urite, had practically identified himself with her,
which explains to some extent, though nothing can justify, the
unnatural animosity of his letter. The letter showed me that the
quarrel was far deeper, far bitterer than I had imagined--one of those
dreadful family quarrels, where the intimate knowledge each has of the
other whips anger to madness. All I could do was to warn Oscar.

"It's the old, old story," I said. "You are putting your hand between
the bark and the tree, and you will suffer for it." But he would not
or could not see it.

"What is one to do with such a madman?" he asked pitiably.

"Avoid him," I replied, "as you would avoid a madman, who wanted to
fight with you; or conciliate him; there is nothing else to do."

He would not be warned. A little later the matter came up again. At
the first production of "The Importance of Being Earnest" Lord
Queensberry appeared at the theatre carrying a large bouquet of
turnips and carrots. What the meaning was of those vegetables only the
man himself and his like could divine. I asked Oscar about the matter.
He seemed annoyed but on the whole triumphant.

"Queensberry," he said, "had engaged a stall at the St. James's
Theatre, no doubt to kick up a row; but as soon as I heard of it I got
Alick (George Alexander) to send him back his money. On the night of
the first performance Queensberry appeared carrying a large bundle of
carrots. He was refused admittance at the box-office, and when he
tried to enter the gallery the police would not let him in. He must be
mad, Frank, don't you think? I am glad he was foiled."

"He is insanely violent," I said, "he will keep on attacking you."

"But what can I do, Frank?"

"Don't ask for advice you won't take," I replied. "There's a French
proverb I've always liked: 'In love and war don't seek counsel.' But
for God's sake, don't drift. Stop while you can."

But Oscar would have had to take a resolution and act in order to
stop, and he was incapable of such energy. The wild horses of Fate had
run away with the light chariot of his fortune, and what the end would
be no one could foresee. It came with appalling suddenness.

One evening, in February, '95, I heard that the Marquis of Queensberry
had left an insulting card for Oscar at the Albemarle Club. My
informant added gleefully that now Oscar would have to face the music
and we'd all see what was in him. There was no malice in this, just
an Englishman's pleasure in a de