[3] Oscar Wilde's first play, _Lady Windermere's Fan_, was produced at the St. James's Theatre on February 20, 1892. This was followed by _A Woman of No Importance_, April 19, 1893, and _An Ideal Husband_, January, 3, 1895, at Haymarket; and _The Importance of Being Earnest_, February 14, 1895, at the St. James's. [4] This story appeared under the title of 'The Master' with other Poems in Prose in _The Fortnightly Review_ for July, 1894. Two of them, 'The Disciple' and 'The House of Judgment,' were first published in _The Spirit Lamp_ in 1893. This was a magazine published at Oxford under the editorship of Lord Alfred Douglas, who had recently bought it from the founder and changed its style and form. A complete set of the fifteen numbers is now exceedingly scarce. [5] Henri Davray translated these 'Poems in Prose' in _La Revue Blanche_. [6] Since Villiers de l'Isle-Adam has betrayed it, every one knows, alas! the great secret of the Church: _There is no Purgatory!_ II. I have made my choice, have lived my poems, and though youth is gone in wasted days, I have found the lover's crown of myrtle better than the poet's crown of bays. II. Here tragic reminiscences begin. A persistent rumour, growing louder and louder with the fame of his successes (in London his plays were being acted in no less than three different theatres at the same time[1]), attributed to Wilde strange habits, on hearing of which, some people tempered their indignation with a smile, while others were not in the least indignant. It was claimed, moreover, as regards these alleged habits, that he concealed them little, and often on the other hand paraded them--some said courageously, others out of cynicism, and others for a pose. I was filled with astonishment when I heard these rumours. In no way, all the time that I had been intimate with him, had he given me the slightest ground for suspicion. But already out of prudence numbers of his old friends were deserting him. They did not yet actually cut him, but they no longer made a point of saying they had met him. An extraordinary coincidence brought us together again. It was in January, 1895. I was travelling. A peevish disposition urged me on, and I sought solitude rather than novelty of scene. The weather was frightful. I had fled from Algiers to Blidah, and I was about to quit Blidah for Biskra. Just as I was leaving my hotel, I glanced, through idle curiosity, at the slate on which visitors' names were inscribed. What did I see there? By the side of my own name, actually touching it, was Wilde's. I have said that I was thirsting to be alone, so I took the sponge and rubbed my name out. Before reaching the railway station, however, I was not quite sure that a little cowardice did not underlie that act, so at once retracing my steps I had my bag taken upstairs and wrote my name on the slate again.