how slowly time goes with us who lie in prison I need not tell
again, nor of the weariness and despair that creep back into one's
cell, and into the cell of one's heart, with such strange
insistence that one has, as it were, to garnish and sweep one's
house for their coming, as for an unwelcome guest, or a bitter
master, or a slave whose slave it is one's chance or choice to be.
And, though at present my friends may find it a hard thing to
believe, it is true none the less, that for them living in freedom
and idleness and comfort it is more easy to learn the lessons of
humility than it is for me, who begin the day by going down on my
knees and washing the floor of my cell. For prison life with its
endless privations and restrictions makes one rebellious. The most
terrible thing about it is not that it breaks one's heart - hearts
are made to be broken - but that it turns one's heart to stone.
One sometimes feels that it is only with a front of brass and a lip
of scorn that one can get through the day at all. And he who is in
a state of rebellion cannot receive grace, to use the phrase of
which the Church is so fond - so rightly fond, I dare say - for in
life as in art the mood of rebellion closes up the channels of the
soul, and shuts out the airs of heaven. Yet I must learn these
lessons here, if I am to learn them anywhere, and must be filled
with joy if my feet are on the right road and my face set towards
'the gate which is called beautiful,' though I may fall many times
in the mire and often in the mist go astray.
This New Life, as through my love of Dante I like sometimes to call
it, is of course no new life at all, but simply the continuance, by
means of development, and evolution, of my former life. I remember
when I was at Oxford saying to one of my friends as we were
strolling round Magdalen's narrow bird-haunted walks one morning in
the year before I took my degree, that I wanted to eat of the fruit
of all the trees in the garden of the world, and that I was going
out into the world with that passion in my soul. And so, indeed, I
went out, and so I lived. My only mistake was that I confined
myself so exclusively to the trees of what seemed to me the sun-lit
side of the garden, and shunned the other side for its shadow and
its gloom. Failure, disgrace, poverty, sorrow, despair, suffering,
tears even, the broken words that come from lips in pain, remorse
that makes one walk on thorns, conscience that condemns, self-
abasement that punishes, the misery that puts ashes on its head,
the anguish that chooses sack-cloth for its raiment and into its
own drink puts gall:- all these were things of which I was afraid.
And as I had determined to know nothing of them, I was forced to
taste each of them in turn, to feed on them, to have for a season,
indeed, no other food at all.
I don't regret for a single moment having lived for pleasure. I
did it to the full, as one should do everything that one does.
There was no pleasure I did not experience. I threw the pearl of
my soul into a cup of wine. I went down the primrose path to the
sound of flutes. I lived on honeycomb. But to have continued the
same life would have been wrong because it would have been
limiting. I had to pass on. The other half of the garden had its
secrets for me also. Of course all this is foreshadowed and
prefigured in my books. Some of it is in THE HAPPY PRINCE, some of
it in THE YOUNG KING, notably in the passage where the bishop says