"This is unpardonable, Robert," he said as he collapsed onto the
sofa opposite mine. "I am almost an hour late and your glass is empty. Hubbard!
Champagne for Mr. Sherard, if you please. Indeed, a bottle for us both." In life
there are two types of people: those who catch the waiter's eye and those who
don't. Whenever I arrived at the Albemarle, the club servants seemed to scatter
instantly. Whenever Oscar appeared, they hovered attentively. They honoured him.
He tipped like a prince and treated them as allies.
"You have had a busy day," I said, putting aside my paper and
smiling at my friend.
"You are kind not to punish me, Robert," he said, smiling, too,
sitting back and lighting a cigarette. He threw the dead match into the empty
grate. "I have had a disturbing day," he went on. "I have known great pleasure
today, and great pain."
"Tell me," I said. I tried to say it lightly. I knew him well.
For a man ultimately brought down by gross indiscretion, he was remarkably
discreet. He would share his secrets with you, but only if you did not press him
to do so.
"I will tell you about the pleasure first," he said. "The pain
will keep."
We fell silent as Hubbard brought us our wine. He served it with
obsequious ceremony. (God, how he took his time!) When he had gone, and we were
once more alone, I expected Oscar to pick up his story, but instead he simply
raised his glass in my direction and gazed at me with world-weary, vacant eyes.
"How was dinner?" I asked. "How was your publisher?"
"Dinner," he said, returning from his reverie, "was at the new
Langham Hotel, where the decor and the beef are both overdone. My publisher, Mr.
Stoddart, is a delight. He is American, so the air around him is full of energy
and praise. He is the publisher of Lippincott's Monthly Magazine."
"And he has given you a new commission?" I conjectured.
"Better still, he has introduced me to a new friend." I raised
an eyebrow. "Yes, Robert, I have made a new friend tonight. You will like him."
I was accustomed to Oscar's sudden enthusiasms. "Am I to meet
him?" I asked.
"Very shortly, if you can spare the time."
"Is he coming here?" I glanced at the clock on the fireplace.
"No, we shall be calling on him -- at breakfast. I need his
advice."
"Advice?"
"He is a doctor. And a Scotsman. From Southsea."
"No wonder you are disturbed, Oscar," I said, laughing. He
laughed, too. He always laughed at the jokes of others. There was nothing mean
about Oscar Wilde. "Why was he at the dinner?" I asked.
"He is an author, too -- a novelist. Have you read Micah
Clarke? Seventeenth-century Scotland has never been so diverting."
"I've not read it, but I know exactly who you mean. There was a
piece about him in the Times today. He is the coming man: Arthur Doyle."
"Arthur Conan Doyle. He is particular about that. He must
be your age, I suppose, twenty-nine, thirty perhaps, though he has a gravitas
about him that makes him appear older than everybody's papa. He is clearly
brilliant -- a scientist who can play with words -- and rather handsome, if you
can imagine the face beneath the walrus moustache. At first glance, you might
think him a big-game hunter, newly returned from the Congo, but beyond his
handshake, which is intolerable, there is nothing of the brute about him. He is
as gentle as St. Sebastian and as wise as St. Augustine of Hippo."
I laughed again. "You are smitten, Oscar."
"And touched by envy," he replied. "Young Arthur has caused a
sensation with his new creation."
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