Items related to She Loves Me Not: New and Selected Stories
An anthology of stories reflecting more than twenty years of writing explores a diverse range of topics, from Oscar Wilde and murder to dementia and romance.
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About the Author:
Ron Hansen is the author of eight novels and three short story collections. He graduated from Creighton University in Omaha, and went on to the University of Iowa Writer’s Workshop where he studied with John Irving. He is now Gerard Manley Hopkins, S.J., Professor in Arts and Humanities at Santa Clara University in northern California.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
She Loves Me Not
Wilde in Omaha
The Record of an Acquaintance
Since the overseas reports of Oscar Wilde’s premature death, in Paris, at age 46, I have experienced pangs of grief and loss, and have felt the need to memorialize our gladsome meeting eighteen years ago in a fuller way than the exigencies of newspaper journalism permitted at the time. I shall leave to posterity this record, hoping that some may consider it a fitting tribute to a man of literary genius who achieved greatness and also disgrace, but whose hours in Omaha still constitute, for many of us, a high point in our lives.
Initial Impressions of the Aesthetic Poet
I originally sought out the famous Mr. Wilde just after his lecture on “The English Renaissance” at the Academy of Music in Sioux City, but some of Iowa’s finer sort spirited him off like a petit roi to some Lucullan feast of the night and it was left to this reporter to find him in the Hubbard House at his rising in the morn. So it was in the milky light of sunup on Tuesday, March 21st, 1882, the first day of spring, that I first met the aesthetic poet and leader of the so-called Artistic Movement.
Wilde was lolling in the gray haze of a cigarette on the hotel’s patch-quilted bed, but was fully dressed in patent-leather shoes and a great, green, ankle-length coat whose collar and cuffs were trimmed with an otter fur that also formed the turban on his head. Underneath his coat was a white linen Lord Byron shirt and a sea-blue scarf he’d tied at his neck like a sailor. On his right, littlest finger was a great seal ring with a cameo of a classic Athenian face. Wilde was then a soft, pleasant innocent of 27, though he only owned up to being 25. I was 23.
I handed him my card from the Omaha Daily Herald.
“Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come,” he averred in a sigh, his timbre deep, his pacing languid. “There are a hundred things I want not to say to you.” Reading the card again, he said, “Robert Murphy. Are you called Bob?”
“Mostly.”
“I shall call you Bobby. Reporters so often remind me of the Metropolitan Police.”
“I do hope you won’t think I’m prying.”
“Certainly not, Bobby. I am the only person in the world I should like to know thoroughly. But I don’t see any chance of it just at present.”
Entering his quarters was a strong, young, Negro valet whose name was W. M. Traquair or Traquier. I failed to spell it out in my notes. But I recall that as he in haste filled Wilde’s gripsacks and portmanteau, Wilde introduced us and speculated that the name’s origin may have been in the French noun traqueur, for those who thrash out game in a hunt. Wilde shook his fist in a facsimile of irritation. “But I shall thrash him, if he’s not deferential!”
His valet continued his folding and cramming.
Seeing my shorthand, Wilde took the opportunity to say his own name was properly Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde. (At Oxford, I learned, he signed his papers “O.F.O’F.W.W.”)
“And here I was going to call you plain Oscar.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Would anyone, least of all my dear mother, Speranza, christen me plain Oscar?” He tapped his shortening cigarette’s ashes into a Japanese teacup. “I suppose as I continue to rise in lofty eminence I shall shed my names, just as a balloonist sheds ballast, and finally be called simply Wilde.”
“We’re ready for the train, Mr. Simply,” said Traquier.
“Oh, how could I function without him?” Wilde asked this reporter. “In a free country one cannot live without a slave.”
Surprisingly, his valet found that amusing. But it was possibly an old joke, for they’d been journeying westward together since the Irishman’s first lecture on January 9th at New York City’s Chickering Hall.
When Wilde got up and stabbed out his cigarette, I saw that he was far bigger than I’d imagined from eastern press reports where he was so often caricatured as a sissy because of his florid manner, his fat, fishy, voluptuous lips—one critic called it “a carnal mouth”—and the feminine effluence of his undulant, shoulder-length, chestnut-brown hair. Wilde was a hefty six foot three—six inches taller than me—rather wider at the waist than at his chest, but with large, farmerish hands to go with a large, pallid, slack-jawed face, a face that was akin to Billy the Kid’s. “China-blue eyes,” say my notes, “hooded, dreamy, debauched, and half-asleep”—a fact I chalked up to his being a confessed nocturnal who disliked waking in the forenoon. Walking out of the room, he revealed a pigeon-toed gait, and I noted that his hips swayed in a way that once caused an English ladyship to determine his sex as “undecided.”
We were to be cheek by jowl the whole day.
The Tyranny of Facts
Mr. J. S. Vail, Wilde’s traveling business manager, greeted us as we got to Sioux City’s railway depot. Although Vail was less than wildly enthusiastic about a reporter eavesdropping and recording the hithers and yons of “His Utterness,” he was but a grousing employee of Colonel Morse in England, who was himself merely the American tour booking agent of the fabulously successful London impresario Richard D’Oyly Carte. I presumed I was invited until someone had the gumption to say otherwise, and they didn’t find the grit.
Wilde and I shared a first-class compartment on the hundred-mile ride south to Council Bluffs. Traquier hunkered with the colored porters near the caboose and Vail, as was his habit, wandered off. The Omaha Daily Herald ambassador sought this advantage to have some particulars confirmed.
Wilde yawned at the notion.
“Don’t you appreciate some occasional accuracy in reporting?”
“It’s simply that one can’t escape the tyranny of facts. One can scarcely open a newspaper without learning something useful about the sordid crimes against greengrocers or a dozen disgusting details relating to the consumption of pork. On the other hand, I do like hearing myself talk. It is one of my greatest pleasures.” Our railway car jerked forward into a screaking roll and Wilde looked outside. Watching soot-blackened shanties slide past, he said, “I find railway travel the most tedious experience in life. That is, if one excepts being sung to in Albert Hall, or dining with a chemist.”
I sallied forth recklessly by asking, “Was this outré persona of yours concocted at Oxford or earlier?”
Wilde forgot himself momentarily and grinned with buck teeth of a smoker’s yellow hue. And then he superimposed his mask again. “I behave as I have always behaved—dreadfully. And that is why people adore me.” After a little reflection, he added, “Besides, to be authentically natural is a difficult pose to keep up.”
Oscar was the son of the late Sir William Wilde—a distinguished Dublin surgeon, archaeologist, man of letters, and gossiped sire of three illegitimate children—and Lady Jane “Speranza” Wilde, a large, flamboyant poet, translator, and Irish nationalist who called herself “a priestess at the altar of freedom.” She was a fabled hostess who claimed to be above respectability, and once, Wilde told me, “considered founding a Society for the Suppression of Virtue.” Disappointed that she’d given birth to a boy instead of a girl, she dressed Oscar in flounces and petticoats until he was nine, schooled him extensively with private tutors, spoke to him in German and French. In childhood Oscar taught himself to read two facing pages at a glance and could finish a three-volume novel in an hour. “I’m so well informed,” Wilde told me, “that my mind is like a horrid bric-a-brac shop, full of monsters and dust, and everything priced above its proper value.”
At Trinity College in Dublin, where he felt “like a carrier pigeon in a nest of sparrows,” Wilde majored in classical languages and literature for three years, then won a scholarship to Magdalen College at Oxford. There he affected whimsical costumes, was nicknamed Hosky, studied aesthetics and art with John Ruskin and Walter Pater, earned a rare double First in Latin and Greek—Aeschylus was his favorite playwright—and was awarded the prestigious Newdigate Prize for his long, lachrymose elegy “Ravenna,” its rather trite rhyming couplets describing the vanishing glories of the Italian city.
Soon Wilde was living on fashionable Tite Street in the Chelsea area of London and was a swank man about town, friendly, he said, with that finest of the English painters, James McNeill Whistler, as well as the international beauty Mrs. Lillie Langtry, with whom he was fruitlessly in love, and even the Prince of Wales, who’d said of Oscar to “not know Mr. Wilde is not to be known.” The London actress Ellen Terry said of Wilde that “about him there is something more instantaneously individual and audacious than it is possible to describe.” Just so.
Owing to his increasing celebrity, the British magazine Punch twitted him in a number of cartoons and criticized his art with the note “The poet is Wilde. But his poetry’s tame.” Wilde and the vogue of aestheticism were lampooned in such theatrical entertainments as The Grasshopper, The Colonel, and Where’s the Cat? And then W. S. Gilbert and Arthur Sullivan created the opera Patience, in which the fatuous characters of Reginald Bunthorne and Archibald Grosvenor were both modeled on Wilde. A great financial success in London and New York for its producer, Richard D’Oyly Carte, Patience was what conveyed Oscar Wilde on a speaking tour through the heartland of America, not his wretched and unproduced drama Vera nor his sixty-one shuffled-up and self-published Poems. Even his booking agent disparaged Wilde as simply “the latest form of fashionable madness.”
Wilde and I talked about all these things, and lastly the plays, most of which he dismissed as insipid burlesques. But of Gilbert and Sullivan’s Patience Wilde would only say, “Oh, Bobby. Satire is the usual homage which mediocrity pays to genius.”
And then he turned to pull down the green window shade, shutting out the cloudless blue serene and the plowed Iowa farm fields we were trundling past, their even rows of earth and sillion shining glossily in the sun.
“You’re missing the view,” I said.
Wilde lit another cigarette. “I hate views,” he said. “They were only made for bad painters. And thus far the prairie has only reminded me of a sheet of blotting paper.”
There was a novel entitled Mirage in which Wilde starred as a character with the name of Claude Davenant—which Wilde enjoyed mispronouncing as “Deviant.” The authoress wrote of Claude speaking “in a low voice, with peculiarly distinct enunciation; he spoke like a man who has made a study of expression. He listened like one accustomed to speak.”
Oxford erased much of Wilde’s Irish accent, but encouraged his gift for epigram and taught him a rhythmic oratory full of inflection and rhetorical pauses, of heightening pitch falling off into monotone so that it could rise precipitously again. One reporter swore that Wilde spoke in hexameter lines, another that he accentuated every fourth syllable, and his affect was such that it was not uncommon for newspapers to record his diverting visits in verse. It was a tendency I would resist. Yet I did find myself ever leaning forward in his company, scribbling shorthand across the tablet on my knee, half-fearful my pencil would break and I would miss a stray jest or opinion. But after a while he fell into a silent and sullen mood, for he thought “only dull people are brilliant at breakfast,” and Omaha was his thirty-eighth stop on an American tour that would not end until October 13th. Wilde was conserving himself for the entertainments of the afternoon and evening.
We changed to a Union Pacific train in Council Bluffs, and Wilde stood between the rocking cars with me and Vail and Traquier and the baggage for the short shuttle across the Big Bridge into Nebraska. Seeing the wide Missouri River, Wilde called it “disappointing”; he thought it had “a want of grandeur and variety of line.” But as we continued our screeching way high above it, Wilde held so tightly to the iron railing that his knuckles whitened and he excitedly praised its “majesty,” “the sheer physical force of its currents,” even “its tawny color and green, aesthetic shadings.”
“Are you trying to buy it off with flattery?” Vail asked. “You do know that if you fall you’ll still drown.”
Wilde turned to his valet. “Who needs song and sunflowers when one can have the solace of Mr. Vail?”
The “Peasantry” of the West
Waiting for us at the Union Pacific depot on Tenth Street were three pillars of Omaha City: Dr. George L. Miller, 52, was a graduate of the New York College of Physicians and Surgeons, a former member of the Nebraska Territorial Council, a former sutler at Fort Kearny, holder of wide real estate interests in our fifteen-year-old state, and joint proprietor and editor-in-chief of the Omaha Daily Herald. With him was Lyman Richardson, 47, of the University of Michigan, a captain on the staff of General Steele in the War of the Rebellion, and joint proprietor and business manager of the same cynosure of journalism. The affable financier with a mustache as wide as a house-painting brush was Mayor James E. Boyd, also 47, from County Tyrone, Ireland, the owner of the Omaha Gas Works, the Central National Bank, the Omaha and Northwestern Railroad Company, a cattle ranch in Wyoming, an Omaha pork packing company, and Boyd’s Opera House on the northeast corner of Farnam and Fifteenth Streets, where Wilde would lecture that evening. Each man zealously shook Wilde’s hand, and then Wilde said, “I’m so very glad to meet the peasantry of the West.”
My editor-in-chief glared at me, as if to say, “What have you gotten me into?”
I could only shrug. I recalled Wilde saying that a gentleman is one who never hurts anyone’s feelings unintentionally.
Though it was little more than a bracing walk from the depot, we took carriages to the Withnell House on Fifteenth and Harney Streets, where Wilde and his party would be ensconced. Wilde inquired innocently about the origins of the city, and Dr. Miller expatiated on the Omaha Claim Club, a score of men who each purchased from the Omaha Indian chief Logan Fontenelle, for ten dollars, three hundred twenty acres of hilly wilderness on the west side of the Missouri River. Within twenty years some of their city lots were selling for one hundred dollars a foot.
“So you have done rather nicely in your investments,” said Wilde.
“Indeed,” said my employer.
“We now have a population of thirty-two thousand,” said the Irish mayor to his Irish guest. “And one hundred sixty-five saloons, should you find yourself parched with a Saharan thirst that needs slaking.”
“I shall inform Willie, my older brother.”
My employer inquired, “And what does this Willie work at?”
Wilde sighed. “At intervals,” he said.
Eddies of dust fishtailed down the newly bricked streets. Water trickled toward our just-installed sewers. The steel tracks for our horse-drawn trolley cars winked silver in the noonday sun. Everywhere I looked there were hints of beauty and civilization and new limestone commercial buildings with ornate cornices and tall plateglass windows and ceilings of painted tin fleur-de-lis. But Wilde observed, “The fault in American architecture is that most of the buildings are mere constructions of incongruous anachronisms.”
We heard the clopping of the horses’ hooves in the silence.
Wilde asked innocently, “Are there industries here?”
The mayor noted with pride t...
Wilde in Omaha
The Record of an Acquaintance
Since the overseas reports of Oscar Wilde’s premature death, in Paris, at age 46, I have experienced pangs of grief and loss, and have felt the need to memorialize our gladsome meeting eighteen years ago in a fuller way than the exigencies of newspaper journalism permitted at the time. I shall leave to posterity this record, hoping that some may consider it a fitting tribute to a man of literary genius who achieved greatness and also disgrace, but whose hours in Omaha still constitute, for many of us, a high point in our lives.
Initial Impressions of the Aesthetic Poet
I originally sought out the famous Mr. Wilde just after his lecture on “The English Renaissance” at the Academy of Music in Sioux City, but some of Iowa’s finer sort spirited him off like a petit roi to some Lucullan feast of the night and it was left to this reporter to find him in the Hubbard House at his rising in the morn. So it was in the milky light of sunup on Tuesday, March 21st, 1882, the first day of spring, that I first met the aesthetic poet and leader of the so-called Artistic Movement.
Wilde was lolling in the gray haze of a cigarette on the hotel’s patch-quilted bed, but was fully dressed in patent-leather shoes and a great, green, ankle-length coat whose collar and cuffs were trimmed with an otter fur that also formed the turban on his head. Underneath his coat was a white linen Lord Byron shirt and a sea-blue scarf he’d tied at his neck like a sailor. On his right, littlest finger was a great seal ring with a cameo of a classic Athenian face. Wilde was then a soft, pleasant innocent of 27, though he only owned up to being 25. I was 23.
I handed him my card from the Omaha Daily Herald.
“Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come,” he averred in a sigh, his timbre deep, his pacing languid. “There are a hundred things I want not to say to you.” Reading the card again, he said, “Robert Murphy. Are you called Bob?”
“Mostly.”
“I shall call you Bobby. Reporters so often remind me of the Metropolitan Police.”
“I do hope you won’t think I’m prying.”
“Certainly not, Bobby. I am the only person in the world I should like to know thoroughly. But I don’t see any chance of it just at present.”
Entering his quarters was a strong, young, Negro valet whose name was W. M. Traquair or Traquier. I failed to spell it out in my notes. But I recall that as he in haste filled Wilde’s gripsacks and portmanteau, Wilde introduced us and speculated that the name’s origin may have been in the French noun traqueur, for those who thrash out game in a hunt. Wilde shook his fist in a facsimile of irritation. “But I shall thrash him, if he’s not deferential!”
His valet continued his folding and cramming.
Seeing my shorthand, Wilde took the opportunity to say his own name was properly Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde. (At Oxford, I learned, he signed his papers “O.F.O’F.W.W.”)
“And here I was going to call you plain Oscar.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Would anyone, least of all my dear mother, Speranza, christen me plain Oscar?” He tapped his shortening cigarette’s ashes into a Japanese teacup. “I suppose as I continue to rise in lofty eminence I shall shed my names, just as a balloonist sheds ballast, and finally be called simply Wilde.”
“We’re ready for the train, Mr. Simply,” said Traquier.
“Oh, how could I function without him?” Wilde asked this reporter. “In a free country one cannot live without a slave.”
Surprisingly, his valet found that amusing. But it was possibly an old joke, for they’d been journeying westward together since the Irishman’s first lecture on January 9th at New York City’s Chickering Hall.
When Wilde got up and stabbed out his cigarette, I saw that he was far bigger than I’d imagined from eastern press reports where he was so often caricatured as a sissy because of his florid manner, his fat, fishy, voluptuous lips—one critic called it “a carnal mouth”—and the feminine effluence of his undulant, shoulder-length, chestnut-brown hair. Wilde was a hefty six foot three—six inches taller than me—rather wider at the waist than at his chest, but with large, farmerish hands to go with a large, pallid, slack-jawed face, a face that was akin to Billy the Kid’s. “China-blue eyes,” say my notes, “hooded, dreamy, debauched, and half-asleep”—a fact I chalked up to his being a confessed nocturnal who disliked waking in the forenoon. Walking out of the room, he revealed a pigeon-toed gait, and I noted that his hips swayed in a way that once caused an English ladyship to determine his sex as “undecided.”
We were to be cheek by jowl the whole day.
The Tyranny of Facts
Mr. J. S. Vail, Wilde’s traveling business manager, greeted us as we got to Sioux City’s railway depot. Although Vail was less than wildly enthusiastic about a reporter eavesdropping and recording the hithers and yons of “His Utterness,” he was but a grousing employee of Colonel Morse in England, who was himself merely the American tour booking agent of the fabulously successful London impresario Richard D’Oyly Carte. I presumed I was invited until someone had the gumption to say otherwise, and they didn’t find the grit.
Wilde and I shared a first-class compartment on the hundred-mile ride south to Council Bluffs. Traquier hunkered with the colored porters near the caboose and Vail, as was his habit, wandered off. The Omaha Daily Herald ambassador sought this advantage to have some particulars confirmed.
Wilde yawned at the notion.
“Don’t you appreciate some occasional accuracy in reporting?”
“It’s simply that one can’t escape the tyranny of facts. One can scarcely open a newspaper without learning something useful about the sordid crimes against greengrocers or a dozen disgusting details relating to the consumption of pork. On the other hand, I do like hearing myself talk. It is one of my greatest pleasures.” Our railway car jerked forward into a screaking roll and Wilde looked outside. Watching soot-blackened shanties slide past, he said, “I find railway travel the most tedious experience in life. That is, if one excepts being sung to in Albert Hall, or dining with a chemist.”
I sallied forth recklessly by asking, “Was this outré persona of yours concocted at Oxford or earlier?”
Wilde forgot himself momentarily and grinned with buck teeth of a smoker’s yellow hue. And then he superimposed his mask again. “I behave as I have always behaved—dreadfully. And that is why people adore me.” After a little reflection, he added, “Besides, to be authentically natural is a difficult pose to keep up.”
Oscar was the son of the late Sir William Wilde—a distinguished Dublin surgeon, archaeologist, man of letters, and gossiped sire of three illegitimate children—and Lady Jane “Speranza” Wilde, a large, flamboyant poet, translator, and Irish nationalist who called herself “a priestess at the altar of freedom.” She was a fabled hostess who claimed to be above respectability, and once, Wilde told me, “considered founding a Society for the Suppression of Virtue.” Disappointed that she’d given birth to a boy instead of a girl, she dressed Oscar in flounces and petticoats until he was nine, schooled him extensively with private tutors, spoke to him in German and French. In childhood Oscar taught himself to read two facing pages at a glance and could finish a three-volume novel in an hour. “I’m so well informed,” Wilde told me, “that my mind is like a horrid bric-a-brac shop, full of monsters and dust, and everything priced above its proper value.”
At Trinity College in Dublin, where he felt “like a carrier pigeon in a nest of sparrows,” Wilde majored in classical languages and literature for three years, then won a scholarship to Magdalen College at Oxford. There he affected whimsical costumes, was nicknamed Hosky, studied aesthetics and art with John Ruskin and Walter Pater, earned a rare double First in Latin and Greek—Aeschylus was his favorite playwright—and was awarded the prestigious Newdigate Prize for his long, lachrymose elegy “Ravenna,” its rather trite rhyming couplets describing the vanishing glories of the Italian city.
Soon Wilde was living on fashionable Tite Street in the Chelsea area of London and was a swank man about town, friendly, he said, with that finest of the English painters, James McNeill Whistler, as well as the international beauty Mrs. Lillie Langtry, with whom he was fruitlessly in love, and even the Prince of Wales, who’d said of Oscar to “not know Mr. Wilde is not to be known.” The London actress Ellen Terry said of Wilde that “about him there is something more instantaneously individual and audacious than it is possible to describe.” Just so.
Owing to his increasing celebrity, the British magazine Punch twitted him in a number of cartoons and criticized his art with the note “The poet is Wilde. But his poetry’s tame.” Wilde and the vogue of aestheticism were lampooned in such theatrical entertainments as The Grasshopper, The Colonel, and Where’s the Cat? And then W. S. Gilbert and Arthur Sullivan created the opera Patience, in which the fatuous characters of Reginald Bunthorne and Archibald Grosvenor were both modeled on Wilde. A great financial success in London and New York for its producer, Richard D’Oyly Carte, Patience was what conveyed Oscar Wilde on a speaking tour through the heartland of America, not his wretched and unproduced drama Vera nor his sixty-one shuffled-up and self-published Poems. Even his booking agent disparaged Wilde as simply “the latest form of fashionable madness.”
Wilde and I talked about all these things, and lastly the plays, most of which he dismissed as insipid burlesques. But of Gilbert and Sullivan’s Patience Wilde would only say, “Oh, Bobby. Satire is the usual homage which mediocrity pays to genius.”
And then he turned to pull down the green window shade, shutting out the cloudless blue serene and the plowed Iowa farm fields we were trundling past, their even rows of earth and sillion shining glossily in the sun.
“You’re missing the view,” I said.
Wilde lit another cigarette. “I hate views,” he said. “They were only made for bad painters. And thus far the prairie has only reminded me of a sheet of blotting paper.”
There was a novel entitled Mirage in which Wilde starred as a character with the name of Claude Davenant—which Wilde enjoyed mispronouncing as “Deviant.” The authoress wrote of Claude speaking “in a low voice, with peculiarly distinct enunciation; he spoke like a man who has made a study of expression. He listened like one accustomed to speak.”
Oxford erased much of Wilde’s Irish accent, but encouraged his gift for epigram and taught him a rhythmic oratory full of inflection and rhetorical pauses, of heightening pitch falling off into monotone so that it could rise precipitously again. One reporter swore that Wilde spoke in hexameter lines, another that he accentuated every fourth syllable, and his affect was such that it was not uncommon for newspapers to record his diverting visits in verse. It was a tendency I would resist. Yet I did find myself ever leaning forward in his company, scribbling shorthand across the tablet on my knee, half-fearful my pencil would break and I would miss a stray jest or opinion. But after a while he fell into a silent and sullen mood, for he thought “only dull people are brilliant at breakfast,” and Omaha was his thirty-eighth stop on an American tour that would not end until October 13th. Wilde was conserving himself for the entertainments of the afternoon and evening.
We changed to a Union Pacific train in Council Bluffs, and Wilde stood between the rocking cars with me and Vail and Traquier and the baggage for the short shuttle across the Big Bridge into Nebraska. Seeing the wide Missouri River, Wilde called it “disappointing”; he thought it had “a want of grandeur and variety of line.” But as we continued our screeching way high above it, Wilde held so tightly to the iron railing that his knuckles whitened and he excitedly praised its “majesty,” “the sheer physical force of its currents,” even “its tawny color and green, aesthetic shadings.”
“Are you trying to buy it off with flattery?” Vail asked. “You do know that if you fall you’ll still drown.”
Wilde turned to his valet. “Who needs song and sunflowers when one can have the solace of Mr. Vail?”
The “Peasantry” of the West
Waiting for us at the Union Pacific depot on Tenth Street were three pillars of Omaha City: Dr. George L. Miller, 52, was a graduate of the New York College of Physicians and Surgeons, a former member of the Nebraska Territorial Council, a former sutler at Fort Kearny, holder of wide real estate interests in our fifteen-year-old state, and joint proprietor and editor-in-chief of the Omaha Daily Herald. With him was Lyman Richardson, 47, of the University of Michigan, a captain on the staff of General Steele in the War of the Rebellion, and joint proprietor and business manager of the same cynosure of journalism. The affable financier with a mustache as wide as a house-painting brush was Mayor James E. Boyd, also 47, from County Tyrone, Ireland, the owner of the Omaha Gas Works, the Central National Bank, the Omaha and Northwestern Railroad Company, a cattle ranch in Wyoming, an Omaha pork packing company, and Boyd’s Opera House on the northeast corner of Farnam and Fifteenth Streets, where Wilde would lecture that evening. Each man zealously shook Wilde’s hand, and then Wilde said, “I’m so very glad to meet the peasantry of the West.”
My editor-in-chief glared at me, as if to say, “What have you gotten me into?”
I could only shrug. I recalled Wilde saying that a gentleman is one who never hurts anyone’s feelings unintentionally.
Though it was little more than a bracing walk from the depot, we took carriages to the Withnell House on Fifteenth and Harney Streets, where Wilde and his party would be ensconced. Wilde inquired innocently about the origins of the city, and Dr. Miller expatiated on the Omaha Claim Club, a score of men who each purchased from the Omaha Indian chief Logan Fontenelle, for ten dollars, three hundred twenty acres of hilly wilderness on the west side of the Missouri River. Within twenty years some of their city lots were selling for one hundred dollars a foot.
“So you have done rather nicely in your investments,” said Wilde.
“Indeed,” said my employer.
“We now have a population of thirty-two thousand,” said the Irish mayor to his Irish guest. “And one hundred sixty-five saloons, should you find yourself parched with a Saharan thirst that needs slaking.”
“I shall inform Willie, my older brother.”
My employer inquired, “And what does this Willie work at?”
Wilde sighed. “At intervals,” he said.
Eddies of dust fishtailed down the newly bricked streets. Water trickled toward our just-installed sewers. The steel tracks for our horse-drawn trolley cars winked silver in the noonday sun. Everywhere I looked there were hints of beauty and civilization and new limestone commercial buildings with ornate cornices and tall plateglass windows and ceilings of painted tin fleur-de-lis. But Wilde observed, “The fault in American architecture is that most of the buildings are mere constructions of incongruous anachronisms.”
We heard the clopping of the horses’ hooves in the silence.
Wilde asked innocently, “Are there industries here?”
The mayor noted with pride t...
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