Oscar Wilde and the Nest of Vipers Page 23

  I laughed. ‘I will never get another wife.’

  He put his hand on my shoulder and laughed, too. ‘You will, Arthur, you will. Or, if not another wife, at least “a friend”. It’s that bewitching moustache of yours. In due course, some young filly will come along and seduce you from the path of righteousness.’

  ‘No,’ I protested. ‘I am a happily married man. I will be good. Always.’

  ‘When we are happy we are always good,’ he replied. ‘But when we are good we are not always happy.’

  He tried to light another cigarette, but the wind would not allow him.

  ‘Time will tell, Arthur. In my experience, all ways end at the same point – disillusion.’

  ‘I hope not,’ I said. ‘Shall we go below? It’s about to rain. The heavens are darkening. There’s a storm brewing.’

  Oscar looked up at the black sky and pocketed his cigarette case. ‘Perhaps Robert will have found some rum to comfort us. We are on a ship, after all.’

  ‘What time will we reach London now?’ I wondered.

  ‘Too late for dinner, too early for bed,’ he said.

  ‘I saw the telegram you sent from Paris. You are not going home to Constance tonight?’

  ‘No, not tonight, Arthur. I’ll come with you to the Langham. We’ll drop Robert off at his digs on the way. If there’s no word from Yarborough, I’ll leave you to go to bed while I take a wander through Soho. I am minded to call on Rex LaSalle. He keeps late hours – as we know. And he’s very handsome – as you’ll agree. And even men of the noblest possible moral character are susceptible to the influence of the physical charms of others – as you will discover one day. Note it in your journal, Arthur, lest you forget that it was I who told you so. I want the credit when it’s due.’

  73

  From the diary of Rex LaSalle

  ‘The English Channel is awash with French devils. Our native sea nymphs have all swum south. The crossing was hell.’

  Oscar arrived at my room at midnight. His face was grey as slate; he was unshaven; his clothes were damp; he had about him the aroma of tar and soot and sea. He told me that he had been to Paris and back in under twenty-four hours and was too exhausted to speak – and then took off his clothes, lay on my bed, and spoke, volubly, with barely a moment’s pause, for at least an hour.

  ‘Who would be a mere Nereid – anonymous and tempest-tossed? One needs to command the tide, not follow it. One needs to be Neptune or nobody. Am I not right, Rex? Is that not your view?’

  At first I thought he was delirious (he was certainly a little drunk), but gradually a thread of sorts became discernible in his meanderings.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be awful to be one of the chorus?’ he cried, reaching out and holding me by the wrist. ‘I could not bear it – and neither could you. You need to be centre stage, Rex, don’t you? In the limelight, where it counts. Where they see you. Where you’re someone important, noticed, valued – different. That’s why you affect to be a vampire, isn’t it?’

  ‘You don’t need to believe that I’m a vampire, Oscar, if you don’t want to.’

  ‘I want to believe it,’ he said, turning his head towards me on the pillow. ‘I yearn to believe it. Who would not want a vampire among his close acquaintance? But I cannot believe it, Rex – not for a moment. You must remember that my mother is an authority on the folklore of the undead. She has already written one huge volume on the subject. A second is set for publication any day now. I was reared on tales of vampires and werewolves. I am a friend of Bram Stoker who talks of little else. I know about vampires, Rex – while you, dear friend, seem to know next to nothing. You have no hair growing in the palms of your hands. Even as I lie here I can clearly see your reflection in the looking-glass – and, if I turn this way, I can see your shadow cast against the wall. You have a crucifix above your bed and a rosary on your side table. Show me your teeth. Exactly – they are beautifully white and wonderfully even. You are no more a vampire than I am a Hottentot.’

  I stood my ground. ‘What your mother has written and Bram Stoker has researched are myths and legends, Oscar – tall tales and garbled half-truths. Might I not be the real thing – the whole truth, for once, unadorned?’

  ‘I do not believe that you are a vampire,’ he said simply.

  ‘You do not have to,’ I replied. ‘A truth ceases to be true when more than one person believes in it.’

  ‘That’s another of my lines, Rex. You have adopted the persona of a vampire and the philosophy of Oscar Wilde. Why, I wonder? To make yourself somebody, I suppose. You don’t know who you really are, do you?’

  ‘I know who I am, Oscar.’

  ‘You know who you think you are, but you don’t know who you really are. Who are you, Rex LaSalle? What are you? Who made you what you are?’

  He talked to me of his mother. He tried to talk to me of mine. And of my father.

  His conversation was very strange. He talked to me of his own father – Sir William Wilde, oculist and philanderer. He spoke of his father’s curious charm, of his casual cruelty to Lady Wilde, and of his kindness to his bastard children.

  Then Oscar spoke – at length – of James II, King of Scotland, known as ‘Fiery Face’ because of the vermilion birthmark on his cheek and neck. He talked of the guillotining of Queen Marie Antoinette of France and of the executions of the Oxford martyrs – Hugh Latimer and Nicholas Ridley, burnt together at the stake.

  He talked of the death of Pope Gregory XIV, ‘the pope who laughed’. According to Oscar, His Holiness could not help himself: his laughter came unbidden and uncontrollably: it was a nervous affliction. On the day of his election he had burst into tears and said to the cardinals: ‘God forgive you! What have you done?’ Then the laughter started. It was said that he laughed at the very moment of his passing, on 16 October 1591.

  Oscar talked and talked. At around two in the morning, he fell fast asleep. When I awoke, he was gone.

  This morning, at ten, the man Boone came. I told him what I could, which was not much. He gave me ten shillings. I do not think he will come again.

  74

  Letter from Constance Wilde to Oscar Wilde, care of Arthur Conan Doyle at the Langham Hotel, Langham Place, London, W.

  16 Tite Street, Chelsea

  20.iii.90

  My darling Oscar,

  I am not sure quite what to do. A telegram has just arrived for you. In your absence I opened it in case it was a matter of importance, but I am afraid it makes very little sense to me. It is signed ‘OWL’ and summons you and Arthur Conan Doyle to a meeting with ‘A CERTAIN PERSON’ on Friday at twelve noon. Is this the Prince of Wales? I think it may be and consequently the meeting will be important. I shall enclose the telegram with this note and send it to you care of Arthur at the Langham – that is where he is staying, is it not? When this reaches you, will you let me know?

  The doorbell has just rung again – another telegram. This time from you. You are in Paris! Did I know you were going to Paris? Did you tell me? Perhaps you did. You move about so much, my darling, I get quite easily confused. Why are you in Paris? Are you visiting Madame Bernhardt? I am not jealous. (Well, only a little bit.) Is Robert with you? When do you plan to return? You must be here on Sunday – your mother is coming to tea and Cyril has prepared a recitation in her honour.

  I am now suddenly anxious. Are you quite well, my darling? You have had so many late nights, so many nights away, that I cannot help but worry. I am not scolding you – I know you must have your freedom. I am simply anxious for your health – for your well-being – for your work. The proofs of Dorian Gray are here, but you have not yet touched them. I read the story again last night: it is the best thing you have ever done. I found one or two minor errors which I have corrected – in pencil. You can check everything thoroughly when you return.

  How I long to see you! I miss you very much. I am ever your loving wife,

  Constance

  PS. Do you have a change of clothes with you? I
don’t think you do. Buy new clothes in Paris. You must. I don’t want Madame Bernhardt thinking I do not know how to look after my husband!

  PPS. I shall write separately to Arthur CD. He will have to go to the meeting tomorrow in your place. I trust that one day you will tell me all about these mysterious assignations with the Prince of Wales. What a life you lead! And what a life we lead.

  I am writing next to dear Bram Stoker. He has invited us both to join him and Florrie in their box at the Lyceum tomorrow night for Mr Irving’s Macbeth. I know you will be in Paris and cannot come, but, if I may, I shall accept the invitation on my own account – Bram says, sweetly, that I am invited on my own if you are not available. It is a dark play, of course, but the evening will be a happy distraction – and Bram may even flirt with me. I should like that. I believe the time has come for me to make you a little jealous, Oscar.

  75

  From the notebooks of Robert Sherard

  This morning – Friday, 21 March 1890 – I was woken at eight o’clock by an intrusive din: the sound of Oscar Wilde beating at the front door of my lodging house in Gower Street. I am three floors up and yet I heard the noise.

  I struggled to open my window and, blearily, peered down into the street below. There was Oscar – resplendent in a sand-coloured summer suit, with a flamingo-pink tie about his neck and a matching carnation in his buttonhole – extravagantly beating a loud tattoo on the front door with his silver-topped malacca cane. He looked up and saw me.

  ‘Robert! Come! Come at once. I need you now. Your carriage awaits. Hurry!’

  As he climbed nonchalantly aboard the four-wheeler that stood at the kerbside waiting, I threw on my one clean shirt (still unpressed) and the suit that I had worn to Paris yesterday. (A shortage of properly laundered linen has been the worst aspect of my separation from my wife.) I pulled on my boots; I failed to find my hat; within five minutes of being roused, I was seated face to face with Oscar on my way to the Langham Hotel.

  Oscar appeared immaculate: newly shaven, almost pink-cheeked, his thick hair swept back across his large head, his eyes sparkling.

  ‘New shoes?’ I enquired, admiring the tan-coloured pumps he was sporting.

  ‘Old shoes – and the wrong shoes for the season. I’m dressed for mid-May in mid-March – but I had no choice. These are the only clothes I had in town. I left them at the Savoy Hotel last September – and, at six o’clock this morning, I went to claim them and they were there: cleaned, pressed, brushed, ready to wear. The Savoy is a phenomenon, Robert: electric lights everywhere, electric lifts, its own artesian well bringing hot running water, con brio, to each and every room – and Frederick, the finest head porter in the western hemisphere. I arrived at six: by seven-thirty, I had bathed, shaved, dressed and breakfasted on a pair of lightly boiled pullet’s eggs and a pot of perfectly brewed lapsang souchong tea.’

  ‘They did you proud,’ I said, laughing and looking down, dispiritedly, at the crumpled serge of my own suit.

  ‘And I hope I did Frederick proud,’ said Oscar happily. ‘I gave him a guinea for his pains.’

  ‘Where are we going now?’ I asked, looking out on to the hustle and bustle of Oxford Street. The morning was bright. ‘And why so early?’

  ‘We are summoned to Marlborough House at noon. Tyrwhitt Wilson sent a telegram to Tite Street yesterday and my darling wife kindly sent it on to Arthur at the Langham. We found it waiting for us there last night.’

  ‘Are we collecting Arthur now?’

  ‘We are – and then we are off to Harley Street to surprise Lord Yarborough in his lair. He is not expecting us. He did not respond to my wire from Paris. Of course, he is a very busy man.’

  As he said this, my friend grinned gleefully, widening his eyes and revealing his uneven teeth. With elegantly gloved fingers – the gloves were kid and matched the shoes – he beat a jaunty rhythm on the silver top of his malacca cane.

  ‘You are on form this morning,’ I remarked.

  ‘It was the bath, Robert – and the Savoy bath salts, scented with jasmine and bitter almonds. For thirty minutes as dawn broke I lay in foaming, fragrant warm water – and did nothing, bar contemplate my toes.’

  ‘I envy you,’ I said, feeling the rough stubble on my chin and cheeks.

  ‘You should admire me, Robert. While, in the opinion of society, contemplation is the gravest thing of which any citizen can be guilty, in the opinion of the highest culture it is the proper occupation of man. I am hoping the fruits of my contemplation will be the resolution of our case.’

  ‘You lay in your bath and saw your toes – and our murderer.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  At the Langham Hotel, Oscar remained in the four-wheeler and sent me to collect Conan Doyle. I found the doctor between the potted palms, crossing the hotel foyer. He looked weary and appeared flustered.

  ‘Good morning. You are earlier than I expected, Robert,’ he said. ‘Is all well? How is Oscar?’

  ‘Never better, it would seem. He is extraordinary. He wants you to come immediately.’

  Doyle, sighing, came at once. He, too, was hatless. As he clambered aboard the four-wheeler, Oscar greeted him apologetically: ‘Good morning, Arthur. Forgive me. It’s earlier than I promised.’

  Arthur grumbled a ‘Good morning’.

  Oscar continued smoothly: ‘You have missed your breakfast, I see, and you are in a state of stress. Have you just been making a telephone call? I did not know the Langham had a telephone.’

  Arthur Conan Doyle collapsed on to the leather seat next to Oscar and laughed out loud.

  ‘You are amazing, Oscar – and correct. I have not had breakfast and I have indeed just come from the hotel’s telephone room. How on earth did you know?’

  ‘Your face is pale, but your right ear is red. Your moustache is free from crumbs, but there is a slight ridge across it – just a quarter of an inch beneath your nose. You are pale because you haven’t eaten. You have a reddened right ear because it has been pressed hard against a telephone receiver. There is a light mark on your moustache because the telephone mouthpiece has been pressed up against it while you have been making your call – long distance, I take it – to Southsea, I presume.’

  ‘Correct, in every particular.’

  ‘I did not realise little Touie had a telephone at home.’

  ‘She does not,’ said Conan Doyle. ‘But Carter, my locum, does. I telephoned to make my peace with him – he has gone beyond the call of duty this week.’

  ‘You gave him a message, too, to pass on to your wife?’

  ‘I did,’ said Conan Doyle. ‘I told him to tell her that I would be home tomorrow night – without fail.’

  ‘That’s quite possible, Arthur,’ said Oscar, amiably, patting his friend lightly on the knee. ‘Who knows what today will bring?’

  ‘Cheese straws at Marlborough House, I hope,’ said Conan Doyle, now mellowing. ‘I’m famished.’

  ‘We see the Prince at noon,’ said Oscar. ‘We are tackling Yarborough first and a keen appetite should sharpen your cross-examination of his lordship, Arthur. As you’re the medical man, I think you should lead for us on this. Don’t you agree, Robert?’

  ‘I agree, Oscar.’

  I smiled. (Oscar never asks me to lead on anything, but I do not mind. I have become accustomed to my role. As Oscar says, ‘They also serve who only stand and wait to note down my quips for posterity.’)

  ‘I am ready,’ said Arthur, smoothing out his moustache with the sides of his forefingers.

  The journey from Langham Place to 117 Harley Street took only a matter of minutes, but it was in vain. Lord Yarborough was not at home. His manservant was uncertain of his lordship’s whereabouts. When pressed, he conceded that the clinic at Muswell Hill was a possibility. He could not be certain. He advised us to leave our cards and wait for Lord Yarborough’s private secretary to contact us to make a proper appointment.

  ‘His lordship,’ he repeated several times, ‘is a very busy
man.’

  Our four-wheeler forged north, through Regent’s Park and St John’s Wood, up over Hampstead Heath, to Highgate and on to Muswell Hill.

  As we travelled, Oscar smoked – and talked. By his own account, he had slept for no more than three hours last night, and none the night before, but he had found the Savoy bath salts quite ‘transforming’. He was full of high energy and sly observation.

  As we drove through St John’s Wood, he pointed to one of the new suburban villas and declared: ‘That’s the house where Lillie Langtry’s daughter was conceived. Ten years ago, when you, Robert, were being sent down from Oxford, and you, Arthur, were up in Greenland chasing whales, the Jersey Lillie gave birth to her firstborn, a lovely little girl. They say the father was Louis, Prince of Battenburg. Who knows? This entire avenue was built on the back of adultery – every house in it was commissioned by a man for his mistress. The one charm of modern marriage is that it makes a life of deception absolutely necessary.’

  ‘I laugh, Oscar,’ said Conan Doyle, reprovingly, ‘but I do not condone.’

  ‘We need you at your most earnest, Arthur. We need you to put Yarborough to the test – and not take too long about it. We must set off for London again no later than eleven. We must not be late for the His Highness and your cheese straws.’

  We reached the Charcot Clinic at just after ten. The village church clock was striking the hour as our four-wheeler turned into the carriage drive. The morning was bright – the sky was clear – and yet Muswell Manor, as we reached it, looked dismal and forbidding. The building is overshadowed by ancient lime trees and overgrown with vines. The upstairs windows all appeared shuttered and, downstairs, the curtains were drawn.

  ‘The house is all shut up,’ I exclaimed.

  ‘My God,’ cried Conan Doyle. ‘Has he fled?’