Who Was Dracula? (21 page)

During the preparation of the play, a seventeen-year-old boy named Alfred Wood made a dangerous threat. He had spent time with Oscar and Bosie, and accidentally acquired a letter between the two of them. In the letter, Wilde noted how Douglas's lips were made “for madness of kisses” and pledged his “undying love.” Wood sent a copy of the letter to Herbert Beerbohm Tree, who quietly alerted Wilde to the threat. Tree, of course, was Irving's chief competition in London, the man who finally lured Ellen Terry from the Lyceum to star in
The Merry Wives of Windsor
.

Wilde's following play,
An Ideal Husband
, in January 1895, led to even more difficulty. Charles Brookfield was an actor and playwright who had developed an intense hatred for Wilde—supposedly it stemmed from Wilde's criticism of Brookfield for not removing his gloves at a tea party. The remark, and Brookfield's disproportionate reaction, suggests a plot from a Wilde comedy, but the actor simmered for years. He wrote a parody of
Lady Windermere's Fan
in 1892 and then was cast as the butler in
An Ideal Husband
, which gave him special access to observe Oscar Wilde, his mannerisms, and his friends. “There came a time when he could not keep Wilde out of his talk,” a friend observed.

—

The Marquess of Queensberry planned to ruin the opening of Wilde's fourth comedy,
The Importance of Being Earnest
, on February 14, 1895. He would wait until Wilde was called to the stage at the conclusion, then stand in the audience and denounce him as a dangerous, immoral man, hurling a bouquet of rotting vegetables. Bosie heard about the plan, and Wilde alerted the police. The marquess, and his bouquet, were denied entrance.

Wilde arrived at the St. James Theatre, proudly wearing a green carnation, and listened to the rolling laughter of the audience and the loud bursts of applause.
The Importance of Being Earnest
was his most successful play—that was instantly apparent, from the response of that first crowd. The
New York Times
reported that the play had, “by a single stroke of the pen, put [Wilde's] enemies under his feet.” But the spell it cast lasted for exactly two weeks.

—

On February 28, Wilde called at the Albemarle Club, where he was a member, and was handed a calling card that had been left for him by the Marquess of Queensberry ten days earlier. Wilde turned the card over and found the message: “To Oscar Wilde, ponce and Somdomite.”

At least that's what it appeared to read. The handwriting was sloppy and there was an obvious misspelling. The marquess later insisted that he'd written “To Oscar Wilde, posing as a Sodomite.” This became important, as it was a much easier charge to defend.

Wilde was devastated by this accusation, but Bosie convinced him to see a lawyer and press charges. Queensberry was arrested and accused of libel; the trial was set for April 1895. Wilde's friends could see that he was doomed. Frank Harris told him, “You are sure to lose,” as Queensberry would present himself as a father defending his son and the jury would find this irresistible. At a lunch, Harris and George Bernard Shaw urged Wilde to immediately leave London for Paris and then begin asking for forgiveness in the press. Wilde was shocked by their certainty, but by now he was in Bosie's thrall—he had to trust him—and he had to convince himself that he would win.

Charles Brookfield, the actor who became Wilde's enemy, was happy to share the results of his observations. Queensberry also hired several investigators to scour London for additional evidence against Wilde. One of these investigators was John G. Littlechild, who had become convinced of Francis Tumblety's guilt during the Jack the Ripper case and had now retired from the Metropolitan Police. Littlechild found the incriminating letter between Wilde and Douglas—once a subject of blackmail—and a handful of “rent boys” who would testify about their assignations, as well as hotel employees who had witnessed Wilde's sleeping arrangements with his guests.

—

Wilde arrived at the Old Bailey in Bow Street on April 3 in a stylish carriage with liveried attendants. He was neatly dressed and carefully composed. He wanted to present the picture of self-assurance for the court, for the legal wrangles had become excruciating and were taking a toll on his health. During the trial he was questioned by Edward Carson, engaged as Queensberry's barrister. Carson had been a boyhood friend of Wilde's from Trinity, but if Wilde expected any favors extended, he was wrong. Carson was persistent. Wilde's usual flippancy and charm wilted under the pressure. Oscar was quickly caught lying about his age. When he was asked about the unnamed sins of Dorian Gray, Oscar was first elusive: “What Dorian Gray's sins are, no one knows. He who finds them has brought them.” But as Carson pushed, Wilde was forced to admit that he had revised the text for the book, omitting a phrase because “it would convey the impression that the sin of Dorian Gray was sodomy.”

Then Carson switched to another subject, Wilde's relationships with a long list of boys—some mere “rent boys.” Wilde was exasperated by the sordid tone of the questions and Carson's excruciating attempt to detail these visits. To the jury, it seemed incredible that England's great writer could have spent so much time at dinners, or on walks, or in conversations in his hotel rooms, with such common young men.

On the second day, Wilde was visibly exhausted when he was questioned about one particular boy. “Did you kiss him?” Oscar was asked. He drawled, “Oh no, never in my life; he was a peculiarly plain boy—” Carson stopped him. “He was what?” Wilde stammered, attempting to complete his thought. “. . . His appearance was so very unfortunately—very ugly—I mean, I pitied him for it.”

Wilde knew he'd made a terrible mistake and tried to shrug off the remark. Carson let it sink in for the jury. “Didn't you give me as the reason that you never kissed him that he was too ugly?”

That evening, Wilde's legal council, Sir Edward Clarke, encouraged his client to leave the country, but Wilde was now tired, disgusted, and determined to stay. The next morning, Clarke explained Wilde's offer to withdraw the case, admitting that he had been “posing as a sodomite” only in terms of his writing. But the justice would not allow him to restrict the verdict that way: Queensberry would have to be judged guilty or not guilty of libel. The jury was excused and, within minutes, returned with a verdict: The Marquess of Queensberry was not guilty of libel and was justified in his accusation that Wilde was a sodomite.

The courtroom burst into applause for the marquess.

The muck that had been sloshed about during the libel trial—Carson's list of young men and the details of their meetings—would now, certainly, result in a charge against Wilde and his arrest. Carson had won the case; he'd done what he'd had to. But he also realized the cost. That night Edward Carson told his wife, “I have ruined the most brilliant man in London.”

Wilde was arrested that same evening and put into a cell at the Bow Street police station. Sodomy would have been too difficult a charge to prove. Wilde was charged with indecency, under the Labouchère Amendment.

—

A woman in a heavy veil arrived at Wilde's Tite Street house, leaving a horseshoe, for luck, and a bunch of violets. Laurence Irving, the grandson and biographer of Henry Irving, was later convinced that the veiled lady was Ellen Terry. The clue was the violets, the favorite flowers of Terry and Henry Irving, a code that the couple was offering support. Around this time, Terry also wrote to Constance Wilde. “Be of good cheer & when you can give me please a wee sign of you[.] I suppose I could be of no use to you or you wd have written? . . . I hope yr little boys are ever so well. I send my dear love to you—if it can not serve you, it at least can do no harm.”

Terry's vague good wishes indicated that it was now difficult to offer support to both husband and wife. Oscar Wilde had gathered a small group of supporters, and, out of self-defense, Constance had found her own. She now accepted the evidence that she'd politely ignored for years and sought legal advice about the best way to protect her children from their father's publicity as well as his debt. Creditors moved in. The Wildes lost their Tite Street house and most of their possessions, including Oscar's library, his letters to Constance, and the children's toys.

Constance informed Lady Wilde, Oscar's ailing mother, that she had decided to change the boys' last name in an effort to insulate them from scandal. They became Constance, Vyvyan, and Cyril Holland, and later she sued for divorce.

—

Wilde's trial started on April 26, 1895, and lasted for five days. It was even more sordid, even more desperate, than the Queensberry trial. Wilde's biographer Richard Ellmann wrote, “Never in the nineties was so much unsavory evidence given so much publicity.” Wilde was now disheveled, gaunt, and careworn. But during his cross-examination, Sir Charles Gill sought to trap him by asking, “What is the love that dare not speak its name?” Wilde drew himself up and answered in measured tones:

It is that deep, spiritual affection that is as pure as it is perfect. . . . It is in this century misunderstood that it may be described as the love that dare not speak its name, and on account of it I am placed where I am now. It is beautiful, it is fine, it is the noblest form of affections. There is nothing unnatural about it. It is intellectual and it repeatedly exists between an elder and a younger man, when the elder man has intellect, and the younger man has all the joy, hope and glamour of life before him. . . .

It was one of the finest, most remarkable moments of a brilliant career—even more so because it was apparent that the career was ending. His speech earned applause, but the jury failed to reach a verdict.

—

The final trial began May 22. Now it was being tried by Sir Frank Lockwood, the solicitor general himself. The evidence offered the same testimony, the same sordid sensations. Throughout the trials, newspaper headlines had been screaming of Wilde's scandals. Like Mr. Hyde or Dorian Gray, they could never report details of the crimes, which were too awful for publication and had to be imagined, perhaps even exaggerated, by the readers.

On May 24, 1895, as the trial wound to a conclusion, Bram Stoker was summoned to Henry Irving's flat to hear the news that he'd been offered a knighthood. When they rode to Ellen Terry's home to tell her the news, it is certain that the three friends not only celebrated Irving's honor but sadly discussed the Wilde trial, which had occupied the week's headlines.

On Saturday, May 25, the day that Irving's knighthood was officially announced to the public, Oscar Wilde's trial concluded. He was found guilty.

The judge turned to Wilde, who was standing in the dock.

The jury have arrived at a correct verdict in this case. . . . People who can do these things must be dead to all sense of shame, and one cannot hope to produce any effect upon them. It is the worst case I have ever tried. . . . That you, Wilde, have been in the center of a circle of extensive corruption of the most hideous kind among young men [is] impossible to doubt. I shall, under such circumstances, be expected to pass the severest sentence that the law allows . . . [that] you be imprisoned and kept to hard labor for two years.

“My god, my god!” Wilde muttered. “And I? May I say nothing, my lord?” His remarks could barely be heard above the gasps and the hissed cries of “Shame!” He seemed to buckle at the knees, and then struggle to remain standing. He was allowed to say nothing. The warders took him by the arms and pulled him from the court. It was finished.

May 25, 1895, offered the proudest honor that the theatrical profession had ever received; and then, just hours later, the day ended with the greatest humiliation the theatrical profession had ever endured. In recalling that day, Bram Stoker refused to mention Oscar Wilde.

Shortly after Oscar Wilde's conviction, his brother, Willie, wrote to Bram Stoker. The two had been boyhood friends in Dublin. “Bram, my friend, poor Oscar was
not
as bad as people thought him. He was led astray by his vanity & conceit & he was so ‘got at' that he was weak enough to be guilty of indiscretions and follies—that is
all
. I believe this thing will help to purify him body and soul. Am sure you and Florence must have felt the disgrace of one who cared for you both sincerely.”

During Wilde's trial, Stoker was still assembling notes on the novel and was probably in the process of writing his first draft. Just two years later, on May 26, 1897,
Dracula
would be published.

—

Author Talia Schaffer's analysis of
Dracula
is titled “‘A Wilde Desire Took Me.'” In it she identifies a number of images and references woven into Stoker's novel, conscious or subconscious ties to Oscar Wilde. For example, when Jonathan Harker finds Dracula in his coffin, sated from a meal of blood, he describes a face that seems transformed from the pale, thin Count who welcomed him at the castle. Now Dracula reminds us of Wilde.

There lay the Count . . . the cheeks were fuller, and the white skin seemed ruby-red underneath; the mouth was redder than ever. . . . Even the deep, burning eyes seemed set amongst swollen flesh, for the lids and pouches underneath were bloated. It seemed as if the whole awful creature were simply gorged with blood; he lay like a filthy leech, exhausted with his repletion.

A newspaper described Wilde at his trial as “ponderous and fleshy, his face dusky red.” Frank Harris remembered Wilde critically as “oily and fat . . . his jowel was already fat and pouchy. His appearance filled me with distaste. . . . The carven mouth, too, with its heavy, chiseled, purple tinged lips . . .”

Schaffer likewise found similarities between the dark dens of Wilde's “rent boys,” where sunlight was excluded, and the dank crypts that formed Dracula's bedroom—the vampire literally slept in dirt. When the vampire hunters destroy Dracula's coffins, they note that the act is “purification,” the virtual word applied by Willie Wilde to Oscar's punishment.