THE STORY OF "MR. AND MRS. DAVENTRY"

(See page 534)

There has been so much discussion about the play entitled "Mr. and Mrs.

Daventry," and Oscar Wilde's share in it, that I had better set forth

here briefly what happened.

When I returned to London in the summer of 1899 after buying, as I

thought, all rights in the sketch of the scenario from Oscar, I wrote at

once the second, third and fourth acts of the play, as I had told Oscar

I would. I sent him what I had written and asked him to write the first

act as he had promised for the £50.

Some time before this I had seen Mr. Forbes Robertson and Mrs. Patrick

Campbell in "Hamlet," and Mrs. Patrick Campbell's Ophelia had made a

deeper impression on me than even the Hamlet of Forbes Robertson. I

wished her to take my play, and as luck would have it, she had just gone

into management on her own account and leased the Royalty Theatre.

I read her my play one afternoon, and at once she told me she would take

it; but I must write a first act. I told her that I was no good at

preliminary scenes and that Oscar Wilde had promised to write a first

act, which would, of course, enhance the value of the play enormously.

To my surprise Mrs. Patrick Campbell would not hear of it: "Quite

impossible," she said, "a play's not a patchwork quilt; you must write

the first act yourself."

"I must write to Oscar then," I replied, "and see whether he has

finished it already or not."

Mrs. Campbell insisted that the play, if she was to accept it, must be

the work of one hand. I wrote to Oscar at once, asking him whether he

had written the first act, adding that if he had not written it and

would send me his idea of the scenario, I would write it. I was

overjoyed to tell him that Mrs. Patrick Campbell had provisionally

accepted the play.

To my astonishment Oscar replied in evident ill-temper to say that he

could not write the first act, or the scenario, but at the same time he

hoped I would now send him some money for having helped to make my

_début_ on the stage.

I returned to tell Mrs. Campbell my disappointment and to see if she had

any idea of what she wanted in the first act. She was delighted with my

news, and said that all I had to do was to write an act introducing my

characters, and that I ought, for the sake of contrast, to give her a

mother. Some impish spirit suggested to me the idea of making a mother

much younger than her daughter, that is, a very flighty ordinary woman,

impulsive and feather-brained, with a mania for attending sales and

collecting odds and ends at bargain prices. Full of this idea I wrote

the first act off hand.

Mrs. Patrick Campbell did not like it much, and in this, as indeed

always, showed excellent judgment and an extraordinary understanding of

the requirements of the stage; nevertheless she accepted the play and

settled terms. A little later I went to Leeds, where she was playing,

and read the play to her and her "Company." We discussed the cast, and I

suggested Mr. Kerr to play Mr. Daventry. Mrs. Patrick Campbell jumped at

the idea, and everything was settled.

I wrote the good news to Oscar, and back came another letter from him,

more ill-tempered than the first, saying he had never thought I would

take his scenario; I had no right to touch it; but as I had taken it, I

must really pay him something substantial.

The claim was absurd, but I hated to dispute with him or even appear to

bargain.

I wrote to him that if I made anything out of the play I would send him

some more money. He replied that he was sure my play would be a failure;

but I ought to get a good sum down in advance of royalties from Mrs.

Patrick Campbell, and at once send him half of it. His letters were

childishly ill-conditioned and unreasonable; but, believing him to be in

extreme indigence, I felt too sorry for him even to argue the point.

Again and again I had helped him, and it seemed sordid and silly to hurt

our old friendship for money. I couldn't believe that he would talk of

my having done anything that I ought not to have done if we met, so as

soon as I could I crossed to Paris to have it out with him.

To my astonishment I found him obdurate in his wrong-headedness. When I

asked him what he had sold me for the £50 I paid him, he coolly said he

didn't think I was serious, that no man would write a play on another

man's scenario; it was absurd, impossible--"_C'est ridicule!_" he

repeated again and again. When I reminded him that Shakespeare had done

it, he got angry: it was altogether different then--today: "_C'est

ridicule!_" Tired of going over and over the old ground I pressed him to

tell me what he wanted. For hours he wouldn't say: then at length he

declared he ought to have half of all the play fetched, and even that

wouldn't be fair to him, as he was a dramatist and I was not, and I

ought not to have touched his scenario and so on, over and over again.

I returned to my hotel wearied in heart and head by his ridiculous

demands and reiterations. After thrashing the beaten straw to dust on

the following day, I agreed at length to give him another £50 down and

another £50 later. Even then he pretended to be very sorry indeed that I

had taken what he called "his play," and assured me in the same breath

that "Mr. and Mrs. Daventry" would be a rank failure: "Plays cannot be

written by amateurs; plays require knowledge of the stage. It's quite

absurd of you, Frank, who hardly ever go to the theatre, to think you

can write a successful play straight off. I always loved the theatre,

always went to every first night in London, have the stage in my blood,"

and so forth and so on. I could not help recalling what he had told me

years before, that when he had to write his first play for George

Alexander, he shut himself up for a fortnight with the most successful

modern French plays, and so learned his _métier_.

Next day I returned to London, understanding now something of the

unreasonable persistence in begging which had aroused Lord Alfred

Douglas' rage.

As soon as my play was advertised a crowd of people confronted me with

claims I had never expected. Mrs. Brown Potter wrote to me saying that

some years before she had bought a play from Oscar Wilde which he had

not delivered, and as she understood that I was bringing it out, she

hoped I would give it to her to stage. I replied saying that Oscar had

not written a word of my play. She wrote again, saying that she had paid

£100 for the scenario: would I see Mr. Kyrle Bellew on the matter? I saw

them both a dozen times; but came to no decision.

While these negotiations were going on, a host of other Richmonds came

into the field. Horace Sedger had also bought the same scenario, and

then in quick succession it appeared that Tree and Alexander and Ada

Rehan had also paid for the same privilege. When I wrote to Oscar about

this expressing my surprise he replied coolly that he could have gone on

selling the play now to French managers, and later to German managers,

if I had not interfered: "You have deprived me of a certain income:" was

his argument, "and therefore you owe me more than you will ever get from

the play, which is sure to fall flat."

A little later Miss Nethersole presented herself, and when I would not

yield to her demands, went to Paris, and Oscar wrote to me saying she

ought to stage the piece as she would do it splendidly, or at least I

should repay her the money she had advanced to him.

This letter showed me that Oscar had not only deceived me, but, for some

cause or other, some pricking of vanity I couldn't understand, was

willing to embarrass me as much as possible without any scruple.

Finally Smithers, the publisher of three of Oscar's books, whom I knew

to be a real friend of Oscar, came to me with a still more appealing

story. When Oscar was in Italy, and in absolute need, Smithers got a man

named Roberts to advance £100 on the scenario. I found that Oscar had

written out the whole scenario for him and outlined the characters of

his drama. This was evidently the completest claim that had yet been

brought before me: it was also, Smithers proved, the earliest, and

Smithers himself was in dire need. I wrote to Oscar that I thought

Smithers had the best claim because he was the first buyer, and

certainly ought to have something. Oscar replied, begging me not to be

a fool: to send him the money and tell Smithers to go to Sheol.

Thereupon I told Smithers I could not afford to give him any money at

the moment; but if the play was a success he should have something out

of it.

The play was a success: it was stopped for a week by Queen Victoria's

death, in January, and was, I think, the only play that survived that

ordeal. Mrs. Patrick Campbell was good enough to allow me to rewrite the

first act for the fiftieth performance, and it ran, if I remember

rightly, some 130 nights. About the twentieth representation I paid

Smithers.

For the first weeks of the run I was bombarded with letters from Oscar,

begging money and demanding money in every tone. He made nothing of the

fact that I had already paid him three times the price agreed upon, and

paid Smithers to boot, and lost through his previous sales of the

scenario whatever little repute the success of the piece might have

brought me. Nine people out of ten believed that Oscar had written the

play and that I had merely lent my name to the production in order to

enable him, as a bankrupt, to receive the money from it. Even men of

letters deceived themselves in this way. George Moore told Bernard Shaw

that he recognised Oscar's hand in the writing again and again, though

Shaw himself was far too keen-witted to be so misled. As a matter of

fact Oscar did not write a word of the play and the characters he

sketched for Smithers and Roberts were altogether different from mine

and were not known to me when I wrote my story.

I have set forth the bare facts of the affair here because Oscar managed

to half-persuade Ross and Turner and other friends that I owed him money

which I would not pay; though Ross had discounted most of his

complaints, even before hearing my side.

Oscar got me over to Paris in September under the pretext that he was

ill; but I found him as well as could be, and anxious merely to get more

money out of me by any means. I put it all down to his poverty. I did

not then know that Ross was giving him £150 a year; that indeed all his

friends had helped him and were helping him with singular generosity,

and I recalled the fact that when he had had money he never showed any

meanness, or any desire to over-reach. Want is a dreadful teacher, and I

did not hold Oscar altogether responsible for his weird attitude to me

personally.

OSCAR'S LAST DAYS!

LETTER FROM ROBERT ROSS TO ----

Dec. 14th, 1900.

On Tuesday, October 9th, I wrote to Oscar, from whom I had not heard for

some time, that I would be in Paris on Thursday, October the 18th, for a

few days, when I hoped to see him. On Thursday, October 11th, I got a

telegram from him as follows:--"Operated on yesterday--come over as soon

as possible." I wired that I would endeavour to do so. A wire came in

response, "Terribly weak--please come." I started on the evening of

Tuesday, October 16th. On Wednesday morning I went to see him about

10.30. He was in very good spirits; and though he assured me his

sufferings were dreadful, at the same time he shouted with laughter and

told many stories against the doctors and himself. I stayed until 12.30

and returned about 4.30, when Oscar recounted his grievances about the

Harris play. Oscar, of course, had deceived Harris about the whole

matter--as far as I could make out the story--Harris wrote the play

under the impression that only Sedger had to be bought off at £100,

which Oscar had received in advance for the commission; whereas Kyrle

Bellew, Louis Nethersole, Ada Rehan, and even Smithers, had all given

Oscar £100 on different occasions, and all threatened Harris with

proceedings--Harris, therefore, only gave Oscar £50 on account,[59] as

he was obliged to square these people first--hence Oscar's grievance.

When I pointed out to him that he was in a much better position than

formerly, because Harris, at any rate, would eventually pay off the

people who had advanced money and that Oscar would eventually get

something himself, he replied in the characteristic way, "Frank has

deprived me of my only source of income by taking a play on which I

could always have raised £100."

I continued to see Oscar every day until I left Paris. Reggie and myself

sometimes dined or lunched in his bedroom, when he was always very

talkative, although he looked very ill. On October 25th, my brother

Aleck came to see him, when Oscar was in particularly good form. His

sister-in-law, Mrs. Willie, and her husband, Texeira, were then passing

through Paris on their honeymoon, and came at the same time. On this

occasion he said he was "dying above his means" ... he would never

outlive the century ... the English people would not stand him--he was

responsible for the failure of the Exhibition, the English having gone

away when they saw him there so well-dressed and happy ... all the

French people knew this, too, and would not stand him any more.... On

October the 29th, Oscar got up for the first time at mid-day, and after

dinner in the evening insisted on going out--he assured me that the

doctor had said he might do so and would not listen to any protest.

I had urged him to get up some days before as the doctor said he might

do so, but he had hitherto refused. We went to a small café in the Latin

Quartier, where he insisted on drinking absinthe. He walked there and

back with some difficulty, but seemed fairly well. Only I thought he had

suddenly aged in face, and remarked to Reggie next day how different he

looked when up and dressed. He appeared _comparatively_ well in bed. (I

noticed for the first time that his hair was slightly tinged with grey.

I had always remarked that his hair had never altered its colour while

he was in Reading;[60] it retained its soft brown tone. You must

remember the jests he used to make about it, he always amused the

warders by saying that his hair was perfectly white.) Next day I was not

surprised to find Oscar suffering with a cold and great pain in his ear;

however, Dr. Tucker said he might go out again, and the following

afternoon, a very mild day, we drove in the Bois. Oscar was much

better, but complained of giddiness; we returned about 4.30. On Saturday

morning, November 3rd, I met the Panseur Hennion (Reggie always called

him the Libre Penseur), he came every day to dress Oscar's wounds. He

asked me if I was a great friend or knew Oscar's relatives. He assured

me that Oscar's general condition was very serious--that he could not

live more than three or four months unless he altered his way of

life--that I ought to speak to Dr. Tucker, who did not realise Oscar's

serious state--that the ear trouble was not of much importance in

itself, but a grave symptom. On Sunday morning I saw Dr. Tucker--he is a

silly, kind, excellent man; he said Oscar ought to write more--that he

was much better, and that his condition would only become serious when

he got up and went about in the usual way. I begged him to be frank. He

promised to ask Oscar if he might talk to me openly on the subject of

Oscar's health. I saw him on the Tuesday following by appointment; he

was very vague; and though he endorsed Hennion's view to some extent,

said that Oscar was getting well now, though he could not live long

unless he stopped drinking. On going to see Oscar later in the day I

found him very agitated. He said he did not want to know what the doctor

had told me. He said he did not care if he had only a short time to live

and then went off on to the subject of his debts, which I gather

amounted to something over more than £400.[61] He asked me to see that

at all events some of them were paid if I was in a position to do so

after he was dead; he suffered remorse about some of his creditors.

Reggie came in shortly afterwards much to my relief. Oscar told us that

he had had a horrible dream the previous night--"that he had been

supping with the dead." Reggie made a very typical response, "My dear

Oscar, you were probably the life and soul of the party." This delighted

Oscar, who became high-spirited again, almost hysterical. I left feeling

rather anxious. That night I wrote to Douglas saying that I was

compelled to leave Paris--that the doctor thought Oscar very ill--that

---- ought to pay some of his bills as they worried him very much, and

the matter was retarding his recovery--a great point made by Dr. Tucker.

On November 2nd, All Souls' Day, I had gone to Père la Chaise with ----.

Oscar was much interested and asked me if I had chosen a place for his

tomb. He discussed epitaphs in a perfectly light-hearted way, and I

never dreamt he was so near death.

On Monday, November 12th, I went to the Hotel d'Alsace with Reggie to

say good-bye, as I was leaving for the Riviera next day. It was late in

the evening after dinner. Oscar went all over his financial troubles. He

had just had a letter from Harris about the Smithers claim, and was much

upset; his speech seemed to me a little thick, but he had been given

morphia the previous night, and he always drank too much champagne

during the day. He knew I was coming to say good-bye, but paid little

attention when I entered the room, which at the time I thought rather

strange; he addressed all his observations to Reggie. While we were

talking, the post arrived with a very nice letter from Alfred Douglas,

enclosing a cheque. It was partly in response to my letter I think.

Oscar wept a little but soon recovered himself. Then we all had a

friendly discussion, during which Oscar walked around the room and

declaimed in rather an excited way. About 10.30 I got up to go. Suddenly

Oscar asked Reggie and the nurse to leave the room for a minute, as he

wanted to say good-bye. He rambled at first about his debts in Paris:

and then he implored me not to go away, because he felt that a great

change had come over him during the last few days. I adopted a rather

stern attitude, as I really thought that Oscar was simply hysterical,

though I knew that he was genuinely upset at my departure. Suddenly he

broke into a violent sobbing, and said he would never see me again

because he felt that everything was at an end--this very painful

incident lasted about three-quarters of an hour.

He talked about various things which I can scarcely repeat here. Though

it was very harrowing, I really did not attach any importance to my

farewell, and I did not respond to poor Oscar's emotion as I ought to

have done, especially as he said, when I was going out of the room,

"Look out for some little cup in the hills near Nice where I can go when

I am better, and where you can come and see me often." Those were the

last articulate words he ever spoke to me.

I left for Nice the following evening, November 13th.

During my absence Reggie went every day to see Oscar, and wrote me short

bulletins every other day. Oscar went out several times with him

driving, and seemed much better. On Tuesday, November 27th, I received

the first of Reggie's letters, which I enclose (the others came after I

had started), and I started back for Paris; I send them because they

will give you a very good idea of how things stood. I had decided that

when I had moved my mother to Mentone on the following Friday, I would

go to Paris on Saturday, but on the Wednesday evening, at five-thirty, I

got a telegram from Reggie saying, "Almost hopeless." I just caught the

express and arrived in Paris at 10.20 in the morning. Dr. Tucker and Dr.

Kleiss, a specialist called in by Reggie, were there. They informed me

that Oscar could not live for more than two days. His appearance was

very painful, he had become quite thin, the flesh was livid, his

breathing heavy. He was trying to speak. He was conscious that people

were in the room, and raised his hand when I asked him whether he

understood. He pressed our hands. I then went in search of a priest, and

after great difficulty found Father Cuthbert Dunn, of the Passionists,

who came with me at once and administered Baptism and Extreme

Unction--Oscar could not take the Eucharist. You know I had always

promised to bring a priest to Oscar when he was dying, and I felt rather

guilty that I had so often dissuaded him from becoming a Catholic, but

you know my reasons for doing so. I then sent wires to Frank Harris, to

Holman (for communicating with Adrian Hope) and to Douglas. Tucker

called again later and said that Oscar might linger a few days. A _garde

malade_ was requisitioned as the nurse had been rather overworked.

Terrible offices had to be carried out into which I need not enter.

Reggie was a perfect wreck.

He and I slept at the Hotel d'Alsace that night in a room upstairs. We

were called twice by the nurse, who thought Oscar was actually dying.

About 5.30 in the morning a complete change came over him, the lines of

the face altered, and I believe what is called the death rattle began,

but I had never heard anything like it before; it sounded like the

horrible turning of a crank, and it never ceased until the end. His eyes

did not respond to the light test any longer. Foam and blood came from

his mouth, and had to be wiped away by someone standing by him all the

time. At 12 o'clock I went out to get some food, Reggie mounting guard.

He went out at 12.30. From 1 o'clock we did not leave the room; the

painful noise from the throat became louder and louder. Reggie and

myself destroyed letters to keep ourselves from breaking down. The two

nurses were out, and the proprietor of the hotel had come up to take

their place; at 1.45 the time of his breathing altered. I went to the

bedside and held his hand, his pulse began to flutter. He heaved a deep

sigh, the only natural one I had heard since I arrived, the limbs seemed

to stretch involuntarily, the breathing came fainter; he passed at 10

minutes to 2 p.m. exactly.

After washing and winding the body, and removing the appalling _débris_

which had to be burnt, Reggie and myself and the proprietor started for

the Maine to make the official declaration. There is no use recounting

the tedious experiences which only make me angry to think about. The

excellent Dupoirier lost his head and complicated matters by making a

mystery over Oscar's name, though there was a difficulty, as Oscar was

registered under the name of Melmoth at the hotel, and it is contrary to

the French law to be under an assumed name in your hotel. From 3.30 till

5 p.m. we hung about the Maine and the Commissaire de Police offices. I

then got angry and insisted on going to Gesling, the undertaker to the

English Embassy, to whom Father Cuthbert had recommended me. After

settling matters with him I went off to find some nuns to watch the

body. I thought that in Paris of all places this would be quite easy,

but it was only after incredible difficulties I got two Franciscan

sisters.

Gesling was most intelligent and promised to call at the Hotel d'Alsace

at 8 o'clock next morning. While Reggie stayed at the hotel interviewing

journalists and clamorous creditors, I started with Gesling to see

officials. We did not part till 1.30, so you can imagine the formalities

and oaths and exclamations and signing of papers. Dying in Paris is

really a very difficult and expensive luxury for a foreigner.

It was in the afternoon the District Doctor called and asked if Oscar

had committed suicide or was murdered. He would not look at the signed

certificates of Kleiss and Tucker. Gesling had warned me the previous

evening that owing to the assumed name and Oscar's identity, the

authorities might insist on his body being taken to the Morgue. Of

course I was appalled at the prospect, it really seemed the final touch

of horror. After examining the body, and, indeed, everybody in the

hotel, and after a series of drinks and unseasonable jests, and a

liberal fee, the District Doctor consented to sign the permission for

burial. Then arrived some other revolting official; he asked how many

collars Oscar had, and the value of his umbrella. (This is quite true,

and not a mere exaggeration of mine.) Then various poets and literary

people called, Raymond de la Tailhade, Tardieu, Charles Sibleigh, Jehan

Rictus, Robert d'Humieres, George Sinclair, and various English people,

who gave assumed names, together with two veiled women. They were all

allowed to see the body when they signed their names....

I am glad to say dear Oscar looked calm and dignified, just as he did

when he came out of prison, and there was nothing at all horrible about

the body after it had been washed. Around his neck was the blessed

rosary which you gave me, and on the breast a Franciscan medal given me

by one of the nuns, a few flowers placed there by myself and an

anonymous friend who had brought some on behalf of the children, though

I do not suppose the children know that their father is dead. Of course

there was the usual crucifix, candles and holy water.

Gesling had advised me to have the remains placed in the coffin at once,

as decomposition would begin very rapidly, and at 8.30 in the evening

the men came to screw it down. An unsuccessful photograph of Oscar was

taken by Maurice Gilbert at my request, the flashlight did not work

properly. Henri Davray came just before they had put on the lid. He was

very kind and nice. On Sunday, the next day, Alfred Douglas arrived, and

various people whom I do not know called. I expect most of them were

journalists. On Monday morning at 9 o'clock, the funeral started from

the hotel--we all walked to the Church of St. Germain des Près behind

the hearse--Alfred Douglas, Reggie Turner and myself, Dupoirier, the

proprietor of the hotel, Henri the nurse, and Jules, the servant of the

hotel, Dr. Hennion and Maurice Gilbert, together with two strangers whom

I did not know. After a low mass, said by one of the vicaires at the

altar behind the sanctuary, part of the burial office was read by Father

Cuthbert. The Suisse told me that there were fifty-six people

present--there were five ladies in deep mourning--I had ordered three

coaches only, as I had sent out no official notices, being anxious to

keep the funeral quiet. The first coach contained Father Cuthbert and

the acolyte; the second Alfred Douglas, Turner, the proprietor of the

hotel, and myself; the third contained Madame Stuart Merrill, Paul Fort,

Henri Davray and Sar Luis; a cab followed containing strangers unknown

to me. The drive took one hour and a half; the grave is at Bagneux, in a

temporary concession hired in my name--when I am able I shall purchase

ground elsewhere at Père la Chaise for choice. I have not yet decided

what to do, or the nature of the monument. There were altogether

twenty-four wreaths of flowers; some were sent anonymously. The

proprietor of the hotel supplied a pathetic bead trophy, inscribed, "A

mon locataire," and there was another of the same kind from "The service

de l'Hotel," the remaining twenty-two were, of course, of real flowers.

Wreaths came from, or at the request of, the following: Alfred Douglas,

More Adey, Reginald Turner, Miss Schuster, Arthur Clifton, the Mercure

de France, Louis Wilkinson, Harold Mellor, Mr. and Mrs. Texiera de

Mattos, Maurice Gilbert, and Dr. Tucker. At the head of the coffin I

placed a wreath of laurels inscribed, "A tribute to his literary

achievements and distinction." I tied inside the wreath the following

names of those who had shown kindness to him during or after his

imprisonment, "Arthur Humphreys, Max Beerbohm, Arthur Clifton, Ricketts,

Shannon, Conder, Rothenstein, Dal Young, Mrs. Leverson, More Adey,

Alfred Douglas, Reginald Turner, Frank Harris, Louis Wilkinson, Mellor,

Miss Schuster, Rowland Strong," and by special request a friend who

wished to be known as "C.B."

I can scarcely speak in moderation of the magnanimity, humanity and

charity of John Dupoirier, the proprietor of the Hotel d'Alsace. Just

before I left Paris Oscar told me he owed him over £190. From the day

Oscar was laid up he never said anything about it. He never mentioned

the subject to me until after Oscar's death, and then I started the

subject. He was present at Oscar's operation, and attended to him

personally every morning. He paid himself for luxuries and necessities

ordered by the doctor or by Oscar out of his own pocket. I hope that

---- or ---- will at any rate pay him the money still owing. Dr. Tucker

is also owed a large sum of money. He was most kind and attentive,

although I think he entirely misunderstood Oscar's case.

Reggie Turner had the worst time of all in many ways--he experienced all

the horrible uncertainty and the appalling responsibility of which he

did not know the extent. It will always be a source of satisfaction to

those who were fond of Oscar, that he had someone like Reggie near him

during his last days while he was articulate and sensible of kindness

and attention....

ROBERT ROSS.

CRITICISMS

BY ROBERT ROSS

Vol. I. Page 80 Line 3. I demur very much to your statement in this

paragraph. Wilde was too much of a student of Greek to have learned

anything about controversy from Whistler. No doubt Whistler was more

nimble and more naturally gifted with the power of repartee, but when

Wilde indulged in controversy with his critics, whether he got the best

of it or not, he never borrowed the Whistlerian method. Cf. his

controversy with Henley over Dorian Gray.

Then whatever you may think of Ruskin, Wilde learnt a great deal about

the History and Philosophy of Art from him. He learned more from Pater

and he was the friend and intimate of Burne-Jones long before he knew

Whistler. I quite agree with your remark that he had "no joy in

conflict" and no doubt he had little or no knowledge of the technique of

Art in the modern expert's sense.

[There never was a greater master of controversy than Whistler, and I

believe Wilde borrowed his method of making fun of the adversary. Robert

Ross's second point is rather controversial. Shaw agrees with me that

Wilde never knew anything really of music or of painting and neither the

history nor the so-called philosophy of art makes one a connoisseur of

contemporary masters. F.H.]

Page 94. Last line. For "happy candle" read "Happy Lamp." It was at the

period when oil lamps were put in the middle of the dinner table just

before the general introduction of electric light; by putting "candle"

you lose the period. Cf. Du Maurier's pictures of dinner parties in

_Punch_.

Page 115. I venture to think that you should state that Wilde at the end

of his story of 'Mr. W.H.' definitely says that the theory is all

nonsense. It always appeared to me a semi-satire of Shakespearean

commentary. I remember Wilde saying to me after it was published that

his next Shakespearean book would be a discussion as to whether the

commentators on Hamlet were mad or only pretending to be. I think you

take Wilde's phantasy too seriously but I am not disputing whether you

are right or wrong in your opinion of it; but it strikes me as a little

solemn when on Page 116 you say that the 'whole theory is completely

mistaken'; but you are quite right when you say that it did Wilde a

great deal of harm. [Ross does not seem to realise that if the theory

were merely fantastic the public might be excused for condemning Oscar

for playing with such a subject. As a matter of fact I remember Oscar

defending the theory to me years later with all earnestness: that's why

I stated my opinion of it. F.H.]

Page 142 Line 19. What Wilde said in front of the curtain was: "I have

enjoyed this evening immensely."

[I seem to remember that Wilde said this; my note was written after a

dinner a day or two later when Oscar acted the whole scene over again

and probably elaborated his effect. I give the elaboration as most

characteristic. F.H.]

Vol. II. Page 357 Line 3. Major Nelson was the name of the Governor at

Reading prison. He was one of the most charming men I ever came across.

I think he was a little hurt by the "Ballad of Reading Gaol," which he

fancied rather reflected on him though Major Isaacson was the Governor

at the time the soldier was executed. Isaacson was a perfect monster.

Wilde sent Nelson copies of his books, "The Ideal Husband" and "The

Importance of Being Earnest," which were published as you remember after

the release, and Nelson acknowledged them in a most delightful way. He

is dead now.

[Major Isaacson was the governor who boasted to me that he was knocking

the nonsense out of Wilde; he seemed to me almost inhuman. My report got

him relieved and Nelson appointed in his stead. Nelson was an ideal

governor. F.H.]

Page 387. In the First Edition of the "Ballad of Reading Gaol" issued by

Methuen I have given the original draft of the poem which was in my

hands in September 1897, long before Wilde rejoined Douglas. I will send

you a copy of it if you like, but it is much more likely to reach you if

you order it through Putnam's in New York as they are Methuen's agents.

I would like you to see it because it fortifies your opinion about

Douglas' ridiculous contention; though I could explode the whole thing

by Wilde's letters to myself from Berneval. Certain verses were indeed

added at Naples. I do not know what you will think, but to me they prove

the mental decline due to the atmosphere and life that Wilde was leading

at the time. Let us be just and say that perhaps Douglas assisted more

than he was conscious of in their composition. To me they are terribly

poor stuff, but then, unlike yourself, I am a heretic about the Ballad.

Page 411. In fairness to Gide: Gide is describing Wilde after he had

come back from Naples in the year 1898, not in 1897, when he had just

come out of prison.

Appendix Page 438 Line 20. Forgive me if I say it, but I think your

method of sneering at Curzon unworthy of Frank Harris. Sneer by all

means; but not in that particular way.

[Robert Ross is mistaken here: no sneer was intended. I added Curzon's

title to avoid giving myself the air of an intimate. F.H.]

Page 488 Line 17. You really are wrong about Mellor's admiration for

Wilde. He liked his society but loathed his writing. I was quite angry

in 1900 when Mellor came to see me at Mentone (after Wilde's death, of

course), when he said he could never see any merit whatever in Wilde's

plays or books. However the point is a small one.

Page 490 Line 6. The only thing I can claim to have invented in

connection with Wilde were the two titles "De Profundis" and "The

Ballad of Reading Gaol," for which let me say I can produce documentary

evidence. The publication of "De Profundis" was delayed for a month in

1905 because I could not decide on what to call it. It happened to catch

on but I do not think it a very good title.

Page 555 Line 18. Do you happen to have compared Douglas' translation of

Salome in Lane's First edition (with Beardsley's illustrations) with

Lane's Second edition (with Beardsley's illustrations) or Lane's little

editions (without Beardsley's illustrations)? Or have you ever compared

the aforesaid First edition with the original? Douglas' translation

omits a great deal of the text and is actually wrong as a rendering of

the text in many cases. I have had this out with a good many people. I

believe Douglas is to this day sublimely unconscious that his text, of

which there were never more than 500 copies issued in England, has been

entirely scrapped; his name at my instance was removed from the current

issues for the very good reason that the new translation is not his. But

this is merely an observation not a correction.

[I talked this matter over with Douglas more than once. He did not know

French well; but he could understand it and he was a rarely good

translator as his version of a Baudelaire sonnet shows. In any dispute

as to the value of a word or phrase I should prefer his opinion to

Oscar's. But Ross is doubtless right on this point. F.H.]

Appendix Page 587. Your memory is at fault here. The charge against

Horatio Lloyd was of a normal kind. It was for exposing himself to

nursemaids in the gardens of the Temple.

[I have corrected this as indeed I have always used Ross's corrections

on matters of fact. F.H.]

Page 596 Line 13. I think there ought to be a capital "E" in exhibition

to emphasise that it is the 1900 Exhibition in Paris.

THE SOUL OF MAN UNDER SOCIALISM

When I was editing "The Fortnightly Review," Oscar Wilde wrote for me

"The Soul of Man Under Socialism." On reading it then it seemed to me

that he knew very little about Socialism and I disliked his airy way of

dealing with a religion he hadn't taken the trouble to fathom. The essay

now appears to me in a somewhat different light. Oscar had no deep

understanding of Socialism, it is true, much less of the fact that in a

healthy body corporate socialism or co-operation would govern all public

utilities and public services while the individual would be left in

possession of all such industries as his activity can control.

But Oscar's genius was such that as soon as he had stated one side of

the problem he felt that the other side had to be considered and so we

get from him if not the ideal of an ordered state at least _aperçus_ of

astounding truth and value.

For example he writes: "Socialism ... by converting private property

into public wealth, and substituting co-operation for competition, will

restore society to its proper condition of a thoroughly healthy

organism, and insure the material well-being of each member of the

community."

Then comes the return on himself: "But for the full development of Life

... something more is needed. What is needed is Individualism."

And the ideal is always implicit: "Private property has led

Individualism entirely astray. It has made gain not growth its aim."

Humor too is never far away: "Only one class thinks more about money

than the rich and that is the poor."

His short stay in the United States also benefited him.... "Democracy

means simply the bludgeoning of the people by the people for the people.

It has been found out."

Taken all in all a provocative delightful essay which like _Salome_ in

the æsthetic field marks the end of his _Lehrjahre_ and the beginning of

his work as a master.

A LAST WORD

In the couple of years that have elapsed since the first edition of this

book was published, I have received many letters from readers asking for

information about Wilde which I have omitted to give. I have been

threatened with prosecution and must not speak plainly; but something

may be said in answer to those who contend that Oscar might have brought

forward weightier arguments in his defence than are to be found in

Chapter XXIV. As a matter of fact I have made him more persuasive than

he was. When Oscar declared (as recorded on page 496) that his weakness

was "consistent with the highest ideal of humanity if not a

characteristic of it," I asked him: "would he make the same defence for

the Lesbians?" He turned aside showing the utmost disgust in face and

words, thus in my opinion giving his whole case away.

He could have made a better defence. He might have said that as we often

eat or drink or smoke for pleasure, so we may indulge in other

sensualities. If he had argued that his sin was comparatively venial and

so personal-peculiar that it carried with it no temptation to the normal

man, I should not have disputed his point.

Moreover, love at its highest is independent of sex and sensuality.

Since Luther we have been living in a centrifugal movement, in a wild

individualism where all ties of love and affection have been loosened,

and now that the centripetal movement has come into power we shall find

that in another fifty years or so friendship and love will win again to

honor and affinities of all sorts will proclaim themselves without shame

and without fear. In this sense Oscar might have regarded himself as a

forerunner and not as a survival or "sport." And it may well be that

some instinctive feeling of this sort was at the back of his mind though

too vague to be formulated in words. For even in our dispute (see Page

500) he pleaded that the world was becoming more tolerant, which, one

hopes, is true. To become more tolerant of the faults of others is the

first lesson in the religion of Humanity.

_The End._

_A letter from Lord Alfred Douglas to Oscar Wilde that I reproduce here

speaks for itself and settles once for all, I imagine, the question of

their relations. Had Lord Alfred Douglas not denied the truth and posed

as Oscar Wilde's patron, I should never have published this letter

though it was given to me to establish the truth. This letter was

written between Oscar's first and second trial; ten days later Oscar

Wilde was sentenced to two years imprisonment with hard labor._

_FRANK HARRIS._

HOTEL DES DEUX MONDES

22, Avenue de l'Opera, 22

PARIS

Wednesday, May 15, 1895.

My darling Oscar:

Have just arrived here.

It seems too dreadful to be here without you, but I hope you will join

me next week. Dieppe was too awful for anything; it is the most

depressing place in the world, even Petits Chevaux was not to be had as

the Casino was closed. They are very nice here, and I can stay as long

as I like without paying my bill which is a good thing, as I am quite

penniless.

The proprietor is very nice and most sympathetic; he asked after you at

once and expressed his regret and indignation at the treatment you had

received. I shall have to send this by a cab to the Gare du Nord to

catch the post as I want you to get it first post to-morrow.

I am going to see if I can find Robert Sherard to-morrow if he is in

Paris.

Charlie is with me and sends you his best love.

I had a long letter from More (Adey) this morning about you. Do keep up

your spirits, my dearest darling. I continue to think of you day and

night and I send you all my love.

I am always your own loving and devoted boy.

BOSIE.

_This letter now published for the first time is the most characteristic

I received from Oscar Wilde in the years after his imprisonment. It

dates I think from the winter of 1897, say some eight months after his

release. F.H._

HOTEL DE NICE

Rue des Beaux Arts

PARIS

My dear Frank:

I cannot express to you how deeply touched I am by your letter--it is

_une vraie poignée de main_. I simply long to see you and to come again

in contact with your strong sane wonderful personality.

I cannot understand about the poem (The Ballad of Reading Gaol) my

publisher tells me that, as I had begged him to do, he sent the two

_first_ copies to the "Saturday" and the "Chronicle"--and he also tells

me that Arthur Symons told him he had written especially to you to ask

you to allow him to do a _signed_ article.

I suppose publishers are untrustworthy. They certainly always look it. I

hope some notice will appear, as your paper, or rather yourself, is a

great force in London and when you speak men listen.

I of course feel that the poem is too autobiographical and that real

experience are alien things that should never influence one, but it was

wrung out of me, a cry of pain, the cry of Marsyas, not the song of

Apollo. Still, there are some good things in it. I feel as if I had made

a sonnet out of skilly, and that is something.

When you return from Monte Carlo please let me know. I long to dine with

you.

As regards a comedy, my dear Frank, I have lost the mainspring of life

and art--_la joie de vivre_--it is dreadful. I have pleasures and

passions, but the joy of life is gone. I am going under, the Morgue

yawns for me. I go and look at my zinc bed there. After all I had a

wonderful life, which is, I fear, over. But I must dine once with you

first.

Ever yours,

OSCAR WILDE.

FOOTNOTES:

[39] Oscar told me this story; but as it only concerns Lord Alfred

Douglas, and throws no new light on Oscar's character, I don't use it.

[40] This is extravagant condemnation of Lord Alfred Douglas' want of

education; for he certainly knew a great deal about the poetic art even

then and he has since acquired a very considerable knowledge of

"Elizabethan Song."

[41] Whoever wishes to understand this bitter allusion should read his

father's letter to Lord Alfred Douglas transcribed in the first volume.

The Marquis of Queensberry doesn't hesitate to hint why his son was

"sent down" from Oxford.

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

[43] Oscar is not flattering his friend in this: Lord Alfred Douglas has

written two or three sonnets which rank among the best in the language.

[44] This statement--more than half true--is Oscar Wilde's _Apologia_

and justification.

[45] This is, I believe, true and the explanation that follows is

probably true also.

[46] Baccarat is not played in the Casino: _roulette_ and _trente et

quarante_ are the games: roulette was Lord Alfred Douglas' favourite.

[47] This is a confession almost as much as an accusation.

[48] Oscar here crosses the _t's_ and dots the _i's_ of his charge.

[49] The previous accusation repeated, with bitterest sarcasm.

[50] Lord Alfred Douglas is well above the middle height: he holds

himself badly but is fully five feet nine inches in height.

[51] The old accusation.

[52] Mr. Beerbohm Tree.

[53] The very truth, it seems to me.

[54] Proving another guilty would not have exculpated Oscar. Readers of

my book will remember that I urged Oscar to tell the truth and how he

answered me.

[55] As will be seen from a letter of Oscar Wilde which I reproduce

later, I supplied the clothes.

[56] His letter was merely an acknowledgment that he had received the

clothes and cheque and was grateful. I saw nothing in it to answer as he

had not even mentioned the driving tour.

[57] I felt hurt that he dropped the idea without giving me any reason

or even letting me know his change of purpose.

[58] I think this was true; though it had never struck me till I read

this letter. Later, in order to excuse himself for not working, he

magnified the effect on his health of prison life. A year after his

release I think he had as large a reserve of nervous energy as ever.

[59] Fifty pounds was all Oscar asked me: the whole sum agreed upon. As

a matter of fact I gave him fifty pounds more before leaving Paris. I

didn't then know that he had ever told the scenario to anyone else, much

less sold it; though I ought perhaps to have guessed it.--F.H.

[60] I (Frank Harris) noticed at Reading that his hair was getting grey

in front and at the sides; but when we met later the grey had

disappeared. I thought he used some dye. I only mention this to show how

two good witnesses can differ on a plain matter of fact.

[61] Ross found afterwards that they amounted to £620.

MEMORIES OF OSCAR WILDE

BY G. BERNARD SHAW

Copyright, 1918,

BY BERNARD SHAW

INTRODUCTION

George Bernard Shaw ordered a special copy of this book of mine:

"Oscar Wilde: His Life and Confessions," as soon as it was announced.

I sent it to him and asked him to write me his opinion of the book.

In due course I received the following MSS. from him in which he tells

me what he thinks of my work:--"the best life of Wilde, ... Wilde's

memory will have to stand or fall by it"; and then goes on to relate

all his own meetings with Wilde, the impressions they made upon him

and his judgment of Wilde as a writer and as a man.

He has given himself this labor, he says, in order that I may publish

his views in the Appendix to my book if I think fit--an example, not

only of Shaw's sympathy and generosity, but of his light way of

treating his own kindness.

I am delighted to be able to put Shaw's considered judgment of Wilde

beside my own for the benefit of my readers. For if there had been

anything I had misseen or misjudged in Wilde, or any prominent trait

of his character I had failed to note, the sin, whether of omission or

commission, could scarcely have escaped this other pair of keen eyes.

Now indeed this biography of Wilde may be regarded as definitive.

Shaw says his judgment of Wilde is severer than mine--"far sterner,"

are his words; but I am not sure that this is an exact estimate.

While Shaw accentuates Wilde's snobbishness, he discounts his "Irish

charm," and though he praises highly his gifts as dramatist and

story-teller he lays little stress on his genuine kindness of nature

and the courteous smiling ways which made him so incomparable a

companion and intimate.

On the other hand he excuses Wilde's perversion as pathological, as

hereditary "giantism," and so lightens the darkest shadows just as he

has toned down the lights.

I never saw anything abnormal in Oscar Wilde either in body or soul

save an extravagant sensuality and an absolute adoration of beauty and

comeliness; and so, with his own confessions and practises before me,

I had to block him in, to use painters' jargon, with black shadows,

and was delighted to find high lights to balance them--lights of

courtesies, graces and unselfish kindness of heart.

On the whole I think our two pictures are very much alike and I am

sure a good many readers will be almost as grateful to Shaw for his

collaboration and corroboration as I am.

POSTSCRIPT

Since writing this foreword I have received the proof of his

contribution which I had sent to Shaw. He has made some slight

corrections in the text which, of course, have been carried out, and

some comments besides on my notes as Editor. These, too, I have

naturally wished to use and so, to avoid confusion, have inserted them

in italics and with his initials. I hope the sequence will be clear to

the reader.

MY MEMORIES OF OSCAR WILDE

BY BERNARD SHAW

MY DEAR HARRIS:--

"I have an interesting letter of yours to answer; but when you ask me

to exchange biographies, you take an unfair advantage of the changes

of scene and bustling movement of your own adventures. My

autobiography would be like my best plays, fearfully long, and not

divided into acts. Just consider this life of Wilde which you have

just sent me, and which I finished ten minutes ago after putting aside

everything else to read it at one stroke.

"Why was Wilde so good a subject for a biography that none of the

previous attempts which you have just wiped out are bad? Just because

his stupendous laziness simplified his life almost as if he knew

instinctively that there must be no episodes to spoil the great

situation at the end of the last act but one. It was a well made life

in the Scribe sense. It was as simple as the life of Des Grieux, Manon

Lescaut's lover; and it beat that by omitting Manon and making Des

Grieux his own lover and his own hero.

"Des Grieux was a worthless rascal by all conventional standards; and

we forgive him everything. We think we forgive him because he was

unselfish and loved greatly. Oscar seems to have said: 'I will love

nobody: I will be utterly selfish; and I will be not merely a rascal

but a monster; and you shall forgive me everything. In other words, I

will reduce your standards to absurdity, not by writing them down,

though I could do that so well--in fact, _have_ done it--but by

actually living them down and dying them down.'

"However, I mustn't start writing a book to you about Wilde: I must

just tumble a few things together and tell you them. To take things in

the order of your book, I can remember only one occasion on which I

saw Sir William Wilde, who, by the way, operated on my father to

correct a squint, and overdid the correction so much that my father

squinted the other way all the rest of his life. To this day I never

notice a squint: it is as normal to me as a nose or a tall hat.

"I was a boy at a concert in the Antient Concert Rooms in Brunswick

Street in Dublin. Everybody was in evening dress; and--unless I am

mixing up this concert with another (in which case I doubt if the

Wildes would have been present)--the Lord Lieutenant was there with

his blue waistcoated courtiers. Wilde was dressed in snuffy brown; and

as he had the sort of skin that never looks clean, he produced a

dramatic effect beside Lady Wilde (in full fig) of being, like

Frederick the Great, Beyond Soap and Water, as his Nietzschean son was

beyond Good and Evil. He was currently reported to have a family in

every farmhouse; and the wonder was that Lady Wilde didn't

mind--evidently a tradition from the Travers case, which I did not

know about until I read your account, as I was only eight in 1864.

"Lady Wilde was nice to me in London during the desperate days between

my arrival in 1876 and my first earning of an income by my pen in

1885, or rather until, a few years earlier, I threw myself into

Socialism and cut myself contemptuously loose from everything of which

her at-homes--themselves desperate affairs enough, as you saw for

yourself--were part. I was at two or three of them; and I once dined

with her in company with an ex-tragedy queen named Miss Glynn, who,

having no visible external ears, reared a head like a turnip. Lady

Wilde talked about Schopenhauer; and Miss Glynn told me that Gladstone

formed his oratorical style on Charles Kean.

"I ask myself where and how I came across Lady Wilde; for we had no

social relations in the Dublin days. The explanation must be that my

sister, then a very attractive girl who sang beautifully, had met and

made some sort of innocent conquest of both Oscar and Willie. I met

Oscar once at one of the at-homes; and he came and spoke to me with an

evident intention of being specially kind to me. We put each other out

frightfully; and this odd difficulty persisted between us to the very

last, even when we were no longer mere boyish novices and had become

men of the world with plenty of skill in social intercourse. I saw him

very seldom, as I avoided literary and artistic society like the

plague, and refused the few invitations I received to go into society

with burlesque ferocity, so as to keep out of it without offending

people past their willingness to indulge me as a privileged lunatic.

"The last time I saw him was at that tragic luncheon of yours at the

Café Royal; and I am quite sure our total of meetings from first to

last did not exceed twelve, and may not have exceeded six.

"I definitely recollect six: (1) At the at-home aforesaid. (2) At

Macmurdo's house in Fitzroy Street in the days of the Century Guild

and its paper '_The Hobby Horse_.' (3) At a meeting somewhere in

Westminster at which I delivered an address on Socialism, and at which

Oscar turned up and spoke. Robert Ross surprised me greatly by telling

me, long after Oscar's death, that it was this address of mine that

moved Oscar to try his hand at a similar feat by writing 'The Soul of

Man Under Socialism.' (4) A chance meeting near the stage door of the

Haymarket Theatre, at which our queer shyness of one another made our

resolutely cordial and appreciative conversation so difficult that our

final laugh and shake-hands was almost a reciprocal confession. (5) A

really pleasant afternoon we spent together on catching one another in

a place where our presence was an absurdity. It was some exhibition in

Chelsea: a naval commemoration, where there was a replica of Nelson's

Victory and a set of P. & O. cabins which made one seasick by mere

association of ideas. I don't know why I went or why Wilde went; but

we did; and the question what the devil we were doing in that galley

tickled us both. It was my sole experience of Oscar's wonderful gift

as a raconteur. I remember particularly an amazingly elaborate story

which you have no doubt heard from him: an example of the cumulation

of a single effect, as in Mark Twain's story of the man who was

persuaded to put lightning conductor after lightning conductor at

every possible point on his roof until a thunderstorm came and all the

lightning in the heavens went for his house and wiped it out.

"Oscar's much more carefully and elegantly worked out story was of a

young man who invented a theatre stall which economized space by

ingenious contrivances which were all described. A friend of his

invited twenty millionaires to meet him at dinner so that he might

interest them in the invention. The young man convinced them

completely by his demonstration of the saving in a theatre holding, in

ordinary seats, six hundred people, leaving them eager and ready to

make his fortune. Unfortunately he went on to calculate the annual

saving in all the theatres of the world; then in all the churches of

the world; then in all the legislatures; estimating finally the

incidental and moral and religious effects of the invention until at

the end of an hour he had estimated a profit of several thousand

millions: the climax of course being that the millionaires folded

their tents and silently stole away, leaving the ruined inventor a

marked man for life.

"Wilde and I got on extraordinarily well on this occasion. I had not

to talk myself, but to listen to a man telling me stories better than

I could have told them. We did not refer to Art, about which,

excluding literature from the definition, he knew only what could be

picked up by reading about it. He was in a tweed suit and low hat like

myself, and had been detected and had detected me in the act of

clandestinely spending a happy day at Rosherville Gardens instead of

pontificating in his frock coat and so forth. And he had an audience

on whom not one of his subtlest effects was lost. And so for once our

meeting was a success; and I understood why Morris, when he was dying

slowly, enjoyed a visit from Wilde more than from anybody else, as I

understand why you say in your book that you would rather have Wilde

back than any friend you have ever talked to, even though he was

incapable of friendship, though not of the most touching kindness[1]

on occasion.

[Footnote 1: Excellent analysis. [Ed.]]

"Our sixth meeting, the only other one I can remember, was the one at

the Café Royal. On that occasion he was not too preoccupied with his

danger to be disgusted with me because I, who had praised his first

plays handsomely, had turned traitor over 'The Importance of Being

Earnest.' Clever as it was, it was his first really heartless play. In

the others the chivalry of the eighteenth century Irishman and the

romance of the disciple of Théophile Gautier (Oscar was really

old-fashioned in the Irish way, except as a critic of morals) not only

gave a certain kindness and gallantry to the serious passages and to

the handling of the women, but provided that proximity of emotion

without which laughter, however irresistible, is destructive and

sinister. In 'The Importance of Being Earnest' this had vanished; and

the play, though extremely funny, was essentially hateful. I had no

idea that Oscar was going to the dogs, and that this represented a

real degeneracy produced by his debaucheries. I thought he was still

developing; and I hazarded the unhappy guess that 'The Importance of

Being Earnest' was in idea a young work written or projected long

before under the influence of Gilbert and furbished up for Alexander

as a potboiler. At the Café Royal that day I calmly asked him whether

I was not right. He indignantly repudiated my guess, and said loftily

(the only time he ever tried on me the attitude he took to John Gray

and his more abject disciples) that he was disappointed in me. I

suppose I said, 'Then what on earth has happened to you?' but I

recollect nothing more on that subject except that we did not quarrel

over it.

"When he was sentenced I spent a railway journey on a Socialist

lecturing excursion to the North drafting a petition for his release.

After that I met Willie Wilde at a theatre which I think must have

been the Duke of York's, because I connect it vaguely with St.

Martin's Lane. I spoke to him about the petition, asking him whether

anything of the sort was being done, and warning him that though I and

Stewart Headlam would sign it, that would be no use, as we were two

notorious cranks, and our names would by themselves reduce the

petition to absurdity and do Oscar more harm than good. Willie

cordially agreed, and added, with maudlin pathos and an inconceivable

want of tact: 'Oscar was NOT a man of bad character: you

could have trusted him with a woman anywhere.' He convinced me, as you

discovered later, that signatures would not be obtainable; so the

petition project dropped; and I don't know what became of my draft.

"When Wilde was in Paris during his last phase I made a point of

sending him inscribed copies of all my books as they came out; and he

did the same to me.

"In writing about Wilde and Whistler, in the days when they were

treated as witty triflers, and called Oscar and Jimmy in print, I

always made a point of taking them seriously and with scrupulous good

manners. Wilde on his part also made a point of recognizing me as a

man of distinction by his manner, and repudiating the current estimate

of me as a mere jester. This was not the usual reciprocal-admiration

trick: I believe he was sincere, and felt indignant at what he thought

was a vulgar underestimate of me; and I had the same feeling about

him. My impulse to rally to him in his misfortune, and my disgust at

'the man Wilde' scurrilities of the newspapers, was irresistible: I

don't quite know why; for my charity to his perversion, and my

recognition of the fact that it does not imply any general depravity

or coarseness of character, came to me through reading and

observation, not through sympathy.

"I have all the normal violent repugnance to homosexuality--if it is

really normal, which nowadays one is sometimes provoked to doubt.

"Also, I was in no way predisposed to like him: he was my

fellow-townsman, and a very prime specimen of the sort of

fellow-townsman I most loathed: to wit, the Dublin snob. His Irish

charm, potent with Englishmen, did not exist for me; and on the whole

it may be claimed for him that he got no regard from me that he did

not earn.

"What first established a friendly feeling in me was, unexpectedly

enough, the affair of the Chicago anarchists, whose Homer you

constituted yourself by '_The Bomb_.' I tried to get some literary men

in London, all heroic rebels and skeptics on paper, to sign a memorial

asking for the reprieve of these unfortunate men. The only signature I

got was Oscar's. It was a completely disinterested act on his part;

and it secured my distinguished consideration for him for the rest of

his life.

"To return for a moment to Lady Wilde. You know that there is a

disease called giantism, caused by 'a certain morbid process in the

sphenoid bone of the skull--viz., an excessive development of the

anterior lobe of the pituitary body' (this is from the nearest

encyclopedia). 'When this condition does not become active until after

the age of twenty-five, by which time the long bones are consolidated,

the result is acromegaly, which chiefly manifests itself in an

enlargement of the hands and feet.' I never saw Lady Wilde's feet; but

her hands were enormous, and never went straight to their aim when

they grasped anything, but minced about, feeling for it. And the

gigantic splaying of her palm was reproduced in her lumbar region.

"Now Oscar was an overgrown man, with something not quite normal about

his bigness--something that made Lady Colin Campbell, who hated him,

describe him as 'that great white caterpillar.' You yourself describe

the disagreeable impression he made on you physically, in spite of his

fine eyes and style. Well, I have always maintained that Oscar was a

giant in the pathological sense, and that this explains a good deal of

his weakness.

"I think you have affectionately underrated his snobbery, mentioning

only the pardonable and indeed justifiable side of it; the love of

fine names and distinguished associations and luxury and good

manners.[2] You say repeatedly, and _on certain planes_, truly, that

he was not bitter and did not use his tongue to wound people. But this

is not true on the snobbish plane. On one occasion he wrote about T.P.

O'Connor with deliberate, studied, wounding insolence, with his

Merrion Square Protestant pretentiousness in full cry against the

Catholic. He repeatedly declaimed against the vulgarity of the British

journalist, not as you or I might, but as an expression of the odious

class feeling that is itself the vilest vulgarity. He made the mistake

of not knowing his place. He objected to be addressed as Wilde,

declaring that he was Oscar to his intimates and Mr. Wilde to others,

quite unconscious of the fact that he was imposing on the men with

whom, as a critic and journalist, he had to live and work, the

alternative of granting him an intimacy he had no right to ask or a

deference to which he had no claim. The vulgar hated him for snubbing

them; and the valiant men damned his impudence and cut him. Thus he

was left with a band of devoted satellites on the one hand, and a

dining-out connection on the other, with here and there a man of

talent and personality enough to command his respect, but utterly

without that fortifying body of acquaintance among plain men in which

a man must move as himself a plain man, and be Smith and Jones and

Wilde and Shaw and Harris instead of Bosie and Robbie and Oscar and

Mister. This is the sort of folly that does not last forever in a man

of Wilde's ability; but it lasted long enough to prevent Oscar laying

any solid social foundations.[3]

[Footnote 2: I had touched on the evil side of his snobbery, I

thought, by saying that it was only famous actresses and great ladies

that he ever talked about, and in telling how he loved to speak of the

great houses such as Clumber to which he had been invited, and by half

a dozen other hints scattered through my book. I had attacked English

snobbery so strenuously in my book on "The Man Shakespeare," had

resented its influence on the finest English intelligence so bitterly,

that I thought if I again laid stress on it in Wilde, people would

think I was crazy on the subject. But he was a snob, both by nature

and training, and I understand by snob what Shaw evidently understands

by it here.]

[Footnote 3: The reason that Oscar, snobbish as he was, and admirer of

England and the English as he was, could not lay any solid social

foundations in England was, in my opinion, his intellectual interests

and his intellectual superiority to the men he met. No one with a fine

mind devoted to things of the spirit is capable of laying solid social

foundations in England. Shaw, too, has no solid social foundations in

that country.

_This passing shot at English society serves it right. Yet able men

have found niches in London. Where was Oscar's?--G.B.S._]

"Another difficulty I have already hinted at. Wilde started as an

apostle of Art; and in that capacity he was a humbug. The notion that

a Portora boy, passed on to T.C.D. and thence to Oxford and spending

his vacations in Dublin, could without special circumstances have any

genuine intimacy with music and painting, is to me ridiculous.[4]

When Wilde was at Portora, I was at home in a house where important

musical works, including several typical masterpieces, were being

rehearsed from the point of blank amateur ignorance up to fitness for

public performance. I could whistle them from the first bar to the

last as a butcher's boy whistles music hall songs, before I was

twelve. The toleration of popular music--Strauss's waltzes, for

instance--was to me positively a painful acquirement, a sort of

republican duty.

[Footnote 4: I had already marked it down to put in this popular

edition of my book that Wilde continually pretended to a knowledge of

music which he had not got. He could hardly tell one tune from

another, but he loved to talk of that "scarlet thing of Dvorak,"

hoping in this way to be accepted as a real critic of music, when he

knew nothing about it and cared even less. His eulogies of music and

painting betrayed him continually though he did not know it.]

"I was so fascinated by painting that I haunted the National Gallery,

which Doyle had made perhaps the finest collection of its size in the

world; and I longed for money to buy painting materials with. This

afterwards saved me from starving: it was as a critic of music and

painting in the _World_ that I won through my ten years of journalism

before I finished up with you on the _Saturday Review_. I could make

deaf stockbrokers read my two pages on music, the alleged joke being

that I knew nothing about it. The real joke was that I knew all about

it.

"Now it was quite evident to me, as it was to Whistler and Beardsley,

that Oscar knew no more about pictures[5] than anyone of his general

culture and with his opportunities can pick up as he goes along. He

could be witty about Art, as I could be witty about engineering; but

that is no use when you have to seize and hold the attention and

interest of people who really love music and painting. Therefore,

Oscar was handicapped by a false start, and got a reputation[6] for

shallowness and insincerity which he never retrieved until it was too

late.

[Footnote 5: I touched upon Oscar's ignorance of art sufficiently I

think, when I said in my book that he had learned all he knew of art

and of controversy from Whistler, and that his lectures on the

subject, even after sitting at the feet of the Master, were almost

worthless.]

[Footnote 6: Perfectly true, and a notable instance of Shaw's

insight.]

"Comedy: the criticism of morals and manners _viva voce_, was his real

forte. When he settled down to that he was great. But, as you found

when you approached Meredith about him, his initial mistake had

produced that 'rather low opinion of Wilde's capacities,' that

'deep-rooted contempt for the showman in him,' which persisted as a

first impression and will persist until the last man who remembers his

esthetic period has perished. The world has been in some ways so

unjust to him that one must be careful not to be unjust to the world.

"In the preface on education, called 'Parents and Children,' to my

volume of plays beginning with _Misalliance_, there is a section

headed 'Artist Idolatry,' which is really about Wilde. Dealing with

'the powers enjoyed by brilliant persons who are also connoisseurs in

art,' I say, 'the influence they can exercise on young people who have

been brought up in the darkness and wretchedness of a home without

art, and in whom a natural bent towards art has always been baffled

and snubbed, is incredible to those who have not witnessed and

understood it. He (or she) who reveals the world of art to them opens

heaven to them. They become satellites, disciples, worshippers of the

apostle. Now the apostle may be a voluptuary without much conscience.

Nature may have given him enough virtue to suffice in a reasonable

environment. But this allowance may not be enough to defend him

against the temptation and demoralization of finding himself a little

god on the strength of what ought to be a quite ordinary culture. He

may find adorers in all directions in our uncultivated society among

people of stronger character than himself, not one of whom, if they

had been artistically educated, would have had anything to learn from

him, or regarded him as in any way extraordinary apart from his actual

achievements as an artist. Tartufe is not always a priest. Indeed, he

is not always a rascal: he is often a weak man absurdly credited with

omniscience and perfection, and taking unfair advantages only because

they are offered to him and he is too weak to refuse. Give everyone

his culture, and no one will offer him more than his due.'

"That paragraph was the outcome of a walk and talk I had one afternoon

at Chartres with Robert Ross.

"You reveal Wilde as a weaker man than I thought him: I still believe

that his fierce Irish pride had something to do with his refusal to

run away from the trial. But in the main your evidence is conclusive.

It was part of his tragedy that people asked more moral strength from

him that he could bear the burden of, because they made the very

common mistake--of which actors get the benefit--of regarding style as

evidence of strength, just as in the case of women they are apt to

regard paint as evidence of beauty. Now Wilde was so in love with

style that he never realized the danger of biting off more than he

could chew: in other words, of putting up more style than his matter

would carry. Wise kings wear shabby clothes, and leave the gold lace

to the drum major.

"You do not, unless my memory is betraying me as usual, quite

recollect the order of events just before the trial. That day at the

Café Royal, Wilde said he had come to ask you to go into the witness

box next day and testify that _Dorian Gray_ was a highly moral work.

Your answer was something like this: 'For God's sake, man, put

everything on that plane out of your head. You don't realize what is

going to happen to you. It is not going to be a matter of clever talk

about your books. They are going to bring up a string of witnesses

that will put art and literature out of the question. Clarke will

throw up his brief. He will carry the case to a certain point; and

then, when he sees the avalanche coming, he will back out and leave

you in the dock. What you have to do is to cross to France to-night.

Leave a letter saying that you cannot face the squalor and horror of a

law case; that you are an artist and unfitted for such things. Don't

stay here clutching at straws like testimonials to _Dorian Gray_. _I

tell you I know._ I know what is going to happen. I know Clarke's

sort. I know what evidence they have got. You must go.'

"It was no use. Wilde was in a curious double temper. He made no

pretence either of innocence or of questioning the folly of his

proceedings against Queensberry. But he had an infatuate haughtiness

as to the impossibility of his retreating, and as to his right to

dictate your course. Douglas sat in silence, a haughty indignant

silence, copying Wilde's attitude as all Wilde's admirers did, but

quite probably influencing Wilde as you suggest, by the copy. Oscar

finally rose with a mixture of impatience and his grand air, and

walked out with the remark that he had now found out who were his real

friends; and Douglas followed him, absurdly smaller, and imitating his

walk, like a curate following an archbishop.[7] You remember it the

other way about; but just consider this. Douglas was in the wretched

position of having ruined Wilde merely to annoy his father, and of

having attempted it so idiotically that he had actually prepared a

triumph for him. He was, besides, much the youngest man present, and

looked younger than he was. You did not make him welcome: as far as I

recollect you did not greet him by a word or nod. If he had given the

smallest provocation or attempted to take the lead in any way, I

should not have given twopence for the chance of your keeping your

temper. And Wilde, even in his ruin--which, however, he did not yet

fully realize--kept his air of authority on questions of taste and

conduct. It was practically impossible under such circumstances that

Douglas should have taken the stage in any way. Everyone thought him a

horrid little brat; but I, not having met him before to my knowledge,

and having some sort of flair for his literary talent, was curious to

hear what he had to say for himself. But, except to echo Wilde once or

twice, he said nothing.[8] You are right in effect, because it was

evident that Wilde was in his hands, and was really echoing him. But

Wilde automatically kept the prompter off the stage and himself in the

middle of it.

[Footnote 7: This is an inimitable picture, but Shaw's fine sense of

comedy has misled him. The scene took place absolutely as I recorded

it. Douglas went out first saying--"Your telling him to run away shows

that you are no friend of Oscar's." Then Oscar got up to follow him.

He said good-bye to Shaw, adding a courteous word or two. As he turned

to the door I got up and said:--"I hope you do not doubt my

friendship; you have no reason to."

"I do not think this is friendly of you, Frank," he said, and went on

out.]

[Footnote 8: I am sure Douglas took the initiative and walked out

first.

_I have no doubt you are right, and that my vision of the exit is

really a reminiscence of the entrance. In fact, now that you prompt my

memory, I recall quite distinctly that Douglas, who came in as the

follower, went out as the leader, and that the last word was spoken by

Wilde after he had gone.--G.B.S._]

"What your book needs to complete it is a portrait of yourself as good

as your portrait of Wilde. Oscar was not combative, though he was

supercilious in his early pose. When his snobbery was not in action,

he liked to make people devoted to him and to flatter them exquisitely

with that end. Mrs. Calvert, whose great final period as a stage old

woman began with her appearance in my _Arms and the Man_, told me one

day, when apologizing for being, as she thought, a bad rehearser, that

no author had ever been so nice to her except Mr. Wilde.

"Pugnacious people, if they did not actually terrify Oscar, were at

least the sort of people he could not control, and whom he feared as

possibly able to coerce him. You suggest that the Queensberry

pugnacity was something that Oscar could not deal with successfully.

But how in that case could Oscar have felt quite safe with you? You

were more pugnacious than six Queensberrys rolled into one. When

people asked, 'What has Frank Harris been?' the usual reply was,

'Obviously a pirate from the Spanish Main.'

"Oscar, from the moment he gained your attachment, could never have

been afraid of what you might do to him, as he was sufficient of a

connoisseur in Blut Bruderschaft to appreciate yours; but he must

always have been mortally afraid of what you might do or say to his

friends.[9]

[Footnote 9: This insight on Shaw's part makes me smile because it is

absolutely true. Oscar commended Bosie Douglas to me again and again

and again, begged me to be nice to him if we ever met by chance; but I

refused to meet him for months and months.]

"You had quite an infernal scorn for nineteen out of twenty of the men

and women you met in the circles he most wished to propitiate; and

nothing could induce you to keep your knife in its sheath when they

jarred on you. The Spanish Main itself would have blushed rosy red at

your language when classical invective did not suffice to express your

feelings.

"It may be that if, say, Edmund Gosse had come to Oscar when he was

out on bail, with a couple of first class tickets in his pocket, and

gently suggested a mild trip to Folkestone, or the Channel Islands,

Oscar might have let himself be coaxed away. But to be called on to

gallop _ventre à terre_ to Erith--it might have been Deal--and hoist

the Jolly Roger on board your lugger, was like casting a light

comedian and first lover for _Richard III_. Oscar could not see

himself in the part.

"I must not press the point too far; but it illustrates, I think, what

does not come out at all in your book: that you were a very different

person from the submissive and sympathetic disciples to whom he was

accustomed. There are things more terrifying to a soul like Oscar's

than an as yet unrealized possibility of a sentence of hard labor. A

voyage with Captain Kidd may have been one of them. Wilde was a

conventional man: his unconventionality was the very pedantry of

convention: never was there a man less an outlaw than he. You were a

born outlaw, and will never be anything else.

"That is why, in his relations with you, he appears as a man always

shirking action--more of a coward (all men are cowards more or less)

than so proud a man can have been. Still this does not affect the

truth and power of your portrait. Wilde's memory will have to stand or

fall by it.

"You will be blamed, I imagine, because you have not written a lying

epitaph instead of a faithful chronicle and study of him; but you will

not lose your sleep over that. As a matter of fact, you could not have

carried kindness further without sentimental folly. I should have made

a far sterner summing up. I am sure Oscar has not found the gates of

heaven shut against him: he is too good company to be excluded; but he

can hardly have been greeted as, 'Thou good and faithful servant.' The

first thing we ask a servant for is a testimonial to honesty, sobriety

and industry; for we soon find out that these are the scarce things,

and that geniuses[10] and clever people are as common as rats. Well,

Oscar was not sober, not honest, not industrious. Society praised him

for being idle, and persecuted him savagely for an aberration which it

had better have left unadvertized, thereby making a hero of him; for

it is in the nature of people to worship those who have been made to

suffer horribly: indeed I have often said that if the crucifixion

could be proved a myth, and Jesus convicted of dying of old age in

comfortable circumstances, Christianity would lose ninety-nine per

cent. of its devotees.

[Footnote 10: The English paste in Shaw; genius is about the rarest

thing on earth whereas the necessary quantum of "honesty, sobriety and

industry," is beaten by life into nine humans out of ten.--ED.

_If so, it is the tenth who comes my way.--G.B.S._]

"We must try to imagine what judgment we should have passed on Oscar

if he had been a normal man, and had dug his grave with his teeth in

the ordinary respectable fashion, as his brother Willie did. This

brother, by the way, gives us some cue; for Willie, who had exactly

the same education and the same chances, must be ruthlessly set aside

by literary history as a vulgar journalist of no account. Well,

suppose Oscar and Willie had both died the day before Queensberry left

that card at the Club! Oscar would still have been remembered as a wit

and a dandy, and would have had a niche beside Congreve in the drama.

A volume of his aphorisms would have stood creditably on the library

shelf with La Rochefoucauld's Maxims. We should have missed the

'Ballad of Reading Gaol' and 'De Profundis'; but he would still have

cut a considerable figure in the Dictionary of National Biography, and

been read and quoted outside the British Museum reading room.

"As to the 'Ballad' and 'De Profundis,' I think it is greatly to

Oscar's credit that, whilst he was sincere and deeply moved when he

was protesting against the cruelty of our present system to children

and to prisoners generally, he could not write about his own

individual share in that suffering with any conviction or

sympathy.[11] Except for the passage where he describes his exposure

at Clapham Junction, there is hardly a line in 'De Profundis' that he

might not have written as a literary feat five years earlier. But in

the 'Ballad,' even in borrowing form and melody from Coleridge, he

shews that he could pity others when he could not seriously pity

himself. And this, I think, may be pleaded against the reproach that

he was selfish. Externally, in the ordinary action of life as

distinguished from the literary action proper to his genius, he was no

doubt sluggish and weak because of his giantism. He ended as an

unproductive drunkard and swindler; for the repeated sales of the

Daventry plot, in so far as they imposed on the buyers and were not

transparent excuses for begging, were undeniably swindles. For all

that, he does not appear in his writings a selfish or base-minded man.

He is at his worst and weakest in the suppressed[12] part of 'De

Profundis'; but in my opinion it had better be published, for several

reasons. It explains some of his personal weakness by the stifling

narrowness of his daily round, ruinous to a man whose proper place was

in a large public life. And its concealment is mischievous because,

first, it leads people to imagine all sorts of horrors in a document

which contains nothing worse than any record of the squabbles of two

touchy idlers; and, second, it is clearly a monstrous thing that

Douglas should have a torpedo launched at him and timed to explode

after his death. The torpedo is a very harmless squib; for there is

nothing in it that cannot be guessed from Douglas's own book; but the

public does not know that. By the way, it is rather a humorous stroke

of Fate's irony that the son of the Marquis of Queensberry should be

forced to expiate his sins by suffering a succession of blows beneath

the belt.

[Footnote 11: Superb criticism.]

[Footnote 12: I have said this in my way.]

"Now that you have written the best life of Oscar Wilde, let us have

the best life of Frank Harris. Otherwise the man behind your works

will go down to posterity[13] as the hero of my very inadequate

preface to 'The Dark Lady of the Sonnets.'"

G. BERNARD SHAW.

[Footnote 13: A characteristic flirt of Shaw's humor. He is a great

caricaturist and not a portrait-painter.

When he thinks of my Celtic face and aggressive American frankness he

talks of me as pugnacious and a pirate: "a Captain Kidd": in his

preface to "The Fair Lady of the Sonnets" he praises my "idiosyncratic

gift of pity"; says that I am "wise through pity"; then he extols me

as a prophet, not seeing that a pitying sage, prophet and pirate

constitute an inhuman superman.

I shall do more for Shaw than he has been able to do for me; he is the

first figure in my new volume of "Contemporary Portraits." I have

portrayed him there at his best, as I love to think of him, and

henceforth he'll have to try to live up to my conception and that will

keep him, I'm afraid, on strain.

_God help me!--G.B.S._]

End of Project Gutenberg's Oscar Wilde, Volume 2 (of 2), by Frank Harris