Delphi Complete Works of Oscar Wilde (Illustrated) (274 page)

“Yes.”

“How old was Parker?”

“I don’t keep a census of people’s ages. It would be vulgar to ask people their age.”

“Where did you first meet Parker?”

“I invited Taylor to Kettner’s
on the occasion of my birthday, and told him to bring what friends he liked. He brought Parker and his brother.”

“Did you know Parker was a gentleman’s servant out of work, and his brother a groom?”

“No; I did not.”

“But you did know that Parker was not a literary character or an artist, and that culture was not his strong point?”

“I did.”

“What was there in common between you and Charlie Parker?”

“I like people who are young, bright, happy, careless and original. I do not like them sensible, and I do not like them old; I don’t like social distinctions of any kind, and the mere fact of youth is so wonderful to me that I would sooner talk to a young man for half an hour than be cross examined by an elderly Q.C.”

Everyone smiled at this retort.

“Had you chambers in St. James’s Place?”

“Yes, from October, ‘93, to April, ‘94.”

“Did Charlie Parker go and have tea with you there?”

“Yes.”

“Did you give him money?”

“I gave him three or four pounds because he said he was hard up.”

“What did he give you in return?”

“Nothing.”

“Did you give Charlie Parker a silver cigarette case at Christmas?”

“I did.”

“Did you visit him one night at 12:30 at Park Walk, Chelsea?”

“I did not.”

“Did you write him any beautiful prose-poems?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Did you know that Charlie Parker had enlisted in the Army?”

“I have heard so.”

“When you heard that Taylor was arrested what did you do?”

“I was greatly distressed and wrote to tell him so.”

“When did you first meet Fred Atkins?”

“In October or November, ‘92.”

“Did he tell you that he was employed by a firm of bookmakers?”

“He may have done.”

“Not a literary man or an artist, was he?”

“No.”

“What age was he?”

“Nineteen or twenty.”

“Did you ask him to dinner at Kettner’s?”

“I think I met him at a dinner at Kettner’s.”

“Was Taylor at the dinner?”

“He may have been.”

“Did you meet him afterwards?”

“I did.”

“Did you call him ‘Fred’ and let him call you ‘Oscar’?”

“Yes.”

“Did you go to Paris with him?”

“Yes.”

“Did you give him money?”

“Yes.”

“Was there ever any impropriety between you?”

“No.”

“When did you first meet Ernest Scarfe?”

“In December,
1893.”

“Who introduced him to you?”

“Taylor.”

“Scarfe was out of work, was he not?”

“He may have been.”

“Did Taylor bring Scarfe to you at St. James’s Place?”

“Yes.”

“Did you give Scarfe a cigarette case?”

“Yes: it was my custom to give cigarette cases to people I liked.”

“When did you first meet Mavor?”

“In ‘93.”

“Did you give him money or a cigarette case?”

“A cigarette case.”

“Did you know Walter Grainger?”... and so on till the very air in the court seemed peopled with spectres.

On the whole Oscar bore the cross-examination very well; but he made one appalling slip.

Mr. Carson was pressing him as to his relations with the boy Grainger, who had been employed in Lord Alfred Douglas’ rooms in Oxford.

“Did you ever kiss him?” he asked.

Oscar answered carelessly, “Oh, dear, no. He was a peculiarly plain boy. He was, unfortunately, extremely ugly. I pitied him for it.”

“Was that the reason why you did not kiss him?”

“Oh, Mr. Carson, you are pertinently insolent.”

“Did you say that in support of your statement that you never kissed him?”

“No. It is a childish question.”

But Carson was not to be warded off; like a terrier he sprang again and again:

“Why, sir, did you mention that this boy was extremely ugly?”

“For this reason. If I were asked why I did not kiss a door-mat, I should say because I do not like to kiss door-mats.”...

“Why did you mention his ugliness?”

“It is ridiculous to imagine that any such thing could have occurred under any circumstances.”

“Then why did you mention his ugliness, I ask you?”

“Because you insulted me by an insulting question.”

“Was that a reason why you should say the boy was ugly?”

(Here the witness began several answers almost inarticulately and finished none of them. His efforts to collect his ideas were not aided by Mr. Carson’s sharp staccato repetition: “Why? why? why did you add that?”) At last the witness answered:

“You sting me and insult me and at times one says things flippantly.”

Then came the re-examination by Sir Edward Clarke, which brought out very clearly the hatred of Lord Alfred Douglas for his father. Letters were read and in one letter Queensberry declared that Oscar had plainly shown the white feather when he called on him. One felt that this was probably true: Queensberry’s word on such a point could be accepted.

In the re-examination Sir Edward Clarke occupied himself chiefly with two youths, Shelley and Conway, who had been passed over casually by Mr. Carson. In answer to his questions Oscar stated that Shelley was a youth in the employ of Mathews and Lane, the publishers. Shelley had very good taste in literature and a great desire for culture. Shelley had read all his books and liked them. Shelley had dined with him and his wife at Tite Street. Shelley was in every way a gentleman. He had never gone with Charlie Parker to the Savoy Hotel.

A juryman wanted to know at this point whether the witness was aware of the nature of the article, “The Priest and the Acolyte,” in
The Chameleon
.

“I knew nothing of it; it came as a terrible shock to me.”

This answer contrasted strangely with the light tone of his reply to the same question on the previous day.

The re-examination did not improve Oscar’s position. It left all the facts where they were, and at least a suspicion in every mind.

Sir Edward Clarke intimated that this concluded the evidence for the prosecution, whereupon Mr. Carson rose to make the opening speech for the defence. I was shivering with apprehension.

He began by admitting the grave responsibility resting on Lord Queensberry, who accepted it to the fullest. Lord Queensberry was justified in doing all he could do to cut short an acquaintance which must be disastrous to his son. Mr. Carson wished to draw the attention of the jury to the fact that all these men with whom Mr. Wilde went about were discharged servants and grooms, and that they were all about the same age. He asked the jury also to note that Taylor, who was the pivot of the whole case, had not yet been put in the box. Why not? He pointed out to the jury that the very same idea that was set forth in “The Priest and the Acolyte” was contained in Oscar Wilde’s letters to Lord Alfred Douglas, and the same idea was to be found in Lord Alfred Douglas’ poem, “The Two Loves,”
which was published in
The Chameleon
. He went on to say that when, in the story of “The Priest and the Acolyte,” the boy was discovered in the priest’s bed,
the priest made the same defence as Mr. Wilde had made, that the world does not understand the beauty of this love. The same idea was found again in “Dorian Gray,” and he read two or three passages from the book in support of this statement. Mr. Wilde had described his letter to Lord Alfred Douglas as a prose sonnet. He would read it again to the court, and he read both the letters. “Mr. Wilde says they are beautiful,” he went on, “I call them an abominable piece of disgusting immorality.”

At this the Judge again shuffled his papers together and whispered in a quiet voice that the court would sit on the morrow, and left the room.

The honours of the day had all been with Mr. Carson. Oscar left the box in a depressed way. One or two friends came towards him, but the majority held aloof, and in almost unbroken silence everyone slipped out of the court. Strange to say in my mind there was just a ray of hope. Mr. Carson was still laying stress on the article in
The Chameleon
and scattered passages in “Dorian Gray”; on Oscar’s letters to Lord Alfred Douglas and Lord Alfred Douglas’ poems in
The Chameleon
. He must see, I thought, that all this was extremely weak. Sir Edward Clarke could be trusted to tear all such arguments, founded on literary work, to shreds. There was room for more than reasonable doubt about all such things.

Why had not Mr. Carson put some of the young men he spoke of in the box? Would he be able to do that? He talked of Taylor as “the pivot of the case,” and gibed at the prosecution for not putting Taylor in the box. Would he put Taylor in the box? And why, if he had such witnesses at his beck and call, should he lay stress on the flimsy, weak evidence to be drawn from passages in books and poems and letters? One thing was clear: if he was able to put any of the young men in the box about whom he had examined Oscar, Oscar was ruined. Even if he rested his defence on the letters and poems he’d win and Oscar would be discredited, for already it was clear that no jury would give Oscar Wilde a verdict against a father trying to protect his son. The issue had narrowed down to terrible straits: would it be utter ruin to Oscar or merely loss of the case and reputation? We had only sixteen hours to wait; they seemed to me to hold the last hope.

I drove to Tite Street, hoping to see Oscar. I was convinced that Carson had important witnesses at his command, and that the outcome of the case would be disastrous. Why should not Oscar even now, this very evening, cross to Calais, leaving a letter for his counsel and the court abandoning the idiotic prosecution.

The house at Tite Street seemed deserted. For some time no one answered my knocking and ringing, and then a man-servant simply told me that Mr. Wilde was not in: he did not know whether Mr. Wilde was expected back or not; did not think he was coming back. I turned and went home. I thought Oscar would probably say to me again:

“I can do nothing, Frank, nothing.”

The feeling in the court next morning was good tempered, even jaunty. The benches were filled with young barristers, all of whom had made up their minds that the testimony would be what one of them called “nifty.” Everyone treated the case as practically over.

“But will Carson call witnesses?” I asked.

“Of course he will,” they said, “but in any case Wilde does not stand a ghost of a chance of getting a verdict against Queensberry; he was a bally fool to bring such an action.”

“The question is,” said someone, “will Wilde face the music?”

My heart leapt. Perhaps he had gone, fled already to France to avoid this dreadful, useless torture. I could see the hounds with open mouths, dripping white fangs, and greedy eyes all closing in on the defenceless quarry. Would the huntsman give the word? We were not left long in doubt.

Mr. Carson continued his statement for the defence. He had sufficiently demonstrated to the jury, he thought, that, so far as Lord Queensberry was concerned, he was absolutely justified in bringing to a climax in the way he had, the connection between Mr. Oscar Wilde and his son. A dramatic pause.

A moment later the clever advocate resumed: unfortunately he had a more painful part of the case to approach. It would be his painful duty to bring before them one after the other the young men he had examined Mr. Wilde about and allow them to tell their tales. In no one of these cases were these young men on an equality in any way with Mr. Wilde. Mr. Wilde had told them that there was something beautiful and charming about youth which led him to make these acquaintances. That was a travesty of the facts. Mr. Wilde preferred to know nothing of these young men and their antecedents. He knew nothing about Wood; he knew nothing about Parker; he knew nothing about Scarfe, nothing about Conway, and not much about Taylor. The truth was Taylor was the procurer for Mr. Wilde and the jury would hear from this young man Parker, who would have to tell his unfortunate story to them, that he was poor, out of a place, had no money, and unfortunately fell a victim to Mr. Wilde. (Sir Edward Clarke here left the court.)

On the first evening they met, Mr. Wilde called Parker “Charlie” and Parker called Mr. Wilde “Oscar.” It may be a very noble instinct in some people to wish to break down social barriers, but Mr. Wilde’s conduct was not ordered by generous instincts. Luxurious dinners and champagne were not the way to assist a poor man. Parker would tell them that, after this first dinner, Mr. Wilde invited him to drive with him to the Savoy Hotel. Mr. Wilde had not told them why he had that suite of rooms at the Savoy Hotel. Parker would tell them what happened on arriving there. This was the scandal Lord Queensberry had referred to in his letter as far back as June or July last year. The jury would wonder not at the reports having reached Lord Queensberry’s ears, but that Oscar Wilde had been tolerated in London society as long as he had been. Parker had since enlisted in the Army, and bore a good character. Mr. Wilde himself had said that Parker was respectable. Parker would reluctantly present himself to tell his story to the jury.