Constructing Wilde

Part 4

"Well, that is what I was going to—" started Frank meekly.

"Everything's the matter with it! It is the very work of the Devil, I tell you; beyond that, it's damning to the soul of quite possibly everyone who reads it, though I'm sure that your roommate has already sold his soul to the Devil in exchange for these lies and evil works."

"Don't you think that's a bit—"

Canon Miles held up a hand. "Don't start, Frank; I raised you better than this. I simply do not believe that you allowed yourself to be pulled into his bewitchery and sinful words; the lustful behavior in this poetry is an abomination, and it certainly oughtn't to be read in polite society!"

"Sir, I hardly think that it is your right to judge whether my poetry is—" started Oscar, only to be interrupted by the fierce, infuriated Canon Miles as he began to stand up.

"The critics are right to declare this Swinburne and water, young man! But they ought to have gone a step further; Swinburne had the decency to be appropriate in his choice of subject matter, at least. You have perverted everything God made to be good and holy between man and wife. A fie on you, sir! You ought to be ashamed of yourself. This book—" Here, he shook the book in Oscar's face, forcing the young man to sit back down. "Is the equivalent of a man deciding to drink the Thames: pure lunacy and very certainly damaging to one's health, if not fatal. I demand you stop printing it and get it recalled first thing tomorrow morning."

Oscar clenched his fists; he really was at the end of his patience, and he hadn't a mite left to spare for Canon Miles' dreadful behavior. "I will do no such thing!" exploded he. "You haven't the right to demand that of me, and the book has, so far, been successful. Maybe it isn't doing as well as I would like, but despite the disappointment in that quarter, I refuse to give up hope and recall it. It's creating quite the stir, and I can be content with that!"

"Quite the stir?" echoed Canon Miles; his hands dropped, the book thudding to the floor. "It's worse than I thought," bemoaned he. "You haven't sold your soul to the Devil; you are the Devil."

"Oh, a pox on you!" cried Oscar. "Is it not bad enough that the critics make mockery of my work, tear it apart, and throw it back in my face? Must you now denounce me as the Devil for expressing myself as I will? Last I checked, Canon Miles, my poetry didn't have everyone in England decrying it as heinous or grossly indecent as you are doing. The fact of it is, while the critics do say I plagiarized, which I believe every good author likely does, and they do call the quality of the writing inferior, none of them call my work out as grossly indecent. In fact, a good many people like it!" Spinning about, Oscar faced Frank. "Tell him, Frank! Why, Oscar Browning reviewed it favorably just last week in the Academy. Beyond that, Oxford Union solicited a copy for their library."

He chose to forgo mentioning that, on account of the minority's displeasure with his borrowing from Shakespeare, Byron, and Swinburne, the majority had been convinced to return the book to him. He, of course, decried it as a coarse impertinence, but he had determined to buckle down and make the most of it as he could.

"Ah, yes... That's true, Father..." declared Frank, mopping the sweat from his brow.

"I could care less what fop acquisitioned a copy or who reviewed it favorably! It changes nothing about the book's insidious nature."

"Father, mightn't we discuss this in the morning?" inquired Frank wearily. "Oscar and I are exhausted, and we haven't the presence of mind to fully understand the wisdom of your words; I'm certain that in the morning we'll be better suited to comprehend the wealth of knowledge and wisdom you lay before us... In fact, I am positive of that fact." He hiccupped softly, starting to feel sluggish as the whisky he'd imbibed kicked in.