19 September 1900
I have become a problem to modern ethics, as Symonds would say, although it seemed to me at the time
that I was the solution. Everyone is
talking about my particular disposition now for, as usual, I chose the proper
dramatic moment to reveal my sexual infamy to the world. Even the Germans have become interested in
the subject and, of all the extraordinary things that have happened to me, the
most extraordinary may be that I shall be remembered not as an artist but as a
case history, a psychological study to be placed beside Onan
and Herodias.
I might even be mentioned by Edward Carpenter in one of his more
suggestive passages. I perfectly
understand Carpenter, although he does not seem to understand himself - the
consciousness of sin, he has written somewhere, displays a weakness in
man. But our real weakness is far more
interesting than that: we call activities sinful in order that we may enjoy
them all the more fiercely.
The
problem, as always in modern thought, is one of nomenclature. I am not inverted: I was diverted. If I am a Uranian,
I spring from that part of the sky where Uranus is touched with the glory of
the stars. For I hold male love to be of
the highest kind, honoured by the philosophers who have considered it to be the
type of ideal love, and by artists who have seen in the male figure the
lineaments of spiritual beauty. Modern
medicine, like an owl at noon which hoots blindly, so dazzled is it by the
light, has invented new terms - but 'healthy' and 'diseased' are quite
unsatisfactory as mental categories. Who
would not rather be diseased as Leonardo and Winckelmann were, than healthy
with Hall Caine and Mrs Cashel
Hoey?
Every great
creation involves a rupture of equilibrium, and the finest things in art have
come from that fever of the passions which I and others like me have experienced. It was male love which inspired Michaelangelo in his perfect sonnets; it inspired
Shakespeare to immortalise a young man in words of fire just as it guided the
hands of Plato and of Marlowe.
When I
became a servant of this love, I saw in it both the perfection and the fatality
of the complete life. It held for me the
innocence of all aspirations towards the beautiful, as well as the bitterness
and weariness of self-knowledge.
Caravaggio was moved by that love when he painted John the Baptist, with
his delightfully child-like smile, and his eyes which have already seen the
horror of things to come. In that image
are both seduction and despair, innocent need and troubled satiety.
Robbie is
interested in Socratic works of a rather different kind, however. He would take me to a small bookshop in St
James's Street which had, I believe, a French name - it was a sort of
circulating library, although the circulation was of a limited and select kind. There was one work, Teleny,
which passed from hand to hand and to which I added small touches of my
own. It was a story of corrupt and
dangerous passions, although much of it read like Gray's
Anatomy. Rabelaisian literature has
never been of particular interest to me - it is always deficient in form, and
stumbles under the weight of too much content - and Teleny
provided only the crudest materials for an artistic fiction. But I did not mock the book: I was pleased to
read deeply in all aspects off homoerotic literature, in the records of dead
love as much as in the celebration of living ones. For, even when I was caught in my sins, I was
convinced of the essential virtue of Greek love: men can live in perfect
equality, each finding in the other the image of his own soul. Men and women can never live in peace - they
either destroy each other, or bore each other, which is worse. When in the Symposium Socrates quite
refutes the arguments of Aristophanes - that man and woman are but two natures
striving to be reunited - he proclaimed a great truth which modern civilisation,
with the possible exception of Ibsen, seems to have forgotten: men and women
are not complementary, they are antagonistic.
The great romances have always been between men.
But such
love depends upon true equality and, in my madness, I used the spirit of
Socrates to less unholy unions. Instead
of seeking a companion, I went into the gutter and saw my own image outlined in
the dust only. I went to the young
because the young have no conscience - that was why I loved them.
There is a
story in Celtic literature of Tir-na-nOg, the country
of the young. Neither age nor death is
to be found there; neither tears nor hollow laughter hold dominion. The bard Oisen,
desiring to learn the secrets of that place, travelled there under cover of
darkness. He found the enchanted country
and dwelt there for three hundred years.
But he grew heartsick for his previous life, and for the country of his
birth, and returned by the way he had come.
The moment his feet touched his native earth, his three hundred years
fell upon him. His figure was bent
double, and all the cares which troubled the world during those long years fell
upon him also. Simple stories have
simple morals. One should never pursue
the young: in doing so, one loses one's own youth.
I, too, had
grown weary of my wanderings through London: I did not wish to abandon my
pleasures, only to find them closer to home.
And so where my sins had once been solitary, now I found a companion who
could guide me. Alfred Taylor, whom I
met at the Crown, had like me a weakness for boys - and men of our kind seek
each other out for our weaknesses and not for our strengths. He promised me adventures: he pandered to my
instincts and brought me those companions whom I sought. Taylor was to be tried with me at the Old
Bailey; he was offered immunity from prosecution if he would testify against
me, but he refused. From such moments in
life are saints born. One noble act,
like that of Mary Magdalene, can obliterate with perfumes all the sins of the
world: although I believe Alfred's hair was rather longer than the Magdalene's.
I liked
Taylor because he was improbable. He had
invented for himself, in his rooms near Westminster, a world of gaiety and of
pleasure, of strange scents and cloths.
He understood that although reality cannot be imagined - it is too awful
for that - it can be made imaginary. And
so I would take a cab to his lodgings, to meet his 'pullets' as he charmingly
described them; sometimes he would bring them to me in the private rooms of restaurants. There the champagne flowed freely and, after
the champagne, the love.
They were
not bad boys. I know that some of them
testified against me when I stood in the dock, but I understood that. Some had been frightened by threats, and
others had been lured by the prospect of gold.
I never judge those who amuse me and, in truth, the curious lives of
these boys interested me. It seemed that
they were walking along the same perilous wire as myself - although my fall was
to be greater. Many of them came from a
family, or a background, where a commonplace life would have made it easy for
them to be virtuous; but they had the courage to experience more dangerous
sensations. I listened to their stories
for hours, and in recompense I gave them presents, small gifts only, although
at my trials they were handed around to the jury as if they were relics from
some barbaric faith. When Alfred Taylor
and I found ourselves alone, we too would talk continually of our own adventures:
they were fascinating, terribly fascinating, to me.
Sometimes
in Taylor's lodgings there were parties of an intimate kind. Alfred had a particular interest in women's
clothes and, since I have been from my aesthetic period an expert on the
subject, I would assist him in the choice of hats and gowns which he would wear
to entertain the company. Some of the
young men took a similarly advanced view on the question of modern dress, and
with Alfred they would perform masques and dramas which often descended to a
Biblical level. On one occasion, Alfred
and two boys performed Salomé in my honour - it was that scarlet drama's
first and only performance in England, and I was delighted by the spirit it
inspired in them. Charlie Mason, who had
quite recovered from his arrest in Cleveland Street, played Salomé with the
gestures of the divine Sarah herself and Alfred was a magnificent, if somewhat
too feminine, Herodias. It was a delightful evening and, at the
close, the boys crowned me with lilies - there are no garlands of myrtle to be
found in England - and carried me around the room. I made a little speech, in which I
congratulated them for their quite unaffected performances.
I cannot
myself act, unless I am delivering my own lines, but I was once persuaded by
Alfred to assist at one of his performances.
My fondness for the Queen is well known - I am surprised she has not
written to me lately, but I am told that she is busy organising the South
African campaign. Indeed, Alfred was
continually telling me of my remarkable resemblance to her: in what particular
aspect I, of course, cannot say. And so
on one evening, at a new year's celebration - it must have been 1894, one year
before my fall - I was draped in black and a small but delightful crown was
placed upon my head. I admit that the
role suited me perfectly, and I spoke quietly but humbly about my service to
the nation and the dear, departed Albert.
Then they all rose and sang God Save The Queen - I was much affected,
and promised them the 'Queen's touch' on Maundy Thursday. I do not think I was ever quite the same
again.
Do you
understand now why I enjoyed the company of these boys? With them my years left me; I did not feel
the weight of a reputation which was even then threatening to crush me. I enjoyed reading to them from my plays and
the boys' laughter - or, sometimes, their sombre concern at a particularly
humorous turn in the drama - was for me enchanting. Alfred and I would take each character in
turn - I remember that I was an emphatic Mrs Erlynne
- and there were occasions when I would improvise in dialogue and impress even
myself with the result. The boys admired
me and, like Jesus, I have always performed my better miracles for those who
have believed.
I like to
be seen with the boys - some of my friends thought it scandalous that I should
do so, but the greater scandal is to be ashamed of one's companions. I was never that: I loved to walk with them
through the crowded thoroughfares of London, or to visit with them the public
places of entertainment. I remember once
going with Charlie Lloyd to the Crystal Palace.
I had visited it previously in order to lecture there - it was a place
of grim memories.
It was full
of the smell of fresh buns and fresh paint, the shrieks from the monkey house
blending quite successfully with the cries of the children as they watched with
fascination the head of a pantomime clown, some twelve feet across, on which
the eyes and mouth opened with the aid of a mechanism. Even the parents could be such a source of
wonder, but no doubt there will be a future for it in museums and circuses when
it has vanished from our industries.
There was also a Handel Festival during our visit, which Charlie quite
rightly declined to attend, and we turned our attention instead to the
toy-stalls in which glass waterfalls trickled in landscapes of Virginian cork
and Swiss peasants valsed: all for a penny. The nineteenth century is an extraordinary
thing, although only in its trivial aspects.
Charlie
Lloyd had no conversation. 'Jolly good,
Oscar' was, I believe, his only phrase.
I would torment him with questions about Bimettalism
or the Irish question, and he would simply smile at me. He had a pale, unlined face - an advantage I
ascribe entirely to his diet. He seemed
to live entirely off potted meats, Palmers biscuits and Bovril. He was almost an advertisement. I could not tempt him to restaurants, and I
did not wish to tempt him to bed. But he
interested me: he was a perfect type. I
possessed a gold cross which in a moment of enthusiasm I had given to my first
great love in Dublin, Florence Balcombe. Of course I retrieved it immediately on her
marriage to an actor. While we were at
the Crystal Palace, I gave it to Charlie - it pleased me that it should change
hands in so obvious a fashion. I do not
know what he did with it: perhaps he ate it.
In those
days the theatre was always the main attraction - not the serious theatre where
the middle classes learn of the difficulties of their lives, but the music
halls. With Sidney Mavor
and Fred Atkins I would go to the Tivoli or the Empire, to see the
ventriloquists, funambulists and Ethiopian comedians. Sidney's favourite was always Mr Stratton,
known popularly as Dan Leno - that droll creature who adopts the accents and
attitudes of the lower classes with a humour that is both perceptive and
benign. There was something quite
alarming in the manner with which he was able to mimic the voice of a
washerwoman or the strange gait of a variety actress: it was as if the glory
and the darkness of the London streets had enshrined themselves in this little
personage, leaving him visibly bowed and drained.
I send
round my card to him at the end of one performance, and he welcomed me with
such graciousness and affability that I was charmed at once. 'Mr Wilde,' he said to me in that deep voice
which was quite unlike his stage manner, 'I am a comedian and you are a
dramatist, but we both have our patter, don't we?' I agreed - how could I not? 'The secret, in my reckoning, is to bring
them close to crying and then boost them up again. That's the ticket.' I smiled, and said nothing.
One
theatrical incident I shall never be able to forget: it was at the Trocadero, before it became a restaurant, although some
people profess not to know the difference.
Arthur Faber, who was in those days a well-known impersonator, came upon
the stage. After a few rather
conventional scenes, involving drunks, policemen and the usual melodrama of
real life, he picked up a cane with a gold top, placed around his shoulders a
large fur coat, arranged his body into a grotesquely bloated shape, and sang
some bawdy lyric.
It was with
sudden horror that I realised he was impersonating me. It was done with much humour, but it was as
if I had been slapped across the face. I
saw myself at that instant as others saw me, and I felt a terrible sense of
fatality - as though this creature on the stage was too preposterous to
survive; the hoots and calls from the pit were the cries of those baying for
blood. I did not understand why this
should be so, and I left the theatre hurriedly.