Touchstone (Meridian Series) (3 page)

He took note of a bell pull
against the wall by the bed, the pulling of which resulted in the prompt
appearance of a tiny Irish chamber maid, who took his order for tea.
“Thoroughly boiled? Certainly, sir!” On her return, he ordered hot water, also
thoroughly boiled, for his ablutions.

He poured himself a cup of tea,
brewed stiff and black. He spooned in a couple spoons of sugar, and added in a
dose of Miss Plimsy’s from the bottle. He stirred the concoction, screwed his
courage to the sticking point, and drank.

As he savored the potion he
wondered about his clothing again. Perhaps he should do something a little more
adventurous on this once in a lifetime excursion. Why waste his time in a dive
when he might take in some high art at the opera? The thought of seeing an
original play from this era was suddenly overwhelming. But he couldn’t very
well mix in fine company dressed as he was. If the likes of Mr. Curtis had
noticed him, then he would stick out like a proverbial sore thumb at the opera.
What to do? Could he rent something?

When the maid returned to see
that all was in order he asked about clothiers in the vicinity.

“Oh, yes, sir. You’ll want
Madame Tussaud’s for rental of evening dress. There’s a shop over on
King Street
where you can hire for the
night. The usual prices are five shillings for a decent gentleman’s coat, two
for a nice vest, three for trousers, and another five if you’ll be needing an
overcoat, which I would certainly recommend on a night like this.  Of course, a
deposit of the value of the articles has to be left during the hiring.”

“You are most kind,” said
Nordhausen.

“Pray tell me, sir—will you be
off to see H.M.S Pinafore at the Opera Comique? I hear it’s all the rage in
town these days.”

“H.M.S Pinafore?” Nordhausen was
absolutely delighted to hear that this original Gilbert and Sullivan hit was
actually playing in town.

“Why, yes sir. And I hear that
you might even find Mr. Gilbert or Mr. Sullivan about in the clubs thereafter.”
She gave him a wink.

“Indeed,” said Nordhausen, and
the light of discovery was burning fervently in his eyes, fueled by a healthy
dose of old Miss Plimsy’s Restorative.

3

He swirled
the claret in his goblet, enjoying the light play in its ruddy
bowl, and watching the legs ooze down the walls of the glass. It smelled heady,
very alcoholic, rich and fruity. As he raised it to take a sip, the front doors
burst open, and a small crowd poured in, chattering away in the wake of  two
men who walked together arm in arm. He immediately took notice, thrilled that
he had been correct in his choice of club. Adjacent to the Opera hall, this was
a most likely spot for revelry after the show, which he had enjoyed immensely.
Several cast members has slipped away soon after, and he followed one to this
very spot, staking out a small table near the wall where he could enjoy a drink
and let the thrill of his evening subside a bit.

The little group paused for a
moment, then headed for a cluster of chairs and sofas with a low serving table
that would seat them all.

The younger man, perhaps 25
years old, was strikingly tall, several inches over six feet, and with thick
dark brown hair, parted in the middle, and pouring down to his shoulders. He
was dressed in a heavy lavender overcoat, with darker purple
Astrakhan
fur collar and cuffs. Certainly
more outré than anything Nordhausen had seen in
London
so far. He gesticulated languidly as he spoke, his large hands
flapping like thick pale birds, punctuating his speech.

“Such a success,” he was saying,
“I counted
three
acclamations, fully fifty three hilarities, two thrilling movements, four
renewals of applause and two indefinite explosions. The audience was in the
palm of your hand! Perhaps I shall write for the theater…”

The other gentleman was almost
as tall, perhaps twenty years older, and seventy pounds heavier, with black
hair slicked with macassar oil, and an exuberant mustache blossoming between
his nose and lip. He was conventionally dressed for the evening, in black with
a white cravat, and a sharp gold headed walking stick. He was listening
attentively, with a twinkle in his eye, to the torrent of words flowing from
the younger man, as the two made their way to a table in the middle of the
club. He held the chair for one his companions, and said, “I have an
enthusiastic
chef du claque.
  We almost closed six times during the
summer, when the heat was so bad. But more clement weather has revived the
aestivating public.”  Several hangers-on grabbed seats at their table, the
slower ones settling for the surrounding sofas.

The younger man had shed his
overcoat and underneath was dressed for evening as well, although he sported a
green chrysanthemum on his jacket. Nordhausen’s recollection flashed, and he
realized with a start that this must be the young Oscar Wilde! The flower was
his signature accessory, and now everything about the man filled in the details
in Nordhausen’s mind—his height, his eyes, the effusive energy. And something
else…He squinted through the smoky room, thrilled to see that there was a faint
sheen of amber about Wilde, just like the aura that he had seen surrounding
Lawrence!

The telltale glow was a certain
giveaway, and now he saw that it suffused the older man as well. He realized
that this must be another important figure. But who? The maid’s tip had been
right and he was sitting not twenty feet from Prime Movers! He sat straight and
strained to hear the exchanges. At that moment the older man slapped his palm
on the table, and stood up, looking around the club.

“Let us settle this
democratically, Mr. Wilde,” he boomed. “Let us ask an ordinary man in the club
to break our tie vote.”

His eye lit on Nordhausen,
caught staring, and in an instant he called to him.

“Sir, you are the gentleman
nearest our table, you shall settle this dispute between me and my young friend
here!”

Nordhausen was taken aback,
“Sir, I… don’t wish to intrude.”  His heart began to pound. He was supposed to
be invisible. Actually, he wasn’t supposed to be there at all, but he had just
opened his mouth and addressed a Prime Mover! Oh God, what have I gotten myself
into now, he thought, his neck burning with the heat of embarrassment and his
own chiding regret.

“Nonsense, sir, we must have
done with this, I insist you come over and join Mr. Wilde and me!”  He signaled
a waiter and ordered fresh brandies. Nordhausen did not know what to do!
Further hesitation would only cast more suspicion on his presence there. He had
to move; he had to pass for the very thing that this man believed him to
be—just a simple gentleman out for an evening’s entertainment. His legs were rubber
as he stood up, moving timorously to join the group.

“Welcome, kind sir! I am William
Gilbert, and this is Mr. Oscar Wilde, only lately let loose on
London
from academic shackles in
Oxford
, and already making old hands
like me take notice of him.”

Gilbert offered his hand, which
Nordhausen took by instinct. His mind was a blur now. He had just made physical
contact with a Prime, something that was absolutely forbidden under Maeve’s
hard charter. What was he doing? If she ever found out about this he would be
flayed alive. But the  man took hold of his hand with a vigorous shake and
radiated so much conviviality that Nordhausen was entirely taken in. Wilde
stood up and gracefully put out his own hand, which fully engulfed
Nordhausen’s. The warmth of the other man’s palm on his own was electric.

“I… I am Mr. Robert Nordhausen,
of
San Francisco
. It is… a great pleasure to
meet you gentlemen, especially Mr. Wilde, of whom I have heard so much.”
Nordhausen stammered a bit, but he was running on pure reflex now, trying to be
as civil as he could to cover his obvious discomfiture.

Gilbert raised his eyebrows.
“Oscar, your fame spans the globe, and you just fresh out of school.”

“Novelty flies like winged
thought,” Wilde drawled. “It needs no submarine cables to girdle the sphere. I
am the modern Ariel, although more fleshly.”

“Well, Mr. Nordhausen, what
brings you to
London
?” Gilbert asked. “Have you been
here long?”

Nordhausen spun out his lie
about the stolen luggage, to general expressions of sympathy all round. He told
them that he was in
London
to study at the
British
Museum
.

“What do you read, Mr.
Nordhausen?” Wilde inquired. “I have spent countless hours over the last
several years drenched in the dusty miasma of that hall.”

“I … am a student of ancient
Egypt
…” Nordhausen proposed.

“Oh? How ancient, Mr.
Nordhausen,” Wilde inquired. “I, myself, spent a term studying the Ptolemaic
literature.”

Nordhausen certainly didn’t want
to start up a discussion of Hellenistic Greek with Oscar Wilde! He had to keep
his contact to the bare minimum. He had to divert attention away from himself
and melt away into the anonymity of the crowd. The very notion that he was
standing here with two Prime Movers was setting his heart thumping, and he was
already sweating profusely.

“Uh, no, dynastic
Egypt
, before the Greek invasion.”

“Then you are a student of art
as well! Gilbert, you have by chance selected the right man for this dispute,”
he turned to Nordhausen, “for it is about Art… as what is not?”

Gilbert sat back and began to
trim a cigar, while Wilde pondered for a moment how best to put his case.

“Gilbert was educated to the
law,” he began, “So he disdains to call what he produces Art. As a practical
writer, he sees all Art as he sees his own Art, a circumstantial product,
created for the occasion.” He turned to face Gilbert, who by now was huffing on
his cigar to light it. “That is the solipsistic fallacy, as you well know.” He
rounded on Nordhausen. The surrounding group was focused hypnotically on the
large young man with the bright, quick gray eyes. His face was alive as he
spoke, his expression flashing to a different mood on almost every word.

“I, on the other hand, maintain
that, like it or not, Mr. Gilbert is touched by the Muse. Several Muses no
doubt, let me see,  Erato, certainly Thalia, and no doubt you flirt with
Terpsichore.  Art is an attempt by us earthly men to limn the heaven that we
know lies beyond. When we envision heaven, we create art.” 

“A pretty sort of heaven it is,
if one goes by my doggerel,” Gilbert scoffed, puffing great clouds of foul
smelling smoke. “I churn out reams of nonsense, which Sullivan somehow ennobles
and turns into opera. There is the suffering artist, if you will. This present
jolly success of Pinafore was written by Sullivan line by line while he was
suffering the most excruciating pain from his illness. There is a man lashed by
the Muse… and for what? To set music to popular nonsense verse.” He paused.
Nordhausen settled on a chair, his legs still weak, but he  was on the edge of
his seat.

“Poor Sullivan! Dean Dodgson has
been pestering him to write some songs for
Alice
’s Adventures in Wonderland. The Dean has no ear for music, but he
has been told that Sullivan was the man to go to for nonsense. Sullivan cannot
bring himself to respond with more than a broad hint that it shall never be,
but the Dean has no ear for subtlety either, I fear.”

“Perhaps I shall set myself to
comedy, now that I am free from the Classics,” Wilde mused. “We Irish boast a
native humor which you English can only appreciate.”

“Perhaps I shall set myself to
Aestheticism,” Gilbert returned. “I can make aesthetic doggerel as easily as patriotic
sentiment or amatory…” he faded into thought, and suddenly brightened.

“Here, we shall have a contest.
Mr. Nordhausen from
America
will judge it.”

He went on brightly, “Oscar, we
shall each compose at this moment, a verse. You may pray to your Muse for
inspiration, and create Art! I shall do what I do best, and crank out a
quatrain
impromptu
. But!” he held up a finger. “You shall write a comic
verse, and I shall write an aesthetic. And Mr. Nordhausen shall decide if
either one of us is struck with fairy dust, or if we have simply churned out an
occasional piece, on command. What do you say, Mr. Nordhausen?”

Both men looked to Nordhausen.
What could he say, what should he do? “I… wouldn’t dream of judging either one
of you gentlemen,” he began, trying to find a way out of his dilemma.

“Not a word of it, Mr.
Nordhausen,” Wilde interjected. “You are our Everyman. After all, if my Art
does not bring you to want to go to Heaven, I am a failed craftsman.”  He
looked at Gilbert. “The stakes?”

“The next round.”

“The terms?”

“Five minutes by Mr.
Nordhausen’s watch. The first to recite, by coin toss.”

“Agreed.” Gilbert pulled out a large
silver coin. “Your call, Mr. Wilde.”