Oscar Wilde and the Ring of Death (31 page)

Our
sullen cabman was waiting where we had left him, at end of Beak Street, outside
the Crown tavern. As we climbed aboard the two-wheeler, Oscar remarked: ‘At
least we’ve learnt something this afternoon, Robert.’

‘And
what is that?’ I asked.

‘That
Miss Elizabeth Scott-Rivers was spared a great deal when the Hon. the Reverend
George Daubeney broke off their engagement.’

Oscar
called up to the driver: ‘We failed to find a simple heart in Beak Street,
cabby. We’re now on our way to the Ring of Death, by way of Gower Street and
Tite Street, if you’d be so kind.’

CHAPTER TWENTY

THE QUEENSBERRY RULES

To our surprise, when we
reached Astley’s Circus amphitheatre that evening, at a few minutes before
eight o’clock, we discovered that the steel filings of London town had not been
drawn irresistibly towards the magnet of the Ring of Death. The upper tiers of
the amphitheatre were all closed and, on the ground floor of the auditorium,
the seats around the boxing ring were, at best, a quarter filled.

In
vain, we looked about for a familiar face. In due course, searching for the
consolation of a drink, we found a handful of our friends clustered together at
one end of the rear-stalls bar. Oscar, in a midnight-blue evening suit, with a
simple red rose for a buttonhole, stood in the centre of the near-deserted
room, his arms outstretched. ‘Where is everybody?’ he enquired.

‘At
your play, Oscar,’ answered Charles Brookfield, amiably, ‘or possibly queuing
along Shaftesbury Avenue in the hope of booking tickets for mine. We at least
offer
drama,
after our fashion. What’s on offer here tonight is but a
charade—a “demonstration bout”. It counts for nothing.’

‘Why
are we here then?’ asked Oscar, gratefully accepting one of the beakers of
cheap champagne being held out to us by Bram Stoker.

‘In
Queensberry’s honour,’ said Brookfield. ‘The Marquess is a good man. We’re
supporting him. Simple as that.’ He accepted one of Oscar’s cigarettes. ‘In a
few weeks’ time, “Gentleman Jim Corbett” will take on “Boston Strong Boy John
L. Sullivan” in the heavyweight boxing championship of the world—the first-ever
title match prize-fight to be fought with padded gloves according to the
Queensberry Rules. History will be made. This is the curtain-raiser—a chance
for those who don’t know the Queensberry Rules, or still have their doubts
about them, to see the rules in action.’ He glanced at his pocket watch. ‘This
evening—somewhat later than advertised, by the look of it—your friend
McMuirtree is going head-to-head with another old codger in a “friendly” to
demonstrate “fair fighting, Queensberry-style”. McMuirtree claims he’ll pull no
punches—but no blood will be spilt either, that I guarantee.’ Brookfield looked
about the empty bar. With the corner of his left eye he winked at Oscar. ‘No
blood: no crowds.’

‘Has
anyone seen McMuirtree?’ I asked.

‘We all
have,’ said Edward Heron-Allen. ‘He’s in his dressing room, holding court. Your
friend, the Reverend Daubeney is in attendance, sprinkling him with holy
water.’

‘Sickert’s
there, too,’ added Bram Stoker, evidently much amused by the notion, ‘sketching
the great man as he prepares himself for the ring.’ He topped up our champagne.

‘And
Lord Queensberry?’ asked Oscar.

‘He’s
there, as well,’ said Brookfield, smiling to himself while studying the plume
of smoke rising from his cigarette. ‘Very much so.’

Stoker
chuckled. ‘His lordship is a man obsessed. He keeps whispering his mantra into
McMuirtree’s ear: “No wrestling, no hugging, nothing below the belt.”‘

We
laughed. ‘As you know, Oscar,’ said Brookfield, looking up, ‘The Queensberry
Rules are very clear about hugging and anything below the belt.’

Oscar
smiled and took a sip of champagne. ‘Were you a boxer at school, Charles?’ he
asked.

‘Not
really. Cricket was more my game. I rather fancied myself in “whites”.’

‘I
always think that the postures adopted by those who play cricket are somewhat indecent,’
said Oscar lightly, dropping the butt of his cigarette into the dregs of his
champagne. He touched my arm. ‘Let us go and wish McMuirtree well, Robert.’ He
looked to Edward Heron-Allen. ‘Where did you find the great man’s court?’

‘Just
behind us here,’ said Heron-Allen, indicating a painted brown door marked
‘Private’ to one side of the bar. ‘The dressing rooms are along the corridor to
the left. McMuirtree’s is the first.’

We
found it without difficulty. And in it, standing in the centre of the room, we
found McMuirtree in high spirits, surrounded by a numerous and oddly assorted
entourage. Inspector Gilmour of Scotland Yard was of the party; so were Arthur
Conan Doyle and his young friend, Willie Hornung. The Hon. the Reverend George
Daubeney was there, changed and shaved since we last we saw him, not sprinkling
holy water, as reported, but apparently assisting the boy, Antipholus, who was
standing immediately behind McMuirtree, on a three-legged wooden stool,
applying oil of some kind to the boxer’s bare back and shoulders. On his hands
McMuirtree wore large, ungainly, padded leather boxing gloves, bound tightly
about his wrists with leather laces. The lacing was being tied for him, not
quite by two handmaidens, but, on the left hand, by a young police officer, one
of Gilmour’s men, dressed in the official uniform of the Metropolitan Police, and
on the right, by Walter Sickert, dressed in what appeared to be his own version
of the uniform of the Transylvanian national guard. ‘Tighter, gentlemen, please—tighter!’
commanded McMuirtree, laughing as he gave the order.

Crouched
at the boxer’s feet was the ape-like figure of John Sholto Douglas, 8th
Marquess of Queensberry. He was in full evening dress, but his appearance was
anything but
soigné.
His face was red and covered in perspiration. His
hands were black. He was squatting, seated uncomfortably on his haunches,
holding McMuirtree’s right foot in his lap, examining the boxer’s boot much as
a farmer inspects a horse’s shoe. ‘No boots with springs allowed,’ he muttered.
‘No kicking, gouging, butting, biting. No hugging. No blows below the belt.’

As we
entered the dressing room and surveyed the scene, McMuirtree called to us: ‘Gentlemen,
welcome. I’m still alive, you see.

Conan
Doyle, Hornung, Gilmour, Sickert, all spoke a word of greeting. Lord
Queensberry looked up at Oscar. ‘Are my sons with you?’

‘Not
Lord Alfred, my lord,’ replied Oscar, pleasantly. ‘I understand he is dining
with his mother. But Lord Drumlanrig hopes to be here, I know. He is a firm
believer in the benefits of boxing—and of the Queensberry Rules.’ He bowed
towards the semi-recumbent marquess. ‘Drumlanrig has been raising useful sums
for the Earl’s Court Boys’ Club, I understand.’

‘Is
Primrose with him?’

‘I do
believe Lord Rosebery hopes to be here also, yes, sir.’

‘Good,’
grunted the Marquess, shifting his attention to McMuirtree’s other boot. ‘They
can see how real men fight.’

Behind
us, at the dressing-room door, a short man in a tall hat appeared. He carried a
large hand-bell which he rang three times. ‘The fight’s to begin in ten
minutes, gentlemen. Kindly clear the room. Only side-men and seconds to remain.
The fight’s to begin in ten minutes. Kindly clear the room.’

Without
debate, we did as we were told, wishing McMuirtree good fortune as we went.

‘Is
Byrd not one of your supporters?’ Oscar asked as we took our leave.

‘No,’
answered the boxer, now running on the spot and jabbing the air with alternate
fists. ‘Byrd’s on duty at the hotel tonight, but no matter—he’s seen me fight often
enough. Lord Queensberry and Inspector Gilmour are kindly looking after my
interests—I’m in safe hands.’

The
entourage was gone. Oscar and I were the last of the visitors to leave.
McMuirtree stopped running and stood, alone, between the police inspector and
the marquess, towering above them, head erect, arms held out, glistening like a
Roman gladiator. Oscar stood in the doorway facing him. ‘Good luck, my friend.
I’ve no doubt tonight the better man will win.’

‘Thank
you,’ rasped the boxer. ‘And by breakfast, Oscar, all your worries will be
over. I will have survived and you’ll know for certain that it was only a game.’

We
caught up at once with the rest of the party and made our way back, through the
rear-stalls bar, to the auditorium. Francis Drumlanrig and Lord Rosebery had
now arrived and were seated together, alone, in the centre of one of the rows
McMuirtree had reserved for his guests. Oscar went at once to join them, taking
Conan Doyle and Willie Hornung with him. I sat in the row immediately behind
them, with George Daubeney, Walter Sickert and Edward Heron-Allen.

I did
not like Edward Heron-Allen. He was too charming, too intelligent, too well-
and widely read. Whatever the topic of conversation, Heron-Allen had an opinion
to voice, an experience to share. When, in the row in front of us, Lord
Rosebery, chatting to Conan Doyle, made a passing reference to Sherlock
Holmes’s beloved Stradivarius, Heron-Allen leant forward to offer his own
thoughts on the history of Italian violin-making, reminding us that he had
himself been apprentice to George Charnot, ‘the greatest violin maker of our
time’, and that his (Heron-Allen’ s) treatise,
Violin Making As It Was and
Is,
was now in its fifth printing. When Wat Sickert remarked casually that
we were having to wait so long for the boxing to begin that he regretted not
having brought his library book with him, Heron-Allen immediately embarked on
an account of the hours that he had been spending in the Bodleian Library in
Oxford preparing his literal translation of
The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.
Medieval
Persian, marine biology, meteorology, prostitution, prize-fighting—Edward
Heron-Allen had something to say on them all. What was infuriating to me was
the way in which his trick of turning every topic back to himself seemed so to
amuse everyone else. Others found Heron-Allen immensely engaging it cannot be
denied. And that some of what he had to say held a certain fascination cannot
be denied either.

In the
moments before the boxing began, the conversation turned to cock-fighting.
Heron-Allen, inevitably, was an authority. In North Africa, apparently, he had
lived with tribesmen who bred fighting birds—gamecocks, birds of prey and
parrots. Heron-Allen had been taught how to cut the comb and wattle off a cock,
how to hood the creature to keep it calm before a fight, and how to sharpen the
natural spurs on each of its legs. In some cultures, in India and parts of
Africa, he explained, birds were set to fight with ‘naked heels’, using only
their natural spurs as weapons. In others, in Europe and America, the birds had
manmade ‘gaffs’ or ‘cockspurs’—curved, sharp spikes, sometimes two and a half
inches long—tied to their legs with leather bracelets. At his home in Chelsea,
Heron-Allen told us, he had a prized collection of silver cockspurs from
various lands.

‘None
from England, I hope,’ said Conan Doyle.

‘One
from Scotland,’ answered Heron-Allen, proudly. ‘Cock-fighting is still quite
legal north of the border.’

‘I’m
sorry to hear it,’ responded the good doctor. ‘When Lord Rosebery and his party
are returned to government, I trust they’ll put a stop to such barbarity.’

Rosebery
smiled at Conan Doyle. ‘Yours to command, doctor.’

Eventually—perhaps
thirty minutes after we had taken our seats the human bout began. The delay, we
later learnt, had been caused by nothing more sinister than the late arrival of
McMuirtree’s challenger. Alfred Diego (conceived in Lisbon, born on Merseyside)
had travelled from Liverpool for the fight. On his home turf, Diego had a
reputation: in London he was virtually unknown. Lord Queensberry—who knew
British boxing as well as any man alive—had chosen Diego as a suitable opponent
for McMuirtree on grounds of ‘fairness’. The two men were of comparable age and
weight and build. Both were known as ‘clean fighters’, both had experience of
fighting with gloves and both were said (and claimed) never to have been the
loser in a prize-fight. The bout in the Ring of Death was not, technically, a
prize-fight, of course, but there was a purse attached to it nonetheless.
Queensberry was paying each man a fee of £10 for his efforts, with a bonus of a
further £10 to be awarded to the victor— on condition that, during the course
of the fight, none of the Queensberry Rules was transgressed.

When
the opponents appeared together in the ring for the first time, a low roar
rumbled around the auditorium of Astley’s amphitheatre. When the bell sounded
and the first round began, instinctively every man in the hall got to his feet.

‘It
quickens the blood, does it not?’ said Lord Rosebery.

‘They’re
an ill-assorted pair,’ remarked Oscar. ‘It’s Beauty and the Beast.’

Oscar
had reason. The two fighters were well-matched in terms of height and size, but
their physiognomies could not have been more different. McMuirtree’s features
were well-proportioned; his eyes were clear and open; his skin was as smooth
and unblemished as a girl’s. Diego, by contrast, had skin that appeared rough
and grimy, like a warthog’s, and an ugly, bruised and battered face that looked
as if it had been beaten about with a spade. For all that, as the sparring
began, Diego looked to be the fitter and faster of the two.