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specially designed to appeal to the sense of humour。 On November
13th； 1895； I was brought down here from London。 From two o'clock
till half…past two on that day I had to stand on the centre
platform of Clapham Junction in convict dress； and handcuffed； for
the world to look at。 I had been taken out of the hospital ward
without a moment's notice being given to me。 Of all possible
objects I was the most grotesque。 When people saw me they laughed。
Each train as it came up swelled the audience。 Nothing could
exceed their amusement。 That was； of course； before they knew who
I was。 As soon as they had been informed they laughed still more。
For half an hour I stood there in the grey November rain surrounded
by a jeering mob。
For a year after that was done to me I wept every day at the same
hour and for the same space of time。 That is not such a tragic
thing as possibly it sounds to you。 To those who are in prison
tears are a part of every day's experience。 A day in prison on
which one does not weep is a day on which one's heart is hard； not
a day on which one's heart is happy。
Well； now I am really beginning to feel more regret for the people
who laughed than for myself。 Of course when they saw me I was not
on my pedestal； I was in the pillory。 But it is a very
unimaginative nature that only cares for people on their pedestals。
A pedestal may be a very unreal thing。 A pillory is a terrific
reality。 They should have known also how to interpret sorrow
better。 I have said that behind sorrow there is always sorrow。 It
were wiser still to say that behind sorrow there is always a soul。
And to mock at a soul in pain is a dreadful thing。 In the
strangely simple economy of the world people only get what they
give； and to those who have not enough imagination to penetrate the
mere outward of things； and feel pity； what pity can be given save
that of scorn？
I write this account of the mode of my being transferred here
simply that it should be realised how hard it has been for me to
get anything out of my punishment but bitterness and despair。 I
have； however； to do it； and now and then I have moments of
submission and acceptance。 All the spring may be hidden in the
single bud； and the low ground nest of the lark may hold the joy
that is to herald the feet of many rose…red dawns。 So perhaps
whatever beauty of life still remains to me is contained in some
moment of surrender； abasement； and humiliation。 I can； at any
rate； merely proceed on the lines of my own development； and；
accepting all that has happened to me； make myself worthy of it。
People used to say of me that I was too individualistic。 I must be
far more of an individualist than ever I was。 I must get far more
out of myself than ever I got； and ask far less of the world than
ever I asked。 Indeed； my ruin came not from too great
individualism of life； but from too little。 The one disgraceful；
unpardonable； and to all time contemptible action of my life was to
allow myself to appeal to society for help and protection。 To have
made such an appeal would have been from the individualist point of
view bad enough； but what excuse can there ever be put forward for
having made it？ Of course once I had put into motion the forces of
society； society turned on me and said； 'Have you been living all
this time in defiance of my laws； and do you now appeal to those
laws for protection？ You shall have those laws exercised to the
full。 You shall abide by what you have appealed to。' The result
is I am in gaol。 Certainly no man ever fell so ignobly； and by
such ignoble instruments； as I did。
The Philistine element in life is not the failure to understand
art。 Charming people； such as fishermen； shepherds； ploughboys；
peasants and the like； know nothing about art； and are the very
salt of the earth。 He is the Philistine who upholds and aids the
heavy； cumbrous； blind； mechanical forces of society； and who does
not recognise dynamic force when he meets it either in a man or a
movement。
People thought it dreadful of me to have entertained at dinner the
evil things of life； and to have found pleasure in their company。
But then； from the point of view through which I； as an artist in
life； approach them they were delightfully suggestive and
stimulating。 The danger was half the excitement。 。 。 。 My business
as an artist was with Ariel。 I set myself to wrestle with Caliban。
。 。 。
A great friend of mine … a friend of ten years' standing … came to
see me some time ago； and told me that he did not believe a single
word of what was said against me； and wished me to know that he
considered me quite innocent； and the victim of a hideous plot。 I
burst into tears at what he said； and told him that while there was
much amongst the definite charges that was quite untrue and
transferred to me by revolting malice； still that my life had been
full of perverse pleasures； and that unless he accepted that as a
fact about me and realised it to the full I could not possibly be
friends with him any more； or ever be in his company。 It was a
terrible shock to him； but we are friends； and I have not got his
friendship on false pretences。
Emotional forces； as I say somewhere in INTENTIONS； are as limited
in extent and duration as the forces of physical energy。 The
little cup that is made to hold so much can hold so much and no
more； though all the purple vats of Burgundy be filled with wine to
the brim； and the treaders stand knee…deep in the gathered grapes
of the stony vineyards of Spain。 There is no error more common
than that of thinking that those who are the causes or occasions of
great tragedies share in the feelings suitable to the tragic mood：
no error more fatal than expecting it of them。 The martyr in his
'shirt of flame' may be looking on the face of God； but to him who
is piling the faggots or loosening the logs for the blast the whole
scene is no more than the slaying of an ox is to the butcher； or
the felling of a tree to the charcoal burner in the forest； or the
fall of a flower to one who is mowing down the grass with a scythe。
Great passions are for the great of soul； and great events can be
seen only by those who are on a level with them。
* * * * *
I know of nothing in all drama more incomparable from the point of
view of art； nothing more suggestive in its subtlety of
observation； than Shakespeare's drawing of Rosencrantz and
Guildenstern。 They are Hamlet's college friends。 They have been
his companions。 They bring with them memories of pleasant days
together。 At the moment when they come across him in the play he
is staggering under the weight of a burden intolerable to one of
his temperament。 The dead have come armed out of the grave to
impose on him a mission at once too great and too mean for him。 He