Oscar Wilde and the Nest of Vipers (32 page)

‘Thank you,’ said the duke. ‘And thank you for calling, gentlemen. I apologise for not being more welcoming. I have been under some strain in recent days.’ He glanced towards the novel he had put down on the side table. ‘Hence the “comfort of Miss Austen”, as Mr Wilde so neatly puts it.’

‘Yes,’ said Oscar, ‘there is great consolation in known relationships.’

The duke smiled. ‘They say Mr Darcy is loosely modelled on my grandfather.’

His Grace led us to the door of the morning room. As
he opened it, we found Parker, the butler, immediately awaiting us outside.

‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ said the duke pleasantly. ‘On Friday evening, early, I am holding a small reception here in my wife’s memory. The Prince of Wales does not attend funerals as you know, but he will be honouring us with his presence on Friday. He was very fond of Helen. I hope, gentlemen, that you will be able to honour us with your presence, too.’

We left him at the door of the morning room and, in silence, followed the butler along the corridor back to the front hall. Retrieving our hats, we bade the butler good day. He opened the front door for us and, as he did so, as we were lined up to depart, we heard a noise coming from the gallery at the top of the main staircase.

Looking up, we saw a young housemaid looking down at us. She had dropped a pile of linen and was kneeling down beside it, staring at us through the wooden balustrade. As her eyes met ours, her young face contorted in a silent scream. Hurriedly she grabbed the linen, scrambled to her feet and ran away.

‘It’s Her Grace’s maid,’ said the butler. ‘The poor child has taken it very badly.’

61
The Jersey Lily
Telegram delivered to Constance Wilde at 16 Tite Street, Chelsea, on Wednesday, 19 March 1890 at 6 p.m.

BREAKFAST AND LUNCH WITH SHERLOCK HOLMES. SHERRY WITH A PRINCE. CIGARETTES WITH A DUKE. TEA WITH THE JERSEY LILY. DINING WITH VAMPIRES THEN TAKING THE NIGHT TRAIN TO PARIS. ALL TOO TEDIOUS BUT MUST BE DONE. FRESH WOODS AND NEWS TOMORROW. EVER YOUR LOVING OSCAR

62
Telegram delivered to Louisa ‘Touie’ Conan Doyle in Southsea, on Wednesday, 19 March 1890 at 6 p.m.

DEEPLY DISTRESSED. UNAVOIDABLE FURTHER DELAYS. PLEASE SECURE CARTER AS LOCUM FOR FRIDAY SURGERY. RETURN TO SOUTHSEA BY SATURDAY EVENING GUARANTEED. MY LOVE AND APOLOGIES ACD

63
From the diary of Rex LaSalle

I looked directly into the eyes of the maidservant and she looked directly into mine. I saw fear there, bordering on terror, but it was not blind, animal fear. I saw intelligence and understanding, too.

Oscar asked: ‘Is it possible that she is an hysteric also?’

‘Yes,’ said Conan Doyle. ‘It’s possible.’

‘Can you “catch” hysteria – like the measles?’

‘No, but you can observe it in others and learn the symptoms and imitate them – consciously or unconsciously. You can induce your own hysteric state.’

‘And can hysteria render you speechless?’

‘Hysterical paralysis is not uncommon. It can rob you of the power of speech, certainly – but for an hour, a day, months at most. Not for a lifetime. We were told the girl was deaf and dumb from childhood.’

‘We were.’

Oscar’s brougham took us from Grosvenor Square to St James’s by way of the post office in Albemarle Street where Oscar and Conan Doyle stepped down for a moment to send telegrams to their wives.

When I said, ‘The one advantage of not having a wife is that you don’t have to tell her lies,’ Oscar replied: ‘But a perfect lie is one of life’s most perfect pleasures, is it not?’

While Oscar and Conan Doyle were about their business, I remained with Robert Sherard in the brougham. I asked him about his grandfather, the last Earl of Harborough. Had he known him?

‘No, he was already an old man when my father was born. My father was his natural son.’

‘And his only son?’

‘Yes, but conceived and born out of wedlock. My father might have been an earl, but for the small matter of his illegitimacy. Instead, he became a clergyman – and a poor one at that. He’s spent his life as an itinerant Anglican chaplain.’

‘Do you not resent the fact of your father’s illegitimacy?’ I asked. ‘Would you not have liked to be an earl?’

‘I would like to be a great man,’ he replied, ‘but not necessarily an earl. I would like to be like Oscar: extraordinary, original, unique.’

‘I understand,’ I said. ‘It’s what we all want – to be extraordinary, original, unique.’

‘Is that why you claim to be a vampire?’

‘I am a vampire,’ I said.

He did not believe me. No one does.

The brougham took us on to the St James’s Theatre and stopped in Duke Street, outside the stage door.

‘Gentlemen,’ declared Oscar, ‘we have a treat in store. We are taking tea with Lillie Langtry.’

‘How wonderful,’ said Robert Sherard. ‘But why?’

‘Because few – if any – know the Prince of Wales so well as Lillie does. I wish to ask her something about His Royal Highness. It is something we need to know.’

With a spring in his step, Oscar led the way into the stage door.

‘Are we expected?’ asked Conan Doyle.

‘No, but the Jersey Lily loves the unexpected.’

Oscar glanced up at the clock on the wall facing the stage-doorkeeper’s lodge.

‘It is half past five. The matinée finished half an hour ago. Mrs Langtry’s kettle will be bubbling merrily on the hob. There may even be scones.’

He rattled the grille behind which lurked the dozing doorman. The old man sat slumped at his table; his gnarled, bald head lolled to one side; his near-toothless mouth hung open.

‘Mr Oscar Wilde for Mrs Lillie Langtry.’

Oscar announced himself three times before the doorman stirred. He looked up slowly and grunted and smacked his lips. Without comment, he took the florin that Oscar held out to him.

‘This way!’ cried Oscar as we followed the shuffling doorman through an inner doorway and down a narrow flight of stone steps towards Mrs Langtry’s dressing room.

As we went, over his shoulder, Oscar offered a hymn of praise to the object of our pilgrimage.

‘As I am sure you know, she is the most painted woman of our age. Millais called her, quite simply, the most beautiful woman on earth. But Lillie’s beauty has no meaning. Her charm, her wit, her mind – what a mind! – are far more formidable weapons. She is all fire and energy.’

The doorman knocked on the dressing-room door. There was no answer.

‘Allow me,’ said Oscar. ‘We are old friends.’ Oscar knocked on the door himself and opened it without awaiting a reply. ‘Lillie,’ he called. ‘My Lillie.’

We saw her at once: the gas lamps in the room were turned high. She was lying on a chaise longue next to her dressing table, wrapped in a heavy woollen shawl. Her hair was swept up and pinned tight against her head. Over her eyes she wore a black harlequin’s mask. There was little of her celebrated beauty on display.

‘Come away,’ hissed Conan Doyle. ‘The poor woman’s asleep.’

‘She was,’ murmured the slumbering figure. ‘But Wilde hath murdered sleep and Langtry shall sleep no more.’

She pulled the mask from her eyes and sat up, blinking. Gathering the shawl about her and shaking her head, she got slowly to her feet. She wore no stockings. On bare tiptoes she teetered towards Oscar and accepted his embrace.

‘If I didn’t owe my entire career to you, Mr Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde, I would be quite cross. I’ve just given three hours of
As You Like It
to a half-empty house. The worse the business, the greater the struggle. I have another three hours of it tonight. I need my beauty sleep between performances. I’m thirty-six now, Oscar. My God, do I need my beauty sleep!’