A considerable amount of information has been placed at my disposal,

but I design to use none of it. The facts that are already known to

those who have taken an interest in Oscar Wilde may be briefly touched

upon here, and that is all. An eloquent plea from a near relation of the

poet should be respected here, and only such few facts as are really

necessary to complete this incomplete study shall be given. "Nothing

could have horrified him more than that men calling themselves his

friends should publish concerning his latter days details so disgusting

as those appearing in your issue of yesterday." Thus a paragraph from

the appeal I have mentioned, an appeal which was prompted by the

publication of many controversial articles as to the truth, or

otherwise, of Mr Wilde's reception into the Roman Church, his debts, his

manner of living towards the end. "I should be glad to think that this

expression of my wish may put an end to this unpleasant correspondence.

If it does not, I can only appeal to your correspondents to be very

careful of what they write, and to reflect upon what Mr Oscar Wilde

would think if he could read their letters. In life, he never said or

countenanced a coarse or common thing. Personally, I write with too much

reluctance to reply to them again, and I leave the matter to their sense

of decency and chivalry."

Immediately upon his release from prison Oscar Wilde wrote his famous

letters to _The Daily Chronicle_ on "Children in Prison and Other

Cruelties of Life in Gaol." He told a terrible story of a poor little

child whose face was "like a white wedge of sheer terror," and in his

eyes "the mute appeal of a hunted animal." Wilde had heard the poor

little fellow at breakfast-time crying and calling to be let out. He was

calling for his parents, and every now and then the elder prisoner could

hear the harsh voice of the warder on duty telling the little boy to be

quiet. The child had not been convicted of the offence with which he was

charged, but was simply on remand. A kind-hearted warder, finding the

little fellow crying with hunger and utterly unable to eat the bread and

water given it for breakfast, brought it some sweet biscuits. This, Mr

Wilde truthfully said, was a "beautiful action on the warder's part."

The child, grateful for the man's kindness, told one of the senior

warders about it. The result was that the warder who had brought the

biscuits to the starving child was reported and dismissed from the

service.

It is not too much to say that this story, told in the prose of a master

of prose, written with a crushing and sledgehammer force all the more

powerful because it was most marvellously simple, thrilled the whole of

England. There followed an even more terrible story.

Three months or so before his release, Wilde had noticed, among the

prisoners who took exercise with him, a young prisoner who was obviously

either half-witted or trembling upon the verge of insanity. This poor

creature used to gesticulate, laugh and talk to himself. "At chapel he

used to sit right under the observation of two warders, who carefully

watched him all the time. Sometimes he would bury his head in his hands,

an offence against the chapel regulations, and his head would be

immediately struck up by a warder.... He was on more than one occasion

sent out of chapel to his cell, and of course he was continually

punished.... I saw that he was becoming insane and was being treated as

if he were shamming." There was a terrible denouement to this hideous

story. Mr Wilde went on to say in words that do him eternal credit and

which no one who has read them could ever forget:

"On Saturday week last, I was in my cell at about one o'clock

occupied in cleaning and polishing the tins I had been using for

dinner. Suddenly I was startled by the prison silence being broken

by the most horrible and revolting shrieks, or rather howls, for at

first I thought some animal like a bull or a cow was being

unskilfully slaughtered outside the prison walls. I soon realised,

however, that the howls proceeded from the basement of the prison,

and I knew that some wretched man was being flogged. I need not

say how hideous and terrible it was for me, and I began to wonder

who it was being punished in this revolting manner. Suddenly it

dawned upon me that they might be flogging this unfortunate

lunatic. My feelings on the subject need not be chronicled; they

have nothing to do with the question.

"The next day, Sunday, I saw the poor fellow at exercise, his weak,

ugly, wretched face bloated by tears and hysteria almost beyond

recognition. He walked in the centre ring along with the old men,

the beggars and the lame people, so that I was able to observe him

the whole time. It was my last Sunday in prison, a perfectly lovely

day, the finest day we had had the whole year, and there, in the

beautiful sunlight, walked this poor creature--made once in the

image of God--grinning like an ape, and making with his hands the

most fantastic gestures."

The story continued with even more terrible details than these. It is no

part of my plan to harrow the feelings of my readers by a reprint of

such horrors. I have said enough, I trust, to fulfil my purpose in

quoting Oscar Wilde's letters to all--to show how powerfully he himself

was moved with pity, and how he strove, even in his own terrible

re-entrance to a world which would have none of him, to influence public

opinion on the behalf of one who was being done to death, not perhaps

by conscious cruelty, but by the awful stupidity of those who live by an

inflexible rule which can make no allowance for special circumstances,

which is as hard as the nether millstone and as cold as death itself.

So Oscar Wilde passed out of England with pity flowing from his pen and

with pity in his heart. I wish that it was possible to end this memoir

here. As I have set out to give all the facts which seem necessary to

provide a complete picture for readers who know little or nothing of

Oscar Wilde's nature, beyond the fact of his triumphs as a playwright

and his subsequent disgrace, I must not shrink from proceeding to the

end, as I have not shrunk from frankly recording facts in the first and

second periods. It would be a fault, and insincere, to allow a deep and

very natural sympathy to interfere with the performance, however

inadequately it has been carried out, of the task I set out to complete.

Oscar Wilde crossed immediately to Dieppe, and shortly afterwards

installed himself in a villa at a small seaside place some miles away

from the gay Norman bathing place. His life at Berneval was simple and

happy. His biographer, Mr Robert Harborough Sherard, who visited him

there, has told of the quiet repose and healing days which Oscar Wilde

enjoyed. He had a sufficient sum of money to live in comfort for a year

or so, and all would doubtless have gone well with him had it not been

for certain malign influences which had already been prominent factors

in wrecking his life, and which now appeared again to menace his newly

found salvation of mind and spirit. Such references are not within the

province of the book, the story has been told elsewhere. The thing would

not have been referred to at all, did it not illustrate the impatience

and weakness of Wilde's character, even at this point in his history.

The malign influences eventually had their way with the poet--that is to

say, certain companions whom it was most unwise of him to see or

recognise, once more entered into his life in a certain degree.

A letter which was written to a gentleman who has translated a French

memoir dealing with the poet, says: "No more beautiful life has any man

lived, no more beautiful life could any man live than Oscar Wilde lived

during the short period I knew him in prison. He wore upon his face an

eternal smile; sunshine was on his face, sunshine of some sort must have

been in his heart. People say he was not sincere: he was the very soul

of sincerity when I knew him. If he did not continue that life after he

left prison, then the forces of evil must have been too strong for him.

But he tried, he honestly tried, and in prison he succeeded." The

forces of evil were too strong.

Oscar Wilde spent the last few years, and alas! miserable years, of his

life in alternations of sordid poverty and sudden waves of temporary

prosperity, in the city of Paris. There have been all sorts of stories

about these last few years. The truth is simply this. Wilde's intellect

was crushed and broken. The creative faculty flamed up for the last time

in that brilliant and terrible poem, "The Ballad of Reading Gaol." Then

it sank again and was never revived. When I say "creative faculty" I

mean the faculty of producing a sustained artistic effort. As a talker

the poet was never more brilliant. "Every now and again one or other of

the very few faithful English friends left to him would turn up in Paris

and take him to dinner at one of the best restaurants, and anyone who

met him on these occasions would have found it difficult to believe that

he had ever passed through such awful experiences. Whether he was

expounding some theory, grave or fantastic, embroidering it the while

with flashes of impromptu wit, or deepening it with extraordinary

intimate learning, or whether he was keeping the table in a roar with

his delightfully whimsical humour, a summer lightning that flashed and

hurt no one, he was equally admirable. To have lived in his lifetime and

not to have heard him talk is as though one had lived at Athens without

going to look at the Parthenon."

I think we should be glad to know that in the wrecked life of this

period the poet had some happy moments when he could reconstruct in

bright and brilliant surroundings some slight renewal of other days that

were gone for ever. There is no doubt at all that friends, both those

who had had a good and those who had had a bad influence on his past

life, were very kind to him.

He was supplied with enough money to have lived in considerable comfort

had he not been incurably reckless and a spendthrift. It has been said

that he died in wretched poverty and in debt. This is partly true, but

it was entirely his own fault. There is indubitable proof of the fairly

large sums he received from time to time. Some of his letters to a man

in London, who occasionally employed his pen, have been sold to the

curious, and such poignant passages as: "I rely on your sending me a

little money to-morrow. I have only succeeded in getting twenty francs

from the Concierge, and I am in a bad way," or, "I wish to goodness you

could come over, also--send me, if you can, L4 or even L3. I am now

trying to leave my hotel and get rooms where I can be at rest, and so

stay in during the morning."

These letters seem to show that Oscar Wilde was nearly starving. I can

assure my readers this was not the case. With the realisation that there

would never be any more place for him in the world had come a

carelessness and recklessness to all but immediate and petty sensual

gratifications from day to day.

His landlord stated that towards the end it became very difficult for

Wilde to write at all. "He used to whip himself up with cognac. A litre

bottle would hardly see him through the night. And he ate little. And he

took little exercise. He used to sleep till noon, and then breakfast,

and then sleep again till five or six in the evening."

This is enough. I have said as little as can well be said. But let us

remember the frightful and crushing disabilities under which Wilde

suffered. Who is there who dare cast a stone? His death came as a happy

release, and it was sordid and dreadful enough to complete the grim

tragedy of his life without deviation from its completeness. True, an

attached friend was by him at the end. True, the offices of the Holy

Catholic Church lightened his passing. Yet, nevertheless, there was an

abiding and sinister gloom about all his last hours. Details can be

found in other places. "How Oscar Wilde died" was a journalistic

sensation at the time.

I will simply quote the words of a French critic, who, after the end,

went to pay his last sad duties to the shell which had held the poet's

soul: "... The hotel in which he died was one of those horrible places

which are called in the popular papers 'Houses of Crime.' A veritable

Hercules of a porter led me through a long, evil-smelling corridor. At

last the odour of some disinfectant struck my nostrils. An open door. A

little square room. I stood before the corpse. His whitish, emaciated

face, strangely altered through the growth of a beard after death,

seemed to be lost in profound contemplation. A hand, cramped in agony,

still clutched the dirty bed cloth. There was no one to watch by his

body. Only much later they sent him some flowers. The noise of the

street pierced the thin walls of the building. A stale odour filled the

air. Ah, what loneliness, what an end!"

If I have quoted this ugly and vulgar picture of the poet's body in the

sordid room I have done so with intention.

It is in the contemplation of such scenes as this that our minds and

hearts are uplifted from the material to the supreme hope of all of us.

The man who had suffered and sinned and done noble things in this world

had gone away from it. Doubtless, when the Frenchman with his prying

eyes and notebook was gloating over the material sensation of the scene,

the soul of the poet was hearing harmonies too long unknown to it, and

was beginning to undergo the Purification.

_Requiescat._

* * * * *

Oscar Wilde was always a loving student of Dante. In that contempt for

the world's opinion, which is sometimes the strength and also the ruin

of great geniuses, Wilde bore a strong resemblance to the great Italian

who said "Lascia dir le genti." The versatility of Oscar Wilde was

supreme, and that is in itself the real solution of whatever is most

astonishing in his power or startling in his madness, of all that most

draws us towards him or repels us with an equal strength. "A variety of

powers almost boundless, a pride not less vast in displaying them--a

susceptibility of new impressions and impulses, even beyond the usual

allotment of genius ... such were the two great and leading sources of

all that varied spectacle which his life exhibited; and that succession

of victories achieved by his genius, in almost every field of mind that

genius ever trod, and of all those sallies of character in every shape

and direction that unchecked feeling and dominant self-will can

dictate."

It is not for the author of this memoir, whose attitude has been

studiously impersonal throughout, to attempt any dictation to his

readers as to the judgment they shall ultimately form upon the character

of Oscar Wilde.

At the same time, he hopes that it may not be forbidden him to give his

own, and doubtless very imperfect, view. He thinks that in regarding the

whole field of the poet's life, as far as it can be known to others, one

finds him to be a sweet and noble nature with much of the serenity of

"highness" which accompanies a great genius, yet, obscured, soiled,

overlapped, and periodically destroyed by a terrible and riotous

madness, both of talk and of thought. It is a facile and dangerous thing

to attribute all the good and noble actions of any man to his "real

self," and to say that all the evil he wrought and did came from madness

or irresponsibility. If such a doctrine were to be generally accepted

and believed, laws would lose their _raison d'etre_, punishment would

become a mockery, and society would inevitably end.

Yet, possibly it may be that some few souls exist and have existed of

whom such a statement may be true. If such exceptions do exist and have

existed, then surely Oscar Wilde was one of them. There seems to be no

other explanation of him but just this; and if we do not accept it I, at

anyrate, cannot see any other.

Let each reader of this book appropriate his own, and I conclude the

first part of it by repeating the old, old prayer--

_Requiescat._

PART II

THE MODERN PLAYWRIGHT

THE DRAMATIST

When Mr George Alexander produced "Lady Windermere's Fan" at the St

James's Theatre, in the spring of 1892, it created an unprecedented

furore among all ranks of the playgoing public, and placed the author at

once upon a pedestal in the Valhalla of the Drama; not on account of the

plot, which was frankly somewhat _vieux jeu_, nor yet upon any striking

originality in the types of the personages who were to unravel it, but

upon the sparkle of the dialogue, the brilliancy of the epigrams, a

condition of things to which the English stage had hitherto been

entirely unaccustomed. The author was acclaimed as a playwright who had

at last succeeded in clothing stagecraft with the vesture of literature,

and with happy phrase and nimble paradox delighted the minds of his

audience. What promise of a long succession of social comedies,

illuminated by the intimate knowledge of his subject that he so entirely

possessed, was held out to us! Here was a man who treated society as it

really exists; who was himself living in it; portraying its folk as he

knew them, with their virtues and vices coming to them as naturally as

the facile flow of their conversation; conversation interlarded with no

stilted sentences, no well- (or ill-) rounded periods, but such as that

which falls without conscious effort from the lips of people who, in

whatever surroundings they may be placed, are, before all things, and at

all times, thoroughly at their ease. It may be objected that people in

real life, even in the higher life of the Upper Ten, do not habitually

scatter sprightly pleasantries abroad as they sit around the

five-o'clock tea-table. That Oscar Wilde made every personage he

depicted talk as he himself was wont to talk. _Passe encore._ The real

fact remains that he _knew_ the social atmosphere he represented, had

breathed it, and was familiar with all its traditions and mannerisms. He

gave us the _tone_ of Society as it had never before been given. He was

at home in it. He could exhibit a ball upon the stage where real ladies

and gentlemen assembled together, quite distinct from the ancient

"Adelphi guests" who had hitherto done yeoman's service in every form of

entertainment imagined by the dramatist. The company who came to his

great parties were at least _vraisemblables_, beings who conducted

themselves as if they really might have been there. And so it was in

every scene, in every situation. His types are drawn with the pen of

knowledge, dipped in the ink of experience. That was his secret, the

keynote of his success. And with what power he used it the world is now

fully aware. It is not too much to say that Oscar Wilde revolutionised

dramatic art. Henceforth it began to be understood that the playwright

who would obtain the merit of a certain plausibility must endeavour to

infuse something of the breath of life into his creations, and make them

act and talk in a manner that was at least possible.

It has been a popular _pose_ among certain superior persons, equally

devoid of humour themselves as of the power of appreciating it in

others, that Oscar Wilde sacrificed dramatic action to dialogue; that

his plays were lacking in human interest, his plots of the very poorest;

a fact that was skilfully concealed by the sallies of smart sayings and

witty repartee, which carried the hearers away during the

representation, so that in the charm of the style they forgot the

absence of the substance. But such is by no means the case. The author

recognised, with his fine artistic _flair_, that mere talk, however

admirable, will not carry a play to a successful issue without a strong

underlying stratum of histrionic interest to support it. There are

situations in his comedies as powerful in their handling as could be

desired by the most devout stickler for dramatic intention. There are

scenes in which the humorist lays aside his motley, and becomes the

moralist, unsparing in his methods to enforce, _a l'outrance_, the

significance of his text. In each of his plays there are moments in

which the action is followed by the spectator with absorbed attention;

incidents of emotional value treated in no half-hearted fashion. Such

are the hall mark of the true dramatist who can touch, with the unerring

instinct of the poet, the finest feelings, the deepest sympathies of his

audience, and which place Oscar Wilde by the side of Victorien Sardou.

As has been well written by one of our most impartial critics: "No other

among our playwrights equals this distinguished Frenchman, either in

imagination or in poignancy of style."

Again, it has been contended, with a sneer, that the turning out of

witty speeches is but a trick, easy of imitation by any theatrical

scribe who sets himself to the task. But how many of Wilde's

imitators--and there have been not a few--have accomplished such command

of language, such literary charm, such "fineness" of wit? Who among them

all has ever managed to hold an audience spellbound in the same way? How

many have succeeded in drawing from a miscellaneous crowd of spectators

such spontaneous expressions of delighted approval as "How brilliant!

How true!" first muttered by each under the breath to himself, and then

tossed loudly from one to the other in pure enjoyment, as the solid

truth, underlying the varnish of the paradox, was borne home to them?

Surely, not one can be indicated. Nor is the reason far to seek. For in

all Oscar Wilde's seemingly irresponsible witticisms it is not only the

device of the inverted epigram that is made a characteristic feature of

the dialogue; there is real human nature behind the artificialities,

there is poetry beneath the prose, the grip of the master's hand in

seemingly toying with truth. And it is the possession of these innate

qualities that differentiates the inventor from his imitators, and

leaves them hopelessly behind in the race for dramatic distinction.

To invent anything is difficult, and in proportion to its merits

praiseworthy. To cavil at that which has been devised, to point with the

finger of scorn at its imperfections, to "run it down," is only too easy

a pastime. Oscar Wilde was before all an inventor. Whatever he touched

he endowed with the gracious gift of style that bore the stamp of his

own individual genius. He originated a new treatment for ancient themes.

For there is no such thing as an absolutely new "plot." Every play that

has been written is founded on doings, dealings, incidents that have

happened over and over again. Love, licit or illicit, the mainspring of

all drama, is the same to-day as it was yesterday, and will be for ever

and ever in this world. One man and one woman, or one woman and two men,

or again, as a pleasant variant, two women and one man. Such are the

eternal puppets that play the game of Love upon the Stage of Life; the

unconscious victims of the sentiment which sometimes makes for tragedy.

They are always with us, placed in the same situations, and extricating

themselves (or otherwise) in the same old way. So that when a new

playwright is condemned by the critics as a furbisher-up of well-known

_cliches_ he is hardly treated. He cannot help himself. He must tread

the familiar paths, _faute de mieux_. And the public, with its big human

heart and unquestioning traditions, knows this, and is satisfied

therewith. Nothing really pleases people so much as to tell them

something they already know. What an accomplished dramatist can do is to

rehabilitate his characters by the power of his own personality, and by

felicitous treatment invest his action with fresh interest. And this is

what Oscar Wilde effected in stagecraft. He vitalised it.

It is well-nigh impossible, under the existing conditions of the theatre

in England, to form any just appreciation of the dramatist's work at

all. A novel may be read at any time, but a play depends on the caprice

of a manager to "present" it or not, as suits his commercial

convenience. Happily for us the comedies of Oscar Wilde are printed and

published, and can be enjoyed equally in the study as in the stalls. We

must go back to Congreve and Sheridan to find a parallel. It is the

triumph of the _litterateur_ over the histrionic hack, the man whose

volumes are taken down from the shelves where they repose, again and

again, and require no adventitious aid of scenery and costume to enhance

the pleasure they afford. Albeit that the habit of reading plays is not

particularly an English one. The old Puritan feeling that all things

theatrical were tainted with more or less immorality still clings to

many a mind. Emotion is yet looked upon with suspicion, and as the

theatre is the hotbed of emotion it is even now regarded in some

quarters as a dangerous, if exciting, pleasure-ground. Sober-minded folk

prefer rather to take their doses of love tales in the form of the

novel, however inexpert, than in that of the play, however masterly it

may be. Let an author put to the vote his appeal to his public through

their eyes or their ears, it will be found that the eyes have it. They

prefer to stop at home and read, as they consider, seriously, than to go

abroad and listen to what they hold to be, trivialities. Oscar Wilde

has, in great measure, been instrumental in putting these illiberal

views to flight. Men and women are now to be found in the theatre when

his pieces are represented who not so long ago pooh-poohed the drama

from an intelligent standpoint. He has turned attention to the fact that

the dramatic method of telling a story may be made as intellectually

interesting as in the best-written romances of the novelist. He brought

to bear upon his work a singular power of observation, a fine

imagination, a unique wit, and above all, and beneath all, an extensive

knowledge of human life, and human character. Plays imbued with all

these qualities were bound to make their mark. He knocked away the

absurd conventions, the stereotyped phrases of the stage as he knew it.

He placed on it living people in the place of mechanical puppets, and by

his happy inspiration created a new order in the profession of

dramaturgy.

It would be an interesting subject for speculation--were it not such a

deeply sad one--how far Oscar Wilde, had he been permitted to live,

would have gone in the new _voie_ he had chosen for the expression of

his artistic perceptions. Between "Lady Windermere's Fan" and "The

Importance Of Being Earnest," the first and last of his comedies, there

is evidence of very marked and rapid advancement in his art. In the

former he shows us the invention of a hitherto unhandseled form of

histrionic composition--the dialogue-drama. But he is feeling his way in

this new departure of his, diffident of its success; while in the latter

he has perfected what was more or less crude, incomplete, found wanting,

and what was originally the natural hesitation of the novice has

developed into the assured pronouncements of the adept. He was moving

onwards. He was making theatrical history. He was becoming a power. And

we who now read, mark, learn, be it on the stage or in the study, what

he achieved in the production of but four modern comedies, can only

premise that to-day he would have "arrived" at the meridian of his art.

For, not in vain, was born the delicate wit that played around a

philosophy of life, founded upon subtle observation, and one that has

animated some of the most prominent literary and dramatic productions of

our generation. Not in vain was struck that note of truth and sincerity

in social ethics, unheard in the _ad captandum_ strains of our

professional novelists. Underlying those "phraseological inversions," so

daintily cooed by the dove, was the wisdom of the serpent. It is the

spirit of the poet speaking through the medium of prose. It is the

utterance of the great artist that must compel attention even from the

Philistines who sit in the seats of the scornful.

"LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN"

(_Produced by Mr George Alexander at the St James's Theatre on 22nd

February 1892_)

I Have endeavoured to indicate, I trust more or less successfully, the

manner in which an enthusiastic public received the first of Oscar

Wilde's comedies. Let us now glance at the attitude affected by the

critics. It is not too much to say that it was of undoubted hostility.

Their verdict was decidedly an inimical one. They had received an

unexpected shock, and were staggering under it in an angry, helpless

way. The new dramatist was a surprise, and an unpleasing one. He had in

one evening destroyed the comfortable conventions of the stage, hitherto

so dear to the critic's heart. He had dared to break down the barriers

of ancient prejudice, and attempt something new, something original. In

a word, he had dared to be himself, the most heinous offence of all!

They could not entirely ignore his undeniable talent. Public opinion was

on his side. So they dragged in side issues to point _their_ little

moral, and adorn _their_ little tale. This is how Mr Clement Scott

writes after the first performance of "Lady Windermere's Fan":

"Supposing, after all, Mr Oscar Wilde is a cynic of deeper

significance than we take him to be. Supposing he intends to reform

and revolutionise Society at large by sublime self-sacrifice. There

are two sides to every question, and Mr Oscar Wilde's piety in

social reform has not as yet been urged by anybody. His attitude

has been so extraordinary that I am inclined to give him the

benefit of the doubt. It is possible he may have said to himself,

'I will show you, and prove to you, to what an extent bad manners

are not only recognised, but endorsed in this wholly free and

unrestricted age. I will do on the stage of a public theatre what I

should not dare to do at a mass meeting in the Park. I will uncover

my head in the presence of refined women, but I refuse to put down

my cigarette. The working man may put out his pipe when he spouts,

but my cigarette is too 'precious' for destruction. I will show no

humility, and I will stand unrebuked. I will take greater liberties

with the public than any author who has ever preceded me in

history. And I will retire scatheless. The society that allows boys

to puff cigarette smoke in the faces of ladies in the theatre

corridors will condone the originality of a smoking author on the

stage.' This may be the form of Mr Oscar Wilde's curious cynicism.

He may say, 'I will test this question of manners, and show that

they are not nowadays recognised.'"

So far Mr Clement Scott, then the leader of the critic band who took his

tone and cheerfully followed where he led--the old story of "Les brebis

de Pannege." And to show how universal was this inordinate enmity, I

will quote a paragraph from, at that time, the leading journal of

historical criticism, written on the withdrawal of the play after a

successful "run" of nine months. After endorsing the general opinion of

the play as "A comedy of Society manners pure and simple which may

fairly claim its place among the recognised names in that almost extinct

class of drama," the writer goes on to say in the conclusion of his

article--"Not the least amusing reminiscence will be the ferocious wrath

which, on its first appearance, the play provoked among the regular

stage-critics, almost to a man. Except that Mr Wilde smoked a cigarette

when called on, it is difficult to see why--unless it was because the

comedy ran off the beaten track which is just what they are always

deprecating." In this last sentence lies the _clou_ of the whole

situation. The entire band had been clamouring for years for something

fresh, "off the beaten track," and this is how they received it when

they got it! Verily, the ways of criticism are indeed marvellous, and

difficult of comprehension. But the author triumphed over them all and

won his laurels despite the forces arrayed against him. His first

comedy was a splendid success.

It must be conceded that there is nothing new in the plot of "Lady

Windermere's Fan." It is an old tale of intrigue which has done duty on

the stage over and over again. It has inspired many a play. But as I

before observed, it is in its treatment by the accomplished hand that

the novelty of drama lies. And here we have an interesting example of

how old lamps may be made to look new at the touch of the magician's

wand.

Lord and Lady Windermere have been married for a couple of years when

the action of the play commences. It was a love-match, and the sky of

happiness has hitherto been without a cloud. But the cloud at last

appears in the guise of a certain Mrs Erlynne, a somewhat notorious

_divorcee_, who has managed to gain admission into Society, in a

half-acknowledged way, by means of her charms and her cash. The cash is

supplied by Lord Windermere, and is in the nature of hush-money. For Mrs

Erlynne turns out to be no other than Lady Windermere's mother, supposed

to be long dead, and the "cloud" might prove an uncommonly inconvenient

one if allowed suddenly to burst upon the unsuspicious _menage_. So she

is kept quiet by the cheques of her son-in-law. But her friends are not

backward in enlightening Lady Windermere as to her husband's frequent

visits to Mrs Erlynne, and one of them, the Duchess of Berwick, is more

outspoken than the others, and succeeds in persuading poor

innocent-minded Lady Windermere that the worst constructions should be

placed upon his lordship's conduct. Mrs Erlynne has managed to induce

Lord Windermere to send her a card for his wife's birthday ball,

whereat, Lady Windermere, when she hears of this from her husband's

lips, declares she will insult the guest openly if she arrives. But she

does arrive and she is not insulted, although the celebrated fan is

grasped ready to strike the blow! The ball passes off quietly enough,

without any open scandal. But Lady Windermere, surprising, as she

imagines, her husband in a compromising _tete-a-tete_ with the

fascinating intruder, determines in a moment of nervous tension to leave

the house, and betake herself to the rooms of Lord Darlington, who

earlier in the evening has offered her his sympathy, and his heart.

Before she departs, however, she writes her husband a letter informing

him of her intentions. This letter she leaves on a bureau where he is

sure to find it. It is not he who finds it, however, but Mrs Erlynne.

With the instinct born of a past and vast experience she scents danger,

and opens and reads it. Then her better feelings and worse heart are

suddenly awakened, and she determines, at all risks, to save her

daughter. Whereupon she follows her to Lord Darlington's rooms, and,

after a long scene between the two women, induces Lady Windermere to

return to her husband before her flight is discovered. But it is too

late. Lord Darlington, with a party of friends including Lord

Windermere, is returning. Their voices are heard outside the door. Lady

Windermere hides behind a curtain ready to escape on the first

opportunity, while Mrs Erlynne--when Lord Windermere's suspicions are

aroused at the sight of his wife's fan, and he insists on searching the

room--comes forth from the place where she had concealed herself, and

boldly takes upon herself the ownership of the fatal _piece a

conviction_. Lady Windermere is saved, and at the end of the play is

reconciled to her husband without uncomfortable explanations, while Mrs

Erlynne marries an elderly adorer, who is brother to the Duchess of

Berwick.

Such, in brief, is the plot of "Lady Windermere's Fan." Every playgoer

will at once recognise its situations, and hail its intrigue as an old

and well-tried friend; the loving husband and wife, the fascinating

adventuress who comes between them and cannot be explained; the tempter

who offers substantial consolation to the outraged wife; the

compromising fan, or scarf, or glove (_selon les gouts_) found by the

husband in the room of the other man; the convenient curtain closely

drawn as if to invite concealment; the hairbreadth escape of the wife

leaving the _onus_ of the scandal to fall upon the shoulders of some

self-sacrificing friend; the final reconciliation of husband and wife

without any infelicitous catechism; are not these things written in the

pages of all the plays that--as George Meredith so happily puts

it--"deal with human nature in the drawing-rooms of civilised men and

women." With certain variations they are the mainstay--the French word

is _l'armature_--of every comedy of genteel passions and

misunderstandings that ever existed. Now, how does Oscar Wilde contrive

to clothe this dramatic skeleton with the flesh and blood of real life?

How invest the familiar figures with the plausible presentment of

new-born interest? Simply by the wonderful power of his personality,

which dominates all he touches, and rejuvenates the venerable bones of

his _dramatis personae_, compelling them, after the fashion of the "Pied

Piper," to dance to any tune he chooses to call. Or, perhaps, "sing"

would be a better expression than "dance." For it is in what they say,

rather than what they do, that our chief interest in them lies. We do

not ask: "What are they going to do next?" That is more or less a

forgone conclusion. But what we wait for with alert attention is what

they are going to say next. And so we come back to that brilliant

dialogue which is, as it should be, the chief feature of the play

albeit that play is as well constructed as any could desire,

straightforward and convincing. As a critic once wrote of it from the

craftsman's point of view: "'Lady Windermere's Fan' as a specimen of

true comedy is a head and shoulders above any of its contemporaries. It

has nothing in common with farcical comedy, with didactic comedy, or the

'literary' comedy of which we have heard so much of late from

disappointed authors, whose principal claim to literature appears to

consist in being undramatic. It is a distinguishing note of Mr Wilde

that he has condescended to learn his business, and has written a

workmanlike play as well as a good comedy. Without that it would be

worthless." In corroboration of this statement it is only necessary to

note how skilfully, when it comes to the necessity of dramatic action,

these scenes are handled. Take the one in the second act, where Mrs

Erlynne, more or less, forces her way into Lady Windermere's ballroom.

It is an episode of extreme importance, and how well led up to! Lord and

Lady Windermere are on the stage together.

_Lord Windermere._ Margaret, I _must_ speak to you.

_Lady Windermere._ Will you hold my fan for me, Lord Darlington?

Thanks. (_Comes down to him._)

_Lord Windermere._ (_Crossing to her._) Margaret, what you said

before dinner was, of course, impossible?

_Lady Windermere._ That woman is not coming here to-night!

_Lord Windermere._ (_R.C._) Mrs Erlynne is coming here, and if you

in any way annoy or wound her, you will bring shame and sorrow on

us both. Remember that! Ah, Margaret! only trust me! A wife should

trust her husband.

_Lady Windermere._ London is full of women who trust their

husbands. One can always recognise them. They look so thoroughly

unhappy. I am not going to be one of them. (_Moves up._) Lord

Darlington, will you give me back my fan, please? Thanks.... A

useful thing a fan, isn't it?... I want a friend to-night, Lord

Darlington. I didn't know I would want one soon.

_Lord Darlington._ Lady Windermere! I knew the time would come some

day: but why to-night?

_Lord Windermere._ I _will_ tell her. I must. It would be terrible

if there were any scene. Margaret....

_Parker_ (_announcing_). Mrs Erlynne.

(_Lord Windermere starts. Mrs Erlynne enters, very beautifully

dressed and very dignified. Lady Windermere clutches at her fan,

then lets it drop on the floor. She bows coldly to Mrs Erlynne,

who bows to her sweetly in turn, and sails into the room._)

If this is not effective stagecraft, I do not know what is. And the

dramatist strikes a deeper, and more tragic, note in the scene later on

(in the same act) where Mrs Erlynne discovers the letter of farewell

that Lady Windermere had written to her husband.

(_Parker enters, and crosses towards the ballroom, R. Enter Mrs

Erlynne._)

_Mrs Erlynne._ Is Lady Windermere in the ballroom?

_Parker._ Her ladyship has just gone out.

_Mrs Erlynne._ Gone out? She's not on the terrace?

_Parker._ No, madam. Her Ladyship has just gone out of the house.

_Mrs Erlynne_ (_Starts and looks at the servant with a puzzled

expression on her face_). Out of the house?

_Parker._ Yes, madam--her Ladyship told me she had left a letter

for his Lordship on the table.

_Mrs Erlynne._ A letter for Lord Windermere?

_Parker._ Yes, madam.

_Mrs Erlynne._ Thank you.

(_Exit Parker. The music in the ballroom stops._)

Gone out of her house! A letter addressed to her husband!

(_Goes over to bureau and looks at letter. Takes it up and lays it

down again with a shudder of fear._)

No, no! it would be impossible! Life doesn't repeat its tragedies

like that! Oh, why does this horrible fancy come across me? Why do

I remember now the one moment of my life I most wish to forget?

Does life repeat its tragedies?

(_Tears letter open and reads it, then sinks down into a chair with

a gesture of anguish._)

Oh, how terrible! the same words that twenty years ago I wrote to

her father! And how bitterly I have been punished for it! No; my

punishment, my real punishment is to-night, is now!

I have quoted these two episodes from the second act to demonstrate how

equal was the playwright to the exigencies of his art. But it is in the

third act, laid in Lord Darlington's rooms, that he reaches the level of

high dramatic skill. First, in the scene between the mother and

daughter, written with extraordinary power and pathos, and later on,

when each of the women are hidden, the "man's scene" which ranks with

the famous club scene in Lord Lytton's "Money." The _blase_ and genial

tone of these men of the world is admirably caught. Their conversation

sparkles with wit and wisdom--of the world _bien entendu_. But it is in

Mrs Erlynne's appeal to her daughter, with all its tragic intent that

the author surpasses himself. Just read it over. It is a masterpiece of

restrained emotion.

_Mrs Erlynne._ (_Starts with a gesture of pain. Then restrains

herself, and comes over to where Lady Windermere is sitting. As she

speaks, she stretches out her hands towards her, but does not dare

to touch her._) Believe what you choose about me. I am not without

a moment's sorrow. But don't spoil your beautiful young life on my

account. You don't know what may be in store for you, unless you

leave this house at once. You don't know what it is to fall into

the pit, to be despised, mocked, abandoned, sneered at--to be an

outcast! to find the door shut against one, to have to creep in by

hideous byways, afraid every moment lest the mask should be

stripped from one's face, and all the while to hear the laughter of

the world, a thing more tragic than all the tears the world has

ever shed. You don't know what it is. One pays for one's sin, and

then one pays again, and all one's life one pays. You must never

know that. As for me, if suffering be an expiation, then at this

moment I have expiated all my faults, whatever they have been; for

to-night you have made a heart in one who had it not, made it and

broken it. But let that pass. I may have wrecked my own life, but I

will not let you wreck yours. You--why you are a mere girl, you

would be lost. You haven't got the kind of brains that enables a

woman to get back. You have neither the wit nor the courage. You

couldn't stand dishonour. No! go back, Lady Windermere, to the

husband who loves you, whom you love. You have a child, Lady

Windermere. Go back to that child who even now, in pain or in joy,

may be calling to you. (_Lady Windermere rises._) God gave you that

child. He will require from you that you make his life fine, that

you watch over him. What answer will you make to God, if his life

is ruined through you? Back to your house, Lady Windermere--your

husband loves you. He has never swerved for a moment from the love

he bears you. But even if he had a thousand loves, you must stay

with your child. If he was harsh to you, you must stay with your

child. If he ill-treated you, you must stay with your child. If he

abandoned you your place is with your child.

(_Lady Windermere bursts into tears and buries her face in her

hands._)

(_Rushing to her_). Lady Windermere!

_Lady Windermere_ (_holding out her hands to her, helplessly, as a

child might do_). Take me home. Take me home.

Few people who witnessed that situation could have done so without being

deeply moved. It is Oscar Wilde the poet who speaks, not to the brain

but to the heart.

Then turn from the shadow of that scene to the shimmer of the one that

follows immediately, full of smartness and _jeu d'esprit_. The sprightly

and irresponsible chatter of men of the world.

_Dumby._ Awfully commercial, women nowadays. Our grandmothers threw

their caps over the mill, of course, but, by Jove, their

granddaughters only throw their caps over mills that can raise the

wind for them.

_Lord Augustus._ You want to make her out a wicked woman. She is

not!

_Cecil Graham._ Oh! wicked women bother one. Good women bore one.

That is the only difference between them.

* * * * *

_Dumby._ In this world there are only two tragedies. One is not

getting what one wants, and the other is getting it. The last is

much the worst, the last is a real tragedy.

* * * * *

_Cecil Graham._ What is a cynic?

_Lord Darlington._ A man who knows the price of everything and the

value of nothing.

_Cecil Graham._ And a sentimentalist, my dear Darlington, is a man

who sees an absurd value in everything, and doesn't know the market

price of any single thing.

* * * * *

_Dumby._ Experience is the name everyone gives to their mistakes.

* * * * *

_Lord Windermere._ What is the difference between scandal and

gossip?

_Cecil Graham._ Oh! gossip is charming! History is merely gossip.

But scandal is gossip made tedious by morality. Now I never

moralise. A man who moralises is usually a hypocrite, and a woman

who moralises is invariably plain. There is nothing in the whole

world so unbecoming to a woman as a Nonconformist conscience. And

most women know it, I'm glad to say.

And so we take our leave of "Lady Windermere's Fan."

"A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE"

(_First produced at the Haymarket Theatre by Mr Beerbohm Tree on 19th

April 1903_)

Perhaps of all Oscar Wilde's plays "The Woman Of No Importance" provoked

the most discussion at the time of its production. It was his second

venture in the histrionic field, and people expected much. They felt

that he should now be finding his feet, that whatever shortcomings, from

the point of view of stagecraft, there may have been in "Lady

Windermere's Fan," should now be made good. His first comedy was a

well-constructed play of plot and incidents. But now, expectation rose

high, and required of the author something better, something greater,

something more considerable than what he had achieved before. How far

were these expectations realised? How did the first-night audience of

public, and critics, receive the new play? It must be confessed it was

with a feeling akin to disappointment. People at first were undeniably

disconcerted. They had come prepared to witness drama, possibly of

stirring interest, and what they heard was dialogue of brilliant

quality, indeed, but which, up to a certain point, had little to do in

forwarding the action of the piece. It was a surprise, and, to most of

them, a not altogether grateful one. And it came in the first act. Here

the author had actually been bold enough to defy popular traditions, and

to place his characters seated in a semicircle uttering epigram after

epigram, and paradox upon paradox, without any regard to whatever plot

there might be; for it is not until the curtain is about to fall that we

get an indication, for the first time, that something is going to happen

in the next act. Here was an upset indeed! A subversion of all

preconceived ideas as to how a play should begin! "Words! words!" they

muttered captiously, although the words were as the pearls and diamonds

that fell from the mouth of the maiden in the fairy tale. And so on,

through scene after scene, until we come to the unexpected meeting of

Lord Illingworth with the woman he had, long ago, betrayed and

abandoned. Then quickly follows the pathetic interview between mother

and son, culminating in Mrs Arbuthnot's confession that the man who

would befriend her son is no other than his own father, to whom he

should owe nothing, save the disgrace of his birth, leading up to the

_scene-a-faire_ in the final act, where Lord Illingworth's offer to make

reparation to the woman he has wronged is acknowledged by a blow across

the face. Here at last was drama, treated in the right spirit, and of an

emotional value that cannot be too highly recognised. But the shock of

the earlier acts had been a severe one, and it took all the intense

human interest of the last two acts to atone for the outraged

conventions of the two first. It speaks volumes of praise for the

playwright's powers that he was enabled to carry his work to a

successful issue, and secure for it a long run. And not only that, but

to stand the critical test of revival. For, at the moment of writing

these words, Mr Tree has reproduced "The Woman Of No Importance" at His

Majesty's Theatre, which is crowded, night after night, with audiences

eager to bring a posthumous tribute to the genius of the author.

_Apropos_ of the first act where all the _dramatis personae_ are seated

in a semicircle engaged only in conversation, and which was likened, on

the occasion of the first production of the play, by an eminent critic

to "Christy Minstrelism Crystallised," it may not be uninteresting to

note, _en passant_, a similar arrangement of characters in a play of Mr

Bernard Shaw's recently performed at the Court Theatre. This is called

"Don Juan in Hell"--the dream from "Man and Superman"--mercifully

omitted when that play was produced. It had nothing whatever to do with

the comedy in which it was included, but is a Niagara of ideas, clumsily

put together, and is more or less an exposition of the Shawian

philosophy.

"Hear the result"--I quote from the critique in one of our leading

journals--"The curtain rose at half-past two on a darkened stage draped

in black. Enter, in turn, Don Juan, Dona Ana de Ulloa, the statue of her

father, and the devil. They sat down, and for an hour and a half

delivered those opinions of Mr Shaw with which we are all so terribly

familiar. Every now and then there was a laugh, as, for example, when

Don Juan said: 'Wherever ladies are is hell,' or, again, when he said:

'Have you ever had servants who were not devils?' It was all supposed to

be very funny and very naughty, of course, especially when the statue

said to Don Juan: 'If you dwelt in heaven, as I do, you would realise

your advantages.' And so on, and so on, _ad nauseum_."

See now, how the parallel scene of "only talk" as written by Oscar Wilde

was noticed upon its revival the other day. I quote from another

journal. "Let all that can be urged against this play be granted. None

the less is it worth watching the _dramatis personae_ do nothing, so long

as the mind may be tickled by this unscrupulous, fastidious wit. And,

even if all the characters speak in the same accents of paradox, their

moods, the essentials of them, are differentiated with a brilliancy of

expression which condones the lack of dramatic movement. These things,

alone, evoke my gratitude to Mr Tree for reviving so interesting and

individual a comedy.... For even those utterances which seem to be mere

phraseological inversions are fraught with much wisdom, and the major

part of the dialogue reflects the mind of a subtle and daring social

observer." And it was this "mind," keen of observation, and equipped

with no ordinary wit, that dominates an audience and compels them to

sit, as it were, spellbound before the demonstration of the power of its

unique personality. I am informed that, to-day, in Germany, the only two

modern English dramatists who are listened to are Oscar Wilde and

Bernard Shaw--the poet and the proser. Truly may it be remarked: "_Les

extremes se touchent_."

The story of "The Woman Of No Importance" is quickly told.

Lord Illingworth, a cynical _roue_, has, in his youth, betrayed a too

trusting young lady, who, in consequence, gave birth to a son, by her

named Gerald. When the play begins this young fellow is nineteen years

old, and has, most hopelessly it would seem, fallen in love with an

American heiress whose name is Hester Worsley. He is living with his

mother, called Mrs Arbuthnot, at a quiet country village, where also

resides Lady Hunstanton, who acts as hostess to all the smart Society

folk who appear upon the scene, and among whom Lord Illingworth is the

most prominent. His lordship, ignorant of their real relationship, has

taken a fancy to Gerald, and offers him a private secretaryship.

Whereupon his future prospects brighten up considerably. But when Mrs

Arbuthnot discovers that Lord Illingworth is no other than the man who

had wronged her, she does all in her power to persuade her (and his) son

to refuse the offer, and, driven to extremity in her distress, tells

Gerald her own history, as that of another woman. Her efforts are

futile. The boy only says that the woman must have been as bad as the

man, and that, as far as he can see, Lord Illingworth is now a very good

fellow, and so he means to stick to him. Consequently, when his lordship

insists upon Gerald keeping to the bargain, and reminds his mother that

the boy will be her "judge as well as her son," should the truth of her

past be brought to light, Mrs Arbuthnot is induced to hold it still

secret. Unfortunately for this secret, Mrs Allonby, one of Lady

Hunstanton's guests, has goaded Lord Illingworth into promising to kiss

Miss Hester Worsley. This he does, much to the disgust of the fair

Puritan, who loudly announces that she has been insulted. Gerald's eyes

are suddenly opened to Lord Illingworth's turpitude, and with the

unbridled passion of the headstrong lover cries out that he will kill

him! Which, apparently, he would have done, had not Mrs Arbuthnot

stepped forward, and to everybody's surprise intervened with the

dramatic: "No--he is your father!"

_Tableau._ In the final act Hester Worsley, now that she knows Mrs

Arbuthnot, and is determined in spite of all to marry Gerald, solves

every difficulty by carrying off the mother and son to her home in the

New World, where we may presume the young couple marry, and live happily

ever afterwards. Before her departure from England, however, Mrs

Arbuthnot, maddened by the cynical offer of tardy reparation by marriage

on the part of Lord Illingworth, strikes him across the face with a

glove, and at the end of the play alludes to him as "a man of no

importance"; which balances his earlier description of her as "a woman

of no importance."

As I have pointed out elsewhere, many of the epigrams in this play were

lifted bodily from "The Picture of Dorian Gray," but after these are

eliminated there remain enough to establish the reputation of any

dramatist as a wit and epigrammatist of the very first rank. Much would

be forgiven for one definition alone, that of the foxhunter--"the

unspeakable in pursuit of the uneatable." And Sheridan himself might

envy the pronouncement that "the youth of America is its oldest

tradition."

But apart from brilliant repartee and amusing paradox, the piece is full

of passages of rare beauty and moments of touching pathos. Hester

Worsley's speech anent Society, which she describes as being "like a

leper in purple," "a dead thing smeared with gold," is as finely

written a piece of declamation as any actress could desire, apart from

its high literary qualities; and Mrs Arbuthnot's confession to her boy

and her appeal to him for mercy are conceived in a spirit of delicacy

and reticence that only the highest art can attain. Her pathetic

peroration: "Child of my shame, be still the child of my shame," touches

the deepest chords of human sorrow and anguish. With a masterly

knowledge of what the theatre requires, he gives us Hester at the

beginning of the play inveighing against any departure from the moral

code and quoting the Old Testament anent the sins of the father being

visited on the children. "It is God's law," she ends up--"it is God's

terrible law." Later, when she begs Mrs Arbuthnot to come away to other

climes, "where there are green valleys and fresh waters" and the poor

woman for whom the world is shrivelled to a palm's breadth confronts her

with her own pronouncement, how beautifully introduced is her

recantation: "Don't say that, God's law is only love." It has been

objected to Hester that she is a prig, but no girl could be a prig who

could utter a sentiment like that. She is a fine specimen of the

girlhood of the late nineteenth century, travelled, cultured, frank, and

fearless, and above all pure. In the artificial atmosphere of

Hunstanton, where the guests are all mere worldlings, her purity and

goodness stand out in high relief. If there is a prig it is Gerald who,

whether he be listening to Lord Illingworth's worldly teaching as to "a

well-tied tie being the first serious step in life," or hearing the

story of his mother's sin, is a singularly uninteresting and commonplace

young man. As to the other characters they are all admirable sketches of

Society folk. Lady Caroline Pontefract tyrannising over her husband and

making that gay old gentleman put on his goloshes and muffler is a

delightful type of those old-fashioned _grandes dames_ who have the

peerage at their fingers' ends. Nothing could be more delightfully

characteristic than her opining, when Hester tells her that some of the

States of America are as big as France and England put together, that

they must find it very draughty. Lady Hunstanton too, who prattles away

about everybody and everything and gets mixed up in all her statements,

as for instance, when referring to somebody as a clergyman who wanted to

be a lunatic, she is uncertain if it was not a lunatic who wanted to be

a clergyman, but who at anyrate wore straws in his hair or something

equally odd, is drawn with a fidelity to nature that shows what a really

great student of character Oscar Wilde was. No less admirable a

portrayal is that of the worldly archdeacon whose wife is almost blind,

quite deaf and a confirmed invalid, yet, nevertheless, is quite happy,

for though she can no longer hear his sermons she reads them at home.

He it is whom Lord Illingworth shocks so profoundly, first by his

assertion that every saint has a past and every sinner has a future, and

finally by the flippant remark that the secret of life is to be always

on the lookout for temptations, which are becoming so exceedingly scarce

that he sometimes passes a whole day without coming across one. As

literature alone, the play deserves to live, and will live, as a _piece

de theatre_. It has met with more success than any play of the first

class within the last twenty years. The reason for that is not far to

seek--it is essentially human, and the woman's interest--the keynote of

the story--appeals to man and woman equally. I have seen rough

Lancashire audiences, bucolic boors in small country towns, and dour

hard-headed Scotsmen, sit spellbound as the story of the woman's sin and

her repentance was unfolded before them. A play that can do that is

imperishable, and it is no disparagement to the other brilliant dramatic

works of the author that, as a popular play which will ever find favour

with audiences of every class and kind, on account of its human interest

and its pathos, "A Woman Of No Importance" is certain of immortality.

"THE IDEAL HUSBAND"

(_First produced at the Haymarket Theatre, under the management of Mr

Lewis Waller and Mr H. H. Morell on 3rd January 1895_)

This, the third of Oscar Wilde's plays in their order of production, is

undoubtedly the most dramatic. The action is rapid, the interest of the

story sustained to the very end, and the dialogue always to the point.

Each of the principal characters concerned in the carrying out of the

plot is a distinct individualised type. What each one says or does is

entirely in keeping with his, or her, personality. And that personality

is in each case a well-marked and skilfully drawn one. The four

_personae_ who are engaged in conducting the intrigue of this comedy are

Sir Robert Chiltern, Lady Chiltern (his wife), Lord Goring, and Mrs

Cheveley. A charming _ingenue_ in the person of Miss Mabel Chiltern (Sir

Robert's sister) is also instrumental in bringing the love-interest to a

happy hymeneal issue. The author of their being has handed down to us,

in his own inimitable way, his conception of them. Here it is:

"_Sir Robert Chiltern._ A man of forty, but looking somewhat younger.

Clean-shaven, with finely-cut features, dark-haired and dark-eyed. A

personality of mark. Not popular--few personalities are. But intensely

admired by the few, and deeply respected of the many. The note of his

manner is that of perfect distinction, with a slight touch of pride. One

feels that he is conscious of the success he has made in life. A nervous

temperament, with a tired look. The firmly-chiselled mouth and chin

contrast strikingly with the romantic expression in the deep-set eyes.

The variance is suggestive of an almost complete separation of passion

and intellect, as though thought and emotion were each isolated in its

own sphere through some violence of will-power. There is no nervousness

in the nostrils, and in the pale, thin, pointed hands. It would be

inaccurate to call him picturesque. Picturesqueness cannot survive the

House of Commons. But Vandyck would have liked to paint his head."

Of _Lady Chiltern_ we do not get more than that she is "a woman of grave

Greek beauty about twenty-seven years of age."

This is _Lord Goring_: "Thirty-four, but always says he is younger. A

well-bred expressionless face. He is clever, but would not like to be

thought so. A flawless dandy, he would be annoyed if he were considered

romantic. He plays with life, and is on perfectly good terms with the

world. He is fond of being misunderstood. It gives him a post of

vantage."

_Mrs Cheveley_, the _ame damee_ of the plot, is thus portrayed: "Tall,

and rather slight. Lips very thin and highly coloured, a line of scarlet

on a pallid face. Venetian red hair, aquiline nose, a long throat. Rouge

accentuates the natural paleness of her complexion. Grey-green eyes that

move restlessly. She is in heliotrope, with diamonds. She looks rather

like an orchid, and makes great demands on one's curiosity. In all her

movements she is extremely graceful. A work of art on the whole, but

showing the influence of too many schools."

In these delicious word-pictures we gain for once an idea as to how the

author considered his characters, both physically and psychically. It is

interesting to note that of the four published plays this is the only

one in which such intimate directions are to be found. Was the author,

for once in a way, allowing himself a measure of poetic licence, and

giving free but eminently unpractical play to his imagination? Who may

tell? At anyrate, however high he may have soared in his requirements of

the performers, he comes down steadily to earth in his management of the

plot, which is acted out on these lines.

In the first act we find Lady Chiltern, whose husband is Under-Secretary

for Foreign Affairs, giving a party at her house in Grosvenor Square.

Here, among other fashionable folk who flit across the scene, we are

introduced to Lord Goring, between whom and Mabel Chiltern there is

evidently a more or less serious flirtation going on, especially on the

young lady's side. Shortly after his first entrance Lord Goring

"saunters over to Mabel Chiltern."

_Mabel Chiltern._ You are very late!

_Lord Goring._ Have you missed me?

_Mabel Chiltern._ Awfully!

_Lord Goring._ Then I am sorry I did not stay away longer. I like

being missed.

_Mabel Chiltern._ How very selfish of you.

_Lord Goring._ I am very selfish.

_Mabel Chiltern._ You are always telling me of your bad qualities,

Lord Goring.

_Lord Goring._ I have only told you half of them as yet, Miss

Mabel....

_Mabel Chiltern._ Well, I delight in your bad qualities. I wouldn't

have you part with one of them.

_Lord Goring._ How very nice of you! But then you are always nice.

By the way, I want to ask you a question, Miss Mabel. Who brought

Mrs Cheveley here? That woman in heliotrope who has just gone out

of the room with your brother?

_Mabel Chiltern._ Oh, I think Lady Markby brought her. Why do you

ask?

_Lord Goring._ I hadn't seen her for years, that is all.

But Lord Goring did not say, of course, all he knew about the brilliant

Mrs Cheveley, who is very _repondue_ in the diplomatic world at Vienna,

and has, in her day, been the heroine of much pretty gossip. The object

of her present visit to London is to obtain an introduction to Sir

Robert Chiltern, and it is when they first meet that the dramatic

interest of the story commences. The lady, it appears, has invested

largely, too largely, in a great political and financial scheme called

the Argentine Canal Company, acting on the advice of a certain Baron

Arnheim, now dead, who was also a friend of Sir Robert Chiltern's. When

Mrs Cheveley informs Sir Robert what her position is, he denounces the

scheme as "a commonplace Stock Exchange swindle."

_Sir Robert Chiltern._ Believe me, Mrs Cheveley, it is a

swindle.... I sent out a special commission to inquire into the

matter privately and they report that the works are hardly begun,

and as for the money already subscribed, no one seems to know what

has become of it.

A little later on he says "the success of the Canal depends of course on

the attitude of England, and I am going to lay the report of the

Commissioners before the House of Commons."

_Mrs Cheveley._ That you must not do. In your own interests, Sir

Robert, to say nothing of mine, you must not do that.

_Sir Robert Chiltern._ (_Looking at her in wonder._) In my own

interests? My dear Mrs Cheveley, what do you mean? (_Sits down

beside her._)

_Mrs Cheveley._ Sir Robert, I will be quite frank with you. I want

you to withdraw the report that you had intended to lay before the

House, on the ground that you have reason to believe that the

Commissioners had been prejudiced or misinformed or something....

Will you do that for me? (_Naturally Sir Robert is indignant at the

proposition, and proposes to call the lady's carriage for her._)

_Sir Robert Chiltern._ You have lived so long abroad, Mrs Cheveley,

that you seem to be unable to realise that you are talking to an

English gentleman.

_Mrs Cheveley._ (_Detains him by touching his arm with her fan, and

keeping it there while she is talking._) I realise that I am

talking to a man who laid the foundation of his fortune by selling

to a Stock Exchange speculator a Cabinet secret.

This is unfortunately only too true. For, years ago, when secretary to

Lord Radley, "a great important minister," Sir Robert has written to

Baron Arnheim a letter telling the Baron to buy Suez Canal shares--a

letter written three days before the Government announced its own

purchase, and which letter also is in Mrs Cheveley's possession! Here is

a fine situation with a vengeance! By threatening to publish the scandal

and the proofs of it in some leading newspaper, Mrs Cheveley induces the

unfortunate Sir Robert to consent to withdraw the report, and state in

the House that he believes there are possibilities in the scheme. In

return for which she will give him back the compromising letter. So far,

so good. She has won her cause. But, true woman as she is, she cannot

conceal her triumph from Lady Chiltern as she is leaving the party.

_Lady Chiltern._ Why did you wish to meet my husband, Mrs Cheveley?

_Mrs Cheveley._ Oh, I will tell you. I wanted to interest him in

this Argentine Canal Scheme, of which I daresay you have heard. And

I found him most susceptible--susceptible to reason,--I mean. A

rare thing in a man. I converted him in ten minutes. He is going to

make a speech in the House to-morrow night, in favour of the idea.

We must go to the Ladies' Gallery and hear him. It will be a great

occasion.

And so she goes gaily away, leaving her hostess perplexed and troubled.

But in weaving her web round the hapless husband, she had not reckoned

on the influence of the wife to disentangle it, and set the victim free.

Yet, in a finely-conceived, and equally well-written, scene this is

what actually happened. The company have all departed and they are alone

together.

_Lady Chiltern._ Robert, it is not true, is it? You are not going

to lend your support to this Argentine speculation? You couldn't.

_Sir Robert Chiltern._ (_Starting._) Who told you I intended to do

so?

_Lady Chiltern._ That woman who has just gone out.... Robert, I

know this woman. You don't. We were at school together.... She was

sent away for being a thief. Why do you let her influence you?

Then after much painful probing as to why he has so suddenly changed his

attitude towards the scheme, she elicits the reason.

_Sir Robert Chiltern._ But if I told you----

_Lady Chiltern._ What?

_Sir Robert Chiltern._ That it was necessary, vitally necessary.

_Lady Chiltern._ It can never be necessary to do what is not

honourable.... Robert, tell me why you are going to do this

dishonourable thing?

_Sir Robert Chiltern._ Gertrude, you have no right to use that

word. I told you it was a question of rational compromise. It is no

more than that.

But Lady Chiltern is not to be so easily put off as that. Her suspicions

are aroused. She says she knows that there are "men with horrible

secrets in their lives--men who had done some shameful thing, and who,

in some critical moment, have to pay for it, by doing some other act of

shame." She asks him boldly, is he one of these? Then, driven to bay, he

tells her the one lie of his life.

_Sir Robert Chiltern._ Gertrude, there is nothing in my past life

that you might not know.

She is satisfied. But he must write a letter to Mrs Cheveley, taking

back any promise he may have given her, and that letter must be written

at once. He tries to gain time, offers to go and see Mrs Cheveley

to-morrow; it is too late to-night. But Lady Chiltern is inexorable, and

so Sir Robert yields, and the missive is despatched to Claridge's Hotel.

Then, seized with a sudden terror of what the consequences may be, he

turns, with nerves all a-quiver, to his wife, pleadingly--

_Sir Robert Chiltern._ O, love me always, Gertrude, love me always.

_Lady Chiltern._ I will love you always, because you will always be

worthy of love. We needs must love the highest when we see it!

(_Kisses him, rises and goes out._)

And the curtain falls upon this intensely emotional situation.

If I may seem to have quoted too freely from the dialogue, it is in part

to refute the charge, so often urged by the critics, that Oscar Wilde's

"talk is often an end in itself, it has no vital connection with the

particular play of which it forms a part, it might as well be put into

the mouth of one character as another...." Now in the first act of "The

Ideal Husband," when the action of the piece is being carried on at high

pressure, there is not a word of the dialogue that is not pertinent, no

sentence that is not significant. Whatever of wit the author may have

allowed himself to indulge in springs spontaneously from the woof of the

story, it is not, as was suggested in his earlier plays, "a mere

parasitic growth attached to it," in which this particular comedy under

consideration marks an immense advance on the methods of "The Woman Of

No Importance." Here is strenuous drama, treated strenuously, and

dealing with the whole gamut of human emotions. The playwright, as he

progresses in his art, does not here permit himself to endanger the

interest of the plot by any adventitious pleasantries on the part of the

characters.

In the second act we are again in Grosvenor Square, this time in a

morning-room, where Sir Robert Chiltern and Lord Goring are discussing

the awkward state of affairs. To Lord Goring the action of Sir Robert

appears inexcusable.

_Lord Goring._ Robert, how could you have sold yourself for money?

_Sir Robert Chiltern._ (_Excitedly._) I did not sell myself for

money. I bought success at a great price. That is all.

Such was his point of view. Lord Goring's now is that he should have

told his wife. But Sir Robert assures him that such a confession to such

a woman would mean a lifelong separation. She must remain in ignorance.

But now the vital question is--how is he to defend himself against Mrs

Cheveley? Lord Goring answers that he must fight her.

_Sir Robert Chiltern._ But how?

_Lord Goring._ I can't tell you how at present. I have not the

smallest idea. But everyone has some weak point. There is some flaw

in each one of us.

The conversation is interrupted by the entrance of Lady Chiltern. Sir

Robert goes out and leaves Lord Goring and his wife together. And there

follows a scene, brief, but as fine as any in the play, in which Lord

Goring endeavours to prepare Lady Chiltern very skilfully for the blow

that may possibly fall upon her. He deals in generalities: "I think

that in practical life there is something about success that is a little

unscrupulous, something about ambition that is unscrupulous always." And

again: "In every nature there are elements of weakness, or worse than

weakness. Supposing, for instance, that--that any public man, my father

or Lord Merton, or Robert, say, had, years ago, written some foolish

letter to someone...."

_Lady Chiltern._ What do you mean by a foolish letter?

_Lord Goring._ A letter gravely compromising one's position. I am

only putting an imaginary case.

_Lady Chiltern._ Robert is as incapable of doing a foolish thing,

as he is of doing a wrong thing.

She is still unshaken in the belief of her husband's rectitude. And Lord

Goring departs sorrowing, but not before he has assured her of his

friendship that would serve her in any crisis.

_Lord Goring._ ... And if you are ever in trouble, Lady Chiltern,

trust me absolutely, and I will help you in every way I can. If you

ever want me ... come at once to me.

Then on the scene arrives Mrs Cheveley, accompanied by Lady Markby (for

whose amusing _bavardage_ I wish I could find space) evidently to

revenge herself somehow for her rebuff, ostensibly to inquire after a

"diamond snake-brooch with a ruby," which she has lost, probably at Lady

Chiltern's. Now the audience knows all about this "brooch-bracelet," for

has not Lord Goring found it on the sofa last night, when flirting with

Mabel Chiltern, and recognising it as an old and somewhat ominous

friend, quietly put it in his pocket, at the same time enjoining Mabel

to say nothing about the incident. So, of course, the jewel has not been

found in Grosvenor Square. But when the two women are left alone, Mrs

Cheveley discovers that it was Lady Chiltern who dictated Sir Robert's

letter to her. A bitter passage of arms occurs between them, when Lady

Chiltern discusses her adversary, who boasts herself the ally of her

husband.

_Lady Chiltern._ How dare you class my husband with yourself?...

Leave my house. You are unfit to enter it. (_Sir Robert enters from

behind. He hears his wife's last words, and sees to whom they are

addressed. He grows deadly pale._)

_Mrs Cheveley._ Your house! A house bought with the price of

dishonour. A house everything in which has been paid for by fraud.

(_Turns round and sees Sir Robert Chiltern._) Ask him what the

origin of his fortune is! Get him to tell you how he sold to a

stockbroker a Cabinet secret. Learn from him to what you owe your

position.

_Lady Chiltern._ It is not true! Robert! It is not true!

But Sir Robert cannot deny the accusation, and Mrs Cheveley departs, the

winner of the contest. The act concludes with a terrible denunciation on

the part of Sir Robert of his wife, whom he blindly accuses of having

wrecked his life, by not allowing him to accept the comfortable offer

made by Mrs Cheveley of absolute security from all future knowledge of

the sin he had committed in his youth.

_Sir Robert Chiltern._ I could have killed it for ever, sent it

back into its tomb, destroyed its record, burned the one witness

against me. You prevented me.... Let women make no more ideals of

men! Let them not put them on altars and bow before them, or they

may ruin other lives as completely as you--you whom I have so

wildly loved--have ruined mine!

Here is the sincere note of Tragedy! Surely, Oscar Wilde is among the

dramatists!

The action of the third act takes place in the library of Lord Goring's

house. It is inspired in the very best spirit of intrigue. Lady

Chiltern, mindful of Lord Goring's friendship, has, in the first

bewilderment of her discovery, written a note to him,--"I want you. I

trust you. I am coming to you. Gertrude." Lord Goring is about to make

preparations to receive her, when his father, Lord Caversham, most

inconveniently looks in to pay him a visit, the object of which is to

discuss his son's matrimonial prospects. The visit, therefore, promises

to be a lengthy one, and Lord Goring proposes they should adjourn to the

smoking-room, advising his servant, Phipps, at the same time that he is

expecting a lady to see him on particular business, and who is to be

shown, on her arrival, into the drawing-room. A lady does arrive, only

she is not Lady Chiltern, but Mrs Cheveley, who has not announced her

advent in any way. Surprised to hear that Lord Goring is expecting a

lady, and while Phipps is lighting the candles in the drawing-room, she

occupies her spare moments in running through the letters on the

writing-table, and comes across Lady Chiltern's note. Here, indeed, is

her opportunity. She is just about to purloin it, when Phipps returns,

and she slips it under a silver-cased blotting-book that is lying on the

table. She is, perforce, obliged to go into the drawing-room, from which

presently she emerges, and creeps stealthily towards the writing-table.

But suddenly voices are heard from the smoking-room, and she is

constrained to return to her hiding-place. Lord Caversham and his son

re-enter and Lord Goring puts his father's cloak on for him, and with

much relief sees him depart. But a shock is in store for him, for no

sooner has Lord Caversham vanished, than no less a personage than Sir

Robert Chiltern appears. In vain does Lord Goring try to get rid of his

most unwelcome visitor. Sir Robert has come to talk over his trouble,

and means to stay. Lady Chiltern must on no account be admitted. So he

says to Phipps:

_Lord Goring._ When that lady calls, tell her that I am not

expected home this evening. Tell her that I have been suddenly

called out of town. You understand?

_Phipps._ The lady is in that room, my lord. You told me to show

her into that room, my lord.

Lord Goring realises that things are getting a little uncomfortable, and

again tries to send Sir Robert away. But Sir Robert pleads for five

minutes more. He is on his way to the House of Commons. "The debate on

the Argentine Canal is to begin at eleven." As he makes this

announcement a chair is heard to fall in the drawing-room. He suspects a

listener, and, despite Lord Goring's word of honour to the contrary,

determines to see for himself, and goes into the room, leaving Lord

Goring in a fearful state of mind. He soon returns, however, "with a

look of scorn on his face."

_Sir Robert Chiltern._ What explanation have you to give me for the

presence of that woman here?

_Lord Goring._ Robert, I swear to you on my honour that that lady

is stainless and guiltless of all offence towards you.

_Sir Robert Chiltern._ She is a vile, an infamous thing!

After a few more speeches, in which the _malentendu_ is well kept up,

Sir Robert goes out, and Lord Goring rushes to the drawing-room to

meet--Mrs Cheveley.

And now this woman is going to have another duel, but this time with an

enemy who is proof against her attacks. The whole of this scene is

imagined and written in a masterly manner. After a little airy sparring,

Lord Goring opens the match.

_Lord Goring._ You have come here to sell me Robert Chiltern's

letter, haven't you?

_Mrs Cheveley._ To offer it you on conditions. How did you guess

that?

_Lord Goring._ Because you haven't mentioned the subject. Have you

got it with you?

_Mrs Cheveley._ (_Sitting down._) Oh, no! A well-made dress has no

pockets.

_Lord Goring._ What is your price for it?

Then, Mrs Cheveley tells him that the price is--herself. She is tired of

living abroad, and wants to come to London and have a salon. She vows to

him that he is the only person she has ever cared for, and that on the

morning of the day he marries her she will give him Sir Robert's letter.

Naturally he refuses her offer. Naturally she is furious. But she still

possesses the incriminating document and hurls her venomous words at his

head.

_Mrs Chiltern._ For the privilege of being your wife I was ready to

surrender a great prize, the climax of my diplomatic career. You

decline. Very well. If Sir Robert doesn't uphold my Argentine

Scheme, I expose him. _Voila tout!_

But he cares not for her threats. He hasn't done with her yet, for he

has got in his possession the diamond snake-brooch with a ruby! This

scene is most skilfully managed. Quite innocently he offers to return it

to her--he had found it accidentally last night. And then in a moment he

clasps it on her arm.

_Mrs Cheveley._ I never knew it could be worn as a bracelet ... it

looks very well on me as a bracelet, doesn't it?

_Lord Goring._ Yes, much better than when I saw it last.

_Mrs Cheveley._ When did you see it last?

_Lord Goring._ (_Calmly._) Oh! ten years ago, on Lady Berkshire,

from whom you stole it.

Now, he has her in his power. The bracelet cannot be unclasped unless

she knows the secret of the spring, and she is at his mercy, a convicted

thief. He moves towards the bell to summon his servant to fetch the

police. "To-morrow the Berkshires will prosecute you." What is she to

do? She will do anything in the world he wants.

_Lord Goring._ Give me Robert Chiltern's letter.

_Mrs Cheveley._ I have not got it with me. I will give it you

to-morrow.

_Lord Goring._ You know you are lying. Give it me at once. (_Mrs

Cheveley pulls the letter out and hands it to him. She is horribly

pale._) This is it?

_Mrs Cheveley._ (_In a hoarse voice._) Yes.

Whereupon he burns it over the lamp. So letter number one is got out of

the way. But there is letter number two: Lady Chiltern's to Lord Goring.

The accomplished thief sees it just showing from under the

blotting-book; asks Lord Goring for a glass of water, and while his back

is turned steals it. So, though she has lost the day on one count she

has gained it on another. With a bitter note of triumph in her voice she

tells Lord Goring that she is going to send Lady Chiltern's

"love-letter" to him to Sir Robert. He tries to wrest it from her, but

she is too quick for him, and rings the electric bell. Phipps appears,

and she is safe.

_Mrs Cheveley._ (_After a pause._) Lord Goring merely rang that you

should show me out. Good-night, Lord Goring.

And on this fine situation the curtain falls.

Space does not permit me more than to indicate how, in the fourth and

last act, Sir Robert Chiltern has roundly denounced the Argentine Canal

Scheme in the House of Commons, and with it the whole system of modern

political finance. How Lady Chiltern's letter to Lord Goring does reach

her husband, and is by him supposed to be addressed to him. How Lady

Chiltern undeceives him, and confesses the truth. How Lord Goring

becomes engaged to Mabel, and Sir Robert Chiltern accepts, after some

hesitation, a vacant seat in the Cabinet, and peace is restored all

round. These episodes, cleverly and naturally handled, bring "The Ideal

Husband" to a satisfactory conclusion. It is certainly the most dramatic

of all Oscar Wilde's comedies, and could well bear revival.

"THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST"

A deliciously airily irresponsible comedy. Such is the "The Importance

Of Being Earnest," the most personally characteristic expression of

Wilde's art, and the last of the dramatic productions written under his

own name. The play bubbles over with mirth and fun. It is one unbroken

series of laughable situations and amusing surprises. The dialogue has

all the sparkle of bubbles from a gushing spring, and is brimful of

quaint conceits and diverting paradoxes. Even the genius of W. S.

Gilbert in the fantastic line pales before the irresponsible

frolicsomeness of the Irishman's wit. His fancy disports itself in an

atmosphere of epigrams like a young colt in a meadow. Never since the

days of Sheridan has anything been written to equal the brilliancy of

this trifle for serious people. No one could fail to be amused by its

delicate persiflage, its youthfulness and its utter irresponsibility.

Were one to take the works of Gyp, Gilbert, Henri Lavedan and Sheridan

and roll them into one, one would not even then obtain the essence of

sparkling comedy that animates the play. It is a trifle, but how clever,

how artistically perfect a trifle. When it was produced at the St

James's, in February 1895, one continuous ripple of laughter shook the

audience, even as a field of standing corn is swayed by a passing

breeze. The reading of the play alone makes one feel frivolous, and when

the characters stood before one, suiting the action to the word and the

word to the action, the effect was absolutely irresistible and even the

gravest and most slow-witted were moved to rollicking hilarity. One

critic summed it up by saying that "its title was a pun, its story a

conundrum, its characters lunatics, its dialogue a 'galimatias,' and its

termination a 'sell.' Questioned as to its merits, Wilde was credited

with saying that "The first act was ingenious, the second beautiful, the

third abominably clever." It was most beautifully staged by Mr George

Alexander, and I can see still the charming picture presented by Miss

Millard in the delightful garden scene as she watered her rose bushes

with a water-can filled with silver sand. The acting, too, left nothing

to be desired and altogether it was a performance to linger in one's

memory in the years to come.

The Ernest of the punning title is an imaginary brother, very wicked and

gay, invented by John Worthing, J.P., to account to his ward (Cecily

Cardew) for his frequent visits to London. John Worthing, it may be

mentioned, is a foundling who was discovered when a baby in the

cloak-room at a railway station inside a black bag stamped with the

initials of the absent-minded governess who had inadvertently placed him

in it instead of the manuscript of a three-volume novel. Now, Worthing

has a friend, a gay young dog, named Alexander Moncrieffe who likewise

has invented a fictitious personage, a sick friend, visits to whom he

makes serve as the reason of his absences from home. He has given this

imaginary friend the name of Bunbury, and designates his little

expeditions as "Bunburying." Moncrieffe lives in town, and is more or

less the model Worthing has chosen when describing his imaginary

brother. Worthing's ward is a romantic girl who has fallen in love with

her guardian's brother from his descriptions of him. She is especially

enamoured of his name, Ernest, for like old Mr Shandy she has quite

pronounced views and opinions about names. Now, the reason of Worthing's

constant visits to town is to see a young lady yclept Gwendolen Fairfax,

a cousin of Moncrieffe's, to whom he proposes and is accepted, but, for

some unexplained reason, for his periodical visits to town he adopts the

name of Ernest, so that Gwendolen, who, like Cecily, has distinctive

ideas about names, only knows him by that name. So it will be seen that

we have already two Ernests in the field--the imaginary brother whose

moral delinquencies are such a cause of worry to Cecily's guardian, and

the guardian himself masquerading as Ernest Worthing. A pretty

combination for complications to start with, but the author strews

Ernest about with a prodigality that excites our admiration, and he

gives us a third Ernest in the person of Alexander Moncrieffe, who,

learning that his friend is left alone at home, and that she is

extremely beautiful, determines to go down and make love to her. In

order to gain admittance to the house, he passes himself off as Ernest

Worthing, the imaginary naughty brother, and is warmly welcomed by

Cecily. In ten minutes he has wooed and won her, and the happy pair

disappear into the house just before John Worthing arrives on the scene.

Now that he has proposed and been accepted there is no longer any

necessity for inventing an excuse for his absences from home, and in

order to be rid of what might prove to be an embarrassing, although a

purely fictitious, person, he has invented a story of his putative

brother's death in Paris. He enters dressed in complete black, black

frock-coat, black tie, black hatband, and black-bordered handkerchief.

There follows a delightful comedy scene between him and Algernon, whose

imposture he cannot expose without betraying himself. Meanwhile,

Gwendolen has followed her sweetheart to make the acquaintance of

Cecily, and now arrives _en scene_. The two girls become bosom friends

at once, and all goes happily until the name of Ernest Worthing is

mentioned, and although no such person exists yet each of them imagines

herself to be engaged to him. The situation is, to use a theatrical

slang term, "worked up," and the young ladies pass from terms of

endearment to mutual recriminations. A pitched battle is on the tapis,

but with the appearance of their lovers, and their enforced explanation,

peace is restored between the two, and they join forces in annihilating

with scathing word and withering look the wretches who have so basely

deceived them. Never, never could either of them love a man whose name

was not Ernest. Each of them was engaged to Ernest Worthing, but, in the

words of the immortal Betsy Prig when referring to Mrs 'Arris, "There

ain't no sich person."

The situation is embarrassing and complicated. The two delinquents offer

to have themselves rechristened, but the suggestion is received with

withering scorn; the situation cannot be saved by any such ridiculous

subterfuge; the disconsolate wretches seek consolation in an orgy of

crumpets and tea cakes. Another difficulty there is also, Lady

Bracknell--Gwendolen's mother--refuses to accept as her son-in-law a

nameless foundling found in a railway station. However, the production

of the bag leads to the discovery of his parentage, and it turns out

that his father was the husband of Lady Bracknell's sister. The question

of his father's Christian name is raised, as it is thought probable that

he was christened after him, and although Lady Bracknell cannot remember

the name of the brother-in-law a reference to the Army List results in

the discovery that it was Ernest, so that both the difficulties of birth

and nomenclature are now overcome. As to Algernon, he is forgiven

because he explains that his imposture was undertaken solely to see

Cecily, and so the comedy ends happily as all good comedies should.

The piece is one mass of smart sayings, brilliant epigrams, and

mirth-provoking lines, as when Miss Prism, Cecily's governess, tells her

pupil to study political economy for an hour, but to omit, as too

exciting, the depreciation of the rupee. Some of the most delightful

sayings are put into the mouth of Lady Bracknell, the aristocratic

dowager who is responsible for the dictum that what the age suffers from

is want of principle and want of profile. Miss Prism too enunciates the

aphorism that "Memory is the diary we all carry about with us," and

Cecily naively informs us that "I keep a diary to enter the wonderful

secrets of my life. If I didn't write them down I would probably forget

all about them." There is also a delicious touching of feminine

amenities when, during the quarrel scene, Gwendolen says to Cecily, "I

speak quite candidly--I wish that you were thirty-five and more than

usually plain for your age." No woman could have written better. Even

the love passages are replete with humorous lines. Cecily passing her

hand through Moncrieffe's hair remarks, "I hope your hair curls

naturally," and with amusing candour comes his reply, "Yes, darling,

with a little help from others." The servants themselves are infected

with the prevailing atmosphere of frivolity. Moncrieffe apostrophising

his valet exclaims, "Lane, you're a perfect pessimist," and that

imperturbable individual replies, "I do my best to give satisfaction."

Again, when he remarks on the fact that though he had only two friends

to dinner on the previous day and yet eight bottles of champagne appear

to have been drunk, the impeccable servant corrects him with, "Eight and

a pint, sir," and in reply to his question, how is it that servants

drink more in bachelors' chambers than in private houses, the discreet

valet explains that it is because the wines are better, adding that you

do get some very poor wine nowadays in private houses.

"What is the use of the lower classes unless they set us a good

example?" "Divorces are made in heaven," "To have lost one parent is a

misfortune, to have lost both looks like carelessness," and "I am only

serious about my amusements," are samples taken haphazard of the good

things in the play.

It has been objected that the piece is improbable, but it was described

by the author merely as "a trivial comedy for serious people." As a

contributor to _The Sketch_ so aptly put it at the time, "Why carp at

improbability in what is confessedly the merest bubble of fancy? Why not

acknowledge honestly a debt of gratitude to one who adds so unmistakably

to the gaiety of the nation?"

The press were almost unanimous in their appreciation of the comedy.

_The Athenaeum's_ critic wrote, "The mantle of Mr Gilbert has fallen on

the shoulders of Mr Oscar Wilde, who wears it in jauntiest fashion." And

_The Times_ is responsible for the statement that "almost every sentence

of the dialogue bristles with epigram of the now accepted pattern, the

manufacture of this being apparently conducted by its patentee with the

same facility as 'the butter-woman's rank to market.'" But more

flattering still was the appreciation of the _Truth_ critic whose

previous attitude to Wilde's work had been a hostile one.

"I have not the slightest intention of seriously criticising Mr O.

Wilde's piece at the St James's," he writes, under the heading of "The

Importance Of Being Oscar," "as well might one sit down after dinner

and attempt gravely to discuss the true inwardness of a _souffle_. Nor,

unfortunately, is it necessary to enter into details as to its wildly

farcical plot. As well might one, after a successful display of

fireworks in the back garden, set to work laboriously to analyse the

composition of a Catherine Wheel. At the same time I wish to admit,

fairly and frankly, that 'The Importance Of Being Earnest' amused me

very much."

It is, however, since the author's death that the great body of critics

have emitted the opinion that the play is really an extremely clever

piece of work and a valuable contribution to the English drama. So many

pieces are apt to get _demodes_ in a few years, but now, twelve years

after its production, "The Importance Of Being Earnest" is as fresh as

ever, and does not date, as ladies say of their headgear. To compare the

blatant nonsense that Mr Bernard Shaw foists on a credulous public as

wit with the coruscating _bon mots_ of his dead compatriot, as seems to

be the fashion nowadays, is to show a pitiful lack of intelligence and

discernment; as well compare gooseberry wine to champagne, the fountains

in Trafalgar Square to Niagara.

PART III

THE ROMANTIC DRAMAS

"SALOME"

Of all Wilde's plays the one that has provoked the greatest discussion

and most excited the curiosity of the public is undoubtedly "Salome,"

which, written originally in French and then translated into English,

has finally been performed in two Continents.

Never perhaps has a play, at its inception, had less of a chance than

this Biblical tragedy written for a French Jewess (Madame Sarah

Bernhardt) banned by the English Censor and only produced after the

disgrace and consequent downfall of its author. From Salome's first

speech to the end of the play we realise how the little part was

absolutely identified in the author's mind with the actress he had

written it for. To anyone who has studied, however superficially, Madame

Bernhardt's peculiar methods of diction and acting, the words in the

first speech--"I will not stay, I cannot stay. Why does the Tetrarch

look at me all the while with his mole's eyes under his shaking

eyelids?" convey at once a picture of the actress in the part. If there

is a fault to be found with the character it is that Bernhardt not

Salome is depicted, and yet who shall say that there is much difference

between the temperaments or the physique of the two women. It is true

that, in a letter to _The Times_, the author strenuously denied that he

had written the play for Sarah, but one is inclined to take the denial

with a very big grain of salt. That while in detention Wilde made most

strenuous efforts to get her to produce it is a well-known fact.

The play, as even Macaulay's schoolboy knows, is based on the story of

Herodias' daughter dancing before Herod for the head of John the

Baptist.

An account of the episode is to be found in the 6th chapter of the

Gospel of St Mark, and it is interesting to contrast the strong and

simple Scriptural description with the highly decorative and glowing

language of the play.

Here is St Mark's account of the incident:

v. 21. And when a convenient day was come, that Herod on his

birthday made a supper to his lords, high captains and chief

_estates_ of Galilee;

v. 22. And when the daughter of the said Herodias came in, and

danced, and pleased Herod and them that sat with him, the king said

unto the damsel, Ask of me whatsoever thou wilt, and I will give

_it_ thee.

v. 23. And he sware unto her, Whatsoever thou shalt ask of me, I

will give _it_ thee, unto the half of my kingdom.

v. 24. And she went forth, and said unto her mother, What shall I

ask? And she said, The head of John the Baptist.

v. 25. And she came in straightway with haste unto the king, and

asked, saying, I will that thou give me by and by in a charger the

head of John the Baptist.

v. 26. And the king was exceeding sorry; _yet_ for his oath's sake,

and for their sakes which sat with him, he would not reject her.

v. 27. And immediately the king sent an executioner, and commanded

his head to be brought: and he went and beheaded him in the prison,

v. 28. And brought his head in a charger, and gave it to the

damsel: and the damsel gave it to her mother.

v. 29. And when his disciples heard _of it_, they came and took up

his corpse, and laid it in a tomb.

The account given by St Matthew (xiv. 6) is equally terse, but the

fuller description of the scene as reconstructed by Dean Farrar in his

"Life of Christ" is worth quoting.

"But Herodias had craftily provided the king with an unexpected and

exciting pleasure, the spectacle of which would be sure to

enrapture such guests as his. Dancers and dancing-women were at

that time in great request. The passion for witnessing these too

often degrading representations had naturally made its way into the

Sadducean and semi-pagan court of these usurping Edomites, and

Herod the Great had built in his palace, a theatre for the

Thymelici. A luxurious feast of the period was not regarded as

complete unless it closed with some gross pantomimic

representation; and doubtless Herod had adopted the evil fashion of

his day. But he had not anticipated for his guests the rare luxury

of seeing a princess--his own great-niece, a granddaughter of Herod

the Great and of Mariamne, a descendant, therefore, of Simon the

High Priest and the line of Maccabaean princes--a princess who

afterwards became the wife of a tetrarch and the mother of a

king--honouring them by degrading herself into a scenic dancer. Yet

when the banquet was over, when the guests were full of meat and

flushed with wine, Salome herself, the daughter of Herodias, then

in the prime of her young and lustrous beauty, executed, as it

would now be expressed, a _pas seul_ 'in the midst of' those

dissolute and half-intoxicated revellers. 'She came in and danced,

and pleased Herod, and them that sat at meat with him.' And he,

like another Xerxes, in the delirium of his drunken approval, swore

to this degraded girl, in the presence of his guests, that he would

give her anything for which she asked, even to the half of his

kingdom.

"The girl flew to her mother, and said, 'What shall I ask?' It was

exactly what Herodias expected, and she might have asked for robes,

or jewels, or palaces, or whatever such a woman loves. But to a

mind like hers revenge was sweeter than wealth or pride. We may

imagine with what fierce malice she hissed out the answer, 'The

head of John the Baptiser.' And coming in before the king

_immediately with haste_--(what a touch is that! and how apt a

pupil did the wicked mother find in her wicked daughter!)--Salome

exclaimed, 'My wish is that you give _me here, immediately_, on a

dish, the head of John the Baptist.' Her indecent haste, her

hideous petition, show that she shared the furies of her race. Did

she think that in that infamous period, and among those infamous

guests, her petition would be received with a burst of laughter?

Did she hope to kindle their merriment to a still higher pitch by

the sense of the delightful wickedness involved in a young and

beautiful girl asking--nay, imperiously demanding--that then and

there, on one of the golden dishes which graced the board, should

be given into her own hands the gory head of the Prophet whose

words had made a thousand bold hearts quail?

"If so, she was disappointed. The tetrarch, at anyrate, was plunged

into grief by her request; it more than did away with the pleasure

of her disgraceful dance; it was a bitter termination of his

birthday feast. Fear, policy, remorse, superstition, even whatever

poor spark of better feeling remained unquenched under the white

ashes of a heart consumed by evil passions, made him shrink in

disgust from this sudden execution. He must have felt that he had

been duped out of his own will by the cunning stratagem of his

unrelenting paramour. If a single touch of manliness had been left

in him he would have repudiated the request as one which did not

fall either under the letter or the spirit of his oaths, since the

life of one cannot be made the gift to another; or he would have

boldly declared that if such was her choice, his oath was more

honoured by being kept. But a despicable pride and fear of man

prevailed over his better impulses. More afraid of the criticisms

of his guests than of the future torment of such conscience as was

left him, he sent an executioner to the prison, which in all

probability was not far from the banqueting hall--and so, at the

bidding of a dissolute coward and to please the loathly fancies of

a shameless girl, the axe fell, and the head of the noblest of the

prophets was shorn away. In darkness and in secrecy the scene was

enacted, and if any saw it their lips were sealed; but the

executioner emerged into the light carrying by the hair that noble

head, and then and there, in all the pallor of the recent death, it

was placed upon a dish from the royal table. The girl received it,

and, now frightful as a Megaera, carried the hideous burden to her

mother. Let us hope that those grim features haunted the souls of

both thenceforth till death.

"What became of that ghastly relic we do not know. Tradition tells

us that Herodias ordered the headless trunk to be flung out over

the battlements for dogs and vultures to devour. On her, at

anyrate, swift vengeance fell."

In a footnote the Dean mentions that Salome subsequently married her

uncle Philip, Tetrarch of Ituraea, and then her cousin Aristobulus, King

of Chalcis, by whom she became the mother of three sons. The traditional

death of the "dancing daughter of Herodias" is thus given by Nicephorus.

"Passing over a frozen lake, the ice broke and she fell up to the neck

in water, and her head was parted from her body by the violence of the

fragments shaken by the water and her own fall, and so she perished."

Thus the historical accounts, now for the play itself. To begin with,

let us note the stage directions. "A great terrace in the palace of

Herod set above the banqueting hall. To the right there is a gigantic

staircase, to the left, at the back, an old cistern surrounded by a wall

of green bronze. Moonlight."

These directions for the setting of the stage are for all practical

purposes useless--they would drive the most experienced stage-manager

crazy, but then Wilde, more particularly in the romantic dramas, was

sublimely indifferent to the mere mechanical side of stagecraft. He

issued his commands and it was for the _gens du metier_ to give

practical effect to them. He had the picture in his mind; what matter if

there were practical difficulties in the way of producing it! That was

no fault of his. It is curious to contrast his stage directions with

those of a practical playwright like Shakespeare. Shakespeare, for

instance, would have simply written "soldiers leaning over a balcony."

There is a whole chapter of difference in the introduction of the word

"some."

The time is night, that wonderful Judaean night, when the air is charged

with electricity and the mysterious heart of the East throbs with the

varied emotions of the centuries. "Moonlight," says the directions, and

here we recall the author's almost passionate worship of moonlight. Over

and over again in play, prose, essay, and verse, he writes about the

moon. She possessed an almost uncanny attraction for him, and one almost

wonders whether the superstition connecting certain phases of the planet

with the madness of human beings may not account for a good deal that

remains unexplained in the erratic career of this unfortunate genius!

A young Syrian, the "Captain of the Guard," is talking with the page of

Herodias. From a subsequent description we learn that he was handsome

with the dark languorous eyes of his nation, and that his voice was soft

and musical. He is in love with the Princess Salome, the daughter of

Herodias, wife of the Tetrarch of Judaea, Herod Antipas, and his talk is

all of her and her beauty. The page, who seems to stand in great fear

of his mistress and to be likewise oppressed with a foreboding of coming

evil, tries to divert his attention to the moon, but in the moon the

enamoured Syrian sees only an image of his beloved. Then the page

strikes the first deep note of tragedy. To him she is like a dead woman.

A noise is heard, and the soldiers comment on it and its cause--namely,

the religious dissensions of the Jews. At this the young Syrian,

heedless of all else, breaks in once more like a Greek chorus in praise

of the Princess's beauty. (One can almost hear an imaginary Polonius

exclaiming: "Still harping on my daughter.") Again the page utters a

warning against the Captain's infatuation. He is certain that something

terrible may happen.

As if to confirm his fears the two soldiers begin discussing the

Tetrarch's sombre looks. Plain, uncultured fellows these Roman soldiers,

and yet, like most of the legionaries, they have travelled far afield as

may be gathered from their talk of Herod's various wives. A Cappadocian

joins in their conversation. He is completely _terre a terre_ and cannot

understand anything but the obvious. The talk drifts on to religion, and

then suddenly the voice of John the Baptist (the Jokanaan of the play)

is heard from the cistern in which he is confined. There is a certain

_naivete_ in the introduction of this cistern which may well provoke a

smile, especially when later we meet with the stage direction "He goes

down into the cistern." Historically its introduction may be correct,

but one wishes that the author had chosen any other place of confinement

for the prophet, at anyrate called it by any other name. In the

utilitarian days of water companies and water rates the image that the

word cistern evokes is painfully reminiscent of a metal tank in the

lumber-room of a suburban residence. Even Longfellow, in one of his most

beautiful poems, failed to rob the word of its associations.

The voice strikes a perfectly new note in the play, and announces in

Scriptural language the advent of the Messiah. Then the soldiers, taking

the place of the _raissonneur_ in French plays, proceed to discuss and

describe the prophet. From them we learn that he is gentle and holy,

grateful for the smallest attentions of his guards, that when he came

from the desert he was clothed in camel's hair. We incidentally learn

that he is constantly uttering warnings and prophecies, and that by the

Tetrarch's orders no one is allowed to see him, much less communicate

with him. Then the Cappadocian comments on the strange nature of the

prison, and is informed that Herodias' first husband, the brother of

Herod, was imprisoned in it for twelve years, and was finally strangled.

The question by whom, so naturally put, introduces, with a master's

certainty of touch, another grim note, as Naaman, the executioner, a

gigantic negro, is pointed out as the perpetrator of the deed. Mention

is also made of the mandate he received to carry it out in the shape of

the Tetrarch's death ring.

Thus the soldiers gossip among themselves and Salome's entrance, which

takes place almost immediately, is in stage parlance "worked up" by the

rapturous description of her movements and her person, delivered by the

Syrian, and the awestruck pleading of the page that he should not look

at her.

The Princess is trembling with emotion, and in her first speech gives us

the keynote to the action of the play by referring to the glances of

desire that Herod casts on her. To a timid question of the Syrian's she

vouchsafes no answer, but proceeds to comment on the sweetness of the

night air and the heterogenous collection of guests whom Herod is

entertaining. The proffer of a seat by the lovesick captain remains

likewise unnoticed, and like a chorus the page beseeches him once more

not to look at her, and presages coming evil. And again, the moon is

invoked as this daughter of kings soliloquises on the coldness and

chastity of the orb of heaven.

Her meditations are interrupted by the prophet's voice ringing out

mysteriously on the night air, and then a long dialogue in short,

pregnant sentences takes place between Salome and two soldiers as to the

hidden speaker. We learn that Herod is afraid of him and that the man of

God is constantly inveighing against Herodias.

From time to time the Princess is interrupted by a messenger from the

Tetrarch requesting her to return, but she has no thought for anyone but

the prisoner in the cistern. She wishes to see him, but is informed that

this is against the Tetrarch's orders. Then she deliberately sets

herself to make the Syrian captain disobey his orders. She pleads with

him, she plays on his manhood by taunting him with being afraid of his

charge, she promises him a flower, "a little green flower." He remains

unmoved. The Princess uses all her blandishments to obtain her end; and

we can realise what a clever actress would make of the scene as she

murmurs, "I will look at you through the muslin veils, I will look at

you, Narraboth, it may be I will smile at you. Look at me, Narraboth,

look at me." And with more honeyed words and sentences, left unfinished,

she induces the young officer to break his trust. The speech consists

only of a few lines, and yet gives opportunity for as fine a piece of

acting as any player could desire. The soldier yields, and the page

suddenly draws attention to the moon, in which he discovers the hand of

a dead woman drawing a shroud over herself, though the Syrian can only

discover in her a likeness to the object of his infatuation. Jokanaan is

brought forth, and inquires for Herod, for whom he prophesies an early

death, and then for Herodias, the list of whose iniquities he

enumerates.

His fierce denunciations terrify Salome, and in a wonderful piece of

word-painting she describes the cavernous depths of his eyes and the

terrors lying behind them. The Syrian begs her not to stay, but she is

fascinated by the ivory whiteness of the prophet's body and desire

enters her soul. Her fiery glances trouble the prophet, he inquires who

she is. He refuses to be gazed at by her "golden eyes under her gilded

eyelids." She reveals herself, and he bids her begone, referring to her

mother's iniquities. His voice moves her and she begs him to speak

again. The young Syrian's piteous remonstrance, "Princess! Princess!" is

unheeded, and she addresses the prophet once more. Here follows one of

the finest and most dangerous scenes of the play, and yet one which,

properly treated, is neither irreverent nor, as has been stupidly

asserted, immoral.