The Subject-Matter of "De Profundis"
I have said that for those who have not read the book, a short synopsis of its contents is necessary here. But I am immediately confronted with a difficulty because, probably, no book is more difficult to sum up, to make a précis from, than this. However, I do all that is possible, and only ask my readers to remember that this bald catalogue will be elucidated further on in the article. In the preface to the book a letter of Oscar Wilde to the editor is quoted in which he says:
"I don't defend my conduct. I explain it. Also there is in my letter certain passages which deal with my mental development in prison, and the inevitable evolution of my character and intellectual attitude towards life that has taken place; and I want you and others who still stand by me and have affection for me to know exactly in what mood and manner I hope to face the world. Of course, from one point of view, I know that on the day of my release I shall be merely passing from one prison into another.... Prison life makes one see people and things as they really are. That is why it turns one to stone.... I have 'cleansed my bosom of much perilous stuff.' I need not remind you that mere expression is to an artist the supreme and only mode of life.... For nearly two years I have had within a growing burden of bitterness, of much of which I have now got rid."
This, in some sort of way, will give the reader an idea of what the book consists or, at anyrate, of its other view about it.
He begins the work by a statement of the terrible suffering he is undergoing in prison. The iron discipline, the paralysing immobility of a life which is as monotonous and regular as the movement of a great machine, are set forth subjectively by a presentment of the effects they are having upon the prisoner's brain. "It is always twilight in one's cell, as it is always twilight in one's heart."
... He is transferred to a new prison. Three months elapse, and he is told of his mother's death. He speaks of his deep love and veneration for her and says that he who was once a "lord of language" has now no words left in which to tell of the appalling shame which has seized upon his heart and mind. He realises the infamy with which he has covered that honoured name.
An anecdote comes into these sorrowful pages. It is an anecdote of his sad and guarded appearance among the world of men when he was brought to appear before the Court of Bankruptcy. As he walked manacled in the corridor towards the Court Room, a friend of his, who was waiting, lifted his hat and bowed. Waited, "that, before the whole crowd, whom such an action so sweet and simple hushed into silence, he might raise his hat to me, as, handcuffed and with bowed head, I passed him by."
A page or two is occupied with the poor convict's gratitude for this simple, sweet and dignified action. A marvellous eulogy is pronounced upon it.
What prison means to a man in the upper ranks of life is set forth in words of anguish, and then, following these paragraphs, is a frank admission that Wilde had ruined himself. "I am quite ready to say so. I am trying to say so, though they may not think it at the present moment. This pitiless indictment I bring without pity against myself."
He describes the great and brilliant position he had held in the world. He tells of all the splendid things with which fortune had endowed him. He admits that he allowed pleasure to dominate him and that his end came with irremediable disgrace.
He has lain in prison for nearly two years, and now he begins to describe his mental development during the long torture. Humility, he says, is what he has found, like a treasure in a field. From this newly discovered treasure he builds up a method of conduct which he will pursue when he is released from durance. He knows, indeed, that kind friends will await him on the other side of the prison door. He will not have to beg his bread, but, nevertheless, humility shall bloom like a flower in his heart.
He begins to speak of religion, and avows his atheism. "The faith that others give to what is unseen, I give to what one can touch, and look at." There is no help for him in religion.
He goes on to speak of reason. There is no help for him in reason. Reason tells him that the laws under which he was convicted were wrong and unjust laws, the system under which he suffered a wrong and unjust system.
Yet, in pursuance of his determination of Humility, he resolves to make all that has happened to him into a spiritualising medium. He is going to weave his pain and agony into the warp and woof of his life with the same readiness with which he wove the time of pleasure and success into the completion of his temperament.
Then there comes a long discussion of his own position at the moment, a common prisoner in a common gaol, and of what his position will be afterwards. He tells of occasions on which he was allowed to see his friends in prison, and afterwards describes a moment of his deepest degradation, when he was jeered at in convict dress as he stood, one of a chained gang, on Clapham Junction platform. The story is utterly terrible. On the occasion of his removal from London to Reading, he says, "I had to stand on the centre platform of Clapham Junction in convict dress and handcuffed, for all the world to look at.... When people saw me they laughed. Each train as it came up swelled the audience. Nothing could exceed their amusement. That was, of course, before they knew who I was. As soon as they had been informed they laughed still more. For half-an-hour I stood there, in the grey November rain, surrounded by a jeering mob."
We find now, in our short survey of the book, the widely discussed passages about the personality and message of Christ. These form the greater part of this strange and moving masterpiece. They will be treated of hereafter.
Finally, come anticipations of release and plans for the future, and "De Profundis" concludes with an especially poignant and almost painfully beautiful passage which anticipates the kindliness of Nature to heal a bruised soul to which man has given no solace:
"But Nature, whose sweet rains fall on unjust and just alike, will have clefts in the rocks where I may hide, and secret valleys in whose silence I may weep undisturbed. She will hang the night with stars so that I may walk abroad in the darkness without stumbling, and send the wind over my footprints so that none may track me to my hurt; she will cleanse me in great waters, and with bitter herbs make me whole."