The news that a vampire had been a guest in his own home understandably came as a shock to Willie. He paled visibly, and his hand shook as he took a swig of gin from his flask, then poured the rest of its contents into his teacup.
He suggested I talk to Captain Burton about the situation, which of course had been my first thought as well. When I pointed out that the captain is currently in India, Willie asked, “What are you going to do?”
“Me?” I replied. “I was hoping ‘we’ would think of something. Willie, you are the only one I can turn to for help. Anyone else would think me quite mad.”
“Oscar wouldn’t think you mad,” he said. “But I can see why you couldn’t ask him for help after pilfering his bride-to-be.”
Indeed. Oscar would just as soon kill me as any vampire. And truth be told, I do not care to spend time with him any more than he wants to see me. I would have been able to put aside our differences in temperament under normal circumstances, but the situation with Florence makes that quite impossible now.
“Would you be able to track this thing down, even if you did want to kill it?” Willie asked.
I thought it best not to burden him with knowledge of my second sight. Oscar knowing is bad enough. I pointed out that the creature seemed to be tracking me down. Willie then suggested that I consult his mother’s library, which is quite extensive on subjects such as this. I readily agreed.
“And can I count on you to help dispatch them should it come to that?” I asked.
“Errr, I don’t know, Bram. I think killing one supernatural creature in a lifetime is more than enough, don’t you?”
I was a bit perturbed at his apparent cowardice. “You were not actually the one who killed the werewolf, though. Perhaps I am talking to the wrong Wilde brother after all.”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t. Did I say that? I just meant why are you taking the weight of the world on your shoulders? Do your research, figure out how to kill this thing and then we’ll go to the authorities and let them handle it. Captain Burton will back us up. They’ll have to believe him.”
I am forced to admit that even in his inebriated state, Willie was making a great deal of sense.
From the Journal of Bram Stoker, 15th of January 1879
2:12 p.m.
Most of what I know about vampires comes from fiction: Varney the Vampire and other stories of that ilk. My limited experience with real vampires has shown me only that they are strong, fleet of foot and are turned by a silver cross.
Willie is right: if I am to combat these creatures, I must research the subject further. And so, I paid a visit to Lady Wilde and her extensive collection of folklore and supernatural texts today.
I was uncertain how she might receive me – she lost a daughter-in-law, after all, in addition to Oscar losing a bride – but she welcomed me warmly and asked after Florence. It was very nice to see her again and I apologised for not visiting sooner. I’m sure she sensed that I was concerned that a visit might bring about an encounter with Oscar. Thankfully, he was not visiting when I arrived.
Lady Wilde showed me into a small parlour, its shabbiness somewhat negated by furniture that I recognised from the Wilde’s Dublin home, fading reminders of the elegance in which they once lived. I told Lady Wilde of my interest in vampire lore but did not mention that I had been attacked by one. As fond as I am of her, I knew such news would not remain between us.
“You’re married now,” she scolded. “You should put monster hunting behind you.”
I agreed and claimed my interest was purely academic.
“Let’s see,” she mused. “The folk tales vary greatly. Vampires are mostly thought to be the un-baptised dead or recently executed criminals who come back to life, crawl out of the grave and feed off the blood of the living. A more scientific theory has it that eating tainted beef causes the affliction.”
She searched her shelves briefly before pulling out a dusty volume. “The most scholarly work on the subject was done in 1746 by Dom Augustine Calmet. His study of the subject was set off by an increase of vampire reports from Germany and Eastern Europe. Here’s an English translation.”
I read the work with great interest. Calmet was impressed with the detail and corroborative testimonies regarding incidents of vampirism coming out of Eastern Europe and believed that it was unreasonable to simply dismiss them. As a theologian, he recognised that the existence and actions of such beings could have an important bearing on various theological conclusions concerning the nature of the afterlife. Calmet thought it necessary to establish the veracity of such reports and to understand the phenomena in light of the church’s worldview. The Catholic Church roundly condemned the reports and, especially, the desecration of the bodies of people believed to be vampires.
Calmet defined a vampire as a person who had been dead and buried and then returned from the grave to disturb the living by sucking their blood and even causing death. The only remedy for vampirism was to dig up the body of the vampire and either sever its head and drive a stake through the chest or burn the body. As Oscar and I had seen, chopping off the head did indeed turn a vampire to dust, so that much of Calmet’s information, at least, is reliable.
Some of the other texts Lady Wilde provided claimed a vampire could not come into a home unless invited and that they were unable to cross running water. There was nothing on the crucifix keeping them at bay, but silver and garlic were mentioned quite often as protection from the creatures.
What I found the most disappointing in the accounts was that none of these vampires looked like Count Ruthven or the one I had encountered in the alley. They were not articulate, nor could they even pass for a normal human. They were half-rotted corpses, reanimated and mostly brainless.
I have learned nothing more on how to detect vampires or exploit their weaknesses.
I thanked Lady Wilde for her help, promised to visit again and left. But just outside on the street, I ran into Oscar in all his foppish regalia. He was dressed in blue velvet with a purple top hat, and before I had even had a chance to take in his ridiculous appearance in its entirety, he came at me swinging a cane.
“You!” he screamed. “How dare you come to my mother’s house, you, you scoundrel! I have had the common decency to avoid you, why could you not do the same?”
I stepped aside to avoid the cane and he stumbled forwards and lost the hat off his head.
I thought it best not to engage him further and tried to walk around him. He huffed and puffed and blocked my path.
“I should strike you down,” he said. “It is bad enough you corrupted my sweet, young, impressionable Florence!”
“You are being overly dramatic, Oscar, as usual,” I said.
“Overly dramatic? You snatched her away, and after I was kind enough to save your life!”
This very notion angered me to no end. I shouted back, “I wouldn’t have been in danger if your family hadn’t snatched me away!”
Oscar glared at me coldly. “You, sir, are no gentleman,” he spat. “You not only stole my fiancée, you did so by betraying my confidence.”
“I did no such thing.”
“Are you denying you told her about finding me in a…compromising situation?” He at least had the decency to look somewhat shamefaced at the memory.
“I am denying it, yes,” I said. I lowered my voice, as decorum dictates when speaking of such matters. “I would never repeat what I had seen you doing with the count in the cellar, especially to a woman. Most especially to Florence. If you had any regard for the feelings of others you would have suspected the truth by now. She turned to me for comfort when you were off gallivanting around Greece. That was no way for a recently engaged man to behave. She had her suspicions of your character even without me saying a single negative word about you.”
As usual, logic proved no deterrent to Oscar’s volatile whim. “Still, yo
u took advantage,” he exclaimed. He thought a moment, then added, “You used your voodoo on her! You put some sort of spell on her, for that is the only explanation why a beautiful girl like that would be interested in a low-class brute such as yourself!”
He was foaming at the mouth now, all worked up like a tea kettle about to shoot steam out of its top. He was causing such a scene that passersby were stopping.
Willie came out to see what the ruckus was about. He seemed very amused by the situation. “Everything all right, lads?”
“Hardly. Your brother here is about to bash my brains in with that cane of his.”
“Shall I get you a cane, Bram, so you two can duel?”
“I should challenge you to a duel. Luckily for you, I abhor violence,” Oscar said, lowering his cane and his voice. “But if I ever see you on my mother’s doorstep again I will give you such a thrashing as you have never had before.”
“Consider me frightened off then,” I mocked, as if he were a little dog yapping at my heels.
Of course, this only served to antagonise him further. He glared at me and his voice turned icy cold. “Remember, Mr. Stoker, we all have things we wish to hide from the world. I suggest you show more discretion in the future.”
I took this as the threat it was: that he could, at any time, tell the world of my curse.
“Oh, Oscar, I doubt he will steal another fiancée from you,” Willie said. “Come inside before the neighbours have you arrested for disturbing the peace.”
I turned and left, determined to avoid any further confrontation with Oscar Wilde. If I never see that twit again, I shall consider it a life well-lived.
From the Diary of Oscar Wilde, 15th of January 1879
Dear future Oscar,
Do you remember the day you nearly came to blows with Stoker? For me, that day was today.
He had the gall to call on my mother as though he has nothing for which he should feel ashamed! I am amazed he could be so brazen after his betrayal, for despite his protestations I am almost certain he told Florence of my momentary indiscretion with Count Ruthven. It did not matter to him that the monster had me mesmerised and I clearly was not myself. What Florrie must think of me!
He swore to me it would be a secret between us, then used the information to destroy our engagement and woo her away. Bad enough that he snatched away my chance at happiness, but the thought of my vivacious, charming Florrie torn from the life of joy and beauty which I could have provided and plunged into the dour, humourless world that he inhabits is almost too much to bear.
Ah, but he knows I have a secret of his as well. He is plagued by visions of the supernatural, and it is his greatest fear that this will be revealed. However, who would believe such a thing? Certainly not levelheaded Florrie, who, no matter how much I tried to convince her otherwise, thinks the werewolf hunt was a fictional account that sprang forth from my fertile imagination. (It is hard to blame her, for my imagination is one of my finest features.)
We, dear yours truly, will need some sort of proof.
From the Journal of Bram Stoker, 16th of January 1879
7:13 p.m.
After my vexing day, I slept much more soundly than I had expected to. Still, I awoke with the feeling that my dreams had been troubled, though my only clear recollection of them was of my childhood nanny, Mary, caring for me when I was ill.
Florence was in one of her good moods this morning and I made a point of being cheerful and attentive over breakfast. She kissed me so sweetly as she saw me off that I found myself looking forward to my return home even more than usual.
En route to the theatre, though, I grew uneasy again. On the tram, I endeavoured to read my newspaper but found myself peering at my fellow passengers with trepidation, looking for that telltale green glow. I could not tell if the pounding of my heart was the onset of another spell, or merely the dread of one.
It was with relief that I entered the relative calm of the theatre, where at least I knew that the challenges that awaited me were of the earthly variety. I spent the day productively enough, immersing myself in plan and detail and duty to the exclusion of all troubling distractions. Mr. Irving arrived in the afternoon for our first complete ‘stagger-through’ rehearsal of Hamlet, which I attended so that I could make note of any necessary production details. There was much stopping and starting as the cast and crew worked through details of entrances, exits and other movements about the stage, but I still found it stirring to hear the Bard’s words brought to life by so talented an ensemble. Miss Terry as Ophelia was particularly affecting and I told her so after the read-through.
“Thank you, Mr. Stoker, but you are too kind,” she replied. “I was merely giving my character some slight shade and colour today. I have much work to do yet before she is truly brought to life.”
“And that effort is what makes you a true artist, Miss Terry,” I said. “I have no doubt that by the time we open, Ophelia’s confusion and despair will be felt all the way to the last row. I will stand in the lobby as the audience files out and shall hear nothing but your name and an assortment of superlatives.”
A woman like Ellen Terry is accustomed to glowing reviews, but she smiled and blushed at that, which made me smile myself, a first for the day.
“I only hope to do justice to the text and to the production,” she murmured. “Henry is a demanding director and I fear I will not be able to satisfy him.”
“I myself have no such fears, and I can tell you with certainty that Mr. Irving does not either.” I lowered my voice. “One wonders, however, about our Laertes,” I said, with a knowing nod towards young Will Marpole, an actor only recently added to the company to replace another who had suffered a temporarily disabling injury. “He seems a bit over his depth.”
“Do not be too hard on Will,” she replied. “He will find his way. Or if he does not, Henry will somehow pull another Laertes out of his sleeve.”
At that moment, Mr. Irving’s commanding voice rang out: “Ellen, a word, please.” With a smile and a slight curtsy, she took her leave. I returned to my office to see what crises had occurred while I tarried at our imaginary Elsinore.
As I passed through the theatre lobby later in the afternoon, a slightly rumpled, bemused-looking, middle-aged vicar approached. “Excuse me, young man,” he said. “There is nobody at the front. Perhaps you could help me?”
“Certainly, sir,” I said, wondering where our box office attendant had got to this time. “Are you looking for tickets to Hamlet? Come along to the box office and we’ll see what we can do.”
“No, no,” he said. “I am looking for Henry Irving. He is expecting me, I believe,” he said, slightly out of breath. The man was portly and his cheeks red from exertion. “Excuse me, it was a long walk from the railway station.”
I had no particular reason to disbelieve the man, but people do on occasion misrepresent themselves in their desire to meet a favourite artist. Already in the short time I have been here, several young men have appeared at the stage door claiming to be suitors of Ellen Terry. I offered him a seat in the lobby and asked his name.
He introduced himself as the Reverend Richard Wilkins, and I went off in search of Mr. Irving.
I found him in his office making notes on his script and informed him of his visitor. He jumped up immediately, exclaiming, “Excellent! I have been awaiting his arrival.” As we hurried down the stairs to the lobby, he told me that the reverend is an old friend and a vicar in Salisbury. “We correspond regularly, but our meetings are too rare,” he said.
As we reached the lobby, he rushed forwards and clasped the reverend’s hand warmly. “Richard,” he said. “How glad I am to see you.”
“The pleasure is mine, Henry,” Wilkins replied. “I only wish my visit coincided with a performance of Hamlet.”
“You must return for opening night. Have you met my new manager, Stoker?” M
r. Irving asked, and I was surprised to find myself being ushered into the midst of this warm reunion, and even more surprised and gratified at his next words. “He’s the one I’ve written you about. Brilliant man, don’t know how I ever managed without him.”
I can only surmise that they must write each other frequently indeed if Mr. Irving would bother to tell the man about a new employee.
“Ah yes, Stoker. I should have guessed,” Reverend Wilkins said, smiling. “Recently arrived in the city from Dublin, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Indeed, I am,” I replied. “And enjoying London immensely, though I confess I have yet to explore it fully.”
“I’m certain that Henry here has scarcely given you the time,” Wilkins said, with a playful look at his friend. “Bit of a slave rider, this one, from what I gather.”
“I believe the term you’re looking for is ‘slave driver’, Richard,” Mr. Irving replied mildly. “And I deny all such charges. Officially.” He smiled at me, which I took as my cue to return to my duties.
“I would certainly testify in your favour, sir,” I said. “Nevertheless, I should attend to my work and leave the two of you to your visit.” I turned to bid farewell to Reverend Wilkins but didn’t get the chance.
“Nonsense,” Mr. Irving said. “Join us for tea, Stoker. I’m sure there’s nothing that can’t wait until later. Or tomorrow.” He turned to Wilkins. “Stoker is a newlywed, you see. I do hate to keep him from his evenings with his lovely wife, though admittedly I do from time to time.”
I hesitated. “I do not wish to intrude,” I said.
“Not at all, my boy,” Wilkins replied jovially. “Henry and I will have plenty of time to catch up. Please do join us.”
And so, I found myself at a shop down the street from the theatre, taking tea with my employer and his old friend. We were soon discussing Dublin, as Reverend Wilkins had been there just last year. “A lovely city,” he said. “I found the people to be a most welcoming and intelligent lot.”
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