TEMPUS DOMIRE- The last days of Oscar Wilde

2011-08-24T14:54:00.001-07:00

Late on the evening of October 29, 1900, a printed visiting card bearing the name ‘Mr Robert Ross: Reform Club, was brought up by Father Cuthbert Dunne, a young Irish priest at St. Joseph’s Church in The Avenue Hoche. On the back of the card, Robbie had written; ‘Can I see one of the fathers about an urgent case or can I hear of a priest somewhere who can speak English to administer the sacraments to a dying man?’

In great haste, Father Dunne went with Robbie to the Hotel D’Alsace in the rue des Beaux- Arts. As they drove through the dark, wintry streets of Paris, Robbie told Father Dunne that the man he was about to see was Oscar Wilde.

Earlier in the day I had walked through the streets of Paris in search of a doctor named Jean Mélange, a French physician who spoke good English and was well known for being able to procure medicines that were not commonly available. It was a long walk. My ears hurt, my eyes started to water and my skin burnt fiercely. Even under all the layers of clothing, as well as my thick undergarments, socks and woollen suit, I wore a heavy black man’s coat, leather gloves that reached up to my elbows, a close fitting hat and was wrapped from shoulders to chin in a variety of scarves. My skin condition persisted whether summer or winter, and this winter was particularly bitter- I could feel flakes of skin falling inside my clothes, the rough old cotton of my undergarments chafing the already raw skin around my stomach and thighs. I made myself forget my discomfort. There was too much to do. I persevered as the snow began to fall heavily, my leather boot sinking deeper into the thick, crunchy snow with every exhausted step.

I had left Oscar half conscious, in a great deal of pain, in the care of Christophe, a young male nurse – an old friend from my London days, and Reggie Turner. I knew he didn’t have much time left. A few days earlier, as I sat at his bedside, reading my poems to him, he woke suddenly from a deep sleep and said to me ‘I dreamt I was supping with the dead,’

‘I answered, ‘My Dear Oscar, you were probably the life and soul of the party.’

There were many people out in the street, even in the dreadful weather, and as I passed them I heard snippets of conversation. Although my French was appalling I caught a few words here and there. Laughter and the smell of cigarettes grounded me and reminded me why I must hurry on. Reaching inside my many layers of clothing, I located the engraved silver cigarette case, and with much difficulty, as my fingers were frozen stiff, managed to remove one of the slim cigarettes and after a few attempts, light it. I inhaled deeply, enjoying the burning sensation in my throat. I felt my body relax a little as I exhaled the fragrant smoke slowly, my frozen finger tracing the intricate JL expertly scratched into the cold silver of the case. Oscar had presented it to me with the usual flourish on the opening night of Oscar’s play ‘The Importance of Being Ernest, held at the St. James’s Theatre, which Robbie Ross, Reggie Turner, Christophe and I attended as his guests. During one of our sumptuous dinners at The Albemarle Club, where we stayed to eat and drink until the early hours of the morning, I watched my mentor holding court, equally at ease with the well dressed, impeccably mannered high society theatre aficionados and the less well dressed course mannered boys who flocked round him like sheep, clamouring for his attention with their cheeky winks and thinly veiled innuendos. I felt my face glowing with a blush as he made little circles in the air with his cigarette to make a point. Oscar always spoke with his hands. Excusing himself from his companions he made his way over to me, his face shining with delight, and quite possibly the drink. He grabbed my face in his hands.

‘Dear Joan! I am so glad you are here tonight. So glad.’

He put his hand in the pocket of his dark green frock coat, and pulled out something small and silver.

‘For you, Joan.’

He handed me a solid silver cigarette case, with my initials, J L, engraved intricately on the flat front surface. Joan Lastartan.

‘Oscar. You are too kind. It is really beautiful.’

‘A beautiful gift for a wonderful friend. My Joan.’

I shivered as his hand brushed mine.

Oscar knew he was going to die. We all did. I felt it. I knew he was going to leave me and there was nothing I could do. My skin flared up that week, the worst it had ever been. Dead skin flaked from every part of my body, and when I wasn’t scratching I was crying because the pain was so bad. I knew I wasn’t crying for me. I was crying for Oscar. He had told Robbie ‘Somehow I don’t think I shall survive to see the new century.’ He was being injected with morphine, which he seemed to only want to be administered by me. I was not a physician, and I was highly nervous of being entrusted to such an important duty, but with clear instructions from Doctor Melange and Christophe, I gave him his injection every day until the end.

TALES FROM THE RUSTY HALO

2011-08-24T14:48:00.000-07:00

THE STRANGER

The stranger hides his face with swathes of velvet cloak,

Showing not much more than a cold blue eye

Surrounded by deep wrinkles,

Dirt had settled in the creases

Around his eyes and mouth

Freckles smattered here and there,

A curly lock of bright red hair

I was afraid, then.

He downed his brew

Discarded the cracked, crystal glass into the fireplace

He called me over, wordlessly,

With the twitch of a pale, bony finger

His nails were ragged, and filthy with dirt and blood

And on his hunched, peculiar shape,

My fearful eyes did linger

And cautiously, I pulled up a chair.

Now that I was close,

I noticed a wonder of other things,

A cruel curve of dry, pink lip,

A scar from cheek to chin

Mottled flaky hands,

Long pointed fingernails,

A wheeze on his breath;

But the most intriguing of all these things

Was that the stranger appeared to have… wings.

STORY & MYTH

2011-08-24T14:42:00.000-07:00

THE MUSE

We meet at last, My Friend,

Man of the moment

Legend says you hold the key to the Writer’s voice

On a thick, silver chain around your neck

That it holds a vial of Oscar’s fresh blood

Or perhaps a lock of hair

That you prefer a gin and tonic

To a bottle of vintage Pinot Noir

That you are rather indiscreet

When you are a couple of sheets to the wind

I hear you enjoy a rhyme, a ditty,

A poem of sweet intention

That my words reached across

Time and space

You heard me calling for inspiration

And chose to inhabit my world

We meet at last, my dear,

In The green Carnation at Midnight;

We spend our time in elevated suspension

Picking glitter off each others shoulders

We are of separate bodies,

Yet our heartbeats synchronise

Our words do pass from ear to ear,

Yet not a tongue appears through teeth.

With your brilliant mind

We are bonded far beyond convention

Metaphysically entwined

As you sip another gin and tonic

I watch you in a state of trance

The most gentle of creatures:

My heart pounds, an unnatural rhythm

As we do our dance

As we converse with just our eyes

Lazily reading each other’s minds

I tell you why I am here.

I need the key to the Writer’s voice

That is why I cannot speak.

The legend says the muse will come ,

Bringing beautiful things

In a flash of green light

In the darkest hour of midnight

In the special place I write.

The Green Carnation

TEMPUS DOMIRE- The last days of Oscar Wilde

TALES FROM THE RUSTY HALO

STORY & MYTH