Oscar Wilde and the Nest of Vipers

by Gyles Brandreth

  I felt a hand touch my elbow. It was Oscar, holding an open bottle of wine to his lips and raising it to me. His face was shining; his eyes sparkled in the torchlight. Rex LaSalle stood at his side, impassively. I looked at the motley crowd ranged before us, then glanced back at the gravedigger’s shovels resting in the doorway.

  I leant towards Oscar and whispered into his ear: ‘Is this wise? Is this sensible?’

  Oscar laughed gently. ‘I do hope not,’ he murmured. ‘Nowadays most people die of a sort of creeping common sense and discover when it is too late that the only things in life one never regrets are one’s mistakes.’

  As the church clock struck one, Father Callaghan raised his arms and addressed his congregation.

  ‘In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, peace be among us.’

  With his right hand held high for all to see, he made a sign of the cross.

  ‘“I am the resurrection and the life,” saith the Lord; “he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.” I know that my redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth: and though this body of mine be corrupted and destroyed – ashes to ashes and dust to dust – yet shall I see God.’ He paused. ‘That is God’s promise. That is all that we have. We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out. The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away; blessed be the name of the Lord.’

  The Irish priest turned out to be a powerful orator. He spoke, without notes and without pause, for nigh on half an hour and held his auditors throughout. He talked of life and death and the life hereafter – of the joy of life, of the gift of death, of the certainty of the life hereafter. He spoke of St Mary Magdalen and reminded us that it was she who first saw Christ on the day of His resurrection. He talked of the day of judgement and told tales of his travels around the cemeteries of Europe. He recounted how he was recently returned from Vienna where he found that the gravestones of unmarried women all featured the word Fräulein, meaning ‘Miss’, before the name of the departed. This, he explained, is because, at the sounding of the last trump, virgins will take precedence and it will be so much easier for Our Lord to gather them to him if their graves are clearly marked. He spoke with humour and heart and authority.

  In the first half of his address Father Callaghan made no mention of vampires whatsoever. Then, quite suddenly, as the full moon appeared from behind the clouds and, in my ear, Oscar whispered a low ‘At last!’, the priest declared: ‘I have spoken of the quick and the dead and the life everlasting. Let me now speak of the undead and let us pray for those who cannot rest in peace.’

  He spoke of the undead as ‘souls in torment’, pitiful creatures trapped in limbo between this life and the next, destined to roam the world under cover of darkness, for all eternity, driven by bile and envy, and sustained only by the blood of innocents. He told us of our Christian duty to unearth the undead, to challenge and destroy them – for their sake as much as for our own.

  He talked in wonderfully practical terms of how to set about this: of ways of identifying graves, of means of breaking into tombs and vaults and mausolea, of the craft of digging up coffins by gas lamp and candlelight, of the art of piercing and pinioning a vampire with a sword, a sickle or a scythe. He spoke of the uncorrupted bodies of the undead, of their open, wild and staring eyes, of their bloated features and their blood-soaked lips.

  Finally, he told us that, on his travels in Europe, he had visited Albania where he had come across the most ancient and, he averred, the most reliable of all the rituals used to identify the graves of the undead. The method had the advantages of simplicity and beauty. It involved merely leading a virgin boy through a graveyard on a virgin stallion. With the youth on his bare back, instinctively the horse would baulk and rise up if he stepped over earth in which a vampire was buried.

  ‘Will he show us, I wonder?’ whispered Oscar at my side.

  The priest turned to Oscar and smiled: ‘I will.’ He looked at me and enquired, ‘What is the time, Dr Doyle?’

  I checked my half-hunter. ‘Half past one,’ I said.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ announced the priest, stretching his hands out before him once more. ‘Would you turn due north, towards the river, towards the track along which you travelled here tonight. Turn, gentlemen, and watch closely. Turn now, but make no noise.’

  There was a brief murmuring as the men turned away from the church to gaze across the graveyard to the deserted track that led from the village. Silence fell. We waited. The wind blew gently in the trees. Somewhere in the undergrowth a fox or weasel stirred. Nothing happened.

  ‘Wait!’ said the priest. ‘Be patient.’

  The church clock struck the half-hour and then, from a distance, we heard the sound of a horse’s hooves approaching. Out of the darkness it came, slowly, steadily, gently tossing its magnificent head from side to side. It was the pure white stallion we had seen at the crossroads an hour before. The horse was led towards us by the man in the cloak. His hat was pulled forward over his eyes, but as he approached, in the light of the lanterns, I recognised him – though I will not record his name here. On the horse’s bare back sat the stable lad, a youth of no more than fifteen or sixteen years of age. Though the night was cold, the boy was naked.

  ‘His skin is very white,’ said Oscar.

  39

  From the notebooks of Robert Sherard

  What happened? Nothing happened. The drama was all in the moment of revelation.

  When the horse and the boy came out of the darkness there were gasps and cheers – and then complete silence. As the priest stepped down from the church porch to greet them, the crowd parted to let him through. When the priest reached the horse, the animal appeared to genuflect before him. More gasps, more cheers. The priest bowed towards the horse’s cloaked minder – who, removing his hat with a flourish, returned the bow.

  It was young Prince Eddy, the club’s royal patron. More gasps, applause and loud hurrahs. The priest reached up to stroke the stallion’s forelock. He blessed the animal with a sign of the cross and then, holding it by the mane, helped lead it through the graveyard. The men in the crowd fell back to create pathways along which the horse, the priest and the prince could pass. At three or four of the graves, the creature paused to graze a moment or sniff the air. At no point did it baulk or rear up – or even throw back its head and whinny.

  Before the church clock struck two, the show was over. It would seem there are no vampires buried in the churchyard of St Mary Magdalen, Mortlake.

  The crowd accepted the disappointment with a good grace. When the demonstration was done, the priest dismissed us with a brief farewell and a final blessing. All at once, the gathering, suddenly conscious of its collective weariness and the chill of the night air, began to disperse. Whistles blew and the cry went up: within minutes the deserted country track appeared as crowded as Park Lane. Bicycles were pulled from the undergrowth; donkey carts, pony-traps and carriages arrived from nowhere.

  Bram Stoker and Conan Doyle reclaimed their hackney cab and hurried to take their leave. They were among the first to depart. Doyle could fairly be described as fleeing the scene! Oscar chose to linger. I said I would wait with him.

  I lit a cigarette and, from the church porch, through the milling throng, I stood and watched as the naked boy, now shivering, dismounted his horse. The prince was with him. He took off his cloak and wrapped it round the lad. We had all recognised the prince at once, of course. It was only Oscar who recognised the boy.

  40

  From the notebook of Inspector Hugh Boone of Scotland Yard, Monday, 17 March 1890

  This sordid business grows more vicious by the hour. And more entangled. Will what did for us last year in Beaufort Street defeat us once again? The involvement of certain persons makes hammering home the nail near impossible.

  Duke of Clarence

  41

  Fro
m the notebooks of Robert Sherard

  ‘You are Frank Watkins?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Page to His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales?’

  ‘One of them.’

  ‘And friend to His Royal Highness Prince Albert Victor also, it seems.’

  ‘Friend and bum-boy.’

  The lad laughed and immediately blushed at his own cheek. Prince Eddy leant across the table to box his ears. ‘Hold your tongue!’

  The boy pulled back to avoid the blow. ‘Mr Wilde understands, don’t you, Mr Wilde?’

  Oscar sat at the head of the table, complacently, his fingers intertwined and resting on his stomach, his eyes half closed, observing the scene as an Ottoman sultan might a catfight in his harem. He smiled, but said nothing.

  ‘Mr Wilde’s a man of the world,’ the boy continued, leaning back on his chair, balancing it precariously on its rear legs. He grinned and slowly, deliberately, ran his fingers through his flop of copper-coloured hair. ‘I knows that.’

  The prince got to his feet. With his right hand he managed to land a glancing blow to the boy’s left ear. ‘Hold your tongue!’

  The boy – still dressed in the prince’s cloak – pushed back his chair and thrust his head up towards his assailant. ‘My tongue’s done you some service in its time!’ he jeered.

  The prince grabbed the lad by the scruff of the neck and held him hard. ‘You are an impertinent whippersnapper.’

  Frank Watkins looked up at the prince and snarled. The prince took the boy’s hair roughly in both hands and wrenched the lad’s head backward sharply. ‘You are an impertinent whippersnapper. Admit it.’ He pushed his own face down close to the boy’s. ‘Admit it.’

  ‘I am an impertinent whippersnapper.’ The boy grimaced.

  ‘You are a miserable and humble worm, unworthy even to tie my shoelaces. Say it.’

  The prince tightened his grip on the lad’s head, making him flinch.

  ‘Say it!’

  ‘I am a miserable and humble worm, unworthy even to tie your shoelaces,’ whimpered the boy.

  Prince Albert Victor let go of his victim and ran his hand roughly across the lad’s thick and tangled head of hair. ‘That’s better,’ he said. He started to caress the boy’s neck. ‘I’m happy, Frank, when you do my bidding.’

  ‘And your bedding?’

  The lad looked up at the prince and grinned. His face was round and brown and freckled; his teeth were small and white, but uneven. And one tooth – a canine on his upper jaw – was missing. When he smiled, Frank Watkins had the look of a small boy.

  ‘He has a wonderful way with words,’ murmured Oscar.

  ‘And with horses,’ said Father Callaghan, coming to the table with another bottle of wine and fresh pot of hot coffee. ‘That’s a fine white stallion he found for us – the real thing. Not a grey masquerading.’

  ‘I’ve got to get him back to the barracks by eight,’ said the boy. ‘I promised the captain.’

  It was now four o’clock in the morning and we were seated at table in the gas-lit parlour at the priest’s house on the edge of Mortlake village. It was a small house (two up, two down): modern, cramped and dark. We were there awaiting the arrival of dawn when, by daylight, the royal prince and the royal page could return to town on horseback. Father Callaghan had promised to drive Oscar and me to Chelsea in his pony and trap. The priest had offered us armchairs, a settee and his bed to sleep on, but Oscar had asked for bread and wine and conversation.

  ‘In my experience,’ said Oscar, ‘a good priest can perform miracles with bread and wine – and a good conversation is what makes life on earth worthwhile. Words are what define us, after all. It is only language that differentiates us from the animals and those whose hands do trail upon the ground. It is only by language that we rise above the lower creatures – by language, which is the parent not the child of thought.’

  ‘I love to hear you talk, Mr Wilde,’ said the boy, looking at Oscar and smiling.

  ‘And I love to hear myself talk,’ said Oscar. ‘It is one of my greatest pleasures. I often have long conversations all by myself, and I am so clever that sometimes I don’t understand a single word of what I am saying.’

  He laughed and raised his cup of wine to the company. As he looked about the shadowy room, his brow darkened.

  ‘I have just realised something quite shocking,’ he said, sitting forward. ‘There are five of us here. Four of us are seated and one is standing – and the one who is standing is a prince of the royal blood. We have forgotten all protocol, gentlemen. The moon is full and the world’s gone topsy-turvy.’

  ‘It matters not,’ cried Prince Eddy. ‘It matters not a jot. Stay seated, please. I love the freedom here.’

  ‘Freedom is the only law that genius knows,’ said Oscar.

  ‘I know nothing about genius,’ said the prince, ‘but I know that in this room I can breathe. I can be myself.’ He turned and, leaning over the boy, kissed the top of the lad’s head tenderly. ‘I am free here, to be who I am, to say what I please.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Father Callaghan. ‘You may speak quite freely here. You may regard this room as your confessional. All your secrets are safe with me.’

  ‘Are we to hear secrets?’ cried Oscar. ‘I adore other people’s secrets,’ he said teasingly. ‘My own don’t interest me, of course. They lack the charm of novelty.’

  The prince looked about the small parlour, found a stool by the window and, bringing it to the table, sat down between the page and the priest. I was seated facing him. We were no more than two feet apart and, for a moment, consciously, I studied him. I tried to see beyond the pock-marked sallow skin, the black-rimmed eyes, the thin lips, the feeble chin, the villainous moustache – what Oscar calls the ‘look of corruption’ – but I failed. Appearances can be deceptive, but Prince Albert Victor has the face of a weak and vicious man.

  As I studied him, he looked briefly into my eyes. As I gazed at him, he stared at me, then swung his gaze away, abruptly. Turning back to the page-boy, with a little show he lifted up the lad’s hand, brought it slowly to his mouth and kissed it.

  ‘Is our young friend your secret?’ asked Father Callaghan.

  ‘No,’ replied the prince, letting go of the boy, ‘my unhappiness is my secret. To the world I am the dissolute son of the Prince of Wales – irresponsible, totally spoilt, indulged beyond all understanding. I have everything that any man could want – everything that money and position can buy. Yet I have nothing – because I am not free.’

  ‘We are all free in our hearts,’ said Oscar.

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No. My heart is not my own, Mr Wilde. I am not a free man. I cannot marry the woman I love.’

  ‘I thought you loved me,’ said Frank Watkins plaintively.

  The prince laughed. ‘I do love you – but I cannot marry you. Men cannot marry men.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked the boy.

  ‘It is not Nature’s way,’ said the prince.

  ‘It’s our way,’ said the boy.

  ‘It is not natural. I must marry a woman. I must have children. But I cannot marry the woman I wish to marry.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Oscar.

  ‘Because I am to be king! I am to be king of England one day. And Emperor of India. Therefore I must marry one of my German cousins. You see the logic?’ He laughed and shook his head.

  ‘It keeps it in the family,’ said Oscar.

  ‘Have you seen Margaret of Prussia, Mr Wilde? She has all the loveliness of a warthog.’

  ‘That is uncharitable,’ chided Father Callaghan.

  ‘It is the truth – pure and simple,’ cried Prince Eddy.

  Oscar said nothing. The young prince turned once more to the page-boy and ran the back of his knuckles around the boy’s chin. Playfully, the lad caught the prince’s index finger between his teeth and held it tight.

  ‘Your Royal Highness appears to be living a life that is re
latively unconstrained,’ said Oscar, looking at the prince over his cup of sacramental wine.

  Prince Eddy pulled his hand away from the boy’s mouth. ‘I cannot live as I would wish to live.’

  ‘But you wander the woods by moonlight, with your white stallion and your catamite. You trawl graveyards for vampires …’

  ‘I take my pleasures where I can.’

  ‘I am pleased to hear it,’ said Oscar, bowing his head towards the prince. ‘Pleasure is the only thing one should live for.’

  ‘Is that true, Mr Wilde?’ asked the priest, getting to his feet and moving round the table to serve more wine and coffee.

  ‘To realise oneself is the prime aim of life, and to realise oneself through pleasure is finer than to do so through pain. On that point I am entirely on the side of the ancients – the Greeks. It is a pagan idea. I apologise for raising it at your table, Father. I mean no disrespect.’

  As he passed him, the old priest rested his hand on Oscar’s shoulder. Oscar looked up at him and smiled.

  ‘I have no problem with pleasure,’ said the priest.

  ‘Do you pursue vampires for pleasure, Father?’ Oscar asked.

  ‘No,’ said the priest seriously. ‘I regard the pursuit of vampires as a painful duty.’

  ‘And Your Royal Highness? What brings you to the pursuit of vampires?’

  ‘Porphyria,’ answered the prince. ‘The disease of vampires.’

  ‘Ah,’ exclaimed Oscar, ‘of course.’ A sudden look of anguish clouded his face. ‘I should have realised. Porphyria – the disease of vampires … and of royalty.’

  ‘Of Prussian royalty,’ said Prince Eddy sharply. ‘Of Hanoverian kings and princes.’

  ‘And Stuart queens?’ asked Oscar. ‘Was Mary Queen of Scots not a victim also?’

  ‘I’ve heard it said,’ answered the prince. ‘But there’s no proof.’