OSCAR WILDE

HIS LIFE AND CONFESSIONS

BY

FRANK HARRIS

VOLUME I

[Illustration: Oscar Wilde at About Thirty]

PRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR

29 WAVERLEY PLACENEW YORK CITY

MCMXVIII

Imprime en AllemagnePrinted in Germany

Copyright, 1916, BY FRANK HARRIS

CONTENTS

VOLUME I

CHAPTER PAGE

INTRODUCTION iii

 I. Oscar's Father and Mother on Trial 1

 II. Oscar Wilde as a Schoolboy 23

 III. Trinity, Dublin: Magdalen, Oxford 37

 IV. Formative Influences: Oscar's Poems 50

 V. Oscar's Quarrel with Whistler and Marriage 73

 VI. Oscar Wilde's Faith and Practice 91

 VII. Oscar's Reputation and Supporters 102

 VIII. Oscar's Growth to Originality About 1890 112

 IX. The Summer of Success: Oscar's First Play 133

 X. The First Meeting with Lord Alfred Douglas 144

 XI. The Threatening Cloud Draws Nearer 156

 XII. Danger Signals: the Challenge 175

 XIII. Oscar Attacks Queensberry and is Worsted 202

 XIV. How Genius is Persecuted in England 229

 XV. The Queen _vs. _ Wilde: The First Trial 261

 XVI. Escape Rejected: The Second Trial and Sentence 292

VOLUME II

[Transcriber's Note: Volume II is also available on ProjectGutenberg. ]

 XVII. Prison and the Effects of Punishment 321

XVIII. Mitigation of Punishment; but not Release 345

 XIX. His St. Martin's Summer: His Best Work 363

 XX. The Results of His Second Fall: His Genius 406

 XXI. His Sense of Rivalry; His Love of Life and Laziness 433

 XXII. "A Great Romantic Passion!" 450

XXIII. His Judgments of Writers and of Women 469

 XXIV. We Argue About His "Pet Vice" and Punishment 488

 XXV. The Last Hope Lost 509

 XXVI. The End 532

XXVII. A Last Word 542

 Shaw's "Memories" 1-32

THE APPENDIX, 549

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

VOLUME I

Oscar Wilde at About Thirty Frontispiece

 FACING PAGEDr. Sir William Wilde 22

Oscar Wilde at Twenty-Seven, as He First Appeared in America 75

Oscar Wilde 90[Transcriber's Note: This illustration is not in the original list. ]

VOLUME II

Oscar Wilde and Lord Alfred Douglas About 1893 321

"Speranza": Lady Wilde as a Young Woman 358

Note to Warder Martin 576

 THE CRUCIFIXION OF THE GUILTY IS STILL MORE AWE-INSPIRING THAN THE CRUCIFIXION OF THE INNOCENT; WHAT DO WE MEN KNOW OF INNOCENCE?

INTRODUCTION

I was advised on all hands not to write this book, and some Englishfriends who have read it urge me not to publish it. 

"You will be accused of selecting the subject, " they say, "becausesexual viciousness appeals to you, and your method of treatment laysyou open to attack. 

"You criticise and condemn the English conception of justice, andEnglish legal methods: you even question the impartiality of Englishjudges, and throw an unpleasant light on English juries and theEnglish public--all of which is not only unpopular but will convincethe unthinking that you are a presumptuous, or at least an outlandish, person with too good a conceit of himself and altogether too free atongue. "

I should be more than human or less if these arguments did not give mepause. I would do nothing willingly to alienate the few who are stillfriendly to me. But the motives driving me are too strong for suchpersonal considerations. I might say with the Latin:

 "Non me tua fervida terrent, Dicta, ferox: Di me terrent, et Jupiter hostis. "

Even this would be only a part of the truth. Youth it seems to meshould always be prudent, for youth has much to lose: but I am come tothat time of life when a man can afford to be bold, may even dare tobe himself and write the best in him, heedless of knaves and fools orof anything this world may do. The voyage for me is almost over: I amin sight of port: like a good shipman, I have already sent down thelofty spars and housed the captious canvas in preparation for the longanchorage: I have little now to fear. 

And the immortals are with me in my design. Greek tragedy treated offar more horrible and revolting themes, such as the banquet ofThyestes: and Dante did not shrink from describing the unnatural mealof Ugolino. The best modern critics approve my choice. "All depends onthe subject, " says Matthew Arnold, talking of great literature:"choose a fitting action--a great and significant action--penetrateyourself with the feeling of the situation: this done, everything elsewill follow; for expression is subordinate and secondary. "

Socrates was found guilty of corrupting the young and was put to deathfor the offence. His accusation and punishment constitute surely agreat and significant action such as Matthew Arnold declared wasalone of the highest and most permanent literary value. 

The action involved in the rise and ruin of Oscar Wilde is of the samekind and of enduring interest to humanity. Critics may say that Wildeis a smaller person than Socrates, less significant in many ways: buteven if this were true, it would not alter the artist's position; thegreat portraits of the world are not of Napoleon or Dante. Thedifferences between men are not important in comparison with theirinherent likeness. To depict the mortal so that he takes onimmortality--that is the task of the artist. 

There are special reasons, too, why I should handle this story. OscarWilde was a friend of mine for many years: I could not help prizinghim to the very end: he was always to me a charming, soul-animatinginfluence. He was dreadfully punished by men utterly his inferiors:ruined, outlawed, persecuted till Death itself came as a deliverance. His sentence impeaches his judges. The whole story is charged withtragic pathos and unforgettable lessons. I have waited for more thanten years hoping that some one would write about him in this spiritand leave me free to do other things, but nothing such as I proposehas yet appeared. 

Oscar Wilde was greater as a talker, in my opinion, than as a writer, and no fame is more quickly evanescent. If I do not tell his storyand paint his portrait, it seems unlikely that anyone else will do it. 

English "strachery" may accuse me of attacking morality: theaccusation is worse than absurd. The very foundations of this oldworld are moral: the charred ember itself floats about in space, movesand has its being in obedience to inexorable law. The thinker maydefine morality: the reformer may try to bring our notions of it intonearer accord with the fact: human love and pity may seek to softenits occasional injustices and mitigate its intolerable harshness: butthat is all the freedom we mortals enjoy, all the breathing-spaceallotted to us. 

In this book the reader will find the figure of the Prometheus-artistclamped, so to speak, with bands of steel to the huge granitic cliffof English puritanism. No account was taken of his manifold virtuesand graces: no credit given him for his extraordinary achievements: hewas hounded out of life because his sins were not the sins of theEnglish middle-class. The culprit was in[1] much nobler and betterthan his judges. 

Here are all the elements of pity and sorrow and fear that arerequired in great tragedy. 

The artist who finds in Oscar Wilde a great and provocative subjectfor his art needs no argument to justify his choice. If the pictureis a great and living portrait, the moralist will be satisfied: thedark shadows must all be there, as well as the high lights, and theeffect must be to increase our tolerance and intensify our pity. 

If on the other hand the portrait is ill-drawn or ill-painted, all thereasoning in the world and the praise of all the sycophants will notsave the picture from contempt and the artist from censure. 

There is one measure by which intention as apart from accomplishmentcan be judged, and one only: "If you think the book well done, " saysPascal, "and on re-reading find it strong; be assured that the man whowrote it, wrote it on his knees. " No book could have been written morereverently than this book of mine. 

FRANK HARRIS. Nice, 1910. 

FOOTNOTES:

[1] [Transcriber's Note: Printer error. In the 1930 U. S. Edition theword "in" is deleted. ]

OSCAR WILDE: HIS LIFE AND CONFESSIONS

CHAPTER I

On the 12th of December, 1864, Dublin society was abuzz withexcitement. A tidbit of scandal which had long been rolled on thetongue in semi-privacy was to be discussed in open court, and allwomen and a good many men were agog with curiosity and expectation. 

The story itself was highly spiced and all the actors in it wellknown. 

A famous doctor and oculist, recently knighted for his achievements, was the real defendant. He was married to a woman with a greatliterary reputation as a poet and writer who was idolized by thepopulace for her passionate advocacy of Ireland's claim toself-government; "Speranza" was regarded by the Irish people as a sortof Irish Muse. 

The young lady bringing the action was the daughter of the professorof medical jurisprudence at Trinity College, who was also the chief atMarsh's library. 

It was said that this Miss Travers, a pretty girl just out of herteens, had been seduced by Dr. Sir William Wilde while under his careas a patient. Some went so far as to say that chloroform had beenused, and that the girl had been violated. 

The doctor was represented as a sort of Minotaur: lustful stories wereinvented and repeated with breathless delight; on all faces, the joyof malicious curiosity and envious denigration. 

The interest taken in the case was extraordinary: the excitementbeyond comparison; the first talents of the Bar were engaged on bothsides; Serjeant Armstrong led for the plaintiff, helped by the famousMr. Butt, Q. C. , and Mr. Heron, Q. C. , who were in turn backed by Mr. Hamill and Mr. Quinn; while Serjeant Sullivan was for the defendant, supported by Mr. Sidney, Q. C. , and Mr. Morris, Q. C. , and aided by Mr. John Curran and Mr. Purcell. 

The Court of Common Pleas was the stage; Chief Justice Monahanpresiding with a special jury. The trial was expected to last a week, and not only the Court but the approaches to it were crowded. 

To judge by the scandalous reports, the case should have been acriminal case, should have been conducted by the Attorney-Generalagainst Sir William Wilde; but that was not the way it presenteditself. The action was not even brought directly by Miss Travers or byher father, Dr. Travers, against Sir William Wilde for rape orcriminal assault, or seduction. It was a civil action brought by MissTravers, who claimed £2, 000 damages for a libel written by Lady Wildeto her father, Dr. Travers. The letter complained of ran as follows:--

 TOWER, BRAY, May 6th. 

 Sir, you may not be aware of the disreputable conduct of your daughter at Bray where she consorts with all the low newspaper boys in the place, employing them to disseminate offensive placards in which my name is given, and also tracts in which she makes it appear that she has had an intrigue with Sir William Wilde. If she chooses to disgrace herself, it is not my affair, but as her object in insulting me is in the hope of extorting money for which she has several times applied to Sir William Wilde with threats of more annoyance if not given, I think it right to inform you, as no threat of additional insult shall ever extort money from our hands. The wages of disgrace she has so basely treated for and demanded shall never be given her. 

 JANE F. WILDE. 

 To Dr. Travers. 

The summons and plaint charged that this letter written to the fatherof the plaintiff by Lady Wilde was a libel reflecting on the characterand chastity of Miss Travers, and as Lady Wilde was a married woman, her husband Sir William Wilde was joined in the action as aco-defendant for conformity. 

The defences set up were:--

First, a plea of "No libel": secondly, that the letter did not bearthe defamatory sense imputed by the plaint: thirdly, a denial of thepublication, and, fourthly, a plea of privilege. This last wasevidently the real defence and was grounded upon facts which affordedsome justification of Lady Wilde's bitter letter. 

It was admitted that for a year or more Miss Travers had done heruttermost to annoy both Sir William Wilde and his wife in everypossible way. The trouble began, the defence stated, by Miss Traversfancying that she was slighted by Lady Wilde. She thereupon publisheda scandalous pamphlet under the title of "Florence Boyle Price, aWarning; by Speranza, " with the evident intention of causing thepublic to believe that the booklet was the composition of Lady Wildeunder the assumed name of Florence Boyle Price. In this pamphlet MissTravers asserted that a person she called Dr. Quilp had made anattempt on her virtue. She put the charge mildly. "It is sad, " shewrote, "to think that in the nineteenth century a lady must notventure into a physician's study without being accompanied by abodyguard to protect her. "

Miss Travers admitted that Dr. Quilp was intended for Sir WilliamWilde; indeed she identified Dr. Quilp with the newly made knight in adozen different ways. She went so far as to describe his appearance. She declared that he had "an animal, sinister expression about hismouth which was coarse and vulgar in the extreme: the large protrudingunder lip was most unpleasant. Nor did the upper part of his faceredeem the lower part. His eyes were small and round, mean and pryingin expression. There was no candour in the doctor's countenance, whereone looked for candour. " Dr. Quilp's quarrel with his victim, itappeared, was that she was "unnaturally passionless. "

The publication of such a pamphlet was calculated to injure both SirWilliam and Lady Wilde in public esteem, and Miss Travers was notcontent to let the matter rest there. She drew attention to thepamphlet by letters to the papers, and on one occasion, when SirWilliam Wilde was giving a lecture to the Young Men's ChristianAssociation at the Metropolitan Hall, she caused large placards to beexhibited in the neighbourhood having upon them in large letters thewords "Sir William Wilde and Speranza. " She employed one of thepersons bearing a placard to go about ringing a large hand bell whichshe, herself, had given to him for the purpose. She even publisheddoggerel verses in the _Dublin Weekly Advertiser_, and signed them"Speranza, " which annoyed Lady Wilde intensely. One read thus:--

 Your progeny is quite a pest To those who hate such "critters"; Some sport I'll have, or I'm blest I'll fry the Wilde breed in the West Then you can call them Fritters. 

She wrote letters to _Saunders Newsletter_, and even reviewed a bookof Lady Wilde's entitled "The First Temptation, " and called it a"blasphemous production. " Moreover, when Lady Wilde was staying atBray, Miss Travers sent boys to offer the pamphlet for sale to theservants in her house. In fine Miss Travers showed a keen feminineingenuity and pertinacity in persecution worthy of a nobler motive. 

But the defence did not rely on such annoyance as sufficientprovocation for Lady Wilde's libellous letter. The plea went on tostate that Miss Travers had applied to Sir William Wilde for moneyagain and again, and accompanied these applications with threats ofworse pen-pricks if the requests were not acceded to. It was underthese circumstances, according to Lady Wilde, that she wrote theletter complained of to Dr. Travers and enclosed it in a sealedenvelope. She wished to get Dr. Travers to use his parental influenceto stop Miss Travers from further disgracing herself and insulting andannoying Sir William and Lady Wilde. 

The defence carried the war into the enemy's camp by thus suggestingthat Miss Travers was blackmailing Sir William and Lady Wilde. 

The attack in the hands of Serjeant Armstrong was still more deadlyand convincing. He rose early on the Monday afternoon and declared atthe beginning that the case was so painful that he would havepreferred not to have been engaged in it--a hypocritical statementwhich deceived no one, and was just as conventional-false as his wig. But with this exception the story he told was extraordinarily clearand gripping. 

Some ten years before, Miss Travers, then a young girl of nineteen, was suffering from partial deafness, and was recommended by her owndoctor to go to Dr. Wilde, who was the chief oculist and aurist inDublin. Miss Travers went to Dr. Wilde, who treated her successfully. Dr. Wilde would accept no fees from her, stating at the outset that asshe was the daughter of a brother-physician, he thought it an honourto be of use to her. Serjeant Armstrong assured his hearers that inspite of Miss Travers' beauty he believed that at first Dr. Wilde tooknothing but a benevolent interest in the girl. Even when hisprofessional services ceased to be necessary, Dr. Wilde continued hisfriendship. He wrote Miss Travers innumerable letters: he advised heras to her reading and sent her books and tickets for places ofamusement: he even insisted that she should be better dressed, andpressed money upon her to buy bonnets and clothes and frequentlyinvited her to his house for dinners and parties. The friendship wenton in this sentimental kindly way for some five or six years till1860. 

The wily Serjeant knew enough about human nature to feel that it wasnecessary to discover some dramatic incident to change benevolentsympathy into passion, and he certainly found what he wanted. 

Miss Travers, it appeared, had been burnt low down on her neck when achild: the cicatrice could still be seen, though it was graduallydisappearing. When her ears were being examined by Dr. Wilde, it wascustomary for her to kneel on a hassock before him, and he thusdiscovered this burn on her neck. After her hearing improved he stillcontinued to examine the cicatrice from time to time, pretending tonote the speed with which it was disappearing. Some time in '60 or '61Miss Travers had a corn on the sole of her foot which gave her somepain. Dr. Wilde did her the honour of paring the corn with his ownhands and painting it with iodine. The cunning Serjeant could not helpsaying with some confusion, natural or assumed, "that it would havebeen just as well--at least there are men of such temperament that itwould be dangerous to have such a manipulation going on. " Thespectators in the court smiled, feeling that in "manipulation" theSerjeant had found the most neatly suggestive word. 

Naturally at this point Serjeant Sullivan interfered in order to stemthe rising tide of interest and to blunt the point of the accusation. Sir William Wilde, he said, was not the man to shrink from anyinvestigation: but he was only in the case formally and he could notmeet the allegations, which therefore were "one-sided and unfair" andso forth and so on. 

After the necessary pause, Serjeant Armstrong plucked his wig straightand proceeded to read letters of Dr. Wilde to Miss Travers at thistime, in which he tells her not to put too much iodine on her foot, but to rest it for a few days in a slipper and keep it in a horizontalposition while reading a pleasant book. If she would send in, he wouldtry and send her one. 

"I have now, " concluded the Serjeant, like an actor carefullypreparing his effect, "traced this friendly intimacy down to a pointwhere it begins to be dangerous: I do not wish to aggravate thegravity of the charge in the slightest by any rhetoric or by anunconscious over-statement; you shall therefore, gentlemen of thejury, hear from Miss Travers herself what took place between her andDr. Wilde and what she complains of. "

Miss Travers then went into the witness-box. Though thin and past herfirst youth, she was still pretty in a conventional way, with regularfeatures and dark eyes. She was examined by Mr. Butt, Q. C. Afterconfirming point by point what Serjeant Armstrong had said, she wenton to tell the jury that in the summer of '62 she had thought of goingto Australia, where her two brothers lived, who wanted her to come outto them. Dr. Wilde lent her £40 to go, but told her she must say itwas £20 or her father might think the sum too large. She missed theship in London and came back. She was anxious to impress on the jurythe fact that she had repaid Dr. Wilde, that she had always repaidwhatever he had lent her. 

She went on to relate how one day Dr. Wilde had got her in a kneelingposition at his feet, when he took her in his arms, declaring that hewould not let her go until she called him William. Miss Traversrefused to do this, and took umbrage at the embracing and ceased tovisit at his house: but Dr. Wilde protested extravagantly that he hadmeant nothing wrong, and begged her to forgive him and graduallybrought about a reconciliation which was consummated by pressinginvitations to parties and by a loan of two or three pounds for adress, which loan, like the others, had been carefully repaid. 

The excitement in the court was becoming breathless. It was felt thatthe details were cumulative; the doctor was besieging the fortress inproper form. The story of embracings, reconciliations and loans allprepared the public for the great scene. 

The girl went on, now answering questions, now telling bits of thestory in her own way, Mr. Butt, the great advocate, taking care thatit should all be consecutive and clear with a due crescendo ofinterest. In October, 1862, it appeared Lady Wilde was not in thehouse at Merrion Square, but was away at Bray, as one of the childrenhad not been well, and she thought the sea air would benefit him. Dr. Wilde was alone in the house. Miss Travers called and was admittedinto Dr. Wilde's study. He put her on her knees before him and baredher neck, pretending to examine the burn; he fondled her too much andpressed her to him: she took offence and tried to draw away. Somehowor other his hand got entangled in a chain at her neck. She called outto him, "You are suffocating me, " and tried to rise: but he cried outlike a madman: "I will, I want to, " and pressed what seemed to be ahandkerchief over her face. She declared that she lost consciousness. 

When she came to herself she found Dr. Wilde frantically imploring herto come to her senses, while dabbing water on her face, and offeringher wine to drink. 

"If you don't drink, " he cried, "I'll pour it over you. "

For some time, she said, she scarcely realized where she was or whathad occurred, though she heard him talking. But graduallyconsciousness came back to her, and though she would not open her eyesshe understood what he was saying. He talked frantically:

"Do be reasonable, and all will be right. .. . I am in your power . .. Spare me, oh, spare me . .. Strike me if you like. I wish to God Icould hate you, but I can't. I swore I would never touch your handagain. Attend to me and do what I tell you. Have faith and confidencein me and you may remedy the past and go to Australia. Think of thetalk this may give rise to. Keep up appearances for your own sake. .. . "

He then took her up-stairs to a bedroom and made her drink some wineand lie down for some time. She afterwards left the house; she hardlyknew how; he accompanied her to the door, she thought; but could notbe certain; she was half dazed. 

The judge here interposed with the crucial question:

"Did you know that you had been violated?"

The audience waited breathlessly; after a short pause Miss Traversreplied:

"Yes. "

Then it was true, the worst was true. The audience, excited to thehighest pitch, caught breath with malevolent delight. But the thrillswere not exhausted. Miss Travers next told how in Dr. Wilde's studyone evening she had been vexed at some slight, and at once took fourpennyworth of laudanum which she had bought. Dr. Wilde hurried herround to the house of Dr. Walsh, a physician in the neighbourhood, whogave her an antidote. Dr. Wilde was dreadfully frightened lestsomething should get out. .. . 

She admitted at once that she had sometimes asked Dr. Wilde for money:she thought nothing of it as she had again and again repaid him themonies which he had lent her. 

Miss Travers' examination in chief had been intensely interesting. Thefashionable ladies had heard all they had hoped to hear, and it wasnoticed that they were not so eager to get seats in the court fromthis time on, though the room was still crowded. 

The cross-examination of Miss Travers was at least as interesting tothe student of human nature as the examination in chief had been, forin her story of what took place on that 14th of October, weaknessesand discrepancies of memory were discovered and at lengthimprobabilities and contradictions in the narrative itself. 

First of all it was elicited that she could not be certain of the day;it might have been the 15th or the 16th: it was Friday the 14th, shethought. .. . It was a great event to her; the most awful event in herwhole life; yet she could not remember the day for certain. 

"Did you tell anyone of what had taken place?"

"No. "

"Not even your father?"

"No. "

"Why not?"

"I did not wish to give him pain. "

"But you went back to Dr. Wilde's study after the awful assault?"

"Yes. "

"You went again and again, did you not?"

"Yes. "

"Did he ever attempt to repeat the offence?"

"Yes. "

The audience was thunderstruck; the plot was deepening. Miss Traverswent on to say that the Doctor was rude to her again; she did not knowhis intention; he took hold of her and tried to fondle her; but shewould not have it. 

"After the second offence you went back?"

"Yes. "

"Did he ever repeat it again?"

"Yes. "

Miss Travers said that once again Dr. Wilde had been rude to her. 

"Yet you returned again?"

"Yes. "

"And you took money from this man who had violated you against yourwill?"

"Yes. "

"You asked him for money?"

"Yes. "

"This is the first time you have told about this second and thirdassault, is it not?"

"Yes, " the witness admitted. 

So far all that Miss Travers had said hung together and seemedeminently credible; but when she was questioned about the chloroformand the handkerchief she became confused. At the outset she admittedthat the handkerchief might have been a rag. She was not certain itwas a rag. It was something she saw the doctor throw into the firewhen she came to her senses. 

"Had he kept it in his hands, then, all the time you wereunconscious?"

"I don't know. "

"Just to show it to you?"

The witness was silent. 

When she was examined as to her knowledge of chloroform, she brokedown hopelessly. She did not know the smell of it; could not describeit; did not know whether it burnt or not; could not in fact swear thatit was chloroform Dr. Wilde had used; would not swear that it wasanything; believed that it was chloroform or something like it becauseshe lost consciousness. That was her only reason for saying thatchloroform had been given to her. 

Again the judge interposed with the probing question:

"Did you say anything about chloroform in your pamphlet?"

"No, " the witness murmured. 

It was manifest that the strong current of feeling in favour of MissTravers had begun to ebb. The story was a toothsome morsel still: butit was regretfully admitted that the charge of rape had not beenpushed home. It was felt to be disappointing, too, that the chiefprosecuting witness should have damaged her own case. 

It was now the turn of the defence, and some thought the pendulummight swing back again. 

Lady Wilde was called and received an enthusiastic reception. Theordinary Irishman was willing to show at any time that he believed inhis Muse, and was prepared to do more than cheer for one who hadfought with her pen for "Oireland" in the _Nation_ side by side withTom Davis. 

Lady Wilde gave her evidence emphatically, but was too bitter to be apersuasive witness. It was tried to prove from her letter that shebelieved that Miss Travers had had an intrigue with Sir William Wilde, but she would not have it. She did not for a moment believe in herhusband's guilt. Miss Travers wished to make it appear, she said, thatshe had an intrigue with Sir William Wilde, but in her opinion it wasutterly untrue. Sir William Wilde was above suspicion. There was not aparticle of truth in the accusation; _her_ husband would never sodemean himself. 

Lady Wilde's disdainful speeches seemed to persuade the populace, buthad small effect on the jury, and still less on the judge. 

When she was asked if she hated Miss Travers, she replied that shedid not hate anyone, but she had to admit that she disliked MissTravers' methods of action. 

"Why did you not answer Miss Travers when she wrote telling you ofyour husband's attempt on her virtue?"

"I took no interest in the matter, " was the astounding reply. 

The defence made an even worse mistake than this. When the time came, Sir William Wilde was not called. 

In his speech for Miss Travers, Mr. Butt made the most of thisomission. He declared that the refusal of Sir William Wilde to go intothe witness box was an admission of guilt; an admission that MissTravers' story of her betrayal was true and could not be contradicted. But the refusal of Sir William Wilde to go into the box was not, heinsisted, the worst point in the defence. He reminded the jury that hehad asked Lady Wilde why she had not answered Miss Travers when shewrote to her. He recalled Lady Wilde's reply:

"I took no interest in the matter. "

Every woman would be interested in such a thing, he declared, even astranger; but Lady Wilde hated her husband's victim and took nointerest in her seduction beyond writing a bitter, vindictive andlibellous letter to the girl's father. .. . 

The speech was regarded as a masterpiece and enhanced the alreadygreat reputation of the man who was afterwards to become the Home RuleLeader. 

It only remained for the judge to sum up, for everyone was gettingimpatient to hear the verdict. Chief Justice Monahan made a short, impartial speech, throwing the dry, white light of truth upon theconflicting and passionate statements. First of all, he said, it wasdifficult to believe in the story of rape whether with or withoutchloroform. If the girl had been violated she would be expected to cryout at the time, or at least to complain to her father as soon as shereached home. Had it been a criminal trial, he pointed out, no onewould have believed this part of Miss Travers' story. When you find agirl does not cry out at the time and does not complain afterwards, and returns to the house to meet further rudeness, it must be presumedthat she consented to the seduction. 

But was there a seduction? The girl asserted that there was guiltyintimacy, and Sir William Wilde had not contradicted her. It was saidthat he was only formally a defendant; but he was the real defendantand he could have gone into the box if he had liked and given hisversion of what took place and contradicted Miss Travers in whole orin part. 

"It is for you, gentlemen of the jury, to draw your own conclusionsfrom his omission to do what one would have thought would be anhonourable man's first impulse and duty. "

Finally it was for the jury to consider whether the letter was a libeland if so what the amount of damages should be. 

His Lordship recalled the jury at Mr. Butt's request to say that inassessing damages they might also take into consideration the factthat the defence was practically a justification of the libel. Thefair-mindedness of the judge was conspicuous from first to last, andwas worthy of the high traditions of the Irish Bench. 

After deliberating for a couple of hours the jury brought in a verdictwhich had a certain humour in it. They awarded to Miss Travers afarthing damages and intimated that the farthing should carry costs. In other words they rated Miss Travers' virtue at the very lowest coinof the realm, while insisting that Sir William Wilde should pay acouple of thousands of pounds in costs for having seduced her. 

It was generally felt that the verdict did substantial justice; thoughthe jury, led away by patriotic sympathy with Lady Wilde, the true"Speranza, " had been a little hard on Miss Travers. No one doubtedthat Sir William Wilde had seduced his patient. He had, it appeared, an unholy reputation, and the girl's admission that he had accused herof being "unnaturally passionless" was accepted as the true key of theenigma. This was why he had drawn away from the girl, after seducingher. And it was not unnatural under the circumstances that she shouldbecome vindictive and revengeful. 

Such inferences as these, I drew from the comments of the Irish papersat the time; but naturally I wished if possible to hear sometrustworthy contemporary on the matter. Fortunately such testimony wasforthcoming. 

A Fellow of Trinity, who was then a young man, embodied the bestopinion of the time in an excellent pithy letter. He wrote to me thatthe trial simply established, what every one believed, that "SirWilliam Wilde was a pithecoid person of extraordinary sensuality andcowardice (funking the witness-box left him without a defender!) andthat his wife was a highfalutin' pretentious creature whose pride wasas extravagant as her reputation founded on second-rateverse-making. .. . Even when a young woman she used to keep her rooms inMerrion Square in semi-darkness; she laid the paint on too thick forany ordinary light, and she gave herself besides all manner of airs. "

This incisive judgment of an able and fairly impartial contemporaryobserver[2] corroborates, I think, the inferences which one wouldnaturally draw from the newspaper accounts of the trial. It seems tome that both combine to give a realistic photograph, so to speak, ofSir William and Lady Wilde. An artist, however, would lean to a morekindly picture. Trying to see the personages as they saw themselves hewould balance the doctor's excessive sensuality and lack ofself-control by dwelling on the fact that his energy and perseveranceand intimate adaptation to his surroundings had brought him in middleage to the chief place in his profession, and if Lady Wilde wasabnormally vain, a verse-maker and not a poet, she was still atalented woman of considerable reading and manifold artisticsympathies. 

Such were the father and mother of Oscar Wilde. 

FOOTNOTES:

[2] As he has died since this was written, there is no longer anyreason for concealing his name: R. Y. Tyrrell, for many years beforehis death Regius Professor of Greek in Trinity College, Dublin. 

CHAPTER II

The Wildes had three children, two sons and a daughter. The first sonwas born in 1852, a year after the marriage, and was christened afterhis father William Charles Kingsbury Wills. The second son was borntwo years later, in 1854 and the names given to him seem to reveal theNationalist sympathies and pride of his mother. He was christenedOscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde; but he appears to have sufferedfrom the pompous string only in extreme youth. At school he concealedthe "Fingal, " as a young man he found it advisable to omit the"O'Flahertie. "

In childhood and early boyhood Oscar was not considered as quick orengaging or handsome as his brother, Willie. Both boys had the benefitof the best schooling of the time. They were sent as boarders to thePortora School at Enniskillen, one of the four Royal schools ofIreland. Oscar went to Portora in 1864 at the age of nine, a couple ofyears after his brother. He remained at the school for seven years andleft it on winning an Exhibition for Trinity College, Dublin, when hewas just seventeen. 

The facts hitherto collected and published about Oscar as a schoolboyare sadly meagre and insignificant. Fortunately for my readers I havereceived from Sir Edward Sullivan, who was a contemporary of Oscarboth at school and college, an exceedingly vivid and interestingpen-picture of the lad, one of those astounding masterpieces ofportraiture only to be produced by the plastic sympathies of boyhoodand the intimate intercourse of years lived in common. It is lovealone which in later life can achieve such a miracle of representment. I am very glad to be allowed to publish this realistic miniature, inthe very words of the author. 

"I first met Oscar Wilde in the early part of 1868 at Portora RoyalSchool. He was thirteen or fourteen years of age. His long straightfair hair was a striking feature of his appearance. He was then, as heremained for some years after, extremely boyish in nature, verymobile, almost restless when out of the schoolroom. Yet he took nopart in the school games at any time. Now and then he would be seen inone of the school boats on Loch Erne: yet he was a poor hand at anoar. 

"Even as a schoolboy he was an excellent talker: his descriptive powerbeing far above the average, and his humorous exaggerations of schooloccurrences always highly amusing. 

"A favourite place for the boys to sit and gossip in the lateafternoon in winter time was round a stove which stood in 'The StoneHall. ' Here Oscar was at his best; although his brother Willie wasperhaps in those days even better than he was at telling a story. 

"Oscar would frequently vary the entertainment by giving us extremelyquaint illustrations of holy people in stained-glass attitudes: hispower of twisting his limbs into weird contortions being very great. (I am told that Sir William Wilde, his father, possessed the samepower. ) It must not be thought, however, that there was any suggestionof irreverence in the exhibition. 

"At one of these gatherings, about the year 1870, I remember adiscussion taking place about an ecclesiastical prosecution that madea considerable stir at the time. Oscar was present, and full of themysterious nature of the Court of Arches; he told us there was nothinghe would like better in after life than to be the hero of such a_cause celèbre_ and to go down to posterity as the defendant in such acase as 'Regina versus Wilde!'

"At school he was almost always called 'Oscar'--but he had anick-name, 'Grey-crow, ' which the boys would call him when they wishedto annoy him, and which he resented greatly. It was derived in somemysterious way from the name of an island in the Upper Loch Erne, within easy reach of the school by boat. 

"It was some little time before he left Portora that the boys got toknow of his full name, Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde. Just atthe close of his school career he won the 'Carpenter' Greek TestamentPrize, --and on presentation day was called up to the dais by Dr. Steele, by all his names--much to Oscar's annoyance; for a great dealof schoolboy chaff followed. 

"He was always generous, kindly, good-tempered. I remember he andmyself were on one occasion mounted as opposing jockeys on the backsof two bigger boys in what we called a 'tournament, ' held in one ofthe class-rooms. Oscar and his horse were thrown, and the result was abroken arm for Wilde. Knowing that it was an accident, he did not letit make any difference in our friendship. 

"He had, I think, no very special chums while at school. I was perhapsas friendly with him all through as anybody, though his junior inclass by a year. .. . 

"Willie Wilde was never very familiar with him, treating him always, in those days, as a younger brother. .. . 

"When in the head class together, we with two other boys were in thetown of Enniskillen one afternoon, and formed part of an audience whowere listening to a street orator. One of us, for the fun of thething, got near the speaker and with a stick knocked his hat off andthen ran for home followed by the other three. Several of thelisteners, resenting the impertinence, gave chase, and Oscar in hishurry collided with an aged cripple and threw him down--a fact whichwas duly reported to the boys when we got safely back. Oscar wasafterwards heard telling how he found his way barred by an angry giantwith whom he fought through many rounds and whom he eventually leftfor dead in the road after accomplishing prodigies of valour on hisredoubtable opponent. Romantic imagination was strong in him even inthose schoolboy days; but there was always something in his telling ofsuch a tale to suggest that he felt his hearers were not really beingtaken in; it was merely the romancing indulged in so humorously by thetwo principal male characters in 'The Importance of Being Earnest. '. .. 

"He never took any interest in mathematics either at school orcollege. He laughed at science and never had a good word for amathematical or science master, but there was nothing spiteful ormalignant in anything he said against them; or indeed against anybody. 

"The romances that impressed him most when at school were Disraeli'snovels. He spoke slightingly of Dickens as a novelist. .. . 

"The classics absorbed almost his whole attention in his later schooldays, and the flowing beauty of his oral translations in class, whether of Thucydides, Plato or Virgil, was a thing not easily to beforgotten. "

This photograph, so to speak, of Oscar as a schoolboy is astonishinglyclear and lifelike; but I have another portrait of him from anothercontemporary, who has since made for himself a high name as a scholarat Trinity, which, while confirming the general traits sketched by SirEdward Sullivan, takes somewhat more notice of certain mentalqualities which came later to the fruiting. 

This observer who does not wish his name given, writes:

"Oscar had a pungent wit, and nearly all the nicknames in the schoolwere given by him. He was very good on the literary side ofscholarship, with a special leaning to poetry. .. . 

"We noticed that he always liked to have editions of the classics thatwere of stately size with large print. .. . He was more careful in hisdress than any other boy. 

"He was a wide reader and read very fast indeed; how much heassimilated I never could make out. He was poor at music. 

"We thought him a fair scholar but nothing extraordinary. However, hestartled everyone the last year at school in the classical medalexamination, by walking easily away from us all in the _viva voce_ ofthe Greek play ('The Agamemnon'). "

I may now try and accentuate a trait or two of these photographs, soto speak, and then realise the whole portrait by adding an accountgiven to me by Oscar himself. The joy in humorous romancing and thesweetness of temper recorded by Sir Edward Sullivan were marked traitsin Oscar's character all through his life. His care in dressing too, and his delight in stately editions; his love of literature "with aspecial leaning to poetry" were all qualities which distinguished himto the end. 

"Until the last year of my school life at Portora, " he said to meonce, "I had nothing like the reputation of my brother Willie. I readtoo many English novels, too much poetry, dreamed away too much timeto master the school tasks. 

"Knowledge came to me through pleasure, as it always comes, Iimagine. .. . 

"I was nearly sixteen when the wonder and beauty of the old Greek lifebegan to dawn upon me. Suddenly I seemed to see the white figuresthrowing purple shadows on the sun-baked palæstra; 'bands of nudeyouths and maidens'--you remember Gautier's words--'moving across abackground of deep blue as on the frieze of the Parthenon. ' I began toread Greek eagerly for love of it all, and the more I read the more Iwas enthralled:

 Oh what golden hours were for us As we sat together there, While the white vests of the chorus Seemed to wave up a light air; While the cothurns trod majestic Down the deep iambic lines And the rolling anapæstics Curled like vapour over shrines. 

"The head master was always holding my brother Willie up to me as anexample; but even he admitted that in my last year at Portora I hadmade astounding progress. I laid the foundation there of whateverclassical scholarship I possess. "

It occurred to me once to ask Oscar in later years whether theboarding school life of a great, public school was not responsible fora good deal of sensual viciousness. 

"Englishmen all say so, " he replied, "but it did not enter into myexperience. I was very childish, Frank; a mere boy till I was oversixteen. Of course I was sensual and curious, as boys are, and hadthe usual boy imaginings; but I did not indulge in them excessively. 

"At Portora nine out of ten boys only thought of football or cricketor rowing. Nearly every one went in for athletics--running and jumpingand so forth; no one appeared to care for sex. We were healthy youngbarbarians and that was all. "

"Did you go in for games?" I asked. 

"No, " Oscar replied smiling, "I never liked to kick or be kicked. "

"Surely you went about with some younger boy, did you not, to whom youtold your dreams and hopes, and whom you grew to care for?"

The question led to an intimate personal confession, which may takeits place here. 

"It is strange you should have mentioned it, " he said. "There was oneboy, and, " he added slowly, "one peculiar incident. It occurred in mylast year at Portora. The boy was a couple of years younger than I--wewere great friends; we used to take long walks together and I talkedto him interminably. I told him what I should have done had I beenAlexander, or how I'd have played king in Athens, had I beenAlcibiades. As early as I can remember I used to identify myself withevery distinguished character I read about, but when I was fifteen orsixteen I noticed with some wonder that I could think of myself asAlcibiades or Sophocles more easily than as Alexander or Cæsar. Thelife of books had begun to interest me more than real life. .. . 

"My friend had a wonderful gift for listening. I was so occupied withtalking and telling about myself that I knew very little about him, curiously little when I come to think of it. But the last incident ofmy school life makes me think he was a sort of mute poet, and had muchmore in him than I imagined. It was just before I first heard that Ihad won an Exhibition and was to go to Trinity. Dr. Steele had calledme into his study to tell me the great news; he was very glad, hesaid, and insisted that it was all due to my last year's hard work. The 'hard' work had been very interesting to me, or I would not havedone much of it. The doctor wound up, I remember, by assuring me thatif I went on studying as I had been studying during the last year Imight yet do as well as my brother Willie, and be as great an honourto the school and everybody connected with it as he had been. 

"This made me smile, for though I liked Willie, and knew he was afairly good scholar, I never for a moment regarded him as my equal inany intellectual field. He knew all about football and cricket andstudied the school-books assiduously, whereas I read everything thatpleased me, and in my own opinion always went about 'crowned. '" Herehe laughed charmingly with amused deprecation of the conceit. 

"It was only about the quality of the crown, Frank, that I was in anydoubt. If I had been offered the Triple Tiara, it would have appearedto me only the meet reward of my extraordinary merit. .. . 

"When I came out from the doctor's I hurried to my friend to tell himall the wonderful news. To my surprise he was cold and said, a littlebitterly, I thought:

"'You seem glad to go?'

"'Glad to go, ' I cried; 'I should think I was; fancy going to TrinityCollege, Dublin, from this place; why, I shall meet men and not boys. Of course I am glad, wild with delight; the first step to Oxford andfame. '

"'I mean, ' my chum went on, still in the same cold way, 'you seem gladto leave me. '

"His tone startled me. 

"'You silly fellow, ' I exclaimed, 'of course not; I'm always glad tobe with you: but perhaps you will be coming up to Trinity too; won'tyou?'

"'I'm afraid not, ' he said, 'but I shall come to Dublin frequently. '

"'Then we shall meet, ' I remarked; 'you must come and see me in myrooms. My father will give me a room to myself in our house, and youknow Merrion Square is the best part of Dublin. You must come and seeme. '

"He looked up at me with yearning, sad, regretful eyes. But the futurewas beckoning to me, and I could not help talking about it, for thegolden key of wonderland was in my hand, and I was wild with desiresand hopes. 

"My friend was very silent, I remember, and only interrupted me toask:

"'When do you go, Oscar?'

"'Early, ' I replied thoughtlessly, or rather full of my own thoughts, 'early to-morrow morning, I believe; the usual train. '

"In the morning just as I was starting for the station, having said'goodbye' to everyone, he came up to me very pale and strangely quiet. 

"'I'm coming with you to the station, Oscar, ' he said; 'the Doctorgave me permission, when I told him what friends we had been. '

"'I'm glad, ' I cried, my conscience pricking me that I had not thoughtof asking for his company. 'I'm very glad. My last hours at schoolwill always be associated with you. '

"He just glanced up at me, and the glance surprised me; it was like adog looks at one. But my own hopes soon took possession of me again, and I can only remember being vaguely surprised by the appeal in hisregard. 

"When I was settled in my seat in the train, he did not say 'goodbye'and go, and leave me to my dreams; but brought me papers and thingsand hung about. 

"The guard came and said:

"'Now, sir, if you are going. '

"I liked the 'Sir. ' To my surprise my friend jumped into the carriageand said:

"'All right, guard, I'm not going, but I shall slip out as soon as youwhistle. '

"The guard touched his cap and went. I said something, I don't knowwhat; I was a little embarrassed. 

"'You will write to me, Oscar, won't you, and tell me abouteverything?'

"'Oh, yes, ' I replied, 'as soon as I get settled down, you know. Therewill be such a lot to do at first, and I am wild to see everything. Iwonder how the professors will treat me. I do hope they will not befools or prigs; what a pity it is that all professors are notpoets. .. . ' And so I went on merrily, when suddenly the whistle soundedand a moment afterwards the train began to move. 

"'You must go now, ' I said to him. 

"'Yes, ' he replied, in a queer muffled voice, while standing with hishand on the door of the carriage. Suddenly he turned to me and cried:

"'Oh, Oscar, ' and before I knew what he was doing he had caught myface in his hot hands, and kissed me on the lips. The next moment hehad slipped out of the door and was gone. .. . 

"I sat there all shaken. Suddenly I became aware of cold, sticky dropstrickling down my face--his tears. They affected me strangely. As Iwiped them off I said to myself in amaze:

"'This is love: this is what he meant--love. '. .. 

"I was trembling all over. For a long while I sat, unable to think, all shaken with wonder and remorse. "

CHAPTER III

Oscar Wilde did well at school, but he did still better at college, where the competition was more severe. He entered Trinity on October19th, 1871, just three days after his seventeenth birthday. Sir EdwardSullivan writes me that when Oscar matriculated at Trinity he wasalready "a thoroughly good classical scholar of a brilliant type, " andhe goes on to give an invaluable snap-shot of him at this time; alikeness, in fact, the chief features of which grew more and morecharacteristic as the years went on. 

"He had rooms in College at the north side of one of the oldersquares, known as Botany Bay. These rooms were exceedingly grimy andill-kept. He never entertained there. On the rare occasions whenvisitors were admitted, an unfinished landscape in oils was always onthe easel, in a prominent place in his sitting room. He wouldinvariably refer to it, telling one in his humorously unconvincing waythat 'he had just put in the butterfly. ' Those of us who had seen hiswork in the drawing class presided over by 'Bully' Wakeman at Portorawere not likely to be deceived in the matter. .. . 

"His college life was mainly one of study; in addition to working forhis classical examinations, he devoured with voracity all the bestEnglish writers. 

"He was an intense admirer of Swinburne and constantly reading hispoems; John Addington Symond's works too, on the Greek authors, wereperpetually in his hands. He never entertained any pronounced views onsocial, religious or political questions while in College; he seemedto be altogether devoted to literary matters. 

"He mixed freely at the same time in Dublin society functions of allkinds, and was always a very vivacious and welcome guest at any househe cared to visit. All through his Dublin University days he was oneof the purest minded men that could be met with. 

"He was not a card player, but would on occasions join in a game oflimited loo at some man's rooms. He was also an extremely moderatedrinker. He became a member of the junior debating society, thePhilosophical, but hardly ever took any part in their discussions. 

[Illustration: Dr. Sir William Wilde]

"He read for the Berkeley medal (which he afterwards gained) with anexcellent, but at the same time broken-down, classical scholar, JohnTownsend Mills, and, besides instruction, he contrived to get a gooddeal of amusement out of his readings with his quaint teacher. Hetold me for instance that on one occasion he expressed his sympathyfor Mills on seeing him come into his rooms wearing a tall hatcompletely covered in crape. Mills, however, replied, with a smile, that no one was dead--it was only the evil condition of his hat thathad made him assume so mournful a disguise. I have often thought thatthe incident was still fresh in Oscar Wilde's mind when he introducedJohn Worthing in 'The Importance of Being Earnest, ' in mourning forhis fictitious brother. .. . 

"Shortly before he started on his first trip to Italy, he came into myrooms in a very striking pair of trousers. I made some chaffing remarkon them, but he begged me in the most serious style of which he was soexcellent a master not to jest about them. 

"'They are my Trasimene trousers, and I mean to wear them there. '"

Already his humour was beginning to strike all his acquaintances, andwhat Sir Edward Sullivan here calls his "puremindedness, " or what Ishould rather call his peculiar refinement of nature. No one everheard Oscar Wilde tell a suggestive story; indeed he always shrankfrom any gross or crude expression; even his mouth was vowed always topure beauty. 

The Trinity Don whom I have already quoted about Oscar's school-dayssends me a rather severe critical judgment of him as a student. Thereis some truth in it, however, for in part at least it was borne outand corroborated by Oscar's later achievement. It must be borne inmind that the Don was one of his competitors at Trinity, and asuccessful one; Oscar's mind could not limit itself to college tasksand prescribed books. 

"When Oscar came to college he did excellently during the first year;he was top of his class in classics; but he did not do so well in thelong examinations for a classical scholarship in his second year. Hewas placed fifth, which was considered very good, but he was plainlynot, the man for the [Greek: dolichos] (or long struggle), thoughfirst-rate for a short examination. "

Oscar himself only completed these spirit-photographs by what he toldme of his life at Trinity. 

"It was the fascination of Greek letters, and the delight I took inGreek life and thought, " he said to me once, "which made me a scholar. I got my love of the Greek ideal and my intimate knowledge of thelanguage at Trinity from Mahaffy and Tyrrell; they were Trinity to me;Mahaffy was especially valuable to me at that time. Though not so gooda scholar as Tyrrell, he had been in Greece, had lived there andsaturated himself with Greek thought and Greek feeling. Besides hetook deliberately the artistic standpoint towards everything, whichwas coming more and more to be my standpoint. He was a delightfultalker, too, a really great talker in a certain way--an artist invivid words and eloquent pauses. Tyrrell, too, was very kind tome--intensely sympathetic and crammed with knowledge. If he had knownless he would have been a poet. Learning is a sad handicap, Frank, anappalling handicap, " and he laughed irresistibly. 

"What were the students like in Dublin?" I asked. "Did you makefriends with any of them?"

"They were worse even than the boys at Portora, " he replied; "theythought of nothing but cricket and football, running and jumping; andthey varied these intellectual exercises with bouts of fighting anddrinking. If they had any souls they diverted them with coarse_amours_ among barmaids and the women of the streets; they were simplyawful. Sexual vice is even coarser and more loathsome in Ireland thanit is in England:--

 "'Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds. '

"When I tried to talk they broke into my thought with stupid gibes andjokes. Their highest idea of humour was an obscene story. No, no, Tyrrell and Mahaffy represent to me whatever was good in Trinity. "

In 1874 Oscar Wilde won the gold medal for Greek. The subject of theyear was "The Fragments of the Greek Comic Poets, as edited byMeineke. " In this year, too, he won a classical scholarship--ademyship of the annual value of £95, which was tenable for five years, which enabled him to go to Oxford without throwing an undue strain onhis father's means. 

He noticed with delight that his success was announced in the _OxfordUniversity Gazette_ of July 11th, 1874. He entered Magdalen College, Oxford, on October 17th, a day after his twentieth birthday. 

Just as he had been more successful at Trinity than at school, so hewas destined to be far more successful and win a far greaterreputation at Oxford than in Dublin. 

He had the advantage of going to Oxford a little later than most men, at twenty instead of eighteen, and thus was enabled to win highhonours with comparative ease, while leading a life of culturedenjoyment. 

He was placed in the first class in "Moderations" in 1876 and had eventhen managed to make himself talked about in the life of the place. The Trinity Don whom I have already quoted, after admitting that therewas not a breath against his character either at school or Trinity, goes on to write that "at Trinity he did not strike us as a veryexceptional person, " and yet there must have been some sharp eyes atTrinity, for our Don adds with surprising divination:

"I fancy his rapid development took place after he went to Oxford, where he was able to specialize more; in fact where he could studywhat he most affected. It is, I feel sure, from his Oxford life morethan from his life in Ireland that one would be able to trace the goodand bad features by which he afterwards attracted the attention of theworld. "

In 1878 Oscar won a First Class in "Greats. " In this same Trinityterm, 1878, he further distinguished himself by gaining the Newdigateprize for English verse with his poem "Ravenna, " which he recited atthe annual Commemoration in the Sheldonian Theatre on June 26th. Hisreciting of the poem was the literary event of the year in Oxford. 

There had been great curiosity about him; he was said to be the besttalker of the day, and one of the ripest scholars. There were those inthe University who predicted an astonishing future for him, and indeedall possibilities seemed within his reach. "His verses were listenedto, " said _The Oxford and Cambridge Undergraduates' Journal_, "withrapt attention. " It was just the sort of thing, half poetry, halfrhythmic rhetoric, which was sure to reach the hearts and minds ofyouth. His voice, too, was of beautiful tenor quality, and exquisitelyused. When he sat down people crowded to praise him and even men ofgreat distinction in life flattered him with extravagant compliments. Strange to say he used always to declare that his appearance about thesame time as Prince Rupert, at a fancy dress ball, given by Mrs. George Morrell, at Headington Hill Hall, afforded him a far moregratifying proof of the exceptional position he had won. 

"Everyone came round me, Frank, and made me talk. I hardly danced atall. I went as Prince Rupert, and I talked as he charged but with moresuccess, for I turned all my foes into friends. I had the divinestevening; Oxford meant so much to me. .. . 

"I wish I could tell you all Oxford did for me. 

"I was the happiest man in the world when I entered Magdalen for thefirst time. Oxford--the mere word to me is full of an inexpressible, an incommunicable charm. Oxford--the home of lost causes andimpossible ideals; Matthew Arnold's Oxford--with its dreaming spiresand grey colleges, set in velvet lawns and hidden away among thetrees, and about it the beautiful fields, all starred with cowslipsand fritillaries where the quiet river winds its way to London and thesea. .. . The change, Frank, to me was astounding; Trinity was asbarbarian as school, with coarseness superadded. If it had not beenfor two or three people, I should have been worse off at Trinity thanat Portora; but Oxford--Oxford was paradise to me. My very soul seemedto expand within me to peace and joy. Oxford--the enchanted valley, holding in its flowerlet cup all the idealism of the middle ages. [3]Oxford is the capital of romance, Frank; in its own way as memorableas Athens, and to me it was even more entrancing. In Oxford, as inAthens, the realities of sordid life were kept at a distance. No oneseemed to know anything about money or care anything for it. Everywhere the aristocratic feeling; one must have money, but must notbother about it. And all the appurtenances of life were perfect: thefood, the wine, the cigarettes; the common needs of life becameartistic symbols, our clothes even won meaning and significance. Itwas at Oxford I first dressed in knee breeches and silk stockings. Ialmost reformed fashion and made modern dress æsthetically beautiful;a second and greater reformation, Frank. What a pity it is that Lutherknew nothing of dress, had no sense of the becoming. He had couragebut no fineness of perception. I'm afraid his neckties would alwayshave been quite shocking!" and he laughed charmingly. 

"What about the inside of the platter, Oscar?"

"Ah, Frank, don't ask me, I don't know; there was no grossness, nocoarseness; but all delicate delights!

 "'Fair passions and bountiful pities and loves without pain, '"[4]

and he laughed mischievously at the misquotation. 

"Loves?" I questioned, and he nodded his head smiling; but would notbe drawn. 

"All romantic and ideal affections. Every successive wave of youthsfrom the public schools brought some chosen spirits, perfectlywonderful persons, the most graceful and fascinating disciples that apoet could desire, and I preached the old-ever-new gospel ofindividual revolt and individual perfection. I showed them that sinwith its curiosities widened the horizons of life. Prejudices andprohibitions are mere walls to imprison the soul. Indulgence may hurtthe body, Frank, but nothing except suffering hurts the spirit; it isself-denial and abstinence that maim and deform the soul. "

"Then they knew you as a great talker even at Oxford?" I asked in somesurprise. 

"Frank, " he cried reprovingly, laughing at the same time delightfully, "I was a great talker at school. I did nothing at Trinity but talk, myreading was done at odd hours. I was the best talker ever seen inOxford. "

"And did you find any teacher there like Mahaffy?" I asked, "anyprofessor with a touch of the poet?"

He came to seriousness at once. 

"There were two or three teachers, Frank, " he replied, "greater thanMahaffy; teachers of the world as well as of Oxford. There was Ruskinfor instance, who appealed to me intensely--a wonderful man and a mostwonderful writer. A sort of exquisite romantic flower; like a violetfilling the whole air with the ineffable perfume of belief. Ruskin hasalways seemed to me the Plato of England--a Prophet of the Good andTrue and Beautiful, who saw as Plato saw that the three are oneperfect flower. But it was his prose I loved, and not his piety. Hissympathy with the poor bored me: the road he wanted us to build wastiresome. I could see nothing in poverty that appealed to me, nothing;I shrank away from it as from a degradation of the spirit; but hisprose was lyrical and rose on broad wings into the blue. He was agreat poet and teacher, Frank, and therefore of course a mostpreposterous professor; he bored you to death when he taught, but wasan inspiration when he sang. 

"Then there was Pater, Pater the classic, Pater the scholar, who hadalready written the greatest English prose: I think a page or two ofthe greatest prose in all literature. Pater meant everything to me. Hetaught me the highest form of art: the austerity of beauty. I came tomy full growth with Pater. He was a sort of silent, sympathetic elderbrother. Fortunately for me he could not talk at all; but he was anadmirable listener, and I talked to him by the hour. I learned theinstrument of speech with him, for I could see by his face when I hadsaid anything extraordinary. He did not praise me but quickened meastonishingly, forced me always to do better than my best--an intensevivifying influence, the influence of Greek art at its supremest. "

"He was the Gamaliel then?" I questioned, "at whose feet you sat?"

"Oh, no, Frank, " he chided, "everyone sat at my feet even then. ButPater was a very great man. Dear Pater! I remember once talking tohim when we were seated together on a bench under some trees inOxford. I had been watching the students bathing in the river: thebeautiful white figures all grace and ease and virile strength. I hadbeen pointing out how Christianity had flowered into romance, and howthe crude Hebraic materialism and all the later formalities of anestablished creed had fallen away from the tree of life and left usthe exquisite ideals of the new paganism. .. . 

"The pale Christ had been outlived: his renunciations and hissympathies were mere weaknesses: we were moving to a synthesis of artwhere the enchanting perfume of romance should be wedded to the severebeauty of classic form. I really talked as if inspired, and when Ipaused, Pater--the stiff, quiet, silent Pater--suddenly slipped fromhis seat and knelt down by me and kissed my hand. I cried:

"'You must not, you really must not. What would people think if theysaw you?'

"He got up with a white strained face. 

"'I had to, ' he muttered, glancing about him fearfully, 'I hadto--once. .. . '"

I must warn my readers that this whole incident is ripened and set ina higher key of thought by the fact that Oscar told it more than tenyears after it happened. 

FOOTNOTES:

[3] Oscar was always fond of loosely quoting or paraphrasing inconversation the purple passages from contemporary writers. He saidthem exquisitely and sometimes his own embroidery was as good as theoriginal. This discipleship, however, always suggested to me a lack oforiginality. In especial Matthew Arnold had an extraordinary influenceupon him, almost as great indeed as Pater. 

[4] "Stain, " not "pain, " in the original. 

CHAPTER IV

The most important event in Oscar's early life happened while he wasstill an undergraduate at Oxford: his father, Sir William Wilde, diedin 1876, leaving to his wife, Lady Wilde, nearly all he possessed, some £7, 000, the interest of which was barely enough to keep her ingenteel poverty. The sum is so small that one is constrained tobelieve the report that Sir William Wilde in his later years keptpractically open house--"lashins of whisky and a good larder, " and wasbesides notorious for his gallantries. Oscar's small portion, a littlemoney and a small house with some land, came to him in the nick oftime: he used the cash partly to pay some debts at Oxford, partly todefray the expenses of a trip to Greece. It was natural that OscarWilde, with his eager sponge-like receptivity, should receive the bestacademic education of his time, and should better that by travel. Weall get something like the education we desire, and Oscar Wilde, italways seemed to me, was over-educated, had learned, that is, too muchfrom books and not enough from life and had thought too little forhimself; but my readers will be able to judge of this for themselves. 

In 1877 he accompanied Professor Mahaffy on a long tour throughGreece. The pleasure and profit Oscar got from the trip were so greatthat he failed to return to Oxford on the date fixed. The Dons finedhim forty-five pounds for the breach of discipline; but they returnedthe money to him in the following year when he won First Honours in"Greats" and the Newdigate prize. 

This visit to Greece when he was twenty-three confirmed the view oflife which he had already formed and I have indicated sufficientlyperhaps in that talk with Pater already recorded. But no one willunderstand Oscar Wilde who for a moment loses sight of the fact thathe was a pagan born: as Gautier says, "One for whom the visible worldalone exists, " endowed with all the Greek sensuousness and love ofplastic beauty; a pagan, like Nietzsche and Gautier, wholly out ofsympathy with Christianity, one of "the Confraternity of the faithlesswho _cannot_ believe, "[5] to whom a sense of sin and repentance aresymptoms of weakness and disease. 

Oscar used often to say that the chief pleasure he had in visitingRome was to find the Greek gods and the heroes and heroines of Greekstory throned in the Vatican. He preferred Niobe to the Mater Dolorosaand Helen to both; the worship of sorrow must give place, he declared, to the worship of the beautiful. 

Another dominant characteristic of the young man may here find itsplace. 

While still at Oxford his tastes--the bent of his mind, and histemperament--were beginning to outline his future. He spent hisvacations in Dublin and always called upon his old school friendEdward Sullivan in his rooms at Trinity. Sullivan relates that whenthey met Oscar used to be full of his occasional visits to London andcould talk of nothing but the impression made upon him by plays andplayers. From youth on the theatre drew him irresistibly; he had notonly all the vanity of the actor; but what might be called the borndramatist's love for the varied life of the stage--its paintings, costumings, rhetoric--and above all the touch of emphasis natural toit which gives such opportunity for humorous exaggeration. 

"I remember him telling me, " Sullivan writes, "about Irving's'Macbeth, ' which made a great impression on him; he was fascinated byit. He feared, however, that the public might be similarly affected--athing which, he declared, would destroy his enjoyment of anextraordinary performance. " He admired Miss Ellen Terry, too, extravagantly, as he admired Marion Terry, Mrs. Langtry, and MaryAnderson later. 

The death of Sir William Wilde put an end to the family life inDublin, and set the survivors free. Lady Wilde had lost her husbandand her only daughter in Merrion Square: the house was full of sadmemories to her, she was eager to leave it all and settle in London. 

The _Requiescat_ in Oscar's first book of poems was written in memoryof this sister who died in her teens, whom he likened to "a ray ofsunshine dancing about the house. " He took his vocation seriously evenin youth: he felt that he should sing his sorrow, give record ofwhatever happened to him in life. But he found no new word for hisbereavement. 

Willie Wilde came over to London and got employment as a journalistand was soon given almost a free hand by the editor of the societypaper _The World_. With rare unselfishness, or, if you will, withCeltic clannishness, he did a good deal to make Oscar's name known. Every clever thing that Oscar said or that could be attributed to him, Willie reported in _The World_. This puffing and Oscar's own uncommonpower as a talker; but chiefly perhaps a whispered reputation forstrange sins, had thus early begun to form a sort of myth around him. He was already on the way to becoming a personage; there was a certaincuriosity about him, a flutter of interest in whatever he did. He hadpublished poems in the Trinity College magazine, _Kottabos_, andelsewhere. People were beginning to take him at his own valuation as apoet and a wit; and the more readily as that ambition did not clash inany way with their more material strivings. 

The time had now come for Oscar to conquer London as he had conqueredOxford. He had finished the first class in the great World-School andwas eager to try the next, where his mistakes would be his only tutorsand his desires his taskmasters. His University successes flatteredhim with the belief that he would go from triumph to triumph and bethe exception proving the rule that the victor in the academic listsseldom repeats his victories on the battlefield of life. 

It is not sufficiently understood that the learning of Latin and Greekand the forming of expensive habits at others' cost are a positivedisability and handicap in the rough-and-tumble tussle of the greatcity, where greed and unscrupulous resolution rule, and where thereare few prizes for feats of memory or taste in words. When thegraduate wins in life he wins as a rule in spite of his so-callededucation and not because of it. 

It is true that the majority of English 'Varsity men give themselvesan infinitely better education than that provided by the authorities. They devote themselves to athletic sports with whole-heartedenthusiasm. Fortunately for them it is impossible to develop the bodywithout at the same time steeling the will. The would-be athlete hasto live laborious days; he may not eat to his liking, nor drink to histhirst. He learns deep lessons almost unconsciously; to conquer hisdesires and make light of pain and discomfort. He needs no Aristotleto teach him the value of habits; he is soon forced to use them asdefences against his pet weaknesses; above all he finds thatself-denial has its reward in perfect health; that the thistle pain, too, has its flower. It is a truism that 'Varsity athletes generallysucceed in life, Spartan discipline proving itself incomparablysuperior to Greek accidence. 

Oscar Wilde knew nothing of this discipline. He had never trained hisbody to endure or his will to steadfastness. He was the perfect flowerof academic study and leisure. At Magdalen he had been taughtluxurious living, the delight of gratifying expensive tastes; he hadbeen brought up and enervated so to speak in Capua. His vanity hadbeen full-fed with cloistered triumphs; he was at oncepleasure-loving, vainly self-confident and weak; he had beenencouraged for years to give way to his emotions and to pamper hissensations, and as the Cap-and-Bells of Folly to cherish a fantasticcode of honour even in mortal combat, while despising the religionwhich might have given him some hold on the respect of hiscompatriots. What chance had this cultured honour-loving Sybarite inthe deadly grapple of modern life where the first quality is willpower, the only knowledge needed a knowledge of the value of money. Imust not be understood here as in any degree disparaging Oscar. I cansurely state that a flower is weaker than a weed without exalting theweed or depreciating the flower. 

The first part of life's voyage was over for Oscar Wilde; let us tryto see him as he saw himself at this time and let us also determinehis true relations to the world. Fortunately he has given us his ownview of himself with some care. 

In Foster's _Alumni Oxonienses_, Oscar Wilde described himself onleaving Oxford as a "Professor of Æsthetics, and a Critic of Art"--anannouncement to me at once infinitely ludicrous and pathetic. "Ludicrous" because it betrays such complete ignorance of life allgiven over to men industrious with muck-rakes: "Gadarene swine, " asCarlyle called them, "busily grubbing and grunting in search ofpignuts. " "Pathetic" for it is boldly ingenuous as youth itself with atouch of youthful conceit and exaggeration. Another eager human soulon the threshold longing to find some suitable high work in the world, all unwitting of the fact that ideal strivings are everywhere despisedand discouraged--jerry-built cottages for the million being the day'sdemand and not oratories or palaces of art or temples for the spirit. 

Not the time for a "professor of æsthetics, " one would say, andassuredly not the place. One wonders whether Zululand would not bemore favourable for such a man than England. Germany, France, andItaly have many positions in universities, picture-galleries, museums, opera houses for lovers of the beautiful, and above all an educatedrespect for artists and writers just as they have places too forservants of Truth in chemical laboratories and polytechnics endowed bythe State with excellent results even from the utilitarian point ofview. But rich England has only a few dozen such places in all atcommand and these are usually allotted with a cynical contempt formerit; miserable anarchic England, soul-starved amid its creaturecomforts, proving now by way of example to helots that man cannot liveby bread alone:--England and Oscar Wilde! the "Black Country" and"the professor of æsthetics"--a mad world, my masters!

It is necessary for us now to face this mournful truth that in thequarrel between these two the faults were not all on one side, mayhapEngland was even further removed from the ideal than the would-beprofessor of æsthetics, which fact may well give us pause and food forthought. Organic progress we have been told; indeed, might have seenif we had eyes, evolution so-called is from the simple to the complex;our rulers therefore should have provided for the ever-growingcomplexity of modern life and modern men. The good gardener will evenmake it his ambition to produce new species; our politicians, however, will not take the trouble to give even the new species that appear achance of living; they are too busy, it appears, in keeping theirjobs. 

No new profession has been organized in England since the Middle Ages. In the meantime we have invented new arts, new sciences and newletters; when will these be organized and regimented in new and livingprofessions, so that young ingenuous souls may find suitable fieldsfor their powers and may not be forced willy-nilly to grub for pignutswhen it would be more profitable for them and for us to use theirnobler faculties? Not only are the poor poorer and more numerous inEngland than elsewhere; but there is less provision made for the"intellectuals" too, consequently the organism is suffering at bothextremities. It is high time that both maladies were taken in hand, for by universal consent England is now about the worst organized ofall modern States, the furthest from the ideal. 

Something too should be done with the existing professions to makethem worthy of honourable ambition. One of them, the Church, is anoble body without a soul; the soul, our nostrils tell us, died sometime ago, while the medical profession has got a noble spirit with awretched half-organized body. It says much for the inherent integrityand piety of human nature that our doctors persist in trying to curediseases when it is clearly to their self-interest to keep theirpatients ailing--an anarchic world, this English one, and stupefiedwith self-praise. What will this professor of Æsthetics make of it?

Here he is, the flower of English University training, a winner ofsome of the chief academic prizes without any worthy means of earninga livelihood, save perchance by journalism. And journalism in Englandsuffers from the prevailing anarchy. In France, Italy, and Germanyjournalism is a career in which an eloquent and cultured youth mayhonourably win his spurs. In many countries this way of earning one'sbread can still be turned into an art by the gifted and high-minded;but in England thanks in the main to the anonymity of the presscunningly contrived by the capitalist, the journalist or modernpreacher is turned into a venal voice, a soulless Cheapjack paid topuff his master's wares. Clearly our "Professor of Æsthetics andCritic of Art" is likely to have a doleful time of it in nineteenthcentury London. 

Oscar had already dipped into his little patrimony, as we have seen, and he could not conceal from himself that he would soon have to liveon what he could earn--a few pounds a week. But then he was a poet andhad boundless confidence in his own ability. To the artist nature thepresent is everything; just for to-day he resolved that he would liveas he had always lived; so he travelled first class to London andbought all the books and papers that could distract him on the way:"Give me the luxuries, " he used to say, "and anyone can have thenecessaries. "

In the background of his mind there were serious misgivings. Longafterwards he told me that his father's death and the smallness of hispatrimony had been a heavy blow to him. He encouraged himself, however, at the moment by dwelling on his brother's comparativesuccess and waved aside fears and doubts as unworthy. 

It is to his credit that at first he tried to cut down expenses andlive laborious days. He took a couple of furnished rooms in SalisburyStreet off the Strand, a very Grub Street for a man of fashion, andbegan to work at journalism while getting together a book of poems forpublication. His journalism at first was anything but successful. Itwas his misfortune to appeal only to the best heads and good heads arenot numerous anywhere. His appeal, too, was still academic andlaboured. His brother Willie with his commoner sympathies appeared tobe better equipped for this work. But Oscar had from the first acertain social success. 

As soon as he reached London he stepped boldly into the limelight, going to all "first nights" and taking the floor on all occasions. Hewas not only an admirable talker but he was invariably smiling, eager, full of life and the joy of living, and above all given to unmeasuredpraise of whatever and whoever pleased him. This gift of enthusiasticadmiration was not only his most engaging characteristic, but also, perhaps, the chief proof of his extraordinary ability. It wascertainly, too, the quality which served him best all through hislife. He went about declaring that Mrs. Langtry was more beautifulthan the "Venus of Milo, " and Lady Archie Campbell more charming thanRosalind and Mr. Whistler an incomparable artist. Such enthusiasm in ayoung and brilliant man was unexpected and delightful and doors werethrown open to him in all sets. Those who praise passionately aregenerally welcome guests and if Oscar could not praise he shrugged hisshoulders and kept silent; scarcely a bitter word ever fell from thosesmiling lips. No tactics could have been more successful in Englandthan his native gift of radiant good-humour and enthusiasm. He got toknow not only all the actors and actresses, but the chief patrons andfrequenters of the theatre: Lord Lytton, Lady Shrewsbury, Lady DorothyNevill, Lady de Grey and Mrs. Jeune; and, on the other hand, Hardy, Meredith, Browning, Swinburne, and Matthew Arnold--all Bohemia, infact, and all that part of Mayfair which cares for the things of theintellect. 

But though he went out a great deal and met a great many distinguishedpeople, and won a certain popularity, his social success put no moneyin his purse. It even forced him to spend money; for the constantapplause of his hearers gave him self-confidence. He began to talkmore and write less, and cabs and gloves and flowers cost money. Hewas soon compelled to mortgage his little property in Ireland. 

At the same time it must be admitted he was still indefatigably intenton bettering his mind, and in London he found more original teachersthan in Oxford, notably Morris and Whistler. Morris, though greatlyoverpraised during his life, had hardly any message for the men of histime. He went for his ideals to an imaginary past and what he taughtand praised was often totally unsuited to modern conditions. Whistleron the other hand was a modern of the moderns, and a great artist toboot: he had not only assimilated all the newest thought of the day, but with the alchemy of genius had transmuted it and made it his own. Before even the de Goncourts he had admired Chinese porcelain andJapanese prints and his own exquisite intuition strengthened byJapanese example had shown that his impression of life was morevaluable than any mere transcript of it. Modern art he felt should bean interpretation and not a representment of reality, and he taughtthe golden rule of the artist that the half is usually more expressivethan the whole. He went about London preaching new schemes ofdecoration and another Renaissance of art. Had he only been a painterhe would never have exercised an extraordinary influence; but he was asingularly interesting appearance as well and an admirable talkergifted with picturesque phrases and a most caustic wit. 

Oscar sat at his feet and imbibed as much as he could of the newæsthetic gospel. He even ventured to annex some of the master's mosttelling stories and thus came into conflict with his teacher. 

One incident may find a place here. 

The art critic of _The Times_, Mr. Humphry Ward, had come to see anexhibition of Whistler's pictures. Filled with an undue sense of hisown importance, he buttonholed the master and pointing to one picturesaid:

"That's good, first-rate, a lovely bit of colour; but that, you know, "he went on, jerking his finger over his shoulder at another picture, "that's bad, drawing all wrong . .. Bad!"

"My dear fellow, " cried Whistler, "you must never say that thispainting's good or that bad, never! Good and bad are not terms to beused by you; but say, I like this, and I dislike that, and you'll bewithin your right. And now come and have a whiskey for you're sure tolike that. "

Carried away by the witty fling, Oscar cried:

"I wish I had said that. "

"You will, Oscar, you will, " came Whistler's lightning thrust. 

Of all the personal influences which went to the moulding of OscarWilde's talent, that of Whistler, in my opinion, was the mostimportant; Whistler taught him that men of genius stand apart and arelaws unto themselves; showed him, too, that all qualities--singularityof appearance, wit, rudeness even, count doubly in a democracy. Butneither his own talent nor the bold self-assertion learned fromWhistler helped him to earn money; the conquest of London seemedfurther off and more improbable than ever. Where Whistler had missedthe laurel how could he or indeed anyone be sure of winning?

A weaker professor of Æsthetics would have been discouraged by themonetary and other difficulties of his position and would have lostheart at the outset in front of the impenetrable blank wall of Englishphilistinism and contempt. But Oscar Wilde was conscious of greatability and was driven by an inordinate vanity. Instead of diminishinghis pretensions in the face of opposition he increased them. He beganto go abroad in the evening in knee breeches and silk stockingswearing strange flowers in his coat--green cornflowers and gildedlilies--while talking about Baudelaire, whose name even wasunfamiliar, as a world poet, and proclaiming the strange creed that"nothing succeeds like excess. " Very soon his name came intoeveryone's mouth; London talked of him and discussed him at athousand tea-tables. For one invitation he had received before, adozen now poured in; he became a celebrity. 

Of course he was still sneered at by many as a mere _poseur_; it stillseemed to be all Lombard Street to a china orange that he would bebeaten down under the myriad trampling feet of middle-classindifference and disdain. 

Some circumstances were in his favour. Though the artistic movementinaugurated years before by the Pre-Raphaelites was still laughed atand scorned by the many as a craze, a few had stood firm, and slowlythe steadfast minority had begun to sway the majority as is often thecase in democracies. Oscar Wilde profited by the victory of theseart-loving forerunners. Here and there among the indifferent public, men were attracted by the artistic view of life and women by theemotional intensity of the new creed. Oscar Wilde became the prophetof an esoteric cult. But notoriety even did not solve the monetaryquestion, which grew more and more insistent. A dozen times he wavedit aside and went into debt rather than restrain himself. Somehow orother he would fall on his feet, he thought. Men who consolethemselves in this way usually fall on someone else's feet and so didOscar Wilde. At twenty-six years of age and curiously enough at thevery moment of his insolent-bold challenge of the world withfantastic dress, he stooped to ask his mother for money, money whichshe could ill spare, though to do her justice she never wasted asecond thought on money where her affections were concerned, and shenot only loved Oscar but was proud of him. Still she could not givehim much; the difficulty was only postponed; what was to be done?

His vanity had grown with his growth; the dread of defeat was only aspur to the society favourite; he cast about for some means ofconquering the Philistines, and could think of nothing but his book ofpoems. He had been trying off and on for nearly a year to get itpublished. The publishers told him roundly that there was no money inpoetry and refused the risk. But the notoriety of his knee-breechesand silken hose, and above all the continual attacks in the societypapers, came to his aid and his book appeared in the early summer of1881 with all the importance that imposing form, good paper, broadmargins, and high price (10/6) could give it. The truth was, he paidfor the printing and production of the book himself, and David Bogue, the publisher, put his name on for a commission. 

Oscar had built high fantastic hopes on this book. To the very end ofhis life he believed himself a poet and in the creative sense of theword he was assuredly justified, but he meant it in the singing senseas well, and there his claim can only be admitted with seriousqualifications. But whether he was a singer or not the hopes foundedon this book were extravagant; he expected to make not only reputationby it, but a large amount of money, and money is not often made inEngland by poetry. 

The book had an extraordinary success, greater, it may safely be said, than any first book of real poetry has ever had in England or indeedis ever likely to have: four editions were sold in a few weeks. Two ofthe Sonnets in the book were addressed to Ellen Terry, one as"Portia, " the other as "Henrietta Maria"; and these partly account forthe book's popularity, for Miss Terry was delighted with them andpraised the book and its author to the skies. [6] I reproduce the"Henrietta Maria" sonnet here as a fair specimen of the work:

 QUEEN HENRIETTA MARIA

 In the lone tent, waiting for victory, She stands with eyes marred by the mists of pain, Like some wan lily overdrenched with rain: The clamorous clang of arms, the ensanguined sky, War's ruin, and the wreck of chivalry, To her proud soul no common fear can bring: Bravely she tarrieth for her Lord the King, Her soul aflame with passionate ecstasy. O Hair of Gold! O Crimson Lips! O Face! Made for the luring and the love of man! With thee I do forget the toil and stress, The loveless road that knows no resting-place, Time's straitened pulse, the soul's dread weariness, My freedom and my life republican. 

Lyric poetry is by its excellence the chief art of England, as musicis the art of Germany. A book of poetry is almost sure of fairappreciation in the English press which does not trouble to notice a"Sartor Resartus" or the first essays of an Emerson. The excessiveconsideration given to Oscar's book by the critics showed that alreadyhis personality and social success had affected the reporters. 

_The Athenæum_ gave the book the place of honour in its number for the23rd of July. The review was severe; but not unjust. "Mr. Wilde'svolume of poems, " it says, "may be regarded as the evangel of a newcreed. From other gospels it differs in coming after, instead ofbefore, the cult it seeks to establish. .. . We fail to see, however, that the apostle of the new worship has any distinct message. "

The critic then took pains to prove that "nearly all the book isimitative" . .. And concluded: "Work of this nature has no element ofendurance. "

_The Saturday Review_ dismissed the book at the end of an article on"Recent Poetry" as "neither good nor bad. " The reviewer objected inthe English fashion to the sensual tone of the poems; but summed upfairly enough: "This book is not without traces of cleverness, but itis marred everywhere by imitation, insincerity, and bad taste. "

At the same time the notices in _Punch_ were extravagantly bitter, while of course the notices in _The World_, mainly written by Oscar'sbrother, were extravagantly eulogistic. _Punch_ declared that "Mr. Wilde may be æsthetic, but he is not original . .. A volume of echoes. .. Swinburne and water. "

Now what did _The Athenæum_ mean by taking a new book of imitativeverse so seriously and talking of it as the "evangel of a new creed, "besides suggesting that "it comes after the cult, " and so forth?

It seems probable that _The Athenæum_ mistook Oscar Wilde for acontinuator of the Pre-Raphaelite movement with the sub-conscious andpeculiarly English suggestion that whatever is "æsthetic" or"artistic" is necessarily weak and worthless, if not worse. 

Soon after Oscar left Oxford _Punch_ began to caricature him andridicule the cult of what it christened "The Too Utterly Utter. " NineEnglishmen out of ten took delight in the savage contempt poured uponwhat was known euphemistically as "the æsthetic craze" by the petorgan of the English middle class. 

This was the sort of thing _Punch_ published under the title of "APoet's Day":

"Oscar at Breakfast! Oscar at Luncheon!!Oscar at Dinner!!! Oscar at Supper!!!!"

"'You see I am, after all, mortal, ' remarked the poet, with anineffable affable smile, as he looked up from an elegant butsubstantial dish of ham and eggs. Passing a long willowy hand throughhis waving hair, he swept away a stray curl-paper, with thenonchalance of a D'Orsay. 

"After this effort Mr. Wilde expressed himself as feeling somewhatfaint; and with a half apologetic smile ordered another portion of Hamand Eggs. "

_Punch's_ verses on the subject were of the same sort, showing spiterather than humour. Under the heading of "Sage Green" (by a fading-outÆsthete) it published such stuff as this:

 My love is as fair as a lily flower. (_The Peacock blue has a sacred sheen!_) Oh, bright are the blooms in her maiden bower. (_Sing Hey! Sing Ho! for the sweet Sage Green!_)

 * * * * *

 And woe is me that I never may win; (_The Peacock blue has a sacred sheen!_) For the Bard's hard up, and she's got no tin. (_Sing Hey! Sing Ho! for the sweet Sage Green!_)

Taking the criticism as a whole it would be useless to deny that thereis an underlying assumption of vicious sensuality in the poet which isbelieved to be reflected in the poetry. This is the only way toexplain the condemnation which is much more bitter than the versedeserves. 

The poems gave Oscar pocket money for a season; increased too hisnotoriety; but did him little or no good with the judicious: there wasnot a memorable word or a new cadence, or a sincere cry in the book. Still, first volumes of poetry are as a rule imitative and theattempt, if inferior to "Venus and Adonis, " was not without interest. 

Oscar was naturally disappointed with the criticism, but the salesencouraged him and the stir the book made and he was as determined asever to succeed. What was to be done next?

FOOTNOTES:

[5] His own words in "De Profundis. "

[6] In her "Recollections" Miss Terry says that she was more impressedby the genius of Oscar Wilde and of Whistler than by that of any othermen. 

CHAPTER V

The first round in the battle with Fate was inconclusive. Oscar Wildehad managed to get known and talked about and had kept his head abovewater for a couple of years while learning something about life andmore about himself. On the other hand he had spent almost all hispatrimony, had run into some debt besides; yet seemed as far as everfrom earning a decent living. The outlook was disquieting. 

Even as a young man Oscar had a very considerable understanding oflife. He could not make his way as a journalist, the English did notcare for his poetry; but there was still the lecture-platform. In hisheart he knew that he could talk better than he wrote. 

He got his brother to announce boldly in _The World_ that owing to the"astonishing success of his 'Poems' Mr. Oscar Wilde had been invitedto lecture in America. "

The invitation was imaginary; but Oscar had resolved to break intothis new field; there was money in it, he felt sure. 

Besides he had another string to his bow. When the first rumblings ofthe social storm in Russia reached England, our aristocraticrepublican seized occasion by the forelock and wrote a play on theNihilist Conspiracy called _Vera_. This drama was impregnated withpopular English liberal sentiment. With the interest of actualityabout it _Vera_ was published in September, 1880; but fell flat. 

The assassination of the Tsar Alexander, however, in March, 1881; theway Oscar's poems published in June of that year were taken up by MissTerry and puffed in the press, induced Mrs. Bernard Beere, an actressof some merit, to accept _Vera_ for the stage. It was suddenlyannounced that _Vera_ would be put on by Mrs. Bernard Beere at TheAdelphi in December, '81; but the author had to be content with thisadvertisement. December came and went and _Vera_ was not staged. Itseemed probable to Oscar that it might be accepted in America; at anyrate, there could be no harm in trying: he sailed for New York. 

It was on the cards that he might succeed in his new adventure. Thetaste of America in letters and art is still strongly influenced, ifnot formed, by English taste, and, if Oscar Wilde had been properlyaccredited, it is probable that his extraordinary gift of speech wouldhave won him success in America as a lecturer. 

[Illustration: Oscar Wilde as He Appeared at Twenty-seven: on HisFirst Visit to America]

His phrase to the Revenue officers on landing: "I have nothing todeclare except my genius, " turned the limelight full upon him andexcited comment and discussion all over the country. But the fuglemenof his caste whose praise had brought him to the front in England werealmost unrepresented in the States, and never bold enough to bepartisans. Oscar faced the American Philistine public without hisaccustomed _claque_, and under these circumstances a half-success wasevidence of considerable power. His subjects were "The EnglishRenaissance" and "House Decoration. "

His first lecture at Chickering Hall on January 9, 1882, was so muchtalked about that the famous impresario, Major Pond, engaged him for atour which, however, had to be cut short in the middle as a monetaryfailure. _The Nation_ gave a very fair account of his first lecture:"Mr. Wilde is essentially a foreign product and can hardly succeed inthis country. What he has to say is not new, and his extravagance isnot extravagant enough to amuse the average American audience. Hisknee-breeches and long hair are good as far as they go; but Bunthornehas really spoiled the public for Wilde. "

_The Nation_ underrated American curiosity. Oscar lectured some ninetytimes from January till July, when he returned to New York. The grossreceipts amounted to some £4, 000: he received about £1, 200, whichleft him with a few hundreds above his expenses. His optimism regardedthis as a triumph. 

One is fain to confess today that these lectures make very poorreading. There is not a new thought in them; not even a memorableexpression; they are nothing but student work, the best passages inthem being mere paraphrases of Pater and Arnold, though the titleswere borrowed from Whistler. Dr. Ernest Bendz in his monograph on _TheInfluence of Pater and Matthew Arnold in the Prose-Writings of OscarWilde_ has established this fact with curious erudition andcompleteness. 

Still, the lecturer was a fine figure of a man: his knee-breeches andsilk stockings set all the women talking, and he spoke with suaveauthority. Even the dullest had to admit that his elocution wasexcellent, and the manner of speech is keenly appreciated in America. In some of the Eastern towns, in New York especially, he had a certainsuccess, the success of sensation and of novelty, such success asevery large capital gives to the strange and eccentric. 

In Boston he scored a triumph of character. Fifty or sixty Harvardstudents came to his lecture dressed to caricature him in "swallowtail coats, knee breeches, flowing wigs and green ties. They all worelarge lilies in their buttonholes and each man carried a hugesunflower as he limped along. " That evening Oscar appeared in ordinarydress and went on with his lecture as if he had not noticed therudeness. The chief Boston paper gave him due credit:

 "Everyone who witnessed the scene on Tuesday evening must feel about it very much as we do, and those who came to scoff, if they did not exactly remain to pray, at least left the Music Hall with feelings of cordial liking, and, perhaps to their own surprise, of respect for Oscar Wilde. "[7]

As he travelled west to Louisville and Omaha his popularity dwined anddwindled. Still he persevered and after leaving the States visitedCanada, reaching Halifax in the autumn. 

One incident must find a place here. On September 6 he sent £80 toLady Wilde. I have been told that this was merely a return of moneyshe had advanced; but there can be no doubt that Oscar, unlike hisbrother Willie, helped his mother again and again most generously, though Willie was always her favourite. 

Oscar returned to England in April, 1883, and lectured to the ArtStudents at their club in Golden Square. This at once brought about abreak with Whistler who accused him of plagiarism:--"Picking from ourplatters the plums for the puddings he peddles in the provinces. "

If one compares this lecture with Oscar's on "The English Renaissanceof Art, " delivered in New York only a year before, and with Whistler'swell-known opinions, it is impossible not to admit that the charge wasjustified. Such phrases as "artists are not to copy beauty but tocreate it . .. A picture is a purely decorative thing, " proclaim theirauthor. 

The long newspaper wrangle between the two was brought to a head in1885, when Whistler gave his famous _Ten o'clock_ discourse on Art. This lecture was infinitely better than any of Oscar Wilde's. Twentyodd years older than Wilde, Whistler was a master of all hisresources: he was not only witty, but he had new views on art andoriginal ideas. As a great artist he knew that "there never was anartistic period. There never was an Art-loving nation. " Again andagain he reached pure beauty of expression. The masterly persiflage, too, filled me with admiration and I declared that the lecture rankedwith the best ever heard in London with Coleridge's on Shakespeare andCarlyle's on Heroes. To my astonishment Oscar would not admit thesuperlative quality of Whistler's talk; he thought the messageparadoxical and the ridicule of the professors too bitter. "Whistler's like a wasp, " he cried, "and carries about with him apoisoned sting. " Oscar's kindly sweet nature revolted against thedisdainful aggressiveness of Whistler's attitude. Besides, in essence, Whistler's lecture was an attack on the academic theory taught in theuniversities, and defended naturally by a young scholar like OscarWilde. Whistler's view that the artist was sporadic, a happy chance, a"sport, " in fact, was a new view, and Oscar had not yet reached thislevel; he reviewed the master in the _Pall Mall Gazette_, a reviewremarkable for one of the earliest gleams of that genial humour whichlater became his most characteristic gift: "Whistler, " he said, "isindeed one of the very greatest masters of painting in my opinion. AndI may add that in this opinion Mr. Whistler himself entirely concurs. "

Whistler retorted in _The World_ and Oscar replied, but Whistler hadthe best of the argument. .. . "Oscar--the amiable, irresponsible, esurient Oscar--with no more sense of a picture than of the fit of acoat, has the courage of the opinions . .. Of others!"

It should be noted here that one of the bitterest of tongues could nothelp doing homage to Oscar Wilde's "amiability": Whistler evenpreferred to call him "amiable and irresponsible" rather than givehis plagiarism a harsher attribute. 

Oscar Wilde learned almost all he knew of art[8] and of controversyfrom Whistler, but he was never more than a pupil in either field; forcontroversy in especial he was poorly equipped: he had neither thecourage, nor the contempt, nor the joy in conflict of his greatexemplar. 

Unperturbed by Whistler's attacks, Oscar went on lecturing about thecountry on "Personal Impressions of America, " and in August crossedagain to New York to see his play "Vera" produced by Marie Prescott atthe Union Square Theatre. It was a complete failure, as might havebeen expected; the serious part of it was such as any talented youngman might have written. Nevertheless I find in this play for the firsttime, a characteristic gleam of humour, an unexpected flirt of wing, so to speak, which, in view of the future, is full of promise. At thetime it passed unappreciated. 

September, 1883, saw Oscar again in England. The platform gave himbetter results than the theatre, but not enough for freedom or ease. It is the more to his credit that as soon as he got a couple ofhundred pounds ahead, he resolved to spend it in bettering his mind. 

His longing for wider culture, and perhaps in part, the example ofWhistler, drove him to Paris. He put up at the little provincial HotelVoltaire on the Quai Voltaire and quickly made acquaintance witheveryone of note in the world of letters, from Victor Hugo to PaulBourget. He admired Verlaine's genius to the full but the grotesquephysical ugliness of the man himself (Verlaine was like a masque ofSocrates) and his sordid and unclean way of living prevented Oscarfrom really getting to know him. During this stay in Paris Oscar readenormously and his French, which had been school-boyish, became quitegood. He always said that Balzac, and especially his poet, Lucien deRubempré, had been his teachers. 

While in Paris he completed his blank-verse play, "The Duchess ofPadua, " and sent it to Miss Mary Anderson in America, who refused it, although she had commissioned him, he always said, to write it. Itseems to me inferior even to "Vera" in interest, more academic andfurther from life, and when produced in New York in 1891 it was acomplete frost. 

In a few months Oscar Wilde had spent his money and had skimmed thecream from Paris, as he thought; accordingly he returned to London andtook rooms again, this time in Charles Street, Mayfair. He had learnedsome rude lessons in the years since leaving Oxford, and the firstand most impressive lesson was the fear of poverty. Yet his takingrooms in the fashionable part of town showed that he was moredetermined than ever to rise and not to sink. 

It was Lady Wilde who urged him to take rooms near her; she neverdoubted his ultimate triumph. She knew all his poems by heart, tookthe strass for diamonds and welcomed the chance of introducing herbrilliant son to the Irish Nationalist Members and other pinchbeckcelebrities who flocked about her. 

It was about this time that I first saw Lady Wilde. I was introducedto her by Willie, Oscar's elder brother, whom I had met in FleetStreet. Willie was then a tall, well-made fellow of thirty orthereabouts with an expressive taking face, lit up with a pair of deepblue laughing eyes. He had any amount of physical vivacity, and told agood story with immense verve, without for a moment getting above thecommonplace: to him the Corinthian journalism of _The Daily Telegraph_was literature. Still he had the surface good nature and good humourof healthy youth and was generally liked. He took me to his mother'shouse one afternoon; but first he had a drink here and a chat there sothat we did not reach the West End till after six o'clock. 

The room and its occupants made an indelible grotesque impression onme. It seemed smaller than it was because overcrowded with a score ofwomen and half a dozen men. It was very dark and there were emptytea-cups and cigarette ends everywhere. Lady Wilde sat enthronedbehind the tea-table looking like a sort of female Buddha swathed inwraps--a large woman with a heavy face and prominent nose; very likeOscar indeed, with the same sallow skin which always looked dirty; hereyes too were her redeeming feature--vivacious and quick-glancing as agirl's. She "made up" like an actress and naturally preferred shadowedgloom to sunlight. Her idealism came to show as soon as she spoke. Itwas a necessity of her nature to be enthusiastic; unfriendly criticssaid hysterical, but I should prefer to say high-falutin' abouteverything she enjoyed or admired. She was at her best in misfortune;her great vanity gave her a certain proud stoicism which wasadmirable. 

The Land League was under discussion as we entered, and Parnell'sattitude to it. Lady Wilde regarded him as the predestined saviour ofher country. "Parnell, " she said with a strong accent on the firstsyllable, "is the man of destiny; he will strike off the fetters andfree Ireland, and throne her as Queen among the nations. "

A murmur of applause came from a thin bird-like woman standingopposite, who floated towards us clad in a sage-green gown, whichsheathed her like an umbrella case; had she had any figure the dresswould have been indecent. 

"How like 'Speranza'!" she cooed, "dear Lady Wilde!" I noticed thather glance went towards Willie, who was standing on the other side ofhis mother, talking to a tall, handsome girl. Willie's friend seemedamused at the lyrical outburst of the green spinster, for smiling alittle she questioned him:

"'Speranza' is Lady Wilde?" she asked with a slight American accent. 

Lady Wilde informed the company with all the impressiveness she had atcommand that she did not expect Oscar that afternoon; "he is so busywith his new poems, you know; they say there has been no suchsensation since Byron, " she added; "already everyone is talking ofthem. "

"Indeed, yes, " sighed the green lily, "do you remember, dear Speranza, what he said about 'The Sphinx, ' that he read to us. He told us thewritten verse was quite different from what the printed poem would bejust as the sculptor's clay model differs from the marble. Subtle, wasn't it?"

"Perfectly true, too!" cried a man, with a falsetto voice, movinginto the circle; "Leonardo himself might have said that. "

The whole scene seemed to me affected and middle-class, untidy, too, with an un-English note about it of shiftlessness; the æstheticdresses were extravagant, the enthusiasms pumped up and exaggerated. Iwas glad to leave quietly. 

It was on this visit to Lady Wilde, or a later one, that I first heardof that other poem of Oscar, "The Harlot's House, " which was also saidto have been written in Paris. Though published in an obscure sheetand in itself commonplace enough it made an astonishing stir. Time andadvertisement had been working for him. Academic lectures andimitative poetry alike had made him widely known; and, thanks to thesmall body of enthusiastic admirers whom I have already spoken of, hisreputation instead of waning out had grown like the Jinn when releasedfrom the bottle. 

The fuglemen were determined to find something wonderful in everythinghe did, and the title of "The Harlot's House, " shocking Philistinism, gave them a certain opportunity which they used to the uttermost. Onall sides one was asked: "Have you seen Oscar's latest?" And then thelast verse would be quoted:--"Divine, don't ye think?"

 "And down the long and silent street, The dawn, with silver-sandalled feet, Crept like a frightened girl. "

In spite of all this extravagant eulogy Oscar Wilde's early plays andpoems, like his lectures, were unimportant. The small remnant ofpeople in England who really love the things of the spirit weredisappointed in them, failed to find in them the genius so loudly andso arrogantly vaunted. 

But, if Oscar Wilde's early writings were failures, his talk was moresuccessful than ever. He still tried to show off on all occasions andsometimes fell flat in consequence; but his failures in this fieldwere few and merely comparative; constant practice was ripening hisextraordinary natural gift. About this time, too, he began to developthat humorous vein in conversation, which later lent a singulardistinction to his casual utterances. 

His talk brought him numerous invitations to dinner and lunch andintroduced him to some of the best houses in London, but it producedno money. He was earning very little and he needed money, comparatively large sums of money, from week to week. 

Oscar Wilde was extravagant in almost every possible way. He wished tobe well-fed, well-dressed, well-wined, and prodigal of "tips. " Hewanted first editions of the poets; had a liking for old furnitureand old silver, for fine pictures, Eastern carpets and Renascencebronzes; in fine, he had all the artist's desires as well as those ofthe poet and _viveur_. He was constantly in dire need of cash and didnot hesitate to borrow fifty pounds from anyone who would lend it tohim. He was beginning to experience the truth of the old verse:

 'Tis a very good world to live in, To lend or to spend or to give in, But to beg or to borrow or get a man's own, 'Tis the very worst world that ever was known. 

The difficulties of life were constantly increasing upon him. Hedespised bread and butter and talked only of champagne and caviare;but without bread, hunger is imminent. Victory no longer seemedindubitable. It was possible, it began even to be probable that thefair ship of his fame might come to wreck on the shoals of poverty. 

It was painfully clear that he must do something without furtherdelay, must either conquer want or overleap it. Would he bridle hisdesires, live savingly, and write assiduously till such repute came aswould enable him to launch out and indulge his tastes? He was wiseenough to see the advantages of such a course. Every day hisreputation as a talker was growing. Had he had a little moreself-control, had he waited a little longer till his position insociety was secured, he could easily have married someone with moneyand position who would have placed him above sordid care and fear forever. But he could not wait; he was colossally vain; he would wear thepeacock's feathers at all times and all costs: he was intenselypleasure-loving, too; his mouth watered for every fruit. Besides, hecouldn't write with creditors at the door. Like Bossuet he was unableto work when bothered about small economies:--_s'il était à l'étroitdans son domestique_. 

What was to be done? Suddenly he cut the knot and married the daughterof a Q. C. , a Miss Constance Lloyd, a young lady without any particularqualities or beauty, whom he had met in Dublin on a lecture tour. MissLloyd had a few hundreds a year of her own, just enough to keep thewolf from the door. The couple went to live in Tite Street, Chelsea, in a modest little house. The drawing-room, however, was decorated byGodwin and quickly gained a certain notoriety. It was indeed acharming room with an artistic distinction and appeal of its own. 

As soon as the dreadful load of poverty was removed, Oscar began to goabout a great deal, and his wife would certainly have been invitedwith him if he had refused invitations addressed to himself alone; butfrom the beginning he accepted them and consequently after the firstfew months of marriage his wife went out but little, and laterchildren came and kept her at home. Having earned a respite from careby his marriage, Oscar did little for the next three years but talk. Critical observers began to make up their minds that he was a talkerand not a writer. "He was a power in the art, " as de Quincey said ofColeridge; "and he carried a new art into the power. " Every year thisgift grew with him: every year he talked more and more brilliantly, and he was allowed now, and indeed expected, to hold the table. 

In London there is no such thing as conversation. Now and then onehears a caustic or witty phrase, but nothing more. The tone of goodsociety everywhere is to be pleasant without being prominent. In everyother European country, however, able men are encouraged to talk; inEngland alone they are discouraged. People in society use a debasedjargon or slang, snobbish shibboleths for the most part, and themajority resent any one man monopolising attention. But Oscar Wildewas allowed this privileged position, was encouraged to hold forth toamuse people, as singers are brought in to sing after dinner. 

Though his fame as a witty and delightful talker grew from week toweek, even his marriage did not stifle the undertone of dislike anddisgust. Now indignantly, now with contempt, men spoke of him asabandoned, a creature of unnatural viciousness. There were certainhouses in the best set of London society the doors of which wereclosed to him. 

[Illustration: Oscar Wilde]

FOOTNOTES:

[7] By way of heaping coals of fire on the students' heads Oscarpresented a cast of the Hermes (then recently unearthed) to theUniversity of Harvard. 

[8] Cfr. Appendix: "Criticisms by Robert Ross. "

CHAPTER VI

From 1884 on I met Oscar Wilde continually, now at the theatre, now insome society drawing room; most often, I think, at Mrs. Jeune's(afterwards Lady St. Helier). His appearance was not in his favour;there was something oily and fat about him that repelled me. Naturallybeing British-born and young I tried to give my repugnance a moralfoundation; fleshly indulgence and laziness, I said to myself, werewritten all over him. The snatches of his monologues which I caughtfrom time to time seemed to me to consist chiefly of epigrams almostmechanically constructed of proverbs and familiar sayings turnedupside down. Two of Balzac's characters, it will be remembered, practised this form of humour. The desire to astonish and dazzle, thelove of the uncommon for its own sake, was so evident that I shruggedmy shoulders and avoided him. One evening, however, at Mrs. Jeune's, Igot to know him better. At the very door Mrs. Jeune came up to me:

"Have you ever met Mr. Oscar Wilde? You ought to know him: he is sodelightfully clever, so brilliant!"

I went with her and was formally introduced to him. He shook hands ina limp way I disliked; his hands were flabby, greasy; his skin lookedbilious and dirty. He wore a great green scarab ring on one finger. Hewas over-dressed rather than well-dressed; his clothes fitted him tootightly; he was too stout. He had a trick which I noticed even then, which grew on him later, of pulling his jowl with his right hand as hespoke, and his jowl was already fat and pouchy. His appearance filledme with distaste. I lay stress on this physical repulsion, because Ithink most people felt it, and in itself, it is a tribute to thefascination of the man that he should have overcome the firstimpression so completely and so quickly. I don't remember what wetalked about, but I noticed almost immediately that his grey eyes werefinely expressive; in turn vivacious, laughing, sympathetic; alwaysbeautiful. The carven mouth, too, with its heavy, chiselled, purple-tinged lips, had a certain attraction and significance in spiteof a black front tooth which shocked one when he laughed. He was oversix feet in height and both broad and thick-set; he looked like aRoman Emperor of the decadence. 

We had a certain interest in each other, an interest of curiosity, forI remember that he led the way almost at once into the inner drawingroom in order to be free to talk in some seclusion. After half anhour or so I asked him to lunch next day at _The Café Royal_, then thebest restaurant in London. 

At this time he was a superb talker, more brilliant than any I haveever heard in England, but nothing like what he became later. His talksoon made me forget his repellant physical peculiarities; indeed Isoon lost sight of them so completely that I have wondered since how Icould have been so disagreeably affected by them at first sight. Therewas an extraordinary physical vivacity and geniality in the man, anextraordinary charm in his gaiety, and lightning-quick intelligence. His enthusiasms, too, were infectious. Every mental questioninterested him, especially if it had anything to do with art orliterature. His whole face lit up as he spoke and one saw nothing buthis soulful eyes, heard nothing but his musical tenor voice; he wasindeed what the French call a _charmeur_. 

In ten minutes I confessed to myself that I liked him, and his talkwas intensely quickening. He had something unexpected to say on almostevery subject. His mind was agile and powerful and he took a delightin using it. He was well-read too, in several languages, especially inFrench, and his excellent memory stood him in good stead. Even whenhe merely reproduced what the great writers had said perfectly, headded a new colouring. And already his characteristic humour wasbeginning to illumine every topic with lambent flashes. 

It was at our first lunch, I think, that he told me he had been askedby Harper's to write a book of one hundred thousand words and offereda large sum for it--I think some five thousand dollars--in advance. Hewrote to them gravely that there were not one hundred thousand wordsin English, so he could not undertake the work, and laughed merrilylike a child at the cheeky reproof. 

"I have sent their letters and my reply to the press, " he added, andlaughed again, while probing me with inquisitive eyes: how far did Iunderstand the need of self-advertisement?

About this time an impromptu of his moved the town to laughter. Atsome dinner party it appeared the ladies sat a little too long; Oscarwanted to smoke. Suddenly the hostess drew his attention to a lamp theshade of which was smouldering. 

"Please put it out, Mr. Wilde, " she said, "it's smoking. "

Oscar turned to do as he was told with the remark:

"Happy lamp!"

The delightful impertinence had an extraordinary success. 

Early in our friendship I was fain to see that the love of theuncommon, his paradoxes and epigrams were natural to him, sprangimmediately from his taste and temperament. Perhaps it would be wellto define once for all his attitude towards life with more scope andparticularity than I have hitherto done. 

It is often assumed that he had no clear and coherent view of life, nobelief, no faith to guide his vagrant footsteps; but such an opiniondoes him injustice. He had his own philosophy, and held to it for longyears with astonishing tenacity. His attitude towards life can best beseen if he is held up against Goethe. He took the artist's view oflife which Goethe was the first to state and indeed in youth hadoverstated with an astonishing persuasiveness: "the beautiful is morethan the good, " said Goethe; "for it includes the good. "

It seemed to Oscar, as it had seemed to young Goethe, that "theextraordinary alone survives"; the extraordinary whether good or bad;he therefore sought after the extraordinary, and naturally enoughoften fell into the extravagant. But how stimulating it was in London, where sordid platitudes drip and drizzle all day long, to hear someonetalking brilliant paradoxes. 

Goethe did not linger long in the halfway house of unbelief; themurderer may win notoriety as easily as the martyr, but his memorywill not remain. "_The fashion of this world passeth away_, " saidGoethe, "I would fain occupy myself with that which endures. " Midwayin life Goethe accepted Kant's moral imperative and restated hiscreed: "A man must resolve to live, " he said, "for the Good, andBeautiful, and for the Common Weal. "

Oscar did not push his thought so far: the transcendental was not hisfield. 

It was a pity, I sometimes felt, that he had not studied German asthoroughly as French; Goethe might have done more for him thanBaudelaire or Balzac, for in spite of all his stodgy German faults, Goethe is the best guide through the mysteries of life whom the modernworld has yet produced. Oscar Wilde stopped where the religion ofGoethe began; he was far more of a pagan and individualist than thegreat German; he lived for the beautiful and extraordinary, but notfor the Good and still less for the Whole; he acknowledged no moralobligation; _in commune bonis_ was an ideal which never said anythingto him; he cared nothing for the common weal; he held himself abovethe mass of the people with an Englishman's extravagant insularity andaggressive pride. Politics, social problems, religion--everythinginterested him simply as a subject of art; life itself was merelymaterial for art. He held the position Goethe had abandoned in youth. 

The view was astounding in England and new everywhere in itsonesidedness. Its passionate exaggeration, however, was quickening, and there is, of course, something to be said for it. The artisticview of life is often higher than the ordinary religious view; atleast it does not deal in condemnations and exclusions; it is morereasonable, more catholic, more finely perceptive. 

"The artist's view of life is the only possible one, " Oscar used tosay, "and should be applied to everything, most of all to religion andmorality. Cavaliers and Puritans are interesting for their costumesand not for their convictions. .. . 

"There is no general rule of health; it is all personal, individual. .. . I only demand that freedom which I willingly concede toothers. No one condemns another for preferring green to gold. Whyshould any taste be ostracised? Liking and disliking are not under ourcontrol. I want to choose the nourishment which suits _my_ body and_my_ soul. "

I can almost hear him say the words with his charming humorous smileand exquisite flash of deprecation, as if he were half inclined tomake fun of his own statement. 

It was not his views on art, however, which recommended him to thearistocratic set in London; but his contempt for social reform, orrather his utter indifference to it, and his English love ofinequality. The republicanism he flaunted in his early verses was noteven skin deep; his political beliefs and prejudices were theprejudices of the English governing class and were all in favour ofindividual freedom, or anarchy under the protection of the policeman. 

"The poor are poor creatures, " was his real belief, "and must alwaysbe hewers of wood and drawers of water. They are merely the virginsoil out of which men of genius and artists grow like flowers. Theirfunction is to give birth to genius and nourish it. They have no other_raison d'être_. Were men as intelligent as bees, all giftedindividuals would be supported by the community, as the bees supporttheir queen. We should be the first charge on the state just asSocrates declared that he should be kept in the Prytaneum at thepublic expense. 

"Don't talk to me, Frank, about the hardships of the poor. Thehardships of the poor are necessities, but talk to me of the hardshipsof men of genius, and I could weep tears of blood. I was never soaffected by any book in my life as I was by the misery of Balzac'spoet, Lucien de Rubempré. "

Naturally this creed of an exaggerated individualism appealedpeculiarly to the best set in London. It was eminently aristocraticand might almost be defended as scientific, for to a certain extent itfound corroboration in Darwinism. All progress according to Darwincomes from peculiar individuals; "sports" as men of science call them, or the "heaven-sent" as rhetoricians prefer to style them. The manyare only there to produce more "sports" and ultimately to benefit bythem. All this is valid enough; but it leaves the crux of the questionuntouched. The poor in aristocratic England are too degraded toproduce "sports" of genius, or indeed any "sports" of much value tohumanity. Such an extravagant inequality of condition obtains therethat the noble soul is miserable, the strongest insecure. But Wilde'screed was intensely popular with the "Smart Set" because of its veryone-sidedness, and he was hailed as a prophet partly because hedefended the cherished prejudices of the "landed" oligarchy. 

It will be seen from this that Oscar Wilde was in some danger ofsuffering from excessive popularity and unmerited renown. Indeed if hehad loved athletic sports, hunting and shooting instead of art andletters, he might have been the selected representative ofaristocratic England. 

In addition to his own popular qualities a strong current was sweepinghim to success. He was detested by the whole of the middle orshop-keeping class which in England, according to Matthew Arnold, has"the sense of conduct--and has but little else. " This class hated andfeared him; feared him for his intellectual freedom and his contemptof conventionality, and hated him because of his light-heartedself-indulgence, and also because it saw in him none of its own sordidvirtues. _Punch_ is peculiarly the representative of this class and ofall English prejudices, and _Punch_ jeered at him now in prose, now inverse, week after week. Under the heading, "More Impressions" (byOscuro Wildgoose) I find this:

 "My little fancy's clogged with gush, My little lyre is false in tone, And when I lyrically moan, I hear the impatient critic's 'Tush!'

 "But I've 'Impressions. ' These are grand! Mere dabs of words, mere blobs of tint, Displayed on canvas or in print, Men laud, and think they understand. 

 "A smudge of brown, a smear of yellow, No tale, no subject, --there you are! Impressions!--and the strangest far Is--that the bard's a clever fellow. "

A little later these lines appeared:

 "My languid lily, my lank limp lily, My long, lithe lily-love, men may grin-- Say that I'm soft and supremely silly-- What care I, while you whisper still; What care I, while you smile? Not a pin! While you smile, while you whisper-- 'Tis sweet to decay! I have watered with chlorodine, tears of chagrin, The churchyard mould I have planted thee in, Upside down, in an intense way, In a rough red flower-pot, _sweeter than sin_, That I bought for a halfpenny, yesterday!"

The italics are mine; but the suggestion was always implicit; yet thisconstant wind of puritanic hatred blowing against him helped insteadof hindering his progress: strong men are made by opposition; likekites they go up against the wind. 

CHAPTER VII

 "Believe me, child, all the gentleman's misfortunes arose from his being educated at a public school. .. . "--FIELDING. 

In England success is a plant of slow growth. The tone of goodsociety, though responsive to political talent, and openly, eagerlysensitive to money-making talent, is contemptuous of genius and ratesthe utmost brilliancy of the talker hardly higher than the feats of anacrobat. Men are obstinate, slow, trusting a bank-balance rather thanbrains; and giving way reluctantly to sharp-witted superiority. Theroad up to power or influence in England is full of pitfalls and fartoo arduous for those who have neither high birth nor wealth to helpthem. The natural inequality of men instead of being mitigated by lawor custom is everywhere strengthened and increased by a thousandeffete social distinctions. Even in the best class where a certaineasy familiarity reigns there is circle above circle, and the summitsare isolated by heredity. 

The conditions of English society being what they are, it is all butimpossible at first to account for the rapidity of Oscar Wilde'ssocial success; yet if we tell over his advantages and bring one ortwo into the account which have not yet been reckoned, we shall findalmost every element that conduces to popularity. By talent andconviction he was the natural pet of the aristocracy whose selfishprejudices he defended and whose leisure he amused. The middle class, as has been noted, disliked and despised him: but its social influenceis small and its papers, and especially _Punch_, made him notorious byattacking him in and out of season. The comic weekly, indeed, helpedto build up his reputation by the almost inexplicable bitterness ofits invective. 

Another potent force was in his favour. From the beginning he sethimself to play the game of the popular actor, and neglected noopportunity of turning the limelight on his own doings. As he said, his admiration of himself was "a lifelong devotion, " and he proclaimedhis passion on the housetops. 

Our names happened to be mentioned together once in some paper, Ithink it was _The Pall Mall Gazette_. He asked me what I was going toreply. 

"Nothing, " I answered, "why should I bother? I've done nothing yetthat deserves trumpeting. "

"You're making a mistake, " he said seriously. "If you wish forreputation and fame in this world, and success during your lifetime, you ought to seize every opportunity of advertising yourself. Youremember the Latin word, 'Fame springs from one's own house. ' Likeother wise sayings, it's not quite true; fame comes from oneself, " andhe laughed delightedly; "you must go about repeating how great you aretill the dull crowd comes to believe it. "

"The prophet must proclaim himself, eh? and declare his own mission?"

"That's it, " he replied with a smile; "that's it. 

"Every time my name is mentioned in a paper, I write at once to admitthat I am the Messiah. Why is Pears' soap successful? Not because itis better or cheaper than any other soap, but because it is morestrenuously puffed. The journalist is my 'John the Baptist. ' Whatwould you give, when a book of yours comes out, to be able to write along article drawing attention to it in _The Pall Mall Gazette_? Hereyou have the opportunity of making your name known just as widely; whynot avail yourself of it? I miss no chance, " and to do him justice heused occasion to the utmost. 

Curiously enough Bacon had the same insight, and I have often wonderedsince whether Oscar's worldly wisdom was original or was borrowed fromthe great Elizabethan climber. Bacon says:

 "'Boldly sound your own praises and some of them will stick. '. .. It will stick with the more ignorant and the populace, though men of wisdom may smile at it; and the reputation won with many will amply countervail the disdain of a few. .. . And surely no small number of those who are of solid nature, and who, from the want of this ventosity, cannot spread all sail in pursuit of their own honour, suffer some prejudice and lose dignity by their moderation. "

Many of Oscar's letters to the papers in these years were amusing, some of them full of humour. For example, when he was asked to give alist of the hundred best books, as Lord Avebury and other mediocritieshad done, he wrote saying that "he could not give a list of thehundred best books, as he had only written five. "

Winged words of his were always passing from mouth to mouth in town. Some theatre was opened which was found horribly ugly: one spoke of itas "Early Victorian. "

"No, no, " replied Oscar, "nothing so distinctive. 'Early Maple, 'rather. "

Even his impertinences made echoes. At a great reception, a friendasked him in passing, how the hostess, Lady S----, could berecognised. Lady S---- being short and stout, Oscar replied, smiling:

"Go through this room, my dear fellow, and the next and so on till youcome to someone looking like a public monument, say the effigy ofBritannia or Victoria--that's Lady S----. "

Though he used to pretend that all this self-advertisement waspremeditated and planned, I could hardly believe him. He was eager towrite about himself because of his exaggerated vanity and reflectionafterwards found grounds to justify his inclination. But whatever themotive may have been the effect was palpable: his name was continuallyin men's mouths, and his fame grew by repetition. As Tiberius said ofMucianus:

"_Omnium quæ dixerat feceratque, arte quadam ostentator_" (He had aknack of showing off and advertising whatever he said or did). 

But no personal qualities, however eminent, no gifts, no graces ofheart or head or soul could have brought a young man to Oscar Wilde'ssocial position and popularity in a few years. 

Another cause was at work lifting him steadily. From the time he leftOxford he was acclaimed and backed by a small minority of passionateadmirers whom I have called his fuglemen. These admirers formed theconstant factor in his progress from social height to height. For themost part they were persons usually called "sexual inverts, " wholooked to the brilliancy of his intellect to gild their esotericindulgence. This class in England is almost wholly recruited from thearistocracy and the upper middle-class that apes the "smart set. " Itis an inevitable product of the English boarding school and Universitysystem; indeed one of the most characteristic products. I shallprobably bring upon myself a host of enemies by this assertion, but ithas been weighed and must stand. Fielding has already put the sameview on record: he says:

 "A public school, Joseph, was the cause of all the calamities which he afterwards suffered. Public schools are the nurseries of all vice and immorality. All the wicked fellows whom I remember at the University were bred at them. .. . "

If boarding-school life with its close intimacies between boys fromtwelve to eighteen years of age were understood by English mothers, itis safe to say that every boarding-house in every school woulddisappear in a single night, and Eton, Harrow, Winchester and the restwould be turned into day-schools. 

Those who have learned bad habits at school or in the 'Varsity areinclined to continue the practices in later life. Naturally enoughthese men are usually distinguished by a certain artistic sympathy, and often by most attractive, intellectual qualities. As a rule theepicene have soft voices and ingratiating manners, and are bold enoughto make a direct appeal to the heart and emotions; they areconsidered the very cream of London society. 

These admirers and supporters praised and defended Oscar Wilde fromthe beginning with the persistence and courage of men who if theydon't hang together are likely to hang separately. After his trial andcondemnation _The Daily Telegraph_ spoke with contempt of these"decadents" and "æsthetes" who, it asserted, "could be numbered inLondon society on the fingers of one hand"; but even _The DailyTelegraph_ must have known that in the "smart set" alone there arehundreds of these acolytes whose intellectual and artistic culturegives them an importance out of all proportion to their number. It wasthe passionate support of these men in the first place which madeOscar Wilde notorious and successful. 

This fact may well give pause to the thoughtful reader. In the middleages, when birth and position had a disproportionate power in life, the Catholic Church supplied a certain democratic corrective to theinequality of social conditions. It was a sort of "Jacob's Ladder"leading from the lowest strata of society to the very heavens andoffering to ingenuous, youthful talent a career of infinite hope andunlimited ambition. This great power of the Roman Church in themiddle-ages may well be compared to the influence exerted by thosewhom I have designated as Oscar Wilde's fuglemen in the England oftoday. The easiest way to success in London society is to be notoriousin this sense. Whatever career one may have chosen, however humbleone's birth, one is then certain of finding distinguished friends andimpassioned advocates. If you happen to be in the army and unmarried, you are declared to be a strategist like Cæsar, or an organizer likeMoltke; if you are an artist, instead of having your faults proclaimedand your failings scourged, your qualifications are eulogised and youfind yourself compared to Michel Angelo or Titian! I would notwillingly exaggerate here; but I could easily give dozens of instancesto prove that sexual perversion is a "Jacob's Ladder" to most forms ofsuccess in our time in London. 

It seems a curious effect of the great compensatory balance of thingsthat a masculine rude people like the English, who love nothing somuch as adventures and warlike achievements, should allow themselvesto be steered in ordinary times by epicene æsthetes. But no one whoknows the facts will deny that these men are prodigiously influentialin London in all artistic and literary matters, and it was theirconstant passionate support which lifted Oscar Wilde so quickly toeminence. 

From the beginning they fought for him. He was regarded as a leaderamong them when still at Oxford. Yet his early writings show no traceof such a prepossession; they are wholly void of offence, without evena suggestion of coarseness, as pure indeed as his talk. Nevertheless, as soon as his name came up among men in town, the accusation ofabnormal viciousness was either made or hinted. Everyone spoke as ifthere were no doubt about his tastes, and this in spite of thehabitual reticence of Englishmen. I could not understand how theimputation came to be so bold and universal; how so shameful acalumny, as I regarded it, was so firmly established in men's minds. Again and again I protested against the injustice, demanded proofs;but was met only by shrugs and pitying glances as if my prejudice mustindeed be invincible if I needed evidence of the obvious. 

I have since been assured, on what should be excellent authority, thatthe evil reputation which attached to Oscar Wilde in those early yearsin London was completely undeserved. I, too, must say that in thefirst period of our friendship, I never noticed anything that couldgive colour even to suspicion of him; but the belief in his abnormaltastes was widespread and dated from his life in Oxford. 

From about 1886-7 on, however, there was a notable change in OscarWilde's manners and mode of life. He had been married a couple ofyears, two children had been born to him; yet instead of settling downhe appeared suddenly to have become wilder. In 1887 he accepted theeditorship of a lady's paper, _The Woman's World_, and was alwaysmocking at the selection of himself as the "fittest" for such a post:he had grown noticeably bolder. I told myself that an assured incomeand position give confidence; but at bottom a doubt began to form inme. It can't be denied that from 1887-8 on, incidents occurred fromtime to time which kept the suspicion of him alive, and indeed pointedand strengthened it. I shall have to deal now with some of the moreimportant of these occurrences. 

CHAPTER VIII

The period of growth of any organism is the most interesting and mostinstructive. And there is no moment of growth in the individual lifewhich can be compared in importance with the moment when a man beginsto outtop his age, and to suggest the future evolution of humanity byhis own genius. Usually this final stage is passed in solitude:

 _Es bildet ein Talent sich in der Stille, _ _Sich ein Charakter in dem Strome der Welt. _

After writing a life of Schiller which almost anyone might havewritten, Carlyle retired for some years to Craigenputtoch, and thenbrought forth _Sartor Resartus_, which was personal and soul-revealingto the verge of eccentricity. In the same way Wagner was a merecontinuator of Weber in _Lohengrin_ and _Tannhaeuser_, and first cameto his own in the _Meistersinger_ and _Tristan_, after years ofmeditation in Switzerland. 

This period for Oscar Wilde began with his marriage; the freedom fromsordid anxieties allowed him to lift up his head and be himself. Kepler, I think, it is who praises poverty as the foster-mother ofgenius; but Bernard Palissy was nearer the truth when hesaid:--_Pauvreté empêche bons esprits de parvenir_ (poverty hindersfine minds from succeeding). There is no such mortal enemy of geniusas poverty except riches: a touch of the spur from time to time doesgood; but a constant rowelling disables. As editor of _The Woman'sWorld_ Oscar had some money of his own to spend. Though his salary wasonly some six pounds a week, it made him independent, and hiseditorial work gave him an excuse for not exhausting himself bywriting. For some years after marriage; in fact, till he lost hiseditorship, he wrote little and talked a great deal. 

During this period we were often together. He lunched with me once ortwice a week and I began to know his method of work. Everything cameto him in the excitement of talk, epigrams, paradoxes and stories; andwhen people of great position or title were about him he generallymanaged to surpass himself: all social distinctions appealed to himintensely. I chaffed him about this one day and he admitted thesnobbishness gaily. 

"I love even historic names, Frank, as Shakespeare did. Surelyeveryone prefers Norfolk, Hamilton and Buckingham to Jones or Smith orRobinson. "

As soon as he lost his editorship he took to writing for the reviews;his articles were merely the _résumé_ of his monologues. After talkingfor months at this and that lunch and dinner he had amassed a store ofepigrams and humorous paradoxes which he could embody in a paper for_The Fortnightly Review_ or _The Nineteenth Century_. 

These papers made it manifest that Wilde had at length, as Heinephrased it, reached the topmost height of the culture of his time andwas now able to say new and interesting things. His _Lehrjahre_ orstudent-time may be said to have ended with his editorship. Thearticles which he wrote on "The Decay of Lying, " "The Critic asArtist, " and "Pen, Pencil and Poison"; in fact, all the papers whichin 1891 were gathered together and published in book form under thetitle of "Intentions, " had about them the stamp of originality. Theyachieved a noteworthy success with the best minds, and laid thefoundation of his fame. Every paper contained, here and there, a happyphrase, or epigram, or flirt of humour, which made it memorable to thelover of letters. 

They were all, however, conceived and written from the standpoint ofthe artist, and the artist alone, who never takes account of ethics, but uses right and wrong indifferently as colours of his palette. "The Decay of Lying" seemed to the ordinary, matter-of-fact Englishmana cynical plea in defence of mendacity. To the majority of readers, "Pen, Pencil and Poison" was hardly more than a shameful attempt tocondone cold-blooded murder. The very articles which grounded his fameas a writer, helped to injure his standing and repute. 

In 1889 he published a paper which did him even more damage byappearing to justify the peculiar rumours about his private life. Heheld the opinion, which was universal at that time, that Shakespearehad been abnormally vicious. He believed with the majority of criticsthat Lord William Herbert was addressed in the first series ofSonnets; but his fine sensibility or, if you will, his peculiartemperament, led him to question whether Thorpe's dedication to "Mr. W. H. " could have been addressed to Lord William Herbert. He preferredthe old hypothesis that the dedication was addressed to a young actornamed Mr. William Hughes, a supposition which is supported by awell-known sonnet. He set forth this idea with much circumstance andconsiderable ingenuity in an article which he sent to me forpublication in _The Fortnightly Review_. The theme was scabrous; buthis treatment of it was scrupulously reserved and adroit and I saw nooffence in the paper, and to tell the truth, no great ability in hishandling of the subject. [9]

He had talked over the article with me while he was writing it, and Itold him that I thought the whole theory completely mistaken. Shakespeare was as sensual as one could well be; but there was noevidence of abnormal vice; indeed, all the evidence seemed to me to beagainst this universal belief. The assumption that the dedication wasaddressed to Lord William Herbert I had found it difficult to accept, at first; the wording of it is not only ambiguous but familiar. If Iassumed that "Mr. W. H. " was meant for Lord William Herbert, it wasonly because that seemed the easiest way out of the maze. In fine, Ipointed out to Oscar that his theory had very little that was new init, and more that was untrue, and advised him not to publish thepaper. My conviction that Shakespeare was not abnormally vicious, andthat the first series of Sonnets proved snobbishness and toadying andnot corrupt passion, seemed to Oscar the very madness of partisanship. 

He smiled away my arguments, and sent his paper to the _Fortnightly_office when I happened to be abroad. Much to my chagrin, my assistantrejected it rudely, whereupon Oscar sent it to Blackwoods, whopublished it in their magazine. It set everyone talking and arguing. To judge by the discussion it created, the wind of hatred and ofpraise it caused, one would have thought that the paper was amasterpiece, though in truth it was nothing out of the common. Had itbeen written by anybody else it would have passed unnoticed. Butalready Oscar Wilde had a prodigious notoriety, and all his sayingsand doings were eagerly canvassed from one end of society to theother. 

"The Portrait of Mr. W. H. " did Oscar incalculable injury. It gave hisenemies for the first time the very weapon they wanted, and they usedit unscrupulously and untiringly with the fierce delight of hatred. Oscar seemed to revel in the storm of conflicting opinions which thepaper called forth. He understood better than most men that notorietyis often the forerunner of fame and is always commercially morevaluable. He rubbed his hands with delight as the discussion grewbitter, and enjoyed even the sneering of the envious. A wind thatblows out a little fire, he knew, plays bellows to a big one. So longas people talked about him, he didn't much care what they said, andthey certainly talked interminably about everything he wrote. 

The inordinate popular success increased his self-confidence, and withtime his assurance took on a touch of defiance. The first startlingsign of this gradual change was the publication in _Lippincott'sMagazine_ of "The Picture of Dorian Gray. " It was attacked immediatelyin _The Daily Chronicle_, a liberal paper usually distinguished for acertain leaning in favour of artists and men of letters, as a "talespawned from the leprous literature of the French _decadents_--apoisonous book, the atmosphere of which is heavy with the mephiticodours of moral and spiritual putrefaction. "

Oscar as a matter of course replied and the tone of his reply ischaracteristic of his growth in self-assurance: he no longer dreadsthe imputation of viciousness; he challenges it: "It is poisonous, ifyou like; but you cannot deny that it is also perfect, and perfectionis what we artists aim at. "

When Oscar republished "The Picture of Dorian Gray" in book form inApril, 1891, he sent me a large paper copy and with the copy he wrotea little note, asking me to tell him what I thought of the book. I gotthe volume and note early one morning and read the book until noon. Ithen sent him a note by hand: "Other men, " I wrote, "have given uswine; some claret, some burgundy, some Moselle; you are the first togive us pure champagne. Much of this book is wittier even thanCongreve and on an equal intellectual level: at length, it seems tome, you have justified yourself. "

Half an hour later I was told that Oscar Wilde had called. I went downimmediately to see him. He was bubbling over with content. 

"How charming of you, Frank, " he cried, "to have written me such adivine letter. "

"I have only read a hundred pages of the book, " I said; "but they aredelightful: no one now can deny you a place among the wittiest andmost humorous writers in English. "

"How wonderful of you, Frank; what do you like so much?"

Like all artists, he loved praise and I was enthusiastic, happy tohave the opportunity of making up for some earlier doubting that nowseemed unworthy:

"Whatever the envious may say, you're with Burke and Sheridan, amongthe very ablest Irishmen. .. . 

"Of course I have heard most of the epigrams from you before, but youhave put them even better in this book. "

"Do you think so, really?" he asked, smiling with pleasure. 

It is worth notice that some of the epigrams in "Dorian Gray" werebettered again before they appeared in his first play. For example, in"Dorian Gray" Lord Henry Wotton, who is peculiarly Oscar's mouthpiece, while telling how he had to bargain for a piece of old brocade inWardour Street, adds, "nowadays people know the price of everythingand the value of nothing. " In "Lady Windermere's Fan" the same epigramis perfected, "The cynic is one who knows the price of everything andthe value of nothing. "

Nearly all the literary productions of our time suffer from haste: onemust produce a good deal, especially while one's reputation is in themaking, in order to live by one's pen. Yet great works take time toform, and fine creations are often disfigured by the stains of hurriedparturition. Oscar Wilde contrived to minimise this disability bytalking his works before writing them. 

The conversation of Lord Henry Wotton with his uncle, and again atlunch when he wishes to fascinate Dorian Gray, is an excellentreproduction of Oscar's ordinary talk. The uncle wonders why LordDartmoor wants to marry an American and grumbles about her people:"Has she got any?"

Lord Henry shook his head. "American girls are as clever at concealingtheir parents as English women are at concealing their past, " he said, rising to go. 

"They are pork-packers, I suppose?"

"I hope so, Uncle George, for Dartmoor's sake. I am told thatpork-packing is the most lucrative profession in America, afterpolitics. "

All this seems to me delightful humour. 

The latter part of the book, however, tails off into insignificance. The first hundred pages held the result of months and months ofOscar's talk, the latter half was written offhand to complete thestory. "Dorian Gray" was the first piece of work which proved thatOscar Wilde had at length found his true vein. 

A little study of it discovers both his strength and his weakness as awriter. The initial idea of the book is excellent, finer becausedeeper than the commonplace idea that is the foundation of Balzac's"Peau de Chagrin, " though it would probably never have been written ifBalzac had not written his book first; but Balzac's sincerity andearnestness grapple with the theme and wring a blessing out of it, whereas the subtler idea in Oscar's hands dwindles gradually away tillone wonders if the book would not have been more effective as a shortstory. Oscar did not know life well enough or care enough forcharacter to write a profound psychological study: he was at his bestin a short story or play. 

One day about this time Oscar first showed me the aphorisms he hadwritten as an introduction to "Dorian Gray. " Several of them I thoughtexcellent; but I found that Oscar had often repeated himself. I cutthese repetitions out and tried to show him how much better the dozenbest were than eighteen of which six were inferior. I added that Ishould like to publish the best in "The Fortnightly. " He thanked meand said it was very kind of me. 

Next morning I got a letter from him telling me that he had read overmy corrections and thought that the aphorisms I had rejected were thebest, but he hoped I'd publish them as he had written them. 

Naturally I replied that the final judgment must rest with him and Ipublished them at once. 

The delight I felt in his undoubted genius and success was not sharedby others. Friends took occasion to tell me that I should not go aboutwith Oscar Wilde. 

"Why not?" I asked. 

"He has a bad name, " was the reply. "Strange things are said abouthim. He came down from Oxford with a vile reputation. You have onlygot to look at the man. "

"Whatever the disease may be, " I replied, "it's notcatching--unfortunately. "

The pleasure men take in denigration of the gifted is one of thepuzzles of life to those who are not envious. 

Men of letters, even people who ought to have known better, were slowto admit his extraordinary talent; he had risen so quickly, had beenpuffed into such prominence that they felt inclined to deny him eventhe gifts which he undoubtedly possessed. I was surprised once to finda friend of mine taking this attitude: Francis Adams, the poet andwriter, chaffed me one day about my liking for Oscar. 

"What on earth can you see in him to admire?" he asked. "He is not agreat writer, he is not even a good writer; his books have no geniusin them; his poetry is tenth rate, and his prose is not much better. His talk even is fictitious and extravagant. "

I could only laugh at him and advise him to read "The Picture ofDorian Gray. "

This book, however, gave Oscar's puritanic enemies a better weaponagainst him than even "The Portrait of Mr. W. H. " The subject, theydeclared, was the same as that of "Mr. W. H. , " and the treatment wassimply loathsome. More than one middle-class paper, such as _To-Day_in the hands of Mr. Jerome K. Jerome, condemned the book as "corrupt, "and advised its suppression. Freedom of speech in England is morefeared than licence of action: a speck on the outside of the platterdisgusts your puritan, and the inside is never peeped at, much lessdiscussed. 

Walter Pater praised "Dorian Gray" in the _Bookman_; but thereby onlydid himself damage without helping his friend. Oscar meanwhile wentabout boldly, meeting criticism now with smiling contempt. 

One incident from this time will show how unfairly he was being judgedand how imprudent he was to front defamation with defiance. 

One day I met a handsome youth in his company named John Gray, and Icould not wonder that Oscar found him interesting, for Gray had notonly great personal distinction, but charming manners and a markedpoetic gift, a much greater gift than Oscar possessed. He had besidesan eager, curious mind, and of course found extraordinary stimulus inOscar's talk. It seemed to me that intellectual sympathy and thenatural admiration which a younger man feels for a brilliant seniorformed the obvious bond between them. But no sooner did Oscarrepublish "Dorian Gray" than ill-informed and worse-minded personswent about saying that the eponymous hero of the book was John Gray, though "Dorian Gray" was written before Oscar had met or heard of JohnGray. One cannot help admitting that this was partly Oscar's ownfault. In talk he often alluded laughingly to John Gray as his hero, "Dorian. " It is just an instance of the challenging contempt which hebegan to use about this time in answer to the inventions of hatred. 

Late in this year, 1891, he published four stories completely void ofoffence, calling the collection "A House of Pomegranates. " Hededicated each of the tales to a lady of distinction and the book mademany friends; but it was handled contemptuously in the press and hadno sale. 

By this time people expected a certain sort of book from Oscar Wildeand wanted nothing else. They hadn't to wait long. Early in 1892 weheard that Oscar had written a drama in French called _Salome_, and atonce it was put about that Sarah Bernhardt was going to produce it inLondon. Then came dramatic surprise on surprise: while it was beingrehearsed, the Lord Chamberlain refused to license it on the groundthat it introduced Biblical characters. Oscar protested in a brilliantinterview against the action of the Censor as "odious and ridiculous. "He pointed out that all the greatest artists--painters and sculptors, musicians and writers--had taken many of their best subjects from theBible, and wanted to know why the dramatist should be prevented fromtreating the great soul-tragedies most proper to his art. Wheninformed that the interdict was to stand, he declared in a pet that hewould settle in France and take out letters of naturalisation:

"I am not English. I am Irish--which is quite another thing. " Ofcourse the press made all the fun it could of his show of temper. 

Mr. Robert Ross considers "Salome" "the most powerful and perfect ofall Oscar's dramas. " I find it almost impossible to explain, much lessjustify, its astonishing popularity. When it appeared, the press, bothin France and in England, was critical and contemptuous; but by thistime Oscar had so captured the public that he could afford to disdaincritics and calumny. The play was praised by his admirers as if it hadbeen a masterpiece, and London discussed it the more because it was inFrench and not clapper-clawed by the vulgar. 

The indescribable cold lewdness and cruelty of "Salome" quickened theprejudice and strengthened the dislike of the ordinary English readerfor its author. And when the drama was translated into English andpublished with the drawings of Aubrey Beardsley, it was disparaged andcondemned by all the leaders of literary opinion. The colossalpopularity of the play, which Mr. Robert Ross proves so triumphantly, came from Germany and Russia and is to be attributed in part to thecontempt educated Germans and Russians feel for the hypocriticalvagaries of English prudery. The illustrations of Aubrey Beardsley, too, it must be admitted, were an additional offence to the ordinaryEnglish reader, for they intensified the peculiar atmosphere of thedrama. 

Oscar used to say that he invented Aubrey Beardsley; but the truth is, it was Mr. Robert Ross who first introduced Aubrey to Oscar andpersuaded him to commission the "Salome" drawings which gave theEnglish edition its singular value. Strange to say, Oscar always hatedthe illustrations and would not have the book in his house. Hisdislike even extended to the artist, and as Aubrey Beardsley was ofeasy and agreeable intercourse, the mutual repulsion deserves a wordof explanation. 

Aubrey Beardsley's genius had taken London by storm. At seventeen oreighteen this auburn-haired, blue-eyed, fragile looking youth hadreached maturity with his astounding talent, a talent which would havegiven him position and wealth in any other country. In perfection ofline his drawings were superior to anything we possess. But thecurious thing about the boy was that he expressed the passions ofpride and lust and cruelty more intensely even than Rops, morespontaneously than anyone who ever held pencil. Beardsley's precocitywas simply marvellous. He seemed to have an intuitive understandingnot only of his own art but of every art and craft, and it was sometime before one realised that he attained this miraculous virtuosityby an absolute disdain for every other form of human endeavour. Heknew nothing of the great general or millionaire or man of science, and he cared as little for them as for fishermen or 'bus-drivers. Thecurrent of his talent ran narrow between stone banks, so to speak; itwas the bold assertion of it that interested Oscar. 

One phase of Beardsley's extraordinary development may be recordedhere. When I first met him his letters, and even his talk sometimes, were curiously youthful and immature, lacking altogether the personalnote of his drawings. As soon as this was noticed he took the bull bythe horns and pretended that his style in writing was out of date; hewished us to believe that he hesitated to shock us with his "archaicsympathies. " Of course we laughed and challenged him to revealhimself. Shortly afterwards I got an article from him written withcurious felicity of phrase, in modish polite eighteenth-centuryEnglish. He had reached personal expression in a new medium in a monthor so, and apparently without effort. It was Beardsley's writing thatfirst won Oscar to recognition of his talent, and for a while heseemed vaguely interested in what he called his "orchid-likepersonality. "

They were both at lunch one day when Oscar declared that he coulddrink nothing but absinthe when Beardsley was present. 

"Absinthe, " he said, "is to all other drinks what Aubrey's drawingsare to other pictures: it stands alone: it is like nothing else: itshimmers like southern twilight in opalescent colouring: it has aboutit the seduction of strange sins. It is stronger than any otherspirit, and brings out the sub-conscious self in man. It is just likeyour drawings, Aubrey; it gets on one's nerves and is cruel. 

"Baudelaire called his poems _Fleurs du Mal_, I shall call yourdrawings _Fleurs du Péché_--flowers of sin. 

"When I have before me one of your drawings I want to drink absinthe, which changes colour like jade in sunlight and takes the sensesthrall, and then I can live myself back in imperial Rome, in the Romeof the later Cæsars. "

"Don't forget the simple pleasures of that life, Oscar, " said Aubrey;"Nero set Christians on fire, like large tallow candles; the onlylight Christians have ever been known to give, " he added in a languid, gentle voice. 

This talk gave me the key. In personal intercourse Oscar Wilde wasmore English than the English: he seldom expressed his opinion ofperson or prejudice boldly; he preferred to hint dislike anddisapproval. His insistence on the naked expression of lust andcruelty in Beardsley's drawings showed me that direct franknessdispleased him; for he could hardly object to the qualities which weremaking his own "Salome" world-famous. 

The complete history of the relations between Oscar Wilde andBeardsley, and their mutual dislike, merely proves how difficult it isfor original artists to appreciate one another: like mountain peaksthey stand alone. Oscar showed a touch of patronage, the superiorityof the senior, in his intercourse with Beardsley, and often praisedhim ineptly, whereas Beardsley to the last spoke of Oscar as ashowman, and hoped drily that he knew more about literature than hedid about art. For a moment, they worked in concert, and it isimportant to remember that it was Beardsley who influenced Oscar, andnot Oscar who influenced Beardsley. Beardsley's contempt of criticsand the public, his artistic boldness and self-assertion, had acertain hardening influence on Oscar: as things turned out a mostunfortunate influence. 

In spite of Mr. Robert Ross's opinion I regard "Salome, " as a studentwork, an outcome of Oscar's admiration for Flaubert and his"Herodias, " on the one hand, and "Les Sept Princesses, " of Maeterlinckon the other. He has borrowed the colour and Oriental cruelty withthe banquet-scene from the Frenchman, and from the Fleming thesimplicity of language and the haunting effect produced by therepetition of significant phrases. Yet "Salome" is original throughthe mingling of lust and hatred in the heroine, and by making thisextraordinary virgin the chief and centre of the drama Oscar hasheightened the interest of the story and bettered Flaubert's design. Ifeel sure he copied Maeterlinck's simplicity of style because itserved to disguise his imperfect knowledge of French and yet this veryartlessness adds to the weird effect of the drama. 

The lust that inspires the tragedy was characteristic, but the crueltywas foreign to Oscar; both qualities would have injured him inEngland, had it not been for two things. First of all only a few ofthe best class of English people know French at all well, and for themost part they disdain the sex-morality of their race; while the vastmass of the English public regard French as in itself an immoralmedium and is inclined to treat anything in that tongue withcontemptuous indifference. One can only say that "Salome" confirmedOscar's growing reputation for abnormal viciousness. 

It was in 1892 that some of Oscar's friends struck me for the firsttime as questionable, to say the best of them. I remember giving alittle dinner to some men in rooms I had in Jermyn Street. I invitedOscar, and he brought a young friend with him. After dinner I noticedthat the youth was angry with Oscar and would scarcely speak to him, and that Oscar was making up to him. I heard snatches of pleading fromOscar--"I beg of you. .. . It is not true. .. . You have no cause". .. . Allthe while Oscar was standing apart from the rest of us with an arm onthe young man's shoulder; but his coaxing was in vain, the youthturned away with petulant, sullen ill-temper. This is a mere snap-shotwhich remained in my memory, and made me ask myself afterwards how Icould have been so slow of understanding. 

Looking back and taking everything into consideration--his socialsuccess, the glare of publicity in which he lived, the buzz of talkand discussion that arose about everything he did and said, theincreasing interest and value of his work and, above all, theever-growing boldness of his writing and the challenge of hisconduct--it is not surprising that the black cloud of hate and slanderwhich attended him persistently became more and more threatening. 

FOOTNOTES:

[9] Cfr. Appendix: "Criticisms by Robert Ross. "

CHAPTER IX

No season, it is said, is so beautiful as the brief northern summer. Three-fourths of the year is cold and dark, and the ice-boundlandscape is swept by snowstorm and blizzard. Summer comes like agoddess; in a twinkling the snow vanishes and Nature puts on her robesof tenderest green; the birds arrive in flocks; flowers spring to lifeon all sides, and the sun shines by night as by day. Such asummertide, so beautiful and so brief, was accorded to Oscar Wildebefore the final desolation. 

I want to give a picture of him at the topmost height of happy hours, which will afford some proof of his magical talent of speech besidesmy own appreciation of it, and, fortunately, the incident has beengiven to me. Mr. Ernest Beckett, now Lord Grimthorpe, a lover of allsuperiorities, who has known the ablest men of the time, takespleasure in telling a story which shows Oscar Wilde's influence overmen who were anything but literary in their tastes. Mr. Beckett had aparty of Yorkshire squires, chiefly fox-hunters and lovers of anoutdoor life, at Kirkstall Grange when he heard that Oscar Wilde wasin the neighbouring town of Leeds. Immediately he asked him to lunchat the Grange, chuckling to himself beforehand at the sensationalnovelty of the experiment. Next day "Mr. Oscar Wilde" was announcedand as he came into the room the sportsmen forthwith began hidingthemselves behind newspapers or moving together in groups in order toavoid seeing or being introduced to the notorious writer. Oscar shookhands with his host as if he had noticed nothing, and began to talk. 

"In five minutes, " Grimthorpe declares, "all the papers were put downand everyone had gathered round him to listen and laugh. "

At the end of the meal one Yorkshireman after the other begged thehost to follow the lunch with a dinner and invite them to meet thewonder again. When the party broke up in the small hours they all wentaway delighted with Oscar, vowing that no man ever talked morebrilliantly. Grimthorpe cannot remember a single word Oscar said: "Itwas all delightful, " he declares, "a play of genial humour over everytopic that came up, like sunshine dancing on waves. "

The extraordinary thing about Oscar's talent was that he did notmonopolise the conversation: he took the ball of talk wherever ithappened to be at the moment and played with it so humorously thateveryone was soon smiling delightedly. The famous talkers of the past, Coleridge, Macaulay, Carlyle and the others, were all lecturers: talkto them was a discourse on a favourite theme, and in ordinary lifethey were generally regarded as bores. But at his best Oscar Wildenever dropped the tone of good society: he could afford to give placeto others; he was equipped at all points: no subject came amiss tohim: he saw everything from a humorous angle, and dazzled one now withword-wit, now with the very stuff of merriment. 

Though he was the life and soul of every social gathering, and inconstant demand, he still read omnivorously, and his mind naturallyoccupied itself with high themes. 

For some years, the story of Jesus fascinated him and tinged all histhought. We were talking about Renan's "Life" one day: a wonderfulbook he called it, one of the three great biographies of the world, Plato's dialogues with Socrates as hero and Boswell's "Life ofJohnson" being the other two. It was strange, he thought, that thegreatest man had written the worst biography; Plato made of Socrates amere phonograph, into which he talked his own theories: Renan didbetter work, and Boswell, the humble loving friend, the least talentedof the three, did better still, though being English, he had to keepto the surface of things and leave the depths to be divined. Oscarevidently expected Plato and Renan to have surpassed comparison. 

It seemed to me, however, that the illiterate Galilean fishermen hadproved themselves still more consummate painters than Boswell, thoughthey, too, left a great deal too much to the imagination. Love is thebest of artists; the puddle of rain in the road can reflect a piece ofsky marvellously. 

The Gospel story had a personal interest for Oscar; he was alwaysweaving little fables about himself as the Master. 

In spite of my ignorance of Hebrew the story of Jesus had always hadthe strongest attraction for me, and so we often talked about Him, though from opposite poles. 

Renan I felt had missed Jesus at his highest. He was far below thesincerity, the tenderness and sweet-thoughted wisdom of that divinespirit. Frenchman-like, he stumbled over the miracles and came togrief. Claus Sluter's head of Jesus in the museum of Dijon is a finerportrait, and so is the imaginative picture of Fra Angelico. It seemedto me possible to do a sketch from the Gospels themselves which shouldshow the growth of the soul of Jesus and so impose itself as a trueportrait. 

Oscar's interest in the theme was different; he put himself franklyin the place of his model, and appeared to enjoy the jarring antinomywhich resulted. One or two of his stories were surprising in ironicalsuggestion; surprising too because they showed his convinced paganism. Here is one which reveals his exact position:

 "When Joseph of Arimathea came down in the evening from Mount Calvary where Jesus had died he saw on a white stone a young man seated weeping. And Joseph went near him and said, 'I understand how great thy grief must be, for certainly that Man was a just Man. ' But the young man made answer, 'Oh, it is not for that I am weeping. I am weeping because I too have wrought miracles. I also have given sight to the blind, I have healed the palsied and I have raised the dead; I too have caused the barren fig tree to wither away and I have turned water into wine . .. And yet they have not crucified me. '"

At the time this apologue amused me; in the light of later events itassumed a tragic significance. Oscar Wilde ought to have known that inthis world every real superiority is pursued with hatred, and everyworker of miracles is sure to be persecuted. But he had no inklingthat the Gospel story is symbolic--the life-story of genius for alltime, eternally true. He never looked outside himself, and as thefruits of success were now sweet in his mouth, a pursuing Fate seemedto him the most mythical of myths. His child-like self-confidence waspathetic. The laws that govern human affairs had little interest forthe man who was always a law unto himself. Yet by some extraordinaryprescience, some inexplicable presentiment, the approachingcatastrophe cast its shadow over his mind and he felt vaguely that thelife-journey of genius would be incomplete and farcical without thefinal tragedy: whoever lives for the highest must be crucified. 

It seems memorable to me that in this brief summer of his life, OscarWilde should have concerned himself especially with the life-story ofthe Man of Sorrows who had sounded all the depths of suffering. Justwhen he himself was about to enter the Dark Valley, Jesus was often inhis thoughts and he always spoke of Him with admiration. But after allhow could he help it? Even Dekker saw as far as that:

 "The best of men That e'er wore earth about Him. "

This was the deeper strain in Oscar Wilde's nature though he wasalways disinclined to show it. Habitually he lived in humorous talk, in the epithets and epigrams he struck out in the desire to please andastonish his hearers. 

One evening I learned almost by chance that he was about to try a newexperiment and break into a new field. 

He took up the word "lose" at the table, I remember. 

"We lose our chances, " he said, laughing, "we lose our figures, weeven lose our characters; but we must never lose our temper. That isour duty to our neighbour, Frank; but sometimes we mislay it, don'twe?"

"Is that going in a book, Oscar?" I asked, smiling, "or in an article?You have written nothing lately. "

"I have a play in my mind, " he replied gravely. "To-morrow I am goingto shut myself up in my room, and stay there until it is written. George Alexander has been bothering me to write a play for some timeand I've got an idea I rather like. I wonder can I do it in a week, orwill it take three? It ought not to take long to beat the Pineros andthe Joneses. " It always annoyed Oscar when any other name but his cameinto men's mouths: his vanity was extraordinarily alert. 

Naturally enough he minimised Mr. Alexander's initiative. Thewell-known actor had "bothered" Oscar by advancing him £100 before thescenario was even outlined. A couple of months later he told me thatAlexander had accepted his comedy, and was going to produce "LadyWindermere's Fan. " I thought the title excellent. 

"Territorial names, " Oscar explained, gravely, "have always a _cachet_of distinction: they fall on the ear full toned with secular dignity. That's how I get all the names of my personages, Frank. I take up amap of the English counties, and there they are. Our English villageshave often exquisitely beautiful names. Windermere, for instance, orHunstanton, " and he rolled the syllables over his tongue with a softsensual pleasure. 

I had a box the first night and, thinking it might do Oscar some good, I took with me Arthur Walter of _The Times_. The first scene of thefirst act was as old as the hills, but the treatment gave charm to itif not freshness. The delightful, unexpected humour set off thecommonplace incident; but it was only the convention that ArthurWalter would see. The play was poor, he thought, which brought me towonder. 

After the first act I went downstairs to the _foyer_ and found thecritics in much the same mind. There was an enormous gentleman calledJoseph Knight, who cried out:

"The humour is mechanical, unreal. " Seeing that I did not respond hechallenged me:

"What do you think of it?"

"That is for you critics to answer, " I replied. 

"I might say, " he laughed, "in Oscar's own peculiar way, 'Littlepromise and less performance. ' Ha! ha! ha!"

"That's the exact opposite to Oscar's way, " I retorted. "It is thelisteners who laugh at his humour. "

"Come now, really, " cried Knight, "you cannot think much of the play?"

For the first time in my life I began to realise that nine critics outof ten are incapable of judging original work. They seem to live in asort of fog, waiting for someone to give them the lead, andaccordingly they love to discuss every new play right and left. 

"I have not seen the whole play, " I answered. "I was not at any of therehearsals; but so far it is surely the best comedy in English, themost brilliant: isn't it?"

The big man started back and stared at me; then burst out laughing. 

"That's good, " he cried with a loud unmirthful guffaw. "'LadyWindermere's Fan' better than any comedy of Shakespeare! Ha! ha! ha!'more brilliant!' ho! ho!"

"Yes, " I persisted, angered by his disdain, "wittier, and morehumorous than 'As You Like It, ' or 'Much Ado. ' Strange to say, too, itis on a higher intellectual level. I can only compare it to the bestof Congreve, and I think it's better. " With a grunt of disapproval orrage the great man of the daily press turned away to exchangebleatings with one of his _confrères_. 

The audience was a picked audience of the best heads in London, farsuperior in brains therefore to the average journalist, and theirjudgment was that it was a most brilliant and interesting play. Thoughthe humour was often prepared, the construction showed a rare masteryof stage-effect. Oscar Wilde had at length come into his kingdom. 

At the end the author was called for, and Oscar appeared before thecurtain. The house rose at him and cheered and cheered again. He wassmiling, with a cigarette between his fingers, wholly master ofhimself and his audience. 

"I am so glad, ladies and gentlemen, that you like my play. [10] I feelsure you estimate the merits of it almost as highly as I do myself. "

The house rocked with laughter. The play and its humour were a sevendays' wonder in London. People talked of nothing but "LadyWindermere's Fan. " The witty words in it ran from lip to lip like atidbit of scandal. Some clever Jewesses and, strange to say, oneScotchman were the loudest in applause. Mr. Archer, the well-knowncritic of _The World_, was the first and only journalist to perceivethat the play was a classic by virtue of "genuine dramatic qualities. "Mrs. Leverson turned the humorous sayings into current social coin in_Punch_, of all places in the world, and from a favourite Oscar Wilderapidly became the idol of smart London. 

The play was an intellectual triumph. This time Oscar had not only wonsuccess but had won also the suffrages of the best. Nearly all thejournalist-critics were against him and made themselves ridiculous bytheir brainless strictures; _Truth_ and _The Times_, for example, werepoisonously puritanic, but thinking people came over to his side in abody. The halo of fame was about him, and the incense of it in hisnostrils made him more charming, more irresponsibly gay, moregenial-witty than ever. He was as one set upon a pinnacle with thesunshine playing about him, lighting up his radiant eyes. All thewhile, however, the foul mists from the underworld were wreathingabout him, climbing higher and higher. 

FOOTNOTES:

[10] Cfr. Appendix: "Criticisms by Robert Ross. "

CHAPTER X

 Thou hast led me like an heathen sacrifice, With music and with fatal pomp of flowers, To my eternal ruin. --Webster's _The White Devil_. 

"Lady Windermere's Fan" was a success in every sense of the word, andduring its run London was at Oscar's feet. There were always a fewdoors closed to him; but he could afford now to treat his critics withlaughter, call them fogies and old-fashioned and explain that they hadnot a decalogue but a millelogue of sins forbidden and persons tabooedbecause it was easier to condemn than to understand. 

I remember a lunch once when he talked most brilliantly and finishedup by telling the story now published in his works as "A FlorentineTragedy. " He told it superbly, making it appear far more effectivethan in its written form. A well-known actor, piqued at beingcompelled to play listener, made himself ridiculous by half turninghis back on the narrator. But after lunch Willie Grenfell (now LordDesborough), a model English athlete gifted with peculiar intellectualfairness, came round to me:

"Oscar Wilde is most surprising, most charming, a wonderful talker. "

At the same moment Mr. K. H---- came over to us. He was a man who wenteverywhere and knew everyone. He had quiet, ingratiating manners, always spoke in a gentle smiling way and had a good word to say foreveryone, especially for women; he was a bachelor, too, and whollyunattached. He surprised me by taking up Grenfell's praise andbreaking into a lyric:

"The best talker who ever lived, " he said; "most extraordinary. I amso infinitely obliged to you for asking me to meet him--a new delight. He brings a supernal air into life. I am in truth indebted toyou"--all this in an affected purring tone. I noticed for the firsttime that there was a touch of rouge on his face; Grenfell turned awayfrom us rather abruptly I thought. 

At this first roseate dawn of complete success and universal applause, new qualities came to view in Oscar. Praise gave him the fillip neededin order to make him surpass himself. His talk took on a sort ofautumnal richness of colour, and assumed a new width of range; he nowused pathos as well as humour and generally brought in a story orapologue to lend variety to the entertainment. His little weaknesses, too, began to show themselves and they grew rankly in the sunshine. Healways wanted to do himself well, as the phrase goes, but now he beganto eat and drink more freely than before. His vanity became defiant. I noticed one day that he had signed himself, Oscar O'Flahertie Wilde, I think under some verses which he had contributed years before to hisCollege magazine. I asked him jokingly what the O'Flahertie stood for. To my astonishment he answered me gravely:

"The O'Flaherties were kings in Ireland, and I have a right to thename; I am descended from them. "

I could not help it; I burst out laughing. 

"What are you laughing at, Frank?" he asked with a touch of annoyance. 

"It seems humorous to me, " I explained, "that Oscar Wilde should wantto be an O'Flahertie, " and as I spoke a picture of the greatest of theO'Flaherties, with bushy head and dirty rags, warming enormous hairylegs before a smoking peat-fire, flashed before me. I think somethingof the sort must have occurred to Oscar, too, for, in spite of hisattempt to be grave, he could not help laughing. 

"It's unkind of you, Frank, " he said. "The Irish were civilised andChristians when the English kept themselves warm with tattooings. "

He could not help telling one in familiar talk of Clumber or someother great house where he had been visiting; he was intoxicated withhis own popularity, a little surprised, perhaps, to find that he hadwon fame so easily and on the primrose path, but one could forgive himeverything, for he talked more delightfully than ever. 

It is almost inexplicable, but nevertheless true that life tries allof us, tests every weak point to breaking, and sets off andexaggerates our powers. Burns saw this when he wrote:

 "Wha does the utmost that he can Will whyles do mair. "

And the obverse is true: whoever yields to a weakness habitually, someday goes further than he ever intended, and comes to worse grief thanhe deserved. The old prayer: _Lead us not into temptation_, is perhapsa half-conscious recognition of this fact. But we moderns are inclinedto walk heedlessly, no longer believing in pitfalls or in the dangerof gratified desires. And Oscar Wilde was not only an unbeliever; buthe had all the heedless confidence of the artist who has wonworld-wide popularity and has the halo of fame on his brow. With highheart and smiling eyes he went to his fate unsuspecting. 

It was in the autumn of 1891 that he first met Lord Alfred Douglas. Hewas thirty-six and Lord Alfred Douglas a handsome, slim youth oftwenty-one, with large blue eyes and golden-fair hair. His mother, the Dowager Lady Queensberry, preserves a photograph of him taken afew years before, when he was still at Winchester, a boy of sixteenwith an expression which might well be called angelic. 

When I met him, he was still girlishly pretty, with the beauty ofyouth, coloring and fair skin; though his features were merelyordinary. It was Lionel Johnson, the writer, a friend and intimate ofDouglas at Winchester, who brought him to tea at Oscar's house in TiteStreet. Their mutual attraction had countless hooks. Oscar was drawnby the lad's personal beauty, and enormously affected besides by LordAlfred Douglas' name and position: he was a snob as only an Englishartist can be a snob; he loved titular distinctions, and Douglas isone of the few great names in British history with the gilding ofromance about it. No doubt Oscar talked better than his best becausehe was talking to Lord Alfred Douglas. To the last the mere namerolled on his tongue gave him extraordinary pleasure. Besides, the boyadmired him, hung upon his lips with his soul in his eyes; showed, too, rare intelligence in his appreciation, confessed that he himselfwrote verses and loved letters passionately. Could more be desiredthan perfection perfected?

And Alfred Douglas on his side was almost as powerfully attracted; hehad inherited from his mother all her literary tastes--and more: hewas already a master-poet with a singing faculty worthy to be comparedwith the greatest. What wonder if he took this magical talker, withthe luminous eyes and charming voice, and a range and play of thoughtbeyond his imagining, for a world's miracle, one of the Immortals. Before he had listened long, I have been told, the youth declared hisadmiration passionately. They were an extraordinary pair and werecomplementary in a hundred ways, not only in mind, but in character. Oscar had reached originality of thought and possessed the culture ofscholarship, while Alfred Douglas had youth and rank and beauty, besides being as articulate as a woman with an unsurpassable gift ofexpression. Curiously enough, Oscar was as yielding and amiable incharacter as the boy was self-willed, reckless, obstinate andimperious. 

Years later Oscar told me that from the first he dreaded AlfredDouglas' aristocratic, insolent boldness:

"He frightened me, Frank, as much as he attracted me, and I held awayfrom him. But he wouldn't have it; he sought me out again and againand I couldn't resist him. That is my only fault. That's what ruinedme. He increased my expenses so that I could not meet them; over andover again I tried to free myself from him; but he came back and Iyielded--alas!"

Though this is Oscar's later gloss on what actually happened, it isfairly accurate. He was never able to realise how his meeting withLord Alfred Douglas had changed the world to him and him to the world. The effect on the harder fibre of the boy was chiefly mental: toAlfred Douglas, Oscar was merely a quickening, inspiring, intellectualinfluence; but the boy's effect on Oscar was of character and inducedimitation. Lord Alfred Douglas' boldness gave Oscar _outrecuidance_, an insolent arrogance: artist-like he tried to outdo his model inaristocratic disdain. Without knowing the cause the change in Oscarastonished me again and again, and in the course of this narrative Ishall have to notice many instances of it. 

One other effect the friendship had of far-reaching influence. Oscaralways enjoyed good living; but for years he had had to earn hisbread: he knew the value of money; he didn't like to throw it away; hewas accustomed to lunch or dine at a cheap Italian restaurant for afew shillings. But to Lord Alfred Douglas money was only a counter andthe most luxurious living a necessity. As soon as Oscar Wilde began toentertain him, he was led to the dearest hotels and restaurants; hisexpenses became formidable and soon outran his large earnings. Forthe first time since I had known him he borrowed heedlessly right andleft, and had, therefore, to bring forth play after play with scanttime for thought. 

Lord Alfred Douglas has declared recently:

"I spent much more in entertaining Oscar Wilde than he did inentertaining me"; but this is preposterous self-deception. An earlierconfession of his was much nearer the truth: "It was a sweethumiliation to me to let Oscar Wilde pay for everything and to ask himfor money. "

There can be no doubt that Lord Alfred Douglas' habitual extravagancekept Oscar Wilde hard up, and drove him to write without intermission. 

There were other and worse results of the intimacy which need not beexposed here in so many words, though they must be indicated; for theyderived of necessity from that increased self-assurance which hasalready been recorded. As Oscar devoted himself to Lord Alfred Douglasand went about with him continually, he came to know his friends andhis familiars, and went less into society so-called. Again and againLord Alfred Douglas flaunted acquaintance with youths of the lowestclass; but no one knew him or paid much attention to him; Oscar Wilde, on the other hand, was already a famous personage whose everymovement provoked comment. From this time on the rumours about Oscartook definite form and shaped themselves in specific accusations: hisenemies began triumphantly to predict his ruin and disgrace. 

Everything is known in London society; like water on sand the truthspreads wider and wider as it gradually filters lower. The "smart set"in London has almost as keen a love of scandal as a cathedral town. About this time one heard of a dinner which Oscar Wilde had given at arestaurant in Soho, which was said to have degenerated into a sort ofRoman orgy. I was told of a man who tried to get money by blackmailinghim in his own house. I shrugged my shoulders at all these scandals, and asked the talebearers what had been said about Shakespeare to makehim rave as he raved again and again against "back-wounding calumny";and when they persisted in their malicious stories I could do nothingbut show disbelief. Though I saw but little of Oscar during the firstyear or so of his intimacy with Lord Alfred Douglas, one scene fromthis time filled me with suspicion and an undefined dread. 

I was in a corner of the Café Royal one night downstairs, playingchess, and, while waiting for my opponent to move, I went out just tostretch my legs. When I returned I found Oscar throned in the verycorner, between two youths. Even to my short-sighted eyes theyappeared quite common: in fact they looked like grooms. In spite oftheir vulgar appearance, however, one was nice looking in a freshboyish way; the other seemed merely depraved. Oscar greeted me asusual, though he seemed slightly embarrassed. I resumed my seat, whichwas almost opposite him, and pretended to be absorbed in the game. Tomy astonishment he was talking as well as if he had had a pickedaudience; talking, if you please, about the Olympic games, telling howthe youths wrestled and were scraped with strigulæ and threw thediscus and ran races and won the myrtle-wreath. His impassionedeloquence brought the sun-bathed palæstra before one with a magic ofrepresentment. Suddenly the younger of the boys asked:

"Did you sy they was niked?"

"Of course, " Oscar replied, "nude, clothed only in sunshine andbeauty. "

"Oh, my, " giggled the lad in his unspeakable Cockney way. I could notstand it. 

"I am in an impossible position, " I said to my opponent, who was theamateur chess player, Montagu Gattie. "Come along and let us have somedinner. " With a nod to Oscar I left the place. On the way out Gattiesaid to me:

"So that's the famous Oscar Wilde. "

"Yes, " I replied, "that's Oscar, but I never saw him in such companybefore. "

"Didn't you?" remarked Gattie quietly; "he was well known at Oxford. Iwas at the 'Varsity with him. His reputation was alwaysrather--'_high_, ' shall we call it?"

I wanted to forget the scene and blot it out of my memory, andremember my friend as I knew him at his best. But that Cockney boywould not be banned; he leered there with rosy cheeks, hair plastereddown in a love-lock on his forehead, and low cunning eyes. I feltuncomfortable. I would not think of it. I recalled the fact that inall our talks I had never heard Oscar use a gross word. His mind, Isaid to myself, is like Spenser's, vowed away from coarseness andvulgarity: he's the most perfect intellectual companion in the world. He may have wanted to talk to the boys just to see what effect histalk would have on them. His vanity is greedy enough to desire evensuch applause as theirs. .. . Of course, that was theexplanation--vanity. My affection for him, tormented by doubt, hadfound at length a satisfactory solution. It was the artist in him, Isaid to myself, that wanted a model. 

But why not boys of his own class? The answer suggested itself; boysof his own class could teach him nothing; his own boyhood wouldsupply him with all the necessary information about well-bred youth. But if he wanted a gutter-snipe in one of his plays, he would have tofind a gutter-lad and paint him from life. That was probably thetruth, I concluded. So satisfied was I with my discovery that Ideveloped it to Gattie; but he would not hear of it. 

"Gattie has nothing of the artist in him, " I decided, "and thereforecannot understand. " And I went on arguing, if Gattie were right, why_two_ boys? It seemed evident to me that my reading of the riddle wasthe only plausible one. Besides it left my affection unaffected andfree. Still, the giggle, the plastered oily hair and the venal leeringeyes came back to me again and again in spite of myself. 

CHAPTER XI

There is a secret apprehension in man counselling sobriety andmoderation, a fear born of expediency distinct from conscience, whichis ethical; though it seems to be closely connected with conscienceacting, as it does, by warnings and prohibitions. The story ofPolycrates and his ring is a symbol of the instinctive feeling thatextraordinary good fortune is perilous and can not endure. 

A year or so after the first meeting between Oscar Wilde and LordAlfred Douglas I heard that they were being pestered on account ofsome amorous letters which had been stolen from them. There was talkof blackmail and hints of an interesting exposure. 

Towards the end of the year it was announced that Lord Alfred Douglashad gone to Egypt; but this "flight into Egypt, " as it was wittilycalled, was gilded by the fact that a little later he was appointed anhonorary attaché to Lord Cromer. I regarded his absence as a piece ofgood fortune, for when he was in London, Oscar had no time to himself, and was seen in public with associates he would have done better toavoid. Time and again he had praised Lord Alfred Douglas to me as acharming person, a poet, and had grown lyrical about his violet eyesand honey-coloured hair. I knew nothing of Lord Alfred Douglas, andhad no inkling of his poetic talent. I did not like several of Oscar'sparticular friends, and I had a special dislike for the father of LordAlfred Douglas. I knew Queensberry rather well. I was a member of theold Pelican Club, and I used to go there frequently for a talk withTom, Dick or Harry, about athletics, or for a game of chess withGeorge Edwards. Queensberry was there almost every night, and someoneintroduced me to him. I was eager to know him because he had surprisedme. At some play, [11] I think it was "The Promise of May, " byTennyson, produced at the Globe, in which atheists were condemned, hehad got up in his box and denounced the play, proclaiming himself anatheist. I wanted to know the Englishman who could be so contemptuousof convention. Had he acted out of aristocratic insolence, or was heby any possibility high-minded? To one who knew the man the merequestion must seem ridiculous. 

Queensberry was perhaps five feet nine or ten in height, with a plain, heavy, rather sullen face, and quick, hot eyes. He was a mass ofself-conceit, all bristling with suspicion, and in regard to money, prudent to meanness. He cared nothing for books, but liked outdoorsports and under a rather abrupt, but not discourteous, manner hid anirritable, violent temper. He was combative and courageous as verynervous people sometimes are, when they happen to bestrong-willed--the sort of man who, just because he was afraid of abull and had pictured the dreadful wound it could give, wouldtherefore seize it by the horns. 

The insane temper of the man got him into rows at the Pelican morethan once. I remember one evening he insulted a man whom I likedimmensely. Haseltine was a stockbroker, I think, a big, fair, handsomefellow who took Queensberry's insults for some time with cheerfulcontempt. Again and again he turned Queensberry's wrath aside with afair word, but Queensberry went on working himself into a passion, andat last made a rush at him. Haseltine watched him coming and hit outin the nick of time; he caught Queensberry full in the face andliterally knocked him heels over head. Queensberry got up in a sadmess: he had a swollen nose and black eye and his shirt was allstained with blood spread about by hasty wiping. Any other man wouldhave continued the fight or else have left the club on the spot;Queensberry took a seat at a table, and there sat for hours silent. Icould only explain it to myself by saying that his impulse to fly atonce from the scene of his disgrace was very acute, and therefore heresisted it, made up his mind not to budge, and so he sat there thebutt of the derisive glances and whispered talk of everyone who cameinto the club in the next two or three hours. He was just the sort ofperson a wise man would avoid and a clever one would use--a dangerous, sharp, ill-handled tool. 

Disliking his father, I did not care to meet Lord Alfred Douglas, Oscar's newest friend. 

I saw Oscar less frequently after the success of his first play; he nolonger needed my editorial services, and was, besides, busily engaged;but I have one good trait to record of him. Some time before I hadlent him £50; so long as he was hard up I said nothing about it; butafter the success of his second play, I wrote to him saying that the£50 would be useful to me if he could spare it. He sent me a cheque atonce with a charming letter. 

He was now continually about again with Lord Alfred Douglas who, itappeared, had had a disagreement with Lord Cromer and returned toLondon. Almost immediately scandalous stories came into circulationconcerning them: "Have you heard the latest about Lord Alfred andOscar? I'm told they're being watched by the police, " and so forth andso on interminably. One day a story came to me with such wealth ofweird detail that it was manifestly at least founded on fact. Oscarwas said to have written extraordinary letters to Lord Alfred Douglas:a youth called Alfred Wood had stolen the letters from Lord AlfredDouglas' rooms in Oxford and had tried to blackmail Oscar with them. The facts were so peculiar and so precise that I asked Oscar about it. He met the accusation at once and very fairly, I thought, and told methe whole story. It puts the triumphant power and address of the manin a strong light, and so I will tell it as he told it to me. 

"When I was rehearsing 'A Woman of No Importance' at the Haymarket, "he began, "Beerbohm Tree showed me a letter I had written a year or sobefore to Alfred Douglas. He seemed to think it dangerous, but Ilaughed at him and read the letter with him, and of course he came tounderstand it properly. A little later a man called Wood told me hehad found some letters which I had written to Lord Alfred Douglas in asuit of clothes which Lord Alfred had given to him. He gave me backsome of the letters and I gave him a little money. But the letter, acopy of which had been sent to Beerbohm Tree, was not amongst them. 

"Some time afterwards a man named Allen called upon me one night inTite Street, and said he had got a letter of mine which I ought tohave. 

"The man's manner told me that he was the real enemy. 'I suppose youmean that beautiful letter of mine to Lord Alfred Douglas, ' I said. 'If you had not been so foolish as to send a copy of it to Mr. Beerbohm Tree, I should have been glad to have paid you a large sumfor it, as I think it is one of the best I ever wrote. ' Allen lookedat me with sulky, cunning eyes and said:

"'A curious construction could be put upon that letter. '

"'No doubt, no doubt, ' I replied lightly; 'art is not intelligible tothe criminal classes. ' He looked me in the face defiantly and said:

"'A man has offered me £60 for it. '

"'You should take the offer, ' I said gravely; '£60 is a great price. Imyself have never received such a large sum for any prose work of thatlength. But I am glad to find that there is someone in England whowill pay such a large sum for a letter of mine. I don't know why youcome to me, ' I added, rising, 'you should sell the letter at once. '

"Of course, Frank, as I spoke my body seemed empty with fear. Theletter could be misunderstood, and I have so many envious enemies; butI felt that there was nothing else for it but bluff. As I went to thedoor Allen rose too, and said that the man who had offered him themoney was out of town. I turned to him and said:

"'He will no doubt return, and I don't care for the letter at all. '

"At this Allen changed his manner, said he was very poor, he hadn't apenny in the world, and had spent a lot trying to find me and tell meabout the letter. I told him I did not mind relieving his distress, and gave him half a sovereign, assuring him at the same time that theletter would shortly be published as a sonnet in a delightfulmagazine. I went to the door with him, and he walked away. I closedthe door; but didn't shut it at once, for suddenly I heard apoliceman's step coming softly towards my house--pad, pad! A dreadfulmoment, then he passed by. I went into the room again all shaken, wondering whether I had done right, whether Allen would hawk theletter about--a thousand vague apprehensions. 

"Suddenly a knock at the street door. My heart was in my mouth, stillI went and opened it: a man named Cliburn was there. 

"'I have come to you with a letter of Allen's. '

"'I cannot be bothered any more, ' I cried, 'about that letter; I don'tcare twopence about it. Let him do what he likes with it. '

"To my astonishment Cliburn said:

"'Allen has asked me to give it back to you, ' and he produced it. 

"'Why does he give it back to me?' I asked carelessly. 

"'He says you were kind to him and that it is no use trying to "rent"you; you only laugh at us. '

"I looked at the letter; it was very dirty, and I said:

"'I think it is unpardonable that better care should not have beentaken of a manuscript of mine. '

"He said he was sorry; but it had been in many hands. I took theletter up casually:

"'Well, I will accept the letter back. You can thank Mr. Allen forme. '

"I gave Cliburn half a sovereign for his trouble, and said to him:

"'I am afraid you are leading a desperately wicked life. '

"'There's good and bad in every one of us, ' he replied. I saidsomething about his being a philosopher, and he went away. That's thewhole story, Frank. "

"But the letter?" I questioned. 

"The letter is nothing, " Oscar replied; "a prose poem. I will give youa copy of it. "

Here is the letter:

 "MY OWN BOY, --Your sonnet is quite lovely, and it is a marvel that those red rose-leaf lips of yours should be made no less for the madness of music and song than for the madness of kissing. Your slim-gilt soul walks between passion and poetry. No Hyacinthus followed Love so madly as you in Greek days. Why are you alone in London, and when do you go to Salisbury? Do go there and cool your hands in the grey twilight of Gothic things. Come here whenever you like. It is a lovely place and only lacks you. Do go to Salisbury first. Always with undying love, Yours, OSCAR. "

 * * * * *

This letter startled me; "slim-gilt" and the "madness of kissing" werecalculated to give one pause; but after all, I thought, it may bemerely an artist's letter, half pose, half passionate admiration. Another thought struck me. 

"But how did such a letter, " I cried, "ever get into the hands of ablackmailer?"

"I don't know, " he replied, shrugging his shoulders. "Lord AlfredDouglas is very careless and inconceivably bold. You should know him, Frank; he's a delightful poet. "

"But how did he come to know a creature like Wood?" I persisted. 

"How can I tell, Frank, " he answered a little shortly; and I let thematter drop, though it left in me a certain doubt, an uncomfortablesuspicion. 

The scandal grew from hour to hour, and the tide of hatred rose insurges. 

One day I was lunching at the Savoy, and while talking to the headwaiter, Cesari, who afterwards managed the Elysée Palace Hotel inParis, I thought I saw Oscar and Douglas go out together. Being alittle short-sighted, I asked:

"Isn't that Mr. Oscar Wilde?"

"Yes, " said Cesari, "and Lord Alfred Douglas. We wish they would notcome here; it does us a lot of harm. "

"How do you mean?" I asked sharply. 

"Some people don't like them, " the quick Italian answered immediately. 

"Oscar Wilde, " I remarked casually, "is a great friend of mine, " butthe super-subtle Italian was already warned. 

"A clever writer, I believe, " he said, smiling in bland acquiescence. 

This incident gave me warning, strengthened again in me the exactapprehension and suspicion which the Douglas letter had bred. Oscar Iknew was too self-centred, went about too continually with admirers tohave any understanding of popular feeling. He would be the last manto realize how fiercely hate, malice and envy were raging against him. I wanted to warn him; but hardly knew how to do it effectively andwithout offence: I made up my mind to keep my eyes open and watch anopportunity. 

A little later I gave a dinner at the Savoy and asked him to come. Hewas delightful, his vivacious gaiety as exhilarating as wine. But hewas more like a Roman Emperor than ever: he had grown fat: he ate anddrank too much; not that he was intoxicated, but he became flushed, and in spite of his gay and genial talk he affected me a littleunpleasantly; he was gross and puffed up. But he gave one or twosplendid snapshots of actors and their egregious vanity. It seemed tohim a great pity that actors should be taught to read and write: theyshould learn their pieces from the lips of the poet. 

"Just as work is the curse of the drinking classes of this country, "he said laughing, "so education is the curse of the acting classes. "

Yet even when making fun of the mummers there was a new tone in him ofarrogance and disdain. He used always to be genial and kindly even tothose he laughed at; now he was openly contemptuous. The truth is thathis extraordinarily receptive mind went with an even more abnormalreceptivity of character: unlike most men of marked ability, he tookcolour from his associates. In this as in love of courtesies anddislike of coarse words he was curiously feminine. Intercourse withBeardsley, for example, had backed his humorous gentleness with a sortof challenging courage; his new intimacy with Lord Alfred Douglas, coming on the top of his triumph as a playwright, was lending himaggressive self-confidence. There was in him that [Greek: hubris](insolent self-assurance) which the Greek feared, the pride whichgoeth before destruction. I regretted the change in him and wasnervously apprehensive. 

After dinner we all went out by the door which gives on theEmbankment, for it was after 12. 30. One of the party proposed that weshould walk for a minute or two--at least as far as the Strand, beforedriving home. Oscar objected. He hated walking; it was a form of penalservitude to the animal in man, he declared; but he consented, nevertheless, under protest, laughing. When we were going up the stepsto the Strand he again objected, and quoted Dante's famous lines:

 "Tu proverai si come sa di sale Lo pane altrui; e com' è duro calle Lo scendere e 'l salir per l'altrui scale. "

The impression made by Oscar that evening was not only ofself-indulgence but of over-confidence. I could not imagine what hadgiven him this insolent self-complacence. I wanted to get by myselfand think. Prosperity was certainly doing him no good. 

All the while the opposition to him, I felt, was growing in force. Howcould I verify this impression, I asked myself, so as to warn himeffectually?

I decided to give a lunch to him, and on purpose I put on theinvitations: "To meet Mr. Oscar Wilde and hear a new story. " Out of adozen invitations sent out to men, seven or eight were refused, threeor four telling me in all kindness that they would rather not meetOscar Wilde. This confirmed my worst fears: when Englishmen speak outin this way the dislike must be near revolt. 

I gave the lunch and saw plainly enough that my forebodings werejustified. Oscar was more self-confident, more contemptuous ofcriticism, more gross of body than ever, but his talk did not suffer;indeed, it seemed to improve. At this lunch he told the charming fableof "Narcissus, " which is certainly one of his most characteristicshort stories. 

"When Narcissus died the Flowers of the Field were plunged in grief, and asked the River for drops of water that they might mourn for him. 

"'Oh, ' replied the River, 'if only my drops of water were tears, Ishould not have enough to weep for Narcissus myself--I loved him. '

"'How could you help loving Narcissus?' said the flowers, 'sobeautiful was he. '

"'Was he beautiful?' asked the River. 

"'Who should know that better than you?' said the flowers, 'for everyday, lying on your bank, he would mirror his beauty in your waters. '"

Oscar paused here, and then went on:

"'If I loved him, ' replied the River, 'it is because, when he hungover me, I saw the reflection of my own loveliness in his eyes. '"

After lunch I took him aside and tried to warn him, told him thatunpleasant stories were being put about against him; but he paid noheed to me. 

"All envy, Frank, and malice. What do I care? I go to Clumber thissummer; besides I am doing another play which I rather like. I alwaysknew that play-writing was my province. As a youth I tried to writeplays in verse; that was my mistake. Now I know better; I'm sure ofmyself and of success. "

Somehow or other in spite of his apparent assurance I felt he was indanger and I doubted his quality as a fighter. But after all it wasnot my business: wilful man must have his way. 

It seems to me now that my mistrust dated from the second paper warwith Whistler, wherein to the astonishment of everyone Oscar did notcome off victorious. As soon as he met with opposition his power ofrepartee seemed to desert him and Whistler, using mere rudeness andman-of-the-world sharpness, held the field. Oscar was evidently not aborn fighter. 

I asked him once how it was he let Whistler off so lightly. Heshrugged his shoulders and showed some irritation. 

"What could I say, Frank? Why should I belabour the beaten? The man isa wasp and delights in using his sting. I have done more perhaps thananyone to make him famous. I had no wish to hurt him. "

Was it magnanimity or weakness or, as I think, a constitutional, afeminine shrinking from struggle and strife. Whatever the cause, itwas clear that Oscar was what Shakespeare called himself, "anunhurtful opposite. "

It is quite possible that if he had been attacked face to face, Oscarwould have given a better account of himself. At Mrs. Grenfell's (nowLady Desborough) he crossed swords once with the Prime Minister andcame off victorious. Mr. Asquith began by bantering him, inappearance lightly, in reality, seriously, for putting many of hissentences in italics. 

"The man who uses italics, " said the politician, "is like the man whoraises his voice in conversation and talks loudly in order to makehimself heard. "

It was the well-known objection which Emerson had taken to Carlyle'soverwrought style, pointed probably by dislike of the way Oscarmonopolised conversation. 

Oscar met the stereotyped attack with smiling good-humour. 

"How delightful of you, Mr. Asquith, to have noticed that! Thebrilliant phrase, like good wine, needs no bush. But just as theorator marks his good things by a dramatic pause, or by raising orlowering his voice, or by gesture, so the writer marks his epigramswith italics, setting the little gem, so to speak, like a jeweller--anexcusable love of one's art, not all mere vanity, I like tothink"--all this with the most pleasant smile and manner. 

In measure as I distrusted Oscar's fighting power and admired hissweetness of nature I took sides with him and wanted to help him. Oneday I heard some talk at the Pelican Club which filled me with fearfor him and quickened my resolve to put him on his guard. I was goingin just as Queensberry was coming out with two or three of hisspecial cronies. 

"I'll do it, " I heard him cry, "I'll teach the fellow to leave my sonalone. I'll not have their names coupled together. "

I caught a glimpse of the thrust-out combative face and the hot greyeyes. 

"What's it all about?" I asked. 

"Only Queensberry, " said someone, "swearing he'll stop Oscar Wildegoing about with that son of his, Alfred Douglas. "

Suddenly my fears took form: as in a flash I saw Oscar, heedless andsmiling, walking along with his head in the air, and that violentcombative insane creature pouncing on him. I sat down at once andwrote begging Oscar to lunch with me the next day alone, as I hadsomething important to say to him. He turned up in Park Lane, manifestly anxious, a little frightened, I think. 

"What is it, Frank?"

I told him very seriously what I had heard and gave besides myimpression of Queensberry's character, and his insane pugnacity. 

"What can I do, Frank?" said Oscar, showing distress and apprehension. "It's all Bosie. "

"Who is Bosie?" I asked. 

"That is Lord Alfred Douglas' pet name. It's all Bosie's fault. He hasquarrelled with his father, or rather his father has quarrelled withhim. He quarrels with everyone; with Lady Queensberry, with PercyDouglas, with Bosie, everyone. He's impossible. What can I do?"

"Avoid him, " I said. "Don't go about with Lord Alfred Douglas. GiveQueensberry his triumph. You could make a friend of him as easily aspossible, if you wished. Write him a conciliatory letter. "

"But he'll want me to drop Bosie, and stop seeing Lady Queensberry, and I like them all; they are charming to me. Why should I cringe tothis madman?"

"Because he is a madman. "

"Oh, Frank, I can't, " he cried. "Bosie wouldn't let me. "

"'Wouldn't let you'? I repeated angrily. "How absurd! That Queensberryman will go to violence, to any extremity. Don't you fight otherpeople's quarrels: you may have enough of your own some day. "

"You're not sympathetic, Frank, " he chided weakly. "I know you mean itkindly, but it's impossible for me to do as you advise. I cannot giveup my friend. I really cannot let Lord Queensberry choose my friendsfor me. It's too absurd. "

"But it's wise, " I replied. "There's a very bad verse in one of Hugo'splays. It always amused me--he likens poverty to a low door anddeclares that when we have to pass through it the man who stoopslowest is the wisest. So when you meet a madman, the wisest thing todo is to avoid him and not quarrel with him. "

"It's very hard, Frank; of course I'll think over what you say. Butreally Queensberry ought to be in a madhouse. He's too absurd, " and inthat spirit he left me, outwardly self-confident. He might haveremembered Chaucer's words:

 Beware also to spurne again a nall; Strive not as doeth a crocke with a wall; Deme thy selfe that demest others dede, And trouth thee shall deliver, it is no drede. 

FOOTNOTES:

[11] "The Promise of May" was produced in November, 1882. 

CHAPTER XII

These two years 1893-4 saw Oscar Wilde at the very zenith of success. Thackeray, who always felt himself a monetary failure in comparisonwith Dickens, calls success "one of the greatest of a great man'squalities, " and Oscar was not successful merely, he was triumphant. Not Sheridan the day after his marriage, not Byron when he awoke tofind himself famous, ever reached such a pinnacle. His plays werebringing in so much that he could spend money like water; he had wonevery sort of popularity; the gross applause of the many, and thefiner incense of the few who constitute the jury of Fame; his personalpopularity too was extraordinary; thousands admired him, many likedhim; he seemed to have everything that heart could desire and perfecthealth to boot. Even his home life was without a cloud. Two storieswhich he told at this time paint him. One was about his two boys, Vyvyan and Cyril. 

"Children are sometimes interesting, " he began. "The other night I wasreading when my wife came and asked me to go upstairs and reprove theelder boy: Cyril, it appeared, would not say his prayers. He hadquarrelled with Vyvyan, and beaten him, and when he was shaken andtold he must say his prayers, he would not kneel down, or ask God tomake him a good boy. Of course I had to go upstairs and see to it. Itook the chubby little fellow on my knee, and told him in a grave waythat he had been very naughty; naughty to hit his younger brother, andnaughty because he had given his mother pain. He must kneel down atonce, and ask God to forgive him and make him a good boy. 

"'I was not naughty, ' he pouted, 'it was Vyvyan; he was naughty. '

"I explained to him that his temper was naughty, and that he must doas he was told. With a little sigh he slipped off my knee, and kneltdown and put his little hands together, as he had been taught, andbegan 'Our Father. ' When he had finished the 'Lord's Prayer, ' helooked up at me and said gravely, 'Now I'll pray to myself. '

"He closed his eyes and his lips moved. When he had finished I tookhim in my arms again and kissed him. 'That's right, ' I said. 

"'You said you were sorry, ' questioned his mother, leaning over him, 'and asked God to make you a good boy?'

"'Yes, mother, ' he nodded, 'I said I was sorry and asked God to makeVyvyan a good boy. '

"I had to leave the room, Frank, or he would have seen me smiling. Wasn't it delightful of him! We are all willing to ask God to makeothers good. "

This story shows the lovable side of him. There was another side notso amiable. In April, 1893, "A Woman of No Importance" was produced byHerbert Beerbohm Tree at The Haymarket and ran till the end of theseason, August 16th, surviving even the festival of St. Grouse. Theastonishing success of this second play confirmed Oscar Wilde'spopularity, gave him money to spend and increased his self-confidence. In the summer he took a house up the river at Goring, and went thereto live with Lord Alfred Douglas. Weird stories came to us in Londonabout their life together. Some time in September, I think it was, Iasked him what was the truth underlying these reports. 

"Scandals and slanders, Frank, have no relation to truth, " he replied. 

"I wonder if that's true, " I said, "slander often has some substratumof truth; it resembles the truth like a gigantic shadow; there is alikeness at least in outline. "

"That would be true, " he retorted, "if the canvas, so to speak, onwhich the shadows fall were even and true; but it is not. Scandalsand slander are related to the hatred of the people who invent themand are not in any shadowy sense even, effigies or images of theperson attacked. "

"Much smoke, then, " I queried, "and no fire?"

"Only little fires, " he rejoined, "show much smoke. The foundation forwhat you heard is both small and harmless. The summer was very warmand beautiful, as you know, and I was up at Goring with Bosie. Oftenin the middle of the day we were too hot to go on the river. Oneafternoon it was sultry-close, and Bosie proposed that I should turnthe hose pipe on him. He went in and threw his things off and so didI. A few minutes later I was seated in a chair with a bath towel roundme and Bosie was lying on the grass about ten yards away, when thevicar came to pay us a call. The servant told him that we were in thegarden, and he came and found us there. Frank, you have no idea thesort of face he pulled. What could I say?"

"'I am the vicar of the parish, ' he bowed pompously. 

"'I'm delighted to see you, ' I said, getting up and draping myselfcarefully, 'you have come just in time to enjoy a perfectly Greekscene. I regret that I am scarcely fit to receive you, and Bosiethere'--and I pointed to Bosie lying on the grass. The vicar turnedhis head and saw Bosie's white limbs; the sight was too much for him;he got very red, gave a gasp and fled from the place. 

"I simply sat down in my chair and shrieked with laughter. How he mayhave described the scene, what explanation he gave of it, what vilegloss he may have invented, I don't know and I don't care. I have nodoubt he wagged his head and pursed his lips and looked unutterablethings. But really it takes a saint to suffer such fools gladly. "

I could not help smiling when I thought of the vicar's face, butOscar's tone was not pleasant. 

The change in him had gone further than I had feared. He was nowutterly contemptuous of criticism and would listen to no counsel. Hewas gross, too, the rich food and wine seemed to ooze out of him andhis manner was defiant, hard. He was like some great pagan determinedto live his own life to the very fullest, careless of what othersmight say or think or do. Even the stories which he wrote about thistime show the worst side of his paganism:

"When Jesus was minded to return to Nazareth, Nazareth was so changedthat He no longer recognised His own city. The Nazareth where he hadlived was full of lamentations and tears; this city was filled withoutbursts of laughter and song. .. . 

"Christ went out of the house and, behold, in the street he saw awoman whose face and raiment were painted and whose feet were shodwith pearls, and behind her walked a man who wore a cloak of twocolours, and whose eyes were bright with lust. And Christ went up tothe man and laid His hand on his shoulder, and said to him, 'Tell me, why art thou following this woman, and why dost thou look at her insuch wise?' The man turned round, recognised Him and said, 'I wasblind; Thou didst heal me; what else should I do with my sight?'"

The same note is played on in two or three more incidents, but the oneI have given is the best, and should have been allowed to stand alone. It has been called blasphemous; it is not intentionally blasphemous;as I have said, Oscar always put himself quite naïvely in the place ofany historical character. 

The disdain of public opinion which Oscar now showed not only in hiswritings, but in his answers to criticism, quickly turned the publicdislike into aggressive hatred. In 1894 a book appeared, "The GreenCarnation, " which was a sort of photograph of Oscar as a talker and acaricature of his thought. The gossipy story had a surprising success, altogether beyond its merits, which simply testified to the intenseinterest the suspicion of extraordinary viciousness has for commonminds. Oscar's genius was not given in the book at all, but his humourwas indicated and a malevolent doubt of his morality insisted uponagain and again. Rumour had it that the book was true in everyparticular, that Mr. Hichens had taken down Oscar's talks eveningafter evening and simply reproduced them. I asked Oscar if this wastrue. 

"True enough, Frank, " he replied with a certain contempt which wasforeign to him. "Hichens got to know Bosie Douglas in Egypt. They wentup the Nile together, I believe with 'Dodo' Benson. Naturally Bosietalked a great deal about me and Hichens wanted to know me. When theyreturned to town, I thought him rather pleasant, and saw a good dealof him. I had no idea that he was going to play reporter; it seems tome a breach of confidence--ignoble. "

"It is not a picture of you, " I said, "but there is a certainlikeness. "

"A photograph is always like and unlike, Frank, " he replied; "the suntoo, when used mechanically, is merely a reporter, and traducesinstead of reproducing you. "

"The Green Carnation" ruined Oscar Wilde's character with the generalpublic. On all sides the book was referred to as confirming the worstsuspicions: the cloud which hung over him grew continually darker. 

During the summer of 1894 he wrote the "Ideal Husband, " which was theoutcome of a story I had told him. I had heard it from an American Ihad met in Cairo, a Mr. Cope Whitehouse. He told me that Disraeli hadmade money by entrusting the Rothschilds with the purchase of the SuezCanal shares. It seemed to me strange that this statement, if true, had never been set forth authoritatively; but the story was peculiarlymodern, and had possibilities in it. Oscar admitted afterwards that hehad taken the idea and used it in "An Ideal Husband. "

It was in this summer also that he wrote "The Importance of BeingEarnest, " his finest play. He went to the seaside and completed it, hesaid, in three weeks, and, when I spoke of the delight he must feel athaving two plays performed in London at the same time, he said:

"Next year, Frank, I may have four or five; I could write one everytwo months with the greatest ease. It all depends on money. If I needmoney I shall write half a dozen plays next year. "

His words reminded me of what Goethe had said about himself: in eachof the ten years he spent on his "Theory of Light" he could havewritten a couple of plays as good as his best. The land ofMight-have-been is peopled with these gorgeous shadow-shapes. 

Oscar had already found his public, a public capable of appreciatingthe very best he could do. As soon as "The Importance of BeingEarnest" was produced it had an extraordinary success, and success ofthe best sort. Even journalist critics had begun to cease exhibitingtheir own limitations in foolish fault-finding, and now imitated theirbetters, parroting phrases of extravagant laudation. 

Oscar took the praise as he had taken the scandal and slander, withcomplacent superiority. He had changed greatly and for the worse: hewas growing coarser and harder every year. All his friends noticedthis. Even M. André Gide, who was a great admirer and wrote, shortlyafter his death, the best account of him that appeared, was compelledto deplore his deterioration. He says:

"One felt that there was less tenderness in his looks, that there wassomething harsh in his laughter, and a wild madness in his joy. Heseemed at the same time to be sure of pleasing, and less ambitious tosucceed therein. He had grown reckless, hardened and conceited. Strangely enough he no longer spoke in fables. .. . "

His brother Willie made a similar complaint to Sir Edward Sullivan. Sir Edward writes:

 "William Wilde told me, when Oscar was in prison, that the only trouble between him and his brother was caused by Oscar's inordinate vanity in the period before his conviction. 'He had surrounded himself, ' William said, 'with a gang of parasites who praised him all day long, and to whom he used to give his cigarette-cases, breast pins, etc. , in return for their sickening flattery. No one, not even I, his brother, dared offer any criticism on his works without offending him. '"

If proof were needed both of his reckless contempt for public opinionand the malignancy with which he was misjudged, it could be found inan incident which took place towards the end of 1894. A journalentitled _The Chameleon_ was produced by some Oxford undergraduates. Oscar wrote for it a handful of sayings which he called "Phrases andPhilosophies for the Use of the Young. " His epigrams were harmlessenough; but in the same number there appeared a story entitled "ThePriest and the Acolyte" which could hardly be defended. The mere factthat his work was printed in the same journal called forth a storm ofcondemnation though he had never seen the story before it waspublished nor had he anything to do with its insertion. 

Nemesis was following hard after him. Late in this year he spoke tome of his own accord about Lord Queensberry. He wanted my advice:

"Lord Queensberry is annoying me, " he said; "I did my best toreconcile him and Bosie. One day at the Café Royal, while Bosie and Iwere lunching there, Queensberry came in and I made Bosie go over andfetch his father and bring him to lunch with us. He was half friendlywith me till quite recently; though he wrote a shameful letter toBosie about us. What am I to do?"

I asked him what Lord Queensberry objected to. 

"He objects to my friendship with Bosie. "

"Then why not cease to see Bosie?" I asked. 

"It is impossible, Frank, and ridiculous; why should I give up myfriends for Queensberry?"

"I should like to see Queensberry's letter, " I said. "Is it possible?"

"I'll bring it to you, Frank, but there's nothing in it. " A day or twolater he showed me the letter, and after I had read it he produced acopy of the telegram which Lord Alfred Douglas had sent to his fatherin reply. Here they both are; they speak for themselves loudly enough:

 ALFRED, --

 It is extremely painful for me to have to write to you in the strain I must; but please understand that I decline to receive any answers from you in writing in return. After your recent hysterical impertinent ones I refuse to be annoyed with such, and I decline to read any more letters. If you have anything to say do come here and say it in person. Firstly, am I to understand that, having left Oxford as you did, with discredit to yourself, the reasons of which were fully explained to me by your tutor, you now intend to loaf and loll about and do nothing? All the time you were wasting at Oxford I was put off with an assurance that you were eventually to go into the Civil Service or to the Foreign Office, and then I was put off with an assurance that you were going to the Bar. It appears to me that you intend to do nothing. I utterly decline, however, to just supply you with sufficient funds to enable you to loaf about. You are preparing a wretched future for yourself, and it would be most cruel and wrong for me to encourage you in this. Secondly, I come to the more painful part of this letter--your intimacy with this man Wilde. It must either cease or I will disown you and stop all money supplies. I am not going to try and analyse this intimacy, and I make no charge; but to my mind to pose as a thing is as bad as to be it. With my own eyes I saw you both in the most loathsome and disgusting relationship as expressed by your manner and expression. Never in my experience have I ever seen such a sight as that in your horrible features. No wonder people are talking as they are. Also I now hear on good authority, but this may be false, that his wife is petitioning to divorce him for sodomy and other crimes. Is this true, or do you not know of it? If I thought the actual thing was true, and it became public property, I should be quite justified in shooting him at sight. These Christian English cowards and men, as they call themselves, want waking up. 

 Your disgusted so-called father, QUEENSBERRY. 

In reply to this letter Lord Alfred Douglas telegraphed:

 "What a funny little man you are! ALFRED DOUGLAS. "

This telegram was excellently calculated to drive Queensberry franticwith rage. There was feminine cunning in its wound to vanity. 

A little later Oscar told me that Queensberry accompanied by a friendhad called on him. 

"What happened?" I asked. 

"I said to him, 'I suppose, Lord Queensberry, you have come toapologise for the libellous letter you wrote about me?'

"'No, ' he replied, 'the letter was privileged; it was written to myson. '

"'How dared you say such a thing about your son and me?'

"'You were both kicked out of The Savoy Hotel for disgusting conduct, 'he replied. 

"'That's untrue, ' I said, 'absolutely untrue. '

"'You were blackmailed too for a disgusting letter you wrote my son, 'he went on. 

"'I don't know who has been telling you all these silly stories, ' Ireplied, 'but they are untrue and quite ridiculous. '

"He ended up by saying that if he caught me and his son together againhe would thrash me. 

"'I don't know what the Queensberry rules are, ' I retorted, 'but myrule is to shoot at sight in case of personal violence, ' and withthat I told him to leave my house. "

"Of course he defied you?" I questioned. 

"He was rude, Frank, and preposterous to the end. "

As Oscar was telling me the story, it seemed to me as if anotherperson were speaking through his mouth. The idea of Oscar "standingup" to Queensberry or "shooting at sight" was too absurd. Who wasinspiring him? Alfred Douglas?

"What has happened since?" I enquired. 

"Nothing, " he replied, "perhaps he will be quiet now. Bosie haswritten him a terrible letter; he must see now that, if he goes on, hewill only injure his own flesh and blood. "

"That won't stop him, " I replied, "if I read him aright. But if Icould see what Alfred Douglas wrote, I should be better able to judgeof the effect it will have on Queensberry. "

A little later I saw the letter: it shows better than words of minethe tempers of the chief actors in this squalid story:

 "As you return my letters unopened, I am obliged to write on a postcard. I write to inform you that I treat your absurd threats with absolute indifference. Ever since your exhibition at O. W. 's house, I have made a point of appearing with him at many public restaurants such as The Berkeley, Willis's Rooms, the Café Royal, etc. , and I shall continue to go to any of these places whenever I choose and with whom I choose. I am of age and my own master. You have disowned me at least a dozen times, and have very meanly deprived me of money. You have therefore no right over me, either legal or moral. If O. W. Was to prosecute you in the Central Criminal Court for libel, you would get seven years' penal servitude for your outrageous libels. Much as I detest you, I am anxious to avoid this for the sake of the family; but if you try to assault me, I shall defend myself with a loaded revolver, which I always carry; and if I shoot you or if he shoots you, we shall be completely justified, as we shall be acting in self-defence against a violent and dangerous rough, and I think if you were dead many people would not miss you. --A. D. "

This letter of the son seemed to me appalling. My guess was right; itwas he who was speaking through Oscar; the threat of shooting at sightcame from him. I did not then understand all the circumstances; I hadnot met Lady Queensberry. I could not have imagined how she hadsuffered at the hands of her husband--a charming, cultivated woman, with exquisite taste in literature and art; a woman of the mostdelicate, aspen-like sensibilities and noble generosities, coupledwith that violent, coarse animal with the hot eyes and combativenature. Her married life had been a martyrdom. Naturally the childrenhad all taken her side in the quarrel, and Lord Alfred Douglas, herespecial favourite, had practically identified himself with her, which explains to some extent, though nothing can justify, theunnatural animosity of his letter. The letter showed me that thequarrel was far deeper, far bitterer than I had imagined--one of thosedreadful family quarrels, where the intimate knowledge each has of theother whips anger to madness. All I could do was to warn Oscar. 

"It's the old, old story, " I said. "You are putting your hand betweenthe bark and the tree, and you will suffer for it. " But he would notor could not see it. 

"What is one to do with such a madman?" he asked pitiably. 

"Avoid him, " I replied, "as you would avoid a madman, who wanted tofight with you; or conciliate him; there is nothing else to do. "

He would not be warned. A little later the matter came up again. Atthe first production of "The Importance of Being Earnest" LordQueensberry appeared at the theatre carrying a large bouquet ofturnips and carrots. What the meaning was of those vegetables only theman himself and his like could divine. I asked Oscar about the matter. He seemed annoyed but on the whole triumphant. 

"Queensberry, " he said, "had engaged a stall at the St. James'sTheatre, no doubt to kick up a row; but as soon as I heard of it I gotAlick (George Alexander) to send him back his money. On the night ofthe first performance Queensberry appeared carrying a large bundle ofcarrots. He was refused admittance at the box-office, and when hetried to enter the gallery the police would not let him in. He must bemad, Frank, don't you think? I am glad he was foiled. "

"He is insanely violent, " I said, "he will keep on attacking you. "

"But what can I do, Frank?"

"Don't ask for advice you won't take, " I replied. "There's a Frenchproverb I've always liked: 'In love and war don't seek counsel. ' Butfor God's sake, don't drift. Stop while you can. "

But Oscar would have had to take a resolution and act in order tostop, and he was incapable of such energy. The wild horses of Fate hadrun away with the light chariot of his fortune, and what the end wouldbe no one could foresee. It came with appalling suddenness. 

One evening, in February, '95, I heard that the Marquis of Queensberryhad left an insulting card for Oscar at the Albemarle Club. Myinformant added gleefully that now Oscar would have to face the musicand we'd all see what was in him. There was no malice in this, justan Englishman's pleasure in a desperate fight, and curiosity as tothe issue. 

A little later I received a letter from Oscar, asking me if he couldcall on me that afternoon. I stayed in, and about four o'clock he cameto see me. 

At first he used the old imperious mask, which he had latelyaccustomed himself to wear. 

"I am bringing an action against Queensberry, Frank, " he begangravely, "for criminal libel. He is a mere wild beast. My solicitorstell me that I am certain to win. But they say some of the things Ihave written will be brought up against me in court. Now you know allI have written. Would you in your position as editor of _TheFortnightly_ come and give evidence for me, testify for instance that'Dorian Gray' is not immoral?"

"Yes, " I replied at once, "I should be perfectly willing, and I couldsay more than that; I could say that you are one of the very few men Ihave ever known whose talk and whose writings were vowed away fromgrossness of any sort. "

"Oh! Frank, would you? It would be so kind of you, " he cried out. "Mysolicitors said I ought to ask you, but they were afraid you would notlike to come: your evidence will win the case. It is good of you. " Hiswhole face was shaken; he turned away to hide the tears. 

"Anything I can do, Oscar, " I said, "I shall do with pleasure, and, asyou know, to the uttermost; but I want you to consider the mattercarefully. An English court of law gives me no assurance of a fairtrial or rather I am certain that in matters of art or morality anEnglish court is about the worst tribunal in the civilised world. "

He shook his head impatiently. 

"I cannot help it, I cannot alter it, " he said. 

"You must listen to me, " I insisted. "You remember the Whistler andRuskin action. You know that Whistler ought to have won. You know thatRuskin was shamelessly in fault; but the British jury and theso-called British artists treated Whistler and his superb work withcontempt. Take a different case altogether, the Belt case, where allthe Academicians went into the witness box, and asserted honestlyenough that Belt was an impostor, yet the jury gave him a verdict of£5, 000, though a year later he was sent to penal servitude for thevery frauds which the jury in the first trial had declared by theirverdict he had not committed. An English law court is all very wellfor two average men, who are fighting an ordinary business dispute. That's what it's made for, but to judge a Whistler or the ability orthe immorality of an artist is to ask the court to do what it iswholly unfit to do. There is not a judge on the bench whose opinion onsuch a matter is worth a moment's consideration, and the jury are athousand years behind the judge. "

"That may be true, Frank; but I cannot help it. "

"Don't forget, " I persisted, "all British prejudices will be againstyou. Here is a father, the fools will say, trying to protect his youngson. If he has made a mistake, it is only through excess of laudablezeal; you would have to prove yourself a religious maniac in order tohave any chance against him in England. "

"How terrible you are, Frank. You know it is Bosie Douglas who wantsme to fight, and my solicitors tell me I shall win. "

"Solicitors live on quarrels. Of course they want a case that willbring hundreds if not thousands of pounds into their pockets. Besidesthey like the fight. They will have all the kudos of it and the fun, and you will pay the piper. For God's sake don't be led into it: thatway madness lies. "

"But, Frank, " he objected weakly, "how can I sit down under such aninsult. I must do something. "

"That's another story, " I replied. "Let us by all means weigh what isto be done. But let us begin by putting the law-courts out of thequestion. Don't forget that you are challenged to mortal combat. Letus consider how the challenge should be met, but we won't fight underQueensberry rules because Queensberry happens to be the aggressor. Don't forget that if you lose and Queensberry goes free, everyone willhold that you have been guilty of nameless vice. Put the law courtsout of your head. Whatever else you do, you must not bring an actionfor criminal libel against Queensberry. You are sure to lose it; youhaven't a dog's chance, and the English despise the beaten--_vævictis_! Don't commit suicide. "

Nothing was determined when the time came to part. 

This conversation took place, I believe, on the Friday or Saturday. Ispent the whole of Sunday trying to find out what was known aboutOscar Wilde and what would be brought up against him. I wanted to knowtoo how he was regarded in an ordinary middle-class English home. 

My investigations had appalling results. Everyone assumed that OscarWilde was guilty of the worst that had ever been alleged against him;the very people who received him in their houses condemned himpitilessly and, as I approached the fountain-head of information, thecharges became more and more definite; to my horror, in the PublicProsecutor's office, his guilt was said to be known and classified. 

All "people of importance" agreed that he would lose his case againstQueensberry; "no English jury would give Oscar Wilde a verdict againstanyone, " was the expert opinion. 

"How unjust!" I cried. 

A careless shrug was the only reply. 

I returned home from my enquiries late on Sunday afternoon, and in afew minutes Oscar called by appointment. I told him I was moreconvinced than ever that he must not go on with the prosecution; hewould be certain to lose. Without beating about the bush I declaredthat he had no earthly chance. 

"There are letters, " I said, "which are infinitely worse than yourpublished writings, which will be put in evidence against you. "

"What letters do you mean, Frank?" he questioned. "The Wood letters toLord Alfred Douglas I told you about? I can explain all of them. "

"You paid blackmail to Wood for letters you had written to Douglas, " Ireplied, "and you will not be able to explain that fact to thesatisfaction of a jury. I am told it is possible that witnesses willbe called against you. Take it from me, Oscar, you have not a ghostof a chance. "

"Tell me what you mean, Frank, for God's sake, " he cried. 

"I can tell you in a word, " I replied; "you will lose your case. Ihave promised not to say more. "

I tried to persuade him by his vanity. 

"You must remember, " I said, "that you are a sort of standard bearerfor future generations. If you lose you will make it harder for allwriters in England; though God knows it is hard enough already; youwill put back the hands of the clock for fifty years. "

I seemed almost to have persuaded him. He questioned me:

"What is the alternative, Frank, the wisest thing to do in youropinion? Tell me that. "

"You ought to go abroad, " I replied, "go abroad with your wife, andlet Queensberry and his son fight out their own miserable quarrels;they are well-matched. "

"Oh, Frank, " he cried, "how can I do that?"

"Sleep on it, " I replied; "I am going to, and we can talk it all overin a day or two. "

"But I must know, " he said wistfully, "to-morrow morning, Frank. "

"Bernard Shaw is lunching with me to-morrow, " I replied, "at the CaféRoyal. "

He made an impatient movement of his head. 

"He usually goes early, " I went on, "and if you like to come afterthree o'clock we can have a talk and consider it all. "

"May I bring Bosie?" he enquired. 

"I would rather you did not, " I replied, "but it is for you to do justas you like. I don't mind saying what I have to say, before anyone, "and on that we parted. 

Somehow or other next day at lunch both Shaw and I got interested inour talk, and we were both at the table when Oscar came in. Iintroduced them, but they had met before. Shaw stood up and proposedto go at once, but Oscar with his usual courtesy assured him that hewould be glad if he stayed. 

"Then, Oscar, " I said, "perhaps you won't mind Shaw hearing what Iadvise?"

"No, Frank, I don't mind, " he sighed with a pitiful air of depression. 

I am not certain and my notes do not tell me whether Bosie Douglascame in with Oscar or a little later, but he heard the greater part ofour talk. I put the matter simply. 

"First of all, " I said, "we start with the certainty that you aregoing to lose the case against Queensberry. You must give it up, dropit at once; but you cannot drop it and stay in England. Queensberrywould probably attack you again and again. I know him well; he ishalf a savage and regards pity as a weakness; he has absolutely noconsideration for others. 

"You should go abroad, and, as ace of trumps, you should take yourwife with you. Now for the excuse: I would sit down and write such aletter as you alone can write to _The Times_. You should set forth howyou have been insulted by the Marquis of Queensberry, and how you wentnaturally to the Courts for a remedy, but you found out very soon thatthis was a mistake. No jury would give a verdict against a father, however mistaken he might be. The only thing for you to do thereforeis to go abroad, and leave the whole ring, with its gloves and ropes, its sponges and pails, to Lord Queensberry. You are a maker ofbeautiful things, you should say, and not a fighter. Whereas theMarquis of Queensberry takes joy only in fighting. You refuse to fightwith a father under these circumstances. "

Oscar seemed to be inclined to do as I proposed. I appealed to Shaw, and Shaw said he thought I was right; the case would very likely goagainst Oscar, a jury would hardly give a verdict against a fathertrying to protect his son. Oscar seemed much moved. I think it wasabout this time that Bosie Douglas came in. At Oscar's request, Irepeated my argument and to my astonishment Douglas got up at once, and cried with his little white, venomous, distorted face:

"Such advice shows you are no friend of Oscar's. "

"What do you mean?" I asked in wonderment; but he turned and left theroom on the spot. To my astonishment Oscar also got up. 

"It is not friendly of you, Frank, " he said weakly. "It really is notfriendly. "

I stared at him: he was parrotting Douglas' idiotic words. 

"Don't be absurd, " I said; but he repeated:

"No, Frank, it is not friendly, " and went to the door and disappeared. 

Like a flash I saw part at least of the truth. It was not Oscar whohad ever misled Douglas, but Lord Alfred Douglas who was driving Oscarwhither he would. 

I turned to Shaw. 

"Did I say anything in the heat of argument that could have offendedOscar or Douglas?"

"Nothing, " said Shaw, "not a word: you have nothing to reproachyourself with. "[12]

Left to myself I was at a loss to imagine what Lord Alfred Douglasproposed to himself by hounding Oscar on to attack his father. I wasstill more surprised by his white, bitter face. I could not get rid ofthe impression it left on me. While groping among these reflections Iwas suddenly struck by a sort of likeness, a similarity of expressionand of temper between Lord Alfred Douglas and his unhappy father. Icould not get it out of my head--that little face blanched with rageand the wild, hating eyes; the shrill voice, too, was Queensberry's. 

FOOTNOTES:

[12] I am very glad that Bernard Shaw has lately put in print hismemory of this conversation. The above account was printed, though notpublished, in 1911, and in 1914 Shaw published his recollection ofwhat took place at this consultation. Readers may judge from thecomparison how far my general story is worthy of credence. In theIntroduction to his playlet, "The Dark Lady of the Sonnets, " Shawwrites:

"Yet he (Harris) knows the taste and the value of humour. He was oneof the few men of letters who really appreciated Oscar Wilde, thoughhe did not rally fiercely to Wilde's side until the world desertedOscar in his ruin. I myself was present at a curious meeting betweenthe two when Harris on the eve of the Queensberry trial prophesied toWilde with miraculous precision exactly what immediately afterwardshappened to him and warned him to leave the country. It was the firsttime within my knowledge that such a forecast proved true. Wilde, though under no illusion as to the folly of the quite unselfishsuit-at-law he had been persuaded to begin, nevertheless somiscalculated the force of the social vengeance he was unloosing onhimself that he fancied it could be stayed by putting up the editor of_The Saturday Review_ (as Mr. Harris then was) to declare that heconsidered _Dorian Gray_ a highly moral book, which it certainly is. When Harris foretold him the truth, Wilde denounced him as afaint-hearted friend who was failing him in his hour of need and leftthe room in anger. Harris's idiosyncratic power of pity saved him fromfeeling or showing the smallest resentment; and events presentlyproved to Wilde how insanely he had been advised in taking the action, and how accurately Harris had gauged the situation. "

CHAPTER XIII

It was weakness in Oscar and not strength that allowed him to bedriven to the conflict by Lord Alfred Douglas; it was his weaknessagain which prevented him from abandoning the prosecution, once it wasbegun. Such a resolution would have involved a breaking away from hisassociates and from his friends; a personal assertion of will of whichhe was incapable. Again and again he answered my urging with:

"I can't, Frank, I can't. "

When I pointed out to him that the defence was growing bolder--it wasannounced one morning in the newspapers that Lord Queensberry, insteadof pleading paternal privilege and minimising his accusation, wasdetermined to justify the libel and declare that it was true in everyparticular--Oscar could only say weakly:

"I can't help it, Frank, I can't do anything; you only distress me bypredicting disaster. "

The fibres of resolution, never strong in him, had been destroyed byyears of self-indulgence, while the influence whipping him wasstronger than I guessed. He was hurried like a sheep to theslaughter. 

Although everyone who cared to think knew that Queensberry would winthe case, many persons believed that Oscar would make a brilliantintellectual fight, and carry off the honours, if not the verdict. 

The trial took place at the Central Criminal Court on April 3rd, 1895. Mr. Justice Collins was the judge and the case was conducted at firstwith the outward seemliness and propriety which are so peculiarlyEnglish. An hour before the opening of the case the Court was crowded, not a seat to be had for love or money: even standing room was at apremium. 

The Counsel were the best at the Bar; Sir Edward Clarke, Q. C. , Mr. Charles Mathews, and Mr. Travers Humphreys for the prosecution; Mr. Carson, Q. C. , Mr. G. C. Gill and Mr. A. Gill for the defence. Mr. Besley, Q. C. , and Mr. Monckton watched the case, it was said, for thebrothers, Lord Douglas of Hawick and Lord Alfred Douglas. 

While waiting for the judge, the buzz of talk in the court grew loud;everybody agreed that the presence of Sir Edward Clarke gave Oscar anadvantage. Mr. Carson was not so well known then as he has sincebecome; he was regarded as a sharp-witted Irishman who had still hisspurs to win. Some knew he had been at school with Oscar, and atTrinity College was as high in the second class as Oscar was in thefirst. It was said he envied Oscar his reputation for brilliance. 

Suddenly the loud voice of the clerk called for silence. 

As the judge appeared everyone stood up and in complete stillness SirEdward Clarke opened for the prosecution. The bleak face, long upperlip and severe side whiskers made the little man look exactly like anonconformist parson of the old days, but his tone and manner weremodern--quiet and conversational. The charge, he said, was that thedefendant had published a false and malicious libel against Mr. OscarWilde. The libel was in the form of a card which Lord Queensberry hadleft at a club to which Mr. Oscar Wilde belonged: it could not bejustified unless the statements written on the card were true. Itwould, however, have been possible to have excused the card by astrong feeling, a mistaken feeling, on the part of a father, but theplea which the defendant had brought before the Court raised graverissues. He said that the statement was true and was made for thepublic benefit. There were besides a series of accusations in the plea(everyone held his breath), mentioning names of persons, and it wassaid with regard to these persons that Mr. Wilde had solicited them tocommit a grave offence and that he had been guilty with each and allof them of indecent practices. .. . " My heart seemed to stop. My worstforebodings were more than justified. Vaguely I heard Clarke's voice, "grave responsibility . .. Serious allegations . .. Credible witnesses. .. Mr. Oscar Wilde was the son of Sir William Wilde . .. " the voicedroned on and I awoke to feverish clearness of brain. Queensberry hadturned the defence into a prosecution. Why had he taken the risk? Whohad given him the new and precise information? I felt that there wasnothing before Oscar but ruin absolute. Could anything be done? Evennow he could go abroad--even now. I resolved once more to try andinduce him to fly. 

My interest turned from these passionate imaginings to the actual. Would Sir Edward Clarke fight the case as it should be fought? He hadbegun to tell of the friendship between Oscar Wilde and Lord AlfredDouglas; the friendship too between Oscar Wilde and Lady Queensberry, who on her own petition had been divorced from the Marquis; would hego on to paint the terrible ill-feeling that existed between LordAlfred Douglas and his father, and show how Oscar had been draggedinto the bitter family squabble? To the legal mind this had but littleto do with the case. 

We got, instead, a dry relation of the facts which have already beenset forth in this history. Wright, the porter of the Albemarle Club, was called to say that Lord Queensberry had handed him the cardproduced. Witness had looked at the card; did not understand it; butput it in an envelope and gave it to Mr. Wilde. 

Mr. Oscar Wilde was then called and went into the witness box. Helooked a little grave but was composed and serious. Sir Edward Clarketook him briefly through the incidents of his life: his successes atschool and the University; the attempts made to blackmail him, theinsults of Lord Queensberry, and then directed his attention to theallegations in the plea impugning his conduct with different persons. Mr. Oscar Wilde declared that there was no truth in any of thesestatements. Hereupon Sir Edward Clarke sat down. Mr. Carson rose andthe death duel began. 

Mr. Carson brought out that Oscar Wilde was forty years of age andLord Alfred Douglas twenty-four. Down to the interview in Tite StreetLord Queensberry had been friendly with Mr. Wilde. 

"Had Mr. Wilde written in a publication called _The Chameleon_?"

"Yes. "

"Had he written there a story called 'The Priest and the Acolyte'?"

"No. "

"Was that story immoral?"

Oscar amused everyone by replying:

"Much worse than immoral, it was badly written, " but feeling that thisgibe was too light for the occasion he added:

"It was altogether offensive and perfect twaddle. "

He admitted at once that he did not express his disapproval of it; itwas "beneath him to concern himself with the effusions of anilliterate undergraduate. "

"Did Mr. Wilde ever consider the effect in his writings of inciting toimmorality?"

Oscar declared that he aimed neither at good nor evil, but tried tomake a beautiful thing. When questioned as to the immorality inthought in the article in _The Chameleon_, he retorted "that there isno such thing as morality or immorality in thought. " A hum ofunderstanding and approval ran through the court; the intellect isprofoundly amoral. 

Again and again he scored in this way off Mr. Carson. 

"No work of art ever puts forward views; views belong to thePhilistines and not to artists. ". .. 

"What do you think of this view?"

"I don't think of any views except my own. "

All this while Mr. Carson had been hitting at a man on his own level;but Oscar Wilde was above him and not one of his blows had takeneffect. Every moment, too, Oscar grew more and more at his ease, andthe combat seemed to be turning completely in his favour. Mr. Carsonat length took up "Dorian Gray" and began cross-examining on passagesin it. 

"You talk about one man adoring another. Did you ever adore any man?"

"No, " replied Oscar quietly, "I have never adored anyone but myself. "

The Court roared with laughter. Oscar went on:

"There are people in the world, I regret to say, who cannot understandthe deep affection that an artist can feel for a friend with abeautiful personality. "

He was then questioned about his letter (already quoted here) to LordAlfred Douglas. It was a prose-poem, he said, written in answer to asonnet. He had not written to other people in the same strain, noteven to Lord Alfred Douglas again: he did not repeat himself instyle. 

Mr. Carson read another letter from Oscar Wilde to Lord AlfredDouglas, which paints their relations with extraordinary exactness. Here it is:

 SAVOY HOTEL, VICTORIA EMBANKMENT, LONDON. 

 DEAREST OF ALL BOYS, --

 Your letter was delightful, red and yellow wine to me; but I am sad and out of sorts. Bosie, you must not make scenes with me. They kill me, they wreck the loveliness of life. I cannot see you, so Greek and gracious, distorted with passion. I cannot listen to your curved lips saying hideous things to me. I would sooner ('here a word is indecipherable, ' Mr. Carson went on, 'but I will ask the witness')[13]--than have you bitter, unjust, hating. .. . I must see you soon. You are the divine thing I want, the thing of genius and beauty; but I don't know how to do it. Shall I come to Salisbury? My bill here is £49 for a week. I have also got a new sitting-room. .. . Why are you not here, my dear, my wonderful boy? I fear I must leave--no money, no credit, and a heart of lead. 

 YOUR OWN OSCAR. 

Oscar said that it was an expression of his tender admiration for LordAlfred Douglas. 

"You have said, " Mr. Carson went on, "that all the statements aboutpersons in the plea of justification were false. Do you still hold tothat assertion?"

"I do. "

Mr. Carson then paused and looked at the Judge. Justice Collinsshuffled his papers together and announced that the cross-examinationwould be continued on the morrow. As the Judge went out, all thetongues in the court broke loose. Oscar was surrounded by friendscongratulating him and rejoicing. 

I was not so happy and went away to think the matter out. I tried tokeep up my courage by recalling the humorous things Oscar had saidduring the cross-examination. I recalled too the dull commonplaces ofMr. Carson. I tried to persuade myself that it was all going on verywell. But in the back of my mind I realised that Oscar's answers, characteristic and clever as many of them were, had not impressed thejury, were indeed rather calculated to alienate them. He had taken thepurely artistic standpoint, had not attempted to go higher and reach asynthesis which would conciliate the Philistine jurymen as well as thethinking public, and the Judge. 

Mr. Carson was in closer touch with the jury, being nearer theirintellectual level, and there was a terrible menace in his last words. To-morrow, I said to myself, he will begin to examine about personsand not books. He did not win on the literary question, but he wasright to bring it in. The passages he had quoted, and especiallyOscar's letters to Lord Alfred Douglas, had created a strong prejudicein the minds of the jury. They ought not to have had this effect, Ithought, but they had. My contempt for Courts of law deepened: thosetwelve jurymen were anything but the peers of the accused: how couldthey judge him?

 * * * * *

The second day of the trial was very different from the first. Thereseemed to be a gloom over the Court. Oscar went into the box as if ithad been the dock; he had lost all his spring. Mr. Carson settled downto the cross-examination with apparent zest. It was evident from hismere manner that he was coming to what he regarded as the strong partof his case. He began by examining Oscar as to his intimacy with aperson named Taylor. 

"Has Taylor been to your house and to your chambers?"

"Yes. "

"Have you been to Taylor's rooms to afternoon tea parties?"

"Yes. "

"Did Taylor's rooms strike you as peculiar?"

"They were pretty rooms. "

"Have you ever seen them lit by anything else but candles even in theday time?"

"I think so. I'm not sure. "

"Have you ever met there a young man called Wood?"

"On one occasion. "

"Have you ever met Sidney Mavor there at tea?"

"It is possible. "

"What was your connection with Taylor?"

"Taylor was a friend, a young man of intelligence and education: hehad been to a good English school. "

"Did you know Taylor was being watched by the police?"

"No. "

"Did you know that Taylor was arrested with a man named Parker in araid made last year on a house in Fitzroy Square?"

"I read of it in the newspaper. "

"Did that cause you to drop your acquaintance with Taylor?"

"No; Taylor explained to me that he had gone there to a dance, andthat the magistrate had dismissed the case against him. "

"Did you get Taylor to arrange dinners for you to meet young men?"

"No; I have dined with Taylor at a restaurant. "

"How many young men has Taylor introduced to you?"

"Five in all. "

"Did you give money or presents to these five?"

"I may have done. "

"Did they give you anything?"

"Nothing. "

"Among the five men Taylor introduced you to, was one named Parker?"

"Yes. "

"Did you get on friendly terms with him?"

"Yes. "

"Did you call him 'Charlie' and allow him to call you 'Oscar'?"

"Yes. "

"How old was Parker?"

"I don't keep a census of people's ages. It would be vulgar to askpeople their age. "

"Where did you first meet Parker?"

"I invited Taylor to Kettner's[14] on the occasion of my birthday, andtold him to bring what friends he liked. He brought Parker and hisbrother. "

"Did you know Parker was a gentleman's servant out of work, and hisbrother a groom?"

"No; I did not. "

"But you did know that Parker was not a literary character or anartist, and that culture was not his strong point?"

"I did. "

"What was there in common between you and Charlie Parker?"

"I like people who are young, bright, happy, careless and original. Ido not like them sensible, and I do not like them old; I don't likesocial distinctions of any kind, and the mere fact of youth is sowonderful to me that I would sooner talk to a young man for half anhour than be cross examined by an elderly Q. C. "

Everyone smiled at this retort. 

"Had you chambers in St. James's Place?"

"Yes, from October, '93, to April, '94. "

"Did Charlie Parker go and have tea with you there?"

"Yes. "

"Did you give him money?"

"I gave him three or four pounds because he said he was hard up. "

"What did he give you in return?"

"Nothing. "

"Did you give Charlie Parker a silver cigarette case at Christmas?"

"I did. "

"Did you visit him one night at 12:30 at Park Walk, Chelsea?"

"I did not. "

"Did you write him any beautiful prose-poems?"

"I don't think so. "

"Did you know that Charlie Parker had enlisted in the Army?"

"I have heard so. "

"When you heard that Taylor was arrested what did you do?"

"I was greatly distressed and wrote to tell him so. "

"When did you first meet Fred Atkins?"

"In October or November, '92. "

"Did he tell you that he was employed by a firm of bookmakers?"

"He may have done. "

"Not a literary man or an artist, was he?"

"No. "

"What age was he?"

"Nineteen or twenty. "

"Did you ask him to dinner at Kettner's?"

"I think I met him at a dinner at Kettner's. "

"Was Taylor at the dinner?"

"He may have been. "

"Did you meet him afterwards?"

"I did. "

"Did you call him 'Fred' and let him call you 'Oscar'?"

"Yes. "

"Did you go to Paris with him?"

"Yes. "

"Did you give him money?"

"Yes. "

"Was there ever any impropriety between you?"

"No. "

"When did you first meet Ernest Scarfe?"

"In December, 1893. "

"Who introduced him to you?"

"Taylor. "

"Scarfe was out of work, was he not?"

"He may have been. "

"Did Taylor bring Scarfe to you at St. James's Place?"

"Yes. "

"Did you give Scarfe a cigarette case?"

"Yes: it was my custom to give cigarette cases to people I liked. "

"When did you first meet Mavor?"

"In '93. "

"Did you give him money or a cigarette case?"

"A cigarette case. "

"Did you know Walter Grainger?". .. And so on till the very air in thecourt seemed peopled with spectres. 

On the whole Oscar bore the cross-examination very well; but he madeone appalling slip. 

Mr. Carson was pressing him as to his relations with the boy Grainger, who had been employed in Lord Alfred Douglas' rooms in Oxford. 

"Did you ever kiss him?" he asked. 

Oscar answered carelessly, "Oh, dear, no. He was a peculiarly plainboy. He was, unfortunately, extremely ugly. I pitied him for it. "

"Was that the reason why you did not kiss him?"

"Oh, Mr. Carson, you are pertinently insolent. "

"Did you say that in support of your statement that you never kissedhim?"

"No. It is a childish question. "

But Carson was not to be warded off; like a terrier he sprang againand again:

"Why, sir, did you mention that this boy was extremely ugly?"

"For this reason. If I were asked why I did not kiss a door-mat, Ishould say because I do not like to kiss door-mats. ". .. 

"Why did you mention his ugliness?"

"It is ridiculous to imagine that any such thing could have occurredunder any circumstances. "

"Then why did you mention his ugliness, I ask you?"

"Because you insulted me by an insulting question. "

"Was that a reason why you should say the boy was ugly?"

(Here the witness began several answers almost inarticulately andfinished none of them. His efforts to collect his ideas were not aidedby Mr. Carson's sharp staccato repetition: "Why? why? why did you addthat?") At last the witness answered:

"You sting me and insult me and at times one says things flippantly. "

Then came the re-examination by Sir Edward Clarke, which brought outvery clearly the hatred of Lord Alfred Douglas for his father. Letterswere read and in one letter Queensberry declared that Oscar hadplainly shown the white feather when he called on him. One felt thatthis was probably true: Queensberry's word on such a point could beaccepted. 

In the re-examination Sir Edward Clarke occupied himself chiefly withtwo youths, Shelley and Conway, who had been passed over casually byMr. Carson. In answer to his questions Oscar stated that Shelley was ayouth in the employ of Mathews and Lane, the publishers. Shelley hadvery good taste in literature and a great desire for culture. Shelleyhad read all his books and liked them. Shelley had dined with him andhis wife at Tite Street. Shelley was in every way a gentleman. He hadnever gone with Charlie Parker to the Savoy Hotel. 

A juryman wanted to know at this point whether the witness was awareof the nature of the article, "The Priest and the Acolyte, " in _TheChameleon_. 

"I knew nothing of it; it came as a terrible shock to me. "

This answer contrasted strangely with the light tone of his reply tothe same question on the previous day. 

The re-examination did not improve Oscar's position. It left all thefacts where they were, and at least a suspicion in every mind. 

Sir Edward Clarke intimated that this concluded the evidence for theprosecution, whereupon Mr. Carson rose to make the opening speech forthe defence. I was shivering with apprehension. 

He began by admitting the grave responsibility resting on LordQueensberry, who accepted it to the fullest. Lord Queensberry wasjustified in doing all he could do to cut short an acquaintance whichmust be disastrous to his son. Mr. Carson wished to draw the attentionof the jury to the fact that all these men with whom Mr. Wilde wentabout were discharged servants and grooms, and that they were allabout the same age. He asked the jury also to note that Taylor, whowas the pivot of the whole case, had not yet been put in the box. Whynot? He pointed out to the jury that the very same idea that was setforth in "The Priest and the Acolyte" was contained in Oscar Wilde'sletters to Lord Alfred Douglas, and the same idea was to be found inLord Alfred Douglas' poem, "The Two Loves, "[15] which was published in_The Chameleon_. He went on to say that when, in the story of "ThePriest and the Acolyte, " the boy was discovered in the priest'sbed, [16] the priest made the same defence as Mr. Wilde had made, thatthe world does not understand the beauty of this love. The same ideawas found again in "Dorian Gray, " and he read two or three passagesfrom the book in support of this statement. Mr. Wilde had describedhis letter to Lord Alfred Douglas as a prose sonnet. He would read itagain to the court, and he read both the letters. "Mr. Wilde says theyare beautiful, " he went on, "I call them an abominable piece ofdisgusting immorality. "

At this the Judge again shuffled his papers together and whispered ina quiet voice that the court would sit on the morrow, and left theroom. 

The honours of the day had all been with Mr. Carson. Oscar left thebox in a depressed way. One or two friends came towards him, but themajority held aloof, and in almost unbroken silence everyone slippedout of the court. Strange to say in my mind there was just a ray ofhope. Mr. Carson was still laying stress on the article in _TheChameleon_ and scattered passages in "Dorian Gray"; on Oscar's lettersto Lord Alfred Douglas and Lord Alfred Douglas' poems in _TheChameleon_. He must see, I thought, that all this was extremely weak. Sir Edward Clarke could be trusted to tear all such arguments, foundedon literary work, to shreds. There was room for more than reasonabledoubt about all such things. 

Why had not Mr. Carson put some of the young men he spoke of in thebox? Would he be able to do that? He talked of Taylor as "the pivot ofthe case, " and gibed at the prosecution for not putting Taylor in thebox. Would he put Taylor in the box? And why, if he had such witnessesat his beck and call, should he lay stress on the flimsy, weakevidence to be drawn from passages in books and poems and letters? Onething was clear: if he was able to put any of the young men in the boxabout whom he had examined Oscar, Oscar was ruined. Even if he restedhis defence on the letters and poems he'd win and Oscar would bediscredited, for already it was clear that no jury would give OscarWilde a verdict against a father trying to protect his son. The issuehad narrowed down to terrible straits: would it be utter ruin to Oscaror merely loss of the case and reputation? We had only sixteen hoursto wait; they seemed to me to hold the last hope. 

I drove to Tite Street, hoping to see Oscar. I was convinced thatCarson had important witnesses at his command, and that the outcome ofthe case would be disastrous. Why should not Oscar even now, this veryevening, cross to Calais, leaving a letter for his counsel and thecourt abandoning the idiotic prosecution. 

The house at Tite Street seemed deserted. For some time no oneanswered my knocking and ringing, and then a man-servant simply toldme that Mr. Wilde was not in: he did not know whether Mr. Wilde wasexpected back or not; did not think he was coming back. I turned andwent home. I thought Oscar would probably say to me again:

"I can do nothing, Frank, nothing. "

 * * * * *

The feeling in the court next morning was good tempered, even jaunty. The benches were filled with young barristers, all of whom had made uptheir minds that the testimony would be what one of them called"nifty. " Everyone treated the case as practically over. 

"But will Carson call witnesses?" I asked. 

"Of course he will, " they said, "but in any case Wilde does not standa ghost of a chance of getting a verdict against Queensberry; he was abally fool to bring such an action. "

"The question is, " said someone, "will Wilde face the music?"

My heart leapt. Perhaps he had gone, fled already to France to avoidthis dreadful, useless torture. I could see the hounds with openmouths, dripping white fangs, and greedy eyes all closing in on thedefenceless quarry. Would the huntsman give the word? We were not leftlong in doubt. 

Mr. Carson continued his statement for the defence. He hadsufficiently demonstrated to the jury, he thought, that, so far asLord Queensberry was concerned, he was absolutely justified inbringing to a climax in the way he had, the connection between Mr. Oscar Wilde and his son. A dramatic pause. 

A moment later the clever advocate resumed: unfortunately he had amore painful part of the case to approach. It would be his painfulduty to bring before them one after the other the young men he hadexamined Mr. Wilde about and allow them to tell their tales. In no oneof these cases were these young men on an equality in any way withMr. Wilde. Mr. Wilde had told them that there was something beautifuland charming about youth which led him to make these acquaintances. That was a travesty of the facts. Mr. Wilde preferred to know nothingof these young men and their antecedents. He knew nothing about Wood;he knew nothing about Parker; he knew nothing about Scarfe, nothingabout Conway, and not much about Taylor. The truth was Taylor was theprocurer for Mr. Wilde and the jury would hear from this young manParker, who would have to tell his unfortunate story to them, that hewas poor, out of a place, had no money, and unfortunately fell avictim to Mr. Wilde. (Sir Edward Clarke here left the court. )

On the first evening they met, Mr. Wilde called Parker "Charlie" andParker called Mr. Wilde "Oscar. " It may be a very noble instinct insome people to wish to break down social barriers, but Mr. Wilde'sconduct was not ordered by generous instincts. Luxurious dinners andchampagne were not the way to assist a poor man. Parker would tellthem that, after this first dinner, Mr. Wilde invited him to drivewith him to the Savoy Hotel. Mr. Wilde had not told them why he hadthat suite of rooms at the Savoy Hotel. Parker would tell them whathappened on arriving there. This was the scandal Lord Queensberry hadreferred to in his letter as far back as June or July last year. Thejury would wonder not at the reports having reached Lord Queensberry'sears, but that Oscar Wilde had been tolerated in London society aslong as he had been. Parker had since enlisted in the Army, and bore agood character. Mr. Wilde himself had said that Parker wasrespectable. Parker would reluctantly present himself to tell hisstory to the jury. 

All this time the court was hushed with awe and wonder; everyone wasasking what on earth had induced Wilde to begin the prosecution; whatmadness had driven him and why had he listened to the insane advice tobring the action when he must have known the sort of evidence whichcould be brought against him. 

After promising to produce Parker and the others Mr. Carson stoppedspeaking and began looking through his papers; when he began again, everyone held his breath; what was coming now? He proceeded in thesame matter-of-fact and serious way to deal with the case of theyouth, Conway. Conway, it appeared, had known Mr. Wilde and his familyat Worthing. Conway was sixteen years of age. .. . At this moment SirEdward Clarke returned with Mr. Charles Mathews, and asked permissionof the judge to have a word or two with Mr. Carson. At the close of afew minutes' talk between the counsel, Sir Edward Clarke rose and toldthe Judge that after communicating with Mr. Oscar Wilde he thought itbetter to withdraw the prosecution and submit to a verdict of "notguilty. "

He minimised the defeat. He declared that, in respect to mattersconnected with literature and the letters, he could not resist theverdict of "not guilty, " having regard to the fact that LordQueensberry had not used a direct accusation, but the words "posingas, " etc. Besides, he wished to spare the jury the necessity ofinvestigating in detail matter of the most appalling character. Hewished to make an end of the case--and he sat down. 

Why on earth did Sir Edward Clarke not advise Oscar in this way weeksbefore? Why did he not tell him his case could not possibly be won?

I have heard since on excellent authority that before taking up thecase Sir Edward Clarke asked Oscar Wilde whether he was guilty or not, and accepted in good faith his assurance that he was innocent. As soonas he realised, in court, the strength of the case against Oscar headvised him to abandon the prosecution. To his astonishment Oscar waseager to abandon it. Sir Edward Clarke afterwards defended hisunfortunate client out of loyalty and pity, Oscar again assuring himof his innocence. 

Mr. Carson rose at once and insisted, as was his right, that thisverdict of "not guilty" must be understood to mean that LordQueensberry had succeeded in his plea of justification. 

Mr. Justice Collins thought that it was not part of the function ofthe Judge and jury to insist on wading through prurient details, whichhad no bearing on the matter at issue, which had already been decidedby the consent of the prosecutors to a verdict of "not guilty. " Such averdict meant of course that the plea of justification was proved. Thejury having consulted for a few moments, the Clerk of Arraigns asked:

"Do you find the plea of justification has been proved or not?"

Foreman: "Yes. "

"You say that the defendant is 'not guilty, ' and that is the verdictof you all?"

Foreman: "Yes, and we also find that it is for the public benefit. "

The last kick to the dead lion. As the verdict was read out thespectators in the court burst into cheers. 

Mr. Carson: "Of course the costs of the defence will follow?"

Mr. Justice Collins: "Yes. "

Mr. C. F. Gill: "And Lord Queensberry may be discharged?"

Mr. Justice Collins: "Certainly. "

The Marquis of Queensberry left the dock amid renewed cheering, whichwas taken up again and again in the street. 

FOOTNOTES:

[13] The words which Mr. Carson could not read were: "I would soonerbe rented than, etc. " Rent is a slang term for blackmail. 

[14] A famous Italian restaurant in Soho: it had several "privaterooms. "

[15] This early poem of Lord Alfred Douglas is reproduced in theAppendix at the end of this book together with another poem by thesame author, which was also mentioned in the course of the trial. 

[16] Mr. Carson here made a mistake; there is no such incident in thestory: the error merely shows how prejudiced his mind was. 

CHAPTER XIV

The English are very proud of their sense of justice, proud too oftheir Roman law and the practice of the Courts in which they haveincorporated it. They boast of their fair play in all things as theFrench boast of their lightness, and if you question it, you losecaste with them, as one prejudiced or ignorant or both. Englishjustice cannot be bought, they say, and if it is dear, excessivelydear even, they rather like to feel they have paid a long price for agood article. Yet it may be that here, as in other things, they takeoutward propriety and decorum for the inward and ineffable grace. Thata judge should be incorruptible is not so important as that he shouldbe wise and humane. 

English journalists and barristers were very much amused at theconduct of the Dreyfus case; yet, when Dreyfus was being tried for thesecond time in France, two or three instances of similar injustice inEngland were set forth with circumstance in one of the Londonnewspapers, but no one paid any effective attention to them. IfDreyfus had been convicted in England, it is probable that no voicewould ever have been raised in his favour; it is absolutely certainthat there would never have been a second trial. A keen sense ofabstract justice is only to be found in conjunction with a rich fountof imaginative sympathy. The English are too self-absorbed to takemuch interest in their neighbours' affairs, too busy to care forabstract questions of right or wrong. 

Before the trial of Oscar Wilde I still believed that in a criminalcase rough justice would be done in England. The bias of an Englishjudge, I said to myself, is always in favour of the accused. It is anhonourable tradition of English procedure that even the Treasurybarristers should state rather less than they can prove against theunfortunate person who is being attacked by all the power andauthority of the State. I was soon forced to see that these honourableand praiseworthy conventions were as withes of straw in the fire ofEnglish prejudice. The first thing to set me doubting was that thejudge did not try to check the cheering in Court after the verdict infavour of Lord Queensberry. English judges always resent and resistsuch popular outbursts: why not in this case? After all, no judgecould think Queensberry a hero: he was too well known for that, andyet the cheering swelled again and again, and the judge gathered uphis papers without a word and went his way as if he were deaf. Adreadful apprehension crept over me: in spite of myself I began torealise that my belief in English justice might be altogethermistaken. It was to me as if the solid earth had become a quaking bog, or indeed as if a child had suddenly discovered its parent to beshameless. The subsequent trials are among the most painfulexperiences of my life. I shall try to set down all the incidentsfairly. 

One peculiarity had first struck me in the conduct of the case betweenOscar Wilde and Lord Queensberry that did not seem to occur to any ofthe numberless journalists and writers who commented on the trial. Itwas apparent from his letter to his son (which I published in aprevious chapter), and from the fact that he called at Oscar Wilde'shouse that Lord Queensberry at the beginning did not believe in thetruth of his accusations; he set them forth as a violent man setsforth hearsay and suspicion, knowing that as a father he could do thiswith impunity, and accordingly at first he pleaded privilege. Sometime between the beginning of the prosecution and the trial, heobtained an immense amount of unexpected evidence. He then justifiedhis libel and gave the names of the persons whom he intended to callto prove his case. Where did he get this new knowledge?

I have spoken again and again in the course of this narrative ofOscar's enemies, asserting that the English middle-class as puritansdetested his attitude and way of life, and if some fanatic orrepresentative of the nonconformist conscience had hunted up evidenceagainst Wilde and brought him to ruin there would have been nothingextraordinary in a vengeance which might have been regarded as a duty. Strange to say the effective hatred of Oscar Wilde was shown by a manof the upper class who was anything but a puritan. It was Mr. CharlesBrookfield, I believe, who constituted himself private prosecutor inthis case and raked Piccadilly to find witnesses against Oscar Wilde. Mr. Brookfield was afterwards appointed Censor of Plays on thestrength apparently of having himself written one of the "riskiest"plays of the period. As I do not know Mr. Brookfield, I will not judgehim. But his appointment always seemed to me, even before I knew thathe had acted against Wilde, curiously characteristic of English lifeand of the casual, contemptuous way Englishmen of the governing classregard letters. In the same spirit Lord Salisbury as Prime Ministermade a journalist Poet Laureate simply because he had puffed him foryears in the columns of _The Standard_. Lord Salisbury probablyneither knew nor cared that Alfred Austin had never written a linethat could live. One thing Mr. Brookfield's witnesses established:every offence alleged against Oscar Wilde dated from 1892 orlater--after his first meeting with Lord Alfred Douglas. 

But at the time all such matters were lost for me in the questions:would the authorities arrest Oscar? or would they allow him to escape?Had the police asked for a warrant? Knowing English custom and thedesire of Englishmen to pass in silence over all unpleasant sexualmatters, I thought he would be given the hint to go abroad and allowedto escape. That is the ordinary, the usual English procedure. Everyoneknows the case of a certain lord, notorious for similar practices, whowas warned by the police that a warrant had been issued against him:taking the hint he has lived for many years past in leisured ease asan honoured guest in Florence. Nor is it only aristocrats who are sofavoured by English justice: everyone can remember the case of a Canonof Westminster who was similarly warned and also escaped. We can comedown the social scale to the very bottom and find the same practice. Acertain journalist unwittingly offended a great personage. Immediatelyhe was warned by the police that a warrant issued against him in Indiaseventeen years before would at once be acted upon if he did not makehimself scarce. For some time he lived in peaceful retirement inBelgium. Moreover, in all these cases the warrants had been issued onthe sworn complaints of the parties damnified or of their parents andguardians: no one had complained of Oscar Wilde. Naturally I thoughtthe dislike of publicity which dictated such lenience to the lord andthe canon and the journalist would be even more operative in the caseof a man of genius like Oscar Wilde. In certain ways he had a greaterposition than even the son of a duke: the shocking details of histrial would have an appalling, a world-wide publicity. 

Besides, I said to myself, the governing class in England is steepedin aristocratic prejudice, and particularly when threatened bydemocratic innovations, all superiorities, whether of birth or wealth, or talent, are conscious of the same _raison d'être_ and have the sameself-interest. The lord, the millionaire and the genius have all thesame reason for standing up for each other, and this reason is usuallyeffective. Everyone knows that in England the law is emphatically arespecter of persons. It is not there to promote equality, much lessis it the defender of the helpless, the weak and the poor; it is arampart for the aristocracy and the rich, a whip in the hands of thestrong. It is always used to increase the effect of natural andinherited inequality, and it is not directed by a high feeling ofjustice; but perverted by aristocratic prejudice and snobbishness; itis not higher than democratic equality, but lower and more sordid. 

The case was just a case where an aristocratic society could andshould have shown its superiority over a democratic society with itsrough rule of equality. For equality is only half-way on the road tojustice. More than once the House of Commons has recognised thisfundamental truth; it condemned Clive but added that he had rendered"great and distinguished services to his country"; and no one thoughtof punishing him for his crimes. 

Our time is even more tolerant and more corrupt. For a worse crimethan extortion Cecil Rhodes was not even brought to trial, buthonoured and fêted, while his creatures, who were condemned by theHouse of Commons Committee, were rewarded by the Government. 

Had not Wilde also rendered distinguished services to his country? Thewars waged against the Mashonas and Matabeles were a doubtful good;but the plays of Oscar Wilde had already given many hours of innocentpleasure to thousands of persons, and were evidently destined tobenefit tens of thousands in the future. Such a man is a benefactor ofhumanity in the best and truest sense, and deserves peculiarconsideration. 

To the society favourite the discredit of the trial with LordQueensberry was in itself a punishment more than sufficient. Everyoneknew when Oscar Wilde left the court that he left it a ruined anddisgraced man. Was it worth while to stir up all the foul mud again, in order to beat the beaten? Alas! the English are pedants, as Goethesaw; they think little of literary men, or of merely spiritualachievements. They love to abide by rules and pay no heed toexceptions, unless indeed the exceptions are men of title or greatwealth, or "persons of importance" to the Government. The majority ofthe people are too ignorant to know the value of a book and theyregard poetry as the thistle-down of speech. It does not occur toEnglishmen that a phrase may be more valuable and more enduring in itseffects than a long campaign and a dozen victories. Yet, the sentence, "Let him that is without sin among you first cast the stone, " orShakespeare's version of the same truth: "if we had our deserts whichof us would escape whipping?" is likely to outlast the British Empire, and prove of more value to humanity. 

The man of genius in Great Britain is feared and hated in exactproportion to his originality, and if he happens to be a writer or amusician he is despised to boot. The prejudice against Oscar Wildeshowed itself virulently on all hands. Mr. Justice Collins did notattempt to restrain the cheering of the court that greeted the successof Lord Queensberry. Not one of the policemen who stood round the doortried to stop the "booing" of the crowd who pursued Oscar Wilde withhootings and vile cries when he left the court. He was judged alreadyand condemned before being tried. 

The police, too, acted against him with extraordinary vigour. It hasbeen stated by Mr. Sherard in his "Life" that the police did notattempt to execute the warrant against Wilde, "till after the lasttrain had left for Dover, " and that it was only Oscar's obstinacy inremaining in London that necessitated his arrest. This idea is whollyimaginary. 

It is worth while to know exactly what took place at this juncture. From Oscar's conduct in this crisis the reader will be able to judgewhether he has been depicted faithfully or not in this book. He hasbeen described as amiable, weak, of a charming disposition--easily ledin action, though not in thought: now we shall see how far we werejustified, for he is at one of those moments which try the soul. Fortunately every incident of that day is known: Oscar himself toldme generally what happened and the minutest details of the picturewere filled in for me a little later by his best friend, Robert Ross. 

In the morning Mr. Mathews, one of Oscar's counsel, came to him andsaid: "If you wish it, Clarke and I will keep the case going and giveyou time to get to Calais. "

Oscar refused to stir. "I'll stay, " was all he would say. Robert Rossurged him to accept Mathew's offer; but he would not: why? I am surehe had no reason, for I put the question to him more than once, andeven after reflecting, he had no explanation to give. He stayedbecause to stay was easier than to make an immediate decision and acton it energetically. He had very little will power to begin with andhis mode of life had weakened his original endowment. 

After the judgment had been given in favour of Queensberry, Oscardrove off in a brougham, accompanied by Alfred Douglas, to consultwith his solicitor, Humphreys. At the same time he gave Ross a chequeon his bank in St. James's Street. At that moment he intended to fly. 

Ross noticed that he was followed by a detective. He drew about £200from the bank and raced off to meet Oscar at the Cadogan Hotel, inSloane Street, where Lord Alfred Douglas had been staying for the pastfour or five weeks. Ross reached the Cadogan Hotel about 1. 45 andfound Oscar there with Reggie Turner. Both of them advised Oscar to goat once to Dover and try to get to France; but he would only say, "thetrain has gone; it is too late. " He had again lapsed into inaction. 

He asked Ross to go to see his wife and tell her what had occurred. Ross did this and had a very painful scene: Mrs. Wilde wept and said, "I hope Oscar is going away abroad. "

Ross returned to the Cadogan Hotel and told Oscar what his wife hadsaid, but even this didn't move him to action. 

He sat as if glued to his chair, and drank hock and seltzer steadilyin almost unbroken silence. About four o'clock George Wyndham came tosee his cousin, Alfred Douglas; not finding him, he wanted to seeOscar, but Oscar, fearing reproaches, sent Ross instead. Wyndham saidit was a pity that Bosie Douglas should be with Oscar, and Rossimmediately told him that Wilde's friends for years past had beentrying to separate them and that if he, Wyndham, would keep his cousinaway, he would be doing Oscar the very greatest kindness. At thisWyndham grew more civil, though still "frightfully agitated, " andbegged Ross to get Oscar to leave the country at once to avoidscandal. Ross replied that he and Turner had been trying to bringthat about for hours. In the middle of the conversation Bosie, havingreturned, burst into the room with: "I want to see my cousin, " andRoss rejoined Oscar. In a quarter of an hour Bosie followed him to saythat he was going out with Wyndham to see someone of importance. 

About five o'clock a reporter of the _Star_ newspaper came to seeOscar, a Mr. Marlowe, who is now editor of _The Daily Mail_, but againOscar refused to see him and sent Ross. Mr. Marlowe was sympatheticand quite understood the position; he informed Ross that a tapemessage had come through to the paper saying that a warrant for OscarWilde had already been issued. Ross immediately went into the otherroom and told Oscar, who said nothing, but "went very grey in theface. "

A moment later Oscar asked Ross to give him the money he had got atthe bank, though he had refused it several times in the course of theday. Ross gave it to him, naturally taking it for a sign that he hadat length made up his mind to start, but immediately afterwards Oscarsettled down in his chair and said, "I shall stay and do my sentencewhatever it is"--a man evidently incapable of action. 

For the next hour the trio sat waiting for the blow to fall. Once ortwice Oscar asked querulously where Bosie was, but no one could tellhim. 

At ten past six the waiter knocked at the door and Ross answered it. There were two detectives. The elder entered and said, "We have awarrant here, Mr. Wilde, for your arrest on a charge of committingindecent acts. " Wilde wanted to know whether he would be given bail;the detective replied:

"That is a question for the magistrate. "

Oscar then rose and asked, "Where shall I be taken?"

"To Bow Street, " was the reply. 

As he picked up a copy of the Yellow Book and groped for his overcoat, they all noticed that he was "very drunk" though still perfectlyconscious of what he was doing. 

He asked Ross to go to Tite Street and get him a change of clothes andbring them to Bow Street. The two detectives took him away in afour-wheeler, leaving Ross and Turner on the curb. 

Ross hurried to Tite Street. He found that Mrs. Oscar Wilde had goneto the house of a relative and there was only Wilde's man servant, Arthur, in the house, who afterwards went out of his mind, and isstill, it is said, in an asylum. He had an intense affection forOscar. Ross found that Mrs. Oscar Wilde had locked up Oscar's bedroomand study. He burst open the bedroom door and, with the help ofArthur, packed up a change of things. He then hurried to Bow Street, where he found a howling mob shouting indecencies. He was informed byan inspector that it was impossible to see Wilde or to leave anyclothes for him. 

Ross returned at once to Tite Street, forced open the library door andremoved a certain number of letters and manuscripts of Wilde's; butunluckily he couldn't find the two MSS. Which he knew had beenreturned to Tite Street two days before, namely, "A FlorentineTragedy" and the enlarged version of "The Portrait of Mr. W. H. "

Ross then drove to his mother's and collapsed. Mrs. Ross insisted thathe should go abroad, and in order to induce him to do it gave £500 forOscar's defence. Ross went to the Terminus Hotel at Calais, whereBosie Douglas joined him a little later. They both stayed there whileOscar was being tried before Mr. Justice Charles and one day GeorgeWyndham crossed the Channel to see Bosie Douglas. 

There is of course some excuse to be made for the chief actor. Oscarwas physically tired and morally broken. He had pulled the fairbuilding of reputation and success down upon his own head, and, withthe "booing" of the mob still in his ears, he could think of nothingbut the lost hours when he ought to have used his money to take himbeyond the reach of his pursuers. 

His enemies, on the other hand, had acted with the utmost promptitude. Lord Queensberry's solicitor, Mr. Charles Russell, had stated that itwas not his client's intention to take the initiative in any criminalprosecution of Mr. Oscar Wilde, but, on the very same morning whenWilde withdrew from the prosecution, Mr. Russell sent a letter to theHon. Hamilton Cuffe, the Director of Public Prosecutions, with a copyof "all our witnesses' statements, together with a copy of theshorthand notes of the trial. "

The Treasury authorities were at least as eager. As soon as possibleafter leaving the court Mr. C. F. Gill, Mr. Angus Lewis, and Mr. Charles Russell waited on Sir John Bridge at Bow Street in his privateroom and obtained a warrant for the arrest of Oscar Wilde, which wasexecuted, as we have seen, the same evening. 

The police showed him less than no favour. About eight o'clock LordAlfred Douglas drove to Bow Street and wanted to know if Wilde couldbe bailed out, but was informed that his application could not beentertained. He offered to procure comforts for the prisoner: thisoffer also was peremptorily refused by the police inspector just asRoss's offer of night clothes had been refused. It is a common beliefthat in England a man is treated as innocent until he has been provedguilty, but those who believe this pleasant fiction, have never beenin the hands of the English police. As soon as a man is arrested onany charge he is at once treated as if he were a dangerous criminal;he is searched, for instance, with every circumstance of indignity. Before his conviction a man is allowed to wear his own clothes; but achange of linen or clothes is denied him, or accorded in part andgrudgingly, for no earthly reason except to gratify the ill-will ofthe gaolers. 

The warrant on which Oscar Wilde was arrested charged him with anoffence alleged to have been committed under Section xi. Of theCriminal Amendment Act of 1885; in other words, he was arrested andtried for an offence which was not punishable by law ten years before. This Act was brought in as a result of the shameful and sentimentalstories (evidently for the most part manufactured) which Mr. Stead hadpublished in _The Pall Mall Gazette_ under the title of "ModernBabylon. " In order to cover and justify their prophet some of the"unco guid" pressed forward this so-called legislative reform, bywhich it was made a criminal offence to take liberties with a girlunder thirteen years of age--even with her own consent. Intimacy withminors under sixteen was punishable if they consented or even tempted. Mr. Labouchere, the Radical member, inflamed, it is said, with adesire to make the law ridiculous, gravely proposed that the sectionbe extended, so as to apply to people of the same sex who indulged infamiliarities or indecencies. The Puritan faction had no logicalobjection to the extension, and it became the law of the land. It wasby virtue of this piece of legislative wisdom, which is without amodel and without a copy in the law of any other civilised country, that Oscar Wilde was arrested and thrown into prison. 

His arrest was the signal for an orgy of Philistine rancour such aseven London had never known before. The puritan middle class, whichhad always regarded Wilde with dislike as an artist and intellectualscoffer, a mere parasite of the aristocracy, now gave free scope totheir disgust and contempt, and everyone tried to outdo his neighbourin expressions of loathing and abhorrence. This middle classcondemnation swept the lower class away in its train. To do themjustice, the common people, too, felt a natural loathing for thepeculiar vice attributed to Wilde; most men condemn the sins they haveno mind to; but their dislike was rather contemptuous than profound, and with customary humour they soon turned the whole case into abestial, obscene joke. "Oscar" took the place of their favourite wordas a term of contempt, and they shouted it at each other on all sides;bus-drivers, cabbies and paper sellers using it in and out of seasonwith the keenest relish. For the moment the upper classes laymum-chance and let the storm blow over. Some of them of course agreedwith the condemnation of the Puritans, and many of them felt thatOscar and his associates had been too bold, and ought to be pulled up. 

The English journals, which are nothing but middle-class shops, tookthe side of their patrons. Without a single exception they outdidthemselves in condemnation of the man and all his works. You mighthave thought to read their bitter diatribes that they themselves livedsaintly lives, and were shocked at sensual sin. One rubbed one's eyesin amazement. The Strand and Fleet Street, which practically belong tothis class and have been fashioned by them, are the haunt of as vile aprostitution as can be found in Europe; the public houses which thesemen frequent are low drinking dens; yet they all lashed Oscar Wildewith every variety of insult as if they themselves had been abovereproach. The whole of London seemed to have broken loose in a rage ofcontempt and loathing which was whipped up and justified each morningby the hypocritical articles of the "unco guid" in the daily this andthe weekly that. In the streets one heard everywhere the loud jests ofthe vulgar, decked out with filthy anecdotes and punctuated by obscenelaughter, as from the mouth of the Pit. 

In spite of the hatred of the journalists pandering to the prejudiceof their paymasters, one could hope still that the magistrate wouldshow some regard for fair play. The expectation, reasonable orunreasonable, was doomed to disappointment. On Saturday morning, the6th, Oscar Wilde, "described as a gentleman, " the papers said inderision, was brought before Sir John Bridge. Mr. C. F. Gill, who hadbeen employed in the Queensberry trial, was instructed by Mr. AngusLewis of the Treasury, and conducted the prosecution; Alfred Taylorwas placed in the dock charged with conspiracy with Oscar Wilde. Thewitnesses have already been described in connection with theQueensberry case. Charles Parker, William Parker, Alfred Wood, SidneyMavor and Shelley all gave evidence. 

After lasting all day the case was adjourned till the followingThursday. 

Mr. Travers Humphreys applied for bail for Mr. Wilde, on the groundthat he knew the warrant against him was being applied for on Fridayafternoon, but he made no attempt to leave London. Sir John Bridgerefused bail. 

On Thursday, the 11th, the case was continued before Sir John Bridge, and in the end both the accused were committed for trial. Again Mr. Humphreys applied for bail, and again the magistrate refused to acceptbail. 

Now to refuse bail in cases of serious crime may be defended, but inthe case of indecent conduct it is usually granted. To run away isregarded as a confession of guilt, and what could one wish for morethan the perpetual banishment of the corrupt liver, consequently thereis no reason to refuse bail. But in this case, though bail was offeredto any amount, it was refused peremptorily in spite of the fact thatevery consideration should have been shown to an accused person whohad already had a good opportunity to leave the country and hadrefused to budge. Moreover, Oscar Wilde had already been criticisedand condemned in a hundred papers. There was widespread prejudiceagainst him, no risk to the public in accepting bail, and considerableinjury done to the accused in refusing it. His affairs were certain tobe thrown into confusion; he was known not to be rich and yet he wasdeprived of the power to get money together and to collect evidencejust when the power which freedom confers was most needed by him. 

The magistrate was as prejudiced as the public; he had no more idea ofstanding for justice and fair play than Pilate; probably, indeed, henever gave himself the trouble to think of fairness in the matter. Alarge salary is paid to magistrates in London, £1, 500 a year, but itis rare indeed that any of them rises above the vulgarest prejudice. Sir John Bridge not only refused bail but he was careful to give hisreasons for refusing it: he had not the slightest scruple aboutprejudicing the case even before he had heard a word of the defence. After hearing the evidence for the prosecution he said:

"The responsibility of accepting or refusing bail rests upon me. Theconsiderations that weigh with me are the gravity of the offences andthe strength of the evidence. I must absolutely refuse bail and sendthe prisoners for trial. "

Now these reasons, which he proffered voluntarily, and especially theuse of the word "absolutely, " showed not only prejudice on the part ofSir John Bridge, but the desire to injure the unfortunate prisoner inthe public mind and so continue the evil work of the journalists. 

The effect of this prejudice and rancour on the part of the wholecommunity had various consequences. 

The mere news that Oscar Wilde had been arrested and taken to Hollowaystartled London and gave the signal for a strange exodus. Every trainto Dover was crowded; every steamer to Calais thronged with members ofthe aristocratic and leisured classes, who seemed to prefer Paris, oreven Nice out of the season, to a city like London, where the policemight act with such unexpected vigour. The truth was that the culturedæsthetes whom I have already described had been thunderstruck by thefacts which the Queensberry trial had laid bare. For the first timethey learned that such houses as Taylor's were under policesupervision, and that creatures like Wood and Parker were classifiedand watched. They had imagined that in "the home of liberty" suchpractices passed unnoticed. It came as a shock to their preconceivedideas that the police in London knew a great many things which theywere not supposed to concern themselves with, and this unwelcome glareof light drove the vicious forth in wild haste. 

Never was Paris so crowded with members of the English governingclasses; here was to be seen a famous ex-Minister; there the fine faceof the president of a Royal society; at one table in the Café de laPaix, a millionaire recently ennobled, and celebrated for hisexquisite taste in art; opposite to him a famous general. It was evensaid that a celebrated English actor took a return ticket for three orfour days to Paris, just to be in the fashion. The mummer returnedquickly; but the majority of the migrants stayed abroad for some time. The wind of terror which had swept them across the Channel opposedtheir return, and they scattered over the Continent from Naples toMonte Carlo and from Palermo to Seville under all sorts of pretexts. 

The gravest result of the magistrate's refusal to accept bail waspurely personal. Oscar's income dried up at the source. His books werewithdrawn from sale; no one went to see his plays; every shop keeperto whom he owed a penny took immediate action against him. Judgmentswere obtained and an execution put into his house in Tite Street. Within a month, at the very moment when he most needed money to feecounsel and procure evidence, he was beggared and sold up, and becauseof his confinement in prison the sale was conducted under suchconditions that, whereas in ordinary times his effects would havecovered the claims against him three times over, all his belongingswent for nothing, and the man who was making £4, 000 or £5, 000 a yearby his plays was adjudicated a bankrupt for a little over £1, 000. £600of this sum were for Lord Queensberry's costs which the Queensberryfamily--Lord Douglas of Hawick, Lord Alfred Douglas and theirmother--had promised in writing to pay, but when the time came, absolutely refused to pay. Most unfortunately many of Oscar's MSS. Were stolen or lost in the disorder of the sheriff's legalproceedings. Wilde could have cried, with Shylock, "You take my lifewhen you do take away the means whereby I live. " But at the time nineEnglishmen out of ten applauded what was practically persecution. 

A worse thing remains to be told. The right of free speech whichEnglishmen pride themselves on had utterly disappeared, as it alwaysdoes disappear in England when there is most need of it. It wasimpossible to say one word in Wilde's defence or even in extenuationof his sin in any London print. At this time I owned the greater partof the _Saturday Review_ and edited it. Here at any rate one mighthave thought I could have set forth in a Christian country a sane andliberal view. I had no wish to minimise the offence. No one condemnedunnatural vice more than I, but Oscar Wilde was a distinguished man ofletters; he had written beautiful things, and his good works shouldhave been allowed to speak in his favour. I wrote an article settingforth this view. My printers immediately informed me that theythought the article ill-advised, and when I insisted they said theywould prefer not to print it. Yet there was nothing in it beyond aplea to suspend judgment and defer insult till after the trial. Messrs. Smith and Sons, the great booksellers, who somehow got wind ofthe matter (through my publisher, I believe), sent to say that theywould not sell any paper that attempted to defend Oscar Wilde; itwould be better even, they added, not to mention his name. The Englishtradesman-censors were determined that this man should have Jedburgjustice. I should have ruined the _Saturday Review_ by the mereattempt to treat the matter fairly. 

In this extremity I went to the great leader of public opinion inEngland. Mr. Arthur Walter, the manager of _The Times_, had alwaysbeen kind to me; he was a man of balanced mind, who had taken highhonours at Oxford in his youth, and for twenty years had rubbedshoulders with the leading men in every rank of life. I went down tostay with him in Berkshire, and I urged upon him what I regarded asthe aristocratic view. In England it was manifest that under thecircumstances there was no chance of a fair trial, and it seemed to methe duty of _The Times_ to say plainly that this man should not becondemned beforehand, and that if he were condemned his merits shouldbe taken into consideration in his punishment, as well as hisdemerits. 

While willing to listen to me, Mr. Walter did not share my views. Aman who had written a great poem or a great play did not rank in hisesteem with a man who had won a skirmish against a handful of unarmedsavages, or one who had stolen a piece of land from some barbariansand annexed it to the Empire. In his heart he held the view of theEnglish landed aristocracy, that the ordinary successful general oradmiral or statesman was infinitely more important than a Shakespeareor a Browning. He could not be persuaded to believe that the names ofGladstone, Disraeli, Wolseley, Roberts, and Wood, would diminish andfade from day to day till in a hundred years they would scarcely beknown, even to the educated; whereas the fame of Browning, Swinburne, Meredith, or even Oscar Wilde, would increase and grow brighter withtime, till, in one hundred or five hundred years, no one would dreamof comparing pushful politicians like Gladstone or Beaconsfield withmen of genius like Swinburne or Wilde. He simply would not see it andwhen he perceived that the weight of argument was against him hedeclared that if it were true, it was so much the worse for humanity. In his opinion anyone living a clean life was worth more than awriter of love songs or the maker of clever comedies--Mr. John Smithworth more than Shakespeare!

He was as deaf as only Englishmen can be deaf to the plea for abstractjustice. 

"You don't even say Wilde's innocent, " he threw at me more than once. 

"I believe him to be innocent, " I declared truthfully, "but it isbetter that a hundred guilty men go free than that one man should nothave a fair trial. And how can this man have a fair trial now when thepapers for weeks past have been filled with violent diatribes againsthim and his works?"

One point, peculiarly English, he used again and again. 

"So long as substantial justice is done, " he said, "it is all we careabout. "

"Substantial justice will never be done, " I cried, "so long as that isyour ideal. Your arrow can never go quite so high as it is aimed. " ButI got no further. 

If Oscar Wilde had been a general or a so-called empire builder, _TheTimes_ might have affronted public opinion and called attention to hisvirtues, and argued that they should be taken in extenuation of hisoffences; but as he was only a writer no one seemed to owe himanything or to care what became of him. 

Mr. Walter was fair-minded in comparison with most men of his class. There was staying with him at this very time an Irish gentleman, wholistened to my pleading for Wilde with ill-concealed indignation. Excited by Arthur Walter's obstinacy to find fresh arguments, Ipointed out that Wilde's offence was pathological and not criminal andwould not be punished in a properly constituted state. 

"You admit, " I said, "that we punish crime to prevent it spreading;wipe this sin off the statute book and you would not increase thesinners by one: then why punish them?"

"Oi'd whip such sinners to death, so I would, " cried the Irishman;"hangin's too good for them. "

"You only punished lepers, " I went on, "in the middle ages, becauseyou believed that leprosy was catching: this malady is not evencatching. "

"Faith, Oi'd punish it with extermination, " cried the Irishman. 

Exasperated by the fact that his idiot prejudice was hurting myfriend, I said at length with a smile:

"You are very bitter: I'm not; you see, I have no sexual jealousy toinflame me. "

On this Mr. Walter had to interfere between us to keep the peace, butthe mischief was done: my advocacy remained without effect. 

It is very curious how deep-rooted and enduring is the prejudiceagainst writers in England. Not only is no attempt made to rate themat their true value, at the value which posterity puts upon theirwork; but they are continually treated as outcasts and denied the mostordinary justice. The various trials of Oscar Wilde are to the thinkeran object lesson in the force of this prejudice, but some may explainthe prejudice against Wilde on the score of the peculiar abhorrencewith which the offence ascribed to him is regarded in England. 

Let me take an example from the papers of to-day--I am writing inJanuary, 1910. I find in my _Daily Mail_ that at Bow Street policecourt a London magistrate, Sir Albert de Rutzen, ordered thedestruction of 272 volumes of the English translation of Balzac's "LesContes Drolatiques" on the ground that the book was obscene. "LesContes Drolatiques" is an acknowledged masterpiece, and is not nearlyso free spoken as "Lear" or "Hamlet" or "Tom Jones" or "Anthony andCleopatra. " What would be thought of a French magistrate or a Germanmagistrate who ordered a fair translation of "Hamlet" or of "Lear" tobe burnt, because of its obscenity? He would be regarded as demented. One can only understand such a judgment as an isolated fact. But inEngland this monstrous stupidity is the rule. Sir A. De Rutzen was notsatisfied with ordering the books to be burnt and fining thebookseller; he went on to justify his condemnation and praise thepolice:

"It is perfectly clear to my mind that a more foul and filthy blackspot has not been found in London for a long time, and the police havedone uncommonly well in bringing the matter to light. I consider thatthe books are likely to do a great deal of harm. "

Fancy the state of mind of the man who can talk such poisonousnonsense; who, with the knowledge of what Piccadilly is at night inhis mind, can speak of the translation of a masterpiece as one of the"most filthy black spots" to be found in London. To say that such aman is insane is, I suppose, going too far; but to say that he doesnot know the value or the meaning of the words he uses, to say that heis driven by an extraordinary and brainless prejudice, is certainlythe modesty of truth. 

It is this sort of perversity on the part of Sir A. De Rutzen and ofnine out of ten Englishmen that makes Frenchmen, Germans and Italiansspeak of them as ingrained hypocrites. But they are not nearly sohypocritical as they are uneducated and unintelligent, rebellious tothe humanising influence of art and literature. The ordinaryEnglishman would much prefer to be called an athlete than a poet. ThePuritan Commonwealth Parliament ordered the pictures of Charles I. Tobe sold, but such of them as were indecent to be burnt; accordinglyhalf a dozen Titians were solemnly burnt and the nucleus of a greatnational gallery destroyed. One can see Sir A. De Rutzen solemnlyassisting at this holocaust and devoutly deciding that all themasterpieces which showed temptingly a woman's beautiful breasts were"foul and filthy black spots" and must be burnt as harmful. Or ratherone can see that Sir A. De Rutzen has in two and a half centuriesmanaged to get a little beyond this primitive Puritan standpoint: hemight allow a pictorial masterpiece to-day to pass unburnt, but awritten masterpiece is still to him anathema. 

A part of this prejudice comes from the fact that the English have aspecial dislike for every form of sexual indulgence. It is notconsistent with their ideal of manhood, and, like the poor foolishmagistrate, they have not yet grasped the truth, which one might havethought the example of the Japanese would have made plain by now tothe dullest, that a nation may be extraordinarily brave, vigorous andself-sacrificing and at the same time intensely sensuous, andsensitive to every refinement of passion. If the great English middleclass were as well educated as the German middle class, such ajudgment as this of Sir A. De Rutzen would be scouted as ridiculousand absurd, or rather would be utterly unthinkable. 

In Anglo-Saxon countries both the artist and the sexual passion areunder a ban. The race is more easily moved martially than amorouslyand it regards its overpowering combative instincts as virtuous justas it is apt to despise what it likes to call "languishing love. " Thepoet Middleton couldn't put his dream city in England--a city of fairskies and fairer streets:

 And joy was there; in all the city's length I saw no fingers trembling for the sword; Nathless they doted on their bodies' strength, That they might gentler be. Love was their lord. 

Both America and England to-day offer terrifying examples of thedespotism of an unenlightened and vulgar public opinion in all thehighest concerns of man--in art, in literature and in religion. Thereis no despotism on earth so soul-destroying to the artist: it is baserand more degrading than anything known in Russia. The consequences ofthis tyranny of an uneducated middle class and a barbarian aristocracyare shown in detail in the trial of Oscar Wilde and in the savagerywith which he was treated by the English officers of justice. 

CHAPTER XV

As soon as I heard that Oscar Wilde was arrested and bail refused, Itried to get permission to visit him in Holloway. I was told I shouldhave to see him in a kind of barred cage; and talk to him from thedistance of at least a yard. It seemed to me too painful for both ofus, so I went to the higher authorities and got permission to see himin a private room. The Governor met me at the entrance of the prison:to my surprise he was more than courteous; charmingly kind andsympathetic. 

"We all hope, " he said, "that he will soon be free; this is no placefor him. Everyone likes him, everyone. It is a great pity. "

He evidently felt much more than he said, and my heart went out tohim. He left me in a bare room furnished with a small square dealtable and two kitchen chairs. In a moment or two Oscar came inaccompanied by a warder. In silence we clasped hands. He lookedmiserably anxious and pulled down and I felt that I had nothing to dobut cheer him up. 

"I am glad to see you, " I cried. "I hope the warders are kind toyou?"

"Yes, Frank, " he replied in a hopeless way, "but everyone else isagainst me: it is hard. "

"Don't harbour that thought, " I answered; "many whom you don't know, and whom you will never know, are on your side. Stand for them and forthe myriads who are coming afterwards and make a fight of it. "

"I'm afraid I'm not a fighter, Frank, as you once said, " he repliedsadly, "and they won't give me bail. How can I get evidence or thinkin this place of torture? Fancy refusing me bail, " he went on, "thoughI stayed in London when I might have gone abroad. "

"You should have gone, " I cried in French, hot with indignation; "whydidn't you go, the moment you came out of the court?"

"I couldn't think at first, " he answered in the same tongue; "Icouldn't think at all: I was numbed. "

"Your friends should have thought of it, " I insisted, not knowing thenthat they had done their best. 

At this moment the warder, who had turned away towards the door, cameback. 

"You are not allowed, sir, to talk in a foreign language, " he saidquietly. "You will understand we have to obey the rules. Besides, theprisoner must not speak of this prison as a place of torture. I oughtto report that; I'm sorry. "

The misery of it all brought tears to my eyes: his gaolers even feltsorry for him. I thanked the warder and turned again to Oscar. 

"Don't let yourself fear at all, " I exclaimed. "You will have yourchance again and must take it; only don't lose heart and don't bewitty next time in court. The jury hate it. They regard it asintellectual superiority and impudence. Treat all things seriously andwith grave dignity. Defend yourself as David would have defended hislove for Jonathan. Make them all listen to you. I would undertake toget free with half your talent even if I were guilty; a resolution notto be beaten is always half the battle. .. . Make your trial memorablefrom your entrance into the court to the decision of the jury. Useevery opportunity and give your real character a chance to fight foryou. "

I spoke with tears in my eyes and rage in my heart. 

"I will do my best, Frank, " he said despondingly, "I will do my best. If I were out of this place, I might think of something, but it isdreadful to be here. One has to go to bed by daylight and the nightsare interminable. "

"Haven't you a watch?" I cried. 

"They don't allow you to have a watch in prison, " he replied. 

"But why not?" I asked in amazement. I did not know that every rulein an English prison is cunningly devised to annoy and degrade theunfortunate prisoner. 

Oscar lifted his hands hopelessly:

"One may not smoke; not even a cigarette; and so I cannot sleep. Allthe past comes back; the golden hours; the June days in London withthe sunshine dappling the grass and the silken rustling of the wind inthe trees. Do you remember Wordsworth speaks 'of the wind in thetrees'? How I wish I could hear it now, breathe it once again. I mightget strength then to fight. "

"Is the food good?" I asked. 

"It's all right; I get it from outside. The food doesn't matter. It isthe smoking I miss, the freedom, the companionship. My mind will notact when I'm alone. I can only think of what has been and tormentmyself. Already I've been punished enough for the sins of a lifetime. "

"Is there nothing I can do for you, nothing you want?" I asked. 

"No, Frank, " he answered, "it was kind of you to come to see me, Iwish I could tell you how kind. "

"Don't think of it, " I said; "if I'm any good send for me at anymoment: a word will bring me. They allow you books, don't they?"

"Yes, Frank. "

"I wish you would get the 'Apologia of Plato', " I said, "and take abig draught of that deathless smiling courage of Socrates. "

"Ah, Frank, how much more humane were the Greeks. They let his friendssee him and talk to him by the hour, though he was condemned to death. There were no warders there to listen, no degrading conditions. "

"Quite true, " I cried, suddenly realising how much better Oscar Wildewould have been treated in Athens two thousand years ago. "Ourprogress is mainly change; we don't shed our cruelty; even Christ hasnot been able to humanise us. "

He nodded his head. At first he seemed greatly distressed; but Imanaged to encourage him a little, for at the close of the talk hequestioned me:

"Do you really think I may win, Frank?"

"Of course you'll win, " I replied. "You must win: you must not thinkof being beaten. Take it that they will not want to convict you. Sayit to yourself in the court; don't let yourself fear for a moment. Your enemies are merely stupid, unhappy creatures crawling about for afew miserable years between earth and sun; fated to die and leave notrace, no memory. Remember you are fighting for all of us, for everyartist and thinker who is to be born into the English world. .. . It isbetter to win like Galileo than to be burnt like Giordano Bruno. Don'tlet them make another martyr. Use all your brains and eloquence andcharm. Don't be afraid. They will not condemn you if they know you. "

"I have been trying to think, " he said, "trying to make up my mind tobear one whole year of this life. It's dreadful, Frank, I had no ideathat prison was so dreadful. "

The warder again drew down his brows. I hastened to change thesubject. 

"That's why you must resolve not to have any more of it, " I said; "Iwish I had seen you when you came out of court, but I really thoughtyou didn't want me; you turned away from me. "

"Oh, Frank, how could I?" he cried. "I should have been so grateful toyou. "

"I'm very shortsighted, " I rejoined, "and I thought you did. It is ourfoolish little vanities which prevent us acting as we should. But letme know if I can do anything for you. If you want me, I'll come at anymoment. "

I said this because the warder had already given me a sign; he nowsaid:

"Time is up. "

Once again we clasped hands. 

"You must win, " I said; "don't think of defeat. Even your enemies arehuman. Convert them. You can do it, believe me, " and I went withdread in my heart, and pity and indignation. 

 Be still, be still, my soul; it is but for a season: Let us endure an hour and see injustice done. 

The Governor met me almost at the door. 

"It is terrible, " I exclaimed. 

"This is no place for him, " he answered. He has nothing to do with ushere. Everyone likes him and pities him: the warders, everyone. Anything I can do to make his stay tolerable shall be done. "

We shook hands. I think there were tears in both our eyes as weparted. This humane Governor had taught me that Oscar's gentleness andkindness--his sweetness of nature--would win all hearts if it had timeto make itself known. Yet there he was in prison. His face and figurecame before me again and again: the unshaven face; the frightened, sadair; the hopeless, toneless voice. The cleanliness even of the barehard room was ugly; the English are foolish enough to degrade thosethey punish. Revolt was blazing in me. 

As I went away I looked up at the mediæval castellated gateway of theplace, and thought how perfectly the architecture suited the spirit ofthe institution. The whole thing belongs to the middle ages, and notto our modern life. Fancy having both prison and hospital side byside; indeed a hospital even in the prison; torture andlovingkindness; punishment and pity under the same roof. What a blankcontradiction and stupidity. Will civilisation never reach humaneideals? Will men always punish most severely the sins they do notunderstand and which hold for them no temptation? Did Jesus suffer invain?

 * * * * *

Oscar Wilde was committed on the 19th of April; a "true bill" wasfound against him by the grand jury on the 24th; and, as the case wasput down for trial at the Old Bailey almost immediately, apostponement was asked for till the May sessions, on the ground firstthat the defence had not had time to prepare their case and further, that in the state of popular feeling at the moment, Mr. Wilde wouldnot get a fair and impartial trial. Mr. Justice Charles, who was totry the case, heard the application and refused it peremptorily: "Anysuggestion that the defendant would not have a fair trial wasgroundless, " he declared; yet he knew better. In his summing up of thecase on May 1st he stated that "for weeks it had been impossible toopen a newspaper without reading some reference to the case, " and whenhe asked the jury not to allow "preconceived opinions to weigh withthem" he was admitting the truth that every newspaper reference wascharged with dislike and contempt of Oscar Wilde. A fair trial indeed!

The trial took place at the Old Bailey, three days later, April 27th, 1895, before Mr. Justice Charles. Mr. C. F. Gill and A. Gill with Mr. Horace Avory appeared for the Public Prosecutor. Mr. Wilde was againdefended by Sir Edward Clarke, Mr. Charles Mathews and Mr. TraversHumphreys, while Mr. J. P. Grain and Mr. Paul Taylor were counsel forthe other prisoner. The trial began on a Saturday and the whole of theday was taken up with a legal argument. I am not going to give thedetails of the case. I shall only note the chief features of it andthe unfairness which characterised it. 

Sir Edward Clarke pointed out that there was one set of charges underthe Criminal Law Amendment Act and another set of charges ofconspiracy. He urged that the charges of conspiracy should be dropped. Under the counts alleging conspiracy, the defendants could not becalled on as witnesses, which put the defence at a disadvantage. Inthe end the Judge decided that there were inconveniences; but he wouldnot accede to Sir Edward Clarke's request. Later in the trial, however, Mr. Gill himself withdrew the charges of conspiracy, and theJudge admitted explicitly in his summing up that, if he had known theevidence which was to be offered, he would not have allowed thesecharges of conspiracy to be made. By this confession he apparentlycleared his conscience just as Pilate washed his hands. But the wronghad already been done. Not only did this charge of conspiracyembarrass the defence, but if it had never been made, as it shouldnever have been made, then Sir Edward Clarke would have insisted andcould have insisted properly that the two men should be triedseparately, and Wilde would not have been discredited by being coupledwith Taylor, whose character was notorious and who had already been inthe hands of the police on a similar charge. 

This was not the only instance of unfairness in the conduct of theprosecution. The Treasury put a youth called Atkins in the box, thusdeclaring him to be at least a credible witness; but Atkins was provedby Sir Edward Clarke to have perjured himself in the court in the mostbarefaced way. In fact the Treasury witnesses against Wilde were allblackmailers and people of the lowest character, with two exceptions. The exceptions were a boy named Mavor and a youth named Shelley. Withregard to Mavor the judge admitted that no evidence had been offeredthat he could place before the jury; but in his summing up he wasgreatly affected by the evidence of Shelley. Shelley was a young manwho seemed to be afflicted with a species of religious mania. Mr. Justice Charles gave great weight to his testimony. He invited thejury to say that "although there was, in his correspondence which hadbeen read, evidence of excitability, to talk of him as a young man whodid not know what he was saying was to exaggerate the effect of hisletters. " He went on to ask with much solemnity: "Why should thisyoung man have invented a tale, which must have been unpleasant to himto present from the witness box?"

In the later trial before Mr. Justice Wills the Judge had to rule outthe evidence of Shelley _in toto_, because it was wholly withoutcorroboration. If the case before Mr. Justice Charles had not beenconfused with the charges of conspiracy, there is no doubt that he toowould have ruled out the evidence of Shelley, and then his summing upmust have been entirely in favour of Wilde. 

The singular malevolence of the prosecution also can be estimated bytheir use of the so-called "literary argument. " Wilde had written in amagazine called _The Chameleon_. _The Chameleon_ contained an immoralstory, with which Wilde had nothing to do, and which he hadrepudiated as offensive. Yet the prosecution tried to make himresponsible in some way for the immorality of a writing which he knewnothing about. 

Wilde had said two poems of Lord Alfred Douglas were "beautiful. " Theprosecution declared that these poems were in essence a defence of thevilest immorality, but is it not possible for the most passionatepoem, even the most vicious, to be "beautiful"? Nothing was everwritten more passionate than one of the poems of Sappho. Yet afragment has been selected out and preserved by the admiration of ahundred generations of men. The prosecution was in the position allthe time of one who declared that a man who praised a nude picturemust necessarily be immoral. Such a contention would be inconceivablein any other civilised country. Even the Judge was on much the sameintellectual level. It would not be fair, he admitted, to condemn apoet or dramatic writer by his works and he went on:

"It is unfortunately true that while some of our greatest writers havepassed long years in writing nothing but the most wholesomeliterature--literature of the highest genius, and which anybody canread, such as the literature of Sir Walter Scott and Charles Dickens;it is also true that there were other great writers, more especiallyin the eighteenth century, perfectly noble-minded men themselves, whosomehow or other have permitted themselves to pen volumes which it ispainful for persons of ordinary modesty and decency to read. "

It would have been more honest and more liberal to have brushed awaythe nonsensical indictment in a sentence. Would the Treasury have putShakespeare on trial for "Hamlet" or "Lear, " or would they havecondemned the writer of "The Song of Solomon" for immorality, or sentSt. Paul to prison for his "Epistle to the Corinthians"?

Middle-class prejudice and hypocritic canting twaddle from Judge andadvocate dragged their weary length along for days and days. OnWednesday Sir Edward Clarke made his speech for the defence. Hepointed out the unfairness of the charges of conspiracy which hadtardily been withdrawn. He went on to say that the most remarkablecharacteristic of the case was the fact that it had been the occasionfor conduct on the part of certain sections of the press which wasdisgraceful, and which imperilled the administration of justice, andwas in the highest degree injurious to the client for whom he waspleading. Nothing, he concluded, could be more unfair than the wayMr. Wilde had been criticised in the press for weeks and weeks. Butno judge interfered on his behalf. 

Sir Edward Clarke evidently thought that to prove unfairness would noteven influence the minds of the London jury. He was content torepudiate the attempt to judge Mr. Wilde by his books or by an articlewhich he had condemned, or by poems which he had not written. He laidstress on the fact that Mr. Wilde had himself brought the chargeagainst Lord Queensberry which had provoked the whole investigation:"on March 30th, Mr. Wilde, " he said, "knew the catalogue ofaccusations"; and he asked: did the jury believe that, if he had beenguilty, he would have stayed in England and brought about the firsttrial? Insane would hardly be the word for such conduct, if Mr. Wildereally had been guilty. Moreover, before even hearing the specificaccusations, Mr. Wilde had gone into the witness box to deny them. 

Clarke's speech was a good one, but nothing out of the common: no newarguments were used in it; not one striking illustration. Needless tosay the higher advocacy of sympathy was conspicuous by its absence. 

Again, the interesting part of the trial was the cross-examination ofOscar Wilde. 

Mr. Gill examined him at length on the two poems which Lord AlfredDouglas had contributed to _The Chameleon_, which Mr. Wilde had called"beautiful. " The first was in "Praise of Shame, " the second was onecalled "Two Loves. " Sir Edward Clarke, interposing, said:

"That's not Mr. Wilde's, Mr. Gill. "

Mr. Gill: "I am not aware that I said it was. "

Sir Edward Clarke: "I thought you would be glad to say it was not. "

Mr. Gill insisted that Mr. Wilde should explain the poem in "Praise ofShame. "

Mr. Wilde said that the first poem seemed obscure, but, when pressedas to the "love" described in the second poem, he let himself go forthe first time and perhaps the only time during the trial; he said:

"The 'love' that dare not speak its name in this century is such agreat affection of an older for a younger man as there was betweenDavid and Jonathan, such as Plato made the very base of his philosophyand such as you find in the sonnets of Michaelangelo andShakespeare--a deep spiritual affection that is as pure as it isperfect, and dictates great works of art like those of Shakespeare andMichaelangelo and those two letters of mine, such as they are, andwhich is in this century misunderstood--so misunderstood that, onaccount of it, I am placed where I am now. It is beautiful; it isfine; it is the noblest form of affection. It is intellectual, and itrepeatedly exists between an elder and younger man, when the elder manhas intellect, and the younger man has all the joy, hope and glamourof life. That it should be so the world does not understand. It mocksat it and sometimes puts one into the pillory for it. "

At this stage there was loud applause in the gallery of the court, andthe learned Judge at once said: "I shall have the Court cleared ifthere is the slightest manifestation of feeling. There must becomplete silence preserved. "

Mr. Justice Charles repressed the cheering in favour of Mr. OscarWilde with great severity, though Mr. Justice Collins did not attemptto restrain the cheering which filled his court and accompanied thedispersing crowd into the street on the acquittal of Lord Queensberry. 

In spite, however, of the unfair criticisms of the press; in spite ofthe unfair conduct of the prosecution, and in spite of the manifestprejudice and Philistine ignorance of the Judge, the jury disagreed. 

Then followed the most dramatic incident of the whole trial. Once moreSir Edward Clarke applied for bail on behalf of Oscar Wilde. "Afterwhat has happened, " he said, "I do not think the Crown will make anyobjection to this application. " The Crown left the matter to theJudge, no doubt in all security; for the Judge immediately refused theapplication. Sir Edward Clarke then went on to say that, in the caseof a re-trial, it ought not to take place immediately. He continued:

"The burden of those engaged in the case is very heavy, and I think itonly right that the Treasury should have an opportunity between thisand another session of considering the mode in which the case shouldbe presented, if indeed it is presented at all. "

Mr. Gill immediately rose to the challenge. 

"The case will certainly be tried again, " he declared, "whether it isto be tried again at once or in the next sessions will be a matter ofconvenience. Probably the most desirable course will be for the caseto go to the next sessions. That is the usual course. "

Mr. Justice Charles: "If that is the usual course, let it be so. "

The next session of the Central Criminal Court opened on the 20th ofthe same month. 

Not three weeks' respite, still it might be enough: it wasinconceivable that a Judge in Chambers would refuse to accept bail:fortunately the law allows him no option. 

 * * * * *

The application for bail was made in due course to a Judge inChambers, and in spite of the bad example of the magistrate, and ofMr. Justice Charles, it was granted and Wilde was set free in his ownrecognizance of £2, 500 with two other sureties for £1, 250 each. Itspoke volumes for the charm and fascination of the man that peoplewere found to undertake this onerous responsibility. Their namesdeserve to be recorded; one was Lord Douglas of Hawick, the other aclergyman, the Rev. Stewart Headlam. I offered to be one bail: but Iwas not a householder at the time and my name was, therefore, notacceptable. I suppose the Treasury objected, which shows, I aminclined to think, some glimmering of sense on its part. 

As soon as the bail was accepted I began to think of preparations forOscar's escape. It was high time something was done to save him fromthe wolves. The day after his release a London morning journal was notashamed to publish what it declared was a correct analysis of thevoting of the jury on the various counts. According to this authority, ten jurors were generally for conviction and two against, in the caseof Wilde; the statement was widely accepted because it added that thevoting was more favourable to Taylor than to Wilde, which was sounexpected and so senseless that it carried with it a certainplausibility: _Credo quia incredible_. 

I had seen enough of English justice and English judges and Englishjournals to convince me that Oscar Wilde had no more chance of a fairtrial than if he had been an Irish "Invincible. " Everyone had made uphis mind and would not even listen to reason: he was practicallycertain to be convicted, and if convicted perfectly certain to bepunished with savage ferocity. The judge would probably think he wasshowing impartiality by punishing him for his qualities of charm andhigh intelligence. For the first time in my life I understood the fullsignificance of Montaigne's confession that if he were accused ofstealing the towers of Notre Dame, he would fly the kingdom ratherthan risk a trial, and Montaigne was a lawyer. I set to work at onceto complete my preparations. 

I did not think I ran any risk in helping Oscar to get away. Thenewspapers had seized the opportunity of the trials before themagistrate and before Mr. Justice Charles and had overwhelmed thepublic with such a sea of nauseous filth and impurity as could only beexposed to the public nostrils in pudibond England. Everyone, Ithought, must be sick of the testimony and eager to have done with thewhole thing. In this I may have been mistaken. The hatred of Wildeseemed universal and extraordinarily malignant. 

I wanted a steam yacht. Curiously enough on the very day when I wasthinking of running down to Cowes to hire one, a gentleman at lunchmentioned that he had one in the Thames. I asked him could I charterit?

"Certainly, " he replied, "and I will let you have it for the bare costfor the next month or two. "

"One month will do for me, " I said. 

"Where are you going?" he asked. 

I don't know why, but a thought came into my head: I would tell himthe truth, and see what he would say. I took him aside and told himthe bare facts. At once he declared that the yacht was at my servicefor such work as that without money: he would be too glad to lend itto me: it was horrible that such a man as Wilde should be treated as acommon criminal. 

He felt as Henry VIII felt in Shakespeare's play of that name:

 ". .. There's some of ye, I see, More out of malice than integrity, Would try him to the utmost, . .. "

It was not the generosity in my friend's offer that astonished me, butthe consideration for Wilde; I thought the lenity so singular inEngland that I feel compelled to explain it. Though an Englishman bornand bred my friend was by race a Jew--a man of the widest culture, whohad no sympathy whatever with the vice attributed to Oscar. Feelingconsoled because there was at least one generous, kind heart in theworld, I went next day to Willie Wilde's house in Oakley Street to seeOscar. I had written to him on the previous evening that I was comingto take Oscar out to lunch. 

Willie Wilde met me at the door; he was much excited apparently by thenotoriety attaching to Oscar; he was volubly eager to tell me that, though we had not been friends, yet my support of Oscar was mostfriendly and he would therefore bury the hatchet. He had neverinterested me, and I was unconscious of any hatchet and carelesswhether he buried it or blessed it. I repeated drily that I had cometo take Oscar to lunch. 

"I know you have, " he said, "and it's most kind of you; but he can'tgo. "

"Why not?" I asked as I went in. 

Oscar was gloomy, depressed, and evidently suffering. Willie'stheatrical insincerity had annoyed me a little, and I was eager to getaway. Suddenly I saw Sherard, who has since done his best for Oscar'smemory. In his book there is a record of this visit of mine. He wasstanding silently by the wall. 

"I've come to take you to lunch, " I said to Oscar. 

"But he cannot go out, " cried Willie. 

"Of course he can, " I insisted, "I've come to take him. "

"But where to?" asked Willie. 

"Yes, Frank, where to?" repeated Oscar meekly. 

"Anywhere you like, " I said, "the Savoy if you like, the Café Royalfor choice. "

"Oh, Frank, I dare not, " cried Oscar. 

"No, no, " cried Willie, "there would be a scandal; someone'll insulthim and it would do harm; set people's backs up. "

"Oh, Frank, I dare not, " echoed Oscar. 

"No one will insult him. There will be no scandal, " I replied, "and itwill do good. "

"But what will people say?" cried Willie. 

"No one ever knows what people will say, " I retorted, "and peoplealways speak best of those who don't care a damn what they do say. "

"Oh, Frank, I could not go to a place like the Savoy where I am wellknown, " objected Oscar. 

"All right, " I agreed, "you shall go where you like. All London isbefore us. I must have a talk with you, and it will do you good to getout into the air, and sun yourself and feel the wind in your face. Come, there's a hansom at the door. "

It was not long before I had conquered his objections and Willie'sabsurdities and taken him with me. Scarcely had we left the house whenhis spirits began to lift, and he rippled into laughter. 

"Really, Frank, it is strange, but I do not feel frightened anddepressed any more, and the people don't boo and hiss at me. Is it notdreadful the way they insult the fallen?"

"We are not going to talk about it, " I said; "we are going to talk ofvictories and not of defeats. "

"Ah, Frank, there will be no more victories for me. "

"Nonsense, " I cried; "now where are we going?"

"Some quiet place where I shall not be known. "

"You really would not like the Café Royal?" I asked. "Nothing willhappen to you, and I think you would probably find that one or twopeople would wish you luck. You have had a rare bad time, and theremust be some people who understand what you have gone through and knowthat it is sufficient punishment for any sin. "

"No, Frank, " he persisted, "I cannot, I really cannot. "

At length we decided on a restaurant in Great Portland Street. Wedrove there and had a private room. 

I had two purposes in me, springing from the one root, the intensedesire to help him. I felt sure that if the case came up again fortrial he would only be convicted through what I may call good, honesttestimony. The jury with their English prejudice; or rather I shouldsay with their healthy English instincts would not take the evidenceof vile blackmailers against him; he could only be convicted throughuntainted evidence such as the evidence of the chambermaids at theSavoy Hotel, and their evidence was over two years old and was weak, inasmuch as the facts, if facts, were not acted upon by themanagement. Still their testimony was very clear and very positive, and, taken together with that of the blackmailers, sufficient toensure conviction. After our lunch I laid this view before Oscar. Heagreed with me that it was probably the chambermaids' testimony whichhad weighed most heavily against him. Their statement and Shelley'shad brought about the injurious tone in the Judge's summing up. TheJudge himself had admitted as much. 

"The chambermaids' evidence is wrong, " Oscar declared. "They aremistaken, Frank. It was not me they spoke about at the Savoy Hotel. Itwas ----. I was never bold enough. I went to see ---- in the morningin his room. "

"Thank God, " I said, "but why didn't Sir Edward Clarke bring thatout?"

"He wanted to; but I would not let him. I told him he must not. I mustbe true to my friend. I could not let him. "

"But he must, " I said, "at any rate if he does not I will. I havethree weeks and in that three weeks I am going to find thechambermaid. I am going to get a plan of your room and your friend'sroom, and I'm going to make her understand that she was mistaken. Sheprobably remembered you because of your size: she mistook you for theguilty person; everybody has always taken you for the ringleader andnot the follower. "

"But what good is it, Frank, what good is it?" he cried. "Even if youconvinced the chambermaid and she retracted; there would still beShelley, and the Judge laid stress on Shelley's evidence asuntainted. "

"Shelley is an accomplice, " I cried, "his testimony needscorroboration. You don't understand these legal quibbles; but therewas not a particle of corroboration. Sir Edward Clarke should have hadhis testimony ruled out. 'Twas that conspiracy charge, " I cried, "which complicated the matter. Shelley's evidence, too, will be ruledout at the next trial, you'll see. "

"Oh, Frank, " he said, "you talk with passion and conviction, as if Iwere innocent. "

"But you are innocent, " I cried in amaze, "aren't you?"

"No, Frank, " he said, "I thought you knew that all along. "

I stared at him stupidly. "No, " I said dully, "I did not know. I didnot believe the accusation. I did not believe it for a moment. "

I suppose the difference in my tone and manner struck him, for hesaid, timidly putting out his hand:

"This will make a great difference to you, Frank?"

"No, " I said, pulling myself together and taking his hand; and after apause I went on: "No: curiously enough it has made no difference to meat all. I do not know why; I suppose I have got more sympathy thanmorality in me. It has surprised me, dumbfounded me. The thing hasalways seemed fantastic and incredible to me and now you make it existfor me; but it has no effect on my friendship; none upon my resolve tohelp you. But I see that the battle is going to be infinitely harderthan I imagined. In fact, now I don't think we have a chance ofwinning a verdict. I came here hoping against fear that it could bewon, though I always felt that it would be better in the present stateof English feeling to go abroad and avoid the risk of a trial. Nowthere is no question: you would be insane, as Clarke said, to stay inEngland. But why on earth did Alfred Douglas, knowing the truth, everwish you to attack Queensberry?"

"He's very bold and obstinate, Frank, " said Oscar weakly. 

"Well, now I must play Crito, " I resumed, smiling, "and take you awaybefore the ship comes from Delos. "

"Oh, Frank, that would be wonderful; but it's impossible, quiteimpossible. I should be arrested before I left London, and shamedagain in public: they would boo at me and shout insults. .. . Oh, it isimpossible; I could not risk it. "

"Nonsense, " I replied, "I believe the authorities would be only tooglad if you went. I think Clarke's challenge to Gill was curiouslyill-advised. He should have let sleeping dogs lie. Combative Gill wascertain to take up the gauntlet. If Clarke had lain low there mighthave been no second trial. But that can't be helped now. Don't believethat it's even difficult to get away; it's easy. I don't propose to goby Folkestone or Dover. "

"But, Frank, what about the people who have stood bail for me? Icouldn't leave them to suffer; they would lose their thousands. "

"I shan't let them lose, " I replied, "I am quite willing to take halfon my own shoulders at once and you can pay the other thousand or sowithin a very short time by writing a couple of plays. American paperswould be only too glad to pay you for an interview. The story of yourescape would be worth a thousand pounds; they would give you almostany price for it. 

"Leave everything to me, but in the meantime I want you to get out inthe air as much as possible. You are not looking well; you are notyourself. "

"That house is depressing, Frank. Willie makes such a merit of givingme shelter; he means well, I suppose; but it is all dreadful. "

My notes of this talk finish in this way, but the conversation left onme a deep impression of Oscar's extraordinary weakness or ratherextraordinary softness of nature backed up and redeemed by a certainmagnanimity: he would not leave the friends in the lurch who had gonebail for him; he would not give his friend away even to save himself;but neither would he exert himself greatly to win free. He was like awoman, I said to myself in wonder, and my pity for him grew keener. He seemed mentally stunned by the sudden fall, by the discovery of howviolently men can hate. He had never seen the wolf in man before; thevile brute instinct that preys upon the fallen. He had not believedthat such exultant savagery existed; it had never come within his ken;now it appalled him. And so he stood there waiting for what mighthappen without courage to do anything but suffer. My heart ached withpity for him, and yet I felt a little impatient with him as well. Whygive up like that? The eternal quarrel of the combative nature withthose who can't or won't fight. 

Before getting into the carriage to drive back to his brother's, Iascertained that he did not need any money. He told me that he hadsufficient even for the expenses of a second trial: this surprised megreatly, for he was very careless about money; but I found out fromhim later that a very noble and cultured woman, a friend of both ofus, Miss S----, a Jewess by race tho' not by religion, had written tohim asking if she could help him financially, as she had beendistressed by hearing of his bankruptcy, and feared that he might bein need. If that were the case she begged him to let her be hisbanker, in order that he might be properly defended. He wrote inreply, saying that he was indeed in uttermost distress, that hewanted money, too, to help his mother as he had always helped her, andthat he supposed the expenses of the second trial would be from £500to £1, 000. Thereupon Miss S---- sent him a cheque for £1, 000, assuringhim that it cost her little even in self-sacrifice, and declaring thatit was only inadequate recognition of the pleasure she had had throughhis delightful talks. Such actions are beyond praise; it is theperfume of such sweet and noble human sympathy that makes this wildbeasts' cage of a world habitable for men. 

Before parting we had agreed to meet a few nights afterwards at Mrs. Leverson's, where he had been invited to dinner, and where I also hadbeen invited. By that time, I thought to myself, all my preparationswould be perfected. 

Looking back now I see clearly that my affection for Oscar Wilde datesfrom his confession to me that afternoon. I had been a friend of hisfor years; but what had bound us together had been purelyintellectual, a community of literary tastes and ambitions. Now histrust in me and frankness had thrown down the barrier between us; andmade me conscious of the extraordinary femininity and gentle weaknessof his nature, and, instead of condemning him as I have alwayscondemned that form of sexual indulgence, I felt only pity for himand a desire to protect and help him. From that day on our friendshipbecame intimate: I began to divine him; I knew now that his wordswould always be more generous and noble than his actions; knew toothat I must take his charm of manner and vivacity of intercourse forreal virtues, and indeed they were as real as the beauty of flowers;and I was aware as by some sixth sense that, where his vanity wasconcerned, I might expect any injustice from him. I was surebeforehand, however, that I should always forgive him, or rather thatI should always accept whatever he did and love him for the charm andsweetness and intellect in him and hold myself more than recompensedfor anything I might be able to do, by his delightful companionship. 

CHAPTER XVI

In spite of the wit of the hostess and her exquisite cordiality, ourdinner at Mrs. Leverson's was hardly a success. Oscar was not himself;contrary to his custom he sat silent and downcast. From time to timehe sighed heavily, and his leaden dejection gradually infected all ofus. I was not sorry, for I wanted to get him away early; by teno'clock we had left the house and were in the Cromwell Road. Hepreferred to walk: without his noticing it I turned up Queen's Gatetowards the park. After walking for ten minutes I said to him:

"I want to speak to you seriously. Do you happen to know where Erithis?"

"No, Frank. "

"It is a little landing place on the Thames, " I went on, "not manymiles away: it can be reached by a fast pair of horses and a broughamin a very short time. There at Erith is a steam yacht ready to startat a moment's notice; she has steam up now, one hundred poundspressure to the square inch in her boilers; her captain's waiting, hercrew ready--a greyhound in leash; she can do fifteen knots an hourwithout being pressed. In one hour she would be free of the Thamesand on the high seas--(delightful phrase, eh?)--high seas indeed wherethere is freedom uncontrolled. 

"If one started now one could breakfast in France, at Boulogne, let ussay, or Dieppe; one could lunch at St. Malo or St. Enogat or any placeyou like on the coast of Normandy, and one could dine comfortably atthe Sables d'Olonne, where there is not an Englishman to be found, andwhere sunshine reigns even in May from morning till night. 

"What do you say, Oscar, will you come and try a homely Frenchbourgeois dinner to-morrow evening at an inn I know almost at thewater's edge? We could sit out on the little terrace and take ourcoffee in peace under the broad vine leaves while watching the silverpathway of the moon widen on the waters. We could smile at themiseries of London and its wolfish courts shivering in cold grey misthundreds of miles away. Does not the prospect tempt you?"

I spoke at leisure, tasting each delight, looking for his gladness. 

"Oh, Frank, " he cried, "how wonderful; but how impossible!"

"Impossible! don't be absurd, " I retorted. "Do you see those lightsyonder?" and I showed him some lights at the Park gate on the top ofthe hill in front of us. 

"Yes, Frank. "

"That's a brougham, " I said, "with a pair of fast horses. It will takeus for a midnight visit to the steam yacht in double-quick time. There's a little library on board of French books and English; I'veordered supper in the cabin--lobster à l'Americaine and a bottle ofPommery. You've never seen the mouth of the Thames at night, have you?It's a scene from wonderland; houses like blobs of indigo fencing youin; ships drifting past like black ghosts in the misty air, and thepurple sky above never so dark as the river, the river with itsshifting lights of ruby and emerald and topaz, like an oily, opaqueserpent gliding with a weird life of its own. .. . Come; you must visitthe yacht. "

I turned to him, but he was no longer by my side. I gasped; what hadhappened? The mist must have hidden him; I ran back ten yards, andthere he was leaning against the railing, hung up with his head on hisarm shaking. 

"What's the matter, Oscar?" I cried. "What on earth's the matter?"

"Oh, Frank, I can't go, " he cried, "I can't. It would be toowonderful; but it's impossible. I should be seized by the police. Youdon't know the police. "

"Nonsense, " I cried, "the police can't stop you and not a man of themwill see you from start to finish. Besides, I have loose money for anyI do meet, and none of them can resist a 'tip. ' You will simply getout of the brougham and walk fifty yards and you will be on the yachtand free. In fact, if you like you shall not come out of the broughamuntil the sailors surround you as a guard of honour. On board theyacht no one will touch you. No warrant runs there. Come on, man!"

"Oh, Frank, " he groaned, "it's impossible!"

"What's impossible?" I insisted. "Let's consider everything anew atbreakfast to-morrow morning in France. If you want to come back, there's nothing to prevent you. The yacht will take you back intwenty-four hours. You will not have broken your bail; you'll havedone nothing wrong. You can go to France, Germany or Siberia so longas you come back by the twentieth of May. Take it that I offer you aholiday in France for ten days. Surely it is better to spend a weekwith me than in that dismal house in Oakley Street, where the verydoor gives one the creeps. "

"Oh, Frank, I'd love to, " he groaned. "I see everything you say, but Ican't. I dare not. I'm caught, Frank, in a trap, I can only wait forthe end. "

I began to get impatient; he was weaker than I had imagined, weaker ahundred times. 

"Come for a trip, then, man, " I cried, and I brought him within twentyyards of the carriage; but there he stopped as if he had made up hismind. 

"No, no, I can't come. I could not go about in France feeling that thepoliceman's hand might fall on my shoulder at any moment. I could notlive a life of fear and doubt: it would kill me in a month. " His tonewas decided. 

"Why let your imagination run away with you?" I pleaded. "Do bereasonable for once. Fear and doubt would soon be over. If the policedon't get you in France within a week after the date fixed for thetrial, you need have no further fear, for they won't get you at all:they don't want you. You're making mountains out of molehills withnervous fancies. "

"I should be arrested. "

"Nonsense, " I replied, "who would arrest you? No one has the right. You are out on bail: your bail answers for you till the 20th. Moneytalks, man; Englishmen always listen to money. It'll do you good withthe public and the jury to come back from France to stand your trial. Do come, " and I took him by the arm; but he would not move. To myastonishment he faced me and said:

"And my sureties?"

"We'll pay 'em, " I replied, "both of 'em, if you break your bail. Come, " but he would not. 

"Frank, if I were not in Oakley Street to-night Willie would tell thepolice. "

"Your brother?" I cried. 

"Yes, " he said, "Willie. "

"Good God!" I exclaimed; "but let him tell. I have not mentioned Erithor the steam yacht to a soul. It's the last place in the world thepolice would suspect and before he talks we shall be out of reach. Besides they cannot do anything; you are doing nothing wrong. Pleasetrust me, you do nothing questionable even till you omit to enter theOld Bailey on the 20th of May. "

"You don't know Willie, " he continued, "he has made my solicitors buyletters of mine; he has blackmailed me. "

"Whew!" I whistled. "But in that case you'll have no compunction inleaving him without saying 'goodbye. ' Let's go and get into thebrougham. "

"No, no, " he repeated, "you don't understand; I can't go, I cannotgo. "

"Do you mean it really?" I asked. "Do you mean you will not come andspend a week yachting with me?"

"I cannot. "

I drew him a few paces nearer the carriage: something of desolationand despair in his voice touched me: I looked at him. Tears werepouring down his face; he was the picture of misery, yet I could notmove him. 

"Come into the carriage, " I said, hoping that the swift wind in hisface would freshen him up, give him a moment's taste of the joy ofliving and sharpen the desire of freedom. 

"Yes, Frank, " he said, "if you will take me to Oakley Street. "

"I would as soon take you to prison, " I replied; "but as you wish. "

The next moment we had got in and were swinging down Queen's Gate. Themist seemed to lend keenness to the air. At the bottom of Queen's Gatethe coachman swept of himself to the left into the Cromwell Road;Oscar seemed to wake out of his stupor. 

"No, Frank, " he cried, "no, no, " and he fumbled at the handle of thedoor, "I must get out; I will not go. I will not go. "

"Sit still, " I said in despair, "I'll tell the coachman, " and I put myhead out of the window and cried:

"Oakley Street, Oakley Street, Chelsea, Robert. "

I do not think I spoke again till we got to Oakley Street. I wasconsumed with rage and contemptuous impatience. I had done the best Iknew and had failed. Why? I had no idea. I have never known why herefused to come. I don't think he knew himself. Such resignation I hadnever dreamt of. It was utterly new to me. I used to think ofresignation in a vague way as of something rather beautiful; eversince, I have thought of it with impatience: resignation is thecourage of the irresolute. Oscar's obstinacy was the obverse of hisweakness. It is astonishing how inertia rules some natures. Theattraction of waiting and doing nothing is intense for those who livein thought and detest action. As we turned into Oakley Street, Oscarsaid to me:

"You are not angry with me, Frank?" and he put out his hand. 

"No, no, " I said, "why should I be angry? You are the master of yourfate. I can only offer advice. "

"Do come and see me soon, " he pleaded. 

"My bolt is shot, " I replied; "but I'll come in two or three days'time, as soon as I have anything of importance to say. .. . Don'tforget, Oscar, the yacht is there and will be there waiting until the20th; the yacht will always be ready and the brougham. "

"Good night, Frank, " he said, "good night, and thank you. "

He got out and went into the house, the gloomy sordid house where thebrother lived who would sell his blood for a price!

 * * * * *

Three or four days later we met again, but to my amaze Oscar had notchanged his mind. To talk of him as cast down is the precise truth; heseemed to me as one who had fallen from a great height and lay halfconscious, stunned on the ground. The moment you moved him, even toraise his head, it gave him pain and he cried out to be left alone. There he lay prone, and no one could help him. It was painful towitness his dumb misery: his mind even, his sunny bright intelligence, seemed to have deserted him. 

Once again he came out with me to lunch. Afterwards we drove throughRegent's Park as the quietest way to Hampstead and had a talk. The airand swift motion did him good. The beauty of the view from the heathseemed to revive him. I tried to cheer him up. 

"You must know, " I said, "that you can win if you want to. You can notonly bring the jury to doubt, but you can make the judge doubt aswell. I was convinced of your innocence in spite of all the witnesses, and I knew more about you than they did. In the trial before Mr. Justice Charles, the thing that saved you was that you spoke of thelove of David and Jonathan and the sweet affection which the commonworld is determined not to understand. There is another point againstyou which you have not touched on yet: Gill asked you what you had incommon with those serving-men and stable boys. You have not explainedthat. You have explained that you love youth, the brightness and thegaiety of it, but you have not explained what seems inexplicable tomost men, that you should go about with servants and strappers. "

"Difficult to explain, Frank, isn't it, without the truth?" Evidentlyhis mind was not working. 

"No, " I replied, "easy, simple. Think of Shakespeare. How did he knowDogberry and Pistol, Bardolph and Doll Tearsheet? He must have goneabout with them. You don't go about with public school boys of yourown class, for you know them; you have nothing to learn from them:they can teach you nothing. But the stable boy and servant you cannotsketch in your plays without knowing him, and you can't know himwithout getting on his level, and letting him call you 'Oscar' andcalling him 'Charlie. ' If you rub this in, the judge will see that heis face to face with the artist in you and will admit at least thatyour explanation is plausible. He will hesitate to condemn you, andonce he hesitates you'll win. 

"You fought badly because you did not show your own naturesufficiently; you did not use your brains in the witness box andalas--" I did not continue; the truth was I was filled with fear; forI suddenly realised that he had shown more courage and self-possessionin the Queensberry trial than in the trial before Mr. Justice Charleswhen so much more was at stake; and I felt that in the next trial hewould be more depressed still, and less inclined to take theinitiative than ever. I had already learned too that I could not helphim; that he would not be lifted out of that "sweet way of despair, "which so attracts the artist spirit. But still I would do my best. 

"Do you understand?" I asked. 

"Of course, Frank, of course, but you have no conception how weary Iam of the whole thing, of the shame and the struggling and the hatred. To see those people coming into the box one after the other to witnessagainst me makes me sick. The self-satisfied grin of the barristers, the pompous foolish judge with his thin lips and cunning eyes and hardjaw. Oh, it's terrible. I feel inclined to stretch out my hands andcry to them, 'Do what you will with me, in God's name, only do itquickly; cannot you see that I am worn out? If hatred gives youpleasure, indulge it. ' They worry one, Frank, with ravening jaws, asdogs worry a rabbit. Yet they call themselves men. It is appalling. "

The day was dying, the western sky all draped with crimson, saffronand rosy curtains: a slight mist over London, purple on the horizon, closer, a mere wash of blue; here and there steeples pierced the thinveil like fingers pointing upward. On the left the dome of St. Paul'shung like a grey bubble over the city; on the right the twin towers ofWestminster with the river and bridge which Wordsworth sang. Peace andbeauty brooding everywhere, and down there lost in the mist the "ratpit" that men call the Courts of Justice. There they judge theirfellows, mistaking indifference for impartiality, as if anyone couldjudge his fellowman without love, and even with love how far short weall come of that perfect sympathy which is above forgiveness and takesdelight in succouring the weak, comforting the broken-hearted. 

 * * * * *

The days went swiftly by and my powerlessness to influence him filledme with self-contempt. Of course, I said to myself, if I knew himbetter I should be able to help him. Would vanity do anything? It washis mainspring; I could but try. He might be led by the hope of makingEnglishmen talk of him again, talk of him as one who had dared toescape; wonder what he would do next. I would try, and I did try. Buthis dejection foiled me: his dislike of the struggle seemed to growfrom day to day. 

He would scarcely listen to me. He was counting the days to the trial:willing to accept an adverse decision; even punishment and misery andshame seemed better than doubt and waiting. He surprised me by saying:

"A year, Frank, they may give me a year? half the possible sentence:the middle course, that English Judges always take: the sort ofcompromise they think safe?" and his eyes searched my face foragreement. 

I felt no such confidence in English Judges; their compromises areusually bargainings; when they get hold of an artist they give rein totheir intuitive fear and hate. 

But I would not discourage him. I repeated:

"You can win, Oscar, if you like:--" my litany to him. His wandejected smile brought tears to my eyes. 

 * * * * *

"Don't you want to make them all speak of you and wonder at you again?If you were in France, everyone would be asking: will he come back ordisappear altogether? or will he manifest himself henceforth in somenew comedies, more joyous and pagan than ever?"

I might as well have talked to the dead: he seemed numbed, hypnotisedwith despair. The punishment had already been greater than he couldbear. I began to fear that prison, if he were condemned to it, wouldrob him of his reason; I sometimes feared that his mind was alreadygiving way, so profound was his depression, so hopeless his despair. 

 * * * * *

The trial opened before Mr. Justice Wills on the 21st of May, 1895. The Treasury had sent Sir Frank Lockwood, Q. C. , M. P. , to lead Mr. C. F. Gill, Mr. Horace Avory, and Mr. Sutton. Oscar was represented by thesame counsel as on the previous occasion. 

The whole trial to me was a nightmare, and it was characterised fromthe very beginning by atrocious prejudice and injustice. The HighPriests of Law were weary of being balked; eager to make an end. Assoon as the Judge took his seat, Sir Edward Clarke applied that thedefendants should be tried separately. As they had already beenacquitted on the charge of conspiracy, there was no reason why theyshould be tried together. 

The Judge called on the Solicitor-General to answer the application. 

The Solicitor-General had nothing to say, but thought it was in theinterests of the defendants to be tried together; for, in case theywere tried separately, it would be necessary to take the defendantTaylor first. 

Sir Edward Clarke tore this pretext to pieces, and Mr. Justice Willsbrought the matter to a conclusion by saying that he was in possessionof all the evidence that had been taken at the previous trials, andhis opinion was that the two defendants should be tried separately. 

Sir Edward Clarke then applied that the case of Mr. Wilde should betaken first as his name stood first on the indictment, and as thefirst count was directed against him and had nothing to do withTaylor. .. . "There are reasons present, I am sure, too, in yourLordship's mind, why Wilde should not be tried immediately after theother defendant. "

Mr. Justice Wills remarked, with seeming indifference, "It ought notto make the least difference, Sir Edward. I am sure I and the jurywill do our best to take care that the last trial has no influence atall on the present. "

Sir Edward Clarke stuck to his point. He urged respectfully that asMr. Wilde's name stood first on the indictment his case should betaken first. 

Mr. Justice Wills said he could not interfere with the discretion ofthe prosecution, nor vary the ordinary procedure. Justice and fairplay on the one side and precedent on the other: justice was waved outof court with serene indifference. Thereupon Sir Edward Clarke pressedthat the trial of Mr. Oscar Wilde should stand over till the nextsessions. But again Mr. Justice Wills refused. Precedent was silentnow but prejudice was strong as ever. 

The case against Taylor went on the whole day and was resumed nextmorning. Taylor went into the box and denied all the charges. TheJudge summed up dead against him, and at 3. 30 the jury retired toconsider their verdict: in forty-five minutes they came into courtagain with a question which was significant. In answer to the judgethe foreman stated that "they had agreed that Taylor had introducedParker to Wilde, but they were not satisfied with Wilde's guilt in thematter. "

Mr. Justice Wills: "Were you agreed as to the charge on the othercounts?"

Foreman: "Yes, my Lord. "

Mr. Justice Wills: "Well, possibly it would be as well to take yourverdict upon the other counts. "

Through the foreman the jury accordingly intimated that they foundTaylor guilty with regard to Charles and William Parker. 

In answer to his Lordship, Sir F. Lockwood said he would take theverdict given by the jury of "guilty" upon the two counts. 

A formal verdict having been entered, the judge ordered the prisonerto stand down, postponing sentence. Did he postpone the sentence inorder not to frighten the next jury by the severity of it? Otherreason I could find none. 

Sir Edward Clarke then got up and said that as it was getting ratherlate, perhaps after the second jury had disagreed as to Mr. Wilde'sguilt--

Sir F. Lockwood here interposed hotly: "I object to Sir Edward Clarkemaking these little speeches. "

Mr. Justice Wills took the matter up as well. 

"You can hardly call it a disagreement, Sir Edward, " though what elsehe could call it, I was at a loss to imagine. 

He then adjourned the case against Oscar Wilde till the next day, whena different jury would be impanelled. But whatever jury might becalled they would certainly hear that their forerunners had foundTaylor guilty and they would know that every London paper withoutexception had approved the finding. What a fair chance to give Wilde!It was like trying an Irish Secretary before a jury of Fenians. 

The next morning, May 23d, Oscar Wilde appeared in the dock. TheSolicitor-General opened the case, and then called his witnesses. Oneof the first was Edward Shelley, who in cross-examination admittedthat he had been mentally ill when he wrote Mr. Wilde those letterswhich had been put in evidence. He was "made nervous from over-study, "he said. 

Alfred Wood admitted that he had had money given him quite recently, practically blackmailing money. He was as venomous as possible. "Whenhe went to America, " he said, "he told Wilde that he wanted to getaway from mixing with him (Wilde) and Douglas. "

Charlie Parker next repeated his disgusting testimony with ineffableimpudence and a certain exultation. Bestial ignominy could go nolower; he admitted that since the former trial he had been kept at theexpense of the prosecution. After this confession the case wasadjourned and we came out of court. 

When I reached Fleet Street I was astonished to hear that there hadbeen a row that same afternoon in Piccadilly between Lord Douglas ofHawick and his father, the Marquis of Queensberry. Lord Queensberry, it appears, had been writing disgusting letters about the Wilde caseto Lord Douglas's wife. Meeting him in Piccadilly Percy Douglasstopped him and asked him to cease writing obscene letters to hiswife. The Marquis said he would not and the father and son came toblows. Queensberry it seems was exasperated by the fact that Douglasof Hawick was one of those who had gone bail for Oscar Wilde. One ofthe telegrams which the Marquis of Queensberry had sent to LadyDouglas I must put in just to show the insane nature of the man whocould exult in a trial which was damning the reputation of his ownson. The letter was manifestly written after the result of the Taylortrial:

 Must congratulate on verdict, cannot on Percy's appearance. Looks like a dug up corpse. Fear too much madness of kissing. Taylor guilty. Wilde's turn to-morrow. 

 QUEENSBERRY. 

In examination before the magistrate, Mr. Hannay, it was stated thatLord Queensberry had been sending similar letters to Lady Douglas"full of the most disgusting charges against Lord Douglas, his wife, and Lord Queensberry's divorced wife and her family. " But Mr. Hannaythought all this provocation was of no importance and bound over bothfather and son to keep the peace--an indefensible decision, adecision only to be explained by the sympathy everywhere shown toQueensberry because of his victory over Wilde, otherwise surely anyhonest magistrate would have condemned the father who sent obsceneletters to his son's wife--a lady above reproach. These vile lettersand the magistrate's bias, seemed to me to add the final touch of thegrotesque to the horrible vileness of the trial. It was all worthy ofthe seventh circle of Dante, but Dante had never imagined such afather and such judges!

 * * * * *

Next morning Oscar Wilde was again put in the dock. The evidence ofthe Queensberry trial was read and therewith the case was closed forthe Crown. 

Sir Edward Clarke rose and submitted that there was no case to go tothe jury on the general counts. After a long legal argument for andagainst, Mr. Justice Wills said that he would reserve the question forthe Court of Appeal. The view he took was that "the evidence was ofthe slenderest kind"; but he thought the responsibility must be leftwith the jury. To this judge "the slenderest kind" of evidence wasworthful so long as it told against the accused. 

Sir Edward Clarke then argued that the cases of Shelley, Parker andWood failed on the ground of the absence of corroboration. Mr. Justice Wills admitted that Shelley showed "a peculiar exaltation" ofmind; there was, too, mental derangement in his family, and worst ofall there was no corroboration of his statements. Accordingly, inspite of the arguments of the Solicitor-General, Shelley's evidencewas cut out. But Shelley's evidence had already been taken, hadalready prejudiced the jury. Indeed, it had been the evidence whichhad influenced Mr. Justice Charles in the previous trial to sum updead against the defendant: Mr. Justice Charles called Shelley "theonly serious witness. "

Now it appeared that Shelley's evidence should never have been takenat all, that the jury ought never to have heard Shelley's testimony orthe Judge's acceptance of it!

 * * * * *

When the court opened next morning I knew that the whole case dependedon Oscar Wilde, and the showing he would make in the box, but alas! hewas broken and numbed. He was not a fighter, and the length of thiscontest might have wearied a combative nature. The Solicitor-Generalbegan by examining him on his letters to Lord Alfred Douglas and wehad the "prose poem" again and the rest of the ineffable nonsensicalprejudice of the middle-class mind against passionate sentiment. Itcame out in evidence that Lord Alfred Douglas was now in Calais. Hishatred of his father was the _causa causans_ of the whole case; he hadpushed Oscar into the fight and Oscar, still intent on shielding him, declared that he had asked him to go abroad. 

Sir Edward Clarke again did his poor best. He pointed out that thetrial rested on the evidence of mere blackmailers. He would notquarrel with that and discuss it, but it was impossible not to seethat if blackmailers were to be listened to and believed, theirprofession might speedily become a more deadly mischief and danger tosociety than it had ever been. 

The speech was a weak one; but the people in court cheered Sir EdwardClarke; the cheers were immediately suppressed by the Judge. 

The Solicitor-General took up the rest of the day with a rancorousreply. Sir Edward Clarke even had to remind him that law officers ofthe Crown should try to be impartial. One instance of his prejudicemay be given. Examining Oscar as to his letters to Lord AlfredDouglas, Sir Frank Lockwood wanted to know whether he thought them"decent"?

The witness replied, "Yes. "

"Do you know the meaning of the word, sir?" was this gentleman'sretort. 

I went out of the court feeling certain that the case was lost. Oscarhad not shown himself at all; he had not even spoken with the vigourhe had used at the Queensberry trial. He seemed too despairing tostrike a blow. 

The summing up of the Judge on May 25th was perversely stupid andmalevolent. He began by declaring that he was "absolutely impartial, "though his view of the facts had to be corrected again and again bySir Edward Clarke: he went on to regret that the charge of conspiracyshould have been introduced, as it had to be abandoned. He thenpointed out that he could not give a colourless summing up, which was"of no use to anybody. " His intelligence can be judged from onecrucial point: he fastened on the fact that Oscar had burnt theletters which he bought from Wood, which he said were of noimportance, except that they concerned third parties. The Judge hadpersuaded himself that the letters were indescribably bad, forgettingapparently that Wood or his associates had selected and retained thevery worst of them for purposes of blackmail and that this Judgehimself, after reading it, couldn't attribute any weight to it; stillhe insisted that burning the letters was an act of madness; whereas itseemed to everyone of the slightest imagination the most natural thingin the world for an innocent man to do. At the time Oscar burnt theletters he had no idea that he would ever be on trial. His letters hadbeen misunderstood and the worst of them was being used against him, and when he got the others he naturally threw them into the fire. TheJudge held that it was madness, and built upon this inference apyramid of guilt. "Nothing said by Wood should be believed, as hebelongs to the vilest class of criminals; the strength of theaccusation depends solely upon the character of the originalintroduction of Wood to Wilde as illustrated and fortified by thestory with regard to the letters and their burning. "

A pyramid of guilt carefully balanced on its apex! If the foolishJudge had only read his Shakespeare! What does Henry VI say:

 Proceed no straiter 'gainst our uncle Gloucester Than from true evidence of good esteem He be approved in practice culpable. 

There was no "true evidence of good esteem" against Wilde, but theJudge turned a harmless action into a confession of guilt. 

Then came an interruption which threw light on the English conceptionof justice. The foreman of the jury wanted to know, in view of theintimate relations between Lord Alfred Douglas and the defendant, whether a warrant against Lord Alfred Douglas was ever issued. 

Mr. Justice Wills: "I should say not; we have never heard of it. "

Foreman: "Or ever contemplated?"

Mr. Justice Wills: "That I cannot say, nor can we discuss it. Theissue of such a warrant would not depend upon the testimony of theparties, but whether there was evidence of such act. Letters pointingto such relations would not be sufficient. Lord Alfred Douglas was notcalled, and you can give what weight you like to that. "

Foreman: "If we are to deduce any guilt from these letters, it wouldapply equally to Lord Alfred Douglas. "

Mr. Justice Wills concurred in that view, but after all he thought ithad nothing to do with the present trial, which was the guilt of theaccused. 

The jury retired to consider their verdict at half past three. Afterbeing absent two hours they returned to know whether there was anyevidence of Charles Parker having slept at St. James's Place. 

His Lordship replied, "No. "

The jury shortly afterwards returned again with the verdict of"Guilty" on all the counts. 

It may be worth while to note again that the Judge himself admittedthat the evidence on some of the counts was of "the slenderest kind";but, when backed by his prejudiced summing up, it was more thansufficient for the jury. 

Sir Edward Clarke pleaded that sentence should be postponed till thenext sessions, when the legal argument would be heard. 

Mr. Justice Wills would not be balked: sentence, he thought, should begiven immediately. Then, addressing the prisoners, he said, and againI give his exact words, lest I should do him wrong:

"Oscar Wilde and Alfred Taylor, the crime of which you have beenconvicted is so bad that one has to put stern restraint upon one'sself to prevent one's self from describing in language which I wouldrather not use the sentiments which must rise to the breast of everyman of honour who has heard the details of these two terrible trials. 

"That the jury have arrived at a correct verdict in this case I cannotpersuade myself to entertain the shadow of a doubt; and I hope, at allevents, that those who sometimes imagine that a Judge is half-heartedin the cause of decency and morality because he takes care noprejudice shall enter into the case may see that that is consistent atleast with the utmost sense of indignation at the horrible chargesbrought home to both of you. 

"It is no use for me to address you. People who can do these thingsmust be dead to all sense of shame, and one cannot hope to produce anyeffect upon them. It is the worst case I have ever tried. .. . That you, Wilde, have been the centre of a circle of extensive corruption of themost hideous kind among young men it is impossible to doubt. 

"I shall under such circumstances be expected to pass the severestsentence that the law allows. In my judgment it is totally inadequatefor such a case as this. 

"The sentence of the court is that each of you be imprisoned and keptto hard labour for two years. "

The sentence hushed the court in shocked surprise. 

Wilde rose and cried, "Can I say anything, my lord?"

Mr. Justice Wills waved his hand deprecatingly amid cries of "Shame"and hisses from the public gallery; some of the cries and hisses werecertainly addressed to the Judge and well deserved. What did he meanby saying that Oscar was a "centre of extensive corruption of the mosthideous kind"? No evidence of this had been brought forward by theprosecution. It was not even alleged that a single innocent person hadbeen corrupted. The accusation was invented by this "absolutelyimpartial" Judge to justify his atrocious cruelty. The unmeritedinsults and appalling sentence would have disgraced the worst Judge ofthe Inquisition. 

Mr. Justice Wills evidently suffered from the peculiar "exaltation" ofmind which he had recognised in Shelley. This peculiarity is shared ina lesser degree by several other Judges on the English bench in allmatters of sexual morality. What distinguished Mr. Justice Wills wasthat he was proud of his prejudice and eager to act on it. Heevidently did not know, or did not care, that the sentence which hehad given, declaring it was "totally inadequate, " had been condemnedby a Royal Commission as "inhuman. " He would willingly have pushed"inhumanity" to savagery, out of sheer bewigged stupidity, and that hewas probably well-meaning only intensified the revolt one felt at suchbrainless malevolence. 

The bitterest words in Dante are not bitter enough to render myfeeling:

 "Non ragioniam di lor ma guarda e passa. "

The whole scene had sickened me. Hatred masquerading as justice, striking vindictively and adding insult to injury. The vile picturehad its fit setting outside. We had not left the court when thecheering broke out in the streets, and when we came outside there weretroops of the lowest women of the town dancing together and kickingup their legs in hideous abandonment, while the surrounding crowd ofpolicemen and spectators guffawed with delight. As I turned away fromthe exhibition, as obscene and soul-defiling as anything witnessed inthe madness of the French revolution, I caught a glimpse of Wood andthe Parkers getting into a cab, laughing and leering. 

These were the venal creatures Oscar Wilde was punished for havingcorrupted!