I returned at the end of the week, and had another long talk with him.  He told me that good conduct meant, in prison parlance, absence of punishment, and Oscar had been punished pretty often.  Of course his offenses were minor offenses; nothing serious; childish faults indeed for the most part:  he was often talking, and he was often late in the morning; his cell was not kept so well as it might be, and so forth; peccadilloes, all; yet a certificate of “good conduct” depended on such trifling observances.  In face of Oscar’s record Sir Ruggles Brise did not think that the sentence would be easily lessened.  I was thunder-struck.  But then no rules to me are sacrosanct; indeed, they are only tolerable because of the exceptions.  I had such a high opinion of Ruggles Brise—­his kindness and sense of fair play—­that I ventured to show him my whole mind on the matter.

“Oscar Wilde,” I said to him, “is just about to face life again:  he is more than half reconciled to his wife; he has begun a book, is shouldering the burden.  A little encouragement now and I believe he will do better things than he has ever done.  I am convinced that he has far bigger things in him than we have seen yet.  But he is extraordinarily sensitive and extraordinarily vain.  The danger is that he may be frightened and blighted by the harshness and hatred of the world.  He may shrink into himself and do nothing if the wind be not tempered a little for him.  A hint of encouragement now, the feeling that men like yourself think him worthful and deserving of special kindly treatment, and I feel certain he will do great things.  I really believe it is in your hands to save a man of extraordinary talent, and get the best out of him, if you care to do it.”

“Of course I care to do it,” he cried.  “You cannot doubt that, and I see exactly what you mean; but it will not be easy.”

“Won’t you see what can be done?” I persisted.  “Put your mind to discover how it should be done, how the Home Secretary may be induced to remit the last few months of Wilde’s sentence.”

After a little while he replied: 

“You must believe that the authorities are quite willing to help in any good work, more than willing, and I am sure I speak for the Home Secretary as well as for myself; but it is for you to give us some reason for acting—­a reason that could be avowed and defended.”

I did not at first catch his drift; so I persevered: 

“You admit that the reason exists, that it would be a good thing to favour Wilde, then why not do it?”

“We live,” he said, “under parliamentary rule.  Suppose the question were asked in the House, and I think it very likely in the present state of public opinion that the question would be asked:  what should we answer?  It would not be an avowable reason that we hoped Wilde would write new plays and books, would it?  That reason ought to be sufficient, I grant you; but, you see yourself, it would not be so regarded.”