Oscar Wilde (The Exile)–The Play
Written by Lorient Montaner
Contents
Dramatis Personae ix
ACT I
ACT II
ACT III
ACT IV
ACT V
ACT VI
Dramatis Personae
OSCAR WILDE – A playwright and writer.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS – The son of the Marquess of Queensberry.
ROBERT ROSS – A literary executor and close confidant of Oscar Wilde.
CONSTANCE WILDE – The wife of Oscar Wilde.
REGINALD TURNER – An English author.
MORE ADEY – An English art critic.
STEWART HEADLAM – An English socialist.
FRANK HARRIS – An Irish-American novelist.
ÉMILE ZOLA – A French novelist.
ANDRÉ GIDE – A French author.
ADA LEVERSON – An English author.
RICHARD HALDANE – An English philosopher.
ROBERT SHERRARD – An English journalist.
STÉPHANE MALLARMÉ – A French poet.
PAUL VERLAINE – A French poet.
JEAN MORÉAS – A Greek poet.
ERNEST LA JEUNESSE – A French poet.
LAURENCE HOUSMAN – An English playwright.
LEONARD SMITHERS – An English publisher.
SARAH BERNHARDT – A famous French actress and playwright.
HAROLD MELLOR – An Englishman.
Scenes take place in England, France, Italy and Switzerland, in the years 1897–1900.
ACT I
SCENE I
At Caledonian Road, 19th May, London, England.
Oscar Wilde is released after completing his two-year sentence. He walks through the gates of Pentonville Prison in London, a free man. He is soon placed in a taxi heading towards Caledonian Road, where his friends and supporters – the art critic More Adey and the author Stewart Headlam – await him. They embrace him warmly. Wilde is overcome with emotion and relief.
OSCAR WILDE
I have longed for this day. For two whole years, I have languished in the throes of sorrow – never knowing when this day would arrive. I am dazed by the wonder of the beautiful world. I feel as though I have been raised from the dead, like Lazarus.
MORE ADEY
Oscar, my dear friend, what a joy it is to see you once more. We too have awaited this day. Now that it has come – what is it you most desire?
OSCAR WILDE
Desire? For now, only a fresh bed, a fresh bath – a fresh beginning. That is my greatest desire.
STEWART HEADLAM
Spoken like a humble man. Once you’re at my home, Oscar, you shall have all of that – and more. I’ve prepared a rather wonderful surprise.
OSCAR WILDE
A surprise? Then I am grateful indeed. At last, I may enjoy the pleasures of life anew, to be at one with its beauty, and amongst those I consider my dearest friends in leisure.
MORE ADEY
Believe me, Oscar, you shall not be disappointed. After all, the finest joys of life are best enjoyed in the company of those we cherish.
OSCAR WILDE
Indeed. I couldn’t have put it better myself. Despite the hardships of prison, I’ve not forgotten what it means to draw a fresh breath of air. I once took it for granted – but now I know it is far sweeter than the breathless void of death.
STEWART HEADLAM
Don’t dwell on the past, Oscar. You have the present and future to guide you towards success.
OSCAR WILDE
That would be a magnificent dream – an endless thought that would fill my mind with ease. I have suffered enough in those wretched prisons to never again wish for their torment – nor the ghastly faces of their punishments.
MORE ADEY
Don’t be sorrowful, Oscar. You are among friends now. Let us rid you of your toils and replace them with the joy of living.
OSCAR WILDE
Ah... the joy of living. I’ve not seen that joy in many days and nights. I sigh. I’ve been a prisoner of time – and because of time, I’ve lost my place in it, unable to recover what has passed.
MORE ADEY
True, Oscar. But you can forge new memories, and cherish them – with those who cherish you in return.
OSCAR WILDE
“Cherish” – a noble word that has, sadly, fallen into disuse. Your point is well taken. From this day forward, I shall forge new memories – and yes, learn to cherish them as much as those old, forsaken ones.
STEWART HEADLAM
You must, Oscar. You alone carry the beacon of hope in your dreams and aspirations. It is never too late to reconcile the past with the present. But I suggest you search within your soul – for the man you truly wish to be.
OSCAR WILDE
Spoken like a man of true spirit. Your words are wise, and reflect the one thing I feared I had lost – hope. I cannot begin to tell you how many hours I spent in solitary confinement, imagining the taste of hope. It is a hunger that gnaws, that longs to be fed.
STEWART HEADLAM
Any man who has suffered what you have would have gone mad. Yet you – you have remained sane and bold.
OSCAR WILDE
I’m not sure if that’s a compliment, my friend. I shall take it as one, though I must confess, I have had my moments of madness. Though brief, they did exist. I’m not so foolish as to believe they are gone forever.
MORE ADEY
Let us not dwell on such things, Oscar. Think instead of the life awaiting you. In France, you shall be received with accolades and acceptance.
OSCAR WILDE
Accolades? I desire them not – not now. As for acceptance, I can only hope that one day England will welcome me home as a hero, and not a villain. That is my sole wish – to return as the great Oscar Wilde.
MORE ADEY
That would indeed be a sight to behold, Oscar. You are more than deserving. I know of no man who has charmed England as you have.
OSCAR WILDE
May my charm not have abandoned me. I cannot bear the thought of living the rest of my life in the shadow of my former self.
STEWART HEADLAM
Perhaps we should be off. Your friends await you at the house.
In a taxi heading towards King's Cross Station, Wilde speaks of the books he read in prison: Dante Alighieri, Gustave Flaubert, Charles Baudelaire, Alexandre Dumas, amongst others.
SCENE II.
At the home of Stuart Headlam in Bloomsbury, England.
Oscar Wilde is greeted by his close admirers. He is amazed by the warm reception. (Applauses are heard.)
MOREY ADEY.
Behold, the king of aestheticism is back. May I present to you, Oscar Wilde.
OSCAR WILDE.
Frankly, I must say, I do not know if I am befitting of a king, but if you deem me worthy of one, then I shall gladly assume the status of royalty and bow to my admirers.
ROBERT SHERARD.
It is good to see you with your charm and wit anew, Oscar. We have been waiting for this day to come. Now that it has come, will you do us the honour of saying a few words to us, so that we may say that we uttered the same words as Oscar Wilde?
OSCAR WILDE.
I am extremely flattered by all your expressive gestures of kindness. How could I ever repay you for being supportive of me and my cause? I must be candid when I declare, there is nothing worse than not being talked about. To be forgotten is only the shadow of a dreary solitude that I have experienced and hope never to see again. I am not an anonym.
ADA LEVERSON.
You speak with such eloquence, as always, Oscar. There is nothing shallow about you when you speak the truth. This truth appears as an echo of your mind and soul.
FRANK HARRIS.
Ireland owes you a great debt of gratitude, and the world does as well. There can be nothing grander than the man who has championed the Irish cause in the name of art.
OSCAR WILDE.
I once said that life imitates art far more than art imitates life, and after my time in prison, I still believe in that conviction. No great artist ever sees things as they really are. If he did, he would cease to be an artist. I champion the cause of the artist, as I once championed the cause of aestheticism. It is in my veins. No man can be greater than the manifestation of his art. I am an example of that.
RICHARD HALDANE.
Your words are admirable and speak a great volume of truth. As a statesman myself, I have always believed in reforming the common man and his plight. In your case, Oscar, you are not the common man.
OSCAR WILDE.
Forgive me if I chuckle, my friend, for I do not chuckle out of hauteur, but merely out of the irony of those candid words reflected by your wisdom.
ADA LEVERSON.
Have you planned what to write next? I know that whatever you write will be an immediate success. The public is yearning for another one of your plays.
OSCAR WILDE.
That I do not know at the moment, Sphinx, but whatever I write will be for posterity to enjoy.
ROBERT SHERARD.
The people will remember you as Oscar Wilde, the poet, the playwright and the man.
OSCAR WILDE.
I have had enough time in those wretched prison cells to reflect precisely on that notion of regard, but I suppose that only Robert and I can truly know of it. As a superb writer, I trust he will do a fine job as my future biographer.
ROBERT SHERARD.
It would be my honour, Oscar. To be honest, I doubt any biographer could do justice to your art and your accomplishments as an artist.
MOREY ADEY.
He is correct, Oscar. The world beckons to hear you speak, to hear your plays. What would we do without you?
OSCAR WILDE.
I suppose the world could learn to appreciate the artist much better and learn not to be so easily judgmental. The world was once my canvas, but now, I am afraid it is a place where I must dwell, where I must learn to please once more. This time, it is not the audience in the theatre that I must please, but the audience that is the world.
ADA LEVERSON.
Please tell us, Oscar, that you will not stop believing in your talent and ingenuity. You are a genius. There is so much you have not written that needs to be read.
OSCAR WILDE.
Flattery will get you far in this world, Sphinx. It will get you to the point where you desire to have it and taste it at the same time. I have put all my genius into my life. I put only my talent into my words. If I am deemed a genius then allow me to reap the success of my endeavours passionately.
ADA LEVERSON.
Have you decided what to do now that you are a free man again, Oscar?
MORE ADEY.
Where do you plan on going? Shall you be staying in England?
OSCAR WILDE.
To Paris. I must entertain the Parisians. I hear that they have been yearning to have me there in France as an honourable guest.
FRANK HARRIS.
Shall you ever return to England, Oscar?
OSCAR WILDE.
That all depends. Return to what? If you are referring to the country, then I hope one day soon to return. If you are referring to the hypocrites who have chased me like haunting ghosts, then I wish to have no part of this face of England for the nonce.
SCENE III.
At Dieppe, France.
Before he boards the steamer to Dieppe, Oscar Wilde stops at Hatchards, London’s oldest bookshop. Robert Ross and another friend, Reginald Turner, meet him there at Dieppe, France to welcome him.
ROBERT ROSS.
My dearest of all my dear friends, Oscar. I hope your journey has been pleasant.
OSCAR WILDE.
My dear Robbie, it is a blessing to see you again as a free man. At last, I have tasted the breath of liberty, and I shall not take it for granted. I have longed to be in the marvels of France. There is nothing like Paris, save for London.
REGINALD TURNER.
You look remarkable, Oscar, despite your time in prison. I would not have known you had spent time in that inferno.
OSCAR WILDE.
You are far too flattering, Reggie. I have been through hell and back, worn and torn as I may appear, but I shall not permit it to spoil my enjoyment of the most elegant restaurants in Paris.
ROBERT ROSS.
I couldn’t agree more. Who else could be more elegant than you? As your dearest friend, I am glad to see you standing triumphant once again.
OSCAR WILDE.
Paris is the epitome of artistic expression and extravagant cuisine. I have nothing to be ashamed of, nothing that should lower my head. I am guilty only of being myself. Let the first man who judges me cast the first stone.
ROBERT ROSS.
I hope that one day, Oscar, those who cast aspersions on love will no longer deem our manner of loving unnatural.
OSCAR WILDE.
Unnatural? There is nothing unnatural about the affection between two men. It is as natural as that between a man and a woman. Whatever sin it represents to the self-righteous, it is no sin to me. Besides, I did not come to France to indulge Parisians with such trivialities. I came to be myself, Oscar Wilde.
REGINALD TURNER.
How long will you be staying in Paris, Oscar?
OSCAR WILDE.
That’s a good question, Reggie. I suppose for a few months, until I can put my life in order. At this moment, I have barely enjoyed minutes—not hours—of my freedom.
ROBERT ROSS.
The important thing is that you are free, Oscar. Whatever remains to be decided can wait until you have determined the course of your life.
OSCAR WILDE.
Indeed. I must move forward with my life, despite the past that seems ever present in my mind. Regrettably, that is the reminder of my predicament.
ROBERT ROSS.
Don’t worry, Oscar. You will not be alone. You have your friends to support you through the good and bad times ahead.
OSCAR WILDE.
I hope I will not have to lean on you or others too much for daily matters and expenses. At present, I have little income to aspire to material grandeur.
REGINALD TURNER.
That is the least of your concerns, Oscar. Focus on rebuilding your life and think of your children and Constance.
OSCAR WILDE.
Not a day passes that I do not think of my children. They are the greatest gift God has given me. As for Constance, she does not wish to see me again.
ROBERT ROSS.
I shall speak to her on your behalf, Oscar. I am certain she will eventually understand your desire to see her and the children.
OSCAR WILDE.
Words cannot express my gratitude for all you have done regarding Constance. I do not know what I would have done without your loyalty, Robbie.
REGINALD TURNER.
Have faith in Robert, Oscar. He has not failed you once.
OSCAR WILDE.
That I am certain of. In this life, one cannot be selfish and live by one’s own morality. One must be in the company of wise and intellectual men.
ROBERT ROSS.
Such as yourself. I am no one without your gracious company and trust.
SCENE V.
At the Hôtel Louvre Marsollier in Paris, France.
Wilde hands Ross an envelope that contains the manuscript of De Profundis, the 50, 000-word letter to Lord Alfred Douglas that he had finished the previous March in his prison cell. He discusses the letter with Ross.
OSCAR WILDE.
There is something that I have been longing to do and must do.
ROBERT ROSS.
What are you talking about, Oscar?
OSCAR WILDE.
My letter to Bosie.
ROBERT ROSS.
You mean De Profundis?
OSCAR WILDE.
Yes. De Profundis.
ROBERT ROSS.
You have it with you?
OSCAR WILDE.
Indeed. (Wilde gives Ross the letter.)
ROBERT ROSS.
What do you want me to do with it?
OSCAR WILDE.
Keep it. For it belongs to the readers of posterity, who will know of my soul and heart.
ROBERT ROSS.
Don't worry, Oscar. I shall keep it and do as you instruct.
OSCAR WILDE.
Make copies of it before I send the original to Bosie.
ROBERT ROSS.
What do you expect he will do with the original letter?
OSCAR WILDE.
That I haven't a clue. He has always been difficult to read in his moods. Sometimes he can be the gentlest man, and sometimes he can be the most naïve.
ROBERT ROSS.
What if he tears the letter? What will you do then?
OSCAR WILDE.
If that happens, then there is little I can do, Robbie.
ROBERT ROSS.
Will you write to him again if he chooses to destroy the letter?
OSCAR WILDE.
No, why should I? It is his choice in the end.
ROBERT ROSS.
You have been kind to him for him to abandon you now.
OSCAR WILDE.
He was once obedient and faithful to our affection.
ROBERT ROSS.
Do you doubt that affection?
OSCAR WILDE.
Until I see him, I cannot answer that question with a measure of candour.
ROBERT ROSS.
And his betrayal? Have you forgotten that?
OSCAR WILDE.
Yes, his betrayal. I am trying not to be bitter.
ACT 2.
SCENE I.
At the Hôtel Louvre Marsollier, Paris, France.
Ada Leverson visits Wilde in Paris months later. It is one of two visits she made to Oscar Wilde.
ADA LEVERSON.
What a pleasure it is to see you again, Oscar.
OSCAR WILDE.
Sphinx—you look ravishing, my dear.
ADA LEVERSON.
And you look ever more ravishing, Oscar.
OSCAR WILDE.
What a joy to see you in Paris, after I last saw you in England.
ADA LEVERSON.
I came with my husband to Paris, and I thought I would pay you a visit, Oscar.
OSCAR WILDE.
How is he doing presently? I hope he is in fine fettle.
ADA LEVERSON.
He is indeed. And yourself?
OSCAR WILDE.
I am a bit overstuffed at the moment. I must blame those exquisite foods at these French restaurants—they do entice the appetite of a man.
ADA LEVERSON.
The most important thing, Oscar, is that you are doing well. What have you been writing lately? I have not heard much from you.
OSCAR WILDE.
I have taken the name Sebastian Melmoth. I have been writing letters. I wrote a long letter to the Daily Chronicle, which they printed, about the urgent need for prison reform. I complained with particular indignation and eloquence about the ill-treatment of children in the system. I plan on writing a second letter about the prison reform being discussed in the House of Commons.
ADA LEVERSON.
And Constance? Have you heard anything from her?
OSCAR WILDE.
It brings a sudden sigh upon my face, but since our legal separation, I have not spoken much to her in person. After our rancorous discussion, she agreed to offer me an annual allowance of £150 a year on condition that I do not get in touch with her or the children without her permission. She has prohibited me from seeing Lord Alfred Douglas.
ADA LEVERSON.
Do you not miss her, if I may be bold to ask?
OSCAR WILDE.
Indeed, I do! But there is little I can do to convince her of my love for her.
ADA LEVERSON.
And Lord Alfred Douglas? What has become of your love for him?
OSCAR WILDE.
That virginal love we once had still waits to blossom, like a spring flower. I feel like a hummingbird, yearning for his midday nectar.
ADA LEVERSON.
Do you love Lord Alfred Douglas as much as Constance?
OSCAR WILDE.
That I cannot answer.
ADA LEVERSON.
Certainly, your heart must know and tell you.
OSCAR WILDE.
My heart can only know what it beats for and for whom it beats, yet my mind has not convinced me which of the two is the better love. You see, Sphinx—love is not gender-related, nor should it be. I merely love, not for the sake of love, but for the passion it holds over me. I would be a blind man without it.
ADA LEVERSON.
I understand. How I wish that love was not so complicated.
OSCAR WILDE.
It is not really. It just seems to be complicated. We are the ones, Sphinx, who complain about it through our ignorance. You see, love is like the morning petals that we pluck. It is gentle, affectionate, and above all, it has a recognisable scent that smells like spring.
SCENE II
At the home of Constance Wilde in England.
Robert Ross pays a visit to Constance, with whom he has maintained correspondence during Wilde’s imprisonment. He comes to inform her of Oscar’s whereabouts and condition in France.
ROBERT ROSS
Good morning, Constance. Might I speak with you in private?
CONSTANCE WILDE
Of course.
ROBERT ROSS
I shan’t take up much of your time. I came to speak with you about Oscar.
CONSTANCE WILDE
What has he done now? Is he in some sort of trouble?
ROBERT ROSS
No, no trouble. I merely wished to inform you about him, that is all.
CONSTANCE WILDE
I’ve not seen him since my last visit to the prison. I do hope he is keeping well. I say this not only for myself, but for the sake of the children.
ROBERT ROSS
You needn’t worry—he is keeping well. We correspond regularly when I’m not in Paris.
CONSTANCE WILDE
May I ask—what do you write about?
ROBERT ROSS
Oh, a number of things. His daily routines, his new surroundings, his acquaintances… and you.
CONSTANCE WILDE
Me? You say he writes of me? What precisely does he say, Robert?
ROBERT ROSS
He tells me he still loves you—that his affection remains as pure and sincere as a spring’s first bloom.
CONSTANCE WILDE
I should like to believe that, Robert… but I suspect his desire to see the children outweighs all else. I must be cautious.
ROBERT ROSS
I understand, and you have every right to be so. I can only relay what he has shared with me.
CONSTANCE WILDE
You know very well why he is not permitted to see the children.
ROBERT ROSS
Yes. I do.
CONSTANCE WILDE
Tell me, Robert… what of Lord Alfred Douglas? Has he seen him? Has he returned to his former, reckless ways?
ROBERT ROSS
That, I cannot say. I know only what he writes to me. I’ve not seen him myself since I last visited Paris—but I intend to go again soon.
CONSTANCE WILDE
If and when you do, remind him of the conditions I laid out from the beginning—simple as they were. Chief among them: that he is never to see Lord Alfred Douglas again.
ROBERT ROSS
I shall. I do hope that in time, you and Oscar might find some manner of reconciliation—for the sake of the children. He is, after all, their father.
CONSTANCE WILDE
I shall take that under serious consideration, Robert.
ROBERT ROSS
I’m heartened to hear it. I believe there remains a portion of love for him within you still.
CONSTANCE WILDE
If any love remains, it is fading slowly… like the last flicker of a candle’s flame.
SCENE III
At the Saint-Germain-des-Prés café in Paris, France.
Wilde is in the company of his French friends, Émile Zola and André Gide. Together, they visit the bohemian enclaves of Paris—havens for the alienated, where writers and artists gather to revel in the city’s free-spirited charm.
ÉMILE ZOLA
Paris is swiftly becoming the centre of gravity for all daring and innovative artists.
ANDRÉ GIDE
It has always been so, ever since the days of Romanticism. What do you think, Oscar?
OSCAR WILDE
I must agree with you both.
ANDRÉ GIDE
How so? Do explain.
ÉMILE ZOLA
Yes—do enlighten us. I’m eager to hear your thoughts, Oscar.
OSCAR WILDE
Paris has ever been in bloom—from the time of De La Tour and Le Brun, through to the modern expressions of Monet and Van Gogh. Thus, neither position is incorrect. The artistic spirit has never ceased to breathe here.
ÉMILE ZOLA
Well said, Oscar—so eloquently put. Your brilliance never fails to amaze.
OSCAR WILDE
If I am to die one day, gentlemen, let it be in Paris. Let my tombstone read: Here lies a great man of the vanguard, whose only crime was to be a genius.
ANDRÉ GIDE
Bravo! I must applaud such splendid words.
OSCAR WILDE
You wouldn’t be the first to have applauded something I’ve said, André.
ÉMILE ZOLA
This age is overrun with pseudo-intellectuals and self-appointed demigods who believe they know better than we.
OSCAR WILDE
Indeed, my friends. The world today is ruled by brazen fools who imagine they govern with divine law and unerring judgement.
ANDRÉ GIDE
Why is that so, Oscar? It seems rather more the case in England than here in France.
OSCAR WILDE
Your wit shines, André. To answer your question—England has regressed to its Puritan roots. It bores me to death. There is scant freedom of expression. And where there is no freedom, the artist perishes alongside his art.
ANDRÉ GIDE
How can it be a sin to love another—simply because that love is for a man?
OSCAR WILDE
That, dear André, is what I have called the love that dares not speak its name.
ANDRÉ GIDE
So that was your crime—loving a man?
OSCAR WILDE
Yes. You might put it that way.
ANDRÉ GIDE
But what is this love that dares not speak its name?
OSCAR WILDE
Surely you know, André. It is the noblest form of affection—shared between an older man and a younger. It is no different from the love between a man and a woman, save for one distinction: it is tragically misunderstood in this century.
SCENE IV.
At Rouen, France.
Lord Alfred Douglas and Oscar Wilde finally meet at the train station. They had not seen each other since his visit to the prison, when Wilde was first detained.
OSCAR WILDE.
Bosie, it is a pleasure to see you again, after all these months that have passed. How fain of you to welcome me, your dearest Oscar. Will you not embrace me? (They embrace).
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
Long last, I see you again Oscar. I never thought this day would come so soon, after what happened between us.
OSCAR WILDE.
That is all in the past Bosie. I have been given a fresh start, and so have we. I have longed for the taste of your lips and the touch of your skin.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
I was not certain that you still wanted to see me Oscar. After receiving your last letter?
OSCAR WILDE.
You received my letter then?
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
Yes, but I am afraid that I tore it apart. I was upset at you, for blaming me for your imprisonment and downfall.
OSCAR WILDE.
I don't blame you Bosie. You had every right to feel that way, but know that I wrote that letter out of spite towards you.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
I too must confess, I was angry at you.
OSCAR WILDE.
And now? What do you feel at this moment, seeing me anew?
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
I don't exactly know what I feel.
OSCAR WILDE.
Is it love or it is friendship?
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
I know only one thing that I am certain of, and that is that you are the dearest of all my affections, but to call that love or friendship. I don't know what I feel anymore, at this point in time.
OSCAR WILDE.
I understand. We have been away from each other, for a long time it seems, but since we are here and together, why not enjoy each other's company, as we once did.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
I agree.
OSCAR WILDE.
Your youth I admire, as you admire my aging wisdom.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
Where have you gone in Paris? Who have you met there?
OSCAR WILDE.
I have been to the most extravagant boulevards and café terraces in Paris, so far. I have met new Parisian friends, who I shall introduce you to them. There are rather entertaining.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
I am looking forward to that Oscar.
OSCAR WILDE.
There is time for that, and for many other things Bosie. For now, let's leave this wretched train station. I would love for you to show me Rouen.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
You will like it here. It is very quaint and picturesque.
OSCAR WILDE.
I imagine it is, but it is you who I came to spent time with, to rekindle lost time. If I could only return to the past, and to those times, we both had cherished the most. (They both embrace at the arm).
SCENE V.
At the Café de la Paix in Paris, France.
Wilde is accompanied by André Gide, who joins him for baguettes, as a prelude to a morning of literary debate.
OSCAR WILDE.
The more that I taste of these baguettes of Paris, the more that I find myself drawn to their appeal.
ANDRÉ GIDE.
Baguettes are always the Parisian thing to eat in the morning Oscar.
OSCAR WILDE.
In the time that I have been here, I have been enlightened by the exquisite food and remarkable poets I have met. I have always been fond of the notion that good food makes good thoughts. What good is an empty stomach?
ANDRÉ GIDE.
True to your words Oscar. I admire your intellect and your wit.
OSCAR WILDE.
I must confess that I am known for my epigrams and I must profess that without my wit, I would be a tedious and ordinary fellow.
ANDRÉ GIDE.
Never my friend. You know how to entertain and embellish a conversation.
OSCAR WILDE.
But I have been told that I made Victor Hugo drift off into a short slumber, with my English speech.
ANDRÉ GIDE.
Forgive me, if it may appear that way. It is nothing of your doing.
OSCAR WILDE.
If I do bore you to death André, know that you are not the first, nor shall be the last to be lulled into the arms of Morpheus.
ANDRÉ GIDE.
I heard you have admirers, such as Stéphane Mallarmé, Ernest Raynaud, Alphonse Daudet, Paul Bourget, and Paul Verlaine. I was told that you had been reading Dante, while you were in prison and after your release.
OSCAR WILDE.
Yes! I found Dante to be very stimulating and healthy to the mind.
ANDRÉ GIDE.
I cannot imagine, what prison life was for you Oscar. It must have been unbearable and cruel to endure.
OSCAR WILDE.
It was indeed. I went from one prison to another. I thought I would lose my mind. I was fortunate that the last warden I had in Reading Gaol allowed me to write three pages a day, then the previous warden, who had allowed me to write only one page a day.
ANDRÉ GIDE.
It must have been hell, my friend.
OSCAR WILDE.
If there is an actual hell, then what I experimented there in prison was far worse than any hell elaborated in holy scriptures.
ANDRÉ GIDE.
What did you do to survive, under such harsh conditions and state of mind?
OSCAR WILDE.
That my dear André, is a fantastic question to ask. I suppose there are not any words in the English language that could embody in its entirety, the toilsome dreariness and solitude that I confronted daily, except the word boredom.
ANDRÉ GIDE.
What do you mean by that?
OSCAR WILDE.
Don't misconstrue my words. I did suffer physically and mentally, but I was so drained and fatigue, with the solitude that any thoughts and emotions were empty of reason and artistic expression.
ANDRÉ GIDE.
Can I give you some advice Oscar? One that will be beneficial to your time here in Paris, never be someone else. That in itself, is monotonous. Be yourself. You once said, "Be yourself; everyone else is already taken."
OSCAR WILDE.
Indeed! If it was not for the wretched circumstance of my situation, I would not go under the name of Sebastian Melmoth. Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth. I am tired of not being myself, Oscar Wilde. I shall throw a party. You and the others must come.
SCENE VI
At a chalet in Paris, France.
Oscar has rented a chalet. In spite of his visible disappointment at not being able to see either his children or Lord Alfred Douglas, he distracts himself—and others—by hosting a party to celebrate Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee.
OSCAR WILDE:
I am glad that both of you came tonight to join in this festivity.
ÉMILE ZOLA:
What a wonderful occasion you’ve chosen, Oscar.
OSCAR WILDE:
Yes. I wanted to commemorate our beloved Queen Victoria.
ANDRÉ GIDE:
I envy the English for maintaining their royalty. There is something about the English that we French seem to have forgotten—and that is a sense of solemnity.
OSCAR WILDE:
As an Irishman, I must admit, I have mixed feelings. My mother was a staunch supporter of the Irish cause, and I grew up with that notion—until I went to Oxford and distracted myself with the beauty of aesthetics. There I learnt the meanings of kalon and kalisteia.
ANDRÉ GIDE:
Which concept do you admire more? Which would you say defines you?
OSCAR WILDE:
I prefer to believe in both. One is aesthetic beauty, the other, moral beauty.
ÉMILE ZOLA:
I was never a follower of Greek philosophy, but you’ve explained it most eloquently.
ANDRÉ GIDE:
I have always admired Socrates and Plato.
OSCAR WILDE:
Socrates once said that aesthetics was a form of purity, and Plato said that beauty of style, harmony, grace, and rhythm all depend upon simplicity.
ÉMILE ZOLA:
The Greeks were a unique people. Their customs and way of thinking were truly unmatched.
ANDRÉ GIDE:
Many of them had lovers—of the same sex—which today's society would frown upon and label as perversion.
OSCAR WILDE:
So true, André. It was a different society—one far more tolerant of what is now called ‘unnatural’. I remember Sarah Bernhardt once said to me in England that she was a déniaiseuse.
ÉMILE ZOLA:
How are we to understand those ancient societies in comparison with ours?
OSCAR WILDE:
There’s no need for comparison, Émile. But if one is drawn, then the difference lies in the puritanical beliefs, religion has imposed upon us now, compared to the inherent sagacity of the Greeks.
ANDRÉ GIDE:
When shall we return to such understanding—to a time more accepting of love shared between those of the same gender?
OSCAR WILDE:
I am no politician, André. I am merely an artist. Remember—it is life that imitates art far more than art imitates life. I have often said, if one could only teach the English how to talk and the Irish how to listen, society would be quite civilised.
ANDRÉ GIDE:
You ought to be a politician, Oscar. Your wit and creativity are unlike any dull French official I’ve encountered.
ÉMILE ZOLA:
I quite agree with that sentiment.
OSCAR WILDE:
No great artist ever sees things as they truly are in their maturity. If he did, he would cease to be an artist. Let the world know—Oscar Wilde has returned, and Sebastian Melmoth is no more.
Now, enough of politics! Let us enjoy the occasion for which we are gathered here tonight: the commemoration of Queen Victoria. We shall leave such conversations, gentlemen, for our next rendezvous at the Café de la Paix—or perhaps Café de Flore.
ACT III
SCENE I
At the chalet in Paris, France.
Robert Ross visits Wilde. They discuss openly the affairs of Constance and Lord Alfred Douglas.
OSCAR WILDE:
Robbie, old boy, you don’t know how much I’ve missed you. My conversations always seem more intellectually stimulating when we’re together.
ROBERT ROSS:
I’ll take that as a compliment, Oscar. How is Paris treating you?
OSCAR WILDE:
Do take it as a heartfelt compliment. In Paris, one can go where one pleases, and no one dreams of criticising you. That’s the beauty of Paris.
ROBERT ROSS:
Sometimes I can’t tell whether you’re jesting or being serious.
OSCAR WILDE:
That’s a fair point—but believe me when I say it’s an honest compliment. I don’t give those as often as I once did. Perhaps that’s because I’m growing old. I dread the feeling of ageing. I fear the thought of becoming a hoary old man.
ROBERT ROSS:
Why, Oscar? Ageing is the natural course of life.
OSCAR WILDE:
I know that, Robbie, but it’s not something I welcome with open arms. Am I shallow—or selfish—for not wanting to age?
ROBERT ROSS:
I wouldn’t say that exactly.
OSCAR WILDE:
There’s something about ageing that simply frightens me.
ROBERT ROSS:
Quite understandable. But not everyone carries the grandeur of Oscar Wilde.
OSCAR WILDE:
Your flattery is always most welcome, as far as I’m concerned. What would I do without your friendship?
ROBERT ROSS:
I suppose you’d replace me with another.
OSCAR WILDE:
I can’t even imagine that possibility. You’ve always been there for me—in good times and in bad. You know me better than I know myself.
ROBERT ROSS:
I’ll take that as another compliment, Oscar.
OSCAR WILDE:
How is Constance? Have you heard from her?
ROBERT ROSS:
She’s coping as best she can with the situation.
OSCAR WILDE:
I know. I’ve brought her shame and unwanted publicity. I admire her courage. And the children—how are they bearing it?
ROBERT ROSS:
They’re coping as well, though they’re far too young, Oscar, to understand what’s truly happening.
OSCAR WILDE:
I pity their poor souls. They don’t yet know the disgrace of their father—but one day they will grow, and they’ll understand the trials and tribulations he endured. Is there nothing I can do to see them? Can you not tell Constance it breaks my heart to be kept from them?
ROBERT ROSS:
That I can do. What I can’t guarantee is that she’ll allow it.
OSCAR WILDE:
Where is she living now?
ROBERT ROSS:
She’s in Switzerland, Oscar. She’s unaware of your letters to Lord Alfred Douglas.
OSCAR WILDE:
Good. They would devastate her.
ROBERT ROSS:
And Lord Alfred Douglas? Have you seen him here in France?
OSCAR WILDE:
Yes, Robbie—I have. He has rekindled those old feelings in me, that pure affection I once bore him. I can resist everything except temptation.
ROBERT ROSS:
Didn’t you once tell me you never wanted to see him again?
OSCAR WILDE:
True. I cannot deceive you, as I might deceive Bosie.
ROBERT ROSS:
So what has changed?
OSCAR WILDE:
Everything! I no longer harbour the bitterness and venom I held in prison. Seeing him again reignited the flame he once lit in me. One does not love a person for their beauty, or the clothes they wear, but for the song they sing—one that only you can hear.
ROBERT ROSS:
How ironic. Not long ago, you called him the devil incarnate.
OSCAR WILDE:
I know you still care for me, Robbie—and your envy of Bosie clouds your judgement. Our time together was special, but what I feel for Bosie is unlike anything else. It is the noblest affection I have ever known.
ROBERT ROSS:
And what of Constance?
OSCAR WILDE:
Hers was the love of a man and a woman—but it did not stir the true passion that Bosie evokes. You know, the only difference between a saint and a sinner is that every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future.
SCENE II
At the Café de la Paix in Paris, France.
Wilde is joined by the poet Jean Moréas. They discuss Oscar Wilde’s writing of The Ballad of Reading Gaol.
OSCAR WILDE:
I’ve become rather fond of French pastries, not to mention the dinners. I fear I’m growing fatter by the day. But I do believe I have the simplest of tastes. I’m always satisfied with the best.
JEAN MORÉAS:
I think you’re becoming more of a Frenchman than an Irishman, Oscar.
OSCAR WILDE:
I wonder if you speak the truth. I’m so clever that sometimes I don’t understand a single word I say. Nevertheless, I prefer Parisian cuisine over anything London has to offer.
JEAN MORÉAS:
We could talk about food all day and night—but I’m curious. Have you written anything lately? A play? A poem?
OSCAR WILDE:
Nothing terribly impressive. Just a simple poem I began in prison. I’d find your writing far more interesting.
JEAN MORÉAS:
You flatter me with your natural charm.
OSCAR WILDE:
You won’t be the first—nor the last—to say that about me.
JEAN MORÉAS:
What’s the title of the poem?
OSCAR WILDE:
The Ballad of Reading Gaol.
JEAN MORÉAS:
And what is it about?
OSCAR WILDE:
If you must know, it recounts my wretched experience in prison.
JEAN MORÉAS:
How much have you written so far?
OSCAR WILDE:
That’s an excellent question. I’m not sure. Several pages, at least. I keep revising and editing—so it remains unfinished.
JEAN MORÉAS:
Whenever it’s done, do let me read it. I should like to be the first to declare it an instant success.
OSCAR WILDE:
That’s if I don’t bore you to death, as I once bored Victor Hugo.
JEAN MORÉAS:
Don’t worry. I shall not be distracted by your parlance.
OSCAR WILDE:
I’m a true bohemian at heart, and my art reflects the maturation of my soul. I truly believe art is the most intense mode of individualism the world has ever known.
JEAN MORÉAS:
I must admit—I’ve felt that very sentiment when I write.
OSCAR WILDE:
Then perhaps we are kindred spirits, Jean.
JEAN MORÉAS:
Always with your wit—to begin and end a conversation.
OSCAR WILDE:
Ah, my dear Jean—without it, I should be nothing more than an ordinary man, pleasing no one in this world.
SCENE III
At the home of André Gide in Paris, France.
WILDE visits GIDE, to ask him for advice regarding Lord Alfred Douglas.
ANDRÉ GIDE
Oscar, I was not expecting you. What brings you to my home?
OSCAR WILDE
André, my good friend. I must speak to you on a private matter that weighs heavily upon me.
ANDRÉ GIDE
You appear rather preoccupied with thought. What troubles you, Oscar?
OSCAR WILDE
Where does one begin?
ANDRÉ GIDE
From the beginning, naturally.
OSCAR WILDE
I’m certain you’ve heard the infamous name—Lord Alfred Douglas.
ANDRÉ GIDE
Indeed. What is it I should know? Has something happened to him?
OSCAR WILDE
Nothing so tragic. I wanted to tell you—I have seen him. In secret.
ANDRÉ GIDE
Where?
OSCAR WILDE
In Rouen.
ANDRÉ GIDE
But why? I had understood he was the very cause of your imprisonment.
OSCAR WILDE
I must confess, I once believed so—with unwavering certainty.
ANDRÉ GIDE
And now?
OSCAR WILDE
Everything has changed.
ANDRÉ GIDE
Do you mean to see him again?
OSCAR WILDE
That is precisely it. I intend to visit him in Naples.
ANDRÉ GIDE
Is it love that draws you to him still?
OSCAR WILDE
It is indeed—that noble, natural affection. The kind one cannot quite extinguish.
ANDRÉ GIDE
When do you plan to leave?
OSCAR WILDE
Soon. I shall rent a villa once there.
ANDRÉ GIDE
If your heart compels it, then I would advise you to follow where it leads.
OSCAR WILDE
That is exactly what I had hoped you’d say. Perhaps I am bound to repeat the mistake of trusting him. Yet he has been present for me—even when I had turned against him. Socrates once said, “When desire, having rejected reason and overpowered judgement which leads to right, is set in the direction of the pleasure which beauty can inspire... it acquires a surname from this very violent motion, and is called love.” That, my dear André, is the peril and beauty of aesthetics.
SCENE IV
At a chalet in Paris, France.
WILDE is visited by his friend Frank Harris, just returned from England.
OSCAR WILDE
Frank! Where have you been? It feels like an age since I last saw you.
FRANK HARRIS
Oscar. Forgive me, old friend. I’ve been tied up in London—dealing with a personal matter these past months.
OSCAR WILDE
I'm glad you’ve returned. I hope whatever it is does not trouble you too deeply.
FRANK HARRIS
It’s nothing I cannot settle in time—but it does concern you.
OSCAR WILDE
In what regard?
FRANK HARRIS
There is talk in London that your plays will be removed from theatres entirely, and your name erased from polite society.
OSCAR WILDE
I feared as much. But there is no recourse left to me, legally or otherwise, to salvage my reputation. It has been smeared by the inarticulate fools who find satisfaction in my downfall. They wait for my every faltering step, like carrion birds eager for ruin.
FRANK HARRIS
I regret that I come to you bearing such grim news.
OSCAR WILDE
It is not your fault. I lay blame at the feet of those who imprisoned me. Their eyes alone deemed me deserving of condemnation and exile. I am now an exhibit of cruelty, paraded in shame.
FRANK HARRIS
You mustn’t let them crush your spirit, Oscar. You’re far too intelligent to be undone by their nonsense.
OSCAR WILDE
I’ve heard that sentiment more times than I can count. Still, I value your loyalty—to me, and to the truth of who I am.
FRANK HARRIS
Has Paris been kind to you during your exile?
OSCAR WILDE
Kind enough. I intend to travel soon—to Italy and Switzerland.
FRANK HARRIS
For leisure, or for your writing?
OSCAR WILDE
For both. If there’s still art within me.
FRANK HARRIS
Have you completed The Ballad of Reading Gaol?
OSCAR WILDE
Not yet—but I hope to, soon.
FRANK HARRIS
I’m glad to hear it.
OSCAR WILDE
Why are my plays still banned?
FRANK HARRIS
Because of your reputation, Oscar. It still stirs fear and scandal in the salons of London.
OSCAR WILDE
I never imagined it would come to this—exile, disgrace. I am bankrupt—of coin, of honour, and of soul.
FRANK HARRIS
Time will heal the wound, Oscar. London society may forget, but history will not. Alive or not, you shall be immortalised. That I do not doubt.
OSCAR WILDE
Immortality is what all writers secretly pursue, is it not? To live—truly live—is the rarest thing in the world. Most people merely exist—that is all.
FRANK HARRIS
You mustn’t give in to despair.
OSCAR WILDE
Frank, my good friend, I have lost the mainspring of both life and art. I still have passions, and fleeting pleasures—but the joy of life is gone. I feel as if I am drifting towards the morgue, its yawning mouth ever near. I wonder if I shall ever write again. Something has been killed in me. I am unconscious of power. My first year in prison did not just break my body—it broke my soul.
SCENE V
At the Café Les Deux Magots, in Paris, France.
WILDE joins his Parisian friends, STÉPHANE MALLARMÉ and PAUL VERLAINE.
OSCAR WILDE
Let us hope the day grants us more sunshine than storm, messieurs. Though by the look of those clouds, we may be soon interrupted by the wind and the rain.
STÉPHANE MALLARMÉ
It shall most likely rain—but not before we’ve departed.
PAUL VERLAINE
For your sake, I hope you’re right, Stéphane. I’ve never enjoyed being soaked so early in the morning—it ruins both my mood and my shoes.
OSCAR WILDE
There is little we can do to tame Mother Nature. Though I’ve come prepared—with my umbrella, naturally. A gentleman may be rained upon, but never caught unready.
PAUL VERLAINE
I’ve been reading Dorian Gray, Oscar.
OSCAR WILDE
Have you indeed? What did you make of it?
STÉPHANE MALLARMÉ
It is a masterpiece—undeniably. Elegant, decadent, and terribly truthful.
OSCAR WILDE
And you, Paul?
PAUL VERLAINE
I was captivated—from first page to last. But it left me with two questions that continue to echo in my thoughts.
OSCAR WILDE
Then I insist you ask them, and I shall do my best to satisfy your curiosity.
PAUL VERLAINE
First—who influenced you to write Dorian Gray? And second—how much of yourself is hidden within its pages?
OSCAR WILDE
Would you believe me if I told you... that Robert de Montesquiou was my inspiration?
PAUL VERLAINE
Truly? That exquisite peacock?
OSCAR WILDE
Ah, that shall remain a secret—for posterity to untangle. As for your second question, many have accused me of vanity, and still more of pride. But the truth, dear Paul—as I’ve said before—is rarely pure and never simple.
STÉPHANE MALLARMÉ
I rather admire that in your character. But tell me, did you admire Dorian Gray?
OSCAR WILDE
Would you believe me if I said... I did? In a sense, he was me—or at least, a distorted reflection. A man I might have been in another life.
STÉPHANE MALLARMÉ
Writers often mirror themselves. I’ve yet to meet a poet who hasn’t left some fingerprint of his soul in his verse.
OSCAR WILDE
Quite so. Art is never impersonal, no matter how much one pretends.
PAUL VERLAINE
Then why, do you suppose, is your novel viewed as perverse by the critics in England?
OSCAR WILDE
Because Dorian Gray exposes their hypocrisies. He is the aesthetic symptom of a sick society—beautiful on the surface, rotten at the core. But more than that, I wished to reveal the curse of obsessive vanity. There are only two great tragedies in life, Paul: one is not getting what one wants... and the other is getting it.
PAUL VERLAINE
Is that to be understood as your own vanity, then?
OSCAR WILDE
The difference between Dorian and me is quite simple: I am no young Adonis, nor do I wish to be. Why should I limit myself to the dull tyranny of physical beauty to define my essence? I possess something far more dangerous—an intellect. And unlike Dorian, I have the savoir-faire to use it, whether society applauds me or not.
ACT IV.
SCENE I.
A rented villa in Naples, Italy.
Oscar reunites with Lord Alfred Douglas in a secret location, to rekindle their lost affection and time together.
OSCAR WILDE.
How picturesque is the morning, and how fair it is to awaken, with the soothing rays of the sun and the radiance of your eyes, Bosie. Verily, it is a rainbow I behold.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
You once spoke of our affection as pure and genuine. Do you still feel the same?
OSCAR WILDE.
Nothing has truly changed. My feelings for you have not altered in the least. I know that we have had our quarrels, but we have always managed to overcome those obstacles.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
Why did you send me De Profundis?
OSCAR WILDE.
It was a mistake, I admit. I should never have written that spiteful letter. Know that I was under tremendous despair and distress. I felt abandoned by you, and I had acquired a bitterness that was not provoked. I know I was in the wrong.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
I am glad that you have reflected and recognised the error of that anger. You are extraordinarily buoyant and possess a most cheerful temperament.
OSCAR WILDE.
And Bosie, you are the light of my passionate flame. I shall take you to the Café de la Paix in Paris, once we arrive there.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
Is it better than the Café Royal or the Savoy in England?
OSCAR WILDE.
Only you can answer that question. I shall take you there. Have you missed me?
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
Yes. I have.
OSCAR WILDE.
How much?
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
Enough to come all the way to Naples to be with you.
OSCAR WILDE.
I am glad you have forgiven me. I only wish your father—the Marquess of Queensberry—were as forgiving as yourself. I know he has sent detectives to follow me and my associates.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
I would not worry about Father. No one can prevent us from meeting, nor from spending time together.
OSCAR WILDE.
How thoughtful of you, Bosie. Your nobility is as beautiful as the touch of your manly lips.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
I have grown in wisdom from you and have learnt much in the way of knowledge.
OSCAR WILDE.
You came to me to learn the pleasure of life and the pleasure of art. Perhaps I am chosen to teach you something much more profound—the meaning of sorrow and its beauty. Perhaps I was destined to be the one to show you the beauty of love and its unrestrained passion.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
I have always felt that in you—a relationship I could never have with anyone else, not even my own mother and father.
OSCAR WILDE.
Socrates once said, “In every one of us there are two ruling and directing principles, whose guidance we follow wherever they may lead: the one being an innate desire of pleasure; the other, an acquired judgement which aspires after excellence.”
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
Your eloquence in speech has always been, for me, the thing I most admired about you, Oscar.
OSCAR WILDE.
You are my Antinous, and I your devoted Hadrian.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
I can never be you, nor ever reach the fame that you have attained.
OSCAR WILDE.
Why would you wish to emulate me? I am no god to be venerated—though I must confess my providence is as divine as a god’s.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
Would you not wish to be a god, Oscar?
OSCAR WILDE.
I could be your god—to venerate and adore—but I am afraid I am only mortal. And as a mortal, I can give you only love and compassion.
SCENE II.
At Capri, Italy.
Oscar and Lord Alfred Douglas are staying at a hotel, but are ejected when their English fellow guests rise in disgust at their entrance to the dining room.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
I have never witnessed such rudeness before, Oscar. I thought the Italians would treat us quite differently from the English.
OSCAR WILDE.
Do not worry, Bosie. I would rather not be in the company of such pompous idiots, void of civility. I made my opinion known to them. I told them how utterly pathetic they were.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
Perhaps we should leave and return to the villa.
OSCAR WILDE.
I told the waiter we would depart once we had finished.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
And what did he say?
OSCAR WILDE.
He said we had already finished.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
But we had not. I’ve not even finished half of my dinner.
OSCAR WILDE.
Then you should take it with you.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
Why should I?
OSCAR WILDE.
It would be better, Bosie, if I took you somewhere else, where we could not be so plainly disturbed.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
That would be an excellent idea.
OSCAR WILDE.
There is still much of Naples you’ve yet to see.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
I am truly troubled by the thought that wherever we are—or wherever we go—we shall be confronted by those who repudiate us. Those that...
OSCAR WILDE.
...those like us, whose love dares not speak its name.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
How can such a love survive, Oscar, if it finds no meaningful acceptance in society? Even to utter the word ‘homosexual’ is a crime punishable by law.
OSCAR WILDE.
It shall survive, Bosie—now and always. This kind of love has endured for centuries. It has lived in the sonnets of Shakespeare and Michelangelo. It is the inspiration behind the teachings of Socrates and Plato. It is a love both pure and natural.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
Pure, yes—but the more time passes, the more it seems to me tainted by the day.
OSCAR WILDE.
Do not be sorrowful, nor upset, Bosie. You have me, and that is consolation enough.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
But we must hide our affection.
OSCAR WILDE.
Perhaps. But know that every one of your kisses is like the dew of a matutinal raindrop.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
I wish that we could simply show our affection—our friendship—without being judged.
OSCAR WILDE.
To those ignoramuses who pursue us, let it be known: we shall not bow to their demands.
SCENE III.
At the chalet of Oscar Wilde in Paris, France.
Oscar returns to Paris, after a successful period of time in the company of Lord Alfred Douglas. He is visited by his good friend Robert Ross. He has come to warn him about Lord Alfred Douglas and talk to him about Constance.
OSCAR WILDE.
Robbie, I was not expecting your visit so soon. Have you come on behalf of Constance to warn me?
ROBERT ROSS.
Yes, I am afraid so. Constance had instructed me to tell you that she is cutting off your allowance, if you continue your relationship with Lord Alfred Douglas.
OSCAR WILDE.
When people speak against me for going back to Bosie, tell them that he offered me love, and that in my loneliness and disgrace I, after three months' struggle against the hideous Philistine world, turned naturally to him, the lover that filled my ravenous thirst.
ROBERT ROSS.
As your dearest friend, I understand Oscar. Nevertheless, it is not I who you must convince. It is Constance and she worries about the image of her children. Surely, you can understand her concern. They will be forced to cope, with the realisation of your scandalous affair with Lord Alfred Douglas. Is this not enough to merit your concern?
OSCAR WILDE.
How can she really imagine that she can influence or control my life? She might just as well try to influence and control my art. I suppose she will now attempt to deprive me of my wretched three pounds a week that are paltry. Women are so petty, and Constance has no imagination. My existence is a scandal. But I do not think I should be charged with creating a scandal by continuing to live, although I am conscious that I do so. I cannot live alone, and Bosie is the only one of my friends, who is either able or willing to give me his companionship unconditionally.
ROBERT ROSS.
If you may allow me to say Oscar. That is selfish of you to say. You have known me throughout these years, and I have been there, when you needed money and above us support. I ask that you consider this petition of Constance. Stay away from the scandal with Lord Alfred Douglas.
OSCAR WILDE.
I did not think that on my release my wife, my trustees, the guardians of my children, my few friends, such as they are, and my myriad of enemies would combine to force me by starvation, to live in silence and solitude again.
ROBERT ROSS.
Constance is only thinking about the children Oscar.
OSCAR WILDE.
And about I? Who shall think on my behalf, if it is not I who must endure the toils of my misery?
ROBERT ROSS.
I realise that Oscar. You forget that I know you better than anyone else.
OSCAR WILDE.
I have not forgotten that Robbie.
ROBERT ROSS.
Perhaps, you need time to think about this Oscar. Think about what I have told you.
OSCAR WILDE.
I shall. You need not worry, for I trust you and know that you speak on behalf of Constance.
ROBERT ROSS.
She is in Switzerland, with the boys. Maybe you could visit her?
OSCAR WILDE.
I don't know, if that is a good idea.
ROBERT ROSS.
Do you not wish to see the boys?
OSCAR WILDE.
From the bottom of my heart I do. I cannot live without seeing their young faces and smiles.
ROBERT ROSS.
Go to them Oscar. You will not regret it.
OSCAR WILDE.
I shall ponder that suggestion, but for now, I need time.
ROBERT ROSS.
Just keep in mind that Constance will not wait forever, for your decision.
SCENE IV.
At the home of the renowned French actress Sarah Bernhardt. Wilde visits her, in attempt to speak about a possible publication of a new play of his, untitled and unwritten.
SARAH BERNHARDT.
Oscar Wilde. What brings you to my residence? It has been a while, since our last encounter.
OSCAR WILDE.
Sarah, it is a pleasure to see you anew. I shall not take much of your time. I only wanted to speak to you about a possible play that I have in mind.
SARAH BERNHARDT.
I hear about you in the private places of the inspiring poets of Paris. You have made a favourable impression upon them.
OSCAR WILDE.
I suppose, I am a celebrity here in France. I have been contemplating writing another play my dear, much like Salomé, or L'Etrangère to be performed at the Vaudeville Theatre in Paris, if there are any suitors for the purchase of my play.
SARAH BERNHARDT.
That sounds very interesting Oscar. I had been told you were in Paris, but I did not know, you were now living in the city. It must have been terrible to be condemned and exiled.
OSCAR WILDE.
That is not the worse part. The worse is to be ostracised by the very same society that once applauded and revered me.
SARAH BERNHARDT.
I remember our last encounter in London, when I tried to seduce you. Now at my age, I can only attempt to seduce you with my feminine persuasion.
OSCAR WILDE.
That feminine persuasion that I had adored, with such fine admiration.
SARAH BERNHARDT
People are speaking about Lord Alfred Douglas and you. Are you still involved with him?
OSCAR WILDE.
At the moment, I don't know what I want, or who I prefer to be involved with. The only thing that I know for a certainty, is the fact that I find in my solitude, his company to be the most exhilarating.
SARAH BERNHARDT.
I was always curious, if you were part of the Uranians.
OSCAR WILDE.
No–I was not.
SARAH BERNHARDT.
But you still enjoy the company of young men.
OSCAR WILDE.
I still indulge with rent boys, from time to time, if must know. As for the play. What do you propose that I should write about?
SARAH BERNHARDT.
I would suggest that you write a play about your life Oscar. The people here in Paris would be entertained.
OSCAR WILDE.
Good God Sarah, have you gone mad?
SARAH BERNHARDT.
Not one bit. I have been an actress for decades and have written many successful plays. I have travelled the world. I speak from genuine experience.
OSCAR WILDE
I shall not make a mockery of myself.
SARAH BERNHARDT.
No one is saying you would Oscar. You came here to know of my advice, and I have given it to you with a great measure of candour. In the end, you will decide.
OSCAR WILDE
So true. You have not changed one bit. I often do not enjoy the wit of others expressed, but yours is exquisitely piquant.
SARAH BERNHARDT.
Oscar Wilde my good friend, if you decide to write this play and seek to display it in Paris, then do so, but I would hope that I have a front row seat at the theatre.
OSCAR WILDE.
Guaranteed. You will be my honoured guest, Sarah.
SCENE V.
At the Bois de Boulogne in Paris, France.
Oscar is in the company of Lord Alfred Douglas. They take a carriage ride together and enjoy the view, as they speak about their time together and their future.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
How beautiful the gardens are, Oscar.
OSCAR WILDE.
Indeed! They are so colourful. I particularly enjoy the roses and hyacinths. I often visit the gardens, for they remind me of Ireland.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
It is such a tranquil place to be, especially in good company.
OSCAR WILDE.
I remember my trip to Paris with my mother with great affection, Bosie. I was barely twenty, and we stayed at the Hôtel du Quai Voltaire. I returned later to that charming hotel, with its magnificent view overlooking the Seine, the Louvre, and of course, the Tuileries Gardens.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
You were a fortunate man.
OSCAR WILDE.
Was—that is the key. Now, I find myself in need of good fortune, for Constance has reduced my allowance.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
As long as you are with me, I shall provide for you and assist you in any endeavour you wish to pursue.
OSCAR WILDE.
That is most admirable of you, Bosie. What would I do without you?
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
You mustn’t give in to the temptation of failure or lost hope, Oscar.
OSCAR WILDE.
Your words are quite prophetic, Bosie. You are so young and handsome—you still have the world before you. I, on the other hand, sense that I am running out of time, like sand trickling through an hourglass.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
What do you mean by that, Oscar?
OSCAR WILDE.
I may still possess the wit of Oscar Wilde, but I no longer possess the beautiful body that once showered me with the exotic gifts of sensual pleasure.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
You are still young enough to change, if you wish to. Stop with the intoxication. Intoxicate your heart and spirit with love, not ruin them with strong drink. You must let go of this penchant for absinthe.
OSCAR WILDE.
Ah yes, the green fairy. I don’t know if I can. Drinking excites me, and abstaining bores my soul to death. Bosie, I was once one who stood in symbolic relation to the art and culture of my age. And there is not a single wretched man who was in that place of horror—that prison—who did not also stand in symbolic relation to the very secret of life and its purest essence. For the secret of life is suffering. My hardship has filled my soul with the fruit of experience, however bitter it tasted at the time.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
The wretched man who is confined in an English prison can scarcely avoid going mad. You were a man who was denied the most basic of human rights—simply to follow his emotions, without punishment, and to love whom he chose, openly.
OSCAR WILDE.
Bravo, Bosie. You speak with such eloquence—I had forgotten you possessed it.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
I have never given up on you. I believed in you, despite the years that separated us during your imprisonment.
OSCAR WILDE.
I was furious with you. I blamed you for my misery. I blamed your father, too—when in truth, I had only myself to blame. Your mother sent me £200 and asked me to promise never to see you again, nor live with you.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
I know. What matters now is that you have rectified your position. You are in a better place, I hope.
OSCAR WILDE.
I hope so too.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
You are no longer imprisoned behind those hideous four walls that once confined you, Oscar.
OSCAR WILDE.
At times, I still feel haunted by the shadow of those ineffaceable walls.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
Enough of these dark thoughts—let us focus on enjoying the day, and the place of our rendezvous.
SCENE VI.
At Le Restaurant de l’Hôtel in Paris, France.
Wilde dines with publisher Leonard Smithers, to discuss the publication of his completed poem, The Ballad of Reading Gaol.
OSCAR WILDE.
Leonard, old friend, I’m so pleased you accepted my cordial invitation to dinner.
LEONARD SMITHERS.
I could never turn down such a splendid invitation, Oscar.
OSCAR WILDE.
You look well.
LEONARD SMITHERS.
And you, my friend.
OSCAR WILDE.
I was wondering if you’d be interested in publishing my latest poem.
LEONARD SMITHERS.
What is it called?
OSCAR WILDE.
The Ballad of Reading Gaol.
LEONARD SMITHERS.
I presume it’s about your time in prison?
OSCAR WILDE.
Most certainly. I wanted to express my thoughts, my feelings—and above all, to share the pain and hardship endured so unnecessarily by my fellow prisoners.
LEONARD SMITHERS.
That’s a noble undertaking, and you speak of it with such grace, Oscar.
OSCAR WILDE.
Thank you, Leonard. But I must ask—do you plan to publish it? I say this candidly: I shall be in your debt if you do.
LEONARD SMITHERS.
Do you have a copy with you?
OSCAR WILDE.
Yes. Here—take it, and consider.
LEONARD SMITHERS.
I shall.
OSCAR WILDE.
To be honest, Leonard, I don’t know whether this shall be the last thing I write—or that will be published.
LEONARD SMITHERS.
I would hope, for your sake and for the sake of your admirers, that it is not. The world is indebted to your art, Oscar.
OSCAR WILDE.
What a marvellous thing to say. As an artist, I seek only the recognition of my art—not the illusion of the artist. Somewhere between those two lines of commonality, one finds the truth.
LEONARD SMITHERS.
And what is that truth, Oscar?
OSCAR WILDE.
That I have not yet fully discovered. All I know is that it exists—and few ever realise it.
LEONARD SMITHERS.
You seem to have experienced so much in such a short time.
OSCAR WILDE.
You are right. I have lived and seen only a fraction of what life had to offer me—but I can say that I have experimented more than the average person. I have seen more than the common man.
LEONARD SMITHERS.
You are the epitome of a true artist.
ACT V.
SCENE I.
At the home of Constance, in Switzerland.
Robert Ross visits her and the children, to inform her that Oscar has reunited with Lord Alfred Douglas, and that this should not be a reason for denying him access to his boys.
CONSTANCE WILDE.
Robert, I was not expecting to see you so soon. I did not receive a letter from you.
ROBERT ROSS.
Forgive me if I did not give you any prior notice of my visit. I stopped by to apprise you of Oscar's decision, and his demand to receive his allowance.
CONSTANCE WILDE.
How bold of him to make such a demand, knowing what conditions I imposed upon him.
ROBERT ROSS.
That is the thing, Constance. He does see why you are imposing these conditions.
CONSTANCE WILDE.
I do all of this not only for my own sake, but for the sake of the children and his as well, Robert.
ROBERT ROSS.
I believe you. I just had to inform you of Oscar's decision.
CONSTANCE WILDE.
So, he prefers to continue his scandalous and lewd relationship with Lord Alfred Douglas?
ROBERT ROSS.
Yes, for now.
CONSTANCE WILDE.
Does he not think about all the harm he has caused the children and me?
ROBERT ROSS.
Believe me when I say that he does care, Constance.
CONSTANCE WILDE.
His actions speak loudly of his choice.
ROBERT ROSS.
I tried to convince him of the peril and scandal that is being created by his continuing to see Lord Alfred Douglas.
CONSTANCE WILDE.
You realise that I have had to move to another country and change my name to Constance Lloyd?
ROBERT ROSS.
Yes, I am aware of that fact.
CONSTANCE WILDE.
I don't know what else to do to convince him to leave him.
ROBERT ROSS.
I myself will continue to make him see the error of his judgement.
CONSTANCE WILDE.
How, Robert? How can you make a man see what his eyes blind him to see?
ROBERT ROSS.
But you must know, he speaks often to me through letters and in person, when I have visited him, about the children.
CONSTANCE WILDE.
They are too young to understand the dilemma of their absent father.
ROBERT ROSS.
We both know that he loves them.
CONSTANCE WILDE.
I am beginning to doubt how much, Robert. He prefers to spend his time with rent boys rather than his own.
ROBERT ROSS.
I have tried to make him see how dangerous it is for him to stir another maelstrom of scandal.
CONSTANCE WILDE.
I have never understood his preference for them. Forgive me if I ask, Robert — you as a homosexual man, what does he see in men that he does not see in me?
ROBERT ROSS.
I cannot speak on behalf of Oscar, but I can tell you that there is nothing unnatural about a man loving another man.
CONSTANCE WILDE.
Do you call this thing he shares with other men love or lust?
ROBERT ROSS.
It all depends, I suppose.
CONSTANCE WILDE.
Well, let me ask you then, what is this thing he shares with Lord Alfred Douglas? Is it love or lust?
ROBERT ROSS.
I would say both.
SCENE II.
At the Saint-Germain-des-Prés Café in Paris, France.
Oscar meets Reginald Turner and Ernest La Jeunesse to speak about funding and patronage for a possible play he has been aspiring to write.
OSCAR WILDE.
Gentlemen, I am glad you were both able to come today.
REGINALD TURNER.
I hope it is nothing serious. You seem concerned; it is reflected in your gestures, Oscar.
ERNEST LA JEUNESSE.
Are you ill, or what else could be concerning you?
OSCAR WILDE.
I am worried about my finances. I seem to be spending too much on so little of the paltry allowance that I have. I need to make more money, and that is the reason why I have requested your presence both.
REGINALD TURNER.
What can we do to assist you in this endeavour, Oscar?
OSCAR WILDE.
I am in the process of writing a play of which I have only written a small fragment so far.
ERNEST LA JEUNESSE.
A play? What is it called? I am intrigued to know.
OSCAR WILDE.
I need to find someone major to finance the play at the theatre.
ERNEST LA JEUNESSE.
At what theatre?
OSCAR WILDE.
At the Théâtre Comédie-Parisienne in Paris, where my play Salomé was presented.
ERNEST LA JEUNESSE.
That would be marvellous, Oscar.
REGINALD TURNER.
That is asking a lot, but it can be done.
OSCAR WILDE.
I assure you both that it will be successful.
REGINALD TURNER.
I cannot guarantee success, Oscar.
OSCAR WILDE.
I am aware of that possibility. Trust me, Reggie, I shall make the audience adore me once more.
ERNEST LA JEUNESSE.
When do you expect to finish the play?
OSCAR WILDE.
Soon, if I can muster the financial backing.
ERNEST LA JEUNESSE.
That could take time, Oscar. Are you aware of that delay?
OSCAR WILDE.
Yes, I am fully aware, my dear Ernie, but I must insist. I am gradually learning that freedom is a worthless and overrated thing when there is the cruel world to confront, with a small measure of hope.
REGINALD TURNER.
Why so gloomy, Oscar? You must have faith in yourself.
OSCAR WILDE.
Faith or fate? The first is a thing that cannot be measured and the second is a thing that cannot be known. If I knew what they really meant to me, I would be a god by now, not a meagre man.
REGINALD TURNER.
You must have faith. Are you not a spiritual man?
OSCAR WILDE.
Know that after my release from prison, I had a note sent to the Jesuits in Farm Street in London, asking for a Catholic priest to come so that I could receive spiritual guidance. The Jesuits rejected my request.
SCENE III.
At the Café de Flore in Paris, France.
Oscar invites Frank Harris to lunch, so that he could speak to him, about his economical situation that is worsening, by his continuous debts.
OSCAR WILDE.
My dear Frank. How good of you to come, when I asked you to.
FRANK HARRIS.
Your aspect has changed Oscar. You do not look well. Are you intoxicated?
OSCAR WILDE.
I am, but it is because I wish to be intoxicated with life and with the zest that I have lost it seems.
FRANK HARRIS.
What has caused this rapid change in your appearance?
OSCAR WILDE.
I suppose, it is bad food that I have been forced to consume. A bad diet would explain it all, but I need to make money.
FRANK HARRIS.
And your allowance?
OSCAR WILDE.
Constance had taken that away, and I cannot ask for more from Lord Alfred Douglas.
FRANK HARRIS.
You must stop wasting your money on expensive trips, dinners, clothing etc.
OSCAR WILDE.
I wish I could stop Frank, but I can't seem to.
FRANK HARRIS.
If you don't Oscar, then you will bring upon yourself, your absolute ruination sooner than you think. You are drunk.
OSCAR WILDE
How do I stop this?
FRANK HARRIS.
By not overindulging with expensive alcohol.
OSCAR WILDE.
I need to find a way to pay off my debts. I don't want to see the faces of my creditors.
FRANK HARRIS.
Then you will have to leave Paris.
OSCAR WILDE.
I don't want to. Where would I go?
FRANK HARRIS.
Have you not thought about this before?
OSCAR WILDE.
Not really!
FRANK HARRIS.
I hope that it does not reach to the point that you will have to unwillingly. I have a sum of money I can give you now.
OSCAR WILDE.
Thank you Frank. I know that I can count on you. I am in debt to your kindness towards me.
FRANK HARRIS.
I hope the next time, we see each other, you are not intoxicated and are in fine fettle.
SCENE IV.
At the chalet in Paris, France.
Oscar is visited once more, by his close friend Ada Leverson. It will be the last time that they see other in person.
OSCAR WILDE.
Sphinx, ever so beautiful and radiant as ever my dear. How glad I am to see you. You must come more often, for I grow weary of the solitude at times.
ADA LEVERSON.
I came when I was able to come. I came alone this time, but my husband will join me in a week from now.
OSCAR WILDE.
Tell me, how is London?
ADA LEVERSON.
London is the same as before, bustling and hectic.
OSCAR WILDE.
Do they still despise me there?
ADA LEVERSON.
I would be lying, if I told you that they have not forsaken your accomplishments.
OSCAR WILDE.
How quickly I am forgotten, like Judas and his infamous betrayal of Jesus.
ADA LEVERSON.
England is not ready to forgive you Oscar. It would better, if you do not think about returning.
OSCAR WILDE.
I pity more, my plays than myself. It is my work that most troubles me of being lost and forgotten. Will I too here in Paris, meet the same fate?
ADA LEVERSON.
They say in London that you are a provocative dandy with extravagant costumes, affirming your taste for a decadent aesthetic form that has slowly faded in England.
OSCAR WILDE.
Do you know that I mischievously wait in the narrow aisles of my favourite bookstores and engage in subversive conversations, with anyone that is interested in my work. Fans rave over the literary talent that was Oscar Wilde, without knowing that it was me, they were conversing with.
ADA LEVERSON.
Why don't you join me for a stroll in the streets of Paris.
OSCAR WILDE.
That would be a good idea. Let us go then.
SCENE V.
At the Café de la Paix in Paris, France.
Oscar and Lord Douglas have an argument that leads to Lord Douglas’s immediate departure from Paris. Oscar was treated to dinner by Lord Alfred Douglas.
OSCAR WILDE.
It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it, Bosie? This place overlooks the Opera House, just a minute’s walk from the street where I wrote Salomé years ago.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
That must bring you joy and immense satisfaction.
OSCAR WILDE.
It does, but I must impose upon you for a small allowance from the vast inheritance you received after your father’s death.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
Are you serious?
OSCAR WILDE.
Despite never liking the man, I would never have wished for his death.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
I can hardly believe what you’re saying. Your words fill me with contempt. You disgust me when you beg. And you’re getting fat and bloated. You’re always demanding money, money, money. You could earn all the money you want if you would only write again. But you won’t do anything—you’re like an old prostitute, just waiting to be rewarded!
OSCAR WILDE.
Surely you don’t mean that, Bosie?
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
By all means, I am serious. How dare you be so cruel and indifferent?
OSCAR WILDE.
I don’t want to be cruel or indifferent, but your father was both to me. Besides, who better to share your inheritance with than me?
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
Why do you just overdrink and overeat? You are so excessive in that. Where is the Oscar Wilde I once knew and genuinely cared for?
OSCAR WILDE.
That, I do not know. It seems I have lost that essence.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
You are to blame for that. You could rise from the ashes like the Phoenix if you so desired.
OSCAR WILDE.
Desire is such a longing I have not yet reached when it comes to writing.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
But you must write again, Oscar.
OSCAR WILDE.
I’ve found it much easier to beg than to create something worthy of praise.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
I cannot stay here any longer and watch you waste away on alcohol and rent boys.
OSCAR WILDE.
I detest it when you throw such ostentatious fits in public. It makes you seem childish in your behaviour. It is your weakness. I do not like seeing you in this gullible state.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
Call it what you will. I shall not subject myself to such aspersions.
OSCAR WILDE.
What are you saying, Bosie?
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
I am leaving Paris and returning to England.
OSCAR WILDE.
And what of me? Do you plan on coming back?
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
I doubt it—or rather, I cannot bear seeing you in such an abhorrent state. It sickens me. Goodbye, Oscar.
OSCAR WILDE.
Bosie, wait!
ACT VI.
SCENE I.
At the home of Constance in Switzerland.
Robert Ross visits Constance for the last time to inform her that Oscar and Lord Alfred Douglas are no longer a couple.
CONSTANCE WILDE.
Robert, I read your letter, but I could scarcely believe it. Is it true?
ROBERT ROSS.
It is true, Constance.
CONSTANCE WILDE.
How did this come about? I never thought Lord Alfred Douglas would tire of Oscar’s antics.
ROBERT ROSS.
I do not know the full story, but Oscar told me that Lord Alfred Douglas has left Paris and returned to England.
CONSTANCE WILDE.
But I wonder if he has gone for good, or will he return to Oscar’s side once the storm has passed?
ROBERT ROSS.
Only time will tell. Time alone will reveal what transpires between them.
CONSTANCE WILDE.
And how is he, Robert? How does he look? Is he as ill as you describe in your letters?
ROBERT ROSS.
I fear for his health. He has developed a dangerous fondness for alcohol that is slowly destroying whatever remains of the man he once was.
CONSTANCE WILDE.
Is it really so dire? I have not seen him for some time now.
ROBERT ROSS.
Why do you not go to him, Constance? He is in desperate need of your support.
CONSTANCE WILDE.
I cannot, Robert, and you know why. He can come to me here in Switzerland—I know he has travelled here before.
ROBERT ROSS.
What prevents you from going to Paris?
CONSTANCE WILDE.
The children.
ROBERT ROSS.
Why do you hold the children hostage to punish Oscar? They have every right to see their father.
CONSTANCE WILDE.
I do not hold them hostage, Robert. It is Oscar who has failed to visit them.
ROBERT ROSS.
But under your conditions?
CONSTANCE WILDE.
Do not blame me for what has happened to Oscar. He alone is responsible for his own downfall.
ROBERT ROSS.
Do you not still love him?
CONSTANCE WILDE.
Love him? What good is love when he favours his vices, other men, himself, and his own reputation above all?
ROBERT ROSS.
I shall say it again: go to him, Constance, before it is too late and he succumbs to death.
CONSTANCE WILDE.
However much it pains me, for the sake of the children and myself, I shall not go. It is he who must come to us.
SCENE II.
At Café de la Paix in Paris, France.
Wilde meets the Parnassian writer and dandy, Jean Lorrain.
JEAN LORRAIN.
It is a pleasure to meet you, Oscar, and to finally have a proper conversation.
OSCAR WILDE.
The pleasure is mine, Jean. I would have been a fool not to come.
JEAN LORRAIN.
You look tired and dejected, Oscar.
OSCAR WILDE.
Is it so evident in my face?
JEAN LORRAIN.
I’m afraid it is quite noticeable.
OSCAR WILDE.
I, Oscar Wilde, once a bohemian to the French, am now but a shadow of a man.
JEAN LORRAIN.
What has become of you, Oscar?
OSCAR WILDE.
I suppose I have lost that natural flair of mine. Have I lost my wit? My charm? Because the day I do, I shall be lost forever.
JEAN LORRAIN.
The Oscar Wilde before me is not the flamboyant, witty dandy I once knew. You are but a shell of yourself.
OSCAR WILDE.
I shall take that as a compliment, not an insult, mon ami. I admit I am unparalleled, and perhaps I need to be mangonised.
JEAN LORRAIN.
Where are you staying, Oscar?
OSCAR WILDE.
At the Hôtel Louvre Marsollier.
JEAN LORRAIN.
How are you treated there?
OSCAR WILDE.
Poorly—horribly so. Since leaving the chalet, I have bounced from one hotel to another on my meagre allowance.
JEAN LORRAIN.
Why don’t you write again, Oscar? You know the Parisians are eager to see you produce new work.
OSCAR WILDE.
I have asked myself the same, and I have tried to finish a play I began.
JEAN LORRAIN.
You once filled the theatres of London and Paris. You thrilled audiences.
OSCAR WILDE.
Indeed! It haunts me to think I was once a genius of my own creation. I cannot bear the thought of absolute failure and ruin.
JEAN LORRAIN.
Then write, Oscar, write! Listen to the public!
OSCAR WILDE.
I shall contemplate that notion with the utmost regard for my audience.
SCENE III.
At the Hotel d'Alsace in Paris, France.
Robert Ross visits Oscar for the final time. He brings sad tidings about the passing of Constance, his former love and wife.
OSCAR WILDE.
Robbie. How are you, old boy?
ROBERT ROSS.
Fine, Oscar.
OSCAR WILDE.
I apologise if this is a shabby fourth-class hotel. Unfortunately, this is all I can afford to live in. I know you may think I have fallen to the lowest that any man could fall. What has brought you to see me?
ROBERT ROSS.
I don’t know if you have received my letter?
OSCAR WILDE.
Which letter?
ROBERT ROSS.
The letter informing you about the death of Constance.
OSCAR WILDE.
I must sit down for a moment. I did not receive your letter. I am struck with the horror of her death, Robbie. I have been moving from one hotel to another.
ROBERT ROSS.
I was not aware you had not received my letter.
OSCAR WILDE.
My heart is broken. If only I had met her again and we had kissed each other! It is too late. How awful life is!
ROBERT ROSS.
I must confess to you that I had told her to come and visit you.
OSCAR WILDE.
And why didn’t she, Robbie?
ROBERT ROSS.
I don’t know, Oscar.
OSCAR WILDE.
What did she die of?
ROBERT ROSS.
I only know so far; it was the result of a bad operation.
OSCAR WILDE.
I have lost my wife, my children, fame, honour, position and wealth. Now I have nothing. I have been reduced to a man whose reputation is tarnished and whose name has been erased. I have lost my mother, Bosie and Constance all at once. What more have I to lose? Who else must perish before I finally do?
ROBERT ROSS.
Let this inspire you to write again, Oscar, for life is still worth living, and you, who have experienced and seen the world, could write about it.
OSCAR WILDE.
Oh Robbie, I have seen everything; I have no more to write.
ROBERT ROSS.
What do you mean by that?
OSCAR WILDE.
I wrote when I did not know life, but now that I do know the meaning of life, I have no more to write. Life cannot be written, for it can only be lived. Life is never fair, and perhaps it is a good thing for most of us that it be that way. If not, we would all go insane.
ROBERT ROSS.
Then what will become of you? Will you allow yourself to drift off into the pages of oblivion? Do you not think about your children and your friends? Think about me.
OSCAR WILDE.
Robbie, you are ever so wise in words. What would I do without your friendship?
ROBERT ROSS.
Why don’t you go to Switzerland and at least see her grave? I can travel with you. Perhaps you can see the boys again.
OSCAR WILDE.
Oh my beloved children. How I have missed them so.
ROBERT ROSS.
Then will you go to Switzerland?
OSCAR WILDE.
Yes, but alone, Robbie. I need to find solace and closure alone.
SCENE IV.
At the cemetery in Switzerland, where Constance is buried.
Wilde visits the grave of his beloved Constance. He is accompanied by Harold Mellor, an acquaintance of his.
OSCAR WILDE.
How sad it is, Harold, to see the grave of my dearest Constance.
HAROLD MELLOR.
I grieve for you, Oscar, as your friend.
OSCAR WILDE.
How fine it is to see the marble cross with dark ivy leaves inlaid in such a good pattern that makes me envious. But it is tragic to see the name of Constance carved on a tomb, with the name Lloyd and not Wilde. Thus, I am filled with rage and blame. It is my ineptitude that could not have prevented her death, and the shame that I caused that sent her to her grave.
HAROLD MELLOR.
I understand that, Oscar, but there is little you can do now to change the course of destiny.
OSCAR WILDE.
Why — why was I not brave to confront our love? Why was I a coward for turning my cheek the other way? I know now how much she really meant to me, after losing her. There is nothing in the world like the devotion of a married woman. It is a thing that no married man knows anything about in earnest.
HAROLD MELLOR.
She is in the heavens with the orchestra of cherubs, Oscar. Let her rest, and let your guilt rest as well, here before her tombstone.
OSCAR WILDE.
I am a blatant fool. I have done nothing in this world but cause harm to others. Whatever I have gained, I have not earned. All that I have sowed, I have not reaped. I have committed the worst of all abominable sins: selfishness.
HAROLD MELLOR.
It does you no service to blame yourself for her death.
OSCAR WILDE.
Who else am I to blame, Harold?
HAROLD MELLOR.
No one. If you have to blame someone, then blame that bloody surgeon who killed her.
OSCAR WILDE.
That poor devil has his lingering guilt, like I have mine to bear, for his responsibility. You see, when men love women, they give them but a little of their lives, but women that love give everything. Women are made to be loved, not merely understood.
HAROLD MELLOR.
The world is never how we want it to be, Oscar.
OSCAR WILDE.
I suppose it is only the illusion of the truth. For so many years I have put ahead aesthetic wonders, instead of those we create from our natural world. Men always want to be a woman’s first love, but for a woman, they prefer to be a man’s last romance.
HAROLD MELLOR.
Death is no illusion, my friend, and romance is alive.
OSCAR WILDE.
Indeed. As Dante once portrayed it with his Inferno, it is daunting in its manifestation. As for romance, I have sipped from its glass once too often.
HAROLD MELLOR.
Perhaps one day we will be able to understand death, Oscar.
OSCAR WILDE.
I don’t think I shall live that long. It frightens me to think that I shall understand it. There are moments when one has to choose between living one’s own life, fully, entirely, completely, or living a shallow degrading existence that the world in its hypocrisy demands.
HAROLD MELLOR.
Do you want me to leave you alone for a bit, and permit you to be with Constance?
OSCAR WILDE.
Yes, that would be good of you, Harold.
HAROLD MELLOR.
I shall be waiting then for you at the hotel.
SCENE V.
At Café de la Paix in Paris, France.
Wilde is invited by his old friend Reginald Turner to the café. Wilde is sober and very worried when he meets Turner.
REGINALD TURNER.
You seem sober today, Oscar. What’s the occasion for that?
OSCAR WILDE.
I plan on holding a party, Reggie—a festive one indeed—at the hotel where I am currently staying.
REGINALD TURNER.
What for?
OSCAR WILDE.
I want to invite all my good friends in Paris for a magical night.
REGINALD TURNER.
Is it something special you are commemorating?
OSCAR WILDE.
Is it not enough that I am the main attraction at the party?
REGINALD TURNER.
It’s good to see you at least in good spirits. I’ve heard so much about your terrible lapses, with alcohol and depression.
OSCAR WILDE.
I don’t want to talk about that, Reggie, for it bores me to death to remember it. I have experienced sufficient hardship, degradation and poverty to want to speak of it to anyone, in private or in public.
REGINALD TURNER.
How many guests will you have at the party?
OSCAR WILDE.
That I don’t quite know yet. I hope everyone who receives an invitation comes and brings some wit too, because I need to regain mine.
REGINALD TURNER.
I hope this turns the page in your life and allows you to move on, Oscar, to finer and greener pastures.
OSCAR WILDE.
I doubt I shall ever find those finer and greener pastures, but I shall endeavour to dream a little more than before.
REGINALD TURNER.
I still have faith that you will. When you do, I hope you don’t forget your old friend Reggie.
OSCAR WILDE.
I couldn’t imagine myself doing so.
REGINALD TURNER.
There is still time, Oscar. There is still time left.
OSCAR WILDE.
I do hope I can at least see my plays performed once more in London, one day.
REGINALD TURNER.
I haven’t seen this suit before that you’re wearing, Oscar.
OSCAR WILDE.
It’s not the best, but it will have to do for now. The wretched innkeeper I had before demanded the rent, and I was forced to sell some of my valuable finely tailored suits.
REGINALD TURNER.
I shall try to come.
OSCAR WILDE.
Thanks, Reggie. I knew I could count on you.
SCENE VI
At the Hôtel d'Alsace, Paris, France.
Wilde holds a party that night with his close friends in the city. Little does he know it will be the last time he is the main attraction—and alive.
OSCAR WILDE.
Messieurs, I am pleased to see you all able to come to my festive night and accept my invitation.
ANDRÉ GIDE.
It is a pleasure as always, Oscar. I think I speak for all the guests gathered tonight—we are excited to be here.
OSCAR WILDE.
And I am delighted to be your host, messieurs.
ÉMILE ZOLA.
What is the occasion, Oscar?
JEAN MORÉAS.
That I would like to know as well.
OSCAR WILDE.
I have none in particular, except the grandeur of reintroducing myself into the focus of Paris with my savoir-faire. The wallpaper and I are duelling to the death; one of us must go.
REGINALD TURNER.
Am I to assume, Oscar, that you are not fond of your wallpaper?
OSCAR WILDE.
I long for the peacock feather décor I once enjoyed in England, Reggie.
ERNEST LA JEUNESSE.
I can have the hotel refurbish the wallpaper if you like, Oscar.
JEAN LORRAIN.
That should not be too difficult to arrange.
OSCAR WILDE.
I feel a bit ashamed, since I am not wasting money here at this hotel. The persistent landlord at the Hôtel Louvre Marsollier accepted no excuses. He confiscated my room key and seized my property as compensation for an unpaid bill.
JEAN LORRAIN.
I would never have imagined you, Oscar, in such a place if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.
ANDRÉ GIDE.
I shall find you a better hotel to stay at, mon ami.
OSCAR WILDE.
Parmi les poètes de France, je trouverai de véritables amis. Amongst the poets of France, I shall find true friends. Art deals with the exception and the individual. I much prefer extraordinary people like all of you present than ordinary people, for they are artistically uninteresting.
ÉMILE ZOLA.
You are truly the incredible cynosure of all parties and soirées, Oscar, in Paris. Who could walk in your shadow with your elegance?
OSCAR WILDE.
No one! I am Oscar Wilde. I love to talk about nothing. Truly, it is the only thing I know anything about, gentlemen. I may be ostracised in London, but I am revered in Paris. The only people I care to be with now are artists and those who have suffered. Those who know what beauty is, and those who know what sorrow is. Nobody else intrigues me more than those individuals I call friends.
ANDRÉ GIDE.
The world would be a better place if there were more Oscar Wildes in it.
OSCAR WILDE.
Regrettably, the world is a stage, but the play is sometimes badly cast.
REGINALD TURNER.
What do you mean by that, Oscar?
OSCAR WILDE.
It’s absurd to divide people into good and bad. People are either charming or tedious, in my opinion. We live in an age when unnecessary things are our only necessities. A person must learn to differentiate between ignorance and stupidity. That person must also learn to distinguish what is reverential and what is obsessive. I detest the cynics of this world. What is a cynic? A man who proclaims to know the price of everything but has ascertained the value of nothing.
ERNEST LA JEUNESSE.
Your wisdom and charm are unmatched. There is no other Oscar Wilde.
OSCAR WILDE.
My wisdom comes from my experiences and my charm, naturally, from my inherent ingenuity. Gentlemen, the answers to our questions are all out there—we just need to be adventurous enough to ask the right questions. There’s no need to rush in our urgency to find answers. There is no magical elixir that will enlighten us more than our natural wisdom. I was born with charm, and because of it, I have experienced the most wonderful and wicked delights ever expressed.
ÉMILE ZOLA.
Soon, new poems and plays will be read and performed in the theatres of Paris, with your name on the placards along every boulevard.
REGINALD TURNER.
If he desires to write. That is the question that must be asked.
ANDRÉ GIDE.
I shall ask it. Oscar, will you bestow upon us your talent and gift for writing?
OSCAR WILDE.
Soon, André. I shall let the world know. If a man cannot write well, he cannot think rationally. If he cannot think rationally, others will do his thinking for him and deem his creativity useless.
ÉMILE ZOLA.
Will you describe in your own words, Oscar, what beauty means to you?
OSCAR WILDE.
Beauty is the only thing that time cannot harm. It is joy for all seasons, a possession for all eternity. The irony is that no one is capable of returning to their past to enjoy their former beauty. To look at a thing is very different from appreciating it. One does not truly see anything until one sees its pure beauty. Then, and only then, does it come into existence as beautiful. Thus, beauty, in its purest state, could never be tainted, for it can only be altered at best.
ÉMILE ZOLA.
And what about platonic love, Oscar?
OSCAR WILDE.
Verily, there is no such thing, for love and intimacy are always sensual and culminate in lust. I think Plato himself only explored the idea after experiencing lust. We cannot forget that Herodotus, Xenophon, Athenaeus and even Plato once wrote about sexuality, including homosexuality.
ÉMILE ZOLA.
And of your art? What do you want people to remember you for?
OSCAR WILDE.
That is a good question. To that I shall respond by saying, remember me for who I was, not for who I was not. It is through art alone that we realise and achieve a semblance of aesthetic perfection. Life is too short to be forgotten so easily.
JEAN MORÉAS.
I can’t wait in anticipation for your new piece of art, Oscar. Now, let us toast to the famous Oscar Wilde.
OSCAR WILDE.
I, Oscar Wilde, offer all of you who are my guests a splendid glass of the best champagne in Paris. Tonight, will be the night that I rise from the hoary ashes like the renascent Phoenix. Gentlemen, I am dying beyond my means, but my superb wit will never die. I shall fade into the ripples of time, but my art will never cease to exist. Live! Live the wonderful life that is within you! Let nothing be lost upon you. Be always searching for new sensations that will lead you to greater things. Be afraid of nothing. Be yourselves. (Applause from the guests.)
On 30 November 1900, the great Oscar Wilde quietly passed away at the age of 46. He was received into the Catholic faith and was later relocated from a pauper’s grave to the cemetery at Père Lachaise.
The End