Chapter 7 VII

It became the custom, both at Henleys and at Bedford Park, to say that RAM Stevenson, who frequented both circles, was the better talker. Wilde had been trussed up like a turkey by undergraduates, dragged up and down a hill, his champagne emptied into the ice tub, shot in the streets of various towns and I think stoned, and no newspaper named him but in scorn; his manner had hardened to meet opposition and at times he allowed one to see an unpardonable insolence. systematised, a mask which he wore only when it pleased him, while the charm of Stevenson belonged to him like the color of his hair. If Stevensons talk became monologue we did not know it, because our one object was to show by our attention that he need never leave off. If thought failed him we would not combat what he had said, or start some new theme, but would encourage him with a question;

His mind was full of phantasy for phantasys sake and he gave as good entertainment in monologue as his cousin Robert Louis in poem or story. He was always suggesting: Suppose you had two millions what would you do with it? and in love how would you propose? I recall him one afternoon at our house at Bedford Park, surrounded by my brother and sisters and a little group of my fathers friends, describing proposals in half a dozen countries. in such and such a way with such and such words, and there a friend must wait for the lady outside the chapel door, sprinkle her with holy water and say My friend Jones is dying for love of you. But when it was over, those quaint descriptions, so full of laughter and sympathy, faded or remained in the memory as something alien from ones own life like a dance I once saw in a great house, where beautifully dressed children wound a long ribbon in and out as they danced. I was not of Stevensonsparty and mainly I think because he had written a book in praise of Velasquez, praise at that time universal wherever Pre? Raphaelitism was accurst, and to my mind, that had to pick its symbols where its ignorance permitted, Velasquez seemed the first bored celebrity of boredom. I was convinced, from some obscure meditation, that Stevensons conversational method had joined him to my elders and to the indifferent world, as though it were right for old men, and unambitious men and all women, to be content with charm and humour. It was the prerogative of youth to take sides and when Wilde said: Mr. Bernard Shaw has no enemies but is intensely disliked by all his friends, I knew it to be a phrase I should never forget, and felt revenged upon a notorious hater of romance, whose generosity and courage I could not fathom.