Oscar Wilde

 

Oscar Wilde finally tore his eyes from Tom and turned to me. “Miss Elian, would you and your friends join me for a drink?”

I looked at Ringo and Tom, neither of whom seemed ready to answer. “None of us really drinks, but I have the feeling a conversation with you would be memorable.”

His smile was a sly, creeping thing that began with a shine in his eyes and promised laughter in its wake. “Anything less than memorable is hardly worth our time.” Wilde shot Tom another look, then tucked my arm under his solicitously and patted my hand. “Miss Elian, I do believe we should be friends. There is something quite extraordinary about a woman who is quite completely herself. I find that being oneself is an excellent choice, as everyone else is already taken.”

He began walking us toward the back of the church, and Ringo and Tom fell into bemused step behind us. Wilde called out in a jovial voice, tinged with the hint of an Irish accent. “Father Lockhart, a favor if you will.”

Father Lockhart came to the door with a smile as we approached. “I’ll do what I can, Mr. Wilde.”

“Would you happen to have a corner with rugs, pillows, a divan, or merely a bench that we could pull up and occupy for the span it takes to tell a story, hear one, shed a tear, and laugh at something ridiculous?”

Father Lockhart looked at the four of us with amusement. “I’ll do you one better, Mr. Wilde. You may use the crypt for your stories as long as you ignore the Lockhart-sized fly on the wall and you let me make you lot a cup of tea.”

Wilde held out his hand to shake the priest’s with a grin. “You have a deal, Father.” The priest ushered us downstairs into the gothic-style crypt. It was a beautifully eerie space lit by the lanterns he and Wilde carried, with small stained-glass windows that echoed the spectacular one upstairs. Most of the space was empty except for the pillars that held up the floor above, but there were low divans in one corner, and I had the thought that people might sleep there occasionally. Father Lockhart saw us seated on the divans and bustled off upstairs to put a kettle on to boil.

“How is it that you and a Catholic priest are such good friends?” I asked Wilde. He grinned and stretched his long arms across the back of the cushions.

“The good father and I are in agreement about the aesthetics of this fine church in which we find ourselves. He is responsible for its restoration, you see, and quite possibly for the fact that it remains standing at all.”

I looked at Ringo, and he gave me a quick smile. We were like kids who recognized the beginnings of a long-winded tale and had settled in for the inevitable. And, from the way he looked around at us in anticipation, it seemed Oscar Wilde enjoyed having an audience.

“Many a night Father Lockhart and I have sat here, debating the finer points of my Anglican upbringing versus his Catholic conversion, my classical education versus his theological one, my beliefs versus his faith. Indeed, the night I stumbled into this church to debate the merits of organized religion with Bernard, whom Father Lockhart had invited to read from his latest monstrosity, was the night I met a kindred soul. It is a rare and confident man who can appreciate both the wit and the wisdom of one such as myself, who walked in here that night with the firm belief that religion is like a blind man looking in a black room for a black cat that isn’t there … and finding it.”

Father Lockhart returned with a teapot and a tray of cups. “Ah, but Mr. Wilde, you are neglecting the commonalities in our backgrounds.” He met our eyes as I took the teapot from him. “Our Oxford educations could be enough to bind us to each other, but an interest in Catholicism despite an Anglican upbringing virtually guarantees kinship.”

I poured the tea into the simple mugs he set out, and his eyes sparkled as he whispered dramatically to me. “Mr. Wilde would like to think he’s the most shocking speaker we’ve ever had at one of our salons, but honestly, Mr. Shaw was far more so.”

Wilde scoffed. “You can’t compare Bernard’s eugenics nonsense to the horror your parishioners experience at my belief that art need not teach, instruct, preach, or for God’s sake, moralize.”

Father Lockhart smiled fondly at Wilde. “You have complimented my renovation of St. Etheldreda’s on more than one occasion. What is art for the sake of sheer beauty more than the staining of glass, or the decorative carving of wood? You are not nearly so shocking as you would like to believe, my friend, though you delight in being the subject of the horrified whispers of bored matrons.”

Wilde grumbled good-naturedly, and a phrase came to mind. I spoke without thinking. “The only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about.”

Wilde sharpened his gaze on me. “My dear Clocker, I’ll thank you to keep your quotes from my unpublished work to yourself. It might give a man ideas about his future prospects for fame, or at the very least, his notoriety.”

I blushed, completely horrified that I’d just quoted from The Picture of Dorian Gray, which obviously hadn’t been published yet. “Oh! I’m so sorry.”

Wilde gave a wry smile. “Although I’ll admit to a certain satisfaction that my words have made any sort of lasting impression. In my experience, it becomes rather difficult to live in the moment when one spends too much time anticipating the future.”

“Is it not the way of the hedonist to live only for the moment,” asked Father Lockhart, “as if the future matters not?”

Wilde laughed, a deep, infectious laugh. “There are those in my Family who believe the future is the only thing that matters. But that’s not what I said. To live in the moment is vastly different than living for it. To be truly present as life unfolds around one is to take fullest advantage of being alive. Take young Dorian here,” Wilde indicated Tom, who sat on the floor and was using the divan as a backrest. Tom had been watching the exchange between Wilde and Lockhart through narrowed eyes, and Wilde’s sudden attention disconcerted him.

Wilde knew exactly what his effect on Tom was, and seemed to deliberately poke at him. “He has made a bargain with the devil and now squanders the days as too numerous to be worthwhile. One could argue hedonism, and certainly fatalism, but neither would be accurate, would they, Dorian?”

“I’m not Dorian,” said Tom through gritted teeth.

“Of course you are.” Wilde’s jovial good nature was laser-sharp, and Tom was its focus. I held my breath and Ringo tensed beside me. “Except it isn’t a portrait that ages with the life you choose to live.”

His pause was dramatic, and he waited for someone to ask the question, ‘what is?’ Tom just glared, and there was no way Ringo or I would step in that pile of poop. Finally, Wilde rolled his eyes and sighed, “Do none of you have a sense for the dramatic moment? Really, what good are you?”

Tom stood up, still glowering. “I’m done here.”

Oscar Wilde stood too, and his 6’3” frame towered over Tom. “You’d like to think that, wouldn’t you, Tom. You’d like to think that the stain on your soul will just spread and spread and spread until finally it consumes you. You believe that only then will you truly be yourself – the man you were born to become. Well, my darling Dorian, I have news for you. It is not your soul that wrinkles like ancient flesh with each act of self-hatred. Your soul is pure light and possibility, and it is the one thing that will resist every act of torture you commit on it.”

Tom stood frozen. He faced Wilde with the whole empty crypt at his back, and yet he looked like a cornered, feral thing, ready to flee at the slightest move. “No,” Wilde continued softly, as if he could sense the frightened animal lurking beneath Tom’s glare. “Your story isn’t true just because you keep trying to prove it. It’s a story, a made up story; like Dorian exists in my mind, so does your idea of Tom in yours. It is something you told yourself to explain the disgust you feel when you look in the mirror. It is an invention of your imagination, which means no amount of horror will prove it, and the only things you’ve stained are your hands.”

Tom’s hands flinched, and I didn’t know if it was from the instinct to check them for blood, or a desire to hit Oscar Wilde.

I expected Tom to storm out. I think we all did. But he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and nodded his head once as if in acceptance. “You are certainly welcome to your opinion, Mr. Wilde.”

We stared in astonishment as Tom returned with dignity to his seat on the floor. And then Wilde burst out laughing and clapped Tom on the shoulder. “I may not agree with you, but I will defend to the death your right to make an ass of yourself, eh, Tom?”

The tension disappeared from the room, though it lingered around Tom’s eyes when our gazes met. Father Lockhart got up to make more tea, and Wilde directed our conversations across a vast landscape of topics, from the Roman Catholic Relief Act of 1829, which finally restored most of the civil rights of Catholics in Britain, to the value of an education rich in Greek classical humanistic theory.

Ringo was completely in his element, absorbing information he didn’t know, and contributing to the conversation about things on which he had opinions. He had become so much more confident since the days when Archer would regale us with the lessons of his university classes, and neither Wilde nor Father Lockhart spoke to him as anything other than an equal.

Lockhart was passionate about the role of the church in service to the poor, and was very proud of the work St. Etheldreda’s parishioners had done in the slums of Holborn. Wilde’s conversations returned again and again to the theme that beauty should be celebrated in art, books, music, and plays for no other reason than its own sake. The way he spoke about books he’d read and things he had studied at Oxford, I had the sense he was two people. His flamboyantly-dressed, sarcastic, and witty public face was the mask, and a quiet, introspective reader with a deep love of learning lived behind it.

Wilde caught me looking at him, and I could see him gearing up to say something clever or cutting, but I spoke first. “Your love of books and learning things reminds me of my husband.”

The echo of my words seemed to fill the suddenly silent room. I had spoken without really considering what I said, and I blushed and dropped my eyes so I didn’t have to see the questions. Wilde lifted my chin so I’d look at him and said gently, “I should like to know a man with the good sense to choose a woman such as you.”

I opened my mouth to ask whether he’d Seen anything about Archer, then closed it again. It didn’t matter. Wilde Saw me. He had Seen something in me that showed him loss and pain, and for a couple of hours he had distracted me from it with conversation and laughter.

“Thank you,” I said simply. He smiled.

“Now, let me tell you about the time I met the pope.”

That shocked me out of my reminiscence. “Which pope?” The wheels began clicking in my head, and I could see Ringo beginning to follow my train of thought.

Wilde looked curious. “Pius IX. Don’t tell me you’ve encountered him on your, shall I say, travels.”

“When did he start being pope?” I demanded. It was a clumsy question, but I was digging through my memory banks for every bit of information I had.

“Let’s see, I met him when I was twenty, and that was in 1876—” Wilde began, but Father Lockhart interrupted.

“Pius IX was consecrated in 1846,” he said quietly.

I turned to Father Lockhart. “Did you know the pope before him, the one from 1842?”

He smiled gently. “I was just twenty-two then, and still an Anglican studying at Oxford. I believe that was Pope Gregory XVI.”

“What do you know about him?” I dialed down the demanding tone to something that sounded like reasonable questions, but Wilde was studying me through narrowed eyes.

“Not much, I’m afraid. I understand he was quite conservative and rigid in his views, and spoke out against technological innovations. Gas lighting and railways might increase the power of the bourgeoisie, he said, which could lead them to demand more liberal reforms from the Vatican. He did, however, write a letter condemning the slave trade, so apparently he had his moments.”

I could sense Ringo’s growing tension, though the others were just intrigued by my sudden curiosity. “Have either of you been to the Vatican? I’ve always wondered what it’s like. Could you describe it?”

Ringo made a noise of protest, but I ignored him. Sadly, both men were shaking their heads. “I met Pius IX when he was on tour, which is quite remarkable really, given that he died two years later,” said Wilde.

“Do you have any paintings or drawings of the Vatican I could look at?” I asked Father Lockhart.

“Saira,” said Ringo warningly.

“I’m sorry, I have none here,” said Lockhart. “I imagine perhaps the Italian or Spanish embassies might have something, but I’ve never seen their collections.”

“We are not running around London looking for paintings of the Vatican,” Ringo said with a growl in his voice.

“Why 1842?” asked Tom, finally speaking up.

I met his eyes squarely. “Later,” I said. “When there’s a deal.”

He understood what I meant immediately, and nodded his head. Wilde watched our exchange with a thoughtful expression.

“I have the sense there is a story to be told here, but as it is nearly dawn, perhaps now is not the time?” He eyed Tom meaningfully, and I thought that for all the things Oscar Wilde said, there were a thousand more he didn’t. “I should like to hear it one day, if we ever encounter each other again.” His eyes traveled around our faces and then returned to Tom.

Wilde stood and offered Tom his hand to help him up. He held it in a handshake and didn’t let go as he spoke. “I shall give my Dorian your beauty, but he will not have your soul. It is far too deep a well for him to imagine, much less be privileged to know – a privilege I hope you grant another someday.”

Tom’s expression remained stoic, but he surprised us all when he clasped Wilde’s arm with his other hand in what I supposed was a modern man’s version of a Victorian hug.

“I’m very glad to have met you, Mr. Wilde,” Tom said.

“I hope we are friends enough for you to call me Oscar.”

“Maybe I’ll come back and tell you stories someday, Oscar.”

Wilde beamed at Tom with a happy grin. “That would be an excellent day, indeed!”

We said our goodbyes to Father Lockhart, and Wilde walked us to the door. I gave him a hug and whispered in his ear. “Take care, Oscar.”

He gave me a quick squeeze. “Find beauty in the moments, Miss Elian, because to live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.”

 

Tom left us on the street corner with the promise that he’d come to Ringo’s flat at sunset to discuss our plans and the deal. I asked where he would sleep, but he just shook his head and took off, walking briskly down Holborn. Ringo and I ran silently all the way back down to the river. We arrived just after the sun rose, and I had to drag myself up the ladder to his flat.

Ringo gave me his bed and took the chair with a tired shake of his head at my protests. I didn’t close the drapes in case he decided the chair was too uncomfortable, and I watched him settle in and shut his eyes.

“Oscar Wilde went to prison for being gay,” I said after a long moment.

Ringo’s eyes opened and he regarded me steadily. “People are idiots,” he finally said, and closed his eyes again to sleep.