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

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      I finally came to my senses. Being now thoroughly awake, my mother made me understand that hearing me groan and shriek, she had come in to see if I were unwell. Of course I hastened to assure her that I was in perfect health, and had only been the prey of a frightful nightmare. She thereupon put her fresh hand upon my hot forehead. The soothing touch of her soft hand cooled the fire burning within my brain, and allayed the fever raging in my blood.

      When I was quietened, she made me drink a bumper of sugared water flavored with essence of orange-flowers, and then left me. I once more dropped off to sleep. I awoke, however, several times, and always to see the pianist before me.

      On the morrow likewise, when I came to myself, his name was ringing in my ears, my lips were muttering it, and my first thoughts reverted to him. I saw him — in my mind’s eye — standing there on the stage, bowing before the public, his burning glances rivetted on mine.

      I lay for some time in my bed, drowsily contemplating that sweet vision, so vague and indefinite, trying to recall his features which had got mixed up with those of the several statues of Antinous which I had seen.

      Analyzing my feelings, I was now conscious that a new sensation had come over me — a vague feeling of uneasiness and unrest. There was an emptiness in me, still I could not understand if the void was in my heart or in my head. I had lost nothing and yet I felt lonely, forlorn, nay almost bereaved. I tried to fathom my morbid state, and all I could find out was that my feelings were akin to those of being homesick or mothersick, with this simple difference, that the exile knows what his cravings are, but I did not. It was something indefinite like the Sehnsucht of which the Germans speak so much, and which they really feel so little.

      The image of Teleny haunted me, the name of Rene was ever on my lips. I kept repeating it over and over for dozens of times. What a sweet name it was! At its sound my heart was beating faster. My blood seemed to have become warmer and thicker. I got up slowly. I loitered over my dress. I stared at myself within the looking glass, and I saw Teleny in it instead of myself; and behind him rose our blended shadows, as I had seen them on the pavement the evening before.

      Presently the servant tapped at the door; this recalled me to self-consciousness. I saw myself in the glass, and found myself hideous, and for the first time in my life I wished myself good-looking — nay, entrancingly handsome.

      The servant who had knocked at the door informed me that my mother was in the breakfast-room, and had sent to see if I were unwell. The name of my mother recalled my dream to my mind, and for the first time I almost preferred not meeting her.

      — Still, you were then on good terms with your mother, were you not?

      — Certainly. Whatever faults she might have had, no one could have been more affectionate; and though she was said to be somewhat light and fond of pleasure, she had never neglected me.

      — She struck me, indeed, as a talented person, when I knew her.

      — Quite so; in other circumstances she might have proved even a superior woman. Very orderly and practical in all her household arrangements, she always found plenty of time for everything. If her life was not according to what we generally call ‘the principles of morality,’ or rather, Christian hypocrisy, the fault was my father’s, not hers, as I shall perhaps tell you some other time.

      As I entered the breakfast-room, my mother was struck with the change in my appearance, and she asked me if I was feeling unwell.

      ‘I must have a little fever,’ I replied; ‘besides, the weather is so sultry and oppressive.’

      ‘Oppressive?’ quoth she, smiling.

      ‘Is it not?’

      ‘No; on the contrary, it is quite bracing. See, the barometer has risen considerably.’

      ‘Well, then, it must have been your concert that upset my nerves.’

      ‘My concert!’ said my mother, smiling, and handing me some coffee.

      It was useless for me to try to taste it, the very sight of it turned me sick.

      My mother looked at me rather anxiously.

      ‘It is nothing, only for some time back I have been getting sick of coffee.’

      ‘Sick of coffee? You never said so before.’

      ‘Did I not?’ I said absently.

      ‘Will you have some chocolate, or some tea?’

      ‘Can I not fast for once?’

      ‘Yes, if you are ill — or if you have some great sin to atone for.’

      I looked at her and shuddered. Could she be reading my thoughts better than myself?

      ‘A sin?’ quoth I, with an astonished look.

      ‘Well, you know even the righteous — ‘

      ‘And what then?’ I said, interrupting her snappishly; but to make up for my supercilious way of speaking, I added in gentler tones:

      ‘I do not feel hungry; still, to please you, I’ll have a glass of champagne and a biscuit.’

      ‘Champagne, did you say?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘So early in the morning, and on an empty stomach?’

      ‘Well, then I’ll have nothing at all,’ I answered pettishly. ‘I see you are afraid I’m going to turn drunkard.’

      My mother said nothing, she only looked at me wistfully for a few minutes, an expression of deep sorrow was seen in her face, then — without adding another word — she rang the bell and ordered the wine to be brought.

      — But what made her so sad?

      — Later on, I understood that she was frightened that I was already getting to be like my father.

      — And your father — ?

      — I’ll tell you his story another time.

      After I had gulped down a glass or two of champagne, I felt revived by the exhilarating wine; our conversation then turned on the concert, and although I longed to ask my mother if she knew anything about Teleny, still I durst not utter the name which was foremost on my lips, nay I had even to restrain myself not to repeat it aloud every now and then.

      At last my mother spoke of him herself, commending first his playing and then his beauty.

      ‘What, do you find him good-looking?’ I asked abruptly.

      ‘I should think so,’ she replied, arching her eyebrows in an astonished way, ‘is there anybody who does not? Every woman finds him an Adonis; but then you men differ so much from us in your admiration for your own sex, that you sometimes find insipid those whom we are taken up with. Anyhow, he is sure to succeed as an artist, as all the ladies will be falling in love with him.’

      I tried not to wince upon hearing these last words, but do what I could, it was impossible to keep my features quite motionless.

      My mother, seeing me frown, added, smilingly:

      ‘What, Camille, are you going to become as vain as some acknowledged belle, who cannot hear anybody made much of without feeling that any praise given to another woman is so much subtracted from what is due to her?’

      ‘All women are free to fall in love with him if they choose,’ I answered snappishly, ‘you know quite well that I never piqued myself either on my good looks or upon my conquests.’

      ‘No, it is true, still, today you are like the dog in the manger, for what is it to you whether the women are taken up with him or not, especially if it is such a help to him in his career?’

      ‘But cannot an artist rise to eminence by his talent alone?’

      ‘Sometimes,’ she added with an incredulous