The Connoisseur

Chapter 19 - A Wilde Party

Sophia knew that Oscar Wilde was a fixture at high society parties.  She hadn’t realised quite why until now.

“What do you know of Mr Hartigan here, Miss Deveaux?” he said.

“Everything and nothing,” she replied.  My god, she thought, am I trying to play a game of wit with Oscar Wilde?

“That is the condition of all relationships, my dear, excepting marriages, wherein neither is true, and all is contented banality.”  The audience around Wilde tittered again.  “I am in earnest.  The most solid foundation for marriage is mutual misunderstanding.”

The titters became giggles, and the giggles became gales of laughter, but Wilde went on and on, quote after quote, epigram after epigram, never once hesitating.  Sophia couldn’t believe her ears.  It was almost supernatural.

“Let me tell you, all of you, something of Alexander Hartigan,” he continued, addressing the room.  “He is my very own Comte le Monte Cristo: the only thing about him that is not a mystery is the scale of his bank account.”

Alexander seemed happy to submit to the man’s famous wit, smiling amiably at the jibe.  “And you, sir, are my very own Oscar Wilde, for no other term will do you justice.”

“Justice!  I would not want any term to do so.  I would rather hold on to my masks.  But Miss Deveaux, you have no champagne.  Let us drink to the new year, that it may be as merrily pointless as the old.”

A flute was brought, and the company made the toast, but Sophia felt a strange sadness as she looked on Wilde.  Alexander approached her.

“Are you well?” he said.  “You look pensive.”

“He mentioned justice,” said Sophia.  “I didn’t know much about Mozart or Khosrau, but I know about him.  It’s going to be a terrible year for him.”

“It is.  And it all starts so well.  The Importance of Being Earnest premieres in two months time.  He’s only just finished writing it.”

“We performed it in my first year at uni,” said Sophia.  “I was Miss Prism.  God, 2010 and it’s still as brilliant as it ever was.  And that man there wrote it.  There he is.  And in five months time he goes to jail for loving another man.  It’s fucking barbaric.”

“1895,” Alexander whispered.  “A very strange year.”

Sophia looked at him.  He appeared shaken, staring mournfully at nothing in particular, but then he started.

“For Wilde, I mean,” he said.

“Sure.”  Sophia looked back at the writer, still regaling the other guests.  He was the undisputed king of the room.  “This is weird.  Sorry, it’s amazing too, but it’s weird.  I’m not sure if I can talk to him.”

They were quiet for a time.  Sophia felt Alexander lean closer to her.  She let him take her hand in his.

“Oscar doesn’t think himself invincible, you know,” he said in a low voice.  “He knows that his way of life is abhorrent to some, and I don’t mean only his sexual preferences, but his dress, his manner, his wit.  He’s completely aware of that.  He knows that, given a chance, his enemies will use this society’s notions of justice to destroy him.”

“You must know him quite well.”

“We’ve met before, yes.  And every time I see him, I see the same thing: a man of deep conflict, at war with himself in some ways, and yet still seeking and making joy in everything.  He knows what could be around the corner, but still he writes brilliant, savage comedies, still he comes to parties and entertains.  Art, beauty, enjoyment, those are the things important to him, let the consequences be damned.  So don’t be sad.  Enjoy the night, and enjoy his company, I beg you.  And hopefully you’ll enjoy mine as well.”