Oscar refused to stir. "I'll stay," was all he would say. Robert Ross urged

him to accept Mathew's offer; but he would not: why? I am sure he had no

reason, for I put the question to him more than once, and even after reflecting,

he had no explanation to give. He stayed because to stay was easier than to

make an immediate decision and act on it energetically. He had very little will

power to begin with and his mode of life had weakened his original endowment.

After the judgment had been given in favour of Queensberry, Oscar drove off

in a brougham, accompanied by Alfred Douglas, to consult with his solicitor,

Humphreys. At the same time he gave Ross a cheque on his bank in St. James's

Street. At that moment he intended to fly.

Ross noticed that he was followed by a detective. He drew about L200 from the

bank and raced off to meet Oscar at the Cadogan Hotel, in Sloane Street, where

Lord Alfred Douglas had been staying for the past four or five weeks. Ross

reached the Cadogan Hotel about 1.45 and found Oscar there with Reggie Turner.

Both of them advised Oscar to go at once to Dover and try to get to France; but

he would only say, "the train has gone; it is too late." He had again lapsed

into inaction.

He asked Ross to go to see his wife and tell her what had occurred. Ross did

this and had a very painful scene: Mrs. Wilde wept and said, "I hope Oscar is

going away abroad."

Ross returned to the Cadogan Hotel and told Oscar what his wife had said, but

even this didn't move him to action.

He sat as if glued to his chair, and drank hock and seltzer steadily in almost

unbroken silence. About four o'clock George Wyndham came to see his cousin,

Alfred Douglas; not finding him, he wanted to see Oscar, but Oscar, fearing

reproaches, sent Ross instead. Wyndham said it was a pity that Bosie Douglas

should be with Oscar, and Ross immediately told him that Wilde's friends for

years past had been trying to separate them and that if he, Wyndham, would keep

his cousin away, he would be doing Oscar the very greatest kindness. At this

Wyndham grew more civil, though still "frightfully agitated," and begged Ross to

get Oscar to leave the country at once to avoid scandal. Ross replied that he

and Turner had been trying to bring that about for hours. In the middle of the

conversation Bosie, having returned, burst into the room with: "I want to see my

cousin," and Ross rejoined Oscar. In a quarter of an hour Bosie followed him to

say that he was going out with Wyndham to see someone of importance.

About five o'clock a reporter of the "Star" newspaper came to see Oscar, a

Mr. Marlowe, who is now editor of "The Daily Mail", but again Oscar refused to

see him and sent Ross. Mr. Marlowe was sympathetic and quite understood the

position; he informed Ross that a tape message had come through to the paper

saying that a warrant for Oscar Wilde had already been issued. Ross immediately

went into the other room and told Oscar, who said nothing, but "went very grey

in the face."

A moment later Oscar asked Ross to give him the money he had got at the bank,

though he had refused it several times in the course of the day. Ross gave it

to him, naturally taking it for a sign that he had at length made up his mind

to start, but immediately afterwards Oscar settled down in his chair and said,

"I shall stay and do my sentence whatever it is"--a man evidently incapable

of action.

For the next hour the trio sat waiting for the blow to fall. Once or twice

Oscar asked querulously where Bosie was, but no one could tell him.

At ten past six the waiter knocked at the door and Ross answered it. There were

two detectives. The elder entered and said, "We have a warrant here, Mr. Wilde,

for your arrest on a charge of committing indecent acts." Wilde wanted to know

whether he would be given bail; the detective replied:

"That is a question for the magistrate."

Oscar then rose and asked, "Where shall I be taken?"

"To Bow Street," was the reply.

As he picked up a copy of the Yellow Book and groped for his overcoat, they

all noticed that he was "very drunk" though still perfectly conscious of what

he was doing.

He asked Ross to go to Tite Street and get him a change of clothes and bring

them to Bow Street. The two detectives took him away in a four-wheeler, leaving

Ross and Turner on the curb.

Ross hurried to Tite Street. He found that Mrs. Oscar Wilde had gone to the

house of a relative and there was only Wilde's man servant, Arthur, in the

house, who afterwards went out of his mind, and is still, it is said, in an

asylum. He had an intense affection for Oscar. Ross found that Mrs. Oscar

Wilde had locked up Oscar's bedroom and study. He burst open the bedroom door

and, with the help of Arthur, packed up a change of things. He then hurried to

Bow Street, where he found a howling mob shouting indecencies. He was informed

by an inspector that it was impossible to see Wilde or to leave any clothes for

him.

Ross returned at once to Tite Street, forced open the library door and removed

a certain number of letters and manuscripts of Wilde's; but unluckily he

couldn't find the two MSS. which he knew had been returned to Tite Street two

days before, namely, "A Florentine Tragedy" and the enlarged version of "The

Portrait of Mr. W. H."

Ross then drove to his mother's and collapsed. Mrs. Ross insisted that he

should go abroad, and in order to induce him to do it gave L500 for Oscar's

defence. Ross went to the Terminus Hotel at Calais, where Bosie Douglas joined

him a little later. They both stayed there while Oscar was being tried before

Mr. Justice Charles and one day George Wyndham crossed the Channel to see Bosie

Douglas.

There is of course some excuse to be made for the chief actor. Oscar was

physically tired and morally broken. He had pulled the fair building of

reputation and success down upon his own head, and, with the "booing" of the

mob still in his ears, he could think of nothing but the lost hours when he

ought to have used his money to take him beyond the reach of his pursuers.

His enemies, on the other hand, had acted with the utmost promptitude. Lord

Queensberry's solicitor, Mr. Charles Russell, had stated that it was not his

client's intention to take the initiative in any criminal prosecution of

Mr. Oscar Wilde, but, on the very same morning when Wilde withdrew from the

prosecution, Mr. Russell sent a letter to the Hon. Hamilton Cuffe, the Director

of Public Prosecutions, with a copy of "all our witnesses' statements, together

with a copy of the shorthand notes of the trial."

The Treasury authorities were at least as eager. As soon as possible after

leaving the court Mr. C. F. Gill, Mr. Angus Lewis, and Mr. Charles Russell

waited on Sir John Bridge at Bow Street in his private room and obtained a

warrant for the arrest of Oscar Wilde, which was executed, as we have seen,

the same evening.

The police showed him less than no favour. About eight o'clock Lord Alfred

Douglas drove to Bow Street and wanted to know if Wilde could be bailed out,

but was informed that his application could not be entertained. He offered

to procure comforts for the prisoner: this offer also was peremptorily refused

by the police inspector just as Ross's offer of night clothes had been refused.

It is a common belief that in England a man is treated as innocent until he has

been proved guilty, but those who believe this pleasant fiction, have never been

in the hands of the English police. As soon as a man is arrested on any charge

he is at once treated as if he were a dangerous criminal; he is searched, for

instance, with every circumstance of indignity. Before his conviction a man is

allowed to wear his own clothes; but a change of linen or clothes is denied him,

or accorded in part and grudgingly, for no earthly reason except to gratify the

ill-will of the gaolers.

The warrant on which Oscar Wilde was arrested charged him with an offence

alleged to have been committed under Section xi. of the Criminal Amendment Act

of 1885; in other words, he was arrested and tried for an offence which was not

punishable by law ten years before. This Act was brought in as a result of the

shameful and sentimental stories (evidently for the most part manufactured)

which Mr. Stead had published in "The Pall Mall Gazette" under the title of

"Modern Babylon." In order to cover and justify their prophet some of the "unco

guid" pressed forward this so-called legislative reform, by which it was made a

criminal offence to take liberties with a girl under thirteen years of age--even

with her own consent. Intimacy with minors under sixteen was punishable if they

consented or even tempted. Mr. Labouchere, the Radical member, inflamed, it is

said, with a desire to make the law ridiculous, gravely proposed that the

section be extended, so as to apply to people of the same sex who indulged in

familiarities or indecencies. The Puritan faction had no logical objection to

the extension, and it became the law of the land. It was by virtue of this

piece of legislative wisdom, which is without a model and without a copy in the

law of any other civilised country, that Oscar Wilde was arrested and thrown

into prison.

His arrest was the signal for an orgy of Philistine rancour such as even London

had never known before. The puritan middle class, which had always regarded

Wilde with dislike as an artist and intellectual scoffer, a mere parasite of the

aristocracy, now gave free scope to their disgust and contempt, and everyone

tried to outdo his neighbour in expressions of loathing and abhorrence. This

middle class condemnation swept the lower class away in its train. To do them

justice, the common people, too, felt a natural loathing for the peculiar vice

attributed to Wilde; most men condemn the sins they have no mind to; but their

dislike was rather contemptuous than profound, and with customary humour they

soon turned the whole case into a bestial, obscene joke. "Oscar" took the place

of their favourite word as a term of contempt, and they shouted it at each other

on all sides; bus-drivers, cabbies and paper sellers using it in and out of

season with the keenest relish. For the moment the upper classes lay mum-

chance and let the storm blow over. Some of them of course agreed with the

condemnation of the Puritans, and many of them felt that Oscar and his

associates had been too bold, and ought to be pulled up.

The English journals, which are nothing but middle-class shops, took the

side of their patrons. Without a single exception they outdid themselves in

condemnation of the man and all his works. You might have thought to read their

bitter diatribes that they themselves lived saintly lives, and were shocked at

sensual sin. One rubbed one's eyes in amazement. The Strand and Fleet Street,

which practically belong to this class and have been fashioned by them, are the

haunt of as vile a prostitution as can be found in Europe; the public houses

which these men frequent are low drinking dens; yet they all lashed Oscar Wilde

with every variety of insult as if they themselves had been above reproach. The

whole of London seemed to have broken loose in a rage of contempt and loathing

which was whipped up and justified each morning by the hypocritical articles of

the "unco guid" in the daily this and the weekly that. In the streets one heard

everywhere the loud jests of the vulgar, decked out with filthy anecdotes and

punctuated by obscene laughter, as from the mouth of the Pit.

In spite of the hatred of the journalists pandering to the prejudice of their

paymasters, one could hope still that the magistrate would show some regard

for fair play. The expectation, reasonable or unreasonable, was doomed to

disappointment. On Saturday morning, the 6th, Oscar Wilde, "described as a

gentleman," the papers said in derision, was brought before Sir John Bridge.

Mr. C. F. Gill, who had been employed in the Queensberry trial, was instructed

by Mr. Angus Lewis of the Treasury, and conducted the prosecution; Alfred Taylor

was placed in the dock charged with conspiracy with Oscar Wilde. The witnesses

have already been described in connection with the Queensberry case. Charles

Parker, William Parker, Alfred Wood, Sidney Mavor and Shelley all gave evidence.

After lasting all day the case was adjourned till the following Thursday.

Mr. Travers Humphreys applied for bail for Mr. Wilde, on the ground that he knew

the warrant against him was being applied for on Friday afternoon, but he made

no attempt to leave London. Sir John Bridge refused bail.

On Thursday, the 11th, the case was continued before Sir John Bridge, and in the

end both the accused were committed for trial. Again Mr. Humphreys applied for

bail, and again the magistrate refused to accept bail.

Now to refuse bail in cases of serious crime may be defended, but in the case of

indecent conduct it is usually granted. To run away is regarded as a confession

of guilt, and what could one wish for more than the perpetual banishment of the

corrupt liver, consequently there is no reason to refuse bail. But in this

case, though bail was offered to any amount, it was refused peremptorily in

spite of the fact that every consideration should have been shown to an accused

person who had already had a good opportunity to leave the country and had

refused to budge. Moreover, Oscar Wilde had already been criticised and

condemned in a hundred papers. There was widespread prejudice against him,

no risk to the public in accepting bail, and considerable injury done to the

accused in refusing it. His affairs were certain to be thrown into confusion;

he was known not to be rich and yet he was deprived of the power to get money

together and to collect evidence just when the power which freedom confers was

most needed by him.

The magistrate was as prejudiced as the public; he had no more idea of standing

for justice and fair play than Pilate; probably, indeed, he never gave himself

the trouble to think of fairness in the matter. A large salary is paid to

magistrates in London, L1,500 a year, but it is rare indeed that any of them

rises above the vulgarest prejudice. Sir John Bridge not only refused bail but

he was careful to give his reasons for refusing it: he had not the slightest

scruple about prejudicing the case even before he had heard a word of the

defence. After hearing the evidence for the prosecution he said:

"The responsibility of accepting or refusing bail rests upon me. The

considerations that weigh with me are the gravity of the offences and

the strength of the evidence. I must absolutely refuse bail and send the

prisoners for trial."

Now these reasons, which he proffered voluntarily, and especially the use of the

word "absolutely," showed not only prejudice on the part of Sir John Bridge, but

the desire to injure the unfortunate prisoner in the public mind and so continue

the evil work of the journalists.

The effect of this prejudice and rancour on the part of the whole community had

various consequences.

The mere news that Oscar Wilde had been arrested and taken to Holloway startled

London and gave the signal for a strange exodus. Every train to Dover was

crowded; every steamer to Calais thronged with members of the aristocratic and

leisured classes, who seemed to prefer Paris, or even Nice out of the season,

to a city like London, where the police might act with such unexpected vigour.

The truth was that the cultured aesthetes whom I have already described had

been thunderstruck by the facts which the Queensberry trial had laid bare. For

the first time they learned that such houses as Taylor's were under police

supervision, and that creatures like Wood and Parker were classified and

watched. They had imagined that in "the home of liberty" such practices passed

unnoticed. It came as a shock to their preconceived ideas that the police

in London knew a great many things which they were not supposed to concern

themselves with, and this unwelcome glare of light drove the vicious forth

in wild haste.

Never was Paris so crowded with members of the English governing classes; here

was to be seen a famous ex-Minister; there the fine face of the president of a

Royal society; at one table in the Cafe; de la Paix, a millionaire recently

ennobled, and celebrated for his exquisite taste in art; opposite to him a

famous general. It was even said that a celebrated English actor took a return

ticket for three or four days to Paris, just to be in the fashion. The mummer

returned quickly; but the majority of the migrants stayed abroad for some time.

The wind of terror which had swept them across the Channel opposed their return,

and they scattered over the Continent from Naples to Monte Carlo and from

Palermo to Seville under all sorts of pretexts.

The gravest result of the magistrate's refusal to accept bail was purely

personal. Oscar's income dried up at the source. His books were withdrawn from

sale; no one went to see his plays; every shop keeper to whom he owed a penny

took immediate action against him. Judgments were obtained and an execution put

into his house in Tite Street. Within a month, at the very moment when he most

needed money to fee counsel and procure evidence, he was beggared and sold up,

and because of his confinement in prison the sale was conducted under such

conditions that, whereas in ordinary times his effects would have covered the

claims against him three times over, all his belongings went for nothing, and

the man who was making L4,000 or L5,000 a year by his plays was adjudicated a

bankrupt for a little over L1,000. L600 of this sum were for Lord Queensberry's

costs which the Queensberry family--Lord Douglas of Hawick, Lord Alfred Douglas

and their mother--had promised in writing to pay, but when the time came,

absolutely refused to pay. Most unfortunately many of Oscar's MSS. were stolen

or lost in the disorder of the sheriff's legal proceedings. Wilde could have

cried, with Shylock, "You take my life when you do take away the means whereby

I live." But at the time nine Englishmen out of ten applauded what was

practically persecution.

A worse thing remains to be told. The right of free speech which Englishmen

pride themselves on had utterly disappeared, as it always does disappear in

England when there is most need of it. It was impossible to say one word in

Wilde's defence or even in extenuation of his sin in any London print. At this

time I owned the greater part of the "Saturday Review" and edited it. Here at

any rate one might have thought I could have set forth in a Christian country a

sane and liberal view. I had no wish to minimise the offence. No one condemned

unnatural vice more than I, but Oscar Wilde was a distinguished man of letters;

he had written beautiful things, and his good works should have been allowed to

speak in his favour. I wrote an article setting forth this view. My printers

immediately informed me that they thought the article ill-advised, and when I

insisted they said they would prefer not to print it. Yet there was nothing in

it beyond a plea to suspend judgment and defer insult till after the trial.

Messrs. Smith and Sons, the great booksellers, who somehow got wind of the

matter (through my publisher, I believe), sent to say that they would not sell

any paper that attempted to defend Oscar Wilde; it would be better even, they

added, not to mention his name. The English tradesman-censors were determined

that this man should have Jedburg justice. I should have ruined the "Saturday

Review" by the mere attempt to treat the matter fairly.

In this extremity I went to the great leader of public opinion in England. Mr.

Arthur Walter, the manager of "The Times", had always been kind to me; he was a

man of balanced mind, who had taken high honours at Oxford in his youth, and for

twenty years had rubbed shoulders with the leading men in every rank of life. I

went down to stay with him in Berkshire, and I urged upon him what I regarded as

the aristocratic view. In England it was manifest that under the circumstances

there was no chance of a fair trial, and it seemed to me the duty of "The Times"

to say plainly that this man should not be condemned beforehand, and that if he

were condemned his merits should be taken into consideration in his punishment,

as well as his demerits.

While willing to listen to me, Mr. Walter did not share my views. A man who had

written a great poem or a great play did not rank in his esteem with a man who

had won a skirmish against a handful of unarmed savages, or one who had stolen a

piece of land from some barbarians and annexed it to the Empire. In his heart

he held the view of the English landed aristocracy, that the ordinary successful

general or admiral or statesman was infinitely more important than a Shakespeare

or a Browning. He could not be persuaded to believe that the names of

Gladstone, Disraeli, Wolseley, Roberts, and Wood, would diminish and fade from

day to day till in a hundred years they would scarcely be known, even to the

educated; whereas the fame of Browning, Swinburne, Meredith, or even Oscar

Wilde, would increase and grow brighter with time, till, in one hundred or five

hundred years, no one would dream of comparing pushful politicians like

Gladstone or Beaconsfield with men of genius like Swinburne or Wilde. He simply

would not see it and when he perceived that the weight of argument was against

him he declared that if it were true, it was so much the worse for humanity. In

his opinion anyone living a clean life was worth more than a writer of love

songs or the maker of clever comedies--Mr. John Smith worth more than

Shakespeare!

He was as deaf as only Englishmen can be deaf to the plea for abstract justice.

"You don't even say Wilde's innocent," he threw at me more than once.

"I believe him to be innocent," I declared truthfully, "but it is better that a

hundred guilty men go free than that one man should not have a fair trial. And

how can this man have a fair trial now when the papers for weeks past have been

filled with violent diatribes against him and his works?"

One point, peculiarly English, he used again and again.

"So long as substantial justice is done," he said, "it is all we care about."

"Substantial justice will never be done," I cried, "so long as that is your

ideal. Your arrow can never go quite so high as it is aimed." But I got no

further.

If Oscar Wilde had been a general or a so-called empire builder, "The Times"

might have affronted public opinion and called attention to his virtues, and

argued that they should be taken in extenuation of his offences; but as he was

only a writer no one seemed to owe him anything or to care what became of him.

Mr. Walter was fair-minded in comparison with most men of his class. There

was staying with him at this very time an Irish gentleman, who listened to my

pleading for Wilde with ill-concealed indignation. Excited by Arthur Walter's

obstinacy to find fresh arguments, I pointed out that Wilde's offence was

pathological and not criminal and would not be punished in a properly

constituted state.

"You admit," I said, "that we punish crime to prevent it spreading; wipe this

sin off the statute book and you would not increase the sinners by one: then

why punish them?"

"Oi'd whip such sinners to death, so I would," cried the Irishman; "hangin's

too good for them."

"You only punished lepers," I went on, "in the middle ages, because you believed

that leprosy was catching: this malady is not even catching."

"Faith, Oi'd punish it with extermination," cried the Irishman.

Exasperated by the fact that his idiot prejudice was hurting my friend, I said

at length with a smile:

"You are very bitter: I'm not; you see, I have no sexual jealousy to inflame

me."

On this Mr. Walter had to interfere between us to keep the peace, but the

mischief was done: my advocacy remained without effect.

It is very curious how deep-rooted and enduring is the prejudice against writers

in England. Not only is no attempt made to rate them at their true value, at

the value which posterity puts upon their work; but they are continually treated

as outcasts and denied the most ordinary justice. The various trials of Oscar

Wilde are to the thinker an object lesson in the force of this prejudice, but

some may explain the prejudice against Wilde on the score of the peculiar

abhorrence with which the offence ascribed to him is regarded in England.

Let me take an example from the papers of today--I am writing in January, 1910.

I find in my "Daily Mail" that at Bow Street police court a London magistrate,

Sir Albert de Rutzen, ordered the destruction of 272 volumes of the English

translation of Balzac's "Les Contes Drolatiques" on the ground that the book

was obscene. "Les Contes Drolatiques" is an acknowledged masterpiece, and is

not nearly so free spoken as "Lear" or "Hamlet" or "Tom Jones" or "Anthony and

Cleopatra." What would be thought of a French magistrate or a German magistrate

who ordered a fair translation of "Hamlet" or of "Lear" to be burnt, because of

its obscenity? He would be regarded as demented. One can only understand such

a judgment as an isolated fact. But in England this monstrous stupidity is the

rule. Sir A. de Rutzen was not satisfied with ordering the books to be burnt

and fining the bookseller; he went on to justify his condemnation and praise

the police:

"It is perfectly clear to my mind that a more foul and filthy black spot has not

been found in London for a long time, and the police have done uncommonly well

in bringing the matter to light. I consider that the books are likely to do a

great deal of harm."

Fancy the state of mind of the man who can talk such poisonous nonsense; who,

with the knowledge of what Piccadilly is at night in his mind, can speak of the

translation of a masterpiece as one of the "most filthy black spots" to be found

in London. To say that such a man is insane is, I suppose, going too far; but

to say that he does not know the value or the meaning of the words he uses, to

say that he is driven by an extraordinary and brainless prejudice, is certainly

the modesty of truth.

It is this sort of perversity on the part of Sir A. de Rutzen and of nine out

of ten Englishmen that makes Frenchmen, Germans and Italians speak of them as

ingrained hypocrites. But they are not nearly so hypocritical as they are

uneducated and unintelligent, rebellious to the humanising influence of art

and literature. The ordinary Englishman would much prefer to be called an

athlete than a poet. The Puritan Commonwealth Parliament ordered the pictures

of Charles I. to be sold, but such of them as were indecent to be burnt;

accordingly half a dozen Titians were solemnly burnt and the nucleus of a great

national gallery destroyed. One can see Sir A. de Rutzen solemnly assisting

at this holocaust and devoutly deciding that all the masterpieces which showed

temptingly a woman's beautiful breasts were "foul and filthy black spots" and

must be burnt as harmful. Or rather one can see that Sir A. de Rutzen has in

two and a half centuries managed to get a little beyond this primitive Puritan

standpoint: he might allow a pictorial masterpiece to-day to pass unburnt, but

a written masterpiece is still to him anathema.

A part of this prejudice comes from the fact that the English have a special

dislike for every form of sexual indulgence. It is not consistent with their

ideal of manhood, and, like the poor foolish magistrate, they have not yet

grasped the truth, which one might have thought the example of the Japanese

would have made plain by now to the dullest, that a nation may be

extraordinarily brave, vigorous and self-sacrificing and at the same time

intensely sensuous, and sensitive to every refinement of passion. If the

great English middle class were as well educated as the German middle class,

such a judgment as this of Sir A. de Rutzen would be scouted as ridiculous

and absurd, or rather would be utterly unthinkable.

In Anglo-Saxon countries both the artist and the sexual passion are under a ban.

The race is more easily moved martially than amorously and it regards its

overpowering combative instincts as virtuous just as it is apt to despise what

it likes to call "languishing love." The poet Middleton couldn't put his dream

city in England--a city of fair skies and fairer streets:

And joy was there; in all the city's length

I saw no fingers trembling for the sword;

Nathless they doted on their bodies' strength,

That they might gentler be. Love was their lord.

Both America and England today offer terrifying examples of the despotism of an

unenlightened and vulgar public opinion in all the highest concerns of man--in

art, in literature and in religion. There is no despotism on earth so soul-

destroying to the artist: it is baser and more degrading than anything known

in Russia. The consequences of this tyranny of an uneducated middle class and

a barbarian aristocracy are shown in detail in the trial of Oscar Wilde and in

the savagery with which he was treated by the English officers of justice.

CHAPTER XV--THE QUEEN VS. WILDE: THE FIRST TRIAL

As soon as I heard that Oscar Wilde was arrested and bail refused, I tried to

get permission to visit him in Holloway. I was told I should have to see him

in a kind of barred cage; and talk to him from the distance of at least a yard.

It seemed to me too painful for both of us, so I went to the higher authorities

and got permission to see him in a private room. The Governor met me at the

entrance of the prison: to my surprise he was more than courteous; charmingly

kind and sympathetic.

"We all hope," he said, "that he will soon be free; this is no place for him.

Everyone likes him, everyone. It is a great pity."

He evidently felt much more than he said, and my heart went out to him. He left

me in a bare room furnished with a small square deal table and two kitchen

chairs. In a moment or two Oscar came in accompanied by a warder. In silence

we clasped hands. He looked miserably anxious and pulled down and I felt that

I had nothing to do but cheer him up.

"I am glad to see you," I cried. "I hope the warders are kind to you?"

"Yes, Frank," he replied in a hopeless way, "but everyone else is against me:

it is hard."

"Don't harbour that thought," I answered; "many whom you don't know, and whom

you will never know, are on your side. Stand for them and for the myriads who

are coming afterwards and make a fight of it."

"I'm afraid I'm not a fighter, Frank, as you once said," he replied sadly,

"and they won't give me bail. How can I get evidence or think in this place

of torture? Fancy refusing me bail," he went on, "though I stayed in London

when I might have gone abroad."

"You should have gone," I cried in French, hot with indignation; "why didn't you

go, the moment you came out of the court?"

"I couldn't think at first," he answered in the same tongue; "I couldn't think

at all: I was numbed."

"Your friends should have thought of it," I insisted, not knowing then that

they had done their best.

At this moment the warder, who had turned away towards the door, came back.

"You are not allowed, sir, to talk in a foreign language," he said quietly.

"You will understand we have to obey the rules. Besides, the prisoner must not

speak of this prison as a place of torture. I ought to report that; I'm sorry."

The misery of it all brought tears to my eyes: his gaolers even felt sorry for

him. I thanked the warder and turned again to Oscar.

"Don't let yourself fear at all," I exclaimed. "You will have your chance again

and must take it; only don't lose heart and don't be witty next time in court.

The jury hate it. They regard it as intellectual superiority and impudence.

Treat all things seriously and with grave dignity. Defend yourself as David

would have defended his love for Jonathan. Make them all listen to you. I

would undertake to get free with half your talent even if I were guilty; a

resolution not to be beaten is always half the battle. . . . . Make your trial

memorable from your entrance into the court to the decision of the jury. Use

every opportunity and give your real character a chance to fight for you."

I spoke with tears in my eyes and rage in my heart.

"I will do my best, Frank," he said despondingly, "I will do my best. If I were

out of this place, I might think of something, but it is dreadful to be here.

One has to go to bed by daylight and the nights are interminable."

"Haven't you a watch?" I cried.

They don't allow you to have a watch in prison," he replied.

"But why not?" I asked in amazement. I did not know that every rule in an

English prison is cunningly devised to annoy and degrade the unfortunate

prisoner.

Oscar lifted his hands hopelessly:

"One may not smoke; not even a cigarette; and so I cannot sleep. All the past

comes back; the golden hours; the June days in London with the sunshine dappling

the grass and the silken rustling of the wind in the trees. Do you remember

Wordsworth speaks 'of the wind in the trees'? How I wish I could hear it now,

breathe it once again. I might get strength then to fight."

"Is the food good?" I asked.

"It's all right; I get it from outside. The food doesn't matter. It is the

smoking I miss, the freedom, the companionship. My mind will not act when I'm

alone. I can only think of what has been and torment myself. Already I've been

punished enough for the sins of a lifetime."

"Is there nothing I can do for you, nothing you want?" I asked.

"No, Frank," he answered, "it was kind of you to come to see me, I wish I could

tell you how kind."

"Don't think of it," I said; "if I'm any good send for me at any moment: a word

will bring me. They allow you books, don't they?"

"Yes, Frank."

"I wish you would get the 'Apologia of Plato'," I said, "and take a big draught

of that deathless smiling courage of Socrates."

"Ah, Frank, how much more humane were the Greeks. They let his friends see him

and talk to him by the hour, though he was condemned to death. There were no

warders there to listen, no degrading conditions."

"Quite true," I cried, suddenly realising how much better Oscar Wilde would have

been treated in Athens two thousand years ago. "Our progress is mainly change;

we don't shed our cruelty; even Christ has not been able to humanise us."

He nodded his head. At first he seemed greatly distressed; but I managed to

encourage him a little, for at the close of the talk he questioned me:

"Do you really think I may win, Frank?"

"Of course you'll win," I replied. "You must win: you must not think of being

beaten. Take it that they will not want to convict you. Say it to yourself

in the court; don't let yourself fear for a moment. Your enemies are merely

stupid, unhappy creatures crawling about for a few miserable years between earth

and sun; fated to die and leave no trace, no memory. Remember you are fighting

for all of us, for every artist and thinker who is to be born into the English

world. . . . . It is better to win like Galileo than to be burnt like Giordano

Bruno. Don't let them make another martyr. Use all your brains and eloquence

and charm. Don't be afraid. They will not condemn you if they know you."

"I have been trying to think," he said, "trying to make up my mind to bear

one whole year of this life. It's dreadful, Frank, I had no idea that prison

was so dreadful."

The warder again drew down his brows. I hastened to change the subject.

"That's why you must resolve not to have any more of it," I said; "I wish I had

seen you when you came out of court, but I really thought you didn't want me;

you turned away from me."

"Oh, Frank, how could I?" he cried. "I should have been so grateful to you."

"I'm very shortsighted," I rejoined, "and I thought you did. It is our foolish

little vanities which prevent us acting as we should. But let me know if I can

do anything for you. If you want me, I'll come at any moment."

I said this because the warder had already given me a sign; he now said:

"Time is up."

Once again we clasped hands.

"You must win," I said; "don't think of defeat. Even your enemies are human.

Convert them. You can do it, believe me," and I went with dread in my heart,

and pity and indignation.

Be still, be still, my soul; it is but for a season:

Let us endure an hour and see injustice done.

The Governor met me almost at the door.

"It is terrible," I exclaimed.

"This is no place for him," he answered. "He has nothing to do with us here.

Everyone likes him and pities him: the warders, everyone. Anything I can do

to make his stay tolerable shall be done."

We shook hands. I think there were tears in both our eyes as we parted.

This humane Governor had taught me that Oscar's gentleness and kindness--his

sweetness of nature--would win all hearts if it had time to make itself known.

Yet there he was in prison. His face and figure came before me again and again:

the unshaven face; the frightened, sad air; the hopeless, toneless voice. The

cleanliness even of the bare hard room was ugly; the English are foolish enough

to degrade those they punish. Revolt was blazing in me.

As I went away I looked up at the mediaeval castellated gateway of the place,

and thought how perfectly the architecture suited the spirit of the institution.

The whole thing belongs to the middle ages, and not to our modern life. Fancy

having both prison and hospital side by side; indeed a hospital even in the

prison; torture and lovingkindness; punishment and pity under the same roof.

What a blank contradiction and stupidity. Will civilisation never reach humane

ideals? Will men always punish most severely the sins they do not understand and

which hold for them no temptation? Did Jesus suffer in vain?

. . . . . . .

Oscar Wilde was committed on the 19th of April; a "true bill" was found against

him by the grand jury on the 24th; and, as the case was put down for trial at

the Old Bailey almost immediately, a postponement was asked for till the May

sessions, on the ground first that the defence had not had time to prepare their

case and further, that in the state of popular feeling at the moment, Mr. Wilde

would not get a fair and impartial trial. Mr. Justice Charles, who was to try

the case, heard the application and refused it peremptorily: "Any suggestion

that the defendant would not have a fair trial was groundless," he declared; yet

he knew better. In his summing up of the case on May 1st he stated that "for

weeks it had been impossible to open a newspaper without reading some reference

to the case," and when he asked the jury not to allow "preconceived opinions to

weigh with them" he was admitting the truth that every newspaper reference was

charged with dislike and contempt of Oscar Wilde. A fair trial indeed!

The trial took place at the Old Bailey, three days later, April 27th, 1895,

before Mr. Justice Charles. Mr. C. F. Gill and A. Gill with Mr. Horace Avory

appeared for the Public Prosecutor. Mr. Wilde was again defended by Sir Edward

Clarke, Mr. Charles Mathews and Mr. Travers Humphreys, while Mr. J. P. Grain

and Mr. Paul Taylor were counsel for the other prisoner. The trial began on a

Saturday and the whole of the day was taken up with a legal argument. I am not

going to give the details of the case. I shall only note the chief features of

it and the unfairness which characterised it.

Sir Edward Clarke pointed out that there was one set of charges under the

Criminal Law Amendment Act and another set of charges of conspiracy. He urged

that the charges of conspiracy should be dropped. Under the counts alleging

conspiracy, the defendants could not be called on as witnesses, which put

the defence at a disadvantage. In the end the Judge decided that there were

inconveniences; but he would not accede to Sir Edward Clarke's request. Later

in the trial, however, Mr. Gill himself withdrew the charges of conspiracy,

and the Judge admitted explicitly in his summing up that, if he had known the

evidence which was to be offered, he would not have allowed these charges of

conspiracy to be made. By this confession he apparently cleared his conscience

just as Pilate washed his hands. But the wrong had already been done. Not only

did this charge of conspiracy embarrass the defence, but if it had never been

made, as it should never have been made, then Sir Edward Clarke would have

insisted and could have insisted properly that the two men should be tried

separately, and Wilde would not have been discredited by being coupled with

Taylor, whose character was notorious and who had already been in the hands of

the police on a similar charge.

This was not the only instance of unfairness in the conduct of the prosecution.

The Treasury put a youth called Atkins in the box, thus declaring him to be at

least a credible witness; but Atkins was proved by Sir Edward Clarke to have

perjured himself in the court in the most barefaced way. In fact the Treasury

witnesses against Wilde were all blackmailers and people of the lowest

character, with two exceptions. The exceptions were a boy named Mavor and a

youth named Shelley. With regard to Mavor the judge admitted that no evidence

had been offered that he could place before the jury; but in his summing up he

was greatly affected by the evidence of Shelley. Shelley was a young man who

seemed to be afflicted with a species of religious mania. Mr. Justice Charles

gave great weight to his testimony. He invited the jury to say that "although

there was, in his correspondence which had been read, evidence of excitability,

to talk of him as a young man who did not know what he was saying was to

exaggerate the effect of his letters." He went on to ask with much solemnity:

"Why should this young man have invented a tale, which must have been unpleasant

to him to present from the witness box?"

In the later trial before Mr. Justice Wills the Judge had to rule out the

evidence of Shelley "in toto", because it was wholly without corroboration.

If the case before Mr. Justice Charles had not been confused with the charges

of conspiracy, there is no doubt that he too would have ruled out the evidence

of Shelley, and then his summing up must have been entirely in favour of Wilde.

The singular malevolence of the prosecution also can be estimated by their use

of the so-called "literary argument." Wilde had written in a magazine called

"The Chameleon. The Chameleon" contained an immoral story, with which Wilde had

nothing to do, and which he had repudiated as offensive. Yet the prosecution

tried to make him responsible in some way for the immorality of a writing which

he knew nothing about.

Wilde had said two poems of Lord Alfred Douglas were "beautiful." The

prosecution declared that these poems were in essence a defence of the vilest

immorality, but is it not possible for the most passionate poem, even the most

vicious, to be "beautiful"? Nothing was ever written more passionate than one

of the poems of Sappho. Yet a fragment has been selected out and preserved by

the admiration of a hundred generations of men. The prosecution was in the

position all the time of one who declared that a man who praised a nude picture

must necessarily be immoral. Such a contention would be inconceivable in any

other civilised country. Even the Judge was on much the same intellectual

level. It would not be fair, he admitted, to condemn a poet or dramatic writer

by his works and he went on:

"It is unfortunately true that while some of our greatest writers have passed

long years in writing nothing but the most wholesome literature--literature of

the highest genius, and which anybody can read, such as the literature of Sir

Walter Scott and Charles Dickens; it is also true that there were other great

writers, more especially in the eighteenth century, perfectly noble-minded men

themselves, who somehow or other have permitted themselves to pen volumes which

it is painful for persons of ordinary modesty and decency to read."

It would have been more honest and more liberal to have brushed away the

nonsensical indictment in a sentence. Would the Treasury have put Shakespeare

on trial for "Hamlet" or "Lear," or would they have condemned the writer of

"The Song of Solomon" for immorality, or sent St. Paul to prison for his

"Epistle to the Corinthians"?

Middle-class prejudice and hypocritic canting twaddle from Judge and advocate

dragged their weary length along for days and days. On Wednesday Sir Edward

Clarke made his speech for the defence. He pointed out the unfairness of the

charges of conspiracy which had tardily been withdrawn. He went on to say that

the most remarkable characteristic of the case was the fact that it had been the

occasion for conduct on the part of certain sections of the press which was

disgraceful, and which imperilled the administration of justice, and was in the

highest degree injurious to the client for whom he was pleading. Nothing, he

concluded, could be more unfair than the way Mr. Wilde had been criticised in

the press for weeks and weeks. But no judge interfered on his behalf.

Sir Edward Clarke evidently thought that to prove unfairness would not even

influence the minds of the London jury. He was content to repudiate the attempt

to judge Mr. Wilde by his books or by an article which he had condemned, or by

poems which he had not written. He laid stress on the fact that Mr. Wilde had

himself brought the charge against Lord Queensberry which had provoked the whole

investigation: "on March 30th, Mr. Wilde," he said, "knew the catalogue of

accusations"; and he asked: did the jury believe that, if he had been guilty,

he would have stayed in England and brought about the first trial? Insane would

hardly be the word for such conduct, if Mr. Wilde really had been guilty.

Moreover, before even hearing the specific accusations, Mr. Wilde had gone

into the witness box to deny them.

Clarke's speech was a good one, but nothing out of the common: no new arguments

were used in it; not one striking illustration. Needless to say the higher

advocacy of sympathy was conspicuous by its absence.

Again, the interesting part of the trial was the cross-examination of Oscar

Wilde.

Mr. Gill examined him at length on the two poems which Lord Alfred Douglas had

contributed to "The Chameleon", which Mr. Wilde had called "beautiful." The

first was in "Praise of Shame," the second was one called "Two Loves." Sir

Edward Clarke, interposing, said:

"That's not Mr. Wilde's, Mr. Gill."

Mr. Gill: "I am not aware that I said it was."

Sir Edward Clarke: "I thought you would be glad to say it was not."

Mr. Gill insisted that Mr. Wilde should explain the poem in "Praise of Shame."

Mr. Wilde said that the first poem seemed obscure, but, when pressed as to the

"love" described in the second poem, he let himself go for the first time and

perhaps the only time during the trial; he said:

"The 'love' that dare not speak its name in this century is such a great

affection of an older for a younger man as there was between David and Jonathan,

such as Plato made the very base of his philosophy and such as you find in the

sonnets of Michaelangelo and Shakespeare--a deep spiritual affection that is as

pure as it is perfect, and dictates great works of art like those of Shakespeare

and Michaelangelo and those two letters of mine, such as they are, and which is

in this century misunderstood--so misunderstood that on account of it, I am

placed where I am now. It is beautiful; it is fine; it is the noblest form of

affection. It is intellectual, and it repeatedly exists between an elder and

younger man, when the elder man has intellect, and the younger man has all the

joy, hope and glamour of life. That it should be so the world does not

understand. It mocks at it and sometimes puts one into the pillory for it."

At this stage there was loud applause in the gallery of the court, and the

learned Judge at once said: "I shall have the Court cleared if there is the

slightest manifestation of feeling. There must be complete silence preserved."

Mr. Justice Charles repressed the cheering in favour of Mr. Oscar Wilde with

great severity, though Mr. Justice Collins did not attempt to restrain the

cheering which filled his court and accompanied the dispersing crowd into the

street on the acquittal of Lord Queensberry.

In spite, however, of the unfair criticisms of the press; in spite of the unfair

conduct of the prosecution, and in spite of the manifest prejudice and

Philistine ignorance of the Judge, the jury disagreed.

Then followed the most dramatic incident of the whole trial. Once more Sir

Edward Clarke applied for bail on behalf of Oscar Wilde. "After what has

happened," he said, "I do not think the Crown will make any objection to this

application." The Crown left the matter to the Judge, no doubt in all security;

for the Judge immediately refused the application. Sir Edward Clarke then

went on to say that, in the case of a re-trial, it ought not to take place

immediately. He continued:

"The burden of those engaged in the case is very heavy, and I think it only

right that the Treasury should have an opportunity between this and another

session of considering the mode in which the case should be presented, if indeed

it is presented at all."

Mr. Gill immediately rose to the challenge.

"The case will certainly be tried again," he declared, "whether it is to be

tried again at once or in the next sessions will be a matter of convenience.

Probably the most desirable course will be for the case to go to the next

sessions. That is the usual course."

Mr. Justice Charles: "If that is the usual course, let it be so."

The next session of the Central Criminal Court opened on the 20th of the same

month.

Not three weeks' respite, still it might be enough: it was inconceivable that

a Judge in Chambers would refuse to accept bail: fortunately the law allows him

no option.

. . . . .

The application for bail was made in due course to a Judge in Chambers, and in

spite of the bad example of the magistrate, and of Mr. Justice Charles, it was

granted and Wilde was set free in his own recognizance of L2,500 with two other

sureties for L1,250 each. It spoke volumes for the charm and fascination of the

man that people were found to undertake this onerous responsibility. Their

names deserve to be recorded; one was Lord Douglas of Hawick, the other a

clergyman, the Rev. Stewart Headlam. I offered to be one bail: but I was not a

householder at the time and my name was, therefore, not acceptable. I suppose

the Treasury objected, which shows, I am inclined to think, some glimmering of

sense on its part.

As soon as the bail was accepted I began to think of preparations for Oscar's

escape. It was high time something was done to save him from the wolves. The

day after his release a London morning journal was not ashamed to publish what

it declared was a correct analysis of the voting of the jury on the various

counts. According to this authority, ten jurors were generally for conviction

and two against, in the case of Wilde; the statement was widely accepted because

it added that the voting was more favourable to Taylor than to Wilde, which was

so unexpected and so senseless that it carried with it a certain plausibility:

"Credo quia incredible".

I had seen enough of English justice and English judges and English journals to

convince me that Oscar Wilde had no more chance of a fair trial than if he had

been an Irish "Invincible." Everyone had made up his mind and would not even

listen to reason: he was practically certain to be convicted, and if convicted

perfectly certain to be punished with savage ferocity. The judge would probably

think he was showing impartiality by punishing him for his qualities of charm

and high intelligence. For the first time in my life I understood the full

significance of Montaigne's confession that if he were accused of stealing the

towers of Notre Dame, he would fly the kingdom rather than risk a trial, and

Montaigne was a lawyer. I set to work at once to complete my preparations.

I did not think I ran any risk in helping Oscar to get away. The newspapers had

seized the opportunity of the trials before the magistrate and before Mr.

Justice Charles and had overwhelmed the public with such a sea of nauseous filth

and impurity as could only be exposed to the public nostrils in pudibond

England. Everyone, I thought, must be sick of the testimony and eager to have

done with the whole thing. In this I may have been mistaken. The hatred of

Wilde seemed universal and extraordinarily malignant.

I wanted a steam yacht. Curiously enough on the very day when I was thinking of

running down to Cowes to hire one, a gentleman at lunch mentioned that he had

one in the Thames. I asked him could I charter it?

"Certainly," he replied, "and I will let you have it for the bare cost for the

next month or two."

"One month will do for me," I said.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

I don't know why, but a thought came into my head: I would tell him the truth,

and see what he would say. I took him aside and told him the bare facts. At

once he declared that the yacht was at my service for such work as that without

money: he would be too glad to lend it to me: it was horrible that such a man as

Wilde should be treated as a common criminal.

He felt as Henry VIII felt in Shakespeare's play of that name:

". . . . there's some of ye, I see,

More out of malice than integrity,

Would try him to the utmost, . . . ."

It was not the generosity in my friend's offer that astonished me, but the

consideration for Wilde; I thought the lenity so singular in England that I feel

compelled to explain it. Though an Englishman born and bred my friend was by

race a Jew--a man of the widest culture, who had no sympathy whatever with the

vice attributed to Oscar. Feeling consoled because there was at least one

generous, kind heart in the world, I went next day to Willie Wilde's house in

Oakley Street to see Oscar. I had written to him on the previous evening that

I was coming to take Oscar out to lunch.

Willie Wilde met me at the door; he was much excited apparently by the notoriety

attaching to Oscar; he was volubly eager to tell me that, though we had not been

friends, yet my support of Oscar was most friendly and he would therefore bury

the hatchet. He had never interested me, and I was unconscious of any hatchet

and careless whether he buried it or blessed it. I repeated drily that I had

come to take Oscar to lunch.

"I know you have," he said, "and it's most kind of you; but he can't go."

"Why not?" I asked as I went in.

Oscar was gloomy, depressed, and evidently suffering. Willie's theatrical

insincerity had annoyed me a little, and I was eager to get away. Suddenly

I saw Sherard, who has since done his best for Oscar's memory. In his book

there is a record of this visit of mine. He was standing silently by the wall.

"I've come to take you to lunch," I said to Oscar.

"But he cannot go out," cried Willie.

"Of course he can," I insisted, "I've come to take him."

"But where to?" asked Willie.

"Yes, Frank, where to?" repeated Oscar meekly.

"Anywhere you like," I said, "the Savoy if you like, the Cafe Royal for choice."

"Oh, Frank, I dare not," cried Oscar.

"No, no," cried Willie, "there would be a scandal; someone'll insult him and

it would do harm; set people's backs up."

"Oh, Frank, I dare not," echoed Oscar.

"No one will insult him. There will be no scandal," I replied, "and it will

do good."

"But what will people say?" cried Willie.

"No one ever knows what people will say," I retorted, "and people always speak

best of those who don't care a damn what they do say."

"Oh, Frank, I could not go to a place like the Savoy where I am well known,"

objected Oscar.

"All right," I agreed, "you shall go where you like. All London is before us.

I must have a talk with you, and it will do you good to get out into the air,

and sun yourself and feel the wind in your face. Come, there's a hansom at

the door."

It was not long before I had conquered his objections and Willie's absurdities

and taken him with me. Scarcely had we left the house when his spirits began

to lift, and he rippled into laughter.

"Really, Frank, it is strange, but I do not feel frightened and depressed any

more, and the people don't boo and hiss at me. Is it not dreadful the way they

insult the fallen?"

"We are not going to talk about it," I said; "we are going to talk of victories

and not of defeats."

"Ah, Frank, there will be no more victories for me."

"Nonsense," I cried; "now where are we going?"

"Some quiet place where I shall not be known."

"You really would not like the Cafe Royal?" I asked. "Nothing will happen to

you, and I think you would probably find that one or two people would wish

you luck. You have had a rare bad time, and there must be some people who

understand what you have gone through and know that it is sufficient punishment

for any sin."

"No, Frank," he persisted, "I cannot, I really cannot."

At length we decided on a restaurant in Great Portland Street. We drove there

and had a private room.

I had two purposes in me, springing from the one root, the intense desire to

help him. I felt sure that if the case came up again for trial he would only be

convicted through what I may call good, honest testimony. The jury with their

English prejudice; or rather I should say with their healthy English instincts

would not take the evidence of vile blackmailers against him; he could only be

convicted through untainted evidence such as the evidence of the chambermaids

at the Savoy Hotel, and their evidence was over two years old and was weak,

inasmuch as the facts, if facts, were not acted upon by the management. Still

their testimony was very clear and very positive, and, taken together with that

of the blackmailers, sufficient to ensure conviction. After our lunch I laid

this view before Oscar. He agreed with me that it was probably the

chambermaids' testimony which had weighed most heavily against him. Their

statement and Shelley's had brought about the injurious tone in the Judge's

summing up. The Judge himself had admitted as much.

"The chambermaids' evidence is wrong," Oscar declared. "They are mistaken,

Frank. It was not me they spoke about at the Savoy Hotel. It was ----. I was

never bold enough. I went to see ---- in the morning in his room."

"Thank God," I said, "but why didn't Sir Edward Clarke bring that out?"

"He wanted to; but I would not let him. I told him he must not. I must be true

to my friend. I could not let him."

"But he must," I said, "at any rate if he does not I will. I have three weeks

and in that three weeks I am going to find the chambermaid. I am going to get a

plan of your room and your friend's room, and I'm going to make her understand

that she was mistaken. She probably remembered you because of your size: she

mistook you for the guilty person; everybody has always taken you for the

ringleader and not the follower."

"But what good is it, Frank, what good is it?" he cried. "Even if you convinced

the chambermaid and she retracted; there would still be Shelley, and the Judge

laid stress on Shelley's evidence as untainted."

"Shelley is an accomplice," I cried, "his testimony needs corroboration.

You don't understand these legal quibbles; but there was not a particle of

corroboration. Sir Edward Clarke should have had his testimony ruled out.

'Twas that conspiracy charge," I cried, "which complicated the matter.

Shelley's evidence, too, will be ruled out at the next trial, you'll see."

"Oh, Frank," he said, "you talk with passion and conviction, as if I were

innocent."

"But you are innocent," I cried in amaze, "aren't you?"

"No, Frank," he said, "I thought you knew that all along."

I stared at him stupidly. "No," I said dully, "I did not know. I did not

believe the accusation. I did not believe it for a moment."

I suppose the difference in my tone and manner struck him, for he said, timidly

putting out his hand:

"This will make a great difference to you, Frank?"

"No," I said, pulling myself together and taking his hand; and after a pause I

went on: "No: curiously enough it has made no difference to me at all. I do not

know why; I suppose I have got more sympathy than morality in me. It has

surprised me, dumbfounded me. The thing has always seemed fantastic and

incredible to me and now you make it exist for me; but it has no effect on my

friendship; none upon my resolve to help you. But I see that the battle is

going to be infinitely harder than I imagined. In fact, now I don't think we

have a chance of winning a verdict. I came here hoping against fear that it

could be won, though I always felt that it would be better in the present state

of English feeling to go abroad and avoid the risk of a trial. Now there is

no question: you would be insane, as Clarke said, to stay in England. But

why on earth did Alfred Douglas, knowing the truth, ever wish you to attack

Queensberry?"

"He's very bold and obstinate, Frank," said Oscar weakly.

"Well, now I must play Crito," I resumed, smiling, "and take you away before

the ship comes from Delos."

"Oh, Frank, that would be wonderful; but it's impossible, quite impossible. I

should be arrested before I left London, and shamed again in public: they would

boo at me and shout insults. . . . . Oh, it is impossible; I could not risk it."

"Nonsense," I replied, "I believe the authorities would be only too glad if you

went. I think Clarke's challenge to Gill was curiously ill-advised. He should

have let sleeping dogs lie. Combative Gill was certain to take up the gauntlet.

If Clarke had lain low there might have been no second trial. But that can't be

helped now. Don't believe that it's even difficult to get away; it's easy. I

don't propose to go by Folkestone or Dover."

"But, Frank, what about the people who have stood bail for me? I couldn't leave

them to suffer; they would lose their thousands."

"I shan't let them lose," I replied, "I am quite willing to take half on my own

shoulders at once and you can pay the other thousand or so within a very short

time by writing a couple of plays. American papers would be only too glad to

pay you for an interview. The story of your escape would be worth a thousand

pounds; they would give you almost any price for it.

"Leave everything to me, but in the meantime I want you to get out in the air

as much as possible. You are not looking well; you are not yourself."

"That house is depressing, Frank. Willie makes such a merit of giving me

shelter; he means well, I suppose; but it is all dreadful."

My notes of this talk finish in this way, but the conversation left on me a deep

impression of Oscar's extraordinary weakness or rather extraordinary softness of

nature backed up and redeemed by a certain magnanimity: he would not leave the

friends in the lurch who had gone bail for him; he would not give his friend

away even to save himself; but neither would he exert himself greatly to win

free. He was like a woman, I said to myself in wonder, and my pity for him grew

keener. He seemed mentally stunned by the sudden fall, by the discovery of how

violently men can hate. He had never seen the wolf in man before; the vile

brute instinct that preys upon the fallen. He had not believed that such

exultant savagery existed; it had never come within his ken; now it appalled

him. And so he stood there waiting for what might happen without courage to do

anything but suffer. My heart ached with pity for him, and yet I felt a little

impatient with him as well. Why give up like that? The eternal quarrel of the

combative nature with those who can't or won't fight.

Before getting into the carriage to drive back to his brother's, I ascertained

that he did not need any money. He told me that he had sufficient even for the

expenses of a second trial: this surprised me greatly, for he was very careless

about money; but I found out from him later that a very noble and cultured

woman, a friend of both of us, Miss S----, a Jewess by race tho' not by

religion, had written to him asking if she could help him financially, as she

had been distressed by hearing of his bankruptcy, and feared that he might be in

need. If that were the case she begged him to let her be his banker, in order

that he might be properly defended. He wrote in reply, saying that he was

indeed in uttermost distress, that he wanted money, too, to help his mother as

he had always helped her, and that he supposed the expenses of the second trial

would be from L500 to L1,000. Thereupon Miss S---- sent him a cheque for

L1,000, assuring him that it cost her little even in self-sacrifice, and

declaring that it was only inadequate recognition of the pleasure she had had

through his delightful talks. Such actions are beyond praise; it is the perfume

of such sweet and noble human sympathy that makes this wild beasts' cage of a

world habitable for men.

Before parting we had agreed to meet a few nights afterwards at Mrs. Leverson's,

where he had been invited to dinner, and where I also had been invited. By that

time, I thought to myself, all my preparations would be perfected.

Looking back now I see clearly that my affection for Oscar Wilde dates from his

confession to me that afternoon. I had been a friend of his for years; but what

had bound us together had been purely intellectual, a community of literary

tastes and ambitions. Now his trust in me and frankness had thrown down the

barrier between us; and made me conscious of the extraordinary femininity and

gentle weakness of his nature, and, instead of condemning him as I have always

condemned that form of sexual indulgence, I felt only pity for him and a desire

to protect and help him. From that day on our friendship became intimate: I

began to divine him; I knew now that his words would always be more generous

and noble than his actions; knew too that I must take his charm of manner and

vivacity of intercourse for real virtues, and indeed they were as real as the

beauty of flowers; and I was aware as by some sixth sense that, where his vanity

was concerned, I might expect any injustice from him. I was sure beforehand,

however, that I should always forgive him, or rather that I should always accept

whatever he did and love him for the charm and sweetness and intellect in him

and hold myself more than recompensed for anything I might be able to do, by his

delightful companionship.

CHAPTER XVI--ESCAPE REJECTED: THE SECOND TRIAL AND SENTENCE

In spite of the wit of the hostess and her exquisite cordiality, our dinner at

Mrs. Leverson's was hardly a success. Oscar was not himself; contrary to his

custom he sat silent and downcast. From time to time he sighed heavily, and his

leaden dejection gradually infected all of us. I was not sorry, for I wanted

to get him away early; by ten o'clock we had left the house and were in the

Cromwell Road. He preferred to walk: without his noticing it I turned up

Queen's Gate towards the park. After walking for ten minutes I said to him:

"I want to speak to you seriously. Do you happen to know where Erith is?"

"No, Frank."

"It is a little landing place on the Thames," I went on, "not many miles away:

it can be reached by a fast pair of horses and a brougham in a very short time.

There at Erith is a steam yacht ready to start at a moment's notice; she has

steam up now, one hundred pounds pressure to the square inch in her boilers;

her captain's waiting, her crew ready--a greyhound in leash; she can do fifteen

knots an hour without being pressed. In one hour she would be free of the

Thames and on the high seas--(delightful phrase, eh?)--high seas indeed where

there is freedom uncontrolled.

"If one started now one could breakfast in France, at Boulogne, let us say, or

Dieppe; one could lunch at St. Malo or St. Enogat or any place you like on the

coast of Normandy, and one could dine comfortably at the Sables d'Olonne, where

there is not an Englishman to be found, and where sunshine reigns even in May

from morning till night.

"What do you say, Oscar, will you come and try a homely French bourgeois dinner

tomorrow evening at an inn I know almost at the water's edge? We could sit out

on the little terrace and take our coffee in peace under the broad vine leaves

while watching the silver pathway of the moon widen on the waters. We could

smile at the miseries of London and its wolfish courts shivering in cold grey

mist hundreds of miles away. Does not the prospect tempt you?"

I spoke at leisure, tasting each delight, looking for his gladness.

"Oh, Frank," he cried, "how wonderful; but how impossible!"

"Impossible! don't be absurd," I retorted. "Do you see those lights yonder?"

and I showed him some lights at the Park gate on the top of the hill in front

of us.

"Yes, Frank."

"That's a brougham," I said, "with a pair of fast horses. It will take us for

a midnight visit to the steam yacht in double-quick time. There's a little

library on board of French books and English; I've ordered supper in the cabin--

lobster a l'Americaine and a bottle of Pommery. You've never seen the mouth of

the Thames at night, have you? It's a scene from wonderland; houses like blobs

of indigo fencing you in; ships drifting past like black ghosts in the misty

air, and the purple sky above never so dark as the river, the river with its

shifting lights of ruby and emerald and topaz, like an oily, opaque serpent

gliding with a weird life of its own. . . . . Come; you must visit the yacht."

I turned to him, but he was no longer by my side. I gasped; what had happened?

The mist must have hidden him; I ran back ten yards, and there he was leaning

against the railing, hung up with his head on his arm shaking.

"What's the matter, Oscar?" I cried. "What on earth's the matter?"

"Oh, Frank, I can't go," he cried, "I can't. It would be too wonderful; but

it's impossible. I should be seized by the police. You don't know the police."

"Nonsense," I cried, "the police can't stop you and not a man of them will see

you from start to finish. Besides, I have loose money for any I do meet, and

none of them can resist a 'tip.' You will simply get out of the brougham and

walk fifty yards and you will be on the yacht and free. In fact, if you like

you shall not come out of the brougham until the sailors surround you as a guard

of honour. On board the yacht no one will touch you. No warrant runs there.

Come on, man!"

"Oh, Frank," he groaned, "it's impossible!"

"What's impossible?" I insisted. "Let's consider everything anew at breakfast

to-morrow morning in France. If you want to come back, there's nothing to

prevent you. The yacht will take you back in twenty-four hours. You will not

have broken your bail; you'll have done nothing wrong. You can go to France,

Germany or Siberia so long as you come back by the twentieth of May. Take it

that I offer you a holiday in France for ten days. Surely it is better to spend

a week with me than in that dismal house in Oakley Street, where the very door

gives one the creeps."

"Oh, Frank, I'd love to," he groaned. "I see everything you say, but I can't.

I dare not. I'm caught, Frank, in a trap, I can only wait for the end."

I began to get impatient; he was weaker than I had imagined, weaker a hundred

times.

"Come for a trip, then, man," I cried, and I brought him within twenty yards of

the carriage; but there he stopped as if he had made up his mind.

"No, no, I can't come. I could not go about in France feeling that the

policeman's hand might fall on my shoulder at any moment. I could not live

a life of fear and doubt: it would kill me in a month." His tone was decided.

"Why let your imagination run away with you?" I pleaded. "Do be reasonable for

once. Fear and doubt would soon be over. If the police don't get you in France

within a week after the date fixed for the trial, you need have no further fear,

for they won't get you at all: they don't want you. You're making mountains out

of molehills with nervous fancies."

"I should be arrested."

"Nonsense," I replied, "who would arrest you? No one has the right. You are

out on bail: your bail answers for you till the 20th. Money talks, man;

Englishmen always listen to money. It'll do you good with the public and the

jury to come back from France to stand your trial. Do come," and I took him

by the arm; but he would not move. To my astonishment he faced me and said:

"And my sureties?"

"We'll pay 'em," I replied, "both of 'em, if you break your bail. Come,"

but he would not.

"Frank, if I were not in Oakley Street to-night Willie would tell the police."

"Your brother?" I cried.

"Yes," he said, "Willie."

"Good God!" I exclaimed; "but let him tell. I have not mentioned Erith or the

steam yacht to a soul. It's the last place in the world the police would

suspect and before he talks we shall be out of reach. Besides they cannot do

anything; you are doing nothing wrong. Please trust me, you do nothing

questionable even till you omit to enter the Old Bailey on the 20th of May."

"You don't know Willie," he continued, "he has made my solicitors buy letters

of mine; he has blackmailed me."

"Whew!" I whistled. "But in that case you'll have no compunction in leaving him

without saying 'goodbye.' Let's go and get into the brougham."

"No, no," he repeated, "you don't understand; I can't go, I cannot go."

"Do you mean it really?" I asked. "Do you mean you will not come and spend

a week yachting with me?"

"I cannot."

I drew him a few paces nearer the carriage: something of desolation and despair

in his voice touched me: I looked at him. Tears were pouring down his face;

he was the picture of misery, yet I could not move him.

"Come into the carriage," I said, hoping that the swift wind in his face would

freshen him up, give him a moment's taste of the joy of living and sharpen the

desire of freedom.

"Yes, Frank," he said, "if you will take me to Oakley Street."

"I would as soon take you to prison," I replied; "but as you wish."

The next moment we had got in and were swinging down Queen's Gate. The mist

seemed to lend keenness to the air. At the bottom of Queen's Gate the coachman

swept of himself to the left into the Cromwell Road; Oscar seemed to wake out of

his stupor.

"No, Frank," he cried, "no, no," and he fumbled at the handle of the door, "I

must get out; I will not go. I will not go."

"Sit still," I said in despair, "I'll tell the coachman," and I put my head out

of the window and cried: "Oakley Street, Oakley Street, Chelsea, Robert."

I do not think I spoke again till we got to Oakley Street. I was consumed with

rage and contemptuous impatience. I had done the best I knew and had failed.

Why? I had no idea. I have never known why he refused to come. I don't think

he knew himself. Such resignation I had never dreamt of. It was utterly new

to me. I used to think of resignation in a vague way as of something rather

beautiful; ever since, I have thought of it with impatience: resignation is the

courage of the irresolute. Oscar's obstinacy was the obverse of his weakness.

It is astonishing how inertia rules some natures. The attraction of waiting and

doing nothing is intense for those who live in thought and detest action. As we

turned into Oakley Street, Oscar said to me:

"You are not angry with me, Frank?" and he put out his hand.

"No, no," I said, "why should I be angry? You are the master of your fate.

I can only offer advice."

"Do come and see me soon," he pleaded.

"My bolt is shot," I replied; "but I'll come in two or three days' time, as

soon as I have anything of importance to say. . . . . Don't forget, Oscar, the

yacht is there and will be there waiting until the 20th; the yacht will always

be ready and the brougham."

"Good night, Frank," he said, "good night, and thank you."

He got out and went into the house, the gloomy sordid house where the brother

lived who would sell his blood for a price!

. . . . . . .

Three or four days later we met again, but to my amaze Oscar had not changed

his mind. To talk of him as cast down is the precise truth; he seemed to me as

one who had fallen from a great height and lay half conscious, stunned on the

ground. The moment you moved him, even to raise his head, it gave him pain and

he cried out to be left alone. There he lay prone, and no one could help him.

It was painful to witness his dumb misery: his mind even, his sunny bright

intelligence, seemed to have deserted him.

Once again he came out with me to lunch. Afterwards we drove through Regent's

Park as the quietest way to Hampstead and had a talk. The air and swift motion

did him good. The beauty of the view from the heath seemed to revive him.

I tried to cheer him up.

"You must know," I said, "that you can win if you want to. You can not only

bring the jury to doubt, but you can make the judge doubt as well. I was

convinced of your innocence in spite of all the witnesses, and I knew more

about you than they did. In the trial before Mr. Justice Charles, the thing

that saved you was that you spoke of the love of David and Jonathan and the

sweet affection which the common world is determined not to understand. There

is another point against you which you have not touched on yet: Gill asked you

what you had in common with those serving-men and stable boys. You have not

explained that. You have explained that you love youth, the brightness and the

gaiety of it, but you have not explained what seems inexplicable to most men,

that you should go about with servants and strappers."

"Difficult to explain, Frank, isn't it, without the truth?" Evidently his mind

was not working.

"No," I replied, "easy, simple. Think of Shakespeare. How did he know Dogberry

and Pistol, Bardolph and Doll Tearsheet? He must have gone about with them.

You don't go about with public school boys of your own class, for you know them;

you have nothing to learn from them: they can teach you nothing. But the stable

boy and servant you cannot sketch in your plays without knowing him, and you

can't know him without getting on his level, and letting him call you 'Oscar'

and calling him 'Charlie.' If you rub this in, the judge will see that he is

face to face with the artist in you and will admit at least that your

explanation is plausible. He will hesitate to condemn you, and once he

hesitates you'll win.

"You fought badly because you did not show your own nature sufficiently; you did

not use your brains in the witness box and alas--" I did not continue; the truth

was I was filled with fear; for I suddenly realised that he had shown more

courage and self-possession in the Queensberry trial than in the trial before

Mr. Justice Charles when so much more was at stake; and I felt that in the next

trial he would be more depressed still, and less inclined to take the initiative

than ever. I had already learned too that I could not help him; that he would

not be lifted out of that "sweet way of despair," which so attracts the artist

spirit. But still I would do my best.

"Do you understand?" I asked.

"Of course, Frank, of course, but you have no conception how weary I am of the

whole thing, of the shame and the struggling and the hatred. To see those

people coming into the box one after the other to witness against me makes me

sick. The self-satisfied grin of the barristers, the pompous foolish judge

with his thin lips and cunning eyes and hard jaw. Oh, it's terrible. I feel

inclined to stretch out my hands and cry to them, 'Do what you will with me, in

God's name, only do it quickly; cannot you see that I am worn out? If hatred

gives you pleasure, indulge it.' They worry one, Frank, with ravening jaws,

as dogs worry a rabbit. Yet they call themselves men. It is appalling."

The day was dying, the western sky all draped with crimson, saffron and rosy

curtains: a slight mist over London, purple on the horizon, closer, a mere wash

of blue; here and there steeples pierced the thin veil like fingers pointing

upward. On the left the dome of St. Paul's hung like a grey bubble over the

city; on the right the twin towers of Westminster with the river and bridge

which Wordsworth sang. Peace and beauty brooding everywhere, and down there

lost in the mist the "rat pit" that men call the Courts of Justice. There they

judge their fellows, mistaking indifference for impartiality, as if anyone could

judge his fellowman without love, and even with love how far short we all come

of that perfect sympathy which is above forgiveness and takes delight in

succouring the weak, comforting the broken-hearted.

. . . . . . .

The days went swiftly by and my powerlessness to influence him filled me with

self-contempt. Of course, I said to myself, if I knew him better I should be

able to help him. Would vanity do anything? It was his mainspring; I could but

try. He might be led by the hope of making Englishmen talk of him again, talk

of him as one who had dared to escape; wonder what he would do next. I would

try, and I did try. But his dejection foiled me: his dislike of the struggle

seemed to grow from day to day.

He would scarcely listen to me. He was counting the days to the trial: willing

to accept an adverse decision; even punishment and misery and shame seemed

better than doubt and waiting. He surprised me by saying:

"A year, Frank, they may give me a year? half the possible sentence: the middle

course, that English Judges always take: the sort of compromise they think

safe?" and his eyes searched my face for agreement.

I felt no such confidence in English Judges; their compromises are usually

bargainings; when they get hold of an artist they give rein to their intuitive

fear and hate.

But I would not discourage him. I repeated:

"You can win, Oscar, if you like:--" my litany to him. His wan dejected smile

brought tears to my eyes.

. . . . . . .

"Don't you want to make them all speak of you and wonder at you again? If you

were in France, everyone would be asking: will he come back or disappear

altogether? or will he manifest himself henceforth in some new comedies, more

joyous and pagan than ever?"

I might as well have talked to the dead: he seemed numbed, hypnotised with

despair. The punishment had already been greater than he could bear. I began

to fear that prison, if he were condemned to it, would rob him of his reason;

I sometimes feared that his mind was already giving way, so profound was his

depression, so hopeless his despair.

. . . . . . .

The trial opened before Mr. Justice Wills on the 21st of May, 1895. The

Treasury had sent Sir Frank Lockwood, Q.C., M.P., to lead Mr. C. F. Gill,

Mr. Horace Avory, and Mr. Sutton. Oscar was represented by the same counsel

as on the previous occasion.

The whole trial to me was a nightmare, and it was characterised from the very

beginning by atrocious prejudice and injustice. The High Priests of Law were

weary of being balked; eager to make an end. As soon as the Judge took his

seat, Sir Edward Clarke applied that the defendants should be tried separately.

As they had already been acquitted on the charge of conspiracy, there was no

reason why they should be tried together.

The Judge called on the Solicitor-General to answer the application.

The Solicitor-General had nothing to say, but thought it was in the interests

of the defendants to be tried together; for, in case they were tried separately,

it would be necessary to take the defendant Taylor first.

Sir Edward Clarke tore this pretext to pieces, and Mr. Justice Wills brought the

matter to a conclusion by saying that he was in possession of all the evidence

that had been taken at the previous trials, and his opinion was that the two

defendants should be tried separately.

Sir Edward Clarke then applied that the case of Mr. Wilde should be taken first

as his name stood first on the indictment, and as the first count was directed

against him and had nothing to do with Taylor. . . . . "There are reasons

present, I am sure, too, in your Lordship's mind, why Wilde should not be tried

immediately after the other defendant."

Mr. Justice Wills remarked, with seeming indifference, "It ought not to make the

least difference, Sir Edward. I am sure I and the jury will do our best to take

care that the last trial has no influence at all on the present."

Sir Edward Clarke stuck to his point. He urged respectfully that as Mr. Wilde's

name stood first on the indictment his case should be taken first.

Mr. Justice Wills said he could not interfere with the discretion of the

prosecution, nor vary the ordinary procedure. Justice and fair play on the one

side and precedent on the other: justice was waved out of court with serene

indifference. Thereupon Sir Edward Clarke pressed that the trial of Mr. Oscar

Wilde should stand over till the next sessions. But again Mr. Justice Wills

refused. Precedent was silent now but prejudice was strong as ever.

The case against Taylor went on the whole day and was resumed next morning.

Taylor went into the box and denied all the charges. The Judge summed up dead

against him, and at 3.30 the jury retired to consider their verdict: in forty-

five minutes they came into court again with a question which was significant.

In answer to the judge the foreman stated that "they had agreed that Taylor

had introduced Parker to Wilde, but they were not satisfied with Wilde's guilt

in the matter."

Mr. Justice Wills: "Were you agreed as to the charge on the other counts?"

Foreman: "Yes, my Lord."

Mr. Justice Wills: "Well, possibly it would be as well to take your verdict

upon the other counts."

Through the foreman the jury accordingly intimated that they found Taylor guilty

with regard to Charles and William Parker.

In answer to his Lordship, Sir F. Lockwood said he would take the verdict given

by the jury of "guilty" upon the two counts.

A formal verdict having been entered, the judge ordered the prisoner to stand

down, postponing sentence. Did he postpone the sentence in order not to

frighten the next jury by the severity of it? Other reason I could find none.

Sir Edward Clarke then got up and said that as it was getting rather late,

perhaps after the second jury had disagreed as to Mr. Wilde's guilt--

Sir F. Lockwood here interposed hotly: "I object to Sir Edward Clarke making

these little speeches."

Mr. Justice Wills took the matter up as well.

"You can hardly call it a disagreement, Sir Edward," though what else he could

call it, I was at a loss to imagine.

He then adjourned the case against Oscar Wilde till the next day, when a

different jury would be impanelled. But whatever jury might be called they

would certainly hear that their forerunners had found Taylor guilty and they

would know that every London paper without exception had approved the finding.

What a fair chance to give Wilde! It was like trying an Irish Secretary before

a jury of Fenians.

The next morning, May 23d, Oscar Wilde appeared in the dock. The Solicitor-

General opened the case, and then called his witnesses. One of the first was

Edward Shelley, who in cross-examination admitted that he had been mentally ill

when he wrote Mr. Wilde those letters which had been put in evidence. He was

"made nervous from over-study," he said.

Alfred Wood admitted that he had had money given him quite recently, practically

blackmailing money. He was as venomous as possible. "When he went to America,"

he said, "he told Wilde that he wanted to get away from mixing with him (Wilde)

and Douglas."

Charlie Parker next repeated his disgusting testimony with ineffable impudence

and a certain exultation. Bestial ignominy could go no lower; he admitted

that since the former trial he had been kept at the expense of the prosecution.

After this confession the case was adjourned and we came out of court.

When I reached Fleet Street I was astonished to hear that there had been a row

that same afternoon in Piccadilly between Lord Douglas of Hawick and his father,

the Marquis of Queensberry. Lord Queensberry, it appears, had been writing

disgusting letters about the Wilde case to Lord Douglas's wife. Meeting him

in Piccadilly Percy Douglas stopped him and asked him to cease writing obscene

letters to his wife. The Marquis said he would not and the father and son came

to blows. Queensberry it seems was exasperated by the fact that Douglas of

Hawick was one of those who had gone bail for Oscar Wilde. One of the telegrams

which the Marquis of Queensberry had sent to Lady Douglas I must put in just to

show the insane nature of the man who could exult in a trial which was damning

the reputation of his own son. The letter was manifestly written after the

result of the Taylor trial:

Must congratulate on verdict, cannot on Percy's appearance. Looks like a

dug up corpse. Fear too much madness of kissing. Taylor guilty. Wilde's

turn tomorrow.

Queensberry.

In examination before the magistrate, Mr. Hannay, it was stated that Lord

Queensberry had been sending similar letters to Lady Douglas "full of the

most disgusting charges against Lord Douglas, his wife, and Lord Queensberry's

divorced wife and her family." But Mr. Hannay thought all this provocation was

of no importance and bound over both father and son to keep the peace--an

indefensible decision, a decision only to be explained by the sympathy

everywhere shown to Queensberry because of his victory over Wilde, otherwise

surely any honest magistrate would have condemned the father who sent obscene

letters to his son's wife--a lady above reproach. These vile letters and the

magistrate's bias, seemed to me to add the final touch of the grotesque to the

horrible vileness of the trial. It was all worthy of the seventh circle of

Dante, but Dante had never imagined such a father and such judges!

. . . . . . .

Next morning Oscar Wilde was again put in the dock. The evidence of the

Queensberry trial was read and therewith the case was closed for the Crown.

Sir Edward Clarke rose and submitted that there was no case to go to the jury on

the general counts. After a long legal argument for and against, Mr. Justice

Wills said that he would reserve the question for the Court of Appeal. The view

he took was that "the evidence was of the slenderest kind"; but he thought the

responsibility must be left with the jury. To this judge "the slenderest kind"

of evidence was worthful so long as it told against the accused.

Sir Edward Clarke then argued that the cases of Shelley, Parker, and Wood failed

on the ground of the absence of corroboration. Mr. Justice Wills admitted that

Shelley showed "a peculiar exaltation" of mind; there was, too, mental

derangement in his family, and worst of all there was no corroboration of his

statements. Accordingly, in spite of the arguments of the Solicitor-General,

Shelley's evidence was cut out. But Shelley's evidence had already been taken,

had already prejudiced the jury. Indeed, it had been the evidence which had

influenced Mr. Justice Charles in the previous trial to sum up dead against the

defendant: Mr. Justice Charles called Shelley "the only serious witness."

Now it appeared that Shelley's evidence should never have been taken at all,

that the jury ought never to have heard Shelley's testimony or the Judge's

acceptance of it!

. . . . . . .

When the court opened next morning I knew that the whole case depended on Oscar

Wilde, and the showing he would make in the box, but alas! he was broken and

numbed. He was not a fighter, and the length of this contest might have wearied

a combative nature. The Solicitor-General began by examining him on his letters

to Lord Alfred Douglas and we had the "prose poem" again and the rest of the

ineffable nonsensical prejudice of the middle-class mind against passionate

sentiment. It came out in evidence that Lord Alfred Douglas was now in Calais.

His hatred of his father was the "causa causans" of the whole case; he had

pushed Oscar into the fight and Oscar, still intent on shielding him, declared

that he had asked him to go abroad.

Sir Edward Clarke again did his poor best. He pointed out that the trial rested

on the evidence of mere blackmailers. He would not quarrel with that and

discuss it, but it was impossible not to see that if blackmailers were to be

listened to and believed, their profession might speedily become a more deadly

mischief and danger to society than it had ever been.

The speech was a weak one; but the people in court cheered Sir Edward Clarke;

the cheers were immediately suppressed by the Judge.

The Solicitor-General took up the rest of the day with a rancorous reply. Sir

Edward Clarke even had to remind him that law officers of the Crown should try

to be impartial. One instance of his prejudice may be given. Examining Oscar

as to his letters to Lord Alfred Douglas, Sir Frank Lockwood wanted to know

whether he thought them "decent"?

The witness replied, "Yes."

"Do you know the meaning of the word, sir?" was this gentleman's retort.

I went out of the court feeling certain that the case was lost. Oscar had not

shown himself at all; he had not even spoken with the vigour he had used at the

Queensberry trial. He seemed too despairing to strike a blow.

The summing up of the Judge on May 25th was perversely stupid and malevolent.

He began by declaring that he was "absolutely impartial," though his view of the

facts had to be corrected again and again by Sir Edward Clarke: he went on to

regret that the charge of conspiracy should have been introduced, as it had to

be abandoned. He then pointed out that he could not give a colourless summing

up, which was "of no use to anybody." His intelligence can be judged from one

crucial point: he fastened on the fact that Oscar had burnt the letters which

he bought from Wood, which he said were of no importance, except that they

concerned third parties. The Judge had persuaded himself that the letters were

indescribably bad, forgetting apparently that Wood or his associates had

selected and retained the very worst of them for purposes of blackmail and that

this Judge himself, after reading it, couldn't attribute any weight to it; still

he insisted that burning the letters was an act of madness; whereas it seemed to

everyone of the slightest imagination the most natural thing in the world for an

innocent man to do. At the time Oscar burnt the letters he had no idea that he

would ever be on trial. His letters had been misunderstood and the worst of

them was being used against him, and when he got the others he naturally threw

them into the fire. The Judge held that it was madness, and built upon this

inference a pyramid of guilt. "Nothing said by Wood should be believed, as he

belongs to the vilest class of criminals; the strength of the accusation depends

solely upon the character of the original introduction of Wood to Wilde as

illustrated and fortified by the story with regard to the letters and their

burning."

A pyramid of guilt carefully balanced on its apex! If the foolish Judge had only

read his Shakespeare! What does Henry VI say:

Proceed no straiter 'gainst our uncle Gloucester

Than from true evidence of good esteem

He be approved in practice culpable.

There was no "true evidence of good esteem" against Wilde, but the Judge turned

a harmless action into a confession of guilt.

Then came an interruption which threw light on the English conception of

justice. The foreman of the jury wanted to know, in view of the intimate

relations between Lord Alfred Douglas and the defendant, whether a warrant

against Lord Alfred Douglas was ever issued.

Mr. Justice Wills: "I should say not; we have never heard of it."

Foreman: "Or ever contemplated?"

Mr. Justice Wills: "That I cannot say, nor can we discuss it. The issue of such

a warrant would not depend upon the testimony of the parties, but whether there

was evidence of such act. Letters pointing to such relations would not be

sufficient. Lord Alfred Douglas was not called, and you can give what weight

you like to that."

Foreman: "If we are to deduce any guilt from these letters, it would apply

equally to Lord Alfred Douglas."

Mr. Justice Wills concurred in that view, but after all he thought it had

nothing to do with the present trial, which was the guilt of the accused.

The jury retired to consider their verdict at half past three. After being

absent two hours they returned to know whether there was any evidence of

Charles Parker having slept at St. James's Place.

His Lordship replied, "No."

The jury shortly afterwards returned again with the verdict of "Guilty" on all

the counts.

It may be worth while to note again that the Judge himself admitted that the

evidence on some of the counts was of "the slenderest kind"; but, when backed

by his prejudiced summing up, it was more than sufficient for the jury.

Sir Edward Clarke pleaded that sentence should be postponed till the next

sessions, when the legal argument would be heard.

Mr. Justice Wills would not be balked: sentence, he thought, should be given

immediately. Then, addressing the prisoners, he said, and again I give his

exact words, lest I should do him wrong:

"Oscar Wilde and Alfred Taylor, the crime of which you have been convicted is so

bad that one has to put stern restraint upon one's self to prevent one's self

from describing in language which I would rather not use the sentiments which

must rise to the breast of every man of honour who has heard the details of

these two terrible trials.

"That the jury have arrived at a correct verdict in this case I cannot persuade

myself to entertain the shadow of a doubt; and I hope, at all events, that those

who sometimes imagine that a Judge is half-hearted in the cause of decency and

morality because he takes care no prejudice shall enter into the case may see

that that is consistent at least with the utmost sense of indignation at the

horrible charges brought home to both of you.

"It is no use for me to address you. People who can do these things must be

dead to all sense of shame, and one cannot hope to produce any effect upon them.

It is the worst case I have ever tried. . . . . That you, Wilde, have been the

centre of a circle of extensive corruption of the most hideous kind among young

men it is impossible to doubt.

"I shall under such circumstances be expected to pass the severest sentence

that the law allows. In my judgment it is totally inadequate for such a case

as this.

"The sentence of the court is that each of you be imprisoned and kept to hard

labour for two years."

The sentence hushed the court in shocked surprise.

Wilde rose and cried, "Can I say anything, my lord?"

Mr. Justice Wills waved his hand deprecatingly amid cries of "Shame" and hisses

from the public gallery; some of the cries and hisses were certainly addressed

to the Judge and well deserved. What did he mean by saying that Oscar was a

"centre of extensive corruption of the most hideous kind"? No evidence of this

had been brought forward by the prosecution. It was not even alleged that a

single innocent person had been corrupted. The accusation was invented by this

"absolutely impartial" Judge to justify his atrocious cruelty. The unmerited

insults and appalling sentence would have disgraced the worst Judge of the

Inquisition.

Mr. Justice Wills evidently suffered from the peculiar "exaltation" of mind

which he had recognised in Shelley. This peculiarity is shared in a lesser

degree by several other Judges on the English bench in all matters of sexual

morality. What distinguished Mr. Justice Wills was that he was proud of his

prejudice and eager to act on it. He evidently did not know, or did not care,

that the sentence which he had given, declaring it was "totally inadequate,"

had been condemned by a Royal Commission as "inhuman." He would willingly

have pushed "inhumanity" to savagery, out of sheer bewigged stupidity, and

that he was probably well-meaning only intensified the revolt one felt at such

brainless malevolence.

The bitterest words in Dante are not bitter enough to render my feeling:

"Non ragioniam di lor ma guarda e passa."

The whole scene had sickened me. Hatred masquerading as justice, striking

vindictively and adding insult to injury. The vile picture had its fit setting

outside. We had not left the court when the cheering broke out in the streets,

and when we came outside there were troops of the lowest women of the town

dancing together and kicking up their legs in hideous abandonment, while the

surrounding crowd of policemen and spectators guffawed with delight. As I

turned away from the exhibition, as obscene and soul-defiling as anything

witnessed in the madness of the French revolution, I caught a glimpse of Wood

and the Parkers getting into a cab, laughing and leering.

These were the venal creatures Oscar Wilde was punished for having corrupted!