by David Hare
What time is it?
Wilde Five o’clock. Yes. In the afternoon.
He throws Bosie a quick glance.
It’s been another achingly beautiful day. Light dancing on the surface of the sea. A watery sun, and only the slightest cool in the evening to tell you that winter is here. The Bay of Naples jewelled like the scrawny neck of some ageing dowager.
The Young Man has come back into the room and is helping himself to a sugared bun.
All the native dignity of his race, and then that fabulous cock as well …
Bosie gets up and goes out.
Bosie The coffee’s cold.
Wilde Yes, well, it was hot at ten o’clock this morning.
Wilde calls to him in the kitchen.
What’s his name?
Bosie (off) Galileo.
Wilde Ah. See stars, did you?
Bosie returns at once and sits, still in a dream. Galileo has gone to sit naked on the floor, with legs crossed, his back against the end of the sofa, looking out of the window. He eats his bun happily.
Oh it’s wonderful, it’s like a child, isn’t it? Who said one can never go back? If only I could go back to that! If I ever was like that! Like an animal, like a cat. Truly, one should throw him a ball of string. Look at the little fellow.
Bosie You know nothing.
Wilde Sometimes one is hard put to believe in the idea of human progress. Just three hundred years ago the name Galileo was attached to an intelligence that powered the Renaissance and took mankind to an understanding of his own condition to which he had never previously dared to aspire. The heavens opened for Galileo. Today show us a Galileo and we see a kitten on the floor.
Galileo has turned at the repeated mention of his name.
Yes, Galileo, we are talking about you.
Galileo Che state dicendo?
Wilde Sei fortunato di poter’ vivere vicino al mare, e poter’ camminare ogni giorno sulla spiaggia.
Galileo Ah si, si.
Bosie is eating a bun at the table.
Bosie He’s a wonderful man. I met his mother last night. And all his sisters. They live right by the beach. I went drinking with his fellow fishermen.
Wilde Will you meet all of them?
Bosie Eventually.
Wilde I can’t wait.
Bosie is undisturbed by Wilde’s gentle mockery. It is happy between them.
We can expect a succession of sofa-bound Renaissance geniuses, can we? All waking here tousle-haired and humanist in the afternoons.
Bosie Perhaps.
Wilde One day we play host to a Leonardo, next day a Michelangelo. Will there be a whole gallery of them? A sort of horizontal Uffizi? At the weekend perhaps we are at home to both Piero della Francesca and Gugliemo della Porto, maybe – who knows? – even both at once, but all distinguished from their eminent namesakes by the fact they have their bums in the air, and they’re offered a sugar bun for their favours.
Bosie Why so superior? You like them as much as I do.
Wilde I do. All I cared for was beauty. I can still see it. From across a gulf. But I see it.
He good-naturedly stubs out his cigarette.
You and I have no friends. Let us have lovers instead.
Galileo Che cosa dici?
Wilde Throw him another bun.
Bosie chucks him another.
C’e troppo zucchero?
Galileo No, o zuccher, me piac assai.
Bosie What is he saying?
Wilde Why? Does it bother you?
Bosie No.
Wilde You seem to speak to him in his language, one way or another, even if that language in your case is not specifically Italian. My love.
They look at each other a moment.
Bosie What have you been doing?
Wilde Reading. My publisher has been kind enough to send me a list of proposed names for the foundation of a British Academy of Letters.
Bosie How ridiculous!
Wilde He keeps me in touch.
He lifts a letter from beside him.
He has enclosed what they call their proposed list of immortals. It is amusing stuff. Personally I cannot make my mind up between the claims of the Duke of Argyll and Jerome K. Jerome. I think probably the former. The unread is always better than the unreadable.
Bosie Are they canvassing your vote?
Wilde Hardly, my dear.
Bosie glances at Wilde, who is lighting another cigarette.
Bosie And writing? Have you done some writing?
Wilde Of course. My play.
Bosie How is your play?
Wilde My play is first class.
He holds up another envelope.
There is a letter for you.
Bosie From whom?
Wilde I’d say from your mother.
Bosie I will look at it later. Thank you.
Wilde puts it down.
Wilde Now as for tonight …
Bosie Oh please, not Duse again. We have seen every performance she has given.
Wilde We cannot playgo because we have no money.
Bosie None?
Wilde We have not a penny for tickets. I have been twice to the Post Office while you were practising astronomy …
Bosie And?
Wilde Nothing. Nothing has arrived.
Bosie (frowns) I thought you were expecting payment for your poem.
Wilde Indeed I am. I am pursuing it. I have written many times. My kneepads are scuffed and scoured by the time I have spent in the supplicant’s position. I eat the dirt off the floor. When I visit the Post Office there is a collective Italian groan …
He raises his hands above his head.
‘There goes Signor Wilde, lo scrittore irlandese, who has no money. No money! No money!’
Bosie looks seriously worried at this.
Bosie What do we have? What is left to us?
Wilde A few bottles of brandy. Some coffee. The last servant I have sent away. Beyond that, nothing. Unless there is a chance of your getting a ride on his boat tonight. Perhaps if you went fishing we would at least eat tomorrow. If you became a fisherman.
Bosie No one in my family has ever taken up the professions.
Wilde We can’t live on cock.
Bosie nods at the letter again.
Bosie The letter from mother. How thick is it?
Wilde There’s no cheque in it. I have held it up to the light.
Bosie Well then.
Galileo has finished his second bun.
Galileo Che facite po riest d’o giorno?
Wilde Non abiamo deciso. Vogliamo andare a teatro.
Galileo Teatro? Io, al teatro non ci posso andare. Ho tanto da fare, sono occupatissimo. Al teatro? Io? Come posso andare al teatro?
Bosie looks to Wilde for a translation.
Wilde He is asking if I will go for a walk so that he can bugger you again.
Bosie And what is your answer?
There is a silence. For the first time the air is cool between them.
Wilde No.
Bosie looks at him. Then goes out to the kitchen. Wilde stubs out his cigarette.
Beauty? Yes. Beauty above everything, and in all things. So much I was right about, you see. Before the catastrophe, before the great disaster, one writes but one does not know. Until one has suffered, until the great suffering, it is all guesswork. One guesses merely. Imagination: a highfalutin word for guesswork.
He smiles. Galileo is content, half listening, not understanding a word.
And by and large, my guesses were right. There is no morality in what is called morality; there is no sense in what is called sense; and least of all is there meaning in what is held to be meaning. I saw this. Before I even suffered. And, suffering, found it to be true. The foolishness of people who say mere beauty. Like mere wit. Or mere being alive.
Wilde nods towards the kitchen.
The man next door, making the coffee, being, as both of us know, exquisitely beautiful and seeming therefore to
hold some secret which must be prised from him. But which cannot, I fear, dear friend, be prised in a single night.
He pauses.
Nor even in a single life.
Bosie returns with a full pot of coffee.
Bosie Hot coffee.
Wilde Enjoy it. We are not yet boiling acorns, but in a few days …
Bosie You don’t seem very worried.
Wilde What do you mean?
Bosie By not having any money.
Wilde Ah. I came at your invitation. If you remember, it was your idea. You promised to look after me. You had money, you said.
Bosie So? Who found the house?
Wilde You did.
Bosie Who paid? At least, who intended to pay? It is not my fault.
Wilde No. The roulette wheel disobliged again.
Bosie Well? We could have been rich.
Wilde Ah yes.
Bosie I could have doubled my money!
Wilde If only your success at gambling could equal your grasp of gambling’s governing principles.
Bosie has gone back to pour himself hot, thick coffee.
‘It can double my money!’ Very good! You have understood the potential of the activity perfectly. You understand its lure. You know what it promises. And yet for some reason –
Bosie Very funny …
Wilde – you seem not to able to make that little leap –
Bosie All right …
Wilde – that some people make: the leap to where it delivers what it promises. Why is that? What is that in you? The promise, but not the fulfilment of the promise.
Bosie looks at him defensively.
Bosie What are you saying?
Wilde I am saying you promised to look after me, Bosie. Yet the tradesmen’s bills arrive with my name on the envelope. In restaurants, in bars, waiters turn to me. My pocket’s empty, not yours.
Bosie If I had money, I would give it to you. You know that. I have given you everything. Do you doubt my good faith?
Wilde No. Never.
After a moment, Bosie is quiet, serious.
Bosie Everyone left you, remember?
Wilde I do.
Bosie The virtuous Constance –
Wilde Ah yes …
Bosie – of whom we all heard so much. The embodiment of virtue, so-called. Faithful, long-suffering Constance … where was she? Robbie Ross, the good friend, little Robbie. The trusted adviser, who loved you, who would lay down his life for you … where was he? Abroad. All your so-called friends, so-called allies … Abroad! Scattered across Europe! Remember?
Wilde smiles slightly.
Wilde You left also.
Bosie Yes. But I was the last to go. Bear that in mind. I was the last.
Wilde I know.
Galileo looks up, catching the seriousness.
Galileo Ma che sta dicendo?
Wilde E arrabiato.
Bosie is at the table, cradling the hot cup in his hands.
Bosie And yet only I am mocked. Everywhere! Your worthless friend! ‘Shiftless Bosie.’ ‘Shallow Bosie.’ Oh yes, it is always I who am traduced. But it is I who stayed, who stayed by you until the day of your trial.
He looks at Wilde.
Yes. At least you were tried.
Wilde I was.
Bosie You were fortunate. I have been condemned, and yet I have not even been tried.
Wilde No.
Wilde is quiet, letting Bosie’s mood pass.
Bosie I am much misrepresented.
Wilde I know that.
Bosie Even now, in the papers, all across Europe … how can I be what they say I am?
Wilde You are not.
Bosie They disregard my poetry. They disregard my status.
Wilde Indeed.
Bosie Your poetical equal, you said. You have said it in print. Your equal.
Wilde Just so.
Bosie waits, wanting more.
It is true. I have said it. You are one of the greatest poets in England.
Bosie One of? One of?
Wilde Well let us allow that Swinburne is living. Let us allow that Swinburne is alive.
Bosie Swinburne?
Wilde I know. But there is a school of thought, plainly backward, plainly misguided, which hands him the palm.
Bosie But you are not of it?
Wilde No. I am of your party.
Bosie Good. And so you should be. I am already the greatest non-narrative poet in England.
Wilde Undoubtedly. Your lyrics are lovely.
Bosie is satisfied and goes on.
Bosie And let it be said, let it be made clear: I am as much the victim of this affair as you. Yes! Quite as much.
Wilde (quietly) In your own way.
Bosie Yes – oh yes – everywhere it is said: ‘The incomparable tragedy of Oscar Wilde!’ How easily said! And how lazily! Because, remember, two have suffered here …
Wilde Plainly.
Bosie And in many ways – I am not ashamed to say this – my suffering has been the greater. Oh yes, I know how that sounds, for I have not suffered physically …
Wilde No.
Bosie I know that. I would not say that.
Wilde Quite.
Bosie I have not known the deprivations of confinement …
Wilde You have not.
Bosie The squalor of the filthy prison cell. Not at all. But you, Oscar, have not known the horror of not being heard, of being disregarded, of being overlooked. The contempt of my peers! My God, is that not equal suffering? There are two people here!
Wilde I know that.
Bosie Two people who suffer and endure! Two human beings!
Bosie’s anger is rising dangerously.
But that is not said in the papers.
Wilde No.
Bosie They speak only of the one who stood in the dock. God, how I long to set this whole affair right! God, I long to speak!
Wilde You must not speak.
Bosie Why not?
Wilde When you have spoken it has been a mistake. When you have published …
He pauses, uneasy at the memory.
When you have tried to publish certain private things between us … references to us, to our friendship, it has not advanced our cause.
Bosie Not advanced it?
Wilde No.
Bosie How is our cause advanced by our forbearance? How is it helped? Is it helpful, do you think, never to say anything … never to speak of our lives?
Wilde shrugs slightly in reply.
How will things be changed … how will England be changed unless we speak?
Wilde Changing England is low on my list of current priorities.
Bosie What, are we to spend our whole lives shrouded in secrecy, covering our offence in shame?
Wilde So it appears.
Bosie Never daring to speak, never daring to say: ‘Yes, we are two men who believe in the highest form of love – the purest, the most poetical, such as that which exists between us’? Love between men? Can we not speak of that?
Wilde Certainly not. Under no circumstances.
Bosie Why are you so sure?
Wilde Trust me. Truly. I understand this better than you. Trust me.
Galileo Non capisco niente. Di che parlate?
Wilde Nothing. Niente.
Galileo frowns, confused.
No. We have come to Naples to suffer and be silent. Ours is an ethic of silence. Preferably on a substantial private income. Which is, I admit, at this moment, proving the elusive part of the plan.
Bosie Indeed.
Wilde However.
Bosie looks at him moodily.
Bosie You have no courage.
Wilde And you have no strategy. That is why we are perfectly suited. Let this conversation be over.
Bosie You always divert. You always turn away.
Wilde Why not?
Wilde has seen Bosie’s bad mood off and now gestures towards the window. The light has begun to change.
The day has
started to fade and turn dusky. The sun has begun its nightly cabaret …
Galileo Vado a vestirmi. Nun pozz sta ca’ senza fa nient.
Wilde Sei benvenuto a utilizzare il bagno.
Galileo is gathering his clothes.
Let us attend to it. If we can no longer afford the great Duse, we must let nature provide the entertainment.
Bosie reaches out a hand to Galileo which he squeezes before he goes out.
Last evening, the sun passed briefly through ochre, then, in a rare display of good taste, disdained primrose, and settled instead on a colour – oh Lord, I searched fifteen minutes on the balcony until I found the word. The sun was not like topaz. No. Nor was it the colour of saffron. I can only say to you with all the fleeting authority which my literary powers may still command that the sun was like orpiment. Have you heard that word?
Bosie Never.
Wilde is smiling, satisfied. And Bosie is watching fondly, drinking his coffee again.
Wilde So tonight, come, let us not spend the evening indoors in what my fellow Irishmen call begrudgery. Let us go out, let us walk among the youths again and enjoy the gorgeous vulgarity of the night. Yes?
Bosie As you wish.
Wilde It is nearing the hour when I cried every night in prison. I wept every night for a year. For the whole of my first year. At six o’clock.
Bosie watches him, serious now.
This is the hour Christ died.
Bosie I thought Christ died at three.
Wilde Christ died at six. He died at cocktail hour.
Suddenly there is the sound of a bell ringing at the door outside.
Bosie Ah, cocktails!
Wilde Oh Lord, are we expecting visitors?
Bosie No.
Wilde Surely not more fisherfolk? Are they coming to mend their nets in our living room? Will they gut sprats all over our floor?
He shudders in mock-horror. Bosie has moved to collect up all his clothes.
Bosie We’re not strong on visitors. Unless it’s that woman who comes to deal with the rats.
Wilde More urgently, we have no servants. The social crisis is profound. No, no, no, a lord cannot answer the door. Will our friend answer for us, do you think? Can we ask him? Does he serve by land as well as by sea?
Bosie He serves.
The bell rings again. Bosie has gathered his things up. Wilde calls out.
Wilde Galileo, per favore, puoi vedere chi c’e alla porta?
Galileo (off) Certo.
Bosie smiles as he goes out of the room, passing Galileo on the stairs.
