 Chapter 23 of Oscar Wilde, His Life and Confessions. Chapter 23 His Judgements of Writers and of Women. He was an incomparable companion, perfectly amiable, yet vivid and eager as a child, always interested and interesting. We awoke at Avignon, and went out in pyjamas and overcoats to stretch our legs, and get a bowl of coffee on the platform in the pearly grey light of early morning. After coffee and cigarettes he led the way to the other end of the platform, that we might catch a glimpse of the town wall, which though terribly restored, yet when seen from a distance transports one back five hundred years to the age of chivalry. How I should have loved to be a troubadour or a trouvère, Frank! That was my true metier, to travel from castle to castle, singing love-songs and telling romantic stories, to while away the tedium of the lives of the great. Fancy the reception they would have given me for bringing a new joy into their castled isolation, new ideas, new passions, a breath of gossip and scandal from the outside world to relieve the intolerable boredom of the middle ages. I should have been kept at the court of X. I think they would have bound me with flower-chains, and my fame would have spread all through the sunny vineyards and grey olive-clad hills of Provence. When we got into the train again he began, we stop next at Marseille, don't we, Frank? A great historic town for nearly three thousand years. One rarely feels a barbarian in comparison, and yet all I know of Marseille is that it is famous for bouillabaisse. Sometimes we stop and get some. Bouillabaisse, I replied, is not peculiar to Marseille or the Rue Canibière. You can get it all along this coast. There is only one thing necessary to it, and that is rascasse, a fish caught only among the rocks. You will get excellent bouillabaisse at lunch, where we are going. Where are we going? You have not told me yet. It is for you to decide, I answered. If you want perfect quiet, there are two places in the Esterel Mountains, Agais and L'Anapoule. Agais is in the middle of the Esterel. You would be absolutely alone there except for the visit of an occasional French painter. L'Anapoule is eight or ten miles from Canne, so that you are within reach of a town and its amusements. There is still another place I had thought of, quieter than either, in the mountains behind Nice. Nice sounds wonderful, Frank, but I should meet too many English people there who would know me, and they are horribly rude. I think we will choose L'Anapoule. About ten o'clock we got out at L'Anapoule, and installed ourselves in the little hotel, taking up three of the best rooms on the second or top floor, much to the delight of the landlord. At twelve we had breakfast under a big umbrella in the open air, looking over the sea. I had put the landlord on his metal, and he gave us a fry of little red mullet, which made us understand how tasteless white bait are. Then a plain beefsteak, opum, a morsel of cheese, and a sweet omelette. We both agreed that we had had a most excellent breakfast. The coffee left a good deal to be desired, and there was no champagne on the list fit to drink, but both these faults could be remedied by the morrow, and were remedied. We spent the rest of the day wandering between the seashore and the pine-clad hills. The next morning I put in some work, but in the afternoon I was free to walk and explore. On one of my first tramps I discovered a monastery among the hills, hundreds of feet above the sea, built and governed by an Italian monk. I got to know the Perferchile, and had a great talk with him. He was both wise and strong, with ingratiating gentle manners. Had he gone as a boy from his little Italian fishing village to New York or Paris, he would have certainly come to greatness and honour. One afternoon I took Oscar to see him. The monastery was not more than three quarters of an hour's stroll from our hotel, but Oscar grumbled at the walk as a nuisance, said it was miles and miles. The road, too, was rough and the sun hot. The truth was, he was abnormally lazy. But he fascinated the Italian with his courteous manner and vivid speech, and as soon as we were alone, the abbey asked me who he was. He must be a great man, he said. He has the stamp of a great man, and he must have lived in courts. He has the charming, graceful, smiling courtesy of the great. Yes, I nodded mysteriously, a great man, incognito. The abbey kept us to dinner, made us taste of his oldest wines and a special liqueur of his own distilling, told us how he had built the monastery with no money, and when we exclaimed with wonder, reproved us gently. All great things are built with faith and not with money. I wonder that this little building stands firmly on that everlasting foundation. When we came out of the monastery, it was already night, and the moonlight was throwing fantastic leafy shadows on the path, as we walked down through the avenue of forest to the seashore. You remember those words of Virgil, Frank, per amica silentia lunae. They always seemed to me indescribably beautiful, the most magic line about the moon ever written, except brownings in the poem in which he mentioned Keats, him even. I love that amica silentia. What a beautiful nature the man had who could feel the friendly silences of the moon. When we got down the hill, he declared himself tired. Tired after a mile, I asked, tired to death, worn out, he said, laughing at his own laziness. Shall we get a boat and row across the bay? How splendid, of course, let's do it! And we went down to the landing stage. I had never seen the water so calm. Off the bay was veiled by the mountain, and opaque like unpolished steel. A little further out, the water was a purple shield, emblazoned with shimmering silver. We called a fisherman and explained what we wanted. When we got into the boat, to my astonishment, Oscar began calling the Fisher boy by his name. Evidently he knew him quite well. When we landed, I went up from the boat to the hotel, leaving Oscar and the boy together. A fortnight taught me a good deal about Oscar at this time. He was intensely indolent, quite content to kill time by the hour talking to the Fisher lads, or he would take a little carriage and drive to Cannes and amuse himself at some wayside café. He never cared to walk, and I walked for miles daily, so that we spent only one or at most two afternoons a week together. Meeting so seldom that nearly all our talks were significant. Several times contemporary names came up, and I was compelled to notice for the first time that really he was contemptuous of almost everyone, and had a sharp word to say about many who were supposed to be his friends. One day we spoke of Ricketts and Shannon. I was saying that had Ricketts lived in Paris he would have had a great reputation. Many of his designs I thought extraordinary, and his intellect was peculiarly French, mordant even. Oscar did not like to hear praise of any one. Do you know my word for them, Frank? I like it. I call them temper and temperament. Was his punishment making him a little spiteful, or was it the temptation of the witty phrase? What do you think of Arthur Simons? I asked. Oh, Frank, I said of him long ago that he was a sad example of an egoist who had no ego. And what of your compatriot, George Moore? He's popular enough, I continued. Popular, Frank, as if that counted. George Moore has conducted his whole education in public. He had written two or three books before he found out there was such a thing as English grammar. He at once announced his discovery, and so won the admiration of the illiterate. A few years later he discovered that there was something architectural in style, that sentences had to be built up into a paragraph, and paragraphs into chapters, and so on. Naturally he cried this revelation too from the housetops, and thus won the admiration of the journalists who had been making rubble heaps all their lives without knowing it. I'm much afraid, Frank. In spite of all his efforts, he will die before he reaches the level from which writers start. It's a pity because he has certainly a little real talent. He differs from Simons in that he has an ego, but his ego has five senses and no soul. What about Bernard Shaw, I probed further. After all, he's going to count. Yes, Frank, a man of real ability, but with a bleak mind. Humorous gleams as of wintry sunlight on a bare, harsh landscape. He has no passion, no feeling, and without passionate feeling, how can one be an artist? He believes in nothing, loves nothing, not even Bernard Shaw, and rarely, on the whole, I don't wonder at his indifference. And he laughed mischievously. And Wells, I asked, a scientific Jules Verne, he replied with a shrug, did you ever care for Hardy, I continued? Not greatly. He has just found out that women have legs underneath their dresses, and this discovery has almost wrecked his life. He writes poetry, I believe, in his leisure moments, and I am afraid it will be very hard reading. He knows nothing of love, passion to him as a childish illness like measles. Poor, unhappy spirit. You might be describing Mrs. Humphrey Ward. I cried, God forbid, Frank. He exclaimed with such mock horror I had to laugh. After all, Hardy is a writer and a great landscape painter. I don't know why it is, he went on, but I am always matchmaking when I think of English celebrities. I should so much like to have introduced Mrs. Humphrey Ward, blushing at eighteen or twenty, to Swinburne, who would, of course, have bitten her neck in a furious kiss, and she would have run away and exposed him in court, or else have suffered agonies of mingled delight and shame in silence. If one could only marry Thomas Hardy to Victoria Cross, he might have gained some inkling of real passion with which to animate his little keepsake pictures of starched ladies. A great many writers, I think, might be saved in this way, but there would still be left the correllies and whole canes that one could do nothing with except bind them back to back, which would not even tantalise them, and throw them into the river, a noon wiyad. The Thames at Barking, I think, would be about the place for them. Where do you go every afternoon? I asked him once, casually. I go to Cannes, Frank, and sit in a cafe and look across the sea to Capri, where Tiberius used to sit like a spider watching, and I think of myself as an exile, the victim of one of his inscrutable suspicions, or else I am in Rome, looking at the people dancing naked, but with gilded lips, through the streets at the Floralia. I sup with the arbiter elegantiarum, and come back to Lanapul, Frank, and he pulled his jowl to the simple life and the charm of restful friendship. More and more clearly, I saw that the effort, the hard work of writing, was altogether beyond him. He was now one of those men of genius, talkers merely, half artists, half dreamers, whom Balzac describes contemptuously as wasting their lives, talking to hear themselves talk, capable indeed of fine conceptions and of occasional fine phrases, but incapable of the punishing toil of execution, charming companions fated in the long run to fall to misery and destitution. Constant creation is the first condition of art, as it is the first condition of life. I asked him one day if he remembered the terrible passage about those eunuchs of art in La Cuisine Bette. Yes, Frank, he replied, but Balzac was probably envious of the artist talker. At any rate, we who talk should not be condemned by those to whom we dedicate our talents. It is for posterity to blame us, but after all I have written a good deal. Do you remember how Browning Sarto defends himself? Some good son paint my two hundred pictures, let him try. He did not see that Balzac, one of the greatest talkers that ever lived according to Théophile Gautier, was condemning the temptation to which he himself had no doubt yielded too often. To my surprise, Oscar did not even read much now. He was not eager to hear new thoughts, a little rebellious to any new mental influence. He had reached his zenith, I suppose, had begun to fossilize, as men do when they cease to grow. One day at lunch I questioned him. You told me once that you always imagined yourself in the place of every historic personage. Suppose you had been Jesus. What religion would you have preached? What a wonderful question, he cried. What religion is mine? What belief have I? I believe most of all in personal liberty for every human soul. Each man ought to do what he likes, to develop as he will. England, or rather London, for I know little of England outside London, was an ideal place to me, till they punished me because I did not share their tastes. What an absurdity it all was, Frank! How dared they punish me for what is good in my eyes! How dared they! And he fell into moody thought. The idea of a new gospel did not really interest him. It was about this time he first told me of a new play he had in mind. It has a great scene, Frank, he said. Imagine a roux of forty-five, who is married. Encourageable, of course, Frank, a great noble who gets the person he is in love with to come and stay with him in the country. One evening his wife, who has gone upstairs to lie down with a headache, is behind a screen in a room half asleep. She is awakened by her husband's courting. She cannot move, she is bound breathless to her couch. She hears everything. Then, Frank, the husband comes to the door and finds it locked, and knowing that his wife is inside with the host, beats upon the door and will have entrance. And while the guilty ones whisper together, the woman blaming the man, the man trying to think of some excuse some way out of the net, the wife gets up very quietly and turns on the lights, while the two cowards stare at her with wild surmise. She passes to the door and opens it, and the husband rushes in to find his hostess as well as the host and his wife. I think it is a great scene, Frank, a great stage picture. It is, I said, a great scene. Why don't you write it? Perhaps I shall, Frank, one of these days, but now I am thinking of some poetry, a ballad of a fisher-boy, a sort of companion to the ballad of Reading Jail, in which I sing of liberty instead of prison, joy instead of sorrow, a kiss instead of an execution. I shall do this joy song much better than I did the song of sorrow and despair. Like Davidson's ballad of a nun, I said, for the sake of saying something. Naturally Davidson would write the ballad of a nun, Frank, his talent is scotch and severe. But I should like to write the ballad of a fisher-boy, and he fell to dreaming. The thought of his punishment was oft with him. It seemed to him hideously wrong and unjust. But he never questioned the right of society to punish. He did not see that, if he once grant that, the wrong done to him could be defended. I used to think myself a lord of life, he said, how dared those little wretches condemn me and punish me! Every one of them tainted with a sensuality which I loathe. To call him out of this bitter way of regret, I quoted Shakespeare's sonnet. For why should others false adulterate eyes give salutation to my sportive blood? Or on my frailties, why are frailer spies, which in their wills count bad what I think good? His complaint is exactly yours, Oscar. It's astonishing, Frank, how well you know him, and yet you deny his intimacy with Pembroke. To you he is a living man. You always talk of him as if he had just gone out of the room, and yet you persist in believing in his innocence. You misapprehend me, I said. The passion of his life was for Mary Fitton to give her a name. I mean the dark lady of the sonnets, who was Beatrice, Cressida, and Cleopatra. And you yourself admit that a man who has a mad passion for a woman is immune, I think the doctors call it, to other influences. Oh yes, Frank, of course. But how could Shakespeare, with his beautiful nature, love a woman to that mad excess? Shakespeare hadn't your overwhelming love of plastic beauty, I replied. He fell in love with a dominant personality, the compliment of his own yielding amiable disposition. That's it, he broke in. Our opposites attract us irresistibly, the charm of the unknown. You often talk now, I went on, as if you had never loved a woman, yet you must have loved more than one. My salad days, Frank, he quoted smiling, when I was green in judgment, cold of blood. No, no, I persisted. It is not a great while since you praised Lady So-and-So, and the terries enthusiastically. Lady, he began gravely, and I could not but notice that the mere title seduced him to conventional poetic language. Moves like a lily in water. I always think of her as a lily, just as I used to think of lily-lantry as a tulip, with a figure like a Greek vase carved in ivory. But I always adored the terries. Marian is a great actress with subtle charm and enigmatic fascination. She was my woman of no importance, artificial and enthralling. She belongs to my theatre. As he seemed to have lost the thread, I questioned again. And Ellen! Oh, Ellen's a perfect wonder, he broke out, a great character. Do you know her history? And then, without waiting for an answer, he continued. She began as a model for Watts, the painter, when she was only some fifteen or sixteen years of age. In a week she read him as easily as if he had been a printed book. He treated her with condescending courtesy, en grand senior, and naturally she had her revenge on him. One day her mother came in and asked Watts what he was going to do about Ellen. Watts said he didn't understand. You have made Ellen in love with you, said the mother, and it is impossible that could have happened unless you had been attentive to her. Poor Watts protested and protested, but the mother broke down and sobbed, and said the girl's heart would be broken, and at length, in despair, Watts asked what he was to do, and the mother could only suggest marriage. Finally they were married. You don't mean that, I cried. I never knew that Watts had married Ellen Terry. Oh yes, said Oscar. They were married all right. The mother sorted that, and to do him justice, Watts kept the whole family, like a gentleman. But like an idealist, or as a man of the world, would say a fool, he was ashamed of his wife. He showed great reserve to her, and when he gave his usual dinners or receptions, he invited only men, and so carefully left her out. One evening he had a dinner. A great many well-known people were present, and a bishop was on his right hand, when suddenly, between the cheese and the pear, as the French would say, Ellen came dancing into the room in pink tights, with a basket of roses around her waist, with which she began pelting the guests. Watts was horrified, but everyone else delighted. The bishop in his special, it is said, declared he had never seen anything so romantically beautiful. Watts nearly had a fit, but Ellen danced out of the room with all their hearts in her basket, instead of her roses. To me that's the true story of Ellen Terry's life. It may be true or false in reality, but I believe it to be true, in fact, as in symbol. It is not only an image of her life, but of her art. No one knows how she met Irving, or learned to act, though, as you know, she was one of the best actresses that ever graced the English stage. A great personality. Her children even have inherited some of her talent. It was only famous actresses such as Ellen Terry and Sarah Bernhardt, and great ladies that Oscar ever praised. He was a snob by nature. Indeed, this was the chief link between him and English society. Besides, he had a rooted contempt for women, and especially for their brains. He said once of someone, he is like a woman, sure to remember the trivial and forget the important. It was this disdain of the sex which led him later to take up our whole dispute again. I have been thinking over our argument in the train, he began. Rarely it was preposterous of me to let you off with a drawn battle. You should have been beaten and forced to hold down your flag. We talked of love, and I let you place the girl against the boy. It is all nonsense. A girl is not made for love. She is not even a good instrument of love. Some of us care more for the person than the pleasure, I replied, and others. You remember Browning, nearer we hold of God who gives than of his tribes that take, I must believe. Yes, yes, he replied impatiently, but that's not the point. I mean that a woman is not made for passion and love, but to be a mother. When I married, my wife was a beautiful girl, white and slim as a lily, with dancing eyes and gay rippling laughter like music. In a year or so the flower-like grace had all vanished. She became heavy, shapeless, deformed. She dragged herself about the house in uncouth misery, with a drawn blotched face and hideous body, sick at heart because of our love. It was dreadful. I tried to be kind to her, forced myself to touch and kiss her, but she was sick always, and I cannot recall it, it is also loathsome. I used to wash my mouth and open the window to cleanse my lips in the pure air. Oh, nature is disgusting! It takes beauty and defiles it. It defaces the ivory white body we have adored with the vile cicatresses of maternity. It befalls the altar of the soul. How can you talk of such intimacy as love? How can you idealize it? Love is not possible to the artist unless it is sterile. All her suffering did not endear her to you, I asked in amazement. Did not call forth that pity in you which you used to speak of as divine. Pity, Frank, he exclaimed impatiently, pity has nothing to do with love. How can one desire what is shapeless, deformed, ugly? Desire is killed by maternity, passion buried in conception, and he flung away from the table. At length I understood his dominant motive. His Greek love of form, his intolerant cult of physical beauty, could take no heed of the happiness or well-being of the beloved. I will not talk to you about it, Frank. I am like a Persian who lives by warmth and worships the sun, talking to some Eskimo who answers me with praise of blubber, and nights spent in ice-houses and baths of foul vapor. Let's talk of something else. End of chapter 23 Chapter 24 of Oscar Wilde, His Life and Confessions This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Oscar Wilde, His Life and Confessions by Frank Harris Chapter 24 We argue about his pet vice and punishment. A little later I was called to Monte Carlo and went for a few days, leaving Oscar, as he said, perfectly happy with good food, excellent champagne, absinthe, and coffee, and his simple Fisher friends. When I came back to Lanapul, I found everything altered and altered for the worse. There was an Englishman of a good class named M, staying at the hotel. He was accompanied by a youth of 17 or 18, whom he called his servant. Oscar wanted to know if I minded meeting him. He is charming, Frank, and well-read, and he admires me very much. You won't mind his dining with us, will you? Of course not, I replied. But when I saw M, I thought him an insignificant foolish creature who put to show a great admiration for Oscar, and drank in his words with parted lips, and well he might, for he had hardly any brains of his own. He had, however, a certain liking for the poetry and literature of passion. To my astonishment Oscar was charming to him, chiefly, I think, because he was well off, and was pressing Oscar to spend the summer with him at some place he had in Switzerland. This support made Oscar recalcitrant to any influence I might have had over him. When I asked him if he had written anything whilst I was away, he replied casually. No, Frank, I don't think I shall be able to write any more. What is the good of it? I cannot force myself to write. And your ballad of a fisher-boy, I asked. I have composed three or four verses of it, he said, smiling at me. I have got them in my head. And he recited two or three, one of which was quite good, but none of them startling. Not having seen him for some days, I noticed that he was growing stout again. The good living and constant drinking seemed to ooze out of him. He began to look as he looked in the old days in London, just before the catastrophe. One morning I asked him to put the verses on paper, which he had recited to me, but he would not. And when I pressed him, cried, Let me live, Frank. Tasks remind me of prison. You do not know how I abhor even the memory of it. It was degrading, inhuman. Prison was the making of you, I could not help retorting, irritated by what seemed to me a mere excuse. You came out of it better in health and stronger than I have ever known you. The hard living, regular hours, and compulsory chastity, did you all the good in the world. That is why you wrote those superb letters to the Daily Chronicle and the Ballad of Reading Jail. The state ought really to put you in prison and keep you there. For the first time in my life I saw angry dislike in his eyes. You talk poisonous nonsense, Frank, he retorted. Bad food is bad for everyone, and abstinence from tobacco is mere torture to me. Chastity is just as unnatural and devilish as hunger. I hate both. Self-denial is the shining sore on the leprous body of Christianity. To all this em giggled applause, which naturally excited the combative instincts in me, always too alert. All great artists, I replied, have had to practice chastity. It is chastity alone which gives vigor and tone to mind and body, while building up a reserve of extraordinary strength. Your favourite Greeks never allowed an athlete to go into the palaistra, unless he had previously lived a life of complete chastity for a whole year. Balzac too practised it and extolled its virtues, and goodness knows he loved all the mud-honey of Paris. You are hopelessly wrong, Frank. What madness will you preach next? You are always bothering one to write, and now for sooth you recommend chastity and skilly. Though I admit, he added, laughing, that your skilly includes all the indelicacies of the season with champagne, mocha coffee, and absinthe to boot. But surely you're getting too puritanical. It's absurd of you. The other day you defended conventional love against my ideal passion. He provoked me. His tone was that of rather contemptuous superiority. I kept silent. I did not wish to retort as I might have done, if M. had not been present. But Oscar was determined to assert his peculiar view. One or two days afterwards he came in very red and excited, and more angry than I had ever seen him. What do you think has happened, Frank? I do not know. Nothing serious, I hope. I was sitting by the roadside on my way to Cannes. I had taken out a Virgil with me, and had begun reading it. As I sat there reading, I happened to raise my eyes. And who should I see but George Alexander? George Alexander on a bicycle! I had known him intimately in the old days, and naturally I got up delighted to see him, and went towards him. But he turned his head aside and peddled past me deliberately. He meant to cut me. Of course I know that just before my trial in London he took my name off the bill of my comedy, though he went on playing it. But I was not angry with him for that, though he might have behaved as well as Wyndham, who owed me nothing, don't you think? Here there was nobody to see him, yet he cut me. What brutes men are! They not only punish me as a society, but now they are trying as individuals to punish me. And after all, I have not done worse than they do. What difference is there between one form of sexual indulgence and another? I hate hypocrisy and hypocrites. Think of Alexander, who made all his money out of my works, cutting me. Alexander! It is too ignoble. Wouldn't you be angry, Frank? I daresay I should be, I replied coolly, hoping the incident would be a spur to him. I've always wondered why you gave Alexander a play. Surely you didn't think him an actor. No, no, he exclaimed, a sudden smile lighting up his face. Alexander doesn't act on the stage. He behaves. But wasn't it mean of him? I couldn't help smiling the dart was so deserved. Begin another play, I said, and the Alexanders will immediately go on their knees to you again. On the other hand, if you do nothing, you may expect worse than discourtesy. Men love to condemn their neighbour's pet vice. You ought to know the world by this time. He did not even notice the hint to work, but broke out angrily. What you call vice, Frank, is not vice. It is as good to me as it was to Caesar, Alexander, Michelangelo, and Shakespeare. It was first of all made a sin by monasticism, and it has been made a crime in recent times by the Goths, the Germans, and English, who have done little or nothing since to refine or exalt the ideals of humanity. They all damned the sins they have no mind to, and that's their morality. A brutal race. They overeat and overdrink and condemn the lusts of the flesh, while reveling in all the vilest sins of the spirit. If they would read the 23rd chapter of St. Matthew and apply it to themselves, they would learn more than by condemning a pleasure they don't understand. Why, even Bentham refused to put what you call a vice in his penal code, and you yourself admitted that it should not be punished as a crime, for it carries no temptation with it. It may be a malady, but if so, it appears only to attack the highest natures. It is disgraceful to punish it. The wit of man can find no argument which justifies its punishment. Don't be too sure of that, I retorted. I have never heard a convincing argument which condemns it, Frank. I do not believe such a reason exists. Don't forget, I said, that this practice which you defend is condemned by a hundred generations of the most civilized races of mankind. Mere prejudice of the unlettered, Frank. And what is such a prejudice, I asked. It is the reason of a thousand generations of men, a reason so sanctified by secular experience that it has passed into flesh and blood and become an emotion, and is no longer merely an argument. I would rather have one such prejudice held by men of a dozen different races than a myriad reasons. Such a prejudice is incarnate reason, approved by immemorial experience. What argument have you against cannibalism? What reason is there why we should not fatten babies for the spit and eat their flesh? The flesh is sweeter, African travelers tell us than any other meat, tenderer at once and more sustaining. All reasons are in favor of it. What hinders us from indulging in this appetite, but prejudice, sacred prejudice, an instinctive loathing at the bare idea. Humanity, it seems to me, is toiling up a long slope, leading from the brute to the God. Again and again, whole generations, sometimes whole races, have fallen back and disappeared in the abyss. Every slip fills the survivors with fear and horror, which with ages have become instinctive, and now you appear and laugh at their fears and tell them that human flesh is excellent food, and that sterile kisses are the noblest form of passion. They shudder from you and hate and punish you, and if you persist they will kill you. Who shall say they are wrong? Who shall sneer at their instinctive repulsion, hallowed by ages of successful endeavour? Fine rhetoric, I concede, he replied, but mere rhetoric. I never heard such a defense of prejudice before. I should not have expected it from you. You admit you don't share the prejudice, you don't feel the horror, the instinctive loathing you describe. Why? Because you are educated, Frank, because you know that the passion Socrates felt was not a low passion, because you know that Caesar's weakness, let us say, or the weakness of Michelangelo or of Shakespeare is not despicable. If the desire is not a characteristic of the highest humanity, but least it is consistent with it. I cannot admit that, I answered. First of all, let us leave Shakespeare out of the question, or I should have to ask you for proofs of his guilt, and there are none. About the others there is this to be said. It is not by imitating the vices and weaknesses of great men that we shall get to their level, and suppose we are fated to climb above them, then their weaknesses are to be dreaded. I have not even tried to put the strongest reasons before you. I should have thought your own mind would have supplied them, but surely you see that the historical argument is against you. This vice of yours is dropping out of life like cannibalism. It is no longer a practice of the highest races. It may have seemed natural enough to the Greeks. To us it is unnatural. Even the best Athenians condemned it. Socrates took pride in never having yielded to it. All moderns denounce it disdainfully. You must see that the whole progress of the world, the current of educated opinion, is against you. That you are now a sport, a peculiarity, an abnormality, a man with six fingers. Not a sport that is full of promise for the future, but a sport of the dim backward and abysm of time, an arrested development. You are bitter, Frank, almost rude. Forgive me, Oscar. Forgive me, please. It is because I want you at long last to open your eyes and see things as they are. But I thought you were with us, Frank. I thought at least you condemned the punishment, did not believe in the barbarous penalties. I disbelieve in all punishment, I said. It is by love and not by hate that men must be redeemed. I believe, too, that the time is already come when the better law might be put in force. And above all I condemn punishment which strikes a man, an artist like you, who has done beautiful and charming things, as if he had done nothing. At least the good you have accomplished should be set against the evil. It has always seemed monstrous to me that you should have been punished like a tailor. The French were right in their treatment of Verlaine. They condemned the sin, while forgiving the sinner because of his genius. The rigor in England is mere puritanic hypocrisy, short-sightedness, and racial self-esteem. All I can say, Frank, is I would not limit individual desire in any way. What right has society to punish us unless it can prove we have hurt or injured someone else against his will? Besides, if you limit passion, you impoverish life, you weaken the mainspring of art, and narrow the realm of beauty. All societies, I replied, and most individuals too, punish what they dislike, right or wrong. There are bad smells which do not injure anyone, yet the manufacturers of them would be indicted for committing a nuisance. Nor does your plea that, by limiting the choice of passion, you impoverish life, appeal to me. On the contrary, I think I could prove that passion, the desire of the man for the woman, and the woman for the man, has been enormously strengthened in modern times. Christianity has created, or at least cultivated, modesty, and modesty has sharpened desire. Christianity has helped to lift woman to inequality with man, and this modern intellectual development has again intensified passion out of all knowledge. The woman who is not a slave, but an equal, who gives herself according to her own feeling, is infinitely more desirable to a man than any submissive serf who is always waiting on his will, and this movement intensifying passion is every day gaining force. We have a far higher love in us than the Greeks, infinitely higher and more intense than the Romans knew. Our sensuality is like a river banked in with stone parapets. The current flows higher and more vehemently in the narrower bed. You may talk as you please, Frank, but you will never get me to believe that what I know is good to me is evil. Suppose I like a food that is poisoned to other people, and yet quickens me. How dare they punish me for eating of it? They would say, I replied, that they only punish you for inducing others to eat it. He broke in. It is all ignorant prejudice, Frank. The world is slowly growing more tolerant, and one day men will be ashamed of their barbarous treatment of me, as they are now ashamed of the torturings of the Middle Ages. The current of opinion is making in our favour and not against us. You don't believe what you say, I cried. If you really thought humanity was going your way, you would have been delighted to play Galileo. Instead of writing a book in prison condemning your companion who pushed you to discovery and disgrace, you would have written a book vindicating your actions. I am a martyr, you would have cried, and not a criminal, and everyone who holds the contrary is wrong. You would have said to the jury, in spite of your beliefs and your cherished dogmas, in spite of your religion and prejudice and fanatical hatred of me, you are wrong, and I am right. The world does move. But you didn't say that, and you don't think it. If you did, you would be glad you went into the Queensbury trial, glad you were accused, glad you were imprisoned and punished, because all these things must bring your vindication more quickly. You are sorry for them all, because in your heart you know you were wrong. This old world in the main is right. It's you who are wrong. Of course everything can be argued, Frank, but I hold to my conviction. The best minds even now don't condemn us, and the world is becoming more tolerant. I didn't justify myself in court, because I was told I should be punished lightly if I respected the common prejudices, and when I tried to speak afterwards, the judge would not let me. And I believe, I retorted, that you were hopelessly beaten, and could never have made a fight of it, because you felt the time spirit was against you. How else was a silly, narrow judge able to wave you to silence? Do you think he could have silenced me? Not all the judges in Christendom. Let me give you an example. I believe with Voltaire that when modesty goes out of life it goes into the language as prudery. I am quite certain that our present habit of not discussing sexual questions in our books is bound to disappear, and that free and dignified speech will take the place of our present prurient mealy-mouthedness. I have long thought it possible, probable even, in the present state of society in England, where we are still more or less under the heel of the illiterate and prudish Philistanism of our middle class, that I might be had up to answer some charge of publishing an indecent book. The current of the time appears to be against me. In the spacious days of Elizabeth, in the modish time of the Georges, a freedom of speech was habitual, which today is tabooed. Our cases, therefore, are somewhat alike. Do you think I should dread the issue or allow myself to be silenced by a judge? I would set forth my defence before the judge and before the jury with the assurance of victory in me. I should not minimise what I had written. I should not try to explain it away. I should seek to make it stronger. I should justify every word. And finally I'd worn both judge and jury, that if they condemned and punished me, they would only make my ultimate triumph more conspicuous. All the great men of the past are with me, I would cry. All the great minds of today in other countries, and some of the best in England. Condemn me at your peril. You will only condemn yourselves. You are spitting against the wind, and the shame will be on your own faces. Do you believe I should be left to suffer? I doubt it even in England today. If I'm right, and I'm sure I'm right, then about me there would be an invisible cloud of witnesses. You would see a strange movement of opinion in my favour. The judge would probably lecture me and bind me over to come up for judgement. But if he sentenced me vindictively, then the Home Secretary would be petitioned, and the movement in my favour would grow till it swept away opposition. This is the very soul of my faith. If I did not believe with every fibre in me that this poor, stupid world is honestly groping its way up the altar stairs to God, and not down, I would not live in it an hour. Why do you argue against me, Frank? It is brutal of you. To induce you even now to turn and pull yourself out of the mud. You are forty odd years of age, and the keenest sensations of life are over for you. Turn back whilst this time. Get to work. Write your ballad and your plays. And not the Alexanders alone, but all the people who really count, the best of all countries, the salt of the earth will give you another chance. Begin to work, and you'll be born up on all hands. No one sinks to the dregs but by his own weight. If you don't bear fruit, why should men care for you? He shrugged his shoulders and turned from me with disdainful indifference. I've done enough for their respect, Frank, and received nothing but hatred. Every man must drear his own weird. Thank heaven, life's not without compensations. I'm sorry I cannot please you." And he added carelessly. M. has asked me to go and spend the summer with him, at Glom in Switzerland. He does not mind whether I write or not. I assure you, I cried, it is not my pleasure I am thinking about. What can it matter to me whether you write or not? It is your own good I am thinking of. Oh, bother good! One's friends like one as one is. The outside public hate one or scoff at one as they please. Well, I hope I shall always be your friend," I replied, but you will yet be forced to see, Oscar, that everyone grows tired of holding up an empty sack. Frank, you insult me. I don't mean to. I'm sorry. I shall never be so brutally, Frank, again, but you had to hear the truth for once. Then, Frank, you only cared for me in so far as I agreed with you. Oh, that's not fair, I replied. I have tried with all my strength to prevent you committing soul-suicide. But if you are resolved on it, I can't prevent you. I must draw away. I can do no good. Then you won't help me for the rest of the winter. Of course I will, I replied. I shall do all I promised and more. But there's a limit now. And till now the only limit was my power, not my will. It was at Napoul a few days later that an incident occurred which gave me to a certain extent a new sidelight on Oscar's nature, by showing just what he thought of me. I make no scruple of setting forth his opinion here in its entirety, though the confession took place after a futile evening, when he had talked to M of great houses in England and the great people he had met there. The talk had evidently impressed M, as much as it had bored me. I must first say that Oscar's bedroom was separated from mine by a large sitting-room we had in common. As a rule I worked in my bedroom in the mornings, and he spent a great deal of time out of doors. On this special morning, however, I had gone into the sitting-room early to write some letters. I heard him get up and splash about in his bath. Shortly afterwards he must have gone into the next room which was M's, for suddenly he began talking to him in a loud voice, from one room to the other, as if he were carrying on a conversation already begun through the open door. Of course it's absurd of Frank talking of social position, or the great people of English society at all. He never had any social position to be compared with mine. The petulant tone made me smile, but what Oscar said was true, nor did I ever pretend to have such a position. He had a house in Park Lane and owned the Saturday Review and had a certain power. But I was the centre of every party, the most honoured guest everywhere, at Clifden and Taplow Court and Klumba. The difference was, Frank was proud of meeting Balfour, while Balfour was proud of meeting me. Do you see? I was so interested I was unconscious of any indiscretion in listening. It made me smile to hear that I was proud of meeting Arthur Balfour. It would never have occurred to me that I should be proud of that. Still no doubt Oscar was right in a general way. When Frank talks of literature he amuses me. He pretends to bring new standards into it. He does. He brings America to judge Oxford and London, much like bringing Macedon or Biotia to judge Athens. Quite ridiculous. What can Americans know about English literature? Yet the curious thing is that he has read a lot and has a sort of vision that Shakespeare stuff of his is extraordinary. But he takes sincerity for style, and poetry, as poetry, has no appeal for him. You heard him admit that himself last night. He's comic, really, curiously provincial, like all Americans. Fancy and gerrymired, preached by a man in a fur coat. Frank's comic. But he's really kind and fights for his friends. He helped me in prison greatly. Sympathy is a sort of religion to him. That's why we can meet without murder and separate without suicide. Talking literature with him is very like playing rugby football. I never did play football, you know. But talking literature with Frank must be very like playing rugby, where you end by being kicked violently through your own goal. And he laughed delightedly. I had listened without thinking, as I often listen to his talk, for the mere music of the utterance. Now, at a break in the monologue, I went into the next room, feeling that to listen consciously would be unworthy. On the whole, his view of me was not unkindly. He disliked to hear any opinion that differed from his own, and it never came into his head that Oxford was no nearer the meridian of truth than Lawrence, Kansas, and certainly at least as far from heaven. Some weeks later I left Lannapool, and went on a visit to some friends. He wrote complaining that without me the place was dull. I wired him and went over to Nice to meet him, and we lunched together at the Café de la Régence. He was terribly downcast, and yet rebellious. He had come over to stay at Nice and stopped at the Hotel Terminus, a tenth-rate hotel near the station. The proprietor called on him two or three days afterwards, and informed him he must leave the hotel as his room had been let. Evidently someone has told him, Frank, who I am. What am I to do? I soon found him a better hotel where he was well treated, but the incident coming on top of the Alexander affair seems to have frightened him. There are too many English on this coast, he said to me one day, and they are all brutal to me. I think I should like to go to Italy, if you would not mind. The world is all before you, I replied. I shall only be too glad for you to get a comfortable place. And I gave him the money he wanted. He lingered on at Nice for nearly a week. I saw him several times. He lunched with me at the Réserve once at Beaulieu, and was full of delight at the beauty of the bay and the quiet of it. In the middle of the meal some English people came in and showed their dislike of him rudely. He at once shrank into himself, and as soon as possible made some pretext to leave. Of course I went with him. I was more than sorry for him. But I felt as unable to help him, as I should have been unable to hold him back, if he had determined to throw himself down a precipice. Chapter 25 The Last Hope Lost The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices make instruments to plague us. It was full summer before I met Oscar again. He had come back to Paris, and taken up his old quarters in the mean little hotel in the Rue des Beaux-Arts. He lunched and dined with me as usual. His talk was as humorous and charming as ever, and he was just as engaging a companion. For the first time, however, he complained of his health. I ate some muscles and oysters in Italy, and they must have poisoned me, for I have come out in great red blotches all over my arms and chest and back, and I don't feel well. Have you consulted a doctor? Oh yes, but doctors are no good. They all advise you differently. The best of it is, they all listen to you with an air of intense interest, when you are talking about yourself, which is an excellent tonic. They sometimes tell one what's the matter, give a name and significance to the unknown, I interjected. They bore me by forbidding me to smoke and drink. They are worse than M, who grudged me his wine. What do you mean? I asked in wonder. A tragicomic history, Frank. You were so right about M, and I was mistaken in him. You know, he wanted me to stay with him at Glom in Switzerland, begged me to come, said he would do everything for me. When the weather got warm at Genoa, I went to him. At first he seemed very glad to see me, and made me welcome. The food was not very good, the drink anything but good. Still I could not complain, and I put up with the discomforts. But in a week or two the wine disappeared, and beer took its place, and I suggested I must be going. He begged me so cordially not to go that I stayed on. But in a little while I noticed that the beer got less and less in quantity. And one day, when I ventured to ask for a second bottle at lunch, he told me that it cost a great deal, and that he could not afford it. Of course I made some decent pretext, and left his house as soon as possible. If one has to suffer poverty, one had best suffer alone. But to get discomforts grudgingly, and as a charity, is the extremity of shame. I prefer to look on it from the other side. M. grudging me his small beer, belongs to Fas. He spoke with bitterness and contempt, as he used never to speak of any one. I could not help sympathising with him, though visibly the cloth was wearing thread-bear. He asked me now at once for money, and a little later again and again. Formerly he had invented pretexts. He had not received his allowance when he expected it, or he was bothered by a bill and so forth. But now he simply begged and begged, railing the while at fortune. It was distressing. He wanted money constantly, and spent it as always like water, without a thought. I asked him one day whether he had seen much of his soldier boy, since he had returned to Paris. I have seen him, Frank, but not often. And he laughed gaily. It's a fast comedy. Sentiment always begins romantically, and ends in laughter. Tabulai solwuntur risu. I taught him so much, Frank, that he was made a corporal, and forthwith a nursemaid fell in love with his stripes. He's devoted to her. I suppose he likes to play teacher in his turn. And so the great romantic passion comes to this tame conclusion. What would you, Frank? Whatever begins must also end. Is there anyone else, I asked, or have you learned reason at last? Of course there's always someone else, Frank. Change is the essence of passion. The reason you talk of is merely another name for impotence. Montagne declares, I said, that love belongs to early youth. The next period after infancy is his phrase. But that is at the best of Frenchman's view of it. Sophocles was nearer the truth, when he called himself happy in that age had freed him from the whip of passion. When are you going to reach that serenity? Never, Frank, never, I hope. Life without desire would not be worth living to me. As one gets older, one is more difficult to please. But the sting of pleasure is even keener than in youth, and far more egotistic. One comes to understand the marquis de sade and that strange scarlet story of dreads. The pleasure they got from inflicting pain, the curious, intense underworld of cruelty. That's unlike you, Oscar, I broke in. I thought you shrank from giving pain always. To me it's the unforgivable sin. To me also, he rejoined instantly. Intellectually one may understand it, but in reality it's horrible. I want my pleasure un-emittered by any drop of pain. That reminds me, I read a terrible little book the other day, Octave Mirbos, Le Jardin des Suples. It is quite awful. A saddic joy in pain pulses through it. But for all that it's wonderful. His soul seems to have wandered in fearsome places. You, with your contempt of fear, will face the book with courage. I. I simply couldn't read it, I replied. It was revolting to me. Impossible. A sort of grey adder, he summed up, and I nodded in complete agreement. I passed the next winter on the Riviera. A speculation which I had gone in for there had caused me heavy loss and much anxiety. In the spring I returned to Paris, and of course asked him to meet me. He was much brighter than he had been for a long time. Lord Alfred Douglas, it appeared, had come in for a large legacy from his father's estate, and had given him some money, and he was much more cheerful. We had a great lunch at Durand's, and he was at his very best. I asked him about his health. I'm all right, Frank, but the rash continually comes back, a ghostly visitant, Frank. I'm afraid the doctors are in league with the devil. It generally returns after a good dinner, a sort of aftermath of champagne. The doctors say I must not drink champagne, and must stop smoking the silly people who regard pleasures as their natural enemies, whereas it is our pleasures which provide them with a living. He looked fairly well, I thought. He was a little fatter, his skin a little dingier than of old, and he had grown very deaf. But in every other way he seemed at his best, though he was certainly drinking too freely. Spirits between times as well as wine at meals. I had heard on the Riviera during the winter that Smithers had tried to buy a play from him, so one day I brought up the subject. By the way, Smithers says you have been working on your play. You know the one I mean, the one with the great screens seen in it. Oh yes, Frank, he remarked indifferently. Won't you tell me what you've done, I asked. Have you written any of it? No, Frank, he replied casually. It's the scenario Smithers talked about. A little while afterwards he asked me for money. I told him I could not afford any at the moment and pressed him to write his play. I shall never write again, Frank, he said. I can't, I simply can't face my thoughts. Don't ask me. Then suddenly why don't you buy the scenario and write the play yourself? I don't care for the stage, I replied. It's a sort of rude and caustic work I don't like. Its effects are theatrical. A play pays far better than a book, you know. But I was not interested. That evening, thinking over what he had said, I realized all at once that a story I had in mind to write would suit the screen scene of Oscar's scenario. Why shouldn't I write a play instead of a story? When we met next day I broached the idea to Oscar. I have a story in my head, I said, which would fit into that scenario of yours so far as you have sketched it to me. I could write it as a play and do the second, third and fourth acts very quickly as all the personages are alive to me. Could you do the first act? Of course I could, Frank. But I said, will you? What would be the gort you could not sell it, Frank? In any case, I went on, I could try, but I would infinitely prefer you to write the whole play, if you would. Then it would sell fast enough. Oh, Frank, don't ask me. The idea of the collaboration was a mistake, but it seemed to me at the moment the best way to get him to do something. Suddenly he asked me to give him fifty pounds for the scenario at once, then I could do what I liked with it. After a good deal of talk I consented to give him the fifty pounds, if he would promise to write the first act. He promised and I gave him the money. A little later I noticed a certain tension in his relations with Lord Alfred Douglas. One day he told me frankly that Lord Alfred Douglas had come into a fortune of fifteen thousand or twenty thousand pounds. And, he added, of course he's always able to get money. He'll marry an American millionaire or some rich widow. Oscar's ideas of life were nearly all conventional, derived from novels and plays, and I wanted him to give me enough to make my life comfortable, to settle enough on me to make a decent life possible to me. It would only have cost him two or three thousand pounds, perhaps less. I get one hundred and fifty pounds a year, and I wanted him to make it up to three hundred pounds. I lost that through going to him at Naples. I think he ought to give me that at the very least, don't you? Won't you speak to him, Frank? I could not possibly interfere, I replied. I gave him everything. He went on in a depressed way. When I had money, he never had to ask for it. All that was mine was his. And now that he is rich, I have to beg from him, and he gives me small sums and puts me off. It is terrible of him. It is rarely very, very wrong of him. I changed the subject as soon as I could. There was a note of bitterness which I did not like, and which I had already remarked in him. I was destined very soon to hear the other side. A day or two later Lord Alfred Douglas told me that he had bought some race horses and was training them at Chantilly. Would I come down and see them? I am not much of a judge of race horses, I replied, and I don't know much about racing, but I should not mind coming down one evening. I could spend the night at an hotel and see the horses and your stable in the morning. The life of the English stable lads in France must be rather peculiar. It is droll, he said, a complete English colony in France. There are practically no French jockeys or trainers worth their salt. It is all English—English slang, English ways, even English food and, of course, English drinks. No French boy seems to have nerve enough to make a good rider. I made an arrangement with him and went down. I missed my train and was very late. I found that Lord Alfred Douglas had dined and gone out. I had my dinner and about midnight went up to my room. Half an hour later there came a knocking at the door. I opened it and found Lord Alfred Douglas. May I come in? he asked. I'm glad you've not gone to bed yet. Of course, I said, what is it? He was pale and seemed extraordinarily excited. I've had such a row with Oscar! he jerked out nervously moving about. I noticed the strained white face I had seen before at the Café Royal. Such a row! and I wanted to speak to you about it. Of course you know in the old days, when his plays were being given in London, he was rich and gave me some money. And now he says I ought to settle a large sum on him. I think it's ridiculous, don't you? I would rather not say anything about it, I replied. I don't know enough about the circumstances. He was too filled with the sense of his own injuries, too excited to catch my tone or understand any reproof in my attitude. Oscar is really too dreadful, he went on. He is quite shameless now. He begs and begs and begs. And of course I have given him money, have given him hundreds, quite as much as he ever gave me. But he is insatiable and recklessly extravagant besides. Of course I want to be quite fair to him. I've already given him back all he gave me. Don't you think that is all anyone can ask of me? I looked at him in astonishment. That is for you and Oscar, I said, to decide together. No one else can judge between you. Why not? he snapped out in his irritable way. You know as both and our relations. No, I replied. I don't know all the obligations and the interwoven services. Besides, I could not judge fairly between you. He turned on me angrily, though I had spoken with as much kindness as I could. He seemed to want to make you judge between us, he cried. I don't care who's the judge. I think if you give a man back what he has given you, that is all he can ask. It's a damned lot more than most people get in this world. After a pause he started off on a new line of thought. The first time I ever noticed any fault in Oscar was over that Salome translation. He's appallingly conceited. You know, I did the play into English. I found that his choice of words was poor, anything but good. His prose is wooden. Of course he's not a poet, he broke off contemptuously. Even you must admit that. I know what you mean, I replied, though I should have to make a vast reservation in favour of the man who wrote the Ballad of Reading Jail. One ballad does not make a man a poet, he barked. I mean by poet one to whom verse lends power. In that sense he's not a poet, and I am. His tone was that of defiant challenge. You are, certainly, I replied. Well, I did the translation of Salome very carefully, as no one else could have done it. And he flushed angrily. And all the while Oscar kept on altering it for the worse. At last I had to tell him the truth, and we had a row. He imagined he's the greatest person in the world, and the only person to be considered. His conceit is stupid. I helped him again and again with that ballad of Reading Jail you're always praising. I suppose he'd deny that now. He's got his money back. What more can he want? He disgusts me when he begs. I could not contain myself altogether. He seems to blame you, I said quietly, for egging him on to that insane action against your father, which brought him to ruin. I've no doubt he'd find some reason to blame me, he whipped out. How did I know how the case would go? Why did he take my advice if he didn't want to? He was surely old enough to know his own interest. He's simply disgusting now. He's getting fat and bloated, and always demanding money, money, money, like a daughter of the horse-leach, just as if he had a claim to it. I could not stand it any longer. I had to try to move him to kindness. Sometimes one gives willingly to a man one has never had anything from. Misery and want, in one we like and admire, have a very strong claim. I do not see that there is any claim at all, he cried bitterly, as if the very word maddened him. And I am not going to pamper him any more. He could earn all the money he wants, if he would only write. But he won't do anything. He is lazy, and getting lazier and lazier every day. And he drinks far too much. He is intolerable. I thought when he kept asking me for that money to night, he was like an old prostitute. Good God! I cried. Good God! Has it come to that between you? Yes, he repeated, not heeding what I said. He was just like an old fat prostitute. And he gloated over the word, and I told him so. I looked at the man that could not speak. Indeed, there was nothing to be said. Surely at last I thought Oscar Wilde has reached the lowest depth. I could think of nothing but Oscar. This hard, small, bitter nature made Oscar's suffering plain to me. As I can do no good, I said, do you mind letting me sleep? I am simply tired to death. I am sorry, he said, looking for his hat. Will you come out in the morning and see the G's? I don't think so, I replied. I am incapable of a resolution now. I am so tired. I would rather sleep. I think I'll go up to Paris in the morning. I have something rather urgent to do. He said, good night, and went away. I lay awake, my eyes prickling with sorrow and sympathy for poor Oscar, insulted in his misery and destitution, outraged and trodden on by the man he had loved, by the man who had thrust him into the pit. I made up my mind to go to Oscar at once and try to comfort him a little. After all, I thought, another fifty pounds or so wouldn't make a great deal of difference to me, and I dwelt on the many delightful hours I had passed with him, hours of gay talk and superb intellectual enjoyment. I went up by the morning train to Paris and drove across the river to Oscar's hotel. He had two rooms, a small sitting-room and a still smaller bedroom adjoining. He was lying half-dressed on the bed as I entered. The rooms affected me unpleasantly. They were ordinary mean little French rooms, furnished without taste. The usual mahogany chairs, guilt-clock on the mantelpiece, and a preposterous bilious paper on the walls. What struck me was the disorder everywhere, books all over the round table, books on the chairs, books on the floor, and higgledy-piggledy. Here a pair of socks, there a hat and cane, and on the floor his overcoat. The sense of order and neatness which he used to have in his rooms at Tite Street was utterly lacking. He was not living here, intent on making the best of things. He was merely existing without plan or purpose. I told him I wanted him to come to lunch. While he was finishing dressing, it came to me that his clothes had undergone much the same change as his dwelling. In his golden days in London he had been a good deal of a dandy. He usually wore white waistcoats at night, was particular about the flowers in his buttonhole, his gloves and cane. Now he was decently dressed, and that was all, as far below the average as he had been above it. Clearly he had let go of himself, and no longer took pleasure in the vanities. It seemed to me a bad sign. I had always thought of him as very healthy, likely to live till 60 or 70. But he had no longer any hold on himself, and that depressed me. Some spring of life seemed broken in him. Bozy Douglas's second betrayal had been the coup de grace. In the carriage he was preoccupied, out of sorts, and immediately began to apologize. I shall be poor company, Frank. He warned me with quivering lips. The fragrant summer air in the Champs Elysees seemed to revive him a little, but he was evidently lost in bitter reflections, and scarcely noticed where he was going. From time to time he sighed heavily, as if oppressed. I talked as well as I could of this and that, tried to lure him away from the hateful subject that I knew must be in his mind, but all in vain. Towards the end of the lunch he said gravely, I want you to tell me something, Frank. I want you to tell me honestly if you think I am in the wrong. I wish I could think I was. You know I spoke to you the other day about Bozy. He is rich now, and he is throwing his money away with both hands in racing. I asked him to settle £1,500 or £2,000 on me to buy me an annuity, or to do something that would give me £150 a year. You said you did not care to ask him, so I did. I told him it was rarely his duty to do it at once, and he turned round and lashed me savagely with his tongue. He called me dreadful names, said dreadful things to me, Frank. I did not think it was possible to suffer more than I suffered in prison, but he has left me bleeding. And the fine eyes filled with tears. Seeing that I remained silent, he cried out, Frank, you must tell me for our friendship's sake. Is it my fault? Was he wrong or was I wrong? His weakness was pathetic. Or was it that his affection was still so great that he wanted to blame himself rather than his friend? Of course he seems to me to be wrong, I said, utterly wrong. I could not help saying it, and I went on. But you know his temper is insane. If he even praises himself as he did to me lately, he gets into a rage in order to do it. And perhaps unwittingly you annoyed him by the way you asked. If you put it to his generosity and vain glory, you would get it easier than from his sense of justice and right. He has not much moral sense. Oh, Frank! he broke in earnestly. I put it to him as well as I could, quite quietly and gently. I talked of her old affection, of the good and evil days we had passed together. You know I could never be harsh to him, never. There never was, he burst out in a sort of exultation. There never was in the world such a betrayal. Do you remember once telling me that the only flaw you could find in the perfect symbolism of the gospel story was that Jesus was betrayed by Judas, the foreigner from Kerioth, when he should have been betrayed by John, the beloved disciple. For it is only those we love who can betray us. Frank, how true, how tragically true that is, it is those we love who betray us with a kiss. He was silent for some time, and then went on wearily. I wish you would speak to him, Frank, and show him how unjust and unkind he is to me. I cannot possibly do that, Oscar, I said. I do not know all the relations between you and the myriad bands that unite you. I should only do harm and not good. Frank, he cried, you do know, you must know that he is responsible for everything, for my downfall and my ruin. It was he who drove me to fight with his father. I begged him not to, but he whipped me to it, asked me what his father could do, pointed out to me contemptuously that he could prove nothing, said he was the most loathsome hateful creature in the world, and that it was my duty to stop him, and that if I did not, everyone would be laughing at me, and he could never care for a coward. All his family, his brother, and his mother, too, begged me to attack Queensbury. All promised me their support, and afterwards. You know, Frank, in the Café Royal before the trial how Bose spoke to you when you warned me and implored me to drop the insane suit and go abroad, how angry he got. You were not a friend of mine, he said. You know, he drove me to ruin in order to avenge himself on his father, and then left me to suffer. And that's not the worst of it, Frank. I came out of prison determined not to see him any more. I promised my poor wife I would not see him again. I had forgiven him, but I did not want to see him. I had suffered too much by him, and through him, far too much. And then he wrote and wrote of his love, crying it to me every hour, begging me to come, telling me he only wanted me in order to be happy, me in the whole world. How could I help believing him? How could I keep away from him? At last I yielded and went to him, and as soon as the difficulties began, he turned on me in Naples like a wild beast, blaming me and insulting me. I had to fly to Paris, having lost everything through him, wife and income and self-respect, everything. But I always thought that he was at least generous as a man of his name should be. I had no idea he could be stingy and mean. But now he is comparatively rich. He prefers to squander his money on jockeys, and trainers and horses, of which he knows nothing, instead of lifting me out of my misery. Surely it is not too much to ask him to give me a tenth when I gave him all. Won't you ask him? I think he ought to have done what you want, without asking, I admitted. But I am certain my speaking would not do any good. He shows me hatred already, whenever I do not agree with him. Hate is nearer to him always than sympathy. He is his father's son, Oscar, and I can do nothing. I cannot even speak to him about it. Oh, Frank, you ought to, said Oscar. But suppose he retorted and said you led him astray. What could I answer? Led him astray! cried Oscar, starting up. You cannot believe that. You know me better than that. It is not true. It is he who always led, always dominated me. He is as imperious as a Caesar. It was he who began our intimacy. He who came to me in London when I did not want to see him. Or rather, Frank, I wanted to, but I was afraid. At the very beginning I was afraid of what it would all lead to, and I avoided him. The desperate, aristocratic pride in him, the dreadful, bold, imperious temper in him terrified me. But he came to London and sent for me to come to him. Said he would come to my house if I didn't. I went, thinking I could reason with him. But it was impossible. When I told him we must be very careful, for I was afraid of what might happen. He made fun of my fears, and encouraged me. He knew that they'd never dare to punish him. He's allied to half the peerage, and he did not care what became of me. He led me first to the street, introduced me to the male prostitution in London. From the beginning to the end he has driven me like the estrum of which the Greeks wrote, which drove the ill-fated to disaster. And now he says he owes me nothing. I have no claim. I, who gave to him without counting, he says he needs all his money for himself. He wants to win races, and write poetry, Frank, the pretty verses which he thinks poetry. He has ruined me, soul and body, and now he puts himself in the balance against me, and declares he outweighs me. Yes, Frank, he does. He told me the other day I was not a poet, not a true poet, and he was, Alfred Douglas, greater than Oscar Wilde. I have not done much in the world. He went on hotly. I know it better than anyone, not a quarter of what I should have done. But there are some things I have done which the world will not forget, can hardly forget. If all the tribe of Douglas, from the beginning, and all their achievements were added together and thrown into the balance, they would not weigh as dust in comparison. Yet he reviled me, Frank, whipped me, shamed me. He has broken me, he has broken me, the man I loved. My very heart is cold waiting me. And he got up and moved aside, with the tears pouring down his cheeks. Don't take it so much to heart, I said in a minute or two going after him. The loss of affection I cannot help. But a hundred or so a year is not much. I will see that you get that every year. Oh, Frank, it is not the money. It is his denial, his insults, his hate that kills me. The fact that I have ruined myself for someone who cares nothing, who puts a little money before me, it is as if I were choked with mud. Once I thought myself master of my life, lord of my fate, who could do what I pleased and would always succeed. I was as a crowned king till I met him, and now I am an exile and outcast and despised. I have lost my way in life, the passes by all scorn me, and the man whom I loved whips me with foul insults and contempt. There is no example in history of such a betrayal, no parallel. I am finished. It is all over with me now, all. I hope the end will come quickly. And he moved away to the window, his tears falling heavily. End of chapter 25. Recording by Martin Geeson in Hazelmere Surrey