18 - Life of Oscar Wilde by Robert Sherard

Dive into the intriguing life of Oscar Wilde, the renowned Irish playwright and wit, through the eyes of his long-time friend Robert Sherard. In his second of four biographies, Sherard unravels Wildes complex character, shedding light on their 20-year friendship.

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Chapter seventeen of the Life of Oscar Wilde by Robert Charrard.
This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. For more
information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. Chapter seventeen,
The Poet in Prison, written by one of the warders
in Reading Jail. Footnote. This chapter has been contributed to

(00:25):
this biography by a man who was a warder in
Reading Jail at the time of Oscar Wilde's imprisonment there.
The express condition under which it was contributed was that
it should be printed exactly as it stood in the manuscript,
with no alteration of a single phrase or word or expression.
This condition has been faithfully observed, and the chapter has

(00:47):
been printed as it was written. End footnote. There are
supreme moments in the lives of men, as there are
events in the histories of nations, which mark epochs and
stand out in bold relief from the many others which
go to make up the sum total of their existence.
Those moments in the life of mister Wilde were when

(01:10):
he stepped out of the dock at the Old Bailey,
a ruined man, and with a sentence of two years
imprisonment hanging over his unfortunate head. There are days, months,
and years in the lives of some men, which to
them are an eternity. For them, the hand of time
has ceased to move. The clock no longer strikes the

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recurring hour. For them, there is no dawn. There is
no day, occasionally perhaps a twilight, for as the adage
has it, hope springs eternal in the human breast. They
live through one long bewildering night, a night of terror,
a night of appalling darkness unrelieved by a single star,

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a night of misery, a night of despair. Two years
imprisonment meant to the poet, one long dreary night, a
night spent in an inferno, a night without variation, a
night without dreams, no dreams, but nightmares, rendered the more

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ghastly because of their terrible reality. From them, there was
no awakening nightmares. Wherein men were flogged, wherein men were executed. Others,
it may be urged, have been in prison before the poet,
others since, and others now hi. Yes, but they were
not poets. They are not poets in a sense. He was.

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Their sufferings, no doubt, are great, but his were greater.
Reared in the lap of luxury, living in an atmosphere
of culture and refinement. He the apostle of estheticism, was
suddenly hurled from the proud pinnacle on which his genius
had placed him, and without passing through any intermediate stage,

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found himself encased amid walls of iron and surrounded by
bars of steel. He who formerly devoted himself to the
producing of the highest works of art, was now shredding
tarred ropes in a dismal cell. He with a poet's
weakness for adornment, was now attired in the garb of

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gloomy gray, taken from a prison wardrobe. He to whom
expression was life, nay more than life itself, was suddenly
reduced to a silence more silent than the grave. And
he who had made a name glorious in the world
of literature, had now only a number. His was worse

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than suffering. His was a tragedy, and one of the
greatest that the nineteenth century has to record. For the
first eighteen months of his imprisonment, all the rich because
of the system, were applied to him relentlessly. He had
to pick his quantity of oakum or bear the punishment
that was sure to follow. Turn the monotonous crank along

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with his fellows, by which the prison was supplied with water,
read the silly books from the library, or pace his
cell a prey to his own sad thoughts until his
health broke down under the unnatural strain. And to prevent
his being sent to a madhouse, he was allowed the
privilege of having a limited number of books, which were

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sent by friends, and which afterwards found a place amongst
others less abstruse, on the shelves of the prison library.
Later he was allowed a more important privilege, the privilege
of writing, and to this concession the world O's day profundis.
He wrote mostly in the evenings, when he knew he

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would be undisturbed. In his cell were two wood trestles
across which he placed his plank bed. This was his table,
and as he himself observed, it was a very good
table too. His tins he kept scrupulously clean, and in
the mornings, after he had arranged them in their regulated order,

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he would step back and view them with an air
of childlike complacency. He was dreadfully distressed because he could
not polish his shoes or brush his hair. If I
could but feel clean he said, I should not feel
so utterly miserable that these awful bristles touching his chin

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are horrid. Before leaving his cell to see a visitor,
he was always careful to conceal, as far as possible,
his unshaven chin by means of his red handkerchief. He
showed great agitation when a visitor was announced, for I
never know, He said, what fresh sorrow may not have

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entered my life, and is in this manner born to me,
so that I may carry it to my cell and
place it in my already over stopped storehouse, which is
my heart. My heart is my storehouse of sorrow. It
was drawing the latter part of the poet's imprisonment that
the order was issued for first offenders to be kept

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apart from the other prisoners. They were distinguished by two
red stars, one of which was on the jacket and
the other worn on the cap, and in consequence were
known as Star class men. The order, not being retrospective,
did not apply to the poet, and in consequence, he,

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like the remainder, had to stand with his face to
the wall when any of the Star class were passing
in his vicinity. The framers of the order were no
doubt actuated by the best of motives, but its too
literal interpretation caused it to look rather ludicrous. I have
seen the poet having to stand with his face to

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the wall while a villainous looking ruffian who had been
convicted for half killing his poor wife past him. In fact,
nearly every day he was forced to assume this undignified position,
which might have been obviated but for the crass stupidity
of officialdom in church, the poet seemed to suffer from Onwui.

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He sat in a listless attitude, with his elbow resting
on the back of his chair, his legs crossed, and
gazed dreamily around him and above him. There were times
when he was so oblivious of his surroundings, so lost
in reverie, that it required a friendly nudge from one
of the lost sheep beside him to remind him that

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a hymn had been given out and that he must
rise and sin, or at least appear to sing his
praises unto God. When the chaplain was addressing his shorn
and gray garbed flock, telling them how wicked they all
were and how thankful they should all be, that they
lived in a Christian country where a paternal government was

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as anxious for the welfare of their souls as for
the safe keeping of their miserable bodies. That society did
not wish to punish them although they had erred and
sinned against society, That they were undergoing a process of purification,
That their prison was their purgatory, from which they could
emerge as pure and spotless, as though they had never

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sinned at all. That if they did so, society would
meet and welcome them with open arms. That they were
the prodigal sons of the community, and that the community
against which they had previously sinned was fattening calves to
feast them. They would but undertake to return to the

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fold and become good citizens. The poet would smile, but
not his usual smile. This was a cynical smile, a
disbelieving smile, and often it showed despair. I long to
rise in my place and cry out, said he, and

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tell the poor, disinherited wretches around me that it is
not so, to tell them that they are society's victims,
and that society has nothing to offer them but starvation
in the streets, all starvation and cruelty in prison. I
have often wondered why he never did cry out, why

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he was able to continue day after day, the dull,
slow round of a wearisome existence, an existence of sorrow,
sorrow benumbed by its awful monotony, an existence of pain,
an existence of death. But he faithfully obeyed the laws
and conscientiously observed the rules prescribed by society for those

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whom it consigns to the abodes of sorrow. I understand
he was punished once for talking. I have no personal
knowledge of the circumstance, but I know that it would
be almost a miracle for one to serve two years
imprisonment without once being reported. Some of the rules are
made with no other object than to be broken, so

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that an excuse may be found for inflicting additional punishment. Footnote.
The writer, it should be remembered, is a prison warder.
End of footnote. However, he could not have been punished
by solitary confinement for fifteen days, as has been stated,
a governor is not empowered to give more than three days,

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but twenty four hours bread and water is the usual
punishment for talking, and if it be the first offense,
the delinquent is generally let off with a caution. During
the period of his incarceration, the poet suffered in health,
but he seldom complained to the doctor. He was afraid

(11:15):
of doing so lest he should be sent to the
sick ward. He preferred the seclusion of his cell. There
he could think aloud without attracting the glances or the
undertoned comments of the less mobile minded. There he could
be alone, alone with the specter of his past, alone
with his books, alone with his God. When I entered

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his cell on a certain bleak, raw morning in early March,
I found him still in bed. This was unusual, and
so I expressed surprise. I have had a bad night.
He explained, pains in my inside, which I think must
be cramp, and my head seemed splitting. I asked whether

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he had better not report sick. No, he said, not
for anything. I shall be better perhaps as the day advances.
Come back in a few minutes, when I will be up.
I returned to his cell a few minutes afterwards, and
found he was up, but looking so dreadfully ill that
I again advised him to see the doctor. He declined, however,

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saying he would be all right. When he had had
something warm to drink. I knew that in the ordinary
course of events, he would have nothing for at least
another hour, so I resolved to find something to give him.
In the meanwhile myself, I hastened off and warmed up
some beef tea, poured it into a bottle, placed the

(12:42):
bottle inside my jacket, and returned towards his cell. While
ascending the staircase, the bottle slipped between my shirt and skin.
It was very hot. I knew that there was an
unoccupied cell on the next landing, and I determined to
go there and we draw the bottle from its painful position.

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But at that moment a voice called me from the
central hall below. I looked down and saw the chief warder.
He beckoned me towards him. I went back. He wished
to speak concerning a discrepancy in the previous nights muster report.
I attempted to elucidate the mystery of two prisoners being

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in the prison who had no claim on its hospitality.
I am afraid I threw but little light on the mystery.
I was in frightful agony. The hot bottle burned against
my breast like molten lead. I have said there are
supreme moments in the lives of men. Those were supreme
moments to me. I could have cried out in my agony,

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but dared not. The cold, damp beads of perspiration gathered
on my brow. I writhed and twisted in all manners
of ways to ease myself of the dreadful thing. But
in vain I could not shift that infernal bottle try
as I might. It lay there against my breast like
a hot poultice, but hotter than any poultice that was

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ever made by a cantankerous mother or by a cantankerous nurse.
And the strange thing about it was that the longer
it lay, the hotter it became. The Chief eyed me curiously.
I believe he thought I had been drinking. I know
I was incoherent enough for anything. At last, he walked

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off and left me, for which I felt truly thankful.
I bounded up the iron stairs and entered the poet cell, and,
pulling out the burning bottle, I related, amid gasps and imprecations,
my awful experience. The poet smiled while the tale was
being told, then laughed, actually laughed. I had never seen

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him laugh naturally before, and with the same qualification. I
may add that I never saw him laugh again. I
felt angry because he laughed. I told him so. I
said it was poor reward for all I had undergone
to be laughed at, and so saying, I came out
and closed the door. I closed it with a bang.

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When I took him his breakfast, he looked the picture
of contrition. He said he wouldn't touch it unless I
promised to forgive him. Not even the cocoa, I asked.
Not even the cocoa, he replied, and he looked at
it longingly. Well, rather than starve you, I'll forgive you.
And supposing I laugh again, said he, with a smile.

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I shan't forgive you again, I said. The following morning,
he handed me a sheet of foolscap blue official paper.
Here is something, said he, which is not of much
value now, but probably maybe if you keep it long enough.
I had no opportunity of reading then, but when I

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had read it, I was struck by the power and
beauty of its expression. It was headed an apology and
written in his old original and racy style. The flow
of subtle humor, the wit and charm of the many
epigrams the naivete contained in some of the personal illusions

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were captivating. As a lover of style, I was captivated
and told him so, Ah, said he. I never thought
to resume that style again. I had left it behind
me as a thing of the past. But yesterday morning
I laughed, which showed my perversity, for I really felt
sorry for you. I did not mean to laugh. I

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had vowed never to laugh again. Then I thought it
fitting when I had broken one vow, or to break
the other. Also I had made two, and I broke both.
But now I have made them again. I never intend
to laugh, nor do I intend ever again to write
anything calculated to produce laughter in others, I am no

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longer the sidious of comedy. I have sworn solemnly to
dedicate my life to tragedy. If I write any more books,
it will be to form a library of lamentations. They
will be written in a style begotten of sorrow, and
in sentences composed in solitude and punctuated by tears. They

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will be written exclusively for those who have suffered or
are suffering. I understand them, and they will understand me.
I shall be an enigma to the world of pleasure,
but a mouthpiece for the world of pain. In conversation,
the poet was always perfectly rational. His every action during

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the day was rational. But when left to himself in
the evening, he underwent a transformation, or it might be
more appropriate to term it a transfiguration. It was when
he was alone in his cell, when the doors were
double locked, when the gas was flickering, when the shadows
of night were falling, when all was quiet, when all

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was dead. The grim and watchful warder moves around with
velvety tread. There is a still and awful silence, a
silence in the ward's slippers, a silence in the cells,
a silence in the air. The dark, somber shadow stops
at the door of each living sepulcher and gazes in.

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He peers through the aperture of glass to satisfy himself
that the tomb has not become too realistic, that it
still contains the living, That none have dared to cheat
the law, have dared to baffle justice. The view is
nearly the same in each. A drab and ghostly figure

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seated on a stool, finishing the day's task, which will
be collected at the hour of eight, or if he
has already finished his work, he sits staring with vacant
eyes into vacancy, or looks for consolation. In the Book
of Common Prayer, the watching figure glides on now stops,

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peers into another cell near the end of the corridor.
The cell is marked C. Three three. It is the
cell of the poet. Around the whole circle of living sepulchers.
No sight like this, no sight more poignant, no sight
more or inspiring, no sight more terrible. The poet is

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now alone, alone with the gods, alone with the muse.
He is pacing his cell one, two, three, three steps.
When he has to turn three steps and turn again.
His hands behind his back are wrist encircled by a hand,
and thus backwards and four towards to and fro. He

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goes his head thrown back, smiling. But heavens, what a smile.
His eyes, those wonderful eyes, are fairly dancing. Now they're
looking towards the ceiling, but far beyond the ceiling, looking
even beyond the depths of airy space, looking into the infinite.

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Now he laughs, what a laugh, piercing, poignant, bitter, all
and more are condensed in that awful laugh. His powerful
imagination is at work. Though his body is in fetters,
his soul is free, For who can chain the soul
of a poet? It roams on high and mighty altitudes,

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high above the haunts of men, Then higher yet above
the silvery clouds. It soars and finds a resting place
among the pale shadows of the moon. Then back to earth.
It comes with one fell stroke, as lightning flashed from heaven,
back through the iron window, back to the prison cell. Hush,

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he speaks. He breathes the sacred name of Mother and
calls his wife by name. He sheds a tear. It
glistens on his cheek. When lo an angel comes and
the tear evaporates. And thus his life, whate'er he may
have done, was purged from his account by one hot

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tear that trickled from a heart, redeemed and purified by suffering.
But hark, he speaks again. He addresses an imaginary visitor,
with hands out stretched towards his little stool. Long long ago,
in boyhood's days, I had fond ambition. I intended to

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reform the world and alter its condition. I raised myself
through ye alone to a very high position. And now,
my friend, you see me, a poor victim of attrition.
He laughs again and repeats the last few words, A
victim of attrition, pityless attrition. He turns away and resumes

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his melancholy walk, then stops once more before his visionary
visitor and raises his finger. The world, he says, with
a tinge of egotism, is not so solid. After all,
I can shake it with an epigram and convulse it
with a song. He laughs once more, then sinks upon

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the prison stool and bows his head. And here we
leave him to think his thoughts alone alone. Let no
one mock those knightly scenes and say the poet was
not sincere in prison. He was the very soul of sincerity.
And remember, no man can wear a mask in prison.

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You may deceive the governor, you may deceive the chaplain,
you may deceive the doctor, but you cannot deceive the warder.
His eye is upon you when no other eye sees you,
during your hours of sleep, as well as during your
hours of wakefulness. What the poet was before he went

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to prison, I care not what he may have been
after he left prison, I know not one thing. I know, however,
that while in prison he lived the life of a saint,
or as near that holy state as poor mortal can
ever hope to attain. His gentle smile of sweet sincerity

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was something to remember. It must have been a smile
like this that Bunyan wore as he lay in Bedford
jail dreaming his wonderful dreams. It must have been a
similar smile the loom in the noble face of Saint
Francis of Assisi when he spoke of his brother the
Wind and his sister the Rain. Had Hugo been an

(24:10):
artist with the brush, as he was artist with the pen,
he would have depicted such a smile as shimmering over
the features of the good Bishop when he told his
great white lie to save poor Jean Valjean. And who
can say that the Prince of Peace himself would have
considered such a smile unworthy of his countenance as he

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uttered the sweet words of invitation to the little children
whom the disciples wished to keep away. One can remember
such a smile, Although one's pen fails to describe its sweetness,
as it fails to describe the sweet perfume of the rose.
It was a smile of resignation, a smile of benevolence,

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a smile of innocence, a smile of love. Farewell, brave heart,
May your sleep be as peaceful as your smile. May
the angels hover around your tomb in death as they
hovered around your tomb in life. And had you been
destitute of every other attribute that goes to make the

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perfect man, that smile alone would have served you as
your passport through the gates of paradise and onwards to
the great White throne. Farewell. I have kept my promise.
I have remembered you during all the years that have
intervened since that memorable day we shook hands and parted

(25:36):
in your cold and cheerless cell. You asked me to
think of you sometimes. I have thought of you always.
Scarcely one single day has passed since then that I
have not thought of you, You who were at once
my prisoner and my friend. End of Chapter seventeen.