At Lady Wilde’s Reception

Abstract

A new arrival, for whom every one made way, relieved the scene of its monotony. It was Oscar Wilde — but how changed! As he bowed over his mother’s hand I noted the up-to-date elegance of his attire — the short, crisp locks of hair, with just a suspicion of the old-time wave, brushed back from the high brow, the indefinable air of the dandy that hung around him. He was no longer the aesthetic poseur, but a resplendent dandy, from the pale pink carnation in the lapel of his frock-coat to the exquisite tint of the gloves and the cut of the low shoes of the latest mode. Someone brought me a cup of tea and a sandwich, and then began a one-sided conversation, in which I played the part of listener, as I was too fascinated by the metamorphosis of Oscar Wilde to respond. He spoke little, but seemed to efface himself that his mother might display her brilliant wit and hold everyone by the charm of her conversation, but his voice, in the few words of greeting he exchanged with friends, had a triumphant note that was absent when I last heard him speak. His smile was as gracious, but more kindly. The covert sneer in it had vanished.

Oscar Wilde and His Mother; A Memoir (London: Everett, 1911) pp. 65–9. Editor’s title.