3
From the notebooks of Robert Sherard
Oscar contrived to secure me an invitation to the Albemarle reception. I was, he told the Duchess, his ‘confidential secretary’. ‘If the Prince of Wales can come with a whole entourage – son, comptroller, equerry, valet, footmen – can a prince of words not be permitted an attendant scribe? Your beauty, Your Grace, may inspire a sonnet. I will need someone on hand to note it down.’
Her Grace obliged.
All evening Oscar was at his most ebullient. As we arrived, and he handed his hat and coat to the butler, he said to the poor man, ‘Oh, Pierre, my usual table, if you please – away from the draughts and as far from the orchestra as possible.’ When we were greeted by our hostess – an exquisitely beautiful young woman with huge eyes and a porcelain complexion – Oscar permitted her to kiss him full on the mouth and presented me to her saying, ‘She is lovelier than a lily, is she not? She is Helen, late of Troy, now of Grosvenor Square.’
When we were presented to the Prince of Wales, Oscar was more circumspect, but only somewhat. I have always understood that with royalty one does not initiate a conversation: one waits to be spoken to. If that is the rule, Oscar ignored it. After he had bowed low before the prince, he stood at his side, towering over him, chatting away as though he and His Royal Highness were two old chums who had chanced to meet up for a drink before dinner at the club.
Where was the dear Princess of Wales?
In Denmark, visiting her parents.
Was she well? Oscar so hoped so. And how was the Queen? ‘How is Her Majesty?’ purred Oscar.
‘Seventy and more robust than ever,’ answered the prince drily. ‘The air on the Isle of Wight appears to suit her. She goes from strength to strength.’
‘I am happy to hear it,’ Oscar murmured. ‘We are all indebted to the Eternal Father. Your Royal Highness has the better of us. You are blessed with the eternal mother.’
The prince clapped his hands together and laughed out loud. ‘I like that, Oscar. I like that very much. I’ll borrow that, if I may.’
Oscar bowed obligingly as the prince’s barking laugh turned into a wheezing cough. His equerry stepped forward and relieved the prince of his cigar. His Royal Highness fumbled for a handkerchief.
‘And are you well, sir?’ asked Oscar, solicitously.
‘Mustn’t complain,’ spluttered the prince.
He is not yet fifty, but he looks much older. He has deep lines on his forehead and heavy bags beneath his eyes. He is fat and his hands shake.
‘If I may say so, sir, you are looking remarkably well,’ Oscar declared. Impertinently, he added: ‘I believe that an inordinate passion for pleasure is the secret of remaining young.’
‘If you say so, Oscar,’ replied the prince, pocketing his handkerchief and retrieving his cigar from the equerry. ‘You say a lot of clever things.’
I said nothing. When Oscar had presented me to the heir apparent, I was offered a cursory nod of the princely head, but that was all. His Royal Highness neither addressed me nor looked again in my direction. His focus was entirely on Oscar. Oscar commands attention. And Oscar and the prince are well acquainted. According to Oscar, you cannot say they are friends. ‘Royalties offer you friendliness, not friendship.’ However, they have known one another for a number of years, since the late 1870s when Oscar, then in his early twenties, floated down from Oxford to be taken up by London society.
They met first, I believe, in Lowndes Square, at a tea party of Lady Sebright’s, where the novelty of the afternoon was a demonstration of ‘thought-reading’ performed by the celebrated Professor Onofroff. They were last together in December just past at another of Professor Onofroff’s interesting demonstrations. According to Oscar, the prince is a student of thought reading. His Royal Highness is better known, of course, as a student of feminine beauty and, in the early days, the bond that really bound them was their mutual admiration for the matchless Mrs Lillie Langtry.
Oscar appeared to be reading the royal mind. ‘Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety,’ he said, apparently out of the blue. ‘I hear Mrs Langtry is to play Cleopatra next.’
‘How did you know I was just thinking about Mrs Langtry?’ demanded the prince.
‘Because whenever we meet, Your Royal Highness, we speak of the Jersey Lily. Besides, if I am not mistaken, Your Highness went to the St James’s Theatre to see her give her Rosalind last night.’
The Prince of Wales drew on his cigar and looked at Oscar suspiciously. ‘Remarkable. A moment ago Conan Doyle was telling me you’d turned detective – and here you are proving it. I did indeed see Mrs Langtry give her Rosalind last night and very fine she was too. But how did you deduce that?’
‘I didn’t. I read it in the court circular this morning,’ replied Oscar, smiling.
‘Ah, yes, of course,’ mumbled the prince, momentarily thrown. He glanced about the room and nodded in the direction of Arthur Conan Doyle who was standing not far away, engaged in earnest conversation with General Sir Dighton Probyn. ‘Conan Doyle’s a good man. Solid. Improbable as it sounds, he tells me that you have the makings of a proper Sherlock Holmes. He has sent me his new story. It’s even better than the first. Sherlock Holmes is a masterly creation.’
The prince was now shifting from one foot to the other. It was evident that our audience was drawing to a close.
‘You’ve a new book coming, haven’t you, Oscar? You’ll send it to me, won’t you? I want a first edition, mind.’
‘As Your Royal Highness pleases,’ said Oscar, with a modest bow, adding, as we backed away from the heir apparent, ‘It is, of course, the second editions of my books that are the true rarities.’
The prince laughed amiably, raised a valedictory hand to Oscar and then, briskly, turned towards his equerry who was ushering Lord Yarborough and Sir George Stokes into the royal presence.
‘I need a glass of champagne, Robert,’ said Oscar, as soon as we had removed ourselves from the princely orbit. ‘Would you be an angel and fetch me one?’ He stood in contemplation for a moment, his eyes scanning the crowd. ‘Arthur’s in his element,’ he murmured, smiling.
Dr Conan Doyle was now on the far side of the drawing room, standing on tiptoes, eagerly, at the outer edge of a circle of guests gathered about a small, stout, square-faced foreigner. The gentleman in question was clearly a foreigner: he was incorrectly attired – in a black frock-coat rather than evening dress – and wore his silver hair long at the back and heavily oiled. He was holding court, his right hand tucked firmly inside his coat-front in the manner of the late Napoleon Bonaparte, his left held out before him dramatically as if to arrest an oncoming train.
‘C’est le professeur Jean-Martin Charcot,’ explained Oscar, ‘the great French physician, the “Napoleon of neuroses”.’ He laughed. ‘He clearly has Arthur mesmerised.’
‘Do you know him?’
‘I saw him on stage at the Lyceum once, demonstrating his mesmeric powers. He holds your attention, but he doesn’t make you laugh. Unlike Prince Eddy.’
Oscar’s amused gaze had now fallen on the dapper figure of Prince Albert Victor, the Prince of Wales’s eldest son. The young prince was standing a few feet away from Professor Charcot’s admirers, in the doorway to the ballroom. He was surrounded by wide-eyed, giggling women and obsequious, guffawing men.
‘Now His Royal Highness should be on the stage. Look, Robert. As he tells his story, he is actually twirling his moustaches like a pantomime villain!’
‘He looks remarkably swarthy,’ I said, ‘not at all as I expected.’
‘Do you not read the papers? He is newly returned from India. He has been doing his duty, polishing the jewel in the Queen Empress’s crown.’
‘I hope you are going to present me to His Royal Highness?’ I said.
‘No, Robert. You are far too young.’
‘I am older than the prince.’
‘In years, possibly, not in experience. Th
e boy is all corruption. It’s well known – and plain to see. Sin is a thing that writes itself across a man’s face. It cannot be concealed.’
Oscar turned away from Prince Eddy and his fawning entourage and surveyed the drawing room once more. ‘When you have found our champagne,’ he said, eventually, ‘you will find me over there, Robert, by the fireplace, with that young man. He has no one to laugh at his jokes and he has rather caught my fancy. He has no sinister moustache and the most perfect profile, don’t you think?’
Standing before the fireplace, alone, was a slender youth – tall, elegant, with a pale face and hooded eyes. In his buttonhole he wore an amaryllis, Oscar’s favourite flower. His head was held high, with a cultivated arrogance. With one hand he was brushing back his jet-black hair. With the other he held a Turkish cigarette to his highly coloured lips.
‘Do you know him?’ I asked.
‘A little,’ answered Oscar. ‘I should like to know him better.’
‘You have met him?’
‘Once, just a few days ago. By chance. I came home and found him outside my house, standing in the street, looking up at the windows. It was gone midnight. He said he just happened to be passing, taking an evening stroll, but I think he sought me out. He is an “admirer”. He knows all about me. He told me that his ambition is the same as mine – to be famous or, if not famous, at least notorious.’
‘What is his name?’ I enquired.
‘Rex LaSalle,’ said Oscar. ‘He comes from the Channel Islands – like you and Lillie Langtry. He shares my birthday, the sixteenth of October. But he’s your sort of age, I think. Twenty-seven, twenty-eight.’
‘He looks younger.’
‘Indeed.’
‘What does he do?’
‘By day, very little, it seems. He sleeps during the hours of light, apparently. He claims to be an actor – and an artist, a painter of sorts, but I’ve not seen any of his work. I have my doubts.’
‘And by night?’
‘By night? Oh, by night, he claims to be a vampire.’
I looked towards the beautiful young man with the perfect profile, drawing slowly on his Turkish cigarette.
Oscar continued: ‘I agree, Robert. He had already caught my attention. There was no need for that.’
4
From the diary of Rex LaSalle
‘The first duty in life is to be as artificial as possible. What the second duty is no one has yet discovered.’
I was on duty tonight – and on song. I now have Oscar in my thrall. He was captivated. I know it. He told me so. This was only our second encounter, but he declared that he feels that he has known me since the days when Zeus and Mnemosyne were lovers on the slopes of Mount Parnassus! He adores my profile. He admired my buttonhole – and noticed how exactly it matched his own. ‘One should either be a work of art, or wear a work of art.’ He was enchanted with the way in which I quoted his own phrases and philosophies back to him. ‘To love oneself is the beginning of a life-long romance.’
I have made a conquest.
When first I told him that I was a vampire, he was amused. ‘One should always be a little improbable,’ he said.
Tonight he took me much more seriously. He told me that he had heard that vampires cast no shadows, but he sensed that the shadow I cast over him would be a long one. He made enquiries about my mode of life. He asked where I lived and where I slept. He asked about my parents. He asked what I did about money. He asked what I did about love. He said, ‘Love and gluttony justify everything.’ He was playful and earnest by turns.
When his friend joined us with two glasses of champagne, Oscar offered me his. I declined, politely. He pressed me to drink.
‘You look pale,’ he said.
‘I am pale,’ I replied, ‘I am a vampire. Iced champagne is your drink of choice: blood is mine.’ I looked him directly in the eye. ‘Have you ever tasted blood, Mr Wilde?’ I asked. ‘Fresh blood, blood that is warm to the tongue. Human blood.’
‘No,’ he answered, ‘the wine list at my club is dreadfully limited.’
We laughed and then his friend turned to me and enquired, lightly: ‘Will you be drinking blood tonight?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I must.’
‘And whose blood will it be?’ asked Oscar.
I drew languorously on my cigarette and surveyed the crowded drawing room. At last I pointed across the throng. ‘Hers,’ I said.
‘Who is that?’ asked Oscar. ‘I can’t see.’
‘Our hostess. The Duchess of Albemarle. She is very lovely, is she not?’
‘She is indeed,’ said Oscar. ‘Helen, late of Troy …’
‘Now of Grosvenor Square.’ I finished his line for him – and we laughed once more. He has a most infectious laugh.
5
Letter from Arthur Conan Doyle to his younger brother, Innes Conan Doyle
Langham Hotel,
London, W.
14.iii.90
Dearest boy –
I write as I had promised – but I write in haste. I am your older brother and I stand in loco parentis . I am addressing you seriously now – sternly, even.
These exams of yours are vital to your future. To be an officer in the British army is something noble. Pass these examinations and your future in the Sappers is assured. Fail them and where will you be? Adrift – with neither parents nor brother in a position to support you. You have lots of brains – all you want is steady undeviating industry. Think of nothing else, Innes, I beg you, until this is done. Put your heart and soul into it. You will find that work becomes a pleasure when you stick close to it. Achieve this and you will have all your life then for sport or riding or cricket or what you will.
I had hoped to say all this to you in more measured tones, but time is against me and it is perhaps no bad thing that I am obliged to be brief and to the point. There can at least be no misunderstanding. I am writing in such haste because of a royal summons … Indeed! I am in London on the morning after a memorable night before. I was a guest last evening at the Duke of Albemarle’s reception for the arts and sciences. I was presented to the Prince of Wales! HRH was amiability itself. I wanted to speak of Micah Clarke – ten thousand copies sold! – and my new outrage, The Captain of the Pole-Star, but the heir apparent wished to speak only of Sherlock Holmes!
I spent time also with HRH’s private secretary, the great Sir Dighton Probyn. When he was twenty-four and a captain in the 2nd Punjab Cavalry, his daring and gallantry during the Indian Mutiny earned him the Victoria Cross. Let him be your role model!
I was furthermore presented to HRH’s eldest, Prince Eddy – a naval cadet in his youth and in the army now, but a very weak-looking individual with a sorrowful moustache quite unbecoming an officer and gentleman. I doubt that he was required to pass examinations to gain his present position! I will tell you more when I see you next.
My friend Oscar Wilde was also of the party. He is the wittiest man I know. He cannot stop talking. ‘I like hearing myself talk,’ he declared last night, ‘it is one of my greatest pleasures.’ He repeats himself unashamedly, but there is a sweetness to him that I find most endearing. And at Oxford, he won every prize that was open to him. He affected indolence, but, in truth, was the personification of industry. It is the only way.
Enough! I will send you something on your birthday – you may be sure of that. And be a good fellow and drop me a line so that I may be sure you have hearkened to my words and are pegging to it. You have it in you. Onward! For our dear mother’s sake.
Ever your loving bro.,
Arthur
PS I have just seen today’s newspaper. The Duchess of Albemarle – my hostess last evening – was found dead in her bed in the early hours of this morning. A heart attack is suspected. She was only thirty (my age), but had been in poor health for some time.
6
From the Evening News, London, Friday, 14 March 1890
STOP PRESS
The sudden death was announced thi
s morning of Her Grace the Duchess of Albemarle. Born Helen Lascelles, the daughter of Major Sir William Lascelles Bt, of Welwyn, Herts, she married Henry, 7th Duke of Albemarle, in 1885, when she was twenty-five and His Grace was sixty. There were no children of the marriage.
Noted for her beauty, philanthropy and devotion to the arts, the duchess was a friend of the Prince of Wales who attended a reception at her house in Grosvenor Square only last evening. Her body was discovered by her maid this morning. It is believed that the duchess had been under medical supervision for some time, due to the feebleness of her heart. The duke is reported to be devastated by the death of his young wife.
A statement just issued from Marlborough House reads: ‘HRH the Prince of Wales KG, KT, is much saddened to learn of the tragic death of Her Grace the Duchess of Albemarle.’
The Metropolitan Police Commissioner has been informed of the tragedy, but foul play is not suspected.
7
From the notebooks of Robert Sherard
What happened?
At midnight the Prince of Wales departed. I noted the time because, standing at the fireplace with Oscar and his curious new friend, I heard the distinct chimes of the ormolu clock that stood upon the mantelpiece behind us.
As HRH made to go, a hush fell on the crowded assembly. As the Red Sea once divided, so a path miraculously appeared in the midst of the throng. The prince, with his son and heir at his side, and their retinue in tow, proceeded through the drawing room and across the ballroom and out on to the first-floor gallery. Gentlemen bowed their heads and ladies curtsied to the ground as the royal party passed. The portly prince murmured benevolent farewells as he made his egress, wafting cigar smoke over his people as a thurifer wafts incense across his congregation.
Oscar, devoted to royalty as only a republican can be, whispered, ‘Let’s see him go,’ and beckoned me to follow him. We slipped out of the drawing room by the nearest door and found ourselves, alone, at one end of the first-floor gallery as the prince and his party emerged on to it at the other. HRH noticed us and called out, ‘Goodnight, Mr Wilde!’
Oscar Wilde and the Nest of Vipers Page 2