The Long Conversion of Oscar Wilde
ANDREW MCCRACKENOscar Wilde is widely celebrated as an artist persecuted for his homosexuality, a sort of protomartyr for the cause of gay rights. The current celebration of Wilde as gay martyr is certainly one legitimate interpretation of his life, but it oversimplifies his complexity; indeed, it ignores the major movement of his life, a life that may also be seen as a long and difficult conversion to the Roman Catholic Church.
           "I am  not a Catholic," said Oscar Wilde. "I am simply a violent Papist." This statement,  like so many of Wilde's outrageous paradoxes, conceals a sober truth beneath its  blithe wit. Another example would be his jest that, of all religions, Catholicism  is the only one worth dying in.
Many of these recent works do tell  part of Wilde's story well. He was homosexual, promiscuously so, and his downfall  was precipitated by his passion for a younger man. It was this young man, Lord  Alfred Douglas, who in one of his poems called their desire "the love that dare  not speak its name." The tale of their romance has classic, even operatic, features  — objections by the beloved's family, separation and exile, brief reunion  before the lover's death. The heart left unmoved by their story would be hard  indeed. 
Yet this sad accounting fails to give us the whole of Oscar Wilde.  He was prosecuted for "acts of gross indecency with other male persons, " found  guilty, and sentenced to two years in prison at hard labor. But  Looking back over his life more than a hundred  years later, we can be forgiven for seeing the irony in such statements, for Wilde's  fascination with Catholicism, its mysteries and rituals, did set the stage for  his death-bed conversion. And we can certainly perceive justice in the fact that  the man who cracked such jokes also believed that life imitated art: ultimately,  then, the joke was on him. Wilde's name is much in the air these days. There  are stage plays about his life, a recent feature film starring Stephen Fry and  Jude Law, and articles in the national press. The centenary of his premature death  in 1900 at age 46 was widely celebrated in the literary and gay communities with  moving testimonies to Oscar Wilde, the persecuted genius and gay man, victim of  a repressive and judgmental social order. his reading during  his imprisonment included works by St. Augustine, Dante, and Newman. When he emerged  from prison, injured and in poor health, he fled across the channel to France  to reunite with his lover. But his first act on his release had been to write  to the Jesuits begging to make a six-month retreat at one of their London houses.  Wilde is celebrated as the center of a circle of unconventional poets and artists  known as decadents and aesthetes. But looking a little past these labels we find  that many of these men became sincere converts to Catholicism — Wilde being  among the last of them, and entering the Church only in his final moments of life.  
So the current celebration of Wilde as gay martyr dilutes his complexity and  ignores the major movement of his life, a life that may more accurately be seen  as a long and difficult conversion. But why this long conversion, and in what  larger context? 

Catholicism  had held Wilde's interest all his adult life. Born in Dublin in 1854 to a Protestant  Anglo-Irish family, Wilde came at age 20 to Oxford University in England, where  he was taught by the critic and novelist Walter Pater. Under Pater's influence  Wilde became fascinated — aesthetically, at least — by the mystery of  Catholic ritual, and took to attending Mass regularly. One of Wilde's friends  was David Hunter-Blair, a recent convert, who paid Wilde's way on a sojourn in  Rome that included an audience with Pope Pius IX. Hunter-Blair had hopes of converting  Wilde, but Wilde was apparently moved only to a kind of romantic excitement at  this close brush with the dangerous Catholic Church. 
Dangerous? Roman Catholicism  was to poetic souls a sort of aesthetic temptation, while to many proper Englishmen  the Roman Church was still the Whore of Babylon, the Anti-Christ. (It is well  to remember that it had been less than fifty years since the Emancipation Bill  that allowed Roman Catholics to hold public office in England, only thirty years  since the defection to Rome of John Henry Newman and other prominent Anglicans,  and just a few years since the First Vatican Council under Pius IX had debated  and defined the dogma of papal infallibility — a dogma that must have seemed  to many an outbreak of medievalism at the very birth of the Age of Darwin.) 
Hunter-Blair's  evangelizing efforts had no immediate effect, and the two men parted, Hunter-Blair  taking Holy Orders and Wilde turning to the literary world of London. Wilde was  forthright about his motives: "To go over to Rome would be to sacrifice and give  up my two great Gods: Money and Ambition." His entrance into London society was  spectacular: his dandified dress, pronouncements on fashion, and opinions on art  were exquisite and sensational. He published poems and stories and made a lecture  tour of America in 1882. (The story goes that when asked by a U.S. customs agent  if he had anything to declare, Wilde replied, "Only my genius"). In the 1880s  he married, fathered two sons in two years, and published several books of stories  for children (truly moving fairy tales of sacrifice and death and life beyond  the grave that are well worth reading today). But the 1890s were to see Wilde's  great rise and sudden fall. 
His novel of 1891, 
The Picture of Dorian  Gray, was a tremendous success. The "hysterical" reaction of the critics,  as one modern editor calls it, only served to intensify the sensation and the  sales. A typical review condemned it as "a poisonous book" full of "moral and  spiritual putrefaction," which "constantly hints, not obscurely, at disgusting  sins and abominable crimes." The device at the book's center sounds as if it might  be simply a bit of cleverness. A beautiful young man exclaims to a painter: "I  am jealous of the portrait you have painted of me. Why should it keep what I must  lose?... Oh, if it were only the other way! If the picture could change, and I  could be always what I am now!" Of course, the wish comes true. But what makes  the fable frightening, what makes it more than a neat trick, is Wilde's careful  portrayal of a sensitive man numbing himself to all feeling for others, of an  ego turning monstrous, of a soul choosing evil. In 
Dorian Gray, Wilde  is still a wit and an aphorist, but in the service of a profound theme, a theme  that lies at the heart of Catholicism: the ruin of the soul brought about by sin.  
There are hints in the novel at elements we now see as autobiographical. The  young man, 
Dorian Gray, frequents opium dens and has furtive relationships  that are clearly homosexual, all the while maintaining his mask of youthful purity.  There is a young woman, driven to suicide by Dorian's betrayal of her — we  can't help but wonder whether she represents Wilde's wife, Constance, raising  two children and managing the house while her husband lived out his hidden life.  Dorian even attends Mass, drawn (as Wilde was) by the "eternal pathos of human  tragedy" represented in the sacred rite. But all the while, up in a locked room  of his home, behind a curtain that Dorian now and again pulls aside in fascinated  horror, the face in the portrait grows more malevolent. Dorian realizes that "it  had been like conscience to him. Yes, it had been conscience. He would destroy  it." But when Dorian takes up a knife to stab the picture, he himself dies. 
Another  work of what a modern critic calls "morbid intensity" is Wilde's play 
Salome,  a treatment of the story of John the Baptist's death. This, too, was a sensation,  without even getting onto an English stage. In 1892 it was denied a license for  production in London on the grounds that it portrayed biblical characters, a thing  forbidden by law. The play (written in French by Wilde) was published in France  in 1893 and in an English translation in England in 1894 — with illustrations  by Aubrey Beardsley, the pre-eminent artist of the English Decadence. The princess  
Salome is a virgin tormented by lust for the prophet Jokanaan, whose  unassailable chastity acts on her as a powerful aphrodisiac. 
Salome dances  for the lustful Herod, her mother's husband, and asks as her prize the head of  Jokanaan. As she kisses the lips of the prophet's severed head, even Herod realizes  that "she is monstrous... she is altogether monstrous," and orders his soldiers  to kill her. 
Wilde's partnership with Beardsley on 
Salome is notable,  for the young artist was a match for Wilde in both prodigious talent and scandalous  reputation. Beardsley's illustrations for the play are replete with phallic imagery  and sneering hermaphroditic figures. 
Even more so than Wilde, Bearsley wanted  to shock: he once famously remarked that "Nero set Christians on fire, like large  tallow candles; the only light that Christians have ever been known to give."  Yet Beardsley, soon diagnosed with tuberculosis and condemned to a slow, lingering  death, became a Catholic in 1896. Another of Wilde's Oxford acquaintances who  also converted to Catholicism, the poet Lionel Johnson, had this to say of Beardsley's  religious experience: "His conversion was a spiritual work, and not a half-insincere  aesthetic act of it.... He withdrew himself from certain valued intimacies, which  he felt incompatible with his faith: that implies much, in these days when artists  largely claim exemption — in the name of art — from laws and rules of  life." In Beardsley's last letter to his family, which opens with the words "Jesus  is our Lord and Judge," he asked that his drawings be destroyed. Beardsley died  in 1898, at age 25. As for 
Dorian Gray and its connection to Wilde's  eventual conversion, the novel sits at the intersection of several fictional and  actual spiritual paths. The fictional Dorian is partly coaxed into his amoral  aestheticism and self-regard by reading a "poison book," a yellow-backed novel  written by a Frenchman. The book he had in mind, Wilde later affirmed, was a novel  of the French Decadence published in 1884 entitled 
A Rebours  (in English,  "Against the Grain" or "Against Nature"). 
A Rebours  chronicles the life  of a fictional aristocrat who gives himself over to the most perverse pleasures  he can dream of. 
A Rebours  was a daringly new sort of fiction and worked  powerfully on Wilde's literary imagination. He wrote, "the heavy odor of incense  seemed to cling about its pages and to trouble the brain." The fictional hero  of 
A Rebours , as Wilde well knew, ends contemptuous of everything and  unable to have faith in anything except — perhaps — "the terrible God  of Genesis and the pale martyr of Golgotha...." The novel ends with his prayer,  "Lord, take pity on the Christian who doubts, on the unbeliever who would fain  believe...." Seven years after 
A Rebours  was published, its author,  J.-K. Huysmans, sought out a priest. In 1892 he returned to the Church and in  1900 became an oblate at a Benedictine monastery. His last three works were religious  novels with Catholic settings. As for the sincerity of his religious faith, a  modern editor of his work attests that he "put the doctrine into effect... in  six months of atrocious agony, heroically borne, that preceded his death from  cancer." 

So  in many respects we see that Wilde was thinking like a Catholic about sin and  conscience, and even (judging by his fairy tales for children) about love and  redemption. And we see too that many of Wilde's acquaintances and peers had converted  to Catholicism: the list would eventually include Robbie Ross, a young Canadian  who claimed that Wilde had introduced him to homosexuality, and who was later  to play the role of loyal friend in Wilde's darkest moments. But at this point  Wilde's personal life was caught up in its "morbid intensity," far too much an  imitation of his art. Just as 
Dorian Gray was being published, Wilde  met a young man who was to excite in him the greatest passion of his life, one  that would speed him down the path to ruin and disgrace. Lord Alfred Douglas was  a beautiful youth, an Oxford poet, the son of Sir John Sholto Douglas, the Eighth  Marquess of Queensberry (the same Marquess who in 1867 had established the modern  rules of boxing). Like Dorian, Alfred let his beauty and good name mask a secret  life that Wilde only too willingly shared. Together they explored the unseen side  of Victorian London — the haunts of male prostitutes, blackmailers, and opium  addicts. As time passed, they allowed themselves more and more public displays  of outrageous behavior. 
The sportsman father of the handsome son spoke out  against them and badgered them, on one occasion even bursting into Wilde's home.  Early in 1895 he left a calling card at a London club addressed to "Oscar Wilde  posing as a somdomite [sic]." Whatever his prowess in the boxing ring, the athletic  Marquess was clearly no match for Wilde in a war of words, so Wilde (against good  advice) decided to bring an action for libel against him. Wilde had at the time  two hit plays running in London. He had everything to lose — and he lost  it. Why, then, did he take the Marquess to court? Perhaps his fatal flaw lay in  desiring attention for himself, no matter what the venue. Perhaps he was so confident  in his ability to give a very public verbal thrashing to a philistine like the  Marquess that he couldn't resist. Or perhaps he was remembering the celebrated  libel trial of 1878 between his friend, the painter James McNeill Whistler, and  the art critic John Ruskin. That trial had been a sensation, pitting as it did  the the champion of new art against the voice of the English art establishment.  
Whatever the reason behind it, the trial of the Marquess for libel lasted only  two days, for on the third day Wilde's counsel, realizing that the defendant had  abundant evidence of the fact of Wilde's sodomy, withdrew the action. That very  afternoon the Crown issued a warrant for Wilde's arrest on charges of gross indecency.  His first trial ended when the jury returned an undecided vote. Wilde was released  on bail but refused to follow his friends' advice to flee to France (Lord Alfred  had already fled). A new trial was begun, and on May 25, 1895, Oscar Wilde was  found guilty of sodomy. In September of the same year he appeared again in court  and was declared bankrupt. A single episode from this time illustrates how broken-hearted  he was: as he emerged from his bankruptcy trial, Wilde was exposed to the insults  of a sizable crowd. In the midst of this mayhem, Wilde's young Catholic friend,  Robbie Ross, stepped out of the crowd and with deliberate politeness tipped his  hat to the fallen man. Wilde was deeply moved by this one small gesture of sympathy:  "Men have gone to heaven for less." 

Oscar  Wilde, convicted of sodomy, was sentenced under the Criminal Law Amendment Act  of 1885 to serve two years of hard labor at Reading Gaol, and his time in prison  brought Wilde once again face to face with the Catholic themes of sin and suffering.  Now they were purged of any tinge of romanticism and exoticism — they were  facts of daily life. Wilde's sensitive nature was tortured by the cruelties he  witnessed in prison: the anonymous shame of the inmates, the frightened faces  of children torn from their parents, the execution of a young soldier convicted  of murder. He spent his free time reading and writing. The writing was to result  in two works quite different from what he had done before: 
The Ballad of Reading  Gaol and 
De Profundis. Wilde's need to find meaning in the midst  of suffering was acute. Perhaps it was from reading Augustine or Dante or Newman  in his cell that he began to write in a new voice and on a new theme. 
Was Wilde  ready for conversion at this point? On his release from jail in May of 1897 his  request to the Jesuits of Farm Street for a six-month retreat was refused. Wilde  wept at the news. No doubt the Jesuit Fathers had reservations about accepting  a man of Wilde's notoriety, but we can't help but wonder what effect six months  of traditional Ignatian spirituality would have had on this sensitive man. Whatever  might have happened at Farm Street did not happen, and Wilde's conversion was  again postponed. He left for France, where for a time he was reunited with Lord  Alfred, until lack of money and threats from both their families (the Marquess  threatening Alfred with exclusion from his will, Constance Wilde threatening Oscar  with exclusion from his two sons) separated them once and for all. 
The year  1898 saw the publication of 
The Ballad of Reading Gaol. Wilde's imprisonment  and his alienation from friends and society are clearly at the root of this poem,  but while the author's experiences were bitter, the poem is not. Gone are the  arch aphorisms and mocking paradoxes of his earlier work; gone is the hopeless  sense of sin that finds no redemption. The Ballad tells of the execution that  Wilde witnessed at Reading Gaol, and conveys the inhuman isolation that the condemned  man felt as he awaited his death. Here Wilde's latent Catholic sentiments reveal  themselves unequivocally. The poem condemns the petty censoriousness and miserly  justice of this world, but not from the pose of anti-bourgeois snobbery that might  be expected of an artist, nor in a fit of vindictiveness over society's harsh  treatment of the author. Rather, he returns to a tone that he used to good effect  in his fairy tales for children, one of compassion: 
Ah! Happy they  whose hearts can break And peace of pardon win! How else may man make straight  his plan And cleanse his soul from Sin? How else but through a broken heart May  Lord Christ enter in?" 
In 1899 Wilde traveled in Europe, an exile.  In 1900 he was briefly in Rome with his companion Robbie Ross. They attended Masses  and papal audiences, and Wilde received a blessing from Leo XIII that, he thought,  even had a physically curative effect on him. As he joked to Ross, he was "a violent  Papist," but he left Rome as he had come, still an admirer of sacred art and sacred  ritual, of piety and the papacy, but not yet a Catholic. His health deteriorating  and his drinking excessive, Wilde left Rome for Paris, where the final scene of  his long conversion would be played. 
On November 28,1900, as Wilde lay dying  on his bed in Paris, Robbie Ross called in a priest, an English Passionist, Father  Dunne. Wilde was given conditional Baptism and was anointed. For a short time  he emerged from delirium into lucidity, and Father Dunne, examining him, was satisfied  that Wilde freely desired reception into the Church. Wilde died a Catholic on  November 30. 
The poet's great antagonist, the Marquis of Queensberry, died  in the same year. On his deathbed he too was received into the Catholic Church.  And the object of the poet's self-destructive passion, Lord Alfred Douglas, became  a Catholic in 1911 and remained firm in the Faith until his death, though his  later writings betray a conservatism that is distasteful and uncharitable. 
Does  life, then, imitate art? There is a satisfying symmetry to the story of Wilde's  celebrity, his arrogance, his fall, and his humble acceptance of redemption, but  we should resist the temptation to turn his life into a moral allegory. There  is but a little room here for Catholic triumphalism, just as there is but a little  room for an interpretation of Wilde's life that canonizes him as a gay saint.  Unfortunately, most recent treatments of Wilde's life reduce him to the latter  category: Stephen Fry's recent movie makes but one mention of Catholicism (and  that entirely unconnected to Wilde himself). But if we can't simplify Oscar Wilde  for our own convenience we are left asking — what was he then? 
All of  these: writer, wit, voluptuary, gay man, failed father and husband, sensitive  soul, laughing stock, broken heart, eleventh hour Catholic convert.                      
 
           
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT  McCracken,  Andrew. "The Long Conversion of Oscar Wilde." (April 2003). 
Reprinted with  permission of the author, Andrew McCracken.
THE AUTHOR  Andrew McCracken is head of the Library Department and teaches Church history  at Notre Dame Regional Secondary School in Vancouver British Columbia. Andrew  McCracken was on the Executive Board of the Catholic Education Resource Center until 2006.  
Copyright © 2003 Andrew McCracken          
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