Oscar Wilde and the Nest of Vipers Page 11

  ‘What’s “porphyria”?’ asked Frank Watkins, pulling his chair closer to the table and putting a hand out towards Oscar who was lighting another of his Turkish cigarettes.

  ‘The word is Greek,’ answered Oscar, throwing a cigarette down the table towards the boy, ‘as so often the best words are. It means the colour purple. Porphyria is a disease of the blood that drives men mad.’

  ‘My great-great-grandfather, King George III, died of it. In our family, it is known as “the purple secret”.’

  ‘The faces of victims turn purple during an attack. Their faeces turn purple. Their urine runs purple.’ Oscar leant forward to light Frank Watkins’s cigarette.

  ‘And no one knows the cause – or the cure,’ said the prince.

  ‘And vampires have this porphyria, do they?’ asked the page-boy, puffing happily on his cigarette.

  ‘Or could it be the other way around?’ pondered Oscar. ‘Could it be that in a world of ignorance and fear, victims of porphyria are mistaken for vampires?’ He looked at the page-boy. ‘You should know, Frank, that some people say that the vampire – like the werewolf and the unicorn – is no more than a myth.’

  ‘But you believe in vampires, don’t you, Mr Wilde?’ asked the boy.

  ‘I am a romantic, Frank. I believe in dragons and mermaids, too. I believe in Pegasus, the flying horse, and Pan, the god of shepherds. And when I am visiting Marlborough House or Buckingham Palace I am even ready to believe in the Divine Right of Kings.’

  ‘I believe in vampires,’ said the boy earnestly.

  Oscar laughed. ‘You are quite right. It is a good rule. Believe in anything, provided that it is quite incredible. To know the truth, one must imagine a myriad of falsehoods.’

  ‘If I have porphyria,’ said Prince Albert Victor, ‘I will go mad – like George III.’

  The boy, ignoring the prince, looked eagerly at Oscar. ‘You’ve met a vampire, haven’t you, Mr Wilde?’

  ‘I have a friend who claims to be one, but he’s not.’

  ‘Is that the young man who was with you tonight?’ asked Father Callaghan.

  ‘Yes,’ said Oscar. ‘He is beautiful, is he not? Rex LaSalle is his name.’

  ‘I recognised him,’ said Father Callaghan. ‘I have met him before. I am not sure where – perhaps at a meeting of the Vampire Club. I did not speak to him tonight. Where is he now?’

  ‘Vanished into thin air,’ said Oscar. ‘When it was all over I looked for him, but he’d gone.’

  ‘Rex LaSalle?’ said Prince Eddy. ‘I know him. I met him at the Duchess of Albemarle’s reception. He introduced himself. He broke through Dighton Probyn’s ring of defences and introduced himself! He was the only amusing man I met that night. Sir Dighton holed me up in a corner with the President of the Royal Society – the dullest man in Christendom.’

  ‘I saw you there that night, Your Royal Highness,’ said Oscar, smiling. ‘Whenever I caught sight of you, far from being holed up in a corner, you were centre stage, entertaining the ladies.’

  ‘Was I?’ said the prince. ‘I don’t recall. Apart from your friend, it was a tedious evening. Full of grey old men and drab young women. Why were you there, Mr Wilde?’

  ‘Because I was asked,’ said Oscar. ‘Why were you there, sir?’

  The prince laughed. ‘Because I was commanded. My father took me. He insisted. I had no choice. It was my “duty”. I am being schooled for a life of “duty” – broken in, readied for an eternity of small-talk and ribboncutting.’

  ‘There is more to it than that,’ said Father Callaghan soothingly.

  ‘So my father tells me. I am being groomed for greatness – according to Papa. Soon I am to get a dukedom – did you know? I am to be Duke of Clarence.’

  ‘Congratulations.’ The priest rested his open palm on the prince’s clenched fist. The prince pulled his hand away.

  ‘It’s a title with a ring to it,’ said Oscar.

  ‘And a history, Mr Wilde. I know that.’ The prince got to his feet and moved impatiently towards the window, where he stood with his back to us. ‘Am I, too, destined to end my days done to death in a butt of malmsey?’

  ‘There may be worse ways to go,’ said Oscar, sipping his cup of sacramental wine.

  ‘Am I to be drowned like the runt of the litter?’

  ‘You are the eldest son,’ said Father Callaghan, ‘and your father loves you.’

  ‘My mother loves me,’ said the prince.

  ‘Your father loves you,’ repeated the priest.

  ‘Does he? When all I do is disappoint him? In the navy, in the army, at Cambridge – I failed. I couldn’t cut the mustard. That’s all I do – fail. And disappoint. And bring disgrace and scandal on the family. Papa is obsessed with scandal – and what the Queen will think.’ He turned his head towards Oscar and looked at him unflinchingly. ‘That, I assume, is why he has involved you in this Albemarle business, Mr Wilde – my father wants to discover the truth so that he can suppress it.’

  Oscar put down his cup of wine and returned the prince’s gaze. ‘Your Royal Highness knows about my informal “investigations” then?’

  ‘I do. Owl told me. He tells me things. And how are these “investigations” proceeding? What is the mystery?’

  ‘How did the duchess die? That is the question.’

  ‘I thought it was a heart attack.’

  ‘It may prove to be more complicated than that.’

  ‘So she was not found in bed by her maid in the morning?’

  ‘No. She was found at midnight, half naked, with blood upon her torso and deep wounds in her neck.’

  The prince began to laugh. ‘Are you going to tell me that the Duchess of Albemarle was the victim of a vampire, Mr Wilde? Is that it? Is that what you suspect?’

  Oscar said nothing. The prince’s bitter laughter turned to quiet fury.

  ‘Or do you have something more sinister in mind? Do tell me. Do you know that imagining one is a vampire is a symptom of porphyria? Taking on the characteristics of a vampire is a part of the madness of porphyria – did you know that? Has my father asked you to investigate me? Is that why you are here, Mr Wilde? My father is always ready to believe the worst of me. Two years ago, when the whispering started that I was Jack the Ripper – God save the mark – my father was ready to believe it. Does he now think I murdered Helen Albemarle?’

  ‘Did you?’ asked Oscar.

  The prince turned away to regain his composure. Having calmed himself, he stood by the little window peering out at the coming dawn. ‘It’s getting light,’ he said eventually.

  ‘Was the Duchess of Albemarle your mistress, Your Royal Highness? You were of an age.’

  ‘I will not say another word.’ He turned back towards the room and smiled. ‘I must not make Frank jealous.’

  Frank Watkins was asleep, seated at the parlour table with his head resting on his folded arms. Gently, the prince ruffled the boy’s copper-coloured hair.

  ‘It’s time to go, Frank. We’re no longer wanted here.’

  Muswell Manor

  42

  Postcard from Arthur Conan Doyle to his wife, Louisa

  ‘Touie’ Conan Doyle, postmarked Monday, 17 March 1890, London W., 10 a.m.

  A late night at Mortlake – searching for vampires! An unsatisfactory and unsavoury experience.

  A good breakfast at the hotel this morning. I shared a table with James Tissot, a French painter, who told me an extraordinary story that has the makings of a novel – or possibly an adventure for one S. Holmes.

  Now setting off for the clinic at Muswell Hill. This time tomorrow, I shall be home – God willing. Three cheers and amen to that.

  I miss you, Touie.

  Your ACD

  43

  Letter from Constance Wilde to her mother-in-law, Lady Wilde

  16 Tite Street, Chelsea

  17.iii.90

  Dear Mother,

  At last, I am sending you the copy of my book of fairy stories. I promi
sed to send it to you weeks ago, I know, but so much has been happening here, that, I confess, I clean forgot! I only remembered this morning when I realised that it is St Patrick’s Day and my mind went back to the good old days in Dublin. Do you miss them very much?

  The stories are all the ones that my dear grandmother (Mama Mary) used to tell me when I was a girl. ‘Puss in Boots’ and ‘Jack the Giant-Killer’ are the two my boys like the best. I know, of course, that my stories are not so original as Oscar’s, nor so exquisitely written (your son is a genius), but I think that for little people they are less alarming. Oscar can be quite alarming at times.

  Last Sunday, my friend Lady Sandhurst came to tea – do you know her? She is the best of women and one of the leading lights of the London Missionary Society – and when Cyril asked, ‘What are missionaries, Papa?’ Oscar replied, ‘Missionaries, my boy, are the divinely provided food for destitute and under-fed cannibals. Whenever they are on the brink of starvation, Heaven, in its infinite mercy, sends them a nice plump missionary.’ Lady Sandhurst (who is quite plump herself) was profoundly shocked.

  I love Oscar so much. He is as wise and witty as he is kind – and he is the kindest man there ever was. He has garlanded me with daisy chains and I am bound to him with hoops of steel. We are more than man and wife – we are the best of friends. People think it extraordinary that Oscar should have chosen to marry me. I think so too. I am very blessed and so very happy.

  Ever your loving and grateful daughter, Constance

  PS. I do not know when I shall be able to take this parcel to the post office. Oscar and his friend are just returned – with a Catholic priest in tow! – and they are demanding both breakfast and my complete attention. They have been out all night, under the full moon, searching for vampires! Oscar tells me that it was you, dear mother, who first introduced him to the twilight world of the vampire and the werewolf.

  44

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

  16 Tite Street, Chelsea

  Monday morning

  My dear Rex,

  Where are you? How are you? What has happened to you, my precious, gilt and graceful boy? Why did you not say au revoir among the graves? Out of a complex night came a simple dawn – but you were nowhere to be seen.

  Are you alone in your room? Or have you found some other Eden? Where are you hiding? What are you hiding? And why? I hope that you will want to share some of your many secrets with your admiring and devoted friend,

  Oscar Wilde

  This evening I am dining with Arthur Conan Doyle at the Langham Hotel. If you come by at ten o’clock you will find us in the Palm Court. Arthur will retire at eleven with a glass of warm milk and the collected works of Sir Walter Scott. You and I may then take a moonlit stroll and reflect upon the truth that every impulse we strive to strangle broods in the mind and poisons us. The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it. Tonight, together, let us hear the chimes at midnight.

  45

  Notes made by Arthur Conan Doyle following his visit to the Charcot Clinic at Muswell Manor, Monday, 17 March 1890

  The Charcot Clinic is set in the east wing of a large country house on top of Muswell Hill. The house itself – Muswell Manor – is dark, covered in vines and cloistered by lime trees, but from the carriage drive leading to it there are fine views south towards the City of London. (There was a mist this morning, but even so I could see the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral five miles away.)

  Muswell Hill is an old English village fast becoming a suburb of the metropolis. Its name derives from the natural spring – the ‘mossy well’ – that has its source in the grounds of Muswell Manor and produces a pure drinking water famed for its curative powers.

  Since medieval times Muswell Hill has been a place of pilgrimage for the sick in search of a miracle. Since the end of the last century, Muswell Manor has been a lunatic asylum. Since December of last year, the asylum has been under the direction of Lord Yarborough, MD, FRS.

  My visit today – postponed from last Friday – was at the personal invitation of Lord Yarborough. He has approached a number of general practitioners like me – doctors who are members of the Provincial Medical and Surgical Association study group on hysteria. He has invited us to come to Muswell Manor, individually or in small groups, to visit the Charcot Clinic where he and his colleagues are exploring the pathology of hysteria. They are doing so under the guidance – and using the techniques – of the great Jean-Martin Charcot, professor of diseases of the nervous system at the Paris Medical Faculty and, indisputably, the leading neurologist of our time.

  In his letter of invitation, Lord Yarborough expressed the certainty that I would learn something of value from my visit and the hope that it would lead to me recommending patients to him. He was candid: ‘The clinic needs patients, both for their benefit and to assist us in our research.’

  Foolishly, because I left my hotel in haste this morning, I omitted to take Lord Yarborough’s letter with me to Muswell Hill. For this reason, on arrival I presented myself at the main entrance to Muswell Manor instead of the entrance to the east wing. When I rang the bell, I heard no sound, but the front door swung open almost at once. An old man – smiling, toothless, hairless, wearing nothing but a nightshirt, flimsy and soiled – beckoned me across the threshold and, in a thin, piping voice, begged to know my business. I explained that I had an appointment with Lord Yarborough. Solemnly, the old man told me that Lord Yarborough was not available, but that the Duke of Wellington would see me right away.

  At once I realised my mistake, but it was too late. I was already surrounded by a dozen lunatics – mad men and women, bawling, screeching, laughing, pulling at my person, tearing at my clothes, demanding my attention and my sympathy. For minutes on end (or so it seemed) I stood locked in their midst, pleading with them, unable to free myself from their ghastly grip. Eventually, rescuers – in the unlikely form of two nuns, nursing sisters armed with heavy kitchen brooms – appeared from nowhere and, with alarming ferocity, set about my captors with their broomsticks, beating the hapless creatures into submission.

  As my insane assailants limped and sloped away, some whimpering, some snarling angrily, some in tears, one of the nuns followed after them, shooing them towards the corridor that led out of the hallway, like a farmer’s wife bustling after errant geese and chickens. The other nun, the older of the pair, stayed to reprimand me.

  ‘This is not the public entrance,’ she scolded.

  ‘This is for patients only. They should not be disturbed. Some of them are dangerous. Did you meet the Duke of Wellington?’

  ‘He is not the Duke of Wellington, surely?’

  ‘No, but he is the Earl of Yattenden – the son of the Marquess of Truro. And he is capable of murder. He may have killed his own mother, but it was never proved. That’s why he’s here – and not down the road.’

  ‘Down the road’ is the Colney Hatch asylum where more than three thousand lunatics are housed under one roof at public expense. ‘Here’ is Muswell Manor, a privately owned, fee-paying institution, where fifty deranged gentlefolk live in comparative comfort.

  ‘Our patients are people of quality, all from good families – though we never see their families, of course. They are here because their families want nothing to do with them.’

  When the nun spoke, I recognised her accent at once. She is an Aberdonian. When I introduced myself, she recognised my name, being herself an admirer of Sherlock Holmes.

  The scolding done and familiarity established, Sister Agnes escorted me through the house to the east wing. Despite her forbidding features – an aquiline nose, a narrow mouth, a wart upon her chin – and her prowess with the broomstick, I took her to be a kindly woman. She told me something of the history of Muswell Manor and spoke with feeling of the pathetic creatures in her charge.

  ‘We cannot cure them. We pray for them – and feed them and water them, and do our best to
keep them clean and out of harm’s way. They are not here to regain their wits. We have no treatment to offer them. They are here to live out their days. That’s all. Some of them have been living here for more than sixty years.’

  Most of the patients, as we passed by them, shied away from us, eyes cast down, cowering, saying nothing. Most wore nightshirts either covered with outdoor coats or dressing gowns.

  There was but one exception that I saw. Outside the door that connected the main house with the east wing, sitting upright upon a hard-backed chair, gazing straight towards us, was a handsome woman of about fifty. Her hair was grey, her face was pale, but her dark-brown eyes burned fiercely. Though it was mid-morning she wore a full-length evening gown, of silk, plum-coloured with an edging of royal blue. As we came close to her, I noticed that the lace frills at her throat and wrists were worn and badly torn. She got to her feet and curtsied low before us.

  ‘I must see Lord Yarborough,’ she said.

  ‘You cannot, Lady M,’ said Sister Agnes. ‘You know that. Lord Yarborough will not see you.’

  ‘I must see him,’ repeated the lady. ‘I will see him. I will wait.’

  She curtsied once more and resumed her seat. Her eyes never left us as Sister Agnes searched for her bundle of keys, found the one that she needed, unlocked the door to the east wing and escorted me through.

  ‘Lady M has been with us for twenty years,’ the nun explained, with a sigh, locking the door behind us. ‘Every day she expects to be released. It will never happen.’

  ‘And why will Lord Yarborough not see her?’ I asked.

  ‘Because my time is precious and there would be no point.’

  Lord Yarborough’s voice rang out along the corridor.

  ‘Sister Agnes, kindly bring my guest this way.’

  Lord Yarborough’s office door was open. The nun took me to it.

  ‘Thank you, Sister.’