tushanshu | III. But I don't like scenes, except on the stage.

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III. But I don't like scenes, except on the stage.

[In which Lord Henry treats the text feature as if it were a telegram service.]

[Text, private to Dorian Gray]
[This message is sent after two days' discreet waiting after Toby's arrival. Henry is not blind and definitely noticed Dorian's reaction, but (wisely, probably) did not interfere, and has allowed time to pass before approaching Dorian—and has also been studiously avoiding Toby. He has no idea whether his friend will answer, but even if he doesn't, that will tell him much of what he needs to know.]

Are you well? I do not wish to intrude, of course, but I could not help but notice a certain amount of recent excitement.

[Text, private to Alcuin nó Delaunay]
I hope this finds you well—would you be available to dine or for a drink sometime soon? I should like to hear of your progress with our yellow book.

[Open action nice choice and not so nice, post-trainwreck choice]

[ETA: Disturbing conversations about murder and possible eventual bad behaviour within.]

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[Henry is not usually given to punctuality, but he actually arrived a little early to ensure a table, smoothing the way to a good one with a few extra juulan. When Alcuin arrives, he will find Henry waiting graciously by the door.]

[Alcuin arrives on time, trained into him by long habit. When someone has paid a thousand ducats for a night with you, they generally want you to arrive punctually.

He smiles at Henry, offering a hand.]

Good evening, Henry. You look well.

[Henry takes Alcuin's hand warmly, beaming.]

And you are exquisite as ever, dear boy. Our table is ready, I believe.

[That calls up a pretty blush.]

And you are as kind. Lead the way, I would hate to keep you waiting.

[Henry escorts Alcuin to the table, where a bottle of wine and a pair of glasses are already set out. A kedan waiter glides over as soon as they're seated, and Henry orders for them both, consulting with Alcuin on his own preferences. As the waiter leaves, Henry begins to fill their glasses, Alcuin's first.]

I am so very pleased to see you—and the more so, if possible, to learn that you've finished M. Huysmans's book.

[Alcuin orders something new- he likes trying the new food, so different from d'Angeline cuisine- and waits for Harry to fill his wine before taking a sip.]

I have, in fact. I spoke a little with Dorian about it, but that was before I was quite finished. It was very interesting.

[Henry recalls well Dorian's own first encounter with that book, and can't help smiling at the memory.]

I suppose he may have told you that I gave it to him once, some time ago. He nearly missed a dinner appointment with me on account of it, as I recall.

He did not mention that it was you who gave it to him, though he did say he had read it so often that he has it entirely memorized. [He shrugs, and then laughs.] Did he find it so absorbing? I had a difficult time because of differences in language... it was still very interesting indeed.

It is a book that either entirely fascinates or completely repels the reader; there is little middle ground. You may easily guess where Dorian found himself—and I too, for that matter. I imagine some of the references might have been unfamiliar to you, perhaps—such as Salomé, Moreau's paintings of whom were so entrancing to the protagonist?

[Alcuin nods in agreement.] Yes, the music and art and religion were unfamiliar to me and I feel as though I lost the opportunity for a great deal of understanding, since I could not place the references.

[He pauses to take a sip of wine, his face grave as he thinks.] But it seems to me that it was a very sad book- I did not find myself repulsed by him, nor did I envy the freedom he had to conduct himself... no, I was saddened by him the most, I think.

[Oh, very interesting indeed.]

Is that so? I am glad that you were not repulsed, at least, but I am curious as to what saddened you.

[Henry has ideas, but it's always more interesting to hear someone else's first.]

[Alcuin takes his time answering, thinking about it.]

It seems that his desires trapped him, rather than freeing him. He could find some relief, but it was always so temporary- and often seemed to worsen his state rather than remedy it.

[Henry nods, pleased with this answer.]

I have always felt that his isolation was fatal—nearly literally so. It is the main element of his character that I find tragic, for the prospect of living in such splendid isolation is honestly quite frightening, no matter what the indulgences or experiences surrounding one.

[Alcuin nods in firm agreement.] He attempted to live up to an ideal that he constructed for himself, but what he wanted was impossible, and so utterly artificial. He could trick his mind, I think, but he could not trick his soul- there is no wonder that he continually lost himself in memory. He craved contact, no matter how he denied it.

You are quite correct in your understanding—one cannot miss, after all, his memories of his old acquaintances, the people whom he met. Society may have repelled him, but how large it looms in his memory all the same! [He sipped at his wine before continuing.] Des Esseintes has only completed half of the puzzle. One must not be afraid of the senses, or of ideas that are dangerous and strange—but one cannot live, cannot truly live, without the company of others.

And really, you can turn an idea about in your own head and never find a new facet of it, but even an ignorant comment can make you examine it in a new way. Secluding yourself seems to me an excellent way to stagnate, rather than to develop. [He shrugs. He has always rather defined himself by other people- or at least one particular person. He can't imagine doing without company altogether.]

He seems to be lost in his past, surrounding himself with what he has found there and expecting to come to some new revelation from it- which is clearly impossible.

Quite so. The fate of his poor tortoise, so early on, prefigures the eventual fate of the experiment, I think. Such a surfeit cannot be sustained forever. Des Esseintes nearly smothers under the weight of his own ornamentation, like the tortoise.

[A brief pause as their food arrives; after a moment, Henry continues.]

On the last occasion of my reading it, I found myself unusually struck by his attempt to create a murderer. What did you make of that?

Yes, excellently put. Though the experimentation was quite his choice, unlike the poor tortoise which could have no understanding of its plight. [Alcuin smiles at the waiter as their food is brought, pausing to consider the question before he takes a bite.]

That was a very strange passage. I found myself confused as to why- for the sense of power? Simply to see if it was possible to mould another's mind in such a way? I thought it interesting that he does not give a thought to the idea that the boy might have given up the treat willingly after three months.

[A whimsical smile touches his lips.] Though sixteen is hardly too young for such pastimes. That is when I made my debut in the profession- and most gentlemen of Terre d'Ange spend the night of their sixteenth birthday in the Night Court, if they are in the City.

He makes a number of silly mistakes in that project, I must say. There is, to be sure, a sense of accomplishment in guiding the intellectual and spiritual development of another [and Henry should know—!], but des Esseintes' goal is actually quite coarse—and he makes the critical error of failing to understand his subject. He thinks he does; he makes many assumptions, some of which may be entirely true—but he never fully understands what the boy's true desires might actually be.

[He's perilously close to revealing his own methods, whether he realises it or not, but he can't quite help it; he really does think the character was a silly ass in the way he went about his whole project—practically a dilettante. He shrugs, takes a bite of a morsel of food before following Alcuin's adjustment of the subject.]

Ah, at sixteen I was at Eton and had scarcely learned to dream of such things. Though that was the age at which I first read the poetry of Baudelaire, and that taught me much that I did not know.

Edited 2013-02-22 16:45 (UTC)

Indeed he does not, and thus he lacks any real power over him. It is amateurish to move on so little information- but then, the whole project seemed to be embarked upon on a moment of whim, is it not so? He strove to ruin a boy's life for nothing more than a passing fancy.

[He doesn't fail to notice that Henry speaks like one who has experience in the matter, though it does not bother him greatly. If he knows Henry is attempting to influence him, can he not choose whether or not to allow it?

Reminded of his food, he takes a bite. It is quite good.]

By the time I was sixteen I was well-educated in them. I had two years of learning on the subject before I was ever touched. I have the Three Thousand Joys and the Journey of Naamah memorized, of course.

A whim or a caprice is not inherently a terrible thing—but one must choose one's whims carefully. [It is a paradox, but Henry eats paradoxes for breakfast.] And he did not, the silly man.

[An amused, intrigued smile, as Henry regards Alcuin over the edge of his glass as he sips his wine.]

That is quite a comprehensive catalogue of joys. Can there be many surprises left after you have memorised them?

Oh, I would certainly not accuse all of being so. [The paradox makes him laugh.]

[Alcuin lowers his eyes and smiles, a fond smile, remembering Delaunay, perhaps.]

I think so. The surprise- and the joy, betimes- comes in the reactions that you bring out. Everyone is different, even when, ah, stripped to such a level.

Are they? In all honest I have sometimes felt that one body is very like another to a certain extent—but then, it is that synthesis of body and mind that makes the difference, is it not?

It truly is. I have seen quite a few patrons, and never once did any want just the same thing- while my learning gave me a base from which I could understand how to please them, it was only a foundation, not the whole of the task.

I notice you use the word "patron", where others might say "client" or—well, there are any number of less graceful terms, are there not? [He seems to dismiss those terms with n airy gesture.] It implies to me something more than a mere transaction. Or do I interpret too much?

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action (that is probably for the best, poor dear)

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