filth.
III
A S SOON AS HE LEFT PRISON , O SCAR W ILDE CAME BACK to France. At Berneval, a quiet little village in the neighborhood of Dieppe, a certain Sebastian Melmoth took up residence: it was he. As I had been the last of his French friends to see him, I wished to be the first to see him again. As soon as I could learn his address, I made haste.
I arrived toward the middle of the day. I arrived without having announced myself. Melmoth, whom the good cheer of Thaulow called rather often to Dieppe, was not to return until evening. He did not return until the middle of the night.
Winter was still lingering on. It was cold; it was ugly. All day long I roamed about the deserted beach, dejected and full of boredom. How could Wilde have chosen Berneval to live in? It was dismal.
Night came. I returned to take a room in the hotel, the same one in which Melmoth was living, and moreover the only one in the place. The hotel, clean, and agreeably situated, lodged only a fewsecond-rate people, inoffensive associates in whose presence I had to dine. Sad society for Melmoth!
Luckily I had a book. Dismal evening! Eleven oâclock ⦠I was going to give up waiting, when I heard the roll of a carriage ⦠M. Melmoth had arrived.
M. Melmoth was chilled through and through. He had lost his overcoat on the way. A peacock feather which his servant had brought him the evening before (frightful omen) had presaged a misfortune; he was happy that it was not that. But he was shivering and the whole hotel was excited about getting a grog heated for him. He hardly said hello to me. Before the others at least, he did not want to seem moved. And my emotion almost at once subsided at finding Sebastian Melmoth so simply like the Oscar Wilde that he had been: no longer the lyrical madman of Algeria, but the gentle Wilde of before the crisis; and I found myself carried back not two years, but four or five years earlier; the same worn look, the same amused laugh, the same voice â¦
He occupied two rooms, the two best in the hotel, and had had them tastefully arranged. Many books on the table, and among them he showed me my Nourritures Terrestres which had recently been published. A pretty Gothic Virgin, on a high pedestal, in the shadow â¦
We were sitting near the lamp and Wilde was sipping his grog. I noticed then, in the better light, that the skin of his face had become red and common; that of the hands even more so, though they were again wearing the same rings; one, which he was very fond of, had a setting of an Egyptian scarab in lapis-lazuli. His teeth were atrociously decayed. We chatted. I spoke to him again of our last meeting in Algiers. I asked him whether he remembered that at the time he had almost predicted the catastrophe.
âIsnât it so,â I said, âthat you knew to a certain extent what was in store for you in England; you had foreseen the danger and rushed into it?â¦â
(Here I do not think that I can do better than recopy the pages in which I transcribed, a short time later, everything that I could recall of what he had said.)
âOh! of course! of course, I knew that there would be a catastropheâthat one or another, I was expecting it. It had to end that way. Just imagine: it wasnât possible to go any further; and it couldnât last. Thatâs why, you see, it has to be ended. Prison has completely changed me. I counted on it for that.âB ⦠is terrible; he canât understand it; he canât understand my not going back to the same existence; he accuses the others of having changed me ⦠But one should never go back to the same existence⦠My life is like a work of art; an artist never starts the same thing twice ⦠or if he does, itâs that he hasnât succeeded. My life before prison was as successful as possible. Now itâs something thatâs over.â
He lit a cigarette.
âThe public is so dreadful that it never knows a
III
A S SOON AS HE LEFT PRISON , O SCAR W ILDE CAME BACK to France. At Berneval, a quiet little village in the neighborhood of Dieppe, a certain Sebastian Melmoth took up residence: it was he. As I had been the last of his French friends to see him, I wished to be the first to see him again. As soon as I could learn his address, I made haste.
I arrived toward the middle of the day. I arrived without having announced myself. Melmoth, whom the good cheer of Thaulow called rather often to Dieppe, was not to return until evening. He did not return until the middle of the night.
Winter was still lingering on. It was cold; it was ugly. All day long I roamed about the deserted beach, dejected and full of boredom. How could Wilde have chosen Berneval to live in? It was dismal.
Night came. I returned to take a room in the hotel, the same one in which Melmoth was living, and moreover the only one in the place. The hotel, clean, and agreeably situated, lodged only a fewsecond-rate people, inoffensive associates in whose presence I had to dine. Sad society for Melmoth!
Luckily I had a book. Dismal evening! Eleven oâclock ⦠I was going to give up waiting, when I heard the roll of a carriage ⦠M. Melmoth had arrived.
M. Melmoth was chilled through and through. He had lost his overcoat on the way. A peacock feather which his servant had brought him the evening before (frightful omen) had presaged a misfortune; he was happy that it was not that. But he was shivering and the whole hotel was excited about getting a grog heated for him. He hardly said hello to me. Before the others at least, he did not want to seem moved. And my emotion almost at once subsided at finding Sebastian Melmoth so simply like the Oscar Wilde that he had been: no longer the lyrical madman of Algeria, but the gentle Wilde of before the crisis; and I found myself carried back not two years, but four or five years earlier; the same worn look, the same amused laugh, the same voice â¦
He occupied two rooms, the two best in the hotel, and had had them tastefully arranged. Many books on the table, and among them he showed me my Nourritures Terrestres which had recently been published. A pretty Gothic Virgin, on a high pedestal, in the shadow â¦
We were sitting near the lamp and Wilde was sipping his grog. I noticed then, in the better light, that the skin of his face had become red and common; that of the hands even more so, though they were again wearing the same rings; one, which he was very fond of, had a setting of an Egyptian scarab in lapis-lazuli. His teeth were atrociously decayed. We chatted. I spoke to him again of our last meeting in Algiers. I asked him whether he remembered that at the time he had almost predicted the catastrophe.
âIsnât it so,â I said, âthat you knew to a certain extent what was in store for you in England; you had foreseen the danger and rushed into it?â¦â
(Here I do not think that I can do better than recopy the pages in which I transcribed, a short time later, everything that I could recall of what he had said.)
âOh! of course! of course, I knew that there would be a catastropheâthat one or another, I was expecting it. It had to end that way. Just imagine: it wasnât possible to go any further; and it couldnât last. Thatâs why, you see, it has to be ended. Prison has completely changed me. I counted on it for that.âB ⦠is terrible; he canât understand it; he canât understand my not going back to the same existence; he accuses the others of having changed me ⦠But one should never go back to the same existence⦠My life is like a work of art; an artist never starts the same thing twice ⦠or if he does, itâs that he hasnât succeeded. My life before prison was as successful as possible. Now itâs something thatâs over.â
He lit a cigarette.
âThe public is so dreadful that it never knows a
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