Testimony of
Oscar Wilde
on Cross Examination
(April
3,1895)(Literary
Part)
Wilde was questioned on cross-examination by Queensberry's defense attorney, Edward Carson
Edward Carson--You stated
that
your age was thirty-nine. I think you are over
forty. You were
born on 16th October, 1854?
Oscar Wilde--I have no wish
to
pose as being young. I am thirty-nine or forty. You
have my
certificate and that settles the matter.
C--But being born in 1854
makes
you more than forty?
W--Ah! Very well
C--What age is Lord Alfred
Douglas?
W--Lord Alfred Douglas is
about
twenty-four, and was between twenty and twenty-one years of age
when I
first knew him. Down to the time of the interview in Tite
Street,
Lord Queensberry was friendly. I did not receive a letter
on 3rd
April in which Lord Queensberry desired that my acquaintance
with his son
should cease. After the interview I had no doubt that such
was Lord
Queensberry's desire. Notwithstanding Lord Queensberry's
protest,
my intimacy with Lord Alfred Douglas has continued down to the
present
moment.
C-- You have stayed with him
at many places?
W--Yes.
C--At Oxford? Brighton
on several occasions? Worthing?
W--Yes.
C--And in various hotels in
London?
W--Yes; at one in Albemarle
Street,
and in Dover Street, and at the Savoy.
C--Did you ever take rooms
yourself
in addition to your house in Tite Street?
W--Yes; at 10 and 11 St.
James's
Place. I kept the rooms from the month of October, 1893,
to the end
of March, 1894. Lord Alfred Douglas has stayed in those
chambers,
which are not far from Piccadilly. I have been abroad with
him several
times and even lately to Monte Carlo. With reference to
the writings
which have been mentioned, it was not at Brighton, in 20 King's
Road, that
I wrote my article for The Chameleon. I observed
that there
were also contributions from Lord Alfred Douglas, but these were
not written
at Brighton. I have seen them. I thought them
exceedingly beautiful
poems. One was "In Praise of Shame" and the other "Two
Loves."
C-- These loves. They
were
two boys?
W--Yes.
C-- One boy calls his love
"true
love," and the other boy calls his love "shame"?
W--Yes.
C-- Did you think that made
any
improper suggestion?
W--No, none whatever.
C-- You read "The Priest and
the Acolyte"?
W--Yes.
C-- You have no doubt
whatever
that that was an improper story?
W--From the literary point
of
view it was highly improper. It is impossible for a man of
literature
to judge it otherwise; by literature, meaning treatment,
selection of subject,
and the like. I thought the treatment rotten and the
subject rotten.
C--You are of opinion, I
believe,
that there is no such thing as an immoral book?
W--Yes.
C--May I take it that you
think
"The Priest and the Acolyte" was not immoral?
W--It was worse; it was
badly
written.
C--Was not the story that of
a priest who fell in love with a boy who served him at the
altar, and was
discovered by the rector in the priest's room, and a scandal
arose?
W--I have read it only once,
in last November, and nothing will induce me to read it
again. I
don't care for it. It doesn't interest me...
C--Do you think the story
blasphemous?
W--I think it violated every
artistic canon of beauty.
C-- I wish to know whether
you
thought the story blasphemous?
W--The story filled me with
disgust.
The end was wrong.
C--Answer the question,
sir.
Did you or did you not consider the story blasphemous?
W--I thought it disgusting.
C--I am satisfied with
that.
You know that when the priest in the story administers poison to
the boy,
he uses the words of the sacrament of the Church of England?
W--That I entirely forgot.
C--Do you consider that
blasphemous?
W--I think it is
horrible.
"Blasphemous" is not a word of mine.
[Carson then read from "The Priest and the Acolyte."]:
Just
before the consecration the priest took a tiny phial from the
pocket of
his cassock, blessed it, and poured the contents into the
chalice.
When
the time came for him to receive from the chalice, he raised
it to his
lips, but did not taste of it.
He
administered the sacred wafer to the child, and then he took
his hand;
he turned towards him; but when he saw the light in the
beautiful face
he turned again to the crucifix with a low moan. For one
instant
his courage failed him; then he turned to the little fellow
again, and
held the chalice to his lips:
"The
Blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was shed for thee,
preserve thy body
and soul unto everlasting life."
C--Do you approve of those
words?
W—I think them disgusting,
perfect
twaddle....I strongly objected to the whole story. I took
no steps
to express disapproval of The Chameleon because I think
it would
have been beneath my dignity as a man of letters to associate
myself with
an Oxford undergraduate's productions. I am aware that the
magazine
may have been circulated among the undergraduates of
Oxford. I do
not believe that any book or work of art ever had any effect
whatever on
morality.
C--Am I right in saying that
you do not consider the effect in creating morality or
immorality?
W—Certainly,
I do not.
C--So far as your works are
concerned,
you pose as not being concerned about morality or immorality?
W—I do not know whether you
use
the word "pose" in any particular sense.
C--It is a favorite word of
your
own?
W—Is it? I have no
pose
in this matter. In writing a play or a book, I am
concerned entirely
with literature—that is, with art. I aim not at doing good
or evil,
but in trying to make a thing that will have some quality of
beauty.
C--Listen, sir. Here
is
one of the "Phrases and Philosophies for the Use of the Young"
which you
contributed: "Wickedness is a myth invented by good people to
account for
the curious attractiveness of others." You think that
true?
W—I rarely think that
anything
I write is true.
C--Did you say "rarely"?
W--I said "rarely." I might
have
said "never"—not true in the actual sense of the word.
C--"Religions die when they
arc
proved to be true." Is that true?
W—Yes; I hold that. It
is a suggestion towards a philosophy of the absorption of
religions by
science, but it is too big a question to go into now.
C--Do you think that was a
safe
axiom to put forward for the philosophy of the young?
W--Most stimulating.
C--"If one tells the truth,
one
is sure, sooner or later, to be found out"?
W—That is a pleasing
paradox,
but I do not set very high store on it as an axiom.
C-- Is it good for the
young?
W—Anything is good that
stimulates
thought in whatever age.
C--Whether moral or immoral?
W—There is no such thing as
morality
or immorality in thought. There is immoral emotion.
C--"Pleasure is thc only
thing
one should live for"?
W—I think that the
realization
of oneself is the prime aim of life, and to realize oneself
through pleasure
is finer than to do so through pain. I am, on that point,
entirely
on the side of the ancients—the Greeks. It is a pagan
idea.
C--"A truth ceases to be
true
when more than one person believes in it"?
W—Perfectly. That
would
be my metaphysical definition of truth; something so personal
that the
same truth could never be appreciated by two minds.
C--"The condition of
perfection
is idleness: the aim of perfection is youth"?
W—Oh, yes; I think so.
Half of it is true. The life of contemplation is the
highest life,
and so recognized by the philosopher.
C--"There is something
tragic
about the enormous number of young men there are in England at
the present
moment who start life with perfect profiles, and end by adopting
some useful
profession"?
W—I should think that the
young
have enough sense of humor.
C--You think that is
humorous?
W—I think it is an amusing
paradox,
an amusing play on words....
C--This is in your
introduction
to Dorian Gray: "There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral
book.
Books are well written, or badly written." That expresses
your view?
W—My view on art, yes.
C--Then, I take it, that no
matter
how immoral a book may be, if it is well written, it is, in your
opinion,
a good book?
W—Yes, if it were well
written
so as to produce a sense of beauty, which is the highest sense
of which
a human being can be capable. If it were badly written, it
would
produce a sense of disgust.
C--Then a well-written book
putting
forward perverted moral views may be a good book?
W—No work of art ever puts
forward
views. Views belong to people who are not artists.
C--A perverted novel might
be
a good book?
W--I don't know what you
mean
by a "perverted" novel.
C--Then I will suggest
Dorian
Gray as open to the interpretation of being such a novel?
W--That could only be to
brutes
and illiterates. The views of Philistines on art are
incalculably
stupid.
C--An illiterate person
reading
Dorian Gray might consider it such a novel?
W—The views of illiterates
on
art are unaccountable. I am concerned only with my view of
art.
I don't care twopence what other people think of it.
C--The majority of persons
would
come under your definition of Philistines and illiterates?
W—I have found wonderful
exceptions.
C--Do you think that the
majority
of people live up to the position you are giving us?
W—I am afraid they are not
cultivated
enough.
C--Not cultivated enough to
draw
the distinction between a good book and a bad book?
W—Certainly
not.
C--The affection and love of
the artist of Dorian Gray might lead an ordinary individual to
believe
that it might have a certain tendency?
W—I have no knowledge of the
views of ordinary individuals.
C--You did not prevent the
ordinary
individual from buying your book?
W—I have never discouraged
him.
[Carson read from The Picture of Dorian Gray, in which the painter Basil Hallward describes to Lord Henry Wooton his first meetings with Dorian Gray.]:
".
. . The story is simply this. Two months ago I
went to a
crush at Lady Brandon's. You know we poor painters have
to show ourselves
in society from time to time, just to remind the public that
we are not
Savages. With an evening coat and a white tie, as you
told me once,
anybody, even a stockbroker, can gain a reputation for being
civilized.
Well, after I had been in the room about ten minutes, talking
to huge overdressed
dowagers and tedious Academicians, I suddenly became conscious
that some
one was looking at me. I turned half-way round, and saw
Dorian Gray
for the first time. When our eyes met, I felt that I was
growing
pale. A curious instinct of terror came over me. I
knew that
I had come face to face with some one whose mere personality
was so fascinating
that, if I allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole
nature, my whole
soul, my very art itself. I did not want any external
influence in
my life. You know yourself, Harry, how independent I am
by nature.
My father destined me for the army. I insisted on going
to Oxford.
Then he made me enter my name at the Middle Temple.
Before I had
eaten half a dozen dinners I gave up the Bar, and announced my
intention
of becoming a painter. I have always been my own master;
had at least
always been so, till I met Dorian Gray. Then--but I
don't know how
to explain it to you. Something seemed to tell me that I
was on the
verge of a terrible crisis in my life. I had a strange
feeling that
Fate had in store for me exquisite joys and exquisite
sorrows. I
knew that if I spoke to Dorian I would become absolutely
devoted to him,
and that I ought not to speak to him. I grew afraid, and
turned to
quit the room. It was not conscience that made me do so:
it was cowardice.
I take no credit to myself for trying to escape."
"Conscience
and cowardice are really the same things, Basil.
Conscience
is the trade-name of the firm. That is all."
"I don't
believe
that, Harry. However, whatever was my motive-and it may
have been
pride, for I used to be very proud-I certainly struggled to
the door.
There, of course, I stumbled against Lady Brandon. 'You
are not going
to run away so soon, Mr. Hallward?' she screamed out.
You know her
shrill horrid voice?"
"Yes, she is
a peacock
in everything but beauty," said Lord Henry, pulling the daisy
to bits with
his long, nervous fingers.
"I could not
get
rid of her. She brought me up to Royalties, and people
with Stars
and Garters, and elderly ladies with gigantic tiaras and
hooked noses.
She spoke of me as her dearest friend. I had only met
her once before,
but she took it into her head to lionize me. I believe
some picture
of mine had made a great success at the time, at least had
been chattered
about in the penny newspapers, which is the nineteenth-century
standard
of immortality. Suddenly I found myself face to face
with the young
man whose personality had so strangely stirred me. We
were quite
close, almost touching. Our eyes met again. It was
mad of me,
but I asked Lady Brandon to introduce me to him. Perhaps
it was not
so mad, after all. It was simply inevitable. We
would have
spoken to each other without introduction. I am sure of
that.
Dorian told me so afterwards. He, too, felt that we were
destined
to know each other."
".
. . Tell me more about Dorian Gray. . How often do you
see him?"
"Every day. I
couldn't
be happy if I didn't see him every day. Of course
sometimes it is
only for a few minutes. But a few minutes with somebody
one worships
means a great deal."
"But
you don't really worship him?"
"I
do."
"How
extraordinary!
I thought you would never care for anything but your
painting--your art,
I should say. Art sounds better, doesn't it?"
"He is all my
art
to me now. I sometimes think, Harry, that there are only
two eras
of any importance in the history of the world. The first
is the appearance
of a new medium for art, and the second is the appearance of a
new personality
for art also. What the invention of oil-painting was to
the Venetians,
the face of Antino?s was to late Greek sculpture, and the face
of Dorian
Gray will some day be to me. It is not merely that I
paint from him,
draw from him, model from him. Of course I have done all
that.
He has stood as Paris in dainty armour, and as Adonis with
huntsman's cloak
and polished boar-spear. Crowned with heavy
lotus-blossoms, he has
sat on the prow of Adrian's barge, looking into the green,
turbid Nile.
He has leaned over the still pool of some Greek woodland, and
seen in the
water's silent silver the wonder of his own beauty. But
he is much
more to me than that. I won't tell you that I am
dissatisfied with
what I have done of him, or that his beauty is such that art
cannot express
it. There is nothing that art cannot express, and I know
that the
work I have done since I met Dorian Gray is good work, is the
best work
of my life. But in some curious way—I wonder will you
understand
me? —his personality has suggested to me an entirely new
manner in art,
an entirely new mode of style. I see things differently,
I think
of them differently. I can now recreate life in a way
that was hidden
from me before. 'A dream of form in days of thought'—who
is it who
says that? I forget, but it is what Dorian Gray has been
to me.
The merely visible presence of this lad-for he seems to me
little more
than a lad, though he is really over twenty—his merely visible
presence—ah!
I wonder can you realize all that that means?
Unconsciously he defines
for me the lines of a fresh school, a school that is to have
in itself
all the passion of the romantic spirit, all the perfection of
the spirit
that is Greek. The harmony of soul and body—how much
that is!
We in our madness have separated the two, and have invented a
realism that
is bestial, an ideality that is void. Harry!
Harry! if you
only knew what Dorian Gray is to me! You remember that
landscape
of mine, for which Agnew offered me such a huge price, but
which I would
not part with? It is one of the best things I have ever
done.
And why is it so? Because, while I was painting it,
Dorian Gray sat
beside me."
"Basil, this
is
quite wonderful! I must see Dorian Gray."
C--Now I ask you, Mr.
Wilde, do
you consider that that description of the feeling of one man
towards a
youth just grown up was a proper or an improper feeling?
W—I think it is the most
perfect
description of what an artist would feel on meeting a beautiful
personality
that was in some way necessary to his art and life.
C--You think that is a
feeling
a young man should have towards another?
W—Yes, as an artist.
[Carson continued reading from the book.]
"Let us sit down,
Dorian,"
said Hallward, looking pale and pained. "Let us sit
down. I
will sit in the shadow, and you shall sit in the
sunlight. Our lives
are like that. Just answer me one question. Have
you noticed
in the picture something that you did not like? —something
that probably
at first did not strike you, but that revealed itself to you
suddenly?"
"Basil!"
cried the
lad, clutching the arms of his chair with trembling hands, and
gazing at
him with wild, startled eyes.
"I see you
did.
Don't speak. Wait till you hear what I have to
say. It is quite
true that I have worshipped you with far more romance of
feeling than a
man usually gives to a friend. Somehow, I have never
loved a woman.
I suppose I never had time. Perhaps, as Harry says, a
really 'grande
passion' is the privilege of those who have nothing to do, and
that is
the use of the idle classes in a country. Well, from the
moment I
met you, your personality had the most extraordinary influence
over me.
I quite admit that I adored you madly, extravagantly,
absurdly. I
was jealous of every one to whom you spoke. I wanted to
have you
all to myself. I was only happy when I was with
you. When I
was away from you, you were still present in my art. It
was all wrong
and foolish. It is all wrong and foolish still. Of
course I
never let you know anything about this. It would have
been impossible.
You would not have understood it; I did not understand it
myself.
One day I determined to paint a wonderful portrait of
you. It was
to have been my masterpiece. It is my masterpiece.
But, as
I worked at it, every flake and film of colour seemed to me to
reveal my
secret. I grew afraid that the world would know of my
idolatry.
I felt, Dorian, that I had told too much. Then, it was
that I resolved
never to allow the picture to be exhibited. You were a
little annoyed;
but then you did not realize all that it meant to me.
Harry, to whom
I talked about it, laughed at me. But I did not mind
that.
When the picture was finished, and I -sat alone with it, I
felt that I
was right. Well, after a few days the portrait left my
studio, and
as soon as I had got rid of the intolerable fascination of its
presence
it seemed to me that I had been foolish in imagining that I
had said anything
in it, more than that you were extremely goodlooking and that
I could paint.
Even now I cannot help feeling that it is a mistake to think
that the passion
one feels in creation is ever really shown in the work one
creates.
Art is more abstract than we fancy. Form and colour tell
us of form
and colour—that is all. It often seems to me that art
conceals the
artist far more completely than it ever reveals him. And
so when
I got this offer from Paris I determined to make your portrait
the principal
thing in my exhibition. It never occurred to me that you
would refuse.
I see now that you were right. The picture must not be
shown.
You must not be angry with me, Dorian, for what I have told
you. As I said
to Harry, once, you are made to be worshipped."
C—Do you mean to say that
that
passage describes the natural feeling of one man towards
another?
W—It would be the influence
produced
by a beautiful personality.
C--A beautiful person?
W—I said a "beautiful
personality."
You can describe it as you like. Dorian Gray's was a most
remarkable
personality.
C--May I take it that you,
as
an artist, have never known the feeling described here?
W—I have never allowed any
personality
to dominate my art.
C--Then you have never known
the feeling you described?
W—No. It is a work of
fiction.
C--So far as you are
concerned
you have no experience as to its being a natural feeling?
W—I think it is perfectly
natural
for any artist to admire intensely and love a young man.
It is an
incident in the life of almost every artist.
C--But let us go over it
phrase
by phrase. "I quite admit that I adored you madly." What
do you say
to that? Have you ever adored a young man madly?
W—No, not madly; I prefer
love-that
is a higher form.
C--Never mind about
that.
Let us keep down to the level we are at now?
W—I have never given
adoration
to anybody except myself. (Loud laughter.)
C--I suppose you think that
a
very smart thing?
W—Not at all.
C--Then you have never had
that
feeling?
W—No. The whole idea
was
borrowed from Shakespeare, I regret to say—yes, from
Shakespeare's sonnets.
C--I believe you have
written
an article to show that Shakespeare's sonnets were suggestive of
unnatural
vice?
W—On the contrary I have
written
an article to show that they are not." I objected to such
a perversion
being put upon Shakespeare.
C--"I have adored you
extravagantly"?—Do
you mean financially?
W--Oh, yes, financially!
C--Do you think we are
talking
about finance?
W—I don't know what you are
talking
about.
C--Don't you? Well, I
hope
I shall make myself very plain before I have done. "I was
jealous
of every one to whom you spoke." Have you ever been
jealous of a
young man?
W—Never in my life.
C--"I wanted to have you all
to myself." Did you ever have that feeling?
W—No; I should consider it
an
intense nuisance, an intense bore.
C--"I grew afraid that the
world
would know of my idolatry." Why should he grow afraid that
the world
should know of it?
W--Because there are people
in
the world who cannot understand the intense devotion, affection,
and admiration
that an artist can feel for a wonderful and beautiful
personality.
These are the conditions under which we live. I regret
them.
C--These unfortunate people,
that have not the high understanding that you have, might put it
down to
something wrong?
W--Undoubtedly; to any point
they chose. I am not concerned with the ignorance of
others....
[Carson continued reading from The Picture of Dorian Gray.]
". . . I think it
right
that you should know that the most dreadful things are being
said about
you in London—things that I could hardly repeat to you."
"I don't wish to
know
anything about them. I love scandals about other people,
but scandals
about myself don't interest me. They have not got the
charm of novelty."
"They must interest
you,
Dorian. Every gentleman is interested in his good
name. You
don't want people to talk of you as something vile and
degraded.
Of course you have your position, and your wealth, and all
that kind of
thing. But position and wealth are not everything.
Mind you,
I don't believe these rumours at all. At least, I can't
believe them
when I see you. Sin is a thing that writes itself across
a man's
face. It cannot be concealed. People talk of
secret vices.
There are no such things as secret vices. If a wretched
man has a
vice, it shows itself in the lines of his mouth, the droop of
his eyelids,
the moulding of his hands even. Somebody—I won't mention
his name,
but you know him—came to me last year to have his portrait
done.
I had never seen him before, and had never heard anything
about him at
the time, though I have heard a good deal since. He
offered an extravagant
price. I refused him. There was something in the
shape of his
fingers that I hated. I know now that I was quite right
in what I
fancied about him. His life is dreadful. But you,
Dorian, with
your pure, bright, innocent face, and your marvellous
untroubled youth—I
can't believe anything against you. And yet I see you
very seldom,
and you never come down to the studio now, and when I am away
from you,
and I hear all these hideous things that people are whispering
about you,
I don't know what to say. Why is it, Dorian, that a man
like the
Duke of Berwick leaves the room of a club when you enter
it? Why
is it that so many gentlemen in London will neither go to your
house nor
invite you to theirs? You used to be a friend of Lord
Cawdor.
I met him at dinner last week. Your name happened to
come up in conversation,
in connexion with the miniatures you have lent to the
exhibition at the
Dudley. Cawdor curled his lip, and said that you might
have the most
artistic tastes, but that you were a man whom no pure-minded
girl should
be allowed to know, and whom no chaste woman should sit in the
same room
with. I reminded him that I was a friend of yours, and
asked him
what he meant. He told me. He told me right out
before everybody.
It was horrible! Why is your friendship so fateful to
young men?
There was that wretched boy in the Guards who committed
suicide.
You were his great friend. There was Sir Henry Ashton,
who had to
leave England with a tarnished name. You and he were
inseparable.
What about Adrian Singleton, and his dreadful end? What
about Lord
Kent's only son, and his career? I met his father
yesterday in St.
James Street. He seemed broken with shame and
sorrow. What
about the young Duke of Perth? What sort of life has he
got now?
What gentleman would associate with him? Dorian, Dorian,
your reputation
is infamous. . . ."
C—Does not this passage
suggest
a charge of unnatural vice?
W—It describes Dorian Gray
as
a man of very corrupt influence, though there is no statement as
to the
nature of the influence. But as a matter of fact I do not
think that
one person influences another, nor do I think there is any bad
influence
in the world.
C--A man never corrupts a
youth?
W—I think not.
C--Nothing could corrupt
him?
W—If you are talking of
separate
ages.
C--No, sir, I am talking
common
sense.
W--I do not think one person
influences another.
C--You don't think that
flattering
a young man, making love to him, in fact, would be likely to
corrupt him?
W—No.
C--Where was Lord Alfred
Douglas
staying when you wrote that letter to him?
W—At the Savoy; and I was at
Babbacombe, near Torquay.
C--It was a letter in answer
to something he had sent you?
W—Yes, a poem.
C--Why should a man of your
age
address a boy nearly twenty years younger as "My own boy"?
W—I was fond of him. I
have always been fond of him.
C--Do you adore him?
W—No, but I have always
liked
him. I think it is a beautiful letter. It is a
poem.
I was not writing an ordinary letter. You might as well
cross-examine
me as to whether King Lear or a sonnet of Shakespeare was
proper.
C--Apart from art, Mr.
Wilde?
W—I cannot answer apart from
art.
C--Suppose a man who was not
an artist had written this letter, would you say it was a proper
letter?
W—A man who was not. an
artist
could not have written that letter.
C--Why?
W—Because nobody but an
artist
could write it. He certainly could not write the language
unless
he were a man of letters.
C--I can suggest, for the
sake
of your reputation, that there is nothing very wonderful in this
"red rose-leaf
lips of yours"?
W—A great deal depends on
the
way it is read.
C--"Your slim gilt soul
walks
between passion and poetry." Is that a beautiful phrase?
W—Not as you read it, Mr.
Carson.
You read it very badly.
C--I do not profess to be an
artist; and when I hear you give evidence, I am glad I am not—
Sir Edward Clarke—I don't
think
my friend should talk like that. (To witness) Pray,
do not
criticize my friend's reading again.
C—Is that not an exceptional
letter?
W—It is unique, I should
say.
C--Was that the ordinary way
in which you carried on your correspondence?
W—No; but I have often
written
to Lord Alfred Douglas, though I never wrote to another young
man in the
same way.
C--Have you often written
letters
in the same style as this?
W—I don't repeat myself in
style.
C--Here is another letter
which
I believe you also wrote to Lord Alfred Douglas. Will you
read it?
W—No;
I decline. I don't see why I should.
C--Then I will.
Savoy Hotel,
Victoria
Embankment, London.
Dearest of
all Boys,
Your
letter was delightful, red and yellow wine to me; but I am sad
and
out of sorts. Bosie, you must not make scenes with
me. They
kill me, they wreck the loveliness of life. I cannot see
you, so
Greek and gracious, distorted with passion. I cannot
listen to your
curved lips saying hideous things to me. I would
sooner—than have
you bitter, unjust, hating. . . . I must see you soon.
You are the
divine thing I want, the thing of grace and beauty; but I
don't know how
to do it. Shall I come to Salisbury? My bill here,
is £49
for a week. I have also got a new sitting-room. . . .
Why are you
not here, my dear, my wonderful boy? I fear I must
leave-no money,
no credit, and a heart of lead.
YOUR OWN OSCAR.
C—Is that an ordinary
letter?
W—Everything I write is
extraordinary.
I do not pose as being ordinary, great heavens! Ask me any
question
you like about it.
C--Is it the kind of letter
a
man writes to another?
W—It was a tender expression
of my great admiration for Lord Alfred Douglas. It was
not, like
the other, a prose poem.