It was painfully clear that he must do something without further delay, must either conquer want or overleap it.  Would he bridle his desires, live savingly, and write assiduously till such repute came as would enable him to launch out and indulge his tastes?  He was wise enough to see the advantages of such a course.  Every day his reputation as a talker was growing.  Had he had a little more self-control, had he waited a little longer till his position in society was secured, he could easily have married someone with money and position who would have placed him above sordid care and fear for ever.  But he could not wait; he was colossally vain; he would wear the peacock’s feathers at all times and all costs:  he was intensely pleasure-loving, too; his mouth watered for every fruit.  Besides, he couldn’t write with creditors at the door.  Like Bossuet he was unable to work when bothered about small economies:—­s’il etait a l’etroit dans son domestique.

What was to be done?  Suddenly he cut the knot and married the daughter of a Q.C., a Miss Constance Lloyd, a young lady without any particular qualities or beauty, whom he had met in Dublin on a lecture tour.  Miss Lloyd had a few hundreds a year of her own, just enough to keep the wolf from the door.  The couple went to live in Tite Street, Chelsea, in a modest little house.  The drawing-room, however, was decorated by Godwin and quickly gained a certain notoriety.  It was indeed a charming room with an artistic distinction and appeal of its own.

As soon as the dreadful load of poverty was removed, Oscar began to go about a great deal, and his wife would certainly have been invited with him if he had refused invitations addressed to himself alone; but from the beginning he accepted them and consequently after the first few months of marriage his wife went out but little, and later children came and kept her at home.  Having earned a respite from care by his marriage, Oscar did little for the next three years but talk.  Critical observers began to make up their minds that he was a talker and not a writer.  “He was a power in the art,” as de Quincey said of Coleridge; “and he carried a new art into the power.”  Every year this gift grew with him:  every year he talked more and more brilliantly, and he was allowed now, and indeed expected, to hold the table.

In London there is no such thing as conversation.  Now and then one hears a caustic or witty phrase, but nothing more.  The tone of good society everywhere is to be pleasant without being prominent.  In every other European country, however, able men are encouraged to talk; in England alone they are discouraged.  People in society use a debased jargon or slang, snobbish shibboleths for the most part, and the majority resent any one man monopolising attention.  But Oscar Wilde was allowed this privileged position, was encouraged to hold forth to amuse people, as singers are brought in to sing after dinner.