“Bram did as he was told and, in an instant, he appeared to be mesmerised.
“‘Sleep, my child.’ The man turned to Mary. ‘He is seven years of age?’
“‘This very night,’ Mary said.
“‘Could this be the one?’ he asked the Gipsy woman as he touched the boy’s ginger hair.
“‘It is written that snatching an innocent from the grip of death will protect him from curses, repel the evil eye and allow him to open the doors between worlds,’ she said.
“‘He will not become….’ The man fell silent.
“‘Like you? No. If you give and do not take, his innocence will protect him.’
“‘It has been so long since I have fed. I fear the act of giving will destroy me. I am weak. It takes all my strength to not succumb to the monster within.’ I caught a glimpse of the man’s face and saw that his eyes, so difficult to look away from, were anguished.
“The old woman seemed much more certain. ‘It has been a long time since you have killed. If you are not the one to break the curse, no one is.’
“I trembled in the cupboard, unsure of what I was seeing. What evil pagan ritual was about to be performed? My mouth fell open in a silent scream as I watched the man bite at his own wrist, causing blood to trickle down his arm. He put his wrist up to Bram’s mouth and the boy began to suckle like a pup.
“I fell to my knees, my legs unable to hold me up. I wanted to scream, to wake the household, but nothing would come. I fell forwards and the cupboard door swung open as I tumbled into the room. Blackness enveloped me and I fainted dead away.
“The next morning, I awoke in my bed. With the morning light warming the room, I was sure it had all been a bad dream. For a moment, I was at peace. But then I felt the bandage around my neck.”
Sister Agnes’s hand went to her neck then, and I wished the nun’s habit was just a bit more revealing. (Diary, I am not having impure thoughts, I swear; I just wanted to see the bite marks.)
“I cried out and Mary came rushing in. ‘Calm down child, all is well! It was a small price to pay for Bram’s life,’ she said. It was then I noticed the bandage around her own neck. ‘He took just what he needed from us to replenish what he gave to the boy.’
“I feared I would become a monster, but she assured me that one bite would not be enough to harm me.
“At that moment, Bram himself came running into my room. ‘What is wrong? Are you all right, Bonnie?’
“‘She just had a bad dream,’ Mary said.
“But I had forgotten my troubles the moment I saw Bram running. He got better each day after that. The doctor proclaimed it a miracle, but I knew it was not the work of God. But who was I to tell? Would they believe me, or think me mad?
“I left the household that spring and entered the convent.”
She paused, spent.
“That is a remarkable story, Sister Agnes,” I said.
She smiled sadly. “You don’t believe me.”
I rushed to assure her that I did. “And for what it’s worth, I think you did the right thing.”
Her eyes were troubled. “Well, sometimes I think the whole episode was a horrible dream. But then I look into the mirror and see the scars on my neck and know that I have been touched by evil. I have no right even to enter this holy place, but I fear to leave it. In any event, it is your secret and your burden now, Mr. Wilde.”
She bade me farewell and I gathered my things and left.
There you have it. What are we do to with this information, diary? I am having second thoughts about telling Florrie of his condition, for it would just upset her unnecessarily and not even I am that sort of cad.
Stoker may be part monster and her life could be in danger. However, I must confess I do not believe this. He saved my life once from a vampire and I admit he at least tries to be a virtuous person.
Should I tell him the tale if he does not remember it? Would he even believe me? Is this the cause of his second sight and would it bring him comfort to know the origin? Or would it only anger him that I investigated his past? I will not bring him comfort, nor do I wish to anger him further, so for now I will keep this to your pages, dear diary.
I put all this behind me and return to London tomorrow, to see where life takes me next.
Letter from Ellen Terry to Lillie Langtry, 6th of February 1879
Archivist’s note: At this time Lillie Langtry was the mistress of the Prince of Wales and was not yet the famous actress she was to become. She saved the letters from Ellen Terry for her entire life, so one can assume she found them entertaining at the very least. We are not sure how she responded to these letters as Ellen Terry did not save any of her return correspondence.
My dearest Lillie,
I hope this letter finds you well in your little Red House in Bournemouth.
I have settled into my life at the Lyceum quite well, but thankfully I am not there quite as many hours a day now. I have finally secured lodgings of my own and am no longer staying at the theatre.
My needs are modest, and as such I have hired a room, as the return address on this letter reflects. I have become acquainted with Florence Stoker, the wife of our theatre manager, and through her met Lucy Mayhew. Lucy lives with her Aunt Agatha, who, it turns out, would welcome the additional income provided by a respectable young woman lodger. Unable to locate one, she settled for a theatrical Gipsy such as me! She has a cook and a maid who see to all my needs and this lets me concentrate fully on the play at hand.
Lucy and I have become fast friends and she is grateful for the company, for her aunt travels frequently. I am glad to be there, particularly now, as Lucy has recently taken ill. Nothing to worry about, the doctor assures us, nothing more than anaemic blood for which he has prescribed a strong tonic. Still, I feel better being there to check on her daily.
And for my own part, I am relieved to not spend another night in that eerie theatre. As I told you in my last letter, the recent robbery left me quite shaken. I still wonder what was in that book that made it so valuable to a thief?
On my remaining nights there I made sure my door was securely bolted and my favourite prop sword close to hand.
My new director I find to be very off-putting. Oh, not as a director, for there he is patient and helpful, but when not working with actors he is a stern taskmaster. Poor Mr. Stoker. He is at Mr. Irving’s beck and call at all times. He is not only responsible for the day-to-day operation of the theatre, but also performs the duties of a personal servant! Scarcely a moment goes by in which Irving is not barking an order at him or making a complaint about how things are being done, all of which Stoker seemingly takes in stride.
Strangely, now that we are in the thick of rehearsals, Irving insists that we work only at night, for that is when the play will be performed and he is of the opinion that we will do well to set our ‘performance clocks’, as he calls them, to this time.
After rehearsal, when the actors have been let go, poor Mr. Stoker must take down copious performance notes under Irving’s dictation. This can go on well into the night, I am told. I wonder how Mrs. Stoker feels about the hours her husband keeps. She is far too diplomatic to complain about it to a member of the company!
Irving himself stays up all night, poring over his books until the sun comes up. He then sleeps most of the day, rising in the afternoon to prepare for another night’s work. I suppose a life in the theatre has accustomed him to such hours.
He is an odd duck in many ways. I have never seen him partake in drink (which is extremely rare for theatre people, who, as you know, often do so with gusto). He holds to all the tiresome theatrical superstitions: actors must not wish each other luck before a performance, we must never mention the name of the Scottish play, and all mirrors must be covered when he enters a room.
He has not much of a social life, so far as I can tell. He does a
ttend soirees from time to time if invited by a patron of the arts, but I have never seen him go out with friends. Aside from Mr. Stoker, his closest friend must be a Reverend Wilkins, whom he has known for many years.
I have never seen two friends more different from one another. Irving is thin, pale and of sombre mood, while Wilkins is quite plump, rosy-cheeked and jovial. He is quick with a joke and, unlike Irving, is not one to pass up a good meal or bit of drink.
I would have never reckoned Mr. Irving for a religious man (for I know he does not attend any church), but when the good reverend visits they spend much time praying and going over religious texts in Irving’s office. Perhaps Irving is just humouring a friend, but he does seem in better spirits when Wilkins visits.
As for my social life, I am afraid there will be none until the closing night of this play. As we are often reminded, the Lyceum and its company have very high standards and I am consumed by my desire to live up to them. If this is not the finest Ophelia to grace the London stage in a generation, I shall consider it a personal failure!
In particular, I do not see as much of our dear friend Oscar as I would like. He detests Mr. Stoker and refuses to set foot in the Lyceum as long as he works there, though I expect I can persuade him to attend a performance. (Have you ever known Oscar to pass up the opportunity to be seen at an opening night?) He has even talked about challenging Mr. Stoker to a duel! Oscar being Oscar, to be sure, but I hope he can find it in his heart to truly forgive Florence and to at least be civil to Mr. Stoker. If Oscar has any aspirations as a playwright, it would not be in his best interests to keep the manager of the Lyceum an enemy.
Write back soon.
Love,
Ellen
From the Diary of Oscar Wilde, 12th of February 1879
Dearest diary,
You’ll remember, future Oscar, that I’ve written about Frank’s portrait clientele, comprising the lovely and fashionable of London society. Well, they’re all as plain as dinner plates compared to the young man I met yesterday when I wandered into Frank’s studio.
It was late afternoon and the sun was approaching the horizon, bathing the model in a rich golden light, and lending a warm glow to his flaxen hair. Frank had posed him standing, wearing an Italian suit that perfectly complemented his tall, lithe frame. In his right hand he held an open pocket watch, and he was looking off into the distance as if waiting for a train, or perhaps a late lover’s coach.
When our eyes met, I felt that I was growing pale. He gazed at me, tilting his head slightly – Frank must have been working on another part of the portrait or he surely would have been annoyed at the tiny movement – and a curious sensation of terror came over me. I knew that I had come face to face with someone whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art. I did not want this influence in my life.
His still face broke into a playful smile as though he knew my thoughts and found them amusing.
I don’t know how to explain it to you. Something seemed to tell me that I was on the verge of a terrible crisis in my life. I had a strange feeling that fate had in store for me exquisite joys and exquisite sorrows, great temptations and momentous choices that would determine what kind of man I would be – and I felt certain I would choose wrong, all the while knowing what was right. I grew afraid and turned to quit the room. It was not conscience that made me do so; it was a sort of cowardice. I take no credit to myself for trying to escape the temptations that await.
Frank glanced away from his canvas long enough to see the look of astonishment on my face.
“Beautiful, isn’t he,” Frank whispered. “I am afraid he is the property of Lord Basil Wotton. Well, he is his patron in any event. Lord Basil is the one paying for this portrait.”
I doubted that the young man could hear what we were saying, but he knew he was being discussed. I regained my composure and turned to inspect the painting, which was nearly complete. It was remarkable, even for Frank. He had managed to capture his subject’s elemental nature on the canvas, right down to the spark of life in the young man’s eyes.
“Frank,” I said, shifting my gaze from portrait to model, “please introduce me to your friend.” He remained in pose, except that his eyes darted up and down as if he were trying to take me all in.
“Derrick Pigeon, Oscar Wilde,” Frank said, returning his attention to his canvas. “Derrick plays the piano like Mozart, or so I am told. I have never heard him play myself. And Oscar does…what do you do, Oscar?”
“Think mostly. And from time to time I write my thoughts down as a poem or a witty letter to a fascinating person,” I said.
“Quit grinning like a school girl, Derrick,” Frank scolded. “It is most unbecoming and I am but moments away from completing this wretched painting.”
“Sorry,” said Derrick, staring again into the imaginary distance. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wilde. Satisfying to finally put a face to the name…and to the stories, only half of which I hope are true.”
“Half are true and the other half I made up myself,” I replied.
“That is a relief,” Derrick said. “I didn’t think any one man could be that bawdy all the time.”
“Perhaps not all the time, but I am a work in progress,” I said. “And what sort of stories should I be telling about you?”
“Only dull ones so far, I’m afraid. I am quite new to London society and its gossip.”
Frank tossed his brush down with a loud clatter and proclaimed the painting finished.
Derrick stuffed the watch back into its pocket and rushed over to see the portrait. He grasped it by the sides and yanked it off the easel as if he were a boy grabbing a present on Christmas Day.
“Careful, the paint’s not dry,” Frank said testily.
“It is brilliant!” Derrick studied the portrait up and down. “It is like looking into a mirror. Better, for I have never seen my soul in a mirror.”
Frank gently pulled the canvas from his hands. “Well then, all the more important that you let it dry properly. We wouldn’t want your soul smearing onto your waistcoat.” He set it back down on the easel and backed away to get a better look. “What do you think, Oscar?”
“It’s marvellous. You have truly outdone yourself this time, Frank.”
“It helps to have the perfect model. And to have the light of youth radiating from him,” Frank said, and the way he spoke held nothing of flattery or polite conversation; it was a simple statement of fact, an artist appreciating his subject in the same way a butcher might comment that the slab of meat before him was particularly fresh. He turned to Derrick and added, “Your benefactor should be pleased.”
“Yes, the old fop should be happy to hang this in his study,” Derrick said. His face went all sad, which distressed me more than it should have. “Why is good art wasted on fools? The sooner I can get away from the old letch the better.”
Derrick plopped himself down in a big, overstuffed chair Frank keeps by the window. “I suppose I’ll be old one day, like Lord Basil. And I’ll be the one chasing youth and trying to suck the life out of its marrow.”
“Ageing is the only fair thing about life,” Frank said.
“What if it were possible to cheat it, though?” Derrick asked. “What if you could remain young forever? Wouldn’t that be grand?”
“It might grow tiresome after a few hundred years,” I said. “My God, the old men at the club are dreadfully bored and most of them are barely past sixty.”
“There is a difference between bored and boring,” Frank said, cleaning off his brushes.
Derrick let out a sigh. “The sun is setting and I must be off to perform at one of Lord Basil’s mixers.” He stood and fetched his overcoat and hat. “You and Frank should come to the Cock and Bull this Saturday, Mr. Wilde. I play there for my friends. Nothi
ng classical, just a good old singsong.”
“Please, I insist you call me Oscar. That does sound delightful but getting Frank out of the house these days is a bit of a struggle,” I said, not knowing whether or not I hoped he would urge me to come alone if necessary.
“I will come,” Frank said. “If only to see Oscar enter such a place. It’s fish and chips, Oscar, not escargots.”
“You tease, but I am an Irishman after all. I am at home in any pub. Remind me to tell you about the Blue Moon in Greystones.”
“Good, it is settled then. I will see you there on Saturday night,” said Derrick, cheery once more after his momentary thoughtfulness. He bade us farewell and took his leave.
Frank was already staring critically at the portrait again, and I quietly finished cleaning his brushes to mitigate the temptation I knew he was feeling to deepen this shadow or repaint that trouser cuff. The thing was perfect as it was. When I finished, I suggested tea and Frank agreed. As we left the studio, I looked once more upon the portrait, and for the first time it was Frank who had to remind me to come along and have a bite to eat.
From the Journal of Bram Stoker, 15th of February 1879
11:31 p.m.
I am shaken, to be sure. For the second time within a month, I have been attacked on the street. There is nothing like an assault upon one’s person to make a man feel like a helpless child.
What brought on the attack, I do not know. If it were money they were after, why not say so? A proper highwayman would give the command ‘stand and deliver’ and the like. These villains asked nothing of me.
I was leaving the theatre to go home for supper, as I often do, before returning for the evening’s rehearsal. It was very foggy and a moonless night, a perfect environment for thieves of all sorts.
I do not even remember hearing footfalls behind me, just a sudden plunge into darkness as a burlap sack was pulled down over my head. At first, I feared another vampire attack, but these men were too clumsy and I could struggle against them.
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