Blood Sisters

by Paula Guran

  The lawn party my parents hosted was not as large as some, but the crème de la crème was in attendance. I recall gazing from the terrace, across the clipped lawn, at the finely attired men in their frockcoats, and the women in soft silks hidden beneath frilly parasols to ward off the sun’s rays. Suddenly, for some unknown reason, I gazed upward. A flock of ravens swarmed overhead, so thick that they shrouded the sun’s rays, darkening the sky temporarily, sucking up all the light from it. The sight sent a chill down my spine, as if this were a terrible omen of some sort. Just as quickly, that gloomy manifestation evaporated, like a nightmare on awakening, leaving behind only a wisp, a remnant. Immediately the sky brightened.

  “May I present my daughter.” My father’s voice startled me, and I turned. “Florence, this is Mister Oscar Wilde. Mister Wilde is a writer, in his first year at Oxford.”

  “How very nice to meet you.” The words caught in my throat, and I extended my gloved hand.

  His face was almost an anachronism. Long, large-featured, flesh pale yet ruddy, with emotion-laden eyes and a peculiar twist at the corners of his full lips. The exact nature of the crooked line between those lips was, for some time, a mystery to me. And what I often felt then to be a grimace, I have now come to understand to be something entirely more sinister.

  Mister Wilde took my hand in his and kissed it, in the continental fashion. “Lieutenant-Colonel Balcombe, your daughter is both remarkably beautiful and, I can see already, utterly charming in a way which will shatter many hearts, all of which, no doubt, will be exceedingly eager to be broken.”

  I, of course, blushed at such a forthright yet backhanded compliment from this man so startlingly overdressed in a lilac-colored shirt with a large ascot clinging to his throat. If truth be known, more than anyone else, he resembled George the Fourth, which made me smile secretly—what the French would have called joli-laid. His countenance was singularly mild yet his expression ardent. He spoke rapidly, in a low voice, and enunciated distinctly, like a man accustomed to being listened to. Yet beyond all that, his eyes arrested me. I’d never seen such wild intensity, juxtaposed with fragile sensitivity. To this day, try as I might, I simply cannot recall their color, which makes no sense, considering how strongly they held me. What I do recall is that they seemed to capture my very essence, as surely as if my dear soul were a butterfly, suddenly enslaved in a net. A delicate creature destined to be pinned to a board.

  My father was called to greet another arriving friend, leaving me to the mercy of this peculiarly enticing stranger.

  “There is nothing like youth,” he said, in a theatrical manner, gesturing lavishly, speaking loudly, attracting the attention of those standing nearby, yet holding my eye as if it were me alone to whom he spoke. “Youth has a kingdom waiting for it. To win back my youth … there is nothing I wouldn’t do …”

  I, of course, laughed at such melodrama. “Surely you know nothing of wanting your youth back. My guess, from your appearance, is that you are all of two and twenty.”

  “From appearances, your guess is nearly correct, less the two. Youth is not merely a chronological order of years, but more a state of mind. The life that makes the soul, mars the body.”

  “How strange you are!” I blurted, then felt my face flame. After all, I hardly knew this man, and had not the familiarity with which to taunt him. But he took it in good humor.

  “More peculiar than you at present can know. However, Florence, may I call you Florrie?”

  “Well, yes, if you like—”

  “I do like! Florrie, you must permit me to escort you to church this coming Sunday for the afternoon service.”

  Flustered, flattered, I could only stumble over my words. “Well … of course. I would be delighted to have you attend our simple country chapel—”

  “Excellent! The day is too bright, not the proper setting for a man to offer attention to a woman.”

  “And church is?”

  “One’s virtues either shine or dim when the virtuous speak.”

  With that he kissed my hand again and was gone.

  I recall standing, looking down at my hand, which felt as if burning ice had dropped onto it. Then I looked up. My eyes scanned the crowd of my parents’ friends. Oscar Wilde had disappeared.

  “Tell me about your work, Mister Wilde.” We walked, his hand cupping my elbow, guiding me through the tall rock-strewn grass down the hill toward the rectory, and the chapel beyond, my parents not far ahead of us. I admit that this contact proved thrilling to my girlish body. My affections had already begun swaying in his direction, which, of course, both of us knew.

  “My name is Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde, but you may call me Oscar.”

  So formal a response made me laugh.

  This caused him to glance down at me and frown slightly. “Is that mockery I hear?”

  “Mockery, no. Amusement, Oscar. You are so serious. How do you get on in society?”

  “I suppose society is wonderfully delightful. To be in it is merely a bore. But to be out of it simply a tragedy. But you were inquiring as to my work.”

  “Unfortunately, I have not had the chance to read you as yet, although I’m certain you must be a fine poet and will go on to be an excellent writer of prose.”

  “You are either foolish or perceptive, but, of course, I favor the latter. And what do you know of poetry?”

  “I know that it is a taste of God’s passion.”

  “Poets know how useful passion is. Nowadays a broken heart will run to many editions.”

  “You speak of broken hearts on such a beautiful summer’s day? Have you survived one?”

  “A poet can survive everything but a misprint.”

  “You’re not very forthcoming, are you, Oscar?”

  He stopped walking and turned toward me. I felt my heart flutter. The air seemed to encase the two of us.

  “Florrie, all art is quite useless. Before you stands a shallow man, make no mistake about that. One in need of a muse who will inspire him beyond mere banality. More, nourish him.”

  Words escaped me. I knew not what to answer, or if an answer was at all required. I only knew that we seemed to stand there for an eternity. And as we stood together, locked in an embrace, his eyes drew me until I felt myself dimming, willingly. I knew in those moments I would offer up to him whatever he needed, whatever he wanted.

  “Miss Balcombe. It is so nice to see you. And may I enquire, who is your friend?”

  The voice of the Reverend Sean Manchester broke the moment. Suddenly it was as though I’d been under a spell. I felt stunned, aware that I’d not heard the birds or felt the intense heat for some time. But rather than perceiving the good Reverend’s voice as a lifeline, cast toward a drowning swimmer, I felt it an intrusion. With some effort, I forced myself back to the surface of the waters known as reality.

  “Reverend Manchester, may I introduce Mister Oscar Wilde. You will have heard of him, no doubt. He is an aspiring poet, who has already had work published.”

  “Indeed. I have heard much.”

  “And I’m certain you shall hear more in future. There is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about,” Oscar said, “and that is not being talked about.”

  The two men shook hands, but perfunctorily. I was dismayed at this adversarial climate between them. I knew it could not be me, for after all, Reverend Manchester was an older gentleman, married a number of years, with several nearly grown children. I could not have known at the time the entirety of this wedge, but I soon had an inkling of its nature.

  “You are a young man and already famous throughout the British Isles.”

  “Don’t you mean infamous?”

  “Infamy implies sin.”

  “There is no sin except stupidity.”

  “If you believe not in sin, I presume then that you also give no credence to conscience.”

  “Conscience and cowardice are really the same things.”

  “Then, sir, in your opini
on, why do men go astray?”

  “Simply, temptation. The only way to get rid of a temptation is to give in to it, it seems to me.”

  “Oscar!” I felt compelled to interject a note of sanity, for things had got out of hand. Even a poet should respect a man of the cloth. “Surely you believe in salvation! You were raised a Christian, were you not?”

  At this, he turned to me again. A small, crooked smile played over those lips, and his eyes again compelled me to focus on him exclusively. That same potent pull threatened to overwhelm me, although his words kept me from sinking. “Florrie, dearest, we are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”

  “Heaven might be a better destination,” Reverend Manchester said, “although there is an alternative.”

  “And that, I presume, is Hell. Well, Reverend, I have visited that place and not, I suspect, for the last time. I have found it wanting.”

  Reverend Manchester said nothing more, but the look in his eyes spoke volumes. The church bells were tolling madly, the service about to begin. “I must attend to my parishioners,” he said perfunctorily, and, almost as an afterthought, “It is good we have met, Mister Wilde.”

  “Yes. A man cannot be too careful in the choice of his enemies.”

  Reverend Manchester looked startled by this blatant statement. But in my eyes, Oscar had merely said what was evident—the two men did not see eye to eye, although I should have thought ‘enemy’ too strong a word.

  Reverend Manchester excused himself. Oscar turned to me. Before I had the chance to collect my thoughts, he grasped my shoulders and quickly pressed his lips to mine. I was shocked. Embarrassed. Titillated. I scanned the small group of parishioners; none had seen this outrageous act, including my parents, thank God!

  When I looked again at Oscar, all of this evident on my face, no doubt, something strange occurred. The contrast between us struck me. His face had become ruddy, while I felt light-headed and pale. He seemed sure of himself, whilst I, on the other hand, had been knocked entirely off balance. As I stared at him, time became irrelevant. The importance of my life seemed to diminish in my mind. The call of my soul’s high longings became faint to my ears. A peculiar image came to me: I was composed of tiny particles which normally adhere together as a solid but were now being separated by some invisible dark force. And then, there was only Oscar.

  “I must be off, Florrie,” he said.

  “What? You’re not attending the service?” I heard my voice as if from a distance. Who is asking this question? I wondered. And who pretends to care for the answer?

  “I have other plans. Permit me, though, to call on you this week.”

  It wasn’t exactly a question, but more of a statement he made. And before I could respond, he turned and was gone.

  I know that Reverend Manchester’s sermon focused on the devil, finding him here and there, and being on guard, but I could only concentrate on snatches of what was said. You see, I was already in love. At least, I called it love then, but I have since learned to identify it as indenture. Bits of my soul were siphoned from me that day and what would occur afterwards would make a normal woman grieve for a lifetime. But already I had ceased to be normal and even my gender became inconsequential to me. And I was incapable of grief.

  Oscar visited my home twice a week for two weeks. After that, he became a permanent fixture in our parlor. Nightly, mother or my auntie chaperoned, as was the custom then. Neither approved of him—Oscar was not an ordinary man. I was only too eager to assure them that he was, in fact, a genius, destined for great things. They would have none of it.

  “You can’t be serious!” Auntie chided me. “What kind of a husband do you think a man wearing a purple great coat would make!”

  “Style,” I informed her, “is not a paramount concern, although his dress is avant garde, in my opinion.”

  “Your opinion,” Mother said, “hardly matters here. You’re but seventeen years of age. Need I remind you that your father and I make your decisions as long as you reside under our roof? This is not a match made in heaven.”

  “But it is not made in that other place either, Mother. Were you never young once? Did your heart not rule you when Father was near?”

  “My head superseded my heart, or at least the heads of your maternal grandparents. Fortunately, their clearer minds prevailed. You are seeing entirely too much of Mister Wilde.”

  “You’re young, child,” Auntie declared. “There are other suitors, more worthy.”

  In the way of youth, I created a scene, as they say, and left them both standing there speechless. But it was as though I watched my antics, disconnected. Then, of course, I interpreted my reaction to being overly intimidated at vexing my elders with my disrespectful behavior.

  Time has proven auntie’s word both right and wrong—incorrect in the context of her meaning, but correct in a broader meaning, for I have been loved by at least one other man, much to his detriment.

  Mother remained adamant, but Father, however, admired Oscar, and could see that his name would be remembered through the ages. Although, being my father, and concerned with my interests, he was not particularly comfortable with Oscar’s financial situation. Unfortunately our family fortunes had taken a turn for the worse—I was dowerless and, in Mother’s words, must count on a “strong pecuniary match.” Oscar, you see, was a spendthrift. His inheritances and endowments were few and far between, and his wants exceeded his resources throughout his life. He spent much too freely, on both himself and his friends. And on me. At Christmas of that year, Oscar presented me with a token of his affections.

  Inside the exquisite sculpted shell box of ivory I found a tiny cross. I held it up by the chain and the illumination from the gas lamp seemed to make the gold sparkle. I became mesmerized by that sparkle, and only Oscar’s voice returned me to the room.

  “Wear this in memory of me,” he said, as though he were dying.

  On one side was an inscription, uniting our names. My eyes must have shown what was in my heart.

  “Florrie,” he said ardently, grasping both my hands, falling to one knee before me, in the presence of Auntie, who instantly paused in her needlework.

  “I am too happy to speak,” I told him. “You must speak for both of us.”

  I expected a proposal of marriage, although I knew that while he was still a student, marriage was forbidden him. I would have been satisfied with a profession of undying love. But Oscar, in his theatrical manner, while Auntie gazed on, said something entirely unexpected.

  “The worst of having a romance of any kind is that it leaves one so … unromantic. You have, of course, won my heart.”

  And that was that.

  Father and Mother, though, on hearing of this incident, took it seriously, although there had been no commitment elicited. They proceeded to check more deeply into Oscar’s fiscal and also personal affairs. Unsavory rumors were alluded to, but my parents refused to provide to me the details.

  “Then they are only rumors,” I said stubbornly, “whatever their nature. I believe it is unchristian-like to lower oneself to pay credence to mere hearsay.”

  Mother looked angry. “Now you’re beginning to speak as rudely as he.” Father merely raised an eyebrow. I took a deep breath. “I intend to marry Oscar Wilde!” “Nonsense!” Mother laughed.

  “And has he proposed?” Father wanted to know. “Because he has not as yet spoken with me.”

  “I know he will,” I assured them, although I did not feel completely certain of this. I felt in my heart that Oscar loved me—for he said he did, or so I thought—and what I felt with him erased that horrible feeling of disconnection which became stronger and stronger each day. But the actual words which lead to a vow went missing.

  My persistence forced my parents’ hand.

  “Then you will wish to know, Miss,” Mother said in her crispest voice, “that your intended has been seen in Dublin.”

  “Well, of course. He was in Dublin just last mon
th, which you know as well as I do.”

  “How impertinent you have become! What I know, which you are about to discover, is that Oscar Wilde was spotted dangling on his knee a woman known as Fidelia.”

  “Scandalous lies!”

  “And further, Mrs. Edith Kingsford of Brighton has offered to intercede on his behalf with the mother of her niece Eva in arranging a match.”

  I’m certain that the look on my face betrayed my heart. Disassociated though I was, a feeling of being crushed overcame me. That after one year together, Oscar saw fit to toy with my affections seemed impossible, and yet …

  Without apology or excuse, I raced from the room. I could not bear to hear more. I tried to deny to myself what my parents told me, and yet when I went over details, little incidents rose from memory. Despite his attentions toward me, I was not blind. Oscar flirted outrageously with every young woman in his sphere. And, since I was facing fact, I had also to acknowledge to myself that he paid equal attention to young men.

  When next he visited over the holidays, I was cool to him. His inquiries as to my emotional state brought evasion on my part. “I shan’t argue with you,” I assured him.

  “It is only the intellectually lost who ever argue,” he declared.

  “Must you always speak as if these are lines from your writings?”

  “But they are, Florrie. What can life provide but the raw materials for art.”

  “I should think that life might be a bit more serious to you.”

  “Life is too serious already. Too normal. Don’t you find it so?”

  “And what’s wrong with normal? God. Family. Work. Those are what life is all about.”

  He paused at that. “Fate has a way of intervening in what otherwise would be normal.”