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

Entry tags:

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.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[You're in luck, Alcuin.]

Well—unless you are otherwise engaged after we are finished here, my suite is not too far from here. Perhaps you might join me for a drink, and I can give you the book?

I am not engaged- that sounds like a most excellent idea.

[He smiles at Henry's kind invitation and remembers to apply himself to his food. It really is quite good.]

[The rest of dinner passes with continued conversation on matters literary; Lord Henry offers an anecdote or two about the writers and artists he knew in London, though one might note that the name Oscar Wilde never really comes up. Afterward they adjourn to Henry's suite; once settled, he pours himself a snifter of brandy and offers one to Alcuin. Despite te strong wine that accompanied dinner, Henry still very much has his wits about him; his constitution in that regard is strong as only a 19th-century Englishman's can be.]

[Alcuin is quite interested, offering anecdotes in exchange- but mostly listening with flattering attention to Henry's stories. He's realized that the wine is quite a bit stronger than he is used to, and his pale cheeks are slightly flushed. He has never been much for drinking, being too used to keeping his senses sharp, but there is no reason to be rude and turn the liquor away here- he is not serving Delaunay's will anymore. He accepts the brandy with a laugh.]

I really don't know if I should... but thank you.

Should! [Henry sits down across from Alcuin, letting him have the couch all to himself while Henry takes the armchair.] What a terrible word, "should". So many wonderful possibilities of living die stillborn in that word, or in its twin phrase "should not".

[A benign smile.]

That being said, you are not required to drink all that you are offered. Indeed, I would not require anything of you, save to tell me if I am somehow, inconceivably boring you.

[Because here's the thing: Henry isn't actually planning to get Alcuin drunk to take advantage of him. That's boring and easy and so often leads to dreadful scenes later. If he intends to let Alcuin become intoxicated—and his exact intent is debatable—it is only to see what he will do under the circumstances.]

You are right, that is inconceivable. [He laughs at the idea- and a little at Henry's confidence. It's not that he's wrong, but it is rare to hear something so openly. He admires frankness, so it pleases him.] But I will be certain to tell if you if the impossible occurs.

[He considers Henry's first words, swirling the amber liquid in its glass, still smiling.] I hesitate because I know I am unused to drinking. I have seen enough men make fools of themselves thanks to wine and I would hate to do the same.

And this is why one must choose one's friends and one's enemies carefully—to have a reliable judge of when one is becoming a bore.

[He's enjoying watching Alcuin, frankly.]

Most men who make fools of themselves when drunk were already fools to begin with; sobriety merely allowed them to conceal the fact with greater ease.

I believe one's enemies may be more valuable than one's friends in such a capacity. Friends are often too soft-hearted.

[Alcuin is generally a sight worth watching. He takes a sip, then sets the glass down, laughing.]

But perhaps I am a fool and have only been concealing it. As you say, it is much easier to conceal such traits when sober.

Which is why I always choose my enemies for their wits. Not a one of them may be said to be a fool. But you have not struck me as a fool at all, Alcuin, even secretly, so I think you have not much to fear.

One may have wit and yet be a fool. I have seen many of the kind. [And fooled many of the kind. Being in bed with them exposes their true natures even better than wine.] But I think you are not so soft-hearted as to lie to spare my feelings, even though we are friends.

[Henry laughs, good-naturedly.] I never spare anyone's feelings, not even my own. There are so many more interesting reasons to lie to another.

Though you have been nothing but kind to me. [Alcuin realizes that saying he is not kind-hearted could have been taken as rude, but at least Henry did not seem to find it so.] I prefer to be honest, but there are many occasions when a lie is more suitable.

[Henry wasn't insulted in the slightest. He is at least self-aware enough to not add "excessive kindness" to the regular list of his virtues, and what's more, he isn't particularly ashamed of this fact.]

And let us not forget that sometimes a good lie makes a better story. Truth often has very little narrative charm.

[Is that a very long list, Henry?

Alcuin looks like he might want to argue that, but he's not up to talking about his life and the way it really could be a Hellene tragedy.]

And of course the narrative is of great importance, even in our lives.

[That depends on who you ask.]

Of course. How else are we to find meaning? Not everyone understands that, of course—I have known far too many women who insist on a sixth act to every play when it comes to their romances. They would have Cordelia rise from Lear's arms and explain with a song that it was all a terrible misunderstanding.

[Forgetting, briefly, that this reference might be meaningless to Alcuin.]

[Alcuin frowns, trying to puzzle out the reference on his own, but gives up.]

Forgive me, Henry, I don't think I know the play you're speaking of. But I suppose the narrative is quite a lot easier to discern from the outside, when you can see the threads as they weave together. From the inside... from the inside, things can seem meaningless, unless you elect to apply a pattern of your own.

[Oh, hey, how about that brandy? He needs it. And takes a good-sized drink of it.]

Can we perhaps speak of something else?

A popular tragic play in my world. [He leans forward slightly, a look of actually very genuine concern on his face.] I do apologise, Alcuin, both for the reference and for distressing you. I did not mean to cause you upset.

[Another swallow, draining the glass, manages to bolster his spirits a little- or at least blur the edges of his emotions so that they're not so painful. That stuff is pretty strong.]

There is no need for apologies, Henry. I know you meant no harm, and you could not have known... I did not realize it would be so upsetting.

[Henry leans forward to put his hand on Alcuin's, a gesture of comfort.]

Our lives are a slow accretion of memory and effect, and all that we are is embedded in our very cells. It is no wonder that strange memories may be awakened by a strain of music, a philosophical musing, or a turn of phrase. The scent of lilacs in a summer garden, and for a moment I am thirty again.

[Alcuin turns his hand upwards, letting his slim, cool fingers wrap around Henry's, if he will allow it. He does need the comfort.]

I am reminded of that part of Huysmans, where Des Esseintes works with his scents. It is strange- I miss the scents of Terre d'Ange nearly more than anything else. [Delaunay and the rest of the household being the exception, of course.] It is a constant reminder of how alien it is.

[Henry more than allows the handclasp; he welcomes it, though his expression remains one of calm sympathy.]

The sense of smell is perhaps the most primitive of all our senses; some would say scent and touch are the first things we perceive before we even have the capacity to think. It is no wonder that you would miss the scents of your home.

Do you miss anything? [Yes, this is a firm and blatant attempt to change the subject now. He doesn't let go of Henry's hand, though.] I am curious to know more of your home- I think I have talked quite enough of mine.

[The hint is gracefully taken.]

My friend Basil has a marvellous garden, with the most beautiful lilacs. He is a painter, and what he lacks in personality he more than compensates for in sheer talent—though of late he seems less inspired. [At this point, Basil is merely missing for Henry; he is sure that his friend will turn up somewhere eventually.] But it is a beautiful place to spend a summer afternoon, and this city is sadly lacking in lilacs.

[It's much appreciated.]

Parts of this city are lovely, but it seems that to see any extraordinary greenery, one must visit the Wood sector. I agree, our lack of lilacs is truly unfortunate.

I regret also the lack of a proper countryside. There is no proper escape from civilisation here, and worse, nowhere for proper country-house intrigue. We must manufacture our scandals her in the city, it seems, rather than letting them grow in the fresh air.

[He's completely unserious now.]

action

action

action (fast forward okay?)

action (that's fine!)

action

action

action

action

action

action

action

action

action

action

action

action

action

action

action

action

action

action

action

action

action