ed the good eating and the good drinking as
intensely as ever. He was even drinking too much I thought, was
beginning to get stout and flabby again, but the good living was a
necessity to him, and it certainly did not prevent him from talking
charmingly. But as soon as I pressed him to write he would shake his
head:

"Oh, Frank, I cannot, you know my rooms; how could I write there? A
horrid bedroom like a closet, and a little sitting room without any
outlook. Books everywhere; and no place to write; to tell you the truth
I cannot even read in it. I can do nothing in such miserable poverty."

Again and again he came back to this. He harped upon his destitution, so
that I could not but see purpose in it. He was already cunning in the
art of getting money without asking for it. My heart ached for him; one
goes down hill with such fatal speed and ease, and the mire at the
bottom is so loathsome. I hastened to say:

"I can let you have a little money; but you ought to work, Oscar. After
all why should anyone help you, if you will not help yourself? If I
cannot aid you to save yourself, I am only doing you harm."

"A base sophism, Frank, mere sophistry, as you know: a good lunch is
better than a bad one for any living man."

I smiled, "Don't do yourself injustice: you could easily gain thousands
and live like a prince again. Why not make the effort?"

"If I had pleasant, sunny rooms I'd try.... It's harder than you think."

"Nonsense, it's easy for you. Your punishment has made your name known
in every country in the world. A book of yours would sell like wildfire;
a play of yours would draw in any capital. You might live here like a
prince. Shakespeare lost love and friendship, hope and health to
boot--everything, and yet forced himself to write 'The Tempest.' Why
can't you?"

"I'll try, Frank, I'll try."

I may just mention here that any praise of another man, even of
Shakespeare, was sure to move Oscar to emulation. He acknowledged no
superior. In some articles in _The Saturday Review_ I had said that no
one had ever given completer record of himself than Shakespeare. "We
know him better than we know any of our contemporaries," I went on, "and
he is better worth knowing." At once Oscar wrote to me objecting to this
phrase. "Surely, Frank, you have forgotten me. Surely, I am better
worth knowing than Shakespeare?"

The question astonished me so that I could not make up my mind at once;
but when he pressed me lat