Oscar Wilde and the Nest of Vipers (44 page)

The Chief is in fine form and Ellen Terry has never been more extraordinary (in her magenta wig and
that
dress: the ‘beetle shell’ one that Sargent painted) – and it is the Bard’s
briefest
tragedy, so I believe (and hope and pray) that you will find it to be A Good and Memorable Evening. And, after the play and a moment with HI (one drink at most, I promise), I
shall be taking you to supper at Rules. I have reserved our usual table.

You do remember that Constance Wilde is joining us, don’t you? I invited them both, of course, but Oscar cannot come. He is impossible. Poor Constance believes that her husband is in Paris. That is what he has told her. In fact, he is London.

Indeed, he was in this very room with me not half an hour ago! He barged in, demanding sandwiches – and a bottle of hock – and a sober suit of clothes. He arrived dressed for a boating party on the Isis – a sand-coloured summer suit and a pink bow-tie! He explained that he was on his way to pay his last respects to the late Duchess of Albemarle and consequently required something more suitable for a man in mourning. I raided the wardrobe and furnished him with the chaplain’s costume from
The Lady of Lyons.
It was a surprisingly good fit. (Oscar is now stouter even than I am. You chose the right man, Florrie dearest.)

Oscar arrived with his weak-chinned friend, Robert Sherard, and the admirable Arthur Conan Doyle in tow. All three appeared to be in a state of shock – the only one who talked any sense was Conan Doyle.

They had come directly here from Marlborough House. There they were closeted with the Prince of Wales – in his study or morning room or some such – when an elaborate basket of flowers was delivered to HRH. Hidden within the basket, lurking beneath the flowers, was a living
nest of vipers!
Would you believe it? I would not have done – except that Conan Doyle is a steady man – a
prose
man, not a poet – and swears it was so. He said he recognised the reptiles at once –
Vipera aspis,
long-fanged and deadly poisonous. Thankfully, no one was hurt. Only one of the snakes escaped from the basket and it was quickly retrieved by Doyle and a page and the prince’s equerry – using a
silver ashtray, a brass poker and fire tongs! They then took the basket to the kitchens and drowned the creatures in boiling water.

Naturally, we are to speak of this to nobody. Doyle thinks it may be the work of Fenians. Oscar is inclined to think it the endeavour of a lone lunatic.

He is particularly concerned because the youth who delivered the basket to the door of Marlborough House – dressed as a florist’s boy – mentioned Oscar’s name, saying the flowers were a gift for the prince from Mr Wilde. That is why they were carried into the royal presence without delay.

I have since had my own unhappy thought about the episode – which I will share with you, my dearest, but only you.

I saw Prince Eddy again on Wednesday night – at ‘The Bar of Gold’. I went on Vampire Club business, though none was done. The young prince is in a bad way. He talked, as he often does, of how his father despises and mistrusts him – he claims his father believes he might indeed be Jack the Ripper and has set police spies on him. It’s nonsense: we know that. I have no doubt the Prince of Wales loves his son as much as we love ours – but Prince Eddy is quite mad at times, especially as the opium leaves him – and I have a fear that this ‘nest of vipers’ could be some hideous practical joke of his.

Come what may, Florrie, you are to speak of none of this tonight. Not a word. Not a hint. Dear Constance is in the dark – and must remain so. It is not for us to reveal to her her husband’s true nature. She will find out soon enough, poor girl – we can be sure of that. Genius he may be, charmer he is, but, as always, lovely wife of mine, I am so grateful you chose not to marry him.

No later than 7.40 p.m. –
please.

Bram

PS. Wear my mother’s diamonds tonight. You know, don’t you, what the people call you – what the newspapers call you? You know, don’t you, that this evening, before the curtain rises, when you step into our box at the theatre, all eyes will be upon you? In the dress circle they will lean over the balcony’s edge for a better view. Up in the gallery they will stand on their benches to catch a glimpse of you. You are ‘Florrie Balcombe Stoker, the prettiest woman in England’. I am so proud that you are mine.

78
Letter from Professor August Onofroff sent to Oscar Wilde, care of Arthur Conan Doyle at the Langham Hotel, London W.

Empire Theatre,

Leicester Square,

London

20 March 1890

My dear Wilde,

Thank you most kindly for your letter and your most generous comments. It was a dark night, ending in great tragedy, but I am nonetheless very grateful to you and to His Royal Highness for my engagement. To perform ‘by royal command’ is a great honour and one I will not forget. You may rest assured that Mr Wilson gave me my fee, as agreed, at the conclusion of the evening. There is nothing outstanding.

Now, to your two questions.

1. What did I learn from the seance? The simple answer is: not nearly so much as I would have wished. We were interrupted even as we started. However, we started well – thanks in
no small measure to your ingenious ruse. Some would accuse us of ‘trickery’ – revealing to me beforehand what words you and His Royal Highness planned to write upon your cards was perhaps not wholly ‘ethical’! – but I believe that the trick was justified. It gave others in the room
confidence.
It disarmed the sceptical. It inclined them to suspend their disbelief and ‘open up’ more quickly and more freely than they might otherwise have done. In short, it made them more immediately
susceptible
to my powers.

As a consequence, even as we started and I looked around the circle, no mind was entirely closed off to me. What did I see? Surrounding each and every head I saw the yellow cloud of moral turpitude. There was no exception, I am afraid – not one. (This does not mean that every individual in the group is already guilty, but it does mean that each one will fall from grace in the fullness of time.)

The darkest penumbra surrounded the two oldest men in the circle and what I saw, in the brief moment available to me, involved, in each case, the man’s oldest child. As to the green aureole of death – it seemed to me to be at its sharpest and most vivid around the head of young Prince Albert Victor. More than that, I cannot tell you.

2. Could a subject under hypnosis be persuaded to commit suicide? I think not – at least not against his or her will. One hundred years ago,
in the heyday of Franz Anton Mesmer, it was believed that the hypnotist was possessed of ‘animal magnetism’ and, as a consequence, that his subjects were drawn by an irresistible force to obey his commands.

We think differently now. Today, we recognise that the skilled hypnotist can place a susceptible subject in a trance and that, in that trance, the subject will be open to suggestion – but only to
suggestion,
not to command.

For example, as an hypnotist (and I am not one of the best; mind-reading is my gift) I might be able to murder you, my dear Wilde, by persuading you to drink a glass of wine that (unbeknown to you) happened to contain poison, but I doubt that I could persuade you to shoot yourself – let alone slit your own throat.
Unless, of course, you were already so inclined.

This last possibility is why there is talk in Parliament just now of introducing legislation to control the conduct of hypnotists and so protect the unsuspecting and the vulnerable. Faced with a subject already inclined to self-harm or suicide through madness or melancholy, an unscrupulous hypnotist might indeed be able to induce that subject to a fatal act.

I trust that this is helpful.

If I can be of further assistance, do not hesitate to write to me. And please be assured of my complete discretion at all times. As I told His Royal Highness on Tuesday night, everything that passes between us is entirely
confidential and, so far as I am concerned, will for ever remain so.

Yours most sincerely,

A. Onofroff

79
From the notebooks of Robert Sherard

I
n the carriage taking us from the Langham Hotel to 40 Grosvenor Square, Oscar read out to us the letter he had received from Professor Onofroff.

Conan Doyle greeted it with considerable excitement. ‘Onofroff is telling us that Yarborough could have induced both the Duchess of Albemarle and Mademoiselle Lavallois to take their own lives.’

Oscar smiled. ‘Onofroff is also telling us that around each of our heads he has seen the yellow cloud of moral turpitude. That includes your head, Arthur. You may not have fallen from grace yet, my friend, but, according to Onofroff, it is only a matter of time.’

Oscar was in a playful frame of mind. With his tongue he moved his Turkish cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other. Winking at me, he passed me the letter to inspect.

‘What do you say, Robert?’

‘I say the man’s a charlatan. He can no more read minds than I can read Sanskrit. On Tuesday night a woman was murdered within a few feet of him and, for all his professed psychic powers, he failed to “sense” the tragedy taking place in our very midst. There was a murderer in the room – almost within arm’s length – and all
the great Onofroff registered were yellow clouds and dark penumbra.’

‘Do not forget the green aureole of death, Robert. He registered that, also.’

Conan Doyle was not amused. ‘Never mind your joshing, gentlemen. Whether the man can read minds is neither here nor there. What he says about the power of the hypnotist over the vulnerable has to be taken seriously.’