Wilde West Part 42

Vail says that you've become something of a luminary in the San Francisco Police Department. I'm delighted for you, of course; but somehow I shall always think of you astride a n.o.ble palomino, with the serried, s...o...b..und peaks of Colorado looming magnificently in the background. To bring you up to date on myself, I should tell you that I am married also, and also to a lovely woman, and also the father of two lovely children. My writing career has proceeded rather well of late. I've a novel coming out this month-The Picture of Dorian Gray, I shall send you a copy when I receive some-and I've been toying with an idea or two for a play. So it seems that, despite some early setbacks, I shall become something of a luminary myself. He who laughs, lasts. He who lasts, laughs.

But to come to my reason for writing you. You will remember, of course, the terrible events of that March in 1882, when you and I met. Two years ago, on a trip to Germany, I was in the town of Kurten, not too many miles from Berlin. This was, so I recalled being told by Wolfgang von Hesse, the town in which he had been born and raised. Now, one might have thought that after so many years, no one remaining there would have any memory of Herr von Hesse, who, so he told me, had left it back in 1836. But, still curious about the man, I initiated enquiries.

To make a long story short, something I seldom do, I discovered a woman who had lived next door to the von Hesse family. A bitter old thing of some eighty years, blind as a bat and smelling rather like one as well, she had been a young girl then.

Wolfgang's mother, I was told, died in childbirth and he, an only child, was raised for several years solely by his father. The father was a sort of unordained minister. He was quite mad, according to my bat-woman-all h.e.l.lfire and brimstone, one of those Christians who discover in the Bible license for bitterness, bigotry, and warped brutality. "The Devil can cite scripture for his purpose." (The Merchant of Venice, I, iii) In any event, apparently he beat the boy, severely and often. Wolfgang kept-or was kept, by his father-very much to himself, but when he was old enough to attend school, the other children noticed on his wrists terrible scars that could only have come from ropes.

It was about this time that the father brought back with him from Berlin a female who, said my bat-woman, was obviously a prost.i.tute. She was blowsy, slovenly, and her hair was bright red. She lived with father and son until 1836. In February of that year-bat-woman cannot be more precise-the neighbors were awakened by dreadful screams coming from within the von Hesse house. Investigating, following the screams, they found all three in a tiny attic room. The boy-it was he who was screaming-was tied to a narrow cot. Both the father and the woman were lying on the floor, dead. Her throat had been cut-by the father, presumably, before he had committed suicide by plunging the knife into his own heart. The father and the woman had been dead for at least a day. No one ever understood why the boy had not screamed earlier.

The boy, who fell into a kind of faint when he was untied, was put under a doctor's care. He remained in a vegetative state for several days, and, when he recovered, had no recollection of anything that had occurred in the attic. Later, evidently returned to normalcy, he was sent to live with a distant relative in Berlin. The bat-woman had heard nothing further of him since.

It occurred to me when I learned all this that one day I should write to you and inform you of it. None of this, of course, in any way provides a pardon for what von Hesse did in the United States. (And perhaps-who knows?-elsewhere.) None of it reveals whether he committed his murders consciously and deliberately. (Although I am more than ever inclined to believe that he did not.) But all of it does, I think, provide the beginnings of an explanation. I have a theory that children, when brutalized, become brutal themselves. Von Hesse's history seems instructive in this regard.

As for the others whom you met that fateful March, Vail, as you know, is still managing his touring artistes. O'Conner, you may have heard, disappeared when we arrived in Chicago. It transpired, much to everyone's surprise, that he was not working for the New York Sun after all, and had been traveling with us under false pretenses for some unknown reason of his own. No one, so far as I know, has ever seen, him again.

You remember, perhaps, the Frenchwoman, Mathilde de la Mole? Well, it transpired that she, like O'Conner, was not what she claimed to be. She was no countess, and her name was not de la Mole. She was, rather, Mathilde Horlec, the daughter of a bourgeois of Boulogne. But the most delicious part of her story is this: three years after our tour, she wrote a book describing her adventures, and the book, quite a success in France, was read with fascination by a certain Count d'Angiers, who promptly sought her out, wooed her, and finally married her. And so the pretend countess becomes a genuine countess, and Life, once again, imitates Art, or at any rate strives to.

I've read the woman's book and it's not bad of its kind. She doesn't mention the murders. But it may amuse you to learn that she claims to have conducted long and involved conversations, in French, about literature with my valet, Henry Villiers (the black man who a.s.sisted me; I believe you met him). She goes so far as to hint, very delicately of course, that at the end of the tour he and she conducted a brief liaison.

I couldn't tell you whether she actually had an affair with poor Henry. But as to his speaking French-he traveled with me for many months and, despite his French-sounding name, he never spoke a word of it to me.

I suppose what all this-the careers of Mathilde, von Hesse, O'Conner (and perhaps even Henry?)-proves is that, finally, no matter how much we might like to believe otherwise, no one of us ever truly knows anyone else. Or even ourselves. And that perhaps these are things for which we ought all be grateful.

I hope this letter finds you and your family well. I should very much enjoy hearing from you, should you ever find the time to write.

By the way, if you ever happen to see Dr. John Holliday, please tell him for me that I've reconsidered his offer. Until I hear from you, then, I remain, Yours sincerely, Oscar Wilde.

Paros, September 22, 1990.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

In the States, thanks to Scott and Donna Anderson, Reagan Arthur at St. Martin's, d.i.c.k Beddow (again), Dana and Nancy Bramwell, Richard Brenner, Yiorgo Chouliaras, Marilyn Copp, Valerie DeMille, d.i.c.k and Dottie Gallegly, Cathleen Jordan and Holly Wallinger and Judy Downer of Alfred Hitchc.o.c.k's Mystery Magazine, Doris O'Donnell, Diane Moggey at Worldwide Mystery, Sara Nakian, Karla Satterlee, Shirley Sweeten, Duke and Martha Schirmer and Kate Whelan. Thanks, also, to the many people in Leadville who offered kindness and information, particularly to Georgina Brown and to Patty McMahan at the Silver Dollar Saloon.

Here on Paros, thanks to Jim Clark, David and Vanessa Grant, Vicki Kondili, Jack Nealc, John and Jane Pack, Bill and Helen Riding, Angelos and Yianni Spyridoyiannakis, and Sabine Scholtyssek-Aoki. (Guten tag, Sabine.) In Athens, thanks to Mano Ignatiadis and Lelli Rallis.

In Frankfurt, thanks to Klaus Schomburg.

In Edinburgh, thanks to Dr. Olga Taxidou.

In Amsterdam, very special thanks to Elzo Wind and Carola Van Doremalen.

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copyright 1991 by Walter Satterthwait.

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