Oscar Wilde and the Nest of Vipers (26 page)

As the prince stalked ahead, Oscar bleated, ‘Sir, we shall miss Onofroff’s turn – he’s next.’

‘Onofroff be jiggered,’ called out the prince gaily. ‘We’re seeing him later. We are going to have a drink with Lulu now.’ He snapped his fingers at his page. ‘Watkins, fresh champagne.’ He looked around the empty ante-room. ‘Isn’t there any food? No titbits to keep us going? Where’s the manager?’

‘He’s gone to fetch Miss Lavallois,’ said Rex LaSalle.

‘You know her?’ boomed the prince.

‘I know her name,’ said LaSalle, ‘that’s all.’

‘We all want to know her,’ purred Oscar.

‘You’ll all adore her,’ announced HRH. ‘She’s a poppet.’

We did. And she was.

Mademoiselle Louisa Lavallois – known to HRH the Prince of Wales as ‘Lulu’ and ‘you naughty little wagtail’ – was a complete delight. The moment she set foot in the room, she illuminated it like a ray of summer sunshine. A tiny bundle of joy, she exuded energy and a sense of fun. She was petite and not
especially pretty, but her manner was so playful, her eyes so full of life and her voice so full of laughter, that she was, quite simply, irresistible.

When Tyrwhitt Wilson brought her in to us, she made a deep curtsy down to the floor in front of the prince. When HRH said, ‘Get up, Lulu, and give your old uncle a kiss then,’ she rolled head over heels, stood straight up and kissed the heir apparent on the mouth!

‘Isn’t she a marvel?’ declared the prince, taking her by both hands and looking lovingly into her face.

(It was a common little face – with piggy eyes and a snub nose – but it was a happy one. It did you good to see it.) She was still in her Arabian costume, of course, out of breath and perspiring from her recent performance.

‘It’s lovely to see ya, Tum-Tum,’ she said to the prince, caressing his shirt-front tenderly. ‘I’ve missed ya.’

‘And I’ve missed you, Lulu,’ said the prince, ‘very much.’

‘I love you,’ she said. ‘And I always will.’

‘And I love you,’ said His Royal Highness.

It was an affecting scene, acted out without self-consciousness.

Prince Albert Victor was standing at his father’s elbow. The Prince of Wales presented the little dancer to his son as though she were the Queen of Sheba. ‘This is a very special lady, Eddy – one of my favourite friends.’

The young prince clicked his heels. Bowing, he took Mlle Lavallois’s hand and kissed it. The little dancer giggled and bobbed a curtsy.

‘We met in Paris,’ continued the Prince of Wales, ‘at the Moulin Rouge. Lulu was the star attraction.’

‘I remember,’ said his son, appreciatively. ‘You introduced me.’

‘Did I? I don’t recall. Did you come with me to Paris?’

‘Yes, Papa. Three years ago. I met Miss Lavallois then.’

‘Very well. If you say so.’

‘I’m going back to Paris soon,’ said the girl. ‘I’m only here for the season.’

‘I hope to be in Paris next week,’ said the Prince of Wales. ‘I have my spring break, you know.’

The girl threw her arms around the heir apparent and, with a little gurgle, said, ‘I know. I love your spring breaks. I love ya, Tum-Tum.’

The prince’s page was now hovering with a glass of champagne for the royal guest. She saw it and squealed, ‘I’d love to, dearie, but I can’t. I’ve got to go. I’m back on stage in a tick.’

‘More ballet?’ enquired Prince Eddy.

‘No. I’m Miranda the Mermaid next. In a fish tank. You’ll like it. You get to see my titties.’

The girl was completely unabashed. She roared with laughter and kissed the Prince of Wales once more.

‘Don’t go,’ he said. ‘Not yet.’

‘I must,’ she said, pulling herself away. ‘I’m on in a moment.’

‘Come back later – when the show’s over. Come back then.’

‘I will,’ she said. ‘Promise.’

She separated herself from the prince and curtsied to the ground once more, then looked around the room at the dozen faces all gazing upon on her in rapt amazement.

‘Goodbye, all,’ she said, ‘ta-ra for now. See you later.’

And, waving, she skipped out of the room. As she went, we all applauded.

‘Isn’t she extraordinary?’ exclaimed the Prince of Wales.

I was standing with Oscar, Rex LaSalle and Robert Sherard on the far side of the ante-room, by the double doors leading back to the auditorium.

‘Extraordinary,’ echoed Sherard. ‘I’ve seen her at the Moulin Rouge, with Jane Avril – dancing the cancan. She’s an enchantress.’

‘She’s a free spirit,’ said Oscar. ‘I envy that.’

‘She’s wonderfully forward,’ I said.

‘She’s wonderfully honest,’ said Oscar.

‘She and the prince don’t hide the nature of their friendship, do they?’ said Rex LaSalle.

‘What is the good of friendship if one cannot say exactly what one means?’ replied Oscar. ‘The girl trades in happiness, not deception.’

‘What about the Princess of Wales?’ asked LaSalle. ‘What about her happiness? I wonder what she makes of her husband’s intimacy with the little dancer from the Moulin Rouge?’

‘I trust she neither knows nor cares,’ said Oscar. ‘This is something else – somewhere else – in another world.’

Across the room, Prince Albert Victor was attempting small-talk with Dvorak’s daughter while the Prince of Wales was still revelling in his reunion with his young dancing friend. He was talking exuberantly to the Duke of Albemarle, Lord Yarborough and Arthur Conan Doyle.

‘Isn’t she a delight? She gives herself some fanciful French name, but she comes from Bermondsey, of course.’ He drained his champagne glass and looked about the room. ‘I wish there was something to eat.’

Tyrwhitt Wilson stepped forward obsequiously. ‘There will be, sir, after the performance, when Professor Onofroff is here. It’s all in hand.’

‘Good,’ said the prince. ‘Sandwiches, pies, cold cuts – nothing elaborate, but
something.’

The theatre manager was now hovering.

‘We’ve got to go back, have we?’ grumbled the prince and offered up a barking laugh. ‘They don’t harry the Queen like this. What’s next?’

‘Miranda the Mermaid, Your Highness.’

‘Oh,’ purred the prince. ‘Lulu’s titties! This we mustn’t miss.’

With a spring in his heel, the heir apparent led us back into the royal box. In the pit, the orchestra was playing a medley of sea shanties, while on stage an old man dressed as Neptune stood alongside a huge glass-fronted water tank on wheels. The central panel of the tank was covered by a tarpaulin sheet on which were painted gaudy pictures of assorted sea creatures – an octopus, a giant seahorse, a sea serpent, starfish and the like.

As drums began to roll beneath him, the old man waved his trident in the air and, in surprisingly stentorian tones, promised us a sight for sore eyes: the true wonder of the sub-aquatic world – fresh from the depths of the Atlantic Ocean where she had been caught by sailors fishing for shark – the only mermaid in captivity – the miraculous Miranda!

As he spoke her name, cymbals clashed below, and, with a mighty heave, old Neptune pulled the tarpaulin from the tank. Within it, under water, seated on a three-legged stool, her fine fish’s tail laid out before her, slowly combing her thick golden tresses, was the Prince of Wales’s Bermondsey paramour. (The tresses, I should add, were quite long enough to preserve the lady’s modesty. We saw the outline of her charming figure, but nothing more.)

‘Is she not a thing of beauty?’ demanded Neptune. ‘Is she not a living miracle?’

‘She is indeed,’ murmured the Prince of Wales.

‘Watch!’ cried Neptune, directing our attention with his trident. ‘Watch as Miranda, breathing beneath the briny, performs her miraculous underwater feats.’

As the old man announced each ‘feat’ in turn, the young mermaid performed it and the audience, alternately, gasped and cheered. She abandoned her stool and swam to the bottom of the tank. She swam to the top. She executed an elegant somersault and disappeared to the back of the tank, returning a moment later and dragging a barnacle-covered strong box with her.

‘See!’ cried old Neptune. ‘Miranda has discovered Davy Jones’s locker!’

With much underwater pantomime, the mermaid threw open the strong box and revealed its treasures – gold doubloons, silver goblets and seaweed-strewn human skulls.

As she pressed her face against the front glass of the water tank and held up her trophies, a sudden cry of horror swept across the auditorium. A huge sea serpent, six feet in length, emerged from the darkness at the back of the tank and slithered slowly towards the girl. She was oblivious, facing the auditorium, playing to the crowd, until the hideous red-eyed creature reached her and swiftly entwined its long, black, scaly body about hers. She fell back, thrashing her tail wildly, clutching desperately at the serpent as it tightened its grip around her neck and torso. Locked together, intertwined, mermaid and serpent twisted, turned and struggled. As the pair revolved, waves of water splashed from the top of the tank on to the stage.

Old Neptune called out, ‘Help! Calamity!’

The audience rose to its feet in alarm.

‘In God’s name, what’s happening?’ cried the Prince of Wales.

‘It’s part of the act, sir,’ I hissed. ‘All will be well.’

And, in a moment, it was. Beneath the turbulent waves, the mermaid and the serpent fought on. They fought to the death – and the mermaid won. Frantically tearing the sea creature from
her neck, pulling it away from her body and throttling it with her bare hands, the mermaid swam up to the surface of the water and flung the dead serpent from the tank on to the stage. It lay motionless by the footlights, like a length of Mr Goodyear’s vulcanised rubber tubing.

The audience roared its approval and the mermaid, bobbing about on the surface of the water, took her applause. Pulling herself to the edge of the tank by her arms, she lifted her torso out of the water to make a bow. As she leant forward, for a brief moment, from the royal box we caught a glimpse of her titties.

‘All’s well,’ sighed the Prince of Wales. ‘I knew it would be. Isn’t she extraordinary?’

‘I did not like the music,’ said Dvorak.

Dan Leno was top of the bill – and rightly so. The little fellow is simply the funniest man on earth. As the curtains fell around the water tank, Dan hopped and skipped his way on to the front of the stage, dressed as a washerwoman! He apologised for being late, saying, ‘I came by bus. It was so crowded, even the men were standing.’

What he offers is neither boisterous nor crude, yet he holds the entire house in the palm of his hand. I have met him. In the wings he is terrified. On stage he is fearless. And every audience loves him.

The show done, the national anthem played and the Prince of Wales gave a farewell wave to the Tuesday-night Empire crowd.

‘Food!’ he cried, leading us back to the ante-room. ‘And Onofroff!’

Both awaited us. In the ante-room, on the sideboard, were trays of ham and egg sandwiches and assorted cold cuts: chicken legs, lamb cutlets, smoked oysters and lobster claws.

By the sideboard stood Professor Onofroff. He is a tall man, in his seventies now, with thick, snow-white hair and a full Russian beard. He has the Roman nose of the Duke of Wellington and the penetrating eye of the Emperor Napoleon.

As the Prince of Wales approached him, he bowed his head from the neck and whispered, ‘Majesty, I am as ever humbled.’

He spoke at all times in a whisper, with a thick Germanic accent in almost perfect English.

The prince greeted him as an old friend. ‘Thank you for joining us, Professor. Mr Wilde has explained everything to you?’

‘He has.’

‘Excellent,’ rumbled the prince, with satisfaction. ‘Most excellent.’

He helped himself to a sandwich from the sideboard, then turned to address the room.

‘Gentlemen, before we tuck in, with your permission, we are going to undertake a small experiment in mind-reading. It’s a particular interest of mine, as you know – and of Mr Wilde’s and of Dr Conan Doyle’s too, I believe – and I am grateful to you for indulging me in it.’

There was a murmur in the room (mostly of assent), broken by the theatre manager who was standing in the tiny vestibule that connected the ante-room with the entrance to the auditorium.

‘Your Highness, please excuse me, but Mr McGonagall craves admittance.’

‘Let him crave away,’ declared the prince dismissively. ‘We’ll see little Leno if he wants to come up.’

‘Mr Leno’s on his way to Hoxton already. He has two more halls to play tonight. But Mr McGonagall is most anxious for an audience.’

‘He’s had one.’ The prince laughed. ‘We all heard his
bleatings on behalf of Robert the Bruce. I can’t see him. Is Lulu on her way?’

‘Yes, sir. Miss Lavallois is coming. She’s just changing. She’ll be here presently.’

‘Good. Thank you. Kindly leave us in peace now.’

‘But Mr McGonagall—’

‘Enough! There’s only so much Scottish blathering a Prince of Wales can take. My compliments to Mr McGonagall, but I have the toothache. Tell him to go pen a verse about that.’