Delphi Complete Works of Oscar Wilde (Illustrated) (251 page)

 
— And your mother?

 
— Her attention had been drawn elsewhere when I opened my letter. She only remarked my paleness a few moments afterwards. I therefore told her that I was not feeling well, and seeing me retching she believed me; in fact, she was afraid I had caught some illness.

 
— And Teleny — what did he say?

 
— I did not go to him that day, I only sent him word that I would see him on the morrow.

What a niqht I passed! First I kept up as long as I could, for I dreaded going to bed. At last, weary and worn out, I undressed and lay down; but my bed seemed electrified, for all my nerves began to twitch, and a feeling of creepiness came over me.

I felt distracted. I tossed about for some time; then, frightened lest I should grow mad, I got up, went stealthily to the dining room and got a bottle of cognac, and returned to my bedchamber. I drank down about half a tumbler, and then went again to bed.

Unaccustomed to such strong drink I went off to sleep; but was it sleep?

I awoke in the middle of the night, dreaming that Catherine, our maid, had accused me of having murdered her, and that I was about to be tried.

I got up, poured myself another glass of spirits, and again found oblivion if not rest.

On the morrow I again sent word to Teleny that I could not see him, although I longed to do so; but the day after that, seeing that I did not come to him as usual, he called upon me.

Surprised at the physical and moral change which had come over me, he began to think that some mutual friend had been slandering him, so to reassure him, I — after much pressing and many questions — took out that loathsome letter which I as much dreaded to touch as if it had been a viper, and gave it to him.

Although more than myself inured to such matters, his brow grew cloudy and thoughtful, and he even went pale. Still, after pondering over it for a moment, he began to examine the paper on which those horrible words were written; then he lifted up both card and envelope to his nose, and smelt them both. A merry expression came all at once over his face. ‘I have it — I have it — you need not be afraid! They smell of attar of roses,’ cried he; ‘I know who it is.’

‘Who?’

‘Why! can’t you guess?’

‘The Countess?’

Teleny frowned.

‘How is it you know about her?’

I told him all. When I had finished, he clasped me in his arms and kissed me again and again.

‘I tried in every way to forget you, Camille, you see if I succeeded. The Countess is now miles away and we shall not see each other again.’

As he said these words my eyes fell on a very fine yellow diamond ring — a moonstone — which he wore on his little finger.

‘That is a woman’s ring,’ I said, ‘she gave it to you?’

He made no answer.

‘Will you wear this one in its stead?’

The ring I gave him was an antique cameo of exquisite workmanship, surrounded with brilliants, but its chief merit was that it represented the head of Antinous.

‘But,’ said he, ‘this is a priceless jewel’; and he looked at it closer. Then taking my head between his hands, and covering my face with kisses,— ‘Priceless indeed to me, for it looks like you.’

I burst out laughing.

‘Why do you laugh?’ said he, astonished.

‘Because,’ was my reply, ‘the features are quite yours.’

‘Perhaps, then,’ he said, ‘we are alike in looks as well as in tastes. Who knows — you are, perhaps, my doppelganger? Then, woe to one of us!’

‘Why?’

‘In our country they say that a man must never meet his alter ego, it brings misfortune to one or to both’; and he shivered as he said this. Then, with a smile, ‘I am superstitious, you know.’

‘Anyhow,’ I added, ‘should any misfortune part us, let this ring, like that of the virgin queen, be your messenger. Send it to me and I swear that nothing shall keep me away from you.’

The ring was on his finger and he was in my arms. Our pledge was sealed with a kiss.

He then began to whisper words of love in a low, sweet, hushed, and cadenced tone that seemed like a distant echo of sounds heard in a half-remembered ecstatic dream. They mounted up to my brain like the bubbles of some effervescent, intoxicating love-philter. I can even now hear them ringing in my ear. Nay, as I remember them again, I feel a shiver of sensuality creep all over my body, and that insatiable desire he always excited in me kindles my blood.

He was sitting by my side, as close to me as I am now to you; his shoulder was leaning on my shoulder, exactly as yours is.

First he passed his hand on mine, but so gently that I could hardly feel it; then slowly his fingers began to lock themselves within mine, just like this; for he seemed to delight in taking possession of me inch by inch.

After that, one of his arms encircled my waist, then he put the other round my neck, and the tips of his fingers twiddled and fondled my throat, thrilling me with delight.

As he did so, our cheeks slightly grazed each other; and that touch — perhaps because it was so imperceptible — vibrated through all my body, giving all the nerves around the veins a not unpleasant twinge. Our mouths were now in close contact, and still he did not kiss me; his lips were simply tantalizing mine, as if to make me more keenly conscious of our nature’s affinity.

The nervous state in which I had been these last days rendered me ever so much the more excitable. I therefore longed to feel that pleasure which cools the blood and calms the brain, but he seemed disposed to prolong my eagerness, and to make me reach that pitch of inebriating sensuality that verges upon madness.

At last, when neither of us could bear our excitement any longer, we tore off our clothes, and then naked we rolled, the one on the other, like two snakes, trying to feel as much of each other as we could. To me it seemed that all the pores of my skin were tiny mouths that pouted out to kiss him.

‘Clasp me — grip me — hug me! — tighter — tighter still! that I may enjoy your body!’

My rod, as tough as a piece of iron, slipped between his legs; and feeling itself tweaked, began to water, and a few tiny, viscid drops oozed out.

Seeing the way in which I was tortured, he at last took pity upon me. He bent down his head upon my phallus, and began to kiss it.

I, however, did not wish to taste this delightful pleasure by halves, or to enjoy this thrilling rapture alone. We therefore shifted our position, and in a twinkling I had in my mouth the thing at which he was tweaking so delightfully.

Soon that acrid milk, like the sap of the fig tree or the euphorbia, which seems to flow from the brain and the marrow, spouted out, and in its stead a jet of caustic fire was coursing through every vein and artery, and all my nerves were vibrating as if set in motion by some strong electric current.

Finally, the paroxysm of pleasure which is the delirium of sensuality began to abate, and I was left crushed and annihilated; then a pleasant state of torpor followed, and my eyes closed for a few seconds in happy oblivion.

Havinq recovered mv senses, mv eves again fell on the repulsive, anonymous note; and I shuddered and nestled myself against Teleny as if for protection, so loathsome was truth, even then, to me.

‘But you have not told me yet who wrote those horrible words.’

‘Who? Why, the general’s son, of course.’

‘What! Briancourt?’

‘Who else can it be. No one except him can have an inkling of our love; Briancourt, I am sure, has been watching us. Besides, look here,’ he added, picking up the bit of paper, ‘not wanting to write on paper with his crest or initials, and probably not having any other, he has written on a cartel deftly cut out of a piece of drawing paper. Who else but a painter could have done such a thing? By taking too many precautions, we sometimes compromise ourselves. Moreover, smell it. He is so saturated with attar of roses that everything he touches is impregnated with it.’

‘Yes, you are right,’ said I, musingly.

‘Over and above all this, it is just the thing for him to do, not that he is bad at heart— ‘

‘You love him!’ said I, with a pang of jealousy, grasping his arm.

‘No, I do not; but I am simply just towards him; besides you have known him from his childhood, and you must admit that he is not so bad, is he?’

‘No, he is simply mad.’

‘Mad? Well, perhaps a little more so than other men,’ said my friend, smiling.

‘What! you think all men crazy?’

‘I only know one sane man — my shoemaker. He is only mad once a week — on Monday, when he gets jolly drunk.’

‘Well, don’t let us talk of madness any more. My father died mad, and I suppose that, sooner or later— ‘

‘You must know,’ said Teleny, interrupting me, ‘that Briancourt has been in love with you for a long time.’

‘With me?’

‘Yes, but he thinks you dislike him.’

‘I never was remarkably fond of him.’

‘Now that I think it over, I believe that he would like to have us both together, so that we might form a kind of trinity of love and bliss.’

‘And you think he tried to bring it about in that way.’

‘In love and in war, every stratagem is good; and perhaps with him as with the Jesuits, “the end justifies the means,” Anyhow, forget this note completely, let it be like a midwinter night’s dream.’

Then, taking the obnoxious bit of paper, he placed it on the glowing embers; first it writhed and crackled, then a sudden flame burst forth and consumed it. An instant afterwards, it was nothing but a little, black, crumpled thing, on which tiny, fiery snakes were hastily chasing and then swallowing each other as they met.

Then came a puff from the crackling logs, and it mounted and disappeared up the chimney like a little black devil.

Naked as we were on the low couch in front of the fireplace, we clasped and hugged each other fondly.

‘It seemed to threaten us before it disappeared, did it not? I hope Briancourt will never come between us.’

‘We’ll defy him,’ said my friend, smiling; and taking hold of my phallus and of his own, he brandled them both. ‘This,’ said he, ‘is the most efficient exorcism in Italy against the evil eye. Moreover he has doubtless forgotten both you and me by this time — nay, even the very idea of having written this note.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he has found a new lover.’

‘Who, the Spahi officer?’

‘No, a young Arab. Anyhow, we’ll know who it is by the subject of the picture he is going to paint. Some time ago he was only dreaming of a pendant to the three Graces, which to him represented the mystic trinity of tribadism.’

A few days afterwards we met Briancourt in the green room of the Opera. When he saw us, he looked away and tried to shun us. I would have done the same.

‘No,’ said Teleny, ‘let us go and speak to him and have matters out. In such things never show the slightest fear. If you face the enemy boldlv, vou have already half vanquished him.’

Then, going up to him and dragging me with him,— ‘Weil,’ said he, stretching out his hand, ‘what has become of you? It is some days since we have seen each other.’

‘Of course,’ he replied, ‘new friends make us forget old ones.’

‘Like new pictures old ones. By the bye, what sketch have you begun?’

‘Oh, something glorious! — a picture that will make a mark, if any does.’

‘Butwhatisit?’

‘Jesus Christ.’

‘Jesus Christ?’

‘Yes, since I knewAchmet, I have been able to understand the Saviour. You would love Him, too,’ he added, ‘if you could see those dark, mesmeric eyes, with their long and jetty fringe.’

‘Love whom,’ said Teleny, ‘Achmet or Christ?’

‘Christ, of course!’ quoth Briancourt, shrugging his shoulders. ‘\bu would be able to fathom the influence He must have had over the crowd. My Syrian need not speak to you, he lifts his eyes upon you and you grasp the meaning of his thoughts. Christ, likewise, never wasted His breath spouting cant to the multitude. He wrote on the sand and could thereby “look the world to law.” As I was saying, I shall paint Achmet as the Saviour, and you,’ he added to Teleny, ‘as John, the disciple He loved; for the Bible clearly says and continually repeats that He loved this favorite disciple.’

‘And how will you paint Him?’

‘Christ erect, clasping John, who hugs Him, and who leans his head on his friend’s bosom. Of course there must be something lovably soft and womanly in the disciple’s look and attitude; he must have your visionary violet eyes and your voluptuous mouth. Crouched at their feet there will be one of the many adulterous Marys, but Christ and the other — as John modestly terms himself, as if he were his Master’s mistress — look down at her with a dreamy, half-scornful, half-pitiful expression.’

‘And will the people understand your meaning?’

‘Anybody who has any sense will. Besides, to render my idea clearer, I’ll paint a pendant to it: “Socrates — the Greek Christ, with Alcibiades, his favorite disciple.” The woman will be Xantippe.’ Then turning to me, he added, ‘But you must promise to come and sit for Alcibiades.’