I would also like to explain Wilde’s work in my own way, particularly his plays—whose chief interest lies between the lines.”

B.F.

FOREWORD

I WARN THE READER AT ONCE: THIS IS NEITHER A biography of Oscar Wilde nor a study of his works; it is the simple assembling of two sketches which have not even the merit of being new, but which the growing public of the great Irish poet has not known where to find, since one of them remains buried in a volume of various critical pieces,1 and the other has not yet been unearthed from a number of L’Ermitage where I published it in August 1905.

Incapable of re-writing anything, I present both of them again without changing a word in their texts, though on at least one point my opinion has been deeply modified: It seems to me today that in my first essay I spoke of Oscar Wilde’s work, and in particular of his plays, with unjust severity. The English as well as the French led me to do this, and Wilde himself at times showed an amusing disdain for his comedies by which I allowed myself to be taken in. I admit that for a long time I therefore believed that An Ideal Husband and A Woman of No Importance were not to be regarded as anything but dramatic entertainment which was itself “of no importance.” To be sure, I have not come to consider these plays as perfect works; but they appear to me, today when I have learned to know them better, as among the most curious, the most significant and, whatever may have been said about them, the newest things in the contemporary theatre. If French criticism has already been surprised at the interest which it could take in the recent production of Lady Windermere’s Fan, what would it not have thought of the other two plays!

In short, to him whose ears are sharp, An Ideal Husband and A Woman of No Importance reveal quite a bit about their author—as, for that matter, does each of his works. It might almost be said that the literary value of the latter is in direct proportion to their importance as confidences; and I still wonder that the climax should have held so little surprise in a life so strangely conscious, a life in which even the fortuitous seemed deliberate.

A. G.

1 Prétextes (Mercure de France).

IN MEMORIAM

IT WAS A YEAR AGO THIS TIME,1 IN BISKRA, THAT I learned through the newspapers of the lamentable end of Oscar Wilde. Distance did not permit me, alas! to join the meagre cortège which followed his remains to the cemetery of Bagneux; in vain did I grieve that my absence seemed further to reduce the small number of friends who had remained faithful; the present pages, at least, I wanted to write at once; but for a rather long time, Wilde’s name seemed again to become the property of the newspapers … At present, now that all gossip about this wretchedly famous name has quieted down, now that the throng has grown weary, after having praised, of being astonished and then of damning, perhaps a friend may express a sadness which persists, may bring, like a wreath to a forsaken grave, these pages of affection, admiration and respectful pity.

When the scandalous trial, which excited English opinion, threatened to wreck his life, a few men of letters and a few artists attempted a kind of salvaging in the name of literature and art. It was hoped that by praising the writer, they might manage to exonerate the man. Alas! a misunderstanding arose; for we really must acknowledge that Wilde is not a great writer. Thus, all that was accomplished by the lead buoys which were thrown out to him was his ruin; his works, far from bearing him up, seemed to sink down with him. In vain did a few hands reach out to help. The wave of the world closed over him; all was over,

At the time, one could not at all think of defending him differently. Instead of trying to hide the man behind his work, the first thing to do was to show that the man was admirable, as I shall try to do today—the work itself then taking on an illumination. “I have put all my genius into my life; I have put only my talent into my works,” said Wilde, A great writer, no, but a great viveur, if the word may be permitted to take on its full meaning. Like the philosophers of Greece, Wilde did not write but talked and lived his wisdom, imprudently entrusting it to the fluid memory of men, as if inscribing it on water. Let those who knew him longer tell the story of his life; one of those who listened to him most eagerly here simply sets down a few personal memories.

A. G.

1 Written in December 1901.

OSCAR WILDE’S DE PROFUNDIS

That religion and morals make such recommendations, well and good; but we are shocked to see them set down in a code … I shall say as much for the harsh measures taken to assure the rule of our morals and manners. The most serious abuses are less damaging than a system of inquisition which degrades character.

—RENAN

I

THOSE WHO CAME INTO CONTACT WITH WILDE ONLY toward the end of his life have a poor notion, from the weakened and broken being whom the prison returned to us, of the prodigious being he was at first. It was in ’91 that I met him for the first time. Wilde had at the time what Thackeray calls “the chief gift of great men”: success. His gesture, his look triumphed. His success was so certain that it seemed that it preceded Wilde and that all he needed do was go forward to meet it. His books astonished, charmed. His plays were to be the talk of London. He was rich; he was tall; he was handsome; laden with good fortune and honors. Some compared him to an Asiatic Bacchus; others to some Roman emperor; others to Apollo himself—and the fact is that he was radiant.

At Paris, no sooner did he arrive, than his name ran from mouth to mouth; a few absurd anecdotes were related about him: Wilde was still only the man who smoked gold-tipped cigarettes and who walked about in the streets with a sunflower in his hand. For, Wilde, clever at duping the makers of worldly celebrity, knew how to project, beyond his real character, an amusing phantom which he played most spiritedly.

I heard him spoken of at the home of Mallarmé: he was portrayed as a brilliant talker, and I wished to know him, though I had no hope of managing to do so. A happy chance, or rather a friend, to whom I had told my desire, served me. Wilde was invited to dinner. It was at the restaurant.