In a day or two, however, the clouds lifted and the sun shone as
brilliantly as ever. Oscar's spirits could not be depressed for long: he
took a child's joy in living and in every incident of life. When I left
him in Paris a week or so later, in midsummer, he was full of gaiety and
humour, talking as delightfully as ever with a touch of cynicism that
added piquancy to his wit. Shortly after I arrived in London he wrote
saying he was ill, and that I really ought to send him some money. I had
already paid him more than the amount we had agreed upon at first for
his scenario, and I was hard up and anything but well. I had chronic
bronchitis which prostrated me time and again that autumn. Having heard
from mutual friends that Oscar's illness did not hinder him from dining
out and enjoying himself, I received his plaints and requests with a
certain impatience, and replied to him curtly. His illness appeared to
me to be merely a pretext. When my play was accepted his demands became
as insistent as they were extravagant.
Finally I went back to Paris in September to see him, persuaded that I
could settle everything amicably in five minutes' talk: he must remember
our agreement.
I found him well in health, but childishly annoyed that my play was
going to be produced and resolved to get all the money he could from me
by hook or by crook. I never met such persistence in demands. I could
only settle with him decently by paying him a further sum, which I did.
In the course of this bargaining and begging I realised that contrary to
my previous opinion he was not gifted as a friend, and did not attribute
any importance to friendship. His affection for Bosie Douglas even had
given place to hatred: indeed his liking for him had never been founded
on understanding or admiration; it was almost wholly snobbish: he loved
the title, the romantic name--Lord Alfred Douglas. Robert Ross was the
only friend of whom he always spoke with liking and appreciation: "One
of the wittiest of men," he used to call him and would jest at his
handwriting, which was peculiarly bad, but always good-naturedly; "a
letter merely shows that Bobbie has something to conceal"; but he would
add, "how kind he is, how good," as if Ross's devotion surprised him, as
in fact it did. Ross has since told me that Oscar never cared much for
him. Indeed Oscar cared so little for anyone that an unselfish affection
astonished him beyond measure: he could find in himself no explanation
of it. His vanity was always more active than his gratitude, as indeed
it is with most of us. Now and then when Ross played mentor or took him
to task, he became prickly at once and would retort: "Really, Bobbie,
you ride the high horse so well, and so willingly, it seems a pity that
you never tried Pegasus"--not a sneer exactly, but a rap on the knuckles
to call his monitor to order. Like most men of charming manners, Oscar
was selfish and self-centred, too convinced of his own importance to
spend much thought on others; yet generous to the needy and kind to all.
After my return to London he kept on begging for money by almost every
post. As soon as my play was advertised I found myself dunned and
persecuted by a horde of people who declared that Oscar had sold them
the scenario he afterwards sold to me.[38] Several of them threatened to
get injunctions to prevent me staging my play, "Mr. and Mrs. Daventry,"
if I did not first settle with them. Naturally, I wrote rather sharply
to Oscar for having led me into this hornets' nest.
It was in the midst of all this unpleasantness that I heard from Turner,
in October, I believe, that Oscar was seriously ill, and that if I owed
him money, as he asserted, it would be a kindness to send it, as he was
in great need. The letter found me in bed. I could not say now whether I
answered it or not: it made me impatient; his friends must have known
that I owed Oscar nothing; but later I received a telegram from Ross
saying that Oscar was not expected to live. I was ill and unable to
move, or I should have gone at once to Paris. As it was I sent for my
friend, Bell, gave him some money and a cheque, and begged him to go
across and let me know if Oscar were really in danger, which I could
hardly believe. As luck would have it, the next afternoon, when I hoped
Bell had started, his wife came to tell me that he had had a severe
asthmatic attack, but would cross as soon as he dared.
I was too hard up myself to wire money that might not be needed, and
Oscar had cried "wolf" about his health too often to be a credible
witness. Yet I was dissatisfied with myself and anxious for Bell to
start.
Day after day passed in troubled doubts and fears; but it was not long
when a period was put to all my anxiety. A telegram came telling me he
was dead. I could hardly believe my eyes: it seemed incredible--the
fount of joy and gaiety; the delightful source of intellectual vivacity
and interest stilled forever. The world went greyer to me because of
Oscar Wilde's death.
Months afterwards Robert Ross gave me the particulars of his last
illness.
Ross went to Paris in October: as soon as he saw Oscar, he was shocked
by the change in his appearance: he insisted on taking him to a doctor;
but to his surprise the doctor saw no ground for immediate alarm: if
Oscar would only stop drinking wine and _a fortiori_ spirits, he might
live for years: absinthe was absolutely forbidden. But Oscar paid no
heed to the warning and Ross could only take him for drives whenever the
weather permitted and seek to amuse him harmlessly.
The will to live had almost left Oscar: so long as he could live
pleasantly and without effort he was content; but as soon as ill-health
came, or pain, or even discomfort, he grew impatient for deliverance.
But to the last he kept his joyous humour and charming gaiety. His
disease brought with it a certain irritation of the skin, annoying
rather than painful. Meeting Ross one morning after a day's separation
he apologised for scratching himself:
"Really," he exclaimed, "I'm more like a great ape than ever; but I hope
you'll give me a lunch, Bobbie, and not a nut."
On one of the last drives with this friend he asked for champagne and
when it was brought declared that he was dying as he had lived, "beyond
his means"--his happy humour lighting up even his last hours.
Early in November Ross left Paris to go down to the Riviera with his
mother: for Reggie Turner had undertaken to stay with Oscar. Reggie
Turner describes how he grew gradually feebler and feebler, though to
the end flashes of the old humour would astonish his attendants. He
persisted in saying that Reggie, with his perpetual prohibitions, was
qualifying for a doctor. "When you can refuse bread to the hungry,
Reggie," he would say, "and drink to the thirsty, you can apply for your
diploma."
Towards the end of November Reggie wired for Ross and Ross left
everything and reached Paris next day.
When all was over he wrote to a friend giving him a very complete
account of the last hours of Oscar Wilde; that account he generously
allows me to reproduce and it will be found word for word in the
Appendix; it is too long and too detailed to be used here.
Ross's letter should be read by the student; but several touches in it
are too timid; certain experiences that should be put in high relief are
slurred over: in conversation with me he told more and told it better.
For example, when talking of his drives with Oscar, he mentions
casually that Oscar "insisted on drinking absinthe," and leaves it at
that. The truth is that Oscar stopped the victoria at almost the first
café, got down and had an absinthe. Two or three hundred yards further
on, he stopped the carriage again to have another absinthe: at the next
stoppage a few minutes later Ross ventured to remonstrate:
"You'll kill yourself, Oscar," he cried, "you know the doctors said
absinthe was poison to you!"
Oscar stopped on the sidewalk:
"And what have I to live for, Bobbie?" he asked gravely. And Ross
looking at him and noting the wreck--the symptoms of old age and broken
health--could only bow his head and walk on with him in silence. What
indeed had he to live for who had abandoned all the fair uses of life?
The second scene is horrible: but is, so to speak, the inevitable
resultant of the first, and has its own awful moral. Ross tells how he
came one morning to Oscar's death-bed and found him practically
insensible: he describes the dreadful loud death-rattle of his breath,
and says: "terrible offices had to be carried out."
The truth is still more appalling. Oscar had eaten too much and drunk
too much almost habitually ever since the catastrophe in Naples. The
dreadful disease from which he was suffering, or from the after effects
of which he was suffering, weakens all the tissues of the body, and this
weakness is aggravated by drinking wine and still more by drinking
spirits. Suddenly, as the two friends sat by the bedside in sorrowful
anxiety, there was a loud explosion: mucus poured out of Oscar's mouth
and nose, and--
Even the bedding had to be burned.
If it is true that all those who draw the sword shall perish by the
sword, it is no less certain that all those who live for the body shall
perish by the body, and there is no death more degrading.
* * * * *
One more scene, and this the last, and I shall have done.
When Robert Ross was arranging to bury Oscar at Bagneux he had already
made up his mind as soon as he could to transfer his body to Père
Lachaise and erect over his remains some worthy memorial. It became the
purpose of his life to pay his friend's debts, annul his bankruptcy, and
publish his books in suitable manner; in fine to clear Oscar's memory
from obloquy while leaving to his lovable spirit the shining raiment of
immortality. In a few years he had accomplished all but one part of his
high task. He had not only paid off all Oscar Wilde's debts; but he had
managed to remit thousands of pounds yearly to his children, and had
established his popularity on the widest and surest foundation.
He crossed to Paris with Oscar's son, Vyvyan, to render the last service
to his friend. When preparing the body for the grave years before Ross
had taken medical advice as to what should be done to make his purpose
possible. The doctors told him to put Wilde's body in quicklime, like
the body of the man in "The Ballad of Reading Gaol." The quicklime, they
said, would consume the flesh and leave the white bones--the
skeleton--intact, which could then be moved easily.
To his horror, when the grave was opened, Ross found that the quicklime,
instead of destroying the flesh, had preserved it. Oscar's face was
recognisable, only his hair and beard had grown long. At once Ross sent
the son away, and when the sextons were about to use their shovels, he
ordered them to desist, and descending into the grave, moved the body
with his own hands into the new coffin in loving reverence.
Those who hold our mortal vesture in respect for the sake of the spirit
will know how to thank Robert Ross for the supreme devotion he showed to
his friend's remains: in his case at least love was stronger than
death.
One can be sure, too, that the man who won such fervid self-denying
tenderness, had deserved it, called it forth by charm of companionship,
or magic of loving intercourse.
FOOTNOTES:
[38] See Appendix: p. 589 and especially p. 592.