Stoker's Wilde

by Steven Hopstaken

  Despite my broken heart, I worry about my dear Florrie and hope you will befriend and watch over her. She is very innocent and knows not of the ways of the world as you and I do.

  As if this betrayal were not bad enough, Stoker attracts dangerous elements to himself like flies to honey, moths to flame and society matrons to gossip. Twice in his company I have found myself fighting for my life – and worse, his! I will not go into the lurid details here but suffice to say keep your eye on him and your wits about you. I should take it somewhat amiss if any harm were to come to you through your unfortunate association with that scoundrel.

  On to more pleasant topics. I shall be moving to London myself soon, having completed my studies at Oxford last month. I shall be lodging with my friend Frank Miles at 13 Salisbury Street, London. Frank is a brilliant portrait artist, and I do hope you will sit for him one day. He can capture the essence of a subject in a way that no other artist can match, and I can think of no one more deserving of that particular immortality than you, my dear Ellen.

  I hope to see you often upon the stage, now that I shall be so near.

  Your loyal subject,

  O.W.

  P.S. I must ask of you one more favour. I will be sending to you a silver cross. It was a gift from Florence to me. Please see that it is returned to her. Tell her to wear it at all times as protection from evil. Superstitious, I know, but it will give me some comfort knowing it is around her lovely neck.

  Letter from Florence Balcombe to James Balcombe, 20th of December 1878

  Dearest Father,

  Saints be praised, here we are, settled in London at last!

  I wish you could see our house, Father. We have six comfortable rooms on a tree-lined street in the Bloomsbury neighbourhood, near to the theatre district. Please do not fear that this attracts an unsavoury element; Bloomsbury is pleasant and sedate, and quite safe. You will be happy to know the head of Scotland Yard lives just around the corner!

  We are settling into married life quite nicely and are becoming acquainted with our neighbours and surroundings. We have engaged a housemaid – Mrs. Norris, a capable woman of some experience – and you would laugh to see how she defers to me as the lady of the house. I am doing my best in that capacity. Mother warned me that running a household is more difficult than it appears and she was right. Even in a home as small as ours, there are many details that must be seen to and I sometimes fear that I will never become adept at juggling them all. But I persevere! As we become established in our new society we shall be expected to entertain and I wish nothing more than to make a home to which my husband will proudly invite his friends and colleagues.

  As for my social life, you will be happy to know my good friend Lucy Mayhew lives but across the back garden with her Aunt Agatha, and I see her often. She is a dear reminder of home, and we have been a great help to one another, two Dublin girls learning the ways of London. I, of course, also have married life to adjust to while Lucy, though engaged, is as yet unwed.

  Father, I know you have had your qualms regarding my marriage. It was sudden, true, and I realise that you feel my choice was capricious and careless of the feelings of others. Please know that I took my previous engagement very seriously and deeply regret any pain caused by its conclusion. I shall always be fond of Oscar but decided, ultimately, that marriage to him would not make either one of us happy in the long term. I feel that one day he will realise the same.

  I hope that soon you too will agree and will overcome your reservations about my husband. Bram is a fine man and he loves me deeply. Lest you worry that he whisked me away to London on a whim, please remember that he is here at the behest of one of the finest – and most successful – actors on the London stage. He is earning a substantial salary and his prospects are good for a long and rewarding career. It pains him deeply that we did not have an engagement of proper length, for he is very traditional when it comes to social conventions. It was I who concluded that a lengthy engagement was not practical, and pleaded with him for our married life to start straight away.

  I miss you terribly and think of you often. As my first Christmas away from home and family approaches, I know my homesickness will deepen. Please remember me this holiday and raise a glass to your loving daughter,

  Florrie

  P.S. I almost forgot to mention, I had tea today with the actress Ellen Terry! She is ever so nice and has taken me under her wing. Under her tutelage, you just may see yours truly upon the stage in the coming new year!

  Letter from Ellen Terry to Oscar Wilde, 23rd of December 1878

  My dear Oscar,

  Thank you for the poem and the much-needed flattery. No amount of skill on the part of the actress can make up for the loss of youth, but your letters always make me feel young again. And you provided a welcome diversion from the day-to-day drudgery of theatre life and a recent harrowing encounter, which I shall relate shortly.

  But first, I must answer your assertions regarding Mr. Stoker’s moral character. I can attest he seems very much in love with Florence and appears to be a fine husband. I have met the young woman in question and believe her to be quite happy in her new marriage, excited to be in the bustling heart of London and, aside from an overly romanticised view of life in the theatre, adapting to her circumstances quite remarkably. (I hope you truly do wish her the best, Oscar, and that this is good news to you.) I do perceive the naiveté to which you alluded, but she is young.

  Perhaps Mr. Stoker’s pilfering of your fiancée was his only fall from grace. Our acquaintance has been brief, but he appears to be a quick learner, a shrewd manager and conscientious to a fault. He has already whipped the stage crew into shape (no mean feat, I assure you) and set Mr. Irving’s affairs in good order (possibly an even more challenging task). Though he only started on the 14th of December, under his direction all the sets have been built and the parts cast for our next production.

  I am looking forward to playing Ophelia once again, but despite your over-abundant (nevertheless, most welcome) praise, I am quite nervous at the prospect. No, I am not being maudlin about my age again, Oscar; it is simply that I wish to make a good impression on Mr. Irving, and I am afraid this ‘natural’ style of acting he demands is very intimidating. One must actually feel the emotions being portrayed. Now I ask you, how is that acting? However, I am up to the challenge!

  But not all is well here. I must thank you for your advice to keep my wits about me. At first, I took your warning about Mr. Stoker and the company he keeps to be, quite frankly, petty jealousy. (Do not resent me for that, dear Oscar. I thought no less of you for it. It would be a very natural reaction on your part.) However, since meeting Mr. Stoker my life has been put in danger.

  Perhaps it is merely a coincidence, and I must add that he was nowhere near when the event took place, but I have heard of those born under unlucky stars who attract bad luck just as surely as killing a spider will bring rain.

  The incident happened just last night.

  I am staying in a dressing room at the Lyceum until I can secure my own accommodations. The theatre is a different place at night. During the day there is so much activity and noise – with sets being built, actors practising swordplay and the like – but at night it is eerily quiet. The only sounds you hear are rafters creaking as the old building sways ever so slightly in the wind and the occasional rat scurrying about. It does make one uneasy.

  In general, I am not totally alone, as the property master, Mr. Arnott, has a room in the basement, and Mr. Irving often works in his office until sunup.

  Last night, however, Mr. Irving was out dining with a friend and Mr. Arnott had gone off to Leeds to acquire props.

  I had not yet dressed for bed and was going over my rehearsal notes from Mr. Irving (which are always quite copious) when I heard footsteps in his office overhead. This did not set me to worrying, as I often hear him pacing about and so I thought nothi
ng of it. Then I remembered that he was out. Still, I thought, nothing to worry about, it could be Mr. Stoker, who often works late in an office adjacent.

  But then: the sound of breaking glass!

  What to do? Surely it must be a burglar. At first I thought I should stay quiet and wait for him to leave, but I felt cowardly doing so. I made my way stealthily to the property room and acquired a sword; a prop, true, but real enough to crack the skull of a criminal.

  As I climbed the staircase to Mr. Irving’s office, I had second thoughts about confronting a burglar on my own. I considered going outside and yelling for the police, but just as I started to turn back, the intruder threw open the door and bolted down the stairs to make his getaway. I recognised him straight away. It was the young lad who runs errands for Mr. Irving. He had a large book clutched in his hands. The boy was shocked to see me standing there, especially brandishing a sword.

  I recovered my wits first and resolutely blocked his path, commanding “Stop!” in my most forceful stage voice. I might have been more aggressive in my stance than I should have been considering he’s no more than ten years of age, but then he had given me quite a start.

  “Blimey!” he screamed. He shielded his head with the book, which was more than up to the task, being quite large. “Don’t chop me, mum!” I recognised the book. Mr. Irving keeps it in his office, under a glass case.

  “Why are you stealing that book?” I demanded.

  “I’m not, I’m just borrowin’ it!”

  “Give it to me,” I ordered. I lowered the sword, and this proved to be my undoing. The little urchin took that moment to push past me down the stairs. His shove made me drop the sword right onto my foot. With a throbbing foot, I could not give chase and he was out the door in a matter of moments.

  I hobbled out just in time to see him hand the book off to someone in a hansom cab in exchange for a coin, and flee around a corner. I flagged down a police officer, but by that time the child and the cab were both long gone. I know him only as Dennis and so I was of limited use as an informant. I related the incident to Mr. Irving this morning and he will pursue the investigation from here. He seemed quite vexed, naturally, and told me that the book was worth more than one hundred pounds! “And so much more,” he muttered, almost to himself. It must have some sentimental value to him, poor dear. I do hope he can recover it.

  So, that was my adventure. I must admit, I found it exhilarating! Perhaps I should hope that Mr. Stoker is as dangerous as you say so that I shall have further opportunities for thrilling escapades, though hopefully my foot will be spared in future.

  I am so happy to hear that you will soon be a Londoner. I look forward to seeing you much more often.

  Until then,

  Ellen Terry

  From the Journal of Bram Stoker, 5th of January 1879

  9:00 p.m.

  I look at my last entry in this journal with dismay as I realise how long it has been since I have troubled to set down my thoughts and experiences. I have been so busy that I have not felt I had the time to spare. Nevertheless, I resolve to make more of an effort, for I realise how quickly one’s memory of specific events and people can fade, and my life now is so rich and interesting – to me at least – that I know I shall want to recall it with as much detail as possible in years to come.

  My work at the Lyceum fills my days with challenges, problems, tasks and duties ranging from the mundane to the glamorous. Well, not truly glamorous, perhaps, but tangential to glamour, as when I had the opportunity to play host to none other than Alfred Lord Tennyson when he paid a visit to the theatre last week. I am pleased to say that we got on immediately and were soon engaged in a lively conversation that ranged from the great man’s own works to those of Edgar Allan Poe to boxing. He has a keen wit, as one would expect, but is also a strong and strapping man for his age and was apparently quite the athlete in his youth. We are considering staging one of his plays and I fervently hope that we do, as there are few authors for whom I carry stronger admiration.

  I am also more engaged than I had dared to hope in the creative aspects of the theatre, as on an evening last week when I sat up all night with Mr. Irving working on our upcoming production of Hamlet. I felt a true member of the company then as he read scenes aloud and we discussed how to stage them to best convey their theme and meaning.

  That night was exhausting and exhilarating in equal measure. I feared that Mr. Irving, being some years older than I, would overtire himself, but he seemed to take it in stride. Shortly before dawn he declared it a good night’s work and woke his driver – who had been dozing in the auditorium – to take him home for some well-deserved rest, bidding me to also get a few hours of sleep before the next work day began. I imagine after years in the theatre he is accustomed to odd hours and is as comfortable working all night as most of us are toiling away the daylight hours, and indeed, since that night I have observed that he rarely makes an appearance at the theatre before late afternoon and often works late through the night, though he usually does not require my services at this time.

  Of course, I have many other duties that, while less artistically fulfilling, are necessary and no less gratifying. Managing a theatre with the reputation and ambition of the Lyceum comprises myriad details. I estimate that I write upwards of fifty letters a day on matters large and small, and overseeing the staff and stage crew provides numerous opportunities to chide poor performance, intervene in petty squabbles and hear improbable excuses for tardiness. I endeavour to lead by example and hold myself to a higher standard than I expect from my staff. I feel that even in the short time I have held my position I have gained a measure of respect even from those to whom I have been forced to issue reprimands.

  The actors require more diplomatic handling for they are temperamental artists by nature. Still, they are a jolly bunch and dedicated to their craft. By and large, I like them immensely. Ellen Terry, our leading lady, has earned my particular respect and gratitude, having made me feel welcome at once. On my first day at the theatre I expected to be greeted by Mr. Irving but, finding him unavailable, felt somewhat at a loss. It was Miss Terry who took me by the arm and gave me a tour, introducing me to all and sundry, providing a running commentary on the theatre’s history and the professional resumés of various cast and crew members, and discreetly relating the occasional bit of gossip. I soon felt as though we had been friends for years, though I imagine an actress of her calibre is bound to have a talent for making one feel that way.

  Knowing we are new to the city and have made few acquaintances, she has even extended her friendship and hospitality to my dear Florence. They have taken tea together and I know Florence was thrilled. She aspires to the stage herself and while I have cautioned her not to assume that my position at the Lyceum can secure her a role – indeed, I have resolved not to mention her name when discussing casting decisions with Mr. Irving for fear he would think that I am abusing my station – I see no harm in her discussing the profession with Miss Terry.

  I am pleased to note that Florence is adjusting nicely to life in London and that Ellen Terry is not her only friend here. Lucy Mayhew, one of Florence’s oldest and dearest friends, lives nearby – we share back gardens, in fact – and they see each other often. It does my heart good to know that she has someone to talk to for I have observed that the first years of married life entail many changes and adjustments, more so for the wife than for the husband. The difference between a Miss and a Mrs. is vast, as a wife assumes new duties in managing a household and attending to the needs of her husband. This change is even more profound in Florence’s case, of course, as I have stolen her away from her home and family. I remind myself to be patient with her and any bouts of melancholy or sudden shifts in mood.

  From the London Times, 8th of January 1879

  British Museum Robbery Baffles Scotland Yard

  Unknown assailants broke into the British Museum on Satu
rday night and, after overpowering a guard, made off with a Roman artefact.

  It is the specificity of the item taken that has museum curators scratching their heads.

  “They could have stolen priceless paintings or jewellery, yet what they have taken was of little monetary value,” said Theodore Hyde-White, head curator. “They knew exactly what they wanted, for it was in a crate down in storage, and they had to move other crates to get to it. All of the other crates they left unopened.”

  The inventory of what is missing consists only of a single bronze spear tip. It was brought back to England during the Second Crusade, along with dozens of similar items.

  Police suspect it may be the work of religious zealots who may have confused the piece for a holy relic.

  “It may be a sect seeking the Spear of Longinus,” explained Hyde-White, “which is believed to be the spear that a Roman soldier used to pierce Christ’s side. But this spear is most likely from an earlier period.”

  Police have no leads and are seeking the public’s help in apprehending the thieves.

  “What they have stolen may be of little value,” said Detective David Naughten of Scotland Yard. “But they did assault a guard and we don’t take these things lightly.”

  Anyone having any information is encouraged to contact Scotland Yard immediately.

  White Worm Society Black Bishop Report, 9th of January 1879

  Operative: Anna Hubbard

  Location: London, England

  Reports continue to come in from our operatives that something is afoot in the world of the occult.

  A ten-year-old male street urchin was apprehended in our own library stealing valuable books of the occult. He apparently entered through a coal bin chute during the night and picked the lock on the library doors. Fairly impressive burglary skills for a child, I must admit.