Oscar Wilde and the Dead Man's Smile

by Gyles Brandreth

  ‘Come home,’ said Gabrielle.

  ‘We will take you,’ said Oscar. ‘My cab is waiting.’

  It was. In good times and bad, keeping his cab waiting was one of the habitual extravagances of Oscar Wilde. Gabrielle fastened Agnès’s cloak around her shoulders. We murmured hurried goodbyes to Madame Bernhardt, Blanche and Rollinat, and, huddled together, leaning forward like travellers pressing across a windswept heath, we pushed our way out of the still-crowded café into the street. The cold night air was sharp and wonderfully refreshing.

  ‘I feel much better now,’ said Agnès, sitting back in the four-wheeler.

  ‘Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how,’ said Oscar.

  Agnès smiled and wiped her eyes and put her hand into his. ‘I think Madame Bernhardt is right. Playing Ophelia has made me a little mad.’

  ‘We are all a little mad,’ said Oscar, his eyes shining. ‘That’s what makes us interesting.’

  When we reached the Théâtre La Grange, the carriage waited at the end of the alley while Oscar and I walked the ladies home. We stood for a moment in the darkness at the foot of the steps leading to the door of the La Grange apartment. I touched Gabrielle’s arm and tried to draw her to me; as I did so, she gently shook her head and stepped away.

  ‘Thank you for a lovely evening, Monsieur Wilde,’ whispered Agnès, holding up her tear-stained face for him to kiss. ‘I hope I did not spoil it for you.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Oscar, smiling. ‘You were, you are—’

  But before he could complete the compliment, he was interrupted by a rattle of bolts. A key turned in a lock.

  The apartment door swung open and a man’s voice barked: ‘Where have you been? You’re late.’

  ‘Not very,’ answered Gabrielle, turning towards the figure in the doorway. The man stepped out onto the doorstep and swayed from side to side. He was in his shirtsleeves: his waistcoat was unbuttoned. In one hand he held an oil lamp; in the other he held a gun. It was Eddie Garstrang.

  Taking Agnès quickly by the hand, Gabrielle ran up the steps. ‘You’re drunk!’ she said to Garstrang, but not unkindly. And when he made to speak she stopped him, pressing her lips to his. He stepped back into the darkened hallway behind him. Gabrielle and Agnès followed. As the door closed, each girl turned and looked out towards us and smiled and waved. ‘Goodnight!’, ‘Thank you!’ they called. ‘A demain.’ We heard the heavy key turn in the lock and the bolts slam shut.

  ‘I will kill that man,’ I said to Oscar.

  Oscar laughed. ‘It is much more likely that he will kill you.’

  14

  Pistols at Dawn

  As we climbed back aboard the waiting carriage, Oscar put his arm on mine and said, ‘I do hope, dear friend, that you are not serious about this notion of a duel.’

  ‘I have never been more serious, Oscar,’ I replied.

  He shook his head and sighed. ‘The idea’s absurd, Robert.’

  ‘It is a matter of honour.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘Many good men have fought duels over matters of the heart,’ I added. ‘The Duke of Wellington, for example.’

  Oscar spluttered, ‘The Duke of Wellington!’ Suddenly he leant forward in his seat and called up to the coachman: ‘Take us to Passy, driver, to l’Hôtel Lamballe. At once.

  The carriage lurched into motion. ‘Why are we going to Passy?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m escorting you to Dr Blanche’s lunatic asylum, Robert. There’s a patient there who thinks he is the Emperor Napoleon. I suggest you have your duel with him.’

  I looked at Oscar: I looked directly into his eyes. ‘You do not understand, do you? I love Gabrielle. I will have her. Nothing can stand in my way.

  My friend threw his hands in the air. ‘Oh, Robert, Robert, Robert!’ he cried. ‘She is not worth it. You have seen how she behaves.’

  I looked out of the carriage window. The boulevard du Temple was deserted: there was not a soul in sight, not even a scavenging dog. In the distance, a church clock struck two. I said nothing. I heard Oscar reaching for his cigarette case. He opened it and held it towards me. ‘You must try one of these,’ he said. ‘They’re American. The tobacco is roasted, not sun-dried.’

  I turned towards him and took one of his cigarettes and in the light of his burning match looked upon his broad, kindly face and warm walnut eyes.

  ‘The Duke of Wellington was a soldier, Robert,’ he said gently, ‘a man of arms, and I doubt very much that his opponent was a professional marksman.’

  ‘It’s too late,’ I said. ‘I am committed. I have issued a challenge. It has been accepted.’ I laughed at myself. ‘It’s pistols at dawn.’

  ‘When?’ he asked.

  ‘At dawn,’ I repeated, sucking on the cigarette. ‘Tomorrow — I mean, tonight. Sunday morning on the bridge at Buttes Chaumont.’

  ‘Where the gallows used to stand?’

  ‘Yes. In four hours’ time.’

  ‘Good God,’ he murmured.

  ‘Garstrang is bringing the pistols,’ I said. I drew deeply on the cigarette. ‘I like the flavour of this, Oscar. I know that flavour of itself isn’t enough for us, but I like it all the same. What are these cigarettes called?’

  ‘Lucky Strike,’ he said, and smiled. ‘Perhaps there is an omen there.’

  The early hours of Sunday, 25 February 1883, are not ones that I recall with any relish. Oscar, when he realised that I was in earnest, handed up two silver coins to our coachman and redirected our carriage towards Montmartre. ‘It’s too late to go to bed and too far to go to Passy. If the gods are with us, we’ll find Sarah in her studio. We can wait with her until dawn breaks.’

  Madame Bernhardt had two Paris residences. One was her town house in the XVIIth arrondissement, where she kept her menagerie and did her entertaining. The other was her studio in Montmartre, where she escaped from the world and did her sculpture and her painting. The studio was little more than a stone’s throw from Le Chat Noir, along a quiet, uncobbled alley at the foot of the hill on which they are now building the mighty basilica of the Sacred Heart. The studio itself must once have been a barn or warehouse: it was a vast, single room, with a stone floor and high, whitewashed brick walls. At one end of the room, two-thirds of the way up the wall, was a wooden balcony that served as Sarah’s sleeping quarters. In the centre of the room, beneath a huge wrought-iron candelabra, was a raised dais, rectangular in shape, like a small stage, covered in sheeting and crowded with Sarah’s sculptures, some in clay, some in stone, some complete, most unfinished: heads, figures, a lioness, a unicorn, an African elephant and assorted birds of prey.

  Sarah was alone. Her hair was unpinned, but she was still dressed in the gold and green sarong she had been wearing when we had left her an hour before. She greeted us, however, as if it had been months, if not years, since our last encounter. ‘My prodigals returned!’ she cried, embracing us warmly. ‘Oh, Oscar, my dear! And Oscar’s friend!’ (She never made any attempt to master my name.) ‘This calls for celebration!’ Barefoot, she ran over to the dais and from behind a block of alabaster produced bottles of brandy and champagne. ‘You recall the famous last words of the Fatted Calf, do you not? “I hear the young master has returned!” I am so pleased to see you both.’ She gave us each a ‘Bernhardt’ — a thumb of brandy and a finger of champagne: ‘divine, is it not?’ —and, perching herself cross-legged on the edge of the dais, invited us to sit on a bed of cushions at her feet. ‘What news on the Rialto?’ she demanded. ‘Is Agnès safe? I feel for her. Ophelia’s such a dreadful part: first she’s boring, then she’s mad, then she’s being carted round the stage on a bier.’

  ‘They have a waxwork for that,’ interjected Oscar, settling himself on the cushions with some difficulty.

  ‘I’m glad. When I played it, the wretched pallbearers kept dropping me in the wings. They were angry because I wouldn’t sleep with them. Everyone wants to sleep with Ophelia! That’s what drives the poor gi
rl mad!’ She laughed wildly and refilled our glasses. ‘The party after the party is always the best party, don’t you agree?’ she said, looking between us with tears of joy and exhaustion in her eyes. ‘Why are you here? Why have you come to see your Aunt Sarah, do tell?’

  Oscar began to explain, but did not get very far. The moment that he mentioned the word ‘duel’, Madame Bernhardt leapt to her feet and fell upon him. Literally: she tumbled into his arms. ‘Oh, Oscar, I am so proud of you! Were I a man, I should be duelling every day! It is the noblest sport of all. I salute you, dear friend. What is your quarrel? Who is it with?’

  ‘It is not my quarrel,’ said Oscar, attempting vainly to release himself from Sarah’s tender grasp.

  ‘You are doing this for another?’ gasped the great actress. ‘Oscar, you are my hero!’

  Oscar laughed awkwardly. ‘No, Sarah,’ he said, ‘you misunderstand. I am not the duellist. Robert is.’

  The eighth wonder of the world turned her gaze upon me. ‘Oh, Oscar’s friend!’ she cried. ‘I am proud to know you.’

  Gradually, over more brandy and champagne, with several further misunderstandings along the way, we explained the sequence of events that had brought us to her studio door. At first, Sarah assumed that it was Agnès La Grange who was the object of my desire and expressed her amazement that a mild-mannered artist of Jacques-Emile Blanche’s sensibility should have taken up my challenge. Then, when she understood that it was Gabrielle de la Tourbillion whose attention I craved, she warned me that Edmond La Grange was a ruthless charmer — ‘by definition: he is a leading actor’ — and a deadly shot: ‘he has Jarrett’s gun: I gave it to him.’ Finally, when she had absorbed that my rival was neither an artist nor an actor, but an American card-player of whom she had never heard, she declared: ‘Glory is thine, I know it. You cannot fail. But first you must have two hours’ sleep to refresh you for the battle. Come!’ She pulled me to my feet and took both my hands in hers. ‘At my house, you could sleep in my coffin. Here, you can sleep on my couch. There!’ She pointed to a rope ladder that dangled from the wooden balcony at the far end of the studio. ‘Climb into my bed, close your eyes and dream of victory!’

  I did as I was told — except that I did not dream of victory. I dreamt of drowning, of being swept along within a never-ending tide of rolling water, spinning slowly round and round as the torrent engulfed me. And then, suddenly, I awoke and found Sarah kneeling at my pillow with a steaming cup of hot coffee in her hand. ‘Drink this. It’s six o’clock. Oscar has a carriage at the door.’

  The morning was bitterly cold. As I climbed into the waiting carriage, the coachman, swathed in blankets, shrouded in mist, was pocketing yet more of Oscar’s silver. He looked down at me and muttered, ‘I’ve told your friend. At the edge of the park, I leave you. I’ll not be party to this. If I stay and the police are called, I lose my licence. Understood?’

  I nodded and closed my eyes as I slumped next to Oscar in the back of the cab.

  ‘Are we proceeding with this folly?’ Oscar asked in a hoarse whisper.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘We must.’ The drive from La Butte de Montmartre to Buttes Chaumont took less than half an hour. When we left Sarah’s studio we were enveloped in darkness. By the time we reached our destination, a pale grey light had filled the sky.

  The driver dropped us on the south side of the park and, accepting a final coin from Oscar, without looking back, hastened on his way.

  ‘Where exactly are you meeting Garstrang?’ Oscar asked. ‘Do you know?’

  ‘On the bridge, by the Temple of Sybil, at the top of the hill.’

  The hill had once been a place of public execution.

  For centuries it served Paris as a limestone quarry. As a centrepiece of the Universal Exhibition of 1867, Napoleon III and his bustling town planner, Baron Haussmann, had transformed it into a garden of delights. The park around the hill now included streams, a lake, a waterfall, a grotto, rocky promontories and English and Chinese gardens. We climbed the hillside along an avenue of newly planted cedars of Lebanon.

  ‘It is very beautiful here,’ said Oscar. His breath, like plumes of cigarette smoke, filled the icy morning air. ‘When I have finished my play, I plan to write a fairy tale. Its setting shall be this garden.’

  ‘Am I to die this morning?’ I asked. My hands were trembling I was so cold.

  Oscar turned to me and, putting an arm about my shoulders, whispered in my ear: ‘Sybil, daughter of a sea monster and an immortal nymph, is speaking through the trees, Robert. She has prophetic powers.’ He smiled. ‘You’ll not die this morning.’

  ‘I am not ready to die, Oscar,’ I said pathetically.

  My friend lifted his arm from my shoulder and laughed out loud. ‘Then drop the challenge, Robert! It is absurd.’

  We had reached the stone belvedere at the summit of the hill. Standing between the mock-Corinthian columns beneath the statue of Sybil seated upon her rock were Eddie Garstrang and Pierre Ferrand, the La Grange company doctor. Garstrang looked utterly at his ease, dapper, clean-shaven, rested. The drunkenness of the night before had left no mark upon his features.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ said Oscar.

  ‘Good morning, Oscar,’ Garstrang replied. ‘I take it you’ve come as Sherard’s second. Dr Ferrand is acting on my behalf. In the event of injuries, he’ll tend to either side — without charge or favour. He is a gentleman.’

  Oscar chuckled genially. ‘I like to think we’re all gentlemen, Eddie, and relatively sane. Let’s not go through with this madness.’

  ‘We must,’ I said, stepping forward and looking directly at Eddie Garstrang.

  ‘You heard the lad,’ said Garstrang, grinning at Oscar. ‘He’s headstrong. Don’t worry, I’ll not kill him. I’ll just clip his wings.’ He nodded towards the doctor who went over to the foot of the statue and returned bearing an ornate rosewood pistol case which he held open before him.

  ‘You choose,’ said Garstrang.

  ‘This is pure melodrama.’ Oscar sighed. ‘Tell me these are stage properties borrowed from the Théàtre La Grange and loaded with blanks.’

  ‘No,’ answered Garstrang. ‘These are .69-calibre black-powder duelling pistols made in Paris by the celebrated brothers Le Page. The pistols are quite old, but the bullets are brand-new. The guns belonged to Dr Ferrand’s grandfather. One of them has killed a man, but Ferrand says that, according to the French duelling code, we are not permitted to know which.’

  The bearded doctor beamed benevolently and, raising his bushy eyebrows, offered me his case of family heirlooms.

  ‘Take your pick,’ said Garstrang. ‘Time’s against us.

  ‘The code requires the duel to take place within ten minutes of the appointed hour,’ Ferrand explained in French.

  I chose the pistol closest to me. The gun was heavier than I had expected. The ebony handle was ice-cold to the touch.

  ‘Remove your coats and jackets, gentlemen,’ said Ferrand.

  ‘He’ll die of cold,’ exclaimed Oscar.

  ‘It is the rule,’ said Ferrand. ‘Cowards have been known to wear body armour beneath their coats.’

  I handed the pistol to Oscar as I threw off my coat.

  ‘Make your way to the centre of the bridge, gentlemen,’ instructed Ferrand. ‘Stand back-to-back with heels and shoulder blades touching. When I give the command, walk fifteen paces, turn and wait. When Mr Wilde gives the order, “Make ready!”, you may aim and say a prayer. I will then give the final command: “Fire!” Is that understood?’

  I nodded and reclaimed the gun. My hands were no longer shaking. I thought, I am doing this for Gabrielle de la Tourbillon and I am glad. I smiled at Oscar and said, ‘Is this not what you’d call “eating of all the fruits of all the gardens in the world”?’

  ‘It is indeed, Robert,’ he answered, embracing me. ‘Bravo, mon brave!’

  I turned and joined Garstrang and, together, side by side, we walked down the temple steps and onto the
narrow suspension bridge that ran directly from the edge of the belvedere to the facing promontory. Halfway across, we stopped and took up our positions, back-to-back. A hundred feet beneath ran a man-made waterfall; around us the morning mist was dissolving into dew.

  ‘Aim for my heart,’ said Garstrang. ‘If I don’t hit you first, then at least I’ll not know it.’

  From the far end of the bridge, Ferrand called out:

  ‘May honour be satisfied! Fifteen paces, gentlemen. March!’

  I walked the fifteen paces and turned. I looked on Eddie Garstrang: he was a small man, insignificant, with lank, yellow hair and weak, washed-out eyes. I was ready to kill him. ‘I am ready to kill you.’ I said the words softly but out loud and, as I spoke them, I heard Oscar’s voice command: ‘Make ready!’

  I raised my right arm. I took aim.

  ‘Fire!’

  I fired and as I fired I heard three shots ring out.

  Birds squawked and burst from the trees and bushes. I stood stock still staring at the pistol in my hand. There was smoke coming from both the barrel and the hammer of the gun. My palm and thumb were scorched, but I felt no pain. I sensed a hand on my shoulder, warm and strong and comforting. I turned and murmured, ‘Oscar, my friend’ — but it was not Oscar. It was Edmond La Grange.

  15

  Rue de la Pierre Levée

  The great actor’s round face was worn and lined, but full of life and wreathed in smiles. ‘I have lost two dressers in six months,’ he breathed. ‘I don’t wish to lose a third.’

  I looked at him, bemused. He raised his right hand and held out before me another smoking gun. ‘Mr Jarrett’s Colt revolver,’ he said. ‘It’s known as the Peacemaker. So let it be.’

  Eddie Garstrang, his pallid face now whiter than a shroud, came along the bridge towards us.

  ‘I fired on the command, not before,’ said La Grange.

  I noticed the actor’s glistening eyes: they were wide open and full of mischief. ‘I’m sorry, Garstrang, but it seems I am the quicker shot.’