Then in a faint undertone, as if the thing were too unholy to speak of above one’s breath, he said:
“There’s a picture framer—a mere tradesman—in my story, isn’t there?”
“Yes,” I said.
“What have I called him?”
“Ashton, I think. Yes, Ashton,” I answered.
He simulated a shudder and seemed to wince at the words.
“Don’t repeat it! Don’t repeat it! It is more than my shattered nerves can stand. Ashton is a gentleman’s name,” he spoke brokenly, and wrung his hands as if in anguish. “And I’ve given it—God forgive me—to a tradesman! It must be changed to Hubbard. Hubbard positively smells of the tradesman!”
And having successfully worked off this wheeze on me, Oscar became himself again, and sat up with a happy smile to enjoy his own and my congratulations on the exquisiteness of his art.
Wilde’s contempt for tradesmen, as instanced in this anecdote, I did not share. Once, when he had spoken thus contemptuously because a shopkeeper was suing a certain impecunious but extravagant artist acquaintance of his and mine for a debt incurred, I told Wilde that even if I despised “tradesmen” as he and the artist did, I should despise myself much more were I to defraud a despised tradesman by ordering goods for which I had neither the means nor the intention to pay. He was not in the least offended, perhaps because the remark suggested an aphorism—the exact wording I forget, but it was to the effect that only mediocrity concerned itself with tradesmen’s bills, that a writer of genius, whether a playwright or a novelist, ran into debt as surely as his play or his book ran into royalties. I remember the occasion well, though I do not remember the phrasing of his aphorism, for on that particular morning he had, for the first time within my experience, shown less than his usual nice consideration for others which—whether due merely to love of approbation or to finer feelings—made him so agreeable and delightful a companion.
When he came in I offered him my cigarette case. They were of a brand he had often himself smoked in the past—in fact it was he who had first recommended them to me—quite good tobacco and well made, but moderate in price, and with no pretence to be of the very best. He took one, lit it, drew a few puffs, and then tossing it practically unsmoked on the fire, drew out his own bejewelled case and lit up one of his own. That was very unlike Wilde as I had known him in his less prosperous days. Then he would have said, “I have accustomed myself to smoke another brand lately and am something of a creature of habit. Do you mind if I smoke one of my own?”