In spite of the wit of the hostess and her exquisite cordiality, our
dinner at Mrs. Leverson's was hardly a success. Oscar was not himself;
contrary to his custom he sat silent and downcast. From time to time
he sighed heavily, and his leaden dejection gradually infected all of
us. I was not sorry, for I wanted to get him away early; by ten
o'clock we had left the house and were in the Cromwell Road. He
preferred to walk: without his noticing it I turned up Queen's Gate
towards the park. After walking for ten minutes I said to him:
"I want to speak to you seriously. Do you happen to know where Erith
is?"
"No, Frank."
"It is a little landing place on the Thames," I went on, "not many
miles away: it can be reached by a fast pair of horses and a brougham
in a very short time. There at Erith is a steam yacht ready to start
at a moment's notice; she has steam up now, one hundred pounds
pressure to the square inch in her boilers; her captain's waiting, her
crew ready--a greyhound in leash; she can do fifteen knots an hour
without being pressed. In one hour she would be free of the Thames
and on the high seas--(delightful phrase, eh?)--high seas indeed where
there is freedom uncontrolled.
"If one started now one could breakfast in France, at Boulogne, let us
say, or Dieppe; one could lunch at St. Malo or St. Enogat or any place
you like on the coast of Normandy, and one could dine comfortably at
the Sables d'Olonne, where there is not an Englishman to be found, and
where sunshine reigns even in May from morning till night.
"What do you say, Oscar, will you come and try a homely French
bourgeois dinner to-morrow evening at an inn I know almost at the
water's edge? We could sit out on the little terrace and take our
coffee in peace under the broad vine leaves while watching the silver
pathway of the moon widen on the waters. We could smile at the
miseries of London and its wolfish courts shivering in cold grey mist
hundreds of miles away. Does not the prospect tempt you?"
I spoke at leisure, tasting each delight, looking for his gladness.
"Oh, Frank," he cried, "how wonderful; but how impossible!"
"Impossible! don't be absurd," I retorted. "Do you see those lights
yonder?" and I showed him some lights at the Park gate on the top of
the hill in front of us.
"Yes, Frank."
"That's a brougham," I said, "with a pair of fast horses. It will take
us for a midnight visit to the steam yacht in double-quick time.
There's a little library on board of French books and English; I've
ordered supper in the cabin--lobster à l'Americaine and a bottle of
Pommery. You've never seen the mouth of the Thames at night, have you?
It's a scene from wonderland; houses like blobs of indigo fencing you
in; ships drifting past like black ghosts in the misty air, and the
purple sky above never so dark as the river, the river with its
shifting lights of ruby and emerald and topaz, like an oily, opaque
serpent gliding with a weird life of its own.... Come; you must visit
the yacht."
I turned to him, but he was no longer by my side. I gasped; what had
happened? The mist must have hidden him; I ran back ten yards, and
there he was leaning against the railing, hung up with his head on his
arm shaking.
"What's the matter, Oscar?" I cried. "What on earth's the matter?"
"Oh, Frank, I can't go," he cried, "I can't. It would be too
wonderful; but it's impossible. I should be seized by the police. You
don't know the police."
"Nonsense," I cried, "the police can't stop you and not a man of them
will see you from start to finish. Besides, I have loose money for any
I do meet, and none of them can resist a 'tip.' You will simply get
out of the brougham and walk fifty yards and you will be on the yacht
and free. In fact, if you like you shall not come out of the brougham
until the sailors surround you as a guard of honour. On board the
yacht no one will touch you. No warrant runs there. Come on, man!"
"Oh, Frank," he groaned, "it's impossible!"
"What's impossible?" I insisted. "Let's consider everything anew at
breakfast to-morrow morning in France. If you want to come back,
there's nothing to prevent you. The yacht will take you back in
twenty-four hours. You will not have broken your bail; you'll have
done nothing wrong. You can go to France, Germany or Siberia so long
as you come back by the twentieth of May. Take it that I offer you a
holiday in France for ten days. Surely it is better to spend a week
with me than in that dismal house in Oakley Street, where the very
door gives one the creeps."
"Oh, Frank, I'd love to," he groaned. "I see everything you say, but I
can't. I dare not. I'm caught, Frank, in a trap, I can only wait for
the end."
I began to get impatient; he was weaker than I had imagined, weaker a
hundred times.
"Come for a trip, then, man," I cried, and I brought him within twenty
yards of the carriage; but there he stopped as if he had made up his
mind.
"No, no, I can't come. I could not go about in France feeling that the
policeman's hand might fall on my shoulder at any moment. I could not
live a life of fear and doubt: it would kill me in a month." His tone
was decided.
"Why let your imagination run away with you?" I pleaded. "Do be
reasonable for once. Fear and doubt would soon be over. If the police
don't get you in France within a week after the date fixed for the
trial, you need have no further fear, for they won't get you at all:
they don't want you. You're making mountains out of molehills with
nervous fancies."
"I should be arrested."
"Nonsense," I replied, "who would arrest you? No one has the right.
You are out on bail: your bail answers for you till the 20th. Money
talks, man; Englishmen always listen to money. It'll do you good with
the public and the jury to come back from France to stand your trial.
Do come," and I took him by the arm; but he would not move. To my
astonishment he faced me and said:
"And my sureties?"
"We'll pay 'em," I replied, "both of 'em, if you break your bail.
Come," but he would not.
"Frank, if I were not in Oakley Street to-night Willie would tell the
police."
"Your brother?" I cried.
"Yes," he said, "Willie."
"Good God!" I exclaimed; "but let him tell. I have not mentioned Erith
or the steam yacht to a soul. It's the last place in the world the
police would suspect and before he talks we shall be out of reach.
Besides they cannot do anything; you are doing nothing wrong. Please
trust me, you do nothing questionable even till you omit to enter the
Old Bailey on the 20th of May."
"You don't know Willie," he continued, "he has made my solicitors buy
letters of mine; he has blackmailed me."
"Whew!" I whistled. "But in that case you'll have no compunction in
leaving him without saying 'goodbye.' Let's go and get into the
brougham."
"No, no," he repeated, "you don't understand; I can't go, I cannot
go."
"Do you mean it really?" I asked. "Do you mean you will not come and
spend a week yachting with me?"
"I cannot."
I drew him a few paces nearer the carriage: something of desolation
and despair in his voice touched me: I looked at him. Tears were
pouring down his face; he was the picture of misery, yet I could not
move him.
"Come into the carriage," I said, hoping that the swift wind in his
face would freshen him up, give him a moment's taste of the joy of
living and sharpen the desire of freedom.
"Yes, Frank," he said, "if you will take me to Oakley Street."
"I would as soon take you to prison," I replied; "but as you wish."
The next moment we had got in and were swinging down Queen's Gate. The
mist seemed to lend keenness to the air. At the bottom of Queen's Gate
the coachman swept of himself to the left into the Cromwell Road;
Oscar seemed to wake out of his stupor.
"No, Frank," he cried, "no, no," and he fumbled at the handle of the
door, "I must get out; I will not go. I will not go."
"Sit still," I said in despair, "I'll tell the coachman," and I put my
head out of the window and cried:
"Oakley Street, Oakley Street, Chelsea, Robert."
I do not think I spoke again till we got to Oakley Street. I was
consumed with rage and contemptuous impatience. I had done the best I
knew and had failed. Why? I had no idea. I have never known why he
refused to come. I don't think he knew himself. Such resignation I had
never dreamt of. It was utterly new to me. I used to think of
resignation in a vague way as of something rather beautiful; ever
since, I have thought of it with impatience: resignation is the
courage of the irresolute. Oscar's obstinacy was the obverse of his
weakness. It is astonishing how inertia rules some natures. The
attraction of waiting and doing nothing is intense for those who live
in thought and detest action. As we turned into Oakley Street, Oscar
said to me:
"You are not angry with me, Frank?" and he put out his hand.
"No, no," I said, "why should I be angry? You are the master of your
fate. I can only offer advice."
"Do come and see me soon," he pleaded.
"My bolt is shot," I replied; "but I'll come in two or three days'
time, as soon as I have anything of importance to say.... Don't
forget, Oscar, the yacht is there and will be there waiting until the
20th; the yacht will always be ready and the brougham."
"Good night, Frank," he said, "good night, and thank you."
He got out and went into the house, the gloomy sordid house where the
brother lived who would sell his blood for a price!
* * * * *
Three or four days later we met again, but to my amaze Oscar had not
changed his mind. To talk of him as cast down is the precise truth; he
seemed to me as one who had fallen from a great height and lay half
conscious, stunned on the ground. The moment you moved him, even to
raise his head, it gave him pain and he cried out to be left alone.
There he lay prone, and no one could help him. It was painful to
witness his dumb misery: his mind even, his sunny bright intelligence,
seemed to have deserted him.
Once again he came out with me to lunch. Afterwards we drove through
Regent's Park as the quietest way to Hampstead and had a talk. The air
and swift motion did him good. The beauty of the view from the heath
seemed to revive him. I tried to cheer him up.
"You must know," I said, "that you can win if you want to. You can not
only bring the jury to doubt, but you can make the judge doubt as
well. I was convinced of your innocence in spite of all the witnesses,
and I knew more about you than they did. In the trial before Mr.
Justice Charles, the thing that saved you was that you spoke of the
love of David and Jonathan and the sweet affection which the common
world is determined not to understand. There is another point against
you which you have not touched on yet: Gill asked you what you had in
common with those serving-men and stable boys. You have not explained
that. You have explained that you love youth, the brightness and the
gaiety of it, but you have not explained what seems inexplicable to
most men, that you should go about with servants and strappers."
"Difficult to explain, Frank, isn't it, without the truth?" Evidently
his mind was not working.
"No," I replied, "easy, simple. Think of Shakespeare. How did he know
Dogberry and Pistol, Bardolph and Doll Tearsheet? He must have gone
about with them. You don't go about with public school boys of your
own class, for you know them; you have nothing to learn from them:
they can teach you nothing. But the stable boy and servant you cannot
sketch in your plays without knowing him, and you can't know him
without getting on his level, and letting him call you 'Oscar' and
calling him 'Charlie.' If you rub this in, the judge will see that he
is face to face with the artist in you and will admit at least that
your explanation is plausible. He will hesitate to condemn you, and
once he hesitates you'll win.
"You fought badly because you did not show your own nature
sufficiently; you did not use your brains in the witness box and
alas--" I did not continue; the truth was I was filled with fear; for
I suddenly realised that he had shown more courage and self-possession
in the Queensberry trial than in the trial before Mr. Justice Charles
when so much more was at stake; and I felt that in the next trial he
would be more depressed still, and less inclined to take the
initiative than ever. I had already learned too that I could not help
him; that he would not be lifted out of that "sweet way of despair,"
which so attracts the artist spirit. But still I would do my best.
"Do you understand?" I asked.
"Of course, Frank, of course, but you have no conception how weary I
am of the whole thing, of the shame and the struggling and the hatred.
To see those people coming into the box one after the other to witness
against me makes me sick. The self-satisfied grin of the barristers,
the pompous foolish judge with his thin lips and cunning eyes and hard
jaw. Oh, it's terrible. I feel inclined to stretch out my hands and
cry to them, 'Do what you will with me, in God's name, only do it
quickly; cannot you see that I am worn out? If hatred gives you
pleasure, indulge it.' They worry one, Frank, with ravening jaws, as
dogs worry a rabbit. Yet they call themselves men. It is appalling."
The day was dying, the western sky all draped with crimson, saffron
and rosy curtains: a slight mist over London, purple on the horizon,
closer, a mere wash of blue; here and there steeples pierced the thin
veil like fingers pointing upward. On the left the dome of St. Paul's
hung like a grey bubble over the city; on the right the twin towers of
Westminster with the river and bridge which Wordsworth sang. Peace and
beauty brooding everywhere, and down there lost in the mist the "rat
pit" that men call the Courts of Justice. There they judge their
fellows, mistaking indifference for impartiality, as if anyone could
judge his fellowman without love, and even with love how far short we
all come of that perfect sympathy which is above forgiveness and takes
delight in succouring the weak, comforting the broken-hearted.
* * * * *
The days went swiftly by and my powerlessness to influence him filled
me with self-contempt. Of course, I said to myself, if I knew him
better I should be able to help him. Would vanity do anything? It was
his mainspring; I could but try. He might be led by the hope of making
Englishmen talk of him again, talk of him as one who had dared to
escape; wonder what he would do next. I would try, and I did try. But
his dejection foiled me: his dislike of the struggle seemed to grow
from day to day.
He would scarcely listen to me. He was counting the days to the trial:
willing to accept an adverse decision; even punishment and misery and
shame seemed better than doubt and waiting. He surprised me by saying:
"A year, Frank, they may give me a year? half the possible sentence:
the middle course, that English Judges always take: the sort of
compromise they think safe?" and his eyes searched my face for
agreement.
I felt no such confidence in English Judges; their compromises are
usually bargainings; when they get hold of an artist they give rein to
their intuitive fear and hate.
But I would not discourage him. I repeated:
"You can win, Oscar, if you like:--" my litany to him. His wan
dejected smile brought tears to my eyes.
* * * * *
"Don't you want to make them all speak of you and wonder at you again?
If you were in France, everyone would be asking: will he come back or
disappear altogether? or will he manifest himself henceforth in some
new comedies, more joyous and pagan than ever?"
I might as well have talked to the dead: he seemed numbed, hypnotised
with despair. The punishment had already been greater than he could
bear. I began to fear that prison, if he were condemned to it, would
rob him of his reason; I sometimes feared that his mind was already
giving way, so profound was his depression, so hopeless his despair.
* * * * *
The trial opened before Mr. Justice Wills on the 21st of May, 1895.
The Treasury had sent Sir Frank Lockwood, Q.C., M.P., to lead Mr. C.F.
Gill, Mr. Horace Avory, and Mr. Sutton. Oscar was represented by the
same counsel as on the previous occasion.
The whole trial to me was a nightmare, and it was characterised from
the very beginning by atrocious prejudice and injustice. The High
Priests of Law were weary of being balked; eager to make an end. As
soon as the Judge took his seat, Sir Edward Clarke applied that the
defendants should be tried separately. As they had already been
acquitted on the charge of conspiracy, there was no reason why they
should be tried together.
The Judge called on the Solicitor-General to answer the application.
The Solicitor-General had nothing to say, but thought it was in the
interests of the defendants to be tried together; for, in case they
were tried separately, it would be necessary to take the defendant
Taylor first.
Sir Edward Clarke tore this pretext to pieces, and Mr. Justice Wills
brought the matter to a conclusion by saying that he was in possession
of all the evidence that had been taken at the previous trials, and
his opinion was that the two defendants should be tried separately.
Sir Edward Clarke then applied that the case of Mr. Wilde should be
taken first as his name stood first on the indictment, and as the
first count was directed against him and had nothing to do with
Taylor.... "There are reasons present, I am sure, too, in your
Lordship's mind, why Wilde should not be tried immediately after the
other defendant."
Mr. Justice Wills remarked, with seeming indifference, "It ought not
to make the least difference, Sir Edward. I am sure I and the jury
will do our best to take care that the last trial has no influence at
all on the present."
Sir Edward Clarke stuck to his point. He urged respectfully that as
Mr. Wilde's name stood first on the indictment his case should be
taken first.
Mr. Justice Wills said he could not interfere with the discretion of
the prosecution, nor vary the ordinary procedure. Justice and fair
play on the one side and precedent on the other: justice was waved out
of court with serene indifference. Thereupon Sir Edward Clarke pressed
that the trial of Mr. Oscar Wilde should stand over till the next
sessions. But again Mr. Justice Wills refused. Precedent was silent
now but prejudice was strong as ever.
The case against Taylor went on the whole day and was resumed next
morning. Taylor went into the box and denied all the charges. The
Judge summed up dead against him, and at 3.30 the jury retired to
consider their verdict: in forty-five minutes they came into court
again with a question which was significant. In answer to the judge
the foreman stated that "they had agreed that Taylor had introduced
Parker to Wilde, but they were not satisfied with Wilde's guilt in the
matter."
Mr. Justice Wills: "Were you agreed as to the charge on the other
counts?"
Foreman: "Yes, my Lord."
Mr. Justice Wills: "Well, possibly it would be as well to take your
verdict upon the other counts."
Through the foreman the jury accordingly intimated that they found
Taylor guilty with regard to Charles and William Parker.
In answer to his Lordship, Sir F. Lockwood said he would take the
verdict given by the jury of "guilty" upon the two counts.
A formal verdict having been entered, the judge ordered the prisoner
to stand down, postponing sentence. Did he postpone the sentence in
order not to frighten the next jury by the severity of it? Other
reason I could find none.
Sir Edward Clarke then got up and said that as it was getting rather
late, perhaps after the second jury had disagreed as to Mr. Wilde's
guilt--
Sir F. Lockwood here interposed hotly: "I object to Sir Edward Clarke
making these little speeches."
Mr. Justice Wills took the matter up as well.
"You can hardly call it a disagreement, Sir Edward," though what else
he could call it, I was at a loss to imagine.
He then adjourned the case against Oscar Wilde till the next day, when
a different jury would be impanelled. But whatever jury might be
called they would certainly hear that their forerunners had found
Taylor guilty and they would know that every London paper without
exception had approved the finding. What a fair chance to give Wilde!
It was like trying an Irish Secretary before a jury of Fenians.
The next morning, May 23d, Oscar Wilde appeared in the dock. The
Solicitor-General opened the case, and then called his witnesses. One
of the first was Edward Shelley, who in cross-examination admitted
that he had been mentally ill when he wrote Mr. Wilde those letters
which had been put in evidence. He was "made nervous from over-study,"
he said.
Alfred Wood admitted that he had had money given him quite recently,
practically blackmailing money. He was as venomous as possible. "When
he went to America," he said, "he told Wilde that he wanted to get
away from mixing with him (Wilde) and Douglas."
Charlie Parker next repeated his disgusting testimony with ineffable
impudence and a certain exultation. Bestial ignominy could go no
lower; he admitted that since the former trial he had been kept at the
expense of the prosecution. After this confession the case was
adjourned and we came out of court.
When I reached Fleet Street I was astonished to hear that there had
been a row that same afternoon in Piccadilly between Lord Douglas of
Hawick and his father, the Marquis of Queensberry. Lord Queensberry,
it appears, had been writing disgusting letters about the Wilde case
to Lord Douglas's wife. Meeting him in Piccadilly Percy Douglas
stopped him and asked him to cease writing obscene letters to his
wife. The Marquis said he would not and the father and son came to
blows. Queensberry it seems was exasperated by the fact that Douglas
of Hawick was one of those who had gone bail for Oscar Wilde. One of
the telegrams which the Marquis of Queensberry had sent to Lady
Douglas I must put in just to show the insane nature of the man who
could exult in a trial which was damning the reputation of his own
son. The letter was manifestly written after the result of the Taylor
trial:
Must congratulate on verdict, cannot on Percy's appearance.
Looks like a dug up corpse. Fear too much madness of
kissing. Taylor guilty. Wilde's turn to-morrow.
QUEENSBERRY.
In examination before the magistrate, Mr. Hannay, it was stated that
Lord Queensberry had been sending similar letters to Lady Douglas
"full of the most disgusting charges against Lord Douglas, his wife,
and Lord Queensberry's divorced wife and her family." But Mr. Hannay
thought all this provocation was of no importance and bound over both
father and son to keep the peace--an indefensible decision, a
decision only to be explained by the sympathy everywhere shown to
Queensberry because of his victory over Wilde, otherwise surely any
honest magistrate would have condemned the father who sent obscene
letters to his son's wife--a lady above reproach. These vile letters
and the magistrate's bias, seemed to me to add the final touch of the
grotesque to the horrible vileness of the trial. It was all worthy of
the seventh circle of Dante, but Dante had never imagined such a
father and such judges!
* * * * *
Next morning Oscar Wilde was again put in the dock. The evidence of
the Queensberry trial was read and therewith the case was closed for
the Crown.
Sir Edward Clarke rose and submitted that there was no case to go to
the jury on the general counts. After a long legal argument for and
against, Mr. Justice Wills said that he would reserve the question for
the Court of Appeal. The view he took was that "the evidence was of
the slenderest kind"; but he thought the responsibility must be left
with the jury. To this judge "the slenderest kind" of evidence was
worthful so long as it told against the accused.
Sir Edward Clarke then argued that the cases of Shelley, Parker and
Wood failed on the ground of the absence of corroboration. Mr.
Justice Wills admitted that Shelley showed "a peculiar exaltation" of
mind; there was, too, mental derangement in his family, and worst of
all there was no corroboration of his statements. Accordingly, in
spite of the arguments of the Solicitor-General, Shelley's evidence
was cut out. But Shelley's evidence had already been taken, had
already prejudiced the jury. Indeed, it had been the evidence which
had influenced Mr. Justice Charles in the previous trial to sum up
dead against the defendant: Mr. Justice Charles called Shelley "the
only serious witness."
Now it appeared that Shelley's evidence should never have been taken
at all, that the jury ought never to have heard Shelley's testimony or
the Judge's acceptance of it!
* * * * *
When the court opened next morning I knew that the whole case depended
on Oscar Wilde, and the showing he would make in the box, but alas! he
was broken and numbed. He was not a fighter, and the length of this
contest might have wearied a combative nature. The Solicitor-General
began by examining him on his letters to Lord Alfred Douglas and we
had the "prose poem" again and the rest of the ineffable nonsensical
prejudice of the middle-class mind against passionate sentiment. It
came out in evidence that Lord Alfred Douglas was now in Calais. His
hatred of his father was the _causa causans_ of the whole case; he had
pushed Oscar into the fight and Oscar, still intent on shielding him,
declared that he had asked him to go abroad.
Sir Edward Clarke again did his poor best. He pointed out that the
trial rested on the evidence of mere blackmailers. He would not
quarrel with that and discuss it, but it was impossible not to see
that if blackmailers were to be listened to and believed, their
profession might speedily become a more deadly mischief and danger to
society than it had ever been.
The speech was a weak one; but the people in court cheered Sir Edward
Clarke; the cheers were immediately suppressed by the Judge.
The Solicitor-General took up the rest of the day with a rancorous
reply. Sir Edward Clarke even had to remind him that law officers of
the Crown should try to be impartial. One instance of his prejudice
may be given. Examining Oscar as to his letters to Lord Alfred
Douglas, Sir Frank Lockwood wanted to know whether he thought them
"decent"?
The witness replied, "Yes."
"Do you know the meaning of the word, sir?" was this gentleman's
retort.
I went out of the court feeling certain that the case was lost. Oscar
had not shown himself at all; he had not even spoken with the vigour
he had used at the Queensberry trial. He seemed too despairing to
strike a blow.
The summing up of the Judge on May 25th was perversely stupid and
malevolent. He began by declaring that he was "absolutely impartial,"
though his view of the facts had to be corrected again and again by
Sir Edward Clarke: he went on to regret that the charge of conspiracy
should have been introduced, as it had to be abandoned. He then
pointed out that he could not give a colourless summing up, which was
"of no use to anybody." His intelligence can be judged from one
crucial point: he fastened on the fact that Oscar had burnt the
letters which he bought from Wood, which he said were of no
importance, except that they concerned third parties. The Judge had
persuaded himself that the letters were indescribably bad, forgetting
apparently that Wood or his associates had selected and retained the
very worst of them for purposes of blackmail and that this Judge
himself, after reading it, couldn't attribute any weight to it; still
he insisted that burning the letters was an act of madness; whereas it
seemed to everyone of the slightest imagination the most natural thing
in the world for an innocent man to do. At the time Oscar burnt the
letters he had no idea that he would ever be on trial. His letters had
been misunderstood and the worst of them was being used against him,
and when he got the others he naturally threw them into the fire. The
Judge held that it was madness, and built upon this inference a
pyramid of guilt. "Nothing said by Wood should be believed, as he
belongs to the vilest class of criminals; the strength of the
accusation depends solely upon the character of the original
introduction of Wood to Wilde as illustrated and fortified by the
story with regard to the letters and their burning."
A pyramid of guilt carefully balanced on its apex! If the foolish
Judge had only read his Shakespeare! What does Henry VI say:
Proceed no straiter 'gainst our uncle Gloucester
Than from true evidence of good esteem
He be approved in practice culpable.
There was no "true evidence of good esteem" against Wilde, but the
Judge turned a harmless action into a confession of guilt.
Then came an interruption which threw light on the English conception
of justice. The foreman of the jury wanted to know, in view of the
intimate relations between Lord Alfred Douglas and the defendant,
whether a warrant against Lord Alfred Douglas was ever issued.
Mr. Justice Wills: "I should say not; we have never heard of it."
Foreman: "Or ever contemplated?"
Mr. Justice Wills: "That I cannot say, nor can we discuss it. The
issue of such a warrant would not depend upon the testimony of the
parties, but whether there was evidence of such act. Letters pointing
to such relations would not be sufficient. Lord Alfred Douglas was not
called, and you can give what weight you like to that."
Foreman: "If we are to deduce any guilt from these letters, it would
apply equally to Lord Alfred Douglas."
Mr. Justice Wills concurred in that view, but after all he thought it
had nothing to do with the present trial, which was the guilt of the
accused.
The jury retired to consider their verdict at half past three. After
being absent two hours they returned to know whether there was any
evidence of Charles Parker having slept at St. James's Place.
His Lordship replied, "No."
The jury shortly afterwards returned again with the verdict of
"Guilty" on all the counts.
It may be worth while to note again that the Judge himself admitted
that the evidence on some of the counts was of "the slenderest kind";
but, when backed by his prejudiced summing up, it was more than
sufficient for the jury.
Sir Edward Clarke pleaded that sentence should be postponed till the
next sessions, when the legal argument would be heard.
Mr. Justice Wills would not be balked: sentence, he thought, should be
given immediately. Then, addressing the prisoners, he said, and again
I give his exact words, lest I should do him wrong:
"Oscar Wilde and Alfred Taylor, the crime of which you have been
convicted is so bad that one has to put stern restraint upon one's
self to prevent one's self from describing in language which I would
rather not use the sentiments which must rise to the breast of every
man of honour who has heard the details of these two terrible trials.
"That the jury have arrived at a correct verdict in this case I cannot
persuade myself to entertain the shadow of a doubt; and I hope, at all
events, that those who sometimes imagine that a Judge is half-hearted
in the cause of decency and morality because he takes care no
prejudice shall enter into the case may see that that is consistent at
least with the utmost sense of indignation at the horrible charges
brought home to both of you.
"It is no use for me to address you. People who can do these things
must be dead to all sense of shame, and one cannot hope to produce any
effect upon them. It is the worst case I have ever tried.... That you,
Wilde, have been the centre of a circle of extensive corruption of the
most hideous kind among young men it is impossible to doubt.
"I shall under such circumstances be expected to pass the severest
sentence that the law allows. In my judgment it is totally inadequate
for such a case as this.
"The sentence of the court is that each of you be imprisoned and kept
to hard labour for two years."
The sentence hushed the court in shocked surprise.
Wilde rose and cried, "Can I say anything, my lord?"
Mr. Justice Wills waved his hand deprecatingly amid cries of "Shame"
and hisses from the public gallery; some of the cries and hisses were
certainly addressed to the Judge and well deserved. What did he mean
by saying that Oscar was a "centre of extensive corruption of the most
hideous kind"? No evidence of this had been brought forward by the
prosecution. It was not even alleged that a single innocent person had
been corrupted. The accusation was invented by this "absolutely
impartial" Judge to justify his atrocious cruelty. The unmerited
insults and appalling sentence would have disgraced the worst Judge of
the Inquisition.
Mr. Justice Wills evidently suffered from the peculiar "exaltation" of
mind which he had recognised in Shelley. This peculiarity is shared in
a lesser degree by several other Judges on the English bench in all
matters of sexual morality. What distinguished Mr. Justice Wills was
that he was proud of his prejudice and eager to act on it. He
evidently did not know, or did not care, that the sentence which he
had given, declaring it was "totally inadequate," had been condemned
by a Royal Commission as "inhuman." He would willingly have pushed
"inhumanity" to savagery, out of sheer bewigged stupidity, and that he
was probably well-meaning only intensified the revolt one felt at such
brainless malevolence.
The bitterest words in Dante are not bitter enough to render my
feeling:
"Non ragioniam di lor ma guarda e passa."
The whole scene had sickened me. Hatred masquerading as justice,
striking vindictively and adding insult to injury. The vile picture
had its fit setting outside. We had not left the court when the
cheering broke out in the streets, and when we came outside there were
troops of the lowest women of the town dancing together and kicking
up their legs in hideous abandonment, while the surrounding crowd of
policemen and spectators guffawed with delight. As I turned away from
the exhibition, as obscene and soul-defiling as anything witnessed in
the madness of the French revolution, I caught a glimpse of Wood and
the Parkers getting into a cab, laughing and leering.
These were the venal creatures Oscar Wilde was punished for having
corrupted!
End of Project Gutenberg's Oscar Wilde, Volume 1 (of 2), by Frank Harris