Delphi complete works of.., p.236
Delphi Complete Works of Oscar Wilde (Illustrated), page 236
“Queensberry,” he said, “had engaged a stall at the St. James’s Theatre, no doubt to kick up a row; but as soon as I heard of it I got Alick (George Alexander) to send him back his money. On the night of the first performance Queensberry appeared carrying a large bundle of carrots. He was refused admittance at the box-office, and when he tried to enter the gallery the police would not let him in. He must be mad, Frank, don’t you think? I am glad he was foiled.”
“He is insanely violent,” I said, “he will keep on attacking you.”
“But what can I do, Frank?”
“Don’t ask for advice you won’t take,” I replied. “There’s a French proverb I’ve always liked: ‘In love and war don’t seek counsel.’ But for God’s sake, don’t drift. Stop while you can.”
But Oscar would have had to take a resolution and act in order to stop, and he was incapable of such energy. The wild horses of Fate had run away with the light chariot of his fortune, and what the end would be no one could foresee. It came with appalling suddenness.
One evening, in February, ‘95, I heard that the Marquis of Queensberry had left an insulting card for Oscar at the Albemarle Club. My informant added gleefully that now Oscar would have to face the music and we’d all see what was in him. There was no malice in this, just an Englishman’s pleasure in a desperate fight, and curiosity as to the issue.
A little later I received a letter from Oscar, asking me if he could call on me that afternoon. I stayed in, and about four o’clock he came to see me.
At first he used the old imperious mask, which he had lately accustomed himself to wear.
“I am bringing an action against Queensberry, Frank,” he began gravely, “for criminal libel. He is a mere wild beast. My solicitors tell me that I am certain to win. But they say some of the things I have written will be brought up against me in court. Now you know all I have written. Would you in your position as editor of The Fortnightly come and give evidence for me, testify for instance that ‘Dorian Gray’ is not immoral?”
“Yes,” I replied at once, “I should be perfectly willing, and I could say more than that; I could say that you are one of the very few men I have ever known whose talk and whose writings were vowed away from grossness of any sort.”
“Oh! Frank, would you? It would be so kind of you,” he cried out. “My solicitors said I ought to ask you, but they were afraid you would not like to come: your evidence will win the case. It is good of you.” His whole face was shaken; he turned away to hide the tears.
“Anything I can do, Oscar,” I said, “I shall do with pleasure, and, as you know, to the uttermost; but I want you to consider the matter carefully. An English court of law gives me no assurance of a fair trial or rather I am certain that in matters of art or morality an English court is about the worst tribunal in the civilised world.”
He shook his head impatiently.
“I cannot help it, I cannot alter it,” he said.
“You must listen to me,” I insisted. “You remember the Whistler and Ruskin action. You know that Whistler ought to have won. You know that Ruskin was shamelessly in fault; but the British jury and the so-called British artists treated Whistler and his superb work with contempt. Take a different case altogether, the Belt case, where all the Academicians went into the witness box, and asserted honestly enough that Belt was an impostor, yet the jury gave him a verdict of £5,000, though a year later he was sent to penal servitude for the very frauds which the jury in the first trial had declared by their verdict he had not committed. An English law court is all very well for two average men, who are fighting an ordinary business dispute. That’s what it’s made for, but to judge a Whistler or the ability or the immorality of an artist is to ask the court to do what it is wholly unfit to do. There is not a judge on the bench whose opinion on such a matter is worth a moment’s consideration, and the jury are a thousand years behind the judge.”
“That may be true, Frank; but I cannot help it.”
“Don’t forget,” I persisted, “all British prejudices will be against you. Here is a father, the fools will say, trying to protect his young son. If he has made a mistake, it is only through excess of laudable zeal; you would have to prove yourself a religious maniac in order to have any chance against him in England.”
“How terrible you are, Frank. You know it is Bosie Douglas who wants me to fight, and my solicitors tell me I shall win.”
“Solicitors live on quarrels. Of course they want a case that will bring hundreds if not thousands of pounds into their pockets. Besides they like the fight. They will have all the kudos of it and the fun, and you will pay the piper. For God’s sake don’t be led into it: that way madness lies.”
“But, Frank,” he objected weakly, “how can I sit down under such an insult. I must do something.”
“That’s another story,” I replied. “Let us by all means weigh what is to be done. But let us begin by putting the law-courts out of the question. Don’t forget that you are challenged to mortal combat. Let us consider how the challenge should be met, but we won’t fight under Queensberry rules because Queensberry happens to be the aggressor. Don’t forget that if you lose and Queensberry goes free, everyone will hold that you have been guilty of nameless vice. Put the law courts out of your head. Whatever else you do, you must not bring an action for criminal libel against Queensberry. You are sure to lose it; you haven’t a dog’s chance, and the English despise the beaten — væ victis! Don’t commit suicide.”
Nothing was determined when the time came to part.
This conversation took place, I believe, on the Friday or Saturday. I spent the whole of Sunday trying to find out what was known about Oscar Wilde and what would be brought up against him. I wanted to know too how he was regarded in an ordinary middle-class English home.
My investigations had appalling results. Everyone assumed that Oscar Wilde was guilty of the worst that had ever been alleged against him; the very people who received him in their houses condemned him pitilessly and, as I approached the fountain-head of information, the charges became more and more definite; to my horror, in the Public Prosecutor’s office, his guilt was said to be known and classified.
All “people of importance” agreed that he would lose his case against Queensberry; “no English jury would give Oscar Wilde a verdict against anyone,” was the expert opinion.
“How unjust!” I cried.
A careless shrug was the only reply.
I returned home from my enquiries late on Sunday afternoon, and in a few minutes Oscar called by appointment. I told him I was more convinced than ever that he must not go on with the prosecution; he would be certain to lose. Without beating about the bush I declared that he had no earthly chance.
“There are letters,” I said, “which are infinitely worse than your published writings, which will be put in evidence against you.”
“What letters do you mean, Frank?” he questioned. “The Wood letters to Lord Alfred Douglas I told you about? I can explain all of them.”
“You paid blackmail to Wood for letters you had written to Douglas,” I replied, “and you will not be able to explain that fact to the satisfaction of a jury. I am told it is possible that witnesses will be called against you. Take it from me, Oscar, you have not a ghost of a chance.”
“Tell me what you mean, Frank, for God’s sake,” he cried.
“I can tell you in a word,” I replied; “you will lose your case. I have promised not to say more.”
I tried to persuade him by his vanity.
“You must remember,” I said, “that you are a sort of standard bearer for future generations. If you lose you will make it harder for all writers in England; though God knows it is hard enough already; you will put back the hands of the clock for fifty years.”
I seemed almost to have persuaded him. He questioned me:
“What is the alternative, Frank, the wisest thing to do in your opinion? Tell me that.”
“You ought to go abroad,” I replied, “go abroad with your wife, and let Queensberry and his son fight out their own miserable quarrels; they are well-matched.”
“Oh, Frank,” he cried, “how can I do that?”
“Sleep on it,” I replied; “I am going to, and we can talk it all over in a day or two.”
“But I must know,” he said wistfully, “to-morrow morning, Frank.”
“Bernard Shaw is lunching with me to-morrow,” I replied, “at the Café Royal.”
He made an impatient movement of his head.
“He usually goes early,” I went on, “and if you like to come after three o’clock we can have a talk and consider it all.”
“May I bring Bosie?” he enquired.
“I would rather you did not,” I replied, “but it is for you to do just as you like. I don’t mind saying what I have to say, before anyone,” and on that we parted.
Somehow or other next day at lunch both Shaw and I got interested in our talk, and we were both at the table when Oscar came in. I introduced them, but they had met before. Shaw stood up and proposed to go at once, but Oscar with his usual courtesy assured him that he would be glad if he stayed.
“Then, Oscar,” I said, “perhaps you won’t mind Shaw hearing what I advise?”
“No, Frank, I don’t mind,” he sighed with a pitiful air of depression.
I am not certain and my notes do not tell me whether Bosie Douglas came in with Oscar or a little later, but he heard the greater part of our talk. I put the matter simply.
“First of all,” I said, “we start with the certainty that you are going to lose the case against Queensberry. You must give it up, drop it at once; but you cannot drop it and stay in England. Queensberry would probably attack you again and again. I know him well; he is half a savage and regards pity as a weakness; he has absolutely no consideration for others.
“You should go abroad, and, as ace of trumps, you should take your wife with you. Now for the excuse: I would sit down and write such a letter as you alone can write to The Times. You should set forth how you have been insulted by the Marquis of Queensberry, and how you went naturally to the Courts for a remedy, but you found out very soon that this was a mistake. No jury would give a verdict against a father, however mistaken he might be. The only thing for you to do therefore is to go abroad, and leave the whole ring, with its gloves and ropes, its sponges and pails, to Lord Queensberry. You are a maker of beautiful things, you should say, and not a fighter. Whereas the Marquis of Queensberry takes joy only in fighting. You refuse to fight with a father under these circumstances.”
Oscar seemed to be inclined to do as I proposed. I appealed to Shaw, and Shaw said he thought I was right; the case would very likely go against Oscar, a jury would hardly give a verdict against a father trying to protect his son. Oscar seemed much moved. I think it was about this time that Bosie Douglas came in. At Oscar’s request, I repeated my argument and to my astonishment Douglas got up at once, and cried with his little white, venomous, distorted face:
“Such advice shows you are no friend of Oscar’s.”
“What do you mean?” I asked in wonderment; but he turned and left the room on the spot. To my astonishment Oscar also got up.
“It is not friendly of you, Frank,” he said weakly. “It really is not friendly.”
I stared at him: he was parrotting Douglas’ idiotic words.
“Don’t be absurd,” I said; but he repeated:
“No, Frank, it is not friendly,” and went to the door and disappeared.
Like a flash I saw part at least of the truth. It was not Oscar who had ever misled Douglas, but Lord Alfred Douglas who was driving Oscar whither he would.
I turned to Shaw.
“Did I say anything in the heat of argument that could have offended Oscar or Douglas?”
“Nothing,” said Shaw, “not a word: you have nothing to reproach yourself with.”
Left to myself I was at a loss to imagine what Lord Alfred Douglas proposed to himself by hounding Oscar on to attack his father. I was still more surprised by his white, bitter face. I could not get rid of the impression it left on me. While groping among these reflections I was suddenly struck by a sort of likeness, a similarity of expression and of temper between Lord Alfred Douglas and his unhappy father. I could not get it out of my head — that little face blanched with rage and the wild, hating eyes; the shrill voice, too, was Queensberry’s.
* * *
CHAPTER XIII
It was weakness in Oscar and not strength that allowed him to be driven to the conflict by Lord Alfred Douglas; it was his weakness again which prevented him from abandoning the prosecution, once it was begun. Such a resolution would have involved a breaking away from his associates and from his friends; a personal assertion of will of which he was incapable. Again and again he answered my urging with:
“I can’t, Frank, I can’t.”
When I pointed out to him that the defence was growing bolder — it was announced one morning in the newspapers that Lord Queensberry, instead of pleading paternal privilege and minimising his accusation, was determined to justify the libel and declare that it was true in every particular — Oscar could only say weakly:
“I can’t help it, Frank, I can’t do anything; you only distress me by predicting disaster.”
The fibres of resolution, never strong in him, had been destroyed by years of self-indulgence, while the influence whipping him was stronger than I guessed. He was hurried like a sheep to the slaughter.
Although everyone who cared to think knew that Queensberry would win the case, many persons believed that Oscar would make a brilliant intellectual fight, and carry off the honours, if not the verdict.
The trial took place at the Central Criminal Court on April 3rd, 1895. Mr. Justice Collins was the judge and the case was conducted at first with the outward seemliness and propriety which are so peculiarly English. An hour before the opening of the case the Court was crowded, not a seat to be had for love or money: even standing room was at a premium.
The Counsel were the best at the Bar; Sir Edward Clarke, Q.C., Mr. Charles Mathews, and Mr. Travers Humphreys for the prosecution; Mr. Carson, Q.C., Mr. G.C. Gill and Mr. A. Gill for the defence. Mr. Besley, Q.C., and Mr. Monckton watched the case, it was said, for the brothers, Lord Douglas of Hawick and Lord Alfred Douglas.
While waiting for the judge, the buzz of talk in the court grew loud; everybody agreed that the presence of Sir Edward Clarke gave Oscar an advantage. Mr. Carson was not so well known then as he has since become; he was regarded as a sharp-witted Irishman who had still his spurs to win. Some knew he had been at school with Oscar, and at Trinity College was as high in the second class as Oscar was in the first. It was said he envied Oscar his reputation for brilliance.
Suddenly the loud voice of the clerk called for silence.
As the judge appeared everyone stood up and in complete stillness Sir Edward Clarke opened for the prosecution. The bleak face, long upper lip and severe side whiskers made the little man look exactly like a nonconformist parson of the old days, but his tone and manner were modern — quiet and conversational. The charge, he said, was that the defendant had published a false and malicious libel against Mr. Oscar Wilde. The libel was in the form of a card which Lord Queensberry had left at a club to which Mr. Oscar Wilde belonged: it could not be justified unless the statements written on the card were true. It would, however, have been possible to have excused the card by a strong feeling, a mistaken feeling, on the part of a father, but the plea which the defendant had brought before the Court raised graver issues. He said that the statement was true and was made for the public benefit. There were besides a series of accusations in the plea (everyone held his breath), mentioning names of persons, and it was said with regard to these persons that Mr. Wilde had solicited them to commit a grave offence and that he had been guilty with each and all of them of indecent practices....” My heart seemed to stop. My worst forebodings were more than justified. Vaguely I heard Clarke’s voice, “grave responsibility ... serious allegations ... credible witnesses ... Mr. Oscar Wilde was the son of Sir William Wilde ...” the voice droned on and I awoke to feverish clearness of brain. Queensberry had turned the defence into a prosecution. Why had he taken the risk? Who had given him the new and precise information? I felt that there was nothing before Oscar but ruin absolute. Could anything be done? Even now he could go abroad — even now. I resolved once more to try and induce him to fly.
My interest turned from these passionate imaginings to the actual. Would Sir Edward Clarke fight the case as it should be fought? He had begun to tell of the friendship between Oscar Wilde and Lord Alfred Douglas; the friendship too between Oscar Wilde and Lady Queensberry, who on her own petition had been divorced from the Marquis; would he go on to paint the terrible ill-feeling that existed between Lord Alfred Douglas and his father, and show how Oscar had been dragged into the bitter family squabble? To the legal mind this had but little to do with the case.
We got, instead, a dry relation of the facts which have already been set forth in this history. Wright, the porter of the Albemarle Club, was called to say that Lord Queensberry had handed him the card produced. Witness had looked at the card; did not understand it; but put it in an envelope and gave it to Mr. Wilde.
Mr. Oscar Wilde was then called and went into the witness box. He looked a little grave but was composed and serious. Sir Edward Clarke took him briefly through the incidents of his life: his successes at school and the University; the attempts made to blackmail him, the insults of Lord Queensberry, and then directed his attention to the allegations in the plea impugning his conduct with different persons. Mr. Oscar Wilde declared that there was no truth in any of these statements. Hereupon Sir Edward Clarke sat down. Mr. Carson rose and the death duel began.
Mr. Carson brought out that Oscar Wilde was forty years of age and Lord Alfred Douglas twenty-four. Down to the interview in Tite Street Lord Queensberry had been friendly with Mr. Wilde.
