Lord Alfred Douglas Interviewed

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 921, 14 March 1930, Page 14

Lord Alfred Douglas Interviewed

A Peer Without Money IWritten for The Sun l The following interview with Lord Alfred Douglas was obtained for TUB SUN by Mr Douglas Glass, a New Zealander living in London. greatest hardship of my life,” said Lord Alfred Douglas as we sat down to lunch at the firosvenor Hotel, "is having had to go through it being a lord without money. Besides, it has been the passion of my life to sacrifice myself for others, and never to refuse help to anyone. Even when l had no money I have given anything else I could produce.” Misunderstanding, insults and the vicissitudes of life have made Lord Alfred Douglas a sad man, but no less an aristocrat. And as he continued, “It is an outrage that at my age, and after 26 years of married life, I should stili have to defend myself against a conspiracy of persecution and wholesale blackmail, and from people who ought to know better. And do! But it is not for me to judge!" “I should have thought your meeting with Wilde the greatest misfortune, more so than being a financially embarrassed terd?”

"Yes; that i* difficult to talk about,” be replied, “and I have explained it truthfully and finally in my 'Auto-

biography.’ Winchester College and my association with Oscar Wilde account for a great deal, but not all. In my ‘Autobiography’ I have simply wiped Frank Harris and Ross oil the face of the earth; not by slander, but merely by telling the truth about the Oscar Wilde scandal. Harris admitted In writing that practically every word about me in his book is a deliberate lie. At any rate a misrepresentation, to say the least, and he promised to incorporate a 'New Preface’ in future editions, and to add footnotes explaining the misstatements. Of course, he hasn’t done anything of the kind. You know 1 have received heavy damages against the book here in England, but Harris still publishes it in America.” “Ytki see, people cannot think of you apart from Wilde. Most people cannot think at all, with the result, every time they see red. they think of a bull. For mine, I should say, ’To hell with them’ After all, what has the artist or poet got to do with the opinion of the mob?” "I have never had the slightest respect of persons, and it was a great encouragement to find when I joined the Roman Catholic Church that Catholics are taught to pray to be delivered from the respect of persons. But it is the critics; they are so damnably confirmed in their desire to be clever at the author’s expense. W'hy rake up all this scandal? Why does Lord Alfred Douglas want to harp on this dead and buried past? Why does he not drop it and tell us more about himself? and so on.” Here the conversation turned to publishers, and Lord Alfred Douglas related what a difficulty he had in getting a publisher. "Having been turned down by the bulk of English publishers. I turned to America, and was turned down by every one I tried. The merit of the book as such was aot in question. It might get them a bad name, they suggested. Whoever heard of a publisher with a good one? I then turned my attention to tho English ones again, and after trying some dozen or more, Martin Seeker agreed to accept the book, provided I made some alterations and added another chapter, which I now believe has improved the 'Autobiography.* But you see I have known Seeker for years. He has published nearly all my poems and sonnets. Now, the book has gone into a second impression, and they are all wild with themselves. But it’s these damned critics.” After hearing that the book had already found a French and German publisher. 1 suggested that it should have a good sale on the Continent, where they have such perverted notions about Oscar Wilde’s position in English literature. Wilde, Byron, and Kipling. "Did you ever hear such rot? Whatever makes Andre Gide take the blind attitude he does. I had a letter from him saying he was still of the same opinion about the whole affair and nothing would alter it. This from a man who is considered the greatest stylist and one of the foremost thinkers among contemporary French writers seems lamentable, to say the least!” "Andre Gide is sore, because not long ago I wrote to him and pointed out that, whether or not what he says about me is true, only a thorough cad would write like that about a man who was, on his own showing, a friend of his and who never wronged him in word, thought or deed. As a matter of fact. Oscar Wilde always used to laugh at Gide, and looked upon him as an absurd person. He used to make fun of him. and half the time he was talking to Gide he was ’pulling his leg.’ Gide, being as Wilde expressed it an ‘egoist without an ego’ and utterly devoid of any sense of humour, he swallowed everything that Wilde told him. It shows how good-natured I am that I have not said anything about all this in. my book. The last time I saw- him. _ lE. 1902, just after I was married, he I

literally fell upon my neck and declared that he regarded me as one of his dearest friends. My wife, who was with me at the time (in the house of Monsieur and Madam Madras') was amused by his excessive display of emotion. Why, then, should he afterwards attack me as he did, except to curry favour with Ross and his gang and to make a succes de scandale of his book, which is the dullest book in the world, and which would never fcave been read outside his little group if it had not contained his mean and spiteful attack on me.” Since my meeting with Lord Alfred Douglas I received a letter from G. Bernard Shaw, in which he writes: “It is now clear that the suspicion which has done him most harm is unfounded.” Referring to Shaw’s letter, used as a “Memoir” by Harris in his infamous book, I said I thought the least Shaw could do was to have it suppressed, seeing he held the copyright.

“As for Shaw/’ said Lord Alfred, “I never knew him to talk or write anything but nonsense. Whenever he does indulge in a bit of sense, here and there, he immediately afterwards stultifies it by contradicting himself. He never really commits himself t o any definite opinion on any subject. His whole spirit is founded on negation. His idea is always to deny and contradict. He lives in perpetual terror of being; obliged to admit that anyone else has ever been right about anything. Considering how brilliantly clever he is, it Is astonishing how futile he is. Seriously, I do not think anything he has written will live. All his plays are ruined by propaganda, and he never goes on being serious long enough to be accepted as a serious thinker. He tickled the palate of his age, but posterity will be bored by him and puzzled to understand what it was that his contemporaries found so wonderful about him." “In an age lacking in great personality," I suggested, “he has had a very clear run, and while I agree about his future in the world of literature I feel certain he will always be of interest as one of the greatest personalities of his time. The rest is a mere shadow of Samuel Butler, .and a very distorted one at that." We talked on about the happy “Academy" days and his interesting association with Bernard Shaw and his adventures with T. W. H. Crosland, the author of 44 The Unspeakable Scot," who assisted in the editorship of the “Academy." “As a writer of articles there was never anyone to touch him in his lifetime. He had infinite wit and a keen insight into people and things. I feel deeply sorry it did not all turn out better. But still I like to think well of Crosland."

By this time I was feeling highly elated by the finest lunch I ever remember having eaten, good wine, and the sparkling conversation of Lord Alfred Douglas. I have since read the “Autobiography," and while I agree that I should like to see more of Lord Alfred Douglas in it, it is obvious that tho explanation about the whole Wilde scandal was necessary, to clear up the matter once and for all. The book is not without one or two rash statements, but It is certainly a true and frank confession, and must have required great courage in the writing. Nobody can know anything of the whole affair without reading this book. DOUGLAS GLASS. London.