I gave the lunch and saw plainly enough that my forebodings were justified.  Oscar was more self-confident, more contemptuous of criticism, more gross of body than ever, but his talk did not suffer; indeed, it seemed to improve.  At this lunch he told the charming fable of “Narcissus,” which is certainly one of his most characteristic short stories.

“When Narcissus died the Flowers of the Field were plunged in grief, and asked the River for drops of water that they might mourn for him.

“‘Oh,’ replied the River, ’if only my drops of water were tears, I should not have enough to weep for Narcissus myself—­I loved him.’

“‘How could you help loving Narcissus?’ said the flowers, ’so beautiful was he.’

“‘Was he beautiful?’ asked the River.

“‘Who should know that better than you?’ said the flowers, ’for every day, lying on your bank, he would mirror his beauty in your waters.’”

Oscar paused here, and then went on: 

“‘If I loved him,’ replied the River, ’it is because, when he hung over me, I saw the reflection of my own loveliness in his eyes.’”

After lunch I took him aside and tried to warn him, told him that unpleasant stories were being put about against him; but he paid no heed to me.

“All envy, Frank, and malice.  What do I care?  I go to Clumber this summer; besides I am doing another play which I rather like.  I always knew that play-writing was my province.  As a youth I tried to write plays in verse; that was my mistake.  Now I know better; I’m sure of myself and of success.”

Somehow or other in spite of his apparent assurance I felt he was in danger and I doubted his quality as a fighter.  But after all it was not my business:  wilful man must have his way.

It seems to me now that my mistrust dated from the second paper war with Whistler, wherein to the astonishment of everyone Oscar did not come off victorious.  As soon as he met with opposition his power of repartee seemed to desert him and Whistler, using mere rudeness and man-of-the-world sharpness, held the field.  Oscar was evidently not a born fighter.

I asked him once how it was he let Whistler off so lightly.  He shrugged his shoulders and showed some irritation.

“What could I say, Frank?  Why should I belabour the beaten?  The man is a wasp and delights in using his sting.  I have done more perhaps than anyone to make him famous.  I had no wish to hurt him.”

Was it magnanimity or weakness or, as I think, a constitutional, a feminine shrinking from struggle and strife.  Whatever the cause, it was clear that Oscar was what Shakespeare called himself, “an unhurtful opposite.”

It is quite possible that if he had been attacked face to face, Oscar would have given a better account of himself.  At Mrs. Grenfell’s (now Lady Desborough) he crossed swords once with the Prime Minister and came off victorious.  Mr. Asquith began by bantering him, in appearance lightly, in reality, seriously, for putting many of his sentences in italics.