Selected Titles:
My Poor Aunt Jane The Lady of Sorrows Nero Envy A new Christian heresy The Artist Pharaoh Judas Saint Robert of Phillimore (Robbie Ross) Anne of Cleves The gold-headed cane
Oscar Wilde was essentially a storyteller. He was constantly inventing new stories, which he used to intertwine in his conversation. His contemporaries recall that he had a most wonderful voice, that he would render his tales delightfully, and in this way he would enchant his listeners with his words as Orpheus did with his music.
Unfortunately, most of these stories are lost to us now, for the simple reason that Oscar never bothered to write them down. However, some of Oscar's disciples wrote down the stories later on, and their notes give us an idea of what they may have been.
This page is dedicated to a few, little known sparkling gems: les baisers d' Oscar. Enjoy yourself.
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Selected Titles: My Poor Aunt Jane The Lady of Sorrows Nero Envy A new Christian heresy The Artist Pharaoh Judas Saint Robert of Phillimore (Robbie Ross) Anne of Cleves The gold-headed cane |
Poor Aunt Jane was very old and very, very proud and she lived alone in a splendid, desolate house in County Tipperary. No neighbours ever called on Aunt Jane and, had they done so, she would not have been pleased to see them. She would not have liked them to see the grass-grown drives of the demesne, the house with its faded chintzes and suites of shuttered rooms, and herself, no longer a toast and a beauty, no more a power in the countryside, but a lonely old woman who had outlived her day.
And from year to year she sat alone in het twilight, knowing nothing of what passed in the world without. But one winter… new people were coming to the new house on the hill and were going to give a great Ball, the like of which had never been seen. The Ryans were enormously rich - 'Ryans?' said Aunt Jane, 'I don't know any Ryans. Where do they come from?' then the blow fell. The Ryans came from nowhere in particular and were reported on good authority to be 'in business'.
'But,' said Aunt Jane, 'what are the poor people thinking of? Who will go to their Ball?' 'Everybody will go,' Aunt Jane was assured. 'Everybody has accepted. It will be a wonderful affair.'
When Aunt Jane fully realized this, her wrath was terrible. This is what things have come to in the neighbourhood, then - and it was all her fault. It had been for her to lead; she had brooded in her tent when she should have been up and doing battle. And then Aunt Jane made her great resolve. She would give a Ball - a Ball the like of which had never been imagined: she would re-enter Society and show how a grand dame of the old school could entertain…and instantly she set to work; the old house was repainted, refurnished, the grounds replanted; the supper and the band were ordered from London, and an army of waiters engaged. Everything should be of the best - there should be no question of cost. All should be paid for; Aunt Jane would devote the rest of her life to the paying. But now money was as nothing; she spent with both hands.
At last the great night arrived. The demesne was lit for two miles with coloured lamps, the hall and staircase were gorgeous with flowers, the dancing floor smooth and shining as a mirror.
The bandsmen were in their place and bowed deeply as Aunt Jane, in a splendid gown and blazing with diamonds, descended in state and stood at the ballroom door.
There she waited, time went on…but no guests arrived. Eleven, twelve - half past twelve. Aunt Jane swept a deep curtsey to the band, 'Pray go and have your supper,' she said, 'No one is coming'… And not for some considerable time after her death was it discovered that Aunt Jane had quite forgotten to send out any invitations.
By the silver marge of the Sicilian Sea once stood a little shrine, dedicated to Our Lady of Sorrows. And the fisherfolk of that place worshipped her, bringing gilded apples on gilded shells, that their fishing might be prosperous, for her image was very ancient, and often wrought miracles. One Midsummer Eve the setting sun smote the face of the Goddess and she, opening her eyes, stretched forth her hands to unfasten the clasp of her mantle, whereupon seven daggers of the seven griefs, which once had pierced her heart, were wrought. Then, from her brow, she removed her veil and, white and naked, she arose and left her shrine. When behold, as she passed the silver marge of the sea, naiads appeared among the waves, and eager tritons blew upon their polished conches to greet Her who had once arisen from the foam. From forests and fields came dryads and hooved fauns, from the caverned hills leapt shaggy centaurs bearing gifts. And Eros, her son, with scarlet wings aflame, flew to embrace his mother, and all rejoiced that beauty had once more returned unto the waiting earth. All night long there was high revelry. The sea-nymphs sang and the centaurs danced until dawn, when the cock crew thrice. Then the Goddess waxed very pale and, breaking from her worshippers, she moved towards the little shrine which stood on the margin of the sea. In vain the fauns and dryads entreated her to stay, she heeded them not, but wrapped the mantle of grief about her marble limbs. The centaurs wept and the tritons wept, but she heeded not their tears, and placed the veil of mourning on her brow. And when Eros besought her not to leave him she bent to him and said 'I must again return to the place from whence I come, for know I have another son who has suffered greatly.'
You know, Nero was obliged to do something. They were making him ridiculous. What he thought was: 'Here everything was going very well, when one day two incredible creatures arrived from somewhere in the provinces. They are called Peter and Paul or some unheard-of-names like that. Since their arrival life in Rome has become impossible. They collect crowds and block the traffic with their miracles. It really is intollerable. I, the Emperor, have no peace. When I get up in the morning and look out of the window, the first thing I see is a miracle going on in the back garden.'
The devil was once crossing the Libyan desert, and he came upon a spot where a number of small fiends were tormenting a holy hermit. The sainted man easily shook off their evil suggestions. The devil watched their failure, and then he stepped forward to give them a lesson. 'What you do is too crude… Permit me for one moment.' With that he whispered to the holy man, 'Your brother has just been made Bishop of Alexandria.' A scowl of malignant jealousy at once clouded the serene face of the hermit. 'That,' said the devil to his imps, 'is the sort of thing which I should recommend.'
I have been inventing a new Christian heresy. It seemed that Christ recovered after the crucifixion, and escaping from the tomb lived on for many years, the one man on earth who knew the falsehood of Christianity. Once St Paul visited his town, and he alone in the carpenter's quarter did not go to hear him preach. Henceforth the other carpenters noticed that, for some unknown reason, he kept his hands covered.
There was a man who could think only in bronze. And one day this man had an idea, the idea of joy, of the joy which dwells in the moment. And he felt that he had to tell it. But in all the world, not a single piece of bronze was left; for men had used it all. And this man felt that he would go mad if he did not tell his idea. And he thought about a piece of bronze on the grave of his wife, of a statue he had made to ornament the tomb of his wife, the only woman he had loved; it was the statue of sadness, of the sadness which dwells in life. And the man felt that he would go mad if he did not tell his idea. So he took the statue of sadness, of the sadness which dwells in life; he smashed it, he melted it down, and he made of it the statue of joy, of the joy which dwells in the moment.
When the Pharaoh died his daughter, who had rescued Moses in his ark of bulrushes from the river, was married to her own brother - the new ruler - in accordance with the law of Egypt. After a time Moses, bearing the words of Jehovah, came with his brother Aaron before the new Pharaoh. The great magician of the god of Israel transformed his rod into a serpent and covered with leprosy the hand with which he had sent plagues over Egypt. Then the Queen entered, lamenting because her firstborn and heir had by command of the Eternal just died with all the firstborn of the men and beasts of Egypt. And Moses wept with her, for she had been like a mother to him, but she rebuffed him, saying, 'When you were a little child I saved you from the river waters filled with crocodiles, and yet my child has been taken from me by your word. So I myself, in saving you, killed my firstborn. I have given my child life and I have taken it away, for each of us end by killing what we love. May I be accursed forever! Put upon me this leprosy which appears and disappears at your pleasure. Have the serpent which you rouse from the dead wood bite me.' And Moses answered her: 'O thou that wert to me like a mother, thou who saved me from the waters filled with crocodiles, no creature that suffers is out of harmony with the deepest secret of life, for the secret of life is suffering. Yes, it is hidden in all things. Because of thy son's death Pharaoh has recognized the might of the people of Israel and will permit them to go whither their destiny leads them. Because of thy son's death a predestined son can be born. In the scales of life and death, only the Eternal knows the weight of souls. Bear in mind this truth among all truths: 'Worlds are built up out of suffering: there is suffering at the birth of a child as at the birth of a star.''
After his treason, Judas was on his way to hang himself when some disciples came upon him, and perceiving his black look and anguish, asked the cause. Judas answered them: 'What dreadful people these priests are! They offered me ten pieces of silver to deliver up Christ.'
'And what did you do, Judas?'
'Of course I refused. But these priests are terrible. They offered me twenty pieces of silver.'
'And what did you do, Judas?'
'Of course I refused. But these priests are terrible, terrible. Then they offered me thirty talents, and of course I accepted.'
'Now we understand why you are about to hang yourself, for what you have done deserves worse than death.'
'Oh, it's not for that, but the thirty pieces of silver they gave me were counterfeit!'
There was a certain saint, who was called Saint Robert of Phillimore. Every night, while the sky was still black, he would rise from his bed and, falling on his knees, pray God that He, of His great bounty, would cause the sun to rise and make bright the earth. And always, when the sun rose, Saint Robert knelt again and thanked God that this miracle had been vouchsafed. Now, one night, Saint Robert, wearied by the vast number of more than usually good deeds he had done that day, slept so soundly that when he awoke the sun had already risen, and the earth was already bright. For a few moments Saint Robert looked grave and troubled, but presently he fell down on his knees and thanked God that, despite the neglectfulness of his servant, He had yet caused the sun to rise and make bright the earth.
You believe she was really ugly? No, my dear, she was exquisite as we see her in the Louvre. But in the escort, sent to bring her to England, travelled also a beautiful young nobleman of whom she became passionately enamoured, and on the ship they became lovers. What could be done? Discovery meant death. So she stained her face, and put uncouth clothing upon her body, till she seemed the monster Henry thought her. Now, do you know what happened? Years passed, and one day, when the king went hawking, he heard a woman singing in an orchard close, and rising in his stirrups to see who, with lovely voice, had entranced him, he beheld Anne of Cleves, young and beautiful, singing in the arms of her lover.
'My gold-headed cane has disappeared. Last night I was with the most terrible creatures, bandits, murderers, thieves - such company as Villon kept. They stole my gold-headed cane. There was a youth with beautiful sad eyes who had slain his mistress that morning because she was unfaithful. I feel sure it was he who stole my gold-headed cane. My gold-headed cane is now between the hands that slew the frail girl who had the grace of a spent rose-bush in the rain.'
'But Mr Wilde,' (said Marcel Schwob) 'there is your gold-headed cane in the corner.'
'Ah yes, so it is. There is my gold-headed cane. How clever of you to find it.