Delphi Complete Works of Oscar Wilde (Illustrated) (278 page)

“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 He pointed out the unfairness of the charges of conspiracy which had tardily been withdrawn.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 £2,500 with two other sureties for £1,250 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 Café 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 Café 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.”