dred spirit, he absolutely revelled in gay paradoxes and brilliant
flashes of humour. But he was at war with himself, like Milton's Satan
always conscious of his fall, always regretful of his lost estate and by
reason of this division of spirit unable to write. Perhaps because of
this he threw himself more than ever into talk.

He was beyond all comparison the most interesting companion I have ever
known: the most brilliant talker, I cannot but think, that ever lived.
No one surely ever gave himself more entirely in speech. Again and again
he declared that he had only put his talent into his books and plays,
but his genius into his life. If he had said into his talk, it would
have been the exact truth.

People have differed a great deal about his mental and physical
condition after he came out of prison. All who knew him really, Ross,
Turner, More Adey, Lord Alfred Douglas and myself, are agreed that in
spite of a slight deafness he was never better in health, never indeed
so well. But some French friends were determined to make him out a
martyr.

In his picture of Wilde's last years, Gide tells us that "he had
suffered too grievously from his imprisonment.... His will had been
broken ... nothing remained in his shattered life but a mouldy
ruin,[23] painful to contemplate, of his former self. At times he seemed
to wish to show that his brain was still active. Humour there was; but
it was far-fetched, forced and threadbare."

These touches may be necessary in order to complete a French picture of
the social outcast. They are not only untrue when applied to Oscar
Wilde, but the reverse of the truth; he never talked so well, was never
so charming a companion as in the last years of his life.

In the very last year his talk was more genial, more humorous, more
vivid than ever, with a wider range of thought and intenser stimulus
than before. He was a born _improvisatore_. At the moment he always
dazzled one out of judgment. A phonograph would have discovered the
truth; a great part of his charm was physical; much of his talk mere
topsy-turvy paradox, the very froth of thought carried off by gleaming,
dancing eyes, smiling, happy lips, and a melodious voice.

The entertainment usually started with some humorous play on words. One
of the company would say something obvious or trivial, repeat a proverb
or commonplace tag such as, "Genius is born, not made," and Oscar would
flash in smiling, "not 'paid,' my dear fellow, no