The Evening News - Wednesday, April 3, 1895
This report was originally published in English. Machine translations may be available in other languages.
OSCAR & MARQUIS
The Strange Libel Case Opened.
SCENE IN COURT.
A Remarkable Letter to Lord Alfred
Douglas.
The Importance of Being Early was never better [...] than at the Old Bailey this morning, when long before 10 o’clock every seat where a pressman could sit had at least a couple of competitors for it and the body of the court was grey with the [...] of the [...] ones come to [...] the prosecution of John Sholto [...] Marquis of Queensberry, for [...] Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wilde.
[...] miserable hovel, known [...] as the Old Court have not been [...] demonstrated since the Neill- [...] drew everyone to the Old Bailey. The building seems to have been constructed upon the principle of affording space where it is not wanted, and the roomiest place of all is the dock, where 10 people could sit in comfort.
The counsel in the case formed quite a numerous body. Sir Edward Clarke, Q. C., Mr. Charles Mathews and Mr. Humphreys for the prosecution, Mr. E. H. Carson, Q. C., C. F. Gill, and A. Gill for the defence; Mr. Besley, Q. C., and Mr. Monckton watching the case on behalf of Lord Douglas of Hawick, the eldest son of his defendant.
Sir Edward Clarke, Q.C., Mr. C. Mathews, and Mr. Travers Humphreys appeared for the prosecution; Mr. Carson, Q.C., Mr. C. F. Gill, and Mr. A. Gill for the defence; and Mr. Besley, Q.C., and Mr. Monckton watched the case on behalf of Lord Drumlanrig, the eldest son of the defendant.
OSCAR ENTERS.
Soon after 10 o’clock the tall figure of Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wilde was to be seen squeezing its way through the thronged court towards the solicitors’ table. He wore a long Melton cloth overcoat and a colonial-shaped top-hat, but did not sport the white flower which he affected at the police-court proceedings.
After an interval that seemed like a day the three knocks were heard that herald the approach of the judge, and Mr. Justice Collins entered and took his seat.
The Marquis of Queensberry at once stepped into the dock, had the indictment road to him, and pleaded Not guilty, that the libel was true, and that it was for the public benefit that it was printed.
THE CASE OPENED.
Sir Edward Clarke at once rose and began the case. He told how the Marquis called at the Albemarle Club and left a card "To Oscar Wilde," which contained words that were gross and libellous. The accusation against Mr. Wilde was one of the gravest that could be made. But the card was not the only matter with which they would have to deal. By the plea put before the Court a much graver issue was raised. There was no accusation in the plea that Mr. Oscar Wilde had been guilty of a criminal offence, but there were given the names of a number of persons whom he was accused of inciting to commit such offences and with whom he was charged with improper conduct. Sir Edward could understand that, for if such witnesses were called and cross-examined no doubt they would be compelled to admit much, but probably they would not be prepared to admit that they themselves had committed such offences as were the subject of the present inquiry. Then, briefly, Sir Edward sketched Oscar Wilde’s career, his parentage, his career at Trinity College, Dublin, and Magdalen, at Oxford, where he obtained the Newdigate, and his subsequent literary and artistic career. He became a public character "laughed at by some, appreciated by many, but representing a particular phase of an artistic movement." He married the daughter of Horace Lloyd, Q. C., and had spent a happy, domestic life. At his house in Tite-street he first made the acquaintance of Lord Alfred Douglas, of whom he ever since had been the friend, and not only his friend but the friend of his brother and of his mother, Lady Queensberry, who was the wife of the defendant until she obtained release owing to the defendant’s misconduct.
AN INCIDENT AT THE CAFE ROYAL.
In November, 1892, Mr. Wilde and Lord Alfred Douglas were lunching at the Café Royal, when Lord Queensberry came in. He was introduced to Mr. Wilde, and recalled to him that they had met some 10 years before. They chatted, discussed a probable visit to Torquay, and parted. From that time Mr. Wilde saw nothing more of Lord Queensberry until 1894, but during that time he became aware that statements were made affecting his character. There was a man named Wood, who had been given some clothes by Lord Alfred Douglas, who alleged that in the pockets he found some letters of Mr. Oscar Wilde to Lord Alfred. Early in 1893 Wood came to Mr. Wilde with these letters, and represented that he was in trouble, and wished to go to America. Mr. Wilde gave him £15 or £20 for the letters, mere ordinary letters, of no importance. Then the time changed to during the run of Oscar’s first stage success. Mr. Beerbohm Tree handed Mr. Wilde what purported to be a copy of a letter of Mr Wilde’s. Soon afterwards a man named Allen called and offered to tell him the original. Mr. Wilde refused. He said, "I look upon that letter as a work of art. I should have desired to possess a copy, but as I have that I have no desire to possess the original." He gave Allen a sovereign for his trouble, and Allen was so gratified that he sent the original to Mr. Wilde. Mr. Wilde told Allen that he looked upon the letter as a "prose sonnet," and should probably publish it.
A PROSE SONNET.
Presently Sir Edward read the letter. Here it is:
"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-built soul walks between passion and poetry. No Hyacinthus followed Love so madly as you in Greek days. Why are you alone in London, and when do you go to Salisbury? Do go there and cool your hands in the grey 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."
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-built soul walks between passion and poetry. No Hyacinthus followed love so madly as you in Greek days. Why are you alone in London, and when do you go to Salisbury? Do go there and cool your hands in the grey 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.
"My own Boy, - Your sonnet is quite lovely, and it is a marvel that those red-rose leaf lips of yours should be made no less for the madness of music and song than for the madness of kissing. Your slim-built soul walks between passion and poetry. No Hyacinthus followed Love so madly as you in Greek days. Why are you alone in London, and when do you go to Salisbury? Do 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."
"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-built soul walks between passion and poetry. No Hyacinthus followed Love and so madly as you in Greek days. Why are you alone in London, and when do you go to Salisbury? Do go there and cool your hands in the grey 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."
"My own Boy--Your sonnet is quite lovely, and it is a marvel that those red-roseleaf lips should be made no less for the madness of music and song than for the madness of kissing. Your slim-built soul walks between passion and poetry. No Hyacinthus followed Love so madly as you in Greek days. Why are you alone in London, and when do you go to Salisbury? Do 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."
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-built 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 go there and cool your hands in the grey 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.
My Own Boy,—Your sonnet is quite lovely, and it is a marvel that those red rose-leaf lips of yours should be made no less for the madness of music and song than for the madness of kissing. Your slim-built 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 go there and cool your hands in the grey 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.
My Own Boy—Your sonnet is quite lovely, and it is a marvel that those red roseleaf lips of yourself should be made no less for the madness of music and song than for the madness of kissing. Your slim-built 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 go there and cool your hands in the grey 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.
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 who Apollo loved so madly was you in Greek days. Why are you alone in London, and when do you go to Salisbury? Do 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.
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.
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 loved by Apollo was you in Greek days. Why are you alone in London, and when do you go to Salisbury? Do go there and cool your hands in the grey 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.
My own dear 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 music of song than for the madness of kissing. Your slim gilt soul walks between passion and poetry. I know that 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 go there and cool your hands in the grey twilight of Gothic things and come here whenever you like. It is a lovely place; it only lacks you, but to Salisbury first. Always with undying love, yours Oscar.
My own dear boy — Your sonnet is quite lovely, and it is a marvel that those red roseleaf lips of yours should be made no less for music of song than for 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 go there and cool your hands in the grey twilight of Gothic things, and come here whenever you like. It is a lovely place. It only lacks you. But go to Salisbury first. Always with undying love, yours, OSCAR.
My own dear boy — Your sonnet is quite lovely, and it is a marvel that those red roseleaf lips of yours should be made no less for music of song than for 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 go there and cool your hands in the grey twilight of Gothic things, and come here whenever you like. It is a lovely place. It only lacks you. But go to Salisbury first. Always with undying love, yours, OSCAR.
"My own dear Boy,— Your sonnet is quite lovely, and it is a marvel that those red-rose lips of yours should be made no less for music of 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? When do you go to Salisbury? Do go there and cool your hands in the grey twilight of Gothic things and come here whenever you like. It is a lovely place. It only lacks you; but go to Salisbury first—Always, with undying love, yours, OSCAR."
My own boy, — Your sonnet is quite lovely, and it is a marvel that those red roseleaf lips of yours should have been made no less for music of song than for madness of kisses. 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 go there to cool your hands in the grey twilight of Gothic things, and come here whenever you like. It is a lovely place — it only lacks you; but go to Salisbury first. — Always with undying love, yours, OSCAR."
My own boy,—Your sonnet is quite lovely, and it is a marvel that those red roseleaf lips of yours should have been made no less for music of song than for madness of kisses. 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 go there to cool your hands in the grey twilight of Gothic things, and come here whenever you like. It is a lovely place—it only lacks you; but go to Salisbury first.—Always with undying love, yours, Oscar."
My Dear Boy: Your sonnet is quite lovely. Your rose-leaf lips seem made no less for the music of song than for the madness of kisses. Your slim, gilt soul walks betweens poetry and passion. I know that Hyacinthus, who was loved by Apollo, was you in the Greek days. Why are you alone in London and when do you go to. Salisbury? Do you sleep in the gray twilight of the Gothic things? Come here whenever you like, but go to Salisbury first. With undying love, OSCAR.
After the sensation of the letter the story came back to the more dull, prosaic fact that Mr. Wilde became aware that Lord Queensberry was writing letters about him that were not exactly prose sonnets, but which made imputations against him of a serious character, in 1894 matters came to a head in an interview at which Mr Wilde forbade Lord Queensberry his house. Next Sir Edward briefly sketched the circumstances surrounding the first sight of "The Importance of Being Earnest," the appearance of Lord Queensberry with his bouquet of vegetables, and his ejectment from the theatre after an unsuccessful attempt to escalade the gallery. Cleverly, Sir Edward made a point of the laughter which followed. He could not complain of it, he said, whether Lord Queensberry was entirely responsible for his action was a point they would have seriously to consider before the end of the case.
THE DAY OF THE LIBEL.
The story was now brought up to the fateful day of the libel, the last day of February this year, when Oscar called at the Albemarle and found the card, which had been lying there since the 18th. In the last stages of a splendid opening speech Sir Edward made a slip of the tongue in saying Rosebery for Queensberry, and almost fiercely rebuked the laugh which followed. "I feel some resentment," he said, "at the action taken of a slip unworthy of notice."
In a few sentences Sir Edward dealt with the pleadings ; he would say nothing about the names mentioned therein, but there were two clauses dealing with the publication of "Dorian Gray" and the "Chameleon," the presence of which he was unable to explain. He could only suppose that the defence, fearing their case might break down, had dragged those publications in to have something to cling to in case their witnesses failed them. So far as the "Chameleon" was concerned Mr. Wilde was responsible only for his own contribution. In that magazine there was a story—"The Priest and the Acolyte"—which was a disgrace to literature, which it was extraordinary anyone could write, which it was more extraordinary anyone could publish, a story which Mr. Wilde condemned as bad literature, and induced the editor to withdraw so soon as he saw it. Then with a wonderful beauty of expression and felicity of language Sir Edward sketched the strange story of Dorian Gray, while the Court listened enthralled with the weird, imaginative force of the picture.
It deals with the story of a young man, of good birth, with great wealth and much personal beauty, whose friend, a distinguished painter, paints a portrait of him. He expresses the strange wish that as life goes on he might be allowed to possess the undiminished beauty of his youth, while the picture should age and fade. The strange wish is granted, his conduct in life leaves its record on the picture not on himself. He plunges into dissipation and crime, and the portrait, which is locked up from every eye but his own, grows more hideous till he can stand it no longer, but takes a knife and strikes at the picture. He instantly falls dead himself, and those who come into the room find the picture again amazingly beautiful, and on the door a hideous and unrecognisable body of an old man.
of good birth, whith great wealth and much personal beauty, whose friend, a distinguished painter, paints a portrait of him. He expresses the strange wish that as life goes on he might be allowed to possess the undiminished beauty of his youth, while the picture should age and fade. The strange wish is granted, his conduct in life leaves its record on the picture not on himself. He plunges into dissipation and crime, and the portrait, which is locked up from every eye but his own, grows more hideous till he can stand it no longer, but takes a knife and strikes at the picture. He instantly falls dead himself, and those who come into the room find the picture again amazingly beautiful, and on the floor a hideous and unrecognisable body of an old man. "I have read the book - for the purposes of this case," said Sir Edward," and I shall be surprised if my learned friend can point to any passage other than such as the novelist must write to describe life and produce a work of art."
"I have read the book," concluded Sir Edward, "and I defy the defence within those covers to find anything more than a writer must write if he wishes to portray such a story."
OSCAR IN THE BOX.
As in the former proceedings, the hall porter of the Albemarle was the first witness. He was shown the card with the words written on the back. He identified it as the one left by Lord Queensberry for Mr. Wilde. He put it in an envelope and wrote Mr. Wilde’s name and the date.
This witness was not cross-examined, and at once Mr. Wilde was called and examined by Sir Edward Clarke.
He said he was 39 years of age, and was briefly taken through his Dublin and Oxford career. He took his degree in 1873, came down at once, and has since then devoted himself to Art and Literature. He published poems, and lectured in England and America. Lately he had devoted himself to dramatic literature, has produced four plays, and has another, "Salome," in which Sarah Bernhardt is to appear in Paris. He was taken all over the ground covered by Sir Edward’s opening, the only additional fact being that the two sons of his marriage are aged nine and 10.
THE PEER IN THE DOCK.
Lord Queensberry, who disdained a seat, stood in front of the dock with his arms folded, occasionally changing his attitude to make a note of something that occurred to him. While Oscar was in the box the peer looked implacably across the court to where the poet, with his hyacinthine locks and air of easy abandon, almost lolled in the witness-box.
OSCAR’S EVIDENCE.
The story followed closely on the lines of the opening, but the incident of Wood and the letter was elaborated. Wood said, "I suppose you think very badly of me." He replied "I hear you have letters of mine, you should certainly have given them back to me." Wood then took out three or four letters, said they had been stolen from him and had cost him money to get back. Witness replied he did not think the letters of any value at all. Wood then said he did not want to stay in London, he wanted to go to America as he was being threatened, and after some conversation, and a very strong appeal by Wood, the witness advanced him £15 to go the New York.
The examination passed on to the visit of Allen. He knew Allen at once by description, and said, "I suppose you have come about my beautiful letter to Lord Alfred Douglas. If you had not been so foolish as to send a copy of it to Mr. Beerbohm Tree I would gladly have paid you a very large sum of money for the letter as I consider it to be a work of art.
He said : "A very curious construction could be put upon that letter."
Witness replied, "Ah! were it not for a criminal process."
The conversation proceeded.
Allen : A man has offered £60 for it.
Wilde : If you take my advice you will go and sell it. I myself have never received so large a sum for so small a piece of prose, but I am glad to find that someone considers a letter of mine worth £60.
Allen : The man is out of town.
Wilde : But he is sure to come back. As far as I am concerned I can assure you that I will not pay one penny for the letter.
Mr. Wilde then refused to discuss the matter further, whereupon Allen said he was poor, and begged. Witness gave him half a sovereign and he went away.
One additional thing he told Allen. He said :
"This letter is a prose poem and will shortly be published in sonnet form in a delightful magazine. I will send you a copy."
Was anything said about a sonnet?—Yes. I said, "The letter, which is a prose poem, will shortly be published in sonnet form in a delightful magazine, and I will send you a copy of it."
Was anything said about a sonnet ? — Yes. I said, "The letter, which is a prose poem, will shortly be published in sonnet form in a delightful magazine, and I will send you a copy of it."
AN ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT.
About six minutes after Allen went a man named Clyburn came, brought the letter and said Allen had asked him to give it back to him, saying it was "no good try to ‘rent’ him, he only laughed."
He took the letter back, and, seeing its condition, said, "It is a great pity better care is not taken of an original manuscript of mine."
He then said to Clyburn, "I am afraid you are leading a very wicked life."
He replied, "There was good and bad in every one of us," and Oscar rejoined, "It is more than possible."
The letter had been in his possession ever since, and he produced it to-day. After these epigrammatic conversations between Mr. Wilde and the casual callers at Tite-street the resumption of the main story fell rather flat. It was after the return of Lord Alfred Douglas from Cairo, Mr. Wilde said, that he became aware that Lord Queensberry was making injurious suggestions about him.
AN INTERVIEW WITH THE MARQUIS.
Later on in June he had an interview with Lord Queensberry and a Mr. "Pip" at 16, Tite-street. The interview took place in the library.
Lord Queensberry said, "Sit down."
Mr. Wilde said, "I don’t allow you to talk to me like that. I suppose you have come to apologise for the statement you made about myself and my wife in a letter you wrote to your son. I could have you up for criminal libel for writing such a letter."
Queensberry replied, "That letter was privileged."
"How dare you say such things about your son and me?" asked Oscar.
"You were both kicked out of the Savoy for your scandalous conduct," said Queensberry.
"That is a lie," replied Oscar.
Lord Queensberry then said : "I hear you were thoroughly well blackmailed last year for a disgusting letter you wrote to my son."
"The letter was a beautiful letter,' replied Oscar, "and I never write unless for publication."
After some further conversation between the Marquis and witness, Queensberry said :
"If ever I catch you with my son again I will thrash you."
"I do not know what the Queensberry rules are," retorted Oscar, "but the Oscar Wilde rule is to shoot out right."
He then ordered Lord Queensberry out of the house, and threatened him with the police.
Lord Queensberry repeated the charge, saying the scandal was all over London.
"If it were so," witness replied, "Lord Queensbery was himself the author of the scandal." The letters he had written were infamous, and he was merely trying to ruin his son through him. He added, "You have got to go. I won’t have in my house a brute like you." He pointed out Lord Queensberry to his servant and said "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, send for the police."
Lord Queensberry then left with violent language.
It was absolutely untrue that he, with or without Lord Alfred Douglas, was ever required to leave the Savoy Hotel.
(Proceeding.)