6 October 1900

 

I was so pleased with my account of my life in prison, with the pearl I had created out of two years’ suffering, that I took this journal with me when I went to lunch with Bosie at the Richaux.  I saw Frank Harris there and asked him to join us – on the principle that if Frank is not with you he is against you.  At first I kept the book mysteriously by my side, but the suspense grew too much for me and I placed it upon the table.

      ‘What is that, Oscar, a ledger of debts?’

      ‘Yes, Bosie, it is.  But they are not debts which the money could repay.’

      ‘Your debts never are.’  This, of course, was Frank.

      ‘I will read you a passage.  Frank, if you will allow an artistic note to be introduced into our conversation.’

      I think I recited to them the pages concerning my triumphant days in London society.  They were astonished, naturally, and took the book from me.  They read it, practically arm in arm, while I gazed out of the window.  Eventually, Frank looked up at me.

      ‘You cannot publish this, Oscar.  It is nonsense – and most of it is quite untrue.’

      ‘What on earth do you mean?’

      ‘It is invented.’

      ‘It is my life.’

      ‘But you have quite obviously changed the facts to suit your own purpose.’

      ‘I have no purpose, and the facts came quite naturally to me.’

      ‘There was a time when you distrusted nature, and rightly so.  For example, “in the little theatre in King Street, the young men wore green carnations”.  Oscar, you were the only person who wore a green carnation.  And this, “I was vain and the world loved my vanity”.  Nobody loved your vanity, Oscar.  Surely you know that by now.’

      ‘Don’t be so ridiculous, Frank.  You are behaving like a weekly reviewer.’

      ‘And you have stolen lines from other writers.  Listen to this one …’

      ‘I did not steal them.  I rescued them.’

      Bosie remained silent: he was biting his fingernails, which is always a sign that he has nothing to say.  And so I challenged him.

      ‘And what do you think?’

      ‘It’s full of lies, but of course you are.  It is absurd and mean and foolish.  But then you are.  Of course you must publish it.’

      Frank then continued in the most boring detail about what he called my errors of fact and judgement.  I cannot remember them now.  I rescued the book from him after some minutes, and asked him to order me a cab.

      ‘Lose the book,’ he said, ‘for your sake.’  Of course I ignored him.