 Chapter 12 of Oscar Wilde, His Life and Confessions. Oscar Wilde, His Life and Confessions by Frank Harris. Chapter 12. Danger Signals. The Challenge. These two years, 1893-4, saw Oscar Wilde at the very zenith of success. Thackeray, who always felt himself a monetary failure in comparison with Dickens, calls success one of the greatest of a great man's qualities. At Oscar was not successful merely, he was triumphant. Not Sheridan the day after his marriage, not Byron when he awoke to find himself famous, ever reached such a pinnacle. His plays were bringing in so much that he could spend money like water. He had won every sort of popularity, the gross applause of the many, and the finer incense of the few who constitute the jury of fame. His personal popularity too was extraordinary. Thousands admired him. Many liked him. He seemed to have everything that heart could desire and perfect health to boot. Even his home life was without a cloud. Two stories which he told at this time paint him. One was about his two boys, Vivian and Cyril. Children are sometimes interesting, he began. The other night I was reading when my wife came and asked me to go upstairs and reprove the elder boy. Cyril, it appeared, would not say his prayers. He had quarrelled with Vivian and beaten him, and when he was shaken and told he must say his prayers, he would not kneel down or ask God to make him a good boy. Of course I had to go upstairs and see to it. I took the chubby little fellow on my knee and told him in a grave way that he had been very naughty. Naughty to hit his younger brother, and naughty because he had given his mother pain. He must kneel down at once and ask God to forgive him and make him a good boy. I was not naughty, he pouted. It was Vivian, he was naughty. I explained to him that his temper was naughty and that he must do as he was told. With a little sigh he slipped off my knee and knelt down and put his little hands together as he had been taught and began our father. When he had finished the Lord's Prayer he looked 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 took him 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 make Vivian 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 make others good. This story shows the lovable side of him. There was another side not so amiable. In April 1893 a woman of no importance was produced by Herbert Birbom Tree at the Haymarket and ran till the end of the season, August the 16th, surviving even the festival of St. Grouse. The astonishing success of this second play confirmed Oscar Wilde's popularity, gave him money to spend and increased his self-confidence. In the summer he took a house up the river at Goring and went there to live with Lord Alfred Douglas. Weird stories came to us in London about their life together. Sometime in September, I think it was, I asked 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 substratum of truth. It resembles the truth like a gigantic shadow. There is a likeness, at least in outline. That would be true, he retorted, if the canvas, so to speak, on which the shadows fall were even and true, but it is not. Scandals and slander are related to the hatred of the people who invent them, and are not in any shadowy sense even, effigies or images of the person attacked. Much smoke, then, I queried, and no fire. Only little fires, he rejoined, show much smoke. The foundation for what you heard is both small and harmless. The summer was very warm and beautiful, as you know, and I was up at Goring with Bosie. Often in the middle of the day we were too hot to go on the river. One afternoon it was sultry close, and Bosie proposed that I should turn the hosepipe on him. He went in and threw his things off, and so did I. A few minutes later I was seated in a chair with the bath-towel round me, and Bosie was lying on the grass about ten yards away when the vicar came to pay us a call. The servant told him that we were in the garden, and he came and found us there. Frank, you have no idea the sort 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 myself carefully. You have come just in time to enjoy a perfectly Greek scene. I regret that I am scarcely fit to receive you, and Bosie there, and I pointed to Bosie lying on the grass. The vicar turned his 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 may have described the scene, what explanation he gave of it, what vile gloss he may have invented! I don't know, and I don't care. I have no doubt he wagged his head and passed his lips and looked unutterable things. But really it takes a saint to suffer such fools gladly. I could not help smiling when I thought of the vicar's face, but Oscar's tone was not pleasant. The change in him had gone further than I had feared. He was now utterly contemptuous of criticism, and would listen to no counsel. He was gross, too. The rich food and wine seemed to ooze out of him, and his manner was defiant, hard. He was like some great pagan determined to live his own life to the very fullest, careless of what others might say or think or do. Even the stories which he wrote about this time show the worst side of his paganism. When Jesus was minded to return to Nazareth, Nazareth was so changed that he no longer recognized his own city. The Nazareth where he had lived was full of lamentations and tears. This city was filled with outbursts of laughter and song. Christ went out of the house, and behold, in the street he saw a woman whose face and raiment were painted, and whose feet were shod with pearls, and behind her walked a man who wore a cloak of two colors, and whose eyes were bright with lust. And Christ went up to the 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 in such wise? The man turned round, recognized him, and said, I was blind, 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 one I 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 naively in the place of any historical character. The disdain of public opinion, which Oscar now showed, not only in his writings, but in his answers to criticism, quickly turned the public dislike into aggressive hatred. In 1894 a book appeared, The Green Carnation, which was a sort of photograph of Oscar as a talker and a caricature of his thought. The gossipy story had a surprising success altogether beyond its merits, which simply testified to the intense interest the suspicion of extraordinary viciousness has for common minds. Oscar's genius was not given in the book at all, but his humour was indicated and a malevolent doubt of his morality insisted upon again and again. Rumour had it that the book was true in every particular, and that Mr. Hitchens had taken down Oscar's talks evening after evening, and simply reproduced them. I asked Oscar if this was true. True enough, Frank, he replied with a certain contempt which was foreign to him. Hitchens got to know Bozy Douglas in Egypt. They went up the Nile together, I believe, with Bodo Benson. Naturally Bozy talked a great deal about me, and Hitchens wanted to know me. When they returned to town I thought him rather pleasant and saw a good deal of him. But no idea that he was going to play reporter. It seems to me a breach of confidence, ignoble. It is not a picture of you, I said, but there is a certain likeness. A photograph is always like and unlike, Frank, he replied. The Sun too, when used mechanically, is merely a reporter and produces instead of reproducing you. The Green Carnation ruined Oscar Wilde's character with the general public. On all sides the book was referred to as confirming the worst suspicions. The cloud which hung over him grew continually darker. During the summer of 1894 he wrote the Ideal Husband, which was the outcome of a story I had told him. I had heard it from an American I had met in Cairo, a Mr. Cope White House. He told me that Disraeli had made money by entrusting the Rothschilds with the purchase of the Suez Canal shares. It seemed to me strange that this statement, if true, had never been set forth authoritatively. But the story was peculiarly modern and had possibilities in it. Oscar admitted afterwards that he had taken the idea and used it in an Ideal Husband. It was in this summer also that he wrote the Importance of Being Ernest, his finest play. He went to the seaside and completed it. He said in three weeks. And when I spoke of the delight he must feel at having two plays performed in London at the same time. He said, Next year Frank I may have four or five. I could write one every two months with the greatest ease. It all depends on money. If I need money I shall write half a dozen plays next year. His words reminded me of what Goethe had said about himself. In each of the ten years he spent on his theory of light he could have written a couple of plays as good as his best. The land of might have been is peopled with these gorgeous shadow-shapes. Oscar had already found his public, a public capable of appreciating the very best he could do. As soon as the Importance of Being Ernest was produced it had an extraordinary success and success of the best sort. Even journalist critics had begun to cease exhibiting their own limitations in foolish fault-finding and now imitated their betters parroting phrases of extravagant laudation. Oscar took the praise as he had taken the scandal and slander with complacent superiority. He had changed greatly and for the worse. He was growing coarser and harder every year. All his friends noticed this. Even Monsieur Andrégide, who was a great admirer and wrote shortly after his death the best account of him that appeared was compelled to deplore his deterioration. He says, one felt that there was less tenderness in his looks, that there was something harsh in his laughter and a wild madness in his joy. He seemed at the same time to be sure of pleasing and less ambitious to succeed 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, breastpins, 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 opinion and the malignancy with which he was misjudged it could be found in an incident which took place towards the end of 1894. A journal entitled The Chameleon was produced by some Oxford undergraduates. Oscar wrote for it a handful of sayings which he called phrases and philosophies for the use of the young. His epigrams were harmless enough, but in the same number there appeared a story entitled The Priest and the Acolyte which could hardly be defended. The mere fact that his work was printed in the same journal called forth a storm of condemnation though he had never seen the story before it was published nor had he anything to do with its insertion. Nemesis was following hard after him. Late in this year he spoke to me of his own accord about Lord Queensbury. He wanted my advice. Lord Queensbury is annoying me. He said, I did my best to reconcile him and Bozy. One day at the Cafe Royal while Bozy and I were lunching there, Queensbury came in and I made Bozy go over and fetch his father and bring him to lunch with us. He was half friendly with me till quite recently. Although he wrote a shameful letter to Bozy about us, what am I to do? I asked him what Lord Queensbury objected to. He objected to my friendship with Bozy. Then why not cease to see Bozy, I asked. It is impossible, Frank, and ridiculous. Why should I give up my friends for Queensbury? I'd like to see Queensbury's letter, I said. Is it possible? I'll bring it to Frank, but there's nothing in it. A day or two later he showed me the letter, and after I had read it he produced a copy of the telegram which Lord Alfred Douglas had sent to his father in 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 declined to receive any answers from you in writing in return. After your recent hysterical, impertinent ones I refused to be annoyed with such that I declined to read any more letters. If you have anything to say, do come here and say it in person. Fastly 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 lull 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 wild. It was to 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, Queensborough. In reply to this letter, Lord Alfred Douglas telegraphed. What a funny little man you are. Alfred Douglas. The telegram was excellently calculated to drive Queensborough frantic with rage. There was feminine cunning in its wound to vanity. A little later Oscar told me that Queensborough, accompanied by a friend, had called on him. What happened, I asked. I said to him, I suppose Lord Queensborough, you have come to apologize for the libelous letter you wrote about me. No," he replied, the letter was privileged. It was written to my son. How dare you say such a thing about your son and me. You are 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," I replied, but they are untrue and quite ridiculous. He ended up by saying that if he caught me and his son together again, he would thrash me. I don't know what the Queensbury rules are," I retorted, but my rule is to shoot at sight in case of personal violence, and with that 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 another person were speaking through his mouth. The idea of Oscar standing up to Queensbury or shooting at sight was too absurd. Who was inspiring him? Alfred Douglas. What has happened since, I inquired. Nothing," he replied, perhaps he will be quiet now. Alfrid Douglas has written him a terrible letter. He must see now that if he goes on he will only injure his own flesh and blood. That won't stop him," I replied, if I read him a right. But if I could see what Alfred Douglas wrote, I should be better able to judge of the effect it will have on Queensbury. A little later I saw the letter. It shows better than words of mine the 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 Barclay, Willis' Rums, 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-defense against a violent and dangerous rough. And I think if you were dead, many people would not miss you. AD This letter of the sun seems to me appalling. My guess was right. It was he who was speaking through Oscar. The threat of shooting at sight came from him. I did not then understand all the circumstances. I had not met Lady Queensbury. I could not have imagined how she had suffered at the hands of her husband. A charming, cultivated woman with exquisite taste in literature and art, a woman of the most delicate, aspen-like sensibilities and noble generosity, coupled with that violent, coarse animal with the hot eyes and combative nature. Her married life had been a martyrdom. Naturally the children had all taken her side in the quarrel, and Lord Alfred Douglas, her especial favourite, had practically identified himself with her, which explains to some extent, though nothing can justify the unnatural animosity of his letter. The letter showed me that the quarrel was far deeper, far bitterer than I had imagined. One of those dreadful family quarrels where the intimate knowledge each has of the other 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 between the bark and the tree, and you will suffer for it. But he would not or 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 to fight with you, or conciliate him. There is nothing else to do. He would not be warned. A little later the matter came up again. At the first production of the importance of being earnest, Lord Queensborough appeared at the theatre, carrying a large bouquet of turnips and carrots. What the meaning was of those vegetables only the man himself and his like could divine. I asked Oscar about the matter. He seemed annoyed, but on the whole triumphant. Queensborough, he said, had engaged a stall at the St. James's Theatre. No doubt to kick up a row. But as soon as I heard of it I got Alec, George Alexander, to send him back his money. On the night of the first performance, Queensborough appeared carrying a large bundle of carrots. He was refused admittance at the box-office, and when he tried to enter the gallery, the police would not let him in. He must be mad, Frank. Don't you think? I'm 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 French proverb I've always liked. In love and war don't seek counsel. But for God's sake, don't drift. Stop while you can. But Oscar would have had to take a resolution and act in order to stop, and he was incapable of such energy. The wild horses of fate had run away with the light chariot of his fortune, and what the end would be no one could foresee. It came with a pawling suddenness. One evening in February 1995, I heard that the Marquis of Queensbury had left an insulting card for Oscar at the Albemarle Club. My informant added gleefully that now Oscar would have to face the music, and we'd all see what was in him. There was no malice in this, just an Englishman's pleasure in a desperate fight, and curiosity as to the issue. A little later I received a letter from Oscar, asking me if he could call on me that afternoon. I stayed in, and about four o'clock he came to see me. At first he used the old imperious mask, which he had lately accustomed himself to wear. I am bringing an action against Queensbury, Frank. He began gravely, for criminal libel. He is a mere wild beast. My solicitors tell me that I am certain to win, but they say some of the things I have written will be brought up against me in court. Now you know all I have written. Would you, in your position as editor of the fortnightly, 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 could say more than that. I could say that you are one of the very few men I have ever known whose talk and whose writings were vowed away from grossness of any sort. Oh, Frank, would you? It would be so kind of you," he cried out. My solicitors said I ought to ask you, but they were afraid you would not like to come. Your evidence will win the case. It is good of you." His whole face was shaken. He turned away to hide the tears. Anything I can do, Oscar, I said, I shall do with pleasure, and as you know to the uttermost. But I want you to consider the matter carefully. An English court of law gives me no assurance of a fair trial, or rather I am certain that in matters of art or morality an English 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 and Ruskin action. You know that Whistler ought to have won. You know that Ruskin was shamelessly in fault, but the British jury and the so-called British artists treated Whistler and his superb work with contempt. Take a different case altogether, the Belt case, where all the academicians went into the witness-box and asserted honestly enough that Belt was an impostor. Yet the jury gave him a verdict of five thousand pounds. Though a year later he was sent to penal servitude for the very frauds which the jury in the first trial had declared by their verdict, he had not committed. An English law court is all very well for 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 or the immorality of an artist, is to ask the courts to do what it is wholly unfit to do. There is not a judge on the bench whose opinion on such a matter is worth a moment's consideration, and the jury are a thousand years behind the judge. That may be true, Frank, but I cannot help it. Don't forget, I persisted, all British prejudices will be against you. Here is a father, the fools will say, trying to protect his young son. If he has made a mistake it is only through excessive lordable zeal you would have to prove yourself a religious maniac in order to have any chance against him in England. How terrible you are, Frank! You know it is Bozy Douglas who wants me to fight, and my solicitors tell me I shall win. Solicitors live on quarrels. Of course they want a case that will bring in hundreds if not thousands of pounds into their pockets. Besides, they 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. That way madness lies. But Frank, he objected weakly, how can I sit down under such an insult? I must do something. That's another story, I replied. Let us by all means weigh what is to be done, but let us begin by putting the law courts out of the question. Don't forget that you are challenged to mortal combat. Let us consider how the challenge should be met, but we won't fight under Queensbury rules, because Queensbury happens to be the aggressor. Don't forget that if you lose, and Queensbury goes free, everyone will hold that you have been guilty of nameless vice. Put the law courts out of your head. Whatever else you do, you must not bring an action for criminal libel against Queensbury. You are sure to lose it. You haven't a dog's chance, and the English despise the beaten. Why, Wyctis, don't commit suicide. Nothing was determined when the time came to part. This conversation took place, I believe, on the Friday or Saturday. I spent the whole of Sunday trying to find out what was known about Oscar Wilde and what would be brought up against him. I wanted to know, too, how he was regarded in an ordinary middle-class English home. My investigations had appalling results. Everyone assumed that Oscar Wilde was guilty of the worst that had ever been alleged against him. The very people who received him in their houses condemned him pitilessly. And as I approached the fountain-head of information, the charges became more and more definite. To my horror, in the public prosecutor's office, his guilt was said to be known and classified. All people of importance agreed that he would lose his case against Queensbury. No English jury would give Oscar Wilde a verdict against anyone, was the expert opinion. How unjust! I cried. A careless shrug was the only reply. I returned home from my inquiries late on Sunday afternoon, and in a few minutes Oscar called by appointment. I told him I was more convinced than ever that he must not go on with the prosecution. He would be certain to lose. Without beating about the bush, I declared that he had no earthly chance. There are letters, I said, which are infinitely worse than your published writings, which will be put in evidence against you. What letters do you mean, Frank?" he questioned. The wood letters to Lord Alpha Douglas I told you about. I can explain all of them. You paid blackmail to wood for letters you had written to Douglas, I replied, and you will not be able to explain that fact to the satisfaction of a jury. I am told it is possible that witnesses will be called against you. Take it from me, Oscar, you have not a ghost of 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. I have 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 bearer for future generations. If you lose, you will make it harder for all writers in England. Though God knows it is hard enough already, you will 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 your opinion? Tell me that. You ought to go abroad," I replied. Go abroad with your wife and let Queensbury 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 over in a day or two. But I must know, he said wistfully, tomorrow morning, Frank. Bernard Shaw is lunching with me tomorrow, I replied, at the Café Royal. He made an impatient movement of his head. He usually goes early, I went on, and if you like to come after three o'clock, we can have a talk and consider it all. May I bring bosy? he inquired. I would rather you did not, I replied, but it is for you to do just as 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 in our talk, and we were both at the table when Oscar came in. I introduced them, but they had met before. Shaw stood up and proposed to go at once, but Oscar, with his usual courtesy, assured him that he would be glad if he stayed. Then Oscar, I said, perhaps you won't mind Shaw hearing what I advised. 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 Douglas came in with Oscar or a little later, but he heard the greater part of our talk. I put the matter simply. First of all, I said, we start with the certainty that you are going to lose the case against Queensbury. You must give it up, drop it at once, but you cannot drop it and stay in England. Queensbury would probably attack you again and again. I know him well. He is half a savage, and regards pity as a weakness. He has absolutely no consideration for others. You should go abroad, and as ace of trumps you should take your wife with you. Now for the excuse. I would sit down and write such a letter as you alone can write, to the Times. You should set forth how you have been insulted by the Marquis of Queensbury, and how you went naturally to the courts for a remedy. But you found out very soon that this was a mistake. No jury would give a verdict against a father, however mistaken he might be. The only thing for you to do, therefore, is to go abroad and leave the whole ring with its gloves and ropes, its sponges and pails, to Lord Queensbury. You are a maker of beautiful things, you should say, and not a fighter. Whereas the Marquis of Queensbury takes joy only in fighting. You refuse to fight with a father under these circumstances. Oscar seemed to be inclined to do as I proposed. I appealed to shore, and shore said he thought I was right. The case would very likely go against Oscar. A jury would hardly give a verdict against a father trying to protect his son. Oscar seemed much moved. I think it was about this time that Bozy Douglas came in. At Oscar's request I repeated 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 the room on the spot. To my astonishment Oscar also got up. It is not friendly of you, Frank. He said weakly. It really is not friendly. I stared at him. He was parroting Douglas's 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 who had ever misled Douglas, but Lord Alfred Douglas who was driving Oscar wither he would. I turned to shore. Did I say anything in the heat of argument that could have offended Oscar or Douglas? Nothing, said shore, not a word. You have nothing to reproach yourself with. Left to myself I was at a loss to imagine what Lord Alfred Douglas proposed to himself by hounding Oscar on to attack his father. I was still more surprised by his white, bitter face. I could not get rid of the impression it left on me. While groping among these reflections I was suddenly struck by a sort of likeness, a similarity of expression and of temper between Lord Alfred Douglas and his unhappy father. I could not get it out of my head. That little face blouched with rage and the wild, hating eyes. The shrill voice too was Queensbury's. End of Chapter 12 Recording by Martin Geeson in Hazelmayer Surrey. Chapter 13 of Oscar Wilde, His Life and Confessions. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Geeson. Oscar Wilde, His Life and Confessions by Frank Harris. Chapter 13 Oscar attacks Queensbury and is worsted. It was weakness in Oscar and not strength that allowed him to be driven to the conflict by Lord Alfred Douglas. It was his weakness again which prevented him from abandoning the prosecution once it was begun. Such a resolution would have involved a breaking away from his associates and from his friends, a personal assertion of will, of which he 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 was announced one morning in the newspapers that Lord Queensbury, instead of pleading paternal privilege and minimising his accusation, was determined to justify the libel and declare that it was true in every particular. Oscar could only say weakly, I can't help it, Frank, I can't do anything, you only distress me by predicting disaster. The fibres of resolution never strong in him had been destroyed by years of self-indulgence, while the influence whipping him was stronger than I guessed. He was hurried like a sheep to the slaughter. Although everyone who cared to think knew that Queensbury would win the case, many persons believed that Oscar would make a brilliant intellectual 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 first with the outward seamliness and propriety which are so peculiarly English. 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 a premium. The council were the best at the bar. Sir Edward Clark QC, Mr Charles Matthews and Mr Travers Humphries for the prosecution. Mr Carson QC, Mr G. C. Gill and Mr A. Gill for the defence. Mr Bezley QC and Mr Moncton watched the case, it was said, for the brothers, Lord Douglas of Hoyke 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 Clark gave Oscar an advantage. Mr Carson was not so well known then as he has since become. He was regarded as a sharp-witted Irishman who had still his spurs to win. Some knew that he had been at school with Oscar, and at Trinity College was as high in the second class as Oscar was in the first. 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 Sir Edward Clark opened for the prosecution. The bleak face, long upper lip and severe side whiskers made the little man look exactly like a non-conformist parson of the old days, but his tone and manner were modern, quiet and conversational. The charge, he said, was that the defendant had published a false and malicious libel against Mr Oscar Wilde. The libel was in the form of a card which Lord Queensborough had left at a club to which Mr Oscar Wilde belonged. It could not be justified unless the statements written on the card were true. It would, however, have been possible to have excused the card by a strong feeling, a mistaken feeling, on the part of a father, but the plea which the defendant had brought before the court raised graver issues. He said that the statement was true and was made for the public benefit. There were, besides a series of accusations in the plea, everyone howled his breath, mentioning names of persons, and it was said with regard to these persons that Mr Wilde had solicited them to commit a grave offence, and that he had been guilty with each and all of them of indecent practices. My heart seemed to stop. My worst forebodings were more than justified. Vaguely I heard Clark's voice. Grave responsibility, serious allegations, credible witnesses. Mr Oscar Wilde was the son of Sir William Wilde. The voice stoned on, and I awoke to feverish clearness of brain. Queensbury had turned the defense into a prosecution. Why had he taken the risk, who had given him the new and precise information? I felt that there was nothing before Oscar but ruin absolute. Could anything be done? Even now he could go abroad, even now. I resolved once more to try and induce him to fly. My interest turned from these passionate imaginings to the actual. Would Sir Edward Clark fight the case as it should be fought? He had begun to tell of the friendship between Oscar Wilde and Lord Alfred Douglas, the friendship too between Oscar Wilde and Lady Queensbury, who on her own petition had been divorced from the Marquis. Would he go on to paint the terrible ill-feeling that existed between Lord Alfred Douglas and his father, and show how Oscar had been dragged into the bitter family squabble? To the legal mind, this had but little to do with the case. We got instead a dry relation of the facts which have already been set forth in this history. Wright, the porter of the Albemarle Club, was called to say that Lord Queensbury had handed him the card produced. Witness had looked at the card, did not understand it, but put it in an envelope and gave it to Mr. Wilde. Mr. Oscar Wilde was then called and went into the witness-box. He looked a little grave, but was composed and serious. Sir Edward Clark took him briefly through the incidents of his life, his successes at school and the university, the attempts made to blackmail him, the insults of Lord Queensbury, and then directed his attention to the allegations in the plea impugning his conduct with different persons. Mr. Oscar Wilde declared that there was no truth in any of these statements. Later upon Sir Edward Clark sat down. Mr. Carson rose and the death-dual began. Mr. Carson brought out that Oscar Wilde was forty years of age, and Lord Alfred Douglas, twenty-four. Down to the interview in Tite Street, Lord Queensbury had been friendly with Mr. Wilde. 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 this jive 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. It was beneath him to concern himself with the effusions of an illiterate undergraduate. Did Mr. Wilde ever consider the effect in his writings of inciting to immorality? Oscar declared that he aimed neither at good nor evil, but tried to make a beautiful thing. When questioned as to the immorality in thought in the article in The Chameleon, he retorted that there is no such thing as morality or immorality in thought. A hum of understanding and approval ran through the court. The intellect is profoundly amoral. Again and again he scored in this way off Mr. Carson. No work of art ever puts forward views. Views belong to the Philistines 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 taken effect. Every moment, too, Oscar grew more and more at his ease, and the combat seemed to be turning completely in his favour. Mr. Carson at length took up Dorian Gray and began cross-examining on passages in it. We talk about one man adoring another. Did you ever adore any man? No, replied Oscar quietly. I have never adored any one but myself. The court roared with laughter. Oscar went on. There are people in the world, I regret to say, who cannot understand the deep affection that an artist can feel for a friend with a beautiful personality. He was then questioned about his letter already quoted here to Lord Alfred Douglas. It was a prose poem, he said, written in answer to a sonnet. He had not written to other people in the same strain, not even to Lord Alfred Douglas again. He did not repeat himself in style. Mr. Carson read another letter from Oscar Wilde to Lord Alfred Douglas 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. Bozy, 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. Then having 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 forty-nine pounds 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 Lord Alfred Douglas. You have said, Mr. Carson went on, that all the statements about persons in the plea of justification were false. Do you still hold to that assertion? I do. Mr. Carson then paused and looked at the judge. Justice Collins shuffled his papers together and announced that the cross-examination would be continued on the morrow. As the judge went out, all the tongues in the court broke loose. Oscar was surrounded by friends congratulating him and rejoicing. I was not so happy and went away to think the matter out. I tried to keep up my courage by recalling the humorous things Oscar had said during the cross-examination. I recalled, too, the dull common-places of Mr. Carson. I tried to persuade myself that it was all going on very well. But in the back of my mind I realized that Oscar's answers, characteristic and clever as many of them were, had not impressed the jury, were indeed rather calculated to alienate them. He had taken the purely artistic standpoint and not attempted to go higher and reach a synthesis that would conciliate the Philistine juryman as well as the thinking public and the judge. Mr. Carson was in closer touch with the jury, being nearer their intellectual level and there was a terrible menace in his last words. Tomorrow, I said to myself, he will begin to examine about persons and not about books. He did not win on the literary question, but he was right to bring it in. The passages he had quoted and especially Oscar's letters to Lord Alfred Douglas had created a strong prejudice in the minds of the jury. They ought not to have had this effect, I thought, but they had. My contempt for courts of law deepened. Those twelve jurymen were anything but the peers of the accused. How could they judge him? The second day of the trial was very different from the first. This seemed to be a gloom over the court. Oscar went into the box as if it had been the dock. He had lost all his spring. Mr. Carson settled down to the cross-examination with a parent's zest. It was evident from his mere manner that he was coming to what he regarded as the strong part of his case. He began by examining Oscar as to his intimacy with a person 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 the daytime? 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 Maver there at tea? It is possible. What was your connection with Taylor? Taylor was a friend, a young man of intelligence and education. He had 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 a raid 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 and that 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 ask people their age. Where did you first meet Parker? I invited Taylor to Ketner's on the occasion of my birthday and told him to bring what friends he liked. He brought Parker and his brother. Did you know that Parker was a gentleman's servant out of work and his brother a groom? No, I did not. But you did know that Parker was not a literary character or an artist 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. I do not like them sensible and I do not like them old. I do not like social distinctions of any kind and the mere fact of youth is so wonderful to me that I would sooner talk to a young man for half an hour than be cross-examined by an elderly QC. 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 book-makers? He may have done. Not a literary man or an artist, was he? No. What age was he? 19 or 20. Did you ask him to dinner at Ketner's? I think I met him at a dinner at Ketner'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 discuss with him? Yes. Did you give him money? Yes. Was there ever any impropriety between you? No. When did you first meet Ernest Scarf? In December 1893. Who introduced him to you? Taylor. Scarf was out of work, was he not? They have been. Did Taylor bring Scarf to you at St. James's place? Yes. Did you give Scarf a cigarette case? Yes. It was my custom to give cigarette cases to people I liked. When did you first meet Maver? In 93. Did you give him money or a cigarette case? Did you know Walter Granger? And so on, till the very air in the court seemed peopled with spectres. On the whole Oscar bore the cross-examination very well, but he made one appalling slip. Mr. Carson was pressing him as to his relations with the boy Granger, who had been employed in Lord Alfred Douglas's rooms in Oxford. Did you ever kiss him, he asked? Oscar answered carelessly. Oh, dear, no! He was a peculiarly plain boy. 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 kissed him? No, it is a childish question. But Carson was not to be warded off, like a terrier he sprang again and again. Why, sir, did you mention that this boy was extremely ugly? For this reason, if I were asked why I did not kiss him, if I were asked why I did not kiss a doormat, I should say because I do not like to kiss doormats. Why did you mention his ugliness? It is ridiculous to imagine that any such thing could have occurred under 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 and finished none of them. His efforts to collect his ideas were not aided by Mr. Carson's sharp staccato repetition. Why, why, why did you add that? At last the witness answered, You sting me and insult me and at times one says things frippantly. Then came the re-examination by Sir Edward Clark, which brought out very clearly the hatred of Lord Alfred Douglas for his father. The witnesses were read and in one letter Queensbury declared that Oscar had plainly shown the white feather when he called on him. One felt that this was probably true. Queensbury's word on such a point could be accepted. In the re-examination Sir Edward Clark occupied himself cheaply with two youths, Shelly and Conway, who had been passed over casually by Mr. Carson. In answer to his questions Oscar stated that Shelly was a youth in the employ of Matthews and Lane, the publishers. Shelly had very good taste in literature and a great desire for culture. Shelly had read all his books and liked them. Shelly had dined with him and his wife at Tite Street. Shelly was in every way a gentleman. He had never gone with Charlie Parker to the Savoy Hotel. A juryman wanted to know at this point whether the witness was aware of the nature of the article The Priest and the Acolyte in the Chameleon. I knew nothing of it. It came as a terrible shock to me. This answer contrasted strangely with the light tone of his reply to the same question on the previous day. The re-examination did not improve Oscar's position. It left all the facts where they were, and at least a suspicion in every mind. Sir Edward Clark intimated that this concluded the evidence for the prosecution, whereupon Mr Carson rose to make the opening speech for the defence. I was shivering with apprehension. He began by admitting the grave responsibility resting on Lord Queensborough, who accepted it to the fullest. Lord Queensborough was justified in doing all he could do to cut short an acquaintance which must be disastrous to his son. Mr Carson wished to draw the attention of the jury to the fact that all these men with whom Mr Wilde went about were discharged servants and grooms, and that they were all about the same age. He asked the jury also to note that Taylor, who was the pivot of the whole case, had not yet been put in the box. Why not? He pointed out to the jury that the very same idea that was set forth in The Priest and the Acolyte was contained in Oscar Wilde's letters to Lord Alfred Douglas, and that the same idea was to be found in Lord Alfred Douglas's poem, The Two Loves, which was also published in The Chameleon. He went on to say that when in the story of The Priest and the Acolyte the boy was discovered in The Priest's bed, the priest made the same defence as Mr Wilde had made, that the world does not understand the beauty of this love. The same idea was found again in Dorian Gray, and he read two or three passages from the book in support of this statement. Mr Wilde had described his letter to Lord Alfred Douglas as a prose sonnet. He would read it again to the court, and he read both the letters. Mr Wilde says they are beautiful, he went on. I call them an abominable piece of disgusting immorality. At this the judge again shuffled his papers together and whispered in a quiet voice that the court would sit on the morrow and left the room. The honours of the day had all been with Mr Carson. Oscar left the box in a depressed way. One or two friends came towards him, but the majority held aloof, and in almost unbroken silence everyone slipped out of the court. Strange to say in my mind there was just a ray of hope. Mr Carson was still laying stress on the article in The Chameleon and scattered passages in Dorian Gray, on Oscar's letters to Lord Alfred Douglas, and Lord Alfred Douglas's poems in The Chameleon. He must see, I thought, that all this was extremely weak, so Edward Clark could be trusted to tear all such arguments, founded on literary work, to shreds. There was room for more than reasonable doubt about all such things. Why had not Mr Carson put some of the young men he spoke of in the box? Would he be able to do that? He talked of Taylor as the pivot of the case, and jibed at the prosecution for not putting Taylor in the box. Would he put Taylor in the box? And why, if he had such witnesses at his beck and call, should he lay stress on the flimsy, weak evidence to be drawn from passages in books and poems and letters? One thing was clear. If he was able to put any of the young men in the box about whom he had examined Oscar, Oscar was ruined. Even if he rested his defence on the letters and poems, he'd win, and Oscar would be discredited, for already it was clear that no one would give Oscar Wilde a verdict against a father trying to protect his son. The issue had narrowed down to terrible straits. Would it be utter ruin to Oscar, or merely the loss of the case and reputation? We had only sixteen hours to wait. They seemed to me to hold the last hope. I drove to Tite Street, hoping to see Oscar. I was convinced that Carson had important witnesses at his command, and that the outcome of the case would be disastrous. Why should not Oscar, even now, this very evening cross to Calais, leaving a letter of his counsel and the court abandoning the idiotic prosecution? The house at Tite Street seemed deserted. For some time no one answered my knocking and ringing, and then a man-servant simply told me that Mr Wilde was not in. He did not know whether Mr Wilde was expected back or not, did not think he was coming back. I turned and went 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 up their minds that the testimony would be what one of them called nifty. Everyone treated the cases practically over. But will Carson call witnesses? I asked. Of course he will, they said, but in any case Wilde does not stand a ghost of a chance of getting a verdict against Queensbury. He was a bellyful to bring such an action. The question is, said someone, will Wilde face the music? My heart leapt. Perhaps he had gone, fled all ready to France to avoid this dreadful, useless torture. I could see the hounds with open mouths, dripping white fangs, and greedy eyes all closing in on the defenseless quarry. Would the huntsman give the word? We were not left long in doubt. Mr. Carson continued his statement for the defence. He had sufficiently demonstrated to the jury, he thought, that so far as Lord Queensbury was concerned, he was absolutely justified in bringing 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 a more painful part of the case to approach. It would be his painful duty to bring before them one after the other the young men he had examined Mr. Wilde about, and allow them to tell their tales. In no one of these cases were these young men on an equality in any way with Mr. Wilde. Mr. Wilde had told them that there was something beautiful and charming about youth, which led him to make these acquaintances. That was a travesty of the facts. Mr. Wilde preferred to know nothing of these young men and their antecedents. He knew nothing about wood, he knew nothing about Parker, he knew nothing about scarf, nothing about Conway, and not much about Taylor. The truth was Taylor was the procurer for Mr. Wilde, and the jury would hear from this young man Parker, who would have to tell his unfortunate story to them, that he was poor, out of a place, had no money, and unfortunately fell a victim to Mr. Wilde. Sir Edward Clark here left the court. On the first evening they met, Mr. Wilde called Parker Charlie, and Parker called Mr. Wilde Oscar. It may be a very noble instinct in some people to wish to break down social barriers, but Mr. Wilde's conduct was not ordered by generous instincts. Luxurious dinners and champagne were not the way to assist a poor man. Parker would tell them that after this first dinner Mr. Wilde invited him to drive with him to the Savoy Hotel. Mr. Wilde had not told them why he had that suite of rooms at the Savoy Hotel. Parker would tell them what happened on arriving there. This was the scandal Lord Queensborough had referred to in his letter as far back as June or July last year. The jury would wonder not at the reports having reached Lord Queensborough's ears, but that Oscar Wilde had been tolerated in London's society as long as he had been. Parker had since enlisted in the army and bore a good character. Mr. Wilde himself had said that Parker was respectable. Parker would reluctantly present himself to tell his story to the jury. All this time the court was hushed with awe and wonder. Everyone was asking what on earth had induced Wilde to begin the prosecution, what madness had driven him and why had he listened to the insane advice to bring the action when he must have known the sort of evidence which could be brought against him. After promising to produce Parker and the others, Mr. Carson stopped speaking and began looking through his papers. When he began again, everyone held his breath. What was coming now? He proceeded in the same matter of fact and serious way to deal with the case of the youth Conway. Conway, it appeared, had known Mr. Wilde and his family at Worthing. Conway was sixteen years of age. At this moment Sir Edward Clark returned with Mr. Charles Matthews and asked permission of the judge to have a word or two with Mr. Carson. At the close of a few minutes' talk between the council, Sir Edward Clark rose and told the judge that after communicating with Mr. Oscar Wilde he thought it better to withdraw the prosecution and submit to a verdict of not guilty. He minimized the defeat. He declared that in respect to matters connected with literature and the letters he could not resist the verdict of not guilty, having regard to the fact that Lord Queensbury had not used a direct accusation but the words posing as, etc. Besides, he wished to spare the jury the necessity of investigating in detail matter of the most appalling character. He wished to make an end of the case. And he sat down. Why on earth did Sir Edward Clark not advise Oscar in this way weeks before? Why did he not tell him his case could not possibly be won? I have heard since on excellent authority that before taking up the case Sir Edward Clark asked Oscar Wilde whether he was guilty or not and accepted in good faith his assurance that he was innocent. As soon as he realized in court the strength of the case against Oscar he advised him to abandon the prosecution. To his astonishment Oscar was eager to abandon it. Sir Edward Clark afterwards defended his unfortunate client out of loyalty and pity, Oscar again assuring him of his innocence. Mr. Carson rose at once and insisted as was his right that this verdict of not guilty must be understood to mean that Lord Queensbury had succeeded in his plea of justification. Mr. Justice Collins thought that it was not part of the function of the judge and jury to insist on wading through prurient details which had no bearing on the matter at issue, which had already been decided by the consent of the prosecutors to a verdict of not guilty. Such a verdict meant, of course, that the plea of justification was proved. The jury, having consulted for a few moments, the clerk of Arraines 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 verdict of 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, the spectators in the court burst into cheers. Mr. Carson Of course the costs of the defence will follow. Mr. Justice Collins Yes. Mr. CF Gill And Lord Queensbury may be discharged. Mr. Justice Collins Certainly. The Marquis of Queensbury left the dock amid renewed cheering which was taken up again and again in the street. End of Chapter 13 Recording by Martin Geeson in Hazelmere Surrey