Oscar Wilde and the Nest of Vipers (24 page)

Langham Hotel,

London, W.

18.iii.90

Dearest Touie, most cherished wife –

This is damnable, my darling. I have to postpone my return to Southsea yet again. I am so sorry. I am missing you so very much.

I am held here in town by royal command! This evening I am obliged to join HRH the Prince of Wales in the royal box at the Empire Music Hall in Leicester Square. I am specifically asked for: I have no choice. If not Leicester Square, then the Tower. Oscar Wilde will also be of the party.

As I think I have already told you, Oscar and I are engaged on some particular business on behalf of the Prince of Wales – delicate stuff that need not concern you. Of course, I wish now that I had never become involved, but it is too late. (‘Too late’ – the two most fateful words in the English language.)

And Oscar, I confess, I am beginning to find rather ‘too much’. I dined with him again last night. He was amusing to begin with, but became more preposterous as the evening wore on. He was heavily in wine – as he often is. He brought with him his friend Sherard (the great-grandson of William Wordsworth, but an insipid fellow nonetheless, colourless and too much the acolyte) and we were joined by a young ‘exquisite’ of Oscar’s acquaintance who affects to be a vampire – and does so with the utmost seriousness.

When I protested that I did not consider ‘bloodsucking’ a suitable topic of conversation over dinner in a public restaurant, with waiters listening in, Oscar said to his friends, ‘You must forgive Arthur, gentlemen. He hasn’t a single redeeming vice.’ Oscar is funny – and brilliant – and I am conscious of the honour of knowing him, but his prodigious capacity for food and drink as well as the doubtful nature of some of his associates trouble me.

Kiss my darling daughter for me. How is she? How are you? Has my young brother replied to my letter yet, I wonder? Is there news from the Mam? Send me some of your news if you get a moment.

Until I go out this evening, I plan to stay here at the hotel. My room, though costly, is comfortable. I have a desk. I can write. I propose spending the morning working up my notes for my study of hysteria. This afternoon I am planning to begin a new story – another adventure for Mr Sherlock Holmes. I am sad not to be at home, but I am content to be at work. I am more likely to hurt myself by idleness than by endeavour.

I shall return to Southsea tomorrow morning, come what may – I have my Wednesday surgery to attend to. Thursday, alas, will see me back in London once more, but only briefly. For reasons I will explain when I see you, I shall be joining the mourners at the Duchess of Albemarle’s funeral.

Take care, my darling. Forgive my prolonged absence. To remind me of you, I am wearing the tartan tie you gave me for my birthday. It is being much admired.

Aye your loving husband,

ACD