Foreword to Select Extracts

These highlights and reflections from selected parts of my unpublished memoir Fragments will hopefully indicate why the whole remains under wraps despite calls for me to share more. Folk always want more. Yet I trust something of a flavour of my intimate approach will suffice to explain why such biographical details are not necessarily in everyone's best interest. It was all so long ago ... 

Another time; another country in many ways; where the past dwells. lost and lonely. 

Silently sighing.

Lusia

 

"Lusia" was first portrayed by Jacqueline on book covers and promotional material. Over the years different models, and indeed actresses, portrayed her on covers and in films. A tiny number of people enthusiastically confuse Jacqueline with the person whom I give the name "Lusia" in my book. Less so the actress on the cover of the second edition, or the various people who have represented her in documentary reconstructions, largely because these people are only known professionally. Whereas Jacqueline was someone closely connected to me who accompanied me on early photo-shoots and sometimes interviews. I did not always disabuse the entanglement in order to protect the identity of the real "Lusia," who to this day remains anonymous and unidentified.

The night produced "Lusia." The sunniest of days revealed Jacqueline. They were very different people. As one grew into a mature young woman who drifted out of focus as the serious career choices under consideration threatened our relationship; the other swept into my life and for a while consumed it. Jacqueline said close to the end: "If I am with you life will not be dull, that's for sure!" I encouraged her to take the another course, one that she was considering, knowing it would take her away from me. We parted on the best of terms, but the break had to be absolute. I was immersed in the nightmare case of the Highgate Vampire, which was not something I would have involved anyone in. Jacqueline had modelled for me, and had been with me at various times when borderline, albeit unrelated, incidents occurred, eg an exorcism at a vandalised Islington church. In order to protect her it was necessary to point her in the direction of a safer and more predictable life.

 

Meanwhile, "Lusia" continued to intrude into my everyday existence. My initial discovery of her was one of sheer delight tinged with a terrible sadness which grew stronger until it finally eclipsed her. It would be within the sombre tones of an apt piece of music that she became enshrouded. 

Rarely published image of the real "Lusia."

In my book, I wrote: "Her cascading flaxen tresses caught the dull illumination of the moonlight in their pale reflection. Somewhere, in the background, I could hear the dying pulses of Strauss’ solemn orchestral work, Metamorphosen. It haunts me to this day." 

"Lusia" was touched by what lies beyond earthly confines, and became part of the vortex of hideous visions and visitations associated with Highgate Cemetery at that time. I glimpsed an indistinct figure toward the end, a figure swathed in a white cerement, her face the colour of marble save for her mouth, which seemed full and wanton. This was not the "Lusia" I had first known. It was something else. A shade of something that had been sucked dry of life. She nevertheless lives in the hearts of those who knew her and hopefully on the canvas from all those years ago. Her portrait in oils has been immortalised by a history in which she played a significant part. My style altered even during the years I added paint when creating the portrait and is today significantly different.

Night

The night consumes feathery farewells of distant waves;

Darkness steals memories of vortexing vampire vapours;

As you slip into that void where only a name once spoken

Tells of another voluptuous time when we were not corpses

Feeding upon the elements of time and the sod's sad song.

I knew you as flaxen fairness flew around your face,

Eyes green glinting malachite meteorites skyward falling

Like tears understood as pearls of our inevitable parting.

Symbols of death emerged one by one with the mellow,

Sonorous sound of notes gently stroked and tinkling

Echoes of a piano plucking adagio-like at my soul,

As gently the footsteps descend into inky oblivion.

Phantoms

Some years later, I wrote Phantoms ~ a short poem ~ as a homage to Sylvaine and our shared past:

 In part, we are,

In part, we always were

Phantoms from another time.

Time travellers. Ghosts.

Fading in. Now fading out.

Like spectral curls of mist

From time past to time present.

And back to whence we came.

Transition

When the end came we somehow stayed connected, as we had been before we met. The sun danced on the still water's surface during our last afternoon in England, as the Eighties ushered in the death knell to the sensibilities of our world. We both recognised the gathering clouds almost upon us.

Our time was another century entirely. For a while we were able to survive out of time. But not now.

Sylvaine remains a valued colleague and friend with whom exists an affinity that transcends time. There was an interlude during our relationship when what we had might have become more enduring, but playing lead rôles opposite each other, as a couple who were madly in love for film dramatisations, somehow consumed that prospect for me. So close were we that she understood immediately. I remember the evening in Paris when she sadly said: "I understand." It still brings a lump to my throat. We do not visit each other’s country any longer; yet we stay ethereally, mutually and always a source of inspiration and encouragement in a much more dangerous, uglier world.

Billets-doux

These inscriptions are all I feel comfortable sharing. Correspondence, even now, remains too intensely personal to publish. In the above an indication of Sylvaine's deep passion can be glimpsed. 

Sylvaine

Jean-Claude Asfour, a casually-dressed Frenchman, journeyed from Paris to pay his respects at Byron House in November 1978. It was a property I had purchased largely due to its proximity to a woodland cemetery in Southgate He fetched with him a copy of Lits de Pierres, published in the previous year, which he had co-authored with an attractive actress. The female contributor to this unusual work (comprising largely photographs of churchyards and cemeteries) had written the following inside the copy Asfour had been sent to present to me in person:

“With joy and some despair I found Seán Manchester to whom I dedicate this book. I invite him to follow me through it … as his appeal is timeless … beyond Death. Now might he belong to two worlds without astonishment.” ― Sylvaine.”

I was naturally flattered to receive this book from one of its co-authors. But who on earth was Sylvaine? My curiosity would not have to endure too long a wait before it was amply satisfied.

French actress Sylvaine Charlet ran away from home on a motorbike when she was sixteen, eventually returning to Paris take a degree in English at the Sorbonne University, after which she completed her craft at the René Simon Drama School. By the time she had produced Lits de Pierres with Jean-Claude Asfour she had made a number of films, performed a lot of theatre, had her paintings exhibited, and was also something of an accomplished musician. She had been decorated with the medal of French Cultural and Philanthropic Merit by Graziella Hansotte, an honoured member of Jean Clair’s Little Cinematographic Studio in Marseille, and was soon to be to awarded (in the autumn of 1979) the French equivalent of the Oscar. In that same year she was chosen to represent her country at the Festival of Fantastic Horror Films held in Sitgès, Spain. It would seem that Jean-Claude had shown her an English book ― The Vampire’s Bedside Companion ― in which my contribution on the Highgate case appeared along with a number of photographs. This had triggered Sylvaine’s interest in both the investigation, technically still in progress, and, indeed, me.

Sylvaine Charlet at her country house in Tourraine.

The one thing we both shared in common was a love of animals, especially horses, and a deep appreciation of the Romantics. When in Tourraine, where she escaped to the country house then occupied by her parents (who have both since passed away), she turned to horse riding ― galloping madly with the wind in her long flowing hair like a fairy princess, but with a look of defiance in her ice blue eyes. She was surrounded by artists, musicians and intellectuals in Paris who found their escape in conversation, reading and wine ― but very little else. The French capital nonetheless provided her with the expertise to become a sword fencer, attending Master Roboth’s fencing class at University City. She could duel for film and theatre ― or, of course, for real.

As the 1970s wore on, Sylvaine became increasingly discontented. She longed for something more than performances on film and stage ― her heart cried out for the intoxication of some wild escape. It was at this critical moment that her colleague and collaborator showed her the English book wherein my work was published. Her eyes apparently darted across the pages, following my account as if she was living it herself (something, briefly, she would soon do, as recounted in The Highgate Vampire, which is the complete account). Jean-Claude had been chosen to cover Highgate Cemetery for Lits de Pierres, but was denied admittance to the afflicted Western Cemetery ― now closed to the public. He nevertheless returned to France with eerie tales of what had happened some years earlier.

Riding my mount circa the time Sylvaine made my acquaintance.

Sylvaine regretted that she had not been chosen to visit London for the graveyard book, and asked Jean-Claude to make an introduction on her behalf next time he was in England. He agreed, bringing the inscribed copy of Lits de Pierres, plus a sealed envelope addressed to me. When alone, I read it:

“I cannot believe you are existing in either life or death. Even your face looks unreal. I have seen pictures that have been published. It is a face coming from beyond the living world, or belonging to another time. I have received several times in my life an appointment with destiny which I had to obey. But this time I feel such an outburst of emotion about you which makes my mind, heart and body tremble. ― Sylvaine.”

This outpouring on parchment-like paper in an archaic hand was the beginning of a veritable avalanche of similarly written declarations from someone, not unlike myself, obviously born in the wrong century. Within months we had met and were soon collaborating in respective projects. I would later recount in one of my most popular books a shared adventure:

“Five years had elapsed since I revisited the still-closed western cemetery and witnessed the chaos of great mausoleums and untended graves. Now I was returning with a French arcanologist who was new to the case in the hope of discovering a link between the original undead contagion and the latest outbreak in neighbouring districts. The resonant tones of nearby St Michael’s clock filled the night air as we climbed the wall. In her excitement, Sylvaine left her bag on the top of the wall and I had to climb back to retrieve it. As I clambered on the top of the wall I noticed a large dog baring its fangs on the other side. Where it had suddenly appeared from was of less interest than avoiding its angry snarl which seemed to grow more ferocious by the moment. We would have to leave by another exit when the time came.” (The Highgate Vampire)

In the event, Sylvaine’s help was to prove most productive when I allowed myself to be persuaded to attend an eighteenth century masquerade where I caught sight of a spectral figure through the smoky vapour left by a firework display.

“Again I saw her. She looked absolutely devastating in a white dress of the period, finished with lace; jewellery shimmering at her throat, fingers and ears. Pushing through the crowd along the shore I could hear everyone clapping with approval as a cascade of brilliance above signalled the end of the display. As people began to retreat back up the slope, I was carried with the tide for a while and lost my quarry. Yet her image continued to haunt me as certainly as some substantial body is perceived in the dark though it cannot be discerned. Sylvaine assured me that only Handel’s music played during the display and that Metamorphosen was not included anywhere on the programme. But I felt certain that I had heard it. And seen Lusia.” (The Highgate Vampire)

The strange happenings in the grounds of an aristocratic mansion, against the backdrop of a tableau floating on a lake over which fireworks illumined the night sky, was the beginning of the end of my mysterious investigations into the case of the Highgate Vampire ― the terrible discovery of Lusia’s fate being aided to some extent by Sylvaine who seemed peculiarly in touch with the haunted realm.

Later on I agreed to collaborate on a variety film projects in France. Principal amongst these were productions directed by Guy Godefroy. Sylvaine and I starred in his film Beren, which apparently was written for the pair of us. I played Snegur Malher in the male lead opposite Sylvaine who, of course, was the character "Beren." Stills from the rushes appeared in Studio 148 magazine in Paris, and Sylvaine provided an interview while a close-up of us together graced the front cover. The remaining cast included Françoise Mojeret, Noémie Vialard, Méline Vialard, Harold Giroux, Christian Huitorel, Philippe Hermelier, Pascale Deforges, Alexandra Du Cluzeau, Françoise Poncet, Nicole Scoffoni, Raquel Iruzubieta, Manuel Rosado, Benoĩt Breuil, and Emmanuel Cantor. Shot mainly in Brittany and Paris, the film was in French, which obliged me to learn my lines by rote. A small number of these were later dubbed for the final cut. Ironically, my return to the Highgate case made it impossible for me to attend the opening, and to this day I have still not viewed the finished film. Guy Godefroy, who directed Sylvaine in a number of his films, regards Beren as his masterpiece. Many of the Parisian scenes in the film were filmed at the Père-Lachaise cemetery.

In the rôle of Snegur Malher with Sylvaine as Beren.

The film was made too late to be included in Andrew Warren’s biography Sylvaine Super Star (1978), where photographs reveal the actress doing her own stunts, riding horses, sword fencing, acting alongside animals and film stars she worked opposite, eg Peter Cushing, Oliver Reed etc. Included, however, is an early picture of Sylvaine with me.

When Carmel was published on the first day of the new century, Sylvaine led those who gave it a glowing and enthusiastic review. And when Katrina Garforth-Bles published privately a biography (now out of print) about my ventures into hidden realms, Sylvaine wrote the introduction, which was touching ― if somewhat panegyric. Yet her words, worthy of repetition here, reveal much about the generosity of spirit and passion evinced within the extraordinary being that is Sylvaine Charlet.

“When I heard about Seán Manchester for the first time, he was in England and I was in France. He appeared like the incarnation (in the sense of an idea becoming material) of something imagined, illustrated on paper, played on the piano, written, hoped for? And, as a matter of fact, this man was (and always is) a personality completely different from all those I have met in my life. I saw him as an outsider, a fool, a poet, a creator, an adventurer, an imaginative spirit, a soul who found himself in the wrong epoch. All his work, indeed, exposed a deep melancholy of a paradise lost. Who are we to say he is not right to battle the way he does against the ugliness and the evil in the world. All we can admire, with torturing regret inside the heart, is that all his efforts look like a drop in the middle of the infinite ocean. Still he does what he feels he must do. For he believes in ‘right’ ― not ‘might.’

“So, let us feel gratitude for his existence ― to be what he is and do what he does. Is he an obsolete figure? Perhaps. Like everyone eager to live with passion for beauty and the higher things. In fact, he belongs to the nineteenth century, its values, its aspirations and its aesthetics. Seán Manchester is a character typical of the end of an epoch. In that sense, he is bound to disappear as fireworks eventually stop illuminating the landscape, leaving behind him an atmosphere, a strong feeling of melancholy, lost for ever ― and that makes us all die a little.

“In future times, it may happen someone shall remember that a man like this existed, against all the storms, in an inadequate century; a hero, in a way, whose trembling light gave a warmth to the heart of those who wanted to live only on poetry, music, beauty and spiritual experiences. I am not sure that his peers realise who exactly is living among them. They will know and appreciate, as usual, too late. And the magic continues every time I have news from him, his creativity, his work. I can say I have in Seán a ‘brother soul’ ― for nowadays it is quite a luxury to feel less solitary in the world because of him.”