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.”
Sophia laughed quietly through the lump in her throat, and rested her head on his shoulder. She caught Oscar’s eye from across the room: he smiled, but sadly.
Midnight drew on and as the champagne flowed the party relaxed. Sophia spoke with a number of the guests on various idle topics, but Oscar Wilde remained the centre of attention. He was only usurped in the role by the unveiling of a new marvel, the American Graphophone. Sophia laughed at the scratchy music that it played, but the guests were delighted, dancing to the big band tunes and homespun songs on the cylinder recordings. Alexander approached her as she sat on the sidelines.
“Will you dance with me?” he said.
“I can’t,” said Sophia, laughing. “Not to this. Sorry! It’s too much, I...” A reedy voice, like a leprechaun on helium, piped up on the record, and she heaved with laughter.
“It is rather comical,” he replied, wandering off. Sophia watched him: he approached the host of the party, who was operating the graphophone, and spoke quietly with him. At the end of the next song, the host spoke up.
“That is all the recordings I have, ladies and gents,” he said in an American drawl. “Have we no more musicians in the house, or must Mr. Wilde keep us entertained all by himself?”
Wilde, still sprawled on the sofa, raised a glass. “No no, let us have music. Music makes one feel so romantic. At least, it always gets on one’s nerves. Ah, they are the same thing nowadays.”
“Then I shall play,” said a well-dressed young man, rising from his seat near Wilde. Sophia saw Wilde’s eyes following the youth, and as he began to play gentle dances on the grand piano, she saw every glance they made at one another. She smiled.
She was so absorbed by them that it took her a moment to notice Alexander stood before her, holding out a hand.
“Is this music more to your liking?” he said.
“Perhaps,” she replied. “I warn you, I’m a bad dancer. Maybe in a nightclub after a few shots I’m okay, but not this.”
“Then I shall teach you, if you’ll allow me.”
“Oh,” said Sophia, acting demurely, “I’ll allow you.”
She took his hand, stood, and they danced slowly together. There were only three or four other couples, but Sophia didn’t notice them. She felt Alexander’s strong but gentle hands guiding her by the shoulder, and the closeness of his face to hers. When she made a misstep, she felt his leg brush against hers; an electric shiver passed through her. She took in his full appearance more than she had ever done so before, and noticed the contours of his body beneath his close shirt. He was warm, hot to the touch.
“This is impossible,” she whispered, swaying with him. “I’ll never stop saying it. I’m dreaming.”
“What of it?” said Alexander. His voice seemed more resonant than before. “Dream on, if it pleases you. I’ll keep dreaming with you.”
They dreamed and danced together for a few more minutes, until the melody came to a gentle cadence. Alexander and Sophia sat together in a quiet corner. They held hands. Alexander toyed with her fingers and palm, brushing his own across them; Sophia felt every millimetre of every stroke.
“I was wondering,” he said, as a new, lilting tune began on the piano, “Whether you’d like to stay in London tonight? We could take a cab, find a hotel, wake up on the first morning of a new year. It would be more of a normal date than simply vanishing through a door into my house.”
Sophia looked into his eyes – yes, she thought – and spoke. “How about we get to the end of the night, see how we feel. And then,” she whispered in his ear, “You can try your luck.”
Alexander laughed, just barely. “I look forward to it.”
“Ladies and gents,” said their American host, “I hate to interrupt your dancing, but we’re barely a minute away from 1895. Who needs champagne? Ready your glasses, mesdames et messieurs!”
A cheer went up and the alcohol flowed more freely. “Hush, hush!” whispered the revellers, waiting for the moment, and near-silence descended. The only thing Sophia could hear was the ticking of the clock.
“This suspense is unbearable,” said Wilde loudly. “I only hope it lasts forever.”
The silence lasted a second longer, and then the whole party dissolved into snorting laughter. Bells began to ring midnight and a great raucous toast went up.
“To 1895! A Happy New Year!”
“Happy New Year!” cried Sophia. Damn Victorian convention, she thought, and she pulled Alexander towards her and kissed him.
It was only when she let go and glanced over his shoulder that she saw Wilde staring straight at her, an entirely serious, sober look in his eye. He nodded towards the door, and mouthed ‘Speak with me.’
A less welcome shiver passed through Sophia, but, intrigued, she waited for the right moment. Wilde rose at last from the sofa that had been his throne all evening and departed by a side door. Ten minutes later, when Alexander was otherwise engaged, Sophia followed him.
She found him quite alone in a small, dark sitting room, staring out of the window. His long face was lit by the orange lamps outside, and it made his face look old and full of care. Sophia was shocked at the contrast.
“Mr. Wilde?” she said.
He did not turn to face her. “Another year rolls round, my dear. Good Lord, another year.”
There was a long silence. At last he turned to her, and smiled. “I do not always speak in epigrams. It is but a mask.”
“You said you wanted to speak with me.”
“I do. I always pass on good advice. It is the only...oh, hang it. I wished to speak to you about Mr Hartigan. He is your paramour, yes?”
Sophia coughed. “I’m not sure if that’s the right word.”
“Then you are. Miss Deveaux, I have a few words of warning for you. A dalliance with that man is a dangerous one, considering his circumstances.”
Sophia gulped. “And what circumstances are those?” she whispered.
“That he is obscenely wealthy.”
She breathed a sigh of relief. “What? Yes. Wealthy. Of course. What difference does that make?”
“Ha! I jest, my dear,” said Oscar matter-of-factly. “I mean his circumstances as a time-traveller.”
*
It looks like someone else knows Alexander's secrets, then! It seemed only right that an aesthete like Oscar Wilde should know, and to be completely unfazed by it. How do you think Sophia might react to this, and what are the implications of other people knowing about Alexander? Please vote and comment if you enjoyed the chapter!
The picture is of course Wilde himself. This chapter is rammed full of genuine quotes of his. The music is Dvorak's Slavonic Dances from 1878: the piece at 24:28 is the sort that I imagine being played whilst Sophia and Alexander were dancing (at least the quiet bits are - some of it gets quite quick and lively!)