Oscar Wilde, Volume 2 | Page 3

down and his reason going, pointed out how monstrous it was to turn
prison into a torture-chamber. To my utter astonishment he agreed with
me, admitted, even, that an exceptional man ought to have exceptional
treatment; showed not a trace of pedantry; good brains, good heart. He
went so far as to say that Oscar Wilde should be treated with all
possible consideration, that certain prison rules which pressed very
hardly upon him should be interpreted as mildly as possible. He
admitted that the punishment was much more severe to him than it
would be to an ordinary criminal, and had nothing but admiration for
his brilliant gifts.
"It was a great pity," he said, "that Wilde ever got into prison, a great
pity."

I was pushing at an open door; besides the year or so which had elapsed
since the condemnation had given time for reflection. Still, Sir Ruggles
Brise's attitude was extraordinary, sympathetic at once and
high-minded: another true Englishman at the head of affairs: infinite
hope in that fact, and solace.
I had stuck to my text that something should be done at once to give
Oscar courage and hope; he must not be murdered or left to despair.
Sir Ruggles Brise asked me finally if I would go to Reading and report
on Oscar Wilde's condition and make any suggestion that might occur
to me. He did not know if this could be arranged; but he would see the
Home Secretary and would recommend it, if I were willing. Of course I
was willing, more than willing. Two or three days later, I got another
letter from him with another appointment, and again I went to see him.
He received me with charming kindness. The Home Secretary would be
glad if I would go down to Reading and report on Oscar Wilde's state.
"Everyone," said Sir Ruggles Brise, "speaks with admiration and
delight of his wonderful talents. The Home Secretary thinks it would be
a great loss to English literature if he were really injured by the prison
discipline. Here is your order to see him alone, and a word of
introduction to the Governor, and a request to give you all
information."
I could not speak. I could only shake hands with him in silence.
What a country of anomalies England is! A judge of the High Court a
hard self-satisfied pernicious bigot, while the official in charge of the
prisons is a man of wide culture and humane views, who has the
courage of a noble humanity.
I went to Reading Gaol and sent in my letter. I was met by the
Governor, who gave orders that Oscar Wilde should be conducted to a
room where we could talk alone. I cannot give an account of my
interviews with the Governor or the doctor; it would smack of a breach
of confidence; besides all such conversations are peculiarly personal:
some people call forth the best in us, others the worst. Without wishing

to, I may have stirred up the lees. I can only say here that I then learned
for the first time the full, incredible meaning of "Man's inhumanity to
man."
In a quarter of an hour I was led into a bare room where Oscar Wilde
was already standing by a plain deal table. The warder who had come
with him then left us. We shook hands and sat down opposite to each
other. He had changed greatly. He appeared much older; his dark
brown hair was streaked with grey, particularly in front and over the
ears. He was much thinner, had lost at least thirty-five pounds,
probably forty or more. On the whole, however, he looked better
physically than he had looked for years before his imprisonment: his
eyes were clear and bright; the outlines of the face were no longer
swamped in fat; the voice even was ringing and musical; he had
improved bodily, I thought; though in repose his face wore a nervous,
depressed and harassed air.
"You know how glad I am to see you, heart-glad to find you looking so
well," I began, "but tell me quickly, for I may be able to help you, what
have you to complain of; what do you want?"
For a long time he was too hopeless, too frightened to talk. "The list of
my grievances," he said, "would be without end. The worst of it is I am
perpetually being punished for nothing; this governor loves to punish,
and he punishes by taking my books from me. It is perfectly awful to
let the mind grind itself away between the upper and nether millstones
of regret and remorse without respite; with books my life would be
livable--any life," he added sadly.
"The life, then, is hard. Tell me about it."
"I don't