Chapter Thirty-Four
Time is described in a myriad of ways by poets, writers, artists, merchants and even ordinary folk.
We’re all at its mercy in one way or another.
We have too little, or too much. We rush, we loiter; we spend it wisely or foolishly.
Too often we neglect to consider its passing until, one day, something happens to draw attention to what we’ve squandered.
Then, all the days, weeks, months and years that have been and gone concertina into a singular terrible moment where time stands completely still.
This was that moment.
The bells chimed four o’clock as I alighted from the cab outside the Lyceum. Instead of entering through the public doors, I used the Burleigh Street entrance reserved for Bram, Harry and Henry.
The corridors behind the stage were busy with stagehands and chattering extras. I barely registered their voices as I pushed past them.
‘What’s Mrs Bram doing here?’
‘She never comes backstage this time o’ day.’
‘What’s got in her knickers?’
Bram was in the office. Much to my relief, he was on his own, bent over the never-ending paperwork.
‘Florrie!’ he exclaimed, putting down his pen and half-rising. ‘Thank God. I’ve scarce been able to think. Is there a verdict? What’s the judge said?’
I shut the door and leaned against it, trying to gather my scattered thoughts. It was one thing to reach the theatre swiftly so I could tell Bram what had happened on the last day of Oscar’s trial, quite another how I was going to do it.
In the years since that afternoon at his mother’s when he’d flaunted his young men, affected indifference towards society’s disapproval, and continued to behave as if he was somehow exempt from the rules, Oscar had become increasingly reckless.
The fears I’d harboured for him that day had finally been realised – in a court of law.
‘You better sit down,’ I said to Bram, pulling up a chair, taking off my gloves, removing my coat. There’d been a light rain, and the wool was damp. I stared at the dark stains on my shoes.
‘Is it that bad?’
There was no softening the blow. ‘Worse.’
‘Tell me,’ he demanded, smoothing a shaking hand over his cheek.
I took a deep breath. ‘Oscar’s been convicted of gross indecency and sentenced to two years hard labour.’ I bit back a sob.
‘Dear God!’ Bram dropped his head into his hands. As he absorbed the news, my mind replayed the events of the last few months.
London had been transfixed by the growing feud between Oscar, the Irish playwright, dandy and wit, and Lord Alfred’s father, the bellicose Marquess of Queensberry.
Their quarrel was brought to a head after the marquess left a note for Oscar at a club they both frequented, the Albemarle, which read: ‘For Oscar Wilde posing somdomite.’
Misspelling aside, the marquess believed Oscar was perverting his son Bosie, the young gentleman I’d once met at Lady Jane’s.
Affronted by the note, and the public manner of its delivery, Oscar was persuaded by a vengeful Bosie, who loathed his father, to sue the marquess for libel.
In the lead-up to the libel trial, the marquess threatened Oscar and warned him away from Lord Alfred every chance he got – in restaurants, hotels, and even on opening night of Oscar’s play at St James’s Theatre, the outrageously funny The Importance of Being Earnest. There he arrived with a bouquet of carrots and turnips to throw at the stage from his box.
Fortunately, Oscar was alerted and the authorities were called.
Gilbert and I had been forced to negotiate our way through at least twenty peelers before being admitted to our seats.
The police stood in the thick snow, doing their utmost to remain vigilant while trying not to freeze to death.
Initially, I’d thought their presence a publicity stunt, much like the green carnations Oscar had distributed at the opening of Lady Windermere’s Fan months before.
I hadn’t known what they meant until Bram told me when we arrived home.
I was just removing my wrap when I saw Bram twirling one of the pretty green flowers, a strange expression on his face.
‘Did you get one as well?’ I asked. ‘Oscar was handing them out to certain men friends. Why would he do such a thing?’
Bram poured us both a whisky, passing me a tumbler. ‘You really don’t know what a green carnation signifies?’ He held the bloom aloft.
I shook my head. ‘It’s a lovely colour. But, apart from being against nature —’
‘Exactly. Just like Oscar.’ He waited until I met his gaze. ‘And he doesn’t seem to care who knows or who else he identifies as being … like him.’
The colour drained from my face. ‘You didn’t wear it, did you?’
Bram scoffed. ‘Of course not. I didn’t even know I had it until just now. He must have slipped it into my pocket when we caught up after the performance.’
‘What a selfish fool he’s become.’ I plucked the flower from Bram’s fingers and threw it in the smouldering hearth.
‘Selfish and indiscreet,’ said Bram.
Our eyes met. ‘One cannot afford to be indiscreet.’
‘No, one cannot,’ agreed Bram.
In the shadow of Oscar’s case against the marquess, what had been bubbling away in London for years burst forth.
In his stubborn insistence on pursuing the libel case, his defiance of social norms, Oscar unleashed a collective vengeance, not upon the marquess, as he’d hoped, but upon himself and what his relationship with Lord Alfred represented.
Men like Oscar were seen as a threat – to marriage, family and civilisation. Accordingly, they must be punished.
Those who’d once sought Oscar’s presence at their soirees and dinners now shunned him.
Work that had once drawn praise and delight, his poems, children’s stories, and essays, were discussed in a new and unforgiving light.
Those witty bon mots, his trips abroad to study antiquities, were all tarnished with a depraved brush.
The Picture of Dorian Gray, and all his wonderful popular plays, were now viewed through a glass darkly. Then, there were the green carnations …
I steadied my breathing as Bram absorbed the terrible news I’d just delivered from the court, his face registering despair, disbelief, denial, then fear.
It was an echo of mine as I’d sat in the courtroom.
Underlying it was also anger. Anger at Oscar that he hadn’t heeded the advice of those who had his best interests at heart and had urged him when he lost the libel case against the marquess to flee the country.
Lady Jane was partly to blame for that. Self-serving Bosie as well.
Above all the emotions I’d experienced in the courtroom was guilt. As Bram lifted his head to regard me, I could see it swimming in his eyes as well.
‘Oh, Bram,’ I whispered. ‘Oscar won’t survive this. Not hard labour.’ I reached across the desk and our fingers entwined.
‘No.’
‘But we must,’ I said, squeezing his fingers forcefully.
‘Because of your insistence on caution, on staying out of … all this, we will,’ said Bram.
The entire time Oscar faced court, giving evidence, having his private life made public in all its grisly detail, Bram and I had kept our distance – from Oscar and the courtroom.
We’d relied on the newspapers and reports from others, devouring any news.
At least if they’re all looking at Oscar, I thought, they’re not looking at anyone else.
After Oscar lost his libel case, then was charged with indecency and put on trial, I was unable to stay away any longer.
With Bram’s blessing, I’d thrown caution to the wind.
With my face covered by a veil, I’d squeezed into the packed courtroom on the final day.
I listened as the judge declared it to be the ‘worst case he’d ever tried’.
Did it assuage my guilt for all but abandoning Oscar when he needed friends the most? Nothing would do that. But I was first and foremost Bram’s wife and Noel’s mother. I had to protect them.
Bram sat back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘Tell me exactly what happened, Florrie. Details. I must know.’
I shut my eyes briefly and was transported back to the Old Bailey.
The jostling and pushing, the scritch and scratch of pens on paper, the whispers, the gasps, the mocking laughter, the sniggers.
Grey light streamed through the tall windows, revealing twists of pipe smoke.
A man in front of me had ink-stained fingers and a filthy neck he kept rubbing.
A moustachioed man kept pushing against me, breathing heavily.
I was overwhelmed by the odour of onions and cigarettes.
A mother and son were at the end of our row, the child wide-eyed, she with a kerchief pressed to her mouth and watery eyes.
Bram swallowed. ‘How … How was he? His disposition, I mean.’
‘As if he couldn’t quite believe what was happening. I think he realised too late how serious this was. He’d been floating on the success of his plays, believing he was untouchable.’
Oscar had enjoyed a marvellous run with not one but three plays: Lady Windermere’s Fan, An Ideal Husband and The Importance of Being Earnest. Not even the adulation their author had received could save Oscar from himself.
‘If only he’d listened when he was advised to return to Paris …’
‘If only he hadn’t sued the marquess,’ I reminded Bram.
Bram pushed away from the desk. ‘Enough. I must go to him. Offer my support.’ He went to the coat stand and lifted his from the hook.
‘Bram, wait.’ I rose and laid a hand on his chest. ‘You can’t visit him in gaol.’
Bram pushed his arm into a sleeve.
‘Bram, please,’ I urged. ‘I know you want to prove your loyalty, your friendship. As you’ve often said, it’s easy to be a friend in good times. Real friendships are forged in hot fires. Now is not the time to prove your thesis; not when you too will burn.’
‘But, Florrie —’
‘Listen to me. Please. You must wait. This is why I attended court, remember? We agreed. I did it for both of us.’
He met my eyes. A silent battle raged between us. We’d been over this so many times.