Victor

Victor de Mauveche entered his West End home for a brief rest and immediately saw his wife and her cousin Ruby having tea. He had left the bank where he worked early to eat before going back out to attend to his affairs. William, their butler, as usual took his coat and hat and put them in the coat closet in the other room. It was amusing to see the over six foot tall Mr. de Mauveche stoop to give the barely five foot butler his coat and hat everyday. His wife smiled at their contrast and mentioned quietly to Ruby that Victor had been very involved with the proceedings at the Old Bailey courthouse, but she couldn't say how involved because even she didn't know all that Victor was doing there.

Mr. de Mauveche was often consumed with work, which along with his serious temperament, gave him a stoic, almost impenetrable exterior. Yet in spite of that he could be a rather charming site. He had dark brown hair which was always kept parted and slicked back as was the style and kept a trim, narrow mustache. He never went anywhere without his small dark-rimmed glasses and silver pocket-watch. He was the model of a serious banker. The fact that he rarely smiled added to his austere, studious aspect, yet he always surprised others with a boyish grin whenever he did smile.

Upon seeing his wife and Ruby sitting in the same place he had seen them for the past three afternoons he became annoyed. He would never suggest it, but as soon as he saw Ruby he wanted to leave right then. She was very kind and they had even stayed with her in the country for the past few summers, but her presence seemed to somehow undermine his. He understood that her heart problems made her often house-ridden. To get out and socialize with Constance was necessary for her emotional health-but she seemed to be there too often. Yet his dislike was not obvious. Casually, he walked over to them and half-jokingly remarked, "Can't you women find anything else better to do besides gossip all day?" He smiled and leaned over to kiss his wife.

"We do more than that," Constance protested light-heartedly. "We discuss important matters like politics...like the trial."

"Indeed," Mr. de Mauveche agreed. "I'll be heading their shortly. I don't think there'll be much more of this Wilde foolishness now. It's only too bad that the Queen's Birthday has to be shared with this nasty business. Aren't you glad we didn't name our son after your father Oscar, like we had planned to at first?"

"Really, it's just a name," his wife remarked.

Just then two bright, happy shouts quickly came Victor's way. "Father, I thought I heard your voice," his daughter Virginia said as she and his youngest child John walked quickly up, hugging him. Even now at six and eight, the restraint expected of them, taught by Marguerite, was beginning to show.

"How are you, children? How are your studies?"

This was one of the few times that Victor was jovial and he returned their hugs.

"Fine," John replied. "Marguerite said that after this week I'll be ready for division." Victor smiled glad that his son had inherited his gift for numbers.

"So what! Father, Marguerite has taught me French and I already know enough that if I went to Paris I could live there. Marguerite said that. I don't even have an accent, see, Bonjour, papa, parlez-vous français?"

"Oui, Oiu! Very good, you know that's where your great-grandparents came from. Our last name is even French, de mauve chauses 'of bad things,'" he frowned ironically. "Unfortunately, one of our ancestors was a bishop who killed innocent people because they were heretics."

The children grew silent at the history lesson, then not knowing how to take such information, or even what a heretic was, John chimed in. "I hope we can see grandfather and grandmother this summer."

"You silly," Virginia replied pushing her younger brother on the shoulder, "They are coming here because Aunt Ruby is so ill."

"Ouch!" he moaned through sobs that instantly came with the push.

"Now, now," his father began, unwittingly taking a very gentle tone. "Boys don't cry and they don't allow anyone to push them around either," he said repeating his own father's reproach. "And your sister shouldn't be pushing anyone at all," he said looking disapprovingly at Virginia. "Stand up for yourself, John."

"Yes, Father," John said obediently, drying his eyes.

"And you, Virginia, be a good girl and be nice to your brother," he said sternly. In a way, he admired his daughter's natural brashness, though she could at times. It was definitely time that Virginia started acting like a young lady. Marguerite, their French governess, should have been teaching her that already, he felt. She is being too lax about such important matters, he thought to himself. No wonder his great-grandparents left France for a more civilized country.

"Yes, Father," she replied. "Were you going to be home this evening?" she added.

He answered yes and told them that he would meet them in their play room with some sandwiches in a few moments. After their meal, not twenty minutes later, he was walking toward the door.

"Don't stay out too late," his wife called.

"Yes, I know the children want their story and it's my turn to give it."

"You know they don't mind Marguerite but since you've been so busy since January, spending so much time at work and at the trial."

"Say no more," Victor walked over and kissed his wife good-bye and in a very stilted manner kissed Ruby.

"I'll see you this evening," he said before William closed the door behind him.

Mrs. de Mauveche sat looking at the door and then at her cousin with an expression that asked for confidentiality. "Victor is a very good man, isn't he?"

"He's excellent!" Ruby stated, surprised at her uncertain tone. "If only Henry had such ambition! He's content to work for his father and take over the company when he dies one day. But Victor! He could be appointed a seat in the House of Lords and everyone would expect it. It would be quite natural, in fact. I hope he does, work for the government like his father did. It's what he'll probably do eventually anyway."

"You're probably right. But he's almost too good. Do you know what I mean? Sometimes, I feel like I'm an ornament, like I'm no more relevant in his life than those orchids," she said referring to the flowers at the table they sat at. "Like I'm just here for appearances. It's a strange feeling really. I don't know how to explain it."

"Honestly, Constance. You keep him even-headed. You remind him about what's important. Most gentlemen only keep family matters for the governess or mother, but he genuinely cares about his children. That is a rare thing you should be thankful for."

Constance smiled sadly to herself and looked at her folded hands. "Yes, but I know that he really doesn't love me anymore. Something just tells me so."

Ruby stopped drinking her tea. "What you are saying, Constance? Do you think there is someone else?"

"No, he's faithful. I should hope I'm astute enough to know when my own husband is having an affair. It's not in his nature to cheat, I don't think. Please, don't misunderstand me. I still love him, he's admirable and charming. He is well-respected. But the deep feeling of love is gone, I know it."

"It's just a phase," Ruby reassured resuming her tea. "He's just temporarily preoccupied with this Wilde business."

The streets were very crowded as Victor headed toward the old courthouse he often had visited during the past four days of the trial. Victor walked as swiftly as he could, getting to the building a short distance ahead of him. He and his colleagues had been working very hard for this moment and now they awaited a sweet and certain victory. Most of the evidence was already stacked against the defendant. All they did was help set the inevitable in motion, and it was working gloriously.

The defendant was a Mr. Oscar Wilde, the symbol of all that was wrong in modern society: its excesses, immorality and severe lack of common prudence. Though many had lauded Wilde's literary genius, just as many hated him. Victor, for his part, never liked the man from the moment he had met him. Terrible rumors about his sexual life had reached him and some of Wilde's associates were known to be despicable sexual deviants. After meeting the playwright and his wife, he knew the rumors must be true. Victor and his wife-who strangely shared the same name as Mrs. Wilde-had met twice at dinner parties held in a mutual friend's home. Immediately, Victor was suspicious of him, though he didn't make it obvious. In fact, he acted as if intrigued by Mr. Wilde. And in a way, he was. The author had entered the room wearing a long fashionable black velvet coat. Taking it off, he revealed an impeccably elegant black suit with his characteristic white flower in his button hole. The most remarkable thing about him, though, was how well he spoke. According to many Victor, had a flare for charm but Wilde was brilliantly charming. He knew the right way to say anything. So much so that Victor found himself hanging on his every word and laughing unwittingly at his jokes. But Wilde still disgusted him. Victor agreed that his unmanly flamboyance could only indicate his inversion. The man was simply not natural. So much was he put off that when Wilde went to shake his hand, Victor simply kept them on his wife's shoulders, smiled amicably and suggested he and Constance move on, which they did.

Victor often said that the famed author didn't speak well for his family name or class. In fact, he was the worst representation of it and irresponsible to say the very least. The gossip spoke only too many truths about his life. Though, Wilde had a wife and two young sons, he squandered his time and money on male prostitutes and most notably a young gentleman-if he could be called that now-Lord Alfred Douglas, a son of the Marquess of Queensbury. A bad taste immediately developed in his mouth at the thought of the whole business. The man chased his queer nature like a wild animal. But Mr. de Mauveche had a similar nature and knew well that it was never anything to be chased. Such a nature was only to be forgotten and if not forgotten, greatly controlled. Men of their education and culture should only live respectable lives, lives lived married to women not involved with men. Such inversion shouldn't be indulged in. And if one thought it necessary to do such a thing, one ought to be extremely careful about it, not careless like Wilde. As brilliant as he was, the man was foolish enough to do so many unconscionable things. But it was all about to end. Life would return to normal. And slowly but surely, Wilde was going to get what he deserved.

After entering the packed courthouse, Victor looked around and saw Elliot, a good friend of his from the bank. They would regularly watch the proceedings together.

"They're just beginning the last round of evidence," Elliot whispered to him. Then he laughed a little, "Who knew that £100 to a loose-lipped bum boy would pay off so big. Thanks for the donation," he said.

"It was only a matter of time. Lord Queensbury has known something was up for some time now," Victor commented.

Elliot's attention returned to the proceedings. "Look at the man trying to defend himself. Pathetic sodomite."

"Yes, he should have known this day was coming. He's had it coming for awhile."

Victor looked in front of him. The scene had changed little during those four days throughout May as the trial proceeded, but Wilde had. He already had served some time in gaol. This was in fact the third trial that was being conducted. His characteristic dark, shoulder-length hair was now cropped short and though he was still making the audience laugh now and again, a pronounced strain in his voice betrayed worry. Due to his incarceration, Wilde looked much thinner than usual, which made him appear weaker considering he was over six feet tall. Some admirers, friends and street urchins were there, but mostly average London citizens made up the audience and listened to every word.

The disgust most in the room felt could be seen in their eyes and quiet comments. The London papers and general public held the same dislike for Wilde and his associates. His actions seemed to upset the natural order of things. The consorting with male prostitutes, the affair with Douglas, was almost too much to bear listening to. Even the judge didn't hold back personal feelings when pronouncing the final verdict, stating that it was "the worst case I have ever tried." The maximum sentence of two years of hard labor would be given to him. After the pronouncement, an uproar burst forth. A police escort tried to get the playwright through, but the crowd bombarded him everywhere, shouting curses and almost impeding his progress. Victor immediately left his seat and went out to see the man. He, like nearly everyone else, wanted him to be put away.

The interest the audience had in him, though now negative, reminded Victor of the dinner party several years ago. The playwright had been so entertaining and jovial. What walked before him now was a sad shadow of a man who had been left by almost everyone in his life. Perhaps it was seeing his dejected state that made Victor continue to convince himself that he did the right thing by helping to cause Wilde's demise. For justification, he had to see the author face to face. After pushing his way to the front of the crowd, Victor was amazingly able to get very close to Wilde before he exited the building completely. The playwright had been looking straight ahead of him, but the author glanced to the left of him unwittingly and saw at a slightly familiar face. Victor, glad of his success, prepared his most crushing insult, but in the noise and quickness of the moment, it became caught in his throat. The grief that lay beneath Wilde's expression was obvious to him now. The suffering the playwright had endured as well as that of the next two years in gaol became clear to Victor. All he could do was stammer, "You...You...," but he could say no more. He had despised men like him for so long and so deeply that even as his heart beat hard within him, urging him to do something, Victor could only begin his actions. He couldn't complete them.

Even in these final moments of freedom Wilde was a curiosity. As Victor momentarily met Wilde's eyes, a light expression came to the latter's face. Although the playwright looked dejected, the familiarity of Victor's face made the author's expression curiously lighten a little. Victor was shocked. Wilde couldn't have even considered him an acquaintance and certainly not a friend. Perhaps the finality of this moment in his life made him reach toward absolutely anything familiar. Or perhaps it was his acquiescing nature that Victor had heard about which made him look at Victor in an almost amiable way. No matter how rude a man was to him, he would still reach out a friendly hand. In spite of the negative comments so many had made about him, he would appear as if it didn't bother him. He even laughed when others mocked him. How weak! What sort of man is that? Victor thought to himself. For a moment he returned to his initial self-congratulation. It was as if he had helped put away an image rather than a man. Like a statue in an old cathedral, the playwright was simply a pale image of something else. He suggested a man, without really being one.

People spilled out into the street, continuing to denounce the convict. Eventually as Wilde was led away back to gaol, the crowd began to leave the courthouse and with them, Victor de Mauveche. As he walked away from the Old Bailey church bells rang from a distant spire, adding an ironic calmness to the tense, angry mood on the street.

As he walked to get a carriage, Victor ran into Constance's uncle Bishop Thornton.

"Good afternoon," he greeted. The Bishop was an older, somewhat rotund man who seemed always in good spirits. He had helped to raise his wife and appeared to be the complete opposite of Victor. Victor had his moments of happiness like anyone else, but he rarely smiled and was not religious. The one thing that was important to both though was family and so the Bishop always took a few moments to talk with Victor. "I see you just came from the courthouse."

Victor's mind was still on his brief encounter with Oscar Wilde. The lightness of his expression greatly unsettled Victor de Mauveche. As he stood there with his mind still on the encounter, the banker realized something. Even as Wilde was being brought down, somehow he would yet survive. Through some perversity of fate he would leave gaol a free man. The look on the author's face, remained with him, as he walked along talking to the Bishop. Suddenly, Victor was becoming distraught.

"Yes, I just came from the courthouse," he managed to say, despite his very pensive mood.

"Well, what was the ruling?"

"Guilty."

"I knew the third go-round at a trial we would get it right. You must be happy. The courts have finally put that man away."

"I'm very happy," Victor said and feigned his best smile.

"Hard work pays off. It's ridiculous that someone would act so recklessly. The English public can only tolerate so much foolery."

"Right you are, Bishop." Victor then quickly excused himself, blaming some work that he had to complete at the bank.

As he neared the door to his office, he heard the distinct sound of a champagne cork popping off. Entering he saw Elliot, the director of the bank and a few other colleagues.

"Good, you've made it. Never one to leave a job unfinished," Elliot remarked, referring partly to Victor's paper-topped desk around which they stood. "Gentleman, I present to you the man with the £100 which brought the homosexual down," he said chummily patting Victor's back.

"A few words," another colleague intoned.

Victor had been trying to avoid people since the end of the trial, but it was impossible. That look on the convicted man's face would stay with him the rest of his life. Restless and depressed, he wanted to get buried in work, but even now he was robbed of such a pleasure. Elliot nudged him and gave him a glass of champagne. "Tell us what happened. I saw you get up close to him. What did he say?"

"Nothing," Victor replied.

"Of course. What could he say? Dead men can't speak. He won't last two weeks at hard labor, what with his weak effeminacy," Elliot remarked.

"Or it may shake it out of him, who knows," the director of the bank began, who was a friend of the Marquess of Queensbury. "Whatever the case, I do know that we did the right thing. Cheers."

"Yes, we did," the distraught man managed to say. Then all, including Victor, raised their glasses and drank heartily.