He gave the impression of wide intellectual range, yet in reality he was not broad; life was not his study nor the world-drama his field.  His talk was all of literature and art and the vanities; the light drawing-room comedy on the edge of farce was his kingdom; there he ruled as a sovereign.

Anyone who has read Oscar Wilde’s plays at all carefully, especially “The Importance of Being Earnest,” must, I think, see that in kindly, happy humour he is without a peer in literature.  Who can ever forget the scene between the town and country girl in that delightful farce-comedy.  As soon as the London girl realises that the country girl has hardly any opportunity of making new friends or meeting new men, she exclaims: 

“Ah! now I know what they mean when they talk of agricultural depression.”

This sunny humour is Wilde’s especial contribution to literature:  he calls forth a smile whereas others try to provoke laughter.  Yet he was as witty as anyone of whom we have record, and some of the best epigrams in English are his.  “The cynic knows the price of everything and the value of nothing” is better than the best of La Rochefoucauld, as good as the best of Vauvenargues or Joubert.  He was as wittily urbane as Congreve.  But all the witty things that one man can say may be numbered on one’s fingers.  It was through his humour that Wilde reigned supreme.  It was his humour that lent his talk its singular attraction.  He was the only man I have ever met or heard of who could keep one smiling with amusement hour after hour.  True, much of the humour was merely verbal, but it was always gay and genial:  summer-lightning humour, I used to call it, unexpected, dazzling, full of colour yet harmless.

Let me try and catch here some of the fleeting iridescence of that radiant spirit.  Some years before I had been introduced to Mdlle.  Marie Anne de Bovet by Sir Charles Dilke.  Mdlle. de Bovet was a writer of talent and knew English uncommonly well; but in spite of masses of fair hair and vivacious eyes she was certainly very plain.  As soon as she heard I was in Paris, she asked me to present Oscar Wilde to her.  He had no objection, and so I made a meeting between them.  When he caught sight of her, he stopped short:  seeing his astonishment, she cried to him in her quick, abrupt way: 

“N’est-ce pas, M. Wilde, que je suis la femme la plus laide de France?” (Come, confess, Mr. Wilde, that I am the ugliest woman in France.)

Bowing low, Oscar replied with smiling courtesy: 

“Du monde, Madame, du monde.” (In the world, madame, in the world.)

No one could help laughing; the retort was irresistible.  He should have said:  “Au monde, madame, au monde,” but the meaning was clear.