Skip to main content

Full text of "Oscar Wilde, his life and confessions. [With memoires of Oscar Wilde"

See other formats 


W I T  H 


EMORIES  OF  OSCAR  WILDE 


3y  BERNARD  SHAW 


to 


(Ehe 


of 


Dr.  J.  G.  Gallic 


OSCAR  WILDE 


HIS   LIFE  AND 
CONFESSIONS 


BY 

FRANK  HARRIS 


VOLUME  II 


PRINTED   AND    PUBLISHED 
BY   THE   AUTHOR 

29    WAVERLEY    PLACE  NEW    YORK    CITY 

MCMXVIII 


For  he  who  sins  a  second  time 

Wakes  a  dead  soul  to  pain, 
And  draws  it  from  its  spotted  shroud, 

And  makes  it  bleed  again, 
And  makes  it  bleed  great  gouts  of  blood, 

And  makes  it  bleed  in  vain. 

— The  Ballad  of  Reading  Gaol. 


Copyright,  1916, 
BY  FRANK  HARRIS 


Oscar  Wilde  and  Lord  Alfred  Douglas  About  1893 


BOOK  II 

CHAPTER  XVII 


PRISON  for  Oscar  Wilde,  an  English  prison 
with  its  insufficient  bad  food1  and  soul-degrading 
routine  for  that  amiable,  joyous,  eloquent,  pam- 
pered Sybarite.  Here  was  a  test  indeed;  an 
ordeal  as  by  fire.  What  would  he  make  of  two 
years'  hard  labour  in  a  lonely  cell? 

There  are  two  ways  of  taking  prison,  as  of 
taking  most  things,  and  all  the  myriad  ways 
between  these  two  extremes;  would  Oscar  be  con- 
quered by  it  and  allow  remorse  and  hatred  to 
corrupt  his  very  heart,  or  would  he  conquer  the 
prison  and  possess  and  use  it?  Hammer  or  an- 
vil— which  ? 

Victory  has  its  virtue  and  is  justified  of  itself 
like  sunshine;  defeat  carries  its  own  condemna- 
tion. Yet  we  have  all  tasted  its  bitter  waters: 
only  "infinite  virtue"  can  pass  through  life  vic- 
torious, Shakespeare  tells  us,  and  we  mortals  are 
not  of  infinite  virtue.  The  myriad  vicissitudes 

1Some  years  ago  The  Daily  Chronicle  proved  that  though  the  general 
standard  of  living  is  lower  in  Germany  and  in  France  than  in  England; 
yet  the  prison  food  in  France  and  especially  in  Germany  is  far  better 
than  in  England  and  the  treatment  of  the  prisoners  far  more  humane. 

321 


322          OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

of  the  struggle  search  out  all  our  weaknesses; 
test  all  our  powers.  Every  victory  shows  a  more 
difficult  height  to  scale,  a  steeper  pinnacle  of 
god-like  hardship — that's  the  reward  of  victory : 
it  provides  the  hero  with  ever-new  battle-fields: 
no  rest  for  him  this  side  the  grave. 

But  what  of  defeat?  What  sweet  is  there  in 
its  bitter?  This  may  be  said  for  it;  it  is  our 
great  school:  punishment  teaches  pity,  just  as 
suffering  teaches  sympathy.  In  defeat  the  brave 
soul  learns  kinship  with  other  men,  takes  the  rub 
to  heart;  seeks  out  the  reason  for  the  fall  in  his 
own  weakness,  and  ever  afterwards  finds  it  im- 
possible to  judge,  much  less  condemn  his  fellow. 
But  after  all  no  one  can  hurt  us  but  ourselves; 
prison,  hard  labour,  and  the  hate  of  men;  what 
are  these  if  they  make  you  truer,  wiser,  kinder? 

Have  you  come  to  grief  through  self-indulgence 
and  good-living?  Here  are  months  in  which 
men  will  take  care  that  you  shall  eat  badly  and 
lie  hard.  Did  you  lack  respect  for  others  ?  Here 
are  men  who  will  show  you  no  consideration. 
Were  you  careless  of  others'  sufferings?  Here 
now  you  shall  agonize  unheeded :  gaolers  and  gov- 
ernors as  well  as  black  cells  just  to  teach  you. 
Thank  your  stars  then  for  every  day's  experience, 
for,  when  you  have  learned  the  lesson  of  it  and 
turned  its  discipline  into  service,  the  prison 
shall  transform  itself  into  a  hermitage,  the 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS  323 

dungeon  into  a  home;  the  burnt  skilly  shall  be 
sweet  in  your  mouth;  and  your  rest  on  the  plank- 
bed  the  dreamless  slumber  of  a  little  child. 

And  if  you  are  an  artist,  prison  will  be  more 
to  you  than  this;  an  astonishing  vital  and  novel 
experience,  accorded  only  to  the  chosen.  What 
will  you  make  of  it?  That's  the  question  for 
you.  It  is  a  wonderful  opportunity.  Seen  truly, 
a  prison's  more  spacious  than  a  palace;  nay, 
richer,  and  for  a  loving  soul,  a  far  rarer  experi- 
ence. Thank  then  the  spirit  which  steers  men 
for  the  divine  chance  which  has  come  to  you; 
henceforth  the  prison  shall  be  your  domain;  in 
future  men  will  not  think  of  it  without  thinking 
of  you.  Others  may  show  them  what  the  good 
things  of  life  do  for  one;  you  will  show  them  what 
suffering  can  do,  cold  and  regretful  sleepless 
hours  and  solitude,  misery  and  distress.  Others 
will  teach  the  lessons  of  joy.  The  whole  vast 
underworld  of  pity  and  pain,  fear  and  horror  and 
injustice  is  your  kingdom.  Men  have  drawn 
darkness  about  you  as  a  curtain,  shrouded  you 
in  blackest  night;  the  light  in  you  will  shine  the 
brighter.  Always  provided  of  course  that  the 
light  is  not  put  out  altogether. 

Hammer  or  anvil?  How  would  Oscar  Wilde 
take  punishment? 

We  could  not  know  for  months.    Yet  he  was 


324          OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

an  artist  by  nature — that  gave  one  a  glimmer 
of  hope.  We  needed  it.  For  outside  at  first 
there  was  an  icy  atmosphere  of  hatred  and  con- 
tempt. The  mere  mention  of  his  name  was  met 
with  expressions  of  disgust,  or  frozen  silence. 

One  bare  incident  will  paint  the  general  feel- 
ing more  clearly  than  pages  of  invective  or  de- 
scription. The  day  after  Oscar's  sentence  Mr. 
Charles  Brookfield,  who,  it  will  be  remembered, 
had  raked  together  the  witnesses  that  enabled 
Lord  Queensberry  to  "justify"  his  accusation; 
assisted  by  Mr.  Charles  Hawtrey,  the  actor, 
gave  a  dinner  to  Lord  Queensberry  to  celebrate 
their  triumph.  Some  forty  Englishmen  of  good 
position  were  present  at  the  banquet — a  feast 
to  celebrate  the  ruin  and  degradation  of  a  man  of 
genius. 

Yet  there  are  true  souls  in  England,  noble, 
generous  hearts.  I  remember  a  lunch  at  Mrs. 
Jeune's,  where  one  declared  that  Wilde  was  at 
length  enjoying  his  deserts;  another  regretted 
that  his  punishment  was  so  slight,  a  third  with 
precise  knowledge  intimated  delicately  and  with 
quiet  complacence  that  two  years'  imprisonment 
with  hard  labour  usually  resulted  in  idiocy  or 
death:  fifty  per  cent.,  it  appeared,  failed  to  win 
through.  It  was  more  to  be  dreaded  on  all  ac- 
counts than  five  years'  penal  servitude.  "You 
see  it  begins  with  starvation  and  solitary  con- 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          325 

finement,  and  that  breaks  up  the  strongest.  I 
think  it  will  be  enough  for  our  vainglorious 
talker."  Miss  Madeleine  Stanley  (now  Lady 
Midleton)  was  sitting  beside  me,  her  fine,  sensi- 
tive face  clouded:  I  could  not  contain  myself, 
I  was  being  whipped  on  a  sore. 

"This  must  have  been  the  way  they  talked 
in  Jerusalem,"  I  remarked,  "after  the  world- 
tragedy." 

"  You  were  an  intimate  friend  of  his,  were  you 
not?"  insinuated  the  delicate  one  gently. 

"A  friend  and  admirer,"  I  replied,  "and  al- 
ways shall  be." 

A  glacial  silence  spread  round  the  table, 
while  the  delicate  one  smiled  with  deprecating 
contempt,  and  offered  some  grapes  to  his  neigh- 
bour; but  help  came.  Lady  Dorothy  Nevill  was 
a  little  further  down  the  table:  she  had  not 
heard  all  that  was  said,  but  had  caught  the  tone 
of  the  conversation  and  divined  the  rest. 

"Are  you  talking  of  Oscar  Wilde?"  she  ex- 
claimed. "I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  you  are  a 
friend.  I  am,  too,  and  shall  always  be  proud  of 
having  known  him,  a  most  brilliant,  charming 
man." 

"I  think  of  giving  a  dinner  to  him  when  he 
comes  out,  Lady  Dorothy,"  I  said. 

"I  hope  you'll  ask  me,"  she  answered  bravely. 
"I  should  be  glad  to  come.  I  always  admired 


326          OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

and  liked  him;  I  feel  dreadfully  sorry  for 
him." 

The  delicate  one  adroitly  changed  the  con- 
versation and  coffee  came  in,  but  Miss  Stanley 
said  to  me: 

"I  wish  I  had  known  him,  there  must  have 
been  great  good  in  him  to  win  such  friendship." 

"Great  charm  in  any  case,"  I  replied,  "and 
that's  rarer  among  men  than  even  goodness." 

The  first  news  that  came  to  us  from  prison 
was  not  altogether  bad.  He  had  broken  down 
and  was  in  the  infirmary,  but  was  getting 
better.  The  brave  Stewart  Headlam,  who  had 
gone  bail  for  him,  had  visited  him,  the  Stewart 
Headlam  who  was  an  English  clergyman,  and  yet, 
wonder  of  wonders,  a  Christian.  A  little  later 
one  heard  that  Sherard  had  seen  him,  and  brought 
about  a  reconciliation  with  his  wife.  Mrs. 
Wilde  had  been  very  good  and  had  gone  to  the 
prison  and  had  no  doubt  comforted  him.  Much 
to  be  hoped  from  all  this 

For  months  and  months  the  situation  in 
South  Africa  took  all  my  heart  and  mind. 

In  the  first  days  of  January,  1896,  came  the 
Jameson  Raid,  and  I  sailed  for  South  Africa. 
I  had  work  to  do  for  The  Saturday  Review,  ab- 
sorbing work  by  day  and  night.  In  the  summer 
I  was  back  in  England,  but  the  task  of  defend- 
ing the  Boer  farmers  grew  more  and  more  ardu- 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS  327 

ous,  and  I  only  heard  that  Oscar  was  going  on 
as  well  as  could  be  expected. 

Some  time  later,  after  he  had  been  transferred 
to  Reading  Gaol,  bad  news  leaked  out,  news  that 
he  was  breaking  up,  was  being  punished,  per- 
secuted. His  friends  came  to  me,  asking:  could 
anything  be  done?  As  usual  my  only  hope  was 
in  the  supreme  authority.  Sir  Evelyn  Ruggles 
Brise  was  the  head  of  the  Prison  Commission; 
after  the  Home  Secretary,  the  most  powerful 
person,  the  permanent  official  behind  the  Parlia- 
mentary figure-head;  the  man  who  knew  and 
acted  behind  the  man  who  talked.  I  sat  down 
and  wrote  to  him  for  an  interview:  by  return 
came  a  courteous  note  giving  me  an  appoint- 
ment. 

I  told  him  what  I  had  heard  about  Oscar,  that 
his  health  was  breaking  down  and  his  reason 
going,  pointed  out  how  monstrous  it  was  to  turn 
prison  into  a  torture-chamber.  To  my  utter 
astonishment  he  agreed  with  me,  admitted,  even, 
that  an  exceptional  man  ought  to  have  excep- 
tional treatment;  showed  not  a  trace  of  pedantry; 
good  brains,  good  heart.  He  went  so  far  as  to 
say  that  Oscar  Wilde  should  be  treated  with  all 
possible  consideration,  that  certain  prison  rules 
which  pressed  very  hardly  upon  him  should  be 
interpreted  as  mildly  as  possible.  He  admitted 
that  the  punishment  was  much  more  severe  to 


328  OSCAR  WILDE   AND    HIS    CONFESSIONS 

him  than  it  would  be  to  an  ordinary  criminal, 
and  had  nothing  but  admiration  for  his  brilliant 
gifts. 

"It  was  a  great  pity,"  he  said,  "that  Wilde 
ever  got  into  prison,  a  great  pity." 

I  was  pushing  at  an  open  door;  besides  the  year 
or  so  which  had  elapsed  since  the  condemnation 
had  given  time  for  reflection.  Still,  Sir  Ruggles 
Brise's  attitude  was  extraordinary,  sympathetic 
at  once  and  high-minded:  another  true  English- 
man at  the  head  of  affairs:  infinite  hope  in  that 
fact,  and  solace. 

I  had  stuck  to  my  text  that  something  should 
be  done  at  once  to  give  Oscar  courage  and  hope; 
he  must  not  be  murdered  or  left  to  despair. 

Sir  Ruggles  Brise  asked  me  finally  if  I  would 
go  to  Reading  and  report  on  Oscar  Wilde's 
condition  and  make  any  suggestion  that  might 
occur  to  me.  He  did  not  know  if  this  could  be 
arranged;  but  he  would  see  the  Home  Secretary 
and  would  recommend  it,  if  I  were  willing. 
Of  course  I  was  willing,  more  than  willing. 
Two  or  three  days  later,  I  got  another  letter 
from  him  with  another  appointment,  and  again 
I  went  to  see  him.  He  received  me  with  charm- 
ing kindness.  The  Home  Secretary  would  be 
glad  if  I  would  go  down  to  Reading  and  report 
on  Oscar  Wilde's  state. 

"Everyone,"  said  Sir  Ruggles  Brise,  "speaks 


OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS  329 

with  admiration  and  delight  of  his  wonderful 
talents.  The  Home  Secretary  thinks  it  would 
be  a  great  loss  to  English  literature  if  he  were 
really  injured  by  the  prison  discipline.  Here 
is  your  order  to  see  him  alone,  and  a  word  of 
introduction  to  the  Governor,  and  a  request  to 
give  you  all  information." 

I  could  not  speak.  I  could  only  shake  hands 
with  him  in  silence. 

What  a  country  of  anomalies  England  is!  A 
judge  of  the  High  Court  a  hard  self-satisfied  per- 
nicious bigot,  while  the  official  in  charge  of  the 
prisons  is  a  man  of  wide  culture  and  humane 
views,  who  has  the  courage  of  a  noble  humanity. 

I  went  to  Reading  Gaol  and  sent  in  my  letter. 
I  was  met  by  the  Governor,  who  gave  orders 
that  Oscar  Wilde  should  be  conducted  to  a  room 
where  we  could  talk  alone.  I  cannot  give  an 
account  of  my  interviews  with  the  Governor  or 
the  doctor;  it  would  smack  of  a  breach  of  confi- 
dence; besides  all  such  conversations  are  pecul- 
iarly personal:  some  people  call  forth  the  best 
in  us,  others  the  worst.  Without  wishing  to,  I 
may  have  stirred  up  the  lees.  I  can  only  say  here 
that  I  then  learned  for  the  first  time  the  full, 
incredible  meaning  of  "Man's  inhumanity  to 
man." 

In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  I  was  led  into  a 
bare  room  where  Oscar  Wilde  was  already  stand- 


33O          OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

ing  by  a  plain  deal  table.  The  warder  who  had 
come  with  him  then  left  us.  We  shook  hands 
and  sat  down  opposite  to  each  other.  He  had 
changed  greatly.  He  appeared  much  older;  his 
dark  brown  hair  was  streaked  with  grey,  par- 
ticularly in  front  and  over  the  ears.  He  was 
much  thinner,  had  lost  at  least  thirty-five 
pounds,  probably  forty  or  more.  On  the  whole, 
however,  he  looked  better  physically  than  he 
had  looked  for  years  before  his  imprisonment: 
his  eyes  were  clear  and  bright;  the  outlines  of 
the  face  were  no  longer  swamped  in  fat;  the 
voice  even  was  ringing  and  musical;  he  had 
improved  bodily,  I  thought;  though  in  repose  his 
face  wore  a  nervous,  depressed  and  harassed  air. 

"You  know  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you,  heart- 
glad  to  find  you  looking  so  well,"  I  began,  "but 
tell  me  quickly,  for  I  may  be  able  to  help  you,  what 
have  you  to  complain  of;  what  do  you  want?" 

For  a  long  time  he  was  too  hopeless,  too 
frightened  to  talk.  "The  list  of  my  grievances," 
he  said,  "would  be  without  end.  The  worst 
of  it  is  I  am  perpetually  being  punished  for 
nothing;  this  governor  loves  to  punish,  and  he 
punishes  by  taking  my  books  from  me.  It  is 
perfectly  awful  to  let  the  mind  grind  itself  away 
between  the  upper  and  nether  millstones  of  re- 
gret and  remorse  without  respite;  with  books  my 
life  would  be  livable — any  life,"  he  added  sadly. 


OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS  33! 

"The  life,  then,  is  hard.    Tell  me  about  it." 

"I  don't  like  to,"  he  said,  "it  is  all  so  dreadful 
— and  ugly  and  painful,  I  would  rather  not  think 
of  it,"  and  he  turned  away  despairingly. 

"You  must  tell  me,  or  I  shall  not  be  able  to 
help  you."  Bit  by  bit  I  won  the  confession  from 
him. 

"At  first  it  was  a  fiendish  nightmare;  more 
horrible  than  anything  I  had  ever  dreamt  of; 
from  the  first  evening  when  they  made  me  un- 
dress before  them  and  get  into  some  filthy  water 
they  called  a  bath  and  dry  myself  with  a  damp, 
brown  rag  and  put  on  this  livery  of  shame.  The 
cell  was  appalling:  I  could  hardly  breathe  in  it, 
and  the  food  turned  my  stomach;  the  smell  and 
sight  of  it  were  enough:  I  did  not  eat  anything 
for  days  and  days,  I  could  not  even  swallow  the 
bread;  and  the  rest  of  the  food  was  uneatable;  I 
lay  on  the  so-called  bed  and  shivered  all  night 

long Don't  ask  me  to  speak  of  it, 

please.  Words  cannot  convey  the  cumulative 
effect  of  a  myriad  discomforts,  brutal  handling 
and  slow  starvation.  Surely  like  Dante  I  have 
written  on  my  face  the  fact  that  I  have  been  in 
hell.  Only  Dante  never  imagined  any  hell  like 
an  English  prison;  in  his  lowest  circle  people 
could  move  about;  could  see  each  other,  and  hear 
each  other  groan:  there  was  some  change,  some 
human  companionship  in  misery " 


332          OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

"When  did  you  begin  to  eat  the  food  ?"  I  asked. 

"I  can't  tell,  Frank,"  he  replied.  "After 
some  days  I  got  so  hungry  I  had  to  eat  a  little, 
nibble  at  the  outside  of  the  bread,  and  drink 
some  of  the  liquid ;  whether  it  was  tea,  coffee  or 
gruel,  I  could  not  tell.  As  soon  as  I  really  ate 
anything  it  produced  violent  diarrhoea  and  I 
was  ill  all  day  and  all  night.  From  the  begin- 
ning I  could  not  sleep.  I  grew  weak  and  had 

wild  delusions You  must  not  ask  me  to 

describe  it.  It  is  like  asking  a  man  who  has 
gone  through  fever  to  describe  one  of  the  ter- 
rifying dreams.  At  Wandsworth  I  thought  I 
should  go  mad;  Wandsworth  is  the  worst:  no 
dungeon  in  hell  can  be  worse;  why  is  the  food  so 
bad?  It  even  smelt  bad.  It  was  not  fit  for  dogs." 

"Was  the  food  the  worst  of  it?"  I  asked. 

"The  hunger  made  you  weak,  Frank;  but 
the  inhumanity  was  the  worst  of  it;  what  devil- 
ish creatures  men  are.  I  had  never  known 
anything  about  them.  I  had  never  dreamt  of 
such  cruelties.  A  man  spoke  to  me  at  exercise. 
You  know  you  are  not  allowed  to  speak.  He 
was  in  front  of  me,  and  he  whispered,  so  that 
he  could  not  be  seen,  how  sorry  he  was  for  me, 
and  how  he  hoped  I  would  bear  up.  I  stretched 
out  my  hands  to  him  and  cried,  'Oh,  thank  you, 
thank  you.'  The  kindness  of  his  voice  brought 
tears  into  my  eyes.  Of  course  I  was  punished 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          333 

at  once  for  speaking;  a  dreadful  punishment. 
I  won't  think  of  it:  I  dare  not.  They  are  in- 
finitely cunning  in  malice  here,  Frank;  infinitely 

cunning    in    punishment Don't    let    us 

talk  of  it,  it  is  too  painful,  too  horrible  that 
men  should  be  so  brutal." 

"Give  me  an  instance,"  I  said,  "of  something 
less  painful;  something  which  may  be  bettered." 

He  smiled  wanly.  "All  of  it,  Frank,  all  of 
it  should  be  altered.  There  is  no  spirit  in  a 
prison  but  hate,  hate  masked  in  degrading  for- 
malism. They  first  break  the  will  and  rob  you 
of  hope,  and  then  rule  by  fear.  One  day  a  warder 
came  into  my  cell. 

"  'Take  off  your  boots,'  he  said. 

"Of  course  I  began  to  obey  him;  then  I 
asked: 

"  'What  is  it?  Why  must  I  take  off  my 
boots?' 

"He  would  not  answer  me.  As  soon  as  he 
had  my  boots,  he  said: 

' '  Come  out  of  your  cell.' 

'Why?'  I  asked  again.  I  was  frightened, 
Frank.  What  had  I  done?  I  could  not  guess; 
but  then  I  was  often  punished  for  nothing: 
what  was  it?  No  answer.  As  soon  as  we  were 
in  the  corridor  he  ordered  me  to  stand  with 
my  face  to  the  wall,  and  went  away.  There 
I  stood  in  my  stocking  feet  waiting.  The 


334          OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

cold  chilled  me  through;  I  began  standing  first 
on  one  foot  and  then  on  the  other,  racking  my 
brains  as  to  what  they  were  going  to  do  to  me, 
wondering  why  I  was  being  punished  like  this, 
and  how  long  it  would  last;  you  know  the 

thoughts  fear-born  that  plague  the  mind 

After  what  seemed  an  eternity  I  heard  him 
coming  back.  I  did  not  dare  to  move  or  even 
look.  He  came  up  to  me;  stopped  by  me  for 
a  moment;  my  heart  stopped;  he  threw  down 
a  pair  of  boots  beside  me,  and  said: 

;  'Go  to  your  cell  and  put  those  on,'  and  I 
went  into  my  cell  shaking.  That's  the  way  they 
give  you  a  new  pair  of  boots  in  prison,  Frank; 
that's  the  way  they  are  kind  to  you." 

"The  first  period  was  the  worst?"  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  yes,  infinitely  the  worst !  One  gets  accus- 
tomed to  everything  in  time,  to  the  food  and 
the  bed  and  the  silence:  one  learns  the  rules, 
and  knows  what  to  expect  and  what  to  fear.  ..." 

"How  did  you  win  through  the  first  period?" 
I  asked. 

"I  died,"  he  said  quietly,  "and  came  to  life 
again,  as  a  patient."  I  stared  at  him.  "Quite 
true,  Frank.  What  with  the  purgings  and  the 
semi-starvation  and  sleeplessness  and,  worst  of  all, 
the  regret  gnawing  at  my  soul  and  the  incessant 
torturing  self-reproaches,  I  got  weaker  and  weak- 
er; my  clothes  hung  on  me;  I  could  scarcely  move. 


OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          335 

One  Sunday  morning  after  a  very  bad  night  I 
could  not  get  out  of  bed.  The  warder  came 
in  and  I  told  him  I  was  ill." 

:'  'You  had  better  get  up,'  he  said;  but  I 
couldn't  take  the  good  advice. 

:'  'I  can't,'  I  replied,  'you  must  do  what  you 
like  with  me.' 

"Half  an  hour  later  the  doctor  came  and 
looked  in  at  the  door.  He  never  came  near  me; 
he  simply  called  out: 

'  'Get  up;  no  malingering;  you're  all  right. 
You'll  be  punished  if  you  don't  get  up,'  and  he 
went  away. 

"I  had  to  get  up.  I  was  very  weak;  I  fell  off 
my  bed  while  dressing,  and  bruised  myself;  but 
I  got  dressed  somehow  or  other,  and  then  I  had 
to  go  with  the  rest  to  chapel,  where  they  sing 
hymns,  dreadful  hymns  all  out  of  tune  in  praise 
of  their  pitiless  God. 

"I  could  hardly  stand  up;  everything  kept 
disappearing  and  coming  back  faintly:  and  sud- 
denly I  must  have  fallen "  He  put  his 

hand  to  his  head.  "I  woke  up  feeling  a  pain  in 
this  ear.  I  was  in  the  infirmary  with  a  warder 
by  me.  My  hand  rested  on  a  clean  white  sheet; 
it  was  like  heaven.  I  could  not  help  pushing 
my  toes  against  the  sheet  to  feel  it,  it  was  so 
smooth  and  cool  and  clean.  The  nurse  with  kind 
eyes  said  to  me: 


336          OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

1  'Do  eat  something/  and  gave  me  some  thin 
white  bread  and  butter.  Frank,  I  shall  never 
forget  it.  The  water  came  into  my  mouth  in 
streams;  I  was  so  desperately  hungry,  and  it 
was  so  delicious;  I  was  so  weak  I  cried,"  and  he 
put  his  hands  before  his  eyes  and  gulped  down 
his  tears. 

"I  shall  never  forget  it:  the  warder  was  so 
kind.  I  did  not  like  to  tell  him  I  was  famished; 
but  when  he  went  away  I  picked  the  crumbs 
off  the  sheet  and  ate  them,  and  when  I  could 
find  no  more  I  pulled  myself  to  the  edge  of  the 
bed,  and  picked  up  the  crumbs  from  the  floor 
and  ate  those  as  well;  the  white  bread  was  so 
good  and  I  was  so  hungry." 

"And  now?"  I  asked,  not  able  to  stand  more. 

"Oh,  now,"  he  said,  with  an  attempt  to  be 
cheerful,  "of  course  it  would  be  all  right  if 
they  did  not  take  my  books  away  from  me.  If 
they  would  let  me  write.  If  only  they  would 
let  me  write  as  I  wish,  I  should  be  quite  con- 
tent, but  they  punish  me  on  every  pretext. 
Why  do  they  do  it,  Frank  ?  Why  do  they  want 
to  make  my  life  here  one  long  misery?" 

"Aren't  you  a  little  deaf  still?"  I  asked,  to 
ease  the  passion  I  felt  of  intolerable  pity. 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  ".on  this  side,  where  I  fell 
in  the  chapel.  I  fell  on  my  ear,  you  know,  and 
I  must  have  burst  the  drum  of  it,  or  injured 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          337 

it  in  some  way,  for  all  through  the  winter  it 
has  ached  and  it  often  bleeds  a  little." 

"But  they  could  give  you  some  cotton  wool 
or  something  to  put  in  it?"  I  said. 

He  smiled  a  poor  wan  smile: 

"If  you  think  one  dare  disturb  a  doctor  or  a 
warder  for  an  earache,  you  don't  know  much 
about  a  prison;  you  would  pay  for  it.  Why, 
Frank,  however  ill  I  was  now,"  and  he  lowered 
his  voice  to  a  whisper  and  glanced  about  him 
as  if  fearing  to  be  overheard,  "however  ill  I 
was  I  would  not  think  of  sending  for  the  doctor. 
Not  think  of  it,"  he  said  in  an  awestruck  voice. 
"I  have  learned  prison  ways." 

"I  should  rebel,"  I  cried;  "why  do  you  let 
it  break  the  spirit?" 

"You  would  soon  be  broken,  if  you  rebelled, 
here.  Besides  it  is  all  incidental  to  the  System. 
The  System!  No  one  outside  knows  what  that 
means.  It  is  an  old  story,  I'm  afraid,  the  story 
of  man's  cruelty  to  man." 

"I  think  I  can  promise  you,"  I  said,  "that 
the  System  will  be  altered  a  little.  You  shall 
have  books  and  things  to  write  with,  and  you 
shall  not  be  harassed  every  moment  by  punish- 
ment." 

"Take  care,"  he  cried  in  a  spasm  of  dread, 
putting  his  hand  on  mine,  "take  care,  they 
may  punish  me  much  worse.  You  don't  know 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 


what  they  can  do."  I  grew  hot  with  indigna- 
tion. 

"Don't  say  anything,  please,  of  what  I  have 
said  to  you.  Promise  me,  you  won't  say  any- 
thing. Promise  me.  I  never  complained,  I 
didn't."  His  excitement  was  a  revelation. 

"All  right,"  I  replied,  to  soothe  him. 

"No,  but  promise  me,  seriously,"  he  re- 
peated. "You  must  promise  me.  Think,  you 
have  my  confidence,  it  is  private  what  I  have 
said."  He  was  evidently  frightened  out  of  self- 
control. 

"All  right,"  I  said,  "I  will  not  tell;  but  I'll 
get  the  facts  from  the  others  and  not  from 
you." 

"Oh,  Frank,"  he  said,  "you  don't  know  what 
they  do.  There  is  a  punishment  here  more 
terrible  than  the  rack."  And  he  whispered  to 
me  with  white  sidelong  eyes:  "They  can  drive 
you  mad  in  a  week,  Frank."1 

"Mad!"  I  exclaimed,  thinking  I  must  have 
misunderstood  him;  though  he  was  white  and 
trembling. 

1  He  was  referring,  I  suppose,  to  the  solitary  confinement  in  a  dark  cell, 
which  English  ingenuity  has  invented  and  according  to  all  accounts  is  as 
terrible  as  any  of  the  tortures  of  the  past.  For  those  tortures  were  all 
physical,  whereas  the  modern  Englishman  addresses  himself  to  the  brain 
and  nerves,  and  finds  the  fear  of  madness  more  terrifying  than  the  fear 
of  pain.  What  a  pity  it  is  that  Mr.  Justice  Wills  did  not  know  twenty- 
four  hours  of  it,  just  twenty-four  hours  to  teach  him  what  "adequate 
punishment"  for  sensual  self-indulgence  means,  and  adequate  punish- 
ment, too,  for  inhuman  cruelty. 


OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          339 

"What  about  the  warders?"  I  asked  again, 
to  change  the  subject,  for  I  began  to  feel  that 
I  had  supped  full  on  horrors. 

"Some  of  them  are  kind,"  he  sighed.  "The 
one  that  brought  me  in  here  is  so  kind  to  me. 
I  should  like  to  do  something  for  him,  when  I 
get  out.  He's  quite  human.  He  does  not  mind 
talking  to  me  and  explaining  things;  but  some 

of  them  at  Wandsworth  were  brutes I 

will  not  think  of  them  again.  I  have  sewn  those 
pages  up  and  you  must  never  ask  me  to  open 
them  again:  I  dare  not  open  them,"  he  cried 
pitifully. 

"But  you  ought  to  tell  it  all,"  I  said,  "that's 
perhaps  the  purpose  you  are  here  for:  the  ulti- 
mate reason." 

"Oh,  no,  Frank,  never.  It  would  need  a 
man  of  infinite  strength  to  come  here  and  give 
a  truthful  record  of  all  that  happened  to  him. 
I  don't  believe  you  could  do  it;  I  don't  believe 
anybody  would  be  strong  enough.  Starvation 
and  purging  alone  would  break  down  anyone's 
strength.  Everybody  knows  that  you  are 
purged  and  starved  to  the  edge  of  death. 
That's  what  two  years'  hard  labour  means.  It's 
not  the  labour  that's  hard.  It's  the  conditions 
of  life  that  make  it  impossibly  hard :  they  break 
you  down  body  and  soul.  And  if  you  resist, 
they  drive  you  crazy.  .  .  .  But,  please!  don't 


34-O          OSCAR  WILDE   AND    HIS    CONFESSIONS 

say  I  said  anything;  you've  promised,  you  know 
you  have:  you'll  remember:  won't  you!" 

I  felt  guilty:  his  insistence,  his  gasping  fear 
showed  me  how  terribly  he  must  have  suffered. 
He  was  beside  himself  with  dread.  I  ought  to 
have  visited  him  sooner.  I  changed  the  subject. 

"You  shall  have  writing  materials  and  your 
books,  Oscar.  Force  yourself  to  write.  You  are 
looking  better  than  you  used  to  look;  your  eyes 
are  brighter,  your  face  clearer."  The  old  smile 
came  back  into  his  eyes,  the  deathless  humour. 

"I've  had  a  rest  cure,  Frank,"  he  said,  and 
smiled  feebly. 

"You  should  give  record  of  this  life  as  far 
as  you  can,  and  of  all  its  influences  on  you. 
You  have  conquered,  you  know.  Write  the 
names  of  the  inhuman  brutes  on  their  foreheads 
in  vitriol,  as  Dante  did  for  all  time." 

"No,  no,  I  cannot:  I  will  not:  I  want  to  live 
and  forget.  I  could  not,  I  dare  not,  I  have  not 
Dante's  strength,  nor  his  bitterness;  I  am  a 
Greek  born  out  of  due  time."  He  had  said  the 
true  word  at  last. 

"I  will  come  again  and  see  you,"  I  replied. 
"Is  there  nothing  else  I  can  do?  I  hear  your 
wife  has  seen  you.  I  hope  you  have  made  it  up 
with  her?" 

"  She  tried  to  be  kind  to  me,  Frank,"  he  said 
in  a  dull  voice,  "she  was  kind,  I  suppose.  She 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          34! 

must  have  suffered;  I'm  sorry "  One 

felt  he  had  no  sorrow  to  spare  for  others. 

"Is  there  nothing  I  can  do?"  I  asked. 

"Nothing,  Frank,  only  if  you  could  get  me 
books  and  writing  materials,  if  I  could  be  al- 
lowed to  use  them  really!  But  you  won't  say 
anything  I  have  said  to  you,  you  promise  me 
you  won't?" 

"I  promise,"  I  replied,  "and  I  shall  come 
back  in  a  short  time  to  see  you  again.  I  think 
you  will  be  better  then 

"Don't  dread  the  coming  out;  you  have  friends 

who  will  work  for  you,  great  allies r  and  I 

told  him  about  Lady  Dorothy  Nevill  at  Mrs. 
Jeune's  lunch. 

"Isn't  she  a  dear  old  lady?"  he  cried,  "charm- 
ing, brilliant,  human  creature!  She  might  have 
stepped  out  of  a  page  of  Thackeray,  only  Thack- 
eray never  wrote  a  page  quite  dainty  and  charm- 
ing enough.  He  came  near  it  in  his  *  Esmond.' 
Oh,  I  remember  you  don't  like  the  book,  but 
it  is  beautifully  written,  Frank,  in  beautiful 
simple  rhythmic  English.  It  sings  itself  to  the 
ear.  Lady  Dorothy"  (how  he  loved  the  title!) 
"was  always  kind  to  me,  but  London  is  horrible. 
I  could  not  live  in  London  again.  I  must  go 
away  out  of  England.  Do  you  remember  talk- 
ing to  me,  Frank,  of  France?"  and  he  put  both 
his  hands  on  my  shoulders,  while  tears  ran 


342          OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

down  his  face,  and  sighs  broke  from  him. 
"Beautiful  France,  the  one  country  in  the  world 
where  they  care  for  humane  ideals  and  the  hu- 
mane life.  Ah!  if  only  I  had  gone  with  you  to 
France,"  and  the  tears  poured  down  his  cheeks 
and  our  hands  met  convulsively. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you  looking  so  well,"  I 
began  again.  "Books  you  shall  have;  for  God's 
sake  keep  your  heart  up,  and  I  will  come  back 
and  see  you,  and  don't  forget  you  have  good 
friends  outside;  lots  of  us!" 

"Thank  you,  Frank;  but  take  care,  won't 
you,  and  remember  your  promise  not  to  tell." 

I  nodded  in  assent  and  went  to  the  door. 
The  warder  came  in. 

"The  interview  is  over,"  I  said;  "will  you 
take  me  downstairs?" 

"If  you  will  not  mind  sitting  here,  sir,"  he 
said,  "  for  a  minute.  I  must  take  him  back  first." 

"I  have  been  telling  my  friend,"  said  Oscar 
to  the  warder,  "how  good  you  have  been  to  me," 
and  he  turned  and  went,  leaving  with  me  the 
memory  of  his  eyes  and  unforgettable  smile; 
but  I  noticed  as  he  disappeared  that  he  was 
thin,  and  looked  hunched  up  and  bowed,  in  the 
ugly  ill-fitting  prison  livery.  I  took  out  a  bank 
note  and  put  it  under  the  blotting  paper  that 
had  been  placed  on  the  table  for  me.  In  two  or 
three  minutes  the  warder  came  back,  and  as  I 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS  343 

left  the  room  I  thanked  him  for  being  kind  to  my 
friend,  and  told  him  how  kindly  Oscar  had 
spoken  of  him. 

"He  has  no  business  here,  sir,"  the  warder 
said.  "He's  no  more  like  one  of  our  regulars 
than  a  canary  is  like  one  of  them  cocky  little 
spadgers.  Prison  ain't  meant  for  such  as  him, 
and  he  ain't  meant  for  prison.  He's  that  soft, 
sir,  you  see,  and  affeckshunate.  He's  more  like 
a  woman,  he  is;  you  hurt  'em  without  meaning 
to.  I  don't  care  what  they  say,  I  likes  him; 
and  he  do  talk  beautiful,  sir,  don't  he?" 

"Indeed  he  does,"  I  said,  "the  best  talker 
in  the  world.  I  want  you  to  look  in  the  pad 
on  the  table.  I  have  left  a  note  there  for  you." 

"Not  for  me,  sir,  I  could  not  take  it;  no,  sir, 
please  not,"  he  cried  in  a  hurried,  fear-struck 
voice.  "You've  forgotten  something,  sir,  come 
back  and  get  it,  sir,  do,  please.  I  daren't." 

In  spite  of  my  remonstrance  he  took  me  back 
and  I  had  to  put  the  note  in  my  pocket. 

"I  could  not,  you  know,  sir,  I  was  not  kind 
to  him  for  that."  His  manner  changed;  he 
seemed  hurt. 

I  told  him  I  was  sure  of  it,  sure,  and  begged 
him  to  believe,  that  if  I  were  able  to  do  anything 
for  him,  at  any  time,  I'd  be  glad,  and  gave  him 
my  address.  He  was  not  even  listening — an 
honest,  good  man,  full  of  the  milk  of  human 


344          OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

kindness.  How  kind  deeds  shine  starlike  in 
this  prison  of  a  world.  That  warder  and  Sir 
Ruggles  Brise  each  in  his  own  place:  such  men 
are  the  salt  of  the  English  world;  better  are  not 
to  be  found  on  earth. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

ON  my  return  to  London  I  saw  Sir  Ruggles 
Brise.  No  one  could  have  shown  me  warmer 
sympathy,  or  more  discriminating  comprehen- 
sion. I  made  my  report  to  him  and  left  the 
matter  in  his  hands  with  perfect  confidence. 
I  took  care  to  describe  Oscar's  condition  to  his 
friends  while  assuring  them  that  his  circum- 
stances would  soon  be  bettered.  A  little  later  I 
heard  that  the  governor  of  the  prison  had  been 
changed,  that  Oscar  had  got  books  and  writing 
materials,  and  was  allowed  to  have  the  gas  burn- 
ing in  his  cell  to  a  late  hour  when  it  was  turned 
down  but  not  out.  In  fact,  from  that  time  on  he 
was  treated  with  all  the  kindness  possible,  and 
soon  we  heard  that  he  was  bearing  the  confine- 
ment and  discipline  better  than  could  have  been 
expected.  Sir  Evelyn  Ruggles  Brise  had  evi- 
dently settled  the  difficulty  in  the  most  humane 
spirit. 

Later  still  I  was  told  that  Oscar  had  begun 
to  write  "De  Profundis"  in  prison,  and  I  was 
very  hopeful  about  that  too:  no  news  could  have 
given  me  greater  pleasure.  It  seemed  to  me  cer- 
tain that  he  would  justify  himself  to  men  by 

345 


346          OSCAR  WILDE  AND  HIS   CONFESSIONS 

turning  the  punishment  into  a  stepping-stone. 
And  in  this  belief  when  the  time  came  I  ventured 
to  call  on  Sir  Ruggles  Brise  with  another  petition. 

"Surely,"  I  said,  "Oscar  will  not  be  impris- 
oned for  the  filll  term;  surely  four  or  five  months 
for  good  conduct  will  be  remitted?" 

Sir  Ruggles  Brise  listened  sympathetically,  but 
warned  me  at  once  that  any  remission  was 
exceptional;  however,  he  would  let  me  know 
what  could  be  done,  if  I  would  call  again  in  a 
week.  Much  to  my  surprise,  he  did  not  seem 
certain  even  about  the  good  conduct. 

I  returned  at  the  end  of  the  week,  and  had 
another  long  talk  with  him.  He  told  me  that 
good  conduct  meant,  in  prison  parlance,  ab- 
sence of  punishment,  and  Oscar  had  been  pun- 
ished pretty  often.  Of  course  his  offenses  were 
minor  offenses;  nothing  serious;  childish  faults 
indeed  for  the  most  part:  he  was  often  talking, 
and  he  was  often  late  in  the  morning;  his  cell 
was  not  kept  so  well  as  it  might  be,  and  so  forth ; 
peccadilloes,  all;  yet  a  certificate  of  "good  con- 
duct" depended  on  such  trifling  observances.  In 
face  of  Oscar's  record  Sir  Ruggles  Brise  did  not 
think  that  the  sentence  would  be  easily  lessened. 
I  was  thunder-struck.  But  then  no  rules  to  me 
are  sacro-sanct;  indeed,  they  are  only  tolerable 
because  of  the  exceptions.  I  had  such  a  high 
opinion  of  Ruggles  Brise — his  kindness  and  sense 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          347 

of  fair  play — that  I  ventured  to  show  him  my 
whole  mind  on  the  matter. 

"Oscar  Wilde,"  I  said  to  him,  "is  just  about 
to  face  life  again :  he  is  more  than  half  reconciled 
to  his  wife;  he  has  begun  a  book,  is  shouldering 
the  burden.  A  little  encouragement  now  and  I 
believe  he  will  do  better  things  than  he  has 
ever  done.  I  am  convinced  that  he  has  far 
bigger  things  in  him  than  we  have  seen  yet. 
But  he  is  extraordinarily  sensitive  and  extraor- 
dinarily vain.  The  danger  is  that  he  may  be 
frightened  and  blighted  by  the  harshness  and 
hatred  of  the  world.  He  may  shrink  into  him- 
self and  do  nothing  if  the  wind  be  not  tempered 
a  little  for  him.  A  hint  of  encouragement  now, 
the  feeling  that  men  like  yourself  think  him 
worthful  and  deserving  of  special  kindly  treat- 
ment, and  I  feel  certain  he  will  do  great  things. 
I  really  believe  it  is  in  your  hands  to  save  a  man 
of  extraordinary  talent,  and  get  the  best  out  of 
him,  if  you  care  to  do  it." 

"Of  course  I  care  to  do  it,"  he  cried.  "You 
cannot  doubt  that,  and  I  see  exactly  what  you 
mean;  but  it  will  not  be  easy." 

"Won't  you  see  what  can  be  done?"  I  per- 
sisted. "Put  your  mind  to  discover  how  it 
should  be  done,  how  the  Home  Secretary  may 
be  induced  to  remit  the  last  few  months  of 
Wilde's  sentence." 


34$          OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

After  a  little  while  he  replied: 

"You  must  believe  that  the  authorities  are 
quite  willing  to  help  in  any  good  work,,  more 
than  willing,  and  I  am  sure  I  speak  for  the  Home 
Secretary  as  well  as  for  myself;  but  it  is  for  you 
to  give  us  some  reason  for  acting — a  reason 
that  could  be  avowed  and  defended." 

I  did  not  at  first  catch  his  drift;  so  I  perse- 
vered : 

"You  admit  that  the  reason  exists,  that  it 
would  be  a  good  thing  to  favour  Wilde,  then 
why  not  do  it?" 

"We  live,"  he  said,  "under  parliamentary 
rule.  Suppose  the  question  were  asked  in  the 
House,  and  I  think  it  very  likely  in  the  present 
state  of  public  opinion  that  the  question  would  be 
asked:  what  should  we  answer?  It  would  not  be 
an  avowable  reason  that  we  hoped  Wilde  would 
write  new  plays  and  books,  would  it?  That  rea- 
son ought  to  be  sufficient,  I  grant  you;  but,  you 
see  yourself,  it  would  not  be  so  regarded." 

"You  are  right,  I  suppose,"  I  had  to  admit. 
"But  if  I  got  you  a  petition  from  men  of  letters, 
asking  you  to  release  Wilde  for  his  health's  sake: 
would  that  do?" 

Sir  Ruggles  Brise  jumped  at  the  suggestion. 

"Certainly,"  he  exclaimed,  "if  some  men  of 
letters,  men  of  position,  wrote  asking  that 
Wilde's  sentence  should  be  diminished  by  three 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND  HIS  CONFESSIONS       349 

or  four  months  on  account  of  his  health,  I  think 
it  would  have  the  best  effect." 

"I  will  see  Meredith  at  once,"  I  said,  "and 
some  others.  How  many  names  should  I  get?" 

"If  you  have  Meredith,"  he  replied,  "you 
don't  need  many  others.  A  dozen  would  do, 
or  fewer  if  you  find  a  dozen  too  many." 

"I  don't  think  I  shall  meet  with  any  diffi- 
culty," I  replied,  "but  I  will  let  you  know." 

"You  will  find  it  harder  than  you  think,"  he 
concluded,  "but  if  you  get  one  or  two  great 
names  the  rest  may  follow.  In  any  case  one  or 
two  good  names  will  make  it  easier  for  you." 

Naturally  I  thanked  him  for  his  kindness 
and  went  away  absolutely  content.  I  had  never 
set  myself  a  task  which  seemed  simpler.  Mere- 
dith could  not  be  more  merciless  than  a  Royal 
Commission.  I  returned  to  my  office  in  The 
Saturday  Review  and  got  the  Royal  Commission 
report  on  this  sentence  of  two  years'  imprison- 
ment with  hard  labour.  The  Commission  rec- 
ommended that  it  should  be  wiped  off  the 
Statute  Book  as  too  severe.  I  drafted  a  little 
petition  as  colourless  as  possible: 

"In  view  of  the  fact  that  the  punishment  of 
two  years'  imprisonment  with  hard  labour  has 
been  condemned  by  a  Royal  Commission  as  too 
severe,  and  inasmuch  as  Mr.  Wilde  has  been 
distinguished  by  his  work  in  letters  and  is  now, 


35O          OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

we  hear,  suffering  in  health,  we,  your  petitioners, 
pray — and  so  forth  and  so  on." 

I  got  this  printed,  and  then  sat  down  to  write 
to  Meredith  asking  when  I  could  see  him  on  the 
matter.  I  wanted  his  signature  first  to  be  printed 
underneath  the  petition,  and  then  issue  it.  To 
my  astonishment  Meredith  did  not  answer  at 
once,  and  when  I  pressed  him  and  set  forth 
the  facts  he  wrote  to  me  that  he  could  not  do 
what  I  wished.  I  wrote  again,  begging  him  to 
let  me  see  him  on  the  matter.  For  the  first 
time  in  my  life  he  refused  to  see  me:  he  wrote 
to  me  to  say  that  nothing  I  could  urge  would 
move  him,  and  it  would  therefore  only  be  painful 
to  both  of  us  to  find  ourselves  in  conflict. 

Nothing  ever  surprised  me  more  than  this 
attitude  of  Meredith's.  I  knew  his  poetry  pretty 
well,  and  knew  how  severe  he  was  on  every  sen- 
sual weakness  perhaps  because  it  was  his  own 
pitfall.  I  knew  too  what  a  fighter  he  was  at  heart 
and  how  he  loved  the  virile  virtues ;  but  I  thought 
I  knew  the  man,  knew  his  tender  kindliness  of 
heart,  the  founts  of  pity  in  him,  and  I  felt  certain 
I  could  count  on  him  for  any  office  of  human 
charity  or  generosity.  But  no,  he  was  impene- 
trable, hard.  He  told  me  long  afterwards  that  he 
had  rather  a  low  opinion  of  Wilde's  capacities,  in- 
stinctive, deep-rooted  contempt,  too,  for  the  show- 
man in  him,  and  an  absolute  abhorrence  of  his  vice. 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          35! 

"That  vile,  sensual  self-indulgence  puts  back 
the  hands  of  the  clock,"  he  said,  "and  should 
not  be  forgiven." 

For  the  life  of  me  I  could  never  forgive  Mere- 
dith; never  afterwards  was  he  of  any  importance 
to  me.  He  had  always  been  to  me  a  standard 
bearer  in  the  eternal  conflict,  a  leader  in  the 
Liberation  War  of  Humanity,  and  here  I  found 
him  pitiless  to  another  who  had  been  wounded 
on  the  same  side  in  the  great  struggle :  it  seemed 
to  me  appalling.  True,  Wilde  had  not  been 
wounded  in  fighting  for  us;  true,  he  had  fallen 
out  and  come  to  grief,  as  a  drunkard  might. 
But  after  all  he  had  been  fighting  on  the  right 
side:  had  been  a  quickening  intellectual  influ- 
ence: it  was  dreadful  to  pass  him  on  the  wayside 
and  allow  him  callously  to  bleed  to  death.  It 
was  revoltingly  cruel!  The  foremost  English- 
man of  his  time  unable  even  to  understand 
Christ's  example,  much  less  reach  his  height! 

This  refusal  of  Meredith's  not  only  hurt  me, 
but  almost  destroyed  my  hope,  though  it  did 
not  alter  my  purpose.  I  wanted  a  figurehead 
for  my  petition,  and  the  figurehead  I  had 
chosen  I  could  not  get.  I  began  to  wonder 
and  doubt.  I  next  approached  a  very  different 
man,  the  late  Professor  Churton  Collins,  a  great 
friend  of  mine,  who,  in  spite  of  an  almost  pedan- 
tic rigour  of  mind  and  character,  had  in  him 


352          OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

at  bottom  a  curious  spring  of  sympathy — a 
little  pool  of  pure  love  for  the  poets  and  writers 
whom  he  admired.  I  got  him  to  dinner  and 
asked  him  to  sign  the  petition;  he  refused,  but 
on  grounds  other  than  those  taken  by  Meredith. 

"Of  course  Wilde  ought  to  get  out,"  he  said, 
"the  sentence  was  a  savage  one  and  showed 
bitter  prejudice;  but  I  have  children,  and  my 
own  way  to  make  in  the  world,  and  if  I  did  this 
I  should  be  tarred  with  the  Wilde  brush.  I 
cannot  afford  to  do  it.  If  he  were  really  a  great 
man  I  hope  I  should  do  it,  but  I  don't  agree 
with  your  estimate  of  him.  I  cannot  think  I 
am  called  upon  to  bell  the  British  cat  in  his 
defence:  it  has  many  claws  and  all  sharp." 

As  soon  as  he  saw  the  position  was  unworthy 
of  him,  he  shifted  to  new  ground. 

"If  you  were  justified  in  coming  to  me,  I 
should  do  it;  but  I  am  no  one;  why  don't  you 
go  to  Meredith,  Swinburne  or  Hardy?" 

I  had  to  give  up  the  Professor,  as  well  as  the 
poet.  I  knocked  in  turn  at  a  great  many  doors, 
but  all  in  vain.  No  one  wished  to  take  the 
odium  on  himself.  One  man,  since  become  cele- 
brated, said  he  had  no  position,  his  name  was 
not  good  enough  for  the  purpose.  Others  left 
my  letters  unanswered.  Yet  another  sent  a  bare 
acknowledgment  saying  how  sorry  he  was,  but 
that  public  opinion  was  against  Mr.  Wilde; 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          353 

with  one  accord  they  all  made  excuses 

One  day  Professor  Tyrrell  of  Trinity  College, 
Dublin,  happened  to  be  in  my  office,  while  I 
was  setting  forth  the  difference  between  men 
of  letters  in  France  and  England  as  exemplified 
by  this  conduct.  In  France  among  authors 
there  is  a  recognised  "esprit  de  corps,"  which 
constrains  them  to  hold  together.  For  instance 
when  Zola  was  threatened  with  prosecution 
for  "Nana,"  a  dozen  men  like  Cherbuliez, 
Feuillet,  Dumas  fits,  who  hated  his  work  and 
regarded  it  as  sensational,  tawdry,  immoral 
even,  took  up  the  cudgels  for  him  at  once;  de- 
clared that  the  police  were  not  judges  of  art, 
and  should  not  interfere  with  a  serious  work- 
man. All  these  Frenchmen,  though  they  dis- 
liked Zola's  work,  and  believed  that  his  popu- 
larity was  won  by  a  low  appeal,  still  admitted 
that  he  was  a  force  in  letters,  and  stood  by  him 
resolutely  in  spite  of  their  own  prepossessions 
and  prejudices.  But  in  England  the  feeling  is 
altogether  more  selfish.  Everyone  consults  his 
own  sordid  self-interest  and  is  rather  glad  to  see 
a  social  favourite  come  to  grief:  not  a  hand  is 
stretched  out  to  help  him.  Suddenly,  Tyrrell 
broke  in  upon  my  exposition: 

"  I  don't  know  whether  my  name  is  of  any  good 
to  you,"  he  said,  "but  I  agree  with  all  you  have 
said,  and  my  name  might  be  classed  with  that 


354         OSCAR  WILDE  AND  HIS  CONFESSIONS 

of  Churton  Collins,  though,  of  course,  I've  no 
right  to  speak  for  literature,"  and  without  more 
ado  he  signed  the  petition,  adding,  "Regius 
Professor  of  Greek  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin." 

"When  you  next  see  Oscar,"  he  continued, 
"please  tell  him  that  my  wife  and  I  asked  after 
him.  We  both  hold  him  in  grateful  memory 
as  a  most  brilliant  talker  and  writer,  and  a 
charming  fellow  to  boot.  Confusion  take  all 
their  English  Puritanism." 

Merely  living  in  Ireland  tends  to  make  an 
Englishman  more  humane;  but  one  name  was 
not  enough,  and  TyrrelPs  was  the  only  one  I 
could  get.  In  despair,  and  knowing  that  George 
Wyndham  had  had  a  great  liking  for  Oscar,  and 
admiration  for  his  high  talent,  I  asked  him  to 
lunch  at  the  Savoy;  laid  the  matter  before  him, 
and  begged  him  to  give  me  his  name.  He  re- 
fused, and  in  face  of  my  astonishment  he  excused 
himself  by  saying  that,  as  soon  as  the  rumour 
had  reached  him  of  Oscar's  intimacy  with  Bosie 
Douglas,  he  had  asked  Oscar  whether  there 
was  any  truth  in  the  scandalous  report. 

"You  see,"  he  went  on,  "Bosie  is  by  way  of 
being  a  relation  of  mine,  and  so  I  had  the  right 
to  ask.  Oscar  gave  me  his  word  of  honour  that 
there  was  nothing  but  friendship  between  them. 
He  lied  to  me,  and  that  I  can  never  forgive." 

A  politician  unable  to  forgive  a  lie — surely 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND  HIS   CONFESSIONS          355 

one  can  hear  the  mocking  laughter  of  the  gods! 
I  could  say  nothing  to  such  paltry  affected 
nonsense.  Politician-like  Wyndham  showed  me 
how  the  wind  of  popular  feeling  blew,  and  I 
recognised  that  my  efforts  were  in  vain. 

There  is  no  fellow-feeling  among  EnglisTi 
men  of  letters;  in  fact  they  hold  together  less 
than  any  other  class  and,  by  himself,  none  of 
them  wished  to  help  a  wounded  member  of  the 
flock.  I  had  to  tell  Sir  Ruggles  Brise  that  I  had 
failed. 

I  have  been  informed  since  that  if  I  had 
begun  by  asking  Thomas  Hardy,  I  might  have 
succeeded.  I  knew  Hardy;  but  never  cared 
greatly  for  his  talent.  I  daresay  if  I  had  had 
nothing  else  to  do  I  might  have  succeeded  in 
some  half  degree.  But  all  these  two  years  I  was 
extremely  busy  and  anxious;  the  storm  clouds 
in  South  Africa  were  growing  steadily  darker 
and  my  attitude  to  South  African  affairs  was 
exceedingly  unpopular  in  London.  It  seemed 
to  me  vitally  important  to  prevent  England 
from  making  war  on  the  Boers.  I  had  to  aban- 
don the  attempt  to  get  Oscar's  sentence  short- 
ened, and  comfort  myself  with  Sir  Ruggles 
Brise's  assurance  that  he  would  be  treated  with 
the  greatest  possible  consideration. 

Still,  my  advocacy  had  had  a  good  effect. 

Oscar  himself  has  told  us  what  the  kindness 


356         OSCAR   WILDE   AND    HIS    CONFESSIONS 

shown  to  him  in  the  last  six  months  of  his  prison 
life  really  did  for  him.  He  writes  in  De  Profundis 
that  for  the  first  part  of  his  sentence  he  could 
only  wring  his  hands  in  impotent  despair  and 
cry,  "What  an  ending,  what  an  appalling  end- 
ing!" But  when  the  new  spirit  of  kindness  came 
to  him,  he  could  say  with  sincerity:  "What  a 
beginning,  what  a  wonderful  beginning!"  He 
sums  it  all  up  in  these  words: 

"Had  I  been  released  after  eighteen  months, 
as  I  hoped  to  be,  I  would  have  left  my  prison 
loathing  it  and  every  official  in  it  with  a  bitter- 
ness of  hatred  that  would  have  poisoned  my  life. 
I  have  had  six  months  more  of  imprisonment, 
but  humanity  has  been  in  the  prison  with  us  all 
the  time,  and  now  when  I  go  out  I  shall  always 
remember  great  kindnesses  that  I  have  received 
here  from  almost  everybody,  and  on  the  day  of 
my  release  I  shall  give  many  thanks  to  many 
people,  and  ask  to  be  remembered  by  them  in 


turn." 


This  is  the  man  whom  Mr.  Justice  Wills  ad- 
dressed as  insensible  to  any  high  appeal. 

Some  time  passed  before  I  visited  Oscar  again. 
The  change  in  him  was  extraordinary.  He  was 
light-hearted,  gay,  and  looked  better  than  I  had 
ever  seen  him :  clearly  the  austerity  of  prison  life 
suited  him.  He  met  me  with  a  jest: 

"It  is  you,  Frank!"  he  cried  as  if  astonished, 


OSCAR   WILDE   AND    HIS    CONFESSIONS       357 

"always  original!  You  come  back  to  prison  of 
your  own  free-will!" 

He  declared  that  the  new  governor — Major 
Nelson1  was  his  name — had  been  as  kind  as  pos- 
sible to  him.  He  had  not  had  a  punishment  for 
months,  and  "Oh,  Frank,  the  joy  of  reading 
when  you  like  and  writing  as  you  please — the 
delight  of  living  again!"  He  was  so  infinitely 
improved  that  his  talk  delighted  me. 

"What  books  have  you?"  I  asked. 

"I  thought  I  should  like  the  'CEdipus  Rex,'" 
he  replied  gravely;  "but  I  could  not  read  it.  It 
all  seemed  unreal  to  me.  Then  I  thought  of  St. 
Augustine,  but  he  was  worse  still.  The  fathers 
of  the  Church  were  still  further  away  from  me; 
they  all  found  it  so  easy  to  repent  and  change 
their  lives:  it  does  not  seem  to  me  easy.  At 
last  I  got  hold  of  Dante.  Dante  was  what  I 
wanted.  I  read  the  'Purgatorio'  all  through, 
forced  myself  to  read  it  in  Italian  to  get  the 
full  savour  and  significance  of  it.  Dante,  too, 
had  been  in  the  depths  and  drunk  the  bitter 
lees  of  despair.  I  shall  want  a  little  library  when 
I  come  out,  a  library  of  a  score  of  books.  I 
wonder  if  you  will  help  me  to  get  it.  I  want 
Flaubert,  Stevenson,  Baudelaire,  Maeterlinck, 
Dumas  -pere,  Keats,  Marlowe,  Chatterton,  Ana- 
tole  France,  Theophile  Gautier,  Dante,  Goethe,, 

JCfr.  Appendix:  "Criticisms  by  Robert  Ross." 


3 $8          OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

Meredith's  poems,  and  his  'Egoist,'  the  Song  of 
Solomon,  too,  Job,  and,  of  course,  the  Gospels." 

"I  shall  be  delighted  to  get  them  for  you,"  I 
said,  "if  you  will  send  me  the  list.  By  the  by,  I 
hear  that  you  have  been  reconciled  to  your  wife; 
is  that  true  ?  I  should  be  glad  to  know  it's  true." 

"I  hope  it  will  be  all  right,"  he  said  gravely, 
"she  is  very  good  and  kind.  I  suppose  you 
have  heard,"  he  went  on,  "that  my  mother 
died  since  I  came  here,  and  that  leaves  a  great 

gap  in  my  life I  always  had  the  greatest 

admiration  and  love  for  my  mother.  She  was 
a  great  woman,  Frank,  a  perfect  idealist.  My 
father  got  into  trouble  once  in  Dublin,  perhaps 
you  have  heard  about  it?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  I  said,  "I  have  read  the  case." 
(It  is  narrated  in  the  first  chapter  of  this  book.) 

"Well,  Frank,  she  stood  up  in  court  and  bore 
witness  for  him  with  perfect  serenity,  with  per- 
fect trust  and  without  a  shadow  of  common 
womanly  jealousy.  She  could  not  believe  that 
the  man  she  loved  could  be  unworthy,  and  her 
conviction  was  so  complete  that  it  communi- 
cated itself  to  the  jury:  her  trust  was  so  noble 
that  they  became  infected  by  it,  and  brought 
him  in  guiltless.1  Extraordinary,  was  it  not? 

1I  give  Oscar's  view  of  the  trial  just  to  show  how  his  romantic 
imagination  turned  disagreeable  facts  into  pleasant  fiction.  Oscar 
could  only  have  heard  of  the  trial,  and  perhaps  his  mother  was  his  in- 
formant— which  adds  to  the  interest  of  the  story. 


'•Speranza":  Lady  Wilde  as  a  Young  Woman 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          359 

She  was  quite  sure  too  of  the  verdict.  It  is 
only  noble  souls  who  have  that  assurance  and 
serenity 

"When  my  father  was  dying  it  was  the  same 
thing.  I  always  see1  her  sitting  there  by  his 
bedside  with  a  sort  of  dark  veil  over  her  head: 
quite  silent,  quite  calm.  Nothing  ever  troubled 
her  optimism.  She  believed  that  only  good  can 
happen  to  us.  When  death  came  to  the  man 
she  loved,  she  accepted  it  with  the  same  serenity 
and  when  my  sister  died  she  bore  it  in  the  same 
high  way.  My  sister  was  a  wonderful  creature, 
so  gay  and  high-spirited,  'embodied  sunshine,' 
I  used  to  call  her. 

"When  we  lost  her,  my  mother  simply  took 
it  that  it  was  best  for  the  child.  Women  have 
infinitely  more  courage  than  men,  don't  you 
think?  I  have  never  known  anyone  with  such 
perfect  faith  as  my  mother.  She  was  one  of 
the  great  figures  of  the  world.  What  she  must 
have  suffered  over  my  sentence  I  don't  dare  to 
think:  I'm  sure  she  endured  agonies.  She  had 
great  hopes  of  me.  When  she  was  told  that  she 
was  going  to  die,  and  that  she  could  not  see  me, 
for  I  was  not  allowed  to  go  to  her,1  she  said, 
'May  the  prison  help  him,'  and  turned  her  face 
to  the  wall. 

1  Permission  to  visit  a  dying  mother  is  accorded  in  France,  even  to 
murderers.  The  English  pretend  to  be  more  religious  than  the  French; 
but  are  assuredly  less  humane. 


360         OSCAR  WILDE  AND  HIS  CONFESSIONS 

"  She  felt  about  the  prison  as  you  do,  Frank, 
and  really  I  think  you  are  both  right;  it  has 
helped  me.  There  are  things  I  see  now  that  I 
never  saw  before.  I  see  what  pity  means.  I 
thought  a  work  of  art  should  be  beautiful  and 
joyous.  But  now  I  see  that  that  ideal  is  in- 
sufficient, even  shallow;  a  work  of  art  must  be 
founded  on  pity;  a  book  or  poem  which  has  no 
pity  in  it,  had  better  not  be  written 

"I  shall  be  very  lonely  when  I  come  out,  and  I 
can't  stand  loneliness  and  solitude;  it  is  intolera- 
ble to  me,  hateful,  I  have  had  too  much  of  it.  ... 

"You  see,  Frank,  I  am  breaking  with  the  past 
altogether.  I  am  going  to  write  the  history 
of  it.  I  am  going  to  tell  how  I  was  tempted 
and  fell,  how  I  was  pushed  by  the  man  I  loved 
into  that  dreadful  quarrel  of  his,  driven  forward 
to  the  fight  with  his  father  and  then  left  to 
suffer  alone [ 

"That  is  the  story  I  am  now  going  to  tell. 
That  is  the  book1  of  pity  and  of  love  which  I 
am  writing  now — a  terrible  book 

"I  wonder  would  you  publish  it,  Frank?  I 
should  like  it  to  appear  in  The  Saturday" 

"I'd  be  delighted  to  publish  anything  of 
yours,"  I  replied,  "and  happier  still  to  publish 
something  to  show  that  you  have  at  length 

1  "De  Profundis."  What  Oscar  called  "  the  terrible  part "  of  the  book 
— the  indictment  of  Lord  Alfred  Douglas — has  since  been  raad  out  in 
Court  and  will  be  found  in  the  Appendix  to  this  volume. 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          361 

chosen  the  better  part  and  are  beginning  a  new 
life.  I'd  pay  you,  too,  whatever  the  work  turns 
out  to  be  worth  to  me;  in  any  case  much  more 
than  I  pay  Bernard  Shaw  or  anyone  else."  I 
said  this  to  encourage  him. 

"I'm  sure  of  that,"  he  answered.  "I'll  send 
you  the  book  as  soon  as  I've  finished  it.  I  think 
you'll  like  it" — and  there  for  the  moment  the 
matter  ended. 

At  length  I  felt  sure  that  all  would  be  well 
with  him.  How  could  I  help  feeling  sure?  His 
mind  was  richer  and  stronger  than  it  had  ever 
been;  and  he  had  broken  with  all  the  dark  past. 
I  was  overjoyed  to  believe  that  he  would  yet 
do  greater  things  than  he  had  ever  done,  and 
this  belief  and  determination  were  in  him  too, 
as  anyone  can  see  on  reading  what  he  wrote 
at  this  time  in  prison: 

"There  is  before  me  so  much  to  do  that  I 
would  regard  it  as  a  terrible  tragedy  if  I  died 
before  I  was  allowed  to  complete  at  any  rate 
a  little  of  it.  I  see  new  developments  in  art  and 
life,  each  one  of  which  is  a  fresh  mode  of  per- 
fection. I  long  to  live  so  that  I  can  explore 
what  is  no  less  than  a  new  world  to  me.  Do 
you  want  to  know  what  this  new  world  is? 
I  think  you  can  guess  what  it  is.  It  is  the  world 
in  which  I  have  been  living.  Sorrow,  then,  and 
all  that  it  teaches  one,  is  my  new  world 


362          OSCAR  WILDE  AND  HIS  CONFESSIONS 

"I  used  to  live  entirely  for  pleasure.  I 
shunned  suffering  and  sorrow  of  every  kind. 
I  hated  both " 

Through  the  prison  bars  Oscar  had  begun  to 
see  how  mistaken  he  had  been,  how  much  greater, 
and  more  salutary  to  the  soul,  suffering  is  than 
pleasure. 

"Out  of  sorrow  have  the  worlds  been  built, 
and  at  the  birth  of  a  child  or  a  star  there  is 
pain." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

SHORTLY  before  he  came  out  of  prison,  one  of 
Oscar's  intimates  told  me  he  was  destitute,  and 
begged  me  to  get  him  some  clothes.  I  took  the 
name  of  his  tailor  and  ordered  two  suits.  The 
tailor  refused  to  take  the  order:  he  was  not 
going  to  make  clothes  for  Oscar  Wilde.  I  could 
not  trust  myself  to  talk  to  the  man  and  there- 
fore sent  my  assistant  editor  and  friend,  Mr. 
Blanchamp,  to  have  it  out  with  him.  The 
tradesman  soul  yielded  to  the  persuasiveness 
of  cash  in  advance.  I  sent  Oscar  the  clothes 
and  a  cheque,  and  shortly  after  his  release  got  a 
letter1  thanking  me. 

A  little  later  I  heard  on  good  authority  a 
story  which  Oscar  afterwards  confirmed,  that 
when  he  left  Reading  Gaol  the  correspondent  of 
an  American  paper  offered  him  £1,000  for  an  in- 
terview dealing  with  his  prison  life  and  experi- 
ences, but  he  felt  it  beneath  his  dignity  to  take 
his  sufferings  to  market.  He  thought  it  better  to 
borrow  than  to  earn.  He  is  partly  to  be  excused, 
perhaps,  when  one  remembers  that  he  had  still 
some  pounds  left  of  the  large  sums  given  him 

1  Reproduced  in  the  Appendix. 

363 


364  OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

before  his  condemnation,  by  Miss  S ,  Ross, 

More  Adey,  and  others.  Still  his  refusal  of  such 
a  sum  as  that  offered  by  the  New  York  paper 
shows  how  utterly  contemptuous  he  was  of 
money,  even  at  a  moment  when  one  would  have 
thought  money  would  have  been  his  chief  pre- 
occupation. He  always  lived  in  the  day  and 
rather  heedlessly. 

As  soon  as  he  left  prison  he  crossed  with  some 
friends  to  France,  and  went  to  stay  at  the  Hotel 
de  la  Plage  at  Berneval,  a  quiet  little  village  near 
Dieppe.  M.  Andre  Gide,  who  called  on  him  there 
almost  as  soon  as  he  arrived,  gives  a  fair  mental 
picture  of  him  at  this  time.  He  tells  how  de- 
lighted he  was  to  find  in  him  the  "Oscar  Wilde 
of  old,"  no  longer  the  sensualist  puffed  out  with 
pride  and  good  living,  but  "the  sweet  Wilde" 
of  the  days  before  1891.  "I  found  myself  taken 
back,  not  two  years,"  he  says,  "but  four  or  five. 
There  was  the  same  dreamy  look,  the  same 
amused  smile,  the  same  voice." 

He  told  M.  Gide  that  prison  had  completely 
changed  him,  had  taught  him  the  meaning  of 
pity.  "You  know,"  he  went  on,  "how  fond 
I  used  to  be  of  '  Madame  Bovary,'  but  Flaubert 
would  not  admit  pity  into  his  work,  and  that 
is  why  it  has  a  petty  and  restrained  character 
about  it.  It  is  the  sense  of  pity  by  means  of 
which  a  work  gains  in  expanse,  and  by  which 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND  HIS  CONFESSIONS          365 

it  opens  up  a  boundless  horizon.  Do  you  know, 
my  dear  fellow,  it  was  pity  which  prevented 
my  killing  myself?  During  the  first  six  months 
in  prison  I  was  dreadfully  unhappy,  so  utterly 
miserable  that  I  wanted  to  kill  myself;  but  what 
kept  me  from  doing  so  was  looking  at  the  others, 
and  seeing  that  they  were  as  unhappy  as  I  was, 
and  feeling  sorry  for  them.  Oh  dear!  what  a 
wonderful  thing  pity  is,  and  I  never  knew  it." 

He  was  speaking  in  a  low  voice  without  any 
excitement. 

"Have  you  ever  learned  how  wonderful  a 
thing  pity  is  ?  For  my  part  I  thank  God  every 
night,  yes,  on  my  knees  I  thank  God  for  having 
taught  it  to  me.  I  went  into  prison  with  a  heart 
of  stone,  thinking  only  of  my  own  pleasure;  but 
now  my  heart  is  utterly  broken — pity  has  en- 
tered into  my  heart.  I  have  learned  now  that 
pity  is  the  greatest  and  the  most  beautiful  thing 
in  the  world.  And  that  is  why  I  cannot  bear 
ill-will  towards  those  who  caused  my  suffering 
and  those  who  condemned  me;  no,  nor  to  anyone, 
because  without  them  I  should  not  have  known 
all  that.  Alfred  Douglas  writes  me  terrible 
letters.  He  says  he  does  not  understand  me, 
that  he  does  not  understand  that  I  do  not 
wish  everyone  ill,  and  that  everyone  has  been 
horrid  to  me.  No,  he  does  not  understand  me. 
He  cannot  understand  me  any  more.  But  I 


366         OSCAR  WILDE  AND  HIS   CONFESSIONS 

keep  on  telling  him  that  in  every  letter:  we 
cannot  follow  the  same  road.  He  has  his  and 
it  is  beautiful — I  have  mine.  His  is  that  of 
Alcibiades;  mine  is  now  that  of  St.  Francis  of 
Assisi." 

How  much  of  this  is  sincere  and  how  much 
merely  imagined  and  stated  in  order  to  incarnate 
the  new  ideal  to  perfection  would  be  hard  to  say. 
The  truth  is  not  so  saintly  simple  as  the  chris- 
tianised Oscar  would  have  us  believe.  The  un- 
published portions  of  "De  Profundis"  which 
were  read  out  in  the  Douglas-Ransome  trial 
prove,  what  all  his  friends  know,  that  Oscar 
Wilde  found  it  impossible  to  forgive  or  forget 
what  seemed  to  him  personal  ill-treatment. 
There  are  beautiful  pages  in  "De  Profundis," 
pages  of  sweetest  Christlike  resignation  and 
charity  and  no  doubt  in  a  certain  mood  Oscar 
was  sincere  in  writing  them.  But  there  was 
another  mood  in  him,  more  vital  and  more  en- 
during, if  not  so  engaging,  a  mood  in  which  he 
saw  himself  as  one  betrayed  and  sacrificed  and 
abandoned,  and  then  he  attributed  his  ruin 
wholly  to  his  friend  and  did  not  hesitate  to  speak 
of  him  as  the  "Judas"  whose  shallow  selfishness 
and  imperious  ill-temper  and  unfulfilled  prom- 
ises of  monetary  help  had  driven  a  great  man  to 
disaster. 

That  unpublished  portion  of  "De  Profundis" 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          367 

is  in  essence,  from  beginning  to  end,  one  long 
curse  of  Lord  Alfred  Douglas,  an  indictment 
apparently  impartial,  particularly  at  first;  but 
in  reality  a  bitter  and  merciless  accusation,  show- 
ing in  Oscar  Wilde  a  curious  want  of  sympathy 
even  with  the  man  he  said  he  loved.  Those  who 
would  know  Oscar  Wilde  as  he  really  was  will 
read  that  piece  of  rhetoric  with  care  enough  to 
notice  that  he  reiterates  the  charge  of  shallow 
selfishness  with  such  venom,  that  he  discovers 
his  own  colossal  egotism  and  essential  hardness 
of  heart.  "Love,"  we  are  told,  "suffereth  long 
and  is  kind  ....  beareth  all  things,  believeth 
all  things,  hopeth  all  things,  endureth  all  things" 
— that  sweet,  generous,  all-forgiving  tenderness 
of  love  was  not  in  the  pagan,  Oscar  Wilde,  and 
therefore  even  his  deepest  passion  never  won  to 
complete  reconciliation  and  ultimate  redemption. 

In  this  same  talk  with  M.  Gide,  Oscar  is  re- 
ported to  have  said  that  he  had  known  before- 
hand that  a  catastrophe  was  unavoidable; 
"there  was  but  one  end  possible.  .  .  .  That 
state  of  things  could  not  last;  there  had  to  be 
some  end  to  it." 

This  view  I  believe  is  Gide's  and  not  Oscar's. 
In  any  case  I  am  sure  that  my  description  of 
him  before  the  trials  as  full  of  insolent  self-as- 
surance is  the  truer  truth.  Of  course  he  must 
have  had  forebodings;  he  was  warned  as  I've 


368          OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

related,  again  and  again;  but  he  took  character- 
colour  from  his  associates  and  he  met  Queens- 
berry's  first  attempts  at  attack  with  utter  dis- 
dain. He  did  not  realise  his  danger  at  all.  Gide 
reports  him  more  correctly  as  adding: 

"Prison  has  completely  changed  me.  I  was 
relying  on  it  for  that — Douglas  is  terrible.  He 
cannot  understand  that — cannot  understand 
that  I  am  not  taking  up  the  same  existence  again. 
He  accuses  the  others  of  having  changed  me." 

I  may  publish  here  part  of  a  letter  of  a  prison 
warder  which  Mr.  Stuart  Mason  reproduced  in 
his  excellent  little  book  on  Oscar  Wilde.  He  says : 

"No  more  beautiful  life  had  any  man  lived, 
no  more  beautiful  life  could  any  man  live  than 
Oscar  Wilde  lived  during  the  short  period  I 
knew  him  in  prison.  He  wore  upon  his  face 
an  eternal  smile;  sunshine  was  on  his  face,  sun- 
shine of  some  sort  must  have  been  in  his  heart. 
People  say  he  was  not  sincere:  he  was  the  very 
soul  of  sincerity  when  I  knew  him.  If  he  did 
not  continue  that  life  after  he  left  prison,  then 
the  forces  of  evil  must  have  been  too  strong 
for  him.  But  he  tried,  he  honestly  tried,  and 
in  prison  he  succeeded." 

All  this  seems  to  me  in  the  main,  true.  Oscar's 
gay  vivacity  would  have  astonished  any  stranger. 
Besides,  the  regular  hours  and  scant  plain  food  of 
prison  had  improved  his  health  and  the  solitude 


OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS        369 

and  suffering  had  lent  him  a  deeper  emotional 
life.  But  there  was  an  intense  bitterness  in  him, 
a  profound  underlying  sense  of  injury  which  came 
continually  to  passionate  expression.  Yet  as  soon 
as  the  miserable  petty  persecution  of  the  prison 
was  lifted  from  him,  all  the  joyous  gaiety  and 
fun  of  his  nature  bubbled  up  irresistibly.  There 
was  no  contradiction  in  this  complexity.  A  man 
can  hold  in  himself  a  hundred  conflicting  passions 
and  impulses  without  confusion.  At  this  time  the 
dominant  chord  in  Oscar  was  pity  for  others. 

To  my  delight  the  world  had  evidence  of  this 
changed  Oscar  Wilde  in  a  very  short  time.  On 
May  28th,  a  few  days  after  he  left  prison,  there 
appeared  in  The  Daily  Chronicle  a  letter  more 
than  two  columns  in  length,  pleading  for  the 
kindlier  treatment  of  little  children  in  English 
prisons.  The  letter  was  written  because  Warder 
Martin1  of  Reading  prison  had  been  dismissed 
by  the  Commissioners  for  the  dreadful  crime 
of  "having  given  some  sweet  biscuits  to  a  little 
hungry  child."  .  .  . 

I  must  quote  a  few  paragraphs  of  this  letter; 
because  it  shows  how  prison  had  deepened  Oscar 
Wilde,  how  his  own  suffering  had  made  him,  as 

1  Fac-simile  copies  of  some  of  the  notes  Oscar  wrote  to  Warder  Martin 
about  these  children  are  reproduced  in  the  Appendix.  The  notes  were 
written  on  scraps  of  paper  and  pushed  under  his  cell-door;  they  are  among 
the  most  convincing  evidences  of  Oscar's  essential  humanity  and  kindness 
of  heart. 


37°        OSCAR  WILDE   AND    HIS    CONFESSIONS 

Shakespeare  says,  "pregnant  to  good  pity,"  and 
also  because  it  tells  us  what  life  was  like  in  an 
English  prison  in  our  time.  Oscar  wrote: 

"  I  saw  the  three  children  myself  on  the  Mon- 
day preceding  my  release.  They  had  just  been 
convicted,  and  were  standing  in  a  row  in  the 
central  hall  in  their  prison  dress  carrying  their 
sheets  under  their  arms,  previous  to  their  being 

sent  to  the  cells  allotted  to  them They 

were  quite  small  children,  the  youngest — the 
one  to  whom  the  warder  gave  the  biscuits — 
being  a  tiny  chap,  for  whom  they  had  evidently 
been  unable  to  find  clothes  small  enough  to  fit. 
I  had,  of  course,  seen  many  children  in  prison 
during  the  two  years  during  which  I  was  myself 
confined.  Wandsworth  prison,  especially,  con- 
tained always  a  large  number  of  children.  But 
the  little  child  I  saw  on  the  afternoon  of  Mon- 
day, the  1 7th,  at  Reading,  was  tinier  than  any 
one  of  them.  I  need  not  say  how  utterly  dis- 
tressed I  was  to  see  these  children  at  Reading, 
for  I  knew  the  treatment  in  store  for  them. 
The  cruelty  that  is  practised  by  day  and  night 
on  children  in  English  prisons  is  incredible 
except  to  those  that  have  witnessed  it  and  are 
aware  of  the  brutality  of  the  system. 

"People  nowadays  do  not  understand  what 

cruelty  is Ordinary  cruelty  is  simply 

stupidity. 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          371 

"The  prison  treatment  of  children  is  terrible, 
primarily  from  people  not  understanding  the 
peculiar  psychology  of  the  child's  nature.  A 
child  can  understand  a  punishment  inflicted  by 
an  individual,  such  as  a  parent,  or  guardian, 
and  bear  it  with  a  certain  amount  of  acquies- 
cence. What  it  cannot  understand  is  a  punish- 
ment inflicted  by  society.  It  cannot  realise  what 
society  is.  ... 

"The  terror  of  a  child  in  prison  is  quite  limit- 
less. I  remember  once  in  Reading,  as  I  was 
going  out  to  exercise,  seeing  in  the  dimly  lit 
cell  opposite  mine  a  small  boy.  Two  warders 
— not  unkindly  men — were  talking  to  him,  with 
some  sternness  apparently,  or  perhaps  giving 
him  some  useful  advice  about  his  conduct. 
One  was  in  the  cell  with  him,  the  other  was 
standing  outside.  The  child's  face  was  like  a 
white  wedge  of  sheer  terror.  There  was  in  his 
eyes  the  terror  of  a  hunted  animal.  The  next 
morning  I  heard  him  at  breakfast  time  crying, 
and  calling  to  be  let  out.  His  cry  was  for  his 
parents.  From  time  to  time  I  could  hear  the 
deep  voice  of  the  warder  on  duty  telling  him  to 
keep  quiet.  Yet  he  was  not  even  convicted  of 
whatever  little  offence  he  had  been  charged 
with.  He  was  simply  on  remand.  That  I 
knew  by  his  wearing  his  own  clothes,  which 
seemed  neat  enough.  He  was,  however,  wear- 


372          OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

ing  prison  socks  and  shoes.  This  showed  that 
he  was  a  very  poor  boy,  whose  own  shoes,  if 
he  had  any,  were  in  a  bad  state.  Justices  and 
magistrates,  an  entirely  ignorant  class  as  a 
rule,  often  remand  children  for  a  week,  and 
then  perhaps  remit  whatever  sentence  they  are 
entitled  to  pass.  They  call  this  'not  sending  a 
child  to  prison.'  It  is  of  course  a  stupid  view 
on  their  part.  To  a  little  child,  whether  he  is 
in  prison  on  remand  or  after  conviction  is  not 
a  subtlety  of  position  he  can  comprehend.  To 
him  the  horrible  thing  is  to  be  there  at  all.  In 
the  eyes  of  humanity  it  should  be  a  horrible 
thing  for  him  to  be  there  at  all. 

"This  terror  that  seizes  and  dominates  the 
child,  as  it  seizes  the  grown  man  also,  is  of 
course  intensified  beyond  power  of  expression 
by  the  solitary  cellular  system  of  our  prisons. 
Every  child  is  confined  to  its  cell  for  twenty- 
three  hours  out  of  the  twenty-four.  This  is  the 
appalling  thing.  To  shut  up  a  child  in  a  dimly 
lit  cell  for  twenty-three  hours  out  of  the  twenty- 
four  is  an  example  of  the  cruelty  of  stupidity. 
If  an  individual,  parent  or  guardian,  did  this  to 
a  child,  he  would  be  severely  punished.  .  .  . 

"The  second  thing  from  which  a  child  suffers 
in  prison  is  hunger.  The  food  that  is  given  to 
it  consists  of  a  piece  of  usually  badly  baked 
prison  bread  and  a  tin  of  water  for  breakfast 


OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          373 

at  half  past  seven.  At  twelve  o'clock  it  gets 
dinner,  composed  of  a  tin  of  coarse  Indian  meal 
stirabout,  and  at  half  past  five  it  gets  a  piece 
of  dry  bread  and  a  tin  of  water  for  its  supper. 
This  diet  in  the  case  of  a  strong  man  is  always 
productive  of  illness  of  some  kind,  chiefly,  of 
course,  diarrhoea,  with  its  attendant  weakness. 
In  fact,  in  a  big  prison,  astringent  medicines 
are  served  out  regularly  by  the  warders  as  a 
matter  of  course.  A  child  is  as  a  rule  incapable 
of  eating  the  food  at  all.  Anyone  who  knows 
anything  about  children  knows  how  easily  a 
child's  digestion  is  upset  by  a  fit  of  crying,  or 
trouble  and  mental  distress  of  any  kind.  A 
child  who  has  been  crying  all  day  long  and  per- 
haps half  the  night,  in  a  lonely,  dimly  lit  cell, 
and  is  preyed  upon  by  terror,  simply  cannot  eat 
food  of  this  coarse,  horrible  kind.  In  the  case 
of  the  little  child  to  whom  Warder  Martin  gave 
the  biscuits,  the  child  was  crying  with  hunger 
on  Tuesday  morning,  and  utterly  unable  to  eat 
the  bread  and  water  served  to  it  for  breakfast. 
"Martin  went  out  after  the  breakfast  had  been 
served,  and  bought  the  few  sweet  biscuits  for 
the  child  rather  than  see  it  starving.  It  was 
a  beautiful  action  on  his  part,  and  was  so 
recognised  by  the  child,  who,  utterly  uncon- 
scious of  the  regulation  of  the  Prison  Board, 
told  one  of  the  senior  warders  how  kind  this 


374          OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

junior  warder  had  been  to  him.  The  result 
was,  of  course,  a  report  and  a  dismissal.1 

"I  know  Martin  extremely  well,  and  I  was 
under  his  charge  for  the  last  seven  weeks  of  my 
imprisonment I"  was  struck  by  the  sin- 
gular kindness  and  humanity  of  the  way  in 
which  he  spoke  to  me  and  to  the  other  pris- 
oners. Kind  words  are  much  in  prison,  and  a 
pleasant  ' good-morning'  or  'good-evening'  will 
make  one  as  happy  as  one  can  be  in  prison. 
He  was  always  gentle  and  considerate 

"A  great  deal  has  been  talked  and  written 
lately  about  the  contaminating  influence  of 
prison  on  young  children.  What  is  said  is  quite 
true.  A  child  is  utterly  contaminated  by  prison 
life.  But  this  contaminating  influence  is  not 
that  of  the  prisoners.  It  is  that  of  the  whole 
prison  system — of  the  governor,  the  chaplain,  the 
warders,  the  solitary  cell,  the  isolation,  the  revolt- 
ing food,  the  rules  of  the  Prison  Commissioners, 
the  mode  of  discipline,  as  it  is  termed,  of  the  life. 

"Of  course  no  child  under  fourteen  years  of 
age  should  be  sent  to  prison  at  all.  It  is  an 
absurdity,  and,  like  many  absurdities,  of  abso- 
lutely tragical  results.  .  .  .",' 

1The  Home  Secretary,  Sir  Matthew  White  Ridley,  when  questioned 
by  Mr.  Michael  Davitt  in  the  House  of  Commons,  May  25,  1897, 
declared  that  this  dismissal  of  a  warder  for  feeding  a  little  hungry  child 
at  his  own  expense  was  "fully  justified"  and  a  "proper  step."  This  same 
Home  Secretary  appointed  his  utterly  incompetent  brother  to  be  a  judge 
of  the  High  Court. 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS  3/5 

This  letter,  I  am  informed,  brought  about 
some  improvement  in  the  treatment  of  young 
children  in  British  prisons.  But  in  regard  to 
adults  the  British  prison  is  still  the  torture 
chamber  it  was  in  Wilde's  time;  prisoners  are 
still  treated  more  brutally  there  than  anywhere 
else  in  the  civilised  world;  the  food  is  the  worst 
in  Europe,  insufficient  indeed  to  maintain  health; 
in  many  cases  men  are  only  saved  from  death 
by  starvation  through  being  sent  to  the  in- 
firmary. Though  these  facts  are  well  known, 
Punchy  the  pet  organ  of  the  British  middle-class, 
was  not  ashamed  a  little  while  ago  to  make  a 
mock  of  some  suggested  reform,  by  publishing 
a  picture  of  a  British  convict,  with  the  villainous 
face  of  a  Bill  Sykes,  lying  on  a  sofa  in  his  cell 
smoking  a  cigar  with  champagne  at  hand.  This 
is  not  altogether  due  to  stupidity,  as  Oscar  tried 
to  believe,  but  to  reasoned  selfishness.  Punch 
and  the  class  for  which  it  caters  would  like  to 
believe  that  many  convicts  are  unfit  to  live, 
whereas  the  truth  is  that  a  good  many  of  them 
are  superior  in  humanity  to  the  people  who  pun- 
ish and  slander  them. 

While  waiting  for  his  wife  to  join  him,  Oscar 
rented  a  little  house,  the  Chalet  Bourgeat,  about 
two  hundred  yards  away  from  the  hotel  at  Ber- 
neval,  and  furnished  it.  Here  he  spent  the  whole 
of  the  summer  writing,  bathing,  and  talking 


376          OSCAR   WILDE   AND    HIS    CONFESSIONS 

to  the  few  devoted  friends  who  visited  him.  from 
time  to  time.  Never  had  he  been  so  happy: 
never  in  such  perfect  health.  He  was  full  of  lit- 
erary projects;  indeed,  no  period  of  his  whole  life 
was  so  fruitful  in  good  work.  He  was  going  to 
write  some  Biblical  plays;  one  entitled  "Pharaoh" 
first,  and  then  one  called  "Ahab  and  Jezebel," 
which  he  pronounced  Isabelle.  Deeper  problems, 
too,  were  much  in  his  mind:  he  was  already  at 
work  on  "The  Ballad  of  Reading  Gaol,"  but  be- 
fore coming  to  that  let  me  first  show  how  happy 
the  song-bird  was  and  how  divinely  he  sang  when 
the  dreadful  cage  was  opened  and  he  was  allowed 
to  use  his  wings  in  the  heavenly  sunshine. 

Here  is  a  letter  from  him  shortly  after  his  re- 
lease which  is  one  of  the  most  delightful  things 
he  ever  wrote.  Fitly  enough  it  was  addressed 
to  his  friend  of  friends,  Robert  Ross,  and  I  can 
only  say  that  I  am  extremely  obliged  to  Ross 
for  allowing  me  to  publish  it: 

Hotel  de  la  Plage.    Berneval,  near  Dieppe, 

Monday  night,  May  3 1st  (1897). 
My  dearest  Robbie, 

I  have  decided  that  the  only  way  in  which 
to  get  boots  properly  is  to  go  to  France  to 
receive  them.  The  Douane  charged  3  francs. 
Hou  could  you  frighten  me  as  you  did?  The 
next  time  you  order  boots  please  come  to 
Dieppe  to  get  them  sent  to  you.  It  is  the  only 
way  and  it  will  be  an  excuse  for  seeing  you. 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          377 

I  am  going  to-morrow  on  a  pilgrimage. 
I  always  wanted  to  be  a  pilgrim,  and  I  have 
decided  to  start  early  to-morrow  to  the  shrine 
of  Notre  Dame  de  Liesse.  Do  you  know  what 
Liesse  is  ?  It  is  an  old  word  for  joy.  I  suppose 
the  same  as  Letizia,  Laetitia.  I  just  heard  to- 
night of  the  shrine  or  chapel,  by  chance,  as  you 
would  say,  from  the  sweet  woman  of  the  au- 
berge,  who  wants  me  to  live  always  at  Berne- 
val.  She  says  Notre  Dame  de  Liesse  is  won- 
derful, and  helps  everyone  to  the  secret  of  joy 
— I  do  not  know  how  long  it  will  take  me  to  get 
to  the  shrine,  as  I  must  walk.  But,  from 
what  she  tells  me,  it  will  take  at  least  six 
or  seven  minutes  to  get  there,  and  as  many 
to  come  back.  In  fact  the  chapel  of  Notre 
Dame  de  Liesse  is  just  fifty  yards  from  the 
Hotel.  Isn't  it  extraordinary?  I  intend  to 
start  after  I  have  had  my  coffee,  and  then  to 
bathe.  Need  I  say  that  this  is  a  miracle?  I 
wanted  to  go  on  a  pilgrimage,  and  I  find  the 
little  grey  stone  chapel  of  Our  Lady  of  Joy  is 
brought  to  me.  It  has  probably  been  waiting 
for  me  all  these  purple  years  of  pleasure,  and 
now  it  comes  to  meet  me  with  Liesse  as  its 
message.  I  simply  don't  know  what  to  say. 
I  wish  you  were  not  so  hard  to  poor  heretics,1 

lThe  correspondent  to  whom  Wilde  writes  and  the  other  friend  re- 
ferred to  are  Roman  Catholics. 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

and  would  admit  that  even  for  the  sheep 
who  has  no  shepherd  there  is  a  Stella  Maris 
to  guide  it  home.  But  you  and  More,  espe- 
cially More,  treat  me  as  a  Dissenter.  It  is 
very  painful  and  quite  unjust. 

Yesterday  I  attended  Mass  at  10  o'clock 
and  afterwards  bathed.  So  I  went  into 
the  water  without  being  a  pagan.  The 
consequence  was  that  I  was  not  tempted 
by  either  sirens  or  mermaidens,  or  any  of  the 
green-haired  following  of  Glaucus.  I  really 
think  that  this  is  a  remarkable  thing.  In  my 
Pagan  days  the  sea  was  always  full  of  Tritons 
blowing  conchs,  and  other  unpleasant  things. 
Now  it  is  quite  different.  And  yet  you 
treat  me  as  the  President  of  Mansfield  Col- 
lege; and  after  I  had  canonised  you  too. 

Dear  boy,  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  if 
your  religion  makes  you  happy.  You  con- 
ceal your  religion  from  me  in  a  monstrous 
way.  You  treat  it  like  writing  in  the  Saturday 
Review  for  Pollock,  or  dining  in  Wardour 
Street  off  the  fascinating  dish  that  is  served 
with  tomatoes  and  makes  men  mad.1  I  know 
it  is  useless  asking  you,  so  don't  tell  me. 

I  felt  an  outcast  in  Chapel  yesterday — not 
really,  but  a  little  in  exile.  I  met  a  dear 

1  This  refers  to  a  story  which  Wilde  was  much  interested  in  at  the 
time. 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          379 

farmer  in  a  corn  field  and  he  gave  me  a  seat 
on  his  bane  in  church:  so  I  was  quite  com- 
fortable. He  now  visits  me  twice  a  day, 
and  as  he  has  no  children,  and  is  rich,  I 
have  made  him  promise  to  adopt  three — 
two  boys  and  a  girl.  I  told  him  that  if  he 
wanted  them,  he  would  find  them.  He  said 
he  was  afraid  that  they  would  turn  out  badly. 
I  told  him  everyone  did  that.  He  really  has 
promised  to  adopt  three  orphans.  He  is  now 
filled  with  enthusiasm  at  the  idea.  He  is  to 
go  to  the  Cure  and  talk  to  him.  He  told  me 
that  his  own  father  had  fallen  down  in  a  fit 
one  day  as  they  were  talking  together,  and 
that  he  had  caught  him  in  his  arms,  and  put 
him  to  bed,  where  he  died,  and  that  he  himself 
had  often  thought  how  dreadful  it  was  that 
if  he  had  a  fit  there  was  no  one  to  catch  him 
in  his  arms.  It  is  quite  clear  that  he  must 
adopt  orphans,  is  it  not? 

I  feel  that  Berneval  is  to  be  my  home. 
I  really  do.  Notre  Dame  de  Liesse  will  be 
sweet  to  me,  if  I  go  on  my  knees  to  her, 
and  she  will  advise  me.  It  is  extraordinary 
being  brought  here  by  a  white  horse  that  was 
a  native  of  the  place,  and  knew  the  road,  and 
wanted  to  see  its  parents,  now  of  advanced 
years.  It  is  also  extraordinary  that  I  knew 
Berneval  existed  and  was  arranged  for  me. 


380         OSCAR   WILDE   AND    HIS    CONFESSIONS 

M.  Bonnet1  wants  to  build  me  a  Chalet, 
1,000  metres  of  ground  (I  don't  know  how 
much  that  is — but  I  suppose  about  100  miles) 
and  a  Chalet  with  a  studio,  a  balcony,  a 
salle-a-manger,  a  huge  kitchen,  and  three  bed- 
rooms— a  view  of  the  sea,  and  trees — all  for 
12,000  francs — £480.  If  I  can  write  a  play 
I  am  going  to  have  it  begun.  Fancy  one's 
own  lovely  house  and  grounds  in  France  for 
£480.  No  rent  of  any  kind.  Pray  consider 
this,  and  approve,  if  you  think  well.  Of  course, 
not  till  I  have  done  my  play. 

An  old  gentleman  lives  here  in  the  hotel. 
He  dines  alone  in  his  room,  and  then  sits 
in  the  sun.  He  came  here  for  two  days 
and  has  stayed  two  years.  His  sole  sorrow 
is  that  there  is  no  theatre.  Monsieur  Bonnet 
is  a  little  heartless  about  this,  and  says  that 
as  the  old  gentleman  goes  to  bed  at  8  o'clock 
a  theatre  would  be  of  no  use  to  him.  The  old 
gentleman  says  he  only  goes  to  bed  at  8 
o'clock  because  there  is  no  theatre.  They 
argued  the  point  yesterday  for  an  hour.  I 
sided  with  the  old  gentleman,  but  Logic  sides 
with  Monsieur  Bonnet,  I  believe. 

I   had   a    sweet   letter   from   the    Sphinx.2 


irThe  proprietor  of  the  hotel. 

2The  Sphinx  is  a  nickname  for  Mrs.  Leverson,  author  of   "The 
Eleventh  Hour,"  and  other  witty  novels. 


OSCAR   WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS  3»I 

She  gives  me  a  delightful  account  of  Ernest1 
subscribing  to  Romeike  while  his  divorce  suit 
was  running,  and  not  being  pleased  with  some 
of  the  notices.  Considering  the  growing  appre- 
ciation of  Ibsen  I  must  say  that  I  am  surprised 
the  notices  were  not  better,  but  nowadays 
everybody  is  jealous  of  everyone  else,  except, 
of  course,  husband  and  wife.  I  think  I  shall 
keep  this  last  remark  of  mine  for  my  play. 

Have  you  got  my  silver  spoon2  from  Reggie  ? 
You  got  my  silver  brushes  out  of  Humphreys,3 
who  is  bald,  so  you  might  easily  get  my  spoon 
out  of  Reggie,  who  has  so  many,  or  used  to 
have.  You  know  my  crest  is  on  it.  It  is  a  bit 
of  Irish  silver,  and  I  don't  want  to  lose  it. 
There  is  an  excellent  substitute  called  Bri- 
tannia metal,  very  much  liked  at  the  Adelphi 
and  elsewhere.  Wilson  Barrett  writes,  "I 
prefer  it  to  silver."  It  would  suit  dear  Reggie 
admirably.  Walter  Besant  writes,  "I  use 
none  other."  Mr.  Beerbohm  Tree  also  writes, 
"Since  I  have  tried  it  I  am  a  different  actor; 
my  friends  hardly  recognise  me."  So  there  is 
obviously  a  demand  for  it. 

I  am  going  to  write  a  Political  Economy 
in  my  heavier  moments.  The  first  law  I 

1  Ernest  was  her  husband. 

2  The  silver  spoon  is  a  proposed  line  for  a  play  given  by  Ross  to 
Turner  (Reggie). 

3  Wilde's  solicitor  in  Regina  v.  Wilde. 


382          OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS    CONFESSIONS 

lay  down  is,  "Whenever  there  exists  a  demand, 
there  is  no  supply."  This  is  the  only  law  that 
explains  the  extraordinary  contrast  between  the 
soul  of  man  and  man's  surroundings.  Civ- 
ilisations continue  because  people  hate  them. 
A  modern  city  is  the  exact  opposite  of  what 
everyone  wants.  Nineteenth-century  dress  is 
the  result  of  our  horror  of  the  style.  The  tall 
hat  will  last  as  long  as  people  dislike  it. 

Dear  Robbie,  I  wish  you  would  be  a  little 
more  considerate,  and  not  keep  me  up  so  late 
talking  to  you.  It  is  very  flattering  to  me 
and  all  that,  but  you  should  remember  that 
I  need  rest.  Good-night.  You  will  find  some 
cigarettes  and  some  flowers  by  your  bedside. 
Coffee  is  served  below  at  8  o'clock.  Do  you 
mind  ?  If  it  is  too  early  for  you  I  don't  at  all 
mind  lying  in  bed  an  extra  hour.  I  hope  you 
will  sleep  well.  You  should  as  Lloyd  is  not  on 
the  Verandah. 1 
TUESDAY  MORNING,  9.30. 

The    sea    and    sky    are    opal — no    horrid 
drawing  master's  line  between  them — just  one 
fishing  boat,  going  slowly,  and  drawing  the 
wind  after  it.    I  am  going  to  bathe. 
6  O'CLOCK. 

Bathed  and  have  seen  a  Chalet  here  which 

JA  reference  to  the  "Vailima  Letters"  of  Stevenson  which  Wilde 
read  when  he  was  in  prison. 


OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          383 

I  wish  to  take  for  the  season  —  quite  charming  — 
a  splendid  view:  a  large  writing  room,  a  dining 
room,  and  three  lovely  bedrooms  —  besides  ser- 
vants' rooms  and  also  a  huge  balcony. 

I  don't  know  the  scale 


[In  this  blank  space  he  had        Qf  tfie  drawing,  but  the 
roughly  drawn  a  ground  plan  . 

of  the  imagined  Chalet.]  rooms  are  larger  than 

the  plan  is. 

1.  Salle-a-manger.       All    on    ground    floor 

2.  Salon.  with    steps    from    bal- 

3.  Balcony.  cony  to  ground. 

The  rent  for  the  season  or  year  is,  what 
do  you  think?  —  £32. 

Of  course  I  must  have  it:  I  will  take  my 
meals  here  —  separate  and  reserved  table:  it  is 
within  two  minutes  walk.  Do  tell  me  to  take 
it.  When  you  come  again  your  room  will  be 
waiting  for  you.  All  I  need  is  a  domestique. 
The  people  here  are  most  kind. 

I  made  my  pilgrimage  —  the  interior  of  the 
Chapel  is  of  course  a  modern  horror  —  but 
there  is  a  black  image  of  Notre  Dame  de  Liesse 
—  the  chapel  is  as  tiny  as  an  undergraduate's 
room  at  Oxford.  I  hope  to  get  the  Cure  to 
celebrate  Mass  in  it  soon  ;  as  a  rule  the  service 
is  only  held  there  in  July  and  August;  but  I 
want  to  see  a  Mass  quite  close. 

There  is  also  another  thing  I  must  write 
to  you  about. 


384          OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

I  adore  this  place.  The  whole  country  is 
lovely,  and  full  of  forest  and  deep  meadow. 
It  is  simple  and  healthy.  If  I  live  in  Paris 
I  may  be  doomed  to  things  I  don't  desire.  I 
am  afraid  of  big  towns.  Here  I  get  up  at  7.30. 
I  am  happy  all  day.  I  go  to  bed  at  10.  I  am 
frightened  of  Paris.  I  want  to  live  here. 

I  have  seen  the  "terrain."  It  is  the  best 
here,  and  the  only  one  left.  I  must  build  a 
house.  If  I  could  build  a  chalet  for  12,000 
francs — £500 — and  live  in  a  home  of  my 
own,  how  happy  I  would  be.  I  must  raise 
the  money  somehow.  It  would  give  me 
a  home,  quiet,  retired,  healthy,  and  near 
England.  If  I  live  in  Egypt  I  know  what 
my  life  would  be.  If  I  live  in  the  south  of 
Italy  I  know  I  should  be  idle  and  worse. 
I  want  to  live  here.  Do  think  over  this 
and  send  me  over  the  architect.1  M.  Bonnet 
is  excellent  and  is  ready  to  carry  out  any  idea. 
I  want  a  little  chalet  of  wood  and  plaster 
walls,  the  wooden  beams  showing  and  the 
white  square  of  plaster  diapering  the  frame- 
work— like,  I  regret  to  say — Shakespeare's 
house — like  old  English  sixteenth-century 
farmers'  houses.  So  your  architect  has  me 
waiting  for  him,  as  he  is  waiting  for  me. 

Do  you  think  the  idea  absurd? 

1An  architect  who  sent  Wilde  books  on  his  release  from  prison. 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          385 

I  got  the  Chronicle,  many  thanks.  I  see 
the  writer  on  Prince — A.2.H. — does  not  men- 
tion my  name — foolish  of  her — it  is  a  woman. 
I,  as  you,  the  poem  of  my  days,  are  away, 
am  forced  to  write.  I  have  begun  something 
that  I  think  will  be  very  good. 

I  breakfast  to-morrow  with  the  Stannards: 
what  a  great  passionate,  splendid  writer 
John  Strange  Winter  is!  How  little  people 
understand  her  work!  Bootless  Baby  is  an 
"oeuvre  symboliste" — it  is  really  only  the 
style  and  the  subject  that  are  wrong.  Pray 
never  speak  lightly  of  Bootless  Baby — Indeed 
pray  never  speak  of  it  at  all — I  never  do. 
Yours, 

OSCAR. 

Please  send  a  Chronicle  to  my  wife. 
MRS.  C.  M.  HOLLAND, 
Maison  Benguerel, 

Bevaix, 

7 

Pres  de  Neuchatel, 

just   marking   it — and   if   my   second   letter 
appears,  mark  that. 

Also  cut  out  the  letter1  and  enclose  it  in 
an  envelope  to: 

MR.  ARTHUR  CRUTHENDEN, 

Poste  Restante,  G.P.O.,  Reading, 

1  His  letter  to  The  Daily  Chronicle  about  Warder  Martin  and  the  little 
children. 


386          OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

with  just  these  lines : 
Dear  friend, 

The  enclosed  will  interest  you.  There  is 
also  another  letter  waiting  in  the  post  office 
for  you  from  me  with  a  little  money.  Ask  fol 
it  if  you  have  not  got  it. 

Yours  sincerely, 

03.31 

I  have  no  one  but  you,  dear  Robbie,  to 
do  anything.  Of  course  the  letter  to  Reading 
must  go  at  once,  as  my  friends  come  out 
on  Wednesday  morning  early. 

This  letter  displays  almost  every  quality  of 
Oscar  Wilde's  genius  in  perfect  efflorescence — 
his  gaiety,  joyous  merriment  and  exquisite  sensi- 
bility. Who  can  read  of  the  little  Chapel  to 
Notre  Dame  de  Liesse  without  emotion  quickly 
to  be  changed  to  mirth  by  the  sunny  humour  of 
those  delicious  specimens  of  self-advertisement: 
"Mr.  Beerbohm  Tree  also  writes:  *  Since  I  have 
tried  it,  I  am  a  different  actor,  my  friends  hardly 
recognise  me.'  : 

This  letter  is  the  most  characteristic  thing 
Oscar  Wilde  ever  wrote,  a  thing  produced  in  per- 
fect health  at  the  topmost  height  of  happy  hours, 
more  characteristic  even  than  "The  Importance 
of  Being  Earnest,"  for  it  has  not  only  the  humour 
of  that  delightful  farce-comedy,  but  also  more 


OSCAR  WILDE   AND    HIS    CONFESSIONS      387 

than  a  hint  of  the  deeper  feeling  which  was 
even  then  forming  itself  into  a  master-work  that 
will  form  part  of  the  inheritance  of  men  forever. 

"The  Ballad  of  Reading  Gaol"  belongs  to  this 
summer  of  1897.  A  fortunate  conjuncture  of  cir- 
cumstances— the  prison  discipline  excluding  all 
sense-indulgence,  the  kindness  shown  him  to- 
wards the  end  of  his  imprisonment  and  of  course 
the  delight  of  freedom — gave  him  perfect  phys- 
ical health  and  hope  and  joy  in  work,  and  so 
Oscar  was  enabled  for  a  few  brief  months  to  do 
better  than  his  best.  He  assured  me  and  I  be- 
lieve that  the  conception  of  "The  Ballad"  came 
to  him  in  prison  and  was  due  to  the  alleviation 
of  his  punishment  and  the  permission  accorded 
to  him  to  write  and  read  freely — a  divine  fruit 
born  directly  of  his  pity  for  others  and  the  pity 
others  felt  for  him. 

"The  Ballad  of  Reading  Gaol"1  was  published 
in  January,  1898,  over  the  signature  of  C.  3.  3., 
Oscar's  number  in  prison.  In  a  few  weeks  it 
ran  through  dozens  of  editions  in  England  and 
America  and  translations  appeared  in  almost 

1The  Ballad  was  finished  in  Naples  and  Alfred  Douglas  has  since 
declared  that  he  helped  Oscar  Wilde  to  write  it.  I  have  no  wish  to 
dispute  this:  Alfred  Douglas'  poetic  gift  was  extraordinary,  far  greater 
than  Oscar  Wilde's.  The  poem  was  conceived  in  prison  and  a  good  deal 
of  it  was  printed  before  Oscar  went  near  Alfred  Douglas  and  some  of  the 
best  stanzas  in  it  are  to  be  found  in  this  earlier  portion:  no  part  of  the 
credit  of  it,  in  my  opinion,  belongs  to  Alfred  Douglas.  See]  Appendix 
for  Ross's  opinion. 


388          OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

every  European  language,  which  is  proof  not 
so  much  of  the  excellence  of  the  poem  as  the  great 
place  the  author  held  in  the  curiosity  of  men. 
The  enthusiasm  with  which  it  was  accepted  in 
England  was  astounding.  One  reviewer  com- 
pared it  with  the  best  of  Sophocles;  another  said 
that  "  nothing  like  it  has  appeared  in  our  time." 
No  word  of  criticism  was  heard:  the  most  cau- 
tious called  it  a  "simple  poignant  ballad,  .  .  . 
one  of  the  greatest  in  the  English  language." 
This  praise  is  assuredly  not  too  generous.  Yet 
even  this  was  due  to  a  revulsion  of  feeling  in 
regard  to  Oscar  himself  rather  than  to  any  un- 
derstanding of  the  greatness  of  his  work.  The 
best  public  felt  that  he  had  been  dreadfully 
over-punished,  and  made  a  scapegoat  for  worse 
offenders  and  was  glad  to  have  the  opportunity 
of  repairing  its  own  fault  by  over-emphasising 
Oscar's  repentance  and  over-praising,  as  it 
imagined,  th  first  fruits  of  the  converted  sinner. 

"The  Ballad  of  Reading  Gaol"  is  far  and  away 
the  best  poem  Oscar  Wilde  ever  wrote;  we 
should  try  to  appreciate  it  as  the  future  will 
appreciate  it.  We  need  not  be  afraid  to  trace 
it  to  its  source  and  note  what  is  borrowed  in  it 
and  what  is  original.  After  all  necessary  quali- 
fications are  made,  it  will  stand  as  a  great  and 
splendid  achievement. 

Shortly  before  "The  Ballad"  was  written,  a 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          389 

little  book  of  poetry  called  "A  Shropshire  Lad" 
was  published  by  A.  E.  Housman,  now  I  be- 
lieve professor  of  Latin  at  Cambridge.  There 
are  only  a  hundred  odd  pages  in  the  booklet;  but 
it  is  full  of  high  poetry — sincere  and  passionate 
feeling  set  to  varied  music.  His  friend,  Reginald 
Turner,  sent  Oscar  a  copy  of  the  book  and  one 
poem  in  particular  made  a  deep  impression  on 
him.  It  is  said  that  "his  actual  model  for  'The 
Ballad  of  Reading  Gaol'  was  'The  Dream  of 
Eugene  Aram'  with  'The  Ancient  Mariner' 
thrown  in  on  technical  grounds";  but  I  believe 
that  Wilde  owed  most  of  his  inspiration  to  "A 
Shropshire  Lad." 

Here  are  some  verses  from  Housman's  poem 
and  some  verses  from  "The  Ballad": 

On  moonlit  heath  and  lonesome  bank 

The  sheep  beside  me  graze; 
And  yon  the  gallows  used  to  clank 

Fast  by  the  four  cross  ways. 

A  careless  shepherd  once  would  keep 

The  flocks  by  moonlight  there, * 
And  high  amongst  the  glimmering  sheep 

The  dead  men  stood  on  air. 

They  hang  us  now  in  Shrewsbury  jail: 

The  whistles  blow  forlorn, 
And  trams  all  night  groan  on  the  rail 

To  men  that  die  at  morn. 

1  Hanging  in  chains  was  called  keeping  sheep  by  moonlight. 


39O         OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

There  sleeps  in  Shrewsbury  jail  to-night, 

Or  wakes,  as  may  betide, 
A  better  lad,  if  things  went  right, 

Than  most  that  sleep  outside. 

And  naked  to  the  hangman's  noose 

The  morning  clocks  will  ring 
A  neck  God  made  for  other  use 

Than  strangling  in  a  string. 

And  sharp  the  link  of  lif  e  will  snap, 

And  dead  on  air  will  stand 
Heels  that  held  up  as  straight  a  chap 

As  treads  upon  the  land. 

So  nere  I'll  watch  the  night  and  wait 

To  see  the  morning  shine 
When  he  will  hear  the  stroke  of  eight 

And  not  the  stroke  of  nine; 

And  wish  my  friend  as  sound  a  sleep 

As  lads  I  did  not  know, 
That  shepherded  the  moonlit  sheep 

A  hundred  years  ago. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  READING  GAOL 

It  is  sweet  to  dance  to  violins 
When  Love  and  Life  are  fair: 

To  dance  to  flutes,  to  dance  to  lutes, 
Is  delicate  and  rare: 

But  it  is  not  sweet  with  nimble  feet 
To  dance  upon  the  air! 


OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          39! 

And  as  one  sees  most  fearful  things 

In  the  crystal  of  a  dream, 
We  saw  the  greasy  hempen  rope 

Hooked  to  the  blackened  beam 
And  heard  the  prayer  the  hangman's  snare 

Strangled  into  a  scream. 

And  all  the  woe  that  moved  him  so 

That  he  gave  that  bitter  cry, 
And  the  wild  regrets,  and  the  bloody  sweats, 

None  knew  so  well  as  I: 
For  he  who  lives  more  lives  than  one 

More  deaths  than  one  must  die. 

There  are  better  things  in  "The  Ballad  of 
Reading  Gaol"  than  those  inspired  by  Housman. 
In  the  last  of  the  three  verses  I  quote  there  is 
a  distinction  of  thought  which  Housman  hardly 
reached. 

"For  he  who  lives  more  lives  than  one 
More  deaths  than  one  must  die." 

There  are  verses,  too,  wrung  from  the  heart 
which  have  a  diviner  influence  than  any  product 
of  the  intellect: 

The  Chaplain  would  not  kneel  to  pray 

By  his  dishonoured  grave: 
Nor  mark  it  with  that  blessed  Cross 

That  Christ  for  sinners  gave, 
Because  the  man  was  one  of  those 

Whom  Christ  came  down  to  save. 


392          OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

This  too  I  know — and  wise  were  it 

If  each  could  know  the  same — 
That  every  prison  that  men  build 

Is  built  with  bricks  of  shame, 
And  bound  with  bars  lest  Christ  should  see 

How  men  their  brothers  maim. 

With  bars  they  blur  the  gracious  moon, 

And  blind  the  goodly  sun: 
And  they  do  well  to  hide  their  Hell, 

For  in  it  things  are  done 
That  Son  of  God  nor  son  of  man 

Ever  should  look  upon! 

The  vilest  deeds  like  poison  weeds 

Bloom  well  in  prison-air: 
It  is  only  what  is  good  in  Man 

That  wastes  and  withers  there: 
Pale  Anguish  keeps  the  heavy  gate, 

And  the  Warder  is  Despair. 

And  he  of  the  swollen  purple  throat, 

And  the  stark  and  staring  eyes, 
Waits  for  the  holy  hands  that  took 

The  Thief  to  Paradise; 
And  a  broken  and  a  contrite  heart 

The  Lord  will  not  despise. 

"The  Ballad  of  Reading  Gaol"  is  beyond  all 
comparison  the  greatest  ballad  in  English:  one 
of  the  noblest  poems  in  the  language.  This  is 
what  prison  did  for  Oscar  Wilde. 

When  speaking  to  him  later  about  this  poem 
I  remember  assuming  that  his  prison  experiences 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          393 

must  have  helped  him  to  realise  the  suffering  of 
the  condemned  soldier  and  certainly  lent  passion 
to  his  verse.  But  he  would  not  hear  of  it. 

"Oh,  no,  Frank,"  he  cried,  "never;  my  ex- 
periences in  prison  were  too  horrible,  too  pain- 
ful to  be  used.  I  simply  blotted  them  out  alto- 
gether and  refused  to  recall 'them." 

"What  about  the  verse?"  I  asked: 

"We  sewed  the  sacks,  we  broke  the  stones, 

We  turned  the  dusty  drill: 
We  banged  the  this,  and  bawled  the  hymns, 

And  sweated  on  the  mill: 
And  in  the  heart  of  every  man 

Terror  was  lying  still." 

"Characteristic  details,  Frank,  merely  the 
decor  of  prison  life,  not  its  reality;  that  no  one 
could  paint,  not  even  Dante,  who  had  to  turn 
away  his  eyes  from  lesser  suffering." 

It  may  be  worth  while  to  notice  here,  as 
an  example  of  the  hatred  with  which  Oscar 
Wilde's  name  and  work  were  regarded,  that 
even  after  he  had  paid  the  penalty  for  his 
crime  the  publisher  and  editor,  alike  in  England 
and  America,  put  anything  but  a  high  price 
on  his  best  work.  They  would  have  bought 
a  play  readily  enough  because  they  would 
have  known  that  it  would  make  them  money, 
but  a  ballad  from  his  pen  nobody  seemed  to 
want.  The  highest  price  offered  in  America 


394          OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

for  "The  Ballad  of  Reading  Gaol"  was  one  hun- 
dred dollars.  Oscar  found  difficulty  in  getting 
even  £20  for  the  English  rights  from  the  friend 
who  published  it;  yet  it  has  sold  since  by  hun- 
dreds of  thousands  and  is  certain  always  to  sell. 
I  must  insert  here  part  of  another  letter  from 
Oscar  Wilde  which  appeared  in  The  Daily 
Chronicle,  24th  March,  1898,  on  the  cruelties 
of  the  English  prison  system;  it  was  headed, 
"Don't  read  this  if  you  want  to  be  happy  to- 
day," and  was  signed  by  "The  Author  of  'The 
Ballad  of  Reading  Gaol.53  It  was  manifestly 
a  direct  outcome  of  his  prison  experiences.  The 
letter  was  simple  and  affecting;  but  it  had  little 
or  no  influence  on  the  English  conscience.  The 
Home  Secretary  was  about  to  reform  (!)  the 
prison  system  by  appointing  more  inspectors. 
Oscar  Wilde  pointed  out  that  inspectors  could 
do  nothing  but  see  that  the  regulations  were 
carried  out.  He  took  up  the  position  that  it 
was  the  regulations  which  needed  reform.  His 
plea  was  irrefutable  in  its  moderation  and  sim- 
plicity: but  it  was  beyond  the  comprehension 
of  an  English  Home  Secretary  apparently,  for 
all  the  abuses  pointed  out  by  Oscar  Wilde  still 
flourish.  I  can't  help  giving  some  extracts  from 
this  memorable  indictment:  memorable  for  its 
reserve  and  sanity  and  complete  absence  of  any 
bitterness : 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          395 

".  .  .  .  The  prisoner  who  has  been  allowed 
the  smallest  privilege  dreads  the  arrival  of  the 
inspectors.  And  on  the  day  of  any  prison  in- 
spection the  prison  officials  are  more  than  usu- 
ally brutal  to  the  prisoners.  Their  object  is,  of 
course,  to  show  the  splendid  discipline  they 


maintain. 
ct 


The  necessary  reforms  are  very  simple. 
They  concern  the  needs  of  the  body  and  the 
needs  of  the  mind  of  each  unfortunate  prisoner. 

"With  regard  to  the  first,  there  are  three 
permanent  punishments  authorised  by  law  in 
English  prisons: 

"  I.  Hunger. 

"2.  Insomnia. 

"3.  Disease. 

"The  food  supplied  to  prisoners  is  entirely 
inadequate.  Most  of  it  is  revolting  in  charac- 
ter. All  of  it  is  insufficient.  Every  prisoner 
suffers  day  and  night  from  hunger.  .  .  . 

"The  result  of  the  food — which  in  most  cases 
consists  of  weak  gruel,  badly  baked  bread,  suet 
and  water — is  disease  in  the  form  of  incessant 
diarrhoea.  This  malady,  which  ultimately  with 
most  prisoners  becomes  a  permanent  disease,  is 
a  recognised  institution  in  every  prison.  At 
Wandsworth  Prison,  for  instance — where  I  was 
confined  for  two  months,  till  I  had  to  be  carried 
into  hospital,  where  I  remained  for  another 


OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 


two  months  —  the  warders  go  round  twice  or 
three  times  a  day  with  astringent  medicine, 
which  they  serve  out  to  the  prisoners  as  a  matter 
of  course.  After  about  a  week  of  such  treat- 
ment it  is  unnecessary  to  say  that  the  medicine 
produces  no  effect  at  all. 

"The  wretched  prisoner  is  thus  left  a  prey  to 
the  most  weakening,  depressing  and  humiliating 
malady  that  can  be  conceived,  and  if,  as  often 
happens,  he  fails  from  physical  weakness  to 
complete  his  required  evolutions  at  the  crank, 
or  the  mill,  he  is  reported  for  idleness  and  pun- 
ished with  the  greatest  severity  and  brutality. 
Nor  is  this  all. 

"Nothing  can  be  worse  than  the  sanitary  ar- 
rangements of  English  prisons.  .  .  .  The  foul 
air  of  the  prison  cells,  increased  by  a  system  of 
ventilation  that  is  utterly  ineffective,  is  so  sick- 
ening and  unwholesome  that  it  is  not  uncom- 
mon for  warders,  when  they  come  into  the  room 
out  of  the  fresh  air,  and  open  and  inspect  each 
cell,  to  be  violently  sick.  .  .  . 

"With  regard  to  the  punishment  of  insomnia, 
it  only  exists  in  Chinese  and  English  prisons. 
In  China  it  is  inflicted  by  placing  the  prisoner 
in  a  small  bamboo  cage;  in  England  by  means 
of  the  plank  bed.  The  object  of  the  plank  bed 
is  to  produce  insomnia.  There  is  no  other  ob- 
ject in  it,  and  it  invariably  succeeds.  And  even 


OSCAR  .WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          397 

when  one  is  subsequently  allowed  a  hard  mat- 
tress, as  happens  in  the  course  of  imprisonment, 
one  still  suffers  from  insomnia.  It  is  a  revolting 
and  ignorant  punishment. 

"With  regard  to  the  needs  of  the  mind,  I 
beg  that  you  will  allow  me  to  say  something. 

"The  present  prison  system  seems  almost  to 
have  for  its  aim  the  wrecking  and  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  mental  faculties.  The  production 
of  insanity  is,  if  not  its  object,  certainly  its 
result.  That  is  a  well-ascertained  fact.  Its 
causes  are  obvious.  Deprived  of  books,  of  all 
human  intercourse,  isolated  from  every  humane 
and  humanising  influence,  condemned  to  eternal 
silence,  robbed  of  all  intercourse  with  the  ex- 
ternal world,  treated  like  an  unintelligent  ani- 
mal, brutalised  below  the  level  of  any  of  the 
brute-creation,  the  wretched  man  who  is  con- 
fined in  an  English  prison  can  hardly  escape 
becoming  insane." 

This  letter  ended  by  saying  that  if  all  the 
reforms  suggested  were  carried  out  much  would 
still  remain  to  be  done.  It  would  still  be  ad- 
visable to  "humanise  the  governors  of  prisons, 
to  civilise  the  warders,  and  to  Christianise  the 
Chaplains." 

This  letter  was  the  last  effort  of  the  new 
Oscar,  the  Oscar  who  had  manfully  tried  to 
put  the  prison  under  his  feet  and  to  learn  the 


OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS    CONFESSIONS 


significance  of  sorrow  and  the  lesson  of  love 
which  Christ  brought  into  the  world. 

In  the  beautiful  pages  about  Jesus  which 
form  the  greater  part  of  De  Profundis,  also  writ- 
ten in  those  last  hopeful  months  in  Reading  Gaol, 
Oscar  shows,  I  think,  that  he  might  have  done 
much  higher  work  than  Tolstoi  or  Renan  had  he 
set  himself  resolutely  to  transmute  his  new  in- 
sight into  some  form  of  art.  Now  and  then  he 
divined  the  very  secret  of  Jesus  : 

"When  he  says  *  Forgive  your  enemies'  it  is 
not  for  the  sake  of  the  enemy,  but  for  one's 
own  sake  that  he  says  so,  and  because  love  is 
more  beautiful  than  hate.  In  his  own  entreaty 
to  the  young  man,  'Sell  all  that  thou  hast  and 
give  to  the  poor,'  it  is  not  of  the  state  of  the 
poor  that  he  is  thinking  but  of  the  soul  of  the 
young  man,  the  soul  that  wealth  was  marring." 

In  many  of  these  pages  Oscar  Wilde  really 
came  close  to  the  divine  Master;  "the,  image 
of  the  Man  of  Sorrows,"  he  says,  "has  fasci- 
nated and  dominated  art  as  no  Greek  god  suc- 
ceeded in  doing."  ....  And  again: 

"Out  of  the  carpenter's  shop  at  Nazareth 
had  come  a  personality  infinitely  greater  than 
any  made  by  myth  and  legend,  and  one,  strange- 
ly enough,  destined  to  reveal  to  the  world  the 
mystical  meaning  of  wine  and  the  real  beauties 
of  the  lilies  of  the  field  as  none,  either  on  Cith- 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          399 

or  Enna,  has  ever  done.  The  song  of 
Isaiah,  'He  is  despised  and  rejected  of  men,  a 
man  of  sorrows  and  acquainted  with  grief:  and 
we  hid  as  it  were  our  faces  from  him,'  had 
seemed  to  him  to  prefigure  himself,  and  in  him 
the  prophecy  was  fulfilled." 

In  this  spirit  Oscar  made  up  his  mind  that 
he  would  write  about  "Christ  as  the  precursor 
of  the  romantic  movement  in  life"  and  about 
"The  artistic  life  considered  in  its  relation  to 
conduct." 

By  bitter  suffering  he  had  been  brought  to 
see  that  the  moment  of  repentance  is  the  mo- 
ment of  absolution  and  self-realisation,  that 
tears  can  wash  out  even  blood.  In  "The  Ballad 
of  Reading  Gaol"  he  wrote: 

And  with  tears  of  blood  he  cleansed  the  hand, 

The  hand  that  held  the  steel: 
For  only  blood  can  wipe  out  blood, 

And  only  tears  can  heal: 
And  the  crimson  stain  that  was  of  Cain 

Became  Christ's  snow-white  seal. 

This  is  the  highest  height  Oscar  Wilde  ever 
reached,  and  alas !  he  only  trod  the  summit  for  a 
moment.  But  as  he  says  himself:  "One  has  per- 
haps to  go  to  prison  to  understand  that.  And, 
if  so,  it  may  be  worth  while  going  to  prison." 
He  was  by  nature  a  pagan  who  for  a  few  months 
became  a  Christian,  but  to  live  as  a  lover  of 


4OO          OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS    CONFESSIONS 

Jesus  was  impossible  to  this  "  Greek  born  out  of 
due  time,"  and  he  never  even  dreamed  of  a 

reconciling  synthesis 

The  arrest  of  his  development  makes  him  a 
better  representative  of  his  time:  he  was  an 
artistic  expression  of  the  best  English  mind:  a 
Pagan  and  Epicurean,  his  rule  of  conduct  was 
a  selfish  Individualism: — "Am  I  my  brother's 
keeper?"  This  attitude  must  entail  a  dreadful 
Nemesis,  for  it  condemns  one  Briton  in  every  four 
to  a  pauper's  grave.  The  result  will  convince 
the  most  hardened  that  such  selfishness  is  not  a 
creed  by  which  human  beings  can  live  in  society. 

This  summer  of  1897  was  the  harvest  time  in 
Oscar  Wilde's  Life;  and  his  golden  Indian  summer. 
We  owe  it  "De  Profundis,"  the  best  pages  of 
prose  he  ever  wrote,  and  "The  Ballad  of  Reading 
Gaol,"  his  only  original  poem;  yet  one  that  will 
live  as  long  as  the  language :  we  owe  it  also  that 
sweet  and  charming  letter  to  Bobbie  Ross  which 
shows  him  in  his  habit  as  he  lived.  I  must  still 
say  a  word  or  two  about  him  in  this  summer  in 
order  to  show  the  ordinary  working  of  his  mind. 

On  his  release,  and,  indeed,  for  a  year  or  two 
later,  he  called  himself  Sebastian  Melmoth. 
But  one  had  hardly  spoken  a  half  a  dozen  words 
to  him,  when  he  used  to  beg  to  be  called  Oscar 
Wilde.  I  remember  how  he  pulled  up  someone 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          40! 

who  had  just  been  introduced  to  him,  who 
persisted  in  addressing  him  as  Mr.  Melmoth. 

"Call  me  Oscar  Wilde,"  he  pleaded,  "Mr. 
Melmoth  is  unknown,  you  see." 

"I  thought  you  preferred  it,"  said  the  stranger 
excusing  himself. 

"Oh,  dear,  no,"  interrupted  Oscar  smiling, 
"I  only  use  the  name  Melmoth  to  spare  the 
blushes  of  the  postman,  to  preserve  his  mod- 
esty," and  he  laughed  in  the  old  delightful  way. 

It  was  always  significant  to  me  the  eager 
delight  with  which  he  shuffled  off  the  new 
name  and  took  up  the  old  one  which  he  had 
made  famous. 

An  anecdote  from  his  life  in  the  Chalet  at  this 
time  showed  that  the  old  witty  pagan  in  Oscar 
was  not  yet  extinct. 

An  English  lady  who  had  written  a  great 
many  novels  and  happened  to  be  staying  in 
Dieppe  heard  of  him,  and  out  of  kindness  or 
curiosity,  or  perhaps  a  mixture  of  both  mo- 
tives, wrote  and  invited  him  to  luncheon.  He 
accepted  the  invitation.  The  good  lady  did 
not  know  how  to  talk  to  Mr.  Sebastian  Mel- 
moth, and  time  went  heavily.  At  length 
she  began  to  expatiate  on  the  cheapness  of 
things  in  France;  did  Mr.  Melmoth  know  how 
wonderfully  cheap  and  good  the  living  was  ? 

"Only  fancy,"  she  went  on,  "you  would  not 


4O2          OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

believe  what  that  claret  you  are  drinking  costs." 

"Really?"  questioned  Oscar,  with  a  polite 
smile. 

"Of  course  I  get  it  wholesale,"  she  explained, 
"but  it  only  costs  me  sixpence  a  quart." 

"Oh,  my  dear  lady,  I'm  afraid  you  have  been 
cheated,"  he  exclaimed,  "ladies  should  never 
buy  wine.  Fm  afraid  you  have  been  sadly  over- 
charged." 

The  humour  may  excuse  the  discourtesy,  but 
Oscar  was  so  uniformly  polite  to  everyone  that 
the  incident  simply  shows  how  ineffably  he  had 
been  bored. 

This  summer  of  1897  was  the  decisive  period 
and  final  turning-point  in  Oscar  Wilde's  career. 
So  long  as  the  sunny  weather  lasted  and  friends 
came  to  visit  him  from  time  to  time  Oscar  was 
content  to  live  in  the  Chalet  Bourgeat;  but  when 
the  days  began  to  draw  in  and  the  weather 
became  unsettled,  the  dreariness  of  a  life  passed 
in  solitude,  indoors,  and  without  a  library  be- 
came insupportable.  He  was  being  drawn  in 
two  opposite  directions.  I  did  not  know  it  at 
the  time;  indeed  he  only  told  me  about  it 
months  later  when  the  matter  had  been  decided 
irrevocably;  but  this  was  the  moment  when  his 
soul  was  at  stake  between  good  and  evil.  The 
question  was  whether  his  wife  would  come  to 
him  again  or  whether  he  would  yield  to  the 


OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS    CONFESSIONS          403 

solicitations  of  Lord  Alfred  Douglas  and  go  to 
live  with  him. 

Mr.  Sherard  has  told  in  his  book  how  he 
brought  about  the  first  reconciliation  between 
Oscar  and  his  wife;  and  how  immediately  after- 
wards he  received  a  letter  from  Lord  Alfred 
Douglas  threatening  to  shoot  him  like  a  dog, 
if,  by  any  words  of  his,  Wilde's  friendship  was 
lost  to  him,  Douglas. 

Unluckily  Mrs.  Wilde's  family  were  against 
her  going  back  to  her  husband;  they  begged 
her  not  to  go;  talked  to  her  of  her  duty  to  her 
children  and  herself,  and  the  poor  woman  hesi- 
tated. Finally  her  advisers  decided  for  her,  and 
Mrs.  Wilde  wrote  this  decision  to  Oscar's  solic- 
itors shortly  before  his  release:  Oscar's  proba- 
tion was  to  last  at  least  a  year.  I  do  not  know 
enough  about  Mrs.  Wilde  and  her  relations  with 
her  family  and  with  her  husband  even  to  discuss 
her  inaction:  I  dare  not  criticise  her:  but  she  did 
not  go  to  her  husband  when  if  she  had  gone 
boldly  she  might  have  saved  him.  She  knew 
Lord  Alfred  Douglas'  influence  over  him;  knew 
that  it  had  already  brought  him  to  grief.  Gide 
says,  and  Oscar  himself  told  me  afterwards,  that 
he  had  come  out  of  prison  determined  not  to 
go  back  to  Alfred  Douglas  and  the  old  life. 
It  seems  a  pity  that  his  wife  did  not  act  prompt- 
ly; she  allowed  herself  to  believe  that  a  time 


404          OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

of  probation  was  necessary.  The  delay  wounded 
Oscar,  and  all  the  while,  as  he  told  me  a  little 
later,  he  was  resisting  an  influence  which  had 
dominated  his  life  in  the  past. 

"  I  got  a  letter  almost  every  day,  Frank,  beg- 
ging me  to  come  to  Posilippo,  to  the  villa  which 
Lord  Alfred  Douglas  had  rented.  Every  day 
I  heard  his  voice  calling,  'Come,  come,  to  sun- 
shine and  to  me.  Come  to  Naples  with  its 
wonderful  museum  of  bronzes  and  Pompeii  and 
Paestum,  the  city  of  Poseidon :  I  am  waiting  to 
welcome  you.  Come.' 

"Who  could  resist  it,  Frank?  love  calling, 
calling  with  outstretched  arms;  who  could  stay 
in  bleak  Berneval  and  watch  the  sheets  of  rain 
falling,  falling — and  the  grey  mist  shrouding 
the  grey  sea,  and  think  of  Naples  and  love  and 
sunshine;  who  could  resist  it  all?  I  could  not, 
Frank,  I  was  so  lonely  and  I  hated  solitude. 
I  resisted  as  long  as  I  could,  but  when  chill 
October  came  and  Bosie  came  to  Rouen  for  me, 
I  gave  up  the  struggle  and  yielded." 

Could  Oscar  Wilde  have  won  and  made  for 
himself  a  new  and  greater  life?  The  majority  of 
men  are  content  to  think  that  such  a  victory  was 
impossible  to  him.  Everyone  knows  that  he 
lost;  but  I  at  least  believe  that  he  might  have 
won.  His  wife  was  on  the  point  of  yielding,  I 
have  since  been  told;  on  the  point  of  complete 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          405 

reconciliation  when  she  heard  that  he  had  gone 
to  Naples  and  returned  to  his  old  habit  of  living; 
a  few  days  made  all  the  difference. 

It  was  at  the  instigation  of  Lord  Alfred  Doug- 
las that  Oscar  began  the  insane  action  against 
Lord  Queensberry,  in  which  he  put  to  hazard 
his  success,  his  position,  his  good  name  and  lib- 
erty, and  lost  them  all.  Two  years  later  at  the 
same  tempting,  he  committed  soul-suicide. 

He  was  not  only  better  in  health  than  he 
had  ever  been;  but  he  was  talking  and  writing 
better  than  ever  before  and  full  of  literary 
projects  which  would  certainly  have  given 
him  money  and  position  and  a  measure  of 
happiness  besides  increasing  his  reputation. 
From  the  moment  he  went  to  Naples  he  was 
lost,  and  he  knew  it  himself;  he  never  afterwards 
wrote  anything:  as  he  used  to  say,  he  could  never 
afterwards  face  his  own  soul. 

He  could  never  have  won  up  again,  the  world 
says,  and  shrugs  careless  shoulders.  It  is  a  cheap, 
unworthy  conclusion.  Some  of  us  still  persist  in 
believing  that  Oscar  Wilde  might  easily  have 
won  and  never  again  been  caught  in  that  dread- 
ful wind  which  whips  the  victims  of  sensual 
desire  about  unceasingly,  driving  them  hither 
and  thither  without  rest  in  that  awful  place 
where :  "Nulla  speranza  gli  conforta  mai."  (No 
hope  ever  comforts!) 


CHAPTER  XX 

"  Non  dispetto,  ma  doglia."— Dante. 

OSCAR  WILDE  did  not  stay  long  in  Naples,  a 
few  brief  months;  the  forbidden  fruit  quickly 
turned  to  ashes  in  his  mouth. 

I  give  the  following  extracts  from  a  letter  he 
wrote  to  Robert  Ross  in  December,  1897,  shortly 
after  leaving  Naples,  because  it  describes  the 
second  great  crisis  in  his  life  and  is  besides  the 
bitterest  thing  he  ever  wrote  and  therefore  of 
peculiar  value: 

"The  facts  of  Naples  are  very  bald.  Bosie 
for  four  months,  by  endless  lies,  offered  me  a 
home.  He  offered  me  love,  affection,  and  care, 
and  promised  that  I  should  never  want  for 
anything,  After  four  months  I  accepted  his 
offer,  but  when  we  met  on  our  way  to  Naples, 
I  found  he  had  no  money,  no  plans,  and  had 
forgotten  all  his  promises.  His  one  idea  was 
that  I  should  raise  the  money  for  us  both;  I  did 
so  to  the  extent  of  £120.  On  this  Bosie  lived 
quite  happy.  When  it  came  to  his  having  to 
pay  his  own  share  he  became  terribly  unkind 
and  penurious,  except  where  his  own  pleasures 
406 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          407 

were    concerned,    and    when    my    allowance 
ceased,  he  left. 

"With  regard  to  the  £5oo1  which  he  said 
was  a  debt  of  honour,  he  has  written  to  me 
to  say  that  he  admits  the  debt  of  honour,  but 
as  lots  of  gentlemen  don't  pay  their  debts  of 
honour,  it  is  quite  a  common  thing  and  no  one 
thinks  any  the  worse  of  them. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  said  to  Constance, 
but  the  bald  fact  is  that  I  accepted  the  offer 
of  the  home,  and  found  that  I  was  expected 
to  provide  the  money,  and  when  I  could 
no  longer  do  so  I  was  left  to  my  own  devices. 
It  is  the  most  bitter  experience  of  a  bitter 
life.  It  is  a  blow  quite  awful.  It  had  to 
come,  but  I  know  it  is  better  I  should  never 
see  him  again,  I  don't  want  to,  it  fills  me  with 
horror." 

A  word  of  explanation  will  explain  his  refer- 
ence to  his  wife,  Constance,  in  this  letter:  by  a 
deed  of  separation  made  at  the  end  of  his  im- 
prisonment, Mrs.  Wilde  undertook  to  allow 

1This  was  the  sum  promised  by  the  whole  Queensberry  family  and 
by  Lord  Alfred  Douglas  in  particular  to  Oscar  to  defray  the  costs  of 
that  first  action  for  libel  which  they  persuaded  him  to  bring  against 
Lord  Queensberry.  Ros?.  has  since  stated  in  court  that  it  was  never 
paid.  The  history  of  the  monies  promised  and  supplied  to  Oscar  at 
that  time  is  so  extraordinary  and  so  characteristic  of  the  age  that  it 
might  well  furnish  a  chapter  to  itself.  Here  it  is  enough  just  to  say 
that  those  who  ought  to  have  supplied  him  with  money  evaded  the 
obligation,  while  others  upon  whom  he  had  no  claim,  helped  him  liber- 
ally; but  even  large  sums  slipped  through  his  careless  fingers  like  water. 


408          OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

Oscar  £150  a  year  for  life,  under  the  condition 
that  the  allowance  was  to  be  forfeited  if  Oscar 
ever  lived  under  the  same  roof  with  Lord  Alfred 
Douglas.  Having  forfeited  the  allowance  Oscar 
got  Robert  Ross  to  ask  his  wife  to  continue  it 
and  in  spite  of  the  forfeiture  Mrs.  Wilde  con- 
tinually sent  Oscar  money  through  Robert  Ross, 
merely  stipulating  that  her  husband  should 
not  be  told  whence  the  money  came.  Ross, 
too,  who  had  also  sent  him  £150  a  year,  re- 
sumed his  monthly  payments  as  soon  as  he  left 
Douglas. 

My  friendship  with  Oscar  Wilde,  which  had 
been  interrupted  after  he  left  prison  by  a  silly 
gibe  directed  rather  against  the  go-between  he 
had  sent  to  me  than  against  him,  was  renewed 
in  Paris  early  in  1898.  I  have  related  the  little 
misunderstanding  in  the  Appendix.  I  had  never 
felt  anything  but  the  most  cordial  affection  for 
Oscar  and  as  soon  as  I  went  to  Paris  and  met 
him  I  explained  what  had  seemed  to  him  un- 
kind. When  I  asked  him  about  his  life  since  his 
release  he  told  me  simply  that  he  had  quarrelled 
with  Bosie  Douglas. 

I  did  not  attribute  much  importance  to  this; 
but  I  could  not  help  noticing  the  extraordinary 
change  that  had  taken  place  in  him  since  he  had 
been  in  Naples.  His  health  was  almost  as  good 
as  ever;  in  fact,  the  prison  discipline  with  its  two 


OSCAR   WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          409 

years  of  hard  living  had  done  him  so  much  good 
that  his  health  continued  excellent  almost  to  the 
end. 

But  his  whole  manner  and  attitude  to  life  had 
again  changed:  he  now  resembled  the  successful 
Oscar  of  the  early  nineties :  I  caught  echoes,  too, 
in  his  speech  of  a  harder,  smaller  nature;  "that 
talk  about  reformation,  Frank,  is  all  nonsense; 
no  one  ever  really  reforms  or  changes.  I  am 
what  I  always  was." 

He  was  mistaken:  he  took  up  again  the  old 
pagan  standpoint;  but  he  was  not  the  same;  he 
was  reckless  now,  not  thoughtless,  and,  as  soon 
as  one  probed  a  little  beneath  the  surface,  de- 
pressed almost  to  despairing.  He  had  learnt 
the  meaning  of  suffering  and  pity,  had  sensed 
their  value;  he  had  turned  his  back  upon  them 
all,  it  is  true,  but  he  could  not  return  to  pagan 
carelessness,  and  the  light-hearted  enjoyment 
of  pleasure.  He  did  his  best  and  almost  suc- 
ceeded; but  the  effort  was  there.  His  creed 
now  was  what  it  used  to  be  about  1892:  "Let  us 
get  what  pleasure  we  may  in  the  fleeting  days; 
for  the  night  cometh,  and  the  silence  that  can 
never  be  broken." 

The  old  doctrine  of  original  sin,  we  now  call 
reversion  to  type;  the  most  lovely  garden  rose, 
if  allowed  to  go  without  discipline  and  tendance, 
will  in  a  few  generations  become  again  the  com- 


4IO          OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

mon  scentless  dog-rose  of  our  hedges.  Such  a 
reversion  to  type  had  taken  place  in  Oscar 
Wilde.  It  must  be  inferred  perhaps  that  the 
old  pagan  Greek  in  him  was  stronger  than  the 
Christian  virtues  which  had  been  called  into 
being  by  the  discipline  and  suffering  of  prison. 
Little  by  little,  as  he  began  to  live  his  old  life 
again,  the  lessons  learned  in  prison  seemed  to 
drop  from  him  and  be  forgotten.  But  in  reality 
the  high  thoughts  he  had  lived  with,  were  not 
lost;  his  lips  had  been  touched  by  the  divine 
fire;  his  eyes  had  seen  the  world-wonder  of 
sympathy,  pity  and  love  and,  strangely  enough, 
this  higher  vision  helped,  as  we  shall  soon  see, 
to  shake  his  individuality  from  its  centre,  and 
thus  destroyed  his  power  of  work  and  completed 
his  soul-ruin.  Oscar's  second  fall — this  time  from 
a  height — was  fatal  and  made  writing  impos- 
sible to  him.  It  is  all  clear  enough  now  in 
retrospect  though  I  did  not  understand  it  at  the 
time.  When  he  went  to  live  with  Bosie  Douglas 
he  threw  off  the  Christian  attitude,  but  after- 
wards had  to  recognise  that  "De  Profundis" 
and  "The  Ballad  of  Reading  Gaol"  were  deeper 
and  better  work  than  any  of  his  earlier  writings. 
He  resumed  the  pagan  position;  outwardly  and 
for  the  time  being  he  was  the  old  Oscar  again, 
with  his  Greek  love  of  beauty  and  hatred  of 
disease,  deformity  and  ugliness,  and  whenever 


OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          4!  I 

he  met  a  kindred  spirit,  he  absolutely  revelled  in 
gay  paradoxes  and  brilliant  flashes  of  humour. 
But  he  was  at  war  with  himself,  like  Milton's 
Satan  always  conscious  of  his  fall,  always  re- 
gretful of  his  lost  estate  and  by  reason  of  this 
division  of  spirit  unable  to  write.  Perhaps  be- 
cause of  this  he  threw  himself  more  than  ever 
into  talk. 

He  was  beyond  all  comparison  the  most  inter- 
esting companion  I  have  ever  known:  the  most 
brilliant  talker,  I  cannot  but  think,  that  ever 
lived.  No  one  surely  ever  gave  himself  more 
entirely  in  speech.  Again  and  again  he  declared 
that  he  had  only  put  his  talent  into  his  books 
and  plays,  but  his  genius  into  his  life.  If  he 
had  said  into  his  talk,  it  would  have  been  the 
exact  truth. 

People  have  differed  a  great  deal  about  his 
mental  and  physical  condition  after  he  came 
out  of  prison.  All  who  knew  him  really,  Ross, 
Turner,  More  Adey,  Lord  Alfred  Douglas  and 
myself,  are  agreed  that  in  spite  of  a  slight  deaf- 
ness he  was  never  better  in  health,  never  in- 
deed so  well.  But  some  French  friends  were  de- 
termined to  make  him  out  a  martyr. 

In  his  picture  of  Wilde's  last  years,  Gide  tells 
us  that  "he  had  suffered  too  grievously  from 

his  imprisonment His  will  had  been 

broken  ....  nothing  remained  in  his  shat- 


412       OSCAR  WILDE   AND    HIS    CONFESSIONS 

tered  life  but  a  mouldy  ruin,1  painful  to  contem- 
plate, of  his  former  self.  At  times  he  seemed  to 
wish  to  show  that  his  brain  was  still  active. 
Humour  there  was;  but  it  was  far-fetched,  forced 
and  threadbare." 

These  touches  may  be  necessary  in  order  to 
complete  a  French  picture  of  the  social  outcast. 
They  are  not  only  untrue  when  applied  to 
Oscar  Wilde,  but  the  reverse  of  the  truth;  he 
never  talked  so  well,  was  never  so  charming  a 
companion  as  in  the  last  years  of  his  life. 

In  the  very  last  year  his  talk  was  more  genial, 
more  humorous,  more  vivid  than  ever,  with  a 
wider  range  of  thought  and  intenser  stimulus 
than  before.  He  was  a  born  improvisators.  At 
the  moment  he  always  dazzled  one  out  of  judg- 
ment. A  phonograph  would  have  discovered 
the  truth;  a  great  part  of  his  charm  was  physical; 
much  of  his  talk  mere  topsy-turvy  paradox,  the 
very  froth  of  thought  carried  off  by  gleaming, 
dancing  eyes,  smiling,  happy  lips,  and  a  melodi- 
ous voice. 

The  entertainment  usually  started  with  some 
humorous  play  on  words.  One  of  the  company 
would  say  something  obvious  or  trivial,  repeat  a 
proverb  or  commonplace  tag  such  as,  "Genius  is 
born,  not  made,"  and  Oscar  would  flash  in  smil- 
ing, "not  'paid,'  my  dear  fellow,  not  'paid." 

1Cfr.  Appendix:  "Criticisms  by  Robert  Ross." 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          413 

An  interesting  comment  would  follow  on  some 
doing  of  the  day,  a  skit  on  some  accepted  belief 
or  a  parody  of  some  pretentious  solemnity,  a 
winged  word  on  a  new  book  or  a  new  author,  and 
when  everyone  was  smiling  with  amused  enjoy- 
ment, the  fine  eyes  would  become  introspective, 
the  beautiful  voice  would  take  on  a  grave  music 
and  Oscar  would  begin  a  story,  a  story  with 
symbolic  second  meaning  or  a  glimpse  of  new 
thought,  and  when  all  were  listening  enthralled, 
of  a  sudden  the  eyes  would  dance,  the  smile 
break  forth  again  like  sunshine  and  some  spark- 
ling witticism  would  set  everyone  laughing. 

The  spell  was  broken,  but  only  for  a  moment. 
A  new  clue  would  soon  be  given  and  at  once 
Oscar  was  off  again  with  renewed  brio  to  finer 
effects. 

The  talking  itself  warmed  and  quickened  him 
extraordinarily:  he  loved  to  show  off  and  aston- 
ish his  audience,  and  usually  talked  better  after  an 
hour  or  two  than  at  the  beginning.  His  verve 
was  inexhaustible.  But  always  a  great  part  of 
the  fascination  lay  in  the  quick  changes  from 
grave  to  gay,  from  pathos  to  mockery,  from 
philosophy  to  fun. 

There  was  but  little  of  the  actor  in  him.  When 
telling  a  story  he  never  mimicked  his  personages ; 
his  drama  seldom  lay  in  clash  of  character,  but 
m  thought;  it  was  the  sheer  beauty  of  the  words, 


414        OSCAR   WILDE   AND    HIS    CONFESSIONS 

the  melody  of  the  cadenced  voice,  the  glow- 
ing eyes  which  fascinated  you  and  always 
and  above  all  the  scintillating,  coruscating 
humour  that  lifted  his  monologues  into  works 
of  art. 

Curiously  enough  he  seldom  talked  of  himself 
or  of  the  incidents  of  his  past  life.  After  the 
prison  he  always  regarded  himself  as  a  sort  of 
Prometheus  and  his  life  as  symbolic;  but  his 
earlier  experiences  never  suggested  themselves 
to  him  as  specially  significant;  the  happenings  of 
his  life  after  his  fall  seemed  predestined  and 
fateful  to  him;  yet  of  those  he  spoke  but  seldom. 
Even  when  carried  away  by  his  own  eloquence, 
he  kept  the  tone  of  good  society. 

When  you  came  afterwards  to  think  over  one 
of  those  wonderful  evenings  when  he  had  talked 
for  hours,  almost  without  interruption,  you 
hardly  found  more  than  an  epigram,  a  fugitive 
flash  of  critical  insight,  an  apologue  or  pretty 
story  charmingly  told.  Over  all  this  he  had  cast 
the  glittering,  sparkling  robe  of  his  Celtic  gaiety, 
verbal  humour,  and  sensual  enjoyment  of  living. 
It  was  all  like  champagne;  meant  to  be  drunk 
quickly;  if  you  let  it  stand,  you  soon  realised 
that  some  still  wines  had  rarer  virtues.  But 
there  was  always  about  him  the  magic  of  a 
rich  and  puissant  personality;  like  some  great 
actor  he  could  take  a  poor  part  and  fill  it  with 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          415 

the  passion  and  vivacity  of  his  own  nature,  till 
it  became  a  living  and  memorable  creation. 

He  gave  the  impression  of  wide  intellectual 
range,  yet  in  reality  he  was  not  broad;  life  was 
not  his  study  nor  the  world-drama  his  field. 
His  talk  was  all  of  literature  and  art  and  the 
vanities;  the  light  drawing-room  comedy  on  the 
edge  of  farce  was  his  kingdom;  there  he  ruled  as 
a  sovereign. 

Anyone  who  has  read  Oscar  Wilde's  plays  at 
all  carefully,  especially  "The  Importance  of  Be- 
ing Earnest,"  must,  I  think,  see  that  in  kindly, 
happy  humour  he  is  without  a  peer  in  liter- 
ature. Who  can  ever  forget  the  scene  between 
the  town  and  country  girl  in  that  delightful 
farce-comedy.  As  soon  as  the  London  girl  real- 
ises that  the  country  girl  has  hardly  any  oppor- 
tunity of  making  new  friends  or  meeting  new 
men,  she  exclaims : 

"Ah!  now  I  know  what  they  mean  when  they 
talk  of  agricultural  depression." 

This  sunny  humour  is  Wilde's  especial  con- 
tribution to  literature:  he  calls  forth  a  smile 
whereas  others  try  to  provoke  laughter.  Yet  he 
was  as  witty  as  anyone  of  whom  we  have  record, 
and  some  of  the  best  epigrams  in  English  are  his. 
"The  cynic  knows  the  price  of  everything  and 
the  value  of  nothing"  is  better  than  the  best  of 
La  Rochefoucauld,  as  good  as  the  best  of  Vau- 


4l6          OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

venargues  or  Joubert.  He  was  as  wittily  urbane 
as  Congreve.  But  all  the  witty  things  that  one 
man  can  say  may  be  numbered  on  one's  fingers. 
It  was  through  his  humour  that  Wilde  reigned 
supreme.  It  was  his  humour  that  lent  his  talk 
its  singular  attraction.  He  was  the  only  man 
I  have  ever  met  or  heard  of  who  could  keep  one 
smiling  with  amusement  hour  after  hour.  True, 
much  of  the  humour  was  merely  verbal,  but  it 
was  always  gay  and  genial:  summer-lightning 
humour,  I  used  to  call  it,  unexpected,  dazzling, 
full  of  colour  yet  harmless. 

Let  me  try  and  catch  here  some  of  the  fleeting 
iridescence  of  that  radiant  spirit.  Some  years 
before  I  had  been  introduced  to  Mdlle.  Marie 
Anne  de  Bovet  by  Sir  Charles  Dilke.  Mdlle. 
de  Bovet  was  a  writer  of  talent  and  knew 
English  uncommonly  well;  but  in  spite  of 
masses  of  fair  hair  and  vivacious  eyes  she  was 
certainly  very  plain.  As  soon  as  she  heard  I  was 
in  Paris,  she  asked  me  to  present  Oscar  Wilde  to 
her.  He  had  no  objection,  and  so  I  made  a 
meeting  between  them.  When  he  caught  sight 
of  her,  he  stopped  short:  seeing  his  astonishment, 
she  cried  to  him  in  her  quick,  abrupt  way : 

"N'est-ce  pas,  M.  Wilde,  que  je  suis  la  femme 
la  plus  laide  de  France?"  (Come,  confess, 
Mr.  Wilde,  that  I  am  the  ugliest  woman  in 
France.) 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          417 

Bowing  low,  Oscar  replied  with  smiling  cour- 
tesy: 

"Du  monde,  Madame,  du  monde."  (In  the 
world,  madame,  in  the  world.) 

No  one  could  help  laughing;  the  retort  was 
irresistible.  He  should  have  said:  "Au  monde, 
madame,  au  monde,"  but  the  meaning  was  clear. 

Sometimes  this  thought-quickness  and  happy 
dexterity  had  to  be  used  in  self-defence.  Jean 
Lorrain  was  the  wittiest  talker  I  have  ever 
heard  in  France,  and  a  most  brilliant  journalist. 
His  life  was  as  abandoned  as  it  could  well  be; 
in  fact,  he  made  a  parade  of  strange  vices.  In 
the  days  of  Oscar's  supremacy  he  always  pre- 
tended to  be  a  friend  and  admirer.  About  this 
time  Oscar  wanted  me  to  know  Stephane 
Mallarme.  He  took  me  to  his  rooms  one  after- 
noon when  there  was  a  reception.  There  were 
a  great  many  people  present.  Mallarme  was 
standing  at  the  other  end  of  the  room  leaning 
against  the  chimney  piece.  Near  the  door  was 
Lorrain,  and  we  both  went  towards  him,  Oscar 
with  outstretched  hands: 

"Delighted  to  see  you,  Jean." 

For  some  reason  or  other,  most  probably  out 
of  tawdry  vanity,  Lorrain  folded  his  arms  theat- 
rically and  replied: 

"I  regret  I  cannot  say  as  much:  I  can  no 
longer  be  one  of  your  friends,  M.  Wilde." 


4l8          OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

The  insult  was  stupid,  brutal;  yet  everyone 
was  on  tiptoe  to  see  how  Oscar  would  answer 
it. 

"How  true  that  is,"  he  said  quietly,  as  quickly 
as  if  he  had  expected  the  traitor-thrust,  "how 
true  and  how  sad!  At  a  certain  time  in  life  all 
of  us  who  have  done  anything  like  you  and  me, 
Lorrain,  must  realise  that  we  no  longer  have 
any  friends  in  this  world;  but  only  lovers." 
(Plus  d'amis,  seulement  des  amants.) 

A  smile  of  approval  lighted  up  every  face. 

"Well  said,  well  said,"  was  the  general  ex- 
clamation. His  humour  was  almost  invariably 
generous,  kind. 

One  day  in  a  Paris  studio  the  conversation 
turned  on  the  character  of  Marat:  one  French- 
man would  have  it  that  he  was  a  fiend,  another 
saw  in  him  the  incarnation  of  the  revolution,  a 
third  insisted  that  he  was  merely  the  gamin  of 
the  Paris  streets  grown  up.  Suddenly  one  turned 
to  Oscar,  who  was  sitting  silent,  and  asked  his 
opinion:  he  took  the  ball  at  once,  gravely. 

uCe  malheureux!     II  rfavait  pas  de  veine— 
pour  une  fois  qu'il  a  pris  un  bain  .    .    . "    (Poor 
devil,  he  was  unlucky!    To  come  to  such  grief 
for  once  taking  a  bath.) 

For  a  little  while  Oscar  was  interested  in  the 
Dreyfus  case,  and  especially  in  the  Com- 
mandant Esterhazy,  who  played  such  a  prom- 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          419 

inent  part  in  it  with  the  infamous  bordereau 
which  brought  about  the  conviction  of  Dreyfus. 
Most  Frenchmen  now  know  that  the  bordereau 
was  a  forgery  and  without  any  real  value. 

I  was  curious  to  see  Esterhazy,  and  Oscar 
brought  him  to  lunch  one  day  at  Durand's. 
He  was  a  little  below  middle  height,  extremely 
thin  and  as  dark  as  any  Italian,  with  an  enor- 
mous hook  nose  and  heavy  jaw.  He  looked  to  me 
like  some  foul  bird  of  prey:  greed  and  cunning 
in  the  restless  brown  eyes  set  close  together, 
quick  resolution  in  the  out-thrust,  bony  jaws 
and  hard  chin;  but  manifestly  he  had  no  capac- 
ity, no  mind:  he  was  meagre  in  all  ways.  For  a 
long  time  he  bored  us  by  insisting  that  Dreyfus 
was  a  traitor,  a  Jew,  and  a  German;  to  him  a 
trinity  of  faults,  whereas  he,  Esterhazy,  was 
perfectly  innocent  and  had  been  very  badly 
treated.  At  length  Oscar  leant  across  the  table 
and  said  to  him  in  French  with,  strange  to  say, 
a  slight  Irish  accent,  not  noticeable  when  he 
spoke  English: 

"The  innocent,"  he  said,  "always  suffer, 
M.  le  Commandant;  it  is  their  metier.  Besides, 
we  are  all  innocent  till  we  are  found  out;  it  is 
a  poor,  common  part  to  play  and  within  the  com- 
pass of  the  meanest.  The  interesting  thing 
surely  is  to  be  guilty  and  so  wear  as  a  halo 
the  seduction  of  sin." 


42O          OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

Esterhazy  appeared  put  out  for  a  moment, 
and  then  he  caught  the  genial  gaiety  of  the 
reproof  and  the  hint  contained  in  it.  His 
vanity  would  not  allow  him  to  remain  long  in 
a  secondary  role,  and  so,  to  our  amazement,  he 
suddenly  broke  out: 

"Why  should  I  not  make  my  confession  to 
you?  I  will.  It  is  I,  Esterhazy,  who  alone  am 
guilty.  I  wrote  the  bordereau.  I  put  Dreyfus 
in  prison,  and  all  France  can  not  liberate  him. 
I  am  the  maker  of  the  plot,  and  the  chief  part 
in  it  is  mine." 

To  his  surprise  we  both  roared  with  laughter. 
The  influence  of  the  larger  nature  on  the 
smaller  to  such  an  extraordinary  issue  was  irre- 
sistibly comic.  At  the  time  no  one  even  sus- 
pected Esterhazy  in  connection  with  the  bor- 
dereau. 

Another  example,  this  time  of  Oscar's  wit, 
may  find  a  place  here.  Sir  Lewis  Morris  was  a 
voluminous  poetaster  with  a  common  mind.  He 
once  bored  Oscar  by  complaining  that  his 
books  were  boycotted  by  the  press;  after  giv- 
ing several  instances  of  unfair  treatment  he 
burst  out:  "There's  a  conspiracy  against  me, 
a  conspiracy  of  silence;  but  what  can  one  do? 
What  should  I  do?" 

"Join  it,"  replied  Oscar  smiling. 

Oscar's  humour  was  for  the  most  part  intel- 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          421 

lectual,  and  something  like  it  can  be  found 
in  others,  though  the  happy  fecundity  and  light- 
some gaiety  of  it  belonged  to  the  individual 
temperament  and  perished  with  him.  I  re- 
member once  trying  to  give  an  idea  of  the 
different  sides  of  his  humour,  just  to  see  how 
far  it  could  be  imitated. 

I  made  believe  to  have  met  him  at  Paddington, 
after  his  release  from  Reading,  though  he  was 
brought  to  Pentonville  in  private  clothes  by  a 
warder  on  May  i8th,  and  was  released  early 
the  next  morning,  two  years  to  the  hour  from 
the  commencement  of  the  Sessions  at  which  he 
was  convicted  on  May  25th.  The  Act  says 
that  you  must  be  released  from  the  prison  in 
which  you  are  first  confined.  I  pretended, 
however,  that  I  had  met  him.  The  train,  I 
said,  ran  into  Paddington  Station  early  in  the 
morning.  I  went  across  to  him  as  he  got  out 
of  the  carriage:  grey  dawn  filled  the  vast  echo- 
ing space;  a  few  porters  could  be  seen  scat- 
tered about;  it  was  all  chill  and  depressing. 

"Welcome,  welcome,  Oscar!"  I  cried  holding 
out  my  hands.  "I  am  sorry  I'm  alone.  You 
ought  to  have  been  met  by  troops  of  boys  and 
girls  flower-crowned,  but  alas!  you  will  have  to 
content  yourself  with  one  middle-aged  ad- 


mirer." 


"Yes,  it's  really  terrible,  Frank,"  he  replied 


422          OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

gravely.  "If  England  persists  in  treating  her 
criminals  like  this,  she  does  not  deserve  to  have 
any " 

"Ah,"  said  an  old  lady  to  him  one  day  at 
lunch,  "I  know  you  people  who  pretend  to  be 
a  great  deal  worse  than  you  are,  I  know  you.  I 
shouldn't  be  afraid  of  you." 

"Naturally  we  pretend  to  be  bad,  dear  lady/' 
he  replied;  "it  is  the  only  way  to  make  ourselves 
interesting  to  you.  Everyone  believes  a  man 
who  pretends  to  be  good,  he  is  such  a  bore;  but 
no  one  believes  a  man  who  says  he  is  evil.  That 
makes  him  interesting." 

"Oh,  you  are  too  clever  for  me,"  replied  the 
old  lady  nodding  her  head.  "You  see  in  my 
day  none  of  us  went  to  Girton  and  Newnham. 
There  were  no  schools  then  for  the  higher  edu- 
cation of  women." 

"How  absurd  such  schools  are,  are  they 
not?"  cried  Oscar.  "Were  I  a  despot,  I  should 
immediately  establish  schools  for  the  lower 
education  of  women.  That's  what  they  need. 
It  usually  takes  ten  years  living  with  a  man  to 
complete  a  woman's  education." 

"Then  what  would  you  do,"  asked  someone, 
"about  the  lower  education  of  man?" 

"That's  already  provided  for,  my  dear  fellow, 
amply  provided  for;  we  have  our  public  schools 
and  universities  to  see  to  that.  What  we  want 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          423 

are  schools  for  the  higher  education  of  men,  and 
schools  for  the  lower  education  of  women." 

Genial  persiflage  of  this  sort  was  his  particular 
forte  whether  my  imitation  of  it  is  good  or  bad. 

His  kindliness  was  ingrained.  I  never  heard 
him  say  a  gross  or  even  a  vulgar  word,  hardly 
even  a  sharp  or  unkind  thing.  Whether  in  com- 
pany or  with  one  person,  his  mind  was  all  dedi- 
cated to  genial,  kindly,  flattering  thoughts.  He 
hated  rudeness  or  discussion  or  insistence  as  he 
hated  ugliness  or  deformity. 

One  evening  of  this  summer  a  trivial  incident 
showed  me  that  he  was  sinking  deeper  in  the 
mud-honey  of  life. 

A  new  play  was  about  to  be  given  at  the 
Fran£ais  and  because  he  expressed  a  wish  to 
see  it  I  bought  a  couple  of  tickets.  We  went 
in  and  he  made  me  change  places  with  him  in 
Wder  to  be  able  to  talk  to  me;  he  was  growing 
nearly  deaf  in  the  bad  ear.  After  the  first  act 
we  went  outside  to  smoke  a  cigarette. 

"It's  stupid,"  Oscar  began,  "fancy  us  two 
going  in  there  to  listen  to  what  that  foolish 
Frenchman  says  about  love;  he  knows  nothing 
about  it;  either  of  us  could  write  much  better 
on  the  theme.  Let's  walk  up  and  down  here 
under  the  columns  and  talk." 

The  people  began  to  go  into  the  theatre 
again  and,  as  they  were  disappearing,  I  said: 


424          OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

"It  seems  rather  a  pity  to  waste  our  tickets; 
so  many  wish  to  see  the  play." 

"We  shall  find  someone  to  give  them  to,"  he 
said  indifferently,  stopping  by  one  of  the  pillars. 

At  that  very  moment  as  if  under  his  hand 
appeared  a  boy  of  about  fifteen  or  sixteen,  one 
of  the  gutter-snipe  of  Paris.  To  my  amazement, 
he  said: 

"Bon  soir,  Monsieur  Wilde." 

Oscar  turned  to  him  smiling. 

"Vous  etes  Jules,  n'est-ce  pas?"  (you  are 
Jules,  aren't  you?)  he  questioned. 

"Oui,  M.  Wilde." 

"Here  is  the  very  boy  you  want,"  Oscar 
cried;  "let's  give  him  the  tickets,  and  he'll  sell 
them,  and  make  something  out  of  them,"  and 
Oscar  turned  and  began  to  explain  to  the  boy 
how  I  had  given  two  hundred  francs  for  the 
tickets,  and  how,  even  now,  they  should  be 
worth  a  louis  or  two. 

"Des  jaunets"  (yellow  boys),  cried  the  youth, 
his  sharp  face  lighting  up,  and  in  a  flash  he  had 
vanished  with  the  tickets. 

:<You  see  he  knows  me,  Frank,"  said  Oscar, 
with  the  childish  pleasure  of  gratified  vanity. 

:<Yes,"  I  replied  drily,  "not  an  acquaintance 
to  be  proud  of,  I  should  think." 

"I  don't  agree  with  you,  Frank,"  he  said, 
resenting  my  tone,  "did  you  notice  his  eyes? 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          425 

He  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  boys  I  have  ever 
seen;  an  exact  replica  of  Emilienne  D'Alencon,1 
I  call  him  Jules  D'Alencon,  and  I  tell  her  he 
must  be  her  brother.  I  had  them  both  dining 
with  me  once  and  the  boy  is  finer  than  the  girl, 
his  skin  far  more  beautiful. 

"By  the  way,"  he  went  on,  as  we  were  walking 
up  the  Avenue  de  1'Opera,  "why  should  we  not 
see  Emilienne;  why  should  she  not  sup  with  us, 
and  you  could  compare  them  ?  She  is  playing  at 
Olympia,  near  the  Grand  Hotel.  Let's  go  and 
compare  Aspasia  and  Agathon,  and  for  once  I  shall 
be  Alcibiades,  and  you  the  moralist,  Socrates." 

"I  would  rather  talk  to  you,"  I  replied. 

"We  can  talk  afterwards,  Frank,  when  all 
the  stars  come  out  to  listen;  now  is  the  time  to 
live  and  enjoy." 

"As  you  will,"  I  said,  and  we  went  to  the 
Music  Hall  and  got  a  box,  and  he  wrote  a  little 
note  to  Emilienne  D'Alen£on,  and  she  came 
afterwards  to  supper  with  us.  Though  her 
face  was  pretty  she  was  pre-eminently  dull  and 
uninteresting  without  two  ideas  in  her  bird's 
head.  She  was  all  greed  and  vanity,  and  could 
talk  of  nothing  but  the  hope  of  getting  an  engage- 
ment in  London:  could  he  help  her,  or  would 
Monsieur,  referring  to  me,  as  a  journalist  get 

1  One  of  the  prettiest  daughters  of  the  game  to  be  found  in  Paris  at 
the  time. 


426          OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

her  some  good  puffs  in  advance?    Oscar  prom- 
ised everything  gravely. 

While  we  were  supping  inside,  Oscar  caught 
sight  of  the  boy  passing  along  the  Boulevard. 
At  once  he  tapped  on  the  window,  loud  enough 
to  attract  his  attention.  Nothing  loth,  the  boy 
came  in,  and  the  four  of  us  had  supper  together 
— a  strange  quartette. 

"Now,  Frank,"  said  Oscar,  "compare  the 
two  faces  and  you  will  see  the  likeness,"  and 
indeed  there  was  in  both  the  same  Greek 
beauty — the  same  regularity  of  feature,  the  same 
low  brow  and  large  eyes,  the  same  perfect  oval. 

"I  am  telling  my  friend,"  said  Oscar  to 
Emilienne  in  French, "  how  alike  you  two  are,  true 
brother  and  sister  in  beauty  and  in  the  finest  of 
arts,  the  art  of  living,"  and  they  both  laughed. 

"The  boy  is  better  looking,"  he  went  on  to  me 
in  English.  "Her  mouth  is  coarse  and  hard;  her 
hands  common,  while  the  boy  is  quite  perfect." 

"Rather  dirty,  don't  you  think?"  I  could  not 
help  remarking. 

"Dirty,  of  course,  but  that's  nothing;  noth- 
ing is  so  immaterial  as  colouring;  form  is  every- 
thing, and  his  form  is  perfect,  as  exquisite  as 
the  David  of  Donatello.  That's  what  he's  like, 
Frank,  the  David  of  Donatello,"  and  he  pulled  his 
jowl,  delighted  to  have  found  the  painting  word. 

As    soon   as   Emilienne    saw   that  we  were 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND  HIS  CONFESSIONS         427 

talking  of  the  boy,  her  interest  in  the  conversa- 
tion vanished,  even  more  quickly  than  her 
appetite.  She  had  to  go,  she  said  suddenly;  she 
was  so  sorry,  and  the  discontented  curiosity  of 
her  look  gave  place  again  to  the  smirk  of  af- 
fected politeness. 

"  Au  revoir,  n'est-ce  pas?  a  Charing  Cross,  n'est- 
ce-paSj  Monsieur?  Vous  ne  m'oublierez  pas?  ..." 

As  we  turned  to  walk  along  the  boulevard 
I  noticed  that  the  boy,  too,  had  disappeared. 
The  moonlight  was  playing  with  the  leaves  and 
boughs  of  the  plane  trees  and  throwing  them 
in  Japanese  shadow-pictures  on  the  pavement: 
I  was  given  over  to  thought;  evidently  Oscar 
imagined  I  was  offended,  for  he  launched  out 
into  a  panegyric  on  Paris. 

"The  most  wonderful  city  in  the  world, 
the  only  civilised  capital;  the  only  place  on  earth 
where  you  find  absolute  toleration  for  all  hu- 
man frailties,  with  passionate  admiration  for  all 
human  virtues  and  capacities. 

"Do  you  remember  Verlaine,  Frank?  His 
life  was  nameless  and  terrible,  he  did  every- 
thing to  excess,  was  drunken,  dirty  and  de- 
bauched, and  yet  there  he  would  sit  in  a  cafe 
on  the  Boul'  Mich',  and  everybody  who  came 
in  would  bow  to  him,  and  call  him  maitre  and 
be  proud  of  any  sign  of  recognition  from  him 
because  he  was  a  great  poet. 


428          OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

"In  England  they  would  have  murdered 
Verlaine,  and  men  who  call  themselves  gentle- 
men would  have  gone  out  of  their  way  to  insult 
him  in  public.  England  is  still  only  half- 
civilised;  Englishmen  touch  life  at  one  or  two 
points  without  suspecting  its  complexity.  They 
are  rude  and  harsh." 

All  the  while  I  could  not  help  thinking  of 
Dante  and  his  condemnation  of  Florence,  and 
its  "hard,  malignant  people,"  the  people  who 
still  had  something  in  them  of  "the  mountain 
and  rock"  of  their  birthplace: — "E  tiene  ancor 
del  monte  e  del  macigno" 

"You  are  not  offended,  Frank,  are  you,  with 
me,  for  making  you  meet  two  caryatides  of  the 
Parisian  temple  of  pleasure?" 

"No,  no,"  I  cried,  "I  was  thinking  how  Dante 
condemned  Florence  and  its  people,  its  ungrate- 
ful malignant  people,  and  how  when  his  teacher, 
Brunetto  Latini,  and  his  companions  came  to 
him  in  the  underworld,  he  felt  as  if  he,  too, 
must  throw  himself  into  the  pit  with  them. 
Nothing  prevented  him  from  carrying  out  his 
good  intention  (buona  voglia)  except  the  fear  of 
being  himself  burned  and  baked  as  they  were. 
I  was  just  thinking  that  it  was  his  great  love 
for  Latini  which  gave  him  the  deathless  words: 

"  Non  dispetto,  ma  doglia 

La  vostra  condizion  dentro  mi  fisse. 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          429 

"Not  contempt  but  sorrow " 

"Oh,  Frank,"  cried  Oscar,  "what  a  beautiful 
incident!  I  remember  it  all.  I  read  it  this  last 

winter  in  Naples Of  course  Dante  was 

full  of  pity  as  are  all  great  poets,  for  they  know 
the  weakness  of  human  nature." 

But  even  "the  sorrow"  of  which  Dante  spoke 
seemed  to  carry  with  it  some  hint  of  condemna- 
tion; for  after  a  pause  he  went  on: 

:'You  must  not  judge  me,  Frank:  you  don't 
know  what  I  have  suffered.  No  wonder  I  snatch 
now  at  enjoyment  with  both  hands.  They  did 
terrible  things  to  me.  Did  you  know  that  when 
I  was  arrested  the  police  let  the  reporters  come 
to  the  cell  and  stare  at  me.  Think  of  it — the 
degradation  and  the  shame — as  if  I  had  been 
a  monster  on  show.  Oh !  you  knew !  Then  you 
know,  too,  how  I  was  really  condemned  before 
I  was  tried;  and  what  a  farce  my  trial  was. 
That  terrible  judge  with  his  insults  to  those  he 
was  sorry  he  could  not  send  to  the  scaffold. 

"I  never  told  you  the  worst  thing  that  befell 
me.  When  they  took  me  from  Wandsworth  to 
Reading,  we  had  to  stop  at  Clapham  Junction. 
We  were  nearly  an  hour  waiting  for  the  train. 
There  we  sat  on  the  platform.  I  was  in  the 
hideous  prison  clothes,  handcuffed  between  two 
warders.  You  know  how  the  trains  come  in 
every  minute.  Almost  at  once  I  was  recognised, 


43°          OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

and  there  passed  before  me  a  continual  stream 
of  men  and  boys,  and  one  after  the  other  offered 
some  foul  sneer  or  gibe  or  scoff.  They  stood 
before  me,  Frank,  calling  me  names  and  spit- 
ting on  the  ground — an  eternity  of  torture." 

My  heart  bled  for  him. 

"I  wonder  if  any  punishment  will  teach  hu- 
manity to  such  people,  or  understanding  of 
their  own  baseness?" 

After  walking  a  few  paces  he  turned  to  me: 

"Don't  reproach  me,  Frank,  even  in  thought. 
You  have  no  right  to.  You  don't  know  me  yet. 
Some  day  you  will  know  more  and  then  you 
will  be  sorry,  so  sorry  that  there  will  be  no 
room  for  any  reproach  of  me.  If  I  could  tell 
you  what  I  suffered  this  winter!" 

"This  winter!"  I  cried.    "In  Naples?" 

:<Yes,  in  gay,  happy  Naples.  It  was  last 
autumn  that  I  really  fell  to  ruin.  I  had  come 
out  of  prison  filled  with  good  intentions,  with 
all  good  resolutions.  My  wife  had  promised  to 
come  back  to  me.  I  hoped  she  would  come  very 
soon.  If  she  had  come  at  once,  if  she  only  had, 
it  might  all  have  been  different.  But  she  did 
not  come.  I  have  no  doubt  she  was  right  from 
her  point  of  view.  She  has  always  been  right. 

"But  I  was  alone  there  in  Berneval,  and  Bosie 
kept  on  calling  me,  calling,  and  as  you  know 
I  went  to  him.  At  first  it  was  all  wonderful. 
The  bruised  leaves  began  to  unfold  in  the  light 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          43  I 

and  warmth  of  affection;  the  sore  feeling  began 
to  die  out  of  me. 

"But  at  once  my  allowance  from  my  wife 
was  stopped.  Yes,  Frank,"  he  said,  with  a 
touch  of  the  old  humour,  "they  took  it  away 
when  they  should  have  doubled  it.  I  did  not 
care.  When  I  had  money  I  gave  it  to  him 
without  counting,  so  when  I  could  not  pay  I 
thought  Bosie  would  pay,  and  I  was  content. 
But  at  once  I  discovered  that  he  expected  me 
to  find  the  money.  I  did  what  I  could;  but 
when  my  means  were  exhausted,  the  evil  days 
began.  He  expected  me  to  write  plays  and  get 
money  for  us  both  as  in  the  past;  but  I  couldn't; 
I  simply  could  not.  When  we  were  dunned  his 
temper  went  to  pieces.  He  has  never  known 
what  it  is  to  want  really.  You  have  no  con- 
ception of  the  wretchedness  of  it  all.  He  has 
a  terrible,  imperious,  irritable  temper." 

"He's  the  son  of  his  father,"  I  interjected. 

"Yes,"  said  Oscar,  "I  am  afraid  that's  the 
truth,  Frank;  he  is  the  son  of  his  father;  violent, 
and  irritable,  with  a  tongue  like  a  lash.  As  soon 
as  the  means  of  life  were  straitened,  he  became 
sullen  and  began  reproaching  me;  why  didn't 
I  write?  Why  didn't  I  earn  money?  What  was 
the  good  of  me?  As  if  I  could  write  under  such 
conditions.  No  man,  Frank,  has  ever  suffered 
worse  shame  and  humiliation. 

"At  last  there  was  a  washing  bill  to  be  paid; 


432          OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS    CONFESSIONS 

Bosie  was  dunned  for  it,  and  when  I  came  in, 
he  raged  and  whipped  me  with  his  tongue.  It 
was  appalling;  I  had  done  everything  for  him, 
given  him  everything,  lost  everything,  and  now 
I  could  only  stand  and  see  love  turned  to  hate: 
the  strength  of  love's  wine  making  the  bitter 
more  venomous.  Then  he  left  me,  Frank,  and 
now  there  is  no  hope  for  me.  I  am  lost,  finished, 
a  derelict  floating  at  the  mercy  of  the  stream, 
without  plan  or  purpose.  .  .  .  And  the  worst 
of  it  is,  I  know,  if  men  have  treated  me  badly,  I 
have  treated  myself  worse;  it  is  our  sins  against 
ourselves  we  can  never  forgive.  .  .  .  Do  you 
wonder  that  I  snatch  at  any  pleasure?" 

He  turned  and  looked  at  me  all  shaken;  I 
saw  the  tears  pouring  down  his  cheeks. 

"I  cannot  talk  any  more,  Frank,"  he  said  in 
a  broken  voice,  "I  must  go." 

I  called  a  cab.  My  heart  was  so  heavy 
within  me,  so  sore,  that  I  said  nothing  to  stop 
him.  He  lifted  his  hand  to  me  in  sign  of  fare- 
well, and  I  turned  again  to  walk  home  alone, 
understanding,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  the 
full  significance  of  the  marvellous  line  in  which 
Shakespeare  summed  up  his  impeachment  of 
the  world  and  his  own  justification:  the  only 
justification  of  any  of  us  mortals: 

"  A  man  more  sinn'd  against  than  sinning." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  more  I  considered  the  matter,  the  more 
clearly  I  saw,  or  thought  I  saw,  that  the  only 
chance  of  salvation  for  Oscar  was  to  get  him  to 
work,  to  give  him  some  purpose  in  life,  and  the 
reader  should  remember  here  that  at  this  time  I 
had  not  read  "De  Profundis"  and  did  not  know 
that  Oscar  in  prison  had  himself  recognised  this 
necessity.  After  all,  I  said  to  myself,  nothing  is 
lost  if  he  will  only  begin  to  write.  A  man  should 
be  able  to  whistle  happiness  and  hope  down  the 
wind  and  take  despair  to  his  bed  and  heart,  and 
win  courage  from  his  harsh  companion.  Hap- 
piness is  not  essential  to  the  artist:  happiness 
never  creates  anything  but  memories.  If  Oscar 
would  work  and  not  brood  over  the  past  and 
study  himself  like  an  Indian  Fakir,  he  might  yet 
come  to  soul-health  and  achievement.  He  could 
win  back  everything;  his  own  respect,  and  the 
respect  of  his  fellows,  if  indeed  that  were  worth 
winning.  An  artist,  I  knew,  must  have  at 
least  the  self-abnegation  of  the  hero,  and  heroic 
resolution  to  strive  and  strive,  or  he  will  never 
bring  it  far  even  in  his  art.  If  I  could  only  get 
Oscar  to  work,  it  seemed  to  me  everything 

433 


434          OSCAR  WILDE  AND  HIS   CONFESSIONS 

might  yet  come  right.  I  spent  a  week  with  him, 
lunching  and  dining  and  putting  all  this  before 
him,  in  every  way. 

I  noticed  that  he  enjoyed  the  good  eating 
and  the  good  drinking  as  intensely  as  ever. 
He  was  even  drinking  too  much  I  thought,  was 
beginning  to  get  stout  and  flabby  again,  but 
the  good  living  was  a  necessity  to  him,  and 
it  certainly  did  not  prevent  him  from  talking 
charmingly.  But  as  soon  as  I  pressed  him  to 
write  he  would  shake  his  head : 

"Oh,  Frank,  I  cannot,  you  know  my  rooms; 
how  could  I  write  there?  A  horrid  bedroom 
like  a  closet,  and  a  little  sitting  room  without 
any  outlook.  Books  everywhere;  and  no 
place  to  write;  to  tell  you  the  truth  I  cannot 
even  read  in  it.  I  can  do  nothing  in  such  miser- 
able poverty." 

Again  and  again  he  came  back  to  this.  He 
harped  upon  his  destitution,  so  that  I  could  not 
but  see  purpose  in  it.  He  was  already  cunning 
in  the  art  of  getting  money  without  asking  for 
it.  My  heart  ached  for  him;  one  goes  down 
hill  with  such  fatal  speed  and  ease,  and  the  mire 
at  the  bottom  is  so  loathsome.  I  hastened  to 
say: 

"I  can  let  you  have  a  little  money;  but  you 
ought  to  work,  Oscar.  After  all  why  should 
anyone  help  you,  if  you  will  not  help  yourself? 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND  HIS   CONFESSIONS         435 

If  I  cannot  aid  you  to  save  yourself,  I  am  only 
doing  you  harm." 

"A  base  sophism,  Frank,  mere  sophistry, 
as  you  know:  a  good  lunch  is  better  than  a  bad 
one  for  any  living  man." 

I  smiled,  "Don't  do  yourself  injustice:  you 
could  easily  gain  thousands  and  live  like  a 
prince  again.  Why  not  make  the  effort?" 

"  If  I  had  pleasant,  sunny  rooms  I'd  try 

It's  harder  than  you  think." 

"Nonsense,  it's  easy  for  you.  Your  punish- 
ment has  made  your  name  known  in  every 
country  in  the  world.  A  book  of  yours  would 
sell  like  wildfire;  a  play  of  yours  would  draw  in 
any  capital.  You  might  live  here  like  a  prince. 
Shakespeare  lost  love  and  friendship,  hope  and 
health  to  boot — everything,  and  yet  forced  him- 
self to  write  'The  Tempest.'  Why  can't  you?" 

"I'll  try,  Frank,  I'll  try." 

I  may  just  mention  here  that  any  praise  of 
another  man,  even  of  Shakespeare,  was  sure  to 
move  Oscar  to  emulation.  He  acknowledged  no 
superior.  In  some  articles  in  The  Saturday 
Review  I  had  said  that  no  one  had  ever  given 
completer  record  of  himself  than  Shakespeare. 
"We  know  him  better  than  we  know  any  of  our 
contemporaries,"  I  went  on,  "and  he  is  better 
worth  knowing."  At  once  Oscar  wrote  to  me 
objecting  to  this  phrase.  "Surely,  Frank,  you 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND  HIS  CONFESSIONS 

have  forgotten  me.  Surely,  I  am  better  worth 
knowing  than  Shakespeare?" 

The  question  astonished  me  so  that  I  could 
not  make  up  my  mind  at  once;  but  when  he 
pressed  me  later  I  had  to  tell  him  that  Shake- 
speare had  reached  higher  heights  of  thought 
and  feeling  than  any  modern,  though  I  was 
probably  wrong  in  saying  that  I  knew  him  bet- 
ter than  I  knew  a  living  man. 

I  had  to  go  back  to  England  and  some  little 
time  elapsed  before  I  could  return  to  Paris; 
but  I  crossed  again  early  in  the  summer,  and 
found  he  had  written  nothing. 

I  often  talked  with  him  about  it;  but  now  he 
changed  his  ground  a  little. 

"I  can't  write,  Frank.  When  I  take  up  my 
pen  all  the  past  comes  back:  I  cannot  bear  the 
thoughts  .  .  .  regret  and  remorse,  like  twin 
dogs,  wait  to  seize  me  at  any  idle  moment.  I 
must  go  out  and  watch  life,  amuse,  interest 
myself,  or  I  should  go  mad.  You  don't  know 
how  sore  it  is  about  my  heart,  as  soon  as  I  am 
alone.  I  am  face  to  face  with  my  own  soul ;  the 
Oscar  of  four  years  ago,  with  his  beautiful  se- 
cure life,  and  his  glorious  easy  triumphs,  comes 
up  before  me,  and  I  cannot  stand  the  contrast. 
.  .  .  My  eyes  burn  with  tears.  If  you  care 
for  me,  Frank,  you  will  not  ask  me  to  write." 

"You   promised   to   try,"    I    said    somewhat 


OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          437 

harshly,  "and  I  want  you  to  try.  You  haven't 
suffered  more  than  Dante  suffered  in  exile  and 
poverty;  yet  you  know  if  he  had  suffered  ten 
times  as  much,  he  would  have  written  it  all 
down.  Tears,  indeed !  the  fire  in  his  eyes  would 
have  dried  the  tears." 

"True  enough,  Frank,  but  Dante  was  all  of 
one  piece  whereas  I  am  drawn  in  two  different 
directions.  I  was  born  to  sing  the  joy  and 
pride  of  life,  the  pleasure  of  living,  the  delight 
in  everything  beautiful  in  this  most  beautiful 
world,  and  they  took  me  and  tortured  me  till 
I  learned  pity  and  sorrow.  Now  I  cannot  sing 
the  joy,  heartily,  because  I  know  the  suffering, 
and  I  was  never  made  to  sing  of  suffering.  I 
hate  it,  and  I  want  to  sing  the  love  songs  of  joy 
and  pleasure.  It  is  joy  alone  which  appeals  to 
my  soul;  the  joy  of  life  and  beauty  and  love — 
I  could  sing  the  song  of  Apollo  the  Sun-God, 
and  they  try  to  force  me  to  sing  the  song  of  the 
tortured  Marsyas." 

This  to  me  was  his  true  and  final  confession. 
His  second  fall  after  leaving  prison  had  put 
him  "at  war  with  himself."  This  is,  I  think, 
the  very  heart  of  truth  about  his  soul;  the  song 
of  sorrow,  of  pity  and  renunciation  was  not  his 
song,  and  the  experience  of  suffering  prevented 
him  from  singing  the  delight  of  life  and  the 
joy  he  took  in  beauty.  It  never  seemed  to  occur 


OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 


to  him  that  he  could  reach  a  faith  which  should 
include  both  self-indulgence  and  renunciation  in 
a  larger  acceptance  of  life. 

In  spite  of  his  sunny  nature  he  had  a  certain 
amount  of  jealousy  and  envy  in  him  which  was 
always  brought  to  light  by  the  popular  success 
of  those  whom  he  had  known  and  measured. 
I  remember  his  telling  me  once  that  he  wrote 
his  first  play  because  he  was  annoyed  at  the 
way  Pinero  was  being  praised  —  "Pinero,  who 
can't  write  at  all:  he  is  a  stage-carpenter  and 
nothing  else.  His  characters  are  made  of  dough; 
and  never  was  there  such  a  worthless  style,  or 
rather  such  a  complete  absence  of  style:  he 
writes  like  a  grocer's  assistant." 

I  noticed  now  that  this  trait  of  jealousy  was 
stronger  in  him  than  ever.  One  day  I  showed 
him  an  English  illustrated  paper  which  I  had 
bought  on  my  way  to  lunch.  It  contained  a 
picture  of  George  Curzon  (I  beg  his  pardon, 
Lord  Curzon)  as  Viceroy  of  India.  He  was  pho- 
tographed in  a  carriage  with  his  wife  by  his  side: 
the  gorgeous  state  carriage  drawn  by  four 
horses,  with  outriders,  and  escorted  by  cavalry  and 
cheering  crowds  —  all  the  paraphernalia  and 
pomp  of  imperial  power. 

"Do  you  see  that?"  cried  Oscar  angrily; 
"fancy  George  Curzon  being  treated  like  that. 
I  know  him  well;  a  more  perfect  example  of 


OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          439 

plodding  mediocrity  was  never  seen  in  the 
world.  He  had  never  a  thought  or  phrase  above 
the  common." 

"I  know  him  pretty  well,  too,"  I  replied.  "His 
incurable  commonness  is  the  secret  of  his  success. 
He  Voices,'  as  he  would  say  himself,  the  opinion 
of  the  average  man  on  every  subject.  He  might 
be  a  leader-writer  on  the  Mail  or  Times.  What 
do  you  know  of  the  average  man  or  of  his  opin- 
ions ?  But  the  man  in  the  street,  as  he  is  called 
to-day,  can  only  learn  from  the  man  who  is 
just  one  step  above  himself,  and  so  the  George 
Curzons  come  to  success  in  life.  That,  too,  is 
the  secret  of  the  popularity  of  this  or  that 
writer.  Hall  Caine  is  an  even  larger  George 
Curzon,  a  better  endowed  mediocrity." 

"But  why  should  he  have  fame  and  state 
and  power?"  Oscar  cried  indignantly. 

"State  and  power,  because  he  is  George 
Curzon,  but  fame  he  never  will  have,  and  I 
suspect  if  the  truth  were  known,  in  the  moments 
when  he  too  comes  face  to  face  with  his  own 
soul,  as  you  say,  he  would  give  a  good  deal  of  his 
state  and  power  for  a  very  little  of  your  fame." 

"That  is  probably  true,  Frank,"  cried  Oscar, 
"that  is  almost  certainly  the  crumpled  rose-leaf 
of  his  couch,  but  how  grossly  he  is  over-estimated 
and  over-rewarded Do  you  know  Wil- 
fred Blunt?" 


44-O          OSCAR  WILDE  AND    HIS   CONFESSIONS 

"I  have  met  him,"  I  replied,  "but  don't 
know  him.  We  met  once  and  he  bragged  pre- 
posterously about  his  Arab  ponies.  I  was  at 
that  time  editor  of  The  Evening  News:  and  Mr. 
Blunt  tried  hard  to  talk  down  to  my  level." 

"He  is  by  way  of  being  a  poet,  and  he  has 
a  very  real  love  of  literature." 

"I  know,"  I  said;  "I  really  know  his  work 
and  a  good  deal  about  him  and  have  nothing 
but  praise  for  the  way  he  championed  the 
Egyptians,  and  for  his  poetry  when  he  has  any- 
thing to  say." 

"Well,  Frank,  he  had  a  sort  of  club  at  Crab- 
bett  Park,  a  club  for  poets,  to  which  only 
poets  were  invited,  and  he  was  a  most  admir- 
able and  perfect  host.  Lady  Blunt  could  never 
make  out  what  he  was  up  to.  He  used  to  get 
us  all  down  to  Crabbett,  and  the  poet  who  was 
received  last  had  to  make  a  speech  about  the 
new  poet — a  speech  in  which  he  was  supposed 
to  tell  the  truth  about  the  new-comer.  Blunt 
took  the  idea,  no  doubt,  from  the  custom  of  the 
French  Academy.  Well,  he  asked  me  down  to 
Crabbett  Park,  and  George  Curzon,  if  you 
please,  was  the  poet  picked  to  make  the  speech 
about  me." 

"Good  God,"  I  cried,  "Curzon  a  poet.  It's 
like  Kitchener  being  taken  for  a  great  captain, 
or  Salisbury  for  a  statesman." 


OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          44! 

"  He  writes  verses,  Frank,  but  of  course  there 
is  not  a  line  of  poetry  in  him:  his  verses  are 
good  enough  though,  well-turned,  I  mean,  and 
sharp,  if  not  witty.  Well,  Curzon  had  to  make 
this  speech  about  me  after  dinner.  We  had  a 
delightful  dinner,  quite  perfect,  and  then  Cur- 
zon got  up.  He  had  evidently  prepared  his 
speech  carefully,  it  was  bristling  with  innuen- 
does; sneering  side-hits  at  strange  sins.  Every- 
one looked  at  his  fellow  and  thought  the  speech 
the  height  of  bad  taste. 

"Mediocrity  always  detests  ability,  and  loathes 
genius;  Curzon  wanted  to  prove  to  himself  that 
at  any  rate  in  the  moralities  he  was  my  superior. 

"When  he  sat  down  I  had  to  answer  him. 
That  was  the  programme.  Of  course  I  had  not 
prepared  a  speech,  had  not  thought  about  Cur- 
zon, or  what  he  might  say,  but  I  got  up,  Frank, 
and  told  the  kindliest  truth  about  him,  and 
everyone  took  it  for  the  bitterest  sarcasm,  and 
cheered  and  cheered  me,  though  what  I  said 
was  merely  the  truth.  I  told  how  difficult  it 
was  for  Curzon  to  work  and  study  at  Oxford. 
Everyone  wanted  to  know  him  because  of  his 
position,  because  he  was  going  into  Parliament, 
and  certain  to  make  a  great  figure  there;  and 
everyone  tried  to  make  up  to  him,  but  he 
knew  that  he  must  not  yield  to  such  seduc- 
tion, so  he  sat  in  his  room  with  a  wet  towel 


442          OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

about  his  head,  and  worked  and  worked  with- 
out ceasing. 

"In  the  earlier  examinations,  which  demand 
only  memory,  he  won  first  honours.  But  even 
success  could  not  induce  him  to  relax  his  ef- 
forts; he  lived  laborious  days  and  took  every 
college  examination  seriously;  he  made  out  dates 
in  red  ink,  and  hung  them  on  his  wall,  and 
learnt  pages  of  uninteresting  events  and  put 
them  in  blue  ink  in  his  memory,  and  at  last 
came  out  of  the  '  Final  Schools '  with  second  hon- 
ours. And  now,  I  concluded,  'this  model  youth 
is  going  into  life,  and  he  is  certain  to  treat  it 
seriously,  certain  to  win  at  any  rate  second 
honours  in  it,  and  have  a  great  and  praise- 
worthy career.' 

"Frank,  they  roared  with  laughter,  and,  to  do 
Curzon  justice,  at  the  end  he  came  up  to  me  and 
apologised,  and  was  charming.  Indeed,  they  all 
made  much  of  me  and  we  had  a  great  night. 

"  I  remember  we  talked  all  the  night  through, 
or  rather  I  talked  and  everyone  else  listened, 
for  the  great  principle  of  the  division  of  labour 
is  beginning  to  be  understood  in  English  Society. 
The  host  gives  excellent  food,  excellent  wine, 
excellent  cigarettes,  and  super-excellent  coffee, 
that's  his  part,  and  all  the  men  listen,  that's 
theirs:  while  I  talk  and  the  stars  twinkle  their 
delight. 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          443 

"  Wyndham  was  there,  too;  you  know  George 
Wyndham,  with  his  beautiful  face  and  fine 
figure:  he  is  infinitely  cleverer  than  Curzon  but 
he  has  not  Curzon's  push  and  force,  or  perhaps,- 
as  you  say,  he  is  not  in  such  close  touch  with  the 
average  man  as  Curzon;  he  was  charming  to  me. 

"In  the  morning  we  all  trooped  out  to  see 
the  dawn,  and  some  of  the  young  ones,  wild 
with  youth  and  high  spirits,  Curzon  of  course 
among  the  number,  stripped  off  their  clothes  and 
rushed  down  to  the  lake  and  began  swimming 
and  diving  about  like  a  lot  of  schoolboys. 
There  is  a  great  deal  of  the  schoolboy  in  all 
Englishmen,  that  is  what  makes  them  so  lovable. 
When  they  came  out  they  ran  over  the  grass 
to  dry  themselves,  and  then  began  playing  lawn 
tennis,  just  as  they  were,  stark  naked,  the  future 
rulers  of  England.  I  shall  never  forget  the 
scene.  Wilfred  Blunt  had  gone  up  to  his  wife's 
apartments  and  had  changed  into  some  fan- 
tastic pyjamas;  suddenly  he  opened  an  upper 
window  and  came  out  and  perched  himself, 
cross-legged,  on  the  balcony,  looking  down  at 
the  mad  game  of  lawn  tennis,  for  all'  the  world 
like  a  sort  of  pink  and  green  Buddha,  while  I 
strolled  about  with  someone,  and  ordered  fresh 
coffee  and  talked  till  the  dawn  came  with  silent 
silver  feet  lighting  up  the  beautiful  greenery  of 
the  park 


444          OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

"Now  George  Curzon  plays  king  in  India: 
Wyndham  is  on  the  way  to  power,  and  I'm 
hiding  in  shame  and  poverty  here  in  Paris,  an 
exile  and  outcast.  Do  you  wonder  that  I 
cannot  write,  Frank?  The  awful  injustice  of  life 
maddens  me.  After  all,  what  have  they  done 
in  comparison  with  what  I  have  done? 

"Close  the  eyes  of  all  of  us  now  and  fifty 
years  hence,  or  a  hundred  years  hence,  no  one 
will  know  anything  about  Curzon  or  Wyndham 
or  Blunt:  whether  they  lived  or  died  will  be  a 
matter  of  indifference  to  everyone;  but  my  com- 
edies and  my  stories  and  'The  Ballad  of  Reading 
Gaol'  will  be  known  and  read  by  millions,  and 
even  my  unhappy  fate  will  call  forth  world-wide 
sympathy." 

It  was  all  true  enough,  and  good  to  keep  in 
mind;  but  even  when  Oscar  spoke  of  greater  men 
than  himself,  he  took  the  same  attitude :  his  self- 
esteem  was  extraordinary.  He  did  not  compare 
his  work  with  that  of  others;  was  not  anxious  to 
find  his  true  place,  as  even  Shakespeare  was. 
From  the  beginning,  from  youth  on,  he  was  con- 
vinced that  he  was  a  great  man  and  going  to  do 
great  things.  Many  of  us  have  the  same  belief 
and  are  just  as  persuaded,  but  the  belief  is  not 
ever  present  with  us  as  it  was  with  Oscar,  mould- 
ing all  his  actions.  For  instance,  I  remarked  once 
that  his  handwriting  was  unforgettable  and  char- 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS  CONFESSIONS         445 

acteristic.  "I  worked  at  it,"  he  said,  "as  a  boy; 
I  wanted  a  distinctive  handwriting;  it  had  to  be 
clear  and  beautiful  and  peculiar  to  me.  At 
length  I  got  it  but  it  took  time  and  patience.  I 
always  wanted  everything  about  me  to  be  dis- 
tinctive," he  added,  smiling. 

He  was  proud  of  his  physical  appearance, 
inordinately  pleased  with  his  great  height,  vain 
of  it  even.  "Height  gives  distinction,"  he 
declared,  and  once  even  went  so  far  as  to  say, 
"One  can't  picture  Napoleon  as  small;  one 
thinks  only  of  his  magnificent  head  and  forgets 
the  little  podgy  figure;  it  must  have  been  a  great 
nuisance  to  him:  small  men  have  no  dignity." 

All  this  utterly  unconscious  of  the  fact  that 
most  tall  men  have  no  ever  present  sense  of  their 
height  as  an  advantage.  Yet  on  the  whole  one 
agrees  with  Montaigne  that  height  is  the  chief 
beauty  of  a  man:  it  gives  presence. 

Oscar  never  learned  anything  from  criticism; 
he  had  a  good  deal  of  personal  dignity  in  spite 
of  his  amiability,  and  when  one  found  fault  with 
his  work,  he  would  smile  vaguely  or  change  the 
subject  as  if  it  didn't  interest  him. 

Again  and  again  I  played  on  his  self-esteem 
to  get  him  to  write;  but  always  met  the  same 
answer. 

"Oh,  Frank,  it's  impossible,  impossible  for 
me  to  work  under  these  disgraceful  conditions." 


446         OSCAR  WILDE  AND  HIS  CONFESSIONS 

"  But  you  can  have  better  conditions  now  and 
lots  of  money  if  you'll  begin  to  work." 

He  shook  his  head  despairingly.  Again  and 
again  I  tried,  but  failed  to  move  him,  even  when 
I  dangled  money  before  him.  I  didn't  then  know 
that  he  was  receiving  regularly  more  than  £300  a 
year.  I  thought  he  was  completely  destitute,  de- 
pendent on  such  casual  help  as  friends  could  give 
him.  I  have  a  letter  from  him  about  this  time  ask- 
ing me  for  even  £5*  as  if  he  were  in  extremest  need. 

On  one  of  my  visits  to  Paris  after  discussing 
his  position,  I  could  not  help  saying  to  him: 

"The  only  thing  that  will  make  you  write, 
Oscar,  is  absolute,  blank  poverty.  That's  the 
sharpest  spur  after  all — necessity." 

:'You  don't  know  me,"  he  replied  sharply. 
"I  would  kill  myself.  I  can  endure  to  the  end; 
but  to  be  absolutely  destitute  would  show  me 
suicide  as  the  open  door." 

Suddenly  his  depressed  manner  changed  and 
his  whole  face  lighted  up. 

"Isn't  it  comic,  Frank,  the  way  the  English 
talk  of  the  'open  door,'  while  their  doors  are 
always  locked,  and  barred,  and  bolted,  even 
their  church  doors  ?  Yet  it  is  not  hypocrisy  in 
them;  they  simply  cannot  see  themselves  as 
they  are;  they  have  no  imagination." 

A  long  pause,  and  he  went  on  gravely: 

1  Cfr .  Appendix. 


OSCAR   WILDE    AND    HIS    CONFESSIONS         447 

"Suicide,  Frank,  is  always  the  temptation  of 
the  unfortunate,  a  great  temptation." 

"Suicide  is  the  natural  end  of  the  world- 
weary,"  I  replied;  "but  you  enjoy  life  intensely. 
For  you  to  talk  of  suicide  is  ridiculous." 

"Do  you  know  that  my  wife  is  dead,  Frank? "* 

"I  had  heard  it,"  I  said. 

"My  way  back  to  hope  and  a  new  life  ends 
in  her  grave,"  he  went  on.  "Everything  I  do, 
Frank,  is  irrevocable." 

He  spoke  with  a  certain  grave  sincerity. 

"The  great  tragedies  of  the  world  are  all 
final  and  complete;  Socrates  would  not  escape 
death,  though  Crito  opened  the  prison  door  for 
him.  I  could  not  avoid  prison,  though  you 
showed  me  the  way  to  safety.  We  are  fated  to 
suffer,  don't  you  think?  as  an  example  to  human- 
ity— 'an  echo  and  a  light  unto  eternity.'3 

"I  think  it  would  be  finer,  instead  of  taking 
the  punishment  lying  down,  to  trample  it  under 
your  feet,  and  make  it  a  rung  of  the  ladder." 

"Oh,  Frank,  you  would  turn  all  the  tragedies 
into  triumphs,  you  are  a  fighter.  My  life  is 
done." 

"You  love  life,"  I  cried,  "as  much  as  ever 
you  did;  more  than  anyone  I  have  ever  seen." 

"It  is  true,"  he  cried,  his  face  lighting  up 
quickly,  "more  than  anyone,  Frank.  Life  de- 
lights me.  The  people  passing  on  the  Boule- 

1  See  Appendix. 


448          OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

vards,  the  play  of  the  sunshine  in  the  trees; 
the  noise,  the  quick  movement  of  the  cabs,  the 
costumes  of  the  cockers  and  sergents-de-ville; 
workers  and  beggars,  pimps  and  prostitutes — all 
please  me  to  the  soul,  charm  me,  and  if  you 
would  only  let  me  talk  instead  of  bothering  me 
to  write  I  should  be  quite  happy.  Why  should  I 
write  any  more  ?  I  have  done  enough  for  fame. 

"  I  will  tell  you  a  story,  Frank,"  he  broke  off, 
and  he  told  me  a  slight  thing  about  Judas.  The 
little  tale  was  told  delightfully,  with  eloquent 
inflections  of  voice  and  still  more  eloquent 
pauses.  ..." 

"The  end  of  all  this  is,"  I  said  before  going 
back  to  London,  "that  you  will  not  write?" 

"No,  no, Frank,"  he  said,  "that  I  cannot  write 
under  these  conditions.  If  I  had  money  enough; 
if  I  could  shake  off  Paris,  and  forget  those 
awful  rooms  of  mine  and  get  to  the  Riviera  for 
the  winter  and  live  in  some  seaside  village  of  the 
Latins  with  the  blue  sea  at  my  feet,  and  the 
blue  sky  above,  and  God's  sunlight  about  me 
and  no  care  for  money,  then  I  would  write  as 
naturally  as  a  bird  sings,  because  I  should  be 
happy  and  could  not  help  it.  ... 

"You  write  stories  taken  from  the  fight  of  life; 
you  are  careless  of  surroundings,  I  am  a  poet 
and  can  only  sing  in  the  sunshine  when  I  am 
happy." 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          449 

"All  right,"  I  said,  snatching  at  the  half- 
promise.  "It  is  just  possible  that  I  may  get 
hold  of  some  money  during  the  next  few  months, 
and,  if  I  do,  you  shall  go  and  winter  in  the 
South,  and  live  as  you  please  without  care  of 
money.  If  you  can  only  sing  when  the  cage  is 
beautiful  and  sunlight  floods  it,  I  know  the 
very  place  for  you." 

With  this  sort  of  vague  understanding  we 
parted  for  some  months. 


CHAPTER  XXII 


"A   GREAT    ROMANTIC    PASSION" 


THERE  is  no  more  difficult  problem  for  the 
writer,  no  harder  task  than  to  decide  how  far  he 
should  allow  himself  to  go  in  picturing  human 
weakness.  We  have  all  come  from  the  animal 
and  can  all  without  any  assistance  from  books 
imagine  easily  enough  the  effects  of  unrestrained 
self-indulgence.  Yet  it  is  instructive  and  preg- 
nant with  warning  to  remark  that,  as  soon  as  the 
sheet  anchor  of  high  resolve  is  gone,  the  frail- 
ties of  man  tend  to  become  master-vices.  All  our 
civilisation  is  artificially  built  up  by  effort;  all 
high  humanity  is  the  reward  of  constant  striving 
against  natural  desires. 

In  the  fall  of  this  year,  1898,  I  sold  The 
Saturday  Review  to  Lord  Hardwicke  and  his 
friends,  and  as  soon  as  the  purchase  was  com- 
pleted, I  think  in  November,  I  wired  to  Oscar 
that  I  should  be  in  Paris  in  a  short  time, 
and  ready  to  take  him  to  the  South  for  his 
holiday.  I  sent  him  some  money  to  pave  the 
way. 

A  few  days  later  I  crossed  and  wired  to  him 
45° 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          45! 

from  Calais  to  dine  with  me  at  Durand's,  and 
to  begin  dinner  if  I  happened  to  be  late. 

While  waiting  for  dinner,  I  said: 

"I  want  to  stay  two  or  three  days  in  Paris 
to  see  some  pictures.  Would  you  be  ready  to 
start  South  on  Thursday  next?"  It  was  then 
Monday,  I  think. 

"On  Thursday?"  he  repeated.  "Yes,  Frank, 
I  think  so." 

"There  is  some  money  for  anything  you 
may  want  to  buy,"  I  said  and  handed  him  a 
cheque  I  had  made  payable  to  self  and  signed, 
for  he  knew  where  he  could  cash  it. 

"How  good  of  you,  Frank,  I  cannot  thank 
you  enough.  You  start  on  Thursday,"  he  added, 
as  if  considering  it. 

"  If  you  would  rather  wait  a  little,"  I  said, 
"say  so:  Pm  quite  willing." 

"No,  Frank,  I  think  Thursday  will  do.  We 
are  really  going  to  the  South  for  the  whole 
winter.  How  wonderful;  how  gorgeous  it  will 
be." 

We  had  a  great  dinner  and  talked  and  talked. 
He  spoke  of  some  of  the  new  Frenchmen,  and 
at  great  length  of  Pierre  Louys,  whom  he  de- 
scribed as  a  disciple: 

"It  was  I,  Frank,  who  induced  him  to  write 
his  'Aphrodite'  in  prose."  He  spoke,  too,  of 
the  Grand  Guignol  Theatre. 


452 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 


"Le  Grand  Guignol  is  the  first  theatre  in 
Paris.  It  looks  like  a  nonconformist  chapel, 
a  barn  of  a  room  with  a  gallery  at  the  back  and 
a  little  wooden  stage.  There  you  see  the  primi- 
tive tragedies  of  real  life.  They  are  as  ugly 
and  as  fascinating  as  life  itself.  You  must  see 
it  and  we  will  go  to  Antoine's  as  well:  you 
must  see  An  tome's  new  piece;  he  is  doing  great 
work." 

We  kept  dinner  up  to  an  unconscionable  hour. 
I  had  much  to  tell  of  London  and  much  to  hear 
of  Paris,  and  we  talked  and  drank  coffee  till  one 
o'clock,  and  when  I  proposed  supper  Oscar  ac- 
cepted the  idea  with  enthusiasm. 

"I  have  often  lunched  with  you  from  two 
o'clock  till  nine,  Frank,  and  now  I  am  going  to 
dine  with  you  from  nine  o'clock  till  breakfast 
to-morrow  morning." 

"What  shall  we  drink?"  I  asked. 

"The  same  champagne,  Frank,  don't  you 
think?"  he  said,  pulling  his  jowl;  "there  is  no 
wine  so  inspiring  as  that  dry  champagne  with 
the  exquisite  bouquet.  You  were  the  first  to 
say  my  plays  were  the  champagne  of  literature." 

When  we  came  out  it  was  three  o'clock  and 
I  was  tired  and  sleepy  with  my  journey,  and 
Oscar  had  drunk  perhaps  more  than  was  good 
for  him.  Knowing  how  he  hated  walking  I  got 
a  voiture  de  cercle  and  told  him  to  take  it,  and 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS         453 

I  would  walk  to  my  hotel.  He  thanked  me  and 
seemed  to  hesitate. 

"What  is  it  now?"  I  asked,  wanting  to  get  to 
bed. 

"Just  a  word  with  you,"  he  said,  and  drew  me 
away  from  the  carriage  where  the  chasseur  was 
waiting  with  the  rug.  When  he  got  me  three  or 
four  paces  away  he  said,  hesitatingly: 

"  Frank,  could  you  ....  can  you  let  me 
have  a  few  pounds?  I'm  very  hard  up." 

I  stared  at  him;  I  had  given  him  a  cheque  at 
the  beginning  of  the  dinner:  had  he  forgotten? 
Or  did  he  perchance  want  to  keep  the  hundred 
pounds  intact  for  some  reason  ?  Suddenly  it  oc- 
curred to  me  that  he  might  be  without  even 
enough  for  the  carriage.  I  took  out  a  hundred 
franc  note  and  gave  it  to  him.  * 

"Thank  you,  so  much,"  he  said,  thrusting  it 
into  his  waistcoat  pocket,  "it's  very  kind  of 
you." 

"You  will  turn  up  to-morrow  at  lunch  at 
'one'?"  I  said,  as  I  put  him  into  the  little 
brougham. 

"Yes,  of  course,  yes,"  he  cried,  and  I  turned 
away. 

Next  day  at  lunch  he  seemed  to  meet  me  with 
some  embarrassment: 

"Frank,  I  want  to  ask  you  something.  Pm 
really  confused  about  last  night;  we  dined  most 


454          OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

wisely,  if  too  well.  This  morning  I  found  you 
had  given  me  a  cheque,  and  I  found  besides  in 
my  waistcoat  pocket  a  note  for  a  hundred  francs. 
Did  I  ask  you  for  it  at  the  end?  'Tap*  you,  the 
French  call  it,"  he  added,  trying  to  laugh. 

I  nodded. 

"How  dreadful!"  he  cried.  "How  dreadful 
poverty  is!  I  had  forgotten  that  you  had  given 
me  a  cheque,  and  I  was  so  hard  up,  so  afraid  you 
might  go  away  without  giving  me  anything,  that 
I  asked  you  for  it.  Isn't  poverty  dreadful?" 

I  nodded;  I  could  not  say  a  word:  the  fact 
told  so  much. 

The  chastened  mood  of  self-condemnation 
did  not  last  long  with  him  or  go  deep;  soon  he 
was  talking  as  merrily  and  gaily  as  ever. 

Before  parting  I  said  to  him: 

"You  won't  forget  that  you  are  going  on 
Thursday  night?" 

"Oh,  really!"  he  cried,  to  my  surprise, 
"Thursday  is  very  near;  I  don't  know  whether 
I  shall  be  able  to  come." 

"What  on  earth  do  you  mean?"  I  asked. 

"The  truth  is,  you  know,  I  have  debts  to  pay, 
and  I  have  not  enough." 

"But  I  will  give  you  more,"  I  cried,  "what 
will  clear  you  ? " 

"Fifty  more  I  think  will  do.  How  good  you 
are!" 


OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          455 

"  I  will  bring  it  with  me  to-morrow  morning." 

"In  notes  please,  will  you?  French  money. 
I  find  I  shall  want  it  to  pay  some  little  things 
at  once,  and  the  time  is  short." 

I  thought  nothing  of  the  matter.  The  next 
day  at  lunch  I  gave  him  the  money  in  French 
notes.  That  night  I  said  to  him: 

"You  know  we  are  going  away  to-rnorrow 
evening:  I  hope  you'll  be  ready?  I  have  got  the 
tickets  for  the  Train  de  Luxe." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  sorry!"  he  cried,  "I  can't  be 
ready." 

"What  is  it  now?"  I  asked. 

"Well,  it's  money.     Some  more  debts  have 


come  in." 


"Why  will  you  not  be  frank  with  me,  and 
tell  me  what  you  owe  ?  I  will  give  you  a  cheque 
for  it.  I  don't  want  to  drag  it  out  of  you  bit 
by  bit.  Tell  me  a  sum  that  will  make  you  free, 
and  I  will  give  it  to  you.  I  want  you  to  have  a 
perfect  six  months,  and  how  can  you  if  you  are 
bothered  with  debts?" 

"How  kind  you  are  to  me!  Do  you  really 
mean  it?" 

"Of  course  I  do." 

"Really?"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "tell  me  what  it  is." 

"I  think,  I  believe  .  .  .  would  another  fifty 
be  too  much?" 


456          OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

"I  will  give  it  you  to-morrow.  Are  you  sure 
that  will  be  enough?" 

"Oh,  yes,  Frank;  but  let's  go  on  Sunday. 
Sunday  is  such  a  good  day  for  travelling,  and 
it's  always  so  dull  everywhere,  we  might  just 
as  well  spend  it  on  the  train.  Besides,  no  one 
travels  on  Sunday  in  France,  so  we  are  sure 
to  be  able  to  take  our  ease  in  our  train.  Won't 
Sunday  do,  Frank?" 

"Of  course  it  will,"  I  replied  laughing;  but 
a  day  or  two  later  he  was  again  embarrassed, 
and  again  told  me  it  was  money,  and  then  he 
confessed  to  me  that  he  was  afraid  at  first  I 
should  not  have  paid  all  his  debts,  if  I  had  known 
how  much  they  were,  and  so  he  thought  by 
telling  me  of  them  little  by  little,  he  would 
make  sure  at  least  of  something.  This  pitiful, 
pitiable  confession  depressed  me  on  his  account. 
It  showed  practice  in  such  petty  tricks  and  all 
too  little  pride.  Of  course  it  did  not  alter  my  ad- 
miration of  his  qualities;  nor  weaken  in  any  de- 
gree my  resolve  to  give  him  a  fair  chance.  If 
he  could  be  saved,  I  was  determined  to  save  him. 

We  met  at  the  Gare  de  Lyons  on  Sunday 
evening.  I  found  he  had  dined  at  the  buffet: 
there  was  a  surprising  number  of  empty  bottles 
on  the  table;  he  seemed  terribly  depressed. 

"Someone  was  dining  with  me,  Frank,  a 
friend,"  he  offered  by  way  of  explanation. 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS         457 

"Why  did  he  not  wait?  I  should  like  to  have 
seen  him." 

"Oh,  he  was  no  one  you  would  have  cared 
about,  Frank,"  he  replied. 

I  sat  with  him  and  took  a  cup  of  coffee, 
whilst  waiting  for  the  train.  He  was  wretchedly 
gloomy;  scarcely  spoke  indeed;  I  could  not  make 
it  out.  From  time  to  time  he  sighed  heavily, 
and  I  noticed  that  his  eyes  were  red,  as  if  he 
had  been  crying. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  I  asked. 

"  I  will  tell  you  later,  perhaps.  It  is  very  hard ; 
parting  is  like  dying,"  and  his  eyes  filled  with 
tears. 

We  were  soon  in  the  train  running  out  into 
the  night.  I  was  as  light-hearted  as  could  be. 
At  length  I  was  free  of  journalism,  I  thought, 
and  I  was  going  to  the  South  to  write  my 
Shakespeare  book,  and  Oscar  would  work,  too, 
when  the  conditions  were  pleasant.  But  I  could 
not  win  a  single  smile  from  him;  he  sat  down- 
cast, sighing  hopelessly  from  time  to  time. 

"What  on  earth's  the  matter?"  I  cried. 
"Here  you  are  going  to  the  sunshine,  to  blue 
skies,  and  the  wine-tinted  Mediterranean,  and 
you're  not  content.  We  shall  stop  in  a  hotel 
near  a  little  sun-baked  valley  running  down  to 
the  sea.  You  walk  from  the  hotel  over  a  car- 
pet of  pine  needles,  and  when  you  get  into  the 


45$          OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

open,  violets  and  anemones  bloom  about  your 
feet,  and  the  scent  of  rosemary  and  myrtle  will 
be  in  your  nostrils;  yet  instead  of  singing  for 
joy  the  bird  droops  his  feathers  and  hangs  his 
head  as  if  he  had  the  'pip." 

"Oh,  don't,"  he  cried,  "don't,"  and  he  looked 
at  me  with  tears  filling  his  eyes;  "you  don't 
know,  Frank,  what  a  great  romantic  passion  is." 

"Is  that  what  you  are  suffering  from?" 

"Yes,  a  great  romantic  passion." 

"Good  God!"  I  laughed;  "who  has  inspired 
this  new  devotion?" 

"Don't  make  fun  of  me,  Frank,  or  I  will 
not  tell  you;  but  if  you  will  listen  I  will  try  to 
tell  you  all  about  it,  for  I  think  you  should 
know,  besides,  I  think  telling  it  may  ease  my 
pain,  so  come  into  the  cabin  and  listen. 

"Do  you  remember  once  in  the  summer  you 
wired  me  from  Calais  to  meet  you  at  Maire's 
restaurant,  meaning  to  go  afterwards  to  An- 
toine's  Theatre,  and  I  was  very  late?  You 
remember,  the  evening  Rostand  was  dining  at 
the  next  table.  Well,  it  was  that  evening.  I 
drove  up  to  Maire's  in  time,  and  I  was  just 
getting  out  of  the  victoria  when  a  little  soldier 
passed,  and  our  eyes  met.  My  heart  stood  still; 
he  had  great  dark  eyes  and  an  exquisite  olive- 
dark  face — a  Florentine  bronze,  Frank,  by  a 
great  master.  He  looked  like  Napoleon  when  he 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          459 

was  first  Consul,  only — less  imperious,  more 
beautiful.  .  .  . 

"I  got  out  hypnotised,  and  followed  him  down 
the  Boulevard  as  in  a  dream;  the  cocker  came 
running  after  me,  I  remember,  and  I  gave  him 
a  five  franc  piece,  and  waved  him  off;  I  had  no 
idea  what  I  owed  him;  I  did  not  want  to  hear 
his  voice;  it  might  break  the  spell;  mutely  I 
followed  my  fate.  I  overtook  the  boy  in  a  short 
time  and  asked  him  to  come  and  have  a  drink, 
and  he  said  to  me  in  his  quaint  French  way: 

' '  Ce  n'est  pas  de  refusl '  (Too  good  to  re- 
fuse.) 

"We  went  into  a  cafe,  and  I  ordered  some- 
thing, I  forget  what,  and  we  began  to  talk. 
I  told  him  I  liked  his  face;  I  had  had  a  friend 
once  like  him;  and  I  wanted  to  know  all  about 
him.  I  was  in  a  hurry  to  meet  you,  but  I  had 
to  make  friends  with  him  first.  He  began 
by  telling  me  all  about  his  mother,  Frank,  yes, 
his  mother."  Oscar  smiled  here  in  spite  of 
himself. 

"But  at  last  I  got  from  him  that  he  was 
always  free  on  Thursdays,  and  he  would  be 
very  glad  to  see  me  then,  though  he  did  not 
know  what  I  could  see  in  him  to  like.  I  found 
out  that  the  thing  he  desired  most  in  the  world 
was  a  bicycle;  he  talked  of  nickel-plated  handle 
bars,  and  chains — and  finally  I  told  him  it  might 


460          OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

be  arranged.  He  was  very  grateful  and  so  we 
made  a  rendezvous  for  the  next  Thursday,  and 
I  came  on  at  once  to  dine  with  you." 

"Goodness!"  I  cried  laughing.  "A  soldier,  a 
nickel-plated  bicycle  and  a  great  romantic  pas- 
sion!" 

"If  I  had  said  a  brooch,  or  a  necklace,  some 
trinket  which  would  have  cost  ten  times  as 
much,  you  would  have  found  it  quite  natural." 

"Yes,"  I  admitted,  "but  I  don't  think  I'd 
have  introduced  the  necklace  the  first  evening  if 
there  had  been  any  romance  in  the  affair,  and 
the  nickel-plated  bicycle  to  me  seems  irresis- 
tibly comic." 

"Frank,"  he  cried  reprovingly,  "I  cannot 
talk  to  you  if  you  laugh;  I  am  quite  serious. 
I  don't  believe  you  know  what  a  great  romantic 
passion  is;  I  am  going  to  convince  you  that  you 
don't  know  the  meaning  of  it." 

"Fire  away,"  I  replied,  "I  am  here  to  be 
convinced.  But  I  don't  think  you  will  teach 
me  that  there  is  any  romance  except  where 
there  is  another  sex." 

"Don't  talk  to  me  df  the  other  sex,"  he  cried 
with  distaste  in  voice  and  manner.  "First  of  all 
in  beauty  there  is  no  comparison  between  a 
boy  and  a  girl.  Think  of  the  enormous,  fat  hips 
which  every  sculptor  has  to  tone  down,  and 
make  lighter,  and  the  great  udder  breasts  which 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND  HIS   CONFESSIONS         461 

the  artist  has  to  make  small  and  round  and  firm, 
and  then  picture  the  exquisite  slim  lines  of  a 
boy's  figure.  No  one  who  loves  beauty  can 
hesitate  for  a  moment.  The  Greeks  knew  that; 
they  had  the  sense  of  plastic  beauty,  and  they 
understood  that  there  is  no  comparison." 

"You  must  not  say  that,"  I  replied;  "you  are 
going  too  far;  the  Venus  of  Milo  is  as  fine  as  any 
Apollo,  in  sheer  beauty;  the  flowing  curves  ap- 
peal to  me  more  than  your  weedy  lines." 

"Perhaps  they  do,  Frank,"  he  retorted,  "but 
you  must  see  that  the  boy  is  far  more  beautiful. 
It  is  your  sex-instinct,  your  sinful  sex-instinct 
which  prevents  you  worshipping  the  higher 
form  of  beauty.  Height  and  length  of  limb  give 
distinction;  slightness  gives  grace;  women  are 
squat!  You  must  admit  that  the  boy's  figure 
is  more  beautiful;  the  appeal  it  makes  far 
higher,  more  spiritual." 

"  Six  of  one  and  half-a-dozen  of  the  other,"  I 
barked.  "Your  sculptor  knows  it  is  just  as  hard 
to  find  an  ideal  boy's  figure  as  an  ideal  girl's ;  and 
if  he  has  to  modify  the  most  perfect  girl's  figure, 
he  has  to  modify  the  most  perfect  boy's  figure  as 
well.  If  he  refines  the  girl's  breasts  and  hips 
he  has  to  pad  the  boy's  ribs  and  tone  down 
the  great  staring  knee-bones  and  the  unlovely 
large  ankles;  but  please  go  on,  I  enjoy  your 
special  pleading  and  your  romantic  passion  in- 


462          OSCAR  WILDE  AND  HIS  CONFESSIONS 

terests  me;  though  you  have  not  yet  come 
to  the  romance,  let  alone  the  passion." 

"Oh,  Frank,"  he  cried,  "the  story  is  full  of  ro- 
mance; every  meeting  was  an  event  in  my  life. 
You  have  no  idea  how  intelligent  he  is ;  every  even- 
ing we  spent  together  he  was  different;  he  had 
grown,  developed.  I  lent  him  books  and  he  read 
them,  and  his  mind  opened  from  week  to  week 
like  a  flower,  till  in  a  short  time,  a  few  months, 
he  became  an  exquisite  companion  and  disciple. 
Frank,  no  girl  grows  like  that;  they  have  no 
minds,  and  what  intelligence  they  have  is  all 
given  to  wretched  vanities,  and  personal  jeal- 
ousies. There  is  no  intellectual  companionship 
possible  with  them.  They  want  to  talk  of  dress, 
and  not  of  ideas,  and  how  persons  look  and  not 
of  what  they  are.  How  can  you  have  the 
flower  of  romance  without  a  brotherhood  of 
soul?" 

"Sisterhood  of  soul  seems  to  me  infinitely 
finer,"  I  said,  "but  go  on." 

"I  shall  convince  you,"  he  declared;  "I  must 
be  able  to,  because  all  reason  is  on  my  side. 
Let  me  give  you  one  instance.  Of  course  my 
boy  had  his  bicycle;  he  used  to  come  to  me  on 
it  and  go  to  and  fro  from  the  barracks  on  it. 
When  you  came  to  Paris  in  September,  you  in- 
vited me  to  dine  one  night,  one  Thursday  night, 
when  he  was  to  come  to  me.  I  told  him  I  had 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          463 

to  go  and  dine  with  you.  He  didn't  mind;  but 
was  glad  when  I  said  I  had  an  English  editor 
for  a  friend,  glad  that  I  should  have  someone  to 
talk  to  about  London  and  the  people  I  used  to 
know.  If  it  had  been  a  woman  I  loved,  I 
should  have  been  forced  to  tell  lies:  she -would 
have  been  jealous  of  my  past.  I  told  him  the 
truth,  and  when  I  spoke  about  you  he  grew 
interested  and  excited,  and  at  last  he  put  a  wish 
before  me.  He  wanted  to  know  if  he  might 
come  and  leave  his  bicycle  outside  and  look 
through  the  window  of  the  restaurant,  just  to 
see  us  at  dinner.  I  told  him  there  might  possibly 
be  women-guests.  He  replied  that  he  would 
be  delighted  to  see  me  in  dress-clothes  talking 
to  gentlemen  and  ladies. 

"Might  he  come?"  he  persisted. 

"Of  course  I  said  he  could  come,  and  he  came, 
but  I  never  saw  him. 

"The  next  time  we  met  he  told  me  all  about 
it;  how  he  had  picked  you  out  from  my  de- 
scription of  you,  and  how  he  knew  Baiier  from 
his  likeness  to  Dumas  pere,  and  he  was  delight- 
ful about  it  all. 

"Now,  Frank,  would  any  girl  have  come  to 
see  you  enjoying  yourself  with  other  people? 
Would  any  girl  have  stared  through  the  window 
and  been  glad  to  see  you  inside  amusing  your- 
self with  other  men  and  women?  You  know 


464          OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

there's  not  a  girl  on  earth  with  such  unselfish 
devotion.  There  is  no  comparison,  I  tell  you, 
between  the  boy  and  the  girl;  I  say  again  delib- 
erately, you  don't  know  what  a  great  romantic 
passion  is  or  the  high  unselfishness  of  true  love." 

:t  You  have  put  it  with  extraordinary  ability," 
I  said,  "  as  of  course  I  knew  you  would.  I  think 
I  can  understand  the  charm  of  such  companion- 
ship; but  only  from  the  young  boy's  point  of 
view,  not  from  yours.  I  can  understand  how 
you  have  opened  to  him  a  new  heaven  and  a 
new  earth,  but  what  has  he  given  you  ?  Nothing. 
On  the  other  hand  any  finely  gifted  girl  would 
have  given  you  something.  If  you  had  really 
touched  her  heart,  you  would  have  found  in  her 
some  instinctive  tenderness,  some  proof  of  un- 
selfish, exquisite  devotion  that  would  have  made 
your  eyes  prickle  with  a  sense  of  inferiority. 

"After  all,  the  essence  of  love,  the  finest  spirit 
of  that  companionship  you  speak  about,  of  the 
sisterhood  of  soul,  is  that  the  other  person 
should  quicken  you,  too;  open  to  you  new  hori- 
zons, discover  new  possibilities;  and  how  could 
your  soldier  boy  help  you  in  any  way?  He 
brought  you  no  new  ideas,  no  new  feelings,  could 
reveal  no  new  thoughts  to  you.  I  can  see  no 
romance,  no  growth  of  soul  in  such  a  connection. 
But  the  girl  is  different  from  the  man  in  all  ways. 
You  have  as  much  to  learn  from  her  as  she  has 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS           465 

from  you,  and  neither  of  you  can  come  to  ideal 
growth  in  any  other  way:  you  are  both  half- 
parts  of  humanity — complements,  and  in  need 
of  each  other." 

"You  have  put  it  very  cunningly,  Frank,  as 
I  expected  you  would,  to  return  your  compli- 
ment, but  you  must  admit  that  with  the  boy, 
at  any  rate,  you  have  no  jealousy,  no  mean 
envyings,  no  silly  inanities.  There  it  is,  Frank, 
some  of  us  hate  'cats.7  I  can  give  reasons  for 
my  dislike,  which  to  me  are  conclusive." 

"The  boy  who  would  beg  for  a  bicycle  is  not 
likely  to  be  without  mean  envyings,"  I  replied. 
"Now  you  have  talked  about  romance  and  com- 
panionship," I  went  on,  "but  can  you  really 
feel  passion?" 

"Frank,  what  a  silly  question!  Do  you  re- 
member how  Socrates  says  he  felt  when  the 
chlamys  blew  aside  and  showed  him  the  limbs 
of  Charmides?  Don't  you  remember  how  the 
blood  throbbed  in  his  veins  and  how  he  grew 
blind  with  desire,  a  scene  more  magical  than  the 
passionate  love-lines  of  Sapphb? 

"There  is  no  other  passion  to  be  compared 
with  it.  A  woman's  passion  is  degrading.  She 
is  continually  tempting  you.  She  wants  your 
desire  as  a  satisfaction  for  her  vanity  more  than 
anything  else,  and  her  vanity  is  insatiable  if 
her  desire  is  weak,  and  so  she  continually 


466  OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

tempts  you  to  excess,  and  then  blames  you  for 
the  physical  satiety  and  disgust  which  she  her- 
self has  created.  With  a  boy  there  is  no  vanity 
in  the  matter,  no  jealousy,  and  therefore 
none  of  the  tempting,  not  a  tenth  part  of  the 
coarseness;  and  consequently  desire  is  always 
fresh  and  keen.  Oh,  Frank,  believe  me,  you 
don't  know  what  a  great  romantic  passion  is." 

"What  you  say  only  shows  how  little  you 
know  women,"  I  replied.  "If  you  explained 
all  this  to  the  girl  who  loves  you,  she  would  see 
it  at  once,  and  her  tenderness  would  grow  with 
her  self-abnegation;  we  all  grow  by  giving.  If 
the  woman  cares  more  than  the  man  for  caresses 
and  kindness,  it  is  because  she  feels  more  ten- 
derness, and  is  capable  of  intenser  devotion." 

:'You  don't  know  what  you  are  talking 
about,  Frank,"  he  retorted.  "You  repeat  the 
old  accepted  commonplaces.  The  boy  came 
to  the  station  with  me  to-night.  He  knew  I  was 
going  away  for  six  months.  His  heart  was  like 
lead,  tears  gathered  in  his  eyes  again  and 
again  in  spite  of  himself,  and  yet  he  tried  to  be 
gay  and  bright  for  my  sake;  he  wanted  to 
show  me  how  glad  he  was  that  I  should  be  happy, 
how  thankful  he  was  for  all  I  had  done  for  him, 
and  the  new  mental  life  I  had  created  in  him. 
He  did  his  best  to  keep  my  courage  up.  I 
cried,  but  he  shook  his  tears  away.  'Six 


OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          467 

months  will  soon  be  over,'  he  said,  'and  per- 
haps you  will  come  back  to  me,  and  I  shall  be 
glad  again.'  Meantime  he  will  write  charming 
letters  to  me,  I'm  sure. 

"Would  any  girl  take  a  parting  like  that? 
No;  she  would  be  jealous  and  envious,  and 
wonder  why  you  were  enjoying  yourself  in  the 
South  while  she  was  condemned  to  live  in  the 
rainy,  cold  North.  Would  she  ask  you  to  tell 
her  of  all  the  beautiful  girls  you  met,  and 
whether  they  were  charming  and  bright,  as  the 
boy  asked  me  to  tell  him  of  all  the  interesting 
people  I  should  meet,  so  that  he,  too,  might 
take  an  interest  in  them?  A  girl  in  his  place 
would  have  been  ill  with  envy  and  malice  and 
jealousy.  Again  I  repeat,  you  don't  know  what 
a  high  romantic  passion  is." 

;4Your  argument  is  illogical,"  I  cried,  "if 
the  girl  is  jealous,  it  is  because  she  has  given 
herself  more  completely:  her  exclusiveness  is 
the  other  side  of  her  devotion  and  tenderness; 
she  wants  to  do  everything  for  you,  to  be  with 
you  and  help  you  in  every  way,  and  in  case  of 
illness  or  poverty  or  danger,  you  would  find 
how  much  more  she  had  to  give  than  your  red- 
breeched  soldier." 

"That's  merely  a  rude  gibe  and  not  an  argu- 
ment, Frank." 

"As   good   an   argument  as  your  'cats,'"  I 


468  OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

replied;  "your  little  soldier  boy  with  his 
nickel-plated  bicycle  only  makes  me  grin," 
and  I  grinned. 

"You  are  unpardonable,"  he  cried,  "un- 
pardonable, and  in  your  soul  you  know  that 
all  the  weight  of  argument  is  on  my  side.  In 
your  soul  you  must  know  it.  What  is  the  food 
of  passion,  Frank,  but  beauty,  beauty  alone, 
beauty  always,  and  in  beauty  of  form  and 
vigour  of  life  there  is  no  comparison.  If  you 
loved  beauty  as  intensely  as  I  do,  you  would 
feel  as  I  feel.  It  is  beauty  which  gives  me  joy, 
makes  me  drunk  as  with  wine,  blind  with 
insatiable  desire. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

HE  was  an  incomparable  companion,  perfectly 
amiable,  yet  vivid,  and  eager  as  a  child,  always 
interested  and  interesting.  We  awoke  at  Avi- 
gnon and  went  out  in  pyjamas  and  overcoats  to 
stretch  our  legs  and  get  a  bowl  of  coffee  on  the 
platform  in  the  pearly  grey  light  of  early  morn- 
ing. After  coffee  and  cigarettes  he  led  the  way 
to  the  other  end  of  the  platform,  that  we  might 
catch  a  glimpse  of  the  town  wall  which,  though 
terribly  restored,  yet,  when  seen  from  a  distance, 
transports  one  back  five  hundred  years  to  the 
age  of  chivalry. 

"How  I  should  have  loved  to  be  a  troubadour, 
or  a  trouvere,  Frank;  that  was  my  true  metier, 
to  travel  from  castle  to  castle  singing  love  songs 
and  telling  romantic  stories  to  while  away  the 
tedium  of  the  lives  of  the  great.  Fancy  the  re- 
ception they  would  have  given  me  for  bringing 
a  new  joy  into  their  castled  isolation,  new  ideas, 
new  passions — a  breath  of  gossip  and  scandal 
from  the  outside  world  to  relieve  the  intolerable 
boredom  of  the  middle  ages.  I  should  have 
been  kept  at  the  Court  of  Aix:  I  think  they 
would  have  bound  me  with  flower-chains,  and 

469 


47O          OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

my  fame  would  have  spread  all  through  the 
sunny  vineyards  and  grey  olive-clad  hills  of 
Provence." 

When  we  got  into  the  train  again  he  began: 

"We  stop  next  at  Marseilles,  don't  we,  Frank? 
A  great  historic  town  for  nearly  three  thousand 
years.  One  really  feels  a  barbarian  in  com- 
parison, and  yet  all  I  know  of  Marseilles  is 
that  it  is  famous  for  bouillabaisse.  Suppose  we 
stop  and  get  some?" 

"Bouillabaisse"  I  replied,  "is  not  peculiar  to 
Marseilles  or  the  Rue  Cannebiere.  You  can  get  it 
all  along  this  coast.  There  is  only  one  thing 
necessary  to  it  and  that  is  rascasse,  a  fish  caught 
only  among  the  rocks:  you  will  get  excellent 
bouillabaisse  at  lunch  where  we  are  going." 

"Where  are  we  going?  You  have  not  told 
me  yet." 

"It  is  for  you  to  decide,"  I  answered.  "If 
you  want  perfect  quiet  there  are  two  places  in 
the  Esterel  mountains,  Agay  and  La  Napoule. 
Agay  is  in  the  middle  of  the  Esterel.  You  would 
be  absolutely  alone  there  except  for  the  visit 
of  an  occasional  French  painter.  La  Napoule 
is  eight  or  ten  miles  from  Cannes,  so  that  you 
are  within  reach  of  a  town  and  its  amusements. 
There  is  still  another  place  I  had  thought  of, 
quieter  than  either,  in  the  mountains  behind 
Nice." 


OSCAR  WILDE   AND    HIS    CONFESSIONS  47! 

"Nice  sounds  wonderful,  Frank,  but  I  should 
meet  too  many  English  people  there  who  would 
know  me,  and  they  are  horribly  rude.  I  think 
we  will  choose  La  Napoule." 

About  ten  o'clock  we  got  out  at  La  Napoule 
and  installed  ourselves  in  the  little  hotel,  taking 
up  three  of  the  best  rooms  on  the  second  or  top 
floor,  much  to  the  delight  of  the  landlord.  At 
twelve  we  had  breakfast  under  a  big  umbrella 
in  the  open  air,  looking  over  the  sea.  I  had  put 
the  landlord  on  his  mettle,  and  he  gave  us  a 
fry  of  little  red  mullet,  which  made  us  under- 
stand how  tasteless  whitebait  are:  then  a  plain 
beefsteak  aux  pommes,  a  morsel  of  cheese,  and 
a  sweet  omelette.  We  both  agreed  that  we  had 
had  a  most  excellent  breakfast.  The  coffee 
left  a  good  deal  to  be  desired,  and  there  was  no 
champagne  on  the  list  fit  to  drink;  but  both 
these  faults  could  be  remedied  by  the  morrow, 
and  were  remedied. 

We  spent  the  rest  of  the  day  wandering  be- 
tween the  seashore  and  the  pine-clad  hills. 
The  next  morning  I  put  in  some  work,  but  in  the 
afternoon  I  was  free  to  walk  and  explore.  On 
one  of  my  first  tramps  I  discovered  a  monastery 
among  the  hills  hundreds  of  feet  above  the  sea, 
built  and  governed  by  an  'Italian  monk.  I  got 
to  know  the  Pere  Vergile1  and  had  a  great  talk 

1  He  lived  till  November,  1910. 


OSCAR  WILDE   AND    HIS    CONFESSIONS 


with  him.  He  was  both  wise  and  strong,  with 
ingratiating,  gentle  manners.  Had  he  gone  as 
a  boy  from  his  little  Italian  fishing  village  to 
New  York  or  Paris,  he  would  have  certainly 
come  to  greatness  and  honour.  One  afternoon  I 
took  Oscar  to  see  him:  the  monastery  was  not 
more  than  three-quarters  of  an  hour's  stroll 
from  our  hotel;  but  Oscar  grumbled  at  the  walk 
as  a  nuisance,  said  it  was  miles  and  miles;  the 
road,  too,  was  rough,  and  the  sun  hot.  The 
truth  was,  he  was  abnormally  lazy.  But  he  fasci- 
nated the  Italian  with  his  courteous  manner  and 
vivid  speech,  and  as  soon  as  we  were  alone  the 
Abbe  asked  me  who  he  was. 

"He  must  be  a  great  man,"  he  said,  "he  has 
the  stamp  of  a  great  man,  and  he  must  have 
lived  in  courts:  he  has  the  charming,  graceful, 
smiling  courtesy  of  the  great." 

"Yes,"  I  nodded  mysteriously,  "a  great  man 
—  incognito." 

The  Abbe  kept  us  to  dinner,  made  us  taste 
of  his  oldest  wines,  and  a  special  liqueur  of  his 
own  distilling;  told  us  how  he  had  built  the 
monastery  with  no  money,  and  when  we  ex- 
claimed with  wonder,  reproved  us  gently  : 

"All  great  things  are  built  with  faith,  and 
not  with  money;  why  wonder  that  this  little 
building  stands  firmly  on  that  everlasting  foun- 
dation?" 


OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          473 

When  we  came  out  of  the  monastery  it  was 
already  night,  and  the  moonlight  was  throwing 
fantastic  leafy  shadows  on  the  path,  as  we 
walked  down  through  the  avenue  of  forest  to 
the  sea  shore. 

"  You  remember  those  words  of  Vergil,  Frank 
— per  arnica  silentia  lunce — they  always  seem 
to  me  indescribably  beautiful;  the  most  magic 
line  about  the  moon  ever  written,  except 
Browning's  in  the  poem  in  which  he  mentioned 
Keats— 'him  even.'  I  love  that  'arnica  silentia.' 
What  a  beautiful  nature  the  man  had  who  could 
feel  'the  friendly  silences  of  the  moon.' ' 

When  we  got  down  the  hill  he  declared  him- 
self tired. 

"Tired  after  a  mile?"  I  asked. 

;' Tired  to  death,  worn  out,"  he  said,  laughing 
at  his  own  laziness. 

"Shall  we  get  a  boat  and  row  across  the 
bay?" 

"How  splendid!  of  course,  let's  do  it,"  and  we 
went  down  to  the  landing  stage.  I  had  never 
seen  the  water  so  calm;  half  the  bay  was  veiled 
by  the  mountain,  and  opaque  like  unpolished 
steel ;  a  little  further  out,  the  water  was  a  purple 
shield,  emblazoned  with  shimmering  silver.  We 
called  a  fisherman  and  explained  what  we 
wanted.  When  we  got  into  the  boat,  to  my 
astonishment,  Oscar  began  calling  the  fisher  boy 


474         OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

by  his  name;  evidently  he  knew  him  quite  well. 
When  we  landed  I  went  up  from  the  boat  to  the 
hotel,  leaving  Oscar  and  the  boy  together.  .  .  . 

A  fortnight  taught  me  a  good  deal  about 
Oscar  at  this  time;  he  was  intensely  indolent: 
quite  content  to  kill  time  by  the  hour  talking 
to  the  fisher  lads,  or  he  would  take  a  little 
carriage  and  drive  to  Cannes  and  amuse  him- 
self at  some  wayside  cafe. 

He  never  cared  to  walk  and  I  walked  for 
miles  daily,  so  that  we  spent  only  one  or  at  most 
two  afternoons  a  week  together,  meeting  so 
seldom  that  nearly  all  our  talks  were  significant. 
Several  times  contemporary  names  came  up  and 
I  was  compelled  to  notice  for  the  first  time  that 
really  he  was  contemptuous  of  almost  every- 
one, and  had  a  sharp  word  to  say  about  many 
who  were  supposed  to  be  his  friends.  One  day 
we  spoke  of  Ricketts  and  Shannon;  I  was  say- 
ing that  had  Ricketts  lived  in  Paris  he  would 
have  had  a  great  reputation:  many  of  his 
designs  I  thought  extraordinary,  and  his  intel- 
lect was  peculiarly  French — mordant  even.  Os- 
car did  not  like  to  hear  praise  of  anyone. 

"Do  you  know  my  word  for  them,  Frank? 
I  like  it.  I  call  them  'Temper  and  Tempera- 
ment.' " 

Was  his  punishment  making  him  a  little  spite- 
ful or  was  it  the  temptation  of  the  witty  phrase  ? 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          475 

"What  do  you  think  of  Arthur  Symons?"  I 
asked. 

"Oh,  Frank,  I  said  of  him  long  ago  that  he 
was  a  sad  example  of  an  Egoist  who  had  no 
Ego." 

"And  what  of  your  compatriot,  George 
Moore?  He's  popular  enough,"  I  continued. 

"Popular,  Frank,  as  if  that  counted.  George 
Moore  has  conducted  his  whole  education  in 
public.  He  had  written  two  or  three  books 
before  he  found  out  there  was  such  a  thing  as 
English  grammar.  He  at  once  announced  his 
discovery  and  so  won  the  admiration  of  the 
illiterate.  A  few  years  later  he  discovered  that 
there  was  something  architectural  in  style,  that 
sentences  had  to  be  built  up  into  a  paragraph, 
and  paragraphs  into  chapters  and  so  on.  Nat- 
urally he  cried  this  revelation,  too,  from  the 
housetops,  and  thus  won  the  admiration  of 
the  journalists  who  had  been  making  rubble- 
heaps  all  their  lives  without  knowing  it.  I'm 
much  afraid,  Frank,  in  spite  of  all  his  efforts, 
he  will  die  before  he  reaches  the  level  from 
which  writers  start.  It's  a  pity  because  he  has 
certainly  a  little  real  talent.  He  differs  from 
Symons  in  that  he  has  an  Ego,  but  his  Ego 
has  five  senses  and  no  soul." 

"What  about  Bernard  Shaw?"  I  probed  fur- 
ther, "after  all  he's  going  to  count." 


OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

"Yes,  Frank,  a  man  of  real  ability  but  with 
a  bleak  mind.  Humorous  gleams  as  of  wintry 
sunlight  on  a  bare,  harsh  landscape.  He  has 
no  passion,  no  feeling,  and  without  passionate 
feeling  how  can  one  be  an  artist?  He  believes  in 
nothing,  loves  nothing,  not  even  Bernard  Shaw, 
and  really,  on  the  whole,  I  don't  wonder  at  his 
indifference,"  and  he  laughed  mischievously. 

"And  Wells?"  I  asked. 

"A  scientific  Jules  Verne,"  he  replied  with  a 
shrug. 

"Did  you  ever  care  for  Hardy?"  I  continued. 

"Not  greatly.  He  has  just  found  out  that 
women  have  legs  underneath  their  dresses,  and 
this  discovery  has  almost  wrecked  his  life.  He 
writes  poetry,  I  believe,  in  his  leisure  moments, 
and  I  am  afraid  it  will  be  very  hard  reading.  He 
knows  nothing  of  love;  passion  to  him  is  a  child- 
ish illness  like  measles — poor  unhappy  spirit!" 

'You  might  be  describing  Mrs.  Humphry 
Ward,"  I  cried. 

"God  forbid,  Frank,"  he  exclaimed  with  such 
mock  horror  I  had  to  laugh.  "After  all,  Hardy 
is  a  writer  and  a  great  landscape  painter." 

"I  don't  know  why  it  is,"  he  went  on,  ""but 
I  am  always  match-making  when  I  think  of 
English  celebrities.  I  should  so  much  like  to 
have  introduced  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward  blush- 
ing at  eighteen  or  twenty  to  Swinburne,  who 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          477 

would  of  course  have  bitten  her  neck  in  a  furious 
kiss,  and  she  would  have  run  away  and  exposed 
him  in  court,  or  else  have  suffered  agonies  of 
mingled  delight  and  shame  in  silence. 

"And  if  one  could  only  marry  Thomas  Hardy 
to  Victoria  Cross  he  might  have  gained  some 
inkling  of  real  passion  with  which  to  animate  his 
little  keepsake  pictures  of  starched  ladies.  A 
great  many  writers,  I  think,  might  be  saved  in 
this  way,  but  there  would  still  be  left  the  Corellis 
and  Hall  Caines  that  one  could  do  nothing  with 
except  bind  them  back  to  back,  which  would  not 
even  tantalise  them,  and  throw  them  into  the 
river,  a  new  noyade:  the  Thames  at  Barking,  I 
think,  would  be  about  the  place  for  them " 

"Where  do  you  go  every  afternoon?"  I  asked 
him  once  casually. 

"  I  go  to  Cannes,  Frank,  and  sit  in  a  cafe  and 
look  across  the  sea  to  Capri,  where  Tiberius 
used  to  sit  like  a  spider  watching,  and  I  think 
of  myself  as  an  exile,  the  victim  of  one  of  his  in- 
scrutable suspicions,  or  else  I  am  in  Rome  look- 
ing at  the  people  dancing  naked,  but  with  gilded 
lips,  through  the  streets  at  the  Floralia.  I  sup 
with  the  arbiter  elegantiarum  and  come  back  to  La 
Napoule,  Frank,"  and  he  pulled  his  jowl,  "to  the 
simple  life  and  the  charm  of  restful  friendship." 

More  and  more  clearly  I  saw  that  the  effort, 
the  hard  work,  of  writing  was  altogether  beyond 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 


him:  he  was  now  one  of  those  men  of  genius, 
talkers  merely,  half  artists,  half  dreamers,  whom 
Balzac  describes  contemptuously  as  wasting 
their  lives,  "talking  to  hear  themselves  talk"; 
capable  indeed  of  fine  conceptions  and  of  occa- 
sional fine  phrases,  but  incapable  of  the  punish- 
ing toil  of  execution;  charming  companions,  fated 
in  the  long  run  to  fall  to  misery  and  destitution. 

Constant  creation  is  the  first  condition  of  art 
as  it  is  the  first  condition  of  life. 

I  asked  him  one  day  if  he  remembered  the 
terrible  passage  about  those  "eunuchs  of  art" 
in  "La  Cousine  Bette." 

"Yes,  Frank,"  he  replied;  "but  Balzac  was 
probably  envious  of  the  artist-talker;  at  any 
rate,  we  who  talk  should  not  be  condemned  by 
those  to  whom  we  dedicate  our  talents.  It  is 
for  posterity  to  blame  us;  but  after  all  I  have 
written  a  good  deal.  Do  you  remember  how 
Browning's  Sarto  defends  himself? 

"  Some  good  son 
Paint  my  two  hundred  pictures  —  let  him  try." 

He  did  not  see  that  Balzac,  one  of  the  greatest 
talkers  that  ever  lived  according  to  Theophile 
Gautier,  was  condemning  the  temptation  to 
which  he  himself  had  no  doubt  yielded  too  often. 
To  my  surprise,  Oscar  did  not  even  read  much 
now.  He  was  not  eager  to  hear  new  thoughts,  a 
little  rebellious  to  any  new  mental  influence. 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          479 

He  had  reached  his  zenith,  I  suppose:  had  be- 
gun to  fossilise,  as  men  do  when  they  cease  to 
grow. 

One  day  at  lunch  I  questioned  him: 

"You  told  me  once  that  you  always  imagined 
yourself  in  the  place  of  every  historic  personage. 
Suppose  you  had  been  Jesus,  what  religion  would 
you  have  preached?" 

"What  a  wonderful  question!"  he  cried. 
"  What  religion  is  mine  ?  What  belief  have  I  ? 

"I  believe  most  of  all  in  personal  liberty  for 
every  human  soul.  Each  man  ought  to  do  what 
he  likes,  to  develop  as  he  will.  England,  or 
rather  London,  for  I  know  little  of  England 
outside  London,  was  an  ideal  place  to  me,  till 
they  punished  me  because  I  did  not  share  their 
tastes.  What  an  absurdity  it  all  was,  Frank: 
how  dared  they  punish  me  for  what  is  good  in 
my  eyes?  How  dared  they?"  and  he  fell  into 

moody  thought The  idea  of  a  new 

gospel  did  not  really  interest  him. 

It  was  about  this  time  he  first  told  me  of  a 
new  play  he  had  in  mind. 

"It  has  a  great  scene,  Frank,"  he  said. 
"Imagine  a  roue  of  forty-five  who  is  married; 
incorrigible,  of  course,  Frank,  a  great  noble 
who  gets  the  person  he  is  in  love  with  to  come 
and  stay  with  him  in  the  country.  One  evening 
his  wife,  who  has  gone  upstairs  to  lie  down 


480          OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

with  a  headache,  is  behind  a  screen  in  a  room 
half  asleep;  she  is  awakened  by  her  husband's 
courting.  She  cannot  move,  she  is  bound 
breathless  to  her  couch;  she  hears  everything. 
Then,  Frank,  the  husband  comes  to  the  door 
and  finds  it  locked,  and  knowing  that  his  wife 
is  inside  with  the  host,  beats  upon  the  door 
and  will  have  entrance,  and  while  the  guilty 
ones  whisper  together — the  woman  blaming  the 
man,  the  man  trying  to  think  of  some  excuse, 
some  way  out  of  the  net — the  wife  gets  up  very 
quietly  and  turns  on  the  lights  while  the  two 
cowards  stare  at  her  with  wild  surmise.  She 
passes  to  the  door  and  opens  it  and  the  husband 
rushes  in  to  find  his  hostess  as  well  as  the  host 
and  his  wife.  I  think  it  is  a  great  scene,  Frank, 
a  great  stage  picture." 

"It  is,"  I  said,  "a  great  scene;  why  don't 
you  write  it?" 

"Perhaps  I  shall,  Frank,  one  of  these  days, 
but  now  I  am  thinking  of  some  poetry,  a  l  Ballad 
of  a  Fisher  Boy,'  a  sort  of  companion  to  'The 
Ballad  of  Reading  Gaol,'  in  which  I  sing  of 
liberty  instead  of  prison,  joy  instead  of  sorrow, 
a  kiss  instead  of  an  execution.  I  shall  do  this 
joy-song  much  better  than  I  did  the  song  of 
sorrow  and  despair." 

"Like  Davidson's  'Ballad  of  a  Nun,'  "  I  said, 
for  the  sake  of  saying  something. 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS         481 

"Naturally  Davidson  would  write  the  ' Ballad 
of  a  Nun,'  Frank;  his  talent  is  Scotch  and  severe; 
but  I  should  like  to  write  'The  Ballad  of  a 
Fisher  Boy,'"  and  he  fell  to  dreaming. 

The  thought  of  his  punishment  was  often 
with  him.  It  seemed  to  him  hideously  wrong 
and  unjust.  But  he  never  questioned  the  right 
of  society  to  punish.  He  did  not  see  that,  if 
you  once  grant  that,  the  wrong  done  to  him 
could  be  defended. 

"I  used  to  think  myself  a  lord  of  life,"  he 
said.  "How  dared  those  little  wretches  con- 
demn me  and  punish  me?  Everyone  of  them 
tainted  with  a  sensuality  which  I  loathe." 

To  call  him  out  of  this  bitter  way  of  regret 
I  quoted  Shakespeare's  sonnet: 

"For  why  should  others'  false  adulterate  eyes 

Give  salutation  to  my  sportive  blood? 
Or  on  my  frailties  why  are  frailer  spies, 

Which  in  their  wills  count  bad  what  I  think  good?  " 

"His  complaint  is  exactly  yours,  Oscar." 
"It's  astonishing,  Frank,  how  well  you  know 
him,  and  yet  you  deny  his  intimacy  with  Pem- 
broke. To  you  he  is  a  living  man;  you  always 
talk  of  him  as  if  he  had  just  gone  out  of  the 
room,  and  yet  you  persist  in  believing  in  his 


innocence." 


"You  misapprehend  me,"  I  said,  "the  pas- 
sion of  his  life  was  for  Mary  Fitton,  to  give 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND  HIS   CONFESSIONS 

her  a  name;  I  mean  the  'dark  lady*  of  the 
sonnets,  who  was  Beatrice,  Cressida  and  Cleo- 
patra, and  you  yourself  admit  that  a  man  who 
has  a  mad  passion  for  a  woman  is  immune,  I 
think  the  doctors  call  it,  to  other  influences." 

"Oh,  yes,  Frank,  of  course;  but  how  could 
Shakespeare  with  his  beautiful  nature  love  a 
woman  to  that  mad  excess  ? " 

"Shakespeare  hadn't  your  overwhelming  love 
of  plastic  beauty,"  I  replied;  "he  fell  in  love  with 
a  dominant  personality,  the  complement  of  his 
own  yielding,  amiable  disposition." 

"That's  it,"  he  broke  in,  "ouropposites  attract 
us  irresistibly — the  charm  of  the  unknown!" 

"You  often  talk  now,"  I  went  on,  "as  if  you 
had  never  loved  a  woman;  yet  you  must  have 
loved — more  than  one." 

"My  salad  days,  Frank,"  he  quoted,  smiling, 
"when  I  was  green  in  judgment,  cold  of  blood." 

"No,  no,"  I  persisted,  "it  is  not  a  great  while 
since  you  praised  Lady  So  and  So  and  the 
Terrys  enthusiastically." 

"Lady ,"  he  began  gravely  (and  I  could 

not  but  notice  that  the  mere  title  seduced  him 
to  conventional,  poetic  language),  "moves  like 
a  lily  in  water;  I  always  think  of  her  as  a  lily; 
just  as  I  used  to  think  of  Lily  Langtry  as  a  tulip, 
with  a  figure  like  a  Greek  vase  carved  in  ivory. 
But  I  always  adored  the  Terrys:  Marion  is  a 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS         483 

great  actress  with  subtle  charm  and  enigmatic 
fascination:  she  was  my  'Woman  of  no  impor- 
tance,' artificial  and  enthralling;  she  belongs  to 
my  theatre " 

As  he  seemed  to  have  lost  the  thread,  I  ques- 
tioned again. 

"And  Ellen?" 

"Oh,  Ellen's  a  perfect  wonder,"  he  broke  out, 
"  a  great  character.  Do  you  know  her  history  ? " 
And  then,  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  he 
continued : 

"  She  began  as  a  model  for  Watts,  the  painter, 
when  she  was  only  some  fifteen  or  sixteen  years 
of  age.  In  a  week  she  read  him  as  easily  as  if 
he  had  been  a  printed  book.  He  treated  her 
with  condescending  courtesy,  en  grand  seigneur, 
and,  naturally,  she  had  her  revenge  on  him. 

"One  day  her  mother  came  in  and  asked 
Watts  what  he  was  going  to  do  about  Ellen. 
Watts  said  he  didn't  understand.  'You  have 
made  Ellen  in  love  with  you,'  said  the  mother, 
'and  it  is  impossible  that  could  have  happened 
unless  you  had  been  attentive  to  her.' 

"  Poor  Watts  protested  and  protested,  but  the 
mother  broke  down  and  sobbed,  and  said  the 
girl's  heart  would  be  broken,  and  at  length,  in 
despair,  Watts  asked  what  he  was  to  do,  and 
the  mother  could  only  suggest  marriage. 

"Finally  they  were  married." 


484          OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

"You  don't  mean  that,"  I  cried,  "I  never 
knew  that  Watts  had  married  Ellen  Terry." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Oscar,  "they  were  married  all 
right.  The  mother  saw  to  that,  and  to  do  him 
justice,  Watts  kept  the  whole  family  like  a  gen- 
tleman. But  like  an  idealist,  or,  as  a  man  of 
the  world  would  say,  a  fool,  he  was  ashamed  of 
his  wife;  he  showed  great  reserve  to  her,  and 
when  he  gave  his  usual  dinners  or  receptions,  he 
invited  only  men  and  so,  carefully,  left  her  out. 

"One  evening  he  had  a  dinner;  a  great  many 
well-known  people  were  present  and  a  bishop 
was  on  his  right  hand,  when,  suddenly,  between 
the  cheese  and  the  pear,  as  the  French  would 
say,  Ellen  came  dancing  into  the  room  in  pink 
tights  with  a  basket  of  roses  around  her  waist 
with  which  she  began  pelting  the  guests.  Watts 
was  horrified,  but  everyone  else  delighted,  the 
bishop  in  especial,  it  is  said,  declared  he  had 
never  seen  anything  so  romantically  beautiful. 
Watts  nearly  had  a  fit,  but  Ellen  danced  out  of 
thej-oom  with  all  their  hearts  in  her  basket  in- 
stead of  her  roses. 

"To  me  that's  the  true  story  of  Ellen  Terry's 
life.  It  may  be  true  or  false  in  reality,  but  I  be- 
lieve it  to  be  true  in  fact  as  in  symbol;  it  is  not 
only  an  image  of  her  life,  but  of  her  art.  No  one 
knows  how  she  met  Irving  or  learned  to  act, 
though,  as  you  know,  she  was  one  of  the  best 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          485 

actresses  that  ever  graced  the  English  stage.  A 
great  personality.  Her  children  even  have  in- 
herited some  of  her  talent." 

It  was  only  famous  actresses  such  as  Ellen 
Terry  and  Sarah  Bernhardt  and  great  ladies  that 
Oscar  ever  praised.  He  was  a  snob  by  nature;  in- 
deed this  was  the  chief  link  between  him  and  Eng- 
lish society.  Besides,  he  had  a  rooted  contempt 
for  women  and  especially  for  their  brains.  He  said 
once,  of  some  one:  "he  is  like  a  woman,  sure  to 
remember  the  trivial  and  forget  the  important." 

It  was  this  disdain  of  the  sex  which  led  him, 
later,  to  take  up  our  whole  dispute  again. 

"I  have  been  thinking  over  our  argument  in 
the  train,"  he  began;  "really  it  was  preposterous 
of  me  to  let  you  off  with  a  drawn  battle;  you 
should  have  been  beaten  and  forced  to  haul 
down  your  flag.  We  talked  of  love  and  I  let 
you  place  the  girl  against  the  boy:  it  is  all 
nonsense.  A  girl  is  not  made  for  love;  she  is 
not  even  a  good  instrument  of  love." 

"  Some  of  us  care  more  for  the  person  than  the 
pleasure,"  I  replied,  "and  others — .  You  re- 
member Browning: 

Nearer  we  hold  of  God 

Who  gives,  than  of  His  tribes  that  take,  I  must  believe. " 

:<  Yes,  yes,"  he  replied  impatiently,  "but  that's 
not  the  point.  I  mean  that  a  woman  is  not  made 
for  passion  and  love;  but  to  be  a  mother. 


486          OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

"When  I  married,  my  wife  was  a  beautiful 
girl,  white  and  slim  as  a  lily,  with  dancing 
eyes  and  gay  rippling  laughter  like  music.  In  a 
year  or  so  the  flower-like  grace  had  all  vanished; 
she  became  heavy,  shapeless,  deformed:  she 
dragged  herself  about  the  house  in  uncouth 
misery  with  drawn  blotched  face  and  hideous 
body,  sick  at  heart  because  of  our  love.  It  was 
dreadful.  I  tried  to  be  kind  to  her;  forced  my- 
self to  touch  and  kiss  her;  but  she  was  sick 
always,  and — oh!  I  cannot  recall  it,  it  is  all 
loathsome.  ...  I  used  to  wash  my  mouth 
and  open  the  window  to  cleanse  my  lips  in  the 
pure  air.  Oh,  nature  is  disgusting;  it  takes 
beauty  and  defiles  it:  it  defaces  the  ivory-white 
body  we  have  adored,  with  the  vile  cicatrices 
of  maternity:  it  befouls  the  altar  of  the  soul. 

"How  can  you  talk  of  such  intimacy  as  love? 
How  can  you  idealise  it?  Love  is  not  possible 
to  the  artist  unless  it  is  sterile." 

"All  her  suffering  did  not  endear  her  to  you?" 
I  asked  in  amazement;  "did  not  call  forth  that 
pity  in  you  which  you  used  to  speak  of  as  di- 
vine?" ' 

"Pity,  Frank,"  he  exclaimed  impatiently; 
"  pity  has  nothing  to  do  with  love.  How  can  one 
desire  what  is  shapeless,  deformed,  ugly?  De- 
sire is  killed  by  maternity;  passion  buried  in 
conception,"-  and  he  flung  away  from  the  table. 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND  HIS   CONFESSIONS          487 

At  length  I  understood  his  dominant  motive: 
trahit  sua  quemque  voluptas,  his  Greek  love  of 
form,  his  intolerant  cult  of  physical  beauty, 
could  take  no  heed  of  the  happiness  or  well- 
being -of  the  beloved. 

"I  will  not  talk  to  you  about  it,  Frank;  I  am 
like  a  Persian,  who  lives  by  warmth  and  wor- 
ships the  sun,  talking  to  some  Esquimau,  who 
answers  me  with  praise  of  blubber  and  nights 
spent  in  ice  houses  and  baths  of  foul  vapour. 
Let's  talk  of  something  else." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

A  LITTLE  later  I  was  called  to  Monte  Carlo 
and  went  for  a  few  days,  leaving  Oscar,  as  he 
said,  perfectly  happy,  with  good  food,  excellent 
champagne,  absinthe  and  coffee,  and  his  simple 
fisher  friends. 

When  I  came  back  to  La  Napoule,  I  found 
everything  altered  and  altered  for  the  worse. 
There  was  an  Englishman  of  a  good  class  named 
M staying  at  the  hotel.  He  was  accom- 
panied by  a  youth  of  seventeen  or  eighteen 
whom  he  called  his  servant.  Oscar  wanted  to 
know  if  I  minded  meeting  him. 

"He  is  charming,  Frank,  and  well  read,  and 
he  admires  me  very  much:  you  won't  mind 
his  dining  with  us,  will  you?" 

"Of  course  not,"  I  replied.  But  when  I  saw 

M I  thought  him  an  insignificant,  foolish 

creature,  who  put  to  show  a  great  admiration 
for  Oscar,  and  drank  in  his  words  with  parted 
lips;  and  well  he  might,  for  he  had  hardly  any 
brains  of  his  own.  He  had,  however,  a  certain 
liking  for  the  poetry  and  literature  of  passion.1 

To  my  astonishment  Oscar  was  charming  to 

*Cfr.  Appendix:  "Criticisms  by  Robert  Ross." 
488 


OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          489 

him,  chiefly  I  think  because  he  was  well  off, 
and  was  pressing  Oscar  to  spend  the  summer 
with  him  at  some  place  he  had  in  Switzerland. 
This  support  made  Oscar  recalcitrant  to  any 
influence  I  might  have  had  over  him.  When  I 
asked  him  if  he  had  written  anything  whilst 
I  was  away,  he  replied  casually: 

"No,  Frank,  I  don't  think  I  shall  be  able  to 
write  any  more.  What  is  the  good  of  it?  I 
cannot  force  myself  to  write." 

"And  your  'Ballad  of  a  Fisher  Boy'?"  I 
asked. 

"  I  have  composed  three  or  four  verses  of  it," 
he  said,  smiling  at  me,  "I  have  got  them  in  my 
head,"  and  he  recited  two  or  three,  one  of  which 
was  quite  good,  but  none  of  them  startling. 

Not  having  seen  him  for  some  days,  I  noticed 
that  he  was  growing  stout  again :  the  good  living 
and  constant  drinking  seemed  to  ooze  out  of 
him;  he  began  to  look  as  he  looked  in  the  old 
days  in  London  just  before  the  catastrophe. 

One  morning  I  asked  him  to  put  the  verses 
on  paper  which  he  had  recited  to  me,  but  he 
would  not;  and  when  I  pressed  him,  cried: 

"Let  me  live,  Frank;  tasks  remind  me  of 
prison.  You  do  not  know  how  I  abhor  even 
the  memory  of  it:  it  was  degrading,  inhuman!" 

"Prison  was  the  making  of  you,"  I  could 
not  help  retorting,  irritated  by  what  seemed  to 


49O      OSCAR   WILDE   AND    HIS    CONFESSIONS 

me  a  mere  excuse.  "You  came  out  of  it  better 
in  health  and  stronger  than  I  have  ever  known 
you.  The  hard  living,  regular  hours  and  com- 
pulsory chastity  did  you  all  the  good  in  the 
world.  That  is  why  you  wrote  those  superb  let- 
ters to  the  *  Daily  Chronicle,'  and  the  *  Ballad  of 
Reading  Gaol';  the  State  ought  really  to  put 
you  in  prison  and  keep  you  there." 

For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  saw  angry 
dislike  in  his  eyes. 

:<You  talk  poisonous  nonsense,  Frank,"  he 
retorted.  "Bad  food  is  bad  for  everyone,  and 
abstinence  from  tobacco  is  mere  torture  to  me. 
Chastity  is  just  as  unnatural  and  devilish  as 
hunger;  I  hate  both.  Self-denial  is  the  shining 
sore  on  the  leprous  body  of  Christianity." 

To  all  this  M giggled  applause,  which 

naturally  excited  the  combative  instincts  in  me 
— always  too  alert. 

"All  great  artists,"  I  replied,  "have  had  to 
practise  chastity;  it  is  chastity  alone  which 
gives  vigour  and  tone  to  mind  and  body,  while 
building  up  a  reserve  of  extraordinary  strength. 
Your  favourite  Greeks  never  allowed  an  athlete 
to  go  into  the  palaestra  unless  he  had  previously 
lived  a  life  of  complete  chastity  for  a  whole 
year.  Balzac,  too,  practised  it  and  extolled  its 
virtues,  and  goodness  knows  he  loved  all  the 
mud-honey  of  Paris." 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          49! 

"You  are  hopelessly  wrong,  Frank,  what 
madness  will  you  preach  next!  You  are  always 
bothering  one  to  write,  and  now  forsooth  you 
recommend  chastity  and  l  skilly,'  though  I 
admit,"  he  added  laughing,  "that  your  l skilly' 
includes  all  the  indelicacies  of  the  season,  with 
champagne,  Mocha  coffee,  and  absinthe  to  boot. 
But  surely  you  are  getting  too  puritanical.  It's 
absurd  of  you;  the  other  day  you  defended 
conventional  love  against  my  ideal  passion." 

He  provoked  me:  his  tone  was  that  of  rather 
contemptuous  superiority.  I  kept  silent:  I  did 
not  wish  to  retort  as  I  might  have  done  if 

M had  not  been  present. 

But  Oscar  was  determined  to  assert  his 
peculiar  view.  One  or  two  days  afterwards  he 
came  in  very  red  and  excited  and  more  angry 
than  I  had  ever  seen  him. 

"What  do  you  think  has  happened,  Frank?" 
"I  do  not  know.  Nothing  serious,  I  hope." 
"  I  was  sitting  by  the  roadside  on  the  way  to 
Cannes.  I  had  taken  out  a  Vergil  with  me  and 
had  begun  reading  it.  As  I  sat  there  reading, 
I  happened  to  raise  my  eyes,  and  who  should 
I  see  but  George  Alexander — George  Alexander 
on  a  bicycle.  I  had  known  him  intimately  in 
the  old  days,  and  naturally  I  got  up  delighted 
to  see  him,  and  went  towards  him.  But  he 
turned  his  head  aside  and  pedalled  past  me  delib- 


492          OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

erately.  He  meant  to  cut  me.  Of  course  I  know 
that  just  before  my  trial  in  London  he  took 
my  name  off  the  bill  of  my  comedy,  though  he 
went  on  playing  it.  But  I  was  not  angry  with 
him  for  that,  though  he  might  have  behaved 
as  well  as  Wyndham,1  who  owed  me  nothing, 
don't  you  think? 

"Here  there  was  nobody  to  see  him,  yet  he 
cut  me.  What  brutes  men  are!  They  not  only 
punish  me  as  a  society,  but  now  they  are  trying 
as  individuals  to  punish  me,  and  after  all  I  have 
not  done  worse  than  they  do.  What  difference 
is  there  between  one  form  of  sexual  indulgence 
and  another?  I  hate  hypocrisy  and  hypocrites! 
Think  of  Alexander,  who  made  all  his  money 
out  of  my  works,  cutting  me,  Alexander!  It  is 
too  ignoble.  Wouldn't  you  be  angry,  Frank?" 

"I  daresay  I  should  be,"  I  replied  coolly, 
hoping  the  incident  would  be  a  spur  to  him. 

"I've  always  wondered  why  you  gave  Alex- 
ander a  play?  Surely  you  didn't  think  him  an 
actor?" 

1  The  incident  is  worth  recording  for  the  honour  of  human  nature. 
At  the  moment  of  Oscar's  trial  Charles  Wyndham  had  let  his  theatre, 
the  Criterion,  to  Lewis  Waller  and  H.  H.  Morell  to  produce  in  it  "An 
Ideal  Husband"  which  had  been  running  for  over  100  nights  at  the 
Haymarket.  When  Alexander  took  Oscar's  name  off  the  bill,  Wynd- 
ham wrote  to  the  young  Managers,  saying  that,  if  under  the  altered 
circumstances  they  wished  to  cancel  their  agreement,  he  would  allow 
them  to  do  so.  But  if  they  "put  on "  a  play  of  Mr.  Wilde's,  the  author's 
name  must  be  on  all  the  bills  and  placards  as  usual.  He  could  not  allow 
his  theatre  to  be  used  to  insult  a  man  who  was  on  his  trial. 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          493 

"No,  no!"  he  exclaimed,  a  sudden  smile 
lighting  up  his  face;  "Alexander  doesn't  act  on 
the  stage;  he  behaves.  But  wasn't  it  mean  of 
him?" 

I  couldn't  help  smiling,  the  dart  was  so  de- 
served. 

"Begin  another  play,"  I  said,  "and  the 
Alexanders  will  immediately  go  on  their  knees 
to  you  again.  On  the  other  hand,  if  you  do 
nothing  you  may  expect  worse  than  discourtesy. 
Men  love  to  condemn  their  neighbours'  pet  vice. 
You  ought  to  know  the  world  by  this  time." 

He  did  not  even  notice  the  hint  to  work,  but 
broke  out  angrily: 

"What  you  call  vice,  Frank,  is  not  vice:  it  is 
as  good  to  me  as  it  was  to  Caesar,  Alexander, 
Michelangelo  and  Shakespeare.  It  was  first  of 
all  made  a  sin  by  monasticism,  and  it  has  been 
made  a  crime  in  recent  times,  by  the  Goths — the 
Germans  and  English — who  have  done  little 
or  nothing  since  to  refine  or  exalt  the  ideals  of 
humanity.  They  all  damn  the  sins  they  have 
no  mind  to,  and  that's  their  morality.  A  brutal 
race;  they  overeat  and  overdrink  and  condemn 
the  lusts  of  the  flesh,  while  revelling  in  all  the 
vilest  sins  of  the  spirit.  If  they  would  read 
the  23rd  chapter  of  St.  Matthew  and  apply  it 
to  themselves,  they  would  learn  more  than  by 
condemning  a  pleasure  they  don't  understand. 


494           OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

Why,  even  Bentham  refused  to  put  what  you 
call  a  'vice'  in  his  penal  code,  and  you  yourself 
admitted  that  it  should  not  be  punished  as  a 
crime;  for  it  carries  no  temptation  with  it.  It 
may  be  a  malady;  but,  if  so,  it  appears  only  to 
attack  the  highest  natures.  It  is  disgraceful  to 
punish  it.  The  wit  of  man  can  find  no  argument 
which  justifies  its  punishment." 

"Don't  be  too  sure  of  that,"  I  retorted. 

"I  have  never  heard  a  convincing  argument 
which  condemns  it,  Frank;  I  do  not  believe 
such  a  reason  exists." 

"Don't  forget,"  I  said,  "that  this  practice 
which  you  defend  is  condemned  by  a  hundred 
generations  of  the  most  civilised  races  of  man- 
kind." 

"Mere  prejudice  of  the  unlettered,  Frank." 

"And  what  is  such  a  prejudice?"  I  asked. 
"It  is  the  reason  of  a  thousand  generations  of 
men,  a  reason  so  sanctified  by  secular  experi- 
ence that  it  has  passed  into  flesh  and  blood 
and  become  an  emotion  and  is  no  longer  merely 
an  argument.  I  would  rather  have  one  such 
prejudice  held  by  men  of  a  dozen  different  races 
than  a  myriad  reasons.  Such  a  prejudice  is  in- 
carnate reason  approved  by  immemorial  experi- 
ence. 

"What  argument  have  you  against  cannibal- 
ism; what  reason  is  there  why  we  should  not 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS           495 

fatten  babies  for  the  spit  and  eat  their  flesh? 
The  flesh  is  sweeter,  African  travellers  tell  us, 
than  any  other  meat,  tenderer  at  once  and  more 
sustaining;  all  reasons  are  in  favour  of  it.  What 
hinders  us  from  indulging  in  this  appetite  but 
prejudice,  sacred  prejudice,  an  instinctive  loath- 
ing at  the  bare  idea  ? 

"Humanity,  it  seems  to  me,  is  toiling  up  a 
long  slope  leading  from  the  brute  to  the  god: 
again  and  again  whole  generations,  sometimes 
whole  races,  have  fallen  back  and  disappeared 
in  the  abyss.  Every  slip  fills  the  survivors  with 
fear  and  horror  which  with  ages  have  become 
instinctive,  and  now  you  appear  and  laugh  at 
their  fears  and  tell  them  that  human  flesh  is 
excellent  food,  and  that  sterile  kisses  are  the 
noblest  form  of  passion.  They  shudder  from 
you  and  hate  and  punish  you,  and  if  you  per- 
sist they  will  kill  you.  Who  shall  say  they  are 
wrong  ?  Who  shall  sneer  at  their  instinctive  repul- 
sion hallowed  by  ages  of  successful  endeavour?" 

"Fine  rhetoric,  I  concede,"  he  replied,  "but 
mere  rhetoric.  I  never  heard  such  a  defence 
of  prejudice  before.  I  should  not  have  expected 
it  from  you.  You  admit  you  don't  share  the 
prejudice;  you  don't  feel  the  horror,  the  in- 
stinctive loathing  you  describe.  Why?  Be- 
cause you  are  educated,  Frank,  because  you 
know  that  the  passion  Socrates  felt  was  not  a 


496        OSCAR  WILDE  AND  HIS   CONFESSIONS 

low  passion,  because  you  know  that  Caesar's 
weakness,  let  us  say,  or  the  weakness  of  Michel- 
angelo or  of  Shakespeare,  is  not  despicable.  If 
the  desire  is  not  a  characteristic  of  the  highest 
humanity,  at  least  it  is  consistent  with  it."1 

"I  cannot  admit  that,"  I  answered.  "First 
of  all,  let  us  leave  Shakespeare  out  of  the  ques- 
tion, or  I  should  have  to  ask  you  for  proofs 
of  his  guilt,  and  there  are  none.  About  the 
others  there  is  this  to  be  said,  it  is  not  by  imi- 
tating the  vices  and  weaknesses  of  great  men 
that  we  shall  get  to  their  level.  And  suppose 
we  are  fated  to  climb  above  them,  then  their 
weaknesses  are  to  be  dreaded. 

"I  have  not  even  tried  to  put  the  strongest 
reasons  before  you;  I  should  have  thought  your 
own  mind  would  have  supplied  them;  but 
surely  you  see  that  the  historical  argument  is 
against  you.  This  vice  of  yours  is  dropping 
out  of  life,  like  cannibalism:  it  is  no  longer  a 
practice  of  the  highest  races.  It  may  have 
seemed  natural  enough  to  the  Greeks,  to  us 
it  is  unnatural.  Even  the  best  Athenians  con- 
demned it;  Socrates  took  pride  in  never  having 
yielded  to  it;  all  moderns  denounce  it  disdain- 
fully. You  must  see  that  the  whole  progress  of 
the  world,  the  current  of  educated  opinion,  is 
against  you,  that  you  are  now  a  'sport,'  a  pecul- 

1Cfr.  end  of  Appendix: — A  Last  Word. 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS  497 

iarity,  an  abnormality,  a  man  with  six  fingers: 
not  a  'sport 'that  is,  full  of  promise  for  the  future, 
but  a  'sport'  of  the  dim  backward  and  abysm 
of  time,  an  arrested  development." 

:<You  are  bitter,  Frank,  almost  rude." 

"Forgive  me,  Oscar,  forgive  me,  please;  it  is 
because  I  want  you  at  long  last  to  open  your 
eyes,  and  see  things  as  they  are." 

"But  I  thought  you  were  with  us,  Frank, 
I  thought  at  least  you  condemned  the  punish- 
ment, did  not  believe  in  the  barbarous  penalties." 

"I  disbelieve  in  all  punishment,"  I  said;  "it 
is  by  love  and  not  by  hate  that  men  must  be 
redeemed.  I  believe,  too,  that  the  time  is  al- 
ready come  when  the  better  law  might  be  put  in 
force,  and  above  all,  I  condemn  punishment 
which  strikes  a  man,  an  artist  like  you,  who 
has  done  beautiful  and  charming  things  as  if 
he  had  done  nothing.  At  least  the  good  you 
have  accomplished  should  be  set  against  the 
evil.  It  has  always  seemed  monstrous  to  me 
that  you  should  have  been  punished  like  a 
Taylor.  The  French  were  right  in  their  treat- 
ment of  Verlaine:  they  condemned  the  sin,  while 
forgiving  the  sinner  because  of  his  genius.  The 
rigour  in  England  is  mere  puritanic  hypocrisy, 
shortsightedness  and  racial  self-esteem." 

"All  I  can  say,  Frank,  is,  I  would  not  limit 
individual  desire  in  any  way.  What  right  has 


OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

society  to  punish  us  unless  it  can  prove  we  have 
hurt  or  injured  someone  else  against  his  will? 
Besides,  if  you  limit  passion  you  impoverish 
life,  you  weaken  the  mainspring  of  art,  and  nar- 
row the  realm  of  beauty." 

"All  societies,"  I  replied,  "and  most  indi- 
viduals, too,  punish  what  they  dislike,  right  or 
wrong.  There  are  bad  smells  which  do  not 
injure  anyone;  yet  the  manufacturers  of  them 
would  be  indicted  for  committing  a  nuisance. 
Nor  does  your  plea  that  by  limiting  the  choice 
of  passion  you  impoverish  life,  appeal  to  me. 
On  the  contrary,  I  think  I  could  prove  that 
passion,  the  desire  of  the  man  for  the  woman 
and  the  woman  for  the  man,  has  been  enor- 
mously strengthened  in  modern  times.  Chris- 
tianity has  created,  or  at  least  cultivated,  mod- 
esty, and  modesty  has  sharpened  desire.  Chris- 
tianity has  helped  to  lift  woman  to  an  equality 
with  man,  and  this  modern  intellectual  devel- 
opment has  again  intensified  passion  out  of  all 
knowledge.  The  woman  who  is  not  a  slave 
but  an  equal,  who  gives  herself  according  to 
her  own  feeling,  is  infinitely  more  desirable  to 
a  man  than  any  submissive  serf  who  is  always 
waiting  on  his  will.  And  this  movement  in- 
tensifying passion  is  every  day  gaining  force. 

"We  have  a  far  higher  love  in  us  than  the 
Greeks,  infinitely  higher  and  more  intense  than 


OSCAR  WILDE   AND    HIS   CONFESSIONS         499 

the  Romans  knew;  our  sensuality  is  like  a  river 
banked  in  with  stone  parapets,  the  current 
flows  higher  and  more  vehemently  in  the  nar- 
rower bed." 

;tYou  may  talk  as  you  please,  Frank,  but 
you  will  never  get  me  to  believe  that  what  I 
know  is  good  to  me,  is  evil.  Suppose  I  like  a 
food  that  is  poison  to  other  people,  and  yet 
quickens  me;  how  dare  they  punish  me  for  eat- 
ing of  it?" 

"They  would  say,"  I  replied,  "that  they  only 
punish  you  for  inducing  others  to  eat  it." 

He  broke  in:  "It  is  all  ignorant  prejudice, 
Frank;  the  world  is  slowly  growing  more  tol- 
erant and  one  day  men  will  be  ashamed  of  their 
barbarous  treatment  of  me,  as  they  are  now 
ashamed  of  the  torturings  of  the  Middle  Ages. 
The  current  of  opinion  is  making  in  our  favour 
and  not  against  us." 

"You  don't  believe  what  you  say,"  I  cried; 
"if  you  really  thought  humanity  was  going  your 
way,  you  would  have  been  delighted  to  play 
Galileo.  Instead  of  writing  a  book  in  prison 
condemning  your  companion  who  pushed  you 
to  discovery  and  disgrace,  you  would  have 
written  a  book  vindicating  your  actions.  CI 
am  a  martyr,'  you  would  have  cried,  'and  not 
a  criminal,  and  everyone  who  holds  the  con- 
trary is  wrong.' 


5OO       OSCAR  WILDE  AND  HIS  CONFESSIONS 

"You  would  have  said  to  the  jury: 

"In  spite  of  your  beliefs,  and  your  cherished 
dogmas;  in  spite  of  your  religion  and  prejudice 
and  fanatical  hatred  of  me,  you  are  wrong  and 
I  am  right:  the  world  does  move.' 

"But  you  didn't  say  that,  and  you  don't 
think  it.  If  you  did  you  would  be  glad  you 
went  into  the  Queensberry  trial,  glad  you  were 
accused,  glad  you  were  imprisoned  and  pun- 
ished because  all  these  things  must  bring  your 
vindication  more  quickly;  you  are  sorry  for  them 
all,  because  in  your  heart  you  know  you  were 
wrong.  This  old  world  in  the  main  is  right:  it's 
you  who  are  wrong." 

"Of  course  everything  can  be  argued,  Frank; 
but  I  hold  to  my  conviction:  the  best  minds 
even  now  don't  condemn  us,  and  the  world  is 
becoming  more  tolerant.1  I  didn't  justify  my- 
self in  court  because  I  was  told  I  should  be  pun- 
ished lightly  if  I  respected  the  common  prej- 
udices, and  when  I  tried  to  speak  afterwards 
the  judge  would  not  let  me." 

"And  I  believe,"  I  retorted,  "that  you  were 
hopelessly  beaten  and  could  never  have  made  a 
fight  of  it,  because  you  felt  the  Time-spirit  was 
against  you.  How  else  was  a  silly,  narrow 
judge  able  to  wave  you  to  silence?  Do  you 
think  he  could  have  silenced  me?  Not  all  the 

1C£r.  end  of  Appendix: — A  Last  Word. 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

judges  in  Christendom.  Let  me  give  you  an 
example.  I  believe  with  Voltaire  that  when 
modesty  goes  out  of  life  it  goes  into  the  language 
as  prudery.  I  am  quite  certain  that  our  present 
habit  of  not  discussing  sexual  questions  in  our 
books  is  bound  to  disappear,  and  that  free  and 
dignified  speech  will  take  the  place  of  our 
present  prurient  mealy-mouthedness.  I  have 
long  thought  it  possible,  probable  even,  in  the 
present  state  of  society  in  England,  where  we 
are  still  more  or  less  under  the  heel  of  the  illit- 
erate and  prudish  Philistinism  of  our  middle 
class,  that  I  might  be  had  up  to  answer  some 
charge  of  publishing  an  indecent  book.  The 
current  of  the  time  appears  to  be  against  me. 
In  the  spacious  days  of  Elizabeth,  in  the  modish 
time  of  the  Georges,  a  freedom  of  speech  was 
habitual  which  to-day  is  tabooed.  Our  cases, 
therefore,  are  somewhat  alike.  Do  you  think  I 
should  dread  the  issue  or  allow  myself  to  be 
silenced  by  a  judge?  I  would  set  forth  my  de- 
fence before  the  judge  and  before  the  jury  with 
the  assurance  of  victory  in  me!  I  should  not 
minimise  what  I  had  written;  I  should  not  try 
to  explain  it  away;  I  should  seek  to  make  it 
stronger.  I  should  justify  every  word,  and 
finally  I'd  warn  both  judge  and  jury  that  if  they 
condemned  and  punished  me  they  would  only 
make  my  ultimate  triumph  more  conspicuous. 


5O2          OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

'All  the  great  men  of  the  past  are  with  me,'  I 
would  cry;  'all  the  great  minds  of  to-day  in 
other  countries,  and  some  of  the  best  in  Eng- 
land; condemn  me  at  your  peril:  you  will  only 
condemn  yourselves.  You  are  spitting  against 
the  wind  and  the  shame  will  be  on  your  own  faces.' 

"Do  you  believe  I  should  be  left  to  suffer? 
I  doubt  it  even  in  England  to-day.  If  I'm  right, 
and  I'm  sure  I'm  right,  then  about  me  there 
would  be  an  invisible  cloud  of  witnesses.  You 
would  see  a  strange  movement  of  opinion  in 
my  favour.  The  judge  would  probably  lecture 
me  and  bind  me  over  to  come  up  for  judgment; 
but  if  he  sentenced  me  vindictively  then  the 
Home  Secretary1  would  be  petitioned  and  the 
movement  in  my  favour  would  grow,  till  it  swept 
away  opposition.  This  is  the  very  soul  of  my 
faith.  If  I  did  not  believe  with  every  fibre  in 
me  that  this  poor  stupid  world  is  honestly  grop- 
ing its  way  up  the  altar  stairs  to  God,  and  not 
down,  I  would  not  live  in  it  an  hour." 

"Why  do  you  argue  against  me,  Frank?  It 
is  brutal  of  you." 

"To  induce  you  even  now  to  turn  and  pull 

1This  was  written  years  before  a  Home  Secretary,  Mr.  Reginald 
MacKenna,  tortured  women  and  girls  in  prison  in  England  by  forcible 
feeding,  because  they  tried  to  present  petitions  in  favour  of  Woman's 
Suffrage.  He  afterwards  defended  himself  in  Parliament  by  declaring 
that  "  'forcible  feeding'  was  not  unpleasant."  The  torturers  of  the 
Inquisition  also  befouled  cruelty  with  hypocritical  falsehood:  they  would 
burn  their  victims;  but  would  not  shed  blood. 


OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          503 

yourself  out  of  the  mud.  You  are  forty  odd 
years  of  age,  and  the  keenest  sensations  of  life 
are  over  for  you.  Turn  back  whilst  there's  time, 
get  to  work,  write  your  ballad  and  your  plays, 
and  not  the  Alexanders  alone,  but  all  the  people 
who  really  count,  the  best  of  all  countries — 
the  salt  of  the  earth — will  give  you  another 
chance.  Begin  to  work  and  you'll  be  borne  up 
on  all  hands :  No  one  sinks  to  the  dregs  but  by 
his  own  weight.  If  you  don't  bear  fruit  why 
should  men  care  for  you?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  turned  from 
me  with  disdainful  indifference. 

"I've  done  enough  for  their  respect,  Frank, 
and  received  nothing  but  hatred.  Every  man 
must  dree  his  own  weird.  Thank  Heaven,  life's 
not  without  compensations.  I'm  sorry  I  cannot 
please  you,"  and  he  added  carelessly,  "M— 
has  asked  me  to  go  and  spend  the  summer 
with  him  at  Gland  in  Switzerland.  He  does  not 
mind  whether  I  write  or  not." 

"I  assure  you,"  I  cried,  "it  is  not  my  pleasure 
I  am  thinking  about.  What  can  it  matter  to 
me  whether  you  write  or  not?  It  is  your  own 
good  I  am  thinking  of." 

"Oh,  bother  good!  One's  friends  like  one  as 
one  is;  the  outside  public  hate  one  or  scoff  at 
one  as  they  please." 

"Well,  I  hope  I  shall  always  be  your  friend," 


504          OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

I  replied,  "but  you  will  yet  be  forced  to  see, 
Oscar,  that  everyone  grows  tired  of  holding  up 
an  empty  sack." 

"Frank,  you  insult  me." 

"I  don't  mean  to;  I'm  sorry;  I  shall  never  be 
so  brutally  frank  again;  but  you  had  to  hear  the 
truth  for  once." 

"Then,  Frank,  you  only  cared  for  me  in  so 
far  as  I  agreed  with  you?"  , 

"Oh,  that's  not  fair,"  I  replied.  "I  have 
tried  with  all  my  strength  to  prevent  you  com- 
mitting soul-suicide,  but  if  you  are  resolved  on 
it,  I  can't  prevent  you.  I  must  draw  away.  I 
can  do  no  good." 

"Then  you  won't  help  me  for  the  rest  of  the 
winter?" 

"Of  course  I  will,"  I  replied,  "I  shall  do  all 
I  promised  and  more;  but  there's  a  limit  now, 
and  till  now  the  only  limit  was  my  power,  not 
my  will." 

It  was  at  Napoule  a  few  days  later  that  an 
incident  occurred  which  gave  me  to  a  certain 
extent  a  new  sidelight  on  Oscar's  nature  by 
showing  just  what  he  thought  of  me.  I  make 
no  scruple  of  setting  forth  his  opinion  here  in 
its  entirety,  though  the  confession  took  place 
after  a  futile  evening  when  he  had  talked  to 

M of  great  houses  in  England  and  the  great 

people  he  had  met  there.  The  talk  had  evidently 


OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          505 

impressed  M as  much  as  it  had  bored  me. 

I  must  first  say  that  Oscar's  bedroom  was  sep- 
arated from  mine  by  a  large  sitting-room  we 
had  in  common.  As  a  rule  I  worked  in  my  bed- 
room in  the  mornings  and  he  spent  a  great  deal 
of  time  out  of  doors.  On  this  especial  morning, 
however,  I  had  gone  into  the  sitting-room  early 
to  write  some  letters.  I  heard  him  get  up  and 
splash  about  in  his  bath:  shortly  afterwards  he 
must  have  gone  into  the  next  room,  which  was 

M 's,  for  suddenly  he  began  talking  to  him 

in  a  loud  voice  from  one  room  to  the  other,  as 
if  he  were  carrying  on  a  conversation  already 
begun,  through  the  open  door. 

"Of  course  it's  absurd  of  Frank  talking  of 
social  position  or  the  great  people  of  English 
society  at  all.  He  never  had  any  social  position 
to  be  compared  with  mine ! "  (The  petulant  tone 
made  me  smile;  but  what  Oscar  said  was  true: 
nor  did  I  ever  pretend  to  have  such  a  position.) 

"He  had  a  house  in  Park  Lane  and  owned 
The  Saturday  Review  and  had  a  certain  power; 
but  I  was  the  centre  of  every  party,  the  most 
honoured  guest  everywhere,  at  Clieveden  and 
Taplow  Court  and  Clumber.  The  difference 
was  Frank  was  proud  of  meeting  Balfour  while 
Balfour  was  proud  of  meeting  me :  d'ye  see  ? "  (I 
was  so  interested  I  was  unconscious  of  any  in- 
discretion in  listening:  it  made  me  smile  to  hear 


5O6         OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

that  I  was  proud  of  meeting  Arthur  Balfour:  it 
would  never  have  occurred  to  me  that  I  should 
be  proud  of  that:  still  no  doubt  Oscar  was  right 
in  a  general  way). 

"When  Frank  talks  of  literature,  he  amuses 
me:  he  pretends  to  bring  new  standards  into  it; 
he  does:  he  brings  America  to  judge  Oxford  and 
London,  much  like  bringing  Macedon  or  Boeotia 
to  judge  Athens — quite  ridiculous!  What  can 
Americans  know  about  English  literature  ?  .  .  . 

"Yet  the  curious  thing  is  he  has  read  a  lot 
and  has  a  sort  of  vision:  that  Shakespeare  stuff 
of  his  is  extraordinary;  but  he  takes  sincerity  for 
style,  and  poetry  as  poetry  has  no  appeal  for  him. 
You  heard  him  admit  that  himself  last  night.  .  .  . 

"He's  comic,  really:  curiously  provincial  like 
all  Americans.  Fancy  a  Jeremiad  preached  by 
a  man  in  a  fur  coat!  Frank's  comic.  But  he's 
really  kind  and  fights  for  his  friends.  He  helped 
me  in  prison  greatly:  sympathy  is  a  sort  of  re- 
ligion to  him:  that's  why  we  can  meet  without 
murder  and  separate  without  suicide.  .  .  . 

"Talking  literature  with  him  is  very  like 
playing  Rugby  football.  ...  I  never  did  play 
football,  you  know;  but  talking  literature  with 
Frank  must  be  very  like  playing  Rugby  where 
you  end  by  being  kicked  violently  through  your 
own  goal,"  and  he  laughed  delightedly. 

I  had  listened  without  thinking  as  I  often  lis- 


OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          507 

tened  to  his  talk  for  the  mere  music  of  the  utter- 
ance; now,  at  a  break  in  the  monologue,  I  went 
into  the  next  room,  feeling  that  to  listen  con- 
sciously would  be  unworthy.  On  the  whole  his 
view  of  me  was  not  unkindly:  he  disliked  to  hear 
any  opinion  that  differed  from  his  own  and  it 
never  came  into  his  head  that  Oxford  was  no 
nearer  the  meridian  of  truth  than  Lawrence, 
Kansas,  and  certainly  at  least  as  far  from 
Heaven. 

Some  weeks  later  I  left  La  Napoule  and  went 
on  a  visit  to  some  friends.  He  wrote  complain- 
ing that  without  me  the  place  was  dull.  I 
wired  him  and  went  over  to  Nice  to  meet  him 
and  we  lunched  together  at  the  Cafe  de^la 
Regence.  He  was  terribly  downcast,  and  yet 
rebellious.  He  had  come  over  to  stay  at  Nice, 
and  stopped  at  the  Hotel  Terminus,  a  tenth-rate 
hotel  near  the  station;  the  proprietor  called  on 
him  two  or  three  days  afterwards  and  informed 
him  he  must  leave  the  hotel,  as  his  room  had 
been  let. 

"  Evidently  someone  has  told  him,  Frank,  who 
I  am.  What  am  I  to  do?" 

I  soon  found  him  a  better  hotel  where  he  was 
well  treated,  but  the  incident  coming  on  top 
of  the  Alexander  affair  seemed  to  have  fright- 
ened him. 

"There  are  too  many  English  on  this  coast," 


508          OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

he  said  to  me  one  day,  "and  they  are  all  brutal 
to  me.  I  think  I  should  like  to  go  to  Italy  if 
you  would  not  mind." 

"The  world  is  all  before  you,"  I  replied.  "I 
shall  only  be  too  glad  for  you  to  get  a  com- 
fortable place,"  and  I  gave  him  the  money  he 
wanted.  He  lingered  on  at  Nice  for  nearly  a 
week.  I  saw  him  several  times.  He  lunched 
with  me  at  the  Reserve  once  at  Beaulieu,  and 
was  full  of  delight  at  the  beauty  of  the  bay 
and  the  quiet  of  it.  In  the  middle  of  the  meal 
some  English  people  came  in  and  showed  their 
dislike  of  him  rudely.  He  at  once  shrank  into 
himself,  and  as  soon  as  possible  made  some 
pretext  to  leave.  Of  course  I  went  with  him. 
I  was  more  than  sorry  for  him,  but  I  felt  as 
unable  to  help  him  as  I  should  have  been  un- 
able to  hold  him  back  if  he  had  determined  to 
throw  himself  down  a  precipice. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

"  The  Gods  are  just  and  of  our  pleasant  vices 
Make  instruments  to  plague  us." 

IT  was  full  summer  before  I  met  Oscar  again ; 
he  had  come  back  to  Paris  and  taken  up  his 
old  quarters  in  the  mean  little  hotel  in  the  Rue 
des  Beaux  Arts.  He  lunched  and  dined  with 
me  as  usual.  His  talk  was  as  humorous  and 
charming  as  ever,  and  he  was  just  as  engaging 
a  companion.  For  the  first  time,  however,  he 
complained  of  his  health: 

"I  ate  some  mussels  and  oysters  in  Italy,  and 
they  must  have  poisoned  me;  for  I  have  come 
out  in  great  red  blotches  all  over  my  arms  and 
chest  and  back,  and  I  don't  feel  well." 

"Have  you  consulted  a  doctor?" 

"Oh,  yes,  but  doctors  are  no  good:  they  all 
advise  you  differently;  the  best  of  it  is  they  all 
listen  to  you  with  an  air  of  intense  interest 
when  you  are  talking  about  yourself — which  is 
an  excellent  tonic." 

"They  sometimes  tell  one  what's  the  mat- 
ter; give  a  name  and  significance  to  the  un- 
known," I  interjected. 

"They  bore  me  by  forbidding  me  to  smoke 
5°9 


5IO         OSCAR  WILDE  AND  HIS   CONFESSIONS 

and  drink.  They  are  worse  than  M ,  who 

grudged  me  his  wine." 

/'What  do  you  mean?"  I  asked  in  won- 
der. 

"A  tragi-comic  history,  Frank.  You  were  so 

right  about  M and  I  was  mistaken  in  him. 

You  know  he  wanted  me  to  stay  with  him  at 
Gland  in  Switzerland,  begged  me  to  come,  said 
he  would  do  everything  for  me.  When  the 
weather  got  warm  at  Genoa  I  went  to  him.  At 
first  he  seemed  very  glad  to  see  me  and  made 
me  welcome.  The  food  was  not  very  good,  the 
drink  anything  but  good,  still  I  could  not  com- 
plain, and  I  put  up  with  the  discomforts.  But 
in  a  week  or  two  the  wine  disappeared,  and  beer 
took  its  place,  and  I  suggested  I  must  be  going. 
He  begged  me  so  cordially  not  to  go  that  I 
stayed  on;  but  in  a  little  while  I  noticed  that 
the  beer  got  less  and  less  in  quantity,  and  one 
day  when  I  ventured  to  ask  for  a  second  bottle 
at  lunch  he  told  me  that  it  cost  a  great  deal 
and  that  he  could  not  afford  it.  Of  course  I 
made  some  decent  pretext  and  left  his  house 
as  soon  as  possible.  If  one  has  to  suffer  poverty, 
one  had  best  suffer  alone.  But  to  get  discom- 
forts grudgingly  and  as  a  charity  is  the  ex- 
tremity of  shame.  I  prefer  to  look  on  it  from 

the  other  side;  M grudging  me  his  small 

beer  belongs  to  farce." 


OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

He  spoke  with  bitterness  and  contempt,  as 
he  used  never  to  speak  of  anyone. 

I  could  not  help  sympathising  with  him, 
though  visibly  the  cloth  was  wearing  thread- 
bare. He  asked  me  now  at  once  for  money, 
and  a  little  later  again  and  again.  Formerly  he 
had  invented  pretexts;  he  had  not  received  his 
allowance  when  he  expected  it,  or  he  was  both- 
ered by  a  bill  and  so  forth;  but  now  he  simply 
begged  and  begged,  railing  the  while  at  fortune. 
It  was  distressing.  He  wanted  money  con- 
stantly, and  spent  it  as  always  like  water,  with- 
out a  thought. 

I  asked  him  one  day  whether  he  had  seen  much 
of  his  soldier  boy  since  he  had  returned  to  Paris. 

"I  have  seen  him,  Frank,  but  not  often," 
and  he  laughed  gaily.  "It's  a  farce-comedy; 
sentiment  always  begins  romantically  and  ends 
in  laughter — tabulae  solvuntur  risu.  I  taught  him 
so  much,  Frank,  that  he  was  made  a  corporal 
and  forthwith  a  nursemaid  fell  in  love  with  his 
stripes.  He's  devoted  to  her:  I  suppose  he  likes 
to  play  teacher  in  his  turn." 

"And  so  the  great  romantic  passion  comes 
to  this  tame  conclusion?" 

"What  would  you,  Frank?  Whatever  begins 
must  also  end." 

"Is  there  anyone  else?"  I  asked,  "or  have 
you  learned  reason  at  last?" 


512         OSCAR  WILDE  AND  HIS   CONFESSIONS 

"Of  course  there's  always  someone  else,  Frank: 
change  is  the  essence  of  passion:  the  reason  you 
talk  of  is  merely  another  name  for  impotence." 

"Montaigne  declares,"  I  said,  "that  love  be- 
longs to  early  youth,  'the  next  period  after  in- 
fancy,' is  his  phrase,  but  that  is  at  the  best  a 
Frenchman's  view  of  it.  Sophocles  was  nearer 
the  truth  when  he  called  himself  happy  in  that 
age  had  freed  him  from  the  whip  of  passion. 
When  are  you  going  to  reach  that  serenity?" 

"Never,  Frank,  never,  I  hope:  life  without 
desire  would  not  be  worth  living  to  me.  As  one 
gets  older  one  is  more  difficult  to  please:  but  the 
sting  of  pleasure  is  even  keener  than  in  youth 
and  far  more  egotistic. 

"One  comes  to  understand  the  Marquis  de 
Sade  and  that  strange,  scarlet  story  of  de  Retz 
— the  pleasure  they  got  from  inflicting  pain,  the 
curious,  intense  underworld  of  cruelty — " 

"That's  unlike  you,  Oscar,"  I  broke  in.  "I 
thought  you  shrank  from  giving  pain  always :  to 
me  it's  the  unforgivable  sin." 

"To  me,  also,"  he  rejoined  instantly,  "intel- 
lectually one  may  understand  it;  but  in  reality 
it's  horrible.  I  want  my  pleasure  unembittered 
by  any  drop  of  pain.  That  reminds  me:  I  read 
a  terrible,  little  book  the  other  day,  Octave 
Mirbeau's  'Le  Jardin  des  Supplices';  it  is  quite 
awful,  a  sadique  joy  in  pain  pulses  through  it; 
but  for  all  that  it's  wonderful.  His  soul  seems 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          513 

to  have  wandered  in  fearsome  places.  You  with 
your  contempt  of  fear,  will  face  the  book  with 
courage — I " 

"I  simply  couldn't  read  it,"  I  replied;  "it 
was  revolting  to  me,  impossible " 

"A  sort  of  grey  adder,"  he  summed  up  and  I 
nodded  in  complete  agreement. 

I  passed  the  next  winter  on  the  Riviera.  A 
speculation  which  I  had  gone  in  for  there  had 
caused  me  heavy  loss  and  much  anxiety.  In 
the  spring  I  returned  to  Paris,  and  of  course, 
asked  him  to  meet  me.  He  was  much  brighter 
than  he  had  been  for  a  long  time.  Lord  Alfred 
Douglas,  it  appeared,  had  come  in  for  a  large 
legacy  from  his  father's  estate  and  had  given 
him  some  money,  and  he  was  much  more  cheer- 
ful. We  had  a  great  lunch  at  Durand's  and  he 
was  at  his  very  best.  I  asked  him  about  his 
health. 

"I'm  all  right,  Frank,  but  the  rash  continu- 
ally comes  back,  a  ghostly  visitant,  Frank:  I'm 
afraid  tne  doctors  are  in  league  with  the  devil. 
It  generally  returns  after  a  good  dinner,  a  sort 
of  aftermath  of  champagne.  The  doctors  say  I 
must  not  drink  champagne,  and  must  stop 
smoking,  the  silly  people,  who  regard  pleasure 
as  their  natural  enemies;  whereas  it  is  our  pleas- 
ures which  provide  them  with  a  living!" 

He  looked  fairly  well,  I  thought;  he  was  a 
little  fatter,  his  skin  a  little  dingier  than  of  old, 


514          OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

and  he  had  grown  very  deaf,  but  in  every  other 
way  he  seemed  at  his  best,  though  he  was  cer- 
tainly drinking  too  freely — spirits  between  times 
as  well  as  wine  at  meals. 

I  had  heard  on  the  Riviera  during  the  winter 
that  Smithers  had  tried  to  buy  a  play  from  him, 
so  one  day  I  brought  up  the  subject. 

"By  the  way,  Smithers  says  that  you  have 
been  working  on  your  play;  you  know  the  one  I 
mean,  the  one  with  the  great  screen  scene  in  it." 

"Oh,  yes,  Frank,"  he  remarked  indifferently. 

"Won't  you  tell  me  what  you've  done?"  I 
asked.  "Have  you  written  any  of  it?" 

"No,  Frank,"  he  replied  casually,  "it's  the 
scenario  Smithers  talked  about." 

A  little  while  afterwards  he  asked  me  for 
money.  I  told  him  I  could  not  afford  any  at 
the  moment,  and  pressed  him  to  write  his  play. 

"I  shall  never  write  again,  Frank,"  he  said. 
"I  can't,  I  simply  can't  face  my  thoughts.  Don't 
ask  me ! "  Then  suddenly :  "  Why  don't  you  buy 
the  scenario  and  write  the  play  yourself?" 

"I  don't  care  for  the  stage,"  I  replied;  "it's 
a  sort  of  rude  encaustic  work  I  don't  like;  its 
effects  are  theatrical!" 

"A  play  pays  far  better  than  a  book,  you 
know " 

But  I  was  not  interested.  That  evening 
thinking  over  what  he  had  said,  I  realised  all 
at  once  that  a  story  I  had  in  mind  to  write  would 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND  HIS   CONFESSIONS         515 

suit  "the  screen  scene"  of  Oscar's  scenario;  why 
shouldn't  I  write  a  play  instead  of  a  story? 
When  we  met  next  day  I  broached  the  idea  to 
Oscar: 

"I  have  a  story  in  my  head,"  I  said,  "which 
would  fit  into  that  scenario  of  yours,  so  far  as 
you  have  sketched  it  to  me.  I  could  write  it  as 
a  play  and  do  the  second,  third  and  fourth  acts 
very  quickly,  as  all  the  personages  are  alive  to 
me.  Could  you  do  the  first  act?" 

"Of  course  I  could,  Frank." 

"But,"  I  said,  "will  you?" 

"What  would  be  the  good,  you  could  not  sell 
it,  Frank." 

"In  any  case,"  I  went  on,  "I  could  try;  but 
I  would  infinitely  prefer  you  to  write  the  whole 
play  if  you  would ;  then  it  would  sell  fast  enough." 

"Oh,  Frank,  don't  ask  me." 

The  idea  of  the  collaboration  was  a  mistake; 
but  it  seemed  to  me  at  the  moment  the  best 
way  to  get  him  to  do  something.  Suddenly  he 
asked  me  to  give  him  £50  for  the  scenario  at 
once,  then  I  could  do  what  I  liked  with  it. 

After  a  good  deal  of  talk  I  consented  to  give 
him  the  £50  if  he  would  promise  to  write  the 
first  act;  he  promised  and  I  gave  him  the  money.1 

A  little  later  I  noticed  a  certain  tension  in 
his  relations  with  Lord  Alfred  Douglas.  One  day 

1The  rest  of  this  story  concerns  me  chiefly  and  I  have  therefore 
relegated  it  to  the  Appendix  for  those  who  care  to  read  it. 


5l6         OSCAR  WILDE  AND  HIS   CONFESSIONS 

he  told  me  frankly  that  Lord  Alfred  Douglas  had 
come  into  a  fortune  of  £15,000  or  £20,000,  "and," 
he  added,  "of  course  he's  always  able  to  get 
money.  He'll  marry  an  American  millionairess 
or  some  rich  widow"  (Oscar's  ideas  of  life  were 
nearly  all  conventional,  derived  from  novels  and 
plays);  "and  I  wanted  him  to  give  me  enough 
to  make  my  life  comfortable,  to  settle  enough 
on  me  to  make  a  decent  life  possible  to  me. 
It  would  only  have  cost  him  two  or  three  thou- 
sand pounds,  perhaps  less.  I  get  £150  a  year 
and  I  wanted  him  to  make  it  up  to  £3OO.1  I 
lost  that  through  going  to  him  at  Naples.  I 
think  he  ought  to  give  me  that  at  the  very  least, 
don't  you?  Won't  you  speak  to  him,  Frank?" 

"I  could  not  possibly  interfere,"  I  replied. 

"I  gave  him  everything,"  he  went  on,  in  a 
depressed  way.  "When  I  had  money,  he  never 
had  to  ask  for  it;  all  that  was  mine  was  his. 
And  now  that  he  is  rich,  I  have  to  beg  from  him, 
and  he  gives  me  small  sums  and  puts  me  off. 
It  is  terrible  of  him;  it  is  really  very,  very  wrong 
of  him." 

I  changed  the  subject  as  soon  as  I  could; 
there  was  a  note  of  bitterness  which  I  did  not 
like,  which  indeed  I  had  already  remarked  in  him. 

I  was  destined  very  soon  to  hear  the  other 
side.  A  day  or  two  later  Lord  Alfred  Douglas 

1  Oscar  was  already  getting  £300  a  year  from  his  wife  and  Robert  Ross, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  hundreds  given  to  him  from  time  to  time  by  other 
friends. 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          517 

told  me  that  he  had  bought  some  racehorses 
and  was  training  them  at  Chantilly;  would  I 
come  down  and  see  them? 

"I  am  not  much  of  a  judge  of  racehorses,"  I 
replied,  "and  I  don't  know  much  about  racing; 
but  I  should  not  mind  coming  down  one  even- 
ing. I  could  spend  the  night  at  an  hotel,  and 
see  the  horses  and  your  stable  in  the  morning. 
The  life  of  the  English  stable  lads  in  France 
must  be  rather  peculiar." 

"It  is  droll,"  he  said,  "a  complete  English 
colony  in  France.  There  are  practically  no 
French  jockeys  or  trainers  worth  their  salt;  it  is 
all  English,  English  slang,  English  ways,  even 
English  food  and  of  course  English  drinks.  No 
French  boy  seems  to  have  nerve  enough  to 
make  a  good  rider." 

I  made  an  arrangement  with  him  and  went 
down.  I  missed  my  train  and  was  very  late; 
I  found  that  Lord  Alfred  Douglas  had  dined 
and  gone  out.  I  had  my  dinner,  and  about 
midnight  went  up  to  my  room.  Half  an  hour 
later  there  came  a  knocking  at  the  door.  I 
opened  it  and  found  Lord  Alfred  Douglas. 

"May  I  come  in?"  he  asked.  "I'm  glad 
you've  not  gone  to  bed  yet." 

"Of  course,"  I  said,  "what  is  it?"  He  was 
pale  and  seemed  extraordinarily  excited. 

"I  have  had  such  a  row  with  Oscar,"  he 
jerked  out,  nervously  moving  about  (I  noticed 


5l8          OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

the  strained  white  face  I  had  seen  before  at  the 
Cafe  Royal),  "such  a  row,  and  I  wanted  to 
speak  to  you  about  it.  Of  course  you  know 
in  the  old  days  when  his  plays  were  being  given 
in  London  he  was  rich  and  gave  me  some  money, 
and  now  he  says  I  ought  to  settle  a  large  sum 
on  him;  I  think  it  ridiculous,  don't  you?" 

"I  would  rather  not  say  anything  about  it," 
I  replied;  "I  don't  know  enough  about  the 
circumstances." 

He  was  too  filled  with  a  sense  of  his  own 
injuries;  too  excited  to  catch  my  tone  or  under- 
stand any  reproof  in  my  attitude. 

"Oscar  is  really  too  dreadful,"  he  went  on; 
"he  is  quite  shameless  now;  he  begs  and  begs 
and  begs,  and  of  course  I  have  given  him 
money,  have  given  him  hundreds,  quite  as 
much  as  he  ever  gave  me:  but  he  is  insatiable 
and  recklessly  extravagant  besides.  Of  course 
I  want  to  be  quite  fair  to  him:  I've  already 
given  him  back  all  he  gave  me.  Don't  you 
think  that  is  all  anyone  can  ask  of  me?" 

I  looked  at  him  in  astonishment. 

"That  is  for  you  and  Oscar,"  I  said,  "to  decide 
together.  No  one  else  can  judge  between  you." 

"Why  not?"  he  snapped  out  in  his  irritable 
way,  "you  know  us  both  and  our  relations." 

"No,"  I  replied,  "I  don't  know  all  the  obli- 
gations and  the  interwoven  services.  Besides, 
I  could  not  judge  fairly  between  you." 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          519 

He  turned  on  me  angrily,  though  I  had  spoken 
with  as  much  kindness  as  I  could. 

"He  seemed  to  want  to  make  you  judge 
between  us,"  he  cried.  "I  don't  care  who's 
the  judge.  I  think  if  you  give  a  man  back  what 
hejhas  given  you,  that  is  all  he  can  ask.  It's  a 
d — d  lot  more  than  most  people  get  in  this 
world." 

After  a  pause  he  started  off  on  a  new  line  of 
thought : 

"The  first  time  I  ever  noticed  any  fault  in 
Oscar  was  over  that  'Salome'  translation.  He's 
appallingly  conceited.  You  know  I  did  the 
play  into  English.  I  found  that  his  choice  of 
words  was  poor,  anything  but  good;  his  prose 
is  wooden.  .  .  . 

"Of  course  he's  not  a  poet,"  he  broke  off 
contemptuously,  "even  you  must  admit  that." 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  I  replied;  "though 
I  should  have  to  make  a  vast  reservation  in 
favour  of  the  man  who  wrote  'The  Ballad  of 
Reading  Gaol.'  " 

"One  ballad  doesn't  make  a  man  a  poet,"  he 
barked;  "I  mean  by  poet  one  to  whom  verse 
lends  power:  in  that  sense  he's  not  a  poet  and  I 
am."  His  tone  was  that  of  defiant  challenge. 

"You  are  certainly,"  I  replied. 

"Well,  I  did  the  translation  of  'Salome'  very 
carefully,  as  no  one  else  could  have  done  it," 
and  he  flushed  angrily,  "  and  all  the  while  Oscar 


52O          OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

kept  on  altering  it  for  the  worse.    At  last  I  had 
to  tell  him  the  truth,  and  we  had  a  row.     He 
imagines  he's  the  greatest  person  in  the  world, 
and  the  only  person  to  be  considered.    His  con- 
ceit is  stupid.   .    .    .1  helped1  him  again  and 
again  with  that  'Ballad  of  Reading  Gaol'  you're 
always  praising:    I  suppose  he'd  deny  that  now. 
"He's  got  his  money  back;  what  more  can  he 
want?    He  disgusts  me  when  he  begs." 
I  could  not  contain  myself  altogether. 
"He  seems  to  blame  you,"  I  said  quietly, 
"  for  egging  him  on  to  that  insane  action  against 
your  father  which  brought  him  to  ruin." 

"I've  no  doubt  he'd  find  some  reason  to 
blame  me,"  he  whipped  out.  "How  did  I  know 
how  the  case  would  go  ?  ....  Why  did  he  take 
my  advice,  if  he  didn't  want  to  ?  He  was  surely 

old  enough  to  know  his  own  interest 

He's  simply  disgusting  now;  he's  getting  fat 
and  bloated,  and  always  demanding  money, 
money,  money,  like  a  daughter  of  the  horse- 
leech— just  as  if  he  had  a  claim  to  it." 

I  could  not  stand  it  any  longer;  I  had  to  try 
to  move  him  to  kindness. 

"Sometimes  one  gives  willingly  to  a  man 
one  has  never  had  anything  from.  Misery  and 
want  in  one  we  like  and  admire  have  a  very 
strong  claim." 

1PThe  truth  about  this  I  have  already  stated. 


OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          521 

"I  do  not  see  that  there  is  any  claim  at  all," 
he  cried  bitterly,  as  if  the  very  word  maddened 
him,  "and  I  am  not  going  to  pamper  him  any 
more.  He  could  earn  all  the  money  he  wants 
if  he  would  only  write;  but  he  won't  do  anything. 
He  is  lazy,  and  getting  lazier  and  lazier  every 
day;  and  he  drinks  far  too  much.  He  is  intol- 
erable. I  thought  when  he  kept  asking  me  for 
that  money  to-night,  he  was  like  an  old  pros- 
titute." 

"Good  God!"  I  cried.  "Good  God!  Has  it 
come  to  that  between  you?" 

"Yes,"  he  repeated,  not  heeding  what  I  said, 
"he  was  just  like  an  old  fat  prostitute,"  and  he 
gloated  over  the  word,  "and  I  told  him  so." 

I  looked  at  the  man  but  could  not  speak; 
indeed  there  was  nothing  to  be  said.  Surely 
at  last,  I  thought,  Oscar  Wilde  has  reached  the 
lowest  depth.  I  could  think  of  nothing  but 
Oscar;  this  hard,  small,  bitter  nature  made 
Oscar's  suffering  plain  to  me. 

"As  I  can  do  no  good,"  I  said,  "do  you 
mind  letting  me  sleep?  I'm  simply  tired  to 
death." 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said,  looking  for  his  hat; 
"will  you  come  out  in  the  morning  and  see  the 
1  gees'?" 

"I  don't  think  so,"  I  replied,  "I'm  in- 
capable of  a  resolution  now,  I'm  so  tired  I 


522          OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

would  rather  sleep.  I  think  I'll  go  up  to  Paris 
in  the  morning.  I  have  something  rather  urg- 
ent to  do." 

He  said  "Good  night"  and  went-  away. 

I  lay  awake,  my  eyes  prickling  with  sorrow 
and  sympathy  for  poor  Oscar,  insulted  in  his 
misery  and  destitution,  outraged  and  trodden 
on  by  the  man  he  had  loved,  by  the  man  who 
had  thrust  him  into  the  Pit 1 

1  Though  I  have  reported  this  conversation  as  faithfully  as  I  can  and 
have  indeed  softened  the  impression  Lord  Alfred  Douglas  made  upon 
me  at  the  time;  still  I  am  conscious  that  I  may  be  doing  him  some  in- 
justice.   I  have  never  really  been  in  sympathy  with  him  and  it  may 
well  be  that  in  reporting  him  here  faithfully  I  am  showing  him  at  his 
worst.    I  am  aware  that  the  incident  does  not  reveal  him  at  his  best. 
He  has  proved  since  in  his  writings  and  notably  in  some  superb  sonnets 
that  he  had  a  real  affection  and  admiration  for  Oscar  Wilde.     If  I  have 
been  in  any  degree  unfair  to  him  I  can  best  correct  it,  I  think,  by  repro- 
ducing here  the  noble  sonnet  he  wrote  on  Oscar  after  his  death :  in  sheer 
beauty  and  sincerity  of  feeling  it  ranks  with  Shelley's  lament  for  Keats: 

The  Dead  Poet2 

I  dreamed  of  him  last  night,  I  saw  his  face 
All  radiant  and  unshadowed  of  distress, 
And  as  of  old,  in  music  measureless, 
I  heard  his  golden  voice  and  marked  him  trace 
Under  the  common  thing  the  hidden  grace, 
And  conjure  wonder  out  of  emptiness, 
Till  mean  things  put  on  beauty  like  a  dress 
And  all  the  world  was  an  enchanted  place. 

And  then  methought  outside  a  fast  locked  gate 
I  mourned  the  loss  of  unrecorded  words, 
Forgotten  tales  and  mysteries  half  said 
Wonders  that  might  have  been  articulate, 
And  voiceless  thoughts  like  murdered  singing  birds 
And  so  I  woke  and  knew  that  he  was  dead. 

2  In  the  Appendix  I  have  published  the  first  sketch  of  this  fine  sonnet: 
lovers  of  poetry  will  like  to  compare  them. 


OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          523 

I  made  up  my  mind  to  go  to  Oscar  at  once 
and  try  to  comfort  him  a  little.  After  all,  I 
thought,  another  fifty  pounds  or  so  wouldn't  make 
a  great  deal  of  difference  to  me,  and  I  dwelt  on 
the  many  delightful  hours  I  had  passed  with 
him,  hours  of  gay  talk  and  superb  intellectual 
enjoyment. 

I  went  up  by  the  morning  train  to  Paris,  and 
drove  across  the  river  to  Oscar's  hotel. 

He  had  two  rooms,  a  small  sitting-room  and 
a  still  smaller  bedroom  adjoining.  He  was  lying 
half-dressed  on  the  bed  as  I  entered.  The  rooms 
affected  me  unpleasantly.  They  were  ordinary, 
mean  little  French  rooms,  furnished  without 
taste;  the  usual  mahogany  chairs,  gilt  clock  on 
the  mantelpiece  and  a  preposterous  bilious  paper 
on  the  walls.  What  struck  me  was  the  disorder 
everywhere;  books  all  over  the  round  table; 
books  on  the  chairs;  books  on  the  floor  and 
higgledy-piggledy,  here  a  pair  of  socks,  there  a 
hat  and  cane,  and  on  the  floor  his  overcoat. 
The  sense  of  order  and  neatness  which  he  used 
to  have  in  his  rooms  at  Tite  Street  was  utterly 
lacking.  He  was  not  living  here,  intent  on  mak- 
ing the  best  of  things;  he  was  merely  existing 
without  plan  or  purpose. 

I  told  him  I  wanted  him  to  come  to  lunch. 
While  he  was  finishing  dressing  it  came  to  me 
that  his  clothes  had  undergone  much  the  same 


524       OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

change  as  his  dwelling.  In  his  golden  days  in 
London  he  had  been  a  good  deal  of  a  dandy;  he 
usually  wore  white  waistcoats  at  night;  was  par- 
ticular about  the  flowers  in  his  buttonhole,  his 
gloves  and  cane.  Now  he  was  decently  dressed 
and  that  was  all;  as  far  below  the  average  as  he 
had  been  above  it.  Clearly,  he  had  let  go  of 
himself  and  no  longer  took  pleasure  in  the  vani- 
ties: it  seemed  to  me  a  bad  sign. 

I  had  always  thought  of  him  as  very  healthy, 
likely  to  live  till  sixty  or  seventy;  but  he  had  no 
longer  any  hold  on  himself  and  that  depressed 
me;  some  spring  of  life  seemed  broken  in  him. 
Bosie  Douglas'  second  betrayal  had  been  the 
coup  de  grace. 

In  the  carriage  he  was  preoccupied,  out  of 
sorts,  and  immediately  began  to  apologise. 

"  I  shall  be  poor  company,  Frank,"  he  warned 
me  with  quivering  lips. 

The  fragrant  summer  air  in  the  Champs 
Elysees  seemed  to  revive  him  a  little,  but  he 
was  evidently  lost  in  bitter  reflections  and 
scarcely  noticed  where  he  was  going.  From 
time  to  time  he  sighed  heavily  as  if  oppressed. 
I  talked  as  well  as  I  could  of  this  and  that, 
tried  to  lure  him  away  from  the  hateful  subject 
that  I  knew  must  be  in  his  mind;  but  all  in  vain. 
Towards  the  end  of  the  lunch  he  said  gravely: 

"I  want  you  to  tell  me  something,  Frank; 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          525 

I  want  you  to  tell  me  honestly  if  you  think  I 
am  in  the  wrong.  I  wish  I  could  think  I  was. 
....  You  know  I  spoke  to  you  the  other 
day  about  Bosie;  he  is  rich  now  and  he  is  throw- 
ing his  money  away  with  both  hands  in  racing. 

"I  asked  him  to  settle  £1,500  or  £2,000  on 
me  to  buy  me  an  annuity,  or  to  do  something 
that  would  give  me  £150  a  year.  You  said 
you  did  not  care  to  ask  him,  so  I  did.  I  told 
him  it  was  really  his  duty  to  do  it  at  once,  and 
he  turned  round  and  lashed  me  savagely  with 
his  tongue.  He  called  me  dreadful  names. 
Said  dreadful  things  to  me,  Frank.  I  did  not 
think  it  was  possible  to  suffer  more  than  I 
suffered  in  prison,  but  he  has  left  me  bleeding 
.  .  .  ."  and  the  fine  eyes  filled  with  tears.  See- 
ing that  I  remained  silent,  he  cried  out: 

"Frank,  you  must  tell  me  for  our  friendship's 
sake.  Is  it  my  fault?  Was  he  wrong  or  was  I 
wrong?" 

His  weakness  was  pathetic,  or  was  it  that 
his  affection  was  still  so  great  that  he  wanted 
to  blame  himself  rather  than  his  friend? 

"Of  course  he  seems  to  me  to  be  wrong,"  I 
said,  "utterly  wrong."  I  could  not  help  saying 
it  and  I  went  on: 

"But  you  know  his  temper  is  insane;  if  he 
even  praises  himself,  as  he  did  to  me  lately,  he 
gets  into  a  rage  in  order  to  do  it,  and  perhaps 


526          OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

unwittingly  you  annoyed  him  by  the  way  you 
asked.  If  you  put  it  to  his  generosity  and  vain- 
glory you  would  get  it  easier  than  from  his 
sense  of  justice  and  right.  He  has  not  much 
moral  sense." 

"Oh,  Frank,"  he  broke  in  earnestly,  "I  put 
it  to  him  as  well  as  I  could,  quite  quietly  and 
gently.  I  talked  of  our  old  affection,  of  the 
good  and  evil  days  we  had  passed  together :  you 
know  I  could  never  be  harsh  to  him,  never. 

"There  never  was,"  he  burst  out,  in  a  sort 
of  exaltation,  "there  never  was  in  the  world 
such  a  betrayal.  Do  you  remember  once  telling 
me  that  the  only  flaw  you  could  find  in  the 
perfect  symbolism  of  the  gospel  story  was  that 
Jesus  was  betrayed  by  Judas,  the  foreigner  from 
Kerioth,  when  he  should  have  been  betrayed 
by  John,  the  beloved  disciple;  for  it  is  only 
those  we  love  who  can  betray  us?  Frank,  how 
true,  how  tragically  true  that  is !  It  is  those  we 
love  who  betray  us  with  a  kiss." 

He  was  silent  for  some  time  and  then  went 
on  wearily,  "I  wish  you  would  speak  to  him, 
Frank,  and  show  him  how  unjust  and  unkind 
he  is  to  me." 

"I  cannot  possibly  do  that,  Oscar,"  I  said, 
"I  do  not  know  all  the  relations  between  you 
and  the  myriad  bands  that  unite  you:  I  should 
only  do  harm  and  not  good." 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          527 

"Frank,"  he  cried,  "you  do  know,  you  must 
know  that  he  is  responsible  for  everything,  for 
my  downfall  and  my  ruin.  It  was  he  who 
drove  me  to  fight  with  his  father.  I  begged 
him  not  to,  but  he  whipped  me  to  it;  asked  me 
what  his  father  could  do;  pointed  out  to  me 
contemptuously  that  he  could  prove  nothing; 
said  he  was  the  most  loathsome,  hateful  creature 
in  the  world,  and  that  it  was  my  duty  to  stop 
him,  and  that  if  I  did  not,  everyone  would  be 
laughing  at  me,  and  he  could  never  care  for  a 
coward.  All  his  family,  his  brother  and  his 
mother,  too,  begged  me  to  attack  Queensberry, 
all  promised  me  their  support  and  afterwards — 

:<You  know,  Frank,  in  the  Cafe  Royal  before 
the  trial  how  Bosie  spoke  to  you,  when  you 
warned  me  and  implored  me  to  drop  the  insane 
suit  and  go  abroad;  how  angry  he  got.  You 
were  not  a  friend  of  mine,  he  said.  You  know 
he  drove  me  to  ruin  in  order  to  revenge  himself 
on  his  father,  and  then  left  me  to  suffer. 

"And  that's  not  the  worst  of  it,  Frank:  I 
came  out  of  prison  determined  not  to  see  him 
any  more.  I  promised  my  poor  wife  I  would 
not  see  him  again.  I  had  forgiven  him;  but  I 
did  not  want  to  see  him.  I  had  suffered  too 
much  by  him  and  through  him,  far  too  much. 
And  then  he  wrote  and  wrote  of  his  love,  cry- 
ing it  to  me  every  hour,  begging  me  to  come, 


528          OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

telling  me  he  only  wanted  me,  in  order  to  be 
happy,  me  in  the  whole  world.  How  could  I 
help  believing  him,  how  could  I  keep  away 
from  him?  At  last  I  yielded  and  went  to  him, 
and  as  soon  as  the  difficulties  began  he  turned 
on  me  in  Naples  like  a  wild  beast,  blaming  me 
and  insulting  me. 

"  I  had  to  fly  to  Paris,  having  lost  everything 
through  him — wife  and  income  and  self-respect, 
everything;  but  I  always  thought  that  he  was 
at  least  generous  as  a  man  of  his  name  should 
be:  I  had  no  idea  he  could  be  stingy  and  mean; 
but  now  he  is  comparatively  rich,  he  prefers  to 
squander  his  money  on  jockeys  and  trainers  and 
horses,  of  which  he  knows  nothing,  instead  of 
lifting  me  out  of  my  misery.  Surely  it  is  not 
too  much  to  ask  him  to  give  me  a  tenth  when  I 
gave  him  all?  Won't  you  ask  him?" 

"I  think  he  ought  to  have  done  what  you 
want,  without  asking,"  I  admitted,  "but  I  am 
certain  my  speaking  would  not  do  any  good.  He 
shows  me  hatred  already  whenever  I  do  not 
agree  with  him.  Hate  is  nearer  to  him  always 
than  sympathy:  he  is  his  father's  son,  Oscar, 
and  I  can  do  nothing.  I  cannot  even  speak 
to  him  about  it." 

"Oh,  Frank,  you  ought  to,"  said  Oscar. 

"But  suppose  he  retorted  and  said  you  led 
him  astray,  what  could  I  answer?" 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND  HIS   CONFESSIONS          529 

"Led  him  astray!"  cried  Oscar,  starting  up, 
"  you  cannot  believe  that.  You  know  better  than 
that.  It  is  not  true.  It  is  he  who  always  led, 
always  dominated  me;  he  is  as  imperious  as  a 
Caesar.  It  was  he  who  began  our  intimacy: 
he  who  came  to  me  in  London  when  I  did  not 
want  to  see  him,  or  rather,  Frank,  I  wanted 
to  but  I  was  afraid;  at  the  very  beginning  I  was 
afraid  of  what  it  would  all  lead  to,  and  I  avoided 
him;  the  desperate  aristocratic  pride  in  him,  the 
dreadful  bold,  imperious  temper  in  him  terrified 
me.  But  he  came  to  London  and  sent  for  me 
to  come  to  him,  said  he  would  come  to  my 
house  if  I  didn't.  I  went,  thinking  I  could  reason 
with  him;  but  it  was  impossible.  When  I  told  him 
we  must  be  very  careful,  for  I  was  afraid  of 
what  might  happen,  he  made  fun  of  my  fears, 
and  encouraged  me.  He  knew  that  they'd  never 
dare  to  punish  him;  he's  allied  to  half  the  peer- 
age and  he  did  not  care  what  became  of  me.  .  .  . 

"He  led  me  first  to  the  street,  introduced  rne 
to  the  male  prostitution  in  London.  From  the 
beginning  to  the  end  he  has  driven  me  like  the 
CEstrum  of  which  the  Greeks  wrote,  which  drove 
the  ill-fated  to  disaster. 

"And  now  he  says  he  owes  me  nothing;  I 
have  no  claim,  I  who  gave  to  him  without  count- 
ing; he  says  he  needs  all  his  money  for  himself: 
he  wants  to  win  races  and  to  write  poetry, 


53O          OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS  CONFESSIONS 

Frank,  the  pretty  verses  which  he  thinks  poetry. 

"He  has  ruined  me,  soul  and  body,  and  now 
he  puts  himself  in  the  balance  against  me  and 
declares  he  outweighs  me.  Yes,  Frank,  he 
does;  he  told  me  the  other  day  I  was  not  a 
poet,  not  a  true  poet,  and  he  was,  Alfred  Douglas 
greater  than  Oscar  Wilde. 

"I  have  not  done  much  in  the  world,"  he 
went  on  hotly,  "I  know  it  better  than  anyone, 
not  a  quarter  of  what  I  should  have  done,  but 
there  are  some  things  I  have  done  which  the 
world  will  not  forget,  can  hardly  forget.  If  all 
the  tribe  of  Douglas  from  the  beginning  and  all 
their  achievements  were  added  together  and 
thrown  into  the  balance,  they  would  not  weigh 
as  dust  in  comparison.  Yet  he  reviled  me, 
Frank,  whipped  me,  shamed  me.  .  .  .  He  has 
broken  me,  he  has  broken  me,  the  man  I  loved; 
my  very  heart  is  a  cold  weight  in  me,"  .... 
and  he  got  up  and  moved  aside  with  the  tears 
pouring  down  his  cheeks. 

"Don't  take  it  so  much  to  heart,"  I  said  in 
a  minute  or  two,  going  after  him,  "the  loss  of 
affection  I  cannot  help,  but  a  hundred  or  so  a 
year  is  not  much;  I  will  see  that  you  get  that 
every  year." 

"Oh,  Frank,  it  is  not  the  money;  it  is  his 
denial,  his  insults,  his  hate  that  kills  me;  the 
fact  that  I  have  ruined  myself  for  someone  who 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          53! 

cares  nothing;  who  puts  a  little  money  before 
me;  it  is  as  if  I  were  choked  with  mud 

"Once  I  thought  myself  master  of  my  life; 
lord  of  my  fate,  who  could  do  what  I  pleased 
and  would  always  succeed.  I  was  as  a  crowned 
king  till  I  met  him,  and  now  I  am  an  exile  and 
outcast  and  despised. 

"  I  have  lost  my  way  in  life;  the  passers-by  all 
scorn  me  and  the  man  whom  I  loved  whips  me 
with  foul  insults  and  contempt.  There  is  no 
example  in  history  of  such  a  betrayal,  no  paral- 
lel. I  am  finished.  It  is  all  over  with  me  now 
— all!  I  hope  the  end  will  come  quickly,"  and  he 
moved  away  to  the  window,  his  tears  falling 
heavily. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

IN  a  day  or  two,  however,  the  clouds  lifted 
and  the  sun  shone  as  brilliantly  as  ever.  Oscar's 
spirits  could  not  be  depressed  for  long:  he  took 
a  child's  joy  in  living  and  in  every  incident  of 
life.  When  I  left  him  in  Paris  a  week  or  so 
later,  in  midsummer,  he  was  full  of  gaiety  and 
humour,  talking  as  delightfully  as  ever  with  a 
touch  of  cynicism  that  added  piquancy  to  his 
wit.  Shortly  after  I  arrived  in  London  he  wrote 
saying  he  was  ill,  and  that  I  really  ought  to 
send  him  some  money.  I  had  already  paid  him 
more  than  the  amount  we  had  agreed  upon  at 
first  for  his  scenario,  and  I  was  hard  up  and 
anything  but  well.  I  had  chronic  bronchitis 
which  prostrated  me  time  and  again  that 
autumn.  Having  heard  from  mutual  friends 
that  Oscar's  illness  did  not  hinder  him  from 
dining  out  and  enjoying  himself,  I  received  his 
plaints  and  requests  with  a  certain  impatience, 
and  replied  to  him  curtly.  His  illness  appeared 
to  me  to  be  merely  a  pretext.  When  my  play 
was  accepted  his  demands  became  as  insistent 
as  they  were  extravagant. 

Finally  I  went  back  to  Paris  in  September  to 
532 


OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS         533 

see  him,  persuaded  that  I  could  settle  everything 
amicably  in  five  minutes'  talk:  he  must  remem- 
ber our  agreement. 

I  found  him  well  in  health,  but  childishly  an- 
noyed that  my  play  was  going  to  be  produced 
and  resolved  to  get  all  the  money  he  could  from 
me  by  hook  or  by  crook.  I  never  met  such  per- 
sistence in  demands.  I  could  only  settle  with  him 
decently  by  paying  him  a  further  sum,  which  I  did. 

In  the  course  of  this  bargaining  and  begging 
I  realised  that  contrary  to  my  previous  opinion 
he  was  not  gifted  as  a  friend,  and  did  not  attrib- 
ute any  importance  to  friendship.  His  affection 
for  Bosie  Douglas  even  had  given  place  to  hatred: 
indeed  his  liking  for  him  had  never  been  founded 
on  understanding  or  admiration;  it  was  almost 
wholly  snobbish:  he  loved  the  title,  the  romantic 
name — Lord  Alfred  Douglas.  Robert  Ross  was 
the  only  friend  of  whom  he  always  spoke  with 
liking  and  appreciation:  "One  of  the  wittiest  of 
men,"  he  used  to  call  him  and  would  jest  at  his 
handwriting,  which  was  peculiarly  bad,  but  al- 
ways good-naturedly;  "a  letter  merely  shows 
that  Bobbie  has  something  to  conceal";  but  he 
would  add,  "how  kind  he  is,  how  good,"  as  if 
Ross's  devotion  surprised  him,  as  in  fact  it  did. 
Ross  has  since  told  me  that  Oscar  never  cared 
much  for  him.  Indeed  Oscar  cared  so  little  for 
anyone  that  an  unselfish  affection  astonished 


534         OSCAR   WILDE   AND    HIS    CONFESSIONS 

him  beyond  measure:  he  could  find  in  himself 
no  explanation  of  it.  His  vanity  was  always 
more  active  than  his  gratitude,  as  indeed  it  is 
with  most  of  us.  Now  and  then  when  Ross 
played  mentor  or  took  him  to  task,  he  became 
prickly  at  once  and  would  retort:  "Really, 
Bobbie,  you  ride  the  high  horse  so  well,  and  so 
willingly,  it  seems  a  pity  that  you  never  tried 
Pegasus" — not  a  sneer  exactly,  but  a  rap  on  the 
knuckles  to  call  his  monitor  to  order.  Like  most 
men  of  charming  manners,  Oscar  was  selfish  and 
self-centred,  too  convinced  of  his  own  impor- 
tance to  spend  much  thought  on  others;  yet 
generous  to  the  needy  and  kind  to  all. 

After  my  return  to  London  he  kept  on  begging 
for  money  by  almost  every  post.  As  soon  as  my 
play  was  advertised  I  found  myself  dunned  and 
persecuted  by  a  horde  of  people  who  declared 
that  Oscar  had  sold  them  the  scenario  he  after- 
wards sold  to  me.1  Several  of  them  threatened 
to  get  injunctions  to  prevent  me  staging  my  play, 
"Mr.  and  Mrs.  Daventry,"  if  I  did  not  first  set- 
tle with  them.  Naturally,  I  wrote  rather  sharply 
to  Oscar  for  having  led  me  into  this  hornets'  nest. 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  all  this  unpleasantness 
that  I  heard  from  Turner,  in  October,  I  believe, 
that  Oscar  was  seriously  ill,  and  that  if  I  owed 
him  money,  as  he  asserted,  it  would  be  a  kind- 

*See  Appendix:  p.  589  and  especially  p.  592. 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS       535 

ness  to  send  it,  as  he  was  in  great  need.  The 
letter  found  me  in  bed.  I  could  not  say  now 
whether  I  answered  it  or  not:  it  made  me  im- 
patient; his  friends  must  have  known  that  I 
owed  Oscar  nothing;  but  later  I  received  a 
telegram  from  Ross  saying  that  Oscar  was  not 
expected  to  live.  I  was  ill  and  unable  to  move,  or 
I  should  have  gone  at  once  to  Paris.  As  it  was  I 
sent  for  my  friend,  Bell,  gave  him  some  money 
and  a  cheque,  and  begged  him  to  go  across  and 
let  me  know  if  Oscar  were  really  in  danger,  which 
I  could  hardly  believe.  As  luck  would  have  it, 
the  next  afternoon,  when  I  hoped  Bell  had 
started,  his  wife  came  to  tell  me  that  he  had  had 
a  severe  asthmatic  attack,  but  would  cross  as 
soon  as  he  dared. 

I  was  too  hard  up  myself  to  wire  money  that 
might  not  be  needed,  and  Oscar  had  cried 
"wolf"  about  his  health  too  often  to  be  a  credi- 
ble witness.  Yet  I  was  dissatisfied  with  myself 
and  anxious  for  Bell  to  start. 

Day  after  day  passed  in  troubled  doubts  and 
fears;  but  it  was  not  long  when  a  period  was 
put  to  all  my  anxiety.  A  telegram  came  telling 
me  he  was  dead.  I  could  hardly  believe  my 
eyes :  it  seemed  incredible — the  fount  of  joy  and 
gaiety;  the  delightful  source  of  intellectual  vi- 
vacity and  interest  stilled  forever.  The  world 
went  greyer  to  me  because  of  Oscar  Wilde's  death. 


536 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS    CONFESSIONS 


Months  afterwards  Robert  Ross  gave  me  the 
particulars  of  his  last  illness. 

Ross  went  to  Paris  in  October:  as  soon  as  he 
saw  Oscar,  he  was  shocked  by  the  change  in  his 
appearance:  he  insisted  on  taking  him  to  a  doc- 
tor; but  to  his  surprise  the  doctor  saw  no  ground 
for  immediate  alarm :  if  Oscar  would  only  stop 
drinking  wine  and  a  fortiori  spirits,  he  might  live 
for  years:  absinthe  was  absolutely  forbidden. 
But  Oscar  paid  no  heed  to  the  warning  and  Ross 
could  only  take  him  for  drives  whenever  the 
weather  permitted  and  seek  to  amuse  him  harm- 
lessly. 

The  will  to  live  had  almost  left  Oscar:  so  long 
as  he  could  live  pleasantly  and  without  effort  he 
was  content;  but  as  soon  as  ill-health  came,  or 
pain,  or  even  discomfort,  he  grew  impatient  for 
deliverance. 

But  to  the  last  he  kept  his  joyous  humour  and 
charming  gaiety.  His  disease  brought  with  it  a 
certain  irritation  of  the  skin,  annoying  rather 
than  painful.  Meeting  Ross  one  morning  after 
a  day's  separation  he  apologised  for  scratching 
himself: 

"Really,"  he  exclaimed,  "Pm  more  like  a  great 
ape  than  ever;  but  I  hope  you'll  give  me  a  lunch, 
Bobbie,  and  not  a  nut." 

On  one  of  the  last  drives  with  this  friend  he 
asked  for  champagne  and  when  it  was  brought 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND  HIS  CONFESSIONS          537 

declared  that  he  was  dying  as  he  had  lived, 
"beyond  his  means" — his  happy  humour  light- 
ing up  even  his  last  hours. 

Early  in  November  Ross  left  Paris  to  go  down 
to  the  Riviera  with  his  mother :  for  Reggie  Turner 
had  undertaken  to  stay  with  Oscar.  Reggie 
Turner  describes  how  he  grew  gradually  feebler 
and  feebler,  though  to  the  end  flashes  of  the  old 
humour  would  astonish  his  attendants.  He  per- 
sisted in  saying  that  Reggie,  with  his  perpetual 
prohibitions,  was  qualifying  for  a  doctor.  "When 
you  can  refuse  bread  to  the  hungry,  Reggie," 
he  would  say,  "and  drink  to  the  thirsty,  you 
can  apply  for  your  diploma." 

Towards  the  end  of  November  Reggie  wired 
for  Ross  and  Ross  left  everything  and  reached 
Paris  next  day. 

When  all  was  over  he  wrote  to  a  friend  giving 
him  a  very  complete  account  of  the  last  hours  of 
Oscar  Wilde;  that  account  he  generously  allows 
me  to  reproduce  and  it  will  be  found  word  for 
word  in  the  Appendix;  it  is  too  long  and  too 
detailed  to  be  used  here. ' 

Ross's  letter  should  be  read  by  the  student; 
but  several  touches  in  it  are  too  timid;  certain 
experiences  that  should  be  put  in  high  relief  are 
slurred  over:  in  conversation  with  me  he  told 
more  and  told  it  better. 

For  example,  when  talking  of  his  drives  with 


53 #         OSCAR  WILDE  AND  HIS   CONFESSIONS 

Oscar,  he  mentions  casually  that  Oscar  "  insisted 
on  drinking  absinthe,"  and  leaves  it  at  that. 
The  truth  is  that  Oscar  stopped  the  victoria  at 
almost  the  first  cafe,  got  down  and  had  an 
absinthe.  Two  or  three  hundred  yards  further 
on,  he  stopped  the  carriage  again  to  have  another 
absinthe:  at  the  next  stoppage  a  few  minutes 
later  Ross  ventured  to  remonstrate: 

;<  You'll  kill  yourself,  Oscar,"  he  cried,  "you 
know  the  doctors  said  absinthe  was  poison  to  you !" 

Oscar  stopped  on  the  sidewalk: 

"And  what  have  I  to  live  for,  Bobbie?"  he 
asked  gravely.  And  Ross  looking  at  him  and 
noting  the  wreck — the  symptoms  of  old  age 
and  broken  health — could  only  bow  his  head 
and  walk  on  with  him  in  silence.  What  indeed 
had  he  to  live  for  who  had  abandoned  all  the 
fair  uses  of  life? 

The  second  scene  is  horrible:  but  is,  so  to 
speak,  the  inevitable  resultant  of  the  first,  and 
has  its  own  awful  moral.  Ross  tells  how  he 
came  one  morning  to  Oscar's  death-bed  and  f. 

found  him  practically  insensible:  he  describes 
the  dreadful  loud  death-rattle  of  his  breath,  and 
says:  "terrible  offices  had  to  be  carried  out." 

The  truth  is  still  more  appalling.  Oscar  had 
eaten  too  much  and  drunk  too  much  almost  hab- 
itually ever  since  the  catastrophe  in  Naples.  The 
dreadful  disease  from  which  he  was  suffering,  or 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND    HIS    CONFESSIONS         539 

from  the  after  effects  of  which  he  was  suffering, 
weakens  all  the  tissues  of  the  body,  and  this 
weakness  is  aggravated  by  drinking  wine  and 
still  more  by  drinking  spirits.  Suddenly,  as  the 
two  friends  sat  by  the  bedside  in  sorrowful  anx- 
iety, there  was  a  loud  explosion:  mucus  poured 
out  of  Oscar's  mouth  and  nose,  and — 

Even  the  bedding  had  to  be  burned. 

If  it  is  true  that  all  those  who  draw  the  sword 
shall  perish  by  the  sword,  it  is  no  less  certain 
that  all  those  who  live  for  the  body  shall  perish 
by  the  body,  and  there  is  no  death  more  de- 
grading. 

•  •••••• 

One  more  scene,  and  this  the  last,  and  I  shall 
have  done. 

When  Robert  Ross  was  arranging  to  bury 
Oscar  at  Bagneux  he  had  already  made  up  his 
mind  as  soon  as  he  could  to  transfer  his  body 
to  Pere  Lachaise  and  erect  over  his  remains 
some  worthy  memorial.  It  became  the  purpose 
of  his  life  to  pay  his  friend's  debts,  annul  his 
bankruptcy,  and  publish  his  books  in  suitable 
manner;  in  fine  to  clear  Oscar's  memory  from 
obloquy  while  leaving  to  his  lovable  spirit  the 
shining  raiment  of  immortality.  In  a  few  years 
he  had  accomplished  all  but  one  part  of  his  high 
task.  He  had  not  only  paid  off  all  Oscar  Wilde's 


54-O         OSCAR  WILDE  AND  HIS   CONFESSIONS 

debts;  but  he  had  managed  to  remit  thousands  of 
pounds  yearly  to  his  children,  and  had  estab- 
lished his  popularity  on  the  widest  and  surest 
foundation. 

He  crossed  to  Paris  with  Oscar's  son,  Vyvyan, 
to  render  the  last  service  to  his  friend.  When 
preparing  the  body  for  the  grave  years  before 
Ross  had  taken  medical  advice  as  to  what  should 
be  done  to  make  his  purpose  possible.  The  doc- 
tors told  him  to  put  Wilde's  body  in  quicklime, 
like  the  body  of  the  man  in  "The  Ballad  of 
Reading  Gaol."  The  quicklime,  they  said, 
would  consume  the  flesh  and  leave  the  white 
bones — the  skeleton — intact,  which  could  then 
be  moved  easily. 

To  his  horror,  when  the  grave  was  opened, 
Ross  found  that  the  quicklime,  instead  of  de- 
stroying the  flesh,  had  preserved  it.  Oscar's  face 
was  recognisable,  only  his  hair  and  beard  had 
grown  long.  At  once  Ross  sent  the  son  away, 
and  when  the  sextons  were  about  to  use  their 
shovels,  he  ordered  them  to  desist,  and  descend- 
ing into  the  grave,  moved  the  body  with  his  own 
hands  into  the  new  coffin  in  loving  reverence. 

Those  who  hold  our  mortal  vesture  in  respect 
for  the  sake  of  the  spirit  will  know  how  to  thank 
Robert  Ross  for  the  supreme  devotion  he  showed 
to  his  friend's  remains:  in  his  case  at  least  love 
was  stronger  than  death. 


OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS          54! 

One  can  be  sure,  too,  that  the  man  who  won 
such  fervid  self-denying  tenderness,  had  de- 
served it,  called  it  forth  by  charm  of  companion- 
ship, or  magic  of  loving  intercourse. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

IT  was  the  inhumanity  of  the  prison  doctor 
and  the  English  prison  system  that  killed  Oscar 
Wilde.  The  sore  place  in  his  ear  caused  by  the 
fall  when  he  fainted  that  Sunday  morning  in 
Wandsworth  Prison  chapel  formed  into  an  ab- 
scess and  was  the  final  cause  of  his  death.  The 
"operation"  Ross  speaks  of  in  his  letter  was  the 
excision  of  this  tumour.  The  imprisonment  and 
starvation,  and  above  all  the  cruelty  of  his 
gaolers,  had  done  their  work. 

The  local  malady  was  inflamed,  as  I  have  al- 
ready said,  by  a  more  general  and  more  terrible 
disease..  The  doctors  attributed  the  red  flush 
Oscar  complained  of  on  his  chest  and  back, 
which  he  declared  was  due  to  eating  mussels,  to 
another  and  graver  cause.  They  warned  him 
at  once  to  stop  drinking  and  smoking  and  to 
live  with  the  greatest  abstemiousness,  for  they 
recognised  in  him  the  tertiary  symptoms  of  that 
dreadful  disease  which  the  brainless  prudery  in 
England  allows  to  decimate  the  flower  of  English 
manhood  unchecked. 

Oscar  took  no  heed  of  their  advice.  He  had 
little  to  live  for.  The  pleasures  of  eating  and 

542 


OSCAR   WILDE   AND    HIS    CONFESSIONS          543 

drinking  in  good  company  were  almost  the  only 
pleasures  left  to  him.  Why  should  he  deny  him- 
self the  immediate  enjoyment  for  a  very  vague 
and  questionable  future  benefit? 

He  never  believed  in  any  form  of  asceticism 
or  self-denial,  and  towards  the  end,  feeling  that 
life  had  nothing  more  to  offer  him,  the  pagan 
spirit  in  him  refused  to  prolong  an  existence  that 
was  no  longer  joyous.  "I  have  lived,"  he  would 
have  said  with  profound  truth. 

Much  has  been  made  of  the  fact  that  Oscar 
was  buried  in  an  out-of-the-way  cemetery  at 
Bagneux  under  depressing  circumstances.  It 
rained  the  day  of  the  funeral,  it  appears,  and  a 
cold  wind  blew:  the  way  was  muddy  and  long, 
and  only  a  half-a-dozen  friends  accompanied  the 
coffin  to  its  resting-place.  But  after  all,  such 
accidents,  depressing  as  they  are  at  the  moment, 
are  unimportant.  The  dead  clay  knows  nothing 
of  our  feelings,  and  whether  it  is  borne  to  the 
grave  in  pompous  procession  and  laid  to  rest  in 
a  great  abbey  amid  the  mourning  of  a  nation  or 
tossed  as  dust  to  the  wind,  is  a  matter  of  utter 
indifference. 

Heine's  verse  holds  the  supreme  consolation: 

Immerhin  mich  wird  umgeben 
Gotteshimmel  dort  wie  hier 
Und  wie  Todtenlampen  schweben 
Nachts  die  Sterne  ueber  mir. 


544         OSCAR  WILDE  AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS 

Oscar  Wilde's  work  was  over,  his  gift  to  the 
world  completed  years  before.  Even  the  friends 
who  loved  him  and  delighted  in  the  charm  of  his 
talk,  in  his  light-hearted  gaiety  and  humour, 
would  scarcely  have  kept  him  longer  in  the 
pillory,  exposed  to  the  loathing  and  contempt 
of  this  all-hating  world. 

The  good  he  did  lives  after  him,  and  is  im- 
mortal, the  evil  is  buried  in  his  grave.  Who 
would  deny  to-day  that  he  was  a  quickening 
and  liberating  influence?  If  his  life  was  given 
overmuch  to  self-indulgence,  it  must  be  remem- 
bered that  his  writings  and  conversation  were 
singularly  kindly,  singularly  amiable,  singularly 
pure.  No  harsh  or  coarse  or  bitter  word  ever 
passed  those  eloquent  laughing  lips.  If  he 
served  beauty  in  her  myriad  forms,  he  only 
showed  in  his  works  the  beauty  that  was  amiable 
and  of  good  report.  If  only  half-a-dozen  men 
mourned  for  him,  their  sorrow  was  unaffected 
and  intense,  and  perhaps  the  greatest  of  men 
have  not  found  in  their  lifetime  even  half-a- 
dozen  devoted  admirers  and  lovers.  It  is  well 
with  our  friend,  we  say:  at  any  rate,  he  was  not 
forced  to  drink  the  bitter  lees  of  a  suffering  and 
dishonourable  old  age:  Death  was  merciful  to 
him. 

My  task  is  finished.    I  don't  think  anyone  will 


OSCAR  WILDE   AND   HIS   CONFESSIONS         545 

doubt  that  I  have  done  it  in  a  reverent  spirit, 
telling  the  truth  as  I  see  it,  from  the  beginning 
to  the  end,  and  hiding  or  omitting  as  little  as 
might  be  of  what  ought  to  be  told..  Yet  when  I 
come  to  the  parting  I  am  painfully  conscious 
that  I  have  not  done  Oscar  Wilde  justice;  that 
some  fault  or  other  in  me  has  led  me  to  dwell 
too  much  on  his  faults  and  failings  and  grudged 
praise  to  his  soul-subduing  charm  and  the 
incomparable  sweetness  and  gaiety  of  his  na- 
ture. 

Let  me  now  make  amends.  When  to  the  ses- 
sions of  sad  memory  I  summon  up  the  spirits 
of  those  whom  I  have  met  in  the  world  and 
loved,  men  famous  and  men  of  unfulfilled  re- 
nown, I  miss  no  one  so  much  as  I  miss  Oscar 
Wilde.  I  would  rather  spend  an  evening  with 
him  than  with  Renan  or  Carlyle,  or  Verlaine  or 
Dick  Burton  or  Davidson.  I  would  rather 
have  him  back  now  than  almost  anyone  I  have 
ever  met.  I  have  known  more  heroic  souls  and 
some  deeper  souls;  souls  much  more  keenly 
alive  to  ideas  of  duty  and  generosity;  but  I  have 
known  no  more  charming,  no  more  quickening, 
no  more  delightful  spirit. 

This  may  be  my  shortcoming;  it  may  be  that 
I  prize  humour  and  good-humour  and  eloquent 
or  poetic  speech,  the  artist  qualities,  more  than 


54-6        OSCAR   WILDE   AND    HIS    CONFESSIONS 

goodness  or  loyalty  or  manliness,  and  so  over- 
estimate things  amiable.  But  the  lovable  and 
joyous  "things  are  to  me  the  priceless  things,  and 
the  most  charming  man  I  have  ever  met  was  as- 
suredly Oscar  Wilde.  I  do  not  believe  that  in 
all  the  realms  of  death  there  is  a  more  fascinat- 
ing or  delightful  companion. 

One  last  word  on  Oscar  Wilde's  place  in  Eng- 
lish literature.  In  the  course  of  this  narrative 
I  have  indicated  sufficiently,  I  think,  the  value 
and  importance  of  his  work;  he  will  live  with 
Congreve  and  with  Sheridan  as  the  wittiest 
and  most  humorous  of  all  our  playwrights. 
"The  Importance  of  Being  Earnest"  has  its 
own  place  among  the  best  of  English  comedies. 
But  Oscar  Wilde  has  done  better  work  than 
Congreve  or  Sheridan:  he  is  a  master  not  only 
of  the  smiles,  but  of  the  tears  of  men.  "The 
Ballad  of  Reading  Gaol"  is  the  best  ballad  in 
English;  it  is  more,  it  is  the  noblest  utterance 
that  has  yet  reached  us  from  a  modern  prison,  the 
only  high  utterance  indeed  that  has  ever  come 
from  that  underworld  of  man's  hatred  and  man's 
inhumanity.  In  it,  and  by  the  spirit  of  Jesus 
which  breathes  through  it,  Oscar  Wilde  has  done 
much,  not  only  to  reform  English  prisons,  but  to 
abolish  them  altogether,  for  they  are  as  degrad- 
ing to  the  intelligence  as  they  are  harmful  to  the 
soul.  What  gaoler  and  what  gaol  could  do  any- 


OSCAR   WILDE   AND    HIS    CONFESSIONS          547 

thing  but  evil  to  the  author  of  such  a  verse  as 
this: 

This  too  I  know — and  wise  it  were 

If  each  could  know  the  same — 
That  every  prison  that  men  build 

Is  built  with  bricks  of  shame, 
And  bound  with  bars,  lest  Christ  should  see 

How  men  their  brothers  maim. 

Indeed,  is  it  not  clear  that  the  man  who,  in 
his  own  wretchedness,  wrote  that  letter  to  the 
warder  which  I  have  reproduced,  and  was  eager 
to  bring  about  the  freeing  of  the  little  children 
at  his  own  cost,  is  far  above  the  judge  who  con- 
demned him  or  the  society  which  sanctions  such 
punishments?  "The  Ballad  of  Reading  Gaol," 
I  repeat,  and  some  pages  of  "De  Profundis," 
and,  above  all,  the  tragic  fate  of  which  these 
were  the  outcome,  render  Oscar  Wilde  more  in- 
teresting to  men  than  any  of  his  peers. 

He  has  been  indeed  well  served  by  the  malice 
and  cruelty  of  his  enemies ;  in  this  sense  his  word 
in  "De  Profundis"  that  he  stood  in  symbolic  re- 
lation to  the  art  and  life  of  his  time  is  justified. 

The  English  drove  Byron  and  Shelley  and 
Keats  into  exile  and  allowed  Chatterton,  David- 
son and  Middleton  to  die  of  misery  and  destitu- 
tion; but  they  treated  none  of  their  artists  and 
seers  with  the  malevolent  cruelty  they  showed  to 
Oscar  Wilde.  His  fate  in  England  is  symbolic 


54$        OSCAR   WILDE   AND    HIS    CONFESSIONS 

of  the  fate  of  all  artists;  in  some  degree  they 
will  all  be  punished  as  he  was  punished  by  a 
grossly  materialised  people  who  prefer  to  go  in 
blinkers  and  accept  idiotic  conventions  because 
they  distrust  the  intellect  and  have  no  taste  for 
mental  virtues. 

All  English  artists  will  be  judged  by  their 
inferiors  and  condemned,  as  Dante's  master 
was  condemned,  for  their  good  deeds  (per  tuo 
ben  far) :  for  it  must  not  be  thought  that  Oscar 
Wilde  was  punished  solely  or  even  chiefly  for  the 
evil  he  wrought:  he  was  punished  for  his  popu- 
larity and  his  preeminence,  for  the  superiority  of 
his  mind  and  wit;  he  was  punished  by  the  envy 
of  journalists,  and  by  the  malignant  pedantry  of 
half-civilised  judges.  Envy  in  his  case  over- 
leaped itself:  the  hate  of  his  justicers  was  so 
diabolic  that  they  have  given  him  to  the  pity  of 
mankind  forever;  they  it  is  who  have  made  him 
eternally  interesting  to  humanity,  a  tragic  figure 
of  imperishable  renown. 


THE  END. 


MEMORIES  OF  OSCAR  WILDE 
BY  G.  BERNARD  SHAW 


v 


Copyright,  1918, 
BY  BERNARD  SHAW 


INTRODUCTION 

George  Bernard  Shaw  ordered  a  special  copy 
of  this  book  of  mine:  "Oscar  Wilde:  His  Life 
and  Confessions,"  as  soon  as  it  was  announced. 
I  sent  it  to  him  and  asked  him  to  write  me  his 
opinion  of  the  book. 

In  due  course  I  received  the  following  MSS. 
from  him  in  which  he  tells  me  what  he  thinks  of 

my  work: — "the  best  life  of  Wilde, 

Wilde's  memory  will  have  to  stand  or  fall  by  it" ; 
and  then  goes  on  to  relate  all  his  own  meetings 
with  Wilde,  the  impressions  they  made  upon 
him  and  his  judgment  of  Wilde  as  a  writer  and 
as  a  man. 

He  has  given  himself  this  labor,  he  says,  in 
order  that  I  may  publish  his  views  in  the 
Appendix  to  my  book  if  I  think  fit — an  ex- 
ample, not  only  of  Shaw's  sympathy  and  gen- 
erosity, but  of  his  light  way  of  treating  his  own 
kindness. 

I  am  delighted  to  be  able  to  put  Shaw's  con- 
sidered judgment  of  Wilde  beside  my  own  for 
the  benefit  of  my  readers.  For  if  there  had 

3 


4  INTRODUCTION 

been  anything  I  had  misseen  or  misjudged  in 
Wilde,  or  any  prominent  trait  of  his  character  I 
had  failed  to  note,  the  sin,  whether  of  omission  or 
commission,  could  scarcely  have  escaped  this  other 
pair  of  keen  eyes.  Now  indeed  this  biography 
of  Wilde  may  be  regarded  as  definitive. 

Shaw  says  his  judgment  of  Wilde  is  severer 
than  mine — "far  sterner,"  are  his  words;  but  I 
am  not  sure  that  this  is  an  exact  estimate. 

While  Shaw  accentuates  Wilde's  snobbish- 
ness, he  discounts  his  "Irish  charm,"  and  though 
he  praises  highly  his  gifts  as  dramatist  and 
story-teller  he  lays  little  stress  on  his  genuine 
kindness  of  nature  and  the  courteous  smiling 
ways  which  made  him  so  incomparable  a  com- 
panion and  intimate. 

On  the  other  hand  he  excuses  Wilde's  perver- 
sion as  pathological,  as  hereditary  "giantism," 
and  so  lightens  the  darkest  shadows  just  as  he 
has  toned  down  the  lights. 

I  never  saw  anything  abnormal  in  OscarWilde 
either  in  body  or  soul  save  an  extravagant  sensu- 
ality and  an  absolute  adoration  of  beauty  and 
comeliness ;  and  so,  with  his  own  confessions  and 
practises  before  me,  I  had  to  block  him  in,  to 
use  painters'  jargon,  with  black  shadows,  and 
was  delighted  to  find  high  lights  to  balance  them 
— lights  of  courtesies,  graces  and  unselfish  kind- 
ness of  heart. 


INTRODUCTION 


On  the  whole  I  think  our  two  pictures  are 
very  much  alike  and  I  am  sure  a  good  many 
readers  will  be  almost  as  grateful  to  Shaw  for 
his  collaboration  and  corroboration  as  I  am. 


POSTSCRIPT 

Since  writing  this  foreword  I  have  received 
the  proof  of  his  contribution  which  I  had  sent 
to  Shaw.  He  has  made  some  slight  corrections 
in  the  text  which,  of  course,  have  been  carried 
out,  and  some  comments  besides  on  my  notes  as 
Editor.  These,  too,  I  have  naturally  wished  to 
use  and  so,  to  avoid  confusion,  have  inserted 
them  in  italics  and  with  his  initials.  I  hope  the 
sequence  will  be  clear  to  the  reader. 


MY   MEMORIES   OF   OSCAR    WILDE 
BY  BERNARD  SHAW 

MY  DEAR  HARRIS: — 

"I  have  an  interesting  letter  of  yours  to 
answer;  but  when  you  ask  me  to  exchange 
biographies,  you  take  an  unfair  advantage  of 
the  changes  of  scene  and  bustling  movement  of 
your  own  adventures.  My  autobiography 
would  be  like  my  best  plays,  fearfully  long,  and 
not  divided  into  acts.  Just  consider  this  life 
of  Wilde  which  you  have  just  sent  me,  and 
which  I  finished  ten  minutes  age  after  putting 
aside  everything  else  to  read  it  at  one  stroke. 

"Why  was  Wilde  so  good  a  subject  for  a 
biography  that  none  of  the  previous  attempts 
which  you  have  just  wiped  out  are  bad?  Just 
because  his  stupendous  laziness  simplified  his 
life  almost  as  if  he  knew  instinctively  that  there 
must  be  no  episodes  to  spoil  the  great  situation 
at  the  end  of  the  last  act  but  one.  It  was  a  well 
made  life  in  the  Scribe  sense.  It  was  as  simple 
as  the  life  of  Des  Grieux,  Manon  Lescaut's  lover; 
and  it  beat  that  by  omitting  Manon  and  mak- 
ing Des  Grieux  his  own  lover  and  his  own  hero. 

"Des  Grieux  was  a  worthless  rascal  by  all 
conventional  standards;  and  we  forgive  him 

7 


8  MEMORIES    OF    OSCAR   WILDE 

everything.  We  think  we  forgive  him  because 
he  was  unselfish  and  loved  greatly.  Oscar 
seems  to  have  said:  'I  will  love  nobody:  I  will 
be  utterly  selfish;  and  I  will  be  not  merely  a 
rascal  but  a  monster;  and  you  shall  forgive  me 
everything.  In  other  words,  I  will  reduce 
your  standards  to  absurdity,  not  by  writing 
them  down,  though  I  could  do  that  so  well 
—in  fact,  have  done  it — but  by  actually  liv- 
ing them  down  and  dying  them  down.' 

"However,  I  mustn't  start  writing  a  book  to 
you  about  Wilde:  I  must  just  tumble  a  few 
things  together  and  tell  you  them.  To  take 
things  in  the  order  of  your  book,  I  can  remember 
only  one  occasion  on  which  I  saw  Sir  William 
Wilde,  who,  by  the  way,  operated  on  my  father 
to  correct  a  squint,  and  overdid  the  correction 
so  much  that  my  father  squinted  the  other 
way  all  the  rest  of  his  life.  To  this  day  I  never 
notice  a  squint:  it  is  as  normal  to  me  as  a  nose 
or  a  tall  hat. 

"I  was  a  boy  at  a  concert  in  the  Antient  Con- 
cert Rooms  in  Brunswick  Street  in  Dublin. 
Everybody  was  in  evening  dress;  and — unless  I 
am  mixing  up  this  concert  with  another  (in 
which  case  I  doubt  if  the  Wildes  would  have 
been  present) — the  Lord  Lieutenant  was  there 
with  his  blue  waistcoated  courtiers.  Wilde  was 
dressed  in  snuffy  brown;  and  as  he  had  the  sort 


MEMORIES    OF    OSCAR   WILDE  9 

of  skin  that  never  looks  clean,  he  produced  a 
dramatic  effect  beside  Lady  Wilde  (in  full  fig) 
of  being,  like  Frederick  the  Great,  Beyond  Soap 
and  Water,  as  his  Nietzschean  son  was  beyond 
Good  and  Evil.  He  was  currently  reported 
to  have  a  family  in  every  farmhouse;  and  the 
wonder  was  that  Lady  Wilde  didn't  mind — 
evidently  a  tradition  from  the  Travers  case, 
which  I  did  not  know  about  until  I  read  your 
account,  as  I  was  only  eight  in  1864. 

"Lady  Wilde  was  nice  to -me  in  London  dur- 
ing the  desperate  days  between  my  arrival  in 
1876  and  my  first  earning  of  an  income  by  my 
pen  in  1885,  or  rather  until,  a  few  years  earlier, 
I  threw  myself  into  Socialism  and  cut  myself 
contemptuously  loose  from  everything  of  which 
her  at-homes  —  themselves  desperate  affairs 
enough,  as  you  saw  for  yourself — were  part.  I 
was  at  two  or  three  of  them;  and  I  once  dined 
with  her  in  company  with  an  ex-tragedy  queen 
named  Miss  Glynn,  who,  having  no  visible  ex- 
ternal ears,  reared  a  head  like  a  turnip.  Lady 
Wilde  talked  about  Schopenhauer;  and  Miss 
Glynn  told  me  that  Gladstone  formed  his  ora- 
torical style  on  Charles  Kean. 

"I  ask  myself  where  and  how  I  came  across 
Lady  Wilde ;  for  we  had  no  social  relations  in  the 
Dublin  days.  The  explanation  must  be  that  my 
sister,  then  a  very  attractive  girl  who  sang  beau- 


10  MEMORIES    OF    OSCAR   WILDE 

tifully,  had  met  and  made  some  sort  of  innocent 
conquest  of  both  Oscar  and  Willie.  I  met 
Oscar  once  at  one  of  the  at-homes;  and  he 
came  and  spoke  to  me  with  an  evident  intention 
of  being  specially  kind  to  me.  We  put  each 
other  out  frightfully;  and  this  odd  difficulty 
persisted  between  us  to  the  very  last,  even  when 
we  were  no  longer  mere  boyish  novices  and  had 
become  men  of  the  world  with  plenty  of  skill  in 
social  intercourse.  I  saw  him  very  seldom,  as 
I  avoided  literary  and  artistic  society  like  the 
plague,  and  refused  the  few  invitations  I  re- 
ceived to  go  into  society  with  burlesque  ferocity, 
so  as  to  keep  out  of  it  without  offending  people 
past  their  willingness  to  indulge  me  as  a  priv- 
ileged lunatic. 

"The  last  time  I  saw  him  was  at  that  tragic 
luncheon  of  yours  at  the  Cafe  Royal;  and  I  am 
quite  sure  our  total  of  meetings  from  first  to 
last  did  not  exceed  twelve,  and  may  not  have 
exceeded  six. 

"I  definitely  recollect  six:  (i)  At  the  at-home 
aforesaid.  (2)  At  Macmurdo's  house  in  Fitzroy 
Street  in  the  days  of  the  Century  Guild  and  its 
paper  '  The  Hobby  Horse*  (3)  At  a  meet- 
ing somewhere  in  Westminster  at  which  I 
delivered  an  address  on  Socialism,  and  at 
which  Oscar  turned  up  and  spoke.  Robert 
Ross  surprised  me  greatly  by  telling  me,  long 


MEMORIES    OF    OSCAR   WILDE  II 

after  Oscar's  death,  that  it  was  this  address  of 
mine  that  moved  Oscar  to  try  his  hand  at  a 
similar  feat  by  writing  'The  Soul  of  Man 
Under  Socialism.'  (4)  A  chance  meeting  near 
the  stage  door  of  the  Haymarket  Theatre,  at 
which  our  queer  shyness  of  one  another  made 
our  resolutely  cordial  and  appreciative  conver- 
sation so  difficult  that  our  final  laugh  and  shake- 
hands  was  almost  a  reciprocal  confession.  (5)  A 
really  pleasant  afternoon  we  spent  together  on 
catching  one  another  in  a  place  where  our  pi^» 
ence  was  an  absurdity.  It  was  some  exhibition 
in  Chelsea:  a  naval  commemoration,  where  there 
was  a  replica  of  Nelson's  Victory  and  a  set  of 
P.  &  O.  cabins  which  made  one  seasick  by  mere 
association  of  ideas.  I  don't  know  why  I  went 
or  why  Wilde  went;  but  we  did;  and  the  ques- 
tion what  the  devil  we  were  doing  in  that 
galley  tickled  us  both.  It  was  my  sole  experi- 
ence of  Oscar's  wonderful  gift  as  a  raconteur. 
I  remember  particularly  an  amazingly  elaborate 
story  which  you  have  no  doubt  heard  from  him: 
an  example  of  the  cumulation  of  a  single  effect, 
as  in  Mark  Twain's  story  of  the  man  who  was 
persuaded  to  put  lightning  conductor  after 
lightning  conductor  at  every  possible  point  on 
his  roof  until  a  thunderstorm  came  and  all  the 
lightning  in  the  heavens  went  for  his  house  and 
wiped  it  out. 


12  MEMORIES    OF    OSCAR   WILDE 

"Oscar's  much  more  carefully  and  elegantly 
worked  out  story  was  of  a  young  man  who 
invented  a  theatre  stall  which  economized  space 
by  ingenious  contrivances  which  were  all  de- 
scribed. A  friend  of  his  invited  twenty  million- 
aires to  meet  him  at  dinner  so  that  he  might 
interest  them  in  the  invention.  The  young 
man  convinced  them  completely  by  his  demon- 
stration of  the  saving  in  a  theatre  holding,  in 
ordinary  seats,  six  hundred  people,  leaving  them 
eager  and  ready  to  make  his  fortune.  Un- 
fortunately he  went  on  to  calculate  the  annual 
saving  in  all  the  theatres  of  the  world;  then  in  all 
the  churches  of  the  world;  then  in  all  the  legis- 
latures; estimating  finally  the  incidental  and 
moral  and  religious  effects  of  the  invention  until 
at  the  end  of  an  hour  he  had  estimated  a  profit 
of  several  thousand  millions:  the  climax  of 
course  being  that  the  millionaires  folded  their 
tents  and  silently  stole  away,  leaving  the  ruined 
inventor  a  marked  man  for  life. 

"Wilde  and  I  got  on  extraordinarily  well  on 
this  occasion.  I  had  not  to  talk  myself,  but  to 
listen  to  a  man  telling  me  stories  better  than  I 
could  have  told  them.  We  did  not  refer  to 
Art,  about  which,  excluding  literature  from  the 
definition,  he  knew  only  what  could  be  picked 
up  by  reading  about  it.  He  was  in  a  tweed  suit 
and  low  hat  like  myself,  and  had  been  detected 


MEMORIES    OF    OSCAR   WILDE  13 

and  had  detected  me  in  the  act  of  clandestinely 
spending  a  happy  day  at  Rosherville  Gar- 
dens instead  of  pontificating  in  his  frock  coat 
and  so  forth.  And  he  had  an  audience  on 
whom  not  one  of  his  subtlest  effects  was  lost. 
And  so  for  once  our  meeting  was  a  success ;  and 
I  understood  why  Morris,  when  he  was  dying 
slowly,  enjoyed  a  visit  from  Wilde  more  than 
from  anybody  else,  as  I  understand  why  you 
say  in  your  book  that  you  would  rather  have 
Wilde  back  than  any  friend  you  have  ever 
talked  to,  even  though  he  was  incapable  of 
friendship,  though  not  of  the  most  touching 
kindness1  on  occasion. 

"Our  sixth  meeting,  the  only  other  one  I  can 
remember,  was  the  one  at  the  Cafe  Royal.  On 
that  occasion  he  was  not  too  preoccupied  with 
his  danger  to  be  disgusted  with  me  because  I, 
who  had  praised  his  first  plays  handsomely,  had 
turned  traitor  over  'The  Importance  of  Being 
Earnest.'  Clever  as  it  was,  it  was  his  first 
really  heartless  play.  In  the  others  the  chivalry 
of  the  eighteenth  century  Irishman  and  the 
romance  of  the  disciple  of  Theophile  Gau- 
tier  (Oscar  was  really  old=fashioned  in  the  Irish 
way,  except  as  a  critic  of  morals)  not  only  gave 
a  certain  kindness  and  gallantry  to  the  serious 
passages  and  to  the  handling  of  the  women,  but 

1  Excellent  analysis.  [Ed.] 


14  MEMORIES    OF    OSCAR   WILDE 

provided  that  proximity  of  emotion  without 
which  laughter,  however  irresistible,  is  destruc- 
tive and  sinister.  In  'The  Importance  of 
Being  Earnest*  this  had  vanished;  and  the  play, 
though  extremely  funny,  was  essentially  hateful. 
I  had  no  idea  that  Oscar  was  going  to  the  dogs, 
and  that  this  represented  a  real  degeneracy  pro- 
duced by  his  debaucheries.  I  thought  he  was 
still  developing;  and  I  hazarded  the  unhappy 
guess  that  'The  Importance  of  Being  Earnest' 
was  in  idea  a  young  work  written  or  projected 
long  before  under  the  influence  of  Gilbert  and 
furbished  up  for  Alexander  as  a  potboiler.  At 
the  Cafe  Royal  that  day  I  calmly  asked  him 
whether  I  was  not  right.  He  indignantly  re- 
pudiated my  guess,  and  said  loftily  (the  only 
time  he  ever  tried  on  me  the  attitude  he  took 
to  John  Gray  and  his  more  abject  disciples)  that 
he  was  disappointed  in  me.  I  suppose  I  said, 
'Then  what  on  earth  has  happened  to  you?' 
but  I  recollect  nothing  more  on  that  subject 
except  that  we  did  not  quarrel  over  it. 

"When  he  was  sentenced  I  spent  a  railway 
journey  on  a  Socialist  lecturing  excursion  to 
the  North  drafting  a  petition  for  his  release. 
After  that  I  met  Willie  Wilde  at  a  theatre  which 
I  think  must  have  been  the  Duke  of  York's, 
because  I  connect  it  vaguely  with  St.  Martin's 
Lane.  I  spoke  to  him  about  the  petition,  asking 


MEMORIES    OF    OSCAR   WILDE  1 5 

him  whether  anything  of  the  sort  was  being 
done,  and  warning  him  that  though  I  and 
Stewart  Headlam  would  sign  it,  that  would  be 
no  use,  as  we  were  two  notorious  cranks,  and 
our  names  would  by  themselves  reduce  the  peti- 
tion to  absurdity  and  do  Oscar  more  harm  than 
good.  Willie  cordially  agreed,  and  added,  with 
maudlin  pathos  and  an  inconceivable  want  of 
tact:  'Oscar  was  NOT  a  man  of  bad  character: 
you  could  have  trusted  him  with  a  woman  any- 
where.' He  convinced  me,  as  you  discovered 
later,  that  signatures  would  not  be  obtainable; 
so  the  petition  project  dropped;  and  I  don't 
know  what  became  of  my  draft. 

"When  Wilde  was  in  Paris  during  his  last 
phase  I  made  a  point  of  sending  him  inscribed 
copies  of  all  my  books  as  they  came  out;  and  he 
did  the  same  to  me. 

"In  writing  about  Wilde  and  Whistler,  in  the 
days  when  they  were  treated  as  witty  triflers, 
and  called  Oscar  and  Jimmy  in  print,  I  always 
made  a  point  of  taking  them  seriously  and  with 
scrupulous  good  manners.  Wilde  on  his  part 
also  made  a  point  of  recognizing  me  as  a  man  of 
distinction  by  his  manner,  and  repudiating  the 
current  estimate  of  me  as  a  mere  jester.  This 
was  not  the  usual  reciprocal-admiration  trick: 
I  believe  he  was  sincere,  and  felt  indignant  at 
what  he  thought  was  a  vulgar  underestimate 


1 6  MEMORIES    OF    OSCAR   WILDE 

of  me;  and  I  had  the  same  feeling  about  him. 
My  impulse  to  rally  to  him  in  his  misfortune, 
and  my  disgust  at  'the  man  Wilde'  scurrilities 
of  the  newspapers,  was  irresistible:  I  don't  quite 
know  why;  for  my  charity  to  his  perversion, 
and  my  recognition  of  the  fact  that  it  does  not 
imply  any  general  depravity  or  coarseness  of 
character,  came  to  me  through  reading  and  ob- 
servation, not  through  sympathy. 

"I  have  all  the  normal  violent  repugnance  to 
homosexuality — if  it  is  really  normal,  which 
nowadays  one  is  sometimes  provoked  to  doubt. 

"Also,  I  was  in  no  way  predisposed  to  like 
him:  he  was  my  fellow-townsman,  and  a  very 
prime  specimen  of  the  sort  of  fellow-townsman 
I  most  loathed:  to  wit,  the  Dublin  snob.  His 
Irish  charm, -potent  with  Englishmen,  did  not 
exist  for  me ;  and  on  the  whole  it  may  be  claimed 
for  him  that  he  got  no  regard  from  me  that  he 
did  not  earn. 

"What  first  established  a  friendly  feeling  in 
me  was,  unexpectedly  enough,  the  affair  of  the 
Chicago  anarchists,  whose  Homer  you  consti- 
tuted yourself  by  'The  Bomb.'  I  tried  to  get 
some  literary  men  in  London,  all  heroic  rebels 
and  skeptics  on  paper,  to  sign  a  memorial  asking 
for  the  reprieve  of  these  unfortunate  men.  The 
only  signature  I  got  was  Oscar's.  It  was  a 
completely  disinterested  act  on  his  part;  and 


MEMORIES    OF    OSCAR   WILDE  17 

it  secured  my  distinguished  consideration  for 
him  for  the  rest  of  his  life. 

"To  return  for  a  moment  to  Lady  Wilde.  You 
know  that  there  is  a  disease  called  giantism, 
caused  by  'a  certain  morbid  process  in  the 
sphenoid  bone  of  the  skull — viz.,  an  excessive 
development  of  the  anterior  lobe  of  the  pituitary 
body'  (this  is  from  the  nearest  encyclopedia). 
1  When  this  condition  does  not  become  active 
until  after  the  age  of  twenty-five,  by  which  time 
the  long  bones  are  consolidated,  the  result  is 
acromegaly,  which  chiefly  manifests  itself  in  an 
enlargement  of  the  hands  and  feet/  I  never 
saw  Lady  Wilde's  feet;  but  her  hands  were 
enormous,  and  never  went  straight  to  their  aim 
when  they  grasped  anything,  but  minced  about, 
feeling  for  it.  And  the  gigantic  splaying  of  her 
palm  was  reproduced  in  her  lumbar  region. 

"Now  Oscar  was  an  overgrown  man,  with 
something  not  quite  normal  about  his  bigness 
—  something  that  made  Lady  Colin  Campbell, 
who  hated  him,  describe  him  as  'that  great 
white  caterpillar.'  You  yourself  describe  the 
disagreeable  impression  he  made  on  you  physi- 
cally, in  spite  of  his  fine  eyes  and  style.  Well, 
I  have  always  maintained  that  Oscar  was  a  giant 
in  the  pathological  sense,  and  that  this  explains 
a  good  deal  of  his  weakness. 

"I  think  you  have  affectionately  underrated 


18  MEMORIES    OF    OSCAR   WILDE 

his  snobbery,  mentioning  only  the  pardonable 
and  indeed  justifiable  side  of  it;  the  love  of  fine 
names  and  distinguished  associations  and  luxury 
and  good  manners.2  You  say  repeatedly,  and 
on  certain  planes,  truly,  that  he  was  not  bitter 
and  did  not  use  his  tongue  to  wound  people. 
But  this  is  not  true  on  the  snobbish  plane.  On 
one  occasion  he  wrote  about  T.  P.  O'Connor 
with  deliberate,  studied,  wounding  insolence, 
with  his  Merrion  Square  Protestant  preten- 
tiousness in  full  cry  against  the  Catholic.  He 
repeatedly  declaimed  against  the  vulgarity  of 
the  British  journalist,  not  as  you  or  I  might, 
but  as  an  expression  of  the  odious  class  feeling 
that  is  itself  the  vilest  vulgarity.  He  made 
the  mistake  of  not  knowing  his  place.  He 
objected  to  be  addressed  as  Wilde,  declaring 
that  he  was  Oscar  to  his  intimates  and  Mr.  Wilde 
to  others,  quite  unconscious  of  the  fact  that  he 
was  imposing  on  the  men  with  whom,  as  a  critic 
and  journalist,  he  had  to  live  and  work,  the 
alternative  of  granting  him  an  intimacy  he  had 

2  I  had  touched  on  the  evil  side  of  his  snobbery,  I  thought,  by  say- 
ing that  it  was  only  famous  actresses  and  great  ladies  that  he  ever 
talked  about,  and  in  telling  how  he  loved  to  speak  of  the  great 
houses  such  as  Clumber  to  which  he  had  been  invited,  and  by  half 
a  dozen  other  hints  scattered  through  my  book.  I  had  attacked  Eng- 
lish snobbery  so  strenuously  in  my  book  on  "The  Man  Shakespeare," 
had  resented  its  influence  on  the  finest  English^  intelligence  so  bit- 
terly, that  I  thought  if  I  again  laid  stress  on  it  in  Wilde,  people 
would  think  I  was  crazy  on  the  subject.  But  he  was  a  snob,  both 
by  nature  and  training,  and  I  understand  by  snob  what  Shaw  evi- 
dently understands  by  it  here. 


MEMORIES    OF    OSCAR   WILDE  19 

no  right  to  ask  or  a  deference  to  which  he  had 
no  claim.  The  vulgar  hated  him  for  snubbing 
them;  and  the  valiant  men  damned  his  impu- 
dence and  cut  him.  Thus  he  was  left  with 
a  band  of  devoted  satellites  on  the  one  hand, 
and  a  dining-out  connection  on  the  other,  with 
here  and  there  a  man  of  talent  and  personality 
enough  to  command  his  respect,  but  utterly  with- 
out that  fortifying  body  of  acquaintance  among 
plain  men  in  which  a  man  must  move  as  himself 
a  plain  man,  and  be  Smith  and  Jones  and  Wilde 
and  Shaw  and  Harris  instead  of  Bosie  and  Rob- 
bie and  Oscar  and  Mister.  This  is  the  sort  of 
folly  that  does  not  last  forever  in  a  man  of  Wilde's 
ability;  but  it  lasted  long  enough  to  prevent 
Oscar  laying  any  solid  social  foundations.3 

"Another  difficulty  I  have  already  hinted  at. 
Wilde  started  as  an  apostle  of  Art;  and  in  that 
capacity  he  was  a  humbug.  The  notion  that  a 
Portora  boy,  passed  on  to  T.C.D.  and  thence  to 
Oxford  and  spending  his  vacations  in  Dublin, 
could  without  special  circumstances  have  any 
genuine  intimacy  with  music  and  painting,  is  to 

3  The  reason  that  Oscar,  snobbish  as  he  was,  and  admirer  of  Eng- 
land and  the  English  as  he  was,  could  not  lay  any  solid  social  foun- 
dations in  England  was,  in  my  opinion,  his  intellectual  interests  and 
his  intellectual  superiority  to  the  men  he  met.  No  one  with  a  fine 
mind  devoted  to  things  of  the  spirit  is  capable  of  laying  solid  social 
foundations  in  England.  Shaw,  too,  has  no  solid  social  foundations 
in  that  country. 

This  Massing  shot  at  English  society  serves  it  right.  __  Yet  able  men 
have  fo  ind  niches  in  London.  Where  was  Oscar's? — G.  B.  S. 


20  MEMORIES    OF    OSCAR   WILDE 

me  ridiculous.4  When  Wilae  was  at  Portora, 
I  was  at  home  in  a  house  where  important 
musical  works,  including  several  typical  master- 
pieces, were  being  rehearsed  from  the  point  of 
blank  amateur  ignorance  up  to  fitness  for  public 
performance.  I  could  whistle  them  from  the 
first  bar  to  the  last  as  a  butcher's  boy  whistles 
music  hall  songs,  before  I  was  twelve.  The 
toleration  of  popular  music — Strauss's  waltzes, 
for  instance — was  to  me  positively  a  painful  ac- 
quirement, a  sort  of  republican  duty. 

"I  was  so  fascinated  by  painting  that  I  haunted 
the  National  Gallery,  which  Doyle  had  made 
perhaps  the  finest  collection  of  its  size  in  the 
world;  and  I  longed  fop  money  to  buy  painting 
materials  with.  This  afterwards  saved  me  from 
starving:  it  was  as  a  critic  of  music  and  painting 
in  the  World  that  I  won  through  my  ten  years  of 
journalism  before  I  finished  up  with  you  on  the 
Saturday  Review.  I  could  make  deaf  stock- 
brokers read  my  two  pages  on  music,  the  alleged 
joke  being  that  I  knew  nothing  about  it.  The 
real  joke  was  that  I  knew  all  about  it. 

"Now  it  was  quite  evident  to  me,  as  it  was  to 

4 1  had  already  marked  it  down  to  put  in  this  popular  edition  of  my 
book  that  Wilde  continually  pretended  to  a  knowledge  of  music  which  he 
had  not  got.  He  could  hardly  tell  one  tune  from  another,  but  he  loved 
to  talk  of  that  "scarlet  thing  of  Dvorak,"  hoping  in  this  way  to  be  accepted 
as  a  real  critic  of  music,  when  he  knew  nothing  about  it  and  car^d  even 
less.  His  eulogies  of  music  and  painting  betrayed  him  coi  tinually 
though  he  did  not  know  it. 


MEMORIES   OF   OSCAR  WILDE  21 

Whistler  and  Beardsley,  that  Oscar  knew  no 
more  about  pictures  5  than  anyone  of  his  general 
culture  and  with  his  opportunities  can  pick  up 
as  he  goes  along.  He  could  be  witty  about 
Art,  as  I  could  be  witty  about  engineering;  but 
that  is  no  use  when  you  have  to  seize  and  hold 
the  attention  and  interest  of  people  who  really 
love  music  and  painting.  Therefore,  Oscar 
was  handicapped  by  a  false  start,  and  got  a 
reputation  6  for  shallowness  and  insincerity  which 
he  never  retrieved  until  it  was  too  late. 

"Comedy:  the  criticism  of  morals  and  man- 
ners viva  voce,wzs  his  real  forte.  When  he  settled 
down  to  that  he  was  great.  But,  as  you  found 
when  you  approached  Meredith  about  him,  his 
initial  mistake  had  produced  that  '  rather  low 
opinion  of  Wilde's  capacities,'  that  'deep- 
rooted  contempt  for  the  showman  in  him,' 
which  persisted  as  a  first  impression  and  will 
persist  until  the  last  man  who  remembers  his 
esthetic  period  has  perished.  The  world  has 
been  in  some  ways  so  unjust  to  him  that  one 
must  be  careful  not  to  be  unjust  to  the  world. 

"In  the  preface  on  education,  called  'Par- 
ents and  Children,'  to  my  volume  of  plays 


5 1  touched  upon  Oscar's  ignorance  of  art  sufficiently  I  think,  when  I 
said  in  my  book  that  he  had  learned  all  he  knew  of  art  and  of  contro- 
versy from  Whistler,  and  that  his  lectures  on  the  subject,  even  after 
sitting  at  the  feet  of  the  Master,  were  almost  worthless. 

6  Perfectly  true,  and  a  notable  instance  of  Shaw's  insight. 


22  MEMORIES    OF    OSCAR   WILDE 

beginning  with  Misalliance,  there  is  a  section 
headed  'Artist  Idolatry/  which  is  really  about 
Wilde.  Dealing  with  'the  powers  enjoyed  by 
brilliant  persons  who  are  also  connoisseurs  in 
art,'  I  say,  'the  influence  they  can  exercise  on 
young  people  who  have  been  brought  up  in  the 
darkness  and  wretchedness  of  a  home  without 
art,  and  in  whom  a  natural  bent  towards  art 
has  always  been  baffled  and  snubbed,  is  incred- 
ible to  those  who  have  not  witnessed  and  under- 
stood it.  He  (or  she)  who  reveals  the  world 
of  art  to  them  opens  heaven  to  them.  They 
become  satellites,  disciples,  worshippers  of  the 
apostle.  Now  the  apostle  may  be  a  voluptuary 
without  much  conscience.  Nature  may  have 
given  him  enough  virtue  to  suffice  in  a  reason- 
able environment.  But  this  allowance  may  not 
be  enough  to  defend  him  against  the  temptation 
and  demoralization  of  finding  himself  a  little  god 
on  the  strength  of  what  ought  to  be  a  quite  ordi- 
nary culture.  He  may  find  adorers  in  all  direc- 
tions in  our  uncultivated  society  among  people 
of  stronger  character  than  himself,  not  one  of 
whom,  if  they  had  been  artistically  educated, 
would  have  had  anything  to  learn  from  him,  or 
regarded  him  as  in  any  way  extraordinary  apart 
from  his  actual  achievements  as  an  artist.  Tar- 
tufe  is  not  always  a  priest.  Indeed,  he  is  not  al- 
ways a  rascal:  he  is  often  a  weak  man  absurdly 


MEMORIES    OF    OSCAR   WILDE  23 

credited  with  omniscience  and  perfection,  and 
taking  unfair  advantages  only  because  they  are 
offered  to  him  and  he  is  too  weak  to  refuse. 
Give  everyone  his  culture,  and  no  one  will  offer 
him  more  than  his  due.' 

"That  paragraph  was  the  outcome  of  a  walk 
and  talk  I  had  one  afternoon  at  Chartres  with 
Robert  Ross. 

"You  reveal  Wilde  as  a  weaker  man  than  I 
thought  him:  I  still  believe  that  his  fierce  Irish 
pride  had  something  to  do  with  his  refusal  to 
run  away  from  the  trial.  But  in  the  main  your 
evidence  is  conclusive.  It  was  part  of  his 
tragedy  that  people  asked  more  moral  strength 
from  him  that  he  could  bear  the  burden  of, 
because  they  made  the  very  common  mistake — 
of  which  actors  get  the  benefit — of  regarding 
style  as  evidence  of  strength,  just  as  in  the  case 
of  women  they  are  apt  to  regard  paint  as  evi- 
dence of  beauty.  Now  Wilde  was  so  in  love 
with  style  that  he  never  realized  the  danger  of 
biting  off  more  than  he  could  chew:  in  other 
words,  of  putting  up  more  style  than  his 
matter  would  carry.  Wise  kings  wear  shabby 
clothes,  and  leave  the  gold  lace  to  the  drum 
major. 

''You  do  not,  unless  my  memory  is  betray- 
ing me  as  usual,  quite  recollect  the  order  of 
events  just  before  the  trial.  That  day  at  the 


24  MEMORIES    OF    OSCAR   WILDE 

Cafe  Royal,  Wilde  said  he  had  come  to  ask  you 
to  go  into  the  witness  box  next  day  and  testify 
that  Dorian  Gray  was  a  highly  moral  work. 
Your  answer  was  something  like  this :  '  For  God's 
sake,  man,  put  everything  on  that  plane  out  of 
your  head.  You  don't  realize  what  is  going  to 
happen  to  you.  It  is  not  going  to  be  a  matter  of 
clever  talk  about  your  books.  They  are  going 
to  bring  up  a  string  of  witnesses  that  will  put 
art  and  literature  out  of  the  question.  Clarke 
will  throw  up  his  brief.  He  will  carry  the  case 
to  a  certain  point;  and  then,  when  he  sees  the 
avalanche  coming,  he  will  back  out  and  leave 
you  in  the  dock.  What  you  have  to  do  is  to 
cross  to  France  to-night.  Leave  a  letter  saying 
that  you  cannot  face  the  squalor  and  horror  of 
a  law  case;  that  you  are  an  artist  and  unfitted 
for  such  things.  Don't  stay  here  clutching  at 
straws  like  testimonials  to  Dorian  Gray.  I  tell 
you  I  know.  I  know  what  is  going  to  happen. 
I  know  Clarke's  sort.  I  know  what  evidence 
they  have  got.  You  must  go.' 

"  It  was  no  use.  Wilde  was  in  a  curious  double 
temper.  He  made  no  pretence  either  of  inno- 
cence or  of  questioning  the  folly  of  his  proceed- 
ings against  Queensberry.  But  he  had  an  in- 
fatuate haughtiness  as  to  the  impossibility  of 
his  retreating,  and  as  to  his  right  to  dictate 
your  course.  Douglas  sat  in  silence,  a  haughty 


MEMORIES    OF    OSCAR   WILDE  2$ 

indignant  silence,  copying  Wilde's  attitude  as 
all  Wilde's  admirers  did,  but  quite  probably 
influencing  Wilde  as  you  suggest,  by  the  copy. 
Oscar  finally  rose  with  a  mixture  of  impatience 
and  his  grand  air,  and  walked  out  with  the  re- 
mark that  he  had  now  found  out  who  were  his 
real  friends ;  and  Douglas  followed  him,  absurdly 
smaller,  and  imitating  his  walk,  like  a  curate 
following  an  archbishop.7  You  remember  it 
the  other  way  about;  but  just  consider  this. 
Douglas  was  in  the  wretched  position  of  having 
ruined  Wilde  merely  to  annoy  his  father,  and  of 
having  attempted  it  so  idiotically  that  he  had 
actually  prepared  a  triumph  for  him.  He  was, 
besides,  much  the  youngest  man  present,  and 
looked  younger  than  he  was.  You  did  not 
make  him  welcome:  as  far  as  I  recollect  you  did 
not  greet  him  by  a  word  or  nod.  If  he  had  given 
the  smallest  provocation  or  attempted  to  take 
the  lead  in  any  way,  I  should  not  have  given 
twopence  for  the  chance  of  your  keeping  your 
temper.  And  Wilde,  even  in  his  ruin — which, 
however,  he  did  not  yet  fully  realize — kept  his 
air  of  authority  on  questions  of  taste  and  con- 

7  This  is  an  inimitable  picture,  but  Shaw's  fine  sense  of  comedy  has 
misled  him.  The  scene  took  place  absolutely  as  I  recorded  it.  Douglas 
went  out  first  saying — "Your  telling  him  to  run  away  shows  that  you 
are  no  friend  of  Oscar's."  Then  Oscar  got  up  to  follow  him.  He  said 
good-bye  to  Shaw,  adding  a  courteous  word  or  two.  As  he  turned  to  the 
door  I  got  up  and  said: — "I  hope  you  do  not  doubt  my  friendship;  you 
have  no  reason  to." 

"I  do  not  think  this  is  friendly  of  you,  Frank,"  he  said,  and  went  on  out. 


26  MEMORIES    OF    OSCAR   WILDE 

duct.  It  was  practically  impossible  under  such 
circumstances  that  Douglas  should  have  taken 
the  stage  in  any  way.  Everyone  thought  him 
a  horrid  little  brat;  but  I,  not  having  met  him 
before  to  my  knowledge,  and  having  some  sort 
of  flair  for  his  literary  talent,  was  curious  to  hear 
what  he  had  to  say  for  himself.  But,  except  to 
echo  Wilde  once  or  twice,  he  said  nothing.8  You 
are  right  in  effect,  because  it  was  evident  that 
Wilde  was  in  his  hands,  and  was  really  echoing 
him.  But  Wilde  automatically  kept  the  promp- 
ter off  the  stage  and  himself  in  the  middle  of  it. 

"What  your  book  needs  to  complete  it  is  a 
portrait  of  yourself  as  good  as  your  portrait  of 
Wilde.  Oscar  was  not  combative,  though  he 
was  supercilious  in  his  early  pose.  When  his 
snobbery  was  not  in  action,  he  liked  to  make 
people  devoted  to  him  and  to  flatter  them  ex- 
quisitely with  that  end.  Mrs.  Calvert,  whose 
great  final  period  as  a  stage  old  woman  began 
with  her  appearance  in  my  Arms  and  the  Man, 
told  me  one  day,  when  apologizing  for  being,  as 
she  thought,  a  bad  rehearser,  that  no  author  had 
ever  been  so  nice  to  her  except  Mr.  Wilde. 

"Pugnacious  people,  if  they  did  not  actually 

8 1  am   sure   Douglas  took  the  initiative   and  walked   out  first. 

I  have  no  doubt  you  are  right,  and  that  my  vision  of  the  exit  is 
really  a  reminiscence  of  the  entrance.  In  fact,  now  that  you  prompt 
my  memory,  I  recall  quite  distinctly  that  Douglas,  who  came  in  as 
the  follower,  went  out  as  the  leader,  and  that  the  last  word  was* 
spoken  by  Wilde  after  he  had  gone. — G.  B.  S. 


MEMORIES    OF    OSCAR   WILDE  27 

terrify  Oscar,  were  at  least  the  sort  of  people  he 
could  not  control,  and  whom  he  feared  as  possibly 
able  to  coerce  him.  You  suggest  that  the 
Queensberry  pugnacity  was  something  that 
Oscar  could  not  deal  with  successfully.  But 
how  in  that  case  could  Oscar  have  felt  quite 
safe  with  you?  You  were  more  pugnacious 
than  six  Queensberrys  rolled  into  one.  When 
people  asked,  "'What  has  Frank  Harris  been?' 
the  usual  reply  was,  'Obviously  a  pirate  from 
the  Spanish  Main.' 

"Oscar,  from  the  moment  he  gained  your 
attachment,  could  never  have  been  afraid  of 
what  you  might  do  to  him,as  he  was  sufficient  of 
a  connoisseur  in  Blut  Bruderschaft  to  appreciate 
yours;  but  he  must  always  have  been  mortally 
afraid  of  what  you  might  do  or  say  to  his  friends.9 

"You  had  quite  an  infernal  scorn  for  nineteen 
out  of  twenty  of  the  men  and  women  you  met 
in  the  circles  he  most  wished  to  propitiate;  and 
nothing  could  induce  you  to  keep  your  knife  in 
its  sheath  when  they  jarred  on  you.  The 
Spanish  Main  itself  would  have  blushed  rosy 
red  at  your  language  when  classical  invective 
did  not  suffice'  to  express  your  feelings. 

"It  may  be  that  if,  say,  Edmund  Gosse  had 

9  This  insight  on  Shaw's  part  makes  me  smile  because  it  is  absolutely 
true.  Oscar  commended  Bosie  Douglas  to  me  again  and  again  and 
again,  begged  me  to  be  nice  to  him  if  we  ever  met  by  chance;  but  I  refused 
to  meet  him  for  months  and  months. 


28  MEMORIES    OF    OSCAR   WILDE 

come  to  Oscar  when  he  was  out  on  bail,  with  a 
couple  of  first  class  tickets  in  his  pocket,  and 
gently  suggested  a  mild  trip  to  Folkestone,  or 
the  Channel  Islands,  Oscar  might  have  let  him- 
self be  coaxed  away.  But  to  be  called  on  to 
gallop  ventre  a  terre  to  Erith — it  might  have  been 
Deal — and  hoist  the  Jolly  Roger  on  board  your 
lugger,  was  like  casting  a  light  comedian  and 
first  lover  for  Richard  III.  Oscar  could  not  see 
himself  in  the  part. 

"I  must  not  press  the  point  too  far;  but  it 
illustrates,  I  think,  what  does  not  come  out  at 
all  in  your  book:  that  you  were  a  very  differ- 
ent person  from  the  submissive  and  sympathetic 
disciples  to  whom  he  was  accustomed.  There 
are  things  more  terrifying  to  a  soul  like  Oscar's 
than  an.  as  yet  unrealized  possibility  of  a  sen- 
tence of  hard  labor.  A  voyage  with  Captain 
Kidd  may  have  been  one  of  them.  Wilde  was 
a  conventional  man:  his  unconventionality  was 
the  very  pedantry  of  convention:  never  was 
there  a  man  less  an  outlaw  than  he.  You  were 
a  born  outlaw,  and  will  never  be  anything  else. 

"That  is  why,  in  his  relations  with  you,  he 
appears  as  a  man  always  shirking  action — more  of 
a  coward  (all  men  are  cowards  more  or  less)  than 
so  proud  a  man  can  have  been.  Still  this  does 
not  affect  the  truth  and  power  of  your  portrait. 
Wilde's  memory  will  have  to  stand  or  fall  by  it. 


MEMORIES    OF    OSCAR   WILDE  2Q 

"You  will  be  blamed,  I  imagine,  because  you 
have  not  written  a  lying  epitaph  instead  of  a 
faithful  chronicle  and  study  of  him;  but  you  will 
not  lose  your  sleep  over  that.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  you  could  not  have  carried  kindness  further 
without  sentimental  folly.  I  should  have  made 
a  far  sterner  summing  up.  I  am  sure  Oscar  has 
not  found  the  gates  of  heaven  shut  against  him : 
he  is  too  good  company  to  be  excluded;  but 
he  can  hardly  have  been  greeted  as,  'Thou  good 
and  faithful  servant.7  The  first  thing  we  ask 
a  servant  for  is  a  testimonial  to  honesty,  sobriety 
and  industry;  for  we  soon  find  out  that  these 
are  the  scarce  things,  and  that  geniuses 10  and 
clever  people  are  as  common  as  rats.  Well, 
Oscar  was  not  sober,  not  honest,  not  industrious. 
Society  praised  him  for  being  idle,  and  perse- 
cuted him  savagely  for  an  aberration  which  it 
had  better  have  left  unadvertized,  thereby  mak- 
ing a  hero  of  him;  for  it  is  in  the  nature  of  peo- 
ple to  worship  those  who  have  been  made  to 
suffer  horribly:  indeed  I  have  often  said  that  if 
the  crucifixion  could  be  proved  a  myth,  and 
Jesus  convicted  of  dying  of  old  age  in  com- 
fortable circumstances,  Christianity  would  lose 
ninety-nine  per  cent,  of  its  devotees. 

"We  must  try  to  imagine  what  judgment  we 

10  The  English  paste  in  Shaw;  genius  is  about  the  rarest  thing  on 
earth  whereas  the  necessary  quantum  of  "honesty,  sobriety  and  in- 
dustry," is  beaten  by  life  into  nine  humans  out  of  ten. — ED. 

//  so,  it  is  the  tenth  who  comes  my  way. — G.  B.  S. 


3<D  MEMORIES    OF    OSCAR   WILDE 

should  have  passed  on  Oscar  if  he  had  been  a 
normal  man,  and  had  dug  his  grave  with  his 
teeth  in  the  ordinary  respectable  fashion,  as  his 
brother  Willie  did.  This  brother,  by  the  way, 
gives  us  some  cue;  for  Willie,  who  had  exactly 
the  same  education  and  the  same  chances,  must 
be  ruthlessly  set  aside  by  literary  history  as  a  vul- 
gar journalist  of  (on)  account.  Well,  suppose 
Oscar  and  Willie  had  both  died  the  day  before 
Queensberry  left  that  card  at  the  Club!  Oscar 
would  still  have  been  remembered  as  a  wit  and  a 
dandy,  and  would  have  had  a  niche  beside  Con- 
greve  in  the  drama.  A  volume  of  his  aphorisms 
would  have  stood  creditably  on  the  library  shelf 
with  La  Rochefoucauld's  Maxims.  WTe  should 
have  missed  the  'Ballad  of  Reading  Gaol'  and 
'De  Profundis';  but  he  would  still  have  cut  a 
considerable  figure  in  the  Dictionary  of  Na- 
tional Biography,  and  been  read  and  quoted 
outside  the  British  Museum  reading  room. 

"As  to  the  'Ballad'  and  'De  Profundis,'  I 
think  it  is  greatly  to  Oscar's  credit  that,  whilst 
he  was  sincere  and  deeply  moved  when  he  was 
protesting  against  the  cruelty  of  our  present 
system  to  children  and  to  prisoners  generally,  he 
could  not  write  about  his  own  individual  share 
in  that  suffering  with  any  conviction  or  sym- 
pathy.11 Except  for  the  passage  where  he  de- 

11  Superb  criticism. 


MEMORIES    OF    OSCAR   WILDE  31 

scribes  his  exposure  at  Clapham  Junction,  there 
is  hardly  a  line  in  'De  Profundis'  that  he  might 
not  have  written  as  a  literary  feat  five  years 
earlier.  But  in  the  l  Ballad,'  even  in  borrow- 
ing form  and  melody  from  Coleridge,  he  shews 
that  he  could  pity  others  when  he  could  not 
seriously  pity  himself.  And  this,  I  think,  may 
be  pleaded  against  the  reproach  that  he  was 
selfish.  Externally,  in  the  ordinary  action  of 
life  as  distinguished  from  the  literary  action 
proper  to  his  genius,  he  was  no  doubt  sluggish 
and  weak  because  of  his  giantism.  He  ended 
as  an  unproductive  drunkard  and  swindler; 
for  the  repeated  sales  of  the  Daventry  plot,  in  so 
far  as  they  imposed  on  the  buyers  and  were  not 
transparent  excuses  for  begging,  were  undeniably 
swindles.  For  all  that,  he  does  not  appear  in 
his  writings,  a  selfish  or  base-minded  man.  He 
is  at  his  worst  and  weakest  in  the  suppressed  12 
part  of  'De  Profundis';  but  in  my  opinion  it 
had  better  be  published,  for  several  reasons.  It 
explains  some  of  his  personal  weakness  by  the 
stifling  narrowness  of  his  daily  round,  ruinous 
to  a  man  whose  proper  place  was  in  a  large 
public  life.  And  its  concealment  is  mischievous 
because,  first,  it  leads  people  to  imagine  all  sorts 
of  horrors  in  a  document  which  contains  nothing 
worse  than  any  record  of  the  squabbles  of 

12  I  have  said  this  in  my  way. 


32  MEMORIES   OF   OSCAR   WILDE 

two  touchy  idlers;  and,  second,  it  is  clearly  a 
monstrous  thing  that  Douglas  should  have  a 
torpedo  launched  at  him  and  timed  to  explode 
after  his  death.  The  torpedo  is  a  very  harmless 
squib;  for  there  is  nothing  in  it  that  cannot  be 
guessed  from  Douglas's  own  book;  but  the  pub- 
lic does  not  know  that.  By  the  way,  it  is  rather 
a  humorous  stroke  of  Fate's  irony  that  the  son 
of  the  Marquis  of  Queensberry  should  be  forced 
to  expiate  his  sins  by  suffering  a  succession  of 
blows  beneath  the  belt. 

"Now  that  you  have  written  the  best  life  of 
Oscar  Wilde,  let  us  have  the  best  life  of  Frank 
Harris.  Otherwise  the  man  behind  your  works 
will  go  down  to  posterity13  as  the  hero  of  my 
very  inadequate  preface  to  'The  Dark  Lady  of 
the  Sonnets.' " 

G.  BERNARD  SHAW. 

13  A  characteristic  flirt  of  Shaw's  humor.  He  is  a  great 
caricaturist  and  not  a  portrait-painter. 

When  he  thinks  of  ray  Celtic  face  and  aggressive  American 
frankness  he  talks  of  me  as  pugnacious  and  a  pirate:  "a  Captain 
Kidd":  in  his  preface  to  "The  Fair  Lady  of  the  Sonnets"  he 
praises  my  "idiosyncratic  gift  of  pity";  says  that  I  am  "wise 
through  pity" ;  then  he  extols  me  as  a  prophet,  not  seeing  that  a 
pitying  sage,  prophet  and  pirate  constitute  an  inhuman  superman. 

I  shall  do  more  for  Shaw  than  he  has  been  able  to  do  for  me; 
he  is  the  first  figure  in  my  new  volume  of  "Contemporary  Por- 
traits." I  have  portrayed  him  there  at  his  best,  as  I  love  to  think 
of  him,  and  henceforth  he'll  have  to  try  to  live  up  to  my  con- 
ception and  that  will  keep  him,  I'm  afraid,  on  strain. 

God  help  me.'—G.  B.  S. 


APPENDIX 

HERE  are  the  two  poems  of  Lord  Alfred  Douglas  which 
were  read  out  in  Court,  on  account  of  which  the  prosecu- 
tion sought  to  incriminate  Oscar  Wilde.  My  readers  can 
judge  for  themselves  the  value  of  any  inference  to  be 
drawn  from  such  work  by  another  hand.  To  me,  I  must 
confess,  the  poems  themselves  seem  harmless  and  pretty 
— I  had  almost  said,  academic  and  unimportant. 

TWO  LOVES 
TO  "THE  SPHINX" 

Two  loves  I  have  of  comfort  and  despair 

That  like  two  spirits  do  suggest  me  still, 

My  better  angel  is  a  man  right  fair, 

My  worse  a  woman  tempting  me  to  ill. — Shakespeare. 

I  DREAMED  I  stood  upon  a  little  hill, 

And  at  my  feet  there  lay  a  ground,  that  seemed 

Like  a  waste  garden,  flowering  at  its  will 

With  flowers  and  blossoms.    There  were  pools  that  dreamed 

Black  and  unruffled;  there  were  white  lilies 

A  few,  and  crocuses,  and  violets 

Purple  or  pale,  snake-like  fritillaries 

Scarce  seen  for  the  rank  grass,  and  through  green  nets 

Blue  eyes  of  shy  pervenche  winked  in  the  sun. 

And  there  were  curious  flowers,  before  unknown, 

Flowers  that  were  stained  with  moonlight,  or  with  shades 

Of  Nature's  wilful  moods;  and  here  a  one 

That  had  drunk  in  the  transitory  tone 

Of  one  brief  moment  in  a  sunset;  blades 

Of  grass  that  in  an  hundred  springs  had  been 

Slowly  but  exquisitely  nurtured  by  the  stars, 

And  watered  with  the  scented  dew  long  cupped 

In  lilies,  that  for  rays  of  sun  had  seen 

Only  God's  glory,  for  never  a  sunrise  mars 

549 


55O  APPENDIX 

The  rormnons  air  of  heaven.    Beyond,  abrupt, 

A  gray  stone  wall,  o'ergrown  with  velvet  moss 

Uprose.    And  gazing  I  stood  long,  all  mazed 

To  see  a  place  so  strange,  so  sweet,  so  fair. 

And  as  I  stood  and  marvelled,  k>!  across 

The  garden  came  a  youth,  one  hand  he  raised 

To  shield  him  from  the  son,  Ins  wind-tossed  hair 

Was  twined  with  flowers,  and  in  his  hand  he  bore 

A  purple  bunch  of  bursting  grapes,  his  eyes 

Were  dear  as  crystal,  naked  all  was  he, 

White  as  the  snow  nn  pathless  mnmitaing  ft"npf 

Red  were  his  hps  as  red  wine-spilth  that  dyes 

A  marble  floor,  his  brow  chalcedony. 

And  he  came  near  me,  with  his  hps  uncurled 

And  IftnHj  and  fstngttL  my  hand  anH  kissed  my  mouth, 

And  gave  me  grapes  to  eat,  and  said,  "Sweet  friend, 

Come,  I  wffl  show  thee  shadows  of  the  world 

And  images  of  fife.    See,  from  the  south 

Comes  thf»  pale  pageant  that  hath  never  an  end." 

And  lo!  within  the  garden  of  my  dream 

I  saw  two  walking  on  a  shining  plain 

Of  golden  light.    The  one  did  joyous  seem 

And  fair  and  blooming,  and  a  sweet  refrain 

Came  from  his  hps;  he  sang  of  pretty  maids 

And  joyous  love  of  comely  girl  and  boy; 

His  eyes  were  bright,  and  'mid  the  dancing  Maffcg 

Of  golden  grass  his  feet  did  trip  for  joy. 

And  in  his  hands  he  held  an  ivory  lute, 

With  strings  of  gold  that  were  as  maiAra*  hair, 

And  sang  with  voice  as  tuneful  as  a  flute, 

And  round  his  neck  three  chains  of  roses  were. 

But  he  that  was  his  comrade  walked  aside; 

He  was  full  sad  and  sweet,  and  his  large  eyes 

Were:  nrs-nrr  vnth.  vrondrou.:  britiitness.  s'^anr.g  vnde 

With  gazing;  an<i  he  sighed  with  many  sighs 

That  moved  me,  and  his  cheeks  were  wan  and  white 

Lake  palHd  HHes,  and  his  hps  were  red 

Like  poppies,  and  his  hands  he  cfcnched  tight, 

And  yet  again  unclenched,  and  his  head 

Was  wreathed  with  moon-flowers  pale  as  Hps  of  death. 


APPENDIX  '  '  I 

:  lie  WQKC,  o'erwrongiit  m.  gold 
fifth  the  device  of  a  great  stake,  whose  breath 

~.i!^~  1  Zil  ifiiiiui 


I  feH  a-weeping  and  I  cried,  "  Sweet  y 
Tell  me  why,  sad  and  sighrng;  thon  dost  rove 
These  pleasant  realms?    I  pay  thce  sneak  me  sooth 
What  is  thy  name?"    He  said,  "My  same  is  Lote. 

Then  straight  the  first  did  ttrrn 


And  cried,  ^HeHeth,  for  his  name  is  Shame, 
But  I  am  Love,  and  I  -was  want  to  be 
Alone  in  this  farr  gjmfcii^  tffl  he  came 
-slced  by  night;  I  am  troe  Love,  I  £H 

The  hearts  of  toy  .and  girl  with  mutual  flame." 
Then  sighing  saad  the  other,  "  Ha-»e  ti^-  w31, 
I  am  the  Love  that  dare  not  speak  its  name." 

DOUGLAS. 


IN  PRAISE  OF  SHAME 

:>  my  bed  last  rrigTit, 
Our  lady  of  stsnmge 
She  poured  live  fire,  so  that  mine  eyes  did  burn 

.- ht  of  it.    Anon  Ike  ftHl«q»  flame 
Took  many  s^iaffil,  and  one  coed,  **I  am  Shame 
That  walks  with  Love,  I  am  most  wise  to  turn 
Cold  tips  and  JJiHiBii  to  fir»»~  UmiKMe  dccern 
And  see  my  loveliness,  and  praise  my  name." 


And  afterward. 
•'•  -.  ~.  ~-~.  _r_  i  !  i  r.  _"•;'.-  '^.~.  i,  -i_^-"__r_  ~  ! "   ~_L.I.  ni>5.. 
A  pomp  of  all  the  passions  passed  along, 
All  the  mgjht  IJMfMBJi;  tJitfae^BhiiephaBtaai 
Of  dawn  sailed  in.    Whereat  I  said  this  SOK, 
"Of  aH 


A  i  •••!!> 


THE  UNPUBLISHED  PORTION  OF  "DE 
PROFUNDIS" 

THIS  is  not  the  whole  of  the  unpublished  portion  of 
"  De  Profundis  " ;  but  that  part  only  which  was  read  out  in 
Court  and  used  for  the  purpose  of  discrediting  Lord  Alfred 
Douglas;  still,  it  is  more  than  half  of  the  whole  in  length 
and  absolutely  more  than  the  whole  in  importance:  noth- 
ing of  any  moment  is  omitted,  except  the  reiteration  of 
accusations  and  just  this  repetition  weakens  the  effect  of 
the  argument  and  strengthens  the  impression  of  querulous 
nagging  instead  of  dispassionate  statement.  If  the  whole 
were  printed  Oscar  Wilde  would  stand  worse;  somewhat 
more  selfish  and  more  vindictive. 

I  have  commented  the  document  as  it  stands  mainly 
for  the  sake  of  clearness  and  because  it  justifies  in  every 
particular  and  almost  in  every  epithet  the  shadows  of  the 
portrait  which  I  have  endeavoured  to  paint  in  this  book. 
Curiously  enough  Oscar  Wilde  depicts  himself  uncon- 
sciously in  this  part  of  "De  Profundis"  in  a  more  unfa- 
vourable light  than  that  accorded  him  in  my  memory.  I 
believe  mine  is  the  more  faithful  portrait  of  him,  but  that 
is  for  my  readers  to  determine. 

FRANK  HARRIS. 
NEW  YORK,  December,  1915. 

H.M.  Prison, 

DEAR  BOSIE,  Reading' 

After  long  and  fruitless  waiting  I  have  determined  to 
write  to  you  myself,  as  much  for  your  sake  as  for  mine,  as 
I  would  not  like  to  think  that  I  had  passed  through  two 
long  years  of  imprisonment  without  ever  having  received 
a  single  line  from  you,  or  any  news  or  message  even,  ex- 
cept such  as  gave  me  pain. 

Our  ill-fated  and  most  lamentable  friendship  has  ended 
in  ruin  and  public  infamy  for  me,  yet  the  memory  of  our 

552 


APPENDIX  553 

ancient  affection  is  often  with  me,  and  the  thought  that 
loathing,  bitterness  and  contempt  should  for  ever  take 
the  place  in  my  heart  once  held  by  love  is  very  sad  to  me; 
and  you  yourself  will,  I  think,  feel  in  your  heart  that  to 
write  to  me  as  I  lie  in  the  loneliness  of  prison  life  is  better 
than  to  publish  my  letters  without  my  permission,  or  to 
dedicate  poems  to  me  unasked,  though  the  world  will 
know  nothing  of  whatever  words  of  grief  or  passion,  of 
remorse  or  indifference,  you  may  choose  to  send  as  your 
answer  or  your  appeal. 

I  have  no  doubt  that  in  this  letter  which  I  have  to  write 
of  your  life  and  mine,  of  the  past  and  of  the  future,  of 
sweet  things  changed  to  bitterness  and  of  bitter  things 
that  may  be  turned  to  joy,  there  will  be  much  that  will 
wound  your  vanity  to  the  quick.  If  it  prove  so,  read  the 
letter  over  and  over  again  till  it  kills  your  vanity.  If  you 
find  in  it  something  of  which  you  feel  that  you  are  un- 
justly accused,  remember  that  one  should  be  thankful 
that  there  is  any  fault  of  which  one  can  be  unjustly  ac- 
cused. If  there  be  in  it  one  single  passage  that  brings 
tears  to  your  eyes,  weep  as  we  weep  in  prison,  where  the 
day  no  less  than  the  night  is  set  apart  for  tears.  It  is  the 
only  thing  that  can  save  you.  If  you  go  complaining  to 
your  mother,  as  you  did  with  reference  to  the  scorn  of  you 
I  displayed  in  my  letter  to  Robbie,  so  that  she  may  flatter 
and  soothe  you  back  into  self-complacency  or  conceit,  you 
will  be  completely  lost.  If  you  find  one  false  excuse  for 
yourself  you  will  soon  find  a  hundred,  and  be  just  what 
you  were  before.  Do  you  still  say,  as  you  said  to  Robbie 
in  your  answer,  that  I  "attribute  unworthy  motives"  to 
you?  Ah!  you  had  no  motives  in  life.  You  had  appe- 
tites merely.  A  motive  is  an  intellectual  aim.  That  you 
were  "very  young"  when  our  friendship  began?  Your 
defect  was  not  that  you  knew  so  little  about  life,  but  that 
you  knew  so  much.  The  morning  dawn  of  boyhood  with 
its  delicate  bloom,  its  clear  pure  light,  its  joy  of  innocence 
and  expectation,  you  had  left  far  behind  you.  With  very 
swift  and  running  feet  you  had  passed  from  Romance  to 
Realism.  The  gutter  and  the  things  that  live  in  it  had 
begun  to  fascinate  you.  That  was  the  origin  of  the 


554  APPENDIX 

trouble1  in  which  you  sought  my  aid,  and  I,  unwisely  ac- 
cording to  the  wisdom  of  this  world,  out  of  pity  and  kind- 
ness, gave  it  to  you.  You  must  read  this  letter  right 
through,  though  each  word  may  become  to  you  as  the  fire 
or  knife  of  the  surgeon  that  makes  the  delicate  flesh  burn 
or  bleed.  Remember  that  the  fool  to  the  eyes  of  the  gods 
and  the  fool  to  the  eyes  of  man  are  very  different.  One 
who  is  entirely  ignorant2  of  the  modes  of  Art  in  its  reve- 
lation or  the  moods  of  thought  in  its  progress,  of  the  pomp 
of  the  Latin  line  or  the  richer  music  of  the  vowelled  Greek, 
of  Tuscan  sculpture  or  Elizabethan  song,  may  yet  be  full 
of  the  very  sweetest  wisdom.  The  real  fool,  such  as  the 
gods  mock  or  mar,  is  he  who  does  not  know  himself.  I 
was  such  a  one  too  long.  You  have  been  such  a  one  too 
long.  Be  so  no  more.  Do  not  be  afraid.  The  supreme 
vice  is  shallowness.  Everything  that  is  realised  is  right. 
Remember  also  that  whatever  is  misery  to  you  to  read, 
is  still  greater  misery  to  me  to  set  down.  They  have  per- 
mitted you  to  see  the  strange  and  tragic  shapes  of  life  as 
one  sees  shadows  in  a  crystal.  The  head  of  Medusa  that 
turns  living  men  to  stone,  you  have  been  allowed  to  look 
at  in  a  mirror  merely.  You  yourself  have  walked  free 
among  the  flowers.  From  me  the  beautiful  world  of 
colour  and  motion  has  been  taken  away. 

I  will  begin  by  telling  you  that  I  blame  myself  terribly. 
As  I  sit  in  this  dark  cell  in  convict  clothes,  a  disgraced  and 
ruined  man,  I  blame  myself.  In  the  perturbed  and  fitful 
nights  of  anguish,  in  the  long  monotonous  days  of  pain,  it 
is  myself  I  blame.  I  blame  myself  for  allowing  an  in- 
tellectual friendship,  a  friendship  whose  primary  aim  was 
not  the  creation  and  contemplation  of  beautiful  things, 
entirely  to  dominate  my  life.  From  the  very  first  there 
was  too  wide  a  gap  between  us.  You  had  been  idle  at 
your  school,  worse  than  idle3  at  your  university.  You  did 
not  realise  that  an  artist,  and  especially  such  an  artist  as  I 

1  Oscar  told  me  this  story;  but  as  it  only  concerns  Lord  Alfred  Douglas,  and 
throws  no  new  light  on  Oscar's  character.  I  don't  use  it. 

'This  is  extravagant  condemnation  of  Lord  Alfred  Douglas'  want  of  education; 
for  he  certainly  knew  a  great  deal  about  the  poetic  art  even  then  and  he  has  since 
acquired  a  very  considerable  knowledge  of  "  Elizabethan  Song." 

•AVhoever  wishes  to  understand  this  bitter  allusion  should  read  his  father's  letter 
to  Lord  Alfred  Douglas  transcribed  in  the  first  volume.  The  Marquis  of  Queens- 
berry  doesn't  hesitate  to  hint  why  his  son  was  "sent  down  "  from  Oxford. 


APPENDIX  555 

am,  one,  that  is  to  say,  the  quality  of  whose  work  depends 
on  the  intensification  of  personality,  requires  an  intellec- 
tual atmosphere,  quiet,  peace,  and  solitude.  You  ad- 
mired my  work  when  it  was  finished:  you  enjoyed  the 
brilliant  successes  of  my  first  nights,  and  the  brilliant 
banquets  that  followed  them:  you  were  proud,  and  quite 
naturally  so,  of  being  the  intimate  friend  of  an  artist  so 
distinguished:  but  you  could  not  understand  the  condi- 
tions requisite  for  the  production  of  artistic  work.  I  am 
not  speaking  in  phrases  of  rhetorical  exaggeration,  but 
in  terms  of  absolute  truth  to  actual  fact  when  I  remind 
you  that  during  the  whole  time  we  were  together  I  never 
wrote  one  single  line.  Whether  at  Torquay,  Goring,  Lon- 
don, Florence,  or  elsewhere,  my  life,  as  long  as  you  were 
by  my  side,  was  entirely  sterile  and  uncreative.  And  with 
but  few  intervals,  you  were,  I  regret  to  say,  by  my  side 
always. 

I  remember,  for  instance,  in  September,  '93,  to  select 
merely  one  instance  out  of  many,  taking  a  set  of  chambers, 
purely  in  order  to  work  undisturbed,  as  I  had  broken  my 
contract  with  John  Hare,  for  whom  I  had  promised  to 
write  a  play,  and  who  was  pressing  me  on  the  subject. 
During  the  first  week  you  kept  away.  We  had,  not  un- 
naturally indeed,  differed  on  the  question  of  the  artistic 
value1  of  your  translation  of  Salom6.  So  you  contented 
yourself  with  sending  me  foolish  letters  on  the  subject. 
In  that  week  I  wrote  and  completed  in  every  detail,  as 
it  was  ultimately  performed,  the  first  act  of  an  A n  Ideal 
Husband,  The  second  week  you  returned,  and  my  work 
practically  had  to  be  given  up.  I  arrived  at  St.  James's 
Place  every  morning  at  11.30  in  order  to  have  the  oppor- 
tunity of  thinking  and  writing  without  the  interruption 
inseparable  from  my  own  household,  quiet  and  peaceful 
as  that  household  was.  But  the  attempt  was  vain.  At 
12  o'clock  you  drove  up  and  stayed  smoking  cigarettes 
and  chattering  till  1.30,  when  I  had  to  take  you  out  to 
luncheon  at  the  Cafe  Royal  or  the  Berkeley.  Luncheon 
with  its  liqueurs  lasted  usually  till  3.30.  For  an  hour  you 
retired  to  White's.  At  tea  time  you  appeared  again  and 
^fr.  Appendix:  "Criticisms  by  Robert  Ross." 


556  APPENDIX 

stayed  till  it  was  time  to  dress  for  dinner.  You  dined 
with  me  either  at  the  Savoy  or  at  Tite  Street.  We  did 
not  separate  as  a  rule  till  after  midnight,  as  supper  at 
Willis'  had  to  wind  up  the  entrancing  day.  That  was  my 
life  for  those  three  months,  every  single  day,  except  during 
the  four  days  when  you  went  abroad.  I  then,  of  course, 
had  to  go  over  to  Calais  to  fetch  you  back.  For  one  of  my 
nature  and  temperament  it  was  a  position  at  once  gro- 
tesque and  tragic. 

You  surely  must  realise  that  now.  You  must  see  now 
that  your  incapacity  of  being  alone:  your  nature  so  exi- 
gent in  its  persistent  claim  on  the  attention  and  time  of 
others:  your  lack  of  any  power  of  sustained  intellectual 
concentration:  the  unfortunate  accident — for  I  like  to 
think  it  was  no  more — that  you  had  not  been  able  to 
acquire  the  "Oxford  temper"  in  intellectual  matters, 
never,  I  mean,  been  one  who  could  play  gracefully  with 
ideas,  but  had  arrived  at  violence  of  opinion  merely — 
that  all  these  things,  combined  with  the  fact  that  your 
desires  and  your  interests  were  in  Life,  not  in  Art,  were 
as  destructive  to  your  own  progress  in  culture  as  they  were 
to  my  work  as  an  artist.  When  I  compare  my  friendship 
with  you  to  my  friendship  with  still  younger  men,  as  John 
Gray  and  Pierre  Louys,  I  feel  ashamed.  My  real  life,  my 
higher  life,  was  with  them  and  such  as  they. 

Of  the  appalling  results  of  my  friendship  with  you  I 
don't  speak  at  present.  I  am  thinking  merely  of  its  qual- 
ity while  it  lasted.  It  was  intellectually  degrading  to  me. 
You  had  the  rudiments1  of  an  artistic  temperament  in  its 
germ.  But  I  met  you  either  too  late  or  too  soon.  I  don't 
know  which.  When  you  were  away  I  was  all  right.  The 
moment,  in  the  early  December  of  the  year  to  which  I 
have  been  alluding,  I  had  succeeded  in  inducing  your 
mother  to  send  you  out  of  England,  I  collected  again  the 
torn  and  ravelled  web  of  my  imagination,  got  my  life  back 
into  my  own  hands,  and  not  merely  finished  the  three  re- 
maining acts  of  the  Ideal  Husband,  but  conceived  and  had 
almost  completed  two  other  plays  of  a  completely  different 

1  Oscar  is  not  flattering  his  friend  in  this:  Lord  Alfred  Douglas  has  written  two  or 
three  sonnets  which  rank  among  the  best  in  the  language. 


APPENDIX  557 

type,  the  Florentine  Tragedy  and  La  Sainte  Courtesane, 
when  suddenly,  unbidden,  unwelcome,  and  under  circum- 
stances fatal  to  my  happiness,  you  returned.  The  two 
works  left  then  imperfect  I  was  unable  to  take  up  again. 
The  mood  that  created  them  I  could  never  recover.  You 
now,  having  yourself  published  a  volume  of  verse,  will  be 
able  to  recognise  the  truth  of  everything  I  have  said  here. 
Whether  you  can  or  not  it  remains  as  a  hideous  truth  in 
the  very  heart  of  our  friendship.  While  you  were  with  me 
you  were  the  absolute  ruin  of  my  art,  and  in  allowing  you 
to  stand  persistently  between  Art  and  myself,  I  give  to 
myself  shame  and  blame  in  the  fullest  degree.  You  couldn't 
appreciate,  you  couldn't  know,  you  couldn't  understand. 
I  had  no  right  to  expect  it  of  you  at  all.  Your  interests 
were  merely  in  your  meals  and  moods.  Your  desires  were 
simply  for  amusements,  for  ordinary  or  less  ordinary 
pleasures.  They  were  what  your  temperament  needed,  or 
thought  it  needed  for  the  moment.  I  should  have  for- 
bidden you  my  house  and  my  chambers  except  when  I 
specially  invited  you.  I  blame  myself  without  reserve  for 
my  weakness.  It  was  merely  weakness.  One  half-hour 
with  Art  was  always  more  to  me  than  a  cycle  with  you. 
Nothing  really  at  any  period  of  my  life  was  ever  of  the 
smallest  importance1  to  me  compared  with  Art.  But  in  the 
case  of  an  artist,  weakness  is  nothing  less  than  a  crime 
when  it  is  a  weakness  that  paralyses  the  imagination. 

I  blame  myself  for  having  allowed  you  to  bring  me  to 
utter  and  discreditable  financial  ruin.  I  remember  one 
morning  in  the  early  October  of  '92,  sitting  in  the  yellow- 
ing woods  at  Bracknell  with  your  mother.  At  that  time 
I  knew  very  little  of  your  real  nature.  I  had  stayed  from 
a  Saturday  to  Monday  with  you  at  Oxford.  You  had 
stayed  with  me  at  Cromer  for  ten  days  and  played  golf. 
The  conversation  turned  on  you,  and  your  mother  began 
to  speak  to  me  about  your  character.  She  told  me  of 
your  two  chief  faults,  your  vanity,  and  your  being,  as  she 
termed  it,  "all  wrong  about  money."  I  have  a  distinct 
recollection  of  how  I  laughed.  I  had  no  idea  that  the  first 
would  bring  me  to  prison  and  the  second  to  bankruptcy. 

1  This  statement — more  than  half  true — is  Oscar  Wilde's  A  pologia  and  justification. 


APPENDIX 

I  thought  vanity  a  sort  of  graceful  flower  for  a  young  man 
to  wear,  as  for  extravagance — the  virtues  of  prudence  and 
thrift  were  not  in  my  own  nature  or  my  own  race.  But 
before  our  friendship  was  one  month  older  I  began  to  see 
what  your  mother  really  meant.  Your  insistence  on  a  life 
of  reckless  profusion:  your  incessant  demands  for  money: 
your  claim  that  all  your  pleasures  should  be  paid  for  by 
me,  whether  I  was  with  you  or  not,  brought  me,  after  some 
time,  into  serious  monetary  difficulties,  and  what  made 
the  extravagance  to  me,  at  any  rate,  so  monotonously 
uninteresting,  as  your  persistent  grasp  on  my  life  grew 
stronger  and  stronger,  was  that  the  money  was  spent  on 
little  more  than  the  pleasures  of  eating,  drinking  and  the 
like.  Now  and  then  it  is  a  joy  to  have  one's  table  red  with 
wine  and  roses,  but  you  outstripped  all  taste  and  temper- 
ance. You  demanded  without  grace  and  received  with- 
out thanks.  You  grew  to  think  that  you  had  a  sort  of 
right  to  live  at  my  expense,  and  in  a  profuse  luxury  to 
which  you  had  never  been  accustomed,  and  which,  for 
that  reason,  made  your  appetites  all  the  more  keen,  and 
at  the  end,  if  you  lost  money  gambling  in  some  Algiers 
Casino,  you  simply  telegraphed  next  morning  to  me  in 
London  to  lodge  the  amount  of  your  losses  to  your  account 
at  your  bank,  and  gave  the  matter  no  further  thought  of 
any  kind. 

When  I  tell  you  that  between  the  autumn  of  1892  and 
the  date  of  my  imprisonment,  I  spent  with  you  and  on 
you,  more  than  £5,000  in  actual  money,  irrespective  of  the 
bills  I  incurred,  you  will  have  some  idea  of  the  sort  of  life 
on  which  you  insisted.  Do  you  think  I  exaggerate?  My 
ordinary  expenses  with  you  for  an  ordinary  day  in  London 
— for  luncheon,  dinner,  supper,  amusements,  hansoms,  and 
the  rest  of  it — ranged  from  £12  to  £20,  and  the  week's 
expenses  were  naturally  in  proportion  and  ranged  from 
£80  to  £ 1 30.  For  our  three  months  at  Goring  my  expenses 
(rent,  of  course,  included)  were  £1,340.  Step  by  step 
with  the  Bankruptcy  Receiver  I  had  to  go  over  every  item 
of  my  life.  It  was  horrible.  "Plain  living  and  high 
thinking,"  was,  of  course,  an  ideal  you  could  not  at  that 
time  have  appreciated,  but  such  an  extravagance  was  a 


APPENDIX  559 

disgrace  to  both  of  us.  One  of  the  most  delightful  dinners 
I  remember  ever  having  had  is  one  Robbie  and  I  had  to- 
gether in  a  little  Soho  Cafe",  which  cost  about  as  many 
shillings  as  my  dinners  to  you  used  to  cost  pounds.  Out 
of  my  dinner  with  Robbie  came  the  first  and  best  of  all  my 
dialogues.  Idea,  title,  treatment,  mode,  everything  was 
struck  out  at  a  3  franc  500.  table  d'hdte.  Out  of  the  reck- 
less dinners  with  you  nothing  remains  but  the  memory 
that  too  much  was  eaten  and  too  much  was  drunk.  And 
my  yielding  to  your  demands  was  bad  for  you.  You  know 
that  now.  It  made  you  grasping  often:  at  times  not  a 
little  unscrupulous:  ungracious  always.  There  was,  on 
far  too  many  occasions,  too  little  joy  or  privilege  in  being 
your  host.  You  forgot — I  will  not  say  the  formal  courtesy 
of  thanks,  for  formal  courtesies  will  strain  a  close  friend- 
ship— but  simply  the  grace  of  sweet  companionship,  the 
charm  of  pleasant  conversation,  and  all  those  gentle  hu- 
manities that  make  life  lovely,  and  are  an  accompaniment 
to  life  as  music  might  be,  keeping  things  in  tune  and  rilling 
with  melody  the  harsh  or  silent  places.  And  though  it 
may  seem  strange  to  you  that  one  in  the  terrible  position 
in  which  I  am  situated,  should  find  a  difference  between 
one  disgrace  and  another,  still  I  frankly  admit  that  the 
folly  of  throwing  away  all  this  money  on  you,  and  letting 
you  squander  my  fortune  to  your  own  hurt  as  well  as  to 
mine,  gives  to  me  and  in  my  eyes  a  note  of  common  prof- 
ligacy to  my  bankruptcy  that  makes  me  doubly  ashamed 
of  it.  I  was  made  for  other  things. 

But  most  of  all  I  blame  myself  for  the  entire  ethical 
degradation  I  allowed  you  to  bring  on  me.  The  basis  of 
character  is  will  power,  and  my  will  power  became  abso- 
lutely subject1  to  yours.  It  sounds  a  grotesque  thing  to 
say,  but  it  is  none  the  less  true.  Those  incessant  scenes 
that  seemed  to  be  almost  physically  necessary  to  you,  and 
in  which  your  mind  and  body  grew  distorted,  and  you 
became  a  thing  as  terrible  to  look  at  as  to  listen  to:  that 
dreadful  mania  you  inherit  from  your  father,  the  mania 
for  writing  revolting  and  loathsome  letters:  your  entire 
lack  of  any  control  over  your  emotions  as  displayed  in 

1  This  is,  I  believe,  true  and  the  explanation  that  follows  is  probably  true  also. 


560  APPENDIX 

your  long  resentful  moods  of  sullen  silence,  no  less  than 
in  the  sudden  fits  of  almost  epileptic  rage:  all  these  things 
irureference  to  which  one  of  my  letters  to  you,  left  by  you 
lying  about  in  the  Savoy  or  some  other  hotel,  and  so  pro- 
duced in  court  by  your  father's  counsel,  contained  an 
entreaty  not  devoid  of  pathos,  had  you  at  that  time  been 
able  to  recognise  pathos  either  in  its  elements  or  its  ex- 
pression— these,  I  say,  were  the  origin  and  causes  of  my 
fatalgyielding  to  you  in  your  daily  increasing  demands. 
You  wore  me  out.  It  was  the  triumph  of  the  smaller  over 
the  bigger  nature.  It  was  the  case  of  that  tyranny  of  the 
weak  over  the  strong  which  somewhere  in  one  of  my  plays 
I  describe  as  being  "the  only  tyranny  that  lasts."  And 
it  was  inevitable.  In  every  relation  of  life  with  others  one 
has  to  find  some  moyen  de  vivre. 

I  had  always  thought  that  my  giving  up  to  you  in  small 
things  meant  nothing:  that  when  a  great  moment  arrived 
I  could  myself  re-assert  my  will  power  in  its  natural  su- 
periority. It  was  not  so.  At  the  great  moment  my  will 
power  completely  failed  me.  In  life  there  is  really  no 
great  or  small  thing.  All  things  are  of  equal  value  and 
of  equal  size.  My  habit — due  to  indifference  chiefly  at 
first — of  giving  up  to  you  in  everything  had  become  in- 
sensibly a  real  part  of  my  nature.  Without  my  knowing 
it,  it  had  stereotyped  my  temperament  to  one  permanent 
and  fatal  mood.  That  is  why,  in  the  subtle  epilogue  to 
the  first  edition  of  his  essays,  Pater  says  that  "Failure  is 
to  form  habits."  When  he  said  it  the  dull  Oxford  people 
thought  the  phrase  a  mere  wilful  inversion  of  the  some- 
what wearisome  text  of  Aristotelian  Ethics,  but  there  is  a 
wonderful,  a  terrible  truth  hidden  in  it.  I  had  allowed  you 
to  sap  my  strength  of  character,  and  to  me  the  formation 
of  a  habit  had  proved  to  be  not  failure  merely,  but  ruin. 
Ethically  you  had  been  even  still  more  destructive  to  me 
than  you  had  been  artistically. 

The  warrant  once  granted,  your  will,  of  course,  directed 
everything.  At  a  time  when  I  should  have  been  in  Lon- 
don taking  wise  counsel  and  calmly  considering  the  hide- 
ous trap  in  which  I  had  allowed  myself  to  be  caught — the 
booby  trap,  as  your  father  calls  it  to  the  present  day — 


APPENDIX  561 

you  insisted  on  my  taking  you  to  Monte  Carlo,  of  all  re- 
volting places  on  God's  earth,  that  all  day  and  all  night 
as  well,  you  might  gamble  as  long  as  the  casino  remained 
open.  As  for  me — baccarat1  having  no  charms  for  me — I 
was  left  alone  outside  by  myself.  You  refused  to  discuss 
even  for  five  minutes  the  position  to  which  you  and  your 
father  had  brought  me.  My  business  was  merely  to  pay 
your  hotel  expenses  and  your  losses.  The  slightest  allu- 
sion to  the  ordeal  awaiting  me  was  regarded  as  a  bore.  A 
new  brand  of  champagne  that  was  recommended  to  us 
had  more  interest  for  you.  On  our  return  to  London  those 
of  my  friends  who  really  desired  my  welfare  implored  me 
to  retire  abroad,  and  not  to  face  an  impossible  trial.  You 
imputed  mean  motives  to  them  for  giving  such  advice  and 
cowardice  to  me  for  listening  to  it.  You  forced  me  to 
stay  to  brazen  it  out,  if  possible,  in  the  box  by  absurd  and 
silly  perjuries.  At  the  end,  of  course,  I  was  arrested,  and 
your  father  became  the  hero  of  the  hour. 

As  far  as  I  can  make  out,  I  ended  my  friendship  with 
you  every  three  months  regularly.  And  each  time  that 
I  did  so  you  managed  by  means  of  entreaties,  telegrams, 
letters,  the  interposition  of  your  friends,  the  interposition 
of  mine,  and  the  like  to  induce  me  to  allow  you  back. 

But  the  froth  and  folly  of  our  life  grew  often  very  weari- 
some to  me:  it  was  only  in  the  mire  that  we  met:  and  fas- 
cinating, terribly  fascinating  though  the  one2  topic  round 
which  your  talk  invariably  centered  was,  still  at  the  end 
it  became  quite  monotonous  to  me.  I  was  often  bored  to 
death  by  it,  and  accepted  it  as  I  accepted  your  passion 
for  music  halls,  or  your  mania  for  absurd  extravagance  in 
eating  and  drinking,  or  any  other  of  your  to  me  less  at- 
tractive characteristics,  as  a  thing  that  is  to  say,  that  one 
simply  had  to  put  up  with,  a  part  of  the  high  price  one  had 
to  pay  for  knowing  you. 

When  you  came  one  Monday  evening  to  my  rooms,  ac- 
companied by  two3  of  your  friends,  I  found  myself  actually 
flying  abroad  next  morning  to  escape  from  you,  giving  my 

1  Baccarat  is  not  played  in  the  Casino:  roulette  and  trtnte  et  quaranle  are  the  games: 
roulette  was  Lord  Alfred  Douglas'  favourite. 
*  This  is  a  confession  almost  as  much  as  an  accusation. 
•Oscar  here  crosses  the  t's  and  dots  the  i's  of  his  charge. 


562  APPENDIX 

family  some  absurd  reason  for  my  sudden  departure,  and 
leaving  a  false  address  with  my  servant  for  fear  you  might 
follow  me  by  the  next  train 

Our  friendship  had  always  been  a  source  of  distress  to 
my  wife:  not  merely  because  she  had  never  liked  you 
personally,  but  because  she  saw  how  your  continual  com- 
panionship altered  me,  and  not  for  the  better. 

You  started  without  delay  for  Paris,  sending  me  passion- 
ate telegrams  on  the  road  to  beg  me  to  see  you  once,  at 
any  rate.  I  declined.  You  arrived  in  Paris  late  on  a 
Saturday  night  and  found  a  brief  letter  from  me  waiting 
for  you  at  your  hotel  stating  that  I  would  not  see  you. 
Next  morning  I  received  in  Tite  Street  a  telegram  of  some 
ten  or  eleven  pages  in  length  from  you.  You  stated  in  it 
that  no  matter  what  you  had  done  to  me  you  could  not 
believe  that  I  would  absolutely  decline  to  see  you;  you 
reminded  me  that  for  the  sake  of  seeing  me  even  for  one 
hour  you  had  travelled  six  days  and  six  nights  across 
Europe  without  stopping  once  on  the  way;  you  made  what 
I  must  admit  was  a  most  pathetic  appeal,  and  ended  with 
what  seemed  to  me  a  threat  of  suicide  and  one  not  thinly 
veiled.  You  had  yourself  often  told  me  how  many  of  your 
race  there  had  been  who  had  stained  their  hands  in  their 
own  blood :  your  uncle  certainly,  your  grandfather  possibly; 
many  others  in  the  mad  bad  line  from  which  you  come. 
Pity,  my  old  affection  for  you,  regard  for  your  mother,  to 
whom  your  death  under  such  dreadful  circumstances  would 
have  been  a  blow  almost  too  great  for  her  to  bear,  the 
horror  of  the  idea  that  so  young  a  life,  and  one  that 
amidst  all  its  ugly  faults  had  still  promise  of  beauty  in  it, 
should  come  to  so  revolting  an  end,  mere  humanity  itself 
— all  these,  if  excuses  be  necessary,  must  serve  as  an  ex- 
cuse for  consenting  to  accord  you  one  last  interview. 
When  I  arrived  in  Paris,  your  tears  breaking  out  again 
and  again  all  through  the  evening,  and  falling  over  your 
cheeks  like  rain  as  we  sat  at  dinner  first  at  Voisin's,  at 
supper  at  Paillard's  afterwards,  the  unfeigned  joy  you 
evinced  at  seeing  me,  holding  my  hand  whenever  you 
could,  as  though  you  were  a  gentle  and  penitent  child ; 
your  contrition,  so  simple  and  sincere  at  the  moment  made 


APPENDIX  563 

me  consent  to  renew  our  friendship.  Two  days  after  we 
had  returned  to  London,  your  father  saw  you  having 
luncheon  with  me  at  the  Cafe  Royal,  joined  my  table, 
drank  of  my  wine,  and  that  afternoon,  through  a  letter  ad- 
dressed to  you,  began  his  first  attack  on  me.  ...  It  may 
be  strange,  but  I  had  once  again,  I  will  not  say  the  chance, 
but  the  duty,  of  separating  from  you  forced  on  me.  I 
need  hardly  remind  you  that  I  refer  to  your  conduct  to 
me  at  Brighton  from  October  loth  to  i3th,  1894.  Three 
years  is  a  long  time  for  you  to  go  back.  But  we  who  live 
in  prison,  and  in  whose  lives  there  is  no  event  but  sorrow, 
have  to  measure  time  by  throbs  of  pain,  and  the  record  of 
bitter  moments.  We  have  nothing  else  to  think  of.  Suf- 
fering, curious  as  it  may  sound  to  you,  is  the  means  by 
which  we  exist,  because  it  is  the  only  means  by  which  we 
become  conscious  of  existing;  and  the  remembrance  of 
suffering  in  the  past  is  necessary  to  us  as  the  warrant,  the 
evidence,  of  our  continued  identity.  Between  myself  and 
the  memory  of  joy  lies  a  gulf  no  less  deep  than  that  be- 
tween myself  and  joy  in  its  actuality.  Had  our  life  to- 
gether been  as  the  world  fancied  it  to  be,  one  simply  of 
pleasure,  profligacies  and  laughter,  I  would  not  be  able  to 
recall  a  single  passage  in  it.  It  is  because  it  was  full  of 
moments  and  days  tragic,  bitter,  sinister  in  their  warnings, 
dull  or  dreadful  in  their  monotonous  scenes  and  unseemly 
violences,  that  I  can  see  or  hear  each  separate  incident  in 
its  detail,  can  indeed  see  or  hear  little  else.  So  much  in 
this  place  do  men  live  by  pain  that  my  friendship  with 
you,  in  the  way  through  which  I  am  forced  to  remember 
it,  appears  to  me  always  as  a  prelude  consonant  with  those 
varying  modes  of  anguish  which  each  day  I  have  to  realise, 
nay  more,  to  necessitate  them  even;  as  though  my  life, 
whatever  it  had  seemed  to  myself  and  others,  had  all  the 
while  been  a  real  symphony  of  sorrow,  passing  through  its 
rhythmically  linked  movements  to  its  certain  resolution, 
with  that  inevitableness  that  in  Art  characterises  the 

treatment  of  every  great  theme I  spoke  of  your 

conduct  to  me  on  three  successive  days  three  years  ago, 
did  I  not? 
I  entertained  you,  of  course,  I  had  no  option  in  the 


564  APPENDIX 

matter;  but  elsewhere,  and  not  in  my  own  home.  The 
next  day,  Monday,  your  companion  returned  to  the  duties1 
of  his  profession,  and  you  stayed  with  me.  Bored  with 
Worthing,  and  still  more,  I  have  no  doubt,  with  my  fruit- 
less efforts  to  concentrate  my  attention  on  my  play,  the 
only  thing  that  really  interested  me  at  the  moment,  you 
insist  on  being  taken  to  the  Grand  Hotel  at  Brighton. 

The  night  we  arrive  you  fall  ill  with  that  dreadful  low 
fever  that  is  foolishly  called  the  influenza,  your  second, 
if  not  your  third,  attack.  I  need  not  remind  you  how  I 
waited  on  you,  and  tended  you,  not  merely  with  every 
luxury  of  fruit,  flowers,  presents,  books  and  the  like  that 
money  can  procure,  but  with  that  affection,  tenderness 
and  love  that,  whatever  you  may  think,  is  not  to  be  pro- 
cured for  money.  Except  for  an  hour's  walk  in  the  morn- 
ing, an  hour's  drive  in  the  afternoon,  I  never  left  the  hotel. 
I  got  special  grapes  from  London  for  you  as  you  did  not 
care  for  those  the  hotel  supplied ;  invented  things  to  please 
you;  remained  either  with  you  or  in  the  room  next  to  yours; 
sat  with  you  every  evening  to  quiet  or  amuse  you. 

After  four  or  five  days  you  recover,  and  I  take  lodgings 
in  order  to  try  and  finish  my  play.  You,  of  course,  accom- 
pany me.  The  morning  after  the  day  on  which  we  were 
installed  I  feel  extremely  ill. 

The  doctor  finds  I  have  caught  the  influenza  from  you. 

There  is  no  manservant  to  wait  on  me,  not  even  any 
one  to  send  out  on  a  message,  or  to  get  what  the  doctor 
orders.  But  you  are  there.  I  feel  no  alarm.  The  next 
two  days  you  leave  me  entirely  alone  without  care,  with- 
out attendance,  without  anything.  It  was  not  a  question 
of  grapes,  flowers  and  charming  gifts:  it  was  a  question  of 
mere  necessities. 

And  when  I  was  left  all  day  without  anything  to  read, 
you  calmly  tell  me  that  you  bought  the  book  I  wanted, 
and  that  they  had  promised  to  send  it  down,  a  statement 
which  I  found  by  chance  afterwards  to  have  been  entirely 
untrue,  from  beginning  to  end.  All  the  while  you  are,  of 
course,  living  at  my  expense,  driving  about,  dining  at  the 
Grand  Hotel,  and  indeed  only  appearing  in  my  room  for 

1  The  previous  accusation  repeated,  with  bitterest  sarcasm. 


APPENDIX  565 

money.  On  the  Saturday  night,  you  having  completely 
left  me  unattended  and  alone  since  the  morning,  I  asked 
you  to  come  back  after  dinner,  and  sit  with  me  for  a  little. 
With  irritable  voice  and  ungracious  manner  you  promise 
to  do  so.  I  wait  till  1 1  o'clock,  and  you  never  appear. 

At  three  in  the  morning,  unable  to  sleep,  and  tortured 
with  thirst,  I  made  my  way  in  the  dark  and  cold,  down  to 
the  sitting-room  in  the  hopes  of  finding  some  water  there. 
I  found  you.  You  fell  on  me  with  every  hideous  word 
an  intemperate  mood,  an  undisciplined  and  untutored 
nature  could  suggest.  By  the  terrible  alchemy  of  egotism 
you  converted  your  remorse  into  rage.  You  accused  me 
of  selfishness  in  expecting  you  to  be  with  me  when  I  was 
ill;  of  standing  between  you  and  your  amusements;  of 
trying  to  deprive  you  of  your  pleasures. 

You  told  me,  and  I  know  it  was  quite  true,  that  you 
had  come  back  at  midnight  simply  in  order  to  change 
your  dress-clothes,  and  go  out  again. 

I  told  you  at  length  to  leave  the  room;  you  pretended 
to  do  so,  but  when  I  lifted  up  my  head  from  the  pillow 
in  which  I  had  buried  it,  you  were  still  there,  and  with 
brutality  of  laughter  and  hysteria  of  rage  you  moved  sud- 
denly towards  me.  A  sense  of  horror  came  over  me,  for 
what  exact  reason  I  could  not  make  out;  but  I  got  out  of 
my  bed  at  once,  and  bare-footed  and  just  as  I  was,  made 
my  way  down  the  two  flights  of  stairs  to  the  sitting-room. 

You  returned  silently  for  money;  took  what  you  could 
find  on  the  dressing  table,  and  mantelpiece,  and  left  the 
house  with  your  luggage.  Need  I  tell  you  what  I  thought 
of  you  during  the  two  lonely  wretched  days  of  illness  that 
followed?  Is  it  necessary  for  me  to  state,  that  I  saw 
clearly  that  it  would  be  a  dishonour  to  myself  to  continue 
even  an  acquaintance  with  such  a  one  as  you  had  showed 
yourself  to  be?  That  I  recognised  that  the  ultimate  mo- 
ment had  come  and  recognised  it  as  being  really  a  great 
relief?  And  that  I  knew  that  for  the  future  my  art  and 
life  would  be  freer  and  better  and  more  beautiful  in  every 
possible  way?  Ill  as  I  was,  I  felt  at  ease.  The  fact  that 
the  separation  was  irrevocable  gave  me  peace. 

Wednesday  was  my  birthday.    Amongst  the  telegrams 


566  APPENDIX 

and  communications  on  my  table  was  a  letter  in  your 
handwriting.  I  opened  it  with  a  sense  of  sadness  on  me. 
I  knew  that  the  time  had  gone  by  when  a  pretty  phrase,  an 
expression  of  affection,  a  word  of  sorrow,  would  make  me 
take  you  back.  But  I  was  entirely  deceived.  I  had  un- 
derrated you. 

You  congratulated  me  on  my  prudence  in  leaving  the 
sick  bed,  on  my  sudden  flight  downstairs.  "It  was  an 
ugly  moment  for  you,"  you  said,  "uglier  than  you  imag- 
ine." Ah!  I  felt  it  but  too  well.  What  it  had  really  meant 
I  do  not  know;  whether  you  had  with  you  the  pistol  you 
had  bought  to  try  to  frighten  your  father  with,  and  that 
thinking  it  to  be  unloaded,  you  had  once  fired  off  in  a 
public  restaurant  in  my  company ;  whether  your  hand  was 
moving  towards  a  common  dinner  knife  that  by  chance 
was  lying  on  the  table  between  us;  whether  forgetting  in 
your  rage  your  low1  stature  and  inferior  strength,  you  had 
thought  of  some  special  personal  insult,  or  attack  even, 
as  I  lay  ill  there;  I  could  not  tell.  I  do  not  know  to  the 
present  moment.  All  I  know  is  that  a  feeling  of  utter 
horror  had  come  over  me,  and  that  I  had  felt  that  unless 
I  left  the  room  at  once  and  got  away,  you  would  have  done 
or  tried  to  do  something  that  would  have  been,  even  to 
you,  a  source  of  lifelong  shame 

On  your  return  to  town  from  the  actual  scene  of  the 
tragedy  to  which  you  had  been  summoned,  you  came  at 
once  to  me  very  sweetly  and  very  simply,  in  your  suit  of 
woe,  and  with  your  eyes  dim  with  tears.  You  sought 
consolation  and  help,  as  a  child  might  seek  it.  I  opened 
to  you  my  house,  my  home,  my  heart.  I  made  your  sor- 
row mine  also,  that  you  might  have  help  in  bearing  it. 
Never  even  by  one  word,  did  I  allude  to  your  conduct  to- 
wards me,  to  the  revolting  scenes,  and  the  revolting  letter. 

The  gods  are  strange.  It  is  not  our  vices  only  they 
make  instruments  to  scourge  us.  They  bring  us  to  ruin 
through  what  in  us  is  good,  gentle,  humane,  loving.  But 
for  my  pity  and  affection  for  you  and  yours,  I  would  not 
now  be  weeping  in  this  terrible  place. 

1Lord  Alfred  Douglas  is  well  above  the  middle  height:  he  holds  himself  badly 
but  is  fully  five  feet  nine  inches  in  height. 


APPENDIX  567 

Of  course,  I  discern  in  all  our  relations,  not  destiny 
merely,  but  Doom — Doom  that  walks  always  swiftly,  be- 
cause she  goes  to  the  shedding  of  blood.  Through  your 
father  you  come  of  a  race,  marriage  with  whom  is  horrible, 
friendship  fatal,  and  that  lays  violent  hands  either  on  its 
own  life,  or  on  the  lives  of  others. 

In  every  little  circumstance  in  which  the  ways  of  our 
lives  met,  in  every  point  of  great  or  seemingly  trivial  im- 
port in  which  you  came  to  me  for  pleasure  or  help,  in  the 
small  chances,  the  slight  accidents  that  look,  in  their  rela- 
tion to  life,  to  be  no  more  than  the  dust  that  dances  in 
a  beam,  or  the  leaf  that  flutters  from  a  tree,  ruin  followed 
like  the  echo  of  a  bitter  cry,  or  the  shadow  that  hunts  with 
the  beast  of  prey. 

Our  friendship  really  begins  with  your  begging  me,  in  a 
most  pathetic  and  charming  letter,  to  assist  you  in  a  posi- 
tion appalling  to  anyone,  doubly  so  to  a  young  man  at 
Oxford.  I  do  so,  and  ultimately,  through  your  using  my 
name  as  your  friend  with  Sir  George  Lewis  I  begin  to  lose 
his  esteem  and  friendship,  a  friendship  of  fifteen  [years' 
standing.  When  I  was  deprived  of  his  advice  and  help 
and  regard,  I  was  deprived  of  the  one  great  safeguard  of 
my  life.  You  send  me  a  very  nice  poem  of  the  under- 
graduate school  of  verse  for  my  approval.  I  reply  by  a 
letter  of  fantastic  literary  conceits;  I  compare  you  to 
Hylas,  or  Hyacinth,  Jonquil  or  Narcissus,  or  some  one 
whom  the  Great  God  of  Poetry  favoured,  and  honoured 
with  his  love.  The  letter  is  like  a  passage  from  one  of 
Shakespeare's  sonnets  transposed  to  a  minor  key. 

It  was,  let  me  say  frankly,  the  sort  of  letter  I  would, 
in  a  happy,  if  wilful  moment,  have  written  to  any  graceful 
young  man  of  either  university  who  had  sent  me  a  poem 
of  his  own  making,  certain  that  he  would  have  sufficient 
wit,  or  culture,  to  interpret  rightly  its  fantastic  phrases. 
Look  at  the  history  of  that  letter!  It  passes  from  you 
into  the  hands  of  a  loathsome  companion1,  from  him  to  a 
gang  of  blackmailers,  copies  of  it  are  sent  about  London 
to  my  friends,  and  to  the  manager2  of  the  theatre  where  my 
work  is  being  performed,  every  construction  but  the  right 

1  The  old  accusation.  *  Mr.  Beerbohm  Tree. 


568  APPENDIX 

one  is  put  on  it,  society  is  thrilled  with  the  absurd  rumours 
that  I  have  had  to  pay  a  high  sum  of  money  for  having 
written  an  infamous  letter  to  you;  this  forms  the  basis  of 
your  father's  worst  attack. 

I  produce  the  original  letter  myself  in  court  to  show 
what  it  really  is;  it  is  denounced  by  your  father's  counsel 
as  a  revolting  and  insidious  attempt  to  corrupt  innocence; 
ultimately  it  forms  part  of  a  criminal  charge;  the  crown 
takes  it  up;  the  judge  sums  up  on  it  with  little  learning 
and  much  morality;  I  go  to  prison  for  it  at  last.  That  is 
the  result  of  writing  you  a  charming  letter. 

It  makes  me  feel  sometimes  as  if  you  yourself  had  been 
merely  a  puppet  worked  by  some  secret  and  unseen  hand 
to  bring  terrible  events  to  a  terrible  issue.  But  puppets 
themselves  have  passions.  They  will  bring  a  new  plot 
into  what  they  are  presenting,  and  twist  the  ordered  issue 
of  vicissitude  to  suit  some  whim  or  appetite  of  their  own. 
To  be  entirely  free,  and  at  the  same  time  entirely  domi- 
nated by  law,  is  the  eternal  paradox  of  human  life  that  we 
realise  at  every  moment;  and  this,  I  often  think,  is  the 
only  explanation  possible  of  your  nature,  if  indeed  for  the 
profound  and  terrible  mystery  of  a  human  soul  there  is  any 
explanation  at  all,  except  one  that  makes  the  mystery  all 
the  more  marvellous  still. 

I  thought  life  was  going  to  be  a  brilliant  comedy,  and 
that  you  were  to  be  one  of  the  graceful  figures  in  it.  I 
found  it  to  be  a  revolting  and  repellent  tragedy,  and  that 
the  sinister  occasion  of  the  great  catastrophe,  sinister  in 
its  concentration  of  aim  and  intensity  of  narrowed  will 
power,  was  yourself  stripped  of  the  mask  of  joy  and  pleas- 
ure by  which  you,  no  less  than  I,  had  been  deceived  and 
led  astray. 

The  memory  of  our  friendship  is  the  shadow  that  walks 
with  me  here:  that  seems  never  to  leave  me:  that  wakes 
me  up  at  night  to  tell  me  the  same  story  over  and  over 
till  its  wearisome  iteration  makes  all  sleep  abandon  me 
till  dawn:  at  dawn  it  begins  again:  it  follows  me  into  the 
prison  yard  and  makes  me  talk  to  myself  as  I  tramp 
round:  each  detail  that  accompanied  each  dreadful  mo- 
ment I  am  forced  to  recall :  there  is  nothing  that  happened 


APPENDIX  569 

in  those  ill-starred  years  that  I  cannot  recreate  in  that 
chamber  of  the  brain  which  is  set  apart  for  grief  or  for 
despair;  every  strained  note  of  your  voice,  every  twitch 
and  gesture  of  your  nervous  hands,  every  bitter  word, 
every  poisonous  phrase  comes  back  to  me:  I  remember 
the  street  or  river  down  which  we  passed:  the  wall  or 
woodland  that  surrounded  us;  at  what  figure  on  the  dial 
stood  the  hands  of  the  clock;  which  way  went  the  wings 
of  the  wind,  the  shape  and  colour  of  the  moon. 

There  is,  I  know,  one  answer  to  all  that  I  have  said  to 
you,  and  that  is  that  you  loved  me:  that  all  through  those 
two  and  a  half  years  during  which  the  fates  were  weaving 
into  one  scarlet  pattern  the  threads  of  our  divided  lives 
you  really  loved  me. 

Though  I  saw  quite  clearly  that  my  position  in  the 
world  of  art,  the  interest  that  my  personality  had  always 
excited,  my  money,  the  luxury  in  which  I  lived,  the  thou- 
sand and  one  things  that  went  to  make  up  a  life  so  charm- 
ingly and  so  wonderfully  inprobable  as  mine  was,  were, 
each  and  all  of  them,  elements  that  fascinated  you  and 
made  you  cling  to  me;  yet  besides  all  this  there  was  some- 
thing more,  some  strange  attraction  for  you:  you  loved 
me  far  better  than  you  loved  anyone  else.  But  you,  like 
myself,  have  had  a  terrible  tragedy  in  your  life,  though 
one  of  an  entirely  opposite  character  to  mine.  Do  you 
want  to  learn  what  it  was?  It  was  this.  In  you,  hate 
was  always  stronger  than  love.  Your  hatred1  of  your 
father  was  of  such  stature  that  it  entirely  outstripped, 
overgrew,  and  overshadowed  your  love  of  me.  There  was 
no  struggle  between  them  at  all,  or  but  little;  of  such 
dimensions  was  your  hatred  and  of  such  monstrous  growth. 
You  did  not  realise  that  there  was  no  room  for  both  pas- 
sions in  the  same  soul:  they  cannot  live  together  in  that 
fair  carven  house.  Love  is  fed  by  the  imagination,  by 
which  we  become  wiser  than  we  know,  better  than  we 
feel,  nobler  than  we  are;  by  which  we  can  see  life  as  a 
whole;  by  which  and  by  which  alone,  we  can  understand 
others  in  their  real  as  in  their  ideal  relations.  Only  what 
is  fine,  and  finely  conceived,  can  feed  love.  But  anything 

1  The  very  truth,  it  seems  to  me. 


57°  APPENDIX 

will  feed  hate.  There  was  not  a  glass  of  champagne  that 
you  drank,  not  a  rich  dish  that  you  ate  of  in  all  those  years, 
that  did  not  feed  your  hate  and  make  it  fat.  So  to  gratify 
it,  you  gambled  with  my  life,  as  you  gambled  with  my 
money,  carelessly,  recklessly,  indifferent  to  the  conse- 
quences. If  you  lost,  the  loss  would  not,  you  fancied,  be 
yours.  If  you  won,  yours,  you  knew,  would  be  the  exulta- 
tion and  the  advantages  of  victory. 

Hate  blinds  people.  You  were  not  aware  of  that.  Love 
can  read  the  writing  on  the  remotest  star,  but  hate  so 
blinded  you  that  you  could  see  no  further  than  the  narrow, 
walled  in,  and  already  lust-withered  garden  of  your  com- 
mon desires.  Your  terrible  lack  of  imagination,  the  one 
really  fatal  defect  in  your  character,  was  entirely  the  result 
of  the  hate  that  lived  in  you.  Subtly,  silently,  and  in 
secret,  hate  gnawed  at  your  nature,  as  the  lichen  bites  at 
the  root  of  some  sallow  plant,  till  you  grew  to  see  nothing 
but  the  most  meagre  interests  and  the  most  petty  aims. 
That  faculty  in  you  which  love  would  have  fostered,  hate 
poisoned  and  paralysed. 

The  idea  of  your  being  the  object  of  a  terrible  quarrel 
between  your  father  and  a  man  of  my  position  seemed  to 
delight  you. 

You  scented  the  chance  of  a  public  scandal  and  flew 
to  it.  The  prospect  of  a  battle  in  which  you  would  be 
safe  delighted  you. 

You  know  what  my  art  was  to  me,  the  great  primal  note 
by  which  I  had  revealed,  first  myself  to  myself,  and  then 
myself  to  the  world,  the  great  passion  of  my  life,  the  love 
to  which  all  other  loves  were  as  marsh  water  to  red  wine, 
or  the  glow  worm  of  the  marsh  to  the  magic  mirror  of  the 

moon Don't  you  understand  now  that  your  lack 

of  imagination  was  the  one  really  fatal  defect  of  your  char- 
acter? What  you  had  to  do  was  quite  simple,  and  quite 
clear  before  you;  but  hate  had  blinded  you,  and  you  could 
see  nothing. 

Life  is  quite  lovely  to  you.  And  yet,  if  you  are  wise, 
and  wish  to  find  life  much  lovelier  still,  and  in  a  different 
manner  you  will  let  the  reading  of  this  terrible  letter — for 
such  I  know  it  is — prove  to  you  as  important  a  crisis  and 


APPENDIX  571 

turning  point  of  your  life  as  the  writing  of  it  is  to  me. 
Your  pale  face  used  to  flush  easily  with  wine  or  pleasure. 
If,  as  you  read  what  is  here  written,  it  from  time  to  time 
becomes  scorched,  as  though  by  a  furnace  blast,  with 
shame,  it  will  be  all  the  better  for  you.  The  supreme  vice 
is  shallowness.  Whatever  is  realised  is  right. 

How  clearly  I  saw  it  then,  as  now,  I  need  not  tell  you. 
But  I  said  to  myself,  "At  all  costs  I  must  keep  love  in  my 
heart.  If  I  go  into  prison  without  love,  what  will  become 
of  my  soul?"  The  letters  I  wrote  to  you  at  that  time 
from  Holloway  were  my  efforts  to  keep  love  as  the  domi- 
nant note  of  my  own  nature.  I  could,  if  I  had  chosen,  have 
torn  you  to  pieces  with  bitter  reproaches.  I  could  have 
rent  you  with  maledictions. 

The  sins  of  another  were  being  placed  to  my  account. 
Had  I  so  chosen,  I  could  on  either  trial  have  saved  myself 
at  his  expense,  not  from  shame  indeed,  but  from  imprison- 
ment.1 Had  I  cared  to  show  that  the  crown  witnesses 
— the  three  most  important — had  been  carefully  coached 
by  your  father  and  his  solicitors,  not  in  reticences  merely, 
but  in  assertions,  in  the  absolute  transference  deliberate, 
plotted,  and  rehearsed,  of  the  actions  and  doings  of  some- 
one else  on  to  me,  I  could  have  had  each  one  of  them  dis- 
missed from  the  box  by  the  judge,  more  summarily  than 
even  wretched  perjured  Atkins  was.  I  could  have  walked 
out  of  court  with  my  tongue  in  my  cheek,  and  my  hands 
in  my  pockets,  a  free  man.  The  strongest  pressure  was 
put  upon  me  to  do  so,  I  was  earnestly  advised,  begged, 
entreated  to  do  so  by  people,  whose  sole  interest  was  my 
welfare,  and  the  welfare  of  my  house.  But  I  refused. 
I  did  not  choose  to  do  so.  I  have  never  regretted  my 
decision  for  a  single  moment,  even  in  the  most  bitter 
periods  of  my  imprisonment.  Such  a  course  of  action 
would  have  been  beneath  me.  Sins  of  the  flesh  are  noth- 
ing. They  are  maladies  for  physicians  to  cure,  if  they 
should  be  cured.  Sins  of  the  soul  alone  are  shameful. 
To  have  secured  my  acquittal  by  such  means  would  have 
been  a  life-long  torture  to  me.  But  do  you  really  think 

1  Proving  another  guilty  would  not  have  exculpated  Oscar.    Readers  of  my  book 
will  remember  that  I  urged  Oscar  to  tell  the  truth  and  how  he  answered  me. 


572  APPENDIX 

that  you  were  worthy  of  the  love  I  was  showing  you  then, 
or  that  for  a  single  moment  I  thought  you  were?  Do  you 
really  think  that  any  period  of  our  friendship  you  were 
worthy  of  the  love  I  showed  you,  or  that  for  a  single  mo- 
ment I  thought  you  were?  I  knew  you  were  not.  But  love 
does  not  traffic  in  a  market  place,  nor  use  a  huckster's  scales. 
Its  joy,  like  the  joy  of  the  intellect,  is  to  feel  itself  alive. 
The  aim  of  love  is  to  love;  no  more,  and  no  less.  You 
were  my  enemy;  such  an  enemy  as  no  man  ever  had.  I 
had  given  you  my  life;  and  to  gratify  the  lowest  and  most 
contemptible  of  all  human  passions,  hatred  and  vanity  and 
greed,  you  had  thrown  it  away.  In  less  than  three  years 
you  had  entirely  ruined  me  from  every  point  of  view. 

After  my  terrible  sentence,  when  the  prison  dress  was  on 
me,  and  the  prison  house  closed,  I  sat  amidst  the  ruins  of 
my  wonderful  life,  crushed  by  anguish,  bewildered  with 
terror,  dazed  through  pain.  But  I  would  not  hate  you. 
Every  day  I  said  to  myself,  "I  must  keep  love  in  my  heart 
to-day,  else  how  shall  I  live  through  the  day?  "  I  reminded 
myself  that  you  meant  no  evil  to  me  at  any  rate 

It  all  flashed  across  me,  and  I  remember  that  for  the 
first  and  last  time  in  my  entire  prison  life,  I  laughed.  In 
that  laugh  was  all  the  scorn  of  all  the  world.  Prince 
Fleur  de  lys !  I  saw  that  nothing  that  had  happened  had 
made  you  realise  a  single  thing.  You  were,  in  your  own 
eyes,  still  the  graceful  prince  of  a  trivial  comedy,  not  the 
sombre  figure  of  a  tragic  show. 

Had  there  been  nothing  in  your  heart  to  cry  out  against 
so  vulgar  a  sacrilege,  you  might  at  least  have  remembered 
the  sonnet  he  wrote  who  saw  with  such  sorrow  and  scorn 
the  letters  of  John  Keats  sold  by  public  auction  in  London, 
and  have  understood  at  last  the  real  meaning  of  my  lines: 

" ....    I  think  they  love  not  art 

Who  break  the  crystal  of  a  poet's  heart 

That  small  and  sickly  eyes  may  glare  or  gloat." 

One  cannot  always  keep  an  adder  in  one's  breast  to  feed 
on  one,  nor  rise  up  every  night  to  sow  thorns  in  the  garden 
of  one's  soul. 

I  cannot  allow  you  to  go  through  life  bearing  in  your 
heart  the  burden  of  having  ruined  a  man  like  me. 


APPENDIX  573 

Does  it  ever  occur  to  you  what  an  awful  position  I  would 
have  been  in  if,  for  the  last  two  years,  during  my  appalling 
sentence,  I  had  been  dependent  on  you  as  a  friend?  Do 
you  ever  think  of  that?  Do  you  ever  feel  any  gratitude 
to  those  who  by  kindness  without  stint,  devotion  without 
limit,  cheerfulness  and  joy  in  giving,  have  lightened  my 
black  burden  for  me,  have  arranged  my  future  life  for  me, 
have  visited  me  again  and  again,  have  written  to  me  beau- 
tiful and  sympathetic  letters,  have  managed  my  affairs 
for  me,  have  stood  by  me  in  the  teeth  of  obloquy,  taunt, 
open  sneer  or  insult  even?  I  thank  God  every  day  that 
he  gave  me  friends  other  than  you.  I  owe  everything  to 
them.  The  very  books  in  my  cell  are  paid  for  by  Robbie 
out  of  his  pocket  money.  From  the  same  source1  are  to 
come  clothes  for  me  when  I  am  released.  I  am  not 
ashamed  of  taking  a  thing  that  is  given  by  love  and  affec- 
tion. I  am  proud  of  it.  But  do  you  ever  think  of  what 
friends  such  as  More  Adey,  Robbie,  Robert  Sherard,  Frank 
Harris,  and  Arthur  Clifton  have  been  to  me  in  giving  me 
comfort,  help,  affection,  sympathy  and  the  like?  .... 

I  know  that  your  mother,  Lady  Queensberry,  puts  the 
blame  on  me.  I  hear  of  it,  not  from  people  who  know 
you,  but  from  people  who  do  not  know  you,  and  do  not 
desire  to  know  you.  I  hear  of  it  often.  •  She  talks  of  the 
influence  of  an  elder  over  a  younger  man,  for  instance.  It 
is  one  of  her  favourite  attitudes  towards  the  question,  as 
it  is  always  a  successful  appeal  to  popular  prejudice  and 
ignorance.  I  need  not  ask  you  what  influence  I  had  over 
you.  You  know  I  had  none. 

It  was  one  of  your  frequent  boasts  that  I  had  none,  the 
only  one  indeed,  that  was  well  founded.  What  was  there, 
as  a  mere  matter  of  fact,  in  you  that  I  could  influence? 
Your  brain?  It  was  undeveloped.  Your  imagination? 
It  was  dead.  Your  heart?  It  was  not  yet  born.  Of  all 
the  people  who  have  ever  crossed  my  life,  you  were  the  one, 
and  the  only  one,  I  was  unable  in  any  way  to  influence  in 
any  direction. 

I  waited  month  after  month  to  hear  from  you.    Even 

1  As  will  be  seen  from  a  letter  of  Oscar  Wilde  which  I  reproduce  later,  I  supplied 
the  clothes. 


574  APPENDIX 

if  I  had  not  been  waiting  but  had  shut  the  doors  against 
you,  you  should  have  remembered  that  no  one  can  possi- 
bly shut  the  doors  against  love  forever.  The  unjust  judge 
in  the  gospels  rises  up  at  length  to  give  a  just  decision 
because  justice  comes  daily  knocking  at  his  door:  and  at 
night  time  the  friend,  in  whose  heart  there  is  no  real 
friendship,  yields  at  length  to  his  friend  "because  of  his  im- 
portunity.' '  There  is  no  prison  in  any  world  into  which  love 
cannot  force  an  entrance.  If  you  did  not  understand  that, 

you  did  not  understand  anything  about  love  at  all 

Write  to  me  with  full  frankness,  about  yourself:  about 
your  life:  your  friends:  your  occupations:  your  books. 
Whatever  you  have  to  say  for  yourself,  say  it  without 
fear.  Don't  write  what  you  don't  mean:  that  is  all.  If 
anything  in  your  letter  is  false  or  counterfeit  I  shall  de- 
tect it  by  the  ring  at  once.  It  is  not  for  nothing,  or  to 
no  purpose  that  in  my  lifelong  cult  of  literature,  I  have 
made  myself, 

"  Miser  of  sound  and  syllable,  no  less 
Than  Midas  of  his  coinage." 

Remember  also  that  I  have  yet  to  know  you.  Perhaps 
we  have  yet  to  know  each  other.  For  myself,  I  have  but 
this  last  thing  to  say.  Do  not  be  afraid  of  the  past.  If 
people  tell  you  that  it  is  irrevocable,  do  not  believe  them. 
The  past,  the  present  and  the  future  are  but  one  moment 
in  the  sight  of  God,  in  whose  sight  we  should  try  to  live. 
Time  and  space,  succession  and  extension,  are  merely  ac- 
cidental conditions  of  a  thought.  The  imagination  can 
transcend  them  and  more,  in  a  free  sphere  of  ideal  ex- 
istences. Things,  also,  are  in  their  essence  what  we  choose 
to  make  them.  A  thing  is,  according  to  the  mode  in 
which  one  looks  at  it.  "Where  others,"  says  Blake,  "see 
but  the  dawn  coming  over  the  hill,  I  see  the  sons  of  God 
shouting  for  joy."  What  seemed  to  the  world  and  to 
myself  my  future  I  lost  irretrievably  when  I  let  myself 
be  taunted  into  taking  the  action  against  your  father, 
had,  I  daresay,  lost  in  reality  long  before  that.  What  lies 
before  me  is  the  past.  I  have  got  to  make  myself  look 
on  that  with  different  eyes,  to  make  the  world  look  on  it 
with  different  eyes,  to  make  God  look  on  it  with  different 


APPENDIX  575 

eyes.  This  I  cannot  do  by  ignoring  it,  or  slighting  it,  or 
praising  it,  or  denying  it.  It  is  only  to  be  done  fully  by 
accepting  it  as  an  inevitable  part  of  the  evolution  of  my 
life  and  character:  by  bowing  my  head  to  everything  that 
I  have  suffered. 

How  far  I  am  away  from  the  true  temper  of  soul,  this 
letter  in  its  changing,  uncertain  moods,  its  scorn  and  bit- 
terness, its  aspirations  and  its  failures  to  realise  those 
aspirations  shows  you  quite  clearly.  But  do  not  forget  in 
what  a  terrible  school  I  am  setting  at  my  task.  And  incom- 
plete, imperfect,  as  I  am,  yet  from  me  you  may  have  still 
much  to  gain.  You  came  to  me  to  learn  the  pleasure  of 
life  and  the  pleasure  of  art.  Perhaps  I  am  chosen  to 
teach  you  something  much  more  wonderful,  the  meaning 
of  sorrow  and  its  beauty. 

Your  affectionate  friend, 

OSCAR  WILDE. 

This  letter  of  Oscar  Wilde  to  Lord  Alfred  Douglas  is 
curiously  self -revealing  and  characteristic.  While  reading 
it  one  should  recall  Oscar's  provocation.  Lord  Alfred 
Douglas  had  driven  him  to  the  prosecution,  and  then 
deserted  him  and  left  him  in  prison  without  using  his 
influence  to  mitigate  his  friend's  suffering  or  his  pen  to 
console  and  encourage  him.  The  abandonment  was  heart- 
less and  complete.  The  letter,  however,  is  vindictive:  in 
spite  of  its  intimate  revelations  Oscar  took  care  that  his 
indictment  should  be  made  public.  The  flagrant  self- 
deceptions  of  the  plea  show  its  sincerity:  Oscar  even  ac- 
cuses young  Alfred  Douglas  of  having  induced  him  to 
eat  and  drink  too  much. 

The  tap-root  of  the  letter  is  a  colossal  vanity;  the  bit- 
terness of  it,  wounded  egotism;  the  falseness  of  it,  a  self- 
righteous  pose  of  ineffable  superiority  as  of  a  superman. 
Oscar  denies  to  Alfred  Douglas  imagination,  scholarship, 
or  even  a  knowledge  of  poetry:  he  tells  him  in  so  many 
words: — he  is  without  brain  or  heart.  Then  why  did  he 
allow  himself  to  be  hag-ridden  to  his  ruin  by  such  a 
creature? 

Yet  how  human  the  letter  is,  how  pathetic! 


OSCAR  WILDE'S  KINDNESS  OF  HEART 

HERE  is  a  note  which  Oscar  Wilde  wrote  to  Warder 
Martin  towards  the  end  of  his  imprisonment  in  Reading 
Gaol.  Warder  Martin,  it  will  be  remembered,  was  dis- 
missed from  his  post  for  having  given  some  sweet  biscuits, 
bought  with  his  own  money,  to  some  hungry  little  children 
confined  in  the  prison. 

Wilde  happened  to  see  the  children  and  immediately 
wrote  this  note  on  a  scrap  of  paper  and  slipped  it  under 
his  door  so  that  it  should  catch  Warder  Martin's  eye  as 
he  patrolled  the  corridor. 

Please  find  out  for  me  the  name  of  A.  2. 1 1.    Also,  the 

names  of  the  children  who  are  in  for  the  rabbits,  and 

the  amount  of  the  fine. 
Can  I  pay  this  and  get  them  out?    If  so  I  will  get 

them  out  tomorrow.   Please,  dear  friend,  do  this  for  me. 

I  must  get  them  out. 
Think  what  a  thing  for  me  it  would  be  to  be  able  to 

help  three  little  children.     I  would  be  delighted  beyond 

words:  if  I  can  do  this  by  paying  the  fine  tell  the  children 

that  they  are  to  be  released  tomorrow  by  a  friend,  and 

ask  them  to  be  happy  and  not  to  tell  anyone. 

Here  is  a  second  note  which  shows  Oscar's  peculiar 
sensitiveness;  what  is  ugly  and  terrible  cannot,  he  thinks, 
furnish  even  the  subject  of  art;  he  shrinks  from  whatever 
gives  pain. 

I  hope  to  write  about  prison-life  and  to  try  and  change 

it  for  others,  but  it  is  too  terrible  and  ugly  to  make  a 

work  of  art  of.     I  have  suffered  too  much  in  it  to  write 

plays  about  it. 

A  third  note  simply  thanks  Warder  Martin  for  all  his 
kindness.  It  ends  with  the  words: 

....  Everyone  tells  me  I  am  looking  better  and 
happier. 

This  is  because  I  have  a  good  friend  who  gives  me  The 
Chronicle  and  PROMISES  me  ginger  biscuits.  O.  W. 

576 


A. 


g 


"* 


*• 


« y-      7^ 


Fac-simile  of  Oscar's  note  about  freeing  the  children  which  he  pushed 
under  the  door  for  Warder  Martin 


MY  COLDNESS  TOWARDS  OSCAR  IN  1897 

(See  page  408) 

WHEN  I  talked  with  Oscar  in  Reading  Gaol,  he  told  me 
that  the  only  reason  he  didn't  write  was  that  no  one 
would  accept  his  work.  I  assured  him  that  I  would  pub- 
lish it  in  The  Saturday  Re-view  and  would  pay  for  it  not 
only  at  the  rate  I  paid  Bernard  Shaw  but  also  if  it  in- 
creased the  sale  of  the  journal  I'd  try  to  compute  its  value 
to  the  paper  and  give  him  that  besides.  He  told  me 
that  was  too  liberal ;  he  would  be  quite  content  with  what 
I  paid  Shaw:  he  feared  that  no  one  else  in  England  would 
ever  publish  his  work  again. 

He  promised  to  send  me  the  book  "De  Profundis" 
as  soon  as  it  was  finished.  Just  before  his  release  his 
friend,  Mr.  More  Adey,  called  upon  me  and  wanted  to 
know  whether  I  would  publish  Oscar's  work.  I  said  I 
would.  He  then  asked  me  what  I  would  give  for  it.  I 
told  him  I  didn't  want  to  make  anything  out  of  Oscar 
and  would  give  him  as  much  as  I  could,  rehearsing  the 
proposal  I  had  made  to  Oscar.  Thereupon  he  told  me 
Oscar  would  prefer  a  fixed  price.  I  thought  the  answer 
extraordinary  and  the  gentle,  urbane  manner  of  Mr.  More 
Adey,  whom  I  hardly  knew  at  that  time  and  misunder- 
stood, got  on  my  nerves.  I  replied  curtly  that  before  I 
could  state  a  price,  I'd  have  to  see  the  work,  adding  at  the 
same  time  that  I  had  wished  to  do  Oscar  a  good  turn, 
but,  if  he  could  find  another  publisher,  I'd  be  delighted. 
Mr.  More  Adey  assured  me  that  there  was  nothing  in  the 
book  to  which  any  prude  even  could  object,  no  arriere 
pens$e  of  any  kind,  and  so  forth  and  so  on.  I  answered 
with  a  jest,  a  wretched  play  on  his  French  phrase. 

That  night  I  happened  to  dine  with  Whistler  and  telling 
him  of  what  had  occurred  called  forth  a  most  stinging  gibe 
at  Oscar's  expense.  Whistler's  mot  cannot  be  published. 

A  week  or  two  later  Oscar  asked  me  to  get  him  some 
dothes,  which  I  did  and  on  his  release  sent  them  to  him, 

577 


APPENDIX 

and  received  in  reply  a  letter  thanking  me  which  I  repro- 
duce on  page  583. 

In  that  same  talk  with  Oscar  in  Reading  Gaol,  I  was 
so  desirous  of  helping  him  that  I  proposed  a  driving  tour 
through  France.  I  told  him  of  one  I  had  made  a  couple 
of  years  before  which  was  full  of  delightful  episodes — an 
entrancing  holiday.  He  jumped  at  the  idea,  said  nothing 
would  please  him  better,  he  would  feel  safe  with  me,  and 
so  forth.  In  order  to  carry  out  the  idea  in  the  best  way 
I  ordered  an  American  mail  phaeton  so  that  a  pair  of  horses 
would  find  the  load,  even  with  luggage,  ridiculously  light. 
I  asked  Mr.  More  Adey  whether  Oscar  had  spoken  to  him 
of  this  proposed  trip :  he  told  me  he  had  heard  nothing  of  it. 

In  one  letter  to  me  Oscar  asked  me  to  postpone  the 
tour;  afterwards  he  never  mentioned  it.  I  thought  I  had 
been  treated  rather  cavalierly.  As  I  had  gone  to  some 
expense  in  getting  everything  ready  and  making  myself 
free,  I,  no  doubt,  expressed  some  amazement  at  Oscar's 
silence  on  the  matter.  At  any  rate  the  idea  got  about 
that  I  was  angry  with  him,  and  Oscar  believed  it. 
Nothing  could  have  been  further  from  the  truth.  What  I 
had  done  and  proposed  was  simply  in  his  interest:  I 
expected  no  benefit  of  any  kind  and  therefore  could  not 
be  cross;  but  the  belief  that  I  was  angry  drew  this  sincere 
and  touching  letter  from  Oscar,  which  I  think  shows  him 
almost  as  perfectly  as  that  still  more  beautiful  letter  to 
Robert  Ross  which  I  have  inserted  in  Chapter  XIX. 

From 

M.  Sebastian  Melmoth, 

Hotel  de  la  Plage, 

Bernavol-sur-Mer, 

Dieppe. 

MY  DEAR  FRANK:  June  I3>  '97- 

I  know  you  do  not  like  writing  letters,  but  still  I  think 
you  might  have  written  me  a  line  in  answer,  or  acknowl- 
edgment of  my  letter1  to  you  from  Dieppe.  I  am  thinking 
of  a  story  to  be  called  "The  Silence  of  Frank  Harris." 

1  His  letter  was  merely  an  acknowledgment  that  he  had  received  the  clothes  and 
cheque  and  was  grateful.  I  saw  nothing  in  it  to  answer  as  he  had  not  even  men- 
tioned the  driving  tour. 


APPENDIX  579 

I  have,  however,  heard  during  the  last  few  days  that 
you  do  not  speak  of  me  in  the  friendly  manner  I  would 
like.  This  distresses  me  very  much. 

I  am  told  that  you  are  hurt  with  me  because  my  letter 
of  thanks  to  you  was  not  sufficiently  elaborated  in  expres- 
sion. This  I  can  hardly  credit.  It  seems  so  unworthy  of 
a  big  strong  nature  like  yours,  that  knows  the  realities  of 
life.  I  told  you  I  was  grateful  to  you  for  your  kindness 
to  me.  Words,  now,  to  me  signify  things,  actualities,  real 
emotions,  realised  thoughts.  I  learnt  in  prison  to  be 
grateful.  I  used  to  think  gratitude  a  burden.  Now  I 
know  that  it  is  something  that  makes  life  lighter  as  well 
as  lovelier  for  one.  I  am  grateful  for  a  thousand  things, 
from  my  good  friends  down  to  the  sun  and  the  sea.  But 
I  cannot  say  more  than  that  I  am  grateful.  I  cannot 
make  phrases  about  it.  For  me  to  use  such  a  word  shows 
an  enormous  development  in  my  nature.  Two  years  ago 
I  did  not  know  the  feeling  the  word  denotes.  Now  I 
know  it,  and  I  am  thankful  that  I  have  learnt  that  much, 
at  any  rate,  by  having  been  in  prison.  But  I  must  say 
again  that  I  no  longer  make  roulades  of  phrases  about  the 
deep  things  I  feel.  When  I  write  directly  to  you,  I  speak 
directly:  violin  variations  don't  interest  me.  I  am  grate- 
ful to  you.  If  that  does  not  content  you,  then  you  do 
not  understand,  what  you  of  all  men  should  understand, 
how  sincerity  of  feeling  expresses  itself.  But  I  dare  say 
the  story  told  of  you  is  untrue.  It  comes  from  so  many 
quarters  that  it  probably  is. 

I  am  told  also  that  you  are  hurt1  because  I  did  not  go 
on  the  driving-tour  with  you.  You  should  understand 
that  in  telling  you  that  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  do  so, 
I  was  thinking  as  much  of  you  as  of  myself.  To  think  of  the 
feelings  and  happiness  of  others  is  not  an  entirely  new 
emotion  in  my  nature.  I  would  be  unjust  to  myself  and 
my  friends,  if  I  said  it  was.  But  I  think  of  those  things 
far  more  than  I  used  to  do.  If  I  had  gone  with  you,  you 
would  not  have  been  happy,  nor  enjoyed  yourself.  Nor 
would  I.  You  must  try  to  realise  what  two  years  cellular 

1 1  felt  hurt  that  he  dropped  the  idea  without  giving  me  any  reason  or  even  letting 
me  know  his  change  of  purpose. 


580  APPENDIX 

confinement  is,  and  what  two  years  of  absolute  silence 
means  to  a  man  of  my  intellectual  power.  To  have  sur- 
vived at  all — to  have  come  out  sane  in  mind  and  sound 
of  body — is  a  thing  so  marvellous  to  me,  that  it  seems  to 
me  sometimes,  not  that  the  age  of  miracles  is  over,  but 
that  it  is  just  beginning;  that  there  are  powers  in  God» 
and  powers  in  man,  of  which  the  world  has  up  to  the 
present  known  little.  But  while  I  am  cheerful,  happy, 
and  have  sustained  to  the  full  that  passionate  interest  in 
life  and  art  that  was  the  dominant  chord  of  my  nature, 
and  made  all  modes  of  existence  and  all  forms  of  expression 
utterly  fascinating  to  me  always — still  I  need  rest,  quiet, 
and  often  complete  solitude.  Friends  have  come  to  see 
me  here  for  a  day,  and  have  been  delighted  to  find  me 
like  my  old  self,  in  all  intellectual  energy  and  sensitiveness 
to  the  play  of  life,  but  it  has  always  proved  afterwards  to 
have  been  a  strain  upon  a  nervous  force,  much  of  which 
has  been  destroyed.  I  have  now  no  storage1  of  nervous 
force.  When  I  expend  what  I  have,  in  an  afternoon, 
nothing  remains.  I  look  to  quiet,  to  a  simple  mode  of 
existence,  to  nature  in  all  the  infinite  meanings  of  an 
infinite  word,  to  charge  the  cells  for  me.  Every  day,  if  I 
meet  a  friend,  or  write  a  letter  longer  than  a  few  lines,  or 
even  read  a  book  that  makes,  as  all  fine  books  do,  a  direct 
claim  on  me,  a  direct  appeal,  an  intellectual  challenge  of  any 
kind,  I  am  utterly  exhausted  in  the  evening,  and  of  ten  sleep 
badly.  And  yet  it  is  three  whole  weeks  since  I  was 
released. 

Had  I  gone  with  you  on  the  driving  tour,  where  we 
would  have  of  necessity  been  in  immediate  contact  with 
each  other  from  dawn  to  sunset,  I  would  have  certainly 
broken  off  the  tour  the  third  day,  probably  broken  down 
the  second.  You  would  have  then  found  yourself  in  a 
pitiable  position:  your  tour  would  have  been  arrested  at 
its  outset:  your  companion  would  have  been  ill  without 
doubt:  perhaps  might  have  needed  care  and  attendance, 
in  some  little  remote  French  village.  You  would  have 

ll  think  this  was  true;  though  it  had  never  struck  me  till  I  read  this  letter. 
Later,  in  order  to  excuse  himself  for  not  working,  he  magnified  the  effect  on  his 
health  of  prison  life.  A  year  after  his  release  I  think  he  had  as  large  a  reserve  of 
nervous  energy  as  ever. 


APPENDIX  581 

given  it  to  me,  I  know.  But  I  felt  it  would  have  been 
wrong,  stupid,  and  thoughtless  of  me  to  have  started  an 
expedition  doomed  to  swift  failure,  and  perhaps  fraught 
with  disaster  and  distress.  You  are  a  man  of  dominant 
personality:  your  intellect  is  exigent,  more  so  than  that  of 
any  man  I  ever  knew:  your  demands  on  life  are  enormous: 
you  require  response,  or  you  annihilate:  the  pleasure  of 
being  with  you  is  in  the  clash  of  personality,  the  intellec- 
tual battle,  the  war  of  ideas.  To  survive  you,  one  must 
have  a  strong  brain,  an  assertive  ego,  a  dynamic  character. 
In  your  luncheon  parties,  in  the  old  days,  the  remains  of  the 
guests  were  taken  away  with  the  debris  of  the  feast.  I 
have  often  lunched  with  you  in  Park  Lane  and  found 
myself  the  only  survivor.  I  might  have  driven  on  the 
white  roads,  or  through  the  leafy  lanes,  of  France,  with  a 
fool,  or  with  the  wisest  of  all  things,  a  child:  with  you,  it 
would  have  been  impossible.  You  should  thank  me  sin- 
cerely for  having  saved  you  from  an  experience  that  each 
of  us  would  have  always  regretted. 

Will  you  ask  me  why  then,  when  I  was  in  prison,  I 
accepted  with  grateful  thanks  your  offer?  My  dear  Frank, 
I  don't  think  you  will  ask  so  thoughtless  a  question.  The 
prisoner  looks  to  liberty  as  an  immediate  return  to  all  his 
ancient  energy,  quickened  into  more  vital  forces  by  long 
disuse.  When  he  goes  out,  he  finds  he  has  still  to  suffer: 
his  punishment,  as  far  as  its  effects  go,  lasts  intellectually 
and  physically  just  as  it  lasts  socially:  he  has  still  to  pay: 
one  gets  no  receipt  for  the  past  when  one  walks  out  into 
the  beautiful  air 

I  have  now  spent  the  whole  of  my  Sunday  afternoon — 
the  first  real  day  of  summer  we  have  had — in  writing  to 
you  this  long  letter  of  explanation. 

I  have  written  directly  and  simply:  I  need  not  tell  the 
author  of  "Elder  Conklin"  that  sweetness  and  simplicity 
of  expression  take  more  out  of  one  than  fiddling  har- 
monics on  one  string.  I  felt  it  my  duty  to  write,  but  it 
has  been  a  distressing  one.  It  would  have  been  better  for 
me  to  have  lain  in  the  brown  grass  on  the  cliff,  or  to  have 
walked  slowly  by  the  sea.  It  would  have  been  kinder  of 
you  to  have  written  to  me  directly  about  whatever  harsh 


582  APPENDIX 

or  hurt  feelings  you  may  have  about  me.     It  would  have 
saved  me  an  afternoon  of  strain,  and  tension. 

But  I  have  something  more  to  say.  It  is  pleasanter  to 
me,  now,  to  write  about  others,  than  about  myself. 

The  enclosed  is  from  a  brother  prisoner  of  mine:  re- 
leased June  4th:  pray  read  it:  you  will  see  his  age,  offence, 
and  aim  in  life. 

If  you  can  give  him  a  trial,  do  so.  If  you  see  your  way 
to  .this  kind  action,  and  write  to  him  to  come  and  see  you, 
kindly  state  in  your  letter  that  it  is  about  a  situation. 
He  may  think  otherwise  that  it  is  about  the  flogging  of 
A.  2. 1 1.,  a  thing  that  does  not  interest  you,  and  about 
which  he  is  a  little  afraid  to  talk. 

If  the  result  of  this  long  letter  will  be  that  you  will  help 
this  fellow  prisoner  of  mine  to  a  place  in  your  service,  I 
shall  consider  my  afternoon  better  spent  than  any  after- 
noon for  the  last  two  years,  and  three  weeks. 

In  any  case  I  have  now  written  to  you  fully  on  all  things 
as  reported  to  me. 

I  again  assure  you  of  my  gratitude  for  your  kindness 
to  me  during  my  imprisonment,  and  on  my  release. 
And  am  always 

Your  sincere  friend  and  admirer 

OSCAR  WILDE. 

With  regard  to  Lawley 

All  soldiers  are  neat,  and  smart,  and  make  capital  serv- 
ants. He  would  be  a  good  groom:  he  is,  I  believe,  a  3rd 
Hussars  man — he  was  a  quiet,  well-conducted  chap  in 
Reading  always. 

Naturally  I  replied  to  this  letter  at  once,  saying  that 
he  had  been  misinformed,  that  I  was  not  angry  and  if  I 
could  do  anything  for  him  I  should  be  delighted:  I  did 
my  best,  too,  for  Lawley. 


APPENDIX  583 

Here  is  his  letter  of  thanks  to  me  for  helping  him 
when  he  came  out  of  prison. 

Sandwich  Hotel, 

_  Dieppe. 

MY  DEAR  FRANK: 

Just  a  line  to  thank  you  for  your  great  kindness  to  me 
— for  the  lovely  clothes,  and  for  the  generous  cheque. 

You  have  been  a  real  good  friend  to  me — and  I  shall 
never  forget  your  kindness:  to  remember  such  a  debt  as 
mine  to  you — a  debt  of  kind  fellowship — is  a  pleasure. 

About  our  tour — later  on  let  us  think  about  it.  My 
friends  have  been  so  kind  to  me  here  that  I  am  feeling 
happy  already. 

Yours, 

OSCAR  WILDE. 

If  you  write  to  me  please  do  so  under  cover  to  R.  B. 
Ross,  who  is  here  with  me. 

In  the  next  letter  of  his  which  I  have  kept  Oscar  is  per- 
fectly friendly  again;  he  tells  me  that  he  is  "entirely 
without  money,  having  received  nothing  from  his  Trustees 
for  months,"  and  asks  me  for  even  £5,  adding,  "I  drift 
in  ridiculous  impecuniosity  without  a  sou." 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  PERSONALITY 

I  TRANSCRIBE  here  another  letter  of  Oscar  to  me  from  the 
second  year  after  his  release  to  show  his  interest  in  all 
intellectual  things  and  for  a  flash  of  characteristic  humour 
at  the  expense  of  the  Paris  police.  The  envelope  is  dated 
October  13,  1898: — 

From 

M.  Sebastian  Melmoth, 
Hotel  d'Alsace, 
Rue  des  Beaux-arts, 

Paris. 
MY  DEAR  FRANK: 

How  are  you?  I  read  your  appreciation  of  Rodin's 
"Balzac"  with  intensest  pleasure,  and  I  am  looking  for- 
ward to  more  Shakespeare — you  will  of  course  put  all 
your  Shakespearean  essays  into  a  book,  and,  equally  of 
course,  I  must  have  a  copy.  It  is  a  great  era  in  Shake- 
spearean criticism — the  first  time  that  one  has  looked  in 
the  plays  not  for  philosophy,  for  there  is  none,  but  for  the 
wonder  of  a  great  personality — something  far  better,  and 
far  more  mysterious  than  any  philosophy — it  is  a  great 
thing  that  you  have  done.  I  remember  writing  once  in 
"Intentions"  that  the  more  objective  a  work  of  art  is  in 
form,  the  more  subjective  it  really  is  in  matter — and  that 
it  is  only  when  you  give  the  poet  a  mask  that  he  can  tell 
you  the  truth.  But  you  have  shown  it  fully  in  the  case 
of  the  one  artist  whose  personality  was  supposed  to  be  a 
mystery  of  deep  seas,  a  secret  as  impenetrable  as  the  secret 
of  the  moon. 

Paris  is  terrible  in  its  heat.  I  walk  in  streets  of  brass, 
and  there  is  no  one  here.  Even  the  criminal  classes  have 
gone  to  the  seaside,  and  the  gendarmes  yawn  and  regret 
their  enforced  idleness.  Giving  wrong  directions  to  the 
English  tourists  is  the  only  thing  that  consoles  them. 

You  were  most  kind  and  generous  last  month  in  letting 
me  have  a  cheque — it  gives  me  just  the  margin  to  live  on 
and  to  live  by.  May  I  have  it  again  this  month?  or  has 
gold  flown  away  from  you?  Ever  yours, 

OSCAR. 

584 


THE  DEDICATION  OF  "AN  IDEAL  HUSBAND" 

I  RECEIVED  the  following  letter  from  Oscar  early  in 
1899  I  imagine.  It  was  written  in  the  spring  after  the 
winter  we  spent  in  La  Napoule. 

From  M.  Sebastian  Melmoth, 
Gland, 

Canton  Vaud, 
Switzerland. 

MY  DEAR  FRANK: 
I  am,  as  you  see  from  above,  in  Switzerland  with  M- 


a  rather  dreadful  combination :  the  villa  is  pretty,  and  on 
the  borders  of  the  lake  with  pretty  pines  about:  on  the 
other  side  are  the  mountains  of  Savoy  and  Mont  Blanc: 

we  are  an  hour,  by  a  slow  train,  from  Geneva.  But  M 

is  tedious,  and  lacks  conversation:  also  he  gives  me  Swiss 
wine  to  drink:  it  is  horrible:  he  occupies  himself  with 
small  economies,  and  mean  domestic  interests,  so  I  suffer 
very  much.  Ennui  is  the  enemy. 

I  want  to  know  if  you  will  allow  me  to  dedicate  to  you 
my  next  play,  "The  Ideal  Husband" — which  Smithers 
is  bringing  out  for  me  in  the  same  form  as  the  others,  of 
which  I  hope  you  received  your  copy.  I  should  so  much 
like  to  write  your  name  and  a  few  words  on  the  dedica- 
tory page. 

I  look  back  with  joy  and  regret  to  the  lovely  sunlight 
of  the  Riviera,  and  the  charming  winter  you  so  generously 
and  kindly  gave  me:  it  was  most  good  of  you:  how  can  it 
ever  be  forgotten  by  me. 

Next  week  a  petroleum  launch  is  to  arrive  here,  so  that 
will  console  me  a  little,  as  I  love  to  be  on  the  water:  and 
the  Savoy  side  is  starred  with  pretty  villages  and  green 
valleys. 

Of  course  we  won  our  bet — the  phrase  on  Shelley  is  in 

Arnold's  preface  to  Byron:  but  M won't  pay  me! 

He  suffers  agony  over  a  franc.  It  is  very  annoying  as  I 

585 


586  APPENDIX 

have  had  no  money  since  my  arrival  here.     However  I 
regard  the  place  as  a  Swiss  Pension — where  there  is  no 

weekly  bill 

Ever  yours, 

OSCAR. 

I  believe  I  answered;  but  am  not  sure.  I  was  naturally 
delighted  to  have  just  "An  Ideal  Husband"  dedicated  to 
me,  because  I  had  suggested  the  plot  of  it  to  Oscar — not 
that  the  plot  was  in  any  true  sense  mine.  An  interesting 
and  clever  American  in  Cairo,  a  Mr.  Cope  Whitehouse, 
had  given  it  to  me  as  I  tell  in  this  book.  The  story 
Whitehouse  told  may  not  be  true;  but  my  mind  jumped 
at  once  to  the  thought  of  a  story  where  an  English  Minister 
would  be  confronted  with  some  early  sin  of  that  sort.  I 
had  hardly  bettered  the  story  given  to  me  when  I  related 
it  to  Oscar  who  used  it  almost  immediately  with  great 
effect.  Dedicatory  words  are  usually  as  flattering  as  epi- 
taphs; those  of  "An  Ideal  Husband"  run: 

To 

FRANK  HARRIS 


MRS.  WILDE'S  EPITAPH 
(See  page  447) 

AN  evil  fate  seems  to  have  pursued  even  Oscar's  wife. 
She  died  in  Genoa  and  was  buried  in  the  corner  of  the 
Campo  Santo  set  apart  for  Protestants.  This  is  what 
one  reads  on  her  tombstone: 

CONSTANCE 
DAUGHTER  OF  THE  LATE 

HORATIO  LLOYD,  Q.C. 
BORN.  .  DIED.  . 


No  reference  to  her  marriage  or  to  the  famous  man  who 
was  the  father  of  her  two  sons. 

The  irony  of  chance  wills  it  that  the  late  Horatio  Lloyd, 
Q.C.,  had  been  more  than  suspected  of  sexual  viciousness: 
cfr.  "Criticisms  by  Robert  Ross"  at  end  of  Appendix. 


587 


SONNET 
(See  page  517) 

TO  OSCAR  WILDE 

I  dreamed  of  you  last  night,  I  saw  your  face 

All  radiant  and  unshadowed  of  distress, 

And  as  of  old,  in  measured  tunefulness, 

I  heard  your  golden  voice  and  marked  you  trace 

Under  the  common  thing  the  hidden  grace, 

And  conjure  wonder  out  of  emptiness, 

Till  mean  things  put  on  Beauty  like  a  dress, 

And  all  the  world  was  an  enchanted  place. 

And  so  I  knew  that  it  was  well  with  you, 

And  that  unprisoned,  gloriously  free, 

Across  the  dark  you  stretched  me  out  your  hand. 

And  all  the  spite  of  this  besotted  crew, 

(Scrabbling  on  pillars  of  Eternity) 

How  small  it  seems!    Love  made  me  understand. 

December  10,  1900.  ALFRED  DOUGLAS. 

WHOEVER  chooses  to  compare  this  first  sketch  of  the 
sonnet  of  1900  with  the  sonnet  as  it  was  published  in  1910 
will  remark  three  notable  differences. 

The  first  sketch  was  entitled  "To  Oscar  Wilde,"  the 
revision  to  "The  Dead  Poet." 

In  the  early  draft,  the  first  line: 

"I  dreamed  of  you  last  night,  I  saw  your  face,"  has  be- 
come less  intimate,  having  been  changed  into: 

"I  dreamed  of  him  last  night,  I  saw  his  face." 

Finally  the  sextet  which  in  the  first  sketch  was  very 
inferior  to  the  rest  has  now  been  discarded  in  favour  of  six 
lines  which  are  worthy  of  the  octave.  The  published 
sonnet  is  assuredly  superior  to  the  first  sketch  superb 
though  that  was. 


588 


THE  STORY  OF  "MR.  AND  MRS.  DAVENTRY" 
(See  page  534) 

THERE  has  been  so  much  discussion  about  the  play  en- 
titled "Mr.  and  Mrs.  Daventry,"  and  Oscar  Wilde's  share 
in  it,  that  I  had  better  set  forth  here  briefly  what  happened. 

When  I  returned  to  London  in  the  summer  of  1899  after 
buying,  as  I  thought,  all  rights  in  the  sketch  of  the  scenario 
from  Oscar,  I  wrote  at  once  the  second,  third  and  fourth 
acts  of  the  play,  as  I  had  told  Oscar  I  would.  I  sent  him 
what  I  had  written  and  asked  him  to  write  the  first  act 
as  he  had  promised  for  the  £50. 

Some  time  before  this  I  had  seen  Mr.  Forbes  Robertson 
and  Mrs.  Patrick  Campbell  in  "Hamlet,"  and  Mrs.  Pat- 
rick Campbell's  Ophelia  had  made  a  deeper  impression 
on  me  than  even  the  Hamlet  of  Forbes  Robertson.  I 
wished  her  to  take  my  play,  and  as  luck  would  have  it, 
she  had  just  gone  into  management  on  her  own  account 
and  leased  the  Royalty  Theatre. 

I  read  her  my  play  one  afternoon,  and  at  once  she  told 
me  she  would  take  it;  but  I  must  write  a  first  act.  I  told 
her  that  I  was  no  good  at  preliminary  scenes  and  that 
Oscar  Wilde  had  promised  to  write  a  first  act,  which 
would,  of  course,  enhance  the  value  of  the  play  enormously. 

To  my  surprise  Mrs.  Patrick  Campbell  would  not  hear 
of  it:  " Quite  impossible,"  she  said,  "a  play's  not  a  patch- 
work quilt;  you  must  write  the  first  act  yourself." 

"I  must  write  to  Oscar  then,"  I  replied,  "and  see  whether 
he  has  finished  it  already  or  not." 

Mrs.  Campbell  insisted  that  the  play,  if  she  was  to 
accept  it,  must  be  the  work  of  one  hand.  I  wrote  to 
Oscar  at  once,  asking  him  whether  he  had  written  the 
first  act,  adding  that  if  he  had  not  written  it  and  would 
send  me  his  idea  of  the  scenario,  I  would  write  it.  I  was 
overjoyed  to  tell  him  that  Mrs.  Patrick  Campbell  had 
provisionally  accepted  the  play. 


59O  APPENDIX 

To  my  astonishment  Oscar  replied  in  evident  ill-temper 
to  say  that  he  could  not  write  the  first  act,  or  the  scenario, 
but  at  the  same  time  he  hoped  I  would  now  send  him  some 
money  for  having  helped  to  make  my  debut  on  the  stage. 

I  returned  to  tell  Mrs.  Campbell  my  disappointment 
and  to  see  if  she  had  any  idea  of  what  she  wanted  in  the 
first  act.  She  was  delighted  with  my  news,  and  said  that 
all  I  had  to  do  was  to  write  an  act  introducing  my  char- 
acters, and  that  I  ought,  for  the  sake  of  contrast,  to  give 
her  a  mother.  Some  impish  spirit  suggested  to  me  the 
idea  of  making  a  mother  much  younger  than  her  daughter, 
that  is,  a  very  flighty  ordinary  woman,  impulsive  and 
feather-brained,  with  a  mania  for  attending  sales  and 
collecting  odds  and  ends  at  bargain  prices.  Full  of  this 
idea  I  wrote  the  first  act  off  hand. 

Mrs.  Patrick  Campbell  did  not  like  it  much,  and  in 
this,  as  indeed  always,  showed  excellent  judgment  and  an 
extraordinary  understanding  of  the  requirements  of  the 
stage;  nevertheless  she  accepted  the  play  and  settled 
terms.  A  little  later  I  went  to  Leeds,  where  she  was 
playing,  and  read  the  play  to  her  and  her  "Company." 
We  discussed  the  cast,  and  I  suggested  Mr.  Kerr  to  play 
Mr.  Daventry.  Mrs.  Patrick  Campbell  jumped  at  the 
idea,  and  everything  was  settled. 

I  wrote  the  good  news  to  Oscar,  and  back  came  another 
letter  from  him,  more  ill-tempered  than  the  first,  saying 
he  had  never  thought  I  would  take  his  scenario;  I  had  no 
right  to  touch  it;  but  as  I  had  taken  it,  I  must  really  pay 
him  something  substantial. 

The  claim  was  absurd,  but  I  hated  to  dispute  with  him 
or  even  appear  to  bargain. 

I  wrote  to  him  that  if  I  made  anything  out  of  the  play 
I  would  send  him  some  more  money.  He  replied  that  he 
was  sure  my  play  would  be  a  failure;  but  I  ought  to  get  a 
good  sum  down  in  advance  of  royalties  from  Mrs.  Patrick 
Campbell,  and  at  once  send  him  half  of  it.  His  letters 
were  childishly  ill-conditioned  and  unreasonable;  but, 
believing  him  to  be  in  extreme  indigence,  I  felt  too  sorry 
for  him  even  to  argue  the  point.  Again  and  again  I  had 
helped  him,  and  it  seemed  sordid  and  silly  to  hurt  our 


APPENDIX  591 

old  friendship  for  money.  I  couldn't  believe  that  he 
would  talk  of  my  having  done  anything  that  I  ought 
not  to  have  done  if  we  met,  so  as  soon  as  I  could  I 
crossed  to  Paris  to  have  it  out  with  him. 

To  my  astonishment  I  found  him  obdurate  in  his  wrong- 
headedness.  When  I  asked  him  what  he  had  sold  me  for 
the  £50  I  paid  him,  he  coolly  said  he  didn't  think  I  was 
serious,  that  no  man  would  write  a  play  on  another  man's 
scenario;  it  was  absurd,  impossible — "C'est  ridicule!"  he 
repeated  again  and  again.  When  I  reminded  him  that 
Shakespeare  had  done  it,  he  got  angry:  it  was  altogether 
different  then — -today:  "C'est  ridicule!"  Tired  of  going 
over  and  over  the  old  ground  I  pressed  him  to  tell  me 
what  he  wanted.  For  hours  he  wouldn't  say:  then  at 
length  he  declared  he  ought  to  have  half  of  all  the  play 
fetched,  and  even  that  wouldn't  be  fair  to  him,  as  he 
was  a  dramatist  and  I  was  not,  and  I  ought  not  to  have 
touched  his  scenario  and  so  on,  over  and  over  again. 

I  returned  to  my  hotel  wearied  in  heart  and  head  by 
his  ridiculous  demands  and  reiterations.  After  thrashing 
the  beaten  straw  to  dust  on  the  following  day,  I  agreed  at 
length  to  give  him  another  £50  down  and  another  £50  later. 
Even  then  he  pretended  to  be  very  sorry  indeed  that  I  had 
taken  what  he  called  "his  play,"  and  assured  me  in  the  same 
breath  that  "Mr.  and  Mrs.  Daventry"  would  be  a  rank 
failure:  "Plays  cannot  be  written  by  amateurs;  plays  re- 
quire knowledge  of  the  stage.  It's  quite  absurd  of  you, 
Frank,  who  hardly  ever  go  to  the  theatre,  to  think  you 
can  write  a  successful  play  straight  off.  I  always  loved 
the  theatre,  always  went  to  every  first  night  in  London, 
have  the  stage  in  my  blood,"  and  so  forth  and  so  on.  I 
could  not  help  recalling  what  he  had  told  me  years  be- 
fore, that  when  he  had  to  write  his  first  play  for  George 
Alexander,  he  shut  himself  up  for  a  fortnight  with  the 
most  successful  modern  French  plays,  and  so  learned  his 
metier. 

Next  day  I  returned  to  London,  understanding  now 
something  of  the  unreasonable  persistence  in  begging  which 
had  aroused  Lord  Alfred  Douglas'  rage. 

As  soon  as  my  play  was  advertised  a  crowd  of  people 


592  APPENDIX 

confronted  me  with  claims  I  had  never  expected.  Mrs. 
Brown  Potter  wrote  to  me  saying  that  some  years  before 
she  had  bought  a  play  from  Oscar  Wilde  which  he  had 
not  delivered,  and  as  she  understood  that  I  was  bringing 
it  out,  she  hoped  I  would  give  it  to  her  to  stage.  I  replied 
saying  that  Oscar  had  not  written  a  word  of  my  play. 
She  wrote  again,  saying  that  she  had  paid  £100  for  the 
scenario:  would  I  see  Mr.  Kyrle  Bellew  on  the  matter? 
I  saw  them  both  a  dozen  times;  but  came  to  no  decision. 

While  these  negotiations  were  going  on,  a  host  of  other 
Richmonds  came  into  the  field.  Horace  Sedger  had  also 
bought  the  same  scenario,  and  then  in  quick  succession 
it  appeared  that  Tree  and  Alexander  and  Ada  Rehan  had 
also  paid  for  the  same  privilege.  When  I  wrote  to  Oscar 
about  this  expressing  my  surprise  he  replied  coolly  that  he 
could  have  gone  on  selling  the  play  now  to  French  man- 
agers, and  later  to  German  managers,  if  I  had  not  inter- 
fered: "You  have  deprived  me  of  a  certain  income:"  was 
his  argument,  "and  therefore  you  owe  me  more  than  you 
will  ever  get  from  the  play,  which  is  sure  to  fall  flat." 

A  little  later  Miss  Nethersole  presented  herself,  and 
when  I  would  not  yield  to  her  demands,  went  to  Paris, 
and  Oscar  wrote  to  me  saying  she  ought  to  stage  the  piece 
as  she  would  do  it  splendidly,  or  at  least  I  should  repay 
her  the  money  she  had  advanced  to  him. 

This  letter  showed  me  that  Oscar  had  not  only  deceived 
me,  but,  for  some  cause  or  other,  some  pricking  of  vanity 
I  couldn't  understand,  was  willing  to  embarrass  me  as  much 
as  possible  without  any  scruple. 

Finally  Smithers,  the  publisher  of  three  of  Oscar's  books, 
whom  I  knew  to  be  a  real  friend  of  Oscar,  came  to  me  with 
a  still  more  appealing  story.  When  Oscar  was  in  Italy, 
and  in  absolute  need,  Smithers  got  a  man  named  Roberts 
to  advance  £100  on  the  scenario.  I  found  that  Oscar  had 
written  out  the  whole  scenario  for  him  and  outlined  the 
characters  of  Tiis  drama.  This  was  evidently  the  com- 
pletest  claim  that  had  yet  been  brought  before  me:  it  was 
also,  Smithers  proved,  the  earliest,  and  Smithers  himself 
was  in  dire  need.  I  wrote  to  Oscar  that  I  thought  Smithers 
had  the  best  claim  because  he  was  the  first  buyer,  and 


APPENDIX  593 

certainly  ought  to  have  something.  Oscar  replied,  begging 
me  not  to  be  a  fool :  to  send  him  the  money  and  tell  Smith- 
ers  to  go  to  Sheol.  Thereupon  I  told  Smithers  I  could  not 
afford  to  give  him  any  money  at  the  moment;  but  if  the 
play  was  a  success  he  should  have  something  out  of  it. 

The  play  was  a  success:  it  was  stopped  for  a  week  by 
Queen  Victoria's  death,  in  January,  and  was,  I  think,  the 
only  play  that  survived  that  ordeal.  Mrs.  Patrick  Camp- 
bell was  good  enough  to  allow  me  to  rewrite  the  first  act 
for  the  fiftieth  performance,  and  it  ran,  if  I  remember 
rightly,  some  130  nights.  About  the  twentieth  representa- 
tion I  paid  Smithers. 

For  the  first  weeks  of  the  run  I  was  bombarded  with 
letters  from  Oscar,  begging  money  and  demanding  money 
in  every  tone.  He  made  nothing  of  the  fact  that  I  had 
already  paid  him  three  times  the  price  agreed  upon,  and 
paid  Smithers  to  boot,  and  lost  through  his  previous  sales 
of  the  scenario  whatever  little  repute  the  success  of  the 
piece  might  have  brought  me.  Nine  people  out  of  ten 
believed  that  Oscar  had  written  the  play  and  that  I  had 
merely  lent  my  name  to  the  production  in  order  to  enable 
him,  as  a  bankrupt,  to  receive  the  money  from  it.  Even 
men  of  letters  deceived  themselves  in  this  way.  George 
Moore  told  Bernard  Shaw  that  he  recognised  Oscar's  hand 
in  the  writing  again  and  again,  though  Shaw  himself  was 
far  too  keen-witted  to  be  so  misled.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
Oscar  did  not  write  a  word  of  the  play  and  the  characters 
he  sketched  for  Smithers  and  Roberts  were  altogether 
different  from  mine  and  were  not  known  to  me  when  I 
wrote  my  story. 

I  have  set  forth  the  bare  facts  of  the  affair  here  because 
Oscar  managed  to  half-persuade  Ross  and  Turner  and 
other  friends  that  I  owed  him  money  which  I  would  not 
pay;  though  Ross  had  discounted  most  of  his  complaints, 
even  before  hearing  my  side. 

Oscar  got  me  over  to  Paris  in  September  under  the 
pretext  that  he  was  ill;  but  I  found  him  as  well  as  could 
be,  and  anxious  merely  to  get  more  money  out  of  me  by 
any  means.  I  put  it  all  down  to  his  poverty.  I  did  not 
then  know  that  Ross  was  giving  him  £150  a  year;  that 


594  APPENDIX 

indeed  all  his  friends  had  helped  him  and  were  helping 
him  with  singular  generosity,  and  I  recalled  the  fact  that 
when  he  had  had  money  he  never  showed  any  meanness, 
or  any  desire  to  over-reach.  Want  is  a  dreadful  teacher, 
and  I  did  not  hold  Oscar  altogether  responsible  for  his 
weird  attitude  to  me  personally. 


OSCAR'S  LAST  DAYS! 


LETTER  FROM  ROBERT  ROSS  TO 


Dec.  1 4th,  1900. 

ON  Tuesday,  October  gth,  I  wrote  to  Oscar,  from  whom 
I  had  not  heard  for  some  time,  that  I  would  be  in  Paris 
on  Thursday,  October  the  i8th,  for  a  few  days,  when  I 
hoped  to  see  him.  On  Thursday,  October  nth,  I  got  a 
telegram  from  him  as  follows: — "  Operated  on  yesterday — 
come  over  as  soon  as  possible."  I  wired  that  I  would  en- 
deavour to  do  so.  A  wire  came  in  response,  "Terribly 
weak — please  come. ' '  I  started  on  the  evening  of  Tuesday, 
October  i6th.  On  Wednesday  morning  I  went  to  see 
him  about  10.30.  He  was  in  very  good  spirits;  and  though 
he  assured  me  his  sufferings  were  dreadful,  at  the  same 
time  he  shouted  with  laughter  and  told  many  stories 
against  the  doctors  and  himself.  I  stayed  until  12.30  and 
returned  about  4.30,  when  Oscar  recounted  his  grievances 
about  the  Harris  play.  Oscar,  of  course,  had  deceived 
Harris  about  the  whole  matter — as  far  as  I  could  make 
out  the  story — 'Harris  wrote  the  play  under  the  impression 
that  only  Sedger  had  to  be  bought  off  at  £100,  which 
Oscar  had  received  in  advance  for  the  commission;  whereas 
Kyrle  Bellew,  Louis  Nethersole,  Ada  Rehan,  and  even 
Smithers,  had  all  given  Oscar  £100  on  different  occasions, 
and  all  threatened  Harris  with  proceedings — Harris,  there- 
fore, only  gave  Oscar  £50  on  account,1  as  he  was  obliged 
to  square  these  people  first — hence  Oscar's  grievance. 
When  I  pointed  out  to  him  that  he  was  in  a  much  better 
position  than  formerly,  because  Harris,  at  any  rate,  would 
eventually  pay  off  the  people  who  had  advanced  money 
and  that  Oscar  would  eventually  get  something  himself, 
he  replied  in  the  characteristic  way,  "Frank  has  deprived 

'Fifty  pounds  was  all  Oscar  asked  me:  the  whole  sum  agreed  upon.  As  a  matter 
of  fact  I  gave  him  fifty  pounds  more  before  leaving  Paris.  I  didn't  then  know  that 
he  had  ever  told  the  scenario  to  anyone  else,  much  less  sold  it;  though  I  ought 
perhaps  to  have  guessed  it. — F.  H. 

59S 


596  APPENDIX 

me  of  my  only  source  of  income  by  taking  a  play  on  which 
I  could  always  have  raised  £100." 

I  continued  to  see  Oscar  every  day  until  I  left  Paris. 
Reggie  and  myself  sometimes  dined  or  lunched  in  his  bed- 
room, when  he  was  always  very  talkative,  although  he 
looked  very  ill.  On  October  25th,  my  brother  Aleck  came 
to  see  him,  when  Oscar  was  in  particularly  good  form. 
His  sister-in-law,  Mrs.  Willie,  and  her  husband,  Texeira, 
were  then  passing  through  Paris  on  their  honeymoon,  and 
came  at  the  same  time.  On  this  occasion  he  said  he  was 
"dying  above  his  means"  ....  he  would  never  outlive 
the  century  ....  the  English  people  would  not  stand 
him — he  was  responsible  for  the  failure  of  the  Exhibition, 
the  English  having  gone  away  when  they  saw  him  there 
so  well-dressed  and  happy  ....  all  the  French  people 

knew  this,  too,  and  would  not  stand  him  any  more 

On  October  the  2Qth,  Oscar  got  up  for  the  first  time  at 
mid-day,  and  after  dinner  in  the  evening  insisted  on  going 
out — he  assured  me  that  the  doctor  had  said  he  might  do 
so  and  would  not  listen  to  any  protest. 

I  had  urged  him  to  get  up  some  days  before  as  the 
doctor  said  he  might  do  so,  but  he  had  hitherto  refused. 
We  went  to  a  small  cafe  in  the  Latin  Quartier,  where  he 
insisted  on  drinking  absinthe.  He  walked  there  and  back 
with  some  difficulty,  but  seemed  fairly  well.  Only  I 
thought  he  had  suddenly  aged  in  face,  and  remarked  to 
Reggie  next  day  how  different  he  looked  when  up  and 
dressed.  He  appeared  comparatively  well  in  bed.  (I 
noticed  for  the  first  time  that  his  hair  was  slightly  tinged 
with  grey.  I  had  always  remarked  that  his  hair  had  never 
altered  its  colour  while  he  was  in  Reading;1  it  retained  its 
soft  brown  tone.  You  must  remember  the  jests  he  used 
to  make  about  it,  he  always  amused  the  warders  by  say- 
ing that  his  hair  was  perfectly  white.)  Next  day  I  was 
not  surprised  to  find  Oscar  suffering  with  a  cold  and  great 
pain  in  his  ear;  however,  Dr.  Tucker  said  he  might  go  out 
again,  and  the  following  afternoon,  a  very  mild  day,  we 

•I  (Frank' Harris)  noticed  at  Reading  that  his  hair  was  getting  grey  in  front  and 
at  the  sides;  but  when  we  met  later  the  grey  had  disappeared.  I  thought  he  used 
some  dye.  I  only  mention  this  to  show  how  two  good  witnesses  can  differ  on  ft 
plain  matter  of  fact. 


APPENDIX  597 

drove  in  the  Bois.  Oscar  was  much  better,  but  complained 
of  giddiness;  we  returned  about  4.30.  On  Saturday  morn- 
ing, November  3rd,  I  met  the  Panseur  Hennion  (Reggie 
always  called  him  the  Libre  Penseur),  he  came  every  day 
to  dress  Oscar's  wounds.  He  asked  me  if  I  was  a  great 
friend  or  knew  Oscar's  relatives.  He  assured  me  that 
Oscar's  general  condition  was  very  serious — that  he  could 
not  live  more  than  three  or  four  months  unless  he  altered 
his  way  of  life — that  I  ought  to  speak  to  Dr.  Tucker,  who 
did  not  realise  Oscar's  serious  state — that  the  ear  trouble 
was  not  of  much  importance  in  itself,  but  a  grave  symptom. 
On  Sunday  morning  I  saw  Dr.  Tucker — he  is  a  silly,  kind, 
excellent  man;  he  said  Oscar  ought  to  write  more — that  he 
was  much  better,  and  that  his  condition  would  only  be- 
come serious  when  he  got  up  and  went  about  in  the  usual 
way.  I  begged  him  to  be  frank.  He  promised  to  ask 
Oscar  if  he  might  talk  to  me  openly  on  the  subject  of  Os- 
car's health.  I  saw  him  on  the  Tuesday  following  by  ap- 
pointment; he  was  very  vague;  and  though  he  endorsed 
Hennion's  view  to  some  extent,  said  that  Oscar  was  getting 
well  now,  though  he  could  not  live  long  unless  he  stopped 
drinking.  On  going  to  see  Oscar  later  in  the  day  I  found 
him  very  agitated.  He  said  he  did  not  want  to  know  what 
the  doctor  had  told  me.  He  said  he  did  not  care  if  he  had 
only  a  short  time  to  live  and  then  went  off  on  to  the  sub- 
ject of  his  debts,  which  I  gather  amounted  to  something 
over  more  than  £400. x  He  asked  me  to  see  that  at  all 
events  some  of  them  were  paid  if  I  was  in  a  position  to 
do  so  after  he  was  dead;  he  suffered  remorse  about  some 
of  his  creditors.  Reggie  came  in  shortly  afterwards  much 
to  my  relief.  Oscar  told  us  that  he  had  had  a  horrible 
dream  the  previous  night — "that  he  had  been  supping  with 
the  dead."  Reggie  made  a  very  typical  response,  "My 
dear  Oscar,  you  were  probably  the  life  and  soul  of  the 
party."  This  delighted  Oscar,  who  became  high-spirited 
again,  almost  hysterical.  I  left  feeling  rather  anxious. 
That  night  I  wrote  to  Douglas  saying  that  I  was  com- 
pelled to  leave  Paris — that  the  doctor  thought  Oscar  very 
ill — that  ....  ought  to  pay  some  of  his  bills  as  they 

»Ross  found  afterwards  that  they  amounted  to  £620. 


598  APPENDIX 

worried  him  very  much,  and  the  matter  was  retarding  his 
recovery — a  great  point  made  by  Dr.  Tucker.  On  Novem- 
ber 2nd,  All  Souls'  Day,  I  had  gone  to  Pere  la  Chaise 
with  ....  Oscar  was  much  interested  and  asked  me  if  I 
had  chosen  a  place  for  his  tomb.  He  discussed  epitaphs 
in  a  perfectly  light-hearted  way,  and  I  never  dreamt  he 
was  so  near  death. 

On  Monday,  November  i2th,  I  went  to  the  Hotel 
d'Alsace  with  Reggie  to  say  good-bye,  as  I  was  leaving  for 
the  Riviera  next  day.  It  was  late  in  the  evening  after 
dinner.  Oscar  went  all  over  his  financial  troubles.  He  had 
just  had  a  letter  from  Harris  about  the  Smithers  claim, 
and  was  much  upset;  his  speech  seemed  to  me  a  little 
thick,  but  he  had  been  given  morphia  the  previous  night, 
and  he  always  drank  too  much  champagne  during  the  day. 
He  knew  I  was  coming  to  say  good-bye,  but  paid  little 
attention  when  I  entered  the  room,  which  at  the  time  I 
thought  rather  strange;  he  addressed  all  his  observations 
to  Reggie.  While  we  were  talking,  the  post  arrived  with 
a  very  nice  letter  from  Alfred  Douglas,  enclosing  a  cheque. 
It  was  partly  in  response  to  my  letter  I  think.  Oscar  wept 
a  little  but  soon  recovered  himself.  Then  we  all  had  a 
friendly  discussion,  during  which  Oscar  walked  around  the 
room  and  declaimed  in  rather  an  excited  way.  About 
10.30  I  got  up  to  go.  Suddenly  Oscar  asked  Reggie  and 
the  nurse  to  leave  the  room  for  a  minute,  as  he  wanted  to 
say  good-bye.  He  rambled  at  first  about  his  debts  in 
Paris:  and  then  he  implored  me  not  to  go  away,  because 
he  felt  that  a  great  change  had  come  over  him  during  the 
last  few  days.  I  adopted  a  rather  stern  attitude,  as  I 
really  thought  that  Oscar  was  simply  hysterical,  though 
I  knew  that  he  was  genuinely  upset  at  my  departure. 
Suddenly  he  broke  into  a  violent  sobbing,  and  said  he 
would  never  see  me  again  because  he  felt  that  everything 
was  at  an  end — this  very  painful  incident  lasted  about 
three-quarters  of  an  hour. 

He  talked  about  various  things  which  I  can  scarcely 
repeat  here.  Though  it  was  very  harrowing,  I  really  did 
not  attach  any  importance  to  my  farewell,  and  I  did  not 
respond  to  poor  Oscar's  emotion  as  I  ought  to  have  done, 


APPENDIX  599 

especially  as  he  said,  when  I  was  going  out  of  the  room, 
"Look  out  for  some  little  cup  in  the  hills  near  Nice  where 
I  can  go  when  I  am  better,  and  where  you  can  come  and 
see  me  often."  Those  were  the  last  articulate  words  he 
ever  spoke  to  me. 

I  left  for  Nice  the  following  evening,  November  i3th. 

During  my  absence  Reggie  went  every  tday  to  see 
Oscar,  and  wrote  me  short  bulletins  every  other  day. 
Oscar  went  out  several  times  with  him  driving,  and  seemed 
much  better.  On  Tuesday,  November  27th,  I  received 
the  first  of  Reggie's  letters,  which  I  enclose  (the  others 
came  after  I  had  started),  and  I  started  back  for  Paris;  I 
send  them  because  they  will  give  you  a  very  good  idea  of 
how  things  stood.  I  had  decided  that  when  I  had  moved 
my  mother  to  Mentone  on  the  following  Friday,  I  would 
go  to  Paris  on  Saturday,  but  on  the  Wednesday  evening,  at 
five-thirty,  I  got  a  telegram  from  Reggie  saying,  "Almost 
hopeless."  I  just  caught  the  express  and  arrived  in  Paris 
at  10.20  in  the  morning.  Dr.  Tucker  and  Dr.  Kleiss,  a 
specialist  called  in  by  Reggie,  were  there.  They  informed 
me  that  Oscar  could  not  live  for  more  than  two  days.  His 
appearance  was  very  painful,  he  had  become  quite  thin, 
the  flesh  was  livid,  his  breathing  heavy.  He  was  trying 
to  speak.  He  was  conscious  that  people  were  in  the  room, 
and  raised  his  hand  when  I  asked  him  whether  he  under- 
stood. He  pressed  our  hands.  I  then  went  in  search  of  a 
priest,  and  after  great  difficulty  found  Father  Cuthbert 
Dunn,  of  the  Passionists,  who  came  with  me  at  once  and 
administered  Baptism  and  Extreme  Unction — Oscar  could 
not  take  the  Eucharist.  You  know  I  had  always  promised 
to  bring  a  priest  to  Oscar  when  he  was  dying,  and  I  felt 
rather  guilty  that  I  had  so  often  dissuaded  him  from  be- 
coming a  Catholic,  but  you  know  my  reasons  for  doing  so. 
I  then  sent  wires  to  Frank  Harris,  to  Holman  (for  com- 
municating with  Adrian  Hope)  and  to  Douglas.  Tucker 
called  again  later  and  said  that  Oscar  might  linger  a  few 
days.  A  garde  malade  was  requisitioned  as  the  nurse  had 
been  rather  overworked. 

Terrible  offices  had  to  be  carried  out  into  which  I  need 
not  enter.  Reggie  was  a  perfect  wreck. 


6<DO  APPENDIX 

He  and  I  slept  at  the  Hotel  d'Alsace  that  night  in  a 
room  upstairs.  We  were  called  twice  by  the  nurse,  who 
thought  Oscar  was  actually  dying.  About  5.30  in  the 
morning  a  complete  change  came  over  him,  the  lines  of 
the  face  altered,  and  I  believe  what  is  called  the  death 
rattle  began,  but  I  had  never  heard  anything  like  it  be- 
fore; it  sounded  like  the  horrible  turning  of  a  crank,  and  it 
never  ceased  until  the  end.  His  eyes  did  not  respond  to  the 
light  test  any  longer.  Foam  and  blood  came  from  his 
mouth,  and  had  to  be  wiped  away  by  someone  standing 
by  him  all  the  time.  At  12  o'clock  I  went  out  to  get  some 
food,  Reggie  mounting  guard.  Hewentoutati2.3o.  From 
i  o'clock  we  did  not  leave  the  room;  the  painful  noise  from 
the  throat  became  louder  and  louder.  Reggie  and  myself 
destroyed  letters  to  keep  ourselves  from  breaking  down. 
The  two  nurses  were  out,  and  the  proprietor  of  the  hotel 
had  come  up  to  take  their  place;  at  1.45  the  time  of  his 
breathing  altered.  I  went  to  the  bedside  and  held  his 
hand,  his  pulse  began  to  flutter.  He  heaved  a  deep  sigh, 
the  only  natural  one  I  had  heard  since  I  arrived,  the  limbs 
seemed  to  stretch  involuntarily,  the  breathing  came  fainter; 
he  passed  at  10  minutes  to  2  p.  m.  exactly. 

After  washing  and  winding  the  body,  and  removing  the 
appalling  debris  which  had  to  be  burnt,  Reggie  and  my- 
self and  the  proprietor  started  for  the  Maine  to  make  the 
official  declaration.  There  is  no  use  recounting  the  tedious 
experiences  which  only  make  me  angry  to  think  about. 
The  excellent  Dupoirier  lost  his  head  and  complicated 
matters  by  making  a  mystery  over  Oscar's  name,  though 
there  was  a  difficulty,  as  Oscar  was  registered  under  the 
name  of  Melmoth  at  the  hotel,  and  it  is  contrary  to  the 
French  law  to  be  under  an  assumed  name  in  your  hotel. 
From  3.30  till  5  p.  m.  we  hung  about  the  Mairie  and  the 
Commissaire  de  Police  offices.  I  then  got  angry  and  in- 
sisted on  going  to  Gesling,  the  undertaker  to  the  English 
Embassy,  to  whom  Father  Cuthbert  had  recommended 
me.  After  settling  matters  with  him  I  went  off  to  find 
some  nuns  to  watch  the  body.  I  thought  that  in  Paris  of 
all  places  this  would  be  quite  easy,  but  it  was  only  after 
incredible  difficulties  I  got  two  Franciscan  sisters. 


APPENDIX  6OI 

Gesling  was  most  intelligent  and  promised  to  call  at 
the  Hotel  d'Alsace  at  8  o'clock  next  morning.  While 
Reggie  stayed  at  the  hotel  interviewing  journalists  and 
clamorous  creditors,  I  started  with  Gesling  to  see  officials. 
We  did  not  part  till  1.30,  so  you  can  imagine  the  formalities 
and  oaths  and  exclamations  and  signing  of  papers.  Dying 
in  Paris  is  really  a  very  difficult  and  expensive  luxury  for 
a  foreigner. 

It  was  in  the  afternoon  the  District  Doctor  called  and 
asked  if  Oscar  had  committed  suicide  or  was  murdered. 
He  would  not  look  at  the  signed  certificates  of  Kleiss  and 
Tucker.  Gesling  had  warned  me  the  previous  evening 
that  owing  to  the  assumed  name  and  Oscar's  identity,  the 
authorities  might  insist  on  his  body  being  taken  to  the 
Morgue.  Of  course  I  was  appalled  at  the  prospect,  it 
really  seemed  the  final  touch  of  horror.  After  examining 
the  body,  and,  indeed,  everybody  in  the  hotel,  and  after 
a  series  of  drinks  and  unseasonable  jests,  and  a  liberal  fee, 
the  District  Doctor  consented  to  sign  the  permission  for 
burial.  Then  arrived  some  other  revolting  official;  he 
asked  how  many  collars  Oscar  had,  and  the  value  of  his 
umbrella.  (This  is  quite  true,  and  not  a  mere  exaggera- 
tion of  mine.)  Then  various  poets  and  literary  people 
called,  Raymond  de  la  Tailhade,  Tardieu,  Charles  Sib- 
leigh,  Jehan  Rictus,  Robert  d'Humieres,  George  Sinclair, 
and  various  English  people,  who  gave  assumed  names,  to- 
gether with  two  veiled  women.  They  were  all  allowed  to 
see  the  body  when  they  signed  their  names 

I  am  glad  to  say  dear  Oscar  looked  calm  and  dignified, 
just  as  he  did  when  he  came  out  of  prison,  and  there  was 
nothing  at  all  horrible  about  the  body  after  it  had  been 
washed.  Around  his  neck  was  the  blessed  rosary  which 
you  gave  me,  and  on  the  breast  a  Franciscan  medal  given 
me  by  one  of  the  nuns,  a  few  flowers  placed  there  by  my- 
self and  an  anonymous  friend  who  had  brought  some  on 
behalf  of  the  children,  though  I  do  not  suppose  the  chil- 
dren know  that  their  father  is  dead.  Of  course  there  was 
the  usual  crucifix,  candles  and  holy  water. 

Gesling  had  advised  me  to  have  the  remains  placed  in 
the  coffin  at  once,  as  decomposition  would  begin  very 


602  APPENDIX 

rapidly,  and  at  8.30  in  the  evening  the  men  came  to  screw 
it  down.  An  unsuccessful  photograph  of  Oscar  was  taken 
by  Maurice  Gilbert  at  my  request,  the  flashlight  did  not 
work  properly.  Henri  Davray  came  just  before  they  had 
put  on  the  lid.  He  was  very  kind  and  nice.  On  Sunday, 
the  next  day,  Alfred  Douglas  arrived,  and  various  people 
whom  I  do  not  know  called.  I  expect  most  of  them  were 
journalists.  On  Monday  morning  at  9  o'clock,  the  funeral 
started  from  the  hotel — we  all  walked  to  the  Church  of 
St.  Germain  des  Pres  behind  the  hearse — Alfred  Douglas, 
Reggie  Turner  and  myself,  Dupoirier,  the  proprietor  of  the 
hotel,  Henri  the  nurse,  and  Jules,  the  servant  of  the  hotel, 
Dr.  Hennion  and  Maurice  Gilbert,  together  with  two 
strangers  whom  I  did  not  know.  After  a  low  mass,  said 
by  one  of  the  vicaires  at  the  altar  behind  the  sanctuary, 
part  of  the  burial  office  was  read  by  Father  Cuthbert. 
The  Suisse  told  me  that  there  were  fifty-six  people  present 
— there  were  five  ladies  in  deep  mourning — I  had  ordered 
three  coaches  only,  as  I  had  sent  out  no  official  notices, 
being  anxious  to  keep  the  funeral  quiet.  The  first  coach 
contained  Father  Cuthbert  and  the  acolyte;  the  second 
Alfred  Douglas,  Turner,  the  proprietor  of  the  hotel,  and 
myself;  the  third  contained  Madame  Stuart  Merrill,  Paul 
Fort,  Henri  Davray  and  Sar  Luis;  a  cab  followed  contain- 
ing strangers  unknown  to  me.  The  drive  took  one  hour 
and  a  half;  the  grave  is  at  Bagneux,  in  a  temporary  con- 
cession hired  in  my  name — when  I  am  able  I  shall  pur- 
chase ground  elsewhere  at  Pere  la  Chaise  for  choice.  I 
have  not  yet  decided  what  to  do,  or  the  nature  of  the 
monument.  There  were  altogether  twenty-four  wreaths 
of  flowers;  some  were  sent  anonymously.  The  proprietor 
of  the  hotel  supplied  a  pathetic  bead  trophy,  inscribed, 
"A  mon  locataire,"  and  there  was  another  of  the  same  kind 
from  ''The  service  de  1'Hotel,"  the  remaining  twenty-two 
were,  of  course,  of  real  flowers.  Wreaths  came  from,  or 
at  the  request  of,  the  following:  Alfred  Douglas,  More 
Adey,  Reginald  Turner,  Miss  Schuster,  Arthur  Clifton,  the 
Mercure  de  France,  Louis  Wilkinson,  Harold  Mellor,  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Teixiera  de  Mattos,  Maurice  Gilbert,  and  Dr. 
Tucker.  At  the  head  of  the  coffin  I  placed  a  wreath  of 


APPENDIX  603 

laurels  inscribed,  "A  tribute  to  his  literary  achievements 
and  distinction."  I  tied  inside  the  wreath  the  following 
names  of  those  who  had  shown  kindness  to  him  during  or 
after  his  imprisonment,  "Arthur  Humphreys,  Max  Beer- 
bohm,  Arthur  Clifton,  Ricketts,  Shannon,  Conder,  Roth- 
enstein,  Dal  Young,  Mrs.  Leverson,  More  Adey,  Alfred 
Douglas,  Reginald  Turner,  Frank  Harris,  Louis  Wilkinson, 
Mellor,  Miss  Schuster,  Rowland  Strong,"  and  by  special  re- 
quest a  friend  who  wished  to  be  known  as  "C.B." 

I  can  scarcely  speak  in  moderation  of  the  magnanimity, 
humanity  and  charity  of  John  Dupoirier,  the  proprietor 
of  the  Hotel  d'Alsace.  Just  before  I  left  Paris  Oscar  told 
me  he  owed  him  over  £190.  From  the  day  Oscar  was  laid 
up  he  never  said  anything  about  it.  He  never  mentioned 
the  subject  to  me  until  after  Oscar's  death,  and  then  I 
started  the  subject.  He  was  present  at  Oscar's  operation, 
and  attended  to  him  personally  every  morning.  He  paid 
himself  for  luxuries  and  necessities  ordered  by  the  doctor 

or  by  Oscar  out  of  his  own  pocket.     I  hope  that or 

will  at  any  rate  pay  him  the  money  still  owing.    Dr. 

Tucker  is  also  owed  a  large  sum  of  money.  He  was  most 
kind  and  attentive,  although  I  think  he  entirely  misunder- 
stood Oscar's  case. 

Reggie  Turner  had  the  worst  time  of  all  in  many  ways 
— he  experienced  all  the  horrible  uncertainty  and  the  ap- 
palling responsibility  of  which  he  did  not  know  the  extent. 
It  will  always  be  a  source  of  satisfaction  to  those  who  were 
fond  of  Oscar,  that  he  had  someone  like  Reggie  near  him 
during  his  last  days  while  he  was  articulate  and  sensible 

of  kindness  and  attention 

ROBERT  Ross. 


CRITICISMS 
BY  ROBERT  Ross 

Vol.  I.  Page  80  Line  3.  I  demur  very  much  to  your 
statement  in  this  paragraph.  Wilde  was  too  much  of  a 
student  of  Greek  to  have  learned  anything  about  con- 
troversy from  Whistler.  No  doubt  Whistler  was  more 
nimble  and  more  naturally  gifted  with  the  power  of  repar- 
tee, but  when  Wilde  indulged  in  controversy  with  his 
critics,  whether  he  got  the  best  of  it  or  not,  he  never  bor- 
rowed the  Whistlerian  method.  Cf .  his  controversy  with 
Henley  over  Dorian  Gray. 

Then  whatever  you  may  think  of  Ruskin,  Wilde  learnt 
a  great  deal  about  the  History  and  Philosophy  of  Art 
from  him.  He  learned  more  from  Pater  and  he  was  the 
friend  and  intimate  of  Burne- Jones  long  before  he  knew 
Whistler.  I  quite  agree  with  your  remark  that  he  had 
"no  joy  in  conflict"  and  no  doubt  he  had  little  or  no  knowl- 
edge of  the  technique  of  Art  in  the  modern  expert's  sense. 

[There  never  was  a  greater  master  of  controversy  than 
Whistler,  and  I  believe  Wilde  borrowed  his  method 
of  making  fun  of  the  adversary.  Robert  Ross's  second 
point  is  rather  controversial.  Shaw  agrees  with  me  that 
Wilde  never  knew  anything  really  of  music  or  of  paint- 
ing and  neither  the  history  nor  the  so-called  philosophy 
of  art  makes  one  a  connoisseur  of  contemporary  masters. 
F.  H.] 

Page  94.  Last  line.  For  "  happy  candle  "  read  "  Happy 
Lamp."  It  was  at  the  period  when  oil  lamps  were  put  in 
the  middle  of  the  dinner  table  just  before  the  general 
introduction  of  electric  light;  by  putting  "candle"  you 
lose  the  period.  Cf.  Du  Maurier's  pictures  of  dinner 
parties  in  Punch. 

Page  115.  I  venture  to  think  that  you  should  state 
that  Wilde  at  the  end  of  his  story  of  '  Mr.  W.  H.'  definitely 
says  that  the  theory  is  all  nonsense.  It  always  appeared 

605 


606  CRITICISMS 

to  me  a  semi-satire  of  Shakespearean  commentary.  I 
remember  Wilde  saying  to  me  after  it  was  published  that 
his  next  Shakespearean  book  would  be  a  discussion  as  to 
whether  the  commentators  on  Hamlet  were  mad  or  only 
pretending  to  be.  I  think  you  take  Wilde's  phantasy  too( 
seriously  but  I  am  not  disputing  whether  you  are  right  or 
wrong  in  your  opinion  of  it;  but  it  strikes  me  as  a  little 
solemn  when  on  Page  1 16  you  say  that  the  'whole  theory  is 
completely  mistaken';  but  you  are  quite  right  when  you 
say  that  it  did  Wilde  a  great  deal  of  harm.  [Ross  does 
not  seem  to  realise  that  if  the  theory  were  merely  fantas- 
tic the  public  might  be  excused  for  condemning  Oscar  for 
playing  with  such  a  subject.  As  a  matter  of  fact  I  re- 
member Oscar  defending  the  theory  to  me  years  later 
with  all  earnestness:  that's  why  I  stated  my  opinion  of  it. 
F.  H.] 

Page  142  Line  19.  What  Wilde  said  in  front  of  the 
curtain  was:  "I  have  enjoyed  this  evening  immensely." 

[I  seem  to  remember  that  Wilde  said  this;  my  note  was 
written  after  a  dinner  a  day  or  two  later  when  Oscar  acted 
the  whole  scene  over  again  and  probably  elaborated  his 
effect.  I  give  the  elaboration  as  most  characteristic.  F.H.] 

Vol.  II.  Page  357  Line  3.  Major  Nelson  was  the 
name  of  the  Governor  at  Reading  prison.  He  was 
one  of  the  most  charming  men  I  ever  came  across.  I 
think  he  was  a  little  hurt  by  the  "Ballad  of  Reading  Gaol, " 
which  he  fancied  rather  reflected  on  him  though  Major 
Isaacson  was  the  Governor  at  the  time  the  soldier  was 
executed.  Isaacson  was  a  perfect  monster.  Wilde  sent 
Nelson  copies  of  his  books,  "The  Ideal  Husband"  and 
"  The  Importance  of  Being  Earnest, "  which  were  published 
as  you  remember  after  the  release,  and  Nelson  acknowl- 
edged them  in  a  most  delightful  way.  He  is  dead  now. 

[Major  Isaacson  was  the  governor  who  boasted  to  me 
that  he  was  knocking  the  nonsense  out  of  Wilde;  he 
seemed  to  me  almost  inhuman.  My  report  got  him  re- 
lieved and  Nelson  appointed  in  his  stead.  Nelson  was 
an  ideal  governor.  F.  H.] 


CRITICISMS  607 

Page  387.  In  the  First  Edition  of  the  "Ballad  of  Reading 
Gaol"  issued  by  Methuen  I  have  given  the  original  draft 
of  the  poem  which  was  in  my  hands  in  September  1897, 
long  before  Wilde  rejoined  Douglas.  I  will  send  you  a 
copy  of  it  if  you  like,  but  it  is  much  more  likely  to  reach 
you  if  you  order  it  through  Putnam's  in  New  York  as 
they  are  Methuen's  agents.  I  would  like  you  to  see  it 
because  it  fortifies  your  opinion  about  Douglas'  ridiculous 
contention;  though  I  could  explode  the  whole  thing  by 
Wilde's  letters  to  myself  from  Berneval.  Certain  verses 
were  indeed  added  at  Naples.  I  do  not  know  what  you 
will  think,  but  to  me  they  prove  the  mental  decline  due  to 
the  atmosphere  and  life  that  Wilde  was  leading  at  the 
time.  Let  us  be  just  and  say  that  perhaps  Douglas 
assisted  more  than  he  was  conscious  of  in  their  composi- 
tion. To  me  they  are  terribly  poor  stuff,  but  then,  unlike 
yourself,  I  am  a  heretic  about  the  Ballad. 

Page  411.  In  fairness  to  Gide:  Gide  is  describing 
Wilde  after  he  had  come  back  from  Naples  in  the  year 
1898,  not  in  1897,  when  he  had  just  come  out  of  prison. 

Appendix  Page  438  Line  20.  Forgive  me  if  I  say  it, 
but  I  think  your  method  of  sneering  at  Curzon  unworthy 
of  Frank  Harris.  Sneer  by  all  means;  but  not  in  that 
particular  way. 

[Robert  Ross  is  mistaken  here:  no  sneer  was  intended-. 
I  added  Curzon's  title  to  avoid  giving  myself  the  air  of  an 
intimate.  F.  H.] 

Page  488  Line  17.  You  really  are  wrong  about  Mel- 
lor's  admiration  for  Wilde.  He  liked  his  society  but 
loathed  his  writing.  I  was  quite  angry  in  1900  when 
Mellor  came  to  see  me  at  Mentone  (after  Wilde's  death, 
of  course),  when  he  said  he  could  never  see  any  merit 
whatever  in  Wilde's  plays  or  books.  However  [the  point 
is  a  small  one. 

Page  490  Line  6.  The  only  thing  I  can  claim  to  have 
invented  in  connection  with  Wilde  were  the  two  titles 


608  CRITICISMS 

"De  Profundis"  and  "The  Ballad  of  Reading  Gaol,"  for 
which  let  me  say  I  can  produce  documentary  evidence. 
The  publication  of  "De  Profundis"  was  delayed  for  a 
month  in  1905  because  I  could  not  decide  on  what  to 
call  it.  It  happened  to  catch  on  but  I  do  not  think  it 
a  very  good  title. 

Page  555  Line  18.  Do  you  happen  to  hare  compared 
Douglas'  translation  of  Salome  in  Lane's  First  edition 
(with  Beardsley's  illustrations)  with  Lane's  Second  edition 
(with  Beardsley's  illustrations)  or  Lane's  little  editions 
(without  Beardsley's  illustrations)?  Or  have  you  ever 
compared  the  aforesaid  First  edition  with  the  original? 
Douglas'  translation  omits  a  great  deal  of  the  text  and 
is  actually  wrong  as  a  rendering  of  the  text  in  many  cases. 
I  have  had  this  out  with  a  good  many  people.  I  believe 
Douglas  is  to  this  day  sublimely  unconscious  that  his 
text,  of  which  there  were  never  more  than  500  copies 
issued  in  England,  has  been  entirely  scrapped;  his  name 
at  my  instance  was  removed  from  the  current  issues  for 
the  very  good  reason  that  the  new  translation  is  not  his. 
But  this  is  merely  an  observation  not  a  correction. 

[I  talked  this  matter  over  with  Douglas  more  than  once. 
He  did  not  know  French  well;  but  he  could  understand  it 
and  he  was  a  rarely  good  translator  as  his  version  of  a 
Baudelaire  sonnet  shows.  In  any  dispute  as  to  the  value 
of  a  word  or  phrase  I  should  prefer  his  opinion  to  Oscar's. 
But  Ross  is  doubtless  right  on  this  point.  F.  H.] 

Appendix  Page  587.  Your  memory  is  at  fault  here. 
The  charge  against  Horatio  Lloyd  was  of  a  normal  kind. 
It  was  for  exposing  himself  to  nursemaids  in  the  gardens  of 
the  Temple. 

[I  have  corrected  this  as  indeed  I  have  always  used 
Ross's  corrections  on  matters  of  fact.  F.  H.] 

Page  596  Line  13.  I  think  there  ought^to  be  a  capital 
"E"  in  exhibition  to  emphasise  that  it  is  the  1900  Exhi- 
bition in  Paris. 


THE  SOUL  OP  MAN  UNDER  SOCIALISM 

WHEN  I  was  editing  "The  Fortnightly  Review,"  Oscar 
Wilde  wrote  for  me  "The  Soul  of  Man  Under  Socialism." 
On  reading  it  then  it  seemed  to  me  that  he  knew  very 
little  about  Socialism  and  I  disliked  his  airy  way  of  deal- 
ing with  a  religion  he  hadn't  taken  the  trouble  to  fathom. 
The  essay  now  appears  to  me  in  a  somewhat  different 
light.  Oscar  had  no  deep  understanding  of  Socialism,  it 
is  true,  much  less  of  the  fact  that  in  a  healthy  body  cor- 
porate socialism  or  co-operation  would  govern  all  public 
utilities  and  public  services  while  the  individual  would 
be  left  in  possession  of  all  such  industries  as  his  activity 
can  control. 

But  Oscar's  genius  was  such  that  as  soon  as  he  had  stated 
one  side  of  the  problem  he  felt  that  the  other  side  had  to 
be  considered  and  so  we  get  from  him  if  not  the  ideal  of 
an  ordered  state  at  least  apergus  of  astounding  truth  and 
value. 

For  example  he  writes:  "Socialism  ...  by  converting 
private  property  into'  public  wealth,  and  substituting  co- 
operation for  competition,  will  restore  society  to  its  proper 
condition  of  a  thoroughly  healthy  organism,  and  insure 
the  material  well-being  of  each  member  of  the  community." 

Then  comes  the  return  on  himself:  "But  for  the  full  de- 
velopment of  Life  .  .  .  something  more  is  needed.  What 
is  needed  is  Individualism." 

And  the  ideal  is  always  implicit:  "Private  property  has 
led  Individualism  entirely  astray.  It  has  made  gain  not 
growth  its  aim." 

Humor  too  is  never  far  away:  "Only  one  class  thinks 
more  about  money  than  the  rich  and  that  is  the  poor." 

His  short  stay  in  the  United  States  also  benefited  him. 
.  .  .  "Democracy  means  simply  the  bludgeoning  of  the 
people  by  the  people  for  the  people.  It  has  been  found 
out." 

Taken  all  in  all  a  provocative  delightful  essay  which  like 
Salome  in  the  aesthetic  field  marks  the  end  of  his  Lehrjahre 
and  the  beginning  of  his  work  as  a  master. 

609 


A  LAST  WORD 

IN  the  couple  of  years  that  have  elapsed  since  the  first 
edition  of  this  book  was  published,  I  have  received  many 
letters  from  readers  asking  for  information  about  Wilde 
which  I  have  omitted  to  give.  I  have  been  threatened  with 
prosecution  and  must  not  speak  plainly;  but  something 
may  be  said  in  answer  to  those  who  contend  that  Oscar 
might  have  brought  forward  weightier  arguments  in  his 
defence  than  are  to  be  found  in  Chapter  XXIV.  As  a 
matter  of  fact  I  have  made  him  more  persuasive  than  he 
was.  When  Oscar  declared  (as  recorded  on  page  496)  that 
his  weakness  was  "consistent  with  the  highest  ideal  of  hu- 
manity if  not  a  characteristic  of  it,"  I  asked  him:  "would  he 
make  the  same  defence  for  the  Lesbians?"  He  turned  aside 
showing  the  utmost  disgust  in  face  and  words,  thus  in  my 
opinion  giving  his  whole  case  away. 

He  could  have  made  a  better  defence.  He  might  have 
said  that  as  we  often  eat  or  drink  or  smoke  for  pleasure,  so 
we  may  indulge  in  other  sensualities.  If  he  had  argued 
that  his  sin  was  comparatively  venial  and  so  personal- 
peculiar  that  it  carried  with  it  no  temptation  to  the  normal 
man,  I  should  not  have  disputed  his  point. 

Moreover,  love  at  its  highest  is  independent  of  sex  and 
sensuality.  Since  Luther  we  have  been  living  in  a  centrif- 
ugal movement,  in  a  wild  individualism  where  all  ties  of 
love  and  affection  have  been  loosened,  and  now  that  the 
centripetal  movement  has  come  into  power  we  shall  find 
that  in  another  fifty  years  or  so  friendship  and  love  will 
win  again  to  honor  and  affinities  of  all  sorts  will  pro- 
claim themselves  without  shame  and  without  fear.  In 
this  sense  Oscar  might  have  regarded  himself  as  a  fore- 
runner and  not  as  a  survival  or  "sport."  And  it  may 
well  be  that  some  instinctive  feeling  of  this  sort  was  at 
the  back  of  his  mind  though  too  vague  to  be  formulated 
in  words.  For  even  in  our  dispute  (see  Page  500)  he 
pleaded  that  the  world  was  becoming  more  tolerant,  which 
one  hopes,  is  true.  To  become  more  tolerant  of  the  faults 
of  others  is  the  first  lesson  in  the  religion  of  Humanity. 

The  End. 
610 


PR 

5323 

H3 

1918 

v.2 


Harris,  Frank 
Oscar  Wilde 


PLEASE  DO  NOT  REMOVE 
CARDS  OR  SLIPS  FROM  THIS  POCKET 

UNIVERSITY  OF  TORONTO  LIBRARY