Oscar Wilde
I was at Biskra in December, 1900, when I learned through the newspapers of the lamentable end of Oscar Wilde. Distance, alas! prevented me from joining in the meagre procession which followed his body to the cemetery at Bagneux. It was of no use reproaching myself that my absence would seem to diminish still further the small number of friends who remained faithful to him—at least I wanted to write these few pages at once, but for a considerable period Wilde's name seemed to become once more the property of the newspapers.
Now that every idle rumour connected with his name, so sadly famous, is hushed; now that the mob is at last wearied after having praised, wondered at, and then reviled him, perhaps, a friend may be allowed to lay, like a wreath on a forsaken grave, these lines of affection, admiration, and respectful pity.
When the trial, with all its scandal, which so excited the public mind in England threatened to wreck his life, certain writers and artists attempted to carry out, in the name of literature and art, a kind of rescue. It was hoped that by praising the writer the man would be excused. Unfortunately, there was a misunderstanding here, for it must be acknowledged that Wilde was not a great writer. The leaden buoy which was thrown to him helped only to weigh him down; his works, far from keeping him up, seemed to sink with him. In vain were some hands stretched out: the torrent of the world overwhelmed him—all was over.
OSCAR WILDE AT OXFORD, 1878.
It was not possible at that time to think of defending him in any other way. Instead of trying to shelter the man behind his work, it was necessary to show forth first the man as an object of admiration—as I am going to try to do now—and then the work itself illuminated by his personality. 'I have put all my genius into my life; I have put only my talent into my works,' said Wilde once. Great writer, no, but great viveur, yes, if one may use the word in the fullest sense of the French term. Like certain Greek philosophers of old, Wilde did not write his wisdom, but spoke and lived it, entrusting it rashly to the fleeting memory of man, thereby writing it as it were on water.
Let those who knew him for a longer time than I did, tell the story of his life. One of those who listened to him the most eagerly relates here simply a few personal recollections.