Those who became acquainted with Wilde only in the latter years of his life form a wrong conception of the wonderful creature he formerly was, if they judge from the enfeebled and crushed being given back to us from prison, as Ernest Lajeunesse paints him, for instance, in the best or rather the only passable article on the great reprobate which any one has had the talent or the courage to write[1].
It was in 1891 that I met him for the first time. Wilde had then what Thackeray calls 'one of the greatest of a great man's qualities'—success[2]. His manner and his appearance were triumphant. His success was so assured that it seemed to go in front of him, and he had only to advance. His books were causing wonder and delight. All London was soon to rush to see his plays[3]. He was rich, he was great, he was handsome, he was loaded with happiness and honours.
Some compared him to an Asiatic Bacchus, others to some Roman Emperor, and others again to Apollo himself,—in short, he was resplendent. In Paris his name passed from mouth to mouth as soon as he arrived. Several absurd sayings went round concerning him, as that after all he was only the man who smoked gold-tipped cigarettes, and walked about the streets with a sunflower in his hand. For, skilful in misleading those who are the heralds of earthly fame, Wilde knew how to hide his real personality behind an amusing phantom, with which he humorously deluded the public.
I had heard him talked about at Stéphane Mallarmé's house, where he was described as a brilliant conversationalist, and I expressed a wish to know him, little hoping that I should ever do so. A happy chance, or rather a friend, gave me the opportunity, and to him I made known my desire. Wilde was invited to dinner. It was at a restaurant. We were a party of four, but three of us were content to listen. Wilde did not converse—he told tales. During the whole meal he hardly stopped. He spoke in a slow, musical tone, and his very voice was wonderful. He knew French almost perfectly, but pretended, now and then, to hesitate a little for a word to which he wanted to call our attention. He had scarcely any accent, at least only what it pleased him to affect when it might give a somewhat new or strange appearance to a word—for instance, he used purposely to pronounce scepticisme as skepticisme. The stories he told us without a break that evening were not of his best. Uncertain of his audience he was testing us, for, in his wisdom, or perhaps in his folly, he never betrayed himself into saying anything which he thought would not be to the taste of his hearers; so he doled out food to each according to his appetite. Those who expected nothing from him got nothing, or only a little light froth, and as at first he used to give himself up to the task of amusing, many of those who thought they knew him will have known him only as the amuser.
When dinner was over we went out. My two friends walking together, Wilde took me aside and said quite suddenly, 'You hear with your eyes; that is why I am going to tell you this story.'
He began:—
'When Narcissus died, the Flowers of the Fields were plunged in grief, and asked the River for drops of water that they might mourn for him.
'"Oh," replied the River, "if all my drops of water were tears, I should not have enough to weep for Narcissus myself—I loved him."
'"How could you help loving Narcissus?" rejoined the Flowers, "so beautiful was he."
'"Was he beautiful?" asked the River.
'"And who should know that better than yourself?" said the Flowers, "for, every day, lying on your bank, he would mirror his own beauty in your waters."'
Wilde stopped for a moment, and then went on:—