Oscar Wilde, Volume 2 | Page 7

he cried, "charming, brilliant, human
creature! She might have stepped out of a page of Thackeray, only
Thackeray never wrote a page quite dainty and charming enough. He
came near it in his 'Esmond.' Oh, I remember you don't like the book,
but it is beautifully written, Frank, in beautiful simple rhythmic English.
It sings itself to the ear. Lady Dorothy" (how he loved the title!) "was
always kind to me, but London is horrible. I could not live in London
again. I must go away out of England. Do you remember talking to me,
Frank, of France?" and he put both his hands on my shoulders, while
tears ran down his face, and sighs broke from him. "Beautiful France,
the one country in the world where they care for humane ideals and the

humane life. Ah! if only I had gone with you to France," and the tears
poured down his cheeks and our hands met convulsively.
"I'm glad to see you looking so well," I began again. "Books you shall
have; for God's sake keep your heart up, and I will come back and see
you, and don't forget you have good friends outside; lots of us!"
"Thank you, Frank; but take care, won't you, and remember your
promise not to tell."
I nodded in assent and went to the door. The warder came in.
"The interview is over," I said; "will you take me downstairs?"
"If you will not mind sitting here, sir," he said, "for a minute. I must
take him back first."
"I have been telling my friend," said Oscar to the warder, "how good
you have been to me," and he turned and went, leaving with me the
memory of his eyes and unforgettable smile; but I noticed as he
disappeared that he was thin, and looked hunched up and bowed, in the
ugly ill-fitting prison livery. I took out a bank note and put it under the
blotting paper that had been placed on the table for me. In two or three
minutes the warder came back, and as I left the room I thanked him for
being kind to my friend, and told him how kindly Oscar had spoken of
him.
"He has no business here, sir," the warder said. "He's no more like one
of our reg'lars than a canary is like one of them cocky little spadgers.
Prison ain't meant for such as him, and he ain't meant for prison. He's
that soft, sir, you see, and affeckshunate. He's more like a woman, he is;
you hurt 'em without meaning to. I don't care what they say, I likes him;
and he do talk beautiful, sir, don't he?"
"Indeed he does," I said, "the best talker in the world. I want you to
look in the pad on the table. I have left a note there for you."
"Not for me, sir, I could not take it; no, sir, please not," he cried in a

hurried, fear-struck voice. "You've forgotten something, sir, come back
and get it, sir, do, please. I daren't."
In spite of my remonstrance he took me back and I had to put the note
in my pocket.
"I could not, you know, sir, I was not kind to him for that." His manner
changed; he seemed hurt.
I told him I was sure of it, sure, and begged him to believe, that if I
were able to do anything for him, at any time, I'd be glad, and gave him
my address. He was not even listening--an honest, good man, full of the
milk of human kindness. How kind deeds shine starlike in this prison of
a world. That warder and Sir Ruggles Brise each in his own place: such
men are the salt of the English world; better are not to be found on
earth.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Some years ago The Daily Chronicle proved that though the general
standard of living is lower in Germany and in France than in England;
yet the prison food in France and especially in Germany is far better
than in England and the treatment of the prisoners far more humane.
[2] He was referring, I suppose, to the solitary confinement in a dark
cell, which English ingenuity has invented and according to all
accounts is as terrible as any of the tortures of the past. For those
tortures were all physical, whereas the modern Englishman addresses
himself to the brain and nerves, and finds the fear of madness more
terrifying than the fear of pain. What a pity it is that Mr. Justice Wills
did not know twenty-four hours of it, just twenty-four hours to teach
him what "adequate punishment" for sensual self-indulgence means,
and adequate punishment, too, for inhuman cruelty.

CHAPTER XVIII

On my return to London I saw Sir