And, so, this remarkable account Oscar Wilde tells the account of Thomas Griffiths Wainewright, a friend to William Blake and Charles Dickens and others in the early 1800s. A man too who was a connoisseur of all the fine arts. A man who was more at home in the paintings and the history of ancient times than of the present. A gentleman, for want of a better word. And, yet, too, a murderer through and through.
Yes, a murderer. This Wainewright, so Wilde tells us, poisoned his uncle, his mother-in-law, his sister-in-law and others in and out of his native England before being discovered by the insurers he sought to defraud with his murders. All in all, these were, of course, capital offenses at that time of Wainewright's murders.
But we should not be so quick to judge a man's art by his crime, so Oscar Wilde reminds us. This Wainewright had, after all, raised himself up to be a gentleman. And it seems that the court in Wainewright's time agreed with this assessment. They sent him off into exile in the far off South Seas where Wainewright, after a few halfhearted poisonings, spent his final years painting beautiful yet tragic paintings tinged with the color green. Yes, green, the color of rot, the color, so, Wilde says, of decadence. Until at last the murderer died there in exile in 1852 in the company of his sole companion, his cat. As near and dear a companion as my own cat is to me.
I enjoyed this story by Mr. Wilde immensely. Most especially because every word he writes is true. Yes, every single one. Hey, would I lie to you? Trust me. This is one good tale.