The Complete Short Fiction (5 page)
Read The Complete Short Fiction Online
Authors: Oscar Wilde,Ian Small
In the century since Wilde's short stories were first published, literary critics have had little to say about them: either they are dismissed as juvenilia, or they are simply overlooked. However, many of the themes and character-types so well known from Wilde's comedies were first established in the stories. Like his drama the stories are inhabited by witty dandies who keep their social world at a distance with a well-turned epigram, by the imperious dowagers who run London Society and by innocents who suffer for their honesty in a corrupt world. In the stories we see Wilde developing the parodic style that the plays were to make famous. The stories also reveal his early interest in the devices of melodrama, the ability of paradox to shock the reader and the power of irony to subvert stock literary forms. Most importantly, the stories are also the first expression of Wilde's preoccupation with the oppositions that were to dominate his life and thought. They include love and desire; art and life; sincerity and insincerity; innocence and sin; honesty and deceit; altruism and greed; self-sacrifice and self-aggrandizement. Wilde spent the years between 1889 and 1895, the main creative period of his life, trying to overturn and revalue the basis of these oppositions and the moral and social values which gave them force. In his own life, Wilde tragically failed in this ambition; but the fiction, by contrast and despite the negativism of Macmillan's anonymous reader, has proved remarkably successful.
1
I also print as an appendix one fugitive text by Wilde; see âA Note on the Texts'.
2
The reader's report survives in the Macmillan archive in the British Library. See Macmillan Add. 5594; 16 Feb. 1888.
3
The unpublished sequence of letters is housed in the William Andrews Clark Memorial Library, The University of California at Los Angeles (ALS W67126 W6721: 1894. Sept? 27).
4
Letter to Ross (
c
1888), also in the Clark Library; published in Ian Small,
Oscar Wilde Revalued: An Essay on New Materials and Methods of Research
(Greensboro, NC, 1993), p. 45.
5
Vyvyan Holland,
Time Remembered
(1966), pp.
11
â
12
.
6
Wilde,
De Profundis
(letter to Lord Alfred Douglas, JanâMarch. 1897) in
The Letters of Oscar Wilde
, ed. Sir Rupert Hart-Davis (London, 1963), p. 470.
7
Ibid. 475.
8
âPhrases and Philosophies for the Use of the Young', in
The Oxford Authors: Oscar Wilde
, ed. Isobel Murray (Oxford, 1989), p. 573.
Biography
Richard Ellmann,
Oscar Wilde
(London, 1987).
Merlin Holland,
The Wilde Album
(1997).
E. H. Mikhail, ed.,
Oscar Wilde: Interviews and Recollections
2 vols. (London, 1979).
H. Montgomery Hyde,
The Trials of Oscar Wilde
(London, 1948).
Richard Pine,
Oscar Wilde
(Dublin, 1983).
The Picture of Dorian Gray
, ed. Donald E. Lawler (New York, 1988).
Lady Windermere's Fan
, ed. Ian Small (London, 1980).
A Woman of No Importance
, ed. Ian Small (London, 1993)
An Ideal Husband
, ed. Russell Jackson (London, 1993).
The Importance of Being Earnest and Outer Plays
, ed. Richard Allen Cave (Harmondsworth, 2000)
The Importance of Being Earnest
, ed. Russell Jackson (London, 1980; revd edn, 1993).
Vera; Or, the Nihilists
, ed. Frances Miriam Reed (Dyfed, 1989).
Oscar Wilde: Poems and Poems in Prose (The Complete Works of Oscar Wilde
, Vol. I), eds. Bobby Fong and Karl Beckson (Oxford, 2000).
Oscar Wilde's Oxford Notebooks
, eds. Philip E. Smith, H, and Michael S. Helfand (New York, 1989).
Isobel Murray, ed.,
The Oxford Authors: Oscar Wilde
(Oxford, 1989).
Robert Ross, ed.,
The First Collected Edition of the Works of Oscar Wilde
(London, 1908â22).
Karl Beckson, ed.,
Oscar Wilde: The Critical Heritage
(London, 1970).
Richard Ellmann, ed.,
Oscar Wilde: A Collection of Critical Essays
(Englewood Cliffs, NJ, 1969; repr., 1986). Regenia Gagnier, ed.,
Critical Essays on Oscar Wilde
(New York, 1991).
Peter Raby, ed.,
The Cambridge Companion to Oscar Wilde
(Cambridge, 1997).
Willliam Tydeman, ed.,
Wilde: Comedies
(London, 1982).
Karl Beckson,
The Oscar Wilde Encyclopedia
(New York, 1998).
Alan Bird,
The Plays of Oscar Wilde
(London, 1977).
Regenia Gagnier,
Idylls of the Marketplace: Oscar Wilde and the Victorian Public
(London, 1987).
Josephine M. Guy and Ian Small,
Oscar Wilde's Profession: Writing and the Culture Industry in the Late Nineteenth Century
(Oxford, 2000).
Norbert Kohl,
Oscar Wilde: The Works of a Conformist Rebel
(Gambridge, 1991).
Christopher Nassaar,
Into The Demon Universe: A Literary Exploration of Oscar Wilde
(New Haven, Conn., 1974).
Kerry Powell,
Oscar Wilde and the Theatre of the 1890s
(Cambridge, 1990).
Peter Raby,
Oscar Wilde
(Cambridge, 1988).
Rodney Shewan,
Oscar Wilde: Art and Egotism
(London, 1977).
Alan Sinfield,
The Wilde Century
(London, 1994).
The Letters of Oscar Wilde
, ed., Rupert Hart-Davis (London, 1963).
More Letters of Oscar Wilde
, ed., Rupert Hart-Davis (London, 1985).
The Complete Letters of Oscar Wilde
, eds. Merlin Holland and Rupert Hart-Davis (London, 2000).
Ian Fletcher and John Stokes, âOscar Wilde', in
Anglo-Irish Literature: A Review of Research
, ed. Richard J. Finneran (New York, 1976), 48â137.
Ian Fletcher and John Stokes, âOscar Wilde', in
Recent Research on Anglo-Irish Writers: A Supplement to Anglo-Irish Literature: A Review of Research
, ed. Richard J. Finneran (New York, 1983), 21â47.
Stuart Mason, [C. S. Millard],
A Bibliography of Oscar Wilde
(London, 1914)
E. H. Mikhail,
Oscar Wilde: An Annotated Bibliography of Criticism
(London, 1978).
Ian Small,
Oscar Wilde: Recent Research
(Gerrards Cross, Bucks., 2000).
â,
Oscar Wilde Revalued: An Essay on New Materials and Methods of Research
(Greensboro, NC, 1993).
The present edition prints the first book-version of the stories contained in
The Happy Prince and Other Tales
(London: David Nutt, 1888),
A House of Pomegranates
(London: Osgood, McIlvaine and Co., 1891), and
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime
(London: Osgood, McIlvaine and Co., 1891). In all three cases there were very few editions in Wilde's lifetime. There were only two of
The Happy Prince; A House of Pomegranates
was printed in only one edition, and unsold copies of it were remaindered around the time of Wilde's death.
Lord Arthur Sarnie's Crime
, too, was printed in only one British and one American edition. In most cases, and in keeping with much nineteenth-century writing practice, the first publication of the stories had in fact been in the periodical press. However, the argument for reprinting the stories as they were collected in book-form is two-fold. In the first instance, the act of collecting, arranging and revising the stories represented an artistic judgement and reveals Wilde's mature attitude towards his texts. The second reason involves the pragmatics of nineteenth-century publishing. Generally speaking, once their work had passed out of their hands authors had little control over it; however, book publishing offered significantly more artistic and authorial control than the periodical press, which had to answer to much narrower constraints. Moreover, the three volumes of stories were reprinted in their book-form in the collected edition of Wilde's works published by Robert Ross, his literary executor, and Ross clearly had access to authorial material not available to the modern editor. I have collated Ross's edition with the first book editions; the only differences are of punctuation, but these have not been noted. As with Ross, in printing the first book editions I have made some silent corrections to obvious printers' errors.
This volume also reprints âThe Portrait of Mr. W. H.' and the âPoems in Prose'. The identity of both works presents the editor with a problem. âThe Portrait of Mr. W. H.' is an anomalous text; it hovers between Wilde's stories and his literary criticism (as it is represented in
Intentions)
. The decision to include it here is based on what I have judged to be its basic narrative impetus, together with its clear relationship with popular sub-genres which Wilde explored in his other stories. The difficulty over categorizing the âPoems in Prose' is similar in that they can be seen either as poems or prose-narratives. My decision to include them here is largely pragmatic: there is no modern edition of Wilde's poems, and the âPoems in Prose' (in their entirety) are relatively inaccessible for the general reader. Moreover, all are informed by a strong narrative structure and have a generic relationship with some of the stories.
Unlike the volumes of stories, the texts for both âThe Portrait of Mr. W. H.' and the âPoems in Prose' are taken from periodicals. (âThe Portrait of Mr. W. H.' is from
Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine
, July, 1889, and the six âPoems in Prose' from
The Fortnightly Review
, July, 1894.) There is a second and much longer version of âThe Portrait of Mr. W. H.', which was printed posthumously. The reasons for not taking this work as base-text are two-fold. In the first instance it is much more literary criticism than prose fiction; more importantly, although there is clear evidence that Wilde wished to extend the original periodical essay of âThe Portrait of Mr. W. H.' into a book, we have no way of knowing whether the posthumous text in fact does represent that intention. (For details of this issue, see Horst Schroeder,
Oscar Wilde, âThe Portrait of Mr. W.H.' â Its Composition, Publication and Reception
, Braunschweig, 1984.)
Finally I print one fugitive text as an appendix. It is a fragment of a hitherto unknown poem in prose, âElder-tree'; the manuscript of it is in the William Andrews Clark Memorial Library at the University of California, Los Angeles. It was first published in my
Oscar Wilde Revalued
(1993).
To Carlos Blacker
1
High above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his sword-hilt.
He was very much admired indeed. âHe is as beautiful as a weathercock,' remarked one of the Town Councillors who wished to gain a reputation for having artistic tastes; âonly not quite so useful,' he added, fearing lest people should think him unpractical, which he really was not.
âWhy can't you be like the Happy Prince?' asked a sensible mother of her little boy who was crying for the moon. âThe Happy Prince never dreams of crying for anything.'
âI am glad there is some one in the world who is quite happy,' muttered a disappointed man as he gazed at the wonderful statue.
âHe looks just like an angel,' said the Charity Children
1
as they came out of the cathedral in their bright scarlet cloaks, and their clean white pinafores.
âHow do you know?' said the Mathematical Master, âyou have never seen one.'
âAh! but we have, in our dreams,' answered the children; and the Mathematical Master frowned and looked very severe, for he did not approve of children dreaming.
One night there flew over the city a little Swallow. His friends had gone away to Egypt six weeks before, but he had stayed behind, for he was in love with the most beautiful Reed. He had met her early in the spring as he was flying down the river after a big yellow moth, and had been so attracted by her slender waist that he had stopped to talk to her.
âShall I love you?' said the Swallow, who liked to come to the point at once, and the Reed made him a low bow. So he flew round and round her, touching the water with his wings, and making silver ripples. This was his courtship, and it lasted all through the summer.
âIt is a ridiculous attachment,' twittered the other Swallows, âshe has no money, and far too many relations;' and indeed the river was quite full of Reeds. Then, when the autumn came, they all flew away.
After they had gone he felt lonely, and began to tire of his lady-love. âShe has no conversation,' he said, âand I am afraid that she is a coquette, for she is always flirting with the wind.' And certainly, whenever the wind blew, the Reed made the most graceful curtsies. âI admit that she is domestic,' he continued, âbut I love travelling, and my wife, consequently, should love travelling also.'
âWill you come away with me?' he said finally to her; but the Reed shook her head, she was so attached to her home.
âYou have been trifling with me,' he cried, âI am off to the Pyramids. Good-bye!' and he flew away.
All day long he flew, and at night-time he arrived at the city. âWhere shall I put up?' he said; âI hope the town has made preparations.'
Then he saw the statue on the tall column. âI will put up there,' he cried; âit is a fine position with plenty of fresh air.' So he alighted just between the feet of the Happy Prince.
âI have a golden bedroom,' he said softly to himself as he looked round, and he prepared to go to sleep; but just as he was putting his head under his wing a large drop of water fell on him. âWhat a curious thing!' he cried, âthere is not a single cloud in the sky, the stars are quite clear and bright, and yet it is raining. The climate in the north of Europe is really dreadful. The Reed used to like the rain, but that was merely her selfishness.'
Then another drop fell.
âWhat is the use of a statue if it cannot keep the rain off?' he said; âI must look for a good chimney-pot,' and he determined to fly away.
But before he had opened his wings, a third drop fell, and he looked up, and saw â Ah! what did he see?
The eyes of the Happy Prince were filled with tears, and tears were running down his golden cheeks. His face was so beautiful in the moonlight that the little Swallow was filled with pity.
âWho are you?' he said.
âI am the Happy Prince.'
âWhy are you weeping then?' asked the Swallow; âyou have quite drenched me.'
âWhen I was alive and had a human heart,' answered the statue, âI did not know what tears were, for I lived in the Palace of Sans-Souci
2
where sorrow is not allowed to enter. In the daytime I played with my companions in the garden, and in the evening I led the dance in the Great Hall. Round the garden ran a very lofty wall, but I never cared to ask what lay beyond it, everything about me was so beautiful. My courtiers called me the Happy Prince, and happy indeed I was, if pleasure be happiness. So I lived, and so I died. And now that I am dead they have set me up here so high that I can see all the ugliness and all the misery of my city, and though my heart is made of lead yet I cannot choose but weep.'
âWhat, is he not solid gold?' said the Swallow to himself. He was too polite to make any personal remarks out loud.
âFar away,' continued the statue in a low musical voice, âfar away in a little street there is a poor house. One of the windows is open, and through it I can see a woman seated at a table. Her face is thin and worn, and she has coarse, red hands, all pricked by the needle, for she is a seamstress. She is embroidering passion-flowers on a satin gown for the loveliest of the Queen's maids-of-honour to wear at the next Court-ball. In a bed in the corner of the room her little boy is lying ill. He has a fever, and is asking for oranges. His mother has nothing to give him but river water, so he is crying. Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow, will you not bring her the ruby out of my sword-hilt? My feet are fastened to this pedestal and I cannot move.'
âI am waited for in Egypt,' said the Swallow. âMy friends are flying up and down the Nile, and talking to the large lotus-flowers. Soon they will go to sleep in the tomb of the great King.
The King is there himself in his painted coffin. He is wrapped in yellow linen, and embalmed with spices. Round his neck is a chain of pale green jade, and his hands are like withered leaves.'
âSwallow, Swallow, little Swallow,' said the Prince, âwill you not stay with me for one night, and be my messenger? The boy is so thirsty, and the mother so sad.'
âI don't think I like boys,' answered the Swallow. âLast summer, when I was staying on the river, there were two rude boys, the miller's sons, who were always throwing stones at me. They never hit me, of course; we swallows fly far too well for that, and besides, I come of a family famous for its agility; but still, it was a mark of disrespect.'
But the Happy Prince looked so sad that the little Swallow was sorry. âIt is very cold here,' he said; âbut I will stay with you for one night, and be your messenger.'
âThank you, little Swallow,' said the Prince.
So the Swallow picked out the great ruby from the Prince's sword, and flew away with it in his beak over the roofs of the town.
He passed by the cathedral tower, where the white marble angels were sculptured. He passed by the palace and heard the sound of dancing. A beautiful girl came out on the balcony with her lover. âHow wonderful the stars are,' he said to her, âand how wonderful is the power of love!' âI hope my dress will be ready in time for the State-ball,' she answered; âI have ordered passion-flowers to be embroidered on it; but the seamstresses are so lazy.'
He passed over the river, and saw the lanterns hanging to the masts of the ships. He passed over the Ghetto, and saw the old Jews bargaining with each other, and weighing out money in copper scales. At last he came to the poor house and looked in. The boy was tossing feverishly on his bed, and the mother had fallen asleep, she was so tired. In he hopped, and laid the great ruby on the table beside the woman's thimble. Then he flew gently round the bed, fanning the boy's forehead with his wings. âHow cool I feel,' said the boy, âI must be getting better;' and he sank into a delicious slumber.
Then the Swallow flew back to the Happy Prince, and told
him what he had done. âIt is curious,' he remarked, âbut I feel quite warm now, although it is so cold.'
âThat is because you have done a good action,' said the Prince. And the little Swallow began to think, and then he fell asleep. Thinking always made him sleepy.
When day broke he flew down to the river and had a bath.
âWhat a remarkable phenomenon,' said the Professor of Ornithology as he was passing over the bridge. âA swallow in winter!' And he wrote a long letter about it to the local newspaper. Every one quoted it, it was full of so many words that they could not understand.
âTo-night I go to Egypt,' said the Swallow, and he was in high spirits at the prospect. He visited all the public monuments, and sat a long time on top of the church steeple. Wherever he went the Sparrows chirruped, and said to each other, âWhat a distinguished stranger!' so he enjoyed himself very much.
When the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince. âHave you any commissions for Egypt?' he cried; âI am just starting.'
âSwallow, Swallow, little Swallow,' said the Prince, âwill you not stay with me one night longer?'
âI am waited for in Egypt,' answered the Swallow. To-morrow my friends will fly up to the Second Cataract.
3
The river-horse couches there among the bulrushes, and on a great granite throne sits the God Memnon.
4
All night long he watches the stars, and when the morning star shines he utters one cry of joy, and then he is silent. At noon the yellow lions come down to the water's edge to drink. They have eyes like green beryls,
5
and their roar is louder than the roar of the cataract.'
âSwallow, Swallow, little Swallow,' said the Prince, âfar away across the city I see a young man in a garret. He is leaning over a desk covered with papers, and in a tumbler by his side there is a bunch of withered violets. His hair is brown and crisp, and his lips are red as a pomegranate, and he has large and dreamy eyes. He is trying to finish a play for the Director of the Theatre, but he is too cold to write any more. There is no fire in the grate, and hunger has made him faint.'
âI will wait with you one night longer,' said the Swallow, who really had a good heart. âShall I take him another ruby?'
âAlas! I have no ruby now,' said the Prince; âmy eyes are all that I have left. They are made of rare sapphires, which were brought out of India a thousand years ago. Pluck out one of them and take it to him. He will sell it to the jeweller, and buy food and firewood, and finish his play.'
âDear Prince,' said the Swallow, âI cannot do that;' and he began to weep.
âSwallow, Swallow, little Swallow,' said the Prince, âdo as I command you.'
So the Swallow plucked out the Prince's eye, and flew away to the student's garret. It was easy enough to get in, as there was a hole in the roof. Through this he darted, and came into the room. The young man had his head buried in his hands, so he did not hear the flutter of the bird's wings, and when he looked up he found the beautiful sapphire lying on the withered violets.
âI am beginning to be appreciated,' he cried; âthis is from some great admirer. Now I can finish my play,' and he looked quite happy.
The next day the Swallow flew down to the harbour. He sat on the mast of a large vessel and watched the sailors hauling big chests out of the hold with ropes. âHeave a-hoy!' they shouted as each chest came up. âI am going to Egypt!' cried the Swallow, but nobody minded, and when the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince.
âI am come to bid you good-bye,' he cried.
âSwallow, Swallow, little Swallow,' said the Prince, âwill you not stay with me one night longer?'
âIt is winter,' answered the Swallow, âand the chill snow will soon be here. In Egypt the sun is warm on the green palm-trees, and the crocodiles lie in the mud and look lazily about them. My companions are building a nest in the Temple of Baalbec, and the pink and white doves are watching them, and cooing to each other. Dear Prince, I must leave you, but I will never forget you, and next spring I will bring you back two beautiful jewels in place of those you have given away. The ruby shall be redder than a red rose, and the sapphire shall be as blue as the great sea.'
âIn the square below,' said the Happy Prince, âthere stands a
little match-girl. She has let her matches fall in the gutter, and they are all spoiled. Her father will beat her if she does not bring home some money, and she is crying. She has no shoes or stockings, and her little head is bare. Pluck out my other eye, and give it to her, and her father will not beat her.'
âI will stay with you one night longer,' said the Swallow, âbut I cannot pluck out your eye. You would be quite blind then.'
âSwallow, Swallow, little Swallow,' said the Prince, âdo as I command you.'
So he plucked out the Prince's other eye, and darted down with it. He swooped past the match-girl, and slipped the jewel into the palm of her hand. âWhat a lovely bit of glass,' cried the little girl; and she ran home, laughing.
Then the Swallow came back to the Prince. âYou are blind now,' he said, âso I will stay with you always.'
âNo, little Swallow,' said the poor Prince, âyou must go away to Egypt.'
âI will stay with you always,' said the Swallow, and he slept at the Prince's feet.
All the next day he sat on the Prince's shoulder, and told him stories of what he had seen in strange lands. He told him of the red ibises, who stand in long rows on the banks of the Nile, and catch gold fish in their beaks; of the Sphinx, who is as old as the world itself, and lives in the desert, and knows everything; of the merchants, who walk slowly by the side of their camels, and carry amber beads in their hands; of the King of the Mountains of the Moon,
6
who is as black as ebony, and worships a large crystal; of the great green snake that sleeps in a palm-tree, and has twenty priests to feed it with honey-cakes; and of the pygmies who sail over a big lake on large flat leaves, and are always at war with the butterflies.
âDear little Swallow,' said the Prince, âyou tell me of marvellous things, but more marvellous than anything is the suffering of men and of women. There is no Mystery so great as Misery. Fly over my city, little Swallow, and tell me what you see there.'