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Oscar Wilde, His Life and Confessions, Volume 1

by Frank Harris

CONTENTS

VOLUME I

Introduction

Chapter I—Oscar's Father and Mother on Trial

Chapter II—Oscar Wilde as a Schoolboy

Chapter III—Trinity, Dublin: Magdalen, Oxford

Chapter IV—Formative Influences: Oscar's Poems

Chapter V—Oscar's Quarrel with Whistler and Marriage

Chapter VI—Oscar Wilde's Faith and Practice

Chapter VII—Oscar's Reputation and Supporters

Chapter VIII—Oscar's Growth to Originality About 1890

Chapter IX—The Summer of Success: Oscar's First Play

Chapter X—The First Meeting with Lord Alfred Douglas

Chapter XI—The Threatening Cloud Draws Nearer

Chapter XII—Danger Signals: the Challenge

Chapter XIII—Oscar Attacks Queensberry and is Worsted

Chapter XIV—How Genius is Persecuted in England

Chapter XV—The Queen vs. Wilde: The First Trial

Chapter XVI—Escape Rejected: The Second Trial and Sentence

VOLUME II

Chapter XVII—Prison and the Effects of Punishment

Chapter XVIII—Mitigation of Punishment; but not Release

Chapter XIX—His St. Martin's Summer: His Best Work

Chapter XX—The Results of His Second Fall: His Genius

Chapter XXI—His Sense of Rivalry; His Love of Life and Laziness

Chapter XXII—"A Great Romantic Passion!"

Chapter XXIII—His Judgments of Writers and of Women

Chapter XXIV—We Argue About His "Pet Vice" and Punishment

Chapter XXV—The Last Hope Lost

Chapter XXVI—The End

Chapter XXVII—A Last Word

Shaw's "Memories"

The Appendix

The crucifixion of the guilty is still more awe-inspiring than the crucifixion of the innocent; what do we men know of innocence?

INTRODUCTION

I was advised on all hands not to write this book, and some English friends who have read it urge me not to publish it.

"You will be accused of selecting the subject," they say, "because sexual viciousness appeals to you, and your method of treatment lays you open to attack.

"You criticise and condemn the English conception of justice, and English legal methods: you even question the impartiality of English judges, and throw an unpleasant light on English juries and the English public—all of which is not only unpopular but will convince the unthinking that you are a presumptuous, or at least an outlandish, person with too good a conceit of himself and altogether too free a tongue."

I should be more than human or less if these arguments did not give me pause.
I would do nothing willingly to alienate the few who are still friendly to me.
But the motives driving me are too strong for such personal considerations.
I might say with the Latin:

"Non me tua fervida terrent,
Dicta, ferox: Di me terrent, et Jupiter hostis."

Even this would be only a part of the truth. Youth it seems to me should always be prudent, for youth has much to lose: but I am come to that time of life when a man can afford to be bold, may even dare to be himself and write the best in him, heedless of knaves and fools or of anything this world may do. The voyage for me is almost over: I am in sight of port: like a good shipman, I have already sent down the lofty spars and housed the captious canvas in preparation for the long anchorage: I have little now to fear.

And the immortals are with me in my design. Greek tragedy treated of far more horrible and revolting themes, such as the banquet of Thyestes: and Dante did not shrink from describing the unnatural meal of Ugolino. The best modern critics approve my choice. "All depends on the subject," says Matthew Arnold, talking of great literature: "choose a fitting action—a great and significant action—penetrate yourself with the feeling of the situation: this done, everything else will follow; for expression is subordinate and secondary."

Socrates was found guilty of corrupting the young and was put to death for the offence. His accusation and punishment constitute surely a great and significant action such as Matthew Arnold declared was alone of the highest and most permanent literary value.

The action involved in the rise and ruin of Oscar Wilde is of the same kind and of enduring interest to humanity. Critics may say that Wilde is a smaller person than Socrates, less significant in many ways: but even if this were true, it would not alter the artist's position; the great portraits of the world are not of Napoleon or Dante. The differences between men are not important in comparison with their inherent likeness. To depict the mortal so that he takes on immortality—that is the task of the artist.

There are special reasons, too, why I should handle this story. Oscar Wilde was a friend of mine for many years: I could not help prizing him to the very end: he was always to me a charming, soul-animating influence. He was dreadfully punished by men utterly his inferiors: ruined, outlawed, persecuted till Death itself came as a deliverance. His sentence impeaches his judges. The whole story is charged with tragic pathos and unforgettable lessons. I have waited for more than ten years hoping that some one would write about him in this spirit and leave me free to do other things, but nothing such as I propose has yet appeared.

Oscar Wilde was greater as a talker, in my opinion, than as a writer, and no fame is more quickly evanescent. If I do not tell his story and paint his portrait, it seems unlikely that anyone else will do it.

English "strachery" may accuse me of attacking morality: the accusation is worse than absurd. The very foundations of this old world are moral: the charred ember itself floats about in space, moves and has its being in obedience to inexorable law. The thinker may define morality: the reformer may try to bring our notions of it into nearer accord with the fact: human love and pity may seek to soften its occasional injustices and mitigate its intolerable harshness: but that is all the freedom we mortals enjoy, all the breathing-space allotted to us.

In this book the reader will find the figure of the Prometheus-artist clamped, so to speak, with bands of steel to the huge granitic cliff of English puritanism. No account was taken of his manifold virtues and graces: no credit given him for his extraordinary achievements: he was hounded out of life because his sins were not the sins of the English middle-class. The culprit was in much nobler and better than his judges.

Here are