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before the swallow dare〃 but not 〃king lear。〃 what is 〃king lear〃 but poor life staggering in the fog？ and the slow cadence； modulated with so great precision； sounded natural to my ears。 that first night he praised walter paters essays on the renaissance： it is my golden book； i never travel anywhere without it； but it is the very flower of decadence。 the last trumpet should have sounded the moment it was written。 but；
said the dull man； would you not have given us time to read it？ oh no； was the retort； there would have been plenty of time afterwards？？in either world。 i think he seemed to us； baffled as we were by youth； or by infirmity； a triumphant figure； and to some of us a figure from another age； an audacious italian fifteenth century figure。 a few weeks before i had heard one of my fathers friends； an official in a publishing firm that had employed both wilde and henley as editors； blaming henley who was no use except under control and praising wilde； so indolent but such a genius； and now the firm became the topic of our talk。 how often do you go to the office？ said henley。 i used to go three times a week； said wilde； for an hour a day but i have since struck off one of the days。 my god； said henley； i went five times a week for five hours a day and when i wanted to strike off a day they had a special mittee meeting。 furthermore； was wildes answer； i never answered their letters。 i have known men e to london full of bright prospects and seen them plete wrecks in a few months through a habit of answering letters。 he too knew how to keep our elders in their place； and his method was plainly the more successful for henley had been dismissed。 no he is not an aesthete； henley mented later； being somewhat embarrassed by wildes pre？raphaelite entanglement。
one soon finds that he is a scholar and a gentleman。 and when i dined with wilde a few days afterwards he began at once； i had to strain every nerve to equal that man at all； and i was too loyal to speak my thought： you & not he said all the brilliant things。 he like the rest of us had felt the strain of an intensity that seemed to hold life at the point of drama。 he had said； on that first meeting； the basis of literary friendship is mixing the poisoned bowl； and for a few weeks henley and he became close friends till； the astonishment of their meeting over； diversity of character and ambition pushed them apart； and； with half the cavern helping； henley began mixing the poisoned bowl for wilde。 yet henley never wholly lost that first admiration； for after wildes downfall he said to me： why did he do it？ i told my lads to attack him and yet we might havefought under his banner。
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Four YearsVII
？小｜说网
it became the custom； both at henleys and at bedford park； to say that r。 a。 m。 stevenson； who frequented both circles； was the better talker。 wilde had been trussed up like a turkey by undergraduates； dragged up and down a hill； his champagne emptied into the ice tub； hooted in the streets of various towns and i think stoned； and no newspaper named him but in scorn； his manner had hardened to meet opposition and at times he allowed one to see an unpardonable insolence。 his charm was acquired and systematised； a mask which he wore only when it pleased him； while the charm of stevenson belonged to him like the colour of his hair。 if stevensons talk became monologue we did not know it； because our one object was to show by our attention that he need never leave off。 if thought failed him we would not bat what he had said； or start some new theme； but would encourage him with a question； and one felt that it had been always so from childhood up。
his mind was full of phantasy for phantasys sake and he gave as good entertainment in monologue as his cousin robert louis in poem or story。 he was always supposing： suppose you had two millions what would you do with it？ and suppose you were in spain and in love how would you propose？ i recall him one afternoon at our house at bedford park； surrounded by my brother and sisters and a little group of my fathers friends； describing proposals in half a dozen countries。 there your father did it； dressed in such and such a way with such and such words； and there a friend must wait for the lady outside the chapel door； sprinkle her with holy water and say my friend jones is dying for love of you。 but when it was over； those quaint descriptions； so full of laughter and sympathy； faded or remained in the memory as something alien from ones own life like a dance i once saw in a great house； where beautifully dressed children wound a long ribbon in and out as they danced。 i was not of stevensons party and mainly i think because he had written a book in praise of velasquez； praise at that time universal wherever pre？raphaelitism was accurst； and to my mind； that had to pick its symbols where its ignorance permitted； velasquez seemed the first bored celebrant of boredom。 i was convinced； from some obscure meditation； that stevensons conversational method had joined him to my elders and to the indifferent world； as though it were right for old men； and unambitious men and all women； to be content with charm and humour。 it was the prerogative of youth to take sides and when wilde said： mr。 bernard shaw has no enemies but is intensely disliked by all his friends； i knew it to be a phrase i should never forget； and felt revenged upon a notorious hater of romance； whose generosity and courage i could not fathom。
％％。
Four YearsVIII
小=＿说。网
i saw a good deal of wilde at that time？？was it 1887 or 1888？？？i have no way of fixing the date except that i had published my first book the wanderings of usheen and that wilde had not yet published his decay of lying。 he had； before our first meeting； reviewed my book and despite its vagueness of intention； and the inexactness of its speech； praised without qualification； and what was worth more than any review had talked about it； and now he asked me to eat my xmas dinner with him； believing； i imagine； that i was alone in london。
he had just renounced his velveteen； and even those cuffs turned backward over the sleeves； and had begun to dress very carefully in the fashion of the moment。 he lived in a little house at chelsea that the architect godwin had decorated with an elegance that owed something to whistler。 there was nothing mediaeval； nor pre？raphaelite； no cupboard door with figures upon flat gold； no peacock blue； no dark background。 i remember vaguely a white drawing room with whistler etchings； let in to white panels； and a dining room all white： chairs； walls； mantlepiece； carpet； except for a diamond？shaped piece of red cloth in the middle of the table under a terra cotta statuette； and i think a red shaded lamp hanging from the ceiling to a little above the statuette。 it was perhaps too perfect in its unity； his past of a few years before had gone too pletely； and i remember thinking that the perfect harmony of his life there； with his beautiful wife and his two young children； suggested some deliberate artistic position。
he mended； & dispraised himself； during dinner by attributing characteristics like his own to his country： we irish are too poetical to