No season, it is said, is so beautiful as the brief northern summer. Three-fourths of the year is cold and dark, and the ice-bound landscape is swept by snowstorm and blizzard1. Summer comes like a goddess; in a twinkling the snow vanishes and Nature puts on her robes of tenderest green; the birds arrive in flocks; flowers spring to life on all sides, and the sun shines by night as by day. Such a summertide, so beautiful and so brief, was accorded to Oscar Wilde before the final desolation.
I want to give a picture of him at the topmost height of happy hours, which will afford some proof of his magical talent of speech besides my own appreciation2 of it, and, fortunately, the incident has been given to me. Mr. Ernest Beckett, now Lord Grimthorpe, a lover of all superiorities, who has known the ablest men of the time, takes pleasure in telling a story which shows Oscar Wilde’s influence over men who were anything but literary in their tastes. Mr. Beckett had a party of Yorkshire squires3, chiefly fox-hunters and lovers of an outdoor life, at Kirkstall Grange when he heard that Oscar Wilde was in the neighbouring town of Leeds. Immediately he asked him to lunch at the Grange, chuckling4 to himself beforehand at the sensational5 novelty of the experiment. Next day “Mr. Oscar Wilde” was announced and as he came into the room the sportsmen forthwith began hiding themselves behind newspapers or moving together in groups in order to avoid seeing or being introduced to the notorious writer. Oscar shook hands with his host as if he had noticed nothing, and began to talk.
“In five minutes,” Grimthorpe declares, “all the papers were put down and everyone had gathered round him to listen and laugh.”
At the end of the meal one Yorkshireman after the other begged the host to follow the lunch with a dinner and invite them to meet the wonder again. When the party broke up in the small hours they all went away delighted with Oscar, vowing6 that no man ever talked more brilliantly. Grimthorpe cannot remember a single word Oscar said: “It was all delightful7,” he declares, “a play of genial8 humour over every topic that came up, like sunshine dancing on waves.”
The extraordinary thing about Oscar’s talent was that he did not monopolise the conversation: he took the ball of talk wherever it happened to be at the moment and played with it so humorously that everyone was soon smiling delightedly. The famous talkers of the past, Coleridge, Macaulay, Carlyle and the others, were all lecturers: talk to them was a discourse9 on a favourite theme, and in ordinary life they were generally regarded as bores. But at his best Oscar Wilde never dropped the tone of good society: he could afford to give place to others; he was equipped at all points: no subject came amiss to him: he saw everything from a humorous angle, and dazzled one now with word-wit, now with the very stuff of merriment.
Though he was the life and soul of every social gathering10, and in constant demand, he still read omnivorously11, and his mind naturally occupied itself with high themes.
For some years, the story of Jesus fascinated him and tinged12 all his thought. We were talking about Renan’s “Life” one day: a wonderful book he called it, one of the three great biographies of the world, Plato’s dialogues with Socrates as hero and Boswell’s “Life of Johnson” being the other two. It was strange, he thought, that the greatest man had written the worst biography; Plato made of Socrates a mere13 phonograph, into which he talked his own theories: Renan did better work, and Boswell, the humble14 loving friend, the least talented of the three, did better still, though being English, he had to keep to the surface of things and leave the depths to be divined. Oscar evidently expected Plato and Renan to have surpassed comparison.
It seemed to me, however, that the illiterate15 Galilean fishermen had proved themselves still more consummate16 painters than Boswell, though they, too, left a great deal too much to the imagination. Love is the best of artists; the puddle17 of rain in the road can reflect a piece of sky marvellously.
The Gospel story had a personal interest for Oscar; he was always weaving little fables18 about himself as the Master.
In spite of my ignorance of Hebrew the story of Jesus had always had the strongest attraction for me, and so we often talked about Him, though from opposite poles.
Renan I felt had missed Jesus at his highest. He was far below the sincerity19, the tenderness and sweet-thoughted wisdom of that divine spirit. Frenchman-like, he stumbled over the miracles and came to grief. Claus Sluter’s head of Jesus in the museum of Dijon is a finer portrait, and so is the imaginative picture of Fra Angelico. It seemed to me possible to do a sketch20 from the Gospels themselves which should show the growth of the soul of Jesus and so impose itself as a true portrait.
Oscar’s interest in the theme was different; he put himself frankly21 in the place of his model, and appeared to enjoy the jarring antinomy which resulted. One or two of his stories were surprising in ironical22 suggestion; surprising too because they showed his convinced paganism. Here is one which reveals his exact position:
“When Joseph of Arimathea came down in the evening from Mount Calvary where Jesus had died he saw on a white stone a young man seated weeping. And Joseph went near him and said, ‘I understand how great thy grief must be, for certainly that Man was a just Man.’ But the young man made answer, ‘Oh, it is not for that I am weeping. I am weeping because I too have wrought23 miracles. I also have given sight to the blind, I have healed the palsied and I have raised the dead; I too have caused the barren fig24 tree to wither25 away and I have turned water into wine . . . and yet they have not crucified me.’”
At the time this apologue amused me; in the light of later events it assumed a tragic26 significance. Oscar Wilde ought to have known that in this world every real superiority is pursued with hatred27, and every worker of miracles is sure to be persecuted28. But he had no inkling that the Gospel story is symbolic29 — the life-story of genius for all time, eternally true. He never looked outside himself, and as the fruits of success were now sweet in his mouth, a pursuing Fate seemed to him the most mythical30 of myths. His child-like self-confidence was pathetic. The laws that govern human affairs had little interest for the man who was always a law unto himself. Yet by some extraordinary prescience, some inexplicable31 presentiment32, the approaching catastrophe33 cast its shadow over his mind and he felt vaguely34 that the life-journey of genius would be incomplete and farcical without the final tragedy: whoever lives for the highest must be crucified.
It seems memorable35 to me that in this brief summer of his life, Oscar Wilde should have concerned himself especially with the life-story of the Man of Sorrows who had sounded all the depths of suffering. Just when he himself was about to enter the Dark Valley, Jesus was often in his thoughts and he always spoke36 of Him with admiration37. But after all how could he help it? Even Dekker saw as far as that:
“The best of men
That e’er wore earth about Him.”
This was the deeper strain in Oscar Wilde’s nature though he was always disinclined to show it. Habitually38 he lived in humorous talk, in the epithets39 and epigrams he struck out in the desire to please and astonish his hearers.
One evening I learned almost by chance that he was about to try a new experiment and break into a new field.
He took up the word “lose” at the table, I remember.
“We lose our chances,” he said, laughing, “we lose our figures, we even lose our characters; but we must never lose our temper. That is our duty to our neighbour, Frank; but sometimes we mislay it, don’t we?”
“Is that going in a book, Oscar?” I asked, smiling, “or in an article? You have written nothing lately.”
“I have a play in my mind,” he replied gravely. “To-morrow I am going to shut myself up in my room, and stay there until it is written. George Alexander has been bothering me to write a play for some time and I’ve got an idea I rather like. I wonder can I do it in a week, or will it take three? It ought not to take long to beat the Pineros and the Joneses.” It always annoyed Oscar when any other name but his came into men’s mouths: his vanity was extraordinarily40 alert.
Naturally enough he minimised Mr. Alexander’s initiative. The well-known actor had “bothered” Oscar by advancing him ￡100 before the scenario41 was even outlined. A couple of months later he told me that Alexander had accepted his comedy, and was going to produce “Lady Windermere’s Fan.” I thought the title excellent.
“Territorial names,” Oscar explained, gravely, “have always a cachet of distinction: they fall on the ear full toned with secular42 dignity. That’s how I get all the names of my personages, Frank. I take up a map of the English counties, and there they are. Our English villages have often exquisitely43 beautiful names. Windermere, for instance, or Hunstanton,” and he rolled the syllables44 over his tongue with a soft sensual pleasure.
I had a box the first night and, thinking it might do Oscar some good, I took with me Arthur Walter of The Times. The first scene of the first act was as old as the hills, but the treatment gave charm to it if not freshness. The delightful, unexpected humour set off the commonplace incident; but it was only the convention that Arthur Walter would see. The play was poor, he thought, which brought me to wonder.
After the first act I went downstairs to the foyer and found the critics in much the same mind. There was an enormous gentleman called Joseph Knight45, who cried out:
“The humour is mechanical, unreal.” Seeing that I did not respond he challenged me:
“What do you think of it?”
“That is for you critics to answer,” I replied.
“I might say,” he laughed, “in Oscar’s own peculiar46 way, ‘Little promise and less performance.’ Ha! ha! ha!”
“That’s the exact opposite to Oscar’s way,” I retorted. “It is the listeners who laugh at his humour.”
“Come now, really,” cried Knight, “you cannot think much of the play?”
For the first time in my life I began to realise that nine critics out of ten are incapable47 of judging original work. They seem to live in a sort of fog, waiting for someone to give them the lead, and accordingly they love to discuss every new play right and left.
“I have not seen the whole play,” I answered. “I was not at any of the rehearsals48; but so far it is surely the best comedy in English, the most brilliant: isn’t it?”
The big man started back and stared at me; then burst out laughing.
“That’s good,” he cried with a loud unmirthful guffaw49. “‘Lady Windermere’s Fan’ better than any comedy of Shakespeare! Ha! ha! ha! ‘more brilliant!’ ho! ho!”
“Yes,” I persisted, angered by his disdain50, “wittier, and more humorous than ‘As You Like It,’ or ‘Much Ado.’ Strange to say, too, it is on a higher intellectual level. I can only compare it to the best of Congreve, and I think it’s better.” With a grunt51 of disapproval52 or rage the great man of the daily press turned away to exchange bleatings with one of his confrères.
The audience was a picked audience of the best heads in London, far superior in brains therefore to the average journalist, and their judgment53 was that it was a most brilliant and interesting play. Though the humour was often prepared, the construction showed a rare mastery of stage-effect. Oscar Wilde had at length come into his kingdom.
At the end the author was called for, and Oscar appeared before the curtain. The house rose at him and cheered and cheered again. He was smiling, with a cigarette between his fingers, wholly master of himself and his audience.
“I am so glad, ladies and gentlemen, that you like my play.9 I feel sure you estimate the merits of it almost as highly as I do myself.”
The house rocked with laughter. The play and its humour were a seven days’ wonder in London. People talked of nothing but “Lady Windermere’s Fan.” The witty54 words in it ran from lip to lip like a tidbit of scandal. Some clever Jewesses and, strange to say, one Scotchman were the loudest in applause. Mr. Archer55, the well-known critic of The World, was the first and only journalist to perceive that the play was a classic by virtue56 of “genuine dramatic qualities.” Mrs. Leverson turned the humorous sayings into current social coin in Punch, of all places in the world, and from a favourite Oscar Wilde rapidly became the idol57 of smart London.
The play was an intellectual triumph. This time Oscar had not only won success but had won also the suffrages58 of the best. Nearly all the journalist-critics were against him and made themselves ridiculous by their brainless strictures; Truth and The Times, for example, were poisonously puritanic, but thinking people came over to his side in a body. The halo of fame was about him, and the incense59 of it in his nostrils60 made him more charming, more irresponsibly gay, more genial-witty than ever. He was as one set upon a pinnacle61 with the sunshine playing about him, lighting62 up his radiant eyes. All the while, however, the foul63 mists from the underworld were wreathing about him, climbing higher and higher.
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1
blizzard
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| n.暴风雪 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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chuckling
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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vowing
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的现在分词形式） | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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omnivorously
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| adv.随手地 | |
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tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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illiterate
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| adj.文盲的；无知的；n.文盲 | |
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consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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17
puddle
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| n.(雨)水坑，泥潭 | |
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fables
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| n.寓言( fable的名词复数 )；神话，传说 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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23
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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fig
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| n.无花果(树) | |
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wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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26
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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28
persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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symbolic
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| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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mythical
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| adj.神话的；虚构的；想像的 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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37
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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epithets
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| n.（表示性质、特征等的）词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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scenario
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| n.剧本，脚本；概要 | |
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42
secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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44
syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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45
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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46
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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48
rehearsals
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| n.练习( rehearsal的名词复数 )；排练；复述；重复 | |
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49
guffaw
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| n.哄笑；突然的大笑 | |
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50
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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51
grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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52
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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53
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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54
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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55
archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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58
suffrages
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| （政治性选举的）选举权，投票权( suffrage的名词复数 ) | |
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59
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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60
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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61
pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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62
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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