=Need help or advice re: dispatching creature of the type you faced in Crimean War=
Telegram from Richard Burton to Bram Stoker, 24th of June 1879
To: Bram Stoker, Lyceum Theatre, London, England
=Cannot come. Leaving for India in the morning but sending expert to help. Dr. Martin Hesselius arriving from Holland on 26th June. Worked with him myself, you are in good hands=
Letter from Dr. Neil Seward to Dr. William Gull, Royal Physician, 23rd of June 1879
Archivist’s note: Correspondence related to the hospitalisation and treatment of Prince Albert Victor at Blyth Sanatorium during this time was ordered released to the White Worm Society by Queen Victoria herself. Her Majesty, while unable to publicly acknowledge the Society due to the secretive nature of our endeavours, has long supported our work.
Dear Dr. Gull,
Let me offer my sincere congratulations on your appointment as Her Majesty’s personal physician. The royal family could not be under finer care.
This letter, I am afraid, is to report on Prince Albert Victor’s worsening condition. As you may know, the prince, affectionately known as Eddy to the staff here, has been under my care for over a month now. His grandmother, the Queen, has requested weekly reports to you on his health and treatments.
He is sixteen years of age and in fine physical health, but his mental faculties continue to worsen. He is greatly burdened by hallucinations and emotional fits. There is much speculation as to the cause of his condition, but his ailment is most likely the result of being kicked in the head by a horse when he was a child and, later, a bout of typhoid fever.
As to his history, all seemed fine with the young prince for much of his life. Although his tutors say he was a slow learner, he did not show any of the symptoms he does now.
At fourteen, he and his brother were sent to the Royal Navy’s training ship, HMS Britannia. There he continued his studies but returned home for the summer after he contracted the typhoid. Seemingly fully recovered, he returned to the ship for further training. It was at this time he nearly bludgeoned a fellow cadet to death with a cricket bat, claiming the cadet was trying to steal his thoughts. The ship returned to shore at the earliest opportunity and the prince was remanded to my care.
The most disturbing facet of his condition is that he is stricken with zoophagous mania. He has been caught on several occasions eating flies, spiders and even a bird that had flown to his window. He believes by consuming these creatures alive he absorbs the life force, making himself stronger.
Lately, he has told me of his desire to achieve his twisted objective in a cumulative way. He wishes to feed many flies to many spiders, many spiders to several birds, and the birds to one cat, which he will then consume to become immortal. He becomes very agitated that his dietary requirements are not being met, and often exhibits violence towards the staff. I am forced to keep him sedated with strong opiates.
Tomorrow we will begin administering ice-water baths, and a new electrical therapy that has shown promise in other patients.
Sincerely,
Dr. Neil Seward
Letter from Oscar Wilde to Richard Burton, 24th of June 1879
Archivist’s note: The letter below was written mostly in Greek, perhaps to keep its contents from servants’ prying eyes. It is translated and transcribed below. Burton had just left for India and the letter was forwarded to him there. It would have taken weeks or even months to reach him.
Dear Captain Burton,
I am writing to you in the direst of circumstances, for you alone among my friends have the expertise, the courage and the fortitude to advise and aid me in this, my darkest hour. The tale I am about to relate to you will seem implausible, outrageous even, and many would call for my immediate commitment to Bedlam – or worse, the removal of my gin supply – were they to read it. I know that you will perceive the grim truth of the story and understand the grave danger we now must face.
Since moving to London, I have become close friends with a young man named Derrick Pigeon. While Derrick has many worthy attributes – he is a loyal friend, a witty and intelligent conversationalist and an exceptionally talented pianist – he is largely valued by himself and others for his youth and beauty. Where he differs from other young and beautiful people is in his realisation that this is a fleeting commodity. He often becomes morose at the thought of growing older, his dark hair peppering with grey, his flawless skin becoming lined and creased, his vitality dimming.
Recently, Derrick told me that he had discovered a way to never grow old and to never die. It involved participating in a ritual with a group known as the ‘Order of the Golden Dawn’. I’m sure you have immediately realised that anything promising so unnatural a result can only be monstrous, but I confess that, despite my reservations, I was swayed by friendship to trust Derrick’s assurance that the Order’s intentions were pure. I agreed to go with him to the ceremony, where he planned to sponsor me into their ranks.
The night we were to convene was clear and cool. The streets seemed strangely hushed as we made our way to the appointed meeting place in Knightsbridge, almost as though the entire city and all its denizens knew that the evening was full of portent. “I wonder if this will all look different to us,” Derrick mused, watching the parks and pubs and street lamps slide past. “When we’ve changed, I mean.” I found myself uncharacteristically without reply.
As we alighted from our cab in front of a large but otherwise unremarkable white house, Derrick clapped me on the shoulder and bounded up the front steps. I followed, with somewhat less enthusiasm, and with a last grin at me, he rang the bell. Moments later, the door was opened by a butler. After we showed him the black bishop chess piece that would grant us entry, he ushered us into the drawing room, where a small crowd already awaited.
Clearly, immortality, like so many of the finer things in life, is reserved for the upper classes. The majority of the men and women – mostly men – in the room, would be familiar figures to anyone who frequents charity balls, opening nights of operas or the more exclusive London clubs. A few, like Derrick and me, seemed more likely to live by the fruit of our talents rather than the depth of our bank accounts.
A tall, thin man seemed to frown briefly as we came into the room, but excused himself from his conversation and came to greet us. He was middle-aged, with pale blond hair and eyes the colour of the Irish Sea in January. I’ve never been fond of the sea in wintertime.
“Derrick,” he said, shaking my friend’s hand. “So glad you could come. And you brought a friend.” He turned to me with a smile that wasn’t quite as warm as one might like.
“Yes, Lord Cavendish,” said Derrick. “Lord Wotton and I have both spoken to you about my friend, Oscar Wilde. You said that a man of his sensibilities and talents would be a worthy addition to the Order. You marvelled at what he might create, with an eternity in which to work.”
“So I did,” Lord Cavendish replied. “Still, a formal invitation is the preferred way of doing things. I think perhaps your name will not be in the running for tonight’s ceremony, Derrick.”
Derrick blanched at this and I hurriedly interjected. “If my presence is a problem, Lord Cavendish, I will gladly excuse myself. I have no wish to disrupt your evening.”
He turned those cold eyes upon me and smiled mirthlessly. “My dear boy, it is far too late for that. I think it’s best that we get to know you. I’m sure when we do we will gladly welcome you into our circle. And you, Derrick,” he continued, “do not look so stricken. You are still on the list. You will simply not be chosen tonight.”
He excused himself, and Derrick quickly grabbed two glasses of wine from a passing servant. His hand trembled slightly as he passed one to me.
“I’m sorry, Derrick,” I said. “I hope I haven’t caused too much of a problem for you.”
“My fault entirely,” he answered. “It was I who insi
sted you come. He’s right, I should have waited for them to issue an invitation. Still, I don’t regret a thing. I’m glad you’re here. It will all work out for the best.” He raised his glass and drank, and the wine seemed to fortify and reassure him. “But you know, Oscar,” he said, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye, “I would be grateful if you would do your utmost to make yourself agreeable tonight. I know how charming you can be when you try.”
I forced a smile and murmured, “I am never less than agreeable. I find that it pleases my friends and annoys my enemies.” I sipped my wine but still felt far from sanguine. I wondered what Lord Cavendish had meant when he said it was ‘far too late’ for me to leave. And what would happen if they didn’t deem me worthy to join the Order? Or if I declined membership?
Derrick and I mingled after that. I had met some of the party at previous social events. There was a young woman who is the daughter of a friend of my mother’s, a wealthy patron of the arts I’d met at a salon in Chelsea, and a middle-aged gentleman who I believe is a member of Parliament. With these acquaintances and total strangers, I played the charming raconteur, all the while keeping my eyes open for clues to the evening’s true purpose.
As the midnight hour approached I could tell that I would soon find out. (Midnight: is there anything truly mystical about that hour, I wonder, or was it chosen only for effect?) I noticed that the servants had stopped circulating with their trays and discreetly left the room. The hum of conversation grew simultaneously quieter and more intense, as though an almost unbearable level of excitement was being forcibly restrained. The lights on the periphery of the room dimmed so that those in the centre seemed to shine even more brightly. The stage was definitely being set for something.
At the stroke of midnight, the arts patron I mentioned earlier, now looking solemn and ceremonial, struck a small gong in the corner twelve times and the room fell silent. A young man wheeled a teacart draped in red into the centre of the room, bringing it to rest before an older man to whom I had been introduced earlier in the evening. His name is Lord Alfred Sundry and I am told he has considerable land holdings in the West Country, an impressive art collection and a son at Oxford. But this night he looked more like an ancient druid, berobed in black, the candles on the teacart casting dramatic and sinister shadows upon his face.
Can you guess what else was upon the cart? I’m enough of an Irishman to take pride in the fine Waterford crystal pitcher and goblet I saw there, and to be appalled at how they had been desecrated. How many times have I heard wine described as ‘blood-red’, and yet nobody who has ever seen blood ready to be served up like wine could have made the comparison. The colour could not have originated with any grape, its deep red seeming nearly black in the flickering light.
And how the assemblage longed for it! I felt the slightest surge forwards as though I were in the sea and the tide was starting to come in. They were drawn to this blood, these members of the Order of the Golden Dawn.
Well, most of them. Some had withdrawn to observe from behind Sundry, standing politely back, hands folded in front of them. As I scanned their faces, I saw two men exchange glances. One smiled, baring fangs that had not been there when I had conversed with him earlier that evening about the theatre season.
So now I knew for certain what I faced. I don’t believe I’ve ever told you, Captain, that Bram Stoker and I fought a vampire in Dublin before I left that fair city for London. I barely escaped that encounter with my life and now here I was among a gathering of such creatures.
Lord Sundry began to speak. “We, the Order of the Golden Dawn, meet this evening for our most solemn and yet most joyous ritual: the welcoming of new members into our ranks. We do not take this responsibility lightly. To be fully accepted into the Order means nothing less than eternal life and that blessing is to be bestowed only upon the most deserving among us. With eternity comes power. The world is ours, even if the world does not yet know it.”
My blood chilled. Sundry continued. “We will build a new society, and those who would live forever must have something to contribute to it. Wisdom. Talent. Passion.” Here he glanced at a lovely young woman who blushed and bit her lip but smiled in return.
Then he turned the program over to Lord Cavendish, to explain the terms and conditions. “To build that society, we must also have capital. Therefore, to be a full member, one must contribute to the Order a sum of five thousand pounds, in cash or property.”
I was relieved. Neither one of us could come up with anywhere near this sum. Surely, we were now safe from becoming vampires. But, I thought, Lord Cavendish must certainly know this and he invited Derrick anyway. Did they have something else in store for us? My relief quickly turned back to panic.
“Some of you, I know, do not have such a fortune at your disposal,” Lord Cavendish went on. “But you would not be here if you did not possess other qualities that we value.” Sundry’s eyes were drawn again to the young woman. (The lecher.) “You may still join the Order as provisional members, but you will not partake of the pure blood of the dragon.” Lord Cavendish gestured to the crystal pitcher. “Instead, you will be welcomed into our ranks by a current member. This person will be known as your sire, and you will owe him or her your allegiance, and your gratitude.”
“We shall begin,” Sundry said, drawing a scroll from within his robes. Lord Cavendish and a woman I had not met took places on either side of him. Unfurling the scroll, he intoned, “Lady Millicent Demming.” The woman in question, a society matron with sharp eyes and an elaborate hairstyle, approached eagerly. “Lady Millicent,” he continued, “do you have the requisite offering?”
“I do,” she replied. “It has been transferred per instruction.” Sundry glanced at Cavendish, who nodded.
“Very well,” Sundry said. He poured a portion of blood from the pitcher into the goblet. It was as thick as cream and clung to the side of the pitcher when he set it back down. Stepping around to stand in front of Lady Millicent, Sundry commanded, “Kneel.” The lady complied.
Two attendants took places on either side of her.
“Lady Millicent Demming, do you accept membership of the Order of the Golden Dawn? Do you pledge fealty to the Order and vow to work with your brothers and sisters towards our shared aims?” It was like a perverse wedding vow.
“I do,” she whispered breathlessly.
“Drink the blood of the dragon, Millicent, and be born into your new life.” He handed the goblet into her trembling hands and after the merest hesitation, she drank its contents. I may have been mistaken, but from where I stood I swear I saw her tongue dart out to lick up the blood that still clung to the inside of the goblet before handing it back to Lord Sundry. Her body shuddered and she nearly swooned but steadied herself. She looked up at Sundry, who helped her to her feet. When she turned to face us, she was smiling and she looked stronger and more vigorous than she had before. She then fainted and fell back into the arms of the attendants.
The crowd gasped.
“No worries,” Sundry assured us. “Now comes the dream state. For some, it lasts days but for most only minutes. For some it is terrifying and for others pleasant.”
One of the attendants lifted her into his arms and carried her out of the room.
Lord Sundry took up his parchment again and the scene was repeated with a middle-aged man – military, by the looks of him – and a foppish young fellow with exceedingly good taste in clothes. Then the next name: “Miss Carolyn le Fey.” The young woman who had caught Sundry’s eye approached, with shaky step, I thought. Sundry looked at her, not unkindly.
“Miss le Fey,” he said gently. “Do you have the requisite offering?”
“I do not,” she answered, her voice barely more than a whisper.
“Are you willing to accept the terms of provisional membership?” he asked.
She wavered. When he spoke again, his voice was lower but I could
still hear him. “You will be forever young and beautiful.” Slowly she nodded, and he whispered, “You have to say it.”
Clearing her throat, she said, “I accept the terms of provisional membership in the Order of the Golden Dawn.”
He beamed at her. “I am so pleased, my dear. I believe I will welcome you into our ranks myself.”
He stepped towards her, looming over her like a wolf about to seize a rabbit, and she was visibly trembling. He took her by the shoulders and pulled her to him, then curled one arm around her body while sliding the other hand into her hair. As he leant into her, I heard him murmur, “This is quite an honour for you, my beauty. I rarely sire.”
Then, to my horror, his fangs emerged and he buried them into her neck.
She stiffened and cried out slightly. Her arms flew up as though to push him away, but instead, she grasped his shoulders and he pulled her even closer. She moaned softly.
I could scarcely believe what I was witnessing. I wanted with every fibre of my being to run away; only good sense kept me where I was. The crowd stirred but with excitement, not with the disgust that was boiling up in my stomach. I had to stand there with the same stupid look of wonderment on my face, or risk being singled out for the interloper I was.
Sundry is obviously a man of some breeding. There was very little slurping as he slaked his obscene thirst. After what seemed like hours but could only have been minutes, he withdrew his fangs with a contented sigh, daintily licked a drop of blood from the young woman’s neck and eased her to her knees. Raising his wrist to his mouth, he opened a vein with his fangs and gently placed it to Carolyn’s lips. She sucked at it greedily, gazing up at him like a babe being fed by her mother. He smiled down at her fondly.
When she was done, he raised her to her feet and proudly presented her to the crowd, who applauded the new monster in their midst. She fainted into his arms. And like the others, she was taken away.
Stoker's Wilde Page 17
