would work and not brood over the past and study himself like an Indian Fakir, he might yet come to soul-health and achievement.  He could win back everything; his own respect, and the respect of his fellows, if indeed that were worth winning.  An artist, I knew, must have at least the self-abnegation of the hero, and heroic resolution to strive and strive, or he will never bring it far even in his art.  If I could only get Oscar to work, it seemed to me everything might yet come right.  I spent a week with him, lunching and dining and putting all this before him, in every way.

I noticed that he enjoyed the good eating and the good drinking as intensely as ever.  He was even drinking too much I thought, was beginning to get stout and flabby again, but the good living was a necessity to him, and it certainly did not prevent him from talking charmingly.  But as soon as I pressed him to write he would shake his head: 

“Oh, Frank, I cannot, you know my rooms; how could I write there?  A horrid bedroom like a closet, and a little sitting room without any outlook.  Books everywhere; and no place to write; to tell you the truth I cannot even read in it.  I can do nothing in such miserable poverty.”

Again and again he came back to this.  He harped upon his destitution, so that I could not but see purpose in it.  He was already cunning in the art of getting money without asking for it.  My heart ached for him; one goes down hill with such fatal speed and ease, and the mire at the bottom is so loathsome.  I hastened to say: 

“I can let you have a little money; but you ought to work, Oscar.  After all why should anyone help you, if you will not help yourself?  If I cannot aid you to save yourself, I am only doing you harm.”

“A base sophism, Frank, mere sophistry, as you know:  a good lunch is better than a bad one for any living man.”

I smiled, “Don’t do yourself injustice:  you could easily gain thousands and live like a prince again.  Why not make the effort?”

“If I had pleasant, sunny rooms I’d try....  It’s harder than you think.”

“Nonsense, it’s easy for you.  Your punishment has made your name known in every country in the world.  A book of yours would sell like wildfire; a play of yours would draw in any capital.  You might live here like a prince.  Shakespeare lost love and friendship, hope and health to boot—­everything, and yet forced himself to write ‘The Tempest.’  Why can’t you?”

“I’ll try, Frank, I’ll try.”

I may just mention here that any praise of another man, even of Shakespeare, was sure to move Oscar to emulation.  He acknowledged no superior.  In some articles in The Saturday Review I had said that no one had ever given completer record of himself than Shakespeare.  “We know him better than we know any of our contemporaries,” I went on, “and he is better worth knowing.”  At once Oscar wrote to me objecting to this phrase.  “Surely, Frank, you have forgotten me.  Surely, I am better worth knowing than Shakespeare?”