Oscar Wilde and the Nest of Vipers

by Gyles Brandreth

difficulty in breathing

  chest pains and chest constriction

  palpitations

  tumultuous heartbeats

  heaviness in limbs

  severe cramps

  swelling of the neck and jugular veins

  headaches

  clenched teeth

  tearfulness

  involuntary sighing

  In one woman (aged twenty-eight, married but childless), violent outbursts, convulsions, uncontrollable shrieks and cries, involuntary movements, including wild, windmill-like waving of the arms.

  In another (aged eighteen, a virgin), the hysteric outburst involved severe chorea – spasmodic movements, repeated, rapid and jerky: her left hand beat upon her knee as though on a drum while her right scratched upon her left breast as though she was bent on tearing out her own heart. The sight was pitiful. The attack lasted upward of an hour and was followed by a trance lasting two days and two nights.

  On examination (by ACD) all the women reported feelings of perpetual sadness, a craving for love and a need for sympathy.

  Cause

  No one knows! The most penetrating anatomical investigations have shown that Hippocrates was wrong. Hysteria is not brought about by a wandering uterus. It is as likely to be brought on by a full moon (there is some evidence to suggest as much).

  Is hysteria a form of lunacy then? It leaves no material trace behind. Examine the internal organs of an hysteric and you will find no lesions. Is it (as many good men believe) a self-induced state conjured up in a disturbed mind? Or is it, as Jean-Martin Charcot – ‘the great Charcot’ – now tells us, an organic disease of the nervous system?

  Treatments

  The traditional treatments include the dousing of the reproductive organs with water and the application of physical pressure on the patient’s ovaries – pressing hard upon the abdomen until the symptoms abate.

  There are also many cases reported (notably from Germany and Holland) of a complete cure being effected by the physician introducing his line of life to the patient to satisfy her gross bodily appetites! (This remedy seems somewhat extreme for Southsea.)

  Charcot is forcing us to reconsider all that we know of hysteria – the cause and the cure. At La Salpêtrière in Paris he has anatomised the malady – observed and analysed its ‘four stages’ – and developed the only reliably effective treatment reported to date: hypnosis.

  24

  From the diary of Rex LaSalle

  Oscar spoke to me of his mother and I talked to him of mine, telling him of my mother’s death. He said, ‘All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That’s his.’ He called Lady Wilde ‘Speranza’. She, too, is a writer. ‘Speranza’ is her nom de plume. The word means hope. Oscar said, ‘She is full of hope and life and rare intelligence. She has genius – and beauty. And beauty is a form of genius – is higher, indeed, than genius as it needs no explanation.’ He loves her dearly and sees her often. Now that she is a widow, she lives not far from him in Chelsea, in Oakley Street – one of the streets I trawl.

  Oscar spoke of his mother exactly as I speak of mine – with admiration and adoration and fierce, burning loyalty. I asked him whether she had any faults – even one.

  ‘Yes,’ he answered, earnestly, ‘just the one. She is a dreamer.’

  ‘Is that a fault?’ I asked. ‘Are you not a dreamer, also?’

  ‘I am,’ he replied, ‘more’s the pity – for a dreamer is one who can find his way only by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.’

  When he asked me about my father, I said nothing. When I asked him about his, he told me, ‘Sir William Wilde was a great man, in his small way. He had genius without beauty. He was neither tall nor handsome. He had the energy of the little man and, in this world, energy is everything. And he had a special gift. He could make the blind see – in reality, not metaphor. He pioneered the operation to remove cataracts from men’s eyes. In his time, as an ophthalmologist and ear surgeon, he was without equal. And not without recognition. He was oculist-in-ordinary to Queen Victoria in the early years of her reign. She was possibly the only young lady with whom he managed to behave respectably. Sir William Wilde had a weakness where drink and women were concerned. He was never led astray into the paths of virtue. Old wine and young girls were his temptations of choice. He littered Ireland with his natural children. Did you know that he was accused of the rape of a female patient anaesthetised under chloroform? My mother was well aware of his constant infidelities, but she survived by simply ignoring them. She rose above such things. She is a woman of stature, in every sense, and she knows that sins of the flesh are nothing. They are maladies for physicians to cure, if they should be cured.’

  He spoke of Sir William easily, without rancour but with a casual, almost humorous contempt. ‘Fathers should be neither seen nor heard,’ he said. ‘That is the only proper basis for family life. My mother gave me life and hope and my philosophy.’

  ‘But your father gave you your name.’

  ‘That cannot be denied. Nomen est omen. And our fates lie in our names, we’re told.’

  25

  From the notebooks of Robert Sherard

  Stoker and I both chose the bacon, eggs and devilled kidneys. Conan Doyle, a true Scot, opted for porridge (with salt, not cream), followed by the kippers. Oscar settled for half a dozen Turkish cigarettes, coffee and Napoleon brandy.

  ‘You must excuse me, gentlemen. I have spent the night with a vampire.’

  ‘Who is this young man?’ demanded Conan Doyle in a hoarse whisper, looking anxiously about him as he spoke.

  We were seated at a large table by a bay window overlooking the river Thames. Henri, the Savoy’s Saturday-morning maître d’hotel, had given us Oscar’s favourite table and Oscar had given Henri a silver florin. (Oscar is absurdly generous – especially when he can least afford to be.) The tables adjacent to ours were both unoccupied. The waiters were well out of earshot. Nevertheless, throughout the breakfast, whenever Arthur spoke, he spoke in hushed tones.

  ‘His name is Rex LaSalle. He is twenty-six years of age – twenty-seven on the sixteenth of October. We share a birthday – different years, alas. He hails from the Channel Islands – Guernsey or Jersey, I forget which. He had a dead mother without compare and a father he won’t speak of. He appears to have no siblings and few friends. He is an artist – or so he says. But I saw no easel, paints or brushes in his room. There’s none of the odour of turpentine about him – more the fragrance of roses. He lives above a Portuguese wine shop in a sordid side street in Soho, but he carries himself like a prince, he talks like a poet and he has the appearance of a Greek god.’

  ‘Steady on, old man,’ whispered Conan Doyle, skewering a shard of kipper and glancing nervously towards the waiters.

  Oscar continued, unabashed. ‘He is tall – six feet at least. Slender. Supple. Lithe. He moves with extraordinary grace, like a dancer – or a panther. He holds his head high. His profile is perfection. His hair is jet black, his eyes are cobalt blue, his skin as white as alabaster.’

  Bram Stoker laid down his knife and fork. ‘He doesn’t sound like a vampire to me,’ he announced, wiping his lips on his linen napkin. ‘Vampires are swarthy, not pale. They gorge on blood. Their complexions are ruddy.’ He pushed his chair away from the table and turned his ample frame towards Oscar. ‘And they are very unlikely to find a berth above a Portuguese wine shop in Soho. The vintner and his wife are bound to live on a diet of garlic and malmsey – and vampires have an aversion to garlic, if not to fortified wine.’

  He laughed jovially and scratched his chin through his ample, untrimmed red beard. Stoker is a big, shambling man, with an amiable, booming voice and a heartwarming, open face.

  ‘How do you know all this?’ I asked.

  ‘Vampires are my passion,’ he answered, turning his bright-blue eyes towards me. ‘While Oscar pursues the youth and beauty of Soho, I pursue the blood-suc
kers of Transylvania. Each to his own.’

  ‘Bram is writing a book,’ explained Oscar, leaning back from the table and waving the smoke from his cigarette above his head. ‘He has been writing it since we were boys in Dublin.’

  ‘I have been researching it a while,’ said Bram, ignoring Oscar. ‘I haven’t started writing yet. But the plan is fixed now. And the title too. The Undead. That’s what they are, vampires – the undead who feed upon the living.’

  Oscar raised his glass of brandy towards his old friend. ‘Tell us more, Bram. Tell us everything. That’s why we’re here.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’ replied Stoker, looking around the faces at the table like an eager schoolboy ready to be tested on his homework.

  ‘Are they real?’ asked Conan Doyle, his voice still barely above a whisper.

  ‘Did Our Lord turn water into wine at the marriage at Cana? Was the miracle of the loaves and fishes real? People believe these things. People have believed in vampires – or creatures like them – for millennia. In ancient Greece, in Mesopotamia, in Caesar’s Rome, there were vampires. As I recall, the first written use of the word dates back a thousand years. A Russian priest transcribing the Book of Psalms for a Russian prince noted in the margin of his manuscript that his master was one of the undead – a wumpir.’

  Stoker rolled the word around his mouth with relish. As he did so, one of the waiters approached the table with fresh coffee. Conan Doyle flinched. Oscar soothed him. ‘It’s all right, Arthur. We are not in Southsea now.’

  Stoker smiled and inclined his head towards Arthur. ‘Dr Doyle’s sense of discretion does him credit, Oscar. Not everyone’s as comfortable with matters pagan as you seem to be.’

  The waiter withdrew.

  ‘These “undead”,’ I asked, looking into Stoker’s broad, beaming face, ‘who are they?’

  ‘Souls that cannot rest in peace. Murderers and suicides, torturers, blackmailers, witches, warlocks, priests fallen from grace, princes mired in corruption, men – and women too – of every class, of every creed and culture and land, whose deeds of darkness are so vile that they follow them to the grave. They are evildoers in life who have not found absolution in death. They are buried, but not dead, no longer of this world, not yet of the next.’

  ‘Are they always sinners?’ asked Oscar.

  Stoker paused. ‘Good question, Oscar. You don’t miss a trick.’ He took his linen napkin and folded it slowly while he answered. ‘There is a debate about that. Some say that every vampire was born a wrong ’un – they’re all the devil’s offspring. Others – and you can take it that I belong to this school of thinking – incline to the view that vampires are themselves victims, unfortunate men and women who in life have suffered a hurt that cannot be assuaged, a wound that will not heal. They bleed in life and, in death, they go on bleeding – through all eternity.’ He took a sip of his coffee and mopped his beard with his neatly folded napkin. ‘And it’s because they bleed eternally that they require fresh blood on a perpetual basis.’ He looked at Oscar teasingly. ‘Blood’s their eau-de-vie, so to speak. Each to his own.’

  ‘And these people who are vampires,’ I asked, ‘are they easy to recognise?’

  ‘Within their graves, most certainly. Their bodies neither decay nor decompose. After death, their teeth, their hair, their nails continue to grow. Shrouded in their coffins, the undead do not rest in peace – even as they sleep, one eye remains open at all times.’

  Conan Doyle was now taking notes. ‘They sleep?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘By day, they sleep,’ answered Stoker, speaking more slowly to allow the young doctor time for his note-taking. ‘They have an aversion to daylight. By night, they roam the world …’

  ‘And would we recognise them as vampires then?’ I asked.

  ‘No. Not at all. At least, not by their appearance. Beyond the swarthy look – the purplish face that comes from drinking blood – there is no physical feature that distinguishes a vampire.’

  ‘They cast no shadows,’ suggested Oscar.

  Stoker nodded. ‘They cast no shadows because they have no souls.’ He looked about the breakfast table and reached for the toast rack, the butter and the marmalade. ‘They have no being – no existence – beyond themselves. They cast no shadows and give no reflection. You cannot see a vampire in a looking-glass.’

  ‘But can they be prepossessing?’ asked Oscar, an eyebrow lightly raised.

  ‘Most certainly. On that score, Oscar, your young friend does indeed have vampiric possibilities. Vampires are handsome creatures on the whole. The devil hath power to assume pleasing shapes, you’ll recall.’

  ‘And fangs?’ enquired Oscar, helping himself to a further libation of brandy. ‘Do they have fangs?’

  Stoker laughed. ‘The better to draw blood, do you mean?’ He lifted his slice of toast to his mouth and grinned. ‘Who knows? There are no dental records for us to inspect, but it is possible and it’s widely believed. Vampires can change shape, we are told, so why should they not also be able to sharpen and lengthen their bicuspids?’

  ‘Who tells us that they can change shape?’ asked Conan Doyle, looking up from his notebook.

  ‘Oscar’s sainted mother, among others,’ replied Stoker, crunching his toast contentedly. ‘Lady Wilde, la bella Speranza, is an authority on Irish and European folklore. Her books abound with tales of men and women driven by a lust for blood who have the gift of transformation.’

  ‘You have read “A Wolf Story”?’ asked Oscar.

  ‘I believe that I have read every word that Lady Wilde has published, Oscar.’

  Stoker turned towards Conan Doyle as if to demand that the doctor take a note of what he was about to say.

  ‘Lady Wilde tells us of wild dogs who devour souls, of women who turn into serpents, of old men who become wolves – and of wolves who become youths, with long, sharp teeth and terrible, glittering eyes. She recounts tales of humans disguised as bats, of dead men becoming cats, of children who, as they sleep, turn into rats …’

  ‘She is a good mother,’ murmured Oscar, contemplating his brandy glass.

  ‘And a fine writer,’ said Bram Stoker, raising his coffee cup towards Oscar. ‘If my book comes off, it will be in large measure thanks to her inspiration.’ He turned back to Conan Doyle. ‘Blood is the recurring theme in the work of Lady Wilde. In the world of which she writes, the dead who roam the earth are all sustained by blood – its colour excites them, its essence empowers them.’

  ‘My women have been good to you, Bram,’ said Oscar softly.

  Stoker put down his coffee cup and pushed his chair farther from the table. ‘It’s too early in the day to become maudlin, Oscar,’ he said reprovingly, then turned towards me and Conan Doyle. ‘Oscar’s mother was a second mother to me. And Oscar’s first sweetheart is now my wife.’

  ‘Florence Balcombe was the prettiest girl in Dublin,’ said Oscar.

  ‘And now she’s the prettiest woman in London, I’m proud to say.’ Stoker got to his feet. ‘I must be about my business. We’ve a matinée of the Scottish play. Toil and trouble – that’s my lot for today. Thank you for breakfast, gentlemen. I’ve enjoyed it. And I hope I’ve been of service.’

  ‘You’ve been invaluable,’ said Oscar, with feeling.

  ‘Fascinating,’ muttered Conan Doyle, closing his notebook.

  ‘You didn’t tell me what this was all about, Oscar,’ said Stoker, straightening his waistcoat and buttoning up his jacket. ‘Why does this handsome young friend of yours claim to be a vampire? Does he have a wound that will not heal?’

  ‘I think perhaps he does,’ replied Oscar, getting to his feet and taking his friend by the hand.

  ‘I wonder if he belongs to the Vampire Club? Do you know? If he doesn’t, you must bring him. You must all come anyway, since the subject so intrigues you.’

  ‘The Vampire Club?’ repeated Conan Doyle, reopening his notebook.

  ‘You’ve not heard of it? It meets at midn
ight – on the third Sunday of the month. Come. I’m allowed up to four guests. I’m the convener. I’ll wire you the details. It’s at Mortlake cemetery this Sunday.’

  ‘Who goes?’ I asked.

  ‘Scholars of vampirism – and souls in search of adventure. Gentlemen, mostly. Occasionally, we get a lady. We’re thoroughly emancipated. And democratic. Servants come with their masters.’

  ‘We shall be there,’ said Oscar.

  ‘I am not sure,’ muttered Conan Doyle, rising from the table. ‘I may need to be in Southsea.’

  Bram Stoker put a large reassuring hand on Arthur’s shoulder. ‘It’s quite respectable, Doctor, I assure you. There’s a bit of hocus pocus, but nothing too alarming. On the whole, we prefer claret to blood. We picnic among the graves while one of our number reads a short paper by candlelight. We’re a learned society in our way. We even have a royal patron – though I’m not supposed to tell you that.’

  There was a moment’s pause before Oscar spoke. ‘Prince Albert Victor, I presume?’

  Bram Stoker looked steadily into his friend’s eyes and smiled. ‘You really don’t miss a trick, do you?’ He raised his hand to us all in a farewell salute. ‘Good day, gentlemen,’ he said cheerily. ‘Until tomorrow then, at midnight.’

  High Tea

  26

  Telegram delivered to Oscar Wilde at the Albemarle Club, Albemarle Street, London W., at 11 a.m. on Saturday, 15 March 1890

  CERTAIN PERSON REQUESTS AND REQUIRES PLEASURE OF YOUR COMPANY FOR HIGH TEA THIS AFTERNOON AT FIVE AT CHURCHILL RESIDENCE. BRING ACD AS BEFORE. GRATEFULLY OWL

  27

  Letter from Oscar Wilde to Rex LaSalle, care of 17 Wardour Street, Soho, delivered by messenger

  Albemarle Club

  15.iii.90

  My dear Vampire,

  Consider the date but ignore the omens. There is no such thing as an omen. (Destiny does not send us heralds: she is too wise – or too cruel – for that.) Embrace the Ides of March! This is the festival of Mars – god of war, son of Juno and Jupiter, husband of Bellona, father of Romulus, lover of Venus. You are he in other times. (Do you know the Ludovisi Ares – the most beautiful statue of Mars in all antiquity? You are he.)