steven hopstaken &
melissa prusi
Stoker’s Wilde
FLAME TREE PRESS
London & New York
White Worm Society Archivist’s Note
These materials cover the involvement of Bram Stoker and Oscar Wilde in the ‘Greystones’ and ‘Black Bishop’ incidents. It has taken many years of painstaking investigation to compile them. In some cases, items were sold to us or given freely by the principals; in others, bribery, chicanery, or outright thievery was required. To paraphrase Mr. Stoker, such is the life of a White Worm Society archivist.
All letters, journal entries, transcripts and news items have been placed in chronological order where possible. In most cases, materials that do not pertain to the cases at hand have been eliminated; however, we have retained some exhibits that reflect more upon the personal lives of the participants. The insight these writings provide into the minds of their authors deepens our understanding of their involvement in the fight against supernatural evil and how it may have been impacted by events transpiring in their personal lives.
Spelling of writings from the original authors have been retained; however, punctuation has been updated in accordance with White Worm Society international style rules.
Viewing of this collection is restricted to members of the White Worm Society. Removal of these materials from the library is strictly forbidden.
Letter from Oscar Wilde to Florence Balcombe, 1st of November 1876
Archivist’s note: Wilde, like most educated Victorians, was a skilled and prolific letter writer. Unlike the correspondence of today, his letters could run upwards of twenty pages, double-sided. Here he begins to relate the events of the Greystones Incident. While no doubt some of the dialogue has been fabricated, we know from other sources that the events depicted are more or less accurate.
My dearest Florrie,
I am counting the days until we are together again, my golden flower. I bitterly regret that I haven’t had the opportunity to visit you while I am home from Oxford, but the last few days have been the most traumatic and dramatic in all my twenty-two years. I can scarcely put these events to paper, as my mind still reels with the memory of what I have seen – what I have done. But I shall do my best in the following narrative. It is a tale of supernatural terror, illuminated only by the tarnished light of a full moon. A tale in which I am the hero, of course, since I am the narrator. But no matter how flattering a light I cast upon myself, I swear to you that every word is true.
This story is not for the faint of heart. I fear your delicate nature may, in fact, make you swoon from the words. So, my dear Florrie, please be seated. This is a story to be read in the light of day with company in your presence, not on some stormy night alone in your room.
Dare I continue?
I do!
It all started a few nights ago when Mother hosted an informal dinner party. Our special guest for the evening was none other than the remarkable Captain Richard Burton, the noted explorer and adventurer.
As he was a friend of my late father, Captain Burton makes a point to drop by whenever his travels bring him to Dublin. It had been several years since I’d seen him, so I should not have been surprised to notice how age had at last begun to diminish the great man, if only slightly. He is, perhaps, less formidable a figure, his bearing less commanding, his stride a bit slower. Nevertheless, he is still a vibrant personality, always ready with a fascinating tale or the occasional bawdy joke, and it’s easy to see how he earned the nickname Ruffian Dick. His dark eyes still make one feel that he knows all one’s secrets at a glance, and his thick, dark hair has not receded an inch, a virtue which I consider worthy of emulation.
Along with him was his lovely wife, Isabel, who is a bit of a flirt when she has had a glass or two of claret and is one of the few women I know who can (and will) quote the Kama Sutra! She has travelled widely with her husband and perhaps it is this experience that lends her the enviable ability to find something interesting in everyone she meets, a talent that would be put to the test that evening, for also joining us were my older brother, Willie, and one of his most tiresome friends, Bram Stoker.
Like Willie, and unlike Burton, Bram is not remarkable in any way. Oh, I suppose his appearance is striking. He is well past six foot, strong as an ox, with a red-bearded face that frightens small children but that, mysteriously, women find handsome.
He was educated at Trinity so he speaks proper English, though he hasn’t lost his Irish brogue as I have worked so hard to do. In fact, the angrier he gets the more Irish he becomes. When he becomes flustered, which is often if I can provoke it, I am only able to pull out the occasional swear word from his Celtic stream of obscenities.
Bram is a civil servant and can converse endlessly on any subject as long as it is dull and uninspiring. That night he regaled us with tales of railway timetables and an extraordinary new method for filing documents.
Willie met Bram at school, where Bram showed some small talent as a writer. (I suppose this puts him one up on Willie, who has never shown talent at anything.) At Trinity, I attended the reading of his paper, ‘The Supernatural as Introduced by the English Poets’, which I thought showed promise, despite his monotone drone. In more recent years, he has published several short stories, which make up in clumsy moralising what they lack in wit. However, any poetic inkling he may once have possessed has been crushed under the weight of bureaucratic manuals and file cabinets, as was evident that night as Mother tried to get him to shut up and let Captain Burton talk.
“How astonishing to learn there is so much more to filing than memorising the alphabet,” Mother said, interrupting Stoker’s treatise on folder-tab placement. She quickly turned to Burton and patted him on the hand. “I have just reread your book of Hindu tales, Vikram and the Vampire, Richard. It is so engrossing and has helped me immensely with my own work.” (Did you know, Florrie, that Mother is a noted expert on all things supernatural? She writes under the nom de plume ‘Speranza’, which is quite convenient when I do not wish people to know of her unusual interests. But you, my dear, I wish to know everything about me!)
Stoker’s face had reddened to match his ginger hair and beard. No doubt he realised he had been dominating the conversation at a table shared with one of the world’s greatest lecturers. I almost felt sorry for him.
“Thank you, Lady Jane,” Burton said. “That is a great compliment coming from one with your expertise.”
“Yes, quite a good read,” Willie chimed in. “I find Hindu vampires to be much more civilised than European vampires.”
“Yes,” Burton said. “But then they are purely whimsical folk tale inventions, and not real creatures, like Eastern European vampires.” He relished the last bite of his steak and kidney pie as Stoker’s eyes widened.
“Excuse me,” Stoker asked. “Are you saying that European vampires are real?”
“Oh, yes, quite frightfully real,” Burton said. “Horrible creatures. Drooling, rotting, mindless things you would not want to meet up with on a dark night. Killed three myself back in the Crimean War. The battlefields brought them out like rats. They prey on the dying, you see.”
Stoker seemed amused, and was about to respond, but a kick from Willie kept him from pressing the matter further. How I wished I was in kicking range myself!
“But vampires are old news, I’m afraid,” Isabel said, her eyes twinkling. “These days, my dear husband has turned his sword to fighting werewolves.” She raised her glass slightly, in a teasing but affectionate toast to her husband, then drained it.
“My dear wife mocks me, but it is true that I am currently investigating, at t
he request of Her Majesty the Queen, the recent killing down in Greystones.”
“And you believe it was a werewolf? What an interesting coincidence!” Mother exclaimed. “I happen to be writing a book on werewolf lore at this very moment!”
“What good fortune! I thought I might beg permission to look through your folklore collection for a way to track and kill the beast.”
Stoker could not contain himself any longer. “You cannot be serious,” he protested. “Surely that poor girl was killed by a pack of wild dogs.”
“If only it were so,” Burton said. “The killing occurred under the light of a full moon.” He lowered his voice as if the werewolf itself were listening. “An upstanding constable saw the creature running right down the main street. And, unbeknownst to the general public, a similar killing took place in Wexford the full moon before. A fisherman had his throat torn out, and strange, wolflike tracks were found nearby.”
“In what way were they strange?” I enquired. The servants clearing away our plates did their best not to appear frightened and hurried back to the kitchen whispering.
“Bigger than any dog, or wolf for that matter – not that there has been a wolf seen in Ireland in decades. But the tracks went on towards town and in mid-trail—” here Burton paused for effect, “—they turned into human footprints.”
Mother gasped with delight. “Oh, a chill just went up my spine! Do tell us more!”
“Wexford must be fifty miles from Greystones, at least,” Stoker said.
“Wolves in Canada have been known to go three hundred miles in a fortnight,” Willie said. “Still, I have to agree with Bram. It must have been a wolf or a monstrous dog.”
“A large dog with deformed feet,” Bram added, “that when stepping in mud leaves a humanlike print.”
Burton took out his pipe and started to fill it. (The captain has never been one to feel bound by the rules of etiquette.) “Maybe so, but I shall be heading down to Greystones by train tomorrow to see for myself.”
“Oh, could we accompany you?” Mother asked excitedly. “It would be perfect for my book.”
Willie scolded her. “Mother, a werewolf hunt is hardly a place for a woman of your….” He trailed off, possibly thinking it best not to finish his thought.
“Of my what, child? My age? My girth?”
“Your dignity,” he improvised, forcing a smile.
Mother wagged her finger at him. “If your father were alive he would be the first to say, ‘Jane, melt down the silverware and grab your gun!’” She banged her fist on the table to make her point.
“If any woman can stare down that beast,” I said, “it is Mother!”
Isabel laughed uproariously at this and added, “It will leave Ireland yelping, with its tail between its legs!”
Mother did not enjoy us laughing at her expense. “I am serious, Richard. I have spoken to Gipsies and witches at length about werewolves and my information could be invaluable to your hunt.”
“I welcome your research, Speranza, and you are welcome to escort us to Greystones, but the hunt should be left up to the men. What say you, Oscar, Willie, Bram? Shall we track this creature down?” He waved his pipe as he said this and the swiftness of it caused sparks to fly, nearly catching Stoker’s beard on fire.
“Er, what?” Willie said, turning a whiter shade of pale than usual.
“I have to be back at work on Monday,” Bram said, brushing ashes from his whiskers. “Perhaps the next one.”
“Nonsense, lad,” Burton said, chuckling. “Just tell ’em you’re with me. I daresay the Burton name still counts for something. And if it doesn’t, well, a word from Her Majesty will have you back behind your desk – or your manager’s – in a trice.”
“Count me in,” I said loudly. “As you yourself once wrote, Captain Burton, ‘Do what thy manhood bids thee do.’ No hell beast is going to terrorise Ireland on my watch!” (I must admit I had had a few clarets myself.) “And besides, how many times in a man’s life does he have the chance to go on a monster hunt with one of the greatest soldiers and explorers the world has ever known? I shall regale my eventual grandchildren with the tale on stormy evenings in front of the fire!”
Burton looked pleased at that. Willie and Bram glanced at each other and I could tell my words had hit home. Breathes there an Irishman with soul so dead he doesn’t long for a bit of adventure?
Willie pounded his fist on the table, exclaiming, “The Wilde boys reporting for duty, Captain Burton!” I raised my glass to him, and he drained his.
All eyes turned to Stoker, who muttered something unintelligible in Irish before saying, “At your service, sir. Let’s go kill a…werewolf.”
Burton leapt to his feet and in that moment I could once again see the fearless young adventurer, entrusted by his Queen with the protection of her subjects, and I would have willingly followed him into a pit of vipers. “That’s the spirit that made the Empire great! We leave on the first train in the morning!”
So, the very next morning we boarded a train for Greystones. I had no idea one could take a train to Greystones, or why anyone would want to go there if not to hunt a werewolf. Stoker, of course, not only knew of the train but had memorised its entire schedule, so we were in good hands there.
I was having second thoughts about being on a hunt with Burton. He has been known to pull out his pistol with the slightest provocation. Rumour has it he shot the Marquess of Queensberry’s parrot for singing a song insulting the Queen.
And frankly, I am quite surprised I was invited along. When Willie and I were lads, Captain Burton took us hunting and I shot his dog. It was an accident, I assure you, and the dog pulled through, living to hunt another day. Still, it’s not the sort of thing a man forgets.
Mother and Isabel occupied their own private car. Mother was poring over books of folklore, researching the habits and weaknesses of werewolves, while Isabel was weaving us all necklaces of wolfsbane. I was doubtful as to the effectiveness of a dried herb against the claws of a ferocious beast, but Mother assured me that it had been known to work in the past, as cloves of garlic have repelled vampires. These things must be true because I have never heard of Italians or the French being attacked by vampires or werewolves and they are positively swimming in garlic and herbs.
Bram, Willie and I kept Captain Burton company in another private car, where he regaled us with a tale in which he slew a giant snake monster in the jungles of India.
“The locals worshiped the thing,” he informed us. “So, we had to fight our way through them before we could get close enough to chop its head off!”
Stoker could barely contain himself; his face was becoming red as he held back his comments. I have to admit Burton’s tales were getting more outrageous with every breath, but I egged him on if only for the possibility of seeing Stoker’s head explode.
“How ghastly,” I gasped. “But you did kill it after you dispatched the natives?”
“It wasn’t as easy as all that,” he said. “The thing had the power to cloud men’s minds. As we approached, my own men began to fall under its spell. They bowed down before it, praying in some foreign tongue. Luckily, Sir Reginald Farnsworth and I had taken a gin and tonic only moments before, which seemed to have protected us from its influence.”
“Gin to the rescue,” Willie said, laughing, and took a swig from his flask.
“Perhaps it was the tonic,” Stoker muttered.
“It took the two of us forty whacks to get the head off. Then the thing still managed to slither off into the jungle before it died!”
Stoker sunk into his seat as if he wanted to slither away himself and said, “I suppose you have its head hanging over your fireplace?”
“Heavens, no. Frightful thing. Full of poison!” Burton became quiet for a moment, and it seemed to me he had slipped into a particularly vivid, especially dark memory. He c
ontinued, his voice thoughtful. “I’ve seen some truly horrible things out there in the far reaches of the Empire. As we bring civilisation to the wild, some of the wild slips into civilisation. Who would have ever thought a werewolf would come to Ireland’s shores? I fear there are even more terrible creatures right behind it.”
“Well, I say we send it back into the wild, whimpering like the craven cur it is,” I said, raising my own flask for a toast. “We shall make these shores safe for mad dogs and Irishmen once more!”
Burton seemed cheered by my remark, but I felt disquieted. What hope was there for our expedition if our leader was relying on my meagre courage to buoy his own?
I would like to say that Greystones is a charming, picturesque fishing village. I would like to but cannot. It is a squalid shantytown that smells of rotten fish and rotten sailors – many of them pirates, I suspect. If I were a werewolf, it is just the sort of place I would seek out.
Remote, rocky and shrouded in mist, Greystones hardly looked the part of a busy seaport. Only a single ship of any size was in the harbour that day, a Russian schooner called the Demeter (which will play a part in this tale later on).
Apparently, the village was quite isolated until recently. Stoker told us that the railway line was put in a few years back to bring trade from its tiny harbour to the surrounding area and on to Dublin. The scheme seems to have enlivened the place, but in a most unwholesome way. Rather than the bustling, cheerful harbour town officials may have imagined, it feels shabby and grim and has an air of danger that I suspect is only partially attributable to the recent killing.
It is big enough to have an inn, if one could call it that. We secured the only three rooms and I was forced to share with Willie and Stoker. (The first of the horrors I faced on that trip!)
Florence, dearest, the tone of this letter has been light so far, I will admit. However, let us both remember that a horrible deed had been done in this village. A young woman was savagely killed. The mood of the villagers was sullen and fearful. Some businesses were closed and houses boarded up. Only the fishermen and Russian sailors were out on the streets that day.
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