in good company 29

in good company 29

“And you are a plagiarist as well as a flatterer,” he replied. “You

stole that last remark from a story you have heard me tell about

Richard Le Gallienne. I’m going to punish you by telling you the

story, for, though you stole part of it, I am sure you have never

heard it. No one ever has heard the story he steals and calls his

own; no one ever has read--the odds are that he will swear he has

never heard of--the book from which he has plagiarised. Our friend

Richard is very beautiful, isn’t he? Wasn’t it you who told me

that Swinburne described him to you as ‘Shelley with a chin’? I

don’t agree. Swinburne might just as well have described himself as

‘Shelley without a chin.’ No, it is the Angel Gabriel in Rossetti’s

National Gallery painting of the Annunciation of which Richard

reminds me. The hair, worn long and fanning out into a wonderful halo

around the head, always reminds me of Rossetti’s angel. However, my

story is that an American woman, in that terribly crude way that

Americans have, asked Richard, ‘Why do you wear your hair so long,

Mr. Le Gallienne?’ Richard is sometimes brilliant as well as always

beautiful, but on this occasion he could think of nothing less banal

and foolish to say than ‘Perhaps, dear lady, for advertisement.’ ‘But

you, Mr. Le Gallienne! You who have such genius!’ Richard blushed and

bowed and smiled until the lady added cruelly--‘for advertisement!’”

 

Wilde was quite right in saying I had heard the story before. It

had been told me as happening to himself in America in the days when

he wore his own hair very long, and I am of opinion that it was much

more likely to have happened to Wilde, who was both a notoriety

hunter and an advertiser, than to Le Gallienne, who is neither.

 

_A propos_ of Wilde’s love of advertising, I once heard the fact

commented upon--perhaps rudely and crudely--to Wilde himself. Just

as I was about to enter the Savage Club in company with a Brother

Savage, who was well known as an admirer of Dickens, we encountered

Wilde, and I invited him to join us at lunch.

 

“In the usual way,” he answered, “I should say that I was charmed,

but out of compliment to our friend here, I will for once condescend

to quote that dreadful and tedious person Dickens and answer, ‘Barkis

is willin’.’ Where are you lunching--Romano’s?”

 

“No,” I said, “the Savage Club.”

 

“Oh, the Savage Club,” said Wilde. “I never enter the Savage Club.

It tires me so. It used to be gentlemanly Bohemian, but ever since

the Prince of Wales became a member and sometimes dines there, it is

nothing but savagely snobbish. Besides, the members are all supposed

to be professionally connected with Literature, Science, and Art, and

I abhor professionalism of every sort.”

 

My Dickens friend, who shares every Savage’s love for the old club

(he told me afterwards, whether correctly or not I do not know, that

Wilde’s aversion was due to the fact that his brother Willie Wilde

had unsuccessfully put up for membership), was annoyed by what Wilde

had said both about the club and about Charles Dickens.

 

“I can understand your dislike of professionalism--in advertisement,

Mr. Wilde,” he said bluntly. “And, since you have condescended

to stoop to quote Dickens, I may add that, in the matter of

advertisement, Barkis as represented by Wilde is not only willing but

more than Mr. Willing the advertising agent himself. Good morning.”

 

One other story of Wilde and Le Gallienne occurs to me. Wilde held

Le Gallienne, as I do, in warm liking as a friend and in genuine

admiration as a poet; but, meeting him one day at a theatre, bowed

gravely and coldly and made as if to pass on. Le Gallienne stopped

to say something, and, noticing the aloofness of Wilde’s manner,

inquired:

 

“What is the matter, Oscar? Have I offended you in anything?”

 

“Not offended so much as very greatly pained me, Richard,” was the

stern reply.

 

“I pained you! In what way?”

 

“You have brought out a new book since I saw you last.”

 

“Yes, what of it?”

 

“You have treated me very badly in your book, Richard.”

 

“I treated you badly in my book!” protested Le Gallienne in

amazement. “You must be confusing my book with somebody else’s. My

last book was _The Religion of a Literary Man_. I’m sure you can’t

have read it, or you wouldn’t say I had treated you badly.”

 

“That’s the very book; I have read every word of it,” persisted

Wilde, “and your treatment of me in that book is infamous and brutal.

I couldn’t have believed it of you, Richard--such friends as we have

been too!”

 

“I treated you badly in my _Religion of a Literary Man_?” said Le

Gallienne impatiently. “You must be dreaming, man. Why, I never so

much as mentioned you in it.”

 

“That’s just it, Richard,” said Wilde, smilingly.

 

Here is a recollection of another sort. About the time when Wilde’s

star was culminating, he boarded a Rhine steamer on the deck of which

I was sitting. The passengers included a number of Americans, one

of whom instantly recognised Wilde, and seating himself beside the

new-comer, inquired:

 

“Guess, sir, you are the great Mr. Oscar Wilde about whom every one

is talking?”

 

Smilingly, but not without an assumption of the bland boredom which

he occasionally adopted toward strangers of whom he was uncertain,

Wilde assented. The other, an elderly man wearing a white cravat, may

or may not at some time have been connected with a church. Possibly

he was then editing some publication, religious or otherwise, and

in his time may have done some interviewing, for he plied Wilde

with many curious and even over-curious questions concerning his

movements, views, and projects. The latter, amused at first, soon

tired. His eyes wandered from his interviewer to scan the faces of

the passengers, and catching sight of me made as if to rise and join

me.

 

The interviewer, who had not yet done with him, and was something

of a strategist, cut off Wilde’s retreat by a forward movement of

himself and the deck-chair, in which he was sitting, so as to block

the way. It was apparently merely the unconscious hitching of one’s

seat a little nearer to an interesting companion, the better to

carry on the conversation, but it was adroitly followed by a very

flattering remark in the form of a question, and Wilde relapsed

lumpily into his seat to answer. For the next few minutes I could

have imagined myself watching a game of “living chess.” Wilde,

evidently wearying, wished to move his king, as represented by

himself, across the board and into the square adjacent to myself,

but for every “move” he made his adversary pushed forward another

conversational “piece” to call a check. At last, shaking his head in

laughing remonstrance, Wilde rose, and the other, seeing the game was

up, did the same.

 

“It has been a real pleasure and honour to meet you, sir,” he said.

“Guess when I get home and tell my wife I’ve talked to the great

Oscar Wilde she won’t believe me. If you would just write your

autograph there, I’d take it as a kindness.” He had been searching

his pockets while speaking for a sheet of paper, but finding none

opened his Baedeker where there was a blank sheet and thrust it into

Wilde’s hand.

 

The latter, with a suggestion in his manner of the condescension

which is so becoming to greatness, scrawled his name--a big terminal

Greek “e” tailing off into space at the end--in the book, and bowing

a polite, in response to the other’s effusive, farewell, made

straight for a deck-chair next to me, and plumping himself heavily

in it began to talk animatedly.

 

Meanwhile, the interviewer was excitedly going the round of his party

to exhibit his trophy.

 

“Oscar Wilde’s on board, the great æsthete!” he said. “I’ve had a

long talk with him. See, here’s his own autograph in my Baedeker.

There he is, the big man talking to the one in a grey suit.”

 

The excitement spread, and soon we had the entire party standing in

a ring, or perhaps I should say a halo, around the object of their

worship, who though still talking animatedly missed nothing of it

all, and by his beaming face seemed to enjoy his lionising. I suspect

him, in fact, of amusing himself by playing up to it, for, seeing

that some of his admirers were not only looking, but while doing

their best to appear not to be doing so were also listening intently,

his talk struck me as meant for them as much as for me. He worked off

a witty saying or two which I had heard before, and just as I had

seen him glance sideways at a big plate-glass Bond Street shop window

to admire his figure or the cut of his coat, so he stole sideway

glances at the faces around as if to see whether admiration of his

wit was mirrored there.

 

Then he told stories of celebrities, literary or otherwise, of whom

he spoke intimately, called some of them, as in the case of Besant

and Whistler, by their Christian names, and so tensely was his

audience holding its breath to listen, that when at Bingen he rose

and said, “I’m getting off here,” one could almost hear the held

breath “ough” out like a deflating tyre.

 

No sooner was he gone than the interviewer seated himself in the

deck-chair vacated by Wilde, and inquired politely:

 

“Are you a lit-er-ary man, sir?”

 

“Why, yes,” I said, “I suppose so, in a way. That’s how I earn my

living.”

 

“May I ask your name?”

 

“Certainly,” I said (meaning thereby “you may ask, but it does not

follow that I shall tell you”). “I am afraid ‘Brown’ is not a very

striking name, but don’t tell me you have never heard it, for there

is nothing so annoys an author as that.”

 

He was a kindly man, and made haste to reassure me.

 

“I know it well,” he protested. “Yours is not an uncommon name, I

believe, in England. It is less common in the States. Your Christian

name is--is--is--?”

 

“John,” I submitted modestly.

 

His brow cleared. “Exactly,” he nodded. “I know it well.”

 

Then he seemed uncertain again, and looked thoughtfully but

absently at a castle-crowned hill. I imagine he was running through

and ticking off as the names occurred to him the list of all the

illustrious John Browns. Possibly he thought of the author of _Rab

and His Friends_, and decided that I was too young. Possibly of Queen

Victoria’s favourite gillie, who was generally pictured in kilts, whereas I wore knickerbockers.