Stoker's Wilde

by Steven Hopstaken

  My father’s ‘troubles’ are a subject I avoid, as a matter of strict policy, and I attempted to brush off the conversation but he would not be deterred.

  “In my last correspondence with your father, I vowed to help you and your brother re-enter society. As a friend, know that I am in a position to do you favours. How would you like me to sponsor your endeavours?”

  “What endeavours would those be?”

  “I am thinking of a series of lectures. You would give readings of your essays on the aesthetic movement and the like. I am seeing a tour of Europe, perhaps America. Would you like that?”

  Oh, I would! I would! And yet something – that pesky virtue again, I suppose, or perhaps just stubbornness – held me back. “I do so like to talk, and earning a living doing so would be appealing, but leaving London right now is not possible. My mother is not well and I dare not leave her side for travel. Besides, I have only the one essay and it is not nearly enough for an entire lecture.”

  “Why don’t you complete the writing of the lecture while you stay close to your mother, and when she is well, perhaps later this year, we can plan your itinerary? I can offer you the use of my country estate as you work on the project. It is quite secluded and fully staffed. You and your mother would be very comfortable there.”

  Ah, so there it was. With me off at his country estate, then on a lengthy tour, he would have Derrick all to himself. Clever, I must say.

  Then he sweetened the pot. One thing I can say for old Basil, he may be overly accustomed to getting what he wants, but he does not insist on getting it cheaply.

  “Of course, there would be a monthly stipend to live on while you write, as I hear your father’s untimely death has caused some financial difficulty.”

  His flinty eyes bored into mine and I felt not unlike a thoroughbred racehorse under evaluation by a potential new owner. I consulted briefly with my soul and determined that it was not for sale. “We have managed to muddle through, Lord Wotton. And I am bringing in some income writing for local publications. Your offer is very generous, but I must decline at this time.”

  He stared at me as if willing me to change my mind. Finally, he sighed and drained his brandy glass in one gulp.

  “That is a disappointment,” he said. “But perhaps you will reconsider in time.” Then he excused himself to return to his guests.

  I cannot help but think that I have offended him by not letting him sponsor me. Perhaps I am now among his enemies. I do not know what is wrong with my thinking lately. Lord Wotton was offering to grant my dearest wish (that I had not yet even thought of myself) and all I had to do was stay away from his protégé. Yet I did not take it. I hope I am not developing a nasty case of morality, as that could lead to all sorts of unwanted behaviour. I like to think I just wanted to put the old bore in his place. And keep seeing Derrick, of course.

  Good night, future Oscar. I have much to ponder.

  From the Journal of Bram Stoker, 21st of June 1879

  1:15 a.m.

  It is with a heavy heart and frayed nerves that I must put to paper a secret I dreaded might be true. My friend and benefactor is indeed a vampire! I had hoped that my suspicions were unfounded, a flight of dark fancy born of my too frequent and too intimate experiences with the supernatural. Alas, the events of tonight have removed all doubt: Henry Irving is one of the Un-Dead!

  Florence and I, accompanied by Lucy, Mr. Irving and Reverend Wilkins, attended a party this evening at the estate of Lord Basil Wotton. The night began with much laughter and gaiety. Mr. Irving was at his most charming. (Charming! A word, of course, that can have a magical connotation. Is Mr. Irving’s silky personality one of his weapons, a tool to mesmerise his prey? Heaven help me, to what danger have I exposed my dear wife and our future child?)

  Despite Florence’s condition, Lucy had convinced her it would be good to get out and socialise. While it would be unthinkable in Dublin, in London, it is perfectly acceptable, it seems, for a woman who is expecting to attend such events if she is not too far along. It is even encouraged by the more ‘enlightened’ in society. Her condition is not obvious, in any event, and she felt well enough to attend. Lucy, who herself has been under the weather, was feeling much more chipper, and although she had looked a bit pale when I had seen her earlier in the afternoon, she seemed quite full of energy when we picked her up for the party.

  As I said, all seemed well. Irving entertained our fellow guests with humorous stories of his travels and the characters he has known in the theatre, and I made many a new acquaintance. Not even the sneers of the insufferable Oscar Wilde from across the room could dampen my good spirits.

  Florence even managed to make small talk with Oscar, which was more than I could stomach, and it appears he bears her no ill will, or at least he has the decency to be civil to a woman in public. Me he ignored completely, which is just how I preferred it. I could see him from time to time, holding forth to one partygoer or another – or, better yet to his liking, a small crowd of them – going on, no doubt, about his theories on art or music or whatever subject he fancies himself an expert in these days. He was dressed in the height of fashion, of course – how does he afford it? – with a purple cravat and matching waistcoat, and the cut of his suit struck me as quite Continental. Why, when first I saw him I mistook him for a conjurer hired to entertain the crowd.

  Nevertheless, I was having a most enjoyable evening talking with Henry Irving and Reverend Wilkins.

  Lucy approached us. She was wearing a lovely pale green gown and a crimson silk scarf that Florence and I had given her for her recent birthday, and she looked radiant as she introduced her fiancé, Mr. Robert Roosevelt. He is an older gentleman, too old for Lucy, I think. However, he seems to have the constitution of a much younger man – Lucy has told us he is very athletic – and is overly friendly, as Americans tend to be. He explained to me, Reverend Wilkins and Irving that he is in England trying to sell Her Majesty the latest in destructive weaponry, something called a Gatling gun.

  “You should see it in action, Mr. Stoker,” Roosevelt said. “One hundred rounds per minute. Put enough of these on the battlefield and we could end war as we know it.”

  “Isn’t war bad enough,” Reverend Wilkins enquired mildly. “Do we have to make it more efficient?”

  “Actually, Gatling, the man who invented it, was a physician. He was horrified by the slow, agonising gangrene death that current warfare brings. He reasoned that a weapon like this would end wars more quickly and, at the very least, kill soldiers straight away.”

  “Oh, Robert,” Lucy scolded. “One does not talk of such things at parties. It is all so gruesome.” Suddenly, Lucy’s smile left her face and she swooned, falling backwards so fast that Robert and I scarcely had time to react. I reached out for her and my glass went flying, but she was already out of my reach.

  In a quick blur, Henry caught her and slowed her descent to the floor. In the momentary confusion, the speed at which he reacted didn’t register in my mind, but it must have triggered something deep within my brain for I was suddenly afraid and alert to my surroundings. Where had Henry come from? Wasn’t I between him and Lucy just moments before?

  Florence rushed over from across the room to attend to her friend while Reverend Wilkins went in search of a physician.

  A crowd gathered to help as Robert stepped in to lift Lucy to a nearby sofa. Henry must have had a sharp fingernail, for as he withdrew his arm from around Lucy he scratched her slightly and a few drops of blood welled up on her shoulder.

  Henry was still crouched where he had eased her to the floor, and as she was carried away, I saw him pull his hand back, a small smear of blood on his fingertip. His pupils dilated, turning his eyes nearly black, and his hand trembled slightly as he gazed at it. Then, to my astonishment, his canine teeth elongated to fangs! He moved his hand towards his mouth as if to lick the blood away, then, with effor
t, recovered himself. He closed his mouth and his eyes, and when he opened them again, both were normal. I quickly averted my gaze so he would not see that I had seen, though I am sure, had he endeavoured to speak with me, I would not have been able to conceal my horror at what I now knew.

  “Please, let’s give her some room,” Lord Wotton told the guests. They obeyed, but I could still hear their concerned voices talking in hushed tones. He found a glass of water on a nearby table and soaked his handkerchief in it, wringing it out before handing it to Florence then discreetly stepping away. “Lucy,” Florence said calmly as she loosened her friend’s scarf and applied the damp cloth to her forehead, “it’s all right, I’m here.”

  Lucy stirred and opened her eyes. “What happened?”

  “You just fainted, that’s all.” Florence lowered her voice. “And to think we worried I would be the one who would have a fainting spell.”

  I was relieved to see Lucy revived, then I received my second shock of the evening: there were marks on her neck – puncture marks! How had I not made the connection? The creature I had chased in her courtyard. Her declining health, her pale skin. She is the victim of a vampire! Could it be Henry?

  But why had she collapsed now, when she had been so lively earlier in the evening? She had been laughing and enjoying herself mere moments before. I wondered – could the mere presence of a vampire have a debilitating effect on an already weakened victim?

  I willed my eyes to use my second sight. The room became hazy and when I looked down at Lucy the marks on her neck gave off a faint green glow. I now could see that some otherworldly creature had been feeding off of her. Brief images of the encounter – encounters, for I was sure there was more than one, flashed through my mind. But I could not focus on the face of the monster.

  Forcing myself to remain outwardly calm, I turned my gaze to Henry. He appeared normal to my vision. And yet I knew he was anything but.

  “I will have my coach brought around, Bram. My driver will take her home,” he said. “Would you and Florence care to accompany her?” I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

  Irving slipped out to call his coach and I was left dumbfounded. As I watched him leave the room he still had nothing of the green light around him, and yet he is undoubtedly supernatural. It was like I was seeing him for the first time. Not as a man, but as a monster. A monster that was slowly killing Lucy!

  We escorted Lucy back to our apartment that night. I convinced Florence it would be good for us to watch over her until she is better.

  I hadn’t a chance to warn Reverend Wilkins. In all the confusion, he left to catch the last train to Salisbury. At least he is out of harm’s way.

  Can I find the strength to dispatch Henry Irving? If I do, will I be accused of murder? Is there anyone who will believe Irving is not human? Only the Wilde brothers, I am afraid, and I doubt very much they are up to the task of killing another monster. Oscar, at least, would not be eager to help me in any case.

  This I must do alone.

  From the Diary of Oscar Wilde, 22nd of June 1879

  My apologies, dear diary, for not getting back to you sooner.

  A new turn of events has me quite occupied with fret.

  Derrick has moved into his rooms above the Cock and Bull on a permanent basis, having quit the hospitality of Lord Wotton.

  “I have left that horrid man’s house for good,” he informed me last night as we met for our weekly game of cards. “And I have found a new benefactor. He is a kind and decent sort, without the lurid intentions of Lord Basil.”

  I was happy to hear this, for he is not one who could live as a pauper after having spent time in the lap of luxury. I wish I could be his patron, but I am scarcely able to keep myself in the luxury I deserve.

  “Who is this new patron?” I enquired.

  “I am not at liberty to say,” he said, producing a bottle of champagne. He popped the cork and poured us each a glass for toasting. “But suffice it to say, my working days are over and I can concentrate fully on my piano.” We touched glasses and drank.

  Across the room near the fireplace, a painting, covered by a sheet, was leaning against the wall. He brought it over and pulled off the sheet. It was his portrait, the one painted by Frank. I am sure I would have found myself gazing at it, to the exclusion of all else in the room, had I not had the real-life Derrick before me.

  “I stole this from the letch before I left,” he said. “I want you to have it, Oscar.”

  I was touched, of course. “It will be my most prized possession.”

  He admired it, but not in a narcissistic way. “Frank is an exceptional artist. To think this painting could freeze me in time long after this body has been eaten by worms. Remember how I wished to remain as young as this painting forever?”

  “I do recall your fear of growing old.”

  “What if I told you I found a way? Think of it, Oscar, to be young and beautiful forever.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “An elixir, of sorts, exists to let you live forever, as you are now, or better.”

  I laughed. “Surely you do not believe in such fairy tales.”

  “No, Oscar it is real. And I – we – can have it!”

  “Who put these ideas in your head? It is nonsense. How is such a thing possible?”

  “Have you heard of the Scholomance?” he asked, lowering his voice a bit as if we were speaking of something we should not, as if the very word were illicit.

  “I have. Some sort of school of black magic, is it not?” Obscure knowledge of this sort is one of the benefits of being my mother’s son.

  “It is taught by an ancient order of knights who have harnessed the powers of magic for the force of good. They alone drove the Turks out of Europe and, with the blessing of the pope himself, became the keepers of the dark knowledge of alchemy, the rituals that summon demons to do the bidding of man.”

  He spoke these words as a preacher would to enflame a Sunday congregation.

  “They are called the ‘Order of the Golden Dawn’ and they are ushering in this brave new world. I know it sounds mad, but I have seen their magic myself. By drinking the blood of the dragon, as they call it, you can have eternal life! They have asked me to join them, Oscar.”

  Also, as my mother’s son, I know that obscure folk tales about ancient orders are not always to be taken literally. “You are having me on, or they are having you on. This is but a pipe dream or a shared madness.”

  “No, I witnessed a ritual, just last week, in which a member of the Order was given the elixir. He was feeble and old, but after the ritual he was full of vitality and the strength of ten men. There are members of the Order who claim to be hundreds of years old. Of course, they have to be careful who they let into the Order. You wouldn’t want just anyone to have immortality.”

  I must admit curiosity had now taken hold of me. Also, a glimmer of hope that the world was not as it appeared to be. Could death be cheated? Who would not be tempted by such a possibility, especially when offered by one so dear to them?

  “They have asked me to be one of them. Come with me to the next gathering, Oscar. I will tell them I will not join their order unless you can join too. Think of it, we can be together forever, and forever young.”

  Against my better judgement, I acquiesced.

  “The ceremony begins at midnight on Friday. Tell no one. I shall meet you at your house and we’ll go together. Oh, and you will need this to gain access to the meeting.” He took a handkerchief from his pocket, unwrapped a small object and put it in my palm. I was horrified to discover it was an onyx chess piece. A black bishop!

  I let it fall to the floor. “Derrick,” I cried. “I have seen this calling card before, in the hands of a monster, a vampire!”

  He was not shocked by this and in fact gave a small shrug of his shoulders.

 
“Sometimes a monster is merely a creature that is misunderstood.”

  “And sometimes a monster is something that does monstrous things like suck the life out of innocent people!”

  “I have not seen my friends do any such things. They offer life, not death.”

  I could scarcely believe what I was hearing.

  “Friends? You don’t know what they are capable of! Why, one tried to kill me once in Dublin.”

  “There are evil and good men, are there not? I am sure the same can be said of vampires. The Order has been empowered by God to control the forces of darkness for the good of the righteous.”

  He picked the chess piece up off the floor and forced it into my hand. “Come with me and see for yourself.”

  I looked into his cobalt-blue eyes and I was lost. All I wanted was for it to be true. To spend the rest of my life with him – and to have that life last forever – was, I have to admit, dear diary, a temptation I could not fight. If a serpent had entered our Garden of Eden, I had not the power to resist its fruit.

  I turned the chess piece over in my hand and felt its cold weight. It was chipped from its fall to the floor, and it had cut my finger as I squeezed it. A drop of my blood disappeared into its blackness. I slipped it into my pocket, and for that I cannot help but feel a little ashamed. And as you know, shame and I have rarely been the best of friends.

  I told him I would go. I fell into his embrace and felt all was lost.

  Together forever. And forever young.

  Will I be reading you a hundred years from now, dear diary? Do fairy tales come true?

  Telegram from Bram Stoker to Richard Burton, 22nd of June 1879

  To: Richard Burton, c/o Signet Hotel, Edinburgh, Scotland