Trial of Oscar Wilde (Dramatic Reading) — Section 3

The Trial of Oscar Wilde.

"In all men's hearts a slumbering swine lies low", says the French poet;

so come ye, whose porcine instincts have never been awakened, or if rampant successfully hidden, and hurl the biggest, sharpest stones you can lay your hands on at your wretched, degraded, humiliated brother, _who has been found out_.

The Trial of Oscar Wilde The life and death of Oscar Wilde, poet, playwright, _poseur_ and convict, can only fittingly be summarised as a tragedy.

Every misspent life is a tragedy more or less; but how much more tragic appear the elements of despair and disaster when the victim to his own vices is a man of genius exercising a considerable influence upon the thought and culture of his day, and possessing every advantage which birth, education, talent and station can bestow?

Oscar Wilde was more than a clever and original thinker.

He was the inventor of a certain literary style, and, though his methods, showy and eccentric as they were, lent themselves readily to imitation, none of his followers could approach their "Master" in the particular mode which he had made his own.

There can be two opinions as to the merits of his plays.

There can be only one judgment as to their daring and audacious originality.

Of the ordinary and the commonplace Wilde had a horror, which with him was almost a religion.

He was unmercifully chaffed throughout America when he appeared in public in a light green suit adorned with a large sunflower; but he did not don this outrageous costume because he preferred such startling clothing.

He adopted the dress in order to be original and assumed it because no other living man was likely to be so garbed.

He was consumed, in fact, with overpowering vanity.

He was possessed of a veritable demon of self-esteem.

He ate strange foods, and drank unusual liquors in order to be unlike any of his contemporaries.

His eccentricities of dress continued to the end.

On the first night of one of his plays--it was a brilliant triumph--he was called upon by an enthusiastic audience for the customary speech.

He was much exercised in his mind as to what he could say that would be unconventional and sensational.

No mere platitudes or banalities for the author of "Lady Windermere's Fan," who made a god of the spirit of Epigram and almost canonized the art of Repartee.

He said, "Ladies and Gentlemen: I am glad you like my play.

I like it very much myself too," which, if candid, was hardly the remark of a modest and retiring author.

The leopard cannot change his spots and neither can the lion his skin.

Even in his beautiful book, "De Profundis"--surely the most extraordinary volume of recent years--the man's character is writ so plainly that he who runs may read.

Man of letters, man of fashion, man of hideous vices, Oscar Wilde remained to the last moment of his murdered life, a self-conscious egotist.

"Gentlemen," he gasped on his death-bed, hearing the doctors express misgivings as to their fees, "it would appear that I am dying beyond my means!"

It was a brilliant sally and one can picture the startled faces of the medical attendants.

A genius lay a-dying and a genius he remained till the breath of life departed.

Genius we know to be closely allied to insanity and it were charitable to describe this man as mad, besides approaching very nearly to the truth.

Something was out of gear in that finely attuned mind.

Some thorn there was among the intellectual roses which made him what he was.

He pined for strange passions, new sensations.

His was the temperament of the Roman sybarite.

He often sighed for a return of the days when vice was deified.

He spoke of the glories of the Devastation, the awful woman and the Alexandrian school at which little girls and young boys were instructed in all the most secret and unthinkable forms of vice.

Modern women satisfied him not.

Perverted passions consumed the fire of his being.

He had had children of his wife, but sexual intercourse between him and that most unfortunate lady was more honoured in the breach than in the observance.

They had their several rooms.

On many occasions Wilde actually brought the companions of his abominable rites and sinful joys to his own home, and indulged in his frightful propensities beneath the roof of the house which sheltered his own sons and their most unhappy mother.

Could the man capable of this atrocity possess a normal mind?

Can Oscar Wilde, who committed moral suicide and made of himself a social pariah, be regarded as a sane man?

London society is not so strict nor straight-laced that it will not forgive much laxity in its devoted votaries.

Rumour had been busy with the name of Oscar Wilde for a long time before the whole awful truth became known.

He was seen, constantly, at theatres and restaurants with persons in no way fit to be his associates and these persons were not girls or women.

He paraded his shameful friendships and flaunted his villainous companions in society's face.

People began to look askance at the famous wit.

Doors began to be closed to him.

He was ostracised by all but the most Bohemian coteries.

But even those who were still proud to rank him among their friends did not know how far he had wilfully drawn himself into the web of disgrace.

Much that seemed strange and unaccountable was attributed to his well-known love of pose.

Men shrugged their shoulders and declared that "Wilde meant no harm.

It was his vainglorious way of showing his contempt for the opinion of the world.

Men of such parts could not be judged by ordinary standards.

Intellectually Wilde was fit to mix with the immortals.

If he preferred the society of miserable, beardless, stunted youths destitute alike of decency or honour--it was no affair of theirs," and so on _ad nauseam_.

Meanwhile, heedless of the warnings of friends and the sneers of foes, Wilde went his own way--to destruction.

He was addicted to the vice and crime of sodomy long before he formed a "friendship" which was destined to involve him in irretrievable ruin.

In London, he met a younger son of the eccentric Marquis of Queensbury, Lord Alfred Douglas by name.

This youth was being educated at Cambridge.

He was of peculiar temperament and talented in a strong, frothy style.

He was good-looking in an effeminate, lady-like way.

He wrote verse.

His poems not being of a manner which could be acceptable to a self-respecting publication, his efforts appeared in an eccentric and erratic magazine which was called "The Chameleon."

In this precious serial appeared a "poem" from the pen of Lord Alfred dedicated to his father in these filial words: "To the Man I Hate."

Oscar Wilde at once developed an extraordinary and dangerous interest in this immature literary egg.

A being of his own stamp, after his own heart, was Lord Alfred Douglas.

The love of women delighted him not.

The possession of a young girl's person had no charm for him.

He yearned for higher flights in the realms of love!

He sought unnatural affection.

Wilde, experienced in all the symptoms of a disordered sexual fancy, contrived to exercise a remarkable and sinister influence over this youth.

Again and again and again did his father implore Lord Alfred Douglas to separate himself from the tempter.

Lord Queensberry threatened, persuaded, bribed, urged, cajoled: all to no purpose.

Wilde and his son were constantly together.

The nature of their friendship became the talk of the town.

It was proclaimed from the housetops.

The Marquis, determined to rescue him if it were humanly possible, horsewhipped his son in a public thoroughfare and was threatened with a summons for assault.

On one occasion--it was the opening night of one of the Wilde plays--he sent the author a bouquet of choice--vegetables!

Three or four times he wrote to him begging him to cancel his friendship with Lord Alfred.

Once he called at the house in Tite Street and there was a terrible scene.

The Marquis fumed; Wilde laughed.

He assured his Lordship that only at his son's own request would he break off the association which existed between them.

The Marquis, driven to desperation, called Wilde a disgusting name.

The latter, with a show of wrath, ordered the peer from his door and he was obliged to leave.

At all costs and hazards, at the risk of any pain and grief to himself, Lord Queensberry was determined to break off the disgraceful _liaison_.

He stopped his son's allowance, but Wilde had, at that time, plenty of money and his purse was his friend's. At last the father went to the length of leaving an insulting message for Oscar Wilde at that gentleman's club.

He called there and asked for Wilde.

The clerk at the enquiry office stated that Mr. Wilde was not on the premises.

The Marquis then produced a card and wrote upon it in pencil these words, "Oscar Wilde is a Bugger."

This elegant missive he directed to be handed to the author when he should next appear at the club.

From this card--Lord Queensberry's last resource--grew the whole great case, which amazed and horrified the world in 1895. Oscar Wilde was compelled, however reluctantly, to take the matter up.

Had he remained quiescent under such a public affront, his career in England would have been at an end.

He bowed to the inevitable and a libel action was prepared.

One is often compelled to wonder if he foresaw the outcome.

One asks oneself if he realized what defeat in this case would portend.

The stakes were desperately high.

He risked, in a Court of Law, his reputation, his position, his career and even his freedom.

Did he know what the end to it all would be?

Whatever Wilde's fears and expectations were, his opponent did not under-estimate the importance of the issue.

If he could not induce a jury of twelve of his fellow-countrymen to believe that the plaintiff was what he had termed him, he, the Marquis of Queensberry, would be himself disgraced.

Furthermore, there would, in the event of failure, be heavy damages to pay and the poor man was not over rich.

Wilde had many and powerful friends.

For reasons which it is not necessary to enlarge upon, Lord Queensberry was not liked or respected by his own order.

The ultimate knowledge that he was a father striving to save a loved son from infamy changed all that, and his Lordship met with nothing but sympathy from the general public in the latter stages of the great case.

Sir Edward Clarke was retained for the plaintiff.

It is needless to refer to the high estimation in which this legal and political luminary is held by all classes of society.

From first to last he devoted himself to the lost cause of Oscar Wilde with a whole-hearted devotion which was beyond praise.

The upshot of the libel action must have pained and disgusted him;

yet he refused to abandon his client, and, in the two criminal trials, defended him with a splendid loyalty and with the marked ability that might be expected from such a counsel.

The acute, energetic, silver-spoken Mr. Carson led on the other side.

It is not necessary to make more than passing mention of the conspicuous skill with which the able lawyer conducted the case for the defendant.

Even the gifted plaintiff himself cut a sorry figure when opposed to Mr. Carson.

Extraordinary interest was displayed in the action; and the courts were besieged on each day that the trial lasted.

Remarkable revelations were expected and they were indeed forthcoming.

Enormous pains had been taken to provide a strong defence and it was quite clear almost after the first day that Wilde's case would infallibly break down.

He made some astonishing admissions in the witness-box and even disgusted many of his friends by the flippancy and affected unconcern of his replies to questions of the most damaging nature.

He, apparently, saw nothing indecorous in facts which must shock any other than the most depraved.

He saw nothing disgusting in friendships of a kind to which only one construction could be put.

He gave expensive dinners to ex-barmen and the like: ignorant, brutish young fools--because they amused him!

He presented youths of questionable moral character with silver cigarette-cases because their society was pleasant!

He took young men to share his bedroom at hotels and saw nothing remarkable in such proceedings.

He gave sums of thirty pounds to ill-bred youths--accomplished blackmailers--because they were hard-up and he felt they did not deserve poverty!

He assisted other young men of a character equally undesirable, to go to America and received letters from them in which they addressed him as "Dear Oscar," and sent him their love.

In short, his own statements damned him.

Out of his own mouth--and he posing all the time--was he convicted.

The case could have but one ending.

Sir Edward Clarke--pained, surprised, shocked--consented to a verdict for the Marquis of Queensberry and the great libel case was at an end.

The defendant left the court proudly erect, conscious that he had been the means of saving his son and of eradicating from society a canker which had been rotting it unnoticed, except by a few, for a very long time.

Oscar Wilde left the court a ruined and despised man.

People--there were one or two left who were loyal to him--turned aside from him with loathing.

He had nodded to six or seven friends in court on the last day of the trial and turned ashen pale when he observed their averted looks.

All was over for him.

The little supper-parties with a few choice wits; the glorious intoxication of first-night applause; the orgies in the infamous dens of his boon companions--all these were no more for him.

Oscar Wilde, _bon vivant_, man of letters, arbiter of literary fashion, stood at the bar of public opinion, a wretch guilty of crimes against which the body recoils and the mind revolts.

Oh!

what a falling-off was there!

* * * * * If any reader would care to know the impression made upon the opinion of the London world by the revelations of this lawsuit, let him turn to the "Daily Telegraph" of the morning following the dramatic result of the trial.

In that great newspaper appeared a leading article in reference to Oscar Wilde, the terms of which, though deserved, were most scathing, denunciatory, and bitter.

Yet a general feeling of relief permeated the regret which was universally expressed at so terrible a termination of a distinguished career.

Society was at no pains to hide its relief that the Augean stable has been cleansed and that a terrible scandal had been exorcised from its midst.

It now becomes a necessary, albeit painful task, to describe the happenings incidental or subsequent to the Wilde & Queensberry proceedings.

It was certain that matters could not be allowed to rest as they were.

A jury in a public court had convinced themselves that Lord Queensberry's allegations were strictly true and the duty of the Public Prosecutor was truly clear.

The law is not, or should not be, a respector of persons, and Oscar Wilde, genius though he were, was not less amenable to the law than would be any ignorant boor suspected of similar crimes.

The machinery of legal process was set in action and the arrest of Wilde followed as a matter of course.

A prominent name in the libel action against Lord Queensberry had been that of one Alfred Taylor.

This individual, besides being himself guilty of the most infamous practices, had, it would appear, for long acted as a sort of precursor for the Apostle of Culture and his capture took place at nearly the same time as that of his principal.

The latter was arrested at a certain quiet and fashionable hotel whither he had gone with one or two yet loyal friends after the trial for libel.

His arrest was not unexpected, of course; but it created a tremendous sensation and vast crowds collected at Bow Street Police Station and in the vicinity during the preliminary examinations before the Magistrate.

The prisoner Wilde bore himself with some show of fortitude, but it was clear that the iron had already entered into his soul and his old air of jaunty indifference to the opinion of the world had plainly given way to a mental anxiety which could not altogether be hidden, though it could be controlled.

On one occasion as, fur-coated, silk-hatted, he entered the dock, he nodded familiarly to the late Sir Augustus Harris, but that magnate of the theatrical world deliberately turned his back upon the playwriting celebrity.

The evidence from first to last was followed with the most intense interest and the end of it was that Oscar Wilde was fully committed for trial.

The case came on at the Old Bailey during the month of April, 1895, and it was seen that the interest had in no wise abated.

Mr. Justice Charles presided and he was accompanied by the customary retinue of Corporation dignitaries.

The court was crowded in every part and hundreds of people were unsuccessful in efforts to obtain admission.

A reporter for a Sunday newspaper wrote: "Wilde's personal appearance has changed little since his committal from Bow Street.

He wears the same clothes and continues to carry the same hat.

He looks haggard and worn, and his long hair that was so carefully arranged when last he was in the court, though not then in the dock, is now dishevelled.

Taylor, on the other hand, still neatly dressed, appears not to have suffered from his enforced confinement.

But he no longer attempts to regard the proceedings with that indifference which he affected when first before the magistrate."

As soon as Wilde and his confederate took their places in the dock, each held a whispered consultation with his counsel and the Clerk of Arraigns then read over the indictments.

Both prisoners pleaded "Not guilty," Taylor speaking in a loud and confident tone.

Wilde spoke quietly, looked very grave and gave attentive heed to the formal opening proceedings.

Mr. C. F.

Gill led for the prosecution and he rose amidst a breathless silence, to outline the main facts of the case.

After begging the jury to dismiss from their minds anything that they might have heard or read in regard to the affair, and to abandon all prejudice on either side, he described at some length the circumstances which led up to the present prosecution.

He spoke of the arrest and committal of the Marquis of Queensberry on a charge of criminal libel and of the collapse of the case for the prosecution when the case was heard at the Old Bailey.

He alluded to the subsequent inevitable arrest of Wilde and Taylor and of the committal of both prisoners to take their trial at the present Sessions.

Wilde, he said, was well-known as a dramatic author and generally, as a literary man of unusual attainments.

He had resided, until his arrest, at a house in Tite Street, Chelsea, where his wife lived with the children of the marriage.

Taylor had had numerous addresses, but for the time covered by these charges, had dwelt in Little College Street, and afterwards in Chapel Street.

Although Wilde had a house in Tite Street, he had at different times occupied rooms in St. James's Place, the Savoy Hotel and the Albermarle Hotel.

It would be shown that Wilde and Taylor were in league for certain purposes and Mr. Gill then explained the specific allegations against the prisoners.

Wilde, he asserted, had not hesitated, soon after his first introduction to Taylor, to explain to him to what purpose he wished to put their acquaintance.

Taylor was familiar with a number of young men who were in the habit of giving their bodies, or selling them, to other men for the purpose of sodomy.

It appeared that there was a number of youths engaged in this abominable traffic and that one and all of them were known to Taylor, who went about and sought out for them men of means who were willing to pay heavily for the indulgence of their favorite vice.

Mr. Gill endeavoured to show that Taylor himself was given to sodomy and that he had himself indulged in these filthy practices with the same youths as he agreed to procure for Wilde.

The visits of the latter to Taylor's rooms were touched upon and the circumstances attending these visits were laid bare.

On nearly every occasion when Wilde called, a young man was present with whom he committed the act of sodomy.

The names of various young men connected with these facts were mentioned in turn and the case of the two Parkers was given as a sample of many others on which the learned counsel preferred to dwell with less minuteness.

When Taylor gave up his rooms in Little College Street and took up his abode in Chapel Street, he left behind him a number of compromising papers, which would be produced in evidence against the prisoners; and he should submit in due course that there was abundant corroboration of the statements of the youths involved.

Mr. Gill pointed out the peculiarities in the case of Frederick Atkins.

This youth had accompanied the prisoner Wilde to Paris, and there could be no doubt whatever that the latter had in the most systematic way endeavoured to influence this young man's mind towards vicious courses and had endeavoured to mould him to his own depraved will.

The relations which had existed between the prisoner and another lad, one Alfred Wood, were also fully described and the learned counsel made special allusion to the remarkable manner in which Wilde had lavished money upon Wood prior to the departure of that youth for America.

Mr. Gill referred to yet another of Wilde's youthful familiars--namely: Sidney Mavor--in regard to whom, he said, the jury must form their own conclusions after they had heard the evidence.

Among other things to which he would ask them to direct careful attention was a letter written in pencil by Taylor, the prisoner, to this youth.

The communication ran: "Dear Sid, I cannot wait any longer.

Come at once and see Oscar at Tite Street.

I am, Yours ever, Alfred Taylor."

The use of the christian name of Wilde in so familiar a way suggested the nature of the acquaintance which existed between Mavor and Wilde, who was old enough to be his father.

In conclusion, Mr. Gill asked the jury to give the case, painful as it must necessarily be, their most earnest and careful consideration.

Both Wilde and Taylor paid keen attention to the opening statement.

They exchanged no word together and it was observed that Wilde kept as far apart from his companion in the dock, as he possibly could.

The first witness called was Charles Parker.

He proved to be a rather smartly-attired youth, fresh-coloured, and of course, clean-shaven.

He was very pale and appeared uneasy.

He stated that he had first met Taylor at the St. James' Restaurant.

The latter had got into conversation with him and the young fellows with him, and had insisted on "standing" drinks.

Conversation of a certain nature passed between them.

Taylor called attention to the prostitutes who frequent Piccadilly Circus and remarked: "I can't understand sensible men wasting their money on painted trash like that.

Many do, though.

But there are a few who know better.

Now, you could get money in a certain way easily enough, if you cared to."

The witness had formerly been a valet and he was at this time out of employment.

He understood to what Taylor alluded and made a coarse reply.

Mr. GILL.

--"I am obliged to ask you what it was you actually said."

WITNESS.

--"I do not like to say."

Mr. GILL.

--"You were less squeamish at the time, I daresay.

I ask you for the words."

WITNESS.

--"I said that if any old gentleman with money took a fancy to me, I was agreeable.

I was terribly hard up."

Mr. GILL.

--"What did Taylor say?"

WITNESS.

--"He laughed and said that men far cleverer, richer and better than I preferred things of that kind."

Mr. GILL.

--"Did Taylor mention the prisoner Wilde?"

WITNESS.

--"Not at that time.

He arranged to meet me again and I consented."

Mr. GILL.

--"Where did you first meet Wilde?"

WITNESS.

--"At the Solferino Restaurant."

Mr. GILL.

--"Tell me what transpired."

WITNESS.

--"Taylor said he could introduce me to a man who was good for plenty of money.

Wilde came in later and I was formally introduced.

Dinner was served for four in a private room."

Mr. GILL.

--"Who made the fourth?"

WITNESS.

--"My brother, William Parker.

I had promised Taylor that he should accompany me."

Mr. GILL.

--"What happened during dinner?"

WITNESS.

--"There was plenty of champagne and brandy and coffee.

We all partook of it."

Mr. GILL.

--"Of what nature was the conversation?"

WITNESS.

--"General, at first.

Nothing was then said as to the purposes for which we had come together."

Mr. GILL.

--"And then?"

WITNESS.

--"Wilde invited me to go to his rooms at the Savoy Hotel.

Only he and I went, leaving my brother and Taylor behind.

Wilde and I went in a cab.

At the Savoy we went to his--Wilde's--sitting-room."

Mr. GILL.

--"More drink was offered you there?"

WITNESS.

--"Yes; we had liqueurs."

Mr. GILL.

--"Let us know what occurred."

WITNESS.

--"He committed the act of sodomy upon me."

Mr. GILL.

--"With your consent?"

The witness did not reply.

Further examined, he said that Wilde on that occasion had given him two pounds and asked him to call upon him again a week later.

He did so, the same thing occurred and Wilde then gave him three pounds.

The witness next described a visit to Little College Street, to Taylor's rooms.

Wilde used to call there and the same thing occurred as at the Savoy.

For a fortnight or three weeks the witness lodged in Park-Walk, close to Taylor's house.

There too he was visited by Wilde.

The witness gave a detailed account of the disgusting proceedings there.

He said, "I was asked by Wilde to imagine that I was a woman and that he was my lover.

I had to keep up this illusion.

I used to sit on his knees and he used to play with my privates as a man might amuse himself with a girl."

Wilde insisted in this filthy make-believe being kept up.

Wilde gave him a silver cigarette case and a gold ring, both of which articles he pawned.

The prisoner said, "I don't suppose boys are different to girls in acquiring presents from them who are fond of them."

He remembered Wilde having rooms at St. James's Place and the witness visited him there.

Mr. GILL.

--"Where else have you been with Wilde?"

WITNESS.

--"To Kettner's Restaurant."

Mr. GILL.

--"What happened there?"

WITNESS.

--"We dined there.

We always had a lot of wine.

Wilde would talk of poetry and art during dinner, and of the old Roman days."

Mr. GILL.

--"On one occasion you proceeded from Kettner's to Wilde's house?"

WITNESS.

--"Yes.

We went to Tite Street.

It was very late at night.

Wilde let himself and me in with a latchkey.

I remained the night, sleeping with the prisoner, and he himself let me out in the early morning before anyone was about."

Mr. GILL.