Oscar Wilde and the Nest of Vipers Read online

  We ate well and drank copiously. Oscar drank too much. He asked me about the taste of blood – how often I required it – in what amounts – at what temperature, etc. I was ready to answer him truthfully, but Conan Doyle would have none of it.

  ‘Desist, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘or I shall be obliged to leave the table.’

  We talked much of the death of the Duchess of Albemarle. Dr Doyle accepts Lord Yarborough’s analysis: that the duchess died of a heart attack following a frenzy of carnal activity willingly entered into. Oscar believes that she was murdered, by a person or persons still unknown. Robert Sherard is convinced that Lord Yarborough is implicated in her death – that, under hypnosis, in a trance induced by Lord Y or one of his associates, the duchess was persuaded to take her own life. Is such a thing possible?

  ‘To know the truth one must imagine myriads of falsehoods,’ said Oscar.

  When dinner was done, Conan Doyle bade us goodnight at once and went up to his room. Sherard volunteered to get a cab to accompany Oscar back to his house in Tite Street, but Oscar would have none of it. He commanded Sherard to go to Tite Street in his place and make his excuses to Mrs Wilde.

  ‘Tell her I am feasting with vampires and cannot come home tonight. Kiss my darlings for me.’

  Sherard protested, but, realising how deep in drink Oscar had become, eventually agreed. At a little after midnight, we handed Sherard into a two-wheeler outside the Langham Hotel and waved him on his way. Arm in arm, and very slowly, Oscar and I then wandered up Regent Street towards Soho. I cannot be certain, but I sensed that we were being followed as we walked.

  In my room I gave Oscar coffee while he told me that he loved me. He said: ‘The only difference between a saint and a sinner is that every saint has a past and every sinner has a future. My wife is a saint, Rex, while you and I are sinners.’

  This morning, before he left, he gave me five pounds.

  48

  Letter from Arthur Conan Doyle to his wife,

  Louisa ‘Touie’ Conan Doyle

  Langham Hotel,

  London, W.

  18.iii.90

  Dearest Touie, most cherished wife –

  This is damnable, my darling. I have to postpone my return to Southsea yet again. I am so sorry. I am missing you so very much.

  I am held here in town by royal command! This evening I am obliged to join HRH the Prince of Wales in the royal box at the Empire Music Hall in Leicester Square. I am specifically asked for: I have no choice. If not Leicester Square, then the Tower. Oscar Wilde will also be of the party.

  As I think I have already told you, Oscar and I are engaged on some particular business on behalf of the Prince of Wales – delicate stuff that need not concern you. Of course, I wish now that I had never become involved, but it is too late. (‘Too late’ – the two most fateful words in the English language.)

  And Oscar, I confess, I am beginning to find rather ‘too much’. I dined with him again last night. He was amusing to begin with, but became more preposterous as the evening wore on. He was heavily in wine – as he often is. He brought with him his friend Sherard (the great-grandson of William Wordsworth, but an insipid fellow nonetheless, colourless and too much the acolyte) and we were joined by a young ‘exquisite’ of Oscar’s acquaintance who affects to be a vampire – and does so with the utmost seriousness.

  When I protested that I did not consider ‘bloodsucking’ a suitable topic of conversation over dinner in a public restaurant, with waiters listening in, Oscar said to his friends, ‘You must forgive Arthur, gentlemen. He hasn’t a single redeeming vice.’ Oscar is funny – and brilliant – and I am conscious of the honour of knowing him, but his prodigious capacity for food and drink as well as the doubtful nature of some of his associates trouble me.

  Kiss my darling daughter for me. How is she? How are you? Has my young brother replied to my letter yet, I wonder? Is there news from the Mam? Send me some of your news if you get a moment.

  Until I go out this evening, I plan to stay here at the hotel. My room, though costly, is comfortable. I have a desk. I can write. I propose spending the morning working up my notes for my study of hysteria. This afternoon I am planning to begin a new story – another adventure for Mr Sherlock Holmes. I am sad not to be at home, but I am content to be at work. I am more likely to hurt myself by idleness than by endeavour.

  I shall return to Southsea tomorrow morning, come what may – I have my Wednesday surgery to attend to. Thursday, alas, will see me back in London once more, but only briefly. For reasons I will explain when I see you, I shall be joining the mourners at the Duchess of Albemarle’s funeral.

  Take care, my darling. Forgive my prolonged absence. To remind me of you, I am wearing the tartan tie you gave me for my birthday. It is being much admired.

  Aye your loving husband,

  ACD

  49

  THE EMPIRE THEATRE OF VARIETIES

  LEICESTER SQUARE, LONDON, W.

  Grand Vocal, Instrumental, Thespian and Terpsichorean Festival The Most Powerful Programme Ever Presented Before the Ever-Discerning British Public

  TONIGHT, TUESDAY, 18 MARCH 1890 THE GREATEST NIGHT OF THE SEASON

  For this night only

  MR DAN LENO

  The Funniest Man on Earth,

  Clog-Dancing Champion of the World

  Mr William Topaz McGONAGALL

  Poet and Tragedian of Dundee will recite his original poem ‘Bruce of Bannockburn’

  LES BALLETS FANTASTIQUES

  present

  A NIGHT IN ARABIA

  PREMIÈRE DANSEUSE: MADEMOISELLE LOUISA LAVALLOIS

  SCREAMING EXTRAVANGANZA

  By the Irresistibly Funny Quartet,

  Messrs DEVOY, LECLERQ

  LOVELL & BUTLER

  Introducing their amazing sagacious

  BABY ELEPHANT

  MISS HETTY MARENGO

  ‘Always a Gentleman’

  JOVIAL JOE JUSTINI

  With his repertoire of entirely new songs

  Not for the faint-hearted

  THE TANK OF DEATH

  CAPTAIN JOSIAH NEPTUNE brings the

  ATLANTIC OCEAN to LEICESTER SQUARE with

  ‘MIRANDA’ THE MIRACULOUS MERMAID

  Ludicrous tricks, antics and somersaults by

  MONSIEUR PIQUET’S

  PERFORMING DOGS AND MONKEYS

  And for this night only

  THE INCREDIBLE PROFESSOR ONOFROFF

  Exhibiting MIND-READING SKILLS of the rarest order

  ADDITIONAL NOVELTIES GUARANTEED

  THE LYCEUM ORCHESTRA

  Under the personal direction of Mr Samuel Trussock

  ADMISSION: BOXES 2S DRESS CIRCLE 1S GRAND TIER 9D STALLS 6D

  REAR STALLS & BALCONY 4D

  THE ENTERTAINMENT WILL COMMENCE AT 7.15 P.M.;

  DOORS OPEN HALF AN HOUR EARLIER

  50

  Extract from a letter from Bram Stoker to his wife, Florence, delivered by messenger in the early hours of Wednesday, 19 March 1890

  Lyceum Theatre,

  Strand,

  London

  Tuesday, 18 March 1890

  Florrie –

  It is midnight and I am just returned from the Empire Music Hall in Leicester Square. I am sitting down at once to send you this account of the events of the evening, not only so that you should read my record of what occurred before you see some garbled version in tomorrow’s newspaper, but also because I know that you keep all my letters (dear girl that you are) and I believe I shall have recourse to this one when I come to write my memoirs. This has been a night of high drama, low farce – and tragedy.

  Let me begin at the beginning. I arrived at the Empire at seven o’clock sharp – as instructed by Oscar. I went at Oscar’s behest. He sent me a note this afternoon to tell me that the Prince of Wales was to pay an unexpected private visit to the Empire tonight – Dan Leno was top of the bill – and Oscar had been asked to make up an ‘appropriate party’ to e
ntertain His Royal Highness during those items in the programme that might not entirely hold His Highness’s attention.

  The party that gathered in the ante-room to the royal box was a motley one. There were nine of us in all; besides Oscar and myself, two of Oscar’s ‘young men’ were in attendance – the journalist, Sherard, who says little but ‘knows’ everybody, and the artist, LaSalle, who lays claim to being a vampire (he is a handsome youth, but he gets on my nerves). Oscar’s friend, Arthur Conan Doyle, was there (I like him), with another medical man, Lord Yarborough, and Yarborough’s friend, the Duke of Albemarle. (Albemarle is in mourning – his wife’s funeral is on Thursday – but tonight he went to the music hall!) The last of the guests to arrive was the composer, Antonin Dvorak. He came with his very beautiful daughter. (At least, he told us she was his daughter.)

  For an hour we stood about idly, gossiping, chatting, smoking, sipping champagne. (It was fine champagne. Albemarle brought it – at Oscar’s suggestion – along with his own butler to serve it.) Though the champagne was good and the company congenial – I talked at length with Dvorak: he comes from Bohemia, and his father was a butcher – I would have liked to watch the performance from the start. First on the bill was a troupe of juggling monkeys! But Oscar said, no, that would be lèse majesté. We had to await the arrival of the prince.

  HRH eventually appeared just after eight. He was immaculately kitted out – I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man so perfectly attired, even Oscar – but stouter, shorter, older, much more out of breath than when last I saw him. (He is older: he is nearly fifty now.)

  He arrived with his eldest in tow: Prince Eddy. The young prince looks better in the flesh than in the photographs: healthier, less saturnine. He is just returned from a tour of India. He said, ‘I suspect I’m going to enjoy this Empire more than that one,’ which I thought amusing. The princes were in evening dress, with matching white carnations in their buttonholes, but no decorations as this was very much a private outing. They came by brougham with just two in the royal retinue: the Prince of Wales’s personal page and the equerry, Tyrwhitt Wilson. (If Irving revives his Malvolio, I’ll get Tyrwhitt Wilson for Aguecheek.)

  It fell to Oscar to present the party to the princes. He did it with his customary charm. (He is impossible at times, but still the most charming man I know.) It was all very easy and informal. I asked the heir apparent which of the night’s entertainments he was most looking forward to – suggesting it might be the Great McGonagall.

  He laughed. ‘McGonagall is more to the Queen’s taste than my own. The poor man hopes to succeed Lord Tennyson as Poet Laureate and keeps writing to Her Majesty at Balmoral to say so. Unfortunately he writes in verse.’

  He laughed once more. I laughed. Oscar laughed. Dvorak – who’d not understood a word – positively roared. (In the presence of royalty I find there is always much forced bonhomie.)

  It transpired that the performance HRH was most keenly anticipating was that of Professor Onofroff – the ‘psychic phenomenon’ noted for his feats of mind-reading.

  ‘I have seen him in action before,’ said HRH, eyes gently bulging. ‘He is quite remarkable. He can reveal what you are thinking with uncanny accuracy. He can read your mood. He can see into your soul. After we’ve witnessed his act, I want you all to meet him. Did Oscar not tell you? I hope he’s made the arrangements.’

  ‘I have made all the arrangements, sir,’ said Oscar smoothly, ‘but I have told our friends nothing. I wished the evening to be a surprise. I did not want anyone putting up his guard before being subjected to Professor Onofroff’s mental analysis.’

  ‘Very good,’ said the prince.

  ‘Very bad,’ muttered Dvorak. ‘My soul is a secret place. It does not want visitors.’

  ‘Never mind that,’ said HRH dismissively. ‘Time’s getting on. Let’s go into the show. Mademoiselle Dvorak can sit next to me.’

  ‘She speaks no English, Your Highness,’ said the composer anxiously.

  ‘All the better.’ The prince grinned. ‘In we go.’

  The prince’s page and the duke’s butler opened the narrow double doors that led from the ante-room to the royal box. Immediately we could hear the strains of the orchestra and the hubbub of the house. On stage Hetty Marengo (a male impersonator) was doing her best with ‘The girl who knew a boy who knew a girl who knew a thing or two’. It’s a strong song, but she was struggling.

  I do not know how these music-hall artistes manage: the commotion in the auditorium is constant – patrons coming and going, talking, laughing, greeting their friends, hushing their neighbours, cadging cigarettes, ordering drinks, waving to the girls in the gallery. The Empire is a quality house – evening dress is worn – but there are long refreshment counters on every tier and, unless it’s the top-liner on stage, the brouhaha and bustle around the bars and in the aisles never stop.

  As the royal party entered the royal box, a solitary cheer rang out from the gallery, followed by another, and another. Within moments, the house was in uproar: cheering, applauding, whistling (they’d noticed the Dvorak girl), stamping their feet and raising their glasses. The Prince of Wales stood to acknowledge the ovation and Hetty Marengo proved her worth. She stepped up to the footlights, stopped the orchestra and embarked on a rousing chorus of ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow’. The entire audience joined in.

  The song done, the prince took his seat, Hetty Marengo took her bow and the house began to calm itself. The theatre was hot and the royal box was crowded. There were just eight chairs arranged in two rows. We found ourselves seated like this:

  D. of Albemarle Ld Yarborough A. Conan Doyle Self Dvorak

  Prince Eddy The Prince of Wales Mlle Dvorak

  Oscar and his young men stood at the back of the box, alongside the prince’s equerry and the theatre manager. I sat almost immediately behind HRH and when, soon, he realised that Mlle Dvorak was unable to take on board anything more than a smile and a wink, he began addressing his remarks to me.

  Throughout the performance he maintained a steady flow of comments, quips and asides. I can report that the vulgar comic songs of Jovial Joe Justini are much more to the royal liking than Henry Irving’s Hamlet. And the four tumbling comedians who appeared on stage with a baby elephant scored a palpable hit. The Great McGonagall fared less well. As the Bard of Dundee launched into a spirited rendering of a very long poem about Robert the Bruce and the Battle of Bannockburn, the Prince of Wales stifled a yawn, lit a cigar and, muttering, ‘I’ve never much cared for Scottish politics,’ began to talk loudly about racing and his ambition one day to breed a Derby winner.

  The next item on the bill, however, drew the royal eye back to the stage in no uncertain terms. Les Ballets Fantastiques featured a bevy of beautiful ballerinas decked out as Arabian slave girls. The provocative nature of their dancing and the boldness of their costumes – the young ladies were wearing tight-fitting beaded bodices and loose silk pantaloons – commanded full attention.

  When the dancers appeared, HRH called to his equerry for his opera glasses. When the première danseuse took centre stage, the prince exclaimed: ‘I know her. It’s my Lulu. What a darling girl.’

  The moment the ballet was done, while the dancers were still curtsying to the royal box, the prince called over to his equerry once more: ‘Wilson, go and fetch her. Bring her up here. I want to see her. Now.’ He turned to the rest of the party: ‘The little dancer’s an old friend of mine. This calls for a celebration. Gentlemen, shall we?’

  The prince got his feet and, forgetting the Dvorak girl altogether, forged his way out of the royal box and back into the ante-room. When royalty rises, you rise too. Where royalty goes, you follow.

  As the prince stalked ahead, Oscar bleated, ‘Sir, we shall miss Onofroff’s turn – he’s next.’

  ‘Onofroff be jiggered,’ called out the prince gaily. ‘We’re seeing him later. We are going to have a drink with Lulu now.’ He snapped his fingers at his page. ‘Watkins, fresh champagn
e.’ He looked around the empty ante-room. ‘Isn’t there any food? No titbits to keep us going? Where’s the manager?’

  ‘He’s gone to fetch Miss Lavallois,’ said Rex LaSalle.

  ‘You know her?’ boomed the prince.

  ‘I know her name,’ said LaSalle, ‘that’s all.’

  ‘We all want to know her,’ purred Oscar.

  ‘You’ll all adore her,’ announced HRH. ‘She’s a poppet.’

  We did. And she was.

  Mademoiselle Louisa Lavallois – known to HRH the Prince of Wales as ‘Lulu’ and ‘you naughty little wagtail’ – was a complete delight. The moment she set foot in the room, she illuminated it like a ray of summer sunshine. A tiny bundle of joy, she exuded energy and a sense of fun. She was petite and not especially pretty, but her manner was so playful, her eyes so full of life and her voice so full of laughter, that she was, quite simply, irresistible.

  When Tyrwhitt Wilson brought her in to us, she made a deep curtsy down to the floor in front of the prince. When HRH said, ‘Get up, Lulu, and give your old uncle a kiss then,’ she rolled head over heels, stood straight up and kissed the heir apparent on the mouth!

  ‘Isn’t she a marvel?’ declared the prince, taking her by both hands and looking lovingly into her face.

  (It was a common little face – with piggy eyes and a snub nose – but it was a happy one. It did you good to see it.) She was still in her Arabian costume, of course, out of breath and perspiring from her recent performance.

  ‘It’s lovely to see ya, Tum-Tum,’ she said to the prince, caressing his shirt-front tenderly. ‘I’ve missed ya.’

  ‘And I’ve missed you, Lulu,’ said the prince, ‘very much.’

  ‘I love you,’ she said. ‘And I always will.’

  ‘And I love you,’ said His Royal Highness.

  It was an affecting scene, acted out without self-consciousness.