I met him again on two occasions only. One evening on the Boulevards, where I was walking with G——, I heard my name called. I turned round and saw Wilde. Ah! how changed he was. 'If I appear again before writing my play, the world will refuse to see in me anything except the felon,' he had once said to me. He had appeared again, without his play, and as he found certain doors closed in his face, he no longer sought admission anywhere. He prowled.
Friends, at different times, tried to save him[2]. They did all they could think of, and were for taking him to Italy, but he eluded their efforts, and began to drift back. Among those who had remained faithful for the longest time, some had often told me that Wilde was no longer to be seen, and I was somewhat uneasy, I admit, at seeing him again, and what is more, in a place where so many people might pass. Wilde was sitting at a table outside a café. He ordered two cock-tails for G—— and myself. I was going to sit opposite to him in such a way as to turn my back to the passers-by, but Wilde, noticed this movement, which he took as an impulse of absurd shame, (he was not entirely mistaken, I must admit), and said, 'Oh, sit here, near me,' pointing to a chair at his side, 'I am so much alone just now.'
Wilde was still well-dressed, but his hat was not so glossy; his collar was of the same shape, but it was not so clean, and the sleeves of his coat were slightly frayed at the edges.
'When I used to meet Verlaine in days gone by,' he continued with an outburst of pride, 'I was never ashamed of being seen with him. I was rich, light-hearted, and covered with glory, but I felt that to be seen with him was an honour, even when Verlaine was drunk.' Then fearing to bore G——, I think, he suddenly changed his mood, tried to be witty and to make jokes. In the effort he became gloomy. My recollections here are dreadfully sad. At last my friend and I got up. Wilde insisted on paying for the drinks, and I was about to say good-bye, when he took me aside, and, with an air of great embarrassment, said in a low voice, 'I say, I must tell you, I am absolutely without a penny[3].
Some days afterwards I saw him again, and for the last time. I do not want to repeat more than one word of our conversation. He told me of his troubles, of the impossibility of carrying out, or even of beginning, a piece of work[4]. Sadly I reminded him of the promise he had made not to show himself in Paris without having finished one book. 'Ah!' I began, 'why did you leave Berneval so soon, when you ought to have stayed there so long? I cannot say that I am angry with you, but—'
He interrupted me, laid his hand on mine, looked at me with his most sorrowful look, and said, 'You must not be angry with one who has been crushed[5].'
Oscar Wilde died in a shabby little hotel in the Rue des Beaux Arts. Seven persons followed the hearse, and even they did not all accompany the funeral procession to the end. On the coffin were some flowers and some artificial wreaths, only one of which, I am told, bore any inscription. It was from the proprietor of the hotel, and on it were these words: 'A Mon Locataire.'
[1] The representatives of his family were willing to guarantee Wilde a very good position if he would consent to certain stipulations, one of which was that he should never see —— again. He was either unable or unwilling to accept the conditions.
[2] In October, 1897, he stayed with friends at the Villa Gindice, Posillipo, and was in Naples till the end of the year, or the beginning of 1898, when he went to Paris. In the following year he went to the South of France (Nice) for the spring, but was back in June or July. He went also to Switzerland in 1899 and stayed some time at Gland.