As they descended the hansom cab on Tite Street, Henry warned that Wilde might not be home. That he had a home at all, and with the appurtenances of a wife and children, was in itself surprising, so it was little wonder that he was rarely there. Today, however, he was, because he was suffering from a cold. The brothers entered the drawing room to find him reclining on the sofa, two children in blue pinafores playing quietly in the corner, his wife knitting by the fire. It might have been a stage set in which Wilde had been plopped or a scene out of Dickens of the precise sort that Wilde liked to make fun of.
But he was in no mood to make fun. He was wearing a rumpled dressing gown, and his hair, usually glossy and neatly parted in the middle, had a dull, unbrushed look.
“You catch me en famille,” he said, waving a limp hand in the direction of his children and wife. One might have thought that they had caught him in a compromising situation, which, given his reputation for the unconventional, they had. “You know my lovely wife, Constance.” He motioned toward the woman knitting nearby, who smiled weakly. She was a pale woman with a coronet of flyaway hair and a long, arched nose that strikingly resembled her husband’s (it was sometimes given out that Constance was really Oscar in petticoats, since they were so rarely seen together). To Henry, however, the resemblance was not surprising. If someone like Wilde was going to marry, he would try as far as possible to marry himself.
“Get them some tea, my dear,” he ordered his wife. Constance went off to get them tea.
“You see before you the domesticated Wilde,” said Wilde, blowing his nose in a large handkerchief. “It is very nice to have a wife when one is sick.”
Henry could not disagree; the problem, he thought, was having a wife when well.
“To what do I owe the honor of this visit from America’s most gifted brothers?” continued Wilde through his stuffed nose.
William explained that he had wanted to relay the best wishes of his countrymen, who had been so taken by Wilde during his American tour. (He and Henry had agreed on this excuse for the visit, knowing that it would appeal to their host’s vanity.)
“So they still remember me there?” said Wilde wistfully. “Tell me more.”
“Oh, they talk about you continuously,” said William, hoping that he would not be expected to name names. “They say you are the epitome of sophisticated wit.”
“It’s true, I am,” agreed Wilde, “though I’m not as acclaimed for it here, which I suppose is to be expected. I’ve considered moving to your country, you know, but then I’d have to perform myself brilliantly every minute of the day. It would be tiring.” He sniffled into his handkerchief, as he considered that prospect. “Here, at least, I can relax from time to time in the domestic enclave.” He looked around him and then sneezed, as though he were allergic to what he saw.
There was a pause, as Constance came back with the tea and then, at a gesture from her husband, ushered the children out of the room.
Henry saw an opportunity to move toward the desired subject, even though it meant referring to someone he would have preferred not to discuss. “If you came to America, you would soon surpass Clemens in popularity,” he noted.
Wilde looked even more pleased. “It’s nice of you to say, but I hardly think so.” He then took the bait Henry had planted, his rheumy eyes sparkling maliciously. “Clemens was in rare form the other night, don’t you think? I feared that he would pummel you.”
“Yes,” said Henry, wincing. “I am grateful for the intervention of that young man, what was his name?”
“Sickert. Walter Sickert.”
“That’s it. Walter Sickert. Are you intimate with this Sickert?”
“Not intimate,” said Wilde, winking.
“I mean…are you good friends?”
“Oh yes, great friends. We perform together, as you saw.”
“Do you know his family?”
“I’m a great friend of his mother and sister. They dote on me almost as much as they dote on him.”
“And his father?”
“His father is a minor painter. A Prussian.”
“Severe? Autocratic?”
“Not really,” said Wilde. “Can’t say I know the man well, but he seems benign enough.”
“And Sickert’s wife?”
“He doesn’t spend much time with her. Goes off to do his painting…Cornwall, Dieppe, and the East End. He has a number of studios there.”
“That’s odd.”
“No. Whistler did the same.”
“It must be hard for him, dealing with Whistler.”
“Not really. They seem to get along. Jimmy says he has talent, which constitutes high praise from that quarter.”
Henry felt frustrated. Aside from the fact of East End studios, which were not uncommon among artists these days, he was not getting the sort of information he would have liked.
“But you should ask him these questions yourself”—Wilde sniffled insinuatingly—“since you appear to be so interested in each other.”
Henry looked surprised. “In each other?”
Wilde paused to blow his nose and then continued, “After the party, Walter asked me about you. Wanted to know all about William and Alice too.”
“Really?” Henry and William exchanged glances. “Do you have any idea why?”
“None at all, dear boy. You know I don’t pay attention to other people; I’m too interested in hearing what I will say next.”
William cleared his throat. He, for one, had no interest in hearing what Wilde would say next.
“I’m afraid we must be off,” said Henry, taking William’s cue.
“So thoughtful of you to stop by.” Wilde sniffled. He seemed to want to say more but sneezed instead. There was something to be said for Wilde with a cold.
Chapter 30
Jane Cobden is here to see you,” said Sally, as a woman in a serge skirt and tweed cape swept into Alice’s bedroom. Jane Cobden was a regal figure, unusually tall with thick red hair and dark blue eyes that seemed to be focused slightly beyond whomever she was talking to, as though her sense of the world could not be satisfied with the here and now. She had a lean, straight body that would have looked austere, had it not been for an unusually large bosom.
“It must be quite a burden for her to be saddled with those things,” Katherine had once noted, and Alice, considering this, had suggested that the physical attribute might reflect an animal side to their friend that, under certain circumstances, could be let loose to surprising effect.
For the time being, however, Jane Cobden seemed to be devoted unswervingly to social amelioration. Her father, Richard Cobden, had also been a noted reformer, but of the old school of gentlemanly diplomacy, chatting and lingering with his friends to get a bill passed or a charity supported. Jane’s style, by contrast, was more vehement and direct. Her life seemed entirely without the element of leisure or laxness, and her visits had the single and unique aim of raising money and awareness for the cause of social justice. In the face of such relentless energy, Alice always felt particularly useless.
“I was told you wanted to see me,” said Jane in a brusque tone. “I came immediately, though I can’t stay long. I am arranging to get qualified teachers for a school outside of London where none of the children are being taught how to read. The single most important issue with regard to alleviating the condition of the poor is literacy.”
“Let me know if you need me to contribute,” said Alice quickly.
Jane gave a short nod, and Alice knew that in a day or so she would receive a note in Jane’s precise block script requesting some small sum for the cause just discussed.
“Since you are busy, I’ll tell you at once the reason I asked your here,” said Alice, knowing that further chitchat was unnecessary. “I want information about someone, and I can’t tell you why. I hope you will accept those conditions.”
“I trust you have good reason for what you want to know,” said Jane, who had the additional virtue of having no interest in anything that didn’t relate to her causes.