Aestheticism

`When I came back to Dublin, I was court-martialed in my absence and sentenced to death in my absence so I said they could shoot me in my absence.` -Brendan Behan

For years I have been fascinated with the life of Oscar wilde, as many far more eccentric and creative souls than me have as well. He was an interesting character, full of drama and intrigue with scandal following him in almost every facet of his life.

Several years ago, when I was stuck doing menial filing jobs at my internship, I started to google some of my literary favorites. Oscar Wilde obviously came up, and soon I was reading article after article about his life. Interestingly, what stood out actually had little to do with him and more to do with his ex-girlfriend--Florence Balcombe. He had Florence dated briefly, parting when he left Trinity in Dublin and took off to study at Oxford. What surprised me most though about this woman was the fact that after dating Wilde, she went on to marry Bram stoker--the revered author of Dracula.

It always amazes me how literary powerhouses always seem to huddle together, and this was no exception. Stoker and Wilde actually did know each other, as they were both members of Trinity´s Philosophical Society. The fact that this woman could then ensnare the attention of two of the most prestigious writers of the time got my attention, and had inspired me years later now to write this set of historically realistıc letters that are, ultimately, still fiction.

The first is a letter Oscar sent to Florence after hearing of her engagement to Mr. Stoker. He is at the pinnacle of his vanity, studying in England and chasing after his many aesthetic pleasures. The second is a letter to her on his deathbed in abject poverty and obscurity in Paris. He has been through a lot of disappointments, had to suffer through conservative England and parting from his indulgent lifestyle and society. Basically, he is jaded and disappointed.

So without further ado, the letters.

To you, Mr. Wilde. May you have in reality lived with far less regret than I have written for you here when the end came.

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Florence,

It’s been almost a fortnight since I last wrote, and for that I apologize. Since our correspondence can only be completed through my dutiful persistent adulations of friendship, for this neglect there is no reprieve. And yet, were we to be but a stone’s throw from one another I hardly think there would hardly be a difference in the brevity and coldness with which I regard you now.

You will remember, I am sure, with great clarity the day in which we first spoke of marriage.

I can still see the image crisply in my mind—the way the thin arch of your brow rose like a question mark I would spend the rest of my life haunted by. Marriage, you said, had become too political. Had strayed from the natural purpose of man to enjoy this short life we have been given, through nonsensical sacrifice of the self and its multitude of desires. It was then that, after spending two of the most wonderful years in each other’s arms, you spoke clear and calm as a summer’s day and denied me the offer of your hand.

You can imagine my shock then when, not even a year after these fateful words I come to find that you have not only turned your back on these principals, but have all but become engaged to the former president of Trinity´s Philosophical Society, Mr. Abraham Stoker! And to think that you, my dearest Florence, could not even muster the self-decency and courage with which to inform me yourself.

Though I hold no qualms with this Stoker fellow, I can assure you that your original attitudes towards marriage were indeed correct. To think that such a woman as you, so ahead of her time could be so easily manipulated by dull conventions is perhaps the greatest grief our sex has to bear. Please, I beg of you, you are making a grave mistake. Cast aside this Mr. Stoker and make haste for England right away, I shall be waiting for you with more like-minded company. 

Yours,

O. Wilde

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My Beloved Florence,

The sickness has left me mad of my senses, and so I must write to you urgently while my mind is yet fresh and focused. I will strive to be brief.

I have no illusions that Bram and yourself were not privy to the trials in London, having heard the slander and propaganda piled before me. Nor to my sentencing to hard labor, for which I owe the ultimate breaking of my spirit. Though it has been three years since my release, I still feel the cracking in my bones to this day. The most recent companion of severe poverty and obscurity has, no doubt, further added to my unjust demise.

Alas, I digress. The rantings of an old lover are hardly cause for bringing fresh pain, and indeed it is to this end I wish to speak to you now. To address once and for all the issue of love and companionship, and the pain with which it has vexed me all these years.

Over the course of my life I have met many who have intellectually stimulated my faculties, envigorating my creativity to search for the newest beauty and truth. Many more have also found solace in my body, where nights of exploratory ecstacy gave way to the fondling of new forbidden arrangements—each satisfying different needs deep within my character.

And yet, as I sit here—my days numbered, my arms empty, having reveled in my fair share of earthly pleasures, I have yet to discover few moments of true joy.

Love is a strange and mystifying thing, Florence. Many philosophers have spoken on it, and yet all my years of studying have scratched but the mere surface of its power. I remember I used to marvel at your aesthetic integrity that summer day so long forgotten in our youth, when our love was at the end of its season--the power it took to walk away. In that same thread I would curse you, silently, for refusing to remain my muse and giving up your right to indulgence.  And yet now, as I walk blindly into the unknown, I realize with regret that it is I that has been the one walking away my entire life. But towards what, I frankly do not know. My chief philosophical guide has only served to exacerbate my own cowardice, rather than reveal my strength.

I should be so lucky as to have another chance at this life, to be able to admit my pride and chase the true happiness I was meant to have. It is perhaps the only true pleasure denied to me in this life, the true freedom of my soul`s eternal happiness. A future which, I’m afraid, is fast fading, and I have none to blame but myself.

And so it is with finality that I ask your humble forgiveness. For the stubbornness with which I allowed my pride to push away one of the great loves of my life. To you, my dearest Florence, I owe my every word. And I hope you will keep them close to your heart and remember me always, as I have always remembered you.

With warmest farewells,

O. Wilde