Oscar Wilde and the Nest of Vipers (4 page)

‘The first duty in life is to be as artificial as possible. What the second duty is no one has yet discovered.’

I was on duty tonight – and on song. I now have Oscar in my thrall. He was captivated. I know it. He told me so. This was only our second encounter, but he declared that he feels that he has known me since the days when Zeus and Mnemosyne were lovers on the slopes of Mount Parnassus! He adores my profile. He admired my buttonhole – and noticed how exactly it matched his own. ‘One should either be a work of art, or wear a work of art.’ He was enchanted with the way in which I quoted his own phrases and philosophies back to him. ‘To love oneself is the beginning of a life-long romance.’

I have made a conquest.

When first I told him that I was a vampire, he was amused. ‘One should always be a little improbable,’ he said.

Tonight he took me much more seriously. He told me that he had heard that vampires cast no shadows, but he sensed that the shadow I cast over him would be a long one. He made enquiries about my mode of life. He asked where I lived and where I slept. He
asked about my parents. He asked what I did about money. He asked what I did about love. He said, ‘Love and gluttony justify everything.’ He was playful and earnest by turns.

When his friend joined us with two glasses of champagne, Oscar offered me his. I declined, politely. He pressed me to drink.

‘You look pale,’ he said.

‘I am pale,’ I replied, ‘I am a vampire. Iced champagne is your drink of choice: blood is mine.’ I looked him directly in the eye. ‘Have you ever tasted blood, Mr Wilde?’ I asked. ‘Fresh blood, blood that is warm to the tongue. Human blood.’

‘No,’ he answered, ‘the wine list at my club is dreadfully limited.’

We laughed and then his friend turned to me and enquired, lightly: ‘Will you be drinking blood tonight?’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I must.’

‘And whose blood will it be?’ asked Oscar.

I drew languorously on my cigarette and surveyed the crowded drawing room. At last I pointed across the throng. ‘Hers,’ I said.

‘Who is that?’ asked Oscar. ‘I can’t see.’

‘Our hostess. The Duchess of Albemarle. She is very lovely, is she not?’

‘She is indeed,’ said Oscar. ‘Helen, late of Troy …’

‘Now of Grosvenor Square.’ I finished his line for him – and we laughed once more. He has a most infectious laugh.

5
Letter from Arthur Conan Doyle to his younger brother, Innes Conan Doyle

Langham Hotel,

London, W.

14.iii.90

Dearest boy –

I write as I had promised – but I write in haste. I am your older brother and I stand
in loco parentis
. I am addressing you seriously now – sternly, even.

These exams of yours are vital to your future. To be an officer in the British army is something noble. Pass these examinations and your future in the Sappers is assured. Fail them and where will you be? Adrift – with neither parents nor brother in a position to support you. You have lots of brains – all you want is steady undeviating industry. Think of nothing else, Innes, I beg you, until this is done. Put your heart and soul into it. You will find that work becomes a pleasure when you stick close to it. Achieve this and you will have all your life then for sport or riding or cricket or what you will.

I had hoped to say all this to you in more measured tones, but time is against me and it is perhaps no bad thing that I am obliged to be brief and to the point.
There can at least be no misunderstanding. I am writing in such haste because of a royal summons … Indeed! I am in London on the morning after a memorable night before. I was a guest last evening at the Duke of Albemarle’s reception for the arts and sciences. I was presented to the Prince of Wales! HRH was amiability itself. I wanted to speak of Micah Clarke – ten thousand copies sold! – and my new outrage,
The Captain of the Pole-Star,
but the heir apparent wished to speak only of Sherlock Holmes!

I spent time also with HRH’s private secretary, the great Sir Dighton Probyn. When he was twenty-four and a captain in the 2nd Punjab Cavalry, his daring and gallantry during the Indian Mutiny earned him the Victoria Cross. Let him be your role model!

I was furthermore presented to HRH’s eldest, Prince Eddy – a naval cadet in his youth and in the army now, but a very weak-looking individual with a sorrowful moustache quite unbecoming an officer and gentleman. I doubt that he was required to pass examinations to gain his present position! I will tell you more when I see you next.

My friend Oscar Wilde was also of the party. He is the wittiest man I know. He cannot stop talking. ‘I like hearing myself talk,’ he declared last night, ‘it is one of my greatest pleasures.’ He repeats himself unashamedly, but there is a sweetness to him that I find most endearing. And at Oxford, he won every prize that was open to him. He affected indolence, but, in truth, was the personification of
industry.
It is the only way.

Enough! I will send you something on your
birthday – you may be sure of that. And be a good fellow and drop me a line so that I may be sure you have hearkened to my words and are pegging to it. You have it in you. Onward! For our dear mother’s sake.

Ever your loving bro.,

Arthur

PS I have just seen today’s newspaper. The Duchess of Albemarle – my hostess last evening – was found dead in her bed in the early hours of this morning. A heart attack is suspected. She was only thirty (my age), but had been in poor health for some time.

6
From the
Evening News
, London, Friday, 14 March 1890

S
TOP
P
RESS

The sudden death was announced this morning of Her Grace the Duchess of Albemarle. Born Helen Lascelles, the daughter of Major Sir William Lascelles Bt, of Welwyn, Herts, she married Henry, 7th Duke of Albemarle, in 1885, when she was twenty-five and His Grace was sixty. There were no children of the marriage.

Noted for her beauty, philanthropy and devotion to the arts, the duchess was a friend of the Prince of Wales who attended a reception at her house in Grosvenor Square only last evening. Her body was discovered by her maid this morning. It is believed that the duchess had been under medical supervision for some time, due to the feebleness of her heart. The duke is reported to be devastated by the death of his young wife.

A statement just issued from Marlborough House reads: ‘HRH the Prince of Wales KG, KT, is much saddened to learn of the tragic death of Her Grace the Duchess of Albemarle.’

The Metropolitan Police Commissioner has been informed of the tragedy, but foul play is not suspected.

7
From the notebooks of Robert Sherard

W
hat happened?

At midnight the Prince of Wales departed. I noted the time because, standing at the fireplace with Oscar and his curious new friend, I heard the distinct chimes of the ormolu clock that stood upon the mantelpiece behind us.

As HRH made to go, a hush fell on the crowded assembly. As the Red Sea once divided, so a path miraculously appeared in the midst of the throng. The prince, with his son and heir at his side, and their retinue in tow, proceeded through the drawing room and across the ballroom and out on to the first-floor gallery. Gentlemen bowed their heads and ladies curtsied to the ground as the royal party passed. The portly prince murmured benevolent farewells as he made his egress, wafting cigar smoke over his people as a thurifer wafts incense across his congregation.

Oscar, devoted to royalty as only a republican can be, whispered, ‘Let’s see him go,’ and beckoned me to follow him. We slipped out of the drawing room by the nearest door and found ourselves, alone, at one end of the first-floor gallery as the prince and his party emerged on to it at the other. HRH noticed us and called out, ‘Goodnight, Mr Wilde!’

Oscar, gratified, bowed low. ‘Goodnight, sweet prince!’ he responded.

We watched the royal party descend the stairs. Awaiting them, on either side of the front door, were two short lines of servants: to the left, representatives of the Albemarle household, headed by the butler; to the right, the prince’s valet, two royal footmen and a young police constable in uniform. Alone, in the middle of the hallway, stood the Duke of Albemarle. He appeared fretful and looked up the stairway anxiously as the heir apparent moved towards him.

‘No duchess?’ enquired the prince.

‘I have lost her!’ laughed the duke awkwardly.

‘No matter,’ said the prince graciously. ‘It has been a splendid evening. You will thank her for me, won’t you, Albemarle?’

‘I will indeed, sir. Thank you for honouring us with your presence.’

The duke bowed to each prince in turn, shook hands with Sir Dighton Probyn and Tyrwhitt Wilson, and accompanied the royal party out of the front door and into Grosvenor Square. We heard the clatter of hooves and the rumble of wheels as the princely carriages departed.

Oscar stood back, lighting a cigarette, while I remained in the gallery, looking down into the hallway. The Duke of Albemarle returned from the street and, as the front door was closed behind him, stood still for a moment, covering his face with his hands. He took a long, deep breath, as if both to calm himself and to gather his forces. He then turned enquiringly towards his butler who simply shook his head. The duke nodded and the butler went about his business.

The servants in the hallway began to scatter. The guests on the first floor began to emerge on to the gallery. I remained where I was for a moment longer, gazing down over the wooden balustrade, watching the duke below. Turning to his right, he stepped quickly and lightly across the hall towards a doorway in the corner. Without pause, he opened the door and, fumbling for a moment, removed the key from the inside lock. He then closed the door and immediately locked it from the outside. I saw him tuck the key into his waistcoat pocket.