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."