Oscar Wilde (The Exile) The Play Part 1
Lorient Montaner
Oscar Wilde (The Exile)–A 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.
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