruel punishment here accorded unfaithful wives: she is sewn into a sack and thrown into the sea. The Giaour avenges her death by killing her murderer. He returns to Europe, where he chooses to become another kind of infidel, an atheist who retreats into a monastery, eventually half-divulging his history and his enduring passion for his lost Leila as he dies.
In these early works Byron was perfecting a new archetype, the Byronic hero, or homme fatal. Like Milton’s Satan, who first appears in Paradise Lost (1671) as an "archangel ruin’d," this character is thoroughly paradoxical. He is a man of action, yet also capable of intense passion and feminine sensitivity. Milton’s Satan was tortured by remorse for the rebel angels who had followed him into battle with God and then into hell, but Byron’s Giaours and Conrads and Laras are tortured by romantic love. The object of their passion is always the unattainable woman they are fated to destroy. And their passion is equal to Satan’s infernal "fiery deluge fed / With ever-burning sulphur unconsumed"; as the Giaour exclaims, "The cold of clime are cold of blood / Their love can scarce deserve the name / But mine was like the lava flood / That boils in Aetna’s breast of flame."(1099-1103).
The Byronic hero is not exactly handsome, but he is magnetically attractive, with a piercing gaze and an air of mystery. His face seems to signify that he is haunted by the memory of some terrible crime. Like Satan, the Byronic hero is an outsider and an overreacher, though the divine Law that he violates is not the First Commandment but the Seventh, a sin often involving not only adultery but incest. This genealogy of the Byronic hero should not be surprising, since the poets that we now call "Romantic" considered Milton’s Satan a more interesting and dramatic character than his God. Attempting to account for the poet’s success with his fallen angel in Paradise Lost, Blake declared (in The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, 1790-93) that "Milton was a true poet and of the devil’s party without knowing it." In fact, Byron and Shelley’s reviewers described them not as "Romantics," but as members of "the Satanic School."
Thus the vampire enters English literature in the distinguished company of a Byronic hero: indeed, as his dark double. The curse quoted above shows that the vampire is also always doomed to kill the thing he loves. If Byronic heroes sometimes transgress that most "natural" of laws, the incest taboo, the vampire merely enacts a more material version of a similarly "unnatural" compulsion: not the consummation of a forbidden love, but the consumption of the beloved’s blood. Yet the vampire’s relation to Byron and the Byronic hero is even more complicated. In the summer of 1816 Byron left England forever, following his own possible violation of the incest taboo. His wife, Annabella, Lady Byron, had filed for divorce after only one year of marriage. It was widely rumored that she had discovered an affair between Byron and his half-sister Augusta Leigh. We cannot be sure whether these rumors were true, but Byron left England and he was not loath to exploit the scandal in the following months, as he composed Childe Harold III (in which Byron/Harold, sends a love lyric to his sister), and Manfred, a closet drama about a Faustian character haunted by the death of his sister Astarte.
II.
And so, one year after the Battle of Waterloo, Byron traveled across Europe, accompanied by his personal physician Dr. John Polidori. They settled at the Villa Diodati on the shores of Lake Geneva. He was joined there soon afterwards by Percy Bysshe Shelley, his wife Mary Godwin Shelley, and her step-sister Clare Clairmont, who had, like many another star-struck young woman of Regency England, pursued and seduced the glamorous Lord Byron.
During the month of July, 1816, the weather near Geneva was cold and rainy. The company amused themselves by reading Gothic novels and Coleridge’s poem "Christabel," which had been composed in 1797 but only recently published. It concerns a young woman, Christabel, who one April midnight goes into the woods outside her father’s castle, "to pray / For the weal of her lover that’s far away." There beneath a "huge broad-breasted old oak tree," she discerns, by the light of the full moon, a strange sight: a beautiful, barefooted woman dressed in white silk and glittering with jewels. She tells Christabel that her name is Geraldine and that she has been abducted by five "warriors" and then abandoned. The compassionate Christabel invites her back to the castle. But at the threshold Geraldine suddenly grows weak, and her hostess has to carry her over the threshold. When they reach Christabel’s chamber, Geraldine undresses, exposing a bosom horribly disfigured in some undisclosed way. She lies down beside Christabel and takes her in her arms. First bidding the girl’s guardian spirit, the ghost of her mother, to depart ("This hour is mine!") she casts a spell insuring that although Christabel will remember what happened this night, she will not be able to tell anyone.
The following morning Geraldine awakens full of energy, while Christabel is curiously languid. Her widowed father Sir Leoline is much taken with his unexpected and beautiful guest, and Christabel is incapable of telling him what she knows about her, being reduced to a snake-like hissing. The resident Bard recounts his dream of the previous night, a vision of Sir Leoline’s white dove (also named Christabel) being strangled by a bright green snake. Sir Leoline quickly interprets the dream as concerning the abducted Geraldine, whom he believes to be the daughter of a long-lost friend of his youth. There the poem breaks off. For the rest of his life Coleridge declared his intention to finish it, but he never did. Even as a fragment–or perhaps because it is one–"Christabel" is powerful poetry.
Proof of this power was demonstrated that rainy summer of 1816 at the Villa Diodati. One evening as Byron recited the lines about Geraldine’s bosom, Shelley suddenly shrieked and ran from the room. Acting in his capacity as a physician, Polidori followed him. He records that he "threw water in his face and after gave him ether." He managed to extract from Shelley the nature of his hallucination: "He was looking at Mrs. S[helley], and suddenly thought of a woman he had heard of who had eyes instead of nipples, which taking hold of his mind, horrified him."
Having exhausted the entertainments of Coleridge’s poem and the handful of Gothic novels with which the company were furnished, Byron proposed that they each should write a ghost story. And so all of them set to work. Mary conceived Frankenstein, which would be published in 1818. The other work to emerge from the contest was the first vampire novel in English, Polidori’s The Vampyre. Byron had began a novel about a vampire traveling in modern Greece who before "dying" and undergoing a mock burial, elicits an oath from his human traveling companion that he will say nothing of what he has seen. Returning to London sometime later, the companion finds the vampire very much alive, and preying on young women. Bound by his oath, however, he can say nothing, even though his own sister becomes the vampire’s final victim.
Byron wrote the first chapter, which describes the oath and the "death." But he had, it seems, outlined the rest of it in some detail, and apparently Polidori took careful notes of his employer’s intentions. He completed the novel on his own and in 1819 published The Vampyre, with an introductory note describing events at the Villa during the summer of 1816 and attributing the novel to Byron. He could have done nothing better calculated to achieve widespread interest in this slim book. Confident that they were reading a novel by Byron, the public responded enthusiastically. Polidori then confessed the truth, though insisting that though the "ground work" was Byron’s, the novel was in fact his own. When a second edition appeared, the publisher continued to declare that it was Byron’s, knowing good publicity when he saw it.
Stories, especially the ones we want to hear again and again, inevitably reflect the fears and desires of those who tell them. As long as men told most of our stories, fatal women were everywhere, from Medusa and Eve through Keats’s "La Belle Dame sans Merci" (1819). (This is not to say that women were entirely silent: Chaucer’s garrulous Wife of Bath immediately comes to mind, though she is of course a man’s creation.) Thus the rather sudden appearance of the fatal man, the Byronic hero and his vampire shadow, during the literary Romantic period (roughly 1780-1830), implies, among other things, a profound if unconscious shift in post-Enlightenment cultural assumptions about gender, the erosion of millennia of a patriarchal culture and its fundamental misogyny.
The Byronic hero reflects one of British Romanticism’s most startling innovations: the importation, into high culture, of things traditionally regarded as "feminine" and therefore unimportant, such as nature, emotions, imagination, children. As we have seen Byron hero is divided between a "masculine," conquering self, and a "feminine"suffering one. No doubt one reason for Byron’s huge success with his female readers was his ability to show himself a feeling as much as a thinking being and a victim of forces beyond his control. What Byron called "fate" his female readers experienced as the constraints of a culture that offered women little power of any kind. What is novel, and what would be revolutionary, about the Byronic hero, therefore, is that he is a man who enjoys the privileges of the aristocratic and powerful, but he also experiences the world from a subordinate, "feminine" perspective. To be obliged to feel as well as to think is to be cursed, as any nineteenth-century British aristocrat would have felt if he had suddenly been compelled to live life as a woman.The Romantics were undoubtedly unconscious of the deeper cultural implications of what their literary revolution implied about gender and patriarchal social arrangements. Presumably it never occurred to Wordsworth that in elevating intuition, imagination, and the child he was giving new power to the culturally "feminine." (Though during his lifetime the civil and political status of women was widely debated in public for the first time ever.) The sense that threatening changes were in progress was signified in the same way that the unconscious expresses its fears in nightmares. "Myths are public dreams," wrote Jung. Throughout the nineteenth century, the vampire was one such symbol expressing anxiety about rising female power and widespread cultural change.
III.
For the rest of the century vampires proliferated in popular culture. They appear as male and female, young and old, foreign and domestic. In the decades following the waning of Romanticism in the 1830's, the vampire because a stock figure of pulp fiction, most of it now forgotten. Specialists in the Gothic tradition still remember, and occasionally read, Varney the Vampire, a long-running serial publication, a kind of soap opera with vampire, an unlikely predecessor of Dark Shadows, perhaps. But Sheridan LeFanu’s novella, "Carmilla" (1872) is the most significant of the Victorian vampire tales, for it links Romantic vampires and their late-Victorian "grandchild," Dracula. Like "Christabel, " which LeFanu obviously knew, "Carmilla" concerns the introduction of a female vampire into the household of a widowed father (whose name we never learn) and his motherless daughter Laura.
Bram Stoker knew LeFanu’s story. "Christabel" and "Carmilla" had established a number of conventions that he would use: that vampires must be invited into the house by a member of the family, that they may be bound by certain seemingly arbitrary conditions, such as the letters of a name or the need to have a coffin as a home base. LeFanu also popularized the stake through the heart as a means of dispatching the vampire. Most interesting and important, however, is the idea implied in Coleridge and made explicit in "Carmilla," that vampire and victim feel an erotic attraction for each other. Lord Ruthven, Byronic hero that he is, is a lady-killer who attacks marriageable women, and actually marries one of them, but Polidori does not suggest that they felt a sexual attraction for him. There is more emphasis on the charm of his wealth and aristocratic lineage.
Dracula (1897), however, created the vampire myth as we know it: that vampires fear garlic and the cross; that vampires sleep in their coffins of native earth; that they are associated with bats and wolves, that the vampire’s victim becomes a vampire; that they are the "Un-dead"–Nosferatu. Stoker’s working title for his novel was "The Un-dead." In the course of his research, however (and he did a great deal of it), he found a much better one. He decided to align his vampire with a historical personage, the Transylvanian tyrant, Vlad the Impaler, sometimes called Dracul (dragon). This was a brilliant choice. Seeing his vampire as the monster that threatens Western culture itself, he created a myth that has haunted our collective imagination for a century.
In Stoker’s version, Dracula is an aristocrat from barbarous, mysterious Transylvania. (He thus comes from "through the woods.") The last of an ancient family, he moves to London in search of new blood. He preys first on Lucy Westenra, a pretty, flirtatious, but unstable young woman given to sleepwalking, who receives three proposals of marriage in one day and wonders aloud to her friend Mina Murray Harker why she can’t accept them all. Lucy has a formidable array of allies in her three would-be husbands, Arthur, Lord Godalming, Dr. John Seward, and the Texan Quincey Morris, plus Mina’s husband Jonathan Harker, and Dr. Van Helsing. Van Helsing is Dr. Seward’s mentor, and both a physician and an expert on the occult from Amsterdam. Despite their best efforts, Lucy dies and becomes a vampire. At Van Helsing’s insistence, the men open Lucy’s coffin and drive a stake through her heart, thus insuring that she be truly dead. (The "honor" of driving the stake is accorded Arthur, who would have been her husband. Meanwhile, Dracula turns his attentions to Mina, who is more strong-minded than Lucy. (According to Van Helsing, she has "a man’s brain and a woman’s heart.") Aware of what is happening to her, she struggles to aid the men in their conquest of Dracula by exploiting the telepathic connection she now has with her predator. Eventually they follow him back to Castle Dracula and kill him, though Quincey also dies in the struggle. Mina, now safe, gives birth to a son named for all five of Dracula’s conquerors.
This last and most influential version of the nineteenth-century vampire myth records a backlash against the Romantics’ revolutionary embrace of the culturally feminine. In "Christabel" and "Carmilla," both significant precursors of Dracula, the vampire is a woman who preys on women. The notion of a same-sex vampire attack raises the specter of same-sex eroticism, which was by the end of the century increasingly pathologized by writers such as Freud, Kraft-Ebbing, and Havelock Ellis; Stoker may have shrunk from such implications. Dracula does have female vampires, but they are subordinate, the brides in his castle, and poor Lucy, whose vampire career is very short, and all of them are satisfied to feed on infants. Stoker in fact wrote an episode concerning a female vampire who preys on Jonathan Harker, but he eventually published it instead as a short story, "Dracula’s Guest." In Dracula, vampires are heterosexual and thoroughly demonized. Although Stoker mentions his villain’s tragic circumstances as the last of his kind, he aligns his creation less with his "father" Lord Byron than with his "grandfather." Milton’s Satan.Stoker also casts his vampire tale as a cultural struggle between the new, bourgeois, scientific, progressive, enlightened West and the old, superstitious, dark, and dangerous East. Among other things, Count Dracula is a decadent aristocrat. But Van Helsing and his crew specifically struggle with the demon for–what else?–control of the women. IV.
Given the melodramatic power of vampires to fascinate and move the reader, it is surprising that the vampire has almost never excited the imagination of the opera librettist or composer. Byron’s oriental tale which gave birth to the creature is certainly "operatic" in theme and technique: until he began composing Don Juan, the last work of his career, his works were, like much nineteenth-century opera, excessive, fatal, and tragic. His earlier poetry inspired an extraordinary number of orchestral composers including Berlioz and Tschaikovsky; Donizetti composed an opera based on Parisina (1833), and Verdi wrote two, I due Foscari (1844) and Il Corsaro (1848). Grove lists forty more operas based on Byron, mostly by forgotten composers. In the nineteenth century, there is one exception to the no-vampire rule: Heinrich Marschner’s Der Vampyr (1828). As a young man of twenty, Marschner (1795-1861) gained an audience with Beethoven, who reportedly commented after looking at his music, "Don’t come too often." Wagner, on the other hand, admired him and quotes one of his themes in Die Walk_re. First performed in Leipzig with considerable success, the libretto of Der Vampyr was written by Marschner’s borther-in-law Wilhelm August Wohlbr_k and is based on Polidori’s novel, though with some significant changes. Here Lord Ruthven’s final victim is not Aubrey’s sister, but Malwina, the woman with whom he is secretly in love. Instead of being doomed to watch Ruthven kill her because he is bound to keep his oath, in this version Aubrey reveals that this man is a vampire. Ruthven is struck by lightning and burns to death. Aubrey and Malwina are married. Though rare, Der Vampyr is still occasionally performed.
The paucity of vampire operas in the nineteenth century must be related to the larger question of why the Gothic tradition (to which the vampire belongs) itself inspired so few operas, at least operas that have survived in the repertoire. Donizetti’s Lucia di Lammermoor, based on a novel by Sir Walter Scott, is the only unambiguously canonical opera with strong affinities to literary Gothic. (The haunted heroine is subjected to violence in the bosom of her family and goes mad in order to escape it.) Yet Herbert Lindenberger remarks on the aesthetic similarities between opera and the Gothic in Opera, The Extravagant Art (1984): "It is the one form of fiction that pursued the high style systematically in the last two centuries. . . Like opera the Gothic was a popular form whose public recognized its artifice and its distance from ordinary life on the one hand and on the other, its power and immediacy of effect" (167).
It may be that Gothic works were already so "operatic" in effect that they didn’t seem to cry out for that passionate heightening in which opera specializes. It may be that since the Gothic flourished most impressively in English, which at that time lacked a native operatic tradition, English Gothic works were less likely to catch the attention of continental librettists, though the plethora of operas based on Sir Walter Scott’s novels weakens that hypothesis. Oddly, however, it is easy to think of arguably Gothic twentieth-century operas: Bartók’s Bluebeard’s Castle, Britten’s The Turn of the Screw, Goldschmidt’s Beatrice Cenci, settings of Wuthering Heights by Carlyle Floyd and Bernard Herrmman, Musgrave’s Miss Havisham’s Fire, Argento’s The Voyage of Edgar Allen Poe, Janá÷ek’s The Makropulos Affair, Libby Larsen’s Frankenstein, Moran’s The Dracula Diary. Of these, three (Bartók, Britten, and Janá÷ek) are close to being standard repertoire, if not quite warhorses, but it remains to be seen whether the others will continue to be performed. Gothic tales have also seen some quite spectacular successes on the twentieth-century Broadway stage, notably Sondheim’s Sweeney Todd, and Lloyd-Webber’s Phantom of the Opera.
In an article published in the Cambridge Opera Journal (July, 1999) Michal Grover-Friedlander considers "film’s attraction to opera," which was there from the beginning. In 1910 Thomas Edison wrote, "We’ll be ready for the moving picture show in a couple of months, but I’m not satisfied with that. I want to give grand opera." Grover-Freidlander argues that "operatic singing does not derive its force simply from the extravagance of the singing voice, but rather from its pointing to the limits of vocal expression and to meaninglessness." He continues, "Surprisingly, then, silent film is uniquely suited to go beyond song, in its fascination with and anxiety about, silence." In this essay Grover-Friedlander uses the 1925 silent film The Phantom of the Opera to explore this thesis, but the affinities he sees between the two forms are illuminating in the light of Dana Gioia’s libretto Nosferatu, published in this volume. He liberates the vampire from the shadow of Dracula through the medium of a silent film, F.W. Murnau’s Nosferatu (1922). Because of copyright restrictions, Murnau was forced to change Stoker’s title and to change the story considerably. He moves it to Germany and collapses Mina and Lucy into one, Nina, a married woman in delicate health who shares Lucy’s propensity to walk in her sleep. The vampire-hunters are eliminated and Dr. Van Helsing becomes an ineffectual local physician under a different name. Nina’s husband, the Jonathan Harker character, succumbs to "Nosferatu" during his visit to Transylvania, and is thus of no help to her. Nosferatu, on the other hand, feels a predestined, fatal attraction to Nina and comes to find her. The rules of vampire destruction are changed as well. Here, to kill a vampire a woman must deceive him into remaining with her until after dawn, at which time the daylight will destroy him. This Nina accomplishes, though at the cost of her own life.
As Gioia writes in his essay "Sotto Voce," "Nosferatu offered a librettist the positive virtues of a compelling plot, strong characters, and vivid, indeed often unforgettable images." From the viewpoint of the literary critic, they also offered him the opportunity to return the myth of the vampire to its Byronic roots. His Nosferatu, Count Orlock, while echoing Dracula, also echoes the sentiments of Byron’s Lara or Giaour: "I am the last survivor of my house, / You cannot understand how heavily the past / Weighs down on me. . . How ancient deeds imprison us forever" (1, 3). As in the world of the Byronic hero, love is both fated and doomed. Upon seeing Ellen’s portrait, he knows that she is his bride, and pursues her to the death. Like the Byronic hero, he is fundamentally paradoxical:
I am the past that feeds upon the present.
I am the darkness that daylight denies.
I am the sins that you must inherit-
The final truth in a world full of lies,
I am the name that cannot be said.
I am eternal, unliving, undead.
(1, 3)
Or this:
I am the darkness that falls from the sky,
The blackness that brings you light,
He who reveals your one true form-
Cold, eternal, and bright.
(2, 3)
In calling himself "The blackness that brings you light," Nosferatu aligns himself with his ancestor, Milton’s Satan, whose name was Lucifer, "light-bringer."
But re-imagining the vampire myth as an opera has another important effect. For the first time in its evolution, at least through Dracula, the heroine/victim is not a merely a pawn in a contest between male adversaries. She is a heroine in her own right, as it were; she is the one who chooses and acts to destroy the vampire, though her choices are admittedly limited. One of the reasons she can do this, however, is that she is an operatic soprano; as with Lucia, she has a voice of her own. But she triumphs at the price of joining Nosferatu in death, in a dark but unmistakable Liebestod. It is, however, a love-death reminiscent less of Tristan und Isolde than of Senta and her beloved, another Bryonic overreacher, Wagner’s Flying Dutchman. Nosferatu is thus not only a libretto with strong ties to the traditions of Romantic opera, it also reveals the vampire’s essential being as a Romantic archetype.
ANNE WILLIAMS chairs the English Department at the University of Georgia. She has written two books on the Gothic and is doing a new Penguin book of the three 19th century vampire novels. The edition of vampire stories will be published by Houghton Mifflin in their New Riverside Series.
Click here to buy Anne Williams' Art of Darkness: A Poetics on Gothic at Amazon.com.