of a noble humanity.
I went to Reading Gaol and sent in my letter. I was met by the Governor,
who gave orders that Oscar Wilde should be conducted to a room where we
could talk alone. I cannot give an account of my interviews with the
Governor or the doctor; it would smack of a breach of confidence;
besides all such conversations are peculiarly personal: some people call
forth the best in us, others the worst. Without wishing to, I may have
stirred up the lees. I can only say here that I then learned for the
first time the full, incredible meaning of "Man's inhumanity to man."
In a quarter of an hour I was led into a bare room where Oscar Wilde was
already standing by a plain deal table. The warder who had come with
him then left us. We shook hands and sat down opposite to each other. He
had changed greatly. He appeared much older; his dark brown hair was
streaked with grey, particularly in front and over the ears. He was much
thinner, had lost at least thirty-five pounds, probably forty or more.
On the whole, however, he looked better physically than he had looked
for years before his imprisonment: his eyes were clear and bright; the
outlines of the face were no longer swamped in fat; the voice even was
ringing and musical; he had improved bodily, I thought; though in repose
his face wore a nervous, depressed and harassed air.
"You know how glad I am to see you, heart-glad to find you looking so
well," I began, "but tell me quickly, for I may be able to help you,
what have you to complain of; what do you want?"
For a long time he was too hopeless, too frightened to talk. "The list
of my grievances," he said, "would be without end. The worst of it is I
am perpetually being punished for nothing; this governor loves to
punish, and he punishes by taking my books from me. It is perfectly
awful to let the mind grind itself away between the upper and nether
millstones of regret and remorse without respite; with books my life
would be livable--any life," he added sadly.
"The life, then, is hard. Tell me about it."
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