Constructing Wilde

Part 3

And to the altar each man brought some goodly offering,

A beechen cup brimming with milky foam,

A fair cloth wrought with cunning imagery

Of hounds in chase, a waxen honey-comb

Dripping with oozy gold which scarce the bee

Had ceased from building, a black skin of oil

Meet for the wrestlers, a great boar the fierce and white-tusked spoil

Stolen from Artemis that jealous maid

To please Athena, and the dappled hide

Of a tall stag who in some mountain glade

Had met the shaft; and then the herald cried,

And from the pillared precinct one by one

Went the glad Greeks well pleased that they their simple vows had done."

"That is interesting, certainly, my son. Which piece is that?" inquired his mother.

"I titled it Charmides."

"Lovely name... Well, what else have you got?" asked she.

"How about 'In The Gold Room'?"

"It promises to be interesting," said she. "Read on."

"Her ivory hands on the ivory keys

Strayed in a fitful fantasy,

Like the silver gleam when the poplar trees

Rustle their pale-leaves listlessly,

Or the drifting foam of a restless sea

When the waves show their teeth in the flying breeze.

Her gold hair fell on the wall of gold

Like the delicate gossamer tangles spun

On the burnished disk of the marigold,

Or the sunflower turning to meet the sun

When the gloom of the dark blue night is done,

And the spear of the lily is aureoled.

And her sweet red lips on these lips of mine

Burned like the ruby fire set

In the swinging lamp of a crimson shrine,

Or the bleeding wounds of the pomegranate,

Or the heart of the lotus drenched and wet

With the spilt-out blood of the rose-red wine."

"Very fine, very fine!" cried his mother. "You've done a splendid job, my dear son. When shall you take all of this down to be printed?"

"By the end of the week, I should think," said Oscar, blushing. "I hope to have it distributed around England within a few months' time."

"And I daresay you shall! This is bound to create quite the sensation; you'll be the talk of England, I wager... Think of it, Oscar! This might be the very thing that sets off your career as a poet. You'll succeed where your poor brother, Willie, failed, bless his heart. I shan't see another of my sons work for his own ruination, I should think. No, not if all this goes as I envision. But now, I simply must be off, Oscar, darling. I'll see you round for dinner," said his mother with a winsome smile.

"That you shall, mother, dear." Oscar saw her to the door with a warm smile and hearty farewell.

"See? What did I tell you, old boy?" cried Frank, slapping him on the back. "A sensation, she says! You're bound to make it big, she thinks. Same as I told you, but now there's less doubt, I should think, in that queerly serious head of yours; you can't have doubts when your own mother, the famous Speranza, backs this up. I say you go down to that printer's shop tomorrow and get it printed. Why wait? It just takes up time for no good reason; it's time wasted that could be used to print and circulate your work!"

Oscar frowned. "That is true... And you truly think it's fine as is?"

"Oscar, dear boy, you revised and rewrote those poems well over ten times when you first wrote them. If you add more, you'll make a mess of the matter; remember what I said about improving a good thing? Well, that's what you're trying to do. And you'll only botch the whole thing if you do that. So you hadn't better it anymore; and you'd best take it down to Bogue's for printing first thing tomorrow."

Sighing, Oscar nodded. "I suppose it's only the truth you tell; for once, I do believe you're right. So I shall take your advice and go round to Bogue's tomorrow to give him the work to be printed."

"That's the spirit!" cried Frank jovially, prancing off.

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