Here is material for a drama, far greater than any that Wilde wrote; and Frank Harris gives us the whole story. In the early part of it he sees Oscar clearly as the pitiful victim of his own will-less nature; but when the tragedy of this nature reaches its climax, Harris lets himself be tempted into offering Wilde to us in a new rôle, that of a persecuted hero and martyred genius. Much as Harris may abhor Oscar’s sin, he abhors the leading British virtues still more; so he is in the position of Milton dealing with Satan—he cannot keep from sympathizing with his character, in spite of logic. To be sure, he gives us the facts, so that we can judge for ourselves, if we have the brains; and we must try to be worthy of that trust!
It seems evident enough that Oscar was sent to prison, not because of his genius, nor yet because of his vices, but simply because he attacked in a conspicuous and aggravating way a member of the hallowed ruling caste of Britain. You may call that turning the tragedy into a Socialist tract; but a man cannot interpret any case of social persecution unless he sees its economic implications—unless, in other words, he understands the class struggle. If Frank Harris had been a conscious social revolutionist, his book would have been more powerful and convincing, because he would have been less tempted to blame individuals for evils which are social in their origin. He would have given us an economic interpretation of Oscar, the spoiled darling of a putrescent leisure class, thrown overboard, like Jonah, as a sacrifice in a middle-class hurricane of virtue.
Oscar Wilde was convicted and sent to prison; and of course Frank Harris does not like prisons—he, too, has been sent there by the British ruling caste. It is only natural that he should overlook in his book the significance of the fact which he himself records, that this imprisonment was the best thing that ever happened to Oscar. Harris interceded for him, and was able to get him good food and the right to have his books; he tells us that he noticed during his visits a “spiritual deepening” in Oscar, due to the rigid disciplining of his selfish nature. He was never so well or so much in possession of his mental faculties as when he came out; but immediately he went back to his vomit, and ate and drank and loafed himself to death, according to the customs prevailing in that putrescent leisure class.
It seems to me that the true conclusion to be drawn from Frank Harris’ book is that decadent poets should be sent to prison and kept there permanently. Anything to save them from smart society! While Oscar was at large, the pet of the cultured rich, he idled and wrote futile plays; but when he was locked up, he took life seriously, and wrote great literature: “De Profundis,” a study of his spiritual reactions to his disgrace; and “The Ballad of Reading Gaol,” a supremely eloquent and noble poem, the poet’s excuse for having lived.
Reading these two works we say, by all means let us have prisons for will-less men; places where such unhappy beings may have as much self-government as they can use, together with plain wholesome food, moderate work outdoors, and enforced abstinence from alcohol and tobacco and drugs. Having set up such prisons, let us keep in them, not merely all thieves and highwaymen and esthetes, but men of fashion, princes, lords and dukes, bishops, stock-brokers and fat persons.
Says Mrs. Ogi: “You said you were going to label all your jokes.”
Her husband, after meditating, remarks: “What Oscar needed was the right sort of a wife.”
She answers: “Almost any wife would have told him that a guilty man cannot bring a slander suit.”
CHAPTER XCVI
THE WHITE CHRYSANTHEMUM
“What troubles me,” says Mrs. Ogi, “is that you call this a book of all the arts, and continue to deal with literature.”