TELENY OR THE REVERSE OF THE MEDAL (A Gay Erotica). Oscar Wilde

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      Oscar Wilde

      TELENY OR THE REVERSE OF THE MEDAL

      (A Gay Erotica)

      The Victorian Classic Which Was Attributed to Oscar Wilde

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      2017 OK Publishing

      ISBN 978-80-272-1872-1

      Table of Contents

       CHAPTER 1

       CHAPTER 2

       CHAPTER 3

       CHAPTER 4

       CHAPTER 5

       CHAPTER 6

       CHAPTER 7

       CHAPTER 8

      CHAPTER 1

       Table of Contents

      — Tell me your story from its very beginning, Des Grieux, said he, interrupting me; and how you got to be acquainted with him.

      — It was at a grand charity concert where he was playing; for though amateur performances are one of the many plagues of modern civilization, still, my mother being one of the lady patronesses, I felt it incumbent to be present.

      — But he was not an amateur, was he?

      — Oh, no! Still, at that time he was only just beginning to make a name.

      — Well, go on.

      — He had already seated himself at the piano when I got to my stalle d’orchestre. The first thing he played was a favorite gavotte of mine — one of those slight, graceful and easy melodies that seem to smell of lavande ambrie, and in some way or other put you in mind of Lulli and Watteau, of powdered ladies dressed in yellow satin gowns, flirting with their fans.

      — And then?

      — As he reached the end of the piece, he cast several sidelong glances towards — as I thought — the lady patroness. When he was about to rise, my mother — who was seated behind me — tapped me on my shoulder with her fan, only to make one of the many unseasonable remarks women are forever pestering you with, so that, by the time I had turned round to applaud, he had disappeared.

      — And what happened afterwards?

      — Let me see. I think there was some singing.

      — But did he not play any more?

      — Oh, yes! He came out again towards the middle of the concert. As he bowed, before taking his place at the piano, his eyes seemed to be looking out for someone in the pit. It was then — as I thought — that our glances met for the first time.

      — What kind of a man was he?

      — He was a rather tall and slight young man of twenty-four. His hair, short and curled — after the fashion Bressan, the actor, had brought into vogue — was of a peculiar ashy hue; but this — as I knew afterwards — was due to its being always imperceptibly powdered. Anyhow, the fairness of his hair contrasted with his dark eyebrows and his short moustache. His complexion was of that warm, healthy paleness which, I believe, artists often have in their youth. His eyes — though generally taken for black — were of a deep blue color; and although they appeared so quiet and serene, still, a close observer would every now and then have seen in them a scared and wistful look, as if he were gazing at some dreadful dim and distant vision. An expression of the deepest sorrow invariably succeeded this painful glamour.

      — And what was the reason of his sadness?

      — At first, whenever I asked him, he always shrugged his shoulders, and answered laughingly, ‘Do you never see ghosts?’ When I got to be on more intimate terms with him, his invariable reply was — ‘My fate; that horrible, horrible fate of mine!’ But then, smiling and arching his eyebrows, he always hummed, Non ci pensiam.’

      — He was not of a gloomy or brooding disposition, was he?

      — No, not at all; he was only very superstitious.

      — As are all artists, I believe.

      — Or rather, all persons like — well, like ourselves; for nothing renders people so superstitious as vice —— Or ignorance.

      — Oh! that is quite a different kind of superstition.

      — Was there any peculiar dynamic quality in his eyes?

      — For myself of course there was: yet he had not what you would call hypnotizing eyes; his glances were far more dreamy than piercing, or staring; and still they had such penetrating power that, from the very first time I saw him, I felt that he could dive deep into my heart; and although his expression was anything but sensual, still, every time he looked at me, I felt all the blood within my veins was set aglow.

      — I have often been told that he was very handsome; is it true?

      — Yes, he was remarkably good looking, and still, even more peculiar, than strikingly handsome. His dress, moreover, though always faultless, was a trifle eccentric. That evening, for instance, he wore at his buttonhole a bunch of white heliotrope, although camellias and gardenias were then in fashion. His bearing was most gentlemanly, but on the stage — as well as with strangers — slightly supercilious.

      — Well, after your glances met?

      — He sat down and began to play. I looked at the program; it was a wild Hungarian rhapsody by an unknown composer with a crack-jaw name; its effect, however, was perfectly entrancing. In fact, in no music is the sensuous element so powerful as in that of the Tsiganes. You see, from a minor scale —— Oh! please no technical terms, for I hardly know one note from another.

      — Anyhow, if you have ever heard a tsardas, you must have felt that, although the Hungarian music is replete with rare rhythmical effects, still, as it quite differs from our set rules of harmony, it jars upon our ears. These melodies begin by shocking us, then by degrees subdue, until at last they enthrall us. The gorgeous fioriture, for instance, with which they abound are of decided luxurious Arabic character, and —— Well, never mind about the fioriture of the Hungarian music, and do go on with your story.

      — That is just the difficult point, for you cannot disconnect him from the music of his country; nay, to understand him you must begin by feeling the latent spell which pervades every song of Tsigane. A nervous organization — having once been impressed by the charm of a tsardas — ever thrills in response to those magic numbers. Those strains usually begin with a soft and low andante, something like the plaintive wail of forlorn hope, then the ever changing rhythm — increasing in swiftness — becomes ‘wild as the accents of lovers’ farewell,’ and without losing any of its sweetness, but always acquiring new vigor and solemnity, the prestissimo — syncopated by sighs — reaches a paroxysm of mysterious passion, now melting