In praising Dinners and Dishes he reported, ‘it is brief, and concise, and makes no attempts at eloquence, which is extremely fortunate. For even on ortolans who could endure oratory? It also has the advantage of not being illustrated. The subject of a work of art has of course nothing to do with its beauty, but still there is always something depressing about the coloured lithograph of a leg of mutton.’ The real wonder of the work, however, he suggested, was that there was ‘actually a recipe for making Brussels sprouts eatable’.15
Kind-hearted by nature, and having suffered himself from spiteful notices, Wilde strove especially to be generous to minor poets. There was almost always a word of praise, however faint. Of one feeble but well-produced volume he reported, ‘if it is not quite worth reading, [it] is at least worth looking at’.16 A steady course of popular novels (often reviewed three or four at a time) convinced him that, although ‘the nineteenth century may be a prosaic age… it is not an age of prose’.17 While he generously allowed that almost all of ‘our ordinary English novelists’ did have ‘some story to tell’ and most of them told it in ‘an interesting manner’, he considered that they nearly always failed ‘in concentration of style’. Their characters were all ‘far too eloquent, and talk themselves to tatters. What we want is a little more reality and a little less rhetoric.’ Nevertheless, he conceded that ‘one should not be too severe on English novels’ since they were ‘the only relaxation of the intellectually unemployed’.18 And severe he was not, even if his lightly scattered compliments were often double-edged: ‘It seems to be a novel with a high purpose and a noble meaning. Yet it is never dull’; ‘The book can be read without any trouble, and was probably written without any trouble also. The style is pleasing and prattling.’ ‘Astray. A Tale of a Country Town is a very serious volume. It has taken four people to write it, and even to read it requires assistance’. He drew the line, however, at Mr. E. O. Pleydell-Bouverie’s J.S.; or Trivialities: ‘The only point of interest presented by the book is the problem of how it ever came to be written.’19
He learnt to be careful in requesting specific titles for review, as the editors were ‘much afraid of log-rolling’ and would try to thwart any attempt of his simply to puff his friends.20 It was probably chance that gave him the opportunity to say nice things about Mrs Alfred Hunt’s three-volume novel, and to salute William Money Hardinge for his ‘charming style’.21 Design, though, must surely have been behind his reviewing How To Be Happy Though Married, a lightly humorous book written, pseudonymously, by the husband of his first cousin. Wilde hailed Rev. E. J. Hardy’s work as ‘a complete handbook to an earthly Paradise’, calling the author ‘the Murray of matrimony and the Baedeker of bliss’. This phrase – as much as his general endorsement – carried the book through five editions; Wilde always thought he should have received a royalty.22†
From behind his mask of anonymity Wilde criticized J. A. Symonds for his too-facile rhetoric and Edmund Gosse for his sciolism; he gently mocked the ‘common sense’ approach to art of his Tite Street neighbour John Collier, and less gently denigrated the philistinism of his old Oxford adversary Rhoda Broughton (‘whatever harsh criticisms may be passed on the construction of her sentences, she at least possesses that one touch of vulgarity that make the whole world kin’).23 The mask, however, sometimes slipped. When Wilde wrote an anonymous attack on the pretensions of George Saintsbury, gleefully listing the writer’s grammatical errors and infelicities, his authorship was guessed, and widely reported.24 Not that Wilde seems to have minded. He certainly hoped that his responsibility for the delightfully disingenuous demolition of Harry Quilter would be recognized.25 Nevertheless there was always scope for confusion: some of Wilde’s more astringent reviews were credited by their hapless victims to George Bernard Shaw (who started writing for the Pall Mall Gazette at the same time as Wilde) or to William Archer, while their pieces were sometimes ascribed to him.26 Well-connected writers, though, could usually discover the true authorship of any unsigned review, whether bad or good. It was probably inside information that led W. G. Wills to write, thanking Wilde for the generous praise of his epic poem Melchior.27
A review of George Sand’s letters allowed Wilde to elucidate his ever-shifting ideas on art and its relation to life: ‘Perhaps [Sand] valued good intentions in art a little too much, and she hardly understood that art for art’s sake [to which she had voiced objections] is not meant to express the final cause of art but is merely a formula of creation.’ He thought, though, that Sand was right to challenge Flaubert’s attempts to obliterate his own personality in his work: ‘Art without personality is impossible. And yet the aim of art is not to reveal personality but to please.’28 The importance of pleasing was now a concern. Of another work he remarked, ‘Seriousness, like property, has its duties as well as its rights, and the first duty of a novel is to please.’29
Seriousness, as well as pleasure, had, though, a certain attraction. Wilde had no desire to enter the coarse and bustling world of newspaper journalism that had laid claim to Willie, who was now a leader writer for the Daily Telegraph (an occupation that only too well suited his easy wit, fluent pen and indolent temperament).30‡ There was, though, the ‘higher journalism’ of informed critical comment and erudite discussion carried on in the monthly reviews: the forum in which Matthew Arnold and Swinburne (as a critic) had made their names. Wilde recognized that this might be a useful stage on which to appear. He followed up a suggestion from the editor of the Fortnightly Review that he should contribute an article – proposing ‘Impressionism in Literature’ – ‘a subject I have been for some time studying’. But the idea languished.31 More successful was an essay on ‘Shakespeare and Stage Costume’, which, combining his interests in literature and dress, appeared under his name in the May 1885 issue of the prestigious Nineteenth Century. It marked a small but gratifying debut in this elevated intellectual sphere.
The article, an elegantly phrased endorsement of Godwin’s views on the virtues of ‘archaeologically’ authentic stage design, was based on a shorter (but no less elegantly phrased) piece – ‘Shakespeare on Stage Scenery’ – that Wilde had published a few weeks earlier in a newly established weekly called the Dramatic Review. The line taken in both pieces was the direct opposite of the one that he usually adopted. He had told the Royal Academy students that ‘archaeology’ was ‘merely the science of making excuses for bad art’, while to a young painter who was working on a ‘Viking picture’ he remarked, ‘Why so far back? You know, where archaeology begins, art ceases.’32 It was yet another instance of his gift for holding, and enjoying, contrary positions.
If Nineteenth Century did not, at once, offer Wilde any more work, the Dramatic Review did. Under the energetic editorship of its founder, the Irish-born Edwin Palmer, the journal was committed to stimulating debate on cultural topics. William Archer was an early contributor. Shaw was taken on to write music criticism. Hermann Vezin had a regular column reminiscing about old actors. And during 1885 Godwin published a series of articles about ‘Archaeology on the Stage’. It was not surprising that Wilde was drawn into the circle.33 Following the success of his first article he began to provide occasional theatre reviews. They were no better paid than his pieces for the Pall Mall Gazette, but served to keep him close to the world of the stage – and his name before the public. Articles appeared above a facsimile of the author’s signature.34
On 5 June 1885 Constance gave birth to a son. Wilde was thrilled with the arrival. ‘The baby is wonderful,’ he wrote to Norman Forbes-Robertson. ‘Constance is doing capitally and is in excellent spirits… you must get married at once!’35 Beyond the family circle, speculation was rife at how the child would fare. Laura Troubridge thought it ‘much to be pitied’, suspecting it would soon be ‘swathed in artistic baby-clothes’ of ‘sage green’ and ‘peacock blue’.36 The newspapers relished the gap between the Aesthetic ideal and the realities of parenthood: ‘O wondrous cherub! Aesthete fair!’, they imagined Wilde apostrophi
zing the infant. ‘Style Renaissance, Greek and Doric; / Always howling, I declare! / Fetch me quick the paregoric.’37 The boy was christened Cyril. As a further consideration, Edward Heron-Allen was asked to cast the child’s horoscope (although both parents were anxious to know the child’s ‘fate’, when Heron-Allen finally gave his report ‘it grieved them very much).38
Wilde took to fatherhood with enthusiasm: within hours of the child’s birth he was boasting that the ‘amazing boy… already knows me quite well’.39 He was conscious, though, of new responsibilities, and of new expenses too. Money was needed. Constance’s income had not been enough to support the household even before Cyril’s arrival. And the nugatory amounts that Wilde received for reviewing, together with the falling returns from his few remaining lectures, were not enough to make up the shortfall. The Duchess of Padua was as far as ever from securing a production. And economy seemed out of the question. Constance lamented to her brother that neither she nor her husband had ‘a notion how to live non-extravagantly’.40 A different measure was attempted: Wilde tried to get a job.
Only weeks after Cyril’s birth, he revived his idea of becoming ‘one of her Majesty’s Inspectors of Schools’, asking his friend George Curzon (now a rising star in the Tory Party) to support the application. Not immediately successful, he continued his campaign over the coming months, badgering Curzon a second time, and enlisting the additional assistance of Mahaffy.41 But even this was not enough to secure a post. Exploring other avenues, he applied to become the secretary of the Beaumont Trust Fund, a charity engaged in creating ‘The People’s Palace’ in London’s East End – an institute dedicated to promoting the arts and sciences among the urban poor. Wilde, in his letter of application, after citing his long experience as a lecturer on ‘art-knowledge’ and ‘art-appreciation’, called the Palace ‘the realization of much that I have long hoped for.’ Again, though, he was overlooked.42
These were real disappointments. Their implications were not merely practical, but artistic. Frustrated by his inability to write anything beyond reviews, Wilde had come to believe that ‘leisure and freedom from sordid care’ were necessary if he was to create ‘pure literary work’ of real worth. He hoped that a regular job might offer such freedom. As he explained to one young correspondent, if only he could ‘make some profession… the basis and mainstay of [his] life’, he would then be able ‘to keep literature for [his] finest, rarest moments’.43 He needed a proper job. Or so he thought. Shackled to the round of reviewing – and his ever-dwindling series of lectures – fine moments seemed rare indeed, and ‘pure literary work’ a dream.
* With barely more than a dozen dates during the autumn/winter season that ran from October 1885 into 1886, Wilde’s concerted three-year campaign of lecturing across Britain quietly closed with a talk on ‘Dress and the Mission of Art in the Nineteenth Century’ at Penzance on Monday 25 January 1886. From then on he might address the occasional society or group, but the days of touring were over.
† The book actually cited Wilde as an authority (on home decor rather than marriage): ‘As regards one’s relations when they are really decorative, even Mr Oscar Wilde can see no reason why their photographs should not be hung on the walls, though he hopes that, if called on to make a stand between principles of domestic affection and decorative art, the latter may have the first place.’
‡ One of his fellow hacks left a vivid record of Willie’s account of the working day: ‘The journalistic life irksome? Dear me, not at all. Take my daily life as an example. I report at the office, let us say at twelve o’clock. To the Editor I say, “Good morning, my dear Le Sage,” and he replies, “Good morning, my dear Wilde, have you an idea to-day?” “Oh yes, Sir, indeed I have,” I respond. “It is the anniversary of the penny postage stamp.” “That is a delightful subject for a leader,” cries my editor, beaming on me, “and would you be good enough, my dear Wilde, to write us a leader, then, on the anniversary of the penny postage stamp?” “Indeed I will that with pleasure,” is my answer. “Ah! thank you, my dear boy,” cries my editor, “and be sure to have your copy in early the earlier the better.” That is the final, injunction, and I bow myself out. I may then eat a few oysters and drink half a bottle of Chablis at Sweeting’s, or alternatively partake of a light lunch at this admirable club [the Spoofs], for as rare Ben Jonson says, “The first speech in my Cataline, spoken by Sylla’s ghost, was writ after I had parted with my friends at the Devil Tavern. I had drank well and had brave notions.” I then stroll towards the Park. I bow to the fashionables, I am seen along incomparable Piccadilly. It is grand. But meantime I am thinking only of that penny postage stamp. I try to recall all that I ever heard about penny postage stamps. Let me see? There is Mr. So-and-so the inventor, there is the early opposition, the first postal legislation, then the way stamps are made, putting the holes in the paper; the gum on the back; the printing – all these details come back to me; then a paragraph or two about present postal laws; a few examples of the crude drolleries of the official Postal Guide; perhaps as a conclusion, something about the crying need for cheaper letter rates. I think of all these circumstances as I stroll back along Pall Mall. I might go to the British Museum and grub up a lot of musty facts, but that would be unworthy of a great leader writer, you may well understand that. And then comes the writing. Ah! here is where I earn my money. I repair to my club. I order out my ink and paper. I go to my room. I close the door. I am undisturbed for an hour. My pen moves. Ideas flow. The leader on the penny postage stamp is being evolved. Three great meaty, solid paragraphs each one-third of a column – that is the consummation to be wished. My ideas flow fast and free. Suddenly some one knocks at the door. Two hours have fled. How time goes! It is an old friend. We are to eat a little dinner at the Cafe Royal and drop into the Alhambra for the new ballet. I touch the button; my messenger appears. The leader is despatched to 141, Fleet Street, in the Parish of St. Bride, and off we go arm in arm. After the shower the sunshine. Now for the enjoyment of that paradise of cigar ashes, bottles, corks, ballet, and those countless circumstances of gaiety and relaxation known only to those who are indwellers in the magic circles of London’s Literary Bohemia.’
6
L’Amour de l’Impossible
‘Let us live like Spartans, but let us talk like Athenians.’
oscar wilde
As Wilde reached his thirties, he began, increasingly, to look backwards. Youth, both the fact and the idea of it, took on for him a sort of magic. He sought it out, and made much of it. His work for the Dramatic Review took him back to Oxford. He reported on two student productions: Henry IV, Part I (with a prologue written by his friend Curzon) in May 1885 and Twelfth Night in February the following year. And though he greatly enjoyed the performances – saying so at length in his articles – he enjoyed even more being among undergraduates. It was six years since he had left the university, a span that sharpened the contrast between the pressing adult cares of his London life, and the infectious irresponsibility and optimism of studenthood. ‘Young Oxonians are very delightful,’ he enthused to Violet Fane, ‘so Greek, and graceful and uneducated. They have profiles but no philosophy.’1 He exerted himself to charm them. At a dinner following the performance of Henry IV he delivered an ‘amazing speech’.2 When he returned for Twelfth Night the actors treated him as their honoured guest.3
Wilde also received, in November 1885, an invitation to attend a performance of Aeschylus’ Eumenides at Cambridge. It came from Harry Marillier, the ‘bright, enthusiastic’ blue-coat boy whom Wilde had befriended at Salisbury Street during his early days in London; he was now a classical scholar at Peterhouse, Cambridge. Wilde was delighted to be in touch again with his young artistically inclined friend. They met briefly in London a few days later, and talked of poetry and pictures: ‘Are you all Wordsworthians still at Cambridge,’ Wilde had wanted to know, ‘or do you love Keats, and Poe, and Baudelaire… what moods and modulations of art affect you most?’ The encounter had, fo
r Wilde, been full of ‘keen curiosity, wonder, delight’ – terminated too soon by the demands of his travel schedule.
‘Harry,’ he wrote from the Station Hotel, Newcastle on Tyne (where he had to lecture), ‘why did you let me catch my train? I would have liked to have gone to the National Gallery with you, and looked at Velázquez’s pale evil King, at Titian’s Bacchus… and at that strange heaven of Angelico’s.’ Their hour together had, nevertheless, been ‘intensely dramatic and intensely psychological’ – rather like Browning. He looked forward to further meetings, and further talk: ‘I have never learned anything except from people younger than myself, and you are infinitely young.’4
Although Wilde was unable to attend a performance of the Eumenides, he and Constance went up to Cambridge in the week beforehand, and passed a happy time with Marillier and his friends – and also with Oscar Browning.* ‘Does it all seem a dream, Harry?’ Wilde wrote afterwards. ‘To me it is, in a fashion, a memory of music. I remember bright young faces, and grey misty quadrangles, Greek forms passing through Gothic cloisters, life playing among ruins and, what I love best in the world, Poetry and Paradox dancing together.’5
It was Wilde who led the dance. At a breakfast party in the rooms of Marillier’s friend J. H. Badley, Wilde rhapsodized over the œufs à l’aurore, declaring that the dish looked like ‘the standard of the Emperor of Japan’. He tried to lure his young host away from a conventional reverence for Shelley (‘merely a boy’s poet’) to a proper admiration of the less-regarded Keats (‘the greatest of them’). And when Badley excused himself for being a non-smoker with the observation that he was ‘missing thereby what was, no doubt, good in moderation’, Wilde rejoined, ‘Ah Badley, nothing is good in moderation. You cannot know the good in anything till you have torn the heart out of it by excess.’6
Oscar Page 44
