Part 3

He gave me no direct answer, but began:--'Russian writers are extraordinary. What makes their books so great is the pity they put into them. You know how fond I used to be of _Madame Bovary_, but Flaubert would not admit pity into his work, and that is why it has a petty and restrained character about it. It is sense of pity by means of which a work gains in expanse, and by which it opens up a boundless horizon. Do you know, my dear fellow, it was pity that prevented me from killing myself? During the first six months I was dreadfully unhappy, so utterly miserable that I wanted to kill myself, but what kept me from doing so was looking at _the others_, and seeing that they were as unhappy as I was, and feeling sorry for them. Oh, dear! what a wonderful thing pity is, and I never knew it.'

He was speaking in a low voice without any excitement.

'Have you ever learned how wonderful a thing pity is? For my part I thank God every night, yes, on my knees I thank God for having taught it to me. I went into prison with a heart of stone, thinking only of my own pleasure, but now my heart is utterly broken--pity has entered into my heart. I have learned now that pity is the greatest and most beautiful thing in the world. And that is why I cannot bear ill-will towards those who caused my suffering and those who condemned me; no, nor to any one, because without them I should not have known all that. ---- writes me terrible letters. He says he does not understand me, that he does not understand that I do not wish every one ill, and that every one has been horrid to me. No, he does not understand me. He cannot understand me any more. But I keep on telling him that in every letter: we cannot follow the same road. He has his, and it is beautiful--I have mine. His is that of Alcibiades; mine is now that of St. Francis of Assisi. Do you know St. Francis of Assisi? A wonderful man! Would you like to give me a great pleasure? Send me the best life of St. Francis you can find.'

I promised it to him. He went on:

'Yes, afterwards we had a charming prison Governor, oh, quite a charming man, but for the first six months I was dreadfully unhappy. There was a Governor of the prison, a Jew, who was very harsh, because he was entirely lacking in imagination.'

This last expression, spoken very quickly, was irresistibly funny; and, as I laughed heartily, he laughed too, repeated it, and then said:

'He did not know what to imagine in order to make us suffer. Now, you shall see what a lack of imagination he showed. You must know that in prison we are allowed to go out only one hour a day; then, we walk in a courtyard, round and round, one behind the other, and we are absolutely forbidden to say a word. Warders watch us, and there are terrible punishments for any one caught talking. Those who are in prison for the first time are spotted at once, because they do not know how to speak without moving their lips. I had already been in prison six weeks and I had not spoken a word to anyone--not to a soul[4].

'One evening we were walking as usual, one behind the other, during the hour's exercise, when suddenly behind me I heard my name called. It was the prisoner who followed me, and he said, "Oscar Wilde, I pity you, because you must suffer more than we do." Then I made a great effort not to be noticed (I thought I was going to faint), and I said without turning round, "No, my friend, we all suffer alike." And from that day I no longer had a desire to kill myself. We talked in that way for several days. I knew his name and what he had done. His name was P----; he was such a good fellow; oh! so good. But I had not yet learned to speak without moving my lips, and one evening,--"C.3.3." (C.3.3. was myself), "C.3.3. and A.4.8. step out of the ranks."

'Then we stood out, and the warder said, "You will both have to go before the Governor." And as pity had already entered into my heart, my only fear was for him; in fact I was even glad that I might suffer for his sake. But the Governor was quite terrible. He had P---- in first; he was going to question us separately, because you must know that the punishment is not the same for the one who speaks first, and for the one who answers; the punishment of the one who speaks first is double that of the other. As a rule the first has fifteen days' solitary confinement, and the second has eight days only. Then the Governor wanted to know which of us had spoken first, and naturally P----, good fellow that he was, said it was he. And afterwards when the Governor had me in to question me, I, of course, said it was I. Then the Governor got very red because he could not understand it. "But P---- also says that it was he who began it. I cannot understand it. I cannot understand it."

'Think of it, my dear fellow, he could =not= understand it. He became very much embarrassed and said, "But I have already given him fifteen days," and then he added, "Anyhow, if that is the case, I shall give you both fifteen days." Is not that extraordinary? That man had not a spark of imagination[5].'

Wilde was vastly amused at what he was saying, and laughed--he was happy telling stories. 'And, of course,' he continued, 'after the fifteen days we were much more anxious to speak to one another than before. You do not know how sweet that is, to feel that one is suffering for another. Gradually, as we did not go in the same order each day, I was able to talk to each of the others, to all of them, every one of them. I knew each one's name and each one's history, and when each was due to be released. And to each one I said, "When you get out of prison, the first thing you must do is to go to the Post Office, and there you will find a letter for you with some money." And so in that way I still know them, because I keep up my friendship with them. And there is something quite delightful in them. Would you believe it, already three of them have been to see me here? Is not that quite wonderful?'

'The successor of the harsh Governor was a very charming man--oh! remarkably so--and most considerate to me. You cannot imagine how much good it did me in prison that _Salomé_[6] was being played in Paris just at that time. In prison, it had been entirely forgotten that I was a literary person, but when they saw that my play was a success in Paris, they said to one another, "Well, but that is strange; he has talent, then." And from that moment they let me have all the books I wanted to read[7]. I thought, at first, that what would please me most would be Greek literature, so I asked for Sophocles, but I could not get a relish for it. Then I thought of the Fathers of the Church, but I found them equally uninteresting. And suddenly I thought of Dante. Oh! Dante. I read Dante every day, in Italian, and all through, but neither the _Purgatorio_ nor the _Paradiso_ seemed written for me. It was his _Inferno_ above all that I read; how could I help liking it? Cannot you guess? Hell, we were in it--Hell, that was prison!'[8]

That same evening he told me a clever story about Judas, and of his proposed drama on Pharaoh. Next day he took me to a charming little house[9], about two hundred yards from the hotel, which he had rented and was beginning to furnish. It was there that he wanted to write his plays--his _Pharoah_ first, and then one called _Ahab and Jezebel_ (he pronounced it 'Isabelle'), which he related to me admirably.

The carriage which was to take me away was waiting, and Wilde got into it to accompany me part of the way. He began talking to me again about my book, and praised it, though with some slight reserve, I thought. At last the carriage stopped; he bade me good-bye, and was just going to get out, when he suddenly said, 'Listen, my dear friend, you must promise me one thing. Your _Nourritures Terrestres_ is good, very good, but promise me you will never write a capital "I" again.' And as I seemed scarcely to understand what he meant, he finished up by saying, 'In Art, you see, there is no first person.'

[1] A literary friend who, a few years later, in collaboration, with another, translated _Dorian Gray_ into French.

[2] 'No more beautiful life has any man lived, no more beautiful life could any man live than Oscar Wilde lived during the short period I knew him in prison. He wore upon his face an eternal smile; sunshine was on his face, sunshine of some sort must have been in his heart. People say he was not sincere: he was the very soul of sincerity when I knew him. If he did not continue that life after he left prison, then the forces of evil must have been too strong for him. But he tried, he honestly tried, and in prison he succeeded.'--_From a Letter written to the Translator_.

[3] An archaic French word from the Latin _laetitia_.

[4] Within the last few years the stringency of this regulation has been somewhat relaxed, and it is in the discretion of the Governor to allow conversation at certain times. The Governor of Reading Prison, in the appendix to the Report of the Commissioners for the year ending March 31, 1901, stated: 'The privilege of talking at exercise is much appreciated by the prisoners. They walk and talk in a quiet and orderly manner, and there have been no reports for misbehaviour.'

[5] Solitary confinement does not mean in a dark cell. The prisoner still remains in his own cell, but is debarred from exercising with the other prisoners, or accompanying them to Divine Service. The confinement is not consecutive, but applies to every alternate day only--thus, a prisoner sentenced to seven days' bread and water, or solitary confinement, does but four days.

[6] _Salome_ was played in Paris early in 1896.

[7] Oscar Wilde found the prison library quite unable to satisfy his wants, and he was allowed to receive books from outside. Such books are then added to the prison library. Magazines are forbidden, but novels allowed. In a letter written from prison early in 1897, Oscar Wilde said that he felt a horror of returning to the world without possessing a single volume of his own, and suggested that some of his friends might like to give him some books. 'You know what kind of books I want,' he says, 'Flaubert, Stevenson, Baudelaire, Maeterlinck, Dumas père, Keats, Marlowe, Chatterton, Coleridge, Anatole France, Théophile Gautier, Dante, and Goethe, and so on.'

[8] During the last three months or so of his imprisonment he did no work whatever beyond writing _De Profundis_ and keeping his cell clean. He was allowed gas in his cell up to a late hour, when it was turned down but not turned out. As everything he wrote was examined by the Governor, naturally the prison system is not attacked with the same vehemence in _De Profundis_ as it is in _The Ballad of Reading Gaol_.

[9] This was the Chalet Bourbat where Wilde lived from July to October, 1897.

IV.

Ah! what else had I to do but love you, God's own mother was less dear to me, And less dear the Cytheræan rising like an argent lily from the sea.

IV.

On returning to Paris I went to give news of him to ----.

---- said to me: 'But all that is quite absurd. He is quite incapable of bearing the _ennui_. I know him so well. He writes to me every day. I also am of opinion that he ought to finish his play first, but after that he will come back here. He has never done anything good in solitude; he needs to be constantly drawn out of himself. It is by my side that he has written all his best work. Besides, just look at his last letter.'

He thereupon read it to me. In it Wilde begged ---- to let him finish his _Pharaoh_ in peace, but, in effect, the letter implied that as soon as his play was written he would come back, he would find him again; and it ended with these boastful words, 'and then I shall be once more the King of Life.'

V.

Rudderless, we drift athwart a tempest, and when once the storm of youth is past, Without lyre, without lute or chorus, Death the silent pilot comes at last.

V.

And a short time afterwards, Wilde went back to Paris.[1]

His play was not written--it will never be written now. Society well knows what steps to take when it wants to crush a man, and it has means more subtle than death. Wilde had suffered too grievously for the last two years, and in too submissive a manner, and his will had been broken. For the first few months he might still have entertained illusions, but he soon gave them up. It was as though he had signed his abdication. Nothing remained in his shattered life but a mouldy ruin, painful to contemplate, of his former self. At times he seemed to wish to show that his brain was still active. Humour there was, but it was far-fetched, forced, and threadbare.

I met him again on two occasions only. One evening on the Boulevards, where I was walking with G----, I heard my name called. I turned round and saw Wilde. Ah! how changed he was. 'If I appear again before writing my play, the world will refuse to see in me anything except the felon,' he had once said to me. He had appeared again, without his play, and as he found certain doors closed in his face, he no longer sought admission anywhere. He prowled.

Friends, at different times, tried to save him[2]. They did all they could think of, and were for taking him to Italy, but he eluded their efforts, and began to drift back. Among those who had remained faithful for the longest time, some had often told me that Wilde was no longer to be seen, and I was somewhat uneasy, I admit, at seeing him again, and what is more, in a place where so many people might pass. Wilde was sitting at a table outside a café. He ordered two cock-tails for G---- and myself. I was going to sit opposite to him in such a way as to turn my back to the passers-by, but Wilde, noticed this movement, which he took as an impulse of absurd shame, (he was not entirely mistaken, I must admit), and said, 'Oh, sit here, near me,' pointing to a chair at his side, 'I am so much alone just now.'

Wilde was still well-dressed, but his hat was not so glossy; his collar was of the same shape, but it was not so clean, and the sleeves of his coat were slightly frayed at the edges.

'When I used to meet Verlaine in days gone by,' he continued with an outburst of pride, 'I was never ashamed of being seen with him. I was rich, light-hearted, and covered with glory, but I felt that to be seen with him was an honour, even when Verlaine was drunk.' Then fearing to bore G----, I think, he suddenly changed his mood, tried to be witty and to make jokes. In the effort he became gloomy. My recollections here are dreadfully sad. At last my friend and I got up. Wilde insisted on paying for the drinks, and I was about to say good-bye, when he took me aside, and, with an air of great embarrassment, said in a low voice, 'I say, I must tell you, I am absolutely without a penny[3].

Some days afterwards I saw him again, and for the last time. I do not want to repeat more than one word of our conversation. He told me of his troubles, of the impossibility of carrying out, or even of beginning, a piece of work[4]. Sadly I reminded him of the promise he had made not to show himself in Paris without having finished one book. 'Ah!' I began, 'why did you leave Berneval so soon, when you ought to have stayed there so long? I cannot say that I am angry with you, but--'

He interrupted me, laid his hand on mine, looked at me with his most sorrowful look, and said, 'You must not be angry with _one who has been crushed_[5].'

* * * * *

Oscar Wilde died in a shabby little hotel in the Rue des Beaux Arts. Seven persons followed the hearse, and even they did not all accompany the funeral procession to the end. On the coffin were some flowers and some artificial wreaths, only one of which, I am told, bore any inscription. It was from the proprietor of the hotel, and on it were these words: 'A MON LOCATAIRE.'

[1] The representatives of his family were willing to guarantee Wilde a very good position if he would consent to certain stipulations, one of which was that he should never see ---- again. He was either unable or unwilling to accept the conditions.

[2] In October, 1897, he stayed with friends at the Villa Gindice, Posillipo, and was in Naples till the end of the year, or the beginning of 1898, when he went to Paris. In the following year he went to the South of France (Nice) for the spring, but was back in June or July. He went also to Switzerland in 1899 and stayed some time at Gland.

[3] M. Gide says that Wilde's words were '_je suis absolument sans ressources_,' which, I think, need not mean more than a temporary embarrassment. I have been at some pains to find out what the actual circumstances were, and I am able to state the following facts on the authority of Lord Alfred Douglas. When Mr. Wilde came out of prison, the sum of £800 was subscribed for him by his friends. Lord Alfred Douglas gave or sent Mr. Wilde, in the last twelve months of his life, cheques for over £600, as he can show by his bank-book, in addition to ready money gifts, and several others gave him at various times amounts totalling up to several hundreds of pounds. 'It is true,' Lord Alfred Douglas writes, 'he was always hard up and short of money, but that was because he was incurably extravagant and reckless. I think these facts ought to be known in justice to myself and many others of his friends, all poor men.' In another letter Lord Alfred Douglas says that Mr. Wilde, when he was well off, before his disaster, was the most generous of men. After 1897 received also large sums of money as advance fees for plays which he never finished. 'I hope,' Lord Alfred Douglas continues, 'you will not think that I blame him, or have any grievance against him on any account. What I gave him I considered I owed him, as he had often lent and given me money before he came to grief. I was delighted that he should have it, and I wish I had had time to give him more.' It was not, however, till after the death of his father, that Lord Alfred Douglas was in a position to help Mr. Wilde to the extent that he did, and Mr. Wilde died within a few months of the death of Lord Queensberry.

Lord Alfred Douglas adds that he thinks 'it is about time that some of the poisonous nonsense which has been written about Mr. Wilde should be qualified by a little fact.'

It must be remembered, however, that large as the sums of money were which Mr. Wilde received during the last few years of his life, they would not appear so to him, as in the days of his highest success he was receiving several thousands a year from his plays and other works.

It is since the first sheets of this book passed through the press that I have been favoured with the information that Lord Alfred Douglas has been good enough to give me, and I now wish to qualify the statement in my introductory remarks that Mr. Wilde died 'in poverty.' It would be more accurate to say 'in comparative poverty.'

[4] Two plays produced in London shortly hefore his death have been attributed to Oscar Wilde. One of these, _The Tyranny of Tears_, does not contain a single line of his. The other is _Mr. and Mrs. Daventry_, the plot of which was originally Oscar Wilde's, and he sketched out the scenario. The play was then sold to Mr. Frank Harris, who has always acknowledged Wilde's share in it, but the piece was entirely transformed, and except one or two of the situations in it there was very little left of Wilde's idea.

Referring to such works as the translations of _Ce Qui ne Meurt pas_ and the _Satyricon_ which have heen issued under Oscar Wilde's name, Mr. Robert Ross (the editor of _De Profundis_), writes:--'No one can produce even a scrap of MS. in the author's handwriting of these so-called "last works."'

[5] 'Scandals used to lend charm, or at least interest, to a man--now they crush him.'--_An Ideal Husband_, Act I.

* * * * *

TO OSCAR WILDE,

AUTHOR OF 'RAVENNA.'

BY AUGUSTUS M. MOORE.

No Marsyas am I, who singing came To challenge King Apollo at a Test, But a love-wearied singer at the best. The myrtle leaves are all that I can claim, While on thy brow there burns a crown of flame, Upon thy shield Italia's eagle crest; Content am I with Lesbian leaves to rest, Guard thou thy laurels and thy mother's name.

I buried Love within the rose I meant To deck the fillet of thy Muse's hair; I take this wild-flower, grown against her feet, And kissing its half-open lips I swear, Frail though it be and widowed of its scent, I plucked it for your sake and find it sweet.

MOORE HALL,

SEPTEMBER, 1878.

From _The Irish Monthly_, Vol. vi, No. 65.

* * * * *

LIST OF PUBLISHED WRITINGS OF OSCAR WILDE.

Αἴλινον, αἴινον εἰπὲ, Τὸ δ᾽ ευ̉ νικάτω. _Dublin University Magazine_, September, 1876.

APOLOGIA. _Poets and Poetry of the Century_, Edited by A. H. Miles, Vol. viii, 1891, 1898.

ARTIST, THE. In 'Poems in Prose.'

ARTIST'S DREAM, THE. _Green Room_, Routledge's Christmas Annual, 1880.

AVE IMPERATRIX! A POEM ON ENGLAND. _World_, August 25, 1880.

AVE! MARIA. _Kottabos_, Michaelmas Term, 1879.

BALLAD OF READING GAOL, THE. Leonard Smithers, 1898 (February), 7th Edition, 1899.

BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA, THE. (_Le Figaro Illustré_, Christmas Number?). In 'A House of Pomegranates.'

CANTERVILLE GHOST, THE. Illustrations by F. H. Townsend. _Court and Society Review_, February 23, March 2, 1887. In 'Lord Arthur Savile's Crime and Other Stories.'

CASE OF WARDER MARTIN, THE. _Daily Chronicle_, May 28, 1897.

CHILDREN IN PRISON. Murdoch & Co., 1898 (February).

CHINESE SAGE, A. _Speaker_, February 8, 1890

CONQUEROR OF TIME, THE. _Time_, April, 1879.

CRITIC AS ARTIST, THE. In 'Intentions.'

DE PROFUNDIS. Methuen & Co., 1905 (February 23), 4th Edition, March, 1905.

DECAY OF LYING, THE. A DIALOGUE. _Nineteenth Century_, January, 1889. In 'Intentions.'

DEVOTED FRIEND, THE. In 'The Happy Prince and Other Tales.'

Δηξίθυμον Ἔρωτος Ἄνθος. _Kottabos_, Trinity Term, 1876.

DISCIPLE, THE. _Spirit Lamp_, June 6, 1893. In 'Poems in Prose.'

DOER OF GOOD, THE. In 'Poems in Prose.'

DOLE OF THE KING'S DAUGHTER, THE. _Dublin University Magazine_, June, 1876.

DON'T READ THIS IF YOU WANT TO BE HAPPY TO-DAY. _Daily Chronicle_, March 24, 1898.

DUCHESS OF PADUA, THE. Privately printed for the Author; America, 1883[1].

ENGLISH POETESSES. _Queen_, December 8, 1888.

ENGLISH RENAISSANCE, LECTURE ON THE. G. Munro's _Seaside library_, Vol. 58, No. 1183. New York, January 19, 1882.

ETHICS OF JOURNALISM, THE. _Pall Mall Gazette_, September 20, 25, 1894.

FASCINATING BOOK, A. _Womans World_, November, 1888.

FISHERMAN AND HIS SOUL, THE. In 'A House of Pomegranates.'

FRAGMENT FROM THE AGAMEMNON OF ÆSCHYLOS, A. _Kottabos_, Hilary Term, 1877.

FROM SPRING DAYS TO WINTER (for Music). _Dublin University Magazine_, January, 1876.

GRAFFITI D'ITALIA (Arona. Lago Maggiore). _Month and Catholic Review_, September, 1876.

GRAFFITI D'ITALIA (San Miniato). _Dublin University Magazine_, March, 1876.

GRAVE OF KEATS, THE. _Burlington_, January, 1881.

'GREEN CARNATION, THE.' _Pall Mall Gazette_, Oct. 2, 1894.

GROSVENOR GALLERY, THE. _Dublin University Magazine_, July, 1877.

GUIDO FERRANTI (Selection from 'The Duchess of Padua'). Werner's _Readings and Recitations_, New York, 1891.

HAPPY PRINCE AND OTHER TALES, THE. David Nutt, 1888 (May), 1889 (January), 1902 (February).

HELAS! _Poets and Poetry of the Century_. Edited by A. H. Miles, Vol. viii, 1891, 1898.

HARLOT'S HOUSE, THE. 1885[2]

HEU MISERANDE PUER! See 'Tomb of Keats, The.'

HOUSE OF JUDGMENT, THE. _Spirit Lamp_, February 17, 1893. In 'Poems in Prose.'

HOUSE OF POMEGRANATES, A. Osgood, McIlvaine & Co., 1891 (November).

HOUSE OF POMEGRANATES, A (Reply to Criticism of). _Speaker_, December 5, 1891.