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 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?

[Alcuin's smile gains a bit of a crooked quirk to it, a hint of bitterness aimed mostly at himself.] If a thing cannot be done gracefully, d'Angelines hardly consider it worth doing at all. But you are right- the Service of Naamah is more than the exchange of pleasure for coin. It is a sacred service. We are consecrated to it in her temple, and we are blessed by her for it.

[Or at least, those who were properly called to it. Alcuin never found the grace in her service that others did.]

[The comment about doing things gracefully earns a grin; Henry couldn't possibly agree more, in point of fact. He notes the ambivalence in Alcuin's smile, though.]

What must you make, I wonder, of some of the more puritanical worlds from which some of us hail?

Terre d'Ange is unique in our world as well. There are few who love so freely as we do- we are seen as soft because of it. A nation of whores. [He shrugs and laughs, then grows somber.]

Still, the idea that in some places a man may go to prison for loving another man, or that such a liaison must be kept secret... it is alien to me. It is wrong.

[A rare moment of seriousness from Henry.]

It was not so long ago that such a thing would have earned a man a hanging in England. It is too bad, really too bad, that the state cannot accomodate the tiny detail of one acting as one's nature bids, in so doing harming no one else.

[He shrugs, then his tone lightens.] But where I come from, I expect little else, rules as we are by a widow queen and her stiff-backed ministers, all of whom believe that the lower orders can only be improved by a never-ending parade of virtue.

I believe Terre d'Ange is strengthened by its acknowledgements of such bonds. If kept secret, they will tear people apart, and a nation divided is not at its best. [Not that Terre d'Ange is not divided. His death and Delaunay's are proof of that... but at least it is not divided by that, but rather by politics.]

I am sure the 'lower orders' do not care for such a stance. Morality dictated by the higher classes is often ignored by them.

And they become dreadfully outraged whenever anyone in the nobility dares to transgress—it is quite as if they felt such behaviour was their own preserve, and we are poaching on it.

[Is he joking? Maybe. But maybe not, either. Henry is an aristocrat at heart, after all.]

In the end, though, there is only misery to be found in denying one's own nature. And one can deny it with an excess of virtue, or an excess of vice, but either way it ends poorly.

Or they believe that those who encourage morality should live it. I would not know- our morality is so different from yours.

[He shrugs, taking it fairly lightly.]

'Know thyself', as the Hellenes said. It is a difficult proposition, to face one's nature unblinking and accept it- and even harder to live in accordance with it. One would think it the easiest thing in the world, yet it has great challenges.

It is one of life's great riddles and I cannot claim to have solved it either, despite the liberty afforded me by my station. [He smiles, as if it were of no real consequence, and drinks.] One continues to try, however.

Perhaps the liberty is at fault. In dire circumstances, one does tend to come face-to-face with your own self. [He shrugs, just as casual as Henry.] But in the absence of such unpleasantness, I suppose trying is as good as one can ask.

It has been speculated by another with whom I was discussing similar matters that our placement here presents an unusual opportunity to learn more about ourselves in a setting completely new, with the new perspectives afforded by the others we meet here. Whether that was the intent of this unexpected diversion or not, I must say that it is certainly a benefit.

And have you learned anything interesting, Henry? [He lets his tone slide into flirtatiousness, though he is sincerely interested in what Henry might have discovered about himself.]

I have learned—

[He pauses for dramatic effect—leans forward, as if imparting a great secret to Alcuin, and indeed it very well might be, as he lowers his voice and says with a touch of not entirely feigned embarrassment:]

—what it is to earn a living.