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.
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