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r named him but in scorn； his manner had hardened to meet opposition and at times he allowed one to see an unpardonable insolence。 his charm was acquired and systematised； a mask which he wore only when it pleased him； while the charm of stevenson belonged to him like the colour of his hair。 if stevensons talk became monologue we did not know it； because our one object was to show by our attention that he need never leave off。 if thought failed him we would not bat what he had said； or start some new theme； but would encourage him with a question； and one felt that it had been always so from childhood up。
his mind was full of phantasy for phantasys sake and he gave as good entertainment in monologue as his cousin robert louis in poem or story。 he was always supposing： suppose you had two millions what would you do with it？ and suppose you were in spain and in love how would you propose？ i recall him one afternoon at our house at bedford park； surrounded by my brother and sisters and a little group of my fathers friends； describing proposals in half a dozen countries。 there your father did it； dressed in such and such a way with such and such words； and there a friend must wait for the lady outside the chapel door； sprinkle her with holy water and say my friend jones is dying for love of you。 but when it was over； those quaint descriptions； so full of laughter and sympathy； faded or remained in the memory as something alien from ones own life like a dance i once saw in a great house； where beautifully dressed children wound a long ribbon in and out as they danced。 i was not of stevensons party and mainly i think because he had written a book in praise of velasquez； praise at that time universal wherever pre？raphaelitism was accurst； and to my mind； that had to pick its symbols where its ignorance permitted； velasquez seemed the first bored celebrant of boredom。 i was convinced； from some obscure meditation； that stevensons conversational method had joined him to my elders and to the indifferent world； as though it were right for old men； and unambitious men and all women； to be content with charm and humour。 it was the prerogative of youth to take sides and when wilde said： mr。 bernard shaw has no enemies but is intensely disliked by all his friends； i knew it to be a phrase i should never forget； and felt revenged upon a notorious hater of romance； whose generosity and courage i could not fathom。
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Four YearsVIII
小=＿说。网
i saw a good deal of wilde at that time？？was it 1887 or 1888？？？i have no way of fixing the date except that i had published my first book the wanderings of usheen and that wilde had not yet published his decay of lying。 he had； before our first meeting； reviewed my book and despite its vagueness of intention； and the inexactness of its speech； praised without qualification； and what was worth more than any review had talked about it； and now he asked me to eat my xmas dinner with him； believing； i imagine； that i was alone in london。
he had just renounced his velveteen； and even those cuffs turned backward over the sleeves； and had begun to dress very carefully in the fashion of the moment。 he lived in a little house at chelsea that the architect godwin had decorated with an elegance that owed something to whistler。 there was nothing mediaeval； nor pre？raphaelite； no cupboard door with figures upon flat gold； no peacock blue； no dark background。 i remember vaguely a white drawing room with whistler etchings； let in to white panels； and a dining room all white： chairs； walls； mantlepiece； carpet； except for a diamond？shaped piece of red cloth in the middle of the table under a terra cotta statuette； and i think a red shaded lamp hanging from the ceiling to a little above the statuette。 it was perhaps too perfect in its unity； his past of a few years before had gone too pletely； and i remember thinking that the perfect harmony of his life there； with his beautiful wife and his two young children； suggested some deliberate artistic position。
he mended； & dispraised himself； during dinner by attributing characteristics like his own to his country： we irish are too poetical to be poets； we are a nation of brilliant failures； but we are the greatest talkers since the greeks。 when dinner was over he read me from the proofs of the decay of lying and when he came to the sentence： schopenhauer has analysed the pessimism that characterises modern thought； but hamlet invented it。 the world has bee sad because a puppet was once melancholy； i said； why do you change 〃sad〃 to 〃melancholy？〃 he replied that he wanted a full sound at the close of his sentence； and i thought it no excuse and an example of the vague impressiveness that spoilt his writing for me。 only when he spoke； or when his writing was the mirror of his speech； or in some simple fairytale； had he words exact enough to hold a subtle ear。 he alarmed me； though not as henley did for i never left his house thinking myself fool or dunce。
he flattered the intellect of every man he liked； he made me tell him long irish stories and pared my art of story？telling to homers； and once when he had described himself as writing in the census paper age 19； profession genius； infirmity talent； the other guest； a young journalist fresh from oxford or cambridge； said what should i have written？ and was told that it should have been profession talent； infirmity genius。 when； however； i called； wearing shoes a little too yellow？？unblackened leather had just bee fashionable？？i understood their extravagence when i saw his eyes fixed upon them； an another day wilde asked me to tell his little boy a fairy story； and i had but got as far as once upon a time there was a giant when the little boy screamed and ran out of the room。 wilde looked grave and i was plunged into the shame of clumsiness that afflicts the young。 when i asked for some literary gossip for some provincial newspaper； that paid me a few shillings a month； he explained very explicitly that writing literary gossip was no job for a gentleman。 though to be pared to homer passed the time pleasantly； i had not been greatly perturbed had he stopped me with is it a long story？ as henley would certainly have done。 i was abashed before him as wit and man of the world alone。 i remember that he deprecated the very general belief in his success or his efficiency； and i think with sincerity。 one form of success had gone： he was no more the lion of the season； and he had not discovered his gift for writing edy； yet i think i knew him at the happiest moment of his life。 no scandal had darkened his fame； his fame as a talker was growing among his equals； & he seemed to live in the enjoyment of his own spontaneity。 one day he began： i have been inventing a christian heresy； and he told a detailed story； in the style of some early father； of how christ recovered after the crucifixion and； escaping from the tomb； lived on for many years； the one man upon earth who knew the falsehood of christianity。 once st。 paul visited his town and he alone in the carpenters quarter did not go to hear him preach。 the other carpenters noticed that henceforth； for some unknown reason； he kept his hands covered。 a few days afterwards i found wilde； with smock frocks in various colours spread out upon the floor in front of him； while a missionary explained that he did not object to the heathen going naked upon week days； but insisted upon clothes in church。 he had brought the smock frocks in a cab that the only art？critic whose fame had reached central africa might select a colour； so wilde sat there weighing all with a conscious ecclesiastic solemnity。
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Four YearsVIII
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of late years i have often explained wilde to myself by his family history。 his father； was a friend or acquaintance of my fathers father and among my family traditions there is an old dublin riddle： why are sir william wildes nails so black？ answer； because he has scratched himself。 and there is an old story still current in dublin of lady wilde saying to a servant。 why do you put the plates on the coal？scuttle？ what are the chairs meant for？ they were famous people and there are many like stories； and even a horrible folk story； the invention