Scene: The Old Court at the Old Bailey. The dock is not visible to the audience in this scene.
SIR EDWARD CLARKE, MR. E. H. CARSON and MR. JUSTICE HENN COLLINS are in Court.
CLARKE: The libel charged against the Defendant was published in the form of a visiting card left by Lord Queensberry at the club to which Mr. Wilde belongs. On that card his lordship wrote: “Oscar Wilde, posing as sodomite.”
The accusation contained in those words does not suggest guilt of the actual offense, but that Mr. Wilde appears to be, or desires to appear to be, a person guilty of or inclined to the commission of the gravest offense.
The defendant by his plea has raised a much graver issue. In that plea there is a series of allegations, mentioning the names at several persons and impugning Mr. Wilde’s conduct with those persons.
Between eighteen ninety-two and eighteen ninety-four, Mr. Wilde became aware that certain statements were being made against his character. A man named Allen called on Mr. Wilde, and said he possessed a letter which Mr. Wilde had written to Lord Alfred Douglas, and asked Mr. Wilde to give him something for it. Mr. Wilde absolutely and peremptorily refused. He sent Allen away, giving him ten shillings for himself. But before he left, Allen said he so much appreciated Mr. Wilde’s kindness that he was willing to return the letter, and he did so.
Mr. Wilde looks upon this letter as a sort of prose poem. Here it is:
“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 gray 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 may appear extravagant to those who are in the habit of writing commercial correspondence; but Mr. Wilde is prepared to produce it anywhere as the expression of a poetical feeling, and with no relation whatever to the hateful suggestions put to it in the plea in this case.
There are two counts at the end of the plea which are extremely curious. It is said that Mr. Wilde has published a certain indecent and immoral work with the title of “The Picture of Dorian Gray.” And, secondly, that in December, eighteen ninety-four, was published a certain immoral work in the form of “The Chameleon,” and that Mr. Wilde had contributed to it under the title of “Phrases and Philosophies for the Use of the Young.”
Those are two very gross allegations. Directly Mr. Wilde saw a story in “The Chameleon,” called “The Priest and the Acolyte,” he communicated with the editor, and upon Mr. Wilde’s insistence the magazine was withdrawn. The volume called “The Picture of Dorian Gray” is one that can be bought on any bookstall in London. It has been published five years. My learned friend has the task of satisfying you that the excuses made by the defendant are true. [WILDE is called to the witness-box. He wears a tight-fitting frock-coat of a dark material, a collar with wide points, and a black tie. His hair is banked on the top of his head and carefully parted down the center. His manner is confident, and he leans over the rail in front of him toying with a pair of gloves, while answering questions. He retains his equanimity until he makes the fatal slip when CARSON is cross-examining him about Walter Grainger.]
CLARKE: Are you the prosecutor in this case?
WILDE: I am.
CLARKE: Are you a dramatist and author?
WILDE: I believe I am well known in that capacity.
THE JUDGE: Only answer the questions, please.
CLARKE: How old are you?
WILDE: Thirty-nine.
CLARKE: In eighteen ninety-two, did you make the acquaintance of Lord Alfred Douglas?
WILDE: Yes.
CLARKE: When did you meet Lord Queensberry?
WILDE: In November, eighteen ninety-two.
CLARKE: When did you see him again?
WILDE: In eighteen ninety-four. On both occasions I was lunching with Lord Alfred Douglas at the Café Royal, when Lord Queensberry joined us.
CLARKE: Shortly after the second meeting, did you become aware that he was making suggestions with regard to your character and behavior?
WILDE: Yes. At the end of June, eighteen ninety-four, Lord Queensberry called upon me at my house; not by appointment. The interview took place in the 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 to me like that in my house or anywhere else. I suppose you have come to apologize for the statements you have been making about me.” Lord Queensberry repeated several lies he had heard about Lord Alfred Douglas and myself. Then I asked, “Lord Queensberry, do you seriously believe these lies?” He said, “I do not say you are it, but you look it . . .” [Laughter in Court.]
THE JUDGE: I shall have the court cleared, if I hear the slightest disturbance again.
WILDE: “. . . but you look it, and you pose as it, which is just as bad.” Then I told Lord Queensberry to leave my house.
CLARKE: Before you sent your contribution to “The Chameleon,” had you anything to do with the preparation of that magazine?
WILDE: Nothing whatever.
CLARKE: Did you approve of the story “The Priest and the Acolyte”?
WILDE: I thought it bad and indecent, and I thoroughly disapproved of it.
CLARKE: Your attention has been called to the plea and to the names of the persons with whom your conduct is impugned. Is there any truth in these allegations?
WILDE: There is no truth whatever in anyone of them. [CARSON cross-examines .]
CARSON: You stated that your age was thirty-nine. I think you are over forty. You were born on October the sixteenth, eighteen fifty-four?
WILDE: I had no wish to pose as being young. I am thirty-nine to forty.
CARSON: But being born in eighteen fifty-four makes you more than forty?
WILDE: Ah! Very well.
CARSON: How old was Lord Alfred Douglas when you first knew him?
WILDE: Between twenty and twenty-one years of age.
CARSON: There were two poems by Lord Alfred Douglas in “The Chameleon” in which your article appeared?
WILDE: There were. I thought them exceedingly beautiful poems.
CARSON: Did you think they made any improper suggestions?
WILDE: No, none whatever.
CARSON: You read “The Priest and the Acolyte”?
WILDE: Yes.
CARSON: You have no doubt whatever that that was an immoral story?
WILDE: It was worse—it was badly written.
CARSON: Wasn’t the story that of an acolyte who was discovered by the rector in the priest’s room, and a scandal arose?
WILDE: I have read it only once and nothing would induce me to read it again.
CARSON: Do you think the story blasphemous?
WILDE: I think it violated every artistic canon of beauty.
CARSON: That is not an answer.
WILDE: It is the only one I can give.
CARSON: I want to see the position you pose in. Did you think the story blasphemous?
WILDE: It filled me with disgust. The end was wrong.
CARSON: Answer the question, sir. Did you or did you not consider the story blasphemous?
WILDE: I did not consider the story blasphemous. I thought it disgusting.
CARSON: I am satisfied with that. As regards your own works, you pose as not being concerned with morality or immorality?
WILDE: I do not know whether you use the word “pose” in any particular sense.
CARSON: It is a favorite word of your own.
WILDE: Is it? I have no pose in this matter. In writing a play or a book, I am concerned entirely with literature—that is, with art. I aim not at doing good or evil, but in trying to make a thing that will have some quality of beauty.
CARSON: Listen, sir. Here is one of the “Phrases and Philosophies for the Use of the Young,” which you contributed to “The Chameleon”: “Wickedness is a myth invented by good people to account for the curious attractiveness of others.” You think that is true?
WILDE: I rarely think that anything I write is true.
CARSON: Did you say “rarely”?
WILDE: I might have said “never.”
CARSON: “Religions die when they are proved to be true.” Do you think that was a safe axiom to put forward for the philosophy of the young?
WILDE: Most stimulating.
CARSON: “If one tells the truth, one is sure, sooner or later, to be found out?”
WILDE: That is a pleasing paradox.
CARSON: Is it good for the young?
WILDE: Anything is good that stimulates thought at whatever age.
CARSON: Whether moral or immoral?
WILDE: There is no such thing as morality or immorality in thought. There is immoral emotion.
CARSON: “Pleasure is the only thing one should live for?”
WILDE: I think that the realization of one’s self is the prime aim of life, and to realize one’s self through pleasure is finer than to do so through pain. I am, on that point, entirely on the side of the ancients—the Greeks. It is a pagan idea.
CARSON: “There is something tragic about the enormous number of young men there are in England at the present moment who start life with perfect profiles, and end by adopting some useful profession?”
WILDE: I should think the young have enough sense of humor.
CARSON: You think that is humorous?
WILDE: An amusing play upon words.
CARSON: This is in your introduction to “Dorian Gray”: “There is no such thing as a moral or immoral book. Books are well written or badly written. ”That expresses your view?
WILDE: My view on art, yes.
CARSON: Here is a passage from the book. The artist is speaking to Dorian Gray. “From the moment I met you, your personality had the most extraordinary influence over me. I quite admit that I adored you madly.” Have you ever adored a young man madly?
WILDE: No, not madly; I prefer love—that is a higher form.
CARSON: Never mind that. Let us keep down to the level we are at now.
WILDE: I have never given adoration to anybody but myself.
CARSON: I suppose you think that a very smart thing?
WILDE: Not at all.
CARSON: Then you have never had that feeling?
WILDE: No. The whole idea was borrowed from Shakespeare, I regret to say—yes, from Shakespeare’s sonnets.
CARSON: “I have adored you extravagantly?”
WILDE: Do you mean financially?
CARSON: Oh, yes, financially. Do you think we are talking about finance?
WILDE: I don’t know what you are talking about.
CARSON: Don’t you? Well, I hope I shall make myself very plain before I have done. Where was Lord Alfred Douglas staying when you wrote that letter which my learned friend read in court just now?
WILDE: At the Savoy; I was at Torquay.
CARSON: Why should a man of your age address a boy nearly twenty years younger as “My own boy”?
WILDE: I was fond of him.
CARSON: Did you adore him?
WILDE: No, but I have always been fond of him. I think it is a beautiful letter. It is a poem, I was not writing an ordinary letter. You might as well cross-examine me as to whether “King Lear” or a sonnet of Shakespeare was proper.
CARSON: Suppose a man who was not an artist had written this letter?
WILDE: A man who was not an artist could not have written that letter.
CARSON: “Your slim-gilt soul walks between passion and poetry.” Is that a beautiful phrase?
WILDE: Not as you read it, Mr. Carson.
CARSON: I do not profess to be an artist; and when I hear you give evidence, I am glad I am not.
CLARKE: [Rising] I don’t think my friend should talk like that. [To WILDE] Pray, do not criticize my friend’s reading again.
CARSON: Is not this a very exceptional letter?
WILDE: I should say it is unique.
CARSON: Have you often written letters in the same style as this?
WILDE: I don’t repeat myself in style.
CARSON: Here is another letter which I believe you also wrote to Lord Alfred Douglas. Will you read it?
WILDE: No; I decline. I don’t see why I should.
CARSON: Then I will.
“Dearest of all boys,
“Your letter was delightful, red and yellow wine to me; but I am sad and out of sorts. I must see you soon. You are the divine thing I want, the thing of grace and beauty. Why are you not here, my dear, my wonderful boy?
“Your own Oscar.”
Is that an ordinary letter?
WILDE: Everything! I write is extraordinary. It was a tender expression of my great admiration for Lord Alfred Douglas. It was not, like the other, a prose poem.
CARSON: How long have you known Wood?
WILDE: I think I met him at the end of January, eighteen ninety-three.
CARSON: Who was Wood?
WILDE: He had no occupation. He was looking for a situation.
CARSON: The first time you met Wood, did you take him to supper in a private room at a restaurant?
WILDE: Yes. I had been asked to be kind to him.
CARSON: How much money did you give Wood on that occasion?
WILDE: Two pounds.
CARSON: Why?
WILDE: Because I had been asked to be kind to him.
CARSON: I suggest that you had another reason for giving him money?
WILDE: It is perfectly untrue.
CARSON: Did you consider that he had come to levy blackmail?
WILDE: I did; and I determined to face it.
CARSON: And the way you faced it was by giving him fifteen pounds to go to America?
WILDE: No. I gave him the money after he had told me the pitiful tale about himself foolishly perhaps, but out of pure kindness.
CARSON: Had you a farewell lunch at a restaurant?
WILDE: Yes.
CARSON: In a private room?
WlLDE: Yes.
CARSON: Did Wood call you Oscar?
WILDE: Yes.
CARSON: What did you call Wood?
WILDE: His name is Alfred.
CARSON: Didn’t you call him “Alf”?
WILDE: I never use abbreviations.
CARSON: When you were staying at the Albemarle Hotel in eighteen ninety-two, did you become fond of your publisher’s office-boy?
WILDE: That is not the proper form for the question to be addressed to me. I deny that that was the position held by Mr. Edward Shelley, to whom you are referring.
CARSON: What age was Mister Shelley?
WILDE: About twenty. I met him when arranging for the publication of my books.
CARSON: Did you ask him to dine with you at the Albemarle Hotel?
WILDE: Yes.
CARSON: Was that for the purpose of having an intellectual treat?
WILDE: Well, for him, yes.
CARSON: On that occasion, did you have a room leading into a bedroom?
WILDE: Yes.
CARSON: Did you become intimate with a young man named Alphonse Conway at Worthing?
WILDE: Yes.
CARSON: He sold newspapers at the kiosk on the pier?
WILDE: This is the first I have heard of his connection with literature.
CARSON: Did you take the lad to Brighton and provide him with a suit of blue serge?
WILDE: Yes.
CARSON: And a straw hat with a band of red and blue?
WILDE: That, I am afraid, was his own unfortunate selection.
CARSON: Have you been to afternoon tea-parties at Alfred Taylor’s rooms in Little College Street?
WILDE: Certainly.
CARSON: Did you get Taylor to arrange dinners at which you could meet young men?
WILDE: No.
CARSON: But you have dined with young men?
WILDE: Often.
CARSON: Always in a private room?
WILDE: Generally. I prefer it.
CARSON: Now, did you not know that Taylor was notorious for introducing young men to older men?
WILDE: I never heard that in my life. He has introduced young men to me.
CARSON: How many?
WILDE: About five.
CARSON: Have you given money to them?
WILDE: Yes, I think to all five—money and presents.
CARSON: Did they give you anything?
WILDE: Me? Me? No!
CARSON: Among these five, did Taylor introduce you to Charles Parker?
WILDE: Yes.
CARSON: You became friendly with him?
WILDE: Yes,
CARSON: Did you know that he was a groom out of employment?
WILDE: No.
CARSON: How old was he?
WILDE: Really, I do not keep a census.
CARSON: Never mind about a census. Tell me how old he was.
WILDE: About twenty.
CARSON: How much money did you give Parker?
WILDE: During the time I have known him, I should think about four or five pounds.
CARSON: Why? For what?
WILDE: Because he was poor and I liked him. What better reason could I have?
CARSON: Did you invite Parker and his brother to dinner?
WILDE: Yes.
CARSON: Did you know that one Parker was a groom, and the other a gentleman’s valet?
WILDE: I did not know it, but if I had, I should not have cared. I have a passion to civilize the community.
CARSON: Was there plenty of champagne?
WILDE: Well, I did not press wine upon them.
CARSON: You did not stint them?
WILDE: What gentleman would stint his guests?
CARSON: What gentleman would stint the valet and the groom?
CLARKE: [Jumping to his feet] I object!
THE JUDGE: I cannot allow that objection.
CARSON: Do you drink champagne yourself?
WILDE: Yes; iced champagne is a favorite drink of mine—strictly against my doctor’s orders.
CARSON: Never mind your doctor’s orders, sir.
WILDE: I never do.
CARSON: How many times did Charles Parker have tea with you at your rooms in St. James’s Place?
WILDE: Five or six times.
CARSON: What did he do all the time?
WILDE: What did he do? Why, he drank his tea, smoked cigarettes, and, I hope, enjoyed himself.
CARSON: What was there in common between this young man and yourself? What attraction had he for you?
WILDE: I delight in the society of people much younger than myself. I like those who may be called idle and careless. I recognize no social distinctions of any kind; and to me youth, the mere fact of youth, is so wonderful that I would rather talk to a young man for half an hour than be even—well, cross-examined in court by an eminent Irish Queen’s Counsel.
CARSON: When did you first meet Fred Atkins?
WILDE: In October, eighteen ninety-two.
CARSON: You called him Fred and he called you Oscar?
WILDE: I have a passion for being addressed by my Christian name.
CARSON: You took him to Paris?
WILDE: Yes.
CARSON: When you were in Paris, did you suggest that he should have his hair curled?
WILDE: I should have been very angry if he had had his hair curled. It would have been most unbecoming.
CARSON: Did Taylor introduce you to a man named Ernest Scarfe?
WILDE: Yes.
CARSON: Did you give him any money?
WILDE: Never.
CARSON: Did you give him any presents?
WILDE: Yes, a cigarette case. It is my custom to present cigarette cases.
CARSON: When did you first know Sidney Mavor?
WILDE: In September, eighteen ninety-two.
CARSON: Did you give him anything?
WILDE: I don’t think I even gave him a cigarette case.
CARSON: On October the third, did you not order Thornhill’s in Bond Street to send him one of the value of four pounds, eleven shillings and sixpence?
WILDE: Well, if it is there, perhaps I did.
CARSON: Why did you give him a cigarette case when you had known him only a month?
WILDE: I give what presents I like to anybody I like. I found pleasure in his society.
CARSON: Did you find pleasure in his society when he stayed with you at the Albemarle Hotel for the night?
WILDE: Yes, in the evening, and at breakfast.
CARSON: Do you know Walter Grainger?
WILDE: Yes.
CARSON: Have you dined with him?
WILDE: Never. He was a servant at a house in Oxford where Lord Alfred Douglas had rooms.
CARSON: Did you ever kiss him?
WILDE: Oh, dear, no. He was a peculiarly plain boy. He was, unfortunately, extremely ugly. I pitied him for it.
CARSON: Was that the reason why you did not kiss him?
WILDE: Mr. Carson, you are pertinently insolent.
CARSON: Did you say that in support of your statement that you never kissed him?
WILDE: No. It is a childish question.
CARSON: Did you ever put that forward as a reason why you never kissed the boy?
WILDE: Not at all.
CARSON: Why, sir, did you mention that the boy was extremely ugly?
WILDE: For this reason: If I were asked why I did not kiss a doormat, I should say because I do not like to kiss door-mats. I do not know why I mentioned that he was ugly, except that I was stung by your insolent question.
CARSON: Why did you mention his ugliness?
WILDE: It is ridiculous to imagine that any such thing could have occurred under any circumstances.
CARSON: Then why did you mention his ugliness, I ask you?
WILDE: You insulted me by an insulting question.
CARSON: Was that a reason why you should say the boy was ugly? [WILDE’S unfinished replies are incoherent and almost inaudible.]
WILDE: It was the reason why...that...
CARSON: Why did you say he was ugly?
WILDE: Because you said...because I wasn’t...
CARSON: Why did you add that?
WILDE: I was ... I was...
CARSON: Why? Why?
WILDE:YOU sting me and insult me and try to unnerve me; and at times one says things flippantly when one ought to speak more seriously. I admit it.
CARSON: Then you said it flippantly?
WILDE: Oh, yes, it was a flippant answer.
CARSON: That is my last question. [The curtain falls. When it rises again, CARSON is opening the case for the defense, and addressing the jury. WILDE is not in court.]
CARSON: [Speaking as the curtain rises] I hope I have sufficiently demonstrated to the jury already that Lord Queensberry was absolutely justified in bringing to a climax the connection of Mr. Oscar Wilde and Lord Alfred Douglas.
I am not here to say that anything has ever happened between Lord Alfred Douglas and Mr. Oscar Wilde. God forbid! But everything shows that the young man is in a dangerous position.
There is a startling similarity in all the cases that have been raised against Mr. Wilde. In each we find no equality in age, education, or position with Wilde. But on the other hand there is a curious similarity in the ages of the young men themselves.
Who are these young men? There is Wood. Of his history Mr. Wilde has told you that he knew nothing. Who was Parker? Mr. Wilde professed the same ignorance as to that youth. Who was Scarfe? Exactly in the same way Mr. Wilde knew nothing about him.
Parker will be called to tell his unfortunate story. If Mr. Wilde wanted to assist Parker, was it doing the lad a good turn to take him to a restaurant and prime him with champagne and a good dinner? Parker will tell you that when he dined with Mr. Wilde he had whiskies and sodas and iced champagne—that iced champagne in which Mr. Wilde indulged, contrary to his doctor’s orders.
CLARKE: [Rising] May I claim your lordship’s indulgence while I interpose to make a statement? [CARSON resumes his seat.]
CLARKE: Those who represent Mr. Wilde in this case cannot conceal from themselves that the judgment that might be formed on the literary questions might not improbably induce the jury to say that Lord Queensberry in using the word “posing” was using a word for which there was sufficient justification to entitle him to be relieved of a criminal charge in respect of his statement. And I, and my learned friends associated with me in this matter, have to look forward to this—that a verdict, given to the defendant on that part of the case, might be interpreted outside as a conclusive finding with regard to all parts of the case.
We feel that we cannot resist a verdict of “Not Guilty”—having regard to the word “posing:” I trust that this may make an end of the case.
CARSON: [Rising] If there is a plea of Not Guilty, a plea which involves that the defendant has succeeded in his plea of justification, I am satisfied. Of course, the verdict will be that the plea of justification is proved, and that the words were published for the public benefit.
THE JUDGE: I shall have to tell the jury that justification was proved; and that it was true in substance and fact that the prosecutor had “posed as a sodomite.” [To the jury] Your verdict will be—Not Guilty.
CURTAIN
Scene: The Old Court at the Old Bailey. A different view of the court. The dock, in Which WILDE stands, is now visible to the audience.
Ochers in court: The SOLICITOR-GENERAL, SIR EDWARD CLARKE, and THE JUDGE.
When the curtain rises the SOLICITOR-GENERAL is concluding his opening speech for the prosecution.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: Gentlemen, it has been necessary for me to go through the case in detail, because I must assume, as you are an entirely fresh jury, that you are totally ignorant of all the facts previously elucidated. I have endeavored to limit myself to a plain and simple statement of testimony which the prosecution is in a position to call before you. In conclusion, I can only invite your very earnest and careful attention to the evidence, for it is upon this evidence that the defendant must be judged. Call Charles Parker. [CHARLES PARKER called to the witness-box. He gives his evidence with impudent self-assurance and does not appears to be in the least ashamed of the incidents Which he relate.]
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: What is your name?
PARKER: Charles Parker.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: How old are you?
PARKER: Nineteen.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: You have been employed as a groom?
PARKER: Yes.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: Were you out of employment in March, eighteen ninety-three?
PARKER: Yes.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: Without means?
PARKER: Not absolutely.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: Did you go with your brother one evening to the St. James’s restaurant?
PARKER: Yes.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: And a man spoke to you?
PARKER: Yes; Taylor spoke to us.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: What did he say?
PARKER: He offered us drinks.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: What happened then?
PARKER: He spoke about men.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: In what way?
PARKER: I think he asked us if we ever went out with men. He said there was some good money to be made in that way.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: Did he mention any names?
PARKER: He mentioned Mr. Wilde and said he would like to introduce him to us.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: For what purpose?
PARKER: He said he was a good man.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: But for what purpose?
PARKER: He meant he was a good man for money.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: But did he say why he wanted to introduce Wilde to you?
PARKER: Because he liked meeting boys.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: Later, did you go by appointment to Taylor’s rooms in Little College Street?
PARKER : Yes.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: What passed there?
PARKER: I forget.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: Think now; you went there by appointment and you saw Taylor. What passed?
PARKER: I forget.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: What was said?
PARKER: Oh—he said he had arranged to introduce us to Mr. Wilde that evening at a restaurant.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: Did you go?
PARKER: Yes.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: What happened?
PARKER: We were shown upstairs into a private room with a table laid for four. After a while Mr. Wilde came in. Then we all sat down to dinner. Mr. Wilde sat on my left.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: Was it a good dinner?
PARKER: Yes. The table was lighted with pink-shaded candles.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: What did you have to drink?
PARKER: Champagne, and brandy and coffee afterwards.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: Did you see who paid for the dinner?
PARKER: I saw Mr. Wilde write out a check.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: Now, after dinner, did Mr. Wilde say anything to you?
PARKER: Yes. He said, “This is the boy for me.” Then he asked me to go back to his hotel with him.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: Did you go?
PARKER: Yes. We went in a hansom.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: What happened at the hotel?
PARKER: First of all, we went up to a sitting-room on the second floor, and Mr. Wilde ordered some more drink—whisky and soda.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: After the waiter who brought it had gone, what did Wilde say to you?
PARKER: He asked me to stay with him. And I did. I was there about two hours. Before I left Mr. Wilde gave me two pounds and told me to come again next week.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: Did you go?
PARKER: Yes, He gave me three pounds the second time.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: Did you see Wilde at other places?
PARKER: Yes, from time to time. He took me to the Crystal Palace, and to the Pavilion—we had a box there. We dined at restaurants, and I went to his rooms in St. James’s Place seven or eight times. And once he visited me at my room in Chelsea. He kept his cab waiting. After that there was some unpleasantness with my landlady, so I left.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: When did you last see Wilde?
PARKER: About nine months ago. He drove past me in Trafalgar Square and stopped his cab. We shook hands, and he said, “You’re looking as pretty as ever.” [Laughs.]
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: Until Taylor introduced you to Wilde, had you ever been mixed up with this kind of thing before?
PARKER: No, never. And I’ve given it up now. I’ve joined the army. [The curtain-falls. When it rises again, WILDE is in the witness-box, being cross-examined by the SOLICITOR-GENERAL. WILDE looks haggard and worn. His hair is untidy. He gives his answers wearily.]
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: [Speaking as the curtain rises] Why did you go to Taylor’s rooms?
WILDE: Because I used to meet amusing people there.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: A rather curious establishment, wasn’t it?
WILDE: I didn’t think so.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: Did you notice that no one could see in through the windows?
WILDE: No; I didn’t notice that.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: Did it strike you that this place was at all peculiar?
WILDE: Not at all.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: Not the sort of street you would usually visit in? Rather a rough neighborhood?
WILDE: [With a momentary flash of the old humor] Perhaps—it was very near the Houses of Parliament.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL:You have given away a large number of cigarette cases?
WILDE: Yes. I have a great fancy for giving cigarette cases.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: To young men?
WILDE: Yes,
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: Was the conversation of these young men literary?
WILDE: No: but the fact that I had written a successful play seemed to them very wonderful, and I was gratified by their admiration.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: The admiration of these boys?
WILDE: Yes. I am fond of praise. I like to be made much of.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: By these boys?
WILDE: Yes
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: You like bright boys?
WILDE: I like bright boys.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: Did you not pause to consider whether it would be of the slightest service to lads in their position to be entertained in such style by a man in your position?
WILDE: No. They enjoyed it as schoolboys would enjoy a treat. It was something they did not get every day.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: You looked on them as schoolboys?
WILDE: They were amused by the little luxuries at the restaurants I took them to. The pink lampshades and so forth.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: When you wrote letters to Lord Alfred Douglas, why did you choose the words “My own boy” as a mode of address?
WILDE: It was a fantastic, extravagant way of writing. It does not seem to me to be a question of whether a thing is right or proper, but of literary expression.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: I did not use the words proper or right. Was it decent?
WILDE: Oh, decent? Of course; there is nothing indecent in it.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: Do you think that was a decent way for a man of your age to address a man of his?
WILDE: It was a beautiful way for an artist to address a young man of culture and charm. Decency does not enter into it.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: Doesn’t it? Do you know the meaning of the word?
WILDE: Yes,
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: Did Lord Alfred Douglas read you his poem, “Two Loves”?
WILDE: Yes.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: It contains these lines:
“I am true love, I fill
The hearts of boy and girl with mutual flame.”
Then sighing said the other, “Have thy will,
I am the love that dare not speak its name.”
Was that poem explained to you?
WILDE: I think it is clear.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: There is no question as to what it means? WILDE: Most certainly not.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: Is it not clear that the love described relates to natural and unnatural love?
WILDE: No.
SOLICITOR-GENERAL: What is “The love that dare not speak its name”?
WILDE: The love that dare not speak its name in this century is such a great affection of an elder for a younger man as there was between David and Jonathan, such as Plato made the very basis of his philosophy, and such as you find in the sonnets of Michael Angelo and Shakespeare. It is that deep, spiritual affection that is as pure as it is perfect. It dictates and pervades great works of art like those of Shakespeare and Michael Angelo, and those two letters of mine, such as they are. It is in this century misunderstood, so much misunderstood that it may be described as “The love that dare not speak its name,” and on account of it I am placed where I am now. It is beautiful, it is fine, it is the noblest form of affection. There is nothing unnatural about it. It is intellectual, and it repeatedly exists between an elder and a younger man, when the elder man has intellect, and the younger man has all the joy, hope and glamour of life before him. But that it should be so the world does not understand. [Then curtain falls. When it rises again, WILDE is in the dock.]
THE JUDGE: Oscar Wilde, the crime of which you have been convicted is so bad that one has to put stern restraint upon one’s self to prevent one’s self from describing, in language which I would rather not use, the sentiments which must rise to the breast of every man of honor who has heard the details of these two terrible trials. That the jury have arrived at a correct verdict in this case I cannot persuade myself to entertain a shadow of doubt; and I hope, at all events, that those who sometimes imagine that a judge is half-hearted in the cause of decency and morality because he takes care no prejudice shall enter into the case, may see that this is consistent with the utmost sense of indignation at the horrible charges brought home to you.
It is no use for me to address you. People who can do these things must be dead to all sense of shame, and one cannot hope to produce any effect upon them. It is the worst case I have ever tried. That you, Wilde, have been the center of a circle of extensive corruption of the most hideous kind among young men, it is impossible to doubt.
I shall, under the circumstances, be expected to pass the severest sentence that the law allows. In my judgment it is totally inadequate for such a case as this.
The sentence of this court is that you be imprisoned and kept to hard labor for two years.
CURTAIN