Oscar Wilde and the Nest of Vipers (12 page)

26
Telegram delivered to Oscar Wilde at the Albemarle Club, Albemarle Street, London W., at 11 a.m. on Saturday, 15 March 1890

CERTAIN PERSON REQUESTS AND REQUIRES PLEASURE OF YOUR COMPANY FOR HIGH TEA THIS AFTERNOON AT FIVE AT CHURCHILL RESIDENCE. BRING ACD AS BEFORE. GRATEFULLY OWL

27
Letter from Oscar Wilde to Rex LaSalle, care of 17 Wardour Street, Soho, delivered by messenger

Albemarle Club

15.iii.90

My dear Vampire,

Consider the date but ignore the omens. There is no such thing as an omen. (Destiny does not send us heralds: she is too wise – or too cruel – for that.) Embrace the Ides of March! This is the festival of Mars – god of war, son of Juno and Jupiter, husband of Bellona, father of Romulus, lover of Venus. You are he in other times. (Do you know the Ludovisi Ares – the most beautiful statue of Mars in all antiquity? You are he.)

Take your courage in your hands, dearest boy, and dine with me tonight. Let us feast like gods – or, at least, let us have oysters and champagne at Simpson’s. My carriage will collect you at nine o’clock.

And, tomorrow, at midnight, let us go together to Mortlake cemetery. The Vampire Club gathers there, I’m told. You will be among friends – and chief among them will be, yours most sincerely,

Oscar Wilde

28
Letter from Arthur Conan Doyle to his wife, Louisa ‘Touie’ Conan Doyle

Langham Hotel,

London, W.

15.iii.90

2 p.m.

Dearest Touie, darling wife –

Thank you for your lovely postcard. It arrived this morning and, in answer to your kind enquiry, yes, I am indeed eating properly. In truth, I am eating far too well. I am forgoing luncheon today, because Oscar treated me to a magnificent breakfast at the Savoy Hotel (porridge, kippers, the works!) and this afternoon I am summoned once again to the presence of HRH the Prince of Wales – where, apparently, a right royal ‘High Tea’ will be served. So, you see, Touie, I can tell you, in all honesty, that I am eating like a king.

I am missing you most dreadfully, as you may imagine, and my lovely daughter, too, but there’s no denying this visit to the great metropolis is proving memorable. At every turn, there is a remarkable encounter. In the corridor, just now, I bumped into Antonin Dvorak, the composer. He is staying at the
hotel with his daughter. He told me that, in the interest of economy, he had asked if he might share a double room with the young lady. The hotel manager was outraged and forbade it absolutely!

At breakfast, I met Bram Stoker – a most congenial fellow. He is Irish, like Oscar, but, unlike Oscar, he has a wonderfully down-to-earth way with him. He is an older man and I felt oddly shy in his presence – possibly because he is business manager to Henry Irving at the Lyceum and, as you know, it is one of my abiding ambitions to write a play for Irving. I did not wish Stoker to think that I was interested in him solely because of his association with the great actor.

I shall be seeing him again tomorrow night. He is taking me and Oscar, together with two of Oscar’s young friends, to Mortlake cemetery for a midnight gathering of ‘vampires’! I have no idea what it will involve. I am both wary and intrigued. Oscar is anxious to go – one of his young friends affects to be a vampire – and there may be something in it that I could use in one of my stories. We shall see. (And, fear not, I shall wrap up warm.)

All being well, my postponed visit to the Charcot Clinic in Muswell Hill will take place on Monday and, on Tuesday, I will be back in Southsea where I belong. Now, I am going to do an hour of reading – Charcot on hypnosis
in French!
As you can tell, I am not idling – and I am eating – and, most of all, I am missing you, dearest girl.

Ever your loving husband,

ACD

29
Letter from Bram Stoker to his wife, Florence, delivered by messenger at 6 p.m. on Saturday, 15 March 1890

Lyceum Theatre,

Strand,

London

Saturday, three o’clock

Florrie –

Good news. I will be home by midnight. Much to report.

Breakfast with Oscar was extraordinary. Our friend grows more eccentric by the minute. The talk was entirely of vampires! What is Oscar up to? Is he planning to write a comic opera about vampirism? It’s possible – though he hated Gilbert and Sullivan’s
The Sorcerer,
as I recall.

Arthur Conan Doyle was with him and another fellow whose name I didn’t catch. Doyle is the young doctor who has created such a stir, first with his Highland adventure,
Micah Clarke,
and now with his stories of the oddly named detective, Sherlock Holmes. Doyle made copious notes, but said little. (Do you think he is writing a novel about vampires? If he is, it will outsell mine. I know it. He is the coming man, while I have still to reach the starting post.)

I have said that I will take them to the Vampire Club tomorrow night and now I am regretting it! There is something
about Oscar’s charm that is difficult to resist – though you succeeded. And how grateful I am that you did.

Oscar said nothing of Constance or his boys. He spoke instead – with embarrassing effusiveness – of a young man who – according to Oscar – looks like the god Mars but is, in fact, a vampire from the Channel Islands!

More of this anon. Banquo is about to be slain and I must check the afternoon’s takings.

Your Bram

30
From the notebooks of Robert Sherard

I
now understand why the Prince of Wales is the size that he is. I had expected ‘High Tea’ to include an omelette and cold meats alongside the cakes and scones and sandwiches. I had not for a moment expected the vast repast that was laid before us in the so-called Small Dining Room at Marlborough House.

Egg dishes and cold cuts were indeed on offer – to whet our appetites. There were breads and pastries of every description too – muffins and crumpets, macaroons and dainties – and an array of desserts – gateaux, tarts, baskets of spun sugar filled with fresh fruit and ice cream. But between the initial savouries and the final sweets came salver after salver, groaning with culinary riches: a salmon mousse decorated with caviar, cold lobster with brandy mayonnaise, snipe with foie gras, grilled chicken with asparagus.

‘No turtle soup, Your Royal Highness?’ said Oscar plaintively.

‘This is merely High Tea, Oscar – a little something to sustain us until dinner.’ The Prince of Wales looked towards me and Conan Doyle, adding by way of explanation: ‘It was the late Duchess of Bedford’s idea – High Tea. She was a good woman.’

‘I shall remember her in my prayers,’ said Oscar.

‘Her Grace often felt a little low in the late afternoon,’ the prince continued.

‘Ah, yes,’ sighed Oscar, ‘that debilitating
crise de nerfs
that comes towards six o’clock unless a portion or two of pigeon pie and a plate of petits fours have been taken.’

The prince laughed and smacked his thin lips. He drew slowly on his cigar – he smoked throughout our repast – and fixed Oscar with moist, bulbous eyes. ‘You are a funny man, Mr Wilde.’

We ate at one end of a large dining table. Oscar and Arthur were seated to the right and left of the prince; Tyrwhitt Wilson, the equerry, and I, just beyond. The prince’s personal page – a boy with copper-coloured hair; Oscar says his name is Frank Watkins; he remembered him from the prince’s entourage at the reception in Grosvenor Square – waited exclusively upon His Royal Highness. The rest of us were looked after by a trio of straight-backed footmen who circled round and round the table with one dish after another, bobbing up and down before us, like wooden horses on a fairground carousel.