serted, it would be a kindness to send it, as he was
in great need. The letter found me in bed. I could not say now whether I
answered it or not: it made me impatient; his friends must have known
that I owed Oscar nothing; but later I received a telegram from Ross
saying that Oscar was not expected to live. I was ill and unable to
move, or I should have gone at once to Paris. As it was I sent for my
friend, Bell, gave him some money and a cheque, and begged him to go
across and let me know if Oscar were really in danger, which I could
hardly believe. As luck would have it, the next afternoon, when I hoped
Bell had started, his wife came to tell me that he had had a severe
asthmatic attack, but would cross as soon as he dared.

I was too hard up myself to wire money that might not be needed, and
Oscar had cried "wolf" about his health too often to be a credible
witness. Yet I was dissatisfied with myself and anxious for Bell to
start.

Day after day passed in troubled doubts and fears; but it was not long
when a period was put to all my anxiety. A telegram came telling me he
was dead. I could hardly believe my eyes: it seemed incredible--the
fount of joy and gaiety; the delightful source of intellectual vivacity
and interest stilled forever. The world went greyer to me because of
Oscar Wilde's death.

Months afterwards Robert Ross gave me the particulars of his last
illness.

Ross went to Paris in October: as soon as he saw Oscar, he was shocked
by the change in his appearance: he insisted on taking him to a doctor;
but to his surprise the doctor saw no ground for immediate alarm: if
Oscar would only stop drinking wine and _a fortiori_ spirits, he might
live for years: absinthe was absolutely forbidden. But Oscar paid no
heed to the warning and Ross could only take him for drives whenever the
weather permitted and seek to amuse him harmlessly.

The will to live had almost left Oscar: so long as he could live
pleasantly and without effort he was content; but as soon as ill-health
came, or pain, or even discomfort, he grew impatient for deliverance.

But to the last he kept his joyous humour and charming gaiety. His
disease brought with it a certain irritation of the skin, annoying
rather than painful. Meeting Ross one morning after a day's separation
he apologised for scratching himself:

"Really," he exclaimed, "I'm more like a great ape than ever; but I hope
you'll give me a lunch, Bobbie, and not a nut."

On