“Oh, the Savage Club,” said Wilde. “I never enter the Savage Club. It tires me so. It used to be gentlemanly Bohemian, but ever since the Prince of Wales became a member and sometimes dines there, it is nothing but savagely snobbish. Besides, the members are all supposed to be professionally connected with Literature, Science, and Art, and I abhor professionalism of every sort.”
My Dickens friend, who shares every Savage’s love for the old club (he told me afterwards, whether correctly or not I do not know, that Wilde’s aversion was due to the fact that his brother Willie Wilde had unsuccessfully put up for membership), was annoyed by what Wilde had said both about the club and about Charles Dickens.
“I can understand your dislike of professionalism—in advertisement, Mr. Wilde,” he said bluntly. “And, since you have condescended to stoop to quote Dickens, I may add that, in the matter of advertisement, Barkis as represented by Wilde is not only willing but more than Mr. Willing the advertising agent himself. Good morning.”
One other story of Wilde and Le Gallienne occurs to me. Wilde held Le Gallienne, as I do, in warm liking as a friend and in genuine admiration as a poet; but, meeting him one day at a theatre, bowed gravely and coldly and made as if to pass on. Le Gallienne stopped to say something, and, noticing the aloofness of Wilde’s manner, inquired:
“What is the matter, Oscar? Have I offended you in anything?”
“Not offended so much as very greatly pained me, Richard,” was the stern reply.
“I pained you! In what way?”
“You have brought out a new book since I saw you last.”
“Yes, what of it?”
“You have treated me very badly in your book, Richard.”