The Evening News - Friday, May 24, 1895
This report was originally published in English. Machine translations may be available in other languages.
THE TRIAL OF WILDE.
Sir Edward Clarke Opens the Defence—Wilde in the Box.
A larger crowd than usual waited outside the Old Bailey this morning to see Wilde drive up. He … into court soon after 10, accompanied by … Stewart Headlam. Wilde looked worn and … nervous perspiration on his face … bearing signs of sleeplessness. … erect, however, and bore his … silver-mounted cane with his ...
... crowded early, doubtless the … that Wilde would be put in the witness-box.
Before the opening of the proceedings Wilde … with Mr. Travis Humphreys, the … counsel for the defence, and afterwards with Sir Edward Clarke.
Lord Douglas of Hawick arrived about half-past ten, and joined company with his fellow- … and kept Wilde in animated conversation for a few minutes before Wilde was called into …
THE SHELLEY CASE.
Sir Frank Lockwood, immediately the Judge took his seat, spoke re the withdrawal of Shelley, and denoted decisions of judges as late … to show that the jury might be told the evidence of a witness who was an accomplice was a thing they should not accept unless corroborated, instead of the case being withdrawn altogether.
Mr. Justice Wills replied that he had made up his mind that it would be far better to withdraw a witness altogether than let his evidence go to the jury and the jury to be told to disregard it.
THE SPEECH FOR THE DEFENCE.
Sir Edward Clarke opened the defence by pointing out that the area of the case had become small, the witnesses upon whose evidence they would have to decide their verdict being few. Sir Edward alluded to what he called the "causual, unjustifiable way in which the case is being conducted on the part of the Crown." He realised, he said, the responsibility of his learned friend the Solicitor-General. He himself had had the honour of holding the office of Solicitor-General for six years, for a longer period than ever it was held by any other man in the last hundred years. He realised the responsibilities of a Crown official, but he would point out to his learned friend that he was there, not to try to get a verdict of guilty by any means—the Solicitor-General was there to lay the facts of the case before the jury for their safe judgment, and fair action to all concerned. For the third time, said Sir Edward, he would call Oscar Wilde, the defendant, into the witness-box, and for the third time Wilde would swear the charges made against him were wholly and completely untrue. Law officers of the Crown had, Sir Edward continued, a strange and invidious privilege—a privilege the existence of which he could not understand, a privilege he had never availed himself of, and never would avail himself of if he were again Solicitor-General—that was, the privilege of addressing the jury last. But the Crown had sent down a law official, and so he was forced, in order to reply to the Solicitor-General, to put Wilde into the box.
WILDE TO BE CALLED.
"Now, broken as he is," said SIr Edward in a most impressive voice, "and no one who saw him when he came into the court for the first time, and sees him now, can fail to see what has happened to the man—broken as he is by being kept in prison without bail, contrary to practice, and I believe contrary to law—broken as he is by the anxiety of these successive trials, I might have spared him the indignity of having again to go into the witness-box, to go through the ordeal of repeating his denial on oath."
Sir Edward then traced the history of the case from the action of the Marquis of Queensberry. He dwelt on the continued friendship of Wilde for the Douglases and their mother, the Marchioness of Queensberry. Wilde had heroically fought against the accusations made against him, accusations that had broken down piece by piece.
WILDE IN THE WITNESS-BOX.
Wilde, looking very haggard, was given a chair in the witness-box, and a glass of water placed at his elbow.
In the early part of the year 1894, did it come to your knowledge that the Marquis of Queensberry objected to your acquaintance with Lord Alfred Douglas?
Then followed answer and question detailing the facts of the card left at Wilde’s club, and his taking action against the Marquis of Queensberry. He had long been, and was still, a friend of the Queensberry family.
You made certain remarks upon the evidence of Charles Parker, when you were in the box before?—Yes.
Have you any qualification to make on those remarks?—No.
You have been living with your wife since you were married in 1894, at 16, Tite-street?—Yes.
While your family were away you stayed at the Savoy Hotel?—Yes.
You had rooms at St. James’s-place?—Yes, for writing. It was quiet. Most literary men like to work away from their own house. I was then writing "An Ideal Husband."
Is there any truth whatever in the accusations made against you?—None whatever.
Is there any truth whatever in the accusations made against you in this indictment? None whatever.
Is there any truth whatever in the accusations made against you in this indictment? None whatever.
Is there-any truth whatever in the accusations made; against you in this indictment? -None whatever.
CROSS-EXAMINED.
In cross-examination Sir Frank Lockwood asked:
Where is Lord Alfred Douglas now?—He is abroad.
Where?—Paris.
When did he go?—About three weeks ago.
Did he leave after the first trial?—No, he stayed awhile after the Queensberry trial.
Did he stay till your first trial as defendant?—No, he went away to France at my wish.
What did you do when you learned that the marquis objected to your friendship with his son? I said I was perfectly ready to cease the acquaintance, if it would make peace between him and his father, but he preferred to do otherwise.
So the intervention of the father had no effect?—None.
Then the Solicitor-General read the two famous letters from Wilde to Douglas.
"The letter from Torquay was intended to be a prose poem in answer to one he had written to me," repeated Wilde.
Are these two letters a sample of the letters you have written to Douglas?—No; I don’t think you can take them as a sample.
"My own boy," proceeded Sir Frank Lockwood, reading the letter. Is that the way you usually addressed him?—Oh yes, often. He was much younger than I was.
You adopted that phraseology on account of his being so much younger?—Yes.
"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 sonnet is quite a lovely marvel. Those red roseleaf lips of yours were made no less for the music of song than for the madness of kissing.
Extract from a letter written by Oscar Wilde to Lord Alfred Douglas:— "Those red roseleaf lips of yours were made no less for the music of song than for the madness of kissing."
May I ask you this, Mr. Wilde: Do you consider that was a decent way of addressing a youth?—It is a little like a sonnet of Shakespeare. I admit it was a fantastical and extravagant way of writing to a young man. The question whether the thing is proper or right is—
A QUESTION OF DECENCY.
The word I used, Mr. Wilde, was decent?—It was a beautiful way for an artist to write to a young man who had a love of art.
Do you consider that a decent mode of addressing a young man? (emphatically).—It was a literary way of addressing a prose poem to—
I ask you whether you know the meaning of the word decent?—Yes (quietly).
And do you consider that decent?—It was an attempt to write a prose poem in beautiful phraseology.
And do you consider that decent? - It was an attempt to write a prose poem in a beautiful phraseology.
Did you consider it decent phraseology?—Oh yes, yes.
"Your slim-gilt soul walks between passion and poetry. Hyacinthus, whom Apollo loved so madly, was you in Greek days." You were speaking of love between?—What I meant by the phrase was that he was a poet and Hyacinthus was a poet, and—(then the voice became inaudible).
"Your slim-gilt soul walks between passion and poetry. Hyacinthus, whom Apollo loved so madly, was you in Greek days." You were speaking of love between men? - What I meant by the phrase was that he was a poet and Hyacinthus was a poet, and--(then the voice became inaudible).
"Always with undying love," read on Sir Frank. It was not a sensual love, said Wilde.
Is that again poetic imagery or an expression of your feelings?—That is an expression of my feelings; with a smile and bow).
Is that again poetic imagery or an expression of your feelings? - That is an expression of my feelings (with a smile and a bow).
"Dearest of old boys," read on Sir Frank, "your letter was delightful red and yellow wine for me, but I am sad and out of sorts, Bosey. You must not make scenes with me. They wreck the loveliness of life. I cannot see you, Greek and gracious, distorted by passion. I cannot listen to your curved lips say hideous things to me. Don’t do it: you break my heart, and I must see you soon. You are the divine thing I want, the thing of grace and genius. But I don’t know how to do it. Shall I come to Salisbury? There are many difficulties; my bill here is £49"—that I suppose is true? That is, not poetic?—Oh! no, no! (Laughter suppressed.)
"Dearest of all boys," read on Sir Frank, "your letter was delightful red and yellow wine for me, but I am sad and out of sorts, Bosey. You must not make scenes with me. They wreck the loveliness of life. I cannot see you, Greek and gracious, distorted by passion. I cannot listen to your curved lips say hideous things to me. Don't do it; you break my heart, and I must see you soon. You are the divine thing I want, the thing of grace and genius. But I don't know how to do it. Shall I come to Salisbury? There are many difficulties. My bill here is £40."
"Savoy Hotel. "Dearest of all Boys, -- Your letter was delightful red and yellow wine to me, and 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 you, so Greek and gracious, distorted by passion. I cannot listen to your curved lips saying hideous things to me. Don't do it It breaks my heart. I must see you soon. You are the divine thing I want of grace and genius. But I don't know how to do it. There are many difficulties. My bill here is £49 for the week. My dear, my wonderful boy, I fear I must leave. No money, no credit, and a heart of lead.--From your own OSCAR."
"Dearest of all boys,—Your letter was delightful, and it was red and yellow wine to me, for I am sadly out of sorts. You must not make scenes with me. They kill me, they wreck the loveliness of life. I cannot see you, so Greek and gracious. Distorted by passion, I cannot listen to your curved lips saying hideous things to me. Don't do it. You break my heart. I must see you soon. You are the divine thing I want, a thing of grace and genius, but I do not know how to do it. Shall I come to Salisbury? There are many difficulties. My bill here is £49 for the week. I have also a new sitting-room over the Thames for you. Why are you not here my dear, my wonderful boy? I fear I must leave. No money, no credit, aud a heart of lead.—Ever your own, Oscar.
Dearest of all boys, your letter was delightful. Red and yellow wine to me. But I am out of sorts. You must not make scenes with me. They kill me. They wreck the loveliness of life. I cannot see you so Greek and gracious, distorted by passion. I cannot listen to your curved lips saying hideous things to me. You break my heart. I must see you soon. You are the divine thing. I want a thing of grace and genius, but I do not know how to do it. Shall I come to Salisbury? There are many difficulties; my bill here (at Goring) is £49 for the week. I have got a new sitting-room, over the Thames. But, you, why are you not here, my dear, my beautiful boy? I fear I must leave. No money, no credit, and a heart of lead. -Ever your own, OSCAR.
Dearest of all boys, your letter was delightful. Red and yellow wine to me. But I am out of sorts. You must not make scenes with me. They kill me. They wreck the loveliness of life. I cannot see you so Greek and gracious, distorted by passion. I cannot listen to your curved lips saying hideous things to me. You break my heart. I must see you soon. You are the divine thing. I want a thing of grace and genius, but I do not know how to do it. Shall I come to Salisbury? There are many difficulties; my bill here (at Goring) is £49 for the week. I have got a new sitting-room, over the Thames. But, you, why are you not here, my dear, my beautiful boy? I fear I must leave. No money, no credit, and a heart of lead. -Ever your own, OSCAR.
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. Boysie you must not make scenes with me. They kill me, they wreck the loveliness of life. I cannot see you, so Greek and gracious, distorted with passion. I cannot listen to your curved lips saying hideous things to me. I would sooner—[here a word is indecipherable]—than have you bitter, unjust, hating. I must see you soon. You are the divine thing I want, the thing of grace and beauty, but I don't know how to do it. Shall I come to Salisbury. My bill here is £49 for a week. (Laughter). I have also got a new sitting-room. Why are you not here, my dear, my wonderful boy? I fear I must leave. No money, no credit.—Your own Oscar.
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. Boysie you must not make scenes with me. They kill me, they wreck the loveliness of life. I cannot see you, so Greek and gracious, distorted with passion. I cannot listen to your curved lips saying hideous things to me. I would sooner — [here a word is indecipherable] — than have you bitter, unjust, hating. I must see you soon. You are the divine thing I want, the thing of grace and beauty, but I don't know how to do it. Shall I come to Salisbury. My bill here is £49 for a week. (Laughter.) I have also got a new sitting room. Why are you not here, my dear, my wonderful boy? I fear I must leave. No money, no credit. — Your own OSCAR.
Dearest of all boys, - Your letter was delightful, red and yellow wine to me, but I am sad and out of sorts. Bosey, you must not make scenes with me. They kill me, they wreck the loveliness of life. I cannot see you, 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 £49 for a week. Why is it you are not here, my dear, wonderful boy? I fear I must have no money, no credit. - Your own OSCAR.
Dearest of Old Boys,—Your letter was delightful red and yellow wine to me, but I am sad and out of sorts. Poesy, you must not make scenes with me. They kill me, they wreck the loveliness of life. I can see you, so Greek and great, contorted by passion. I cannot see your rosy lips and listen to you; you break my heart. I must see you. You are the divine thing I want—the thing of grace and genius—but I do not know how to do it. Shall I come to Salisbury? There are many difficulties. My bill is £45 for the week. I have a sitting room over the Fens. But you, where are you, my heart, my dear, my wonderful boy? I fear almost to live—no money, no credit, and a heart of lead.—Ever your own Oscar.
"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 you, so Greek and gracious, distorted by passion. I cannot listen to your young curved lips saying hideous things to me. I would sooner"- here a word is undecipherable, but I will ask the witness—"than have you bitter, unjust, hating. You break my heart. I must see you soon. You are the divine thing I want, the thing of grace and genius, but I don't know how to do it. Shall I come to Salisbury? My bill here is £49 for a week. (Laughter.) I have also a new sitting-room over the Thames. Why is it you are not here, my dear, my wonderful boy? I fear almost to live—no money, no credit, and a heart of lead. Ever your own, OSCAR."
"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 you, so Greek and gracious, distorted by passion. I cannot listen to your young curved lips saying hideous things to me. I would sooner"—here a word is undecipherable, but I will ask the witness—"than have you bitter, unjust, hating. You break my heart. I must see you soon. You are the divine thing I want, the thing of grace and genius, but I don't know how to do it. Shall I come to Salisbury. My bill here is £49 for a week. (Laughter.) I have also a new sitting-room over the Thames. Why is it you are not here my dear, my wonderful boy? I fear almost to live—no money, no credit, and a heart of lead. Ever your own, Oscar."
"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 you, so Greek and gracious, distorted by passion. I cannot listen to your young curved lips saying hideous things to me. I would sooner,"—here a word is undecipherable, but I will ask the witness—"than have you bitter, unjust, hating. You break my heart. I must see you soon. You are the divine thing I want, the thing of grace and genius, but I don't know how to do it. Shall I come to Salisbury? My bill here is L49 for a week. (Laughter). I have also a new sitting room over the Thames. Why is it you are not here, my dear, my wonderful boy? I fear almost to live—no money, no credit, and a heart of lead. Ever your own, Oscar."
"I have also got a new room over the Thames. But why are you not here, my dear boy. Ever your own Oscar." He came and stayed with you at the Savoy?—Yes, in the month of February.
"I have also got a new room over the Thames. But why are you not here, my dear boy? Ever your own OSCAR." He came and stayed with you at the Savoy?--Yes, in the month of February.
You were alone, you two?—Oh, yes.
The approach to your room was through his?—Yes.
Were you then aware of his father objecting to your acquaintance?—No.
Were you then aware of his father objecting to your acquaintance? - No.
TAYLOR’S TEA PARTIES.
The words on the Queensberry card containing the alleged libel were then ascertained from Wilde, after which the examination turned in the direction of the meetings and tea parties at Taylor’s rooms.
The boys Wood, Mavor, and Parker, what was their occupation?—One doesn’t ask people such questions at a tea party.
You have heard Taylor’s rooms described; Were they always in darkness?—I was only there once in the daytime, and then saw nothing remarkable.
Did you know Taylor had friends staying there, who invariably slept in bed with him?—I didn’t know that.
You know now?—I have heard it here.
Does that alter you opinion of Taylor?—No.
Do you approve of his conduct?—I don’t think I am called upon to express approval or disapproval of any persons conduct.
I must press you—I don’t believe, replied Wilde, that anything improper took place between Taylor and these boys. If Taylor was poor and shared his bed with his friends, that may have been charity.
What pleasure could you find in the society of boys teach beneath you in social position?—I make no social distinctions.
What did you do with them?—I read to them. I read one of my plays to them.
From your literary position you would be able to exercise considerable influence over them?—Certainly, but not literary influence, I don’t think that would be possible.
I don’t mean literary influence?—I like to be liked, I liked their society simply because I like to be lionised.
What—by these boys?—Yes; I like praise.
HE IS FOND OF PRAISE.
You, a successful literary man, wished to obtain the praise of those boys?—Praise from anybody—praise from other literary people is usually tainted with criticism. I am enormously fond of praise, enormously fond of admiration, and, I admit, to be praised by my inferiors; I admit it pleased me very much.
Your social inferiors?—I have no sense at all of social differences.
Alluding to the brothers Parker Wilde admitted he preferred Charles to William because he was bright.
You preferred Charles?—I make no preferences.
You like bright boys?—I like bright boys. Charles Parker was bright. I liked him.
Do you think it would be of any service to youths in their position to be entertained to dinner in the manner they were by a man of your station?—Schoolboys enjoy a treat.
You looked upon them as schoolboys?—No, but if you ask people to come and dine with you, you must give them something they don’t have every day. I don’t think it would have interested them if I had asked them to dine on a pint of ale and a chop.
PLENTY OF WINE.
You didn’t stint them with wine?—Oh, no.
You would let them drink as much as they liked?—I should not limit their consumption, but I should consider it extremely vulgar for any one to take too much wine at table.
You would let them drink as much as they liked? - I should not limit their consumption, but I should consider it extremely vulgar for anyone to take too much wine at table.
Let me ask you whether it didn’t occur to you that having obtained their admiration that it was then within your power to exercise an influence for good or for ill with these lads?—The only influence I could exercise with anybody would be a literary influence. Of course, in their case it was impossible. Literary influence I know I have had a great deal, but not influence of any other kind.
Was Taylor charming?—Charming is not the word I would apply. I found him bright and pleasant.
Was Taylor charming? - Charming is not the word I would apply. I found him bright and pleasant.
Intellectual?—Not intellectual. Clever, decidedly.
Artistic?—Yes.
Very good taste, with his accents and—?—I think it good taste to use perfumes. I thought his rooms were done up with considerable taste. I think he had a very pleasant taste. His rooms were cheerful.
Very good taste with his scents and---f--I think it good taste to use perfumes. I thought his rooms were done up with considerable taste. I think he had a very pleasant taste. His rooms were cheerful. Not a very cheerful street, Little College-street?--Few streets are cheerful.
Not a very cheerful street, Little College-street?—Few streets are cheerful.
Is it true that when you met Parker in Trafalgar-square you used the words, "You are looking as pretty as ever?"—No, I don’t think I used the words.
It is true that when you met Parker in Trafalgar-square you used the word, "You look as pretty as ever?" - No; I don't think I used the words.
Would you consider such words right to use to a youth?—Oh, no. It would be frivolous.
Would you consider such words right to use to a youth? - Oh, no. It would be frivolous.
You don’t object to being frivolous?—Oh, I—
Sir Edward Clarke objected to the Solicitor-General being frivolous. He leaped to his feet and protested against the cross-examination going away to subjects which had nothing to do with the charges. Mr. Justice Wills also objected to anybody being frivolous, and intimated as much to the Solicitor-General, whereupon SIr Edward Clarke sat down again.
WOOD AND THE £15.
The acquaintance with the boy Alphonse at Worthing, and Wilde taking him to Brighton, buying him new clothes, and presenting him with a cigarette case, was the subject of a brief part of the cross-examination. Wilde’s replies were that he met the boy, talked to him, found him interesting, and felt he would like to keep the boy. What he did was more kindness.
For a while the cross-examination fell to dulness. It assumed more seriousness and importance when the transaction of Alfred Wood being handed money to go to America came up. Wilde said he received an anonymous letter at the supper table one evening, and another the following day, signed by a person who called himself a private detective, and saying Wood had letters belonging to Lord Alfred Douglas, written by him, and meant to extort money for them. So he communicated with Sir George Lewis. Wood afterwards met him at Taylor’s He gave Wood £15 to enable him to go to London, but certainly did not give him the money for the letters.
Do you mean, on your oath, to say the payment had nothing to do with the delivery of the letters?—None whatever.
Do you mean to state that your payment of that money had no relation to the delivery of those letters? -None whatever.
Do you mean to state that your payment of that money had no relation to the delivery of those letters? None whatsoever.
Do you mean to state that your payment of that money had no relation to the delivery of those letters? None whatsoever.
You got the letters?—Yes. They were of no importance whatever. I tore them up.
Coming to the Savoy Hotel incident, the Solicitor-General asked: When you stayed at the Savoy, had you young men there to see you?—The great majority of my friends were young. I was ill while at the Savoy.
You were attended by the masseur?—Yes.
You have heard what he says about a person being seen in your bed. Is that statement untrue?—Absolutely and entirely untrue.
There was no one there, man or woman?—No one.
You answer also that the chambermaid’s statement is untrue?—Absolutely.
You answer also that the chambermaid's statement is untrue? - Absolutely.
Sir Edward Clarke summed up for the defence.