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

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      He, in beauty, as well as in character, was the very personification of this entrancing music.

      As I listened to his playing I was spellbound; yet I could hardly tell whether it was with the composition, the execution, or the player himself. At the same time the strangest visions began to float before my eyes. First I saw the Alhambra in all the luxuriant loveliness of its Moorish masonry — those sumptuous symphonies of stones and bricks — so like the flourishes of those quaint gipsy melodies. Then a smouldering unknown fire began to kindle itself within my breast. I longed to feel that mighty love which maddens one to crime, to feel the blasting lust of men who live beneath the scorching sun, to drink down deep from the cup of some satyrion philter.

      The vision changed; instead of Spain, I saw a barren land, the sun-lit sands of Egypt, wet by the sluggish Nile; where Adrian stood wailing, forlorn, disconsolate for he had lost forever the lad he loved so well. Spellbound by that soft music, which sharpened every sense, I now began to understand things hitherto so strange, the love the mighty monarch felt for his fair Grecian slave, Antinous, who — like unto Christ — died for his master’s sake. And thereupon my blood all rushed from my heart into my head, then it coursed down, through every vein, like waves of molten lead.

      The scene then changed, and shifted into the gorgeous towns of Sodom and Gomorrah, weird, beautiful and grand; to me the pianist’s notes just then seemed murmuring in my ear with the panting of an eager lust, the sound of thrilling kisses.

      Then — in the very midst of my vision — the pianist turned his head and cast one long, lingering, slumberous look at me, and our glances met again. But was he the pianist, was he Antinous, or rather, was he not one of those two angels which God sent to Lot? Anyhow, the irresistible charm of his beauty was such that I was quite overcome by it; and the music just then seemed to whisper: Could you not drink his gaze like wine, Yet though its splendour swoon In the silence languidly As a tune into a tune?

      That thrilling longing I had felt grew more and more intense, the craving so insatiable that it was changed to pain; the burning fire had now been fanned into a mighty flame, and my whole body was convulsed and wracked with mad desire. My lips were parched, I gasped for breath; my joints were stiff, my veins were swollen, yet I sat still, like all the crowd around me. But suddenly a heavy hand seemed to be laid upon my lap, something was bent and clasped and grasped, which made me faint with lust. The hand moved up and down, slowly at first, then fast and faster it went in rhythm with the song. My brain began to reel as throughout every vein a burning lava coursed, and then, some drops even gushed out — I panted —All at once the pianist finished his piece with a crash amidst the thundering applause of the whole theatre. I myself heard nothing but the din of thunder, I saw a fiery hail, a rain of rubies and emeralds that was consuming the cities of the plain, and he, the pianist, standing naked in the lurid light, exposing himself to the thunderbolts of heaven and to the flames of hell. As he stood there, I saw him — in my madness — change all at once into Anubis, the dog-headed God of Egypt, then by degrees into a loathsome poodle. I started, I shivered, felt sick, but speedily he changed to his own form again.

      I was powerless to applaud; I sat there dumb, motionless, nerveless, exhausted. My eyes were fixed upon the artist who stood there bowing listlessly, scornfully; while his own glances full of ‘eager and impassioned tenderness,’ seemed to be seeking mine and mine alone. What a feeling of exultation awakened within me! But could he love me, and me only? For a moment the exultation gave way to bitter jealousy. Was I growing mad, I asked myself?

      As I looked at him, his features seemed to be overshadowed by a deep melancholy, and — horrible to behold — I saw a small dagger plunged in his breast, with the blood flowing fast from the wound. I not only shuddered, but almost shrieked with fear, the vision was so real. My head was spinning round, I was growing faint and sick, I fell back exhausted in my chair, covering my eyes with my hands.

      — What a strange hallucination, I wonder what brought it about?

      — It was, indeed, something more than an hallucination, as you will see hereafter. When I lifted up my head again, the pianist was gone. I then turned round, and my mother — seeing how pale I was — asked me if I felt ill. I muttered something about the heat being very oppressive.

      ‘Go into the green room,’ said she, ‘and have a glass of water.’

      ‘No, I think I had better go home.’

      I felt, in fact, that I could not listen to any more music that evening. My nerves were so utterly unstrung that a maudlin song would just then have exasperated me, while another intoxicating melody might have made me lose my senses.

      As I got up I felt so weak and exhausted that it seemed as if I were walking in a trance, so, without exactly knowing whither I wended my steps, I mechanically followed some persons in front of me, and, a few moments afterwards, I unexpectedly found myself in the green room.

      The salon was almost empty. At the further end a few dandies were grouped around a young man in evening dress, whose back was turned towards me. I recognized one of them as Briancourt.

      — What, the General’s son?

      — Precisely.

      — I remember him. He always dressed in such a conspicuous way.

      — Quite so. That evening, for instance, when every gentleman was in black, he, on the contrary, wore a white flannel suit, as usual, a very open Byron-like collar, and a red Lavalliere cravat tied in a huge bow.

      — Yes, for he had a most lovely neck and throat.

      — He was very handsome, although I, for myself, had always tried to avoid him. He had a way of ogling which made me feel quite uncomfortable. You laugh, but it is quite true. There are some men who, when staring at a woman, seem all the while to be undressing her. Briancourt had that indecent way of looking at everybody. I vaguely felt his eyes all over me, and that made me shudder.

      — But you were acquainted with him, were you not?

      — Yss, we had been at some Kindergarten or other together, but, being three years younger than he, I was always in a lower class. Anyhow, that evening, upon perceiving him, I was about to leave the room, when the gentleman in the evening suit turned round. It was the pianist. As our eyes met again, I felt a strange flutter within me, and the fascination of his looks was so powerful that I was hardly able to move. Then, attracted onwards as I was, instead of quitting the green room, I walked on slowly, almost reluctantly, toward the group. The musician, without staring, did not, however, turn his eyes away from me. I was quivering from head to foot. He seemed to be slowly drawing me to him, and I must confess the feeling was such a pleasant one that I yielded entirely to it.

      Just then Briancourt, who had not seen me, turned round, and recognizing me, nodded in his offhand way. As he did so, the pianist’s eyes brightened, and he whispered something to him, whereupon the General’s son, without giving him any answer, turned towards me, and, taking me by the hand, said: ‘Camille, allow me to introduce you to my friend Rene. M. Rene Teleny — M. Camille Des Grieux.’

      I bowed, blushing. The pianist stretched forth his ungloved hand. In my fit of nervousness I had pulled off both my gloves, so that I now put my bare hand into his.

      He had a perfect hand for a man, rather large than small, strong yet soft, and with long, tapering fingers, so that his grasp was firm and steady.

      Who has not been sentient of the manifold feelings produced by the touch of a hand? Many persons seem to bear a temperature of their own about them. They are hot and feverish in midwinter, while others are cold and icy in the dog-days. Some hands are dry and parched, others continually moist, clammy, and slimy. There are fleshy, pulpy, muscular, or thin, skeletal and bony hands. The grasp of some is like that of an iron vise, others feel as limp as a bit of rag. There is the artificial product of our modern civilization, a deformity like a Chinese lady’s foot, always enclosed in a glove during the day, often poulticed at night, tended by a manicure; they are as white as snow, if not as chaste as ice. How that little useless hand would shrink from the touch of the gaunt, horny, clay-colored, begrimed workman’s hand, which hard, unremitting