The Trial of Oscar Wilde.
“In all men’s hearts a slumbering swine lies low”, says the French poet; so come ye, whose porcine instincts have never been awakened, or if rampant successfully hidden, and hurl the biggest, sharpest stones you can lay your hands on at your wretched, degraded, humiliated brother, who has been found out.
The Trial of Oscar Wilde
The life and death of Oscar Wilde, poet, playwright, poseur and convict,
can only fittingly be summarised as a tragedy. Every misspent life is a
tragedy more or less; but how much more tragic appear the elements of
despair and disaster when the victim to his own vices is a man of genius
exercising a considerable influence upon the thought and culture of his
day, and possessing every advantage which birth, education, talent and
station can bestow? Oscar Wilde was more than a clever and original
thinker. He was the inventor of a certain literary style, and, though his
methods, showy and eccentric as they were, lent themselves readily to
imitation, none of his followers could approach their “Master” in the
particular mode which he had made his own. There can be two opinions as
to the merits of his plays. There can be only one judgment as to their
daring and audacious originality. Of the ordinary and the commonplace
Wilde had a horror, which with him was almost a religion. He was
unmercifully chaffed throughout America when he appeared in public in a
light green suit adorned with a large sunflower; but he did not don this
outrageous costume because he preferred such startling clothing. He
adopted the dress in order to be original and assumed it because no other
living man was likely to be so garbed. He was consumed, in fact, with
overpowering vanity. He was possessed of a veritable demon of self-esteem.
He ate strange foods, and drank unusual liquors in order to be unlike any
of his contemporaries. His eccentricities of dress continued to the end.
On the first night of one of his plays—it was a brilliant triumph—he was
called upon by an enthusiastic audience for the customary speech. He was
much exercised in his mind as to what he could say that would be
unconventional and sensational. No mere platitudes or banalities for the
author of “Lady Windermere’s Fan,” who made a god of the spirit of Epigram
and almost canonized the art of Repartee. He said, “Ladies and Gentlemen:
I am glad you like my play. I like it very much myself too,” which, if
candid, was hardly the remark of a modest and retiring author. The leopard
cannot change his spots and neither can the lion his skin. Even in his
beautiful book, “De Profundis”—surely the most extraordinary volume of
recent years—the man’s character is writ so plainly that he who runs may
read. Man of letters, man of fashion, man of hideous vices, Oscar Wilde
remained to the last moment of his murdered life, a self-conscious
egotist. “Gentlemen,” he gasped on his death-bed, hearing the doctors
express misgivings as to their fees, “it would appear that I am dying
beyond my means!” It was a brilliant sally and one can picture the
startled faces of the medical attendants. A genius lay a-dying and a
genius he remained till the breath of life departed.
Genius we know to be closely allied to insanity and it were charitable to describe this man as mad, besides approaching very nearly to the truth. Something was out of gear in that finely attuned mind. Some thorn there was among the intellectual roses which made him what he was. He pined for strange passions, new sensations. His was the temperament of the Roman sybarite. He often sighed for a return of the days when vice was deified. He spoke of the glories of the Devastation, the awful woman and the Alexandrian school at which little girls and young boys were instructed in all the most secret and unthinkable forms of vice. Modern women satisfied him not. Perverted passions consumed the fire of his being. He had had children of his wife, but sexual intercourse between him and that most unfortunate lady was more honoured in the breach than in the observance. They had their several rooms. On many occasions Wilde actually brought the companions of his abominable rites and sinful joys to his own home, and indulged in his frightful propensities beneath the roof of the house which sheltered his own sons and their most unhappy mother. Could the man capable of this atrocity possess a normal mind? Can Oscar Wilde, who committed moral suicide and made of himself a social pariah, be regarded as a sane man? London society is not so strict nor straight-laced that it will not forgive much laxity in its devoted votaries. Rumour had been busy with the name of Oscar Wilde for a long time before the whole awful truth became known. He was seen, constantly, at theatres and restaurants with persons in no way fit to be his associates and these persons were not girls or women. He paraded his shameful friendships and flaunted his villainous companions in society’s face. People began to look askance at the famous wit. Doors began to be closed to him. He was ostracised by all but the most Bohemian coteries. But even those who were still proud to rank him among their friends did not know how far he had wilfully drawn himself into the web of disgrace. Much that seemed strange and unaccountable was attributed to his well-known love of pose. Men shrugged their shoulders and declared that “Wilde meant no harm. It was his vainglorious way of showing his contempt for the opinion of the world. Men of such parts could not be judged by ordinary standards. Intellectually Wilde was fit to mix with the immortals. If he preferred the society of miserable, beardless, stunted youths destitute alike of decency or honour—it was no affair of theirs,” and so on ad nauseam. Meanwhile, heedless of the warnings of friends and the sneers of foes, Wilde went his own way—to destruction.
He was addicted to the vice and crime of sodomy long before he formed a “friendship” which was destined to involve him in irretrievable ruin. In London, he met a younger son of the eccentric Marquis of Queensbury, Lord Alfred Douglas by name. This youth was being educated at Cambridge. He was of peculiar temperament and talented in a strong, frothy style. He was good-looking in an effeminate, lady-like way. He wrote verse. His poems not being of a manner which could be acceptable to a self-respecting publication, his efforts appeared in an eccentric and erratic magazine which was called “The Chameleon.” In this precious serial appeared a “poem” from the pen of Lord Alfred dedicated to his father in these filial words: “To the Man I Hate.”
Oscar Wilde at once developed an extraordinary and dangerous interest in this immature literary egg. A being of his own stamp, after his own heart, was Lord Alfred Douglas. The love of women delighted him not. The possession of a young girl’s person had no charm for him. He yearned for higher flights in the realms of love! He sought unnatural affection. Wilde, experienced in all the symptoms of a disordered sexual fancy, contrived to exercise a remarkable and sinister influence over this youth. Again and again and again did his father implore Lord Alfred Douglas to separate himself from the tempter. Lord Queensberry threatened, persuaded, bribed, urged, cajoled: all to no purpose. Wilde and his son were constantly together. The nature of their friendship became the talk of the town. It was proclaimed from the housetops. The Marquis, determined to rescue him if it were humanly possible, horsewhipped his son in a public thoroughfare and was threatened with a summons for assault. On one occasion—it was the opening night of one of the Wilde plays—he sent the author a bouquet of choice—vegetables! Three or four times he wrote to him begging him to cancel his friendship with Lord Alfred. Once he called at the house in Tite Street and there was a terrible scene. The Marquis fumed; Wilde laughed. He assured his Lordship that only at his son’s own request would he break off the association which existed between them. The Marquis, driven to desperation, called Wilde a disgusting name. The latter, with a show of wrath, ordered the peer from his door and he was obliged to leave.
At all costs and hazards, at the risk of any pain and grief to himself, Lord Queensberry was determined to break off the disgraceful liaison. He stopped his son’s allowance, but Wilde had, at that time, plenty of money and his purse was his friend’s. At last the father went to the length of leaving an insulting message for Oscar Wilde at that gentleman’s club. He called there and asked for Wilde. The clerk at the enquiry office stated that Mr. Wilde was not on the premises. The Marquis then produced a card and wrote upon it in pencil these words, “Oscar Wilde is a Bugger.” This elegant missive he directed to be handed to the author when he should next appear at the club.
From this card—Lord Queensberry’s last resource—grew the whole great case, which amazed and horrified the world in 1895. Oscar Wilde was compelled, however reluctantly, to take the matter up. Had he remained quiescent under such a public affront, his career in England would have been at an end. He bowed to the inevitable and a libel action was prepared.
One is often compelled to wonder if he foresaw the outcome. One asks oneself if he realized what defeat in this case would portend. The stakes were desperately high. He risked, in a Court of Law, his reputation, his position, his career and even his freedom. Did he know what the end to it all would be?
Whatever Wilde’s fears and expectations were, his opponent did not under-estimate the importance of the issue. If he could not induce a jury of twelve of his fellow-countrymen to believe that the plaintiff was what he had termed him, he, the Marquis of Queensberry, would be himself disgraced. Furthermore, there would, in the event of failure, be heavy damages to pay and the poor man was not over rich. Wilde had many and powerful friends. For reasons which it is not necessary to enlarge upon, Lord Queensberry was not liked or respected by his own order. The ultimate knowledge that he was a father striving to save a loved son from infamy changed all that, and his Lordship met with nothing but sympathy from the general public in the latter stages of the great case.
Sir Edward Clarke was retained for the plaintiff. It is needless to refer to the high estimation in which this legal and political luminary is held by all classes of society. From first to last he devoted himself to the lost cause of Oscar Wilde with a whole-hearted devotion which was beyond praise. The upshot of the libel action must have pained and disgusted him; yet he refused to abandon his client, and, in the two criminal trials, defended him with a splendid loyalty and with the marked ability that might be expected from such a counsel. The acute, energetic, silver-spoken Mr. Carson led on the other side. It is not necessary to make more than passing mention of the conspicuous skill with which the able lawyer conducted the case for the defendant. Even the gifted plaintiff himself cut a sorry figure when opposed to Mr. Carson.
Extraordinary interest was displayed in the action; and the courts were besieged on each day that the trial lasted. Remarkable revelations were expected and they were indeed forthcoming. Enormous pains had been taken to provide a strong defence and it was quite clear almost after the first day that Wilde’s case would infallibly break down. He made some astonishing admissions in the witness-box and even disgusted many of his friends by the flippancy and affected unconcern of his replies to questions of the most damaging nature. He, apparently, saw nothing indecorous in facts which must shock any other than the most depraved. He saw nothing disgusting in friendships of a kind to which only one construction could be put. He gave expensive dinners to ex-barmen and the like: ignorant, brutish young fools—because they amused him! He presented youths of questionable moral character with silver cigarette-cases because their society was pleasant! He took young men to share his bedroom at hotels and saw nothing remarkable in such proceedings. He gave sums of thirty pounds to ill-bred youths—accomplished blackmailers—because they were hard-up and he felt they did not deserve poverty! He assisted other young men of a character equally undesirable, to go to America and received letters from them in which they addressed him as “Dear Oscar,” and sent him their love. In short, his own statements damned him. Out of his own mouth—and he posing all the time—was he convicted. The case could have but one ending. Sir Edward Clarke—pained, surprised, shocked—consented to a verdict for the Marquis of Queensberry and the great libel case was at an end. The defendant left the court proudly erect, conscious that he had been the means of saving his son and of eradicating from society a canker which had been rotting it unnoticed, except by a few, for a very long time. Oscar Wilde left the court a ruined and despised man. People—there were one or two left who were loyal to him—turned aside from him with loathing. He had nodded to six or seven friends in court on the last day of the trial and turned ashen pale when he observed their averted looks. All was over for him. The little supper-parties with a few choice wits; the glorious intoxication of first-night applause; the orgies in the infamous dens of his boon companions—all these were no more for him. Oscar Wilde, bon vivant, man of letters, arbiter of literary fashion, stood at the bar of public opinion, a wretch guilty of crimes against which the body recoils and the mind revolts. Oh! what a falling-off was there!
If any reader would care to know the impression made upon the opinion of the London world by the revelations of this lawsuit, let him turn to the “Daily Telegraph” of the morning following the dramatic result of the trial. In that great newspaper appeared a leading article in reference to Oscar Wilde, the terms of which, though deserved, were most scathing, denunciatory, and bitter. Yet a general feeling of relief permeated the regret which was universally expressed at so terrible a termination of a distinguished career. Society was at no pains to hide its relief that the Augean stable has been cleansed and that a terrible scandal had been exorcised from its midst.
It now becomes a necessary, albeit painful task, to describe the happenings incidental or subsequent to the Wilde & Queensberry proceedings. It was certain that matters could not be allowed to rest as they were. A jury in a public court had convinced themselves that Lord Queensberry’s allegations were strictly true and the duty of the Public Prosecutor was truly clear. The law is not, or should not be, a respector of persons, and Oscar Wilde, genius though he were, was not less amenable to the law than would be any ignorant boor suspected of similar crimes. The machinery of legal process was set in action and the arrest of Wilde followed as a matter of course.
A prominent name in the libel action against Lord Queensberry had been that of one Alfred Taylor. This individual, besides being himself guilty of the most infamous practices, had, it would appear, for long acted as a sort of precursor for the Apostle of Culture and his capture took place at nearly the same time as that of his principal. The latter was arrested at a certain quiet and fashionable hotel whither he had gone with one or two yet loyal friends after the trial for libel. His arrest was not unexpected, of course; but it created a tremendous sensation and vast crowds collected at Bow Street Police Station and in the vicinity during the preliminary examinations before the Magistrate. The prisoner Wilde bore himself with some show of fortitude, but it was clear that the iron had already entered into his soul and his old air of jaunty indifference to the opinion of the world had plainly given way to a mental anxiety which could not altogether be hidden, though it could be controlled. On one occasion as, fur-coated, silk-hatted, he entered the dock, he nodded familiarly to the late Sir Augustus Harris, but that magnate of the theatrical world deliberately turned his back upon the playwriting celebrity. The evidence from first to last was followed with the most intense interest and the end of it was that Oscar Wilde was fully committed for trial.
The case came on at the Old Bailey during the month of April, 1895, and it was seen that the interest had in no wise abated. Mr. Justice Charles presided and he was accompanied by the customary retinue of Corporation dignitaries. The court was crowded in every part and hundreds of people were unsuccessful in efforts to obtain admission. A reporter for a Sunday newspaper wrote: “Wilde’s personal appearance has changed little since his committal from Bow Street. He wears the same clothes and continues to carry the same hat. He looks haggard and worn, and his long hair that was so carefully arranged when last he was in the court, though not then in the dock, is now dishevelled. Taylor, on the other hand, still neatly dressed, appears not to have suffered from his enforced confinement. But he no longer attempts to regard the proceedings with that indifference which he affected when first before the magistrate.”
As soon as Wilde and his confederate took their places in the dock, each held a whispered consultation with his counsel and the Clerk of Arraigns then read over the indictments. Both prisoners pleaded “Not guilty,” Taylor speaking in a loud and confident tone. Wilde spoke quietly, looked very grave and gave attentive heed to the formal opening proceedings.
Mr. C. F. Gill led for the prosecution and he rose amidst a breathless silence, to outline the main facts of the case. After begging the jury to dismiss from their minds anything that they might have heard or read in regard to the affair, and to abandon all prejudice on either side, he described at some length the circumstances which led up to the present prosecution. He spoke of the arrest and committal of the Marquis of Queensberry on a charge of criminal libel and of the collapse of the case for the prosecution when the case was heard at the Old Bailey. He alluded to the subsequent inevitable arrest of Wilde and Taylor and of the committal of both prisoners to take their trial at the present Sessions.
Wilde, he said, was well-known as a dramatic author and generally, as a literary man of unusual attainments. He had resided, until his arrest, at a house in Tite Street, Chelsea, where his wife lived with the children of the marriage. Taylor had had numerous addresses, but for the time covered by these charges, had dwelt in Little College Street, and afterwards in Chapel Street. Although Wilde had a house in Tite Street, he had at different times occupied rooms in St. James’s Place, the Savoy Hotel and the Albermarle Hotel. It would be shown that Wilde and Taylor were in league for certain purposes and Mr. Gill then explained the specific allegations against the prisoners. Wilde, he asserted, had not hesitated, soon after his first introduction to Taylor, to explain to him to what purpose he wished to put their acquaintance. Taylor was familiar with a number of young men who were in the habit of giving their bodies, or selling them, to other men for the purpose of sodomy. It appeared that there was a number of youths engaged in this abominable traffic and that one and all of them were known to Taylor, who went about and sought out for them men of means who were willing to pay heavily for the indulgence of their favorite vice. Mr. Gill endeavoured to show that Taylor himself was given to sodomy and that he had himself indulged in these filthy practices with the same youths as he agreed to procure for Wilde. The visits of the latter to Taylor’s rooms were touched upon and the circumstances attending these visits were laid bare. On nearly every occasion when Wilde called, a young man was present with whom he committed the act of sodomy. The names of various young men connected with these facts were mentioned in turn and the case of the two Parkers was given as a sample of many others on which the learned counsel preferred to dwell with less minuteness.
When Taylor gave up his rooms in Little College Street and took up his abode in Chapel Street, he left behind him a number of compromising papers, which would be produced in evidence against the prisoners; and he should submit in due course that there was abundant corroboration of the statements of the youths involved. Mr. Gill pointed out the peculiarities in the case of Frederick Atkins. This youth had accompanied the prisoner Wilde to Paris, and there could be no doubt whatever that the latter had in the most systematic way endeavoured to influence this young man’s mind towards vicious courses and had endeavoured to mould him to his own depraved will. The relations which had existed between the prisoner and another lad, one Alfred Wood, were also fully described and the learned counsel made special allusion to the remarkable manner in which Wilde had lavished money upon Wood prior to the departure of that youth for America.
Mr. Gill referred to yet another of Wilde’s youthful familiars—namely: Sidney Mavor—in regard to whom, he said, the jury must form their own conclusions after they had heard the evidence. Among other things to which he would ask them to direct careful attention was a letter written in pencil by Taylor, the prisoner, to this youth. The communication ran: “Dear Sid, I cannot wait any longer. Come at once and see Oscar at Tite Street. I am, Yours ever, Alfred Taylor.” The use of the christian name of Wilde in so familiar a way suggested the nature of the acquaintance which existed between Mavor and Wilde, who was old enough to be his father. In conclusion, Mr. Gill asked the jury to give the case, painful as it must necessarily be, their most earnest and careful consideration.
Both Wilde and Taylor paid keen attention to the opening statement. They exchanged no word together and it was observed that Wilde kept as far apart from his companion in the dock, as he possibly could.
The first witness called was Charles Parker. He proved to be a rather smartly-attired youth, fresh-coloured, and of course, clean-shaven. He was very pale and appeared uneasy. He stated that he had first met Taylor at the St. James’ Restaurant. The latter had got into conversation with him and the young fellows with him, and had insisted on “standing” drinks. Conversation of a certain nature passed between them. Taylor called attention to the prostitutes who frequent Piccadilly Circus and remarked: “I can’t understand sensible men wasting their money on painted trash like that. Many do, though. But there are a few who know better. Now, you could get money in a certain way easily enough, if you cared to.” The witness had formerly been a valet and he was at this time out of employment. He understood to what Taylor alluded and made a coarse reply.
Mr. Gill.—“I am obliged to ask you what it was you actually said.”
Witness.—“I do not like to say.”
Mr. Gill.—“You were less squeamish at the time, I daresay. I ask you for the words.”
Witness.—“I said that if any old gentleman with money took a fancy to me, I was agreeable. I was terribly hard up.”
Mr. Gill.—“What did Taylor say?”
Witness.—“He laughed and said that men far cleverer, richer and better than I preferred things of that kind.”
Mr. Gill.—“Did Taylor mention the prisoner Wilde?”
Witness.—“Not at that time. He arranged to meet me again and I consented.”
Mr. Gill.—“Where did you first meet Wilde?”
Witness.—“At the Solferino Restaurant.”
Mr. Gill.—“Tell me what transpired.”
Witness.—“Taylor said he could introduce me to a man who was good for plenty of money. Wilde came in later and I was formally introduced. Dinner was served for four in a private room.”
Mr. Gill.—“Who made the fourth?”
Witness.—“My brother, William Parker. I had promised Taylor that he should accompany me.”
Mr. Gill.—“What happened during dinner?”
Witness.—“There was plenty of champagne and brandy and coffee. We all partook of it.”
Mr. Gill.—“Of what nature was the conversation?”
Witness.—“General, at first. Nothing was then said as to the purposes for which we had come together.”
Mr. Gill.—“And then?”
Witness.—“Wilde invited me to go to his rooms at the Savoy Hotel. Only he and I went, leaving my brother and Taylor behind. Wilde and I went in a cab. At the Savoy we went to his—Wilde’s—sitting-room.”
Mr. Gill.—“More drink was offered you there?”
Witness.—“Yes; we had liqueurs.”
Mr. Gill.—“Let us know what occurred.”
Witness.—“He committed the act of sodomy upon me.”
Mr. Gill.—“With your consent?”
The witness did not reply. Further examined, he said that Wilde on that occasion had given him two pounds and asked him to call upon him again a week later. He did so, the same thing occurred and Wilde then gave him three pounds. The witness next described a visit to Little College Street, to Taylor’s rooms. Wilde used to call there and the same thing occurred as at the Savoy. For a fortnight or three weeks the witness lodged in Park-Walk, close to Taylor’s house. There too he was visited by Wilde. The witness gave a detailed account of the disgusting proceedings there. He said, “I was asked by Wilde to imagine that I was a woman and that he was my lover. I had to keep up this illusion. I used to sit on his knees and he used to play with my privates as a man might amuse himself with a girl.” Wilde insisted in this filthy make-believe being kept up. Wilde gave him a silver cigarette case and a gold ring, both of which articles he pawned. The prisoner said, “I don’t suppose boys are different to girls in acquiring presents from them who are fond of them.” He remembered Wilde having rooms at St. James’s Place and the witness visited him there.
Mr. Gill.—“Where else have you been with Wilde?”
Witness.—“To Kettner’s Restaurant.”
Mr. Gill.—“What happened there?”
Witness.—“We dined there. We always had a lot of wine. Wilde would talk of poetry and art during dinner, and of the old Roman days.”
Mr. Gill.—“On one occasion you proceeded from Kettner’s to Wilde’s house?”
Witness.—“Yes. We went to Tite Street. It was very late at night. Wilde let himself and me in with a latchkey. I remained the night, sleeping with the prisoner, and he himself let me out in the early morning before anyone was about.”
Mr. Gill.—“Where else have you visited this man?”
Witness.—“At the Albemarle Hotel. The same thing happened then.”
Mr. Gill.—“Where did your last interview take place?”
Witness.—“I last saw Wilde in Trafalgar Square about nine months ago. He was in a hansom and saw me. He alighted from the hansom.”
Mr. Gill.—“What did he say?”
Witness.—“He said, ‘Well, you are looking as pretty as ever.’ He did not ask me to go anywhere with him then.”
The witness went on to say that during the period of his acquaintance with Wilde, he frequently saw Taylor, and the latter quite understood and was aware of the motive of the acquaintance. At the Little College Street rooms he had frequently seen Wood, Atkins and Scaife, and he knew that these youths were “in the same line, at the same game,” as himself. In the August previous to this trial he was at a certain house in Fitzroy Square. Orgies of the most disgraceful kind used to happen there. The police made a raid upon the premises and he and the Taylors were arrested. From that time he had ceased all relationship with the latter. Since that event he had enlisted, and while away in the country he was seen by someone representing Lord Queensberry and made a statement. The evidence of this witness created a great sensation in court, and it was increased when Sir Edward Clarke rose to cross-examine. This began after the adjournment.
Sir Edward Clarke.—“When were you seen in the country in reference to this case?”
Witness.—“Towards the end of March.”
Sir Edward.—“Who saw you?”
Witness.—“Mr. Russell.”
Sir Edward.—“Was there no examination before that?”
Witness.—“No.”
Sir Edward.—“Did you state at Bow Street that you received £30 not to say anything about a certain case?”
Witness.—“Yes.”
Sir Edward.—“Now, I do not ask you to give me the name of the gentleman from whom this money was extorted, but I ask you to give me the name of the agents.”
Witness.—“Wood & Allen.”
Sir Edward.—“Where were you living then?”
Witness.—“In Cranford Street.”
Sir Edward.—“When did the incident occur in consequence of which you received that £30?”
Witness.—“About two weeks before.”
Sir Edward.—“Where?”
Witness.—“At Camera Square.”
Sir Edward.—“I’ll leave that question. You say positively that Mr. Wilde committed sodomy with you at the Savoy?”
Witness.—“Yes.”
Sir Edward.—“But you have been in the habit of accusing other gentlemen of the same offence?”
Witness.—“Never, unless it has been done.”
Sir Edward.—“I submit that you blackmail gentlemen?”
Witness.—“No, Sir, I have accepted money, but it has been offered to me to pay me for the offence. I have been solicited. I have never suggested this offence to gentlemen.”
Sir Edward.—“Was the door locked during the time you describe?”
Witness.—“I do not think so. It was late and the prisoner told the waiter not to come up again.”
The next witness was William Parker. This youth corroborated his brother’s evidence. He said he was present at the dinner with Taylor and Wilde described by the last witness. Wilde paid all his attention to his—witness’s—brother. He, Wilde, often fed his brother off his own fork or out of his own spoon. His brother accepted a preserved cherry from Wilde’s own mouth—he took it into his and this trick was repeated three or four times. His brother went off with the prisoner to his rooms at the Savoy and the witness remained behind with Taylor, who said, “Your brother is lucky. Oscar does not care what he pays if he fancies a chap.”
Ellen Grant was the landlady of the house in Little College Street at which Taylor lodged. She gave evidence as to the visits of various lords and stated that Wilde was a fairly frequent caller. He would remain for hours and one of the lads was generally closeted with him. Once she tried the door and found it locked. She heard whispering and laughing and her suspicions were aroused though she did not like to take steps in the matter.
Lucy Rumsby, who let a room to Charles Parker at Chelsea, gave rather similar evidence, but Wilde does not appear to have called there more than once and that occasion it was to take out Parker, who went away with him.
Sophia Gray, Taylor’s landlady in Chapel Street, also gave evidence. She amused the court by the emphatic and outspoken way in which she explained that she had no idea of the nature of what was going on. Several young men were constantly calling upon Taylor and were alone with him for a long time, but he used to say that they were clerks for whom he hoped to find employment. The prisoner Wilde was a frequent visitor.
But all this latter evidence paled as regards sinister significance beside that furnished by a young man named Alfred Wood. This young wretch admitted to acts of the grossest indecency with Oscar Wilde. He said, “Wilde saw his influence to induce me to consent. He made me nearly drunk. He used to put his hand inside my trousers beneath the table at dinner and compel me to do the same to him. Afterwards, I used to lie on a sofa with him. It was a long time, however, before I would allow him to actually do the act of sodomy. He gave me money to go to America.”
Sir Edward Clarke submitted this self-disgraced witness to a very vigorous cross-examination.
Sir Edward.—“What have you been doing since your return from America?”
Witness.—“Well, I have not done much.”
Sir Edward.—“Have you done anything?”
Witness.—“I have had no regular employment.”
Sir Edward.—“I thought not.”
Witness.—“I could not get anything to do.”
Sir Edward.—“As a matter of fact, you have had no respectable work for over three years?”
Witness.—“Well, no.”
Sir Edward.—“Did not you, in conjunction with Allen, succeed in getting £300 from a gentleman?”
Witness.—“Yes; but he was guilty with Allen.”
Sir Edward.—“How much did you receive?”
Witness.—“I advised Allen how to proceed. He gave me £130.”
Sir Edward.—“Who else got any of this money?”
Witness.—“Parker. Charles Parker got some and also Wood.”
Thos. Price was the next witness. This man was a waiter at a private hotel in St. James’s and he testified to Wilde’s visits there and to the number of young men, “of quite inferior station,” who called to see him. Then came Frank Atkins, whose evidence is given in full.
Mr. Avory.—“How old are you?”
Witness.—“I am 20 years old.”
Mr. Avory.—“What is your business?”
Witness.—“I have been a billiard-marker.”
Mr. Avory.—“You are doing nothing now?”
Witness.—“No.”
Mr. Avory.—“Who introduced you to Wilde?”
Witness.—“I was introduced to him by Schwabe in November, 1892.”
Mr. Avory.—“Have you met Lord Alfred Douglas?”
Witness.—“I have. I dined with him and Wilde on several occasions. They pressed me to go to Paris.”
Mr. Avory.—“You went with them?”
Witness.—“Yes.”
Mr. Avory.—“You told Wilde on one occasion while in Paris that you had spent the previous night with a woman?”
Witness.—“No. I had arranged to meet a girl at the Moulin Rouge, and Wilde told me not to go. However, I did go, but the woman was not there.”
Mr. Avory.—“You returned to London with Wilde?”
Witness.—“Yes.”
Mr. Avory.—“Did he give you money?”
Witness.—“He gave me a cigarette-case.”
Mr. Avory.—“You were then the best of friends?”
Witness.—“He called me Fred and I addressed him as Oscar. We liked each other, but there was no harm in it.”
Mr. Avory.—“Did you visit Wilde on your return?”
Witness.—“Yes, at Tite Street. Wilde also called upon me at Osnaburgh Street. On the latter occasion one of the Parkers was present.”
Mr. Avory.—“You know most of these youths. Do you know Sidney Mavor?”
Witness.—“Only by sight.”
Sir Edward Clarke.—“Were you ill at Osnaburgh Street?”
Witness.—“Yes, I had small-pox and was removed to the hospital ship. Before I went I wrote to Parker asking him to write to Wilde and request him to come and see me, and he did so.”
Sir Edward.—“You are sure you returned from Paris with Mr. Wilde?”
Witness.—“Yes.”
Sir Edward.—“Did any impropriety ever take place between you and Wilde?”
Witness.—“Never.”
Sir Edward.—“Have you ever lived with a man named Burton?”
Witness.—“Yes.”
Sir Edward.—“What was he?”
Witness.—“A bookmaker.”
Sir Edward.—“Have you and this Burton been engaged in the business of blackmailing?”
Witness.—“I have a professional name. I have sometimes called myself Denny.”
Sir Edward.—“Has this man Burton, to your knowledge, obtained money from gentlemen by accusing them or threatening to accuse them of certain offences?”
Witness.—“Not to my knowledge.”
Sir Edward.—“Not in respect to a certain Birmingham gentleman?”
Witness.—“No.”
Sir Edward.—“That being your answer, I must particularize. On June 9th, 1891, did you and Burton obtain a large sum of money from a Birmingham gentleman?”
Witness.—“Certainly not.”
Sir Edward.—“Then I ask you if in June, ’91, Burton did not take rooms for you in Tatchbrook Street?”
Witness.—“Yes; and he lived with me there.”
Sir Edward.—“You were in the habit of taking men home with you then?”
Witness.—“Not for the purposes of blackmail.”
Sir Edward.—“Well, for indecent purposes.”
Witness.—“No.”
Sir Edward.—“Give me the names of two or three of the people whom you have taken home to that address?”
Witness.—“I cannot. I forget them.”
Sir Edward.—“Now I am going to ask you a direct question, and I ask you to be careful in your reply. Were you and Burton ever taken to Rochester Road Police Station?”
Witness.—“No.”
Sir Edward.—“Well, was Burton?”
Witness.—“I think not—at least, he was not, to my knowledge.”
Sir Edward.—“Did the Birmingham gentleman give to Burton a cheque for £200 drawn in the name of S. Denis or Denny, your own name?”
Witness.—“Not to my knowledge.”
Sir Edward.—“About two years ago, did you and someone else go to the Victoria Hotel with two American gentlemen?”
Witness.—“No, I did not. Never.”
Sir Edward.—“I think you did. Be careful in your replies. Did Burton extort money from these gentlemen?”
Witness.—“I have never been there at all.”
Sir Edward.—“Have you ever been to Anderton’s Hotel and stayed a night with a gentleman, whom you threatened the next morning with exposure?”
Witness.—“I have not.”
Sir Edward.—“When did you go abroad with Burton?”
Witness.—“I think in February, 1892.”
Sir Edward.—“When did you last go with him abroad?”
Witness.—“Last spring.”
Sir Edward.—“How long were you away?”
Witness.—“Oh! about a month.”
Sir Edward.—“Where did you stay?”
Witness.—“We went to Nice and stayed at Gaze’s Hotel.”
Sir Edward.—“You were having a holiday?”
Witness.—“Yes.”
Sir Edward.—“Which you continued with business in your usual way?”
The witness did not reply.
Sir Edward.—“What were you and Burton doing at Nice?”
Witness.—“Simply enjoying ourselves.”
Sir Edward.—“During this visit of enjoyment you and Burton fell out, I think.”
Witness.—“Oh, dear, no!”
Sir Edward.—“Yet you separated from this Burton after that visit?”
Witness.—“I gave up being a bookmaker’s clerk.”
Sir Edward.—“What name did Burton use in the ring?”
Witness.—“Watson was his betting name.”
Sir Edward.—“Did you blackmail a gentleman at Nice?”
Witness.—“No.”
Sir Edward.—“Are you sure there was no quarrel between you and Burton at Nice?”
Witness.—“There may have been a little one, but I don’t remember anything of the kind.”
Mr. Grain then put some questions to the Witness.
Mr. Grain.—“Did you go to Scarbro’ about a year ago?”
Witness.—“Yes.”
Mr. Grain.—“Did Burton go with you?”
Witness.—“Yes.”
Mr. Grain.—“What was your business there?”
Witness.—“I was engaged professionally. I sang at the Aquarium there.”
Mr. Grain.—“Did you get acquainted while there with a foreign gentleman, a Count?”
Witness.—“Not acquainted.”
At this moment Mr. Grain wrote a name on a piece of paper and handed it up to the witness, who read it.
Mr. Grain.—“Do you know that gentleman?”
Witness.—“No, I heard his name mentioned at Scarborough.”
Mr. Grain.—“Then you never spoke to him?”
Witness.—“No.”
Mr. Grain.—“Was not a large sum—about £500—paid to you or Burton by that gentleman about this time last year?”
Witness.—“No.”
Mr. Grain.—“Had you any engagement at the Scarborough Aquarium?”
Witness.—“Yes.”
Mr. Grain.—“How much did you receive a week?”
Witness.—“I was paid four pounds ten shillings.”
Mr. Grain.—“How long were you there?”
Witness.—“Three weeks.”
Mr. Grain.—“Have you ever lived in Buckingham Palace Road?”
Witness.—“I have.”
Mr. Grain wrote at this stage on another slip of paper and it was handed up to the witness-box.
Mr. Grain.—“Look at that piece of paper. Do you know the name written there?”
Witness.—“I never saw it before.”
Mr. Grain.—“When were you living in Buckingham Palace Road?”
Witness.—“In 1892.”
Mr. Grain.—“Do you remember being introduced to an elderly man in the City?”
Witness.—“No.”
Mr. Grain.—“Did you take him to your room, permit him to commit sodomy with and upon you, rob him of his pocket-book and threaten him with exposure if he complained?”
Witness.—“No.”
Mr. Grain.—“Did you threaten to extort money from him because he had agreed to accompany you home for a foul purpose?”
Witness.—“No.”
Mr. Grain.—“Did you ever stay at a place in the suburbs on the South Western Railway with Burton?”
Witness.—“No.”
Mr. Grain.—“What other addresses have you had in London during the last three years?”
Witness.—“None but those I have told you.”
This concluded the evidence of this witness for the time being.
Mary Applegate, employed as a housekeeper at Osnaburgh Street, said Atkins used to lodge there and left about a month ago. Wilde visited him at this house on two occasions that she was cognisant of. She stated that one of the housemaids came to her and complained of the state of the sheets of the bed in which Atkins slept after Wilde’s first visit. The sheets were stained in a peculiar way. It may be explained here, in order to make the witness’s evidence understood, that the sodomistic act has much the same effect as an enema inserted up the rectum. There is an almost immediate discharge, though not, of course, to the extent produced by the enema operation.
The next witness called was Sidney Mavor, a smooth-faced young fellow with dark hair and eyes. He stated that he was now in partnership with a friend in the City. He first made the acquaintance of the prisoner Taylor at the Gaiety Theatre in 1892. He afterwards visited him at Little College Street. Taylor was very civil and friendly and introduced him to different people. The witness did not think at that time that Taylor had any ulterior designs. One day, however, Taylor said to him, “I know a man, in an influential position, who could be of great use to you, Mavor. He likes young men when they’re modest and nice in manners and appearance. I’ll introduce you.” It was arranged that they should dine at Kettner’s Restaurant the next evening. He called for Taylor, who said, “I am glad you’ve made yourself pretty. Mr. Wilde likes nice, clean boys.” That was the first time Wilde’s name was mentioned. Arrived at the restaurant, they were shown into a private room. A man named Schwabe and Wilde and another gentleman came in later. He believed the other gentleman to be Lord Alfred Douglas. The conversation at dinner was, the witness thought, peculiar, but he knew Wilde was a Bohemian and he did not think the talk strange. He was placed next to Wilde, who used occasionally to pull his ear or chuck him under the chin, but he did nothing that was actually objectionable. He, Wilde, said to Taylor, “Our little lad has pleasing manners; we must see more of him.” Wilde took his address and the witness soon after received a silver cigarette-case inscribed “Sidney, from O. W. October 1892.” “It was,” said the innocent-looking witness, “quite a surprise to me!” In the same month he received a letter making an appointment at the Albemarle Hotel and he went there and saw Wilde. The witness explained that after he saw Mr. Russell, the solicitor, on March 30th, he did not visit Taylor, nor did he receive a letter from Taylor.
Sir Edward Clarke.—“With regard to a certain dinner at which you were present. Was the gentleman who gave the dinner of some social position?”
Witness.—“Yes.”
Mr. Grain.—“Taylor sent or gave you some cheques, I believe?”
Witness.—“He did.”
Mr. Grain.—“Were they in payment of money you had advanced to him, merely?”
Witness.—“Yes.”
Mr. C. F. Gill.—“The gentleman—‘of position’—who gave the dinner was quite a young man, was he not?”
Witness.—“Yes.”
Mr. Gill.—“Was Taylor, and Wilde also, present?”
Witness.—“Yes.”
Mr. Gill.—“In fact, it was their first meeting, was it not?”
Witness.—“So I understand.”
Mavor being dismissed from the box, Edward Shelley was the next witness. He gave his age as twenty-one and said that in 1891 he was employed by a firm of publishers in Vigo Street. At that time Wilde’s books were being published by that firm. Wilde was in the habit of coming to the firm’s place of business and he seemed to take note of the witness and generally stopped and spoke to him for a few moments. As Wilde was leaving Vigo Street one day he invited him to dine with him at the Albemarle Hotel. The witness kept the appointment—he was proud of the invitation—and they dined together in a public room. Wilde was very kind and attentive, pressed witness to drink, said he could get him on and finally invited him to go with him to Brighton, Cromer, and Paris. The witness did not go. Wilde made him a present of a set of his writings, including the notorious and objectionable “Dorian Gray.” Wilde wrote something in the books. “To one I like well,” or something to that effect, but the witness removed the pages bearing the inscription. He only did that after the decision in the Queenberry case. He was ashamed of the inscriptions and felt that they were open to misconception. His father objected to his friendship with Wilde. At first the witness thought that the latter was a kind of philanthropist, fond of youth and eager to be of assistance to young men of any promise. Certain speeches and actions on the part of Wilde caused him to alter this opinion. Pressed as to the nature of the actions he complained of, he said that Wilde once kissed him and put his arms round him. The witness objected vigorously, according to his own statement, and Wilde later said he was sorry and that he had drank too much wine. About two years ago—in 1893—he wrote a certain letter to Wilde.
Sir Edward Clarke.—“On what subject?”
Witness.—“It was to break off the acquaintance.”
Sir Edward.—“How did the letter begin?”
Witness.—“It began ‘Sir’.”
Sir Edward.—“Give me the gist of it.”
Witness.—“I believe I said I have suffered more from my acquaintance with you than you are ever likely to know of. I further said that he was an immoral man, and that I would never, if I could help it, see him again.”
Sir Edward.—“Did you ever see him again after that?”
Witness.—“I did.”
Sir Edward.—“Why did you go and dine with Mr. Wilde a second time?”
Witness.—“I suppose I was a young fool. I tried to think the best of him.”
Sir Edward.—“You seem to have put the worst possible construction on his liking for you. Did your friendly relations with Mr. Wilde remain unbroken until the time you wrote that letter in March, 1893?”
Witness.—“Yes.”
Sir Edward.—“Have you seen Mr. Wilde since then?”
Witness.—“Yes.”
Sir Edward.—“After that letter?”
Witness.—“Yes.”
Sir Edward.—“Where did you see him?”
Witness.—“I went to see him in Tite Street.”
Sir Edward Clarke then proceeded to question the witness with regard to letters which he had written to Wilde both before and after the visits to the Albemarle Hotel, and in the course of his replies the witness said that he formed the opinion that “Wilde was really sorry for what he had done.”
Sir Edward Clarke.—“What do you mean by ‘what he had done’?”
Witness.—“His improper behaviour with young men.”
Sir Edward.—“Yet you say he never practised any actual improprieties upon you?”
Witness.—“Because he saw that I would never allow anything of the kind. He did not disguise from me what he wanted, or what his usual customs with young men were.”
Sir Edward.—“Yet you wrote him grateful letters breathing apparent friendship?”
Witness.—“For the reason I have given.”
Sir Edward.—“Well, we’ll leave that question. Now, tell me, why did you leave the Vigo Street firm of publishers?”
Witness.—“Because it got to be known that I was friendly with Oscar Wilde.”
Sir Edward.—“Did you leave the firm of your own accord?”
Witness.—“Yes.”
Sir Edward.—“Why?”
Witness.—“People employed there—my fellow-clerks—chaffed me about my acquaintance with Wilde.”
Sir Edward.—“In what way?”
Witness.—“They implied scandalous things. They called me ‘Mrs. Wilde’ and ‘Miss Oscar.’”
Sir Edward.—“So you left?”
Witness.—“I resolved to put an end to an intolerable position.”
Sir Edward.—“You were in bad odour at home too, I think?”
Witness.—“Yes, a little.”
Sir Edward.—“I put it to you that your father requested you to leave his house?”
Witness.—“Yes. He strongly objected to my friendship with Wilde.”
Sir Edward.—“You were uneasy in your mind as to Wilde’s object?”
Witness.—“That is so.”
Sir Edward.—“When did your mental balance, if I can put it so, recover itself?”
Witness.—“About October or November last.”
Sir Edward.—“And have you remained well ever since?”
Witness.—“I think so.”
Sir Edward.—“Yet I find that in January of this year you were in serious trouble?”
Witness.—“In what way?”
Sir Edward.—“You were arrested for an assault upon your father?”
Witness.—“Yes, I was.”
Sir Edward.—“Where were you taken?”
Witness.—“To the Fulham Police Station.”
Sir Edward.—“You were offered bail?”
Witness.—“Yes.”
Sir Edward.—“Did you send to Wilde and ask him to bail you out?”
Witness.—“Yes.”
Sir Edward.—“What happened?”
Witness.—“In an hour my father went to the station and I was liberated.”
This witness now being released, the previous witness, Atkins, was recalled and a very sensational incident arose. During the luncheon interval, Mr. Robert Humphreys, Wilde’s solicitor, had been busy. Not satisfied with Atkins’s replies to the questions put to him in cross-examination, he had searched the records at Scotland Yard and Rochester Road and made some startling discoveries. A folded document was handed up to the Judge. Mr. Justice Charles, who read it at once, assumed a severe expression. The document was understood to be a copy of a record from Rochester Road. Atkins, looking very sheepish and uncomfortable, re-entered the witness-box and the Court prepared itself for some startling disclosures.
Sir Edward Clarke.—“Now, I warn you to attend and to be very careful. I am going to ask you a question; think before you reply.”
The Judge.—“Just be careful now, Atkins.”
Sir Edward.—“On June 10th, 1891, you were living at Tatchbrook Street?”
Witness.—“Yes.”
Sir Edward.—“In Pimlico?”
Witness.—“Yes.”
Sir Edward.—“James Burton was living there with you?”
Witness.—“He was.”
Sir Edward.—“Were you both taken by two constables, 396 A & 500 A—you may have forgotten the officer’s numbers—to Rochester Road Police Station and charged with demanding money from a gentleman with menaces. You had threatened to accuse him of a disgusting offence?”
Witness.—(huskily)—“I was not charged with that.”
Sir Edward.—“Were you taken to the police station?”
Witness.—“Yes.”
Sir Edward.—“You, and Burton?”
Witness.—“Yes.”
Sir Edward.—“What were you charged with?”
Witness.—“With striking a gentleman.”
Sir Edward.—“In what place was it alleged this happened?”
Witness.—“At the card-table.”
Sir Edward.—“In your own room at Tatchbrook Street?”
Witness.—“Yes.”
Sir Edward.—“What was the name of the gentleman?”
Witness.—“I don’t know.”
Sir Edward.—“How long had you known him?”
Witness.—“Only that night.”
Sir Edward.—“Where had you met him?”
Witness.—“At the Alhambra.”
Sir Edward.—“Had you seen him before that time?”
Witness.—“Not to speak to.”
Sir Edward.—“Meeting him at the Alhambra, did he accompany you to Tatchbrook Street?”
Witness.—“Yes, to play cards.”
Sir Edward.—“Not to accuse him, when there, of attempting to indecently handle you?”
Witness.—“No.”
Sir Edward.—“Was Burton there?”
Witness.—“Yes.”
Sir Edward.—“Anyone else?”