Selected Prose of Oscar Wilde eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 117 pages of information about Selected Prose of Oscar Wilde.
I tended you.  No office is too mean, no care too lowly for the thing we women love—­and oh! how I loved you.  Not Hannah, Samuel more.  And you needed love, for you were weakly, and only love could have kept you alive.  Only love can keep any one alive.  And boys are careless often and without thinking give pain, and we always fancy that when they come to man’s estate and know us better they will repay us.  But it is not so.  The world draws them from our side, and they make friends with whom they are happier than they are with us, and have amusements from which we are barred, and interests that are not ours:  and they are unjust to us often, for when they find life bitter they blame us for it, and when they find it sweet we do not taste its sweetness with them . . .  You made many friends and went into their houses and were glad with them, and I, knowing my secret, did not dare to follow, but stayed at home and closed the door, shut out the sun and sat in darkness.  What should I have done in honest households?  My past was ever with me. . . .  And you thought I didn’t care for the pleasant things of life.  I tell you I longed for them, but did not dare to touch them, feeling I had no right.  You thought I was happier working amongst the poor.  That was my mission, you imagined.  It was not, but where else was I to go?  The sick do not ask if the hand that smooths their pillow is pure, nor the dying care if the lips that touch their brow have known the kiss of sin.  It was you I thought of all the time; I gave to them the love you did not need:  lavished on them a love that was not theirs . . .  And you thought I spent too much of my time in going to Church, and in Church duties.  But where else could I turn?  God’s house is the only house where sinners are made welcome, and you were always in my heart, Gerald, too much in my heart.  For, though day after day, at morn or evensong, I have knelt in God’s house, I have never repented of my sin.  How could I repent of my sin when you, my love, were its fruit!  Even now that you are bitter to me I cannot repent.  I do not.  You are more to me than innocence.  I would rather be your mother—­oh! much rather!—­than have been always pure . . .  Oh, don’t you see? don’t you understand?  It is my dishonour that has made you so dear to me.  It is my disgrace that has bound you so closely to me.  It is the price I paid for you—­the price of soul and body—­that makes me love you as I do.  Oh, don’t ask me to do this horrible thing.  Child of my shame, be still the child of my shame!—­A Woman of No Importance.


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Selected Prose of Oscar Wilde from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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