his extraordinary talent; he had risen so quickly, had been puffed into such
prominence that they felt inclined to deny him even the gifts which he
undoubtedly possessed. I was surprised once to find a friend of mine taking
this attitude: Francis Adams, the poet and writer, chaffed me one day about my
liking for Oscar.
"What on earth can you see in him to admire?" he asked. "He is not a great
writer, he is not even a good writer; his books have no genius in them; his
poetry is tenth rate, and his prose is not much better. His talk even is
fictitious and extravagant."
I could only laugh at him and advise him to read "The Picture of Dorian Gray."
This book, however, gave Oscar's puritanic enemies a better weapon against him
than even "The Portrait of Mr. W. H." The subject, they declared, was the same
as that of "Mr. W. H.," and the treatment was simply loathsome. More than one
middle-class paper, such as "To-Day" in the hands of Mr. Jerome K. Jerome,
condemned the book as "corrupt," and advised its suppression. Freedom of speech
in England is more feared than licence of action: a speck on the outside of the
platter disgusts your puritan, and the inside is never peeped at, much less
discussed.
Walter Pater praised "Dorian Gray" in the "Bookman"; but thereby only did
himself damage without helping his friend. Oscar meanwhile went about boldly,
meeting criticism now with smiling contempt.
One incident from this time will show how unfairly he was being judged and how
imprudent he was to front defamation with defiance.
One day I met a handsome youth in his company named John Gray, and I could not
wonder that Oscar found him interesting, for Gray had not only great personal
distinction, but charming manners and a marked poetic gift, a much greater gift
than Oscar possessed. He had besides an eager, curious mind, and of course
found extraordinary stimulus in Oscar's talk. It seemed to me that intellectual
sympathy and the natural admiration which a younger man feels for a brilliant
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