The Posing Playwright

by David Field

  ‘Among the friends who went to his house in Tite Street was Lord Alfred Douglas, a younger son of Lord Queensberry. In 1891 Lord Alfred Douglas went to Tite Street, being introduced by a friend of Mr. Wilde’s. From that time Mr. Wilde has been a friend of Lord Alfred Douglas and also of his mother, Lady Queensberry, from whom, on her petition, the Marquess has been divorced. He has again and again been a guest at Lady Queensberry’s houses at Wokingham and Salisbury, being invited to family parties there. Lord Alfred Douglas has been a welcome guest at Mr. Wilde’s house, and at Cromer, Goring, Torquay, and Worthing, when Mr. and Mrs. Wilde were staying there. Until 1893 Mr. Wilde did not know the defendant with the exception that he met him once about 1881.

  ‘Between that time and 1894, Mr. Wilde became aware that certain statements were being made against his character. There was a man named Alfred Wood whom Mr. Wilde had seen once or twice, but knew very little indeed about. Wood had been given some clothes by Lord Alfred Douglas and he stated that in the pocket of a coat so given to him he had found four letters which had been written by Mr. Wilde to Lord Alfred. Whether he did find them in the pocket, or whether he stole them, is a matter on which we can only speculate. But, at all events, Wood went to Mr. Wilde early in 1893 and wanted Mr. Wilde to give him something for the letters, representing that he was in great distress and trouble and wanted to get off to America. Mr. Wilde gave him fifteen or twenty pounds wherewith to pay his passage. Wood then handed over three very ordinary letters which Mr. Wilde had written to Lord Alfred Douglas.

  ‘But, as generally happens when people think they have got hold of letters of some importance, the letters of no importance were given up, and that which was supposed to be of some importance was retained. That was the case in this instance. The people taking part in these transactions were men named Wood, Allen and Cliburn, and something has been found out about this set of people.

  ‘In 1893, Mr. Wilde wrote a play, which afterwards proved a great success at the Haymarket Theatre, “A Woman of No Importance”, and while this play was being prepared for production, there came into the hands of Mr. Beerbohm Tree, the manager of that theatre, a piece of paper which purported to be, and to some extent was, a copy of a letter which had been retained by the persons I have named when the other letters were handed over. On this paper was written: “Kindly give this to Mr. Oscar Wilde and oblige yours” and then there followed some initials. Shortly afterwards Allen called on Mr. Wilde, and said he had the original letter. He asked Mr. Wilde to give him something for it. Mr. Wilde absolutely and peremptorily refused, saying: “I have a copy of that letter and the original is no use to me. I look upon it as a work of art. I should have desired to possess it; but, now that you have been good enough to send me a copy, I do not want the original.” He then sent Allen away, giving him ten shillings for himself. Almost immediately afterwards Cliburn came to Mr. Wilde and said that Allen had appreciated Mr. Wilde’s kindness so much that he sent back the letter. The man then handed over the letter, and Mr. Wilde gave him half-a-sovereign for his trouble. Having once got the original letter into his possession, Mr. Wilde kept it. Now, I will read the letter itself:

  ‘My Own Boy, Your sonnet is quite lovely, and it is a marvel that those red rose-leaf lips of yours should have been made no less for music of song than for madness of kisses. Your slim gilt soul walks between passion and poetry. I know Hyacinthus, whom Apollo loved so madly, was you in Greek days. Why are you alone in London, and when do you go to Salisbury? Do go there to cool your hands in the grey twilight of Gothic things, and come here whenever you like. It is a lovely place — it only lacks you; but go to Salisbury first. Always, with undying love, Yours, OSCAR.

  ‘The words of that letter, gentlemen, may appear extravagant to those in the habit of writing commercial correspondence, or those ordinary letters which the necessities of life force upon one every day; but Mr. Wilde is a poet, and the letter is considered by him as a prose sonnet, and one of which he is in no way ashamed and is prepared to produce anywhere as the expression of true poetic feeling, and with no relation whatever to the hateful and repulsive suggestions put to it in the plea in this case.

  ‘In the early part of 1894 Lord Queensberry met Mr. Wilde and Lord Alfred Douglas again at the Cafe Royal. Shortly after that Mr. Wilde became aware that the defendant was writing letters that affected his character and contained suggestions injurious to him. Though he might reasonably — and would probably if his own interests alone were concerned — have brought this to some public notice, he abstained from doing so for reasons which I am not entitled to state, but which I am sure will be obvious before this case has gone very far. And so the latter part of 1894 passed. At an interview in that year, Mr. Wilde gave instructions, in Lord Queensberry’s hearing, that the defendant should not be admitted into his house.

  ‘On 28th February Mr. Wilde went to the Albemarle Club, and there received from the porter the card left by Lord Queensberry. On 1st March a warrant was applied for, and on the following day Lord Queensberry was arrested. Hence these criminal proceedings.

  ‘It is said that in the month of July, 1890, Mr. Wilde published, or caused to be published, with his name on the title page, a certain immoral and indecent work with the title of “The Picture of Dorian Gray”, which book was intended to be understood by the readers to describe the relations, intimacies, and passions of certain persons guilty of unnatural practices. This is a very gross allegation, and I defy my learned friend to suggest from it anything hostile to the character of Mr. Wilde.

  ‘The volume called “The Picture of Dorian Gray” is one which can be bought at any bookstall in London. It has Mr. Wilde’s name on the title page and has been published five years. The story of the book is that of a young man of good birth, great wealth and great personal beauty, whose friend paints a picture of him. Dorian Gray expresses the wish that he could remain as in the picture, while the picture aged with the years. His wish is granted, and he soon knows that upon the picture, and not upon his own face, the scars of trouble and bad conduct are falling. In the end he stabs the picture and falls dead, and the picture is restored to its pristine beauty, while his friends find on the floor the body of a hideous old man. I shall be surprised if my learned friend can pitch upon any passage in that book which does more than describe as novelists and dramatists may, nay must, describe the passions and fashions of life.

  ‘Witnesses will be called who will prove the publication of the libel, and my learned friend has the task of satisfying you that the excuses made are true. Thank you, gentlemen.’

  At this point, after a brief consultation with counsel, his Lordship announced a brief adjournment and there was a general rush for the exits by newspaper columnists who wished to begin sending ‘copy’ by wire at the nearest telegraph office, and by those who were in search of a cup of tea or a lavatory. Jack remained where he was, relieved to have room in which to spread himself, if only for a brief while, and he occupied the five minutes or so copying, in a fair hand, the names he had jotted down during Clarke’s opening address. Alfred Wood Jack already knew about, but he had not previously heard the names “Allen” and “Cliburn”, and he was hoping upon hope that Carson could supply addresses for them, since he dreaded having to revisit the Taylor house in Chelsea.

  Jack was still contemplating that awful possibility when the judge’s return was announced and Clarke called his first witness, Sidney Wright, the hall porter at the Albemarle Club. His evidence was largely formal and was not challenged in cross-examination, its sole purpose seemingly that of proving that the allegation that Wilde was ‘posing’ as a ‘sodomite’ had been ‘published’ in written form, and therefore constituted a libel. Since the allegation was that Wilde was posturing as someone who would consent to homosexual activity, it amounted to an accusation of criminal behaviour on Wilde’s part, and this made the charge against Queensberry one of ‘criminal libel’.

  There was an audible shuffle of expectation when Clarke announced
that his next witness would be his client, Oscar Wilde. From one of the seats to the side of the court walked a tall, foppishly dressed, effeminate looking individual in a morning suit of deep purple and with a cravat dripping down the front of it that was a garish yellow in hue. He took the witness stand and swept the courtroom with an arrogant but watery gaze that strongly suggested that his precious time might be better employed elsewhere.

  Clarke smiled reassuringly at him and invited him to introduce himself to the court.

  ‘My full name is Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde and I am the prosecutor in this case,’ Wilde announced in a languid voice. ‘I am thirty-nine years of age. My father was Sir William Wilde, surgeon, of Dublin, and chairman of the Census Commission. He died when I was at Oxford in 1876. I was a student at Trinity College, where I took a classical scholarship and the gold medal for Greek. I then went to Magdalen College, Oxford, where I took a classical scholarship. I took my degree in 1878 and came down at once. From that time I have devoted myself to art and literature. In 1881 I published a volume of poems, and afterwards lectured in England and America. In 1884 I married Miss Lloyd, and from that date till now have lived with her in Tite Street, Chelsea. I have two sons, the elder of whom will be ten in June and the second nine in November.’

  ‘In 1891 did you make the acquaintance of Lord Alfred Douglas?’ Clarke enquired, and Wilde nodded.

  ‘Yes; he was brought to my house by a friend. Before then I had been acquainted with Lady Queensberry, but since then I have been a guest in her house many times. I also knew Lord Douglas of Hawick and the late Lord Drumlanrig. Lord Alfred has dined with me from time to time at my house and at the Albemarle Club, of which my wife is a member, and has stayed with us at Cromer, Goring, Worthing and Torquay. In November, 1892, I was lunching with him at the Cafe Royal, where we met Lord Queensberry, and on my suggestion Lord Alfred went up to him and shook hands. I was aware that there had been some estrangement between the two. Lord Queensberry joined us. Lord Alfred had to go away early and Lord Queensberry remained and chatted with me. Afterwards something was said about Torquay and it was arranged that Lord Queensberry should call upon me there, but he did not come. From 3rd November, 1892, till March, 1894, I did not see the defendant, but in 1893 I heard that some letters which I had addressed to Lord Alfred Douglas had come into the hands of certain persons.’

  ‘Did anyone say that he had found letters of yours?’

  ‘Yes. A man named Wood saw me at the rooms of Mr. Alfred Taylor and told me that he had found some letters in a suit of clothes which Lord Alfred Douglas had been good enough to give him.

  ‘Did he ask for anything?’

  ‘I don’t think he made a direct demand.’

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘When he entered the room he said: “I suppose you will think very badly of me.” I replied, “I hear that you have letters of mine to Lord Alfred Douglas which you certainly ought to have given back.” He handed me three or four letters and said they had been stolen from him “the day before yesterday” by a man named Allen and that he (Wood) had had to employ a detective to get them back. I read the letters and said that I did not think them of any importance. He said, “I am very much afraid of staying in London, as this man and other men are threatening me. I want money to go away to America.” I asked what better opening as a clerk he could have in America than in England and he replied that he was anxious to get out of London in order to escape from the man who had taken the letters from him. He made a very strong appeal to me. He said that he could find nothing to do in London. I paid him fifteen pounds. The letters remained in my hand all the time.’

  ‘Did some man shortly afterwards come with another letter?’

  ‘A man called and told me that the letter, a copy of which had been sent to Mr. Beerbohm Tree, was not in his possession. His name was Allen.’

  ‘What happened at that interview?’

  ‘I felt that this was the man who wanted money from me. I said, “I suppose you have come about my beautiful letter to Lord Alfred Douglas. If you had not been so foolish as to send a copy of it to Mr. Beerbohm Tree, I would gladly have paid you a very large sum of money for the letter, as I consider it to be a work of art.” He said, “A very curious construction can be put on that letter.” I said in reply, “Art is rarely intelligible to the criminal classes.” He said, “A man offered me £60 for it.” I said to him, “If you take my advice you will go to that man and sell my letter to him for £60. I myself have never received so large a sum for any prose work of that length; but I am glad to find that there is someone in England who considers a letter of mine worth £6o.” He was somewhat taken aback by my manner, perhaps, and said, “The man is out of town.” I replied, “He is sure to come back,” and I advised him to get the £60. He then changed his manner a little, saying that he had not a single penny, and that he had been on many occasions trying to find me. I said that I could not guarantee his cab expenses, but that I would gladly give him half-a-sovereign. He took the money and went away.’

  ‘Was anything said about a sonnet?’

  ‘Yes. I said, “The letter, which is a prose poem, will shortly be published in sonnet form in a delightful magazine and I will send you a copy of it”.’

  ‘Did Allen then go away?’

  ‘Yes, and in about five minutes Cliburn came to the house. I went out to him and said, “I cannot bother any more about this matter.” He produced the letter out of his pocket, saying, “Allen has asked me to give it back to you.” I did not take it immediately, but asked: “Why does Allen give me back this letter?” He said, “Well, he says that you were kind to him, and that there is no use trying to rent you as you only laugh at us.” I took the letter and said, “I will accept it back, and you can thank Allen from me for all the anxiety he has shown about it.” I looked at the letter and saw that it was extremely soiled. I said to him, “I think it is quite unpardonable that better care was not taken of this original manuscript of mine”.’

  At this point, Wilde was rewarded with general laughter around the courtroom and he paused for a moment to acknowledge it with the smile of a theatrical star being handed a bouquet, before continuing, ‘He said he was very sorry, but it had been in so many hands. I gave him half-a-sovereign for his trouble, and then said, “I am afraid you are leading a wonderfully wicked life.” He said, “There is good and bad in every one of us.” I told him he was a born philosopher, and he then left.’

  ‘Has the letter remained in your possession ever since?’

  ‘Yes. I produce it here today.’

  ‘I pass to the end of 1893. Did Lord Alfred Douglas go to Cairo then?’

  ‘Yes; in December, 1893.’

  ‘On his return were you lunching together in the Cafe Royal when Lord Queensberry came in?’

  ‘Yes. He shook hands and joined us, and we chatted on perfectly friendly terms about Egypt and various other subjects.’

  ‘Shortly after that meeting did you become aware that he was making suggestions with regard to your character and behaviour?’

  ‘Yes. Those suggestions were not contained in letters to me. At the end of June, 1894, there was an interview between Lord Queensberry and myself in my house. He called upon me, not by appointment, about four o’clock in the afternoon, accompanied by a gentleman with whom I was not acquainted. The interview took place in my library. Lord Queensberry was standing by the window. I walked over to the fireplace and he said to me, “Sit down.” I said to him, “I do not allow anyone to talk like that to me in my house or anywhere else. I suppose you have come to apologise for the statement you made about my wife and myself in letters you wrote to your son. I should have the right any day I chose to prosecute you for writing such a letter.” He said, “The letter was privileged, as it was written to my son.” I said, “How dare you say such things to me about your son and me?” He said, “You were both kicked out of the Savoy Hotel at a moment’s notice for your disgusting conduct.” I said, �
��That is a lie.” He said, “You have taken furnished rooms for him in Piccadilly.” I said, “Somebody has been telling you an absurd set of lies about your son and me. I have not done anything of the kind.” He said, “I hear you were thoroughly well blackmailed for a disgusting letter you wrote to my son.” I said, “The letter was a beautiful letter, and I never write except for publication.” Then I asked: “Lord Queensberry, do you seriously accuse your son and me of improper conduct?” He said, “I do not say that you are it, but you look it.”’

  The laughter was genuine and louder than before, prompting the judge to bring down his gavel on the wooden pad, announcing, ‘I shall have the court cleared if I hear the slightest disturbance again.’ The courtroom fell unnaturally quiet and Wilde continued where he had left off.

  ‘Queensbury said, “But you look it and you pose as it, which is just as bad. If I catch you and my son together again in any public restaurant I will thrash you.” I said, “I do not know what the Queensberry Rules are, but the Oscar Wilde rule is to shoot at sight.” I then told Lord Queensberry to leave my house. He said he would not do so. I told him that I would have him put out by the police. He said, “It is a disgusting scandal.” I said, “If it be so, you are the author of the scandal, and no one else.” I then went into the hall and pointed him out to my servant. I said, “This is the Marquess of Queensberry, the most infamous brute in London. You are never to allow him to enter my house again.” It is not true that I was expelled from the Savoy Hotel at any time. Neither is it true that I took rooms in Piccadilly for Lord Queensberry’s son.’

  ‘When was it you heard the first statement affecting your character?’