Oscar Wilde and the Nest of Vipers (40 page)

‘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

T
his 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.’