<h2><SPAN name="OSCAR_WILDES_REPLIES" id="OSCAR_WILDES_REPLIES"></SPAN>OSCAR WILDE'S REPLIES.</h2>
<p>To this vulgar abuse Wilde condescended to reply in the following
terms:—</p>
<p><span style="margin-left: 30em;">16, Tite Street, Chelsea,</span></p>
<p><span style="margin-left: 36em;">9th July, 1890.</span></p>
<p>Sir,—You have published a review of my story, "The Picture of Dorian
Gray." As this review is grossly unjust to me as an artist, I ask you to
allow me to exercise in your columns my right of reply.</p>
<p>Your reviewer, Sir, while admitting that the story in question is
"plainly the work of a man of letters," the work of one who has "brains,
and art, and style," yet suggests, and apparently in all seriousness,
that I have written it in order that it should be read by the most
depraved members of the criminal and illiterate classes. Now, Sir, I do
not suppose that the criminal and illiterate classes ever read anything
except newspapers. They are certainly not likely to be able to
understand anything of mine. So let them pass, and on the broad question
of why a man of letters writes at all let me say this.</p>
<p>The pleasure that one has in creating a work of art is a purely personal
pleasure, and it is for the sake of this pleasure that one creates. The
artist works with his eye on the object. Nothing else interests him.
What people are likely to say does not even occur to him.</p>
<p>He is fascinated by what he has in hand. He is indifferent to others. I
write because it gives me the greatest possible artistic pleasure to
write. If my work pleases the few, I am gratified. If it does not, it
causes me no pain. As for the mob, I have no desire to be a popular
novelist. It is far too easy.</p>
<p>Your critic then, Sir, commits the absolutely unpardonable crime of
trying to confuse the artist with his subject-matter. For this, Sir,
there is no excuse at all.</p>
<p>Of one who is the greatest figure in the world's literature since Greek
days, Keats remarked that he had as much pleasure in conceiving the evil
as he had in conceiving the good. Let your reviewer, Sir, consider the
bearings of Keats' criticism, for it is under these conditions that
every artist works. One stands remote from one's subject-matter. One
creates it, and one contemplates it. The further away the subject-matter
is, the more freely can the artist work.</p>
<p>Your reviewer suggests that I do not make it sufficiently clear whether
I prefer virtue to wickedness or wickedness to virtue. An artist, Sir,
has no ethical sympathies at all. Virtue and wickedness are to him
simply what the colours on his palette are to the painter. They are no
more, and they are no less. He sees that by their means a certain
artistic effect can be produced and he produces it. Iago may be morally
horrible and Imogen stainlessly pure. Shakespeare, as Keats said, had as
much delight in creating the one as he had in creating the other.</p>
<p>It was necessary, Sir, for the dramatic development of this story, to
surround Dorian Gray with an atmosphere of moral corruption. Otherwise
the story would have had no meaning and the plot no issue. To keep this
atmosphere vague and indeterminate and wonderful was the aim of the
artist who wrote the story. I claim, Sir, that he has succeeded. Each
man sees his own sin in Dorian Gray. What Dorian Gray's sins are no one
knows. He who finds them has brought them.</p>
<p>In conclusion, Sir, let me say how really deeply I regret that you
should have permitted such a notice, as the one I feel constrained to
write on, to have appeared in your paper. That the editor of the <i>St.
James's Gazette</i> should have employed Caliban as his art-critic was
possibly natural. The editor of the <i>Scots Observer</i> should not have
allowed Thersites to make mows in his reviews. It is unworthy of so
distinguished a man of letters.</p>
<p><span style="margin-left: 3em;">I am, etc.,</span></p>
<p><span style="margin-left: 28em;">OSCAR WILDE.</span></p>
<hr style="width: 35%;" />
<p>To this letter the following editorial note was added:—</p>
<blockquote><p>It was not to be expected that Mr. Wilde would agree with his
reviewer as to the artistic merit of his booklet. Let it be
conceded to him that he has succeeded in surrounding his hero with
such an atmosphere as he describes. This is his reward. It is none
the less legitimate for a critic to hold and to express the opinion
that no treatment, however skilful, can make the atmosphere
tolerable to his readers. That is his punishment. No doubt, it is
the artist's privilege to be nasty; but he must exercise that
privilege at his peril.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>During the next two weeks various correspondents aired their views on
the subject, and in the third week<SPAN name="FNanchor_14_14" id="FNanchor_14_14"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_14_14" class="fnanchor">[14]</SPAN> Oscar Wilde replied to them
thus:—</p>
<p>Sir,—In a letter, dealing with the relations of art to morals,
published in your columns—a letter which I may say seems to me in many
respects admirable, especially in its insistence on the right of the
artist to select his own subject-matter—Mr. Charles Whibley suggests
that it must be peculiarly painful to me to find that the ethical import
of "Dorian Gray" has been so strongly recognised by the foremost
Christian papers of England and America that I have been greeted by more
than one of them as a moral reformer.</p>
<p>Allow me, sir, to re-assure on this point not merely Mr. Charles Whibley
himself, but also your, no doubt, anxious readers. I have no hesitation
in saying that I regard such criticisms as a very gratifying tribute to
my story. For if a work of art is rich and vital and complete, those who
have artistic instincts will see its beauty, and those to whom ethics
appeal more strongly than �sthetics will see its moral lesson. It will
fill the cowardly with terror, and the unclean will see in it their own
shame. It will be to each man what he is himself. It is the spectator,
and not life, that art really mirrors.</p>
<p>And so in the case of "Dorian Gray," the purely literary critic, as in
the <i>Speaker</i> and <SPAN name="elsewhere" id="elsewhere"></SPAN>elsewhere, regards it as a "serious and fascinating
<SPAN name="work_of_art" id="work_of_art"></SPAN>work of art"<SPAN name="FNanchor_15_15" id="FNanchor_15_15"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_15_15" class="fnanchor">[15]</SPAN>: the critic who deals with art in its relation to
conduct, as the <i>Christian Leader</i> and the <i>Christian World</i>, regards it
as an ethical parable: <i>Light</i>, which I am told is the organ of the
English mystics, regards it as "a work of high spiritual import"<SPAN name="FNanchor_16_16" id="FNanchor_16_16"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_16_16" class="fnanchor">[16]</SPAN>:
the <i>St. James's Gazette</i>, which is seeking apparently to be the organ
of the prurient, sees or pretends to see in it all kinds of dreadful
things, and hints at Treasury prosecutions: and your Mr. Charles Whibley
genially says that he discovers in it "lots of morality."</p>
<p>It is quite true that he goes on to say that he detects no art in it.
But I do not think that it is fair to expect a critic to be able to see
a work of art from every point of view. Even Gautier had his limitations
just as much as Diderot had, and in modern England Goethes are rare. I
can only assure Mr. Charles Whibley that no moral apotheosis to which he
has added the most modest contribution could possibly be a source of
unhappiness to an artist.</p>
<p><span style="margin-left: 3em;">I remain, Sir, your obedient servant,</span></p>
<p><span style="margin-left: 28em;">OSCAR WILDE</span></p>
<div class="footnote"><p><SPAN name="Footnote_14_14" id="Footnote_14_14"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_14_14"><span class="label">[14]</span></SPAN> August 2nd.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote"><p><SPAN name="Footnote_15_15" id="Footnote_15_15"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_15_15"><span class="label">[15]</span></SPAN> See <SPAN href="#PROFUSE_AND_PERFERVID">here</SPAN>.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote"><p><SPAN name="Footnote_16_16" id="Footnote_16_16"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_16_16"><span class="label">[16]</span></SPAN> See <SPAN href="#THE_PICTURE_OF_DORIAN_GRAY">here</SPAN>.</p>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><i>When it (the public) says a work of art is grossly unintelligible, it
means that the artist has said or made a beautiful thing that is new;
when it describes a work as grossly immoral, it means that the artist
has said or made a beautiful thing that is true. The former expression
has reference to style; the latter to subject-matter.</i></p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p>This again led to further correspondence, and after an interval of two
weeks Oscar Wilde returned to the charges levelled against his book and
replied for the third and last time.<SPAN name="FNanchor_17_17" id="FNanchor_17_17"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_17_17" class="fnanchor">[17]</SPAN> His letter dated from 16, Tite
Street, Chelsea, 13th August, 1890, was as follows:—</p>
<p>"Sir,—I am afraid I cannot enter into any newspaper discussion on the
subject of art with Mr. Whibley, partly because the writing of letters
is always a trouble to me, and partly because I regret to say that I do
not know what qualifications Mr. Whibley possesses for the discussion of
so important a topic. I merely noticed his letter because (I am sure
without in any way intending it) he made a suggestion about myself
personally that was quite inaccurate. His suggestion was that it must
have been painful to me to find that a certain section of the public, as
represented by himself and the critics of some religious publications,
had insisted on finding what he calls "lots of morality" in my story of
"The Picture of Dorian Gray."</p>
<p>Being naturally desirous of setting your readers right on a question of
such vital interest to the historian, I took the opportunity of pointing
out in your columns that I regarded all such criticisms as a very
gratifying tribute to the ethical beauty of the story, and I added that
I was quite ready to recognise that it was not really fair to ask of any
ordinary critic that he should be able to appreciate a work of art from
every point of view.</p>
<p>I still hold this opinion. If a man sees the artistic beauty of a thing
he will probably care very little for its ethical import. If his
temperament is more susceptible to ethical than to �sthetic influences
he will be blind to questions of style, treatment and the like. It takes
a Goethe to see a work of art fully, completely and perfectly, and I
thoroughly agree with Mr. Whibley when he says that it is a pity that
Goethe never had an opportunity of reading "Dorian Gray." I feel quite
certain that he would have been delighted by it, and I only hope that
some ghostly publisher is even now distributing shadowy copies in the
Elysian fields, and that the cover of Goethe's copy is powdered with
gilt asphodels.</p>
<p>You may ask me, Sir, why I should care to have the ethical beauty of my
story recognised. I answer—simply because it exists, because the thing
is there.</p>
<p>The chief merit of <i>Madame Bovary</i> is not the moral lesson that can be
found in it, any more than the chief merit of <i>Salammb�</i> is its
arch�ology; but Flaubert was perfectly right in exposing the ignorance
of those who called the one immoral and the other inaccurate; and not
merely was he right in the ordinary sense of the word, but he was
artistically right, which is everything. The critic has to educate the
public; the artist has to educate the critic.</p>
<p>Allow me to make one more correction, Sir, and I will have done with Mr.
Whibley. He ends his letter with the statement that I have been
indefatigable in my public appreciation of my own work. I have no doubt
that in saying this he means to pay me a compliment, but he really
over-rates my capacity, as well as my inclination for work. I must
frankly confess that, by nature and by choice, I am extremely indolent.</p>
<p>Cultivated idleness seems to me to be the proper occupation for men. I
dislike newspaper controversies of any kind, and of the two hundred and
sixteen criticisms of "Dorian Gray," that have passed from my library
table into the waste-paper basket I have taken public notice of only
three. One was that which appeared in the <i>Scots Observer</i>. I noticed it
because it made a suggestion, about the intention of the author in
writing the book, which needed correction. The second was an article in
the <i>St. James's Gazette</i>. It was offensively and vulgarly written, and
seemed to me to require immediate and caustic censure. The tone of the
article was an impertinence to any man of letters.</p>
<p>The third was a meek attack in a paper called the <i>Daily Chronicle</i>. I
think my writing to the <i>Daily Chronicle</i> was an act of pure wilfulness.
In fact, I feel sure it was. I quite forget what they said. I believe
they said that "Dorian Gray" was poisonous, and I thought that, on
alliterative grounds, it would be kind to remind them that, however that
may be, it is at any rate perfect. That was all. Of the other two
hundred and thirteen criticisms I have taken no notice. Indeed, I have
not read more than half of them. It is a sad thing, but one wearies even
of praise.</p>
<p>As regards Mr. Brown's letter, it is interesting only in so far as it
exemplifies the truth of what I have said above on the question of the
two obvious schools of critics. Mr. Brown says frankly that he considers
morality to be the "strong point" of my story. Mr. Brown means well, and
has got hold of a half truth, but when he proceeds to deal with the book
from the artistic stand-point, he, of course, goes sadly astray. To
class "Dorian Gray" with M. Zola's <i>La Terre</i> is as silly as if one were
to class Masset's <i>Fortunio</i> with one of the Adelphi melodramas. Mr.
Brown should be content with ethical appreciations. There he is
impregnable.</p>
<p>Mr. Cobbam opens badly by describing my letter setting Mr. Whibley right
on a matter of fact as an "impudent paradox." The term "impudent" is
meaningless, and the word "paradox" is misplaced. I am afraid that
writing to newspapers has a deteriorating influence on style. People get
violent and abusive and lose all sense of proportion when they enter
that curious journalistic arena in which the race is always to the
noisiest. "Impudent paradox" is neither violent not abusive, but it is
not an expression that should have been used about my letter.</p>
<p>However, Mr. Cobbam makes full atonement afterwards for what was, no
doubt, a mere error of manner, by adopting the impudent paradox in
question as his own, and pointing out that, as I had previously said,
the artist will always look at the work of art from the stand-point of
beauty of style and beauty of treatment, and that those who have not got
the sense of beauty—or whose sense of beauty is dominated by ethical
considerations—will always turn their attention to the subject-matter
and make its moral import the test and touchstone of the poem or novel
or picture that is presented to them, while the newspaper critic will
sometimes take one side and sometimes the other, according as he is
cultured or uncultured. In fact, Mr. Cobbam converts the impudent
paradox into a tedious truism, and, I dare say, in doing so does good
service.</p>
<p>The English public likes tediousness, and likes things to be explained
to it in a tedious way.</p>
<p>Mr. Cobbam has, I have no doubt, already repented of the unfortunate
expression with which he has made his <i>d�but</i>, so I will say no more
about it. As far as I am concerned he is quite forgiven.</p>
<p>And finally, Sir, in taking leave of the <i>Scots Observer</i>, I feel bound
to make a candid confession to you.</p>
<p>It has been suggested to me by a great friend of mine, who is a charming
and distinguished man of letters (and not unknown to you personally),
that there have been really only two people engaged in this terrible
controversy, and that those two people are the editor of the <i>Scots
Observer</i> and the author of "Dorian Gray."</p>
<p>At dinner this evening, over some excellent Chianti, my friend insisted
that under assumed and mysterious names you had simply given dramatic
expression to the views of some of the semi-educated classes of our
community, and that the letters signed "H." were your own skilful, if
somewhat bitter caricature of the Philistine as drawn by himself. I
admit that something of the kind had occurred to me when I read "H.'s"
first letter—the one in which he proposed that the test of art should
be the political opinions of the artist, and that if one differed from
the artist on the question of the best way of mis-governing Ireland, one
should always abuse his work. Still, there are such infinite varieties
of Philistines, and North Britain is so renowned for seriousness, that I
dismissed the idea as unworthy of the editor of a Scotch paper. I now
fear that I was wrong, and that you have been amusing yourself all the
time by inventing little puppets and teaching them how to use big words.
Well, Sir, if it be so—and my friend is strong on the point—allow me
to congratulate you most sincerely on the cleverness with which you have
reproduced the lack of literary style which is, I am told, essential for
any dramatic and life-like characterisation. I confess that I was
completely taken in; but I bear no malice; and as you have, no doubt,
been laughing at me up your sleeve, let me join openly in the laugh,
though it be a little against myself. A comedy ends when the secret is
out. Drop your curtain and put your dolls to bed. I love Don Quixote,
but I do not wish to fight any longer with marionettes, however cunning
may be the master-hand that works their wires. Let them go, Sir, on the
shelf. The shelf is the proper place for them. On some future occasion
you can re-label them and bring them out for amusement. They are an
excellent company, and go well through their tricks, and if they are a
little unreal I am not the one to object to unreality in art. The jest
is really a good one. The only thing that I cannot understand is why you
gave the marionettes such extraordinary and improbable names.</p>
<p><span style="margin-left: 3em;">I remain, Sir, your obedient servant,</span></p>
<p><span style="margin-left: 28em;">OSCAR WILDE.</span></p>
<p>The correspondence continued for three weeks longer, but Oscar Wilde
took no further part in it.</p>
<div class="footnote"><p><SPAN name="Footnote_17_17" id="Footnote_17_17"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_17_17"><span class="label">[17]</span></SPAN> August 16th.</p>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><i>If a man's work is easy to understand an explanation is unnecessary,
and if his work is incomprehensible an explanation is wicked.</i></p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />