Stoker's Wilde

by Steven Hopstaken

  Why is Oscar in the dream? Would I have been better off marrying him? Would I be in the condition I am now had I?

  Unable to sleep, I get up and go to the French doors that overlook the garden. The moonlight makes all things seem like granite statues and the statues themselves look like glowing moonstone.

  Strange, it is so quiet. Even at night, I hear the occasional carriage here in London, but tonight nothing disturbs the silence. I throw open the doors and step out, still in my sleeping gown. I do not even bother to put on a robe. Bram would scold me for immodesty. But there is no one awake to see me, or so I think. I am wrapped in the darkness.

  The night air is cool for summer. My body comes alive as the breeze’s insistent fingers caress my skin. The baby stirs as if it has become cold and uncomfortable. I do not care.

  I walk across the courtyard towards Lucy’s house. I see her doors are open as well. The curtains of her bedroom are blowing in the breeze.

  It’s then I hear a noise. A noise that should startle me, but it does not. It’s a sigh, then a moan coming from behind the hedges near the fountain. I know instantly what it is, and that decorum dictates my return home, but I follow the noise and my curiosity instead.

  I peer through the hedge. It is as if I have fallen into the world of a painting. I see Lucy bathed in moonlight; she lies on a stone bench. Her nightgown is pulled down around her shoulders, baring her breasts to the night. Her thighs are wrapped around a man. His naked buttocks are muscular and lean and thrusting up and down, back and forth in a slow, rhythmic dance. He buries his face in her neck. On her face is a look of ecstasy I have only seen on religious zealots in passion plays. Her groans are more animal than human. Her lover is eerily quiet and seems intent only on pleasing her. For a moment, I am filled with envy, but it quickly passes and is replaced by a lust of my own. Thoughts of Roman orgies and swarthy men in Bedouin tents fill my mind and stir my loins. I feel no shame. My own clothes feel like heavy chains keeping me tethered to the earth. I want to break free from them and fly into the night!

  I am mesmerised; only the baby’s stirring breaks my trance. My shame returns and I turn and flee, afraid I might be engulfed by their sin.

  I returned to my room, locking the doors and taking cover under my damp sheets, where my thoughts returned to the scene I had just witnessed. I am ashamed to say I touched myself like I wished Bram would touch me. After an intense moment of ecstasy, which I did not know was possible, I felt free of the thoughts once again and fell into a deep sleep. I dreamt it was a warm summer day and I was holding my new, beautiful baby. Bram was by my side and love once again filled our lives.

  Letter from the Black Bishop to Lord Alfred Sundry, 16th of June 1879

  Dear Lord Sundry,

  I have received your list of candidates and find them worthy of joining our order. All are of fine breeding and pious stock. Please proceed to give them the gift in the order I have indicated. After Saint George’s Day, we will have an unlimited supply of dragon’s blood; however, as of now, we must ration what we have. I believe we have enough of our red elixir to easily bring fifty into our ranks.

  I also agree with you on admitting those of lower standing, as long as they can provide a skill or artistic endeavour to our new world order.

  Keep in mind, siring must be kept to a minimum or we will have an exponential increase in our ranks that could not be contained. I am well aware we will need servants, guards and the like, but restraint must be used.

  My only concern on your list is Lord Wotton. I have heard rumours of his character that include sexual depravity, namely an unnatural attraction to young men.

  I for one do not hold much regard for gossip and if you can vouch for him I will accept your recommendation.

  BB ♝

  From the Diary of Oscar Wilde, 21st of June 1879

  Dear yours truly,

  I feel strangely grim and somehow virtuous at the moment – an odd combination for me as I generally feel neither. I have just returned from an interesting – and troubling – gathering hosted by Lord Basil Wotton, Derrick Pigeon’s benefactor. It took place at Wotton’s gaudy mansion near the Thames in Purfleet.

  The house is very large and of all periods back, I should say, to mediaeval times, for one part is of stone immensely thick, with only a few windows high up and heavily barred with iron. The rest of the house is just tacked on and looks quite out of place, as if another house had rolled down a hill and smashed into it.

  There are but a few houses close at hand, one being a very large dilapidated structure in full view of Lord Wotton’s property, much to his disdain. Derrick tells me that he has been trying to acquire the property, if only to burn it down, but the owners have moved off to unknown parts of Europe. This amuses Derrick to no end, as Lord Wotton laments about it daily, often shaking his fist and shouting obscenities at the empty house.

  I, of course, was surprised to get an invitation from Wotton, as I have it on good authority he does not approve of my friendship with Derrick. That authority was Derrick himself; the dear fellow thought I would be flattered to rate the disapproval of ‘the debauched old reprobate’, as he calls Wotton, and I suppose he’s right. It can only be jealousy that would cause him to dislike me and I must say it does please me to be seen as a serious rival for Derrick’s attentions. Even so, I thought it best to attend in hopes of striking up a friendship with him for Derrick’s sake. One of us must look out for the boy’s best interests. As it turns out, there was another reason I was invited, which I shall get to presently.

  I had never actually met Lord Wotton but took it from Derrick’s description that he would be old and decrepit. I was surprised to find him a handsome and distinguished gentleman, no more than fifty years of age. He dressed stylishly, but not as though he were striving to maintain the illusion of youth, and his full head of hair, slightly greying in a very dignified manner, would make him a fine catch for any well-bred widow of a certain age. He smiled often and acted the genial and generous host, but his eyes – a glittering, flinty grey – betrayed a certain hardness and reminded one that there was little warmth behind the smile.

  It was a lavish affair, I will give him that. Wine, champagne and other libations were in abundance, and waiters circled with delectable morsels on trays. There were many lords, ladies and dignitaries in attendance and the lamplight caused an excess of glittering on the jewels adorning the ears, fingers and décolletage of the ladies.

  To my chagrin, Henry Irving was there with the Stokers in tow. It’s bad enough that Stoker and I move in the same theatre circles, but to find him here was quite jarring. If anyone did not belong at that party it was he. Stoker blundered through the crowd like a big, lumbering ox. One would think he was drunk, but I am sure it was mere clumsiness, as I saw him abstaining from drink that night. He was dressed in a tweed suit that made him look like a burlap sack of potatoes and one could hear his donkey-like braying that passed for laughter throughout the night.

  He amused the upper-class guests as an oddity, I suppose, as he always had a crowd gathered around him. Or perhaps he was just basking in Henry Irving’s limelight. The wall of sycophants around Irving kept me from having to mingle with Stoker and for that I was grateful.

  Florence looked lovely in a pale yellow gown, cut in the lines of the latest spring fashions, and I noted that she still wears the silver cross I returned to her at the conclusion of our engagement. She has put on some weight and it suits her; she was always a trifle too thin in my opinion.

  Our paths crossed but briefly. She greeted me shyly, no doubt unsure of the reception she would receive. I confess that for one brief, petty moment I considered prolonging her discomfort. However, though I still regret our parting I find that my heart has, in fact, mended tolerably well and that my fondness for her outweighs my bruised pride. I smiled warmly and kissed her hand.

  “Mrs. Stoker,” I said, and she bl
ushed. “How lovely to see you. Honestly, it is,” I added, seeing that she was uncertain whether to take me at my word.

  “And I am so happy to see you, Oscar,” she said, clearly relieved. “Your brother dines with us frequently so I hear news of you from time to time. I am glad to hear that you have been writing again. You have such great talent.”

  I was mildly annoyed that Willie had been bandying my name about and spreading word about work that I am not yet ready to discuss myself. “It is kind of you to feed Willie,” I said. “It lifts some of the burden of his upkeep from our dear mother.”

  At that moment, we were obliged to give our attention to our host. He was introducing the evening’s entertainment, which consisted of Irving performing a series of dramatic readings from Shakespeare, which went on and on and on, followed by a much too brief piano recital by Derrick, who played a series of Beethoven sonatas.

  As the night progressed, Derrick was able to slip away and take me on a tour of the immense house.

  Lord Wotton is a collector of art, everything from Egyptian and Greek statues to contemporary English painters. It is a pity that I had to view this lovely art against hideous wallpaper. I had no idea that yellow roses and frolicking cherubs could sneak up from behind and assault your eyes in such a way. In another room, a Grecian urn pattern on velvet screamed, ‘Don’t look at the painting, look at me!’ Even the urns had patterns on them, naked Greeks pouring water from yet smaller urns. It was enough to give one vertigo. I pointed this out to Derrick and he laughed and pulled me to a far corner of the room.

  “I know,” he said, “look at this.” On one of the urns-within-an-urn, he had drawn yet another naked Greek pouring water from still another urn. “I don’t think the old sod has noticed it yet, but I hope I’m here when he does.”

  “Oh, Derrick,” I said, laughing. “He’ll chuck you out when he sees it!” And despite my desire to preserve Derrick’s livelihood, I was half hoping it would happen.

  “No,” he replied. “He’ll pretend he finds it as big a joke as I do. But inside he’ll be seething.”

  Derrick was soon called back to his piano and I found myself alone in a room admiring a van Dyck (a portrait of some nobleman and his family) when Lord Wotton himself unexpectedly appeared at my side.

  “Exquisite, is it not?” he said, admiring it with me. “Van Dyck immortalised so many noblemen of his day. Without his work, their faces would be lost to the sands of time.”

  In the case of this particular family I couldn’t help thinking that might not be such a tragedy, but before I could answer Wotton became perturbed. Next to the painting was a large window flanked by velvet curtains. Outside, lit by the light of the moon, was the dilapidated property that vexed him so. He yanked the curtains closed, which required much effort as they were big and heavy.

  “I am sorry for the view of the rat trap adjacent,” he said. “It is a travesty that any English nobleman would let his property rot away. To make matters worse, it has apparently been purchased by a foreigner. Can you image such a thing? From what I hear it is one of those oily Carpathians, maybe even a Jew.”

  “Perhaps the new owner will take pride in the estate and restore it to its former glory,” I offered.

  “One would hope,” he said. “At least he is a nobleman. A count, I think.”

  “How lovely,” I replied, merely for something to say.

  After an awkward moment of silence where we both pretended to admire the painting some more, he said, “Derrick showed me one of your essays on aesthetics. I was quite impressed with your ideas.”

  For the second time that evening I was dismayed to hear someone mention my work. The essay was not ready for a public debut. I had given it to Derrick to read for his opinion with the strict understanding he was to show it to no one. For him to share it with this man of all people was very disconcerting, to say the least. Derrick has often described Wotton as a philistine with no aesthetic tastes whatsoever.

  “Thank you, Lord Wotton,” I said, attempting to maintain my composure. “It is a subject about which I am quite passionate.”

  “Lord Wotton is so formal. Please, call me Lord Basil. Come into my study for a moment,” he said, waving me towards a set of large oak doors. “I have something I would like to discuss with you.”

  Inside the study, the walls were adorned with more paintings, some I recognised. One was by my friend James Whistler and several were by Frank, including the portrait of Derrick, which had pride of place above a large mahogany desk.

  “These are all paintings by English artists,” he said. He went over to a liquor cabinet and took out a bottle of brandy. “I have many more in storage. I think it is important to preserve our culture.”

  “Indeed,” was all I managed to say before he continued.

  “England soon will rule even more of the world than it already does,” he said, quite casually for such a momentous pronouncement.

  He poured us each a brandy and stepped back to admire his collection. I could not imagine his intention in bringing me here, where this strange turn of conversation would take us next or what I should say. I tried to keep silent and found it an easier task than usual for me.

  “There is a new order coming, Oscar, run by the upper class, as is right and natural.”

  I wondered who was running the current order if not the upper class.

  “A new church that prays to the beauty of the world and that is not bound by the moral constraints of frustrated old men. We are going to need art in this new world, and men with new philosophies. Men like you.”

  “I had no idea I was so important,” I said. I realise now there might have been sarcasm in my voice, as I’m told there often is.

  “You can be, Oscar. Remember that. It is good to have me as a friend, you know, and you certainly wouldn’t want me as an enemy. You could ask my enemies, but they have a habit of disappearing.”

  My blood ran cold at this remark and he could tell because he laughed and slapped me on the back. Brandy sloshed out of my snifter.

  I forced a smile. “I would very much like to be your friend then,” I said. “I rather like continuing to appear.”

  “Good. I am quite glad that you are Derrick’s friend. You bring culture into his life and make him think of other things than drinking and carousing with his lower-class acquaintances.”

  So, he knew about Mr. Dripp and his cohorts. I wondered if he was having Derrick followed.

  “I would like to think I am a good influence,” I said.

  “There is no such thing as a good influence, Oscar. All influence is immoral, from the scientific point of view.”

  “How so?”

  “Because to influence a person is to give him one’s own soul. He does not think his own thoughts or burn with his natural passions. His virtues are not real to him. His sins, if there are such things as sins, are borrowed. He becomes an echo of someone else’s music, an actor of a part that has not been written for him. The aim of life is self-development. People are afraid of themselves, nowadays. They have forgotten the highest of all duties, the duty that one owes to one’s self.”

  He refilled my brandy glass and continued.

  “Courage has gone out of our race. Perhaps we never really had it. We behave ‘morally’ because we fear what society will say of us if we don’t. We attend church on Sunday, piously singing the hymns and murmuring the prayers because we fear God. These twin fears govern our lives. And yet I believe that if one man were to live out his life fully and completely, were to give form to every feeling, expression to every thought, reality to every dream – what a leap forwards that would be! But the bravest man amongst us is afraid of himself. We are punished for our refusals. Every impulse that we strive to strangle broods in the mind and poisons us. The body sins once and has done with its sin, for action is a mode of purification. Nothing remains then but the rec
ollection of a pleasure, or the luxury of a regret.”

  “Very true, sir,” I said. “I believe the only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.”

  This brought a broad smile to his face. “Yes, indeed. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful. It has been said that the great events of the world take place in the brain. It is in the brain, and the brain only, that the great sins of the world take place also.”

  “Perhaps it is that impulse to suppress and condemn our own desires that makes them so appealing,” I said.

  “Perhaps.” He paused for a moment, then said, “There is another reason we should be friends. The truth is, I rather feel I owe you something, Oscar.”

  I was truly taken aback by this and dearly hoped that what he owed me was money, or perhaps a case of the rather excellent champagne I had indulged in earlier. “I cannot think what that could be, Lord Basil,” I managed to say.

  “I knew your father. Did you know that?”

  “No, sir, I had no idea.”

  “A fine physician, your father. Saved my eyesight. I suffered an injury when I was younger, and Dr. William Wilde was the only one who could help. I am eternally grateful – and I take eternity quite seriously,” he said.

  “I am gratified, Lord Basil, to hear that my father was of service to you. However, I am sure you paid him quite handsomely at the time and can’t think what is left owed to me.” See how good and virtuous I am, diary? Brushing off rewards as though they were crumbs left on my lap after tea.

  “As I have said, it is good to have me as a friend. Unfortunately, I was unable to help your father when he faced his…troubles later on. I regret that, and the hardships your family has been forced to endure since.” His steely eyes bored into me like pins affixing a butterfly into a specimen case.