havingbeenbreathedout:

How to tell if you may be Count Eric Stanislaus Stenbock, expatriate Estonian aristocrat, gay iconoclast, and hanger-on of the Decadent Movement: 

• If you are allowed to spend more than £400 a year your stepfather fears, based on his knowledge of your character, that you will easily become extravagant. 
• When faced with the choice of whether to dedicate your second volume of desolate, spectral poetry to (a) a Pre-Raphaelite painter arrested ten years previously for homosexual activity in a public toilet, or (b) your male cousin, with whom your relationship is close enough to garner the disapproval of your extended family, or © the 16-year-old son of an Oxford clergyman who died of consumption in 1880, you choose (d) All of the above. 

• You have, as everyone knows, recently become a Roman Catholic. It is a very great grief to your mother and will cause sorrow to your entire family.  You are however still young, and perhaps at Kolk, where there are very few priests, you may grow wiser as you get older, and again join some less ridiculous religion.

• In order to escape your vast debts you spend the early 1880s living in dissipated poverty in Bruges, until receiving word that you have inherited the palatial family estates in Estonia. Thence you briefly retire with your pet monkey, snake, and “delightful tiny bear.”
• Literally everyone who interacts with you remarks on your flaxen curls, your “childlike” and “inhuman” demeanor, and your outlandish taste in dinner-jacket fabrics. 
• You quickly abandon your Estonian palace to return to London and befriend Aubrey Beardsley, Alys Whittal Smith (future wife of Bertrand Russell), and Mary Costelloe (future mother-in-law of Virginia Woolf’s brother). 
• You travel everywhere with a life-sized wooden doll, whom you refer to as your son, “le petit compte.” 
• Your singular meeting with Oscar Wilde may or may not end with you collapsing on the floor with a bitter shriek after he gauchely lights his cigarette from the sacred lamp burning in your bedroom between your bust of Shelley and your ebony statue of the Buddha. 
• A year before your death, you relate to WB Yeats that you have been ordered by your doctor to eat nothing but bread and milk; yet he observes that you “drink limitless Champagne.”