How Bram Stoker Reanimated Mummies

"...the consciousness of the mummy does not rest but is to be reckoned with." - Bram Stoker

Why are mummies so scary? They don't moan and walk around in real life, the way they do in movies, but they are actual things. Mummies are the realest of all the horror movie monsters. Vampires and werewolves come from literature; trolls and ghosts from myths and folklore; but mummies actually exist. Fear of mummies is a projection of European guilt over the colonial project and embodies aspects of that project by making magical monsters out of the colonial other.

Europeans weren't the first to plunder the Great Pyramids, but late-Victorian London is the focus of this blog, so I'm not going to get side-tracked by other plunderers, especially when the influence of writers from 1890s London has such a profound influence on the development of the monster mummy narrative.

The belief that some of the antiquities were cursed had been circulating around Europe since the end of the 17th century, but that didn't stop "collectors," like Lady Meux and Sir William Wilde. Sir William, Oscar Wilde's father, collects Egyptian antiquities that he took directly from Egypt. Bram Stoker later recalled listening to Sir William's stories about Egypt "before all the archeology started." Lady Meux developed one of the largest collections with over 2,000 pieces, including mummies, which she tried to donate to the British Museum upon her death.

This was the social/political climate in which Bram Stoker wrote the first prominent work of fiction featuring mummies as supernatural antagonists: The Jewel of Seven Stars (1903). Like Stoker's vampires, his mummies became postcolonial pop-culture icons. Before the Jewel was published, mummies' curses were used to explain the deaths of anyone connected to anyone who came into contact with a mummy. After the Jewel was published, the mummies themselves could be reanimated.

"Father, in the Egyptian belief, was the power of resurrection of a mummied body a general one, or was it limited? That is: could it achieve resurrection many times in the course of ages; or only once, and that one final?" 

"There was but one resurrection," he answered. "There were some who believed that this was to be a definite resurrection of the body into the real world. But in the common belief, the Spirit found joy in the Elysian Fields, where there was plenty of food and no fear of famine. Where there was moisture and deep-rooted reeds, and all the joys that are to be expected by the people of an arid land and burning clime." 

Then Margaret spoke with an earnestness which showed the conviction of her inmost soul: 

"To me, then, it is given to understand what was the dream of this great and far-thinking and high-souled lady of old; the dream that held her soul in patient waiting for its realisation through the passing of all those tens of centuries. The dream of a love that might be; a love that she felt she might, even under new conditions, herself evoke. The love that is the dream of every woman's life; of the Old and of the New; Pagan or Christian; under whatever sun; in whatever rank or calling; however may have been the joy or pain of her life in other ways. Oh! I know it! I know it! I am a woman, and I know a woman's heart. [...]" - Bram Stoker, The Jewel of Seven Stars (1903)

The idea of a mummified Egyptian queen, not dead, but asleep and dreaming of love, was transferred directly into an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer in 1997, in which the 500 year-old mummy of an Inca princess is brought back to life and falls in love with Zander.

"Inca Mummy Girl," Buffy the Vampire Slayer,
7 October 1997.

Conscious willing desire is what separates pop-culture supernatural antagonistic mummies from their zombie counter parts. Zombies mindlessly wander about seeking brains, but if a mummy feeds on a human it is for strength to carry on a new life, or to maintain guardianship over their afterlife. For Stoker's mummy, it was both. In this scene of the Jewel, Stoker's protagonists are trying to interpret "ka" and "ab" from an Egyptian text:

"It means that for this night the Queen's Double, which is otherwise free, will remain in her heart, which is mortal and cannot leave its prison-place in the mummy-shrouding. It means that when the sun has dropped into the sea, Queen Tera will cease to exist as a conscious power, till sunrise; unless the Great Experiment can recall her to waking life. It means that there will be nothing whatever for you or others to fear from her in such way as we have all cause to remember. Whatever change may come from the working of the Great Experiment, there can come none from the poor, helpless, dead woman who has waited all those centuries for this night; who has given up to the coming hour all the freedom of eternity, won in the old way, in hope of a new life in a new world such as she longed for...!"

George Washington used the term "the Great Experiment" to refer to the United States of America and Stoker was a scholar of American history, so it's not a stretch to say that "the Great Experiment," in this case, refers to modernity. If the experiment is a success the modern world will be everything that the mummy ever dreamed of, and by extension the right place for all other cursed Egyptian antiquities.

The notion that preserving antiquities is the burden of the benefactors of societies great experiments is at the heart of the cursed artefact myth and permeates the views of many modern Egyptologists and museum patrons. In the words of Jasmine Day in "The Mummy's Curse: Mummymania in the English-speaking World" (2006):

Popular archeology's promise of empowerment to its audiences can thus become implicated in a regressive imperialistic fantasy. The 'Humanity Ownership Argument' frequently invoked in debates about control of cultural property, holds that a body of material culture should not be possessed solely by a single ethnic group. This resembles the demand of the Dragon Principle that valuables be ceded to those who can best utilize them. [Some people] believed that indigenous peoples' requests for reparation of their former possessions threatens archeology. They spoke as if their own property were being threatened, because they identified with the archeologists.

In other words, to some, the British Museum is a better caretaker of Egyptian artefacts than Egyptians are. In 1890s terms, British collectors felt they were better caretakers of Egyptian antiquities that Egyptians were.

Bram Stoker might not have invented the mummy, but he animated it and infused its new life with the anxieties of the emerging postcolonial era, the traces of which can still be seen today.

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Lady Meux and Egyptology

Portrait by James Abbott McNeill Whistler

Lady Meux typifies the type of 1890s woman I adore most of all. She was eccentric, incredibly wealthy, and had such a shifty past that "respectable" people wouldn't talk to her, but the Prince of Wales was happy to party with her at her house. When she had her portrait done, she hired James Whistler. What I don't like about her, or any of the figures that I've uncovered from this period so far, is the inclination to horde the artifacts that England was pillaging from other parts of the world, like the Americas, but especially Egypt.

"When an artifact is stolen, it is separated from the archaeological and historical context that is an essential aspect of its value. The looting of Egypt's antiquities dates back to ancient times--there are now more standing obelisks in Rome than there are in Egypt." Source

Today, I started stumbling upon books about the collection of Egyptian antiquities that Lady Meux kept at Theobalds House. You can see one for free on archive.org. The book pays careful attention to symbolism, translation, and funeral practices because Lady Meux kept the physical remains of ancient Egyptians and their coffins at her house.

From Kurna; Coffin of An-Heru; XIth Dynasty, about 2600.

Coffin of an Unnamed Priest of Amen-Ra, with
Mythological Scenes and Explanatory Inscriptions.

Qebhsennuf, Tuamutef, Hapi, and Mestha;from Thebes;
Set of Canopic Jars; XVIIIth Dynasty, about B.C. 1550.

Lady Meux's collection was so extensive that the legendary Egyptologist Wallis Budge only managed to catalogue part of it, some 1,700 parts, and he dedicated The Book of Paradise to her.

When she died, she tried to will the collection to the British Museum, but they declined and it was sold off instead. During her lifetime, Egyptians made it known to the English that many of the things their archeologists were taking were valuable to them. In Lady Meux's defence, when she learned that five of her Ethiopic manuscripts were missed by Ethiopians, she left them in her will to Emperor Menelik.

I do not know what the legal status the items from Lady Meux's collection, but I do know that the permission of the Egyptian government has been required for all archaeological excavations since 1869. Illegally excavated antiquities are also to be considered Egypt's national property. And Oscar Wilde's father reportedly bragged about having personally acquired his antiquities "before all the archeology started."

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Egypt in London in the 1890s

In 1891, Marcel Schwob described Oascar Wilde as:

A big man, with a large pasty face, red cheeks, an ironic eye, bad and protrusive teeth, a vicious childlike mouth with lips soft with milk ready to suck some more. While he ate - and he ate little - he never stopped smoking opium-tainted Egyptian cigarettes. A terrible absinthe-drinker, through which he got his visions and desires.

Wilde himself at least once described cigarettes according to their nationality in expressing his disdain for American cigarettes. I wonder if Schwob called Wilde's cigarettes Egyptian because they were or if this was some Victorian way for describing drugs. Wilde most certainly had a substance abuse problem and alcoholism ran in his family. Egyptology also ran in the Wilde family, so smoking real Egyptian cigarettes is something Wilde might have shown off.

William Wilde, Oscar Wilide's father collected artifacts of Egypt and Greece, then referred to as antiquities. At age 24, William Wilde was elected to membership in the Royal Irish Academy and many of the antiquities in the house where Oscar grew up were gathered with his father's own hands in Egypt, "before all the archeology happened," as his mother would say.

The Wildes were not alone. Victorians were crazy for Egypt.

“Every one, high and low, has heard of Egypt and its primeval wonders,” declares Georg Ebers with confidence in his two-volume Egypt: Descriptive, Historical, and Picturesque, published in 1878. “The child knows the names of the good and the wicked pharaohs before it has learned those of the princes of its own country.” Ebers is at a loss to explain this phenomenon, however; he can merely query the reader: “Why is it that its [Egypt’s] name, its history, its natural peculiarities and its monuments, affect and interest us in quite a different manner from those of the other nations of antiquity?” - Victorian Web

My best explanation for their fascination with Egyptology rests in Victorian ideas about empire. Victorians didn't view empire as just good for England; metaphors about England as the mother of her empire are still traced through colonial history worldwide. When Victorians, like William Wilde, brought antiquities into their homes, they actually believed they were doing something to help preserve Egyptian culture.

Preserving antiquities at home also served as an important class symbol: knowledge of Egyptian history; experience travelling through Egypt; the means and ability to collect and preserve antiquities; all attested to the value and status of one's household in Victorian Society.

With all of this in his background, Oscar Wilde dedicated his poem, "The Sphinx," to the observant Marcel Schwob, though I don't know what he was smoking. Having opened with words from Schwob about Wilde, I leave you with Wilde's poem to Schwob.

The Sphinx

(To Marcel Schwob in friendship and in admiration)

In a dim corner of my room for longer than

my fancy thinks

A beautiful and silent Sphinx has watched me

through the shifting gloom.

Inviolate and immobile she does not rise she

does not stir

For silver moons are naught to her and naught

to her the suns that reel.

Red follows grey across the air, the waves of

moonlight ebb and flow

But with the Dawn she does not go and in the

night-time she is there.

Dawn follows Dawn and Nights grow old and

all the while this curious cat

Lies couching on the Chinese mat with eyes of

satin rimmed with gold.

Upon the mat she lies and leers and on the

tawny throat of her

Flutters the soft and silky fur or ripples to her

pointed ears.

Come forth, my lovely seneschal! so somnolent,

so statuesque!

Come forth you exquisite grotesque! half woman

and half animal!

Come forth my lovely languorous Sphinx! and

put your head upon my knee!

And let me stroke your throat and see your

body spotted like the Lynx!

And let me touch those curving claws of yellow

ivory and grasp

The tail that like a monstrous Asp coils round

your heavy velvet paws!

A thousand weary centuries are thine

while I have hardly seen

Some twenty summers cast their green for

Autumn's gaudy liveries.

But you can read the Hieroglyphs on the

great sandstone obelisks,

And you have talked with Basilisks, and you

have looked on Hippogriffs.

O tell me, were you standing by when Isis to

Osiris knelt?

And did you watch the Egyptian melt her union

for Antony

And drink the jewel-drunken wine and bend

her head in mimic awe

To see the huge proconsul draw the salted tunny

from the brine?

And did you mark the Cyprian kiss white Adon

on his catafalque?

And did you follow Amenalk, the God of

Heliopolis?

And did you talk with Thoth, and did you hear

the moon-horned Io weep?

And know the painted kings who sleep beneath

the wedge-shaped Pyramid?

Lift up your large black satin eyes which are

like cushions where one sinks!

Fawn at my feet, fantastic Sphinx! and sing mev all your memories!

Sing to me of the Jewish maid who wandered

with the Holy Child,

And how you led them through the wild, and

how they slept beneath your shade.

Sing to me of that odorous green eve when

crouching by the marge

You heard from Adrian's gilded barge the

laughter of Antinous

And lapped the stream and fed your drouth and

watched with hot and hungry stare

The ivory body of that rare young slave with

his pomegranate mouth!

Sing to me of the Labyrinth in which the twi-

formed bull was stalled!

Sing to me of the night you crawled across the

temple's granite plinth

When through the purple corridors the screaming

scarlet Ibis flew

In terror, and a horrid dew dripped from the

moaning Mandragores,

And the great torpid crocodile within the tank

shed slimy tears,

And tare the jewels from his ears and staggered

back into the Nile,

And the priests cursed you with shrill psalms as

in your claws you seized their snake

And crept away with it to slake your passion by

the shuddering palms.

Who were your lovers? who were they

who wrestled for you in the dust?

Which was the vessel of your Lust? What

Leman had you, every day?

Did giant Lizards come and crouch before you

on the reedy banks?

Did Gryphons with great metal flanks leap on

you in your trampled couch?

Did monstrous hippopotami come sidling toward

you in the mist?

Did gilt-scaled dragons writhe and twist with

passion as you passed them by?

And from the brick-built Lycian tomb what

horrible Chimera came

With fearful heads and fearful flame to breed

new wonders from your womb?

Or had you shameful secret quests and did

you harry to your home

Some Nereid coiled in amber foam with curious

rock crystal breasts?

Or did you treading through the froth call to

the brown Sidonian

For tidings of Leviathan, Leviathan or

Behemoth?

Or did you when the sun was set climb up the

cactus-covered slope

To meet your swarthy Ethiop whose body was

of polished jet?

Or did you while the earthen skiffs dropped

down the grey Nilotic flats

At twilight and the flickering bats flew round

the temple's triple glyphs

Steal to the border of the bar and swim across

the silent lake

And slink into the vault and make the Pyramid

your lupanar

Till from each black sarcophagus rose up the

painted swathed dead?

Or did you lure unto your bed the ivory-horned

Tragelaphos?

Or did you love the god of flies who plagued

the Hebrews and was splashed

With wine unto the waist? or Pasht, who had

green beryls for her eyes?

Or that young god, the Tyrian, who was more

amorous than the dove

Of Ashtaroth? or did you love the god of the

Assyrian

Whose wings, like strange transparent talc, rose

high above his hawk-faced head,

Painted with silver and with red and ribbed with

rods of Oreichalch?

Or did huge Apis from his car leap down and

lay before your feet

Big blossoms of the honey-sweet and honey-

coloured nenuphar?

How subtle-secret is your smile! Did you

love none then? Nay, I know

Great Ammon was your bedfellow! He lay with

you beside the Nile!

The river-horses in the slime trumpeted when

they saw him come

Odorous with Syrian galbanum and smeared with

spikenard and with thyme.

He came along the river bank like some tall

galley argent-sailed,

He strode across the waters, mailed in beauty,

and the waters sank.

He strode across the desert sand: he reached

the valley where you lay:

He waited till the dawn of day: then touched

your black breasts with his hand.

You kissed his mouth with mouths of flame:

you made the horned god your own:

You stood behind him on his throne: you called

him by his secret name.

You whispered monstrous oracles into the

caverns of his ears:

With blood of goats and blood of steers you

taught him monstrous miracles.

White Ammon was your bedfellow! Your

chamber was the steaming Nile!

And with your curved archaic smile you watched

his passion come and go.

With Syrian oils his brows were bright:

and wide-spread as a tent at noon

His marble limbs made pale the moon and lent

the day a larger light.

His long hair was nine cubits' span and coloured

like that yellow gem

Which hidden in their garment's hem the

merchants bring from Kurdistan.

His face was as the must that lies upon a vat of

new-made wine:

The seas could not insapphirine the perfect azure

of his eyes.

His thick soft throat was white as milk and

threaded with thin veins of blue:

And curious pearls like frozen dew were

broidered on his flowing silk.

On pearl and porphyry pedestalled he was

too bright to look upon:

For on his ivory breast there shone the wondrous

ocean-emerald,

That mystic moonlit jewel which some diver of

the Colchian caves

Had found beneath the blackening waves and

carried to the Colchian witch.

Before his gilded galiot ran naked vine-wreathed

corybants,

And lines of swaying elephants knelt down to

draw his chariot,

And lines of swarthy Nubians bare up his litter

as he rode

Down the great granite-paven road between the

nodding peacock-fans.

The merchants brought him steatite from Sidon

in their painted ships:

The meanest cup that touched his lips was

fashioned from a chrysolite.

The merchants brought him cedar chests of rich

apparel bound with cords:

His train was borne by Memphian lords: young

kings were glad to be his guests.

Ten hundred shaven priests did bow to Ammon's

altar day and night,

Ten hundred lamps did wave their light through

Ammon's carven house--and now

Foul snake and speckled adder with their young

ones crawl from stone to stone

For ruined is the house and prone the great

rose-marble monolith!

Wild ass or trotting jackal comes and couches

in the mouldering gates:

Wild satyrs call unto their mates across the

fallen fluted drums.

And on the summit of the pile the blue-faced

ape of Horus sits

And gibbers while the fig-tree splits the pillars

of the peristyle

The god is scattered here and there: deep

hidden in the windy sand

I saw his giant granite hand still clenched in

impotent despair.

And many a wandering caravan of stately

negroes silken-shawled,

Crossing the desert, halts appalled before the

neck that none can span.

And many a bearded Bedouin draws back his

yellow-striped burnous

To gaze upon the Titan thews of him who was

thy paladin.

Go, seek his fragments on the moor and

wash them in the evening dew,

And from their pieces make anew thy mutilated

paramour!

Go, seek them where they lie alone and from

their broken pieces make

Thy bruised bedfellow! And wake mad passions

in the senseless stone!

Charm his dull ear with Syrian hymns! he loved

your body! oh, be kind,

Pour spikenard on his hair, and wind soft rolls

of linen round his limbs!

Wind round his head the figured coins! stain

with red fruits those pallid lips!

Weave purple for his shrunken hips! and purple

for his barren loins!

Away to Egypt! Have no fear. Only one

God has ever died.

Only one God has let His side be wounded by a

soldier's spear.

But these, thy lovers, are not dead. Still by the

hundred-cubit gate

Dog-faced Anubis sits in state with lotus-lilies

for thy head.

Still from his chair of porphyry gaunt Memnon

strains his lidless eyes

Across the empty land, and cries each yellow

morning unto thee.

And Nilus with his broken horn lies in his black

and oozy bed

And till thy coming will not spread his waters on

the withering corn.

Your lovers are not dead, I know. They will

rise up and hear your voice

And clash their cymbals and rejoice and run to

kiss your mouth! And so,

Set wings upon your argosies! Set horses to

your ebon car!

Back to your Nile! Or if you are grown sick of

dead divinities

Follow some roving lion's spoor across the copper-

coloured plain,

Reach out and hale him by the mane and bid

him be your paramour!

Couch by his side upon the grass and set your

white teeth in his throat

And when you hear his dying note lash your

long flanks of polished brass

And take a tiger for your mate, whose amber

sides are flecked with black,

And ride upon his gilded back in triumph

through the Theban gate,

And toy with him in amorous jests, and when

he turns, and snarls, and gnaws,

O smite him with your jasper claws! and bruise

him with your agate breasts!

Why are you tarrying? Get hence! I

weary of your sullen ways,

I weary of your steadfast gaze, your somnolent

magnificence.

Your horrible and heavy breath makes the light

flicker in the lamp,

And on my brow I feel the damp and dreadful

dews of night and death.

Your eyes are like fantastic moons that shiver

in some stagnant lake,

Your tongue is like a scarlet snake that dances

to fantastic tunes,

Your pulse makes poisonous melodies, and your

black throat is like the hole

Left by some torch or burning coal on Saracenic

tapestries.

Away! The sulphur-coloured stars are hurrying

through the Western gate!

Away! Or it may be too late to climb their silent

silver cars!

See, the dawn shivers round the grey gilt-dialled

towers, and the rain

Streams down each diamonded pane and blurs

with tears the wannish day.

What snake-tressed fury fresh from Hell, with

uncouth gestures and unclean,

Stole from the poppy-drowsy queen and led you

to a student's cell?

What songless tongueless ghost of sin crept

through the curtains of the night,

And saw my taper burning bright, and knocked,

and bade you enter in?

Are there not others more accursed, whiter with

leprosies than I?

Are Abana and Pharphar dry that you come here

to slake your thirst?

Get hence, you loathsome mystery! Hideous

animal, get hence!

You wake in me each bestial sense, you make me

what I would not be.

You make my creed a barren sham, you wake

foul dreams of sensual life,

And Atys with his blood-stained knife were

better than the thing I am.

False Sphinx! False Sphinx! By reedy Styx

old Charon, leaning on his oar,

Waits for my coin. Go thou before, and leave

me to my crucifix,

Whose pallid burden, sick with pain, watches

the world with wearied eyes,

And weeps for every soul that dies, and weeps

for every soul in vain.

Oscar Wilde (1894)

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The Importance of Being Oscar Wilde's Mother

Lady Jane Francesca Agnes Wilde (1821-1896), better known as "Speranza," was the youngest child of four in Wexford Ireland. She was an Irish nationalist some Italian roots, though she put stereotypes about that heritage to rest by being over six feet tall and devoting herself to the love of Ireland. She was a poet and her contemporaries considered her a national treasure because wrote about freedom for the people of Ireland, but as time went on tastes and politics would change, so that the younger Irish revolutionaries weren't as able to relate to her work.

She fell in love with and married William Wilde, a scrawny and often disheveled-looking man, who must have looked even smaller standing next to his larger-than-life wife; it was said that she was extremely tall and overweight, “walked like a ship at sea, the sails filled with wind.” For this, she was subject to abuse throughout her life, but developed a strong talent for putting people in their place and would defend the people she loved as well as she defended Ireland.

Sometimes, I think intelligent outcasts are the most important people the development of creativity and culture within any particular group. Henry VIII made big sleeves fashionable for men because preexisting fashions didn't suit his growing figure. Speranza dressed like gypsy, even when she could afford the fashions of her day, and wore cheap costume jewelry, sometimes made of pieces of older broken costume jewelry. The odd biographer suggests that she favoured darkness because it concealed certain physical features that made her insecure; but, according to her, she liked dark rooms lit by candles because it encouraged "bawdy talk."

These dark spaces in her house, which notable always had all of its shutters shut, were decorated with books and artifacts collected during William Wilde's archeological journeys to Egypt and by Speranza herself, who enjoyed busts and paintings from ancient Greece and Rome.

If being "the Irish Poetess" of her day weren't fame enough, she became a famous entertainer, hosting popular salons at her home in Dublin and later in London. She got know many of the most famous creatives and revolutionaries, especially feminists and the political types, that set foot in whatever city she happened to be in, which makes it hard to believe that she was all that shy about being out in the open and walking in the light. When asked how she managed to attract such interesting people, Speranza replied, "By interesting them, of course!"

In addition to the two daughters William Wilde had outside of his marriage, Speranza had two sons and a daughter. Her daughter died in childhood; her firstborn was named for her husband and would always be her favourite, even when he grew up to be a lecherous alcoholic; and her other son was Oscar Wilde. Because of her, the boys were well-educated before they even started school, though some acquaintances, like Lord Alfred Douglas, suggested she might not have provided the most wholesome environment for the boys, due to the types of people she kept around and the types of things they would discuss.

Ostensibly, "respectable people" were forbidden from her home because they were usually so uninteresting. Many of their friends attributed Oscar Wilde's wit to his mother.

Things took a turn for the unfortunate, when William Wilde Sr. was knighted. Speranza believed this misfortune came because fortune and fame attract the maliciousness of jealousy. A Dublin man, whose daughter was a patient of Sir William Wilde, the oculist, claimed Sir Wilde was sexually inappropriate in his conduct toward the young lady and would seek legal action. Speranza must have flown into a rage and wrote a nasty letter to the man, for which they were eventually sued and lost most of their wealth. It was about this time that both of Sir Wilde's daughters burned to death in a fire due to the restrictive nature of their fashionable clothes.

Sir Wilde died not long after and Speranza moved to London with both of her sons. In her reduced circumstances, she relied on the financial assistance of both her boys and earned a modest living as a journalist. She finished the work that she began years ago with her husband and published Ancient Legends, Mystic Charms and Superstitions of Ireland (1888). Oscar began making a name for himself and Speranza continued to hope that both her boys would find their place in parliament. Her favorite son wasn't doing as well as Oscar though.

In London, Speranza became active in the fight for women's legal rights; specifically, the right for a woman to retain her wealth in marriage. She was part of a successful act to support these rights, but, as luck would have it, she needed to find a wealthy wife for her favorite son. The marriage lasted less than a year and Willie came home penniless. Even after he took a second wife, Willie would live with his mother to the end of her days. Many famous people still came to her salons, but she was heard at one such event saying that her life had been reduced to "the importance of being Oscar's mother."

I believe that Speranza died of a broken heart, when Oscar Wilde went to prison. When the trials started, she didn't believe they would imprison her son and wouldn't hear of him fleeing the country. He was, after all, "an Irish-born gentleman." The official cause of death was bronchitis, but her health deteriorated rapidly after Oscar's conviction. Even her requests to visit with him were denied.

Oscar's wife, came back to London from Europe, to break the news of his mother's death to Oscar personally, so that he wouldn't take it too hard.

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