Oscar Wilde and the Dead Man's Smile

by Gyles Brandreth

  The porters laid the case flat on the deck.

  ‘By all means,’ said Oscar.

  ‘Do you have a key, sir?’ asked the customs officer.

  ‘It’s not locked. You just need to unbuckle the straps and open the lock with your hand.’

  One of the young porters knelt down and, without difficulty, unfastened the case and pulled back the lid.

  ‘My, my,’ said the customs officer, gazing down at the opened case. ‘This isn’t what we expected …’

  There were no books. The trunk was filled to the brim with loose, black earth — garden soil.

  The customs officer bent forward and, sitting on his haunches, dug about in the black earth with a gloved hand. ‘My, my,’ he repeated as, slowly, he displaced the soil to reveal a dog’s snout and then, one by one, four upturned paws.

  It was the body of Marie Antoinette, Maman’s bitch poodle.

  4

  Liverpool, London, Paris

  An extraordinary scene followed on the deck of the SS Bothnia.

  At the very moment that the customs officer got to his feet, Liselotte La Grange appeared, a tiny figure in a fur coat, supported on either side by Richard Marais and Eddie Garstrang.

  ‘I have come to say goodbye to Monsieur Wilde,’ she began imperiously, letting go of her escorts and pushing her way into the group that was standing around Oscar’s opened case. ‘I want to tell him something important, ‘she continued, and then, as her eyes fell abruptly on the shallow trunk overflowing with earth and she saw her wretched poodle half buried in the soil, without pause her words were transmuted into a long and piercing scream. As she cried out, she closed her eyes and turned her head, not down towards the dog, but up towards the sky. Eventually, after what seemed to Oscar to be an eternity of wailing, she paused for breath and opened her eyes and looked about her in desperation. ‘Is it my Marie Antoinette?’ she gasped. ‘Can it be?’

  ‘It is, Maman,’ said La Grange, gently putting out his hand towards hers.

  The old actor stepped forward and took his ancient mother in his arms. ‘Come, Maman,’ he whispered, ‘I will look after you.’ He turned and led her, sobbing, along the deck, back towards the cabins. Richard Marais and Eddie Garstrang fell into step behind them, like mutes attendant on a funeral.

  ‘She is hysterical,’ remarked the customs officer.

  ‘She is an actress,’ said Carlos Branco quietly. ‘Once, she was one of the best.’

  Gabrielle de la Tourbillon was staring down at the stiff body of the hapless poodle lying grotesquely in its box-like grave. ‘I feel cold,’ she said.

  ‘Come,’ said Branco. ‘I’ll get you a brandy.’ He put his arm around her.

  ‘Who can have done this?’ she asked, shivering as she spoke.

  ‘And why?’ added Oscar, looking down at the dead dog and reaching inside his coat pocket for his cigarette case.

  ‘Those are certainly the questions,’ said the customs officer briskly. ‘If you don’t mind coming with me, Mr Wilde, we’ll let this gentleman look after the young lady while we investigate matters further. This way, sir. The lads can bring your trunk — and its unfortunate cargo.

  On that cold January morning at the memorable outset of 1883, Oscar Wilde spent a little over five hours closeted in the first officer’s cabin on board the SS Bothnia with a dead dog for company. For much of the time, he was left alone and unattended, gazing at the unflinching animal, drinking the ship’s bitter coffee and smoking his Turkish cigarettes. Intermittently, he was cross-examined — first by the customs officer, then by two none-too-cheery (and, in Oscar’s estimation, none-too-bright) representatives of the Liverpool docks police, and, finally, and more informally, by the ship’s captain.

  To each interrogator Oscar expressed his sincere regret: he would have liked to be more helpful, but he could not be. He was appalled by what had occurred, naturally, but he protested that he had no idea — none whatsoever — who might be responsible for the atrocity, nor what their motive could have been. Yes, the case that now contained the dog’s cadaver was indeed his case. It was one he treasured, a twenty-fifth birthday present from his mother. He had used it to store the modest library that had been his companion throughout his American tour. On his travels, he had opened the case most days, but he had never emptied it entirely. He recalled that on the preceding evening, prior to attending the birthday party in Madame La Grange’s honour, he had personally supervised the packing of all his bags and baggage. He had kept a small overnight valise in his cabin, but the rest of his luggage — including the travelling book case — had been stored overnight in the ship’s luggage room in anticipation of his disembarkation at Liverpool the following morning. He assumed that anyone could have had access to it during the night.

  ‘Is Madame La Grange a much loved old lady?’ asked the ship’s captain during his cross-examination of Oscar. The way in which the captain asked the question — with an arched eyebrow and a knowing glint in his eye —suggested he judged that probably she was not.

  ‘She is much respected,’ replied Oscar tactfully.

  ‘Was the dog much loved?’ asked the captain.

  ‘By her owner,’ answered Oscar, ‘and by Monsieur Marais, the company’s business manager—’

  ‘But generally?’ interrupted the captain.

  ‘Perhaps not “generally”,’ said Oscar. ‘The poor bitch was handicapped by the absurdity of her name and by being so spoilt by her owner.’ He glanced briefly in the direction of the dead poodle.

  ‘Could the animal have been killed by someone with a grudge against Madame La Grange?’ suggested the captain. ‘Or a dislike of dogs?’

  ‘Either is a possibility, I suppose,’ replied Oscar, lighting another of his Turkish cigarettes and looking again at the upturned corpse of the unfortunate Marie Antoinette.

  ‘Did you not say that you would willingly strangle her yourself, Mr Wilde?’

  Startled, Oscar turned sharply to the captain. ‘I don’t believe so.’

  ‘I think that you did, Mr Wilde.’

  ‘I do not recollect saying any such thing.’

  ‘But I heard you, Mr Wilde — last night. At the party. The dog was scurrying about your feet, making a nuisance of herself as usual. I heard you say that you would willingly strangle her. You said it to Mademoiselle de la Tourbillon. I heard you. A captain has ears.

  ‘Did I say such a thing?’ asked Oscar, perturbed. ‘If I did, I did not mean it. It was an expression — an expression of irritation, not an expression of intent.’ He extinguished his cigarette. ‘In any event, the dog was not strangled,’ he added.

  ‘Oh?’

  A silence fell between them. Oscar opened his cigarette case. It was empty. He lifted the coffee cup to his lips. It was cold.

  The captain looked at him steadily. ‘This is my ship, Mr Wilde. What happens on board the Bothnia is my responsibility. I need to clear up this business as quickly as possible so that we can move on to Le Havre. For my sake, as well as for your own, tell me everything that you know.’

  ‘I know nothing!’ exclaimed Oscar.

  ‘But you say that the dog was not strangled, Mr Wilde. How do you know that?’

  ‘A poet has eyes, Captain. Look at the poor beast. Look at the contusion on her forehead, above her eyes. It’s obvious to any half-observant man that she was struck on the head, felled by a single blow, and then buried alive, asphyxiated in this trunk of earth. It’s obvious — is it not?’

  The captain stepped towards the earth-filled trunk and stared down at it. He scratched his shaggy beard. ‘I see the contusion,’ he said.

  He reached inside his pocket and produced his own cigarette case. He opened it and offered Oscar a cigarette. ‘It’s a Lucky Strike. You’ll like it. It’s new. And strong. The tobacco is roasted, not sun-dried.’

  Oscar took the proffered cigarette. ‘Thank you, Captain,’ he said.

  ‘Tell me, Mr Wilde,’ the captain continued, lighting Oscar’s cigarette
as he spoke. ‘Why do you think this unfortunate animal’s body was hidden in your trunk?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Oscar, lifting his head and drawing gratefully on the cigarette. ‘Truly.’

  ‘There are people who don’t like you, Mr Wilde.’

  ‘I have my critics,’ said Oscar, looking the captain in the eye.

  ‘You have your enemies.’

  Oscar laughed. ‘Pay no attention to the newspapers, Captain. They are written by the prurient for the Philistine.’

  ‘Do you know what Mr Henry James said of you — at my table, on board this ship, only a month ago?’

  ‘I trust he said he was my friend. He is an author I much admire.’

  ‘He called you “a fatuous fool”, Mr Wilde, “a tenth-rate cad”, “an unclean beast”.’

  Oscar’s pale face flushed. ‘You surprise me,’ he said.

  He turned to look once more at the dead dog, drawing deeply on his cigarette. ‘Even so, I doubt very much that it was an agent of Mr Henry James who, bent on my humiliation, bludgeoned Madame La Grange’s pet poodle and buried the poor creature’s body in my travelling book case. It is possible, Captain, certainly — but unlikely, don’t you think?’

  While Oscar was being questioned by the ship’s captain, the customs officer and the two Liverpool policemen moved steadily around the SS Bothnia interviewing individual members of the La Grange company and assorted members of the ship’s crew. At two o’clock in the afternoon — two hours after the steamship was due to have departed Liverpool for Le Havre — they returned to the first officer’s cabin.

  ‘We’ve found your books, Mr Wilde,’ announced the customs man.

  ‘I’m relieved,’ said Oscar, now smoking the last of the captain’s Lucky Strike cigarettes. ‘Where, might I ask?’

  ‘Behind some potted palms on the quarter-deck, adjacent to the luggage room. It seems your trunk was not locked away for the night. According to the steward who collected it from your cabin, it was left lined up on the quarter-deck with other trunks and baggage. Anyone could have taken the trunk, emptied it, and filled it up with earth. The earth came from the bedding for the potted palms.’

  ‘Have you found the culprit?’ Oscar asked.

  ‘No,’ said the customs officer.

  ‘No,’ echoed the docks policemen. ‘No.’

  ‘The dog was last seen in the early hours, lying docilely outside her owner’s cabin. Mr Richard Marais is the witness. He says the dog was asleep and snoring. He’s ready to swear to it. Other than that, no one saw anything, no one heard anything.’

  ‘No one knows nothing,’ said one of the policemen.

  ‘Nothing,’ repeated the other.

  ‘And now?’ asked Oscar. ‘What happens now?’

  ‘We steam on to Le Havre?’ suggested the ship’s captain, looking enquiringly at the representatives of Her Majesty’s Customs and the Liverpool docks constabulary.

  ‘You do,’ replied one of the policemen. ‘Killing a dog on the high seas is not a criminal offence.’

  ‘Importing dead dog meat without a licence is, however,’ said the customs officer, winking at Oscar. He turned to the ship’s captain. ‘May I suggest that the dog is buried at sea, Captain? That’s what the old lady — Mrs La Grange — has requested.’ He looked at Oscar and nodded towards the dead poodle that was still lying upturned in Oscar’s trunk. ‘You can have your trunk back, Mr Wilde.’

  Oscar glanced a final time at the case and its dreadful contents. ‘You’re very kind, but I think that my case should serve as Marie Antoinette’s bier, don’t you?’

  ‘If you say so, sir,’ said the customs officer, smiling. ‘Your books have been bagged up in a sack. There were forty of them in all. They’re quite safe. They’ve been taken ashore with the rest of your luggage. You’re free to go, Mr Wilde. My apologies for detaining you.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Oscar, getting to his feet. ‘You have your work to do. I quite understand.’ He shook the customs officer by the hand, nodded briefly to the two policemen, and followed the captain out of the first officer’s cabin onto the main deck. The air was cold, but a winter sun was shining.

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Wilde,’ said the captain. ‘I am sorry about this incident with the dog. An unpleasant business. It was someone’s practical joke, I suppose.’

  ‘No doubt,’ said Oscar.

  ‘And I apologise if I spoke out of turn. It’s been a privilege to have had you on board. I am sure that you have many more friends than enemies.

  ‘I am blessed with an excess of everything,’ said Oscar pleasantly. He shook the captain’s hand. ‘Thank you for the cigarettes,’ he added. ‘I’ll look out for them. Roasted, not sun-dried, you say?’

  Oscar left the ship, pulling his fur coat about him. At the foot of the gangplank, a porter was waiting with a barrow piled high with his luggage. Oscar handed the boy a shilling and turned back to look up at the Bothnia one last time. The captain was gone, but a few yards to the left of where he had been standing, further along the main deck, half hidden by one of the lifeboats, he recognised a familiar figure. It was the young black man, Traquair. He was leaning against the ship’s rail, waiting to wave him farewell.

  Oscar travelled from Liverpool to London by train and spent the next three weeks in a frantic flurry of activity. By day he met up with family and friends: his mother, his brother, his tailor (‘a gentleman’s truest friend is his tailor’), the actor Henry Irving (to talk about Hamlet), the artist James Whistler (to talk about art), his old Oxford friend, George W. Palmer, the Huntley & Palmer biscuit heir (to talk about life and money) . By night, dressed in a new evening livery, Oscar visited his old haunts: his favourite clubs and bars and restaurants, theatres, concert houses and music-halls. He had been away a year: it was good to be back. His mother greeted him as a prodigal son returned; some of his friends pretended not to have noticed that he had been away at all.

  London, he felt, had not changed. It was reassuring to find the old sights and smells as he had left them, but, also, a touch disappointing. ‘Has anything novel occurred since I’ve been away?’ he asked George Palmer.

  ‘A disappointed poet tried to assassinate the sovereign,’ said Palmer.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Oscar. ‘Roderick Maclean. I read about him. I should like to meet him. I thank God that Her Majesty survived, of course, but I have a fellow feeling for any poet who fails to hit his mark.’

  It was good to be back, but it was something of an anticlimax, too. Oscar called on James Russell Lowell, the American ambassador, to thank him for the introductions that he had given him and to report on his American adventure. Lowell saw at once that Oscar was hungry for more. ‘Fate loves the fearless, Mr Wilde,’ he said. Oscar was struck by the ambassador’s aphorism. He made a note of it in his journal and adopted it as one of his own.

  Stimulated by Lowell, Oscar determined to seek out new excitements. ‘The Oscar of the first period is dead,’ he declared to anyone who cared to listen. ‘I am ready to move on. I find that London is not.’ The familiar streets of the great metropolis were covered with a sheet of snow; gas lamps glowed; dogs ran between the wheels of carts and carriages and hansom cabs; the air was thick with yellow fog. ‘It’s picturesque in its way,’ he told his mother, ‘but it’s a scene depicted by Charles Dickens and Mr Dickens died in 1870.’

  Oscar was content to be back in London briefly, but grateful that the success of his American tour meant that he could afford to go to Paris for the spring. He had work that he wanted to do and Paris was the place to do it. ‘Fate loves the fearless,’ he repeated. ‘In London I am treading water; in Paris I can swim against the tide.’ As well as working with the Compagnie La Grange on their new production of Hamlet, he had a play of his own that he was determined to write. ‘It is to be called The Duchess of Padua,’ he told George Palmer. ‘Its theme will be the pervasiveness of sinful passion — and its pardonableness. As a Quaker, George, it should be right up your street.’

 
In London, at the beginning of the third week of January 1883, care of his mother’s address in Oakley Street, by the same post Oscar received two letters from Paris. The first was a note, in English, from Eddie Garstrang:

  Théâtre La Grange

  Boulevard du Temple

  Paris

  13 January ‘83

  Dear Mr Wilde,

  It really was not possible to talk on the ship. My commitment to M. La Grange was new. I felt constrained. Please accept my apologies for what must have appeared as discourtesy on my part. I trust that when you come to Paris later this month we can resume the comfortable relationship that we enjoyed over breakfast in Leadville, Colorado. I shall look forward to that.

  Yours truly,

  E. Garstrang

  The second was a much longer letter, in French, penned in turquoise-coloured ink on lavender-scented paper:

  Oscar, mon cher —This is from your friend, Gabrielle de la Tourbillon. That is not my real name, of course! But you know that — you guessed that, didn’t you, when you paid my name those extravagant compliments? I am an actress, so I must have a name suitable for an actress. What my real name is, you will never know. A lady must be allowed some secrets … What are your secrets, Oscar? Shall I ever know them? Will you ever let me see into your secret heart?

  And how are you, Oscar, cher ami? Where are you? What are you doing? And with whom? Have I cause to be jealous? (Or do you not believe in jealousy? You have some very peculiar beliefs, Oscar — that much I know.)

  What is your news? All the news from the boulevard du Temple is good. The Théâtre La Grange has reopened, refurbished, and looks wonderful. We are playing to good business, too — it seems that Paris has missed us! We are running all the old favourites until Hamlet joins the repertoire. I believe Bernard and Agnès will be extraordinary as Hamlet and Ophelia; perhaps that is not so surprising given their heritage. Off stage, they are wild things — impossible at times! — but on stage their discipline and magnetism will take your breath away. You will like them when you meet them. You like wild things, don’t you, Oscar? And they are both very beautiful. Their mother was Indian — or half-Indian. (Have I told you this already?) Her family came from Pondicherry, the French settlement in India. Try to find it on the map! It is the one part of India that your Queen Victoria does not own! Alys Lenoir was a descendant of the first French governor of Pondicherry. Her mother was a famous Indian dancer, Asha Aditi. No, I had not heard of her either, but Ma man says that she was ‘India’s greatest dancer’ and so quite worthy of the La Grange family line!