John Schettler - Touchstone

But what was he to do? Should he turn and rush away into the night and end the contamination here and now? A scene like that would make quite a stir. Should he play out the game, extricate himself as pleasantly as possible and then slip away? That course made more sense to him. In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought, and he swallowed hard as the two men began to write.

Wilde sat at their table, while Gilbert retired to the bar. Wilde snatched a napkin, and drew a slim golden pencil from his pocket and began to scribble. A small coterie had followed Gilbert, and Nordhausen could hear muffled laughter from across the room. Wilde’s junto was standing around him in silence, watching the Master work. He scratched out lines in green pencil, sat back pensively, ran his fingers through his long hair, wrote some more, crossed out the end of a line, closed his eyes and steepled his fingers, wrote some more. He was a man in the grip of a creative urge. To Nordhausen, he did not look like a man who was writing comic verse. On the other hand, the hilarity from Gilbert’s group was various, from chuckles, to snickers to howls.

Gilbert was done. Nordhausen said, “30 seconds, Mr. Wilde.”

“Thank you, Mr. Nordhausen, I shall be done presently.”

At five minutes, Nordhausen tapped the brandy snifter, and called, “Time, gentlemen.” The irony of his statement remained his own private torment for the moment.

Gilbert came back over and settled himself in his chair. “Well, Oscar, what has the Muse of Comic Verse dispatched into your noodle?”

Wilde stood to declaim, his right arm behind his back, his left holding the napkin. He smiled puckishly, and began:

With a flourish, he dropped the napkin on the table, paused briefly, bowed, and delighted applause broke from the listeners. Gilbert nodded and clapped, and rose to his feet.

“Very clever, indeed, Mr. Wilde. Self-deprecation is the surest source of humor. Your lines and words are short, the rhythm is rollicking, and you have a satisfactory ending… all in all a workmanlike production. Writing for the musical theatre, you may want to use a longer line, for the sake of your melodist. Do you maintain this is the inspiration of the Muse or a vision of heaven?”

“A vision of heaven to the extent it describes me, I am sure!” Wilde drawled. “I make no extravagant claims for this trifle. Indeed, this club is hardly the Sanctum of Beauty; I am working at a considerable disadvantage here. But let us see what you have written – an aesthetic quatrain perhaps?”

Gilbert grasped his hands together, and pressed them to his bosom. He looked up wistfully into the vague middle distance, heaved a deep breath and sighed.

He dropped his hands, lowered his eyes for a moment, then bobbed his head up with a huge grin. His cronies burst into applause, and howled at Wilde’s clique, who were not quite certain how to take it.

“Is that feeling? Is that sensitive, Mr. Wilde? As Captain Corcoran says: Though I’m anything but clever, I can talk like that forever!”

Wilde’s grin equaled Gilbert’s. “Mr. Nordhausen, Gilbert’s verse is surely inspired. I wish I had said that!”

Gilbert rejoined, “You will, Oscar, you will!”

Both men turned again to Nordhausen.

“So, Mr. Nordhausen, who is the victor? Who wins the golden apple of the Hesperides?”

Nordhausen despaired.

“You gentlemen have given me quite a challenge. Give me five minutes on the glass, and I will award the prize.”

“Fair enough!”

Nordhausen retired from the group. What on earth was he to say? How could he make a critical evaluation of Oscar Wilde, just out of college, with his entire output ahead of him. Could he say anything which might help the poor man in the horrible future he was going to find? What if he said the wrong thing, and put off Wilde from comedy entirely? That would change everything!

He didn’t imagine Gilbert was as sensitive as Wilde, but how could he judge a man who had taken the world by storm and would churn out brilliant hit after brilliant hit for the next couple decades?

He dug into his pocket and took a pull of Miss Plimsy’s. Thank you, Mr. Curtis. A bit of chemical eloquence. Brrrrr…. nasty stuff straight out of the bottle. And the pesky numbness in the mouth. He’d have to articulate carefully.

He heard the ding, and Gilbert called to him. He nervously walked over to the table, where the entire group, as one, stared at him.

Gilbert handed him a fresh brandy, which he slogged to rinse out Miss Plimsy’s potion. Wilde, the wild Irishman, drank whiskey.

It was show time.

“Mr. Gilbert,” he bowed, “Mr. Wilde,” he turned and bowed.

“This is a hard task you have given me. If I understand it, Mr. Wilde maintains that Art is inspired by a Muse, that it comes through us from something above and beyond, and that the artist drifts with every passion till his soul is a stringed lute on which all winds can play.”

“Well enough put for my side.”

“Mr. Gilbert says all art is occasional, and to prove his point, whipped out his little aesthetic ditty. He says he can do that all day long, and I do believe it.”

“Perhaps we should have an epic competition, eh, Wilde? You can do the Renaissance and I can do the Restoration!”

Nordhausen hurried on, still fretting over every word he spoke. “It is clear that Mr. Wilde produced, on command, a comic verse, which excited laughter in your group, and general approbation. So it would appear that Mr. Gilbert is the winner.”

“Hah, the practical American! I did choose rightly! Let’s have three cheers for me! What ho?”

“On the other hand….” Nordhausen interrupted gingerly.

Gilbert stopped in mid-huzzah. “There is more? Is there a prize for runner-up?”

“On the other hand, no mere mortal can do what Mr. Gilbert does. I could not, no one else in this room can do what you do, sir.”

Gilbert bowed, puzzled. “You honor me, sir, but what you say is no doubt true, although I am forced to acknowledge it.”

“So, if no mere mortal can do what you do, it is clear that your work is inspired, and we may as well attribute the inspiration to a Muse, as to any other source. So, I must say that Mr. Wilde is correct, and is also the winner.”

The group sat hushed for a beat, as they tried to work out the logic of Nordhausen’s exposition. At the exact same moment, Wilde and Gilbert burst into laughter, and stood applauding in acclamation. The rest of the group joined them, and Nordhausen found himself the focus of their adulation. He smiled, pleased that he had come up with something to reward the effort of each man. Perhaps I’ve set it right, he thought hopefully as he fingered his pocket watch. Internally he shrugged his shoulders, dislodging the spectral Maeve from the perch she had occupied for the better part of the evening. The hearty cheers and the glass of champagne he accepted served to ease his troubled conscience.

“But my word!” Nordhausen took a sip of champagne and set the glass down. “I’ve just had a look at the time and I really must be off.”

The gleeful gathering protested, but Nordhausen was determined to extricate himself before he was forced to speak another word. The verse that Gilbert had spun out still haunted him, for it carried the seed of his greatest fear. The dust of this earthly today was indeed the earth of a dusty tomorrow.