Constructing Wilde

Part 3

"I daresay you live by that principle too," said Oscar wryly.

"Well, I should hope not. Life would be awfully mundane if one did everything one ought. No, no... I said I swear by the principle; I don't believe I could live it... Though I often revoke that belief when it's convenient."

Oscar shook his head, bemused. Frank had an awfully bad habit of not following his own advice; but then, Oscar had long since discovered that this was a habit that was fashionably assumed by most in the upper circles of society. No one was who they seemed, and he supposed he had better not fault them for it; after all, his entire life revolved around making of himself whatever was sure to be well-received by his audience. Naturally, he wasn't in a position to judge.

"Well, in that case, I suppose I'll leave it as is. Shall I read another?" inquired Oscar.

Frank waved a languid hand. "No, no... You need to get out of this stuffy old office for a bit, my friend; and naturally, your mother has impeccable timing, as always. She's waiting in the sitting room."

Oscar blinked, dropping the manuscript back onto the desk and running a hand through his hair. "Why, whatever does she want?"

"Probably to hear a bit of that rousing poetry of yours. Hadn't you better bring it along? You wanted an audience, and I daresay you have one. She'll not balk at the titillating nature of your work, I wager."

"You'd better not wager, Frank," warned Oscar. "You're quite penniless enough as it is, and I don't doubt that you'll lose all of the remaining allowance you get if you do any more betting or gambling."

"Ah, but this is a bet I'm guaranteed to win," cried Frank, clapping his hands together.

"I should think so, but as I am also quite penniless at the moment, I simply must decline. Hadn't we better just see what she came by for instead of bickering over silly things like wagers?"

"Well," said Frank rather doubtfully. "I suppose we ought."

"I knew you'd see reason," murmured Oscar, collecting a few more of the poems from his desk and exiting the room.

Frank followed after a moment's hesitation; he really didn't hesitate long, of course, because he quite liked Mrs. Wilde's endearing company. And that was only natural because most of England found the "Speranza" as she called herself, to be a most delightfully entertaining woman; there were always those harridans who decried her for her way of dressing in haphazardly constructed outfits made of various odds and ends attached to random garments, but who truly listened to them anyway? Frank certainly didn't, and he sincerely doubted that anyone else did. Not that he paused to think about that thought or why he held that opinion for long; Frank wasn't much of an introspective person unless the subject matter was food; or women, as Frank, ever the ladies' man, adored them. Or so he led everyone to believe. One couldn't be quite sure what was going on in that man's head at any given point; that is, if anything was, in fact, going on at all.

The two stepped into the sitting room together with warm smiles and genuine greetings. After the usual pleasantries were over, Oscar asked, "Mother, it is wonderful to see you, but if it wouldn't be too rude to inquire of you... Why did you come?"

"Can't a woman visit her own son?" inquired Mrs. Wilde tritely.

"Well, I daresay she can. But you always have a purpose, mother dear. So what is it this time?" inquired Oscar mildly.

"I came to hear your recitation of the poetry you're putting into that volume. I am, naturally, completely confident that you don't need to edit further to have the work ready, but it never does harm to double-check the reception you get from an unbiased audience. Indeed, their opinion is quite indispensable, I've found. So? Go on then!" She settled back onto the chair by the fire and waited.