“Naturally we pretend to be bad, dear lady,” he replied; “it is the only way to make ourselves interesting to you. Everyone believes a man who pretends to be good, he is such a bore; but no one believes a man who says he is evil. That makes him interesting.”
“Oh, you are too clever for me,” replied the old lady nodding her head. “You see in my day none of us went to Girton and Newnham. There were no schools then for the higher education of women.”
“How absurd such schools are, are they not?” cried Oscar. “Were I a despot, I should immediately establish schools for the lower education of women. That’s what they need. It usually takes ten years living with a man to complete a woman’s education.”
“Then what would you do,” asked someone, “about the lower education of man?”
“That’s already provided for, my dear fellow, amply provided for; we have our public schools and universities to see to that. What we want are schools for the higher education of men, and schools for the lower education of women.”
Genial persiflage of this sort was his particular forte whether my imitation of it is good or bad.
His kindliness was ingrained. I never heard him say a gross or even a vulgar word, hardly even a sharp or unkind thing. Whether in company or with one person, his mind was all dedicated to genial, kindly, flattering thoughts. He hated rudeness or discussion or insistence as he hated ugliness or deformity.
One evening of this summer a trivial incident showed me that he was sinking deeper in the mud-honey of life.
A new play was about to be given at the Francais and because he expressed a wish to see it I bought a couple of tickets. We went in and he made me change places with him in order to be able to talk to me; he was growing nearly deaf in the bad ear. After the first act we went outside to smoke a cigarette.
“It’s stupid,” Oscar began, “fancy us two going in there to listen to what that foolish Frenchman says about love; he knows nothing about it; either of us could write much better on the theme. Let’s walk up and down here under the columns and talk.”
The people began to go into the theatre again and, as they were disappearing, I said:
“It seems rather a pity to waste our tickets; so many wish to see the play.”
“We shall find someone to give them to,” he said indifferently, stopping by one of the pillars.
At that very moment as if under his hand appeared a boy of about fifteen or sixteen, one of the gutter-snipe of Paris. To my amazement, he said:
“Bon soir, Monsieur Wilde.”
Oscar turned to him smiling.
“Vous etes Jules, n’est-ce pas?” (you are Jules, aren’t you?) he questioned.
“Oui, M. Wilde.”
“Here is the very boy you want,” Oscar cried; “let’s give him the tickets, and he’ll sell them, and make something out of them,” and Oscar turned and began to explain to the boy how I had given two hundred francs for the tickets, and how, even now, they should be worth a louis or two.