Meanwhile it cost money to live in Paris, especially to dine at fashionable cafés, and Wilde decided to return to London; but making ends meet is no easier there than elsewhere. He wrote a little, lectured when he could, and having spent the small inheritance he had received from his father, it seemed that “Exit Oscar” might fairly be written against him.
But to the gratification of some, and the surprise of all, just about this time came the announcement of his marriage to a beautiful and charming lady of some fortune, Constance Lloyd, the daughter of a deceased barrister. Whistler sent a characteristic wire to the church: “May not be able to reach you in time for ceremony; don’t wait.” Indeed, it may here be admitted that in an encounter between these wits it was Jimmie Whistler who usually scored.
Of Whistler as an artist I know nothing. My friends the Pennells, at the close of their excellent biography, say, “His name and fame will live forever.” This is a large order, but of Whistler, with his rapier-like wit, it behooved all to beware. In a weak moment Wilde once voiced his appreciation of a good thing of Whistler’s with, “I wish I had said that.” Quick as a flash, Jimmie’s sword was through him, and forever: “Never mind, Oscar, you will.” It may be that the Pennells are right.
But to return. With Mrs. Wilde’s funds, her husband’s taste, and Whistler’s suggestions, a house was furnished and decorated in Tite Street, Chelsea, and for a time all went well. But it soon became evident that some fixed income, certain, however small, was essential; fugitive verse and unsigned articles in magazines afford small resource for an increasing family. Two sons were born, and, driven by the spur of necessity, Wilde became the Editor of “The Woman’s World,” and for a time worked as faithfully and diligently as his temperament permitted; but it was the old story of Pegasus harnessed to the plough.
Except for editorial work, the next few years were unproductive. “Dorian Gray,” Wilde’s one novel, appeared in the summer of 1890. It is exceedingly difficult to place: his claim that it was the work of a few days, written to demonstrate to some friends his ability to write a novel, may be dismissed as untrue—there is internal evidence to the contrary. It was probably written slowly, as most of his work was. In its first form it appeared in “Lippincott’s Magazine” for July, 1890; but it was subjected to careful revision for publication in book form. Wilde always claimed that he had no desire to be a popular novelist—“It is far too easy,” he said.
“Dorian Gray” is an interesting and powerful, but artificial, production, leaving a bitter taste, as of aloes in the mouth: one feels as if one had been handling a poison. The law compels certain care in the use of explosives, and poisons, it is agreed, are best kept in packages of definite shape and color, that they may by their external appearance challenge the attention of the thoughtless. Only Roosevelt can tell without looking what book should and what should not bear the governmental stamp, “Guaranteed to be pure and wholesome under the food and drugs act.” Few, I think, would put this label on “Dorian Gray.” Wilde’s own criticism was that the book was inartistic because it has a moral. It has, but it is likely to be overlooked in its general nastiness. In “Dorian Gray” he betrays for the first and perhaps the only time the decadence which was subsequently to be the cause of his undoing.
I have great admiration for what is called, and frequently ridiculed as, the artistic temperament, but I am a believer also in the sanity of true genius, especially when it is united, as it was in the case of Charles Lamb, with a fine, manly, honest bearing toward the world and the things in it; but alone it may lead us to yearn with Wilde
To drift with every passion till my soul
Is a stringed lute on which all winds can play.
It has been suggested on good authority that it is very unpleasant to wear one’s heart upon one’s sleeve. To expose one’s soul to the elements, however interesting in theory, must be very painful in practice: Wilde was destined to find it so.
Why the story escaped success at the hands of the adapter for the stage, I never could understand. The clever talk of the characters in the novel should be much more acceptable in the quick give-and-take of a society play than it is in a narrative of several hundred pages; moreover, it abounds in situations which are intensely dramatic, leading up to an overwhelming climax; probably it was badly done.