Compare Documents

Mr Carson proceeded to cross-examine the witness. He said—You said at the commencement of your examination that you are thirty-nine years of age. I think you are over forty? I do not think so.

You were born, I believe, on October 16, 1854? Yes.

That makes you somewhat over forty? Very well.

Do you know Lord A Douglas’s age? He is, I think, twenty-four.

When you know him he was about twenty or twenty-one? Yes.

Continuing, witness said he had not, previous to the interview, received a letter from the Marquis expressing the wish that the acquaintance with his son should not continue. Witness knew the defendant did not wish the acquaintance to continue.

Mr Carson—And for the reasons he gave you? Yes.

Answering further, witness said he had continued very intimate with Lord A Douglas down to the present moment, and he had been to Oxford, Brighton, Worthing, Cromer, and Torquay with him, but had never taken rooms for him. He had been to various hotels with him, including the Savoy, and had taken rooms for himself at 10 and 11 St James’s place apart from his house in Tite street. Lord Douglas had stopped there, and, as to his poems in the "Chameleon," he thought them exceeding beautiful—the one "In Praise of Shame," and the other "Two Loves." The story objected to in the "Chameleon" was, he thought, from a literary point of view, most objectionable, and he added it was impossible for a man of letters to criticise a work from any other point of view. He did not think there was such a thing as an immoral book. The story in question, "The Priest and the Acolyte.' was, he said, worse. It was badly written.

Do you think the story blasphemous? I think the account of the death violated every artistic canon of poetry.

That is not what I ask. That is the only answer I can give you.

Did you think it blasphemous? I thought it wrong.

I want to see in what position you pose? That is not the way to talk to me. I pose as nothing.

I want to see your position in reference to this line of publication, and I want to know do you consider that story was blasphemous? The emotion produced in my mind was that of disgust. I did not consider the story a blasphemous production. I think it horrible, but the word "blasphemous" is not my word.

Mr Carson read a number of extracts from the article, and said "I think you will admit that anyone who was connected or would allow himself publicly to approve of that article would be posing as a ——?"

The Witness—No, but I would say it was very bad literary taste.

You disapprove of it from a literary point of view. Did you ever inform the public that you disapproved of it? No I never did.

Notwithstanding that the article was in a paper to which you yourself contributed, you did not think it necessary to dissociate yourself from it in any public way? I considered it beneath my dignity to write a letter in regard to an article which was the work of an undergraduate.

Asking questions concerning the "Paraphrases for the Young," written by the witness in the "Chameleon," counsel read this one:—"There is something tragic about the enormous number of young men in England who start life with perfect profiles, and end by adopting some useful profession.'

Witness—The young, I think, have enough sense of humour to see that that is an amusing paradox.

Turning to "Dorian Gray," counsel read an extract, and asked, may I take it that no matter how immoral a book was if it was well written it would be a good book? If it were well written it would produce a sense of beauty, and if badly written a sense of disgust.

Well, if it put forward disgusting views it would be well written? No work of art ever puts forward views.

Is "Dorian Gray" open to the interpretation of being a disgusting book? Only to brutes and the illiterate. You cannot ask about the interpretation of my work. It does not concern me. What concerns me is my view and my feeling. I do not care "tupence" what the Phillistines think about it.

The majority of people would come under your term of illiterates? I have found wonderful exceptions.

Your book might have an improper meaning to the ordinary individual? I have no knowledge of the ordinary individual.

Mr Carson read the description of the artist’s feelings on first meeting "Dorian Gray," and in reply to a question,

Mr Wilde said—I think this is the most perfect description possible of what an artist would feel on meeting a beautiful personality.

You mean a beautiful person? Yes, a beautiful young man if you like.

Having read another passage, Mr Carson asked—Do you mean to say that that describes the National of one man towards another? It describes the influence produced on an artist by a beautiful personality.

The book speaks of adoration for the youth Dorian. Have you experienced that? I have never given adoration to anybody but myself (laughter).

I dare say you think that is very smart? Not at all.

Asked a further question, Mr Wilde exclaimed, "I do not know what you are talking about," to which counsel retorted, "Well, I hope I shall make myself very plain before I am done."

Later witness said he borrowed the sensations described in the book from Shakespeare’s sonnets, and added—"There are people in the world who cannot understand the intense devotion, affection, and adoration that an artist can feel for either a wonderful and beautiful person or a wonderful and beautiful friend. Those are the conditions under which we live. I regret them.'

People who have not a high understanding you think, might put it down to something wrong? Undoubtedly. Hallam had done it about Shakespeare’s sonnets.

Turning to the personal letter written by witness to Lord A Douglas, counsel asked—"Was that an ordinary letter?"

Witness—Certainly not. An ordinary letter—no!

Do you mean to tell me this was a natural and proper way to address a young man? You are criticising a poem. If you ask me whether it is proper, you might as well as me whether "King Lear" is proper or a sonnet of Shakespeare proper.

But apart from art? I can’t answer any question apart from art. A man who was not an artist could never have written that letter. He could not have used the language I used unless he was a man of letters and an artist.

Was that the ordinary way in which you carried on your correspondence with Lord A Douglas? One could not write a letter like this every day. It would be like writing a poem every day—you couldn’t do it.

Mr Carson, having quoted from another letter asked—Is that an extraordinary letter? I think everything I write extraordinary. I do not pose as being ordinary. Good heavens! (angrily) ask me any questions you like about it.

Mr Carson—When did the man named Wood first come to you about the letters which he had found in Lord A Douglas’s coat? An appointment was made through Mr A Taylor.

Answering further questions Mr Wilde said he met Wood at the Cafe Royal at Lord A Douglas’s request. He frequently went to 13 Little College street, and had tea there sometimes.

Mr Carson—I think there were all young men at those tea parties? No, not at all.

They were all men? Yes.

Do I understand that the very first day you saw Wood you took him round to the Florence Restaurant? Yes.

Was Taylor also present? No.

In reply to further questions witness emphatically denied having any unlawful relations with Wood. The £15 he gave him was to pay his passage to New York, and witness gave him £5 more the next day.

Did you have a champagne lunch with him before he left for America? Yes.

With the man you thought wanted to blackmail you? Yes.

Answering further questions, witness said Wood called him Oscar. Almost everybody called him by his Christian name. Allen, who brought him the "prose poem," was a notorious blackmailer. He gave him 10s out of contempt. That was one of the best ways to show contempt.

Counsel proceeded to put questions with regard to the "office boy" of witness’s publishers.

Mr Wilde denied that the lad was the office boy, and said he was an assistant. He was not good looking, but had an intellectual face. He had dined with witness at the Albemarle Hotel.

For the purpose of having an intellectual treat? Well, for him, yes (laughter).

Other questions were asked by counsel, and, ultimately, Mr Wilde, turning to the Judge, asked—Is it not sufficient for me to give an entire denial, without being exposed to the ignominy of detail after detail? Why should I be exposed before the whole court in entering into this sort of thing, which cannot possibly be borne?

Mr Carson did not persist.

Cross-examination continued—He became acquainted with a boy named Alfonso Conway, at Worthing, who was about 18 years of age, but had no occupation. He denied having any unlawful relations with him. He had given him a cigarette case with the inscription "Alfonzo: from his friend Oscar Wilde." He had also given this boy his photograph and a book.

Did you bring this boy with you to Brighton? Yes.

You bought him this straw hat and a blue suit to make him look more like your equal? Oh no, he could never look that.

How is it he was so good a companion for you? Because his was a pleasant, bright, simple, nice nature.

THE trial of the Marquis of Queensberry for libelling Oscar Wilde, and which ended in the acquittal of the Marquis and the arrest of Wilde on a serious criminal charge, was commenced in the Old Bailey Criminal Court, London, on April 3. From an English paper to hand yesterday we make the following extracts:—

In opening the case for the prosecution, Sir Edward Clarke referred to the fact that a man named Wood had been given some clothes by Lord Alfred Douglas, and he alleged that he found in the pocket of a coat

FOUR LETTERS FROM MR. WILDE TO

LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.

Whether he did find them there or whether he stole them is matter for speculation, but the letters were handed about, and Wood asked Mr. Wilde to buy them back. He represented himself as being in need and wanting to go to America. Mr. Wilde handed him £15 or £20, and received from him three of somewhat ordinary importance. It afterwards appeared that only the letters of no importance had been given up (Sir Edward Clarke made the remark quite innocently) and the letter of some importance had been retained. At that time "A Woman of No Importance" was in rehearsal at the Haymarket Theatre, and there came to Mr. Wilde through Mr. Beerbohm Tree a document which purported to be a copy of the retained letter. It had two headings—one Babbicombe Cliff, Torquay, and the other 16 Tite-street. Shortly afterwards a man named Allan called on Mr. Wilde, and demanded ransom for the original of the letter. Mr. Wilde peremptorily refused. He said, "I look upon the letter as a work of art. Now I have got a copy I do not desire the original. Go." Almost immediately afterwards a man named Claburn brought the original and surrendered it, saying it was sent by Mr. Wood. Mr. Wilde gave him a sovereign for his trouble. The letter was as follows:—

My Own Boy,— Your sonnet is quite lovely, and it is a marvel that those red-roseleaf lips of yours should be made no less for the madness of music and song than for the madness of kissing. Your slim gilt soul walks between passion and poetry. I know Hyacinthus whom Apollo loved so madly was you in Greek days. Why are you alone in London, and when do you go to Salisbury? Do you go there and cool your hands in the gray twilight of Gothic things? Come here whenever you like. It is a lovely place, and only lacks you. But go to Salisbury first. Always with undying love.—Yours, OSCAR.

Under examination by his counsel Wilde replied that the Marquis of Queensberry called upon him and said: "I hear you were thoroughly well blackmailed last year for a disgusting letter that you wrote to my son." Oscar replied: "The letter was a beautiful letter, and I never write except for publication."

Mr. Wilde continued: "About the end of June Lord Queensberry called upon me in the afternoon. I said to him, "I suppose you have come to apologise for the statement you made about my wife and myself in a letter you wrote to your son. Lord Queensberry said, 'If I catch you and my son together again I will thrash you.' I said, 'I do not know what the Queensberry rules are, but the Oscar Wilde rule is to shoot at sight.' I then told him to leave my house. He said he would not do so. I told him I would have him put out by the police. Mr. Wilde then went into the hall and said to his servant, 'This is the Marquis of Queensberry, the most infamous brute in London. Never allow him to enter my house again. Should he attempt to come in you may send for the police.'"

In cross-examination Wilde was questioned respecting the vicious tendencies of a story which had appeared in a magazine to which he was a contributor, when the following questions and answers were given:—

You have no doubt whatever that was an improper story? — From the literary point of view

IT WAS HIGHLY IMPROPER.

It is impossible for a man of literature to judge it otherwise, by literature meaning treatment, selection of subject, and the like. I thought the treatment rotten and the subject rotten. You are of opinion there is no such thing as an immoral book? — Yes.

May I take it that you think the story was not immoral? — It was worse, it was badly written. (Laughter.)

In reply to another question Wilde said: I do not believe that any book or work of art ever had any effect on morality whatever.

And the following dialogue ensued:

Am I right in saying that you do not consider the effect in creating morality or immorality? — Certainly, I do not.

So far as your work is concerned you pose as not being concerned about morality or immorality?—I do not know whether you use the word "pose" in any particular sense.

It is a favorite word of your own? — Is it? I have no pose in this matter. In writing a play, or a book, or anything, I am concerned entirely with literature, that is, with art. I aim not at doing good or evil, but in trying to make a thing that will have some quality of beauty.

Listen, sir. Here is one of the "Phrases and Philosophies for the use of the Young"; "Wickedness is a myth invented by good people to account for the curious attractiveness of others." You think that true? — I rarely think that anything I write is true.

Did you say rarely? — I said rarely. I might have said never; not true in the actual sense of the word.

"Religions die when they are proved to be true." Is that true? — Yes, I hold that. It is a suggestion towards a philosophy of the absorption of religions by science, but it is too big a question to go into now.

Do you think that was a safe axiom to put forward for the philosophy of the young?—Most stimulating. (Laughter.)

"If one tells the truth one is sure, sooner or later, to be found out." — That is a pleasing paradox, but I do not set very high store on it as an axiom.

Is it good for the young? — Anything is good that stimulates art in whatever age.

Whether moral or immoral? — There is no such thing as morality or immorality in art. There is immoral emotion.

"Pleasure is the only thing one should live for." — I think that the realisation of one's self is the prime aim of life, and to realise one's self through pleasure is finer than to do so through pain. I am on that point entirely on the side of the ancients—the Greeks.

"A truth ceases to be true when more than one person believes it?" — Perfectly. That would be my metaphysical definition of truth; somewhat so personal that the same truth could never be appreciated by two minds.

"The condition of perfection is idleness?" — Oh, yes, I think so. Half of it is true. The life of contemplation is the highest life.

"There is something tragic about the enormous number of young men there are in England at the present moment who start life with perfect profiles, and end by adopting some useful professions." — I should think that the young have enough sense of humor.

You think that is humorous? — I think it is an amusing paradox.

In answer to other questions, he said: The views of illiterates on art are unaccountable. I am concerned only with my view of art. I don't care twopence what other people think of it.

The majority of people would come under your definition of Philistines and illiterates? — I have found wonderful exceptions.

Do you think that the majority of people live up to the position you are giving us? — I am afraid they are not cultivated enough.

Not cultivated enough to draw the distinction you have drawn between a good and a bad book? — Certainly not.

The affection and love of the artists of Dorian Grey might lead an ordinary individual to believe that it might have a certain tendency? — I have no knowledge of the views of ordinary individuals.

You did not prevent the ordinary individual from buying your book? — I have never discouraged him.

At a later stage the following letter, written by Wilde to Lord Alfred Douglas, was read:—

Savoy Hotel, Thames Embankment, W.C.

Dearest of all boys,—Your letter was delightful, red and yellow wine to me, but I am sad and out of sorts. Boysey, you must not make scenes with me. They kill me, they wreck the loveliness of life. I cannot see so, so Greek and gracious, distorted with passion. I cannot listen to your young lips saying hideous things to me. I would sooner—

Here a word is indecipherable, but I will ask the witness—

than have you bitter, unjust, hating. I must see you soon. You are the divine thing I want, the thing of grace, but I don't know how to do it. Shall I come to Salisbury. My bill here is £40 for a week. Why is it you are not here, my dear, my wonderful boy? I fear I must have no money, no credit.—Your own OSCAR.

Is that an ordinary letter? — Everything I write is extraordinary. I do not pose as being ordinary. (Laughter.)

Have you got his letter in reply? — I do not recollect what letter it was.

It was not a beautiful letter? — I do not remember the letter.

You describe it as "delightful red and yellow wine to you?" — Oh, of course, a beautiful letter, certainly.

What would you pay for that beautiful letter? — I could not get a copy.

How much would you give if you could get a copy? — Oh, I do not know.

Was this one of yours a beautiful letter? — Yes; it was a tender expression of my great admiration for Lord Alfred Douglas. It was not like the other—a prose poem.

Towards the close of the case for the prosecution counsel for the defence read the following postcard, addressed by Lord A. Douglas to Lord Queensberry:—

As you return my letters unopened I am obliged to write on a postcard. I write to inform you that I treat your absurd threats with absolute indifference. Ever since your exhibition at O.W.'s house I have made a point of appearing with him at many public restaurants, such as the Berkeley, Willis' Rooms, the Café Royal, &, and I shall continue to go to any of these places whenever I choose and with whom I choose. I am of age and my own master; you have disowned me at least a dozen times, and have very meanly deprived me of money. You have therefore no right over me, either legal or moral. If O.W. was to prosecute you in the criminal courts for libel you would get seven years penal servitude for your outrageous libels. Much as I detest you, I am anxious to avoid this for the sake of the family; but if you try to assault me I shall defend myself with a loaded revolver, which I always carry; and if I shoot you, or if he shoots you, we should be completely justified, as we should be acting in self-defence against a violent and dangerous rough, and I think if you were dead not many people would miss you.

A.D.

There are some portions of the evidence that we do not care to publish. The above gives a fair idea of the procedure and the attitude assumed by Wilde until the crash came.