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

feelings of jealousy as amateurs, be they actors, singers, or instrumentalists, so au revoir.’

      Then, with a deeper bow than he had vouchsafed to the public, he was about to leave the room, when he stopped again: ‘But you, M. Des Grieux, you said you were not going to stay, may I request the pleasure of your company?’

      ‘Most willingly,’ said I, eagerly.

      Briancourt again smiled ironically — why, I could not understand. Then he hummed a snatch of ‘Madame Angot,’ which operette was then in fashion, the only words which caught my ears being —Il est, dit-on, le favori, and these were marked purposely.

      Teleny, who had heard them as well as I had, shrugged his shoulders, and muttered something between his teeth.

      ‘A carriage is waiting for me at the back door,’ said he, slipping his arm under mine. ‘Still, if you prefer walking — ‘

      ‘Very much so, for it has been so stiflingly hot in the theatre.’

      ‘Yes, very hot,’ he added, repeating my words, and evidently thinking of something else. Then all at once, as if struck by a sudden thought, ‘Are you superstitious?’ said he.

      ‘Superstitious?’ I was struck by the quaint-ness of his question. ‘Well — yes, rather, I believe.’

      ‘I am very much so. I suppose it is my nature, for you see the gipsy element is strong in me. They say that educated people are not superstitious. Well, first I have had a wretched education; and then I think that if we really knew the mysteries of nature, we could probably explain all those strange coincidences that are ever happening.’ Then, stopping abruptly, ‘Do you believe in the transmission of thought, of sensations?’

      ‘Well, I really do not know — I — ‘

      ‘You must believe,’ he added authoritatively. ‘You see we have had the same vision at once. The first thing you saw was the Alhambra, blazing in the fiery light of the sun, was it not?’

      ‘It was,’ said I, astonished.

      ‘And you thought you would like to feel that powerful withering love that shatters both the body and the soul? You do not answer. Then afterwards came Egypt, Antinous and Adrian. You were the Emperor, I was the slave.’

      Then, musingly, he added, almost to himself: ‘Who knows, perhaps I shall die for you one day!’ And his features assumed that sweet resigned look which is seen on the demi-god’s statues.

      I looked at him, bewildered.

      ‘Oh! you think I am mad, but I am not, I am only stating facts. You did not feel that you were Adrian, simply because you are not accustomed to such visions; doubtless all this will be clearer to you someday; as for me, there is, you must know, Asiatic blood in my veins, and — ‘

      But he did not finish his phrase, and we walked on for a while in silence, then:

      ‘Did you not see me turn round during the gavotte, and look for you? I began to feel you just then, but I could not find you out; you remember, don’t you?’

      ‘Yes, I did see you look towards my side, and — ‘

      ‘And you were jealous!’

      ‘Yes,’ said I, almost inaudibly.

      He pressed my arm strongly against his body for all answer, then after a pause, he added hurriedly, and in a whisper: ‘You must know that I do not care for a single girl in this world, I never did, I could never love a woman.’

      My heart was beating strongly; I felt a choking feeling as if something was gripping my throat.

      ‘Why should he be telling me this?’ said I to myself.

      ‘Did you not smell a scent just then?’

      ‘A scent — when?’

      ‘When I was playing the gavotte; you have forgotten perhaps.’

      ‘Let me see, you are right, what scent was it?’

      ‘Lavande ambree.’

      ‘Exactly.’

      ‘Which you do not care for, and which I dislike; tell me, which is your favorite scent?’

      ‘Heliotrope blanc.’

      Without giving me an answer, he pulled out his handkerchief and gave it to me to smell.

      ‘All our tastes are exactly the same, are they not?’ And saying this, he looked at me with such a passionate and voluptuous longing, that the carnal hunger depicted in his eyes made me feel faint.

      ‘You see, I always wear a bunch of white heliotrope; let me give this to you, that its smell may remind you of me tonight, and perhaps make you dream of me.’

      And taking the flowers from his buttonhole, he put them into mine with one hand, whilst he slipped his left arm round my waist and clasped me tightly, pressing me against his whole body for a few seconds. That short space of time seemed to me an eternity.

      I could feel his hot and panting breath against my lips. Below, our knees touched, and I felt something hard press and move against my thigh.

      My emotion just then was such that I could hardly stand; for a moment I thought he would kiss me — nay, the crisp hair of his moustache was slightly tickling my lips, producing a most delightful sensation. However, he only looked deep into my eyes with a demoniac fascination.

      I felt the fire of his glances sink deep into my breast, and far below. My blood began to boil and bubble like a burning fluid, so that I felt my (what the Italians call a ‘birdie,’ and what they have portrayed as a winged cherub) struggle within its prison, lift up its head, open its tiny lips, and again spout one or two drops of that creamy, life-giving fluid.

      But those few tears — far from being a soothing balm — seemed to be drops of caustic, burning me, and producing a strong, unbearable irritation.

      I was tortured. My mind was a hell. My body was on fire.

      ‘Is he suffering as much as I am?’ said I to myself.

      Just then he unclasped his arm from round my waist, and it fell lifeless of its own weight like that of a man asleep.

      He stepped back, and shuddered as if he had received a strong electric shock. He seemed faint for a moment, then wiped his damp forehead, and sighed loudly. All the color had fled from his face, and he became deathly pale.

      ‘Do you think me mad?’ said he. Then, without waiting for a reply: ‘But who is sane and who is mad? Who is virtuous and who is vicious in this world of ours? Do you know? I don’t.’

      The thought of my father came to my mind, and I asked myself, shuddering, whether my senses, too, were leaving me.

      There was a pause. Neither of us spoke for some time. He had entwined his fingers within mine, and we walked on for a while in silence.

      All the blood vessels of my member were still strongly extended and the nerves stiff, the spermatic ducts full to overflowing; therefore, the erection continuing, I felt a dull pain spread over and near all the organs of generation, whilst the remainder of my body was in a state of prostration, and still — notwithstanding the pain and languor — it was a most pleasurable feeling to walk on quietly with our hands clasped, his head almost leaning on my shoulder.

      ‘When did you first feel my eyes on yours?’ he asked in a low hushed tone, after some time.

      ‘When you came out for the second time.’

      ‘Exactly; then our glances met, and then there was a current between us, like a spark of electricity running along a wire, was it not?’

      ‘Yes, an uninterrupted current.’

      ‘But you really felt me just before I went out, is it not true?’

      For all answer I pressed his fingers tightly.