half a dozen plays next year."

His words reminded me of what Goethe had said about himself: in each of the ten
years he spent on his "Theory of Light" he could have written a couple of plays
as good as his best. The land of Might-have-been is peopled with these gorgeous
shadow-shapes.

Oscar had already found his public, a public capable of appreciating the very
best he could do. As soon as "The Importance of Being Earnest" was produced
it had an extraordinary success, and success of the best sort. Even journalist
critics had begun to cease exhibiting their own limitations in foolish fault-
finding, and now imitated their betters, parroting phrases of extravagant
laudation.

Oscar took the praise as he had taken the scandal and slander, with complacent
superiority. He had changed greatly and for the worse: he was growing coarser
and harder every year. All his friends noticed this. Even M. Andre Gide, who
was a great admirer and wrote, shortly after his death, the best account of him
that appeared, was compelled to deplore his deterioration. He says:

"One felt that there was less tenderness in his looks, that there was something
harsh in his laughter, and a wild madness in his joy. He seemed at the same
time to be sure of pleasing, and less ambitious to succeed therein. He had
grown reckless, hardened and conceited. Strangely enough he no longer spoke
in fables..."

His brother Willie made a similar complaint to Sir Edward Sullivan. Sir Edward
writes:

"William Wilde told me, when Oscar was in prison, that the only trouble between