way of feeling that they have in some way made themselves masters of the subject, whereas in truth they have only displayed their failure to match it. It is a ceaseless source of amazement to me that the greater the fool, the more he is compelled to acquaint everyone with his shortcomings.”
“But doesn’t it anger you?” a fair young man asked, his eyes wide and bright.
The darker man raised his eyebrows. “My dear fellow, what would be the point? For some men, another man’s work of art is simply a mirror. They see a reflection of themselves in it, according to their obsession of the moment, and then criticize it for all they are worth, which admittedly is very little, because they do not like what it shows them. So Mr. Henley believes I am advocating the love of beauty above all things, precisely because he has no love for it. It frightens him. It is clear, yet ungraspable, it taunts him by its very elusiveness. In attacking
Another of the company seemed fiercely interested. “Do you believe that, Oscar? You could reduce him to pieces if you wanted to. You have everything with which to do it, the wit, the perception, the vocabulary. .”
“But I don’t want to,” Oscar argued. “I admire his work. I refuse to allow him to turn me into something I do not wish to be. . namely, an artist who has lost sight of art and will descend to criticizing in public, for retaliation’s sake, what he truly admires in private. Or even worse, to deny myself the pleasure of enjoying what he has created because he is foolish enough to deny himself the enjoyment of what I have made. That, my dear friend, is a truly stupid thing to do. And when an ignorant or frightened man calls me immoral it hurts me, but I can tolerate it. But were an honest man to call me stupid, I should have to consider the possibility that he was right, and that would be awful.”
“We live in an age of Philistines,” another young man said wearily, pushing back a heavy quiff of hair. “Censorship is a creeping death, the beginning of a necrosis of the soul. How can a civilization grow except with new ideas, and any man who suffocates a new idea is a murderer of thought and the enemy of the generations who follow him, because he has robbed them of a little of their life. He has diminished them.”
“Well said!” Oscar applauded generously.
The young man blushed with pleasure.
Oscar smiled at him.
“Excuse me, Mr. Wilde. .” Pitt seized the lull in the conversation to interrupt.
Wilde looked up at him curiously. There was no hostility in his eyes, not even a guardedness as to a stranger.
“You agree, sir?” he asked warmly. He looked Pitt up and down, his eyes resting a moment on Pitt’s untidy hair and on his crooked shirt collar, less well cared for than usual in Charlotte’s absence. “Let me assay a guess. You are a poet whom some narrow and grubby-minded critic has censored? Or are you an artist who has painted his view of the reality of the soul of man, and no one will hang it in public because it challenges the comfortable assumptions of society?”
Pitt grinned. “Not quite right, sir. I am Thomas Pitt, a policeman who has misplaced a French diplomat and wondered if you might know where he is.”
Wilde looked thunderstruck, then he burst into a roar of laughter, thumping his fist on the table. It was several moments before he controlled himself.
“Good heavens, sir, you have a dry sense of the absurd. I like you. Please, sit down and join us. Have a glass of wine. It’s dreadful, like vinegar and sugar, but it cannot dampen our spirits, and if you take enough of it, it will no longer matter. Bring your lugubrious friend as well.” He waved his arm towards an empty chair a few feet away, and Pitt drew it up and sat with them. Tellman obeyed also.
A pale young Irishman, addressed by his fellows as Yeats, stared moodily into the distance. The newcomers’ inclusion seemed to displease him.
“Take no notice at all.” Wilde gave them his full attention. “Personally or professionally, may one ask?”
Pitt felt vaguely uncomfortable. He knew Wilde’s reputation, and he did not wish to be misunderstood.
Tellman was quite obviously confused, and it showed in the pink-ness of his cheeks and the stubborn set of his mouth.
“Professionally,” Pitt replied, keeping his eyes steadily on Wilde’s.
“Will any French diplomat do?” the young man with the quiff asked, then giggled cheerfully. “Or do you want a particular one?”
Tellman sneezed.
“I would like a particular one,” Pitt replied. “Henri Bonnard, to be exact. One of his friends has reported him missing, and it seems that if he does not reappear soon he may be in jeopardy of losing his position, which makes me fear he has met with harm.”
“Harm?” Wilde looked from one to the other of them around the table. He turned back to Pitt. “I know Bonnard, slightly. I had no idea he was missing. I confess, I haven’t seen him in. .” He thought for a moment. “Oh. . a couple of weeks, or nearly as long.”
“He was last seen nine days ago,” Pitt said. “In the morning near the Serpentine. He had an altercation with a friend and left rather heatedly.”
“How do you know?” Wilde asked.
“It was observed by a number of people,” Pitt explained. “There was a camera club out taking pictures in the early light. Both men were members.”
Tellman shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“I prefer my visions in words.” Yeats lost interest and turned away.
“A poetry of light and shade,” the man with the quiff observed. “An enormous number of pictures in black- and-white and shades of gray. Better than Whistler, what?”
“But not as good as Beardsley,” someone else said sharply. “A photograph will catch only the obvious, the outside. Beardsley’s drawings will catch the soul, the essence of good and evil, the eternal questions, the paradox of all things.”
Pitt had no idea what the man was talking about. From the look on Tellman’s face, he was no longer even trying to understand.
“Of course,” the man with the quiff agreed. “The brush, in the hands of a genius with the courage to draw whatever he wants, and no bigoted, frightened little censor to stop him, can mirror the torment or the victory within. Anything you dare to think, he can show.”
Someone else leaned forward enthusiastically, almost knocking a glass of wine off the table with his elbow. “The immediacy of it” he declaimed, looking at Wilde. “Your
“The man’s a policeman!” a handsome man warned, waving at Pitt, then banging his fist on the table top and making the glasses jump.
“He won’t arrest you for expressing a civilized opinion,” Wilde assured him, glancing at Pitt with a smile. “He’s a good fellow, and I know he goes to the theatre because I remember now where I saw him before. When that wretched judge was murdered in his box-Tamar MacAuley was on the stage, and Joshua Fielding.”
“That’s right,” Pitt agreed. “You actually supplied me with the pieces of information that indicated the truth.”
Wilde was obviously delighted. “I did? How marvelously satisfying. I wish I could help you find poor Henri Bonnard, but I have no idea where he is or why he should have gone.”
“But you do know him?”
“Certainly. A charming fellow. .”
“Here or in Paris?” the man with the quiff enquired.
“Did you know him in Paris?” Pitt asked quickly.
“No, not at all.” Wilde dismissed Pitt’s question with amusement. “I just went for a short trip. Visited around a little. Superb city, lovely people. . at least most of them. Went to see Proust. Awful!” He waved his arms sweepingly. “He was late for our appointment at his own home-and it was the ugliest house I ever saw. Dreadful! I don’t know how anyone could choose to live in such a place. Anyway, Bonnard didn’t come from Paris. I think his family is in the south somewhere.”
“Have you any idea why he might suddenly leave London?” Pitt looked around the table at each of them.
