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-Get me a cab, will you? -Yes, sir.

The most brilliantly written play I'’ve seen in years.

The man'’s a born wit.

The whole play was tremendously exciting.

I hear he'’s writing a new one.

I can hardly wait to see it.

Cab!

Well, gentlemen, the English theater has just given birth to a genius.

I feel sure Wilde would be the first to agree with you, Harry.

I wish I could approve of the playwright as much as I approve of his play.

Who cares about him as long as he continues to give us plays like this?

Well, Oscar, how does it feel to be a success?

Did you have any doubts, Robbie?

Congratulations, Oscar. Brilliant play! Brilliant!

Ah, there I'’m bound to agree with you, Lord Sonning.

My dear Mr. Wilde, I was simply delighted with your play.

I even enjoyed the interval.

Dear Lady Sonning, she has the remains of a remarkable ugliness.

I'’ve always been a great admirer of your work, Mr. Wilde.

And I'’ve always been a great admirer of my work, Mr. Shaw.

-Frank! -Oscar!

-Wonderful play. -Thank you.

-My dear lady mother. -Oscar.

My dear boy, a triumph. A magnificent triumph.

Ada, what are you going to say about my play in that woman'’s magazine you run?

I shall praise it as highly as you would yourself, Oscar.

You'’ve always been the best critic of my work.

-But I never criticize your work. -Exactly.

I'’m so proud, Oscar.

And I'’m so proud of you.

You look wonderful.

Oscar, people are watching.

I hardly think Oscar is the type of man

to worry about his behavior in public.

And how did brother Willie like the play?

Or couldn'’t you see it from the bar?

Ooh, I'’m perfectly sober, thank you, Oscar.

I'’ve ordered a table at the Savoy.

OSCAR: Get a cab, Robbie, there'’s a good chap. ROBBIE: Of course.

Constance, you don'’t mind not coming.

-But you know, these supper parties. -Very well, Oscar.

-Mother will take you. Now, won'’t you, Mother? -Yes, of course.

-Willie, get my wrap. -Goodbye, my dear.

Ada.

Come along, Bosie.

Good night, Mrs. Wilde.

Good night, Bosie.

A green carnation. How delightfully eccentric.

Damned ridiculous, if you ask me.

But who'’s the handsome young boy with him?

Good heavens, Edith, you are out of touch.

Why, the whole of London is talking about them.

It'’s a damn disgrace the way the fellow is carrying on.

These artistic fellows think they can get away with anything.

But who is he? Well, you...

He'’s Lord Alfred Douglas. Queensberry'’s son.

If I were Queensberry, I'’d...

You'’d do what, sir? What would you do?

What would you do?

Excuse me.

Lord Alfred, you remember my daughter?

-Oh, Mrs. Somers. How do you do? -Phyllis.

Poor Mrs. Somers.

Still trying to get that daughter off her hands.

Well, she'’s wasting her time with him.

Oh, my lord.

You wicked man.

Bosie!

Don'’t you even acknowledge me anymore?

What do you want, Father?

Have you any idea how sick it makes me

to watch you making a fool of yourself?

A fine spectacle you are, sir, fawning and crawling round this fellow, Wilde,

like some damn little lapdog.

Are we going to have another one of your scenes, Father?

Scenes or no scenes, sir. I'’ll not tolerate this behavior.

Would you sooner I went around with professional boxers and sporting gentry?

At least my friends behave like men.

-Father, I'’m over 21... -Only just.

I don'’t see that I have to answer to you for my behavior,

nor seek your permission for the choice of my friends.

You are a disgrace to the name of Queensberry!

I really don'’t have... Bosie, is the cab ready yet?

Oscar, this unpleasant little man is my father.

-Lord Queensberry? -Yes.

Pleasure to meet you, sir.

The pleasure is entirely yours, Mr. Wilde.

-Oscar, let'’s go. -Just a minute.

-I have a few things to say to this gentleman. -Father!

-You listen to me, sir. -Oh, really, Lord Queensberry.

I think the public have had enough play acting for one night.

I demand to be heard!

You are being heard, sir, by the entire theater. I should...

Well done, Wilde.

Most entertaining. We both thought so, didn'’t we, my dear?

You'’re very flattering, Your Royal Highness.

And Mrs. Langtry, you'’re very beautiful.

I adore flattery almost as much as you do, Oscar.

I didn'’t know you were a patron of the arts, Queensberry.

I thought fist fighting was more in your line.

Well, thank you for a most enjoyable evening, Wilde.

We shall look forward to the next play.

Good night, sir.

You coming, Bosie?

Let me just say this, Father. You'’ve been hounding me long enough.

If you try and interfere with me again,

or write anymore of your abusive letters,

I shall have no hesitation in seeking the protection of the law.

You may have the law on your hands much sooner than you think, my boy.

Good morning, Edward.

Good morning, Mr. Wilde, sir. Lovely morning.

Yes, I think I'’ll walk a little. Follow.

Where to, sir?

The Cafe Royal.

Cafe Royal? Very good, sir.

Mr. Wilde. Mr. Wilde, sir.

Mr. Wilde, one thing my readers are anxious to learn.

-What paper do you write for, sir? -The Echo,sir.

Well, if your readers were anxious to learn anything,

they wouldn'’t take the Echo.

May I ask you, sir, why do you always wear a green carnation?

REPORTER: Mr. Wilde, your book Dorian Gray...

Wait a minute. What did you say, sir?

Why do you always wear a green carnation?

I consider nature to be quite inadequate.

Why she never thought of a green carnation, I can'’t imagine.

REPORTER: Mr. Wilde. No doubt she will get around to it in time.

Mr. Wilde, your book Dorian Grayhas been severely criticized.

Not by me.

Yes, but, many people do consider it immoral.

Ah, now, sir. What is immorality? I consider that to conform

to the narrow moral standards of this Victorian age

the grossest form of immorality.

Yes, but, you know, it is said, sir,

that much of your writing and indeed your basic philosophy

is fundamentally immoral. What have you to say to that?

I may have offended some people,

but I'’m sure that in 50 years,

the works of Oscar Wilde will be standard literature

for every fifth form schoolboy.

Hear! Hear!

My only regret is that I shan'’t be there

-to collect the royalties.

I must say I hardly think a newspaperman

is in a position to speak of immorality.

-What? -Indeed, Lord Alfred.

Well, what could be more immoral than a newspaper?

It condemns gambling on the front page

and prints racing tips on the back.

Brilliant, Bosie. I wish I'’d said that.

You will, Oscar. You will.

When you go back to Oxford, you can say you outwitted Oscar Wilde.

If I ever go back, I certainly will.

What do you mean?

Well, didn'’t you know? I'’ve been sent down.

Congratulations!

All the best people are being sent down these days.

What did you do, Bosie? Set fire to the dean'’s trousers?

Waiter! Waiter! More champagne.

Frankly I believe too much education'’s a bad thing.

Don'’t you agree, Oscar?

I certainly do.

Ignorance is a delicate blossom. Touch it and it'’s gone.

You didn'’t tell me that you'’d been sent down.

-Didn'’t I? -No.

-Oh. -Why?

It was all rather tedious.

Tedious or not, I'’d like to hear about it.

Well, there was some scandal over a boy in the town.

You know how provincial Oxford can be in some ways.

Frankly, I find the whole thing rather amusing,

but unfortunately my father didn'’t.

He was so disgusted with his "so called son" as he put it,

that he'’s disowned me completely.

So now, I haven'’t a penny in the world.

MAN: Frank, you'’re drunk.

FRANK: Drunk? Who'’s drunk?

Oscar, have you ever seen me when I had more than I could carry?

No, but I'’ve seen you when you should have taken more than one trip.

Why didn'’t you tell me about this before?

Well, you were so busy, what, with your play and...

If you'’re in any trouble, you only have to come to me.

And if it'’s money you need, you needn'’t worry.

You'’re very kind to me, Oscar.

I'’m very fond of you.

Besides, what is friendship for?

Come on, Mr. Wilde, we'’re running out of conversation.

As long as we'’re not running out of wine.

Waiter! Waiter!

You know, gentlemen, in the past few years,

I'’ve made a remarkable discovery.

What was that, Oscar?

Alcohol, if taken in sufficient quantities,

produces all the effects of intoxication.

Gentlemen, I give you a toast.

To youth.

HARRIS: Oscar, you talk as if you'’re an old man.

I am. I'’d do anything to regain my lost youth

except take up exercise or get up early in the morning.

Waiter! Waiter, where'’s that champagne?

MAN: Ah, thank you. Here we are.

-Good evening, sir. -Hello, Arthur.

Oscar! You said you'’d be in for lunch.

Yes, I had a meeting with my publisher.

The children have been asking for you.

OSCAR: Oh.

They refuse to go to sleep until you tell them a story.

Oh, very well.

BOYS: Daddy! Daddy!

Now, what'’s all this about your not sleeping?

We want you to tell us a story.

I see.

Well, now, what shall I tell you tonight about?

Not too long, Oscar.

Giants or dragons?

You told us the story about giants last night.

Well, have I told you the story about the Happy Prince?

No.

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 as beautiful as a weather cock.

Yes, sir?

Mr. Oscar Wilde?

I don'’t know that he'’s at home, sir.

Ah. My name is Wood.

-Wood, sir? -Yes.

I'’m a friend of Lord Alfred Douglas.

Oh, I see, sir. Would you step inside, sir?

I'’ll enquire if Mr. Wilde will see you, sir.

"Dear little swallow," said the prince.

"You tell me marvelous things,

"but more marvelous than anything

"is the suffering of men and women."

Excuse me, sir. There'’s a person to see you, sir.

Very well.

-He gave his name as Wood, sir. -Wood?

Said he was a friend of Lord Alfred'’s, sir.

Oh, I see.

He'’s in the front room, sir.

Thank you, Arthur.

Mr. Wood?

That'’s right, sir.

Oh. Very delicate. Very delicate indeed.

I understand you are a friend of Lord Alfred'’s.

Uh, well, I suppose you might say that, sir, yes.

A very friendly gentleman, His Lordship, sir, very friendly.

Well, he didn'’t mention you, Mr. Wood, but...

Uh, Alfred Wood, sir.

Same name as His Lordship, sir.

I'’m no lord, of course, sir,

but as a poet like yourself might say, "What'’s in a name?"

Cognac, Mr. Wood?

Thank you, sir.

You knew Lord Alfred at Oxford?

Well, not exactly at Oxford, sir.

No, sir, not in the way that you might mean.

I used to do odd jobs for His Lordship.

Oh, very kind he was to me, sir. Yes.

A gentleman like yourself, sir, in every particular.

Thank you, sir. Well, I'’m very glad to meet any friend of Bosie'’s.

Bosie?

Oh.

Yes, of course, sir.

Your health, sir.

Very fine brandy this, sir. Drives the cold from the bones.

Well, I, uh...

I won'’t beat about the bush, sir, as the saying goes.

Quite by accident, sir, I assure you, I a...

I came across that letter from you to Lord Alfred Douglas.

Very beautiful letter, if I might say so, sir.

Only I think that perhaps

there are parts that could be "misconstrued," I think is the word, sir.

How did you come by this?

Ah, yes, well, I used to...

Used to press Lord Alfred'’s clothes.

Very particular about his clothes, sir.

As well you may know.

I, uh, found it in one of his pockets.

Are you asking me to purchase my own work, Mr. Wood?

Well, sir, I... Come, sir, that'’s not very sound economics.

Well, I'’ve already been offered £60 for it, sir.

Then I suggest that you sell it at once.

I myself have seldom been offered so much

for a prose work of that length.

You take the letter, sir.

It was stupid of me to try and rent you.

The thing is, sir, that I'’m desperate for money and...

A hungry man gets driven to do stupid things.

Oh, would you like a ham sandwich?

Now you'’re making fun of me, sir.

On the contrary, Mr. Wood.

You'’re doing remarkably well yourself.

Well, I think I'’ll be going now, sir.

No, no, no, no. Please stay and finish your drink.

That'’s very kind of you.

You'’re a very poor criminal, Mr. Wood, if I may say so.

The fact is I came to London to look for some work.

Ah, work, Mr. Wood, is the curse of the drinking classes.

The secret of maintaining youth

is an inordinate passion for pleasure.

£40, sir?

I'’m going out to dine in a moment. Perhaps you'’d care to join me.

Well, that'’s very kind of you, sir.

There'’s a fascinating charm

about your halfhearted criminal tendencies, Mr. Wood.

I suspect that you lead a wonderfully wicked life.

Ah, well, there'’s good and bad in all of us, sir.

Mr. Wood, you'’re a born philosopher.

I'’m sure we shall get along extremely well.

Your health, sir.

Shall I serve dinner, madam?

I can'’t understand it. I'’m sure Mr. Wilde said

he would be in for dinner.

Well, perhaps he'’s been detained on business, madam.

Yes.

Shall we wait?

No, Arthur, I'’ll dine alone.

Very well, madam.

Bosie, you'’re nearly an hour late.

Yes, I know.

Oh, I know what that face means.

It usually heralds an unpleasant scene.

It would be nice if it could be avoided.

I'’m in a singularly good mood.

-Are you? -I was.

No doubt, having entertained your friend at the Savoy last night.

You mean Mr. Wood?

Really, Oscar, have you no sense of propriety?

The man is a valet.

A very amusing valet.

Thank heavens, Bosie, I am not inhibited by your sense of class.

So it seems.

Anyway, he was your friend.

I hardly knew the man.

That'’s not the impression that he gave to me.

WAITER: Good morning, My Lord.

What did he want anyway?

Money. What do the poor usually want?

Would you like to order now, My Lord?

And you gave it to him?

For a valuable piece of property.

A letter I wrote you at Oxford.

WAITER: May I recommend the lobster, My Lord?

-I'’ll have the sole meuniere. -Very good.

Do you mean he blackmailed you?

Leaving that letter around for anyone to find was not only careless of you,

but singularly lacking in respect

for something that I'’d hoped was private and personal.

Waiter, bring some champagne right away.

Very good, My Lord.

It'’d seem, Bosie, that I am forever paying

for your indiscretions and your extravagances.

Money, is that all you ever think of?

Ah, when I was young I thought money was everything.

Now that I'’m older I know that it is.

My God, Oscar, you'’re never satisfied.

You have a successful book out,

a play running in the West End...

Playing to packed houses of creditors.

Have you any idea how much money I'’ve spent since we'’ve been together?

I'’m sure you've kept an account.

Luncheon every day here, dinner at the Savoy, supper at...

-Oh, look what you'’ve done. -I'’m sorry, sir.

-Please. -Oh, go away, stop fussing.

And always the best champagne

because you have a very delicate palate.

Bosie, you seem to think that you have a right to live at my expense

in a profuse luxury to which you have never been accustomed.

I pay your hotel bills, your tailor'’s bill,

your gambling debts.

You demand without grace and you receive without thanks.

Have you finished?

Now tell me honestly, Oscar. What did you expect, hmm?

Did you think I was some common street Arab

to be bought with cheap trinkets

and an occasional supper in some Soho restaurant?

I'’ve given you my friendship for two years, Oscar.

I'’ve admired your genius, laughed at your jokes, flattered your vanity.

And now you question the price of such a friendship.

It isn'’t worthy of you, Oscar.

-Good evening, Mr. Wilde. -Evening, William.

Sydney.

Thank you, sir.

-Good evening, Mr. Wilde. -Good evening.

I want you to take this to this address.

It'’s just around the corner.

-Straight away, hmm? -Right away, sir.

Hello, Robbie.

Hello, Oscar.

What will you have?

Brandy, and a large one.

John. A large brandy.

Give me a cigarette, there'’s a dear fellow.

I seem to have left mine at home.

-What? -A cigarette.

Oh, yes, of course.

Thank you.

What is it, Oscar? Are you not well?

No, just very tired, that'’s all.

Your brandy, sir.

Thank you.

Oscar, did you know that some of the club members

have approached the Committee to get you to resign?

Well, I hope not. I shall have to find somewhere else

to sleep in the afternoons.

Have you any idea how much people are talking about you

or what they are saying?

I adore scandal about other people,

but about myself I find it extremely dull.

It hasn'’t the charm of novelty.

I don'’t think you'll find this gossip dull.

Robbie, are you being solicitous about my welfare?

That is very impertinent of you.

I don'’t mean to be.

Oscar, I realize that much of your extravagant behavior

is done purely for effect. You'’re an artist.

The public expects you to be different.

But you'’re no longer an ascetic young poet just down from Oxford.

-Relax. -You'’re a highly successful playwrighter

at the peak of your career.

You dine with royalty. You mix in the highest social circles.

Ah.

You'’re walking along a precipice, Oscar.

Just as long as you continue to play court jester,

society will accept you.

But tax their tolerance too far

and they'’ll send you crashing from the heights

-to the depths of obscurity. -Oh, really.

A halo doesn'’t have to fall very far, Oscar, to become a noose.

Really, Robbie, this all very tedious.

Just tell me one thing.

These stories I hear about you.

There isn'’t any truth in them, is there?

As I don'’t know what the stories are,

I'’m hardly in a position to answer you.

They say that you...

You'’re being blackmailed because of your association with Bosie.

That you consort with criminals, stable boys.

This sounds all very exciting and intriguing.

Do go on.

I just want to hear you tell me it isn'’t true.

Robbie,

I'’m deeply hurt that you use our friendship to pry into my private life.

I thought you were a gentleman. I now see that you are not.

I just want to hear you deny it, Oscar.

You must think what you will, Robbie.

Mr. Wood to see you, sir.

Thank you.

Robbie, because I'’m very fond of you

I shall forget everything you'’ve said tonight.

Good night.

Good night.

Hello, Oscar.

Lovely club you'’ve got here.

-I like that.

I'’d like some champagne tonight.

Oh, you shouldn'’t have bothered.

You must eat something.

All right?

You know, I'’ve eaten in all of the best restaurants in Europe

but I'’ve never tasted anything like your sweetbreads.

Where'’s the wine?

They didn'’t deliver any this week.

For heaven'’s sake, why not?

Perhaps the fact that we owe the wine merchant £85

might have something to do with it.

We'’re living on credit, Oscar, and that can'’t go on much longer.

Well, if I can finish this play, everything will be all right.

If that'’s Bosie, tell him I'’m not at home.

QUEENSBERRY: I wish to see Mr. Oscar Wilde.

ARTHUR: I'’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Wilde is not at home.

Well, I'’m sorry, but I demand to see him.

You can'’t go in there, sir.

If you please, sir.

Wilde, I want to have a word with you. Sit down.

Well, Lord Queensberry. It'’s all right, Arthur, you can go.

It seems the peerage don'’t have a monopoly of good manners.

To hell with good manners, sir.

What I have to say to you has very little to do with good manners.

Indeed? And I presume you'’ve brought your ugly friend

to lend you moral support.

When it comes to morals, I have all the support I need,

thank you very much.

I'’ve seldom come across anybody in whom the moral sense was dominant

who was not heartless, cruel, vindictive and completely lacking

in the smallest sense of humanity, Lord Queensberry.

Personally, I'’d sooner have 50 unnatural vices

than one unnatural virtue.

Yes, I can well believe that. Now, you listen to me, sir.

I presume you have come to make a speech.

If so, I hope it'’s a short one because I have work to do.

Wilde.

Wilde.

I'’ve come here today to protest against

your disgusting relationship with my son.

That is a revolting and slanderous statement,

and I demand an apology.

I refuse to apologize.

I refuse to apologize for saying something which is common knowledge

to every cab driver and messenger boy in London.

Lord Queensberry, are you seriously suggesting that

there is improper conduct between your son and myself?

I do not say that you are.

I say that you look it, which is just as bad.

But I'’ll tell you this.

If I catch you two again together,

I shall take a whip to you, sir, and I shall thrash you to the ground.

I see that when it comes to fighting,

you choose to ignore the Queensberry rules.

-Yes, well, I give you fair warning. -And I give you fair warning.

If you'’re not out of my house in two minutes, I shall throw you out.

I refuse to leave until I'’ve had my say.

On the contrary, sir, you are leaving now.

Hit him! Hit him!

Arthur, open the door! This gentleman is leaving.

Gladly, sir.

This, Arthur, is the Marquis of Queensberry.

The most infamous brute in London and you'’re never to let him in my house again.

-Is that clear? -Perfectly, sir.

Now get out.

Very well.

But you'’ll regret this, I promise you.

I promise you.

Go back to your room this instant.

Will that be all, sir?

I hope so, Arthur.

Now, this has got to stop.

You are the only one who can stop it, Oscar.

My God, am I not allowed to get on with my work in peace?

What with creditors knocking at the door

and Bosie dropping in as if this was some sort of club.

And now this coarse brute with his hired pugilists.

I can stand brute force, but brute reason is quite intolerable.

It'’s like hitting below the intellect.

Oscar, I beg of you to give up this friendship with Bosie.

Not for me, but for your own sake.

He takes up too much of your time,

demands too much of your emotions.

I know.

The truth is the boy has a strange fascination for me

that I can'’t get free of.

He needs you more than you need him.

He needs you because he is weak and conceited.

And you give him a stature he could never acquire alone.

And he will go on taking and taking until there'’s nothing left.

He'’ll destroy you, Oscar.

When I married you,

I didn'’t believe it was possible to love anybody more than I loved you.

I still love you, darling.

To me you are higher and greater than any man in the world.

Help me, Constance.

Help me.

Why not go away for a little while?

At least until you have finished your play.

Maybe it will give you a chance to think more clearly.

Yes, I may.

You always liked the sea. Why not go down to Brighton?

It should be very quiet at this time of year.

It'’s a wonderful idea, Constance,

but we'’ve hardly enough money to pay the tradesmen, let alone hotel bills.

I haven'’t touched my father'’s allowance for some months.

-It isn'’t very much, I'’m afraid. -No, no, Constance.

Please. Please.

I love you.

I love you.

Goodness Lordy, Mr. Wilde, wherever have you been?

I'’ve been conversing with the elements, Mrs. Burgess.

Oh, goodness me, you'’re soaked to the skin.

Listening to the wisdom of the sea, Mrs. B.

Out all night in weather like this.

Now, you come upstairs and we'’ll get those wet clothes off

-before you catch your death. -It'’s all here.

Every word and every epigram, Mrs. Burgess.

Oh, I'’m very glad, Mr. Wilde, but do come on.

Every move and every curtain.

It'’s all here.

And the important thing is who is Ernest.

Oh, yes, that will be nice.

Ernest and his little aunt...

But upstairs now, like a good boy, please, Mr. Wilde.

You'’re very kind, Mrs. Burgess.

Well, if we can'’t show a little kindness on this earth,

we might as well not be here, that'’s the way I see it.

Now, you keep nice and warm.

Are you sure this is the right place, my dear chap?

This is where I brung him, sir. No mistaking him.

Proper artistic gentleman he was.

Just wait here, will you?

Right, sir.

Good morning, madam.

Is it remotely possible you have a Mr. Oscar Wilde staying here?

Why, yes, sir.

How extraordinary.

-Ah, may I step inside? -Certainly, sir.

Which is his room?

It'’s just at the top of the stairs.

Oh, but I'’d rather you didn'’t disturb him, sir.

You see, he was out all night and he'’s not at all well.

Indeed?

I was wondering if I'’d send for the doctor.

A doctor, madam, would probably prescribe

a little less brandy in his soda.

Well.

So this is where you'’ve been hiding yourself, hmm?

Bosie.

Really, Oscar, you are the most tedious person.

I'’ve been all over Brighton.

From one hotel to another,

tracking you down like some private detective.

-What do you want? -What?

What do I want?

I don'’t want a thing, I came to see you.

Good heavens, it'’s so dark in here.

Well, I must say you don'’t look any too good.

Oh, yeah.

I think I'’ve got a chill, I...

You must be out of your mind coming to a place like this.

I can'’t imagine what the food must be like.

Of course, as soon as I knew you were in Brighton,

I naturally went straight to The Grand.

Naturally.

I have a most delightful suite there overlooking the sea.

And I shall get the bill, no doubt, in due course.

Seriously though, Os, I won'’t allow you to stay

in this dreary little hovel another minute.

Besides, the most fascinating people are staying at The Grand.

Just look at this picture, really.

Bosie, can'’t you understand

that I came here to finish my play in peace and quiet?

I was driven nearly frantic in London with you and your father.

Bosie, I'’ve got to work.

I'’m the last person in the world to want to interfere with your work.

Whether you mean it or not, you do.

What are you looking for?

I'’m looking for my handkerchief. What do you think I'’m looking for?

Here it is, for heaven'’s sake.

Really, Oscar, when you are ill, you'’re singularly unamusing.

I can'’t help being ill.

But you can help being a bore.

Is this your new play?

"The Importance of Being Earnest."

Yes, it'’s nearly finished.

I'’m glad to hear it. Poverty ill becomes you.

Frankly, I think you'’re being very unreasonable about this whole thing.

You disappear, leaving me in town without a penny piece.

Are you trying to end this relationship, Oscar?

Is that what you want?

I don'’t know what I want. I just want to be left in peace.

"Thank you for your company.

"It was charming while it lasted. Now kindly get out."

Bosie, can'’t you see that I'm ill and I hardly know what I'’m doing?

And what about me?

I don'’t care what you do,

but as long as you go away and leave me alone.

You mean for good?

It can'’t go on, your insane tantrums and your extravagances.

It'’s got to stop, Bosie.

Wouldn'’t my father be delighted to think

he'’d finally broken up our friendship?

My God, it is stuffy in here.

I don'’t know how you can breathe.

Once and for all, I'’m sick to death of being a cat'’s-paw

in this terrible war between you and your father.

And for heaven'’s sake, close the window.

Am I to be held responsible for the ravings of my lunatic father?

I sometimes think there'’s very little difference between him and you.

You'’re both insane. Bosie, the window.

My God, I'’ve had just about had as much as I can stand of this.

-Oh, my God. -Is this the thanks I get

-for devoting myself to you these past two years? -My God!

What is happening to me?

How I ever came to think you were so marvelous...

-Bosie, for God'’s sake, go away. -Oscar Wilde, the great genius,

the great wit.

Idol of society. And look at you sniveling like some kicked dog.

Do you think I'’m going to let you end this so easily, Oscar?

You'’re not going to throw me aside

because you'’ve no further use for me.

You'’re not my father!

Bosie, are you insane?

Didn'’t you know? It runs in the family.

Bosie, put it down.

Bosie, please!

How insignificant you look when you'’re afraid, Oscar.

I never thought you'’d be afraid of me.

Oh, this place depresses me.

Oh, um...

I don'’t suppose you could let me have some money to pay the cab, could you? I...

Oh, well.

Wait for me, will you?

Yes, ma'’am.

Good afternoon, madam. Good afternoon, Arthur.

Is Mr. Wilde at home?

Yes, he'’s working at the moment, madam.

But Mrs. Wilde is in the front room.

-Mrs. Leverson, madam. -CONSTANCE: Ada!

My dear, I hope you don'’t mind my just dropping in.

Of course not. Arthur, may we have some tea, please?

Certainly, madam.

How nice to see you. Good heavens, you'’re freezing.

Come and get warm by the fire.

I was just embroidering my birthday present for Oscar.

Do you think he'’s going to like it?

Oh, I'’m sure he will, it'’s most handsome.

Oscar has the most expensive tastes, even in the simplest things.

How is Oscar?

Oh, much better.

He just needed looking after properly.

What about Bosie?

That'’s all over now, thank God.

I can'’t tell you what it was like, Ada.

To have a woman come between yourself and your husband,

that'’s something a wife can understand.

But another man.

OSCAR: Constance, is that Ada'’s voice I hear?

Yes, it is, dearest.

I must hide this, I don'’t want to spoil the surprise.

Ada, my dear.

You'’re looking wonderful, Oscar.

Mm, what a delicious hat!

Constance, where'’s that bottle of champagne I'’ve been hoarding?

Oscar, you'’re not going to start drinking so early.

Of course I am. This is a celebration.

You finished the play?

The curtain fell on the third act of

The Importance of Being Earnest as the doorbell rang.

I'’ll get the champagne.

Ada, your timing is impeccable.

-Is it a good play? -Quite extraordinary.

Ada, I'’m happier than I'’ve been for years.

I'’m working. I'’m seeing more of the children.

Constance is a guardian angel.

In fact, I believe I'’m getting dull and bourgeois and very old.

You miss him, don'’t you?

Yes.

Sometimes when I see the sunlight on an evening sky

or wander by the river and watch the dark waters,

I seem to see him flitting by me in the darkness,

and then I feel terribly alone.

Have you seen this?

Couldn'’t find the champagne glasses.

It'’s been such a long time since we used them.

Oscar, what on earth is it?

Bosie'’s elder brother was killed yesterday in a hunting accident.

Oh, how terrible.

That would be Francis, wouldn'’t it?

Bosie was very fond of him, wasn'’t he?

-Arthur. -Sir?

I want you to go to the post office presently and send a telegram.

Very good, sir.

I think he may need me.

For as much as it has pleased Almighty God

to take unto himself the soul of our dear brother departed,

we therefore commit his body to the ground.

Well...

It would seem it takes a death to bring about

a family reunion in this house.

You'’re all very silent.

I'’ve just lost a son.

Doesn'’t that mean anything to any of you?

Hmm?

You'’re his mother. Don'’t you weep for your son?

The only real male son you ever bore.

-Really, Father... -The only real man among the three of you!

Goodbye, Mother.

Goodbye, Bosie.

Bosie!

Where the devil do you think you'’re going?

I'’ve buried my brother.

There'’s nothing to keep me here any longer.

This is your home, damn you!

You belong here!

You were born here!

Kinmount has been the House of Douglas for more than 300 years.

-Goodbye, Percy. -Bosie!

Bosie.

Don'’t go, boy. Stay here.

Just for a few days, eh?

It gets so lonely here sometimes and...

Well, just for a few days, eh, Son?

You call me son?

I'’m not your son.

You disowned me, or had you forgotten?

You disowned me just as you'’ve disowned the whole family.

You drove Mother out of this house

with your abuse and your immorality.

You persecuted me until I had to keep away from you

for fear of what I might do if I were here to lay hands on you.

I tried to make a man out of you.

I tried to protect you against yourself.

It'’s no more than any other self-respecting father would do.

You lost your self respect the day you threw my mother out of this house

and brought your mistress here to live with you.

-Damn your insolence! -Please!

I ought to take a whip and thrash you to the ground.

I would welcome the opportunity, believe me.

You talk to me of the moral issue.

-For heaven'’s sake, -Father!

Well, what about him and that damned Wilde fellow?

Thank God I succeeded in putting an end to that.

One of these days you'’ll get down on your knees

and you'’ll thank me for it.

He sent me a telegram this morning.

At least he has more sympathy with my bereavement than you seem to have.

I'’m going back to London this afternoon, and I warn you,

if ever you try and interfere in my private affairs again,

I'’ll buy myself a pistol and I'’ll hunt you down and kill you.

Bosie!

Bosie!

Bosie!

You'’re no son of mine, do you hear?

You'’re not my son!

Go back to your precious friend,

but, I warn you, I haven'’t finished with you yet!

Or him!

I'’ll see you both behind bars!

Do you hear?

Behind bars!

I have a great deal to make up to you for, Oscar.

I'’ve been perfectly horrible to you in the past.

No, don'’t mention it anymore.

Sometimes it takes a good row to clear the air.

What are we going to do about your father?

Believe me, it'’s only because of you

that I haven'’t taken some sort of legal action against him.

And involve your whole family in a scandal?

That wouldn'’t help anybody except perhaps the journalists.

Just so long as he leaves me alone, that'’s all.

Good heavens, what are we talking about my father for?

Your new play opens on Saturday.

We should be drinking to its success.

Its success?

My dear boy, you don'’t doubt it'll be a success, do you?

To The Importance of Being Earnest.

To the importance of friendship.

-Wait there. -Yes, sir.

Lord Queensberry, sir?

Yes.

I'’m sorry, sir, I've strict instructions not to let you into the theater.

You must be out of your senses.

I'’m sorry, sir.

Who the devil are you anyway?

I'’m a police officer, sir.

Are you indeed?

Police officer, are you?

Are you?

Don'’t forget the cripple, sir.

I'’m sorry, sir.

No unauthorized persons are permitted to enter the theater.

Do you realize who you'’re talking to?

Oh, I do indeed, Your Lordship.

Now look here, My Lord, why don'’t you run along and forget the whole thing?

You don'’t want to go in there and spoil everybody'’s enjoyment.

I'’m not completely without influence.

I'’m quite sure you'’re not, My Lord.

No, I shall report you to your senior officer, sir.

Bit loose in the upper story, wouldn'’t you say, sir?

Hmm.

Well, let'’s hope that's the last we'’ve seen of him tonight.

Ladies and gentlemen, I have enjoyed this evening immensely.

The actors have given a charming rendering of a delightful play.

And your appreciation has been most intelligent.

I congratulate you on the success of your performance,

which proves to me

that you think almost as highly of the play as I do.

-That'’s quite a wit... -Cab!

There'’s Queensberry.

Queensberry? What'’s he up to?

Mad as ever, I suppose.

Mad.

QUEENSBERRY: Excuse me! Excuse me!

Mr. Wilde, may I present you with this, sir?

How charming.

Every time I smell them, I shall think of you, Lord Queensberry.

The Albemarle Club.

Hurry. Hurry!

Can I help you, sir?

Give me a pen.

Now, I want you

to give this message

to Mr. Oscar Wilde.

Very good, sir.

Here you are, Edward.

Thank you, Mr. Wilde, sir.

-Good morning, Wilde. -Congratulations!

-Thank you. -Cab!

Wilde, my dear fellow.

Saw your play last night. Laughed myself sick.

You seem to have made a remarkable recovery, Major.

Oh, Mr. Wilde. A gentleman left this for you last night, sir.

-Oh. -I hear your play was a big success, sir.

Congratulations, if I may say so.

Thank you, Sydney.

Hello, old chap. Enjoyed your play...

Well, there'’s no doubt, Mr. Wilde,

on the basis of what is written on this card alone,

you have the strongest possible grounds

for an action against Lord Queensberry for criminal libel.

Does that mean, Sir Edward, that you will take the case?

Well, the question is, of course,

do you want to proceed with this action?

Well, of course!

Why do you ask that, Sir Edward?

Well, no doubt, Queensberry'’s defense

will be that the libelous statement complained of

was justified and in effect true.

It most certainly isn'’t true.

Nevertheless, the defense will make every effort to prove that it is,

and that could be extremely embarrassing for Mr. Wilde.

I agree. Oscar, it simply isn'’t worth it.

Queensberry'’s obviously a lunatic.

To take an action against him is exactly what he wants.

That'’s why he left that card.

But if we let him get away with this, there'’ll be no holding him.

We have to draw a line somewhere. It'’s a matter of principle.

I'’m afraid Lord Alfred is right.

The man must be stopped somewhere.

Then you wish to proceed with this action?

I do.

Can'’t wait to see my father'’s face when I go into the witness box.

When I tell...

You'’re not going into the witness box, Bosie.

Are you mad, Oscar?

I'’ve only got to tell them how he'’s...

How he'’s persecuted me these past two years,

how he drove my mother out of the house with his insane ravings.

I'’m not having you involved, Bosie.

I'’m afraid, Mr. Wilde, that Lord Alfred is already involved.

Well, of course I'’m involved.

I'’m not having you exposed to more scandal than is necessary.

Oscar, don'’t you realize...

Bosie, you'’re not going into the witness box and that is final.

You'’ll have to forgive Bosie. He'’s a little impulsive.

So it would seem.

Anyway, you have a very strong case, Mr. Wilde.

What'’s the matter, Robbie?

Are you determined to bring about your own destruction, Oscar?

Is that what you'’re trying to do?

I don'’t understand.

I used to think you had a mind of your own.

A great mind. Oh, really.

Oscar, you mustn'’t let Bosie push you into this thing.

-What'’s the alternative? -Go abroad.

Let Queensberry and his son fight their quarrel without you.

They'’re well-matched.

It'’s too late, Robbie.

Well, Sir Edward, I'’m entirely at your disposal.

Any further information you need?

There is one question I feel compelled to ask.

Please do.

I can only accept this brief, Mr. Wilde,

if you assure me on your honor as an English gentleman

that there is no truth in the charges made against you.

I assure you as an Irish gentleman

that there'’s no truth whatever in any of them.

Well, then, shall we say here tomorrow morning at 10:30, Mr. Wilde?

Good. Mr. Humphries.

Paper! Queensberry arrested!

Paper! Paper! Special edition!

Queensberry arrested!

Paper! Paper, sir! Paper!

COURT USHER: Silence!

That'’s Edward Carson, defending Queensberry.

We went to Trinity College together.

No doubt he'’ll perform his task with all the added bitterness of an old friend.

COURT USHER: Silence!

Be upstanding in court.

All persons who have anything to do

before My Lords, the Queen'’s justices of oyer and terminer

and general gaol delivery for the jurisdiction of the Central Criminal Court,

draw near and give your attendance. God save the Queen.

Put up John Sholto Douglas, Marquis of Queensberry.

John Sholto Douglas, Marquis of Queensberry.

Are you John Sholto Douglas, Marquis of Queensberry?

I am, sir.

"The jurors for Our Lady, the Queen, upon their oath present

"that John Sholto Douglas, Marquis of Queensberry,

"contriving and maliciously intending to injure one

"Oscar Fingal O'’Flahertie Wills Wilde,

"and to excite him to commit a breach of peace,

"and to bring him into public contempt, scandal and disgrace,

"did on the 14th day of February in the year of our Lord 1895,

"and within the jurisdiction of this court

"unlawfully, wickedly and maliciously write and publish

"a false and scandalous,

"malicious and defamatory libel, in the form of a card,

"directed to the said Oscar Fingal O'’Flahertie Wills Wilde,

"on which were written the words,

"'’To Oscar Wilde, posing as a sodomite.'’"

COURT USHER: Silence in court.

"To the great damage, scandal and disgrace

"of the said Oscar Fingal O'’Flahertie Wills Wilde

"and against the peace of our said Lady the Queen, her crown and dignity,

"John Sholto Douglas, Marquis of Queensberry,

"upon the aforesaid indictment, how do you plead?"

Guilty or not guilty?

Not guilty, My Lord.

If it please you, My Lord,

it is my client'’s plea that the alleged libel

according to the natural meaning of the words thereof

is true in substance and in fact,

and that it was for the public benefit and interest

that the matter contained in the alleged libel should be published.

Such a plea has been filed with this court?

It has, My Lord.

Thank you, Mr. Carson. Let the jury be sworn.

Take the Bible in your right hand and read from the card.

"I swear by Almighty God that I will well and truly..."

I put the card in an envelope,

which I addressed to Mr. Oscar Wilde

and when Mr. Wilde came into the club,

I handed it to him saying that Lord Queensberry had asked me to give it to him.

And did you look at this card when Lord Queensberry gave it to you?

I did, sir.

Thank you, Mr. Wright.

I have no questions, My Lord.

COURT USHER: The witness may stand down.

I don'’t think there's any suggestion by the defense

that Lord Queensberry did not leave this card at the Albemarle Club,

nor that he wrote upon it the words complained of by my client.

In his plea of justification

in which the defendant seeks to malign the character of Mr. Oscar Wilde,

the defendant put in evidence a letter

written by Mr. Oscar Wilde to Lord Alfred Douglas,

the son of the accused.

I now propose to read the letter to the court, My Lord.

"My own boy, your sonnet is quite lovely,

"and it is a marvel that those red rose leaf lips of yours

"should have been made no less for music of song than for madness of kisses.

"Your slim guilt soul walks between passion and poetry.

"I know Hyacinthus, whom Apollo loved so madly,

"was you in Greek days.

"Always with undying love, yours, Oscar."

The words contained in that letter may appear somewhat extravagant

for those normally engaged in the writing of commercial correspondence.

Silence!

But Mr. Wilde is a poet

and that letter is considered by him to be a prose sonnet,

and one in which he is no way ashamed.

I now ask Mr. Oscar Wilde to go into the witness box.

Take the Bible in your right hand and read from the card.

"I swear by Almighty God that the evidence I give to this court

"shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,

"so help me God."

You are Mr. Oscar Wilde and you are the prosecutor in this case.

I am.

How old are you, Mr. Wilde?

I'’m 39.

Are you married, Mr. Wilde?

I am, and I have two children, one aged nine and the other eight.

And when did you first become acquainted with Lord Alfred Douglas?

In 1891.

A friend brought him to my house.

And since that time you have become close friends?

He was a guest at my house many times.

A guest of yourself and your wife?

Certainly.

In March 1893,

did it come to your notice that a letter addressed by you to Lord Alfred Douglas

had come into the hands of a certain person?

Yes, a man named Wood came to me

and said that he'’d found it in a suit of clothes belonging to Lord Alfred.

Did he demand money for that letter?

He said a man had offered him £60 for it.

And what did you say to that?

I said I'’d never received so large an amount

for a prose work of that length,

and I advised him to sell it to the man at once.

Prior to this time, you had been subjected to considerable annoyance

by Lord Queensberry, had you not?

Oh, yes.

He'’d written several abusive letters to myself and my friends

and on one occasion, he forced his way into my house

and I was compelled to eject him.

And what took place on that occasion?

He made certain accusations about my relationship with Lord Alfred

and I said to him,

"Lord Queensberry, do you seriously accuse your son and me of improper conduct?"

And what did he say to that?

He said, "I don'’t say you are, but I say you look it."

Silence in court!

If there is the slightest disturbance again,

I shall have the court cleared.

Mr. Wilde, your attention has been drawn to certain statements

made in the plea of justification

filed by the defendant, Lord Queensberry,

with reference to different persons impugning your conduct with them.

Yes.

Mr. Wilde,

is there any truth whatever in any of those accusations?

None whatever in any of them.

Thank you, Mr. Wilde.

Mr. Wilde, you stated earlier that your age was 39.

-Is that correct? -Yes.

You were born in 1854. That makes you over 40, doesn'’t it?

Oh, very well.

Hmm.

At what age was Lord Alfred Douglas when you first met him?

He was between 20 and 21.

Not yet 21. Hmm.

And since that time you have been close friends?

Yes.

You'’ve stayed with him at many places?

Yes.

At Oxford, Brighton, on several occasions?

Yes.

And at various hotels in London?

Yes.

You'’ve also been abroad with him several times.

Yes, to Egypt, Paris and Monte Carlo.

One could therefore describe your friendship as intimate?

Yes, very.

Indeed.

I have here a magazine called The Chameleon,

in which is an article by yourself.

Also, two poems contributed by Lord Alfred Douglas.

Yes, I thought them exceedingly beautiful.

Did you?

Do you remember the titles of these two poems, Mr. Wilde?

Yes. One was called In Praise of Shame,

and the other, Two Loves.

Thank you.

These two loves, they were two boys, weren'’t they?

Yes.

One boy calls his love true love and the other boy calls his love shame.

That is correct.

Do you think that made any improper suggestion?

No, not at all.

Hmm.

There'’s another article in this magazine

entitled The Priest and the Acolyte. Have you read that?

I have.

Did you consider that this article was in any way immoral?

It was worse. It was very badly written.

Was it not the story of a priest who fell in love with an altar boy?

Well, I read it only once and nothing would induce me to read it again.

Do you think the story blasphemous?

I think it violates every artistic canon of beauty.

That is not an answer.

That'’s the only answer I can give.

I wish to know whether you thought the story blasphemous?

It disgusted me, and the end was completely wrong.

Will you answer the question?

Did you or did you not consider the story blasphemous?

I thought it was horrid. Blasphemous is not a word of mine.

I see.

Now, from the same magazine here

are some of the phrases and philosophies for the use of the young

which you contributed.

"Wickedness is a myth invented by good people

"to account for the curious attractiveness of others."

Do you think that true?

I rarely think anything I write is true.

"Religions die hard when they are proved to be true."

Is that true?

Yes, I hold to that,

but it'’s too big a question to go into here.

Did you think that was a safe axiom

to put forward for the philosophy of the young?

I think it'’s most stimulating.

"If one tells the truth, one is sure sooner or later to be found out."

A pleasing paradox, but I do not set very much store on it as an axiom.

Whether moral or immoral?

There is no morality or immorality in thought.

There are immoral emotions.

Quite so.

Now then.

This is the introduction to your book, The Picture of Dorian Gray.

"There is no such thing as a moral or immoral book.

"Books are well written or badly written."

That expresses your view?

My view on art, yes.

Then no matter how immoral a book may be, if it is well written,

it is in your opinion a good book.

If it is well written so as to produce a sense of beauty.

Then a well written book

putting forward perverted moral views may be a good book?

A work of art doesn'’t put forward views.

Views are for people.

A perverted novel might be a good book?

I don'’t know what you mean by a perverted novel.

Then, I will suggest The Picture of Dorian Gray

as being open to the interpretation of being such a book.

Only to brutes and illiterates.

The affection and love of the artist for the youth, Dorian Gray,

might lead an ordinary individual

to believe that it might have a certain tendency.

I have no knowledge of the views of ordinary individuals.

Hmm.

I propose, if I may, to quote

a few passages from this book.

The artist Hallward is speaking to Dorian Gray.

"It is quite true that I have worshiped you

"with far more romance than a man usually gives to a friend.

"I have never loved a woman.

"From the moment I met you,

"your personality had the most extraordinary influence over me.

"I quite admit I adored you madly, extravagantly, absurdly."

Do you mean to say that that passage

describes the natural feeling of one man towards another?

Dorian Gray'’s was a remarkable personality.

May I take it that you as an artist have never known the feeling described here?

No. It is a work of fiction.

Let us go over it phrase by phrase.

"I quite admit that I have adored you madly."

What do you say to that? Have you ever adored a young man madly?

I'’ve never given adoration to anyone.

Except myself.

I suppose you think that a very smart thing?

Not at all.

"I have adored you extravagantly."

Do you mean financially?

Oh, yes, financially!

Do you think that we are talking about finance?

I don'’t know what you'’re talking about.

Don'’t you?

Then I hope that I shall make myself very plain before I have done.

And we come now to the letter which you wrote to Lord Alfred Douglas.

It begins, "My own boy."

Now, why should a man of your age address a young boy

nearly 20 years younger as "My own boy"?

I was fond of him. I'’ve always been fond of him.

Did you adore him?

No, I like him.

And that'’s not an ordinary letter.

You might as well cross examine me

as to whether a Shakespeare sonnet was improper.

Suppose a man who was not an artist had written this letter.

Would you say that this was a proper letter?

A man who was not an artist wouldn'’t have written that letter.

Well, I can suggest, for the sake of your reputation,

that there'’s nothing very wonderful in this.

"Those red rose leaf lips of yours..."

It largely depends on how it'’s read.

"Your slim guilt soul walks between passion and poetry."

Is that a beautiful phrase, Mr. Wilde?

Not as you read it, Mr. Carson. You read it very badly.

I do not profess to be an artist, Mr. Wilde.

And when I hear you give evidence,

I'’m very glad that I am not.

My Lord, I don'’t think my learned friend should talk like that.

May I suggest, Mr. Carson,

that you do not air your personal opinions in this court?

It is very difficult, My Lord.

JUDGE: Yet nevertheless.

Where did you first meet the man Wood, Mr. Wilde?

He came to my house. I think it was in January of 1893.

And on the same evening, you took him out to supper?

Yes.

Did you consider that he'’d come to levy blackmail?

I did, and I was determined to face it.

By taking him out to supper and giving him £40?

Well, I saw that the letter was of no value,

and I gave him the money after he told me a pitiful tale

about being out of work.

I suggest that you had immoral relations

with him first and then gave him the money.

My Lord, I really must protest

at my learned friend'’s method of questioning the witness.

I do not see that Mr. Carson is in any way out of order.

Thank you, My Lord.

Do you know a man named Charles Parker, Mr. Wilde?

The witness will answer the question.

Yes, he was a friend of Lord Alfred'’s.

And a man named Atkin?

Yes, he was a friend of Parker'’s.

A man named Grainger?

Yes, he was a manservant of Lord Alfred'’s.

And Taylor, Mr. Wilde. Do you know anyone called Taylor?

Yes, I have been to parties at his house. We...

Were all these, with the exception of Taylor, young men of about 20?

I like the society of young men.

Have you given money to any of them?

I may have.

Or presents?

A silver cigarette case for Mr. Taylor,

gold-topped walking stick for Mr. Parker,

a book for Mr. Wood inscribed, "To Alfred from Oscar."

Did you know, Mr. Wilde,

that Wood had been unemployed for three years,

that Parker was a valet, and that the man Taylor was also out of work?

That would not have affected my friendship with them.

And yet you gave them presents and entertained them to supper on diverse occasions.

No doubt you drank wine and champagne.

Iced champagne is a favorite drink of mine,

much against my doctor'’s orders.

Never mind your doctor'’s orders.

I never do.

And at these supper parties

your guests no doubt had plenty of champagne.

I didn'’t press them to drink.

You did not stint them?

What gentleman would stint his guests?

What gentleman would stint his valet and a groom, Mr. Wilde?

My Lord, I really must protest at my learned friend'’s sneering remarks.

Mr. Carson, I suggest you confine yourself to questions, not opinions.

Very well, My Lord.

Did you know, Mr. Wilde,

that Taylor, Atkin and Parker

had been arrested in a raid on a house in Fitzroy Square?

Yes, I read about that.

You know that they were charged with felonious practices?

I understand that the magistrate dismissed the charge.

About the young man Grainger.

Have you ever dined with him?

No, never.

But you know him?

Yes, he was a manservant at Lord Alfred'’s house in Oxford.

So you saw him on several occasions?

I stayed in the house on several occasions.

Grainger waited at table.

Did you ever kiss him, Mr. Wilde?

Oh, dear, no. He was extremely ugly.

Is that the reason you did not kiss him?

Mr. Carson, you are very insolent.

Did you say that you never kissed him?

It'’s a foolish question.

Then why, sir, did you mention that this boy was extremely ugly?

I don'’t know why I mentioned that he was ugly

except that you stunned me with your insolent remark

and the insulting way you'’ve treated me during this hearing.

Why did you mention his ugliness?

It was simply that I...

Why? Why? Why?

"I didn'’t kiss Grainger because he was ugly."

Quite untrue... I protest, My Lord, at his accusations.

My learned friend puts words into the witness'’ mouth.

The witness is putting words into his own mouth.

-I object. -I will not have this brawling between counsels.

If I may say so, My Lord,

my learned friend has no right to make suggestions of a certain behavior

with a group of persons not represented in this court

and whose evidence we have not heard.

But you will hear it, Sir Edward.

It is my intention to produce every one of the persons mentioned here

just now in this courtroom tomorrow morning.

Wood, Parker, Atkin, Grainger and Taylor

will relate their loathsome experiences at the hands of the witness.

By your own admission, a group of blackmailers and police suspects, sir.

Nevertheless, they'’ll be here to give their testimony,

testimony that will prove my client'’s plea of justification

beyond any possible shadow of a doubt.

Silence in court.

I think this would be an appropriate moment to adjourn.

The witness may stand down.

The court will reconvene at 10:00 a.m. tomorrow.

Be upstanding in court.

All persons who have anything further to do

before My Lords, the Queen'’s justices of oyer and terminer...

Before this unfortunate trial started,

you gave me your word that there was no truth whatever

in any of these dreadful accusations.

I know, Sir Edward. It was unforgivably stupid of me,

but I was afraid you wouldn'’t take the case.

As it is, you realize you'’ve already lost this case.

But what is infinitely more serious

is that when Carson puts these young men into the witness box,

as he obviously intends to do,

their evidence will inevitably result in your being arrested

on some extremely grave charges.

Sir Edward, may I just say one thing?

Please do.

The whole case started with my father accusing Mr. Wilde of carrying on an...

An immoral relationship with me, isn'’t that so?

Yes.

Then why in heaven'’s name can I not go into the witness box

-and deny this disgusting accusation? -Bosie, for the last time.

-But it isn'’t true, Oscar. -You know it isn'’t.

Such a denial would undoubtedly add

considerable weight, Mr. Wilde.

In my opinion, not to put Lord Alfred into the box would be a grave mistake.

One that you might regret for the rest of your life.

Gentlemen, I have infinite faith in the good sense of the common man,

and if, as you say, this case hangs

on the evidence of paid informers

and criminals like Wood and Parker,

I cannot conceive that a British jury would take their word before mine.

I wish I could share your faith.

Well, what must be must be.

But I want you to understand that Lord Alfred is not

to give evidence at this trial.

Very well.

Well, I shall endeavor to salvage what is left of your reputation

by withdrawing from the case first thing in the morning.

Incidentally, there'’s no need for you to be present in court tomorrow.

Indeed there'’s no need for you to be present in this country.

There is a boat train leaving for Calais at 10:00 tonight, Mr. Wilde.

You'’d be well advised to be on it.

Before you condemn Lord Queensberry,

I ask you to consider whether the gorge of any father ought

not to rise in such circumstances.

I ask you to bear in mind that Lord Queensberry'’s son

was so dominated by Wilde that he threatened to shoot his own father.

I now have a more painful part of the case to approach.

It'’s my unhappy duty to bring before you young men...

-Did Wilde get away? -No.

...to tell their miserable tales.

I first call Charles Parker.

May I claim Your Lordship'’s indulgence while I interpose

to make a statement, which is, of course,

made under a feeling of great responsibility?

By all means, Sir Edward.

Forgive me, Mr. Carson.

I'’m sure it must be apparent to Your Lordship

that those who represent Mr. Wilde in this case

have before them a terrible anxiety.

A verdict given in favor of the defendant Lord Queensberry

might be interpreted as conclusive proof as to the accusations of impropriety

brought against the plaintiff, Mr. Oscar Wilde

and thus, we would be going through,

day after day, an investigation of matters of the most appalling nature.

Under these circumstances,

I feel I am not going beyond the bounds of my duty

if I now interpose and say on behalf of Mr. Wilde

that I would ask to withdraw from the prosecution.

If that is your wish, Sir Edward, so be it.

COURT USHER: Silence.

And if I may say so in the circumstances,

I think you have made a wise decision.

Are you taking a cab? Yes, come on.

Get this to the office as soon as you can.

"Oscar Wilde withdraws from case."

-Take a cab and hurry. -Yes, sir.

Either the words complained of were justified or they were not.

If they were, then the statement, "posing as a sodomite"

is true and the publication was for the public benefit.

You will now consider your verdict.

We'’ve already agreed upon a verdict, My Lord.

The prisoner will rise.

Gentlemen of the jury, do you find

the plea of justification has been proved or not?

We do.

And do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?

Not guilty, My Lord.

Silence in court! Silence! Silence!

Usher, silence the court.

Usher!

Well, they haven'’t wasted any time.

Why, what do you mean?

A copy of the evidence has already been sent

to the Director of Public Prosecutions.

Bosie, for God'’s sake, stop walking up and down.

Oh.

Oh, you haven'’t eaten a thing, sir.

I don'’t really want it.

Thank you, Arthur.

Oscar, I'’ve just heard from one of the reporters.

There'’s a warrant out for your arrest.

What about Constance and the children?

I saw them off on the train myself.

Thank you, Robbie.

Oscar, I beg of you.

There'’s still time to catch the 10:00 train.

I have a cab waiting outside.

You'’re wasting your time, Robbie.

I'’ve been trying for the past two hours.

Oscar, will you please listen to me?

-It'’s too late.-It'’s not too late, I tell you.

-Look, it'’s 9:35. -Oh, Robbie, have a drink.

In three hours we can be in France.

You look as if you need it.

-Mr. Wilde? -Yes.

We'’re police officers. We hold a warrant for your arrest.

Really?

I must ask you to accompany us to the police station.

Bosie, do something for me.

Anything.

Leave the country. If possible, tonight.

-I can'’t desert you. -Bosie, please.

Very well.

So it'’s goodbye, hmm?

-Oscar, I can'’t believe... -Goodbye.

We'’ll come with you.

-There'’ll be no need for that, sir. -Thank you.

Why do you look at me like that?

It'’s not my fault.

I loved him just as much as you did.

Don'’t you think if there was anything I could have...

You can do as Oscar says, Bosie.

Leave the country.

And the sooner the better, I should say.

"Lord Queensberry is triumphant.

"Mr. Oscar Wilde is damned and done forever."

And about time.

-"Public morality will be vindicated." -Hear, hear.

"And this evil in our midst will, I hope, be removed forever."

Damn good thing, too. I never liked the fellow from the first.

Couldn'’t stand his plays. Lot of immoral rubbish.

Damn it all, Bentley, the fellow hasn'’t been tried yet.

Innocent until proved guilty and all that sort of...

If he'’d been in my regiment, sir,

he'’d have been lashed to a gun carriage and flogged.

These artistic chaps are all the same.

A lot of long-haired degenerates.

I think you fellows are taking the whole damn thing too seriously.

Live and let live, that'’s what I say.

Anyway, I don'’t care what they do

as long as they don'’t do it in the street and frighten the horses.

All right.

Do you want me to burn them, Mr. Brace?

Good heavens, no. Fellow might get off.

Mr. Humphries.

Sir Edward.

I... They didn'’t tell me that it was you.

Mr. Wilde.

I don'’t know what arrangements you'’ve made about your defense,

but if you wish it,

Sir Edward and I would be most happy to act on your behalf.

Thank you, I'’m... I'’m very grateful.

There are certain legal aspects of this case, Mr. Wilde,

that have shocked me greatly.

The prosecution has based its entire case on the evidence of witnesses

who admitted crimes ranging from assault, petty larceny to blackmail.

Yet the Crown has no intention of prosecuting any of these witnesses.

They are to go scot-free.

Such a state of affairs has profoundly shaken

my inherent faith in British justice.

In these circumstances, I would consider it an honor,

if you'’ll permit me to offer my services.

Thank you.

I'’m afraid the cost of the other case is still unpaid,

and I'’m in considerable debt.

Mr. Wilde,

Sir Edward and I are agreed that there is no question of a fee.

Thank you.

Thank you.

Well, there are many matters we should discuss, Mr. Wilde.

CLERK: Put up Oscar Fingal O'’Flahertie Wills Wilde.

Oscar Fingal O'’Flahertie Wills Wilde.

COURT USHER: Silence in court. Silence! JUDGE: Order. Order.

CLERK: Are you Oscar Fingal O'’Flahertie Wills Wilde?

I am.

Oscar Fingal O'’Flahertie Wills Wilde,

you stand charged on 25 counts.

On the first count, the jurors for Our Lady, the Queen, upon their oath

present that Oscar Fingal O'’Flahertie Wills Wilde,

on 14th day of March in the year of Our Lord 1893,

in the County of London and within the jurisdiction of this court,

being a male person, unlawfully did commit acts of gross indecency

with another male person, one Alfred Wood.

And against the form of the statuette in such case made and provided,

and against the peace of Our Lady the Queen,

her crown and dignity.

On the second count, the juries aforesaid...

...against the form of the statute in such case made and provided

and against the peace of our said Lady the Queen, her crown and dignity.

Oscar Fingal O'’Flahertie Wills Wilde,

on the aforesaid indictments, how do you plead?

Guilty or not guilty?

Not guilty.

My Lord, gentlemen of the jury,

the first nine counts in the indictment refer to the prisoner'’s misconduct

with a young man named Alfred Wood.

The next three to Frederick Atkin.

Two to the man Taylor. Three to Charles Parker.

And the last to Wilde'’s conduct with a lad named Shelley.

It will be shown that Wilde systematically endeavored

to influence these young men'’s minds towards vicious causes.

And to mold them to his own depraved will.

Gentlemen of the jury, when you have heard the evidence of these men,

I assure you that you will be justified

in finding the prisoner guilty on all counts.

I call first Alfred Wood.

COURT USHER: Call Alfred Wood.

Alfred Wood.

Take the Bible in your right hand and read from the card.

"I swear by Almighty God that the evidence I give to this court

"shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth,

"so help me, God."

In all my years at the bar, I cannot remember coming face to face

with such a miserable collection of witnesses.

Wood, Parker, Atkin.

The prosecution must have scraped

the bottom of the barrel to get that lot together.

What I cannot understand is how a man of Wilde'’s taste and breeding

can come to associate with such people.

Well, to understand that, Charles,

you'’d have to understand the nature of Wilde'’s perversion.

And I'’m a lawyer, not a doctor.

To me, it'’s loathsome, degenerate and unnatural.

Yet I feel so sorry for him.

It is a terrible thing, Charles, when a man of Wilde'’s talents and genius

is slowly crucified by a lot of blackmailers and common criminals.

There'’s very little hope for an acquittal, is there?

Well, the case has already been judged by the press and the public.

As far as they'’re concerned, Wilde is guilty.

It only remains for him to be sentenced.

The most we can hope for is that, out of this hysteria of prejudice and hatred,

there might shine a glimmer of Christian charity and forgiveness.

Do I understand you to say then, Mr. Wilde,

that there is no truth whatsoever in the evidence of Alfred Wood?

It'’s true that we had supper together,

but the accusations of impropriety are quite untrue.

Charles Parker, what part of his evidence is untrue?

He never came to the hotel with me.

He never had dinner with me and he never came to my room.

We had tea at the St. James'’s once, but all of the rest...

Is untrue.

Then, Atkin. What of his evidence?

My Lord, my learned friend seems to have forgotten

that the witness Atkin perjured himself in the box.

Your Lordship dismissed this witness for that reason.

The witness'’s evidence was not struck from the record, Sir Edward.

In my humble submission, My Lord, it should have been.

That is for me to decide.

As Your Lordship pleases.

What of Atkins'’ evidence, Mr. Wilde?

The accusations of indecency are quite untrue.

In fact, these witnesses, according to you,

have lied throughout the trial.

With remarkable ease.

As an experienced writer and storyteller,

I'’m lost in admiration of their inventiveness.

You seem also to have been lost in admiration for their youth, sir.

I'’m a lover of youth.

Yes, we have gathered that.

Now, let us turn to this publication, The Chameleon.

My Lord, are we to be subjected to a further discourse

on the literary morals of the defendant?

I understood from my learned friend that he'’s going to confine himself

to the specific charges made in the indictment.

This is cross examination as to credit, My Lord.

I feel obliged to say that questions which learned counsel thinks

should go to credit, he is entitled to put.

I shall not keep you long, Mr. Wilde.

I trust not, Mr. Gill.

In this magazine, to which you made a contribution,

there appears a poem by Lord Alfred Douglas

entitled Two Loves.

It contains these lines.

"Sweet youth,

"tell me why, sad and sighing,

"does thou rove these pleasant realms?

"I pray, tell me sooth. What is thy name?

"He said, '’My name is Love.'

"Then straight the first did turn himself to me

"and cried, '’He lieth, for his name is Shame.

"'’But I am Love, and I was to be alone in this fair garden,

"'’till he came unasked by night.

"'’I am true Love.

"'’I fill the hearts of boy and girl with mutual flame.'’

"Then, sighing, said the other,

"'’Have thy will,

"'’I am the love that dare not speak its name.'’"

And what, Mr. Wilde, is the love that dare not speak its name?

The love that dare not speak its name, in this century,

is such a great affection of an elder for a younger man.

As there was between David and Jonathan.

Such as Plato made the very basis of philosophy

and such as you will find in the sonnets of Michelangelo and Shakespeare.

It is a deep, spiritual affection

that is as perfect as it is pure.

It is in this century misunderstood, so much misunderstood

that it may be called the love that dare not speak its name.

And on account of it, I'’m placed where I am today.

But it is beautiful,

it is fine,

it is the noblest form of affection.

There is nothing unnatural about it.

It is intellectual.

And is repeatedly to be found between an elder and a younger man

when the elder man has intellect and the younger man has all the hope and joy

and glamour of life before him.

But it is so the world does not understand.

The world mocks at it.

And sometimes puts one in the pillory for it.

COURT USHER: Silence in court.

Rubbish!

Silence in court! Sit down, sir!

If there is the slightest manifestation of feeling like this again,

I shall have the court cleared.

I have no further questions, My Lord.

JUDGE: The witness may stand down.

That concludes the case for the prosecution, My Lord.

May it please you, My Lord, gentlemen of the jury,

this is a serious and grave question for you to decide.

And yours is a position of great responsibility.

Now, a great deal of public feeling has been excited against Mr. Wilde

by the quotation of passages of poetry and literature

and in particular from Mr. Wilde'’s book, The Picture of Dorian Gray.

Now I ask you, members of the jury,

is an author to be judged on the morals of the characters of his book?

Was Stevenson accused of being a lustful and depraved monster

because he wrote Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde?

As to the affection which Mr. Wilde expressed in his letters,

he himself has described it as pure, true affection,

absolutely unconnected with and completely alien to the

filthy practices described in this court

by the prosecution'’s band of criminals.

Mr. Wilde is not an ordinary man.

He is a man who has written poetry and prose,

brilliant dramas, charming essays.

He writes letters in a tone which to most of us may appear

high-flown, inflated, exaggerated, even absurd.

But he'’s not ashamed or afraid to produce those letters.

When a man comes forward with letters such as these and says,

"I do not shrink from the judgment of the world upon these productions,"

has he not given the best proof of his innocence?

Innocence, gentlemen of the jury, has courage and faith

in the ultimate judgment of mankind.

As to the evidence of the youths, Parker, Atkin, Wood

and their associates,

I respectfully submit that no jury can find a man guilty

on their tainted evidence.

It deepens one'’s horror to think the prisoner'’s freedom

is at the peril of such persons.

Before you consider this case, therefore,

I implore you to let your judgment only be affected by those witnesses

of whom you, as true and honorable men

can say, with a clear conscience have given

true, honest and honorable testimony.

And if, upon the examination of the evidence, you find it your duty to say

that the charges against the prisoner have not been proved,

I know you'’ll be glad that that bright reputation,

so nearly quenched in a torrent of prejudice,

will have been saved by your verdict from absolute ruin.

And that it will leave Mr. Wilde,a distinguished man of letters,

to live a life of honor and repute

and to give, in the maturity of his genius, gifts to our literature

of which, already, he has shown such brilliant promise.

COURT USHER: Be upstanding in court.

Gentlemen of the jury, I understand that you are unable to arrive at a verdict.

That is so, My Lord.

Is there any prospect that if you retired

and continued your deliberations a little longer,

you'’ll be able to come to some agreement?

We have considered the question for three hours, My Lord.

And the only result we have come to is that we cannot agree.

Yes, I have no doubt that you have tried very hard

to come to some agreement, but on the other hand,

the inconveniences of another trial are very great.

My Lord, I fear there is no chance of an agreement.

JUDGE: Then, gentlemen, you are discharged.

FOREMAN: Thank you, My Lord.

My Lord, on the question of bail,

it may be some weeks before a retrial...

Retrial! Retrial! Retrial! Retrial! Retrial! Retrial! Retrial!

Hello, Robbie.

Mr. Wilde, we managed to raise bail.

Come on, Oscar. Let me take you home.

Who put up the money for my bail?

Bosie'’s brother Percy put up most of the money.

Percy? How kind.

The rest was put up by the Reverend Headlam.

£5,000 in all.

It'’s preposterous. A common felon would not be so heavily penalized.

The Reverend Headlam? Mmm-hmm.

Extraordinary! I hardly know him.

-Oscar, let'’s go to a hotel. -No!

ARTHUR: Mr. Wilde!

Mr. Wilde. Oh, sir, I'’ve done everything I could.

Your manuscripts. I'’ve managed to save some of them,

but they'’ve been going through the house like vultures, sir.

AUCTIONEER: £20! 25!

£25 I'’m bid for this priceless first edition by Walt Whitman, whoever he may be.

Now, now, come along, gentlemen. Do I hear £30?

£30, 30. £35.

£35, 35. Come along, we haven'’t got all night.

Going then at £30. Going once, twice, three times.

Charles, the gent over there with the cigar.

Now then. Hello, hello, hello. What have we got here?

A painting of the dear boy himself.

Very pretty, I'’m sure. Very pretty.

Now what am I bid for this masterpiece? Do I hear 10 shillings?

MAN: Ten shillings. AUCTIONEER: Ten shillings I'’m bid.

Do I hear a pound?

-£1. -£1!

£1, 1.

Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, I think we have company.

Perhaps His Eminence will bid for this artistic painting.

What about 30 bob, sir?

Come on, Oscar. Haven'’t you seen enough?

-No?

Well, all right, then. Going at a pound. Going, going...

40 guineas!

-AUCTIONEER: 40 guineas.

Well, then. Any advance on 40 guineas?

All right. Sold to His Lordship for 40 guineas.

Charlie, give the gentleman his painting.

-40 guineas. -Thank you, My Lord.

-Thank you. -What are you going to do with it now you'’ve bought it?

Hang it in the bathroom!

Aw, blimey, governor. What a waste of 40 quid.

MAN: I say, a little bit rash, what?

I feel like a drink.

Excuse me, please.

Excuse me. Thank you. Excuse me, madam.

Excuse me. Thank you.

Excuse me.

Come on, Oscar.

AUCTIONEER: Well, we weren'’t very quick there.

We should have asked His Eminence to autograph a few books, eh?

Now then, an original manuscript of that uproarious comedy,

The Importance of Being Earnestby the late Oscar Wilde.

-Now, then, do I hear £10?

Mr. Wilde.

I'’m most dreadfully sorry about this, sir,

but I'’m afraid we must ask you to leave.

Ask us to leave? But how dare you come up...

-I'’m very sorry, sir. -Don'’t you realize that Mr. Wilde'’s...

It'’s all right, Robbie.

Let'’s go.

Remarkable, the sort of people they allow in here these days!

-I thought it was a high-class place!

I think it'’s blooming disgusting.

Come on, my friends, drink up. Pay the bill, will you, Freddie?

Why, certainly, Q.

Cab!

God bless you, Mr. Wilde.

Hello, Amy.

Knightsbridge, cabby.

Yes, sir.

MAN 1: Blimey! It'’s raining!

QUEENSBERRY: Get my carriage.

So long, Oscar!

Are we going to have a bit of sport then?

Yes, I think so.

MAN 2: Come on, there we go, let'’s get in.

Come on.

Follow him. As fast as you can.

MAN 2: Tallyho!

By God, they'’re following us. The man must be mad.

I should have thought it was common knowledge by now, Robbie.

Go faster, driver!

MAN 2: Tallyho!

Faster, driver, faster!

MAN 2: Tallyho!

This is madness. I'’m going to walk. Stop the cab, driver!

Oscar, don'’t be foolish.

I'’m not going to put you through all this.

Oscar, where will you be?

-I'’m going to my mother. -Right.

Carry on, driver.

Well, now, my old darling, where'’s your friend?

Why are you doing this, Queensberry?

Why are you hounding this man in this way?

Haven'’t you had your pound of flesh?

You don'’t know me very well, do you, Mr. Ross?

I'’m not so easily satisfied.

That'’s quite evident.

Tell Wilde that I shall not be happy

until I see him under six feet of earth.

Six feet of earth, Lord Queensberry,

puts us all very much on the same level.

I'’ve not finished with him yet!

I shall hound him until his dying day!

Until his dying day!

Well, what now, Q? Is the hunt still on?

Let'’s go to The Savoy.

Ah, let'’s go to The Savoy. Go to The Savoy.

Oscar!

Oscar, is that you?

Willie!

Dear darling Mother. Yes, what is it?

Dearest Mother, you know you should have been an actress.

I doubt if the great Sarah Bernhardt herself

made a more imposing Lady Macbeth.

But aren'’t you just a little premature to wear mourning?

Oscar isn'’t quite dead yet, you know.

They crucified him.

Now, Mother, if you'’re going to go on like this, I...

Who'’s there?

OSCAR: Willie, let me in, for God'’s sake.

Willie, let me stay. Let me stay.

Or I shall die on the streets.

Are you drunk?

Here you are.

Is this my son?

Is this Oscar Wilde, cringing in the dark like a frightened animal?

Mother, for heaven'’s sake!

Stand up, sir.

Stand up and face them, sir!

For God'’s sake, don'’t let them in, Willie.

Willie, open the door.

My son is ready for them.

Robbie. Thank God you'’ve come.

Ada.

-Robbie, what'’s to become of me? -It'’s all right.

Couldn'’t you have taken his coat off? He'’s soaked to the skin.

He'’s ill. He should be in bed.

But he... He can'’t stay here, you know. Well...

I mean, it would be awkward, you see.

There'’s been mobs hanging about in the street all day,

and if they were to find out he was here,

well, there'’s no knowing what they'’d do.

My son is not afraid of them!

He'’ll stand up and face them

like a true Irish gentleman.

I can find him a bed at my house. Come, Oscar.

Don'’t sit up too late, my son.

You need all the sleep you can get

in this terrible time we'’re all passing through.

Come on, Oscar.

I'’m not thinking of myself, you understand.

He is my brother. But it'’s my mother.

She'’s not very well and any sudden shock might...

The prisoner will rise.

Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon a verdict?

We have.

Do you find the prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty?

Guilty, My Lord.

COURT USHER: Silence in court!

And is that the verdict of you all?

Yes. Guilty.

COURT USHER: Silence!

Oscar Wilde, the crime for which you have been convicted

is so bad that one has to put a stern restraint upon one'’s self

to avoid describing, in language I would rather not use,

the sentiments that must rise in the breasts of every man of honor

who has listened to the details of these terrible trials.

That you have been the center of a circle

of the most terrible corruption among young men,

it is impossible to doubt.

And under the circumstances, I shall pass the severest sentence the law allows.

Although, in my judgment

it is totally inadequate for a case of this sort.

Sentence of the court is that you go to imprisonment

and be kept to hard labor for two years.

COURT USHER: Silence!

Be upstanding in court.

All persons having anything further to do before My Lords...

Come on, back! Back. Come on, back!

He'’ll get his hair cut now, won'’t he?

OSCAR: "I never saw sad men who looked with such a wistful eye

"upon that little tent of blue we prisoners call the sky,

"and at every happy cloud that passed in such strange fre edom by."

My dearest, your hands.

I'’ve never been so idle and worked so hard.

Please, my dear, we have so little time.

Oh, Constance, I'’ve waited all these months for you to come.

I would'’ve come before, Oscar, only...

I don'’t know, it's all been so confusing.

Why have you come now?

I have some bad news for you, Oscar.

I didn'’t want you to hear it from anyone else.

Your mother...

She'’s dead, Oscar.

There was no pain. She passed away in her sleep.

I wish I could leave here in that way.

No, Oscar, you mustn'’t say that. You must be patient.

It'’s not patience that's needed here, it'’s apathy.

And apathy is the most pitiful of vices.

Constance, I don'’t think I can survive another year of this.

Oh, my dear. It'’s only the thought of the children

that keeps me alive in these terrible months of waiting.

How are they?

They'’re well.

It'’ll be Vyvyan'’s birthday soon.

-Oscar, I... -Is he 9 or 10?

The time passes so slowly.

Oscar, I cannot allow you to see the children again.

I'’m only trying to do what I think is right.

I'’ve thought and thought about it and I...

Forgive me, my dearest.

Please. Forgive me.

Oscar.

I brought you some cigarettes

and some delicacies, some chicken.

I know what the food must be like.

Goodbye, my dear.

Will he have time to catch the boat train?

If we hurry.

Goodbye, Mr. Wilde, sir.

Goodbye, Dick. Thank you.

Thank you, my dear.

Oscar.

Come on, we must hurry.

You look well, Oscar.

The children send their love.

Thank you.

I told them you were very ill. I hope you understand.

Yes, of course.

Well, I suppose we'’d better get down to business.

There isn'’t very much time.

I'’ve arranged with my lawyer to pay you £150 a year.

It'’s not much, I'm afraid, but it'’s all I can afford.

I am very grateful to you, Constance.

Only I'’m sorry I had to make one condition.

If you see or communicate with Bosie again, the payments will stop.

Yes, I... I understand.

I know that may sound harsh,

but I promise you I'’m doing it to help you.

Hmm.

Porter.

-Boat train, sir? -Yes.

Ada.

You look lovelier than ever.

Oh, it'’s good to see you, Oscar.

Ticket, madam?

The gentleman has them. Thank you.

Oh, Robbie, I can'’t bear to see him looking so ill.

I was talking to the prison doctor yesterday.

Another six months in there and he'’d never come out alive.

Constance.

I want you to remember this.

I have always loved you, and I always will.

You talk as if... You'’re going to get well again

and you'’ll forget about these past two years.

You'’ll start work again.

I know you too well, Oscar. Once you start writing, you...

Ada, don'’t be so depressed on my behalf.

What better reward for one'’s sins than to be exiled to Paris?

Where no doubt I shall die as I have lived, beyond my means.

What a gorgeous hat.

Oh, Oscar.

Goodbye, my dear.

Take care of the children.

Hello, Oscar.

I never understood it, Ada.

I just never understood it.

OSCAR: "Yet each man kills the thing he loves.

"By each let this be heard.

"Some do it with a bitter look,

"some with a flattering word.

"A coward does it with a kiss,

"the brave man with a sword."