Oscar Wilde and the Nest of Vipers (25 page)

Ludicrous tricks, antics and somersaults by
M
ONSIEUR
P
IQUET’S
PERFORMING DOGS AND MONKEYS

And for this night only

THE INCREDIBLE PROFESSOR ONOFROFF

Exhibiting MIND-READING SKILLS of the rarest order

ADDITIONAL NOVELTIES GUARANTEED

THE LYCEUM ORCHESTRA

Under the personal direction of Mr Samuel Trussock

A
DMISSION:
B
OXES 2S
D
RESS
C
IRCLE 1S
G
RAND
T
IER 9D
S
TALLS 6D
R
EAR
S
TALLS
& B
ALCONY 4D
T
HE ENTERTAINMENT WILL COMMENCE AT 7.15 P.M.;
DOORS OPEN HALF AN HOUR EARLIER

50
Extract from a letter from Bram Stoker to his wife, Florence, delivered by messenger in the early hours of Wednesday, 19 March 1890

Lyceum Theatre,

Strand,

London

Tuesday, 18 March 1890

Florrie –

It is midnight and I am just returned from the Empire Music Hall in Leicester Square. I am sitting down at once to send you this account of the events of the evening, not only so that you should read my record of what occurred before you see some garbled version in tomorrow’s newspaper, but also because I know that you keep all my letters (dear girl that you are) and I believe I shall have recourse to this one when I come to write my memoirs. This has been a night of high drama, low farce – and tragedy.

Let me begin at the beginning. I arrived at the Empire at seven o’clock sharp – as instructed by Oscar. I went at Oscar’s behest. He sent me a note this afternoon to tell me that the Prince of Wales was to pay an unexpected private visit to the Empire tonight – Dan Leno was top of the bill – and Oscar had been asked to make up an ‘appropriate party’ to entertain His Royal Highness during those items in the programme that might not entirely hold His Highness’s attention.

The party that gathered in the ante-room to the royal box was a motley one. There were nine of us in all; besides Oscar and myself, two of Oscar’s ‘young men’ were in attendance – the journalist, Sherard, who says little but ‘knows’ everybody, and the artist, LaSalle, who lays claim to being a vampire (he is a handsome youth, but he gets on my nerves). Oscar’s friend, Arthur Conan Doyle, was there (I like him), with another medical man, Lord Yarborough, and Yarborough’s friend, the Duke of Albemarle. (Albemarle is in mourning – his wife’s funeral is on Thursday – but tonight he went to the music hall!) The last of the guests to arrive was the composer, Antonin Dvorak. He came with his very beautiful daughter. (At least, he told us she was his daughter.)

For an hour we stood about idly, gossiping, chatting, smoking, sipping champagne. (It was fine champagne. Albemarle brought it – at Oscar’s suggestion – along with his own butler to serve it.) Though the champagne was good and the company congenial – I talked at length with Dvorak: he comes from Bohemia, and his father was a butcher – I would have liked to watch the performance from the start. First on the bill was a troupe of juggling monkeys! But Oscar said, no, that would be
lèse majesté.
We had to await the arrival of the prince.

HRH eventually appeared just after eight. He was immaculately kitted out – I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man so perfectly attired, even Oscar – but stouter, shorter, older, much more out of breath than when last I saw him. (He
is
older: he is nearly fifty now.)

He arrived with his eldest in tow: Prince Eddy. The young prince looks better in the flesh than in the photographs: healthier, less saturnine. He is just returned from a tour of India. He said, ‘I suspect I’m going to enjoy this Empire more than that one,’ which I thought amusing. The princes were in evening dress,
with matching white carnations in their buttonholes, but no decorations as this was very much a private outing. They came by brougham with just two in the royal retinue: the Prince of Wales’s personal page and the equerry, Tyrwhitt Wilson. (If Irving revives his Malvolio, I’ll get Tyrwhitt Wilson for Aguecheek.)

It fell to Oscar to present the party to the princes. He did it with his customary charm. (He is impossible at times, but still the most charming man I know.) It was all very easy and informal. I asked the heir apparent which of the night’s entertainments he was most looking forward to – suggesting it might be the Great McGonagall.

He laughed. ‘McGonagall is more to the Queen’s taste than my own. The poor man hopes to succeed Lord Tennyson as Poet Laureate and keeps writing to Her Majesty at Balmoral to say so. Unfortunately he writes in verse.’

He laughed once more. I laughed. Oscar laughed. Dvorak – who’d not understood a word – positively
roared. (
In the presence of royalty I find there is always much forced bonhomie.)

It transpired that the performance HRH was most keenly anticipating was that of Professor Onofroff – the ‘psychic phenomenon’ noted for his feats of mind-reading.

‘I have seen him in action before,’ said HRH, eyes gently bulging. ‘He is quite remarkable. He can reveal what you are thinking with uncanny accuracy. He can read your mood. He can see into your soul. After we’ve witnessed his act, I want you all to meet him. Did Oscar not tell you? I hope he’s made the arrangements.’

‘I have made all the arrangements, sir,’ said Oscar smoothly, ‘but I have told our friends nothing. I wished the evening to be a surprise. I did not want anyone putting up his guard before being subjected to Professor Onofroff’s mental analysis.’

‘Very good,’ said the prince.

‘Very bad,’ muttered Dvorak. ‘My soul is a secret place. It does not want visitors.’

‘Never mind that,’ said HRH dismissively. ‘Time’s getting on. Let’s go into the show. Mademoiselle Dvorak can sit next to me.’

‘She speaks no English, Your Highness,’ said the composer anxiously.

‘All the better.’ The prince grinned. ‘In we go.’

The prince’s page and the duke’s butler opened the narrow double doors that led from the ante-room to the royal box. Immediately we could hear the strains of the orchestra and the hubbub of the house. On stage Hetty Marengo (a male impersonator) was doing her best with ‘The girl who knew a boy who knew a girl who knew a thing or two’. It’s a strong song, but she was struggling.

I do not know how these music-hall artistes manage: the commotion in the auditorium is constant – patrons coming and going, talking, laughing, greeting their friends, hushing their neighbours, cadging cigarettes, ordering drinks, waving to the girls in the gallery. The Empire is a
quality
house – evening dress is worn – but there are long refreshment counters on every tier and, unless it’s the top-liner on stage, the brouhaha and bustle around the bars and in the aisles never stop.

As the royal party entered the royal box, a solitary cheer rang out from the gallery, followed by another, and another. Within moments, the house was in uproar: cheering, applauding, whistling (they’d noticed the Dvorak girl), stamping their feet and raising their glasses. The Prince of Wales stood to acknowledge the ovation and Hetty Marengo proved her worth. She stepped up to the footlights, stopped the orchestra and embarked on a rousing chorus of ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow’. The entire audience joined in.

The song done, the prince took his seat, Hetty Marengo took her bow and the house began to calm itself. The theatre was hot and the royal box was crowded. There were just eight chairs arranged in two rows. We found ourselves seated like this:

D. of Albemarle Ld Yarborough A. Conan Doyle Self Dvorak
Prince Eddy The Prince of Wales Mlle Dvorak

Oscar and his young men stood at the back of the box, alongside the prince’s equerry and the theatre manager. I sat almost immediately behind HRH and when, soon, he realised that Mlle Dvorak was unable to take on board anything more than a smile and a wink, he began addressing his remarks to me.

Throughout the performance he maintained a steady flow of comments, quips and asides. I can report that the vulgar comic songs of Jovial Joe Justini are much more to the royal liking than Henry Irving’s Hamlet. And the four tumbling comedians who appeared on stage with a baby elephant scored a palpable hit. The Great McGonagall fared less well. As the Bard of Dundee launched into a spirited rendering of a very long poem about Robert the Bruce and the Battle of Bannockburn, the Prince of Wales stifled a yawn, lit a cigar and, muttering, ‘I’ve never much cared for Scottish politics,’ began to talk loudly about racing and his ambition one day to breed a Derby winner.

The next item on the bill, however, drew the royal eye back to the stage in no uncertain terms. Les Ballets Fantastiques featured a bevy of beautiful ballerinas decked out as Arabian slave girls. The provocative nature of their dancing and the boldness of their costumes – the young ladies were wearing tight-fitting beaded bodices and loose silk pantaloons – commanded full attention.

When the dancers appeared, HRH called to his equerry for his opera glasses. When the
première danseuse
took centre stage, the prince exclaimed: ‘I know her. It’s my Lulu. What a darling girl.’

The moment the ballet was done, while the dancers were still curtsying to the royal box, the prince called over to his equerry once more: ‘Wilson, go and fetch her. Bring her up here. I want to see her. Now.’ He turned to the rest of the party: ‘The little dancer’s an old friend of mine. This calls for a celebration. Gentlemen, shall we?’

The prince got his feet and, forgetting the Dvorak girl altogether, forged his way out of the royal box and back into the ante-room. When royalty rises, you rise too. Where royalty goes, you follow.