Às vezes fico pensando o que Wilde diria se tivesse um blog e vivesse no bloguniverse. Mas descobri que ele foi profético em algumas de suas máximas...
I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read in the train.
A poet can survive everything but a misprint.
There is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about and that is not being talked about.
Life is much too important a thing to talk seriously about.
The only duty we owe history is to rewrite it.
Every great man nowadays has his disciples, and it is always Judas who writes the biography.
30.4.03
29.4.03
Este fim de semana vai ser animado. Dois churrascos de aniversário para ir -- do recém-quarentão Ita e de Tatá, irmã de Wal. Vamos ter de dividir a família para as festas -- eu e Jessica numa, Wal e Rebeca na outra.
Semana que vem é o niver de Rebeca, que fará 8 anos. Um dos presentes que vamos lhe dar é uma vaquinha de pelúcia que muge cada vez mais alto e gargalha exatamente como aquele programinha da "vaca louca" que andou passeando pelos emails da gente há algumas temporadas, lembram? A vaquinha, quando começa a gargalhar, treme toda e sai se arrastando pelo chão. Vi o brinquedo hoje (Wal encomendou no vídeo em que somos sócios) e ri às pampas.
Já dá para imaginar Rebeca rindo junto com a bichinha. Ela já ri à toa, por qualquer bobagem (especialmente as que ela mesma faz, que não são poucas ;-))
Semana que vem é o niver de Rebeca, que fará 8 anos. Um dos presentes que vamos lhe dar é uma vaquinha de pelúcia que muge cada vez mais alto e gargalha exatamente como aquele programinha da "vaca louca" que andou passeando pelos emails da gente há algumas temporadas, lembram? A vaquinha, quando começa a gargalhar, treme toda e sai se arrastando pelo chão. Vi o brinquedo hoje (Wal encomendou no vídeo em que somos sócios) e ri às pampas.
Já dá para imaginar Rebeca rindo junto com a bichinha. Ela já ri à toa, por qualquer bobagem (especialmente as que ela mesma faz, que não são poucas ;-))
24.4.03
22.4.03
E-mail transformado em poema
Queria que este e-mail atingisse teu peito com
a força da torrente de amor que me invade;
mas o que sinto por ti não cabe num anexo.
Não cabe, aliás,
em lei nenhuma do cosmo:
é inenunciável pelos profetas tristes da razão.
Tudo em ti é transbordante:
a alegria lubrifica minhas órbitas
e me arrepia de gozo;
a tristeza me faz um homem melhor,
enlouquecido pelo desejo de apaziguar
os pequeninos cristais de angústia
que descem em tua face de menina.
Tu podes não o saber,
mas me reensinaste a amar e adorar
sem reservas, sem cercas eletrificadas
falsamente protegendo o espírito.
E assim me fizeste um homem livre, ainda uma vez.
Como quando peguei minha velha guitarra
numa tarde suburbana
acariciei o botão de volume
e me entreguei ao delírio diante da multidão.
Queria que este e-mail atingisse teu peito com
a força da torrente de amor que me invade;
mas o que sinto por ti não cabe num anexo.
Não cabe, aliás,
em lei nenhuma do cosmo:
é inenunciável pelos profetas tristes da razão.
Tudo em ti é transbordante:
a alegria lubrifica minhas órbitas
e me arrepia de gozo;
a tristeza me faz um homem melhor,
enlouquecido pelo desejo de apaziguar
os pequeninos cristais de angústia
que descem em tua face de menina.
Tu podes não o saber,
mas me reensinaste a amar e adorar
sem reservas, sem cercas eletrificadas
falsamente protegendo o espírito.
E assim me fizeste um homem livre, ainda uma vez.
Como quando peguei minha velha guitarra
numa tarde suburbana
acariciei o botão de volume
e me entreguei ao delírio diante da multidão.
18.4.03
Tia Cora me passou e eu deixo aqui este brilhante artigo de Carlos Chagas, publicado na Tribuna da Imprensa. Ele diz tudo o que está engasgado depois de quatro meses:
Para Lula ler na cama (4)
BRASÍLIA - "Caro presidente: os votos do País inteiro, começando por nós, seus eleitores, são para que vença imediatamente a bursite, com ou sem operação imediata. Não há nada pior do que enfrentar problemas nacionais, imensuráveis, tendo que suportar problemas pessoais. A gente não sabe o que teria acontecido com a França se Napoleão tivesse sido atacado do câncer no estômago antes de voltar do Egito.
Ou se De Gaulle, só para ficarmos na França, houvesse sucumbido à hipertensão logo depois de sair de Colombey-les-deux-Eglises para reassumir a chefia da nação posta em frangalhos. O senhor deve cuidar-se, tanto faz se no Albert Einstein ou se deitado na mesa da acupuntura, aí no Palácio da Alvorada.
Aliás, seria bom que não se deixasse levar apenas pela ilusão paulistana. Já chega ter composto um ministério que mais parece um paulistério. Nosso irmãos da paulicéia desvairada bem que poderiam ser atacados por um choque de nacionalidade e reconhecer que em Brasília, por exemplo, situa-se o maior hospital de recuperação do aparelho locomotor do planeta, o Sarah. É bem verdade que seu diretor, o dr. Campos da Paz, é carne de pescoço. Não dá luz ao poder nem aos poderosos. Se o senhor quisesse buscar auxílio na instituição, precisaria cadastrar-se e entrar na fila, como qualquer cidadão dos milhares que buscam, gratuitamente, seus serviços.
Mas vamos ao que interessa. O senhor, presidente Lula, foi eleito pela imensa maioria de assalariados, enjeitados, desempregados e famintos que hoje constituem a maior parte da população brasileira. Sensibilizamo-nos pela sua pregação que vem de doze anos. Um operário no poder seria um bom começo, principalmente depois de três rejeições engendradas pelas elites. Fernando Color, uma vez, e Fernando Henrique, duas vezes, demonstraram que com os donos do poder econômico não se brinca.
Agora, depois de tanta ignomínia, outra conclusão não poderia sobrevir: prevaleceu a natureza das coisas na quarta eleição que o senhor disputou. Sua vitória foi a vitória das massas sobre as elites. O grito de revolta sobre os vagidos de prazer de quantos, há tempo, impõem seus interesses sobre os anseios da população.
Foi por prometer mudar o modelo que o senhor chegou ao poder, ou melhor, ao governo, porque ao poder ainda não chegou. Este continua em mãos dos mesmos de sempre, que, pelo jeito, estão conseguindo enganá-lo, cooptá-lo ou convencê-lo de que o melhor é deixar as coisas como estavam. Não dá para entender, caro presidente, como o senhor permite que a equipe econômica mantenha os privilégios dos banqueiros sem pensar em taxar os obscenos lucros dos bancos.
Como nada se fez diante dos privilégios dos especuladores, que nem CPMF pagam. Como os seus ministros puderam levá-lo a fixar um salário mínimo de US$ 72 por mês, inferior ao de Paraguai, Equador, Bonga-Bonga e Songa-Monga. Como entender um funcionalismo durante sete anos sem aumento, receber 1% em nome da estabilidade financeira?
Mas tem mais. Sua equipe econômica aumentou os juros para 26,5% e permitiu que a gasolina aumentasse quatro vezes. As tarifas dos serviços públicos criminosamente privatizados elevam-se com o aumento do dólar, mas, se este cair, nada acontece. Impostos são reajustados muito mais do que a inflação, mas os salários, não.
Fala-se em reformar a previdência social pública pelo estabelecimento da contribuição obrigatória dos inativos, certamente para se aposentarem outra vez no céu ou no inferno. A moda parece ser de desonerar a produção para taxar o consumo, sem lembrar que a produção restringe-se a uns poucos e o consumo, a todos.
Argumenta sua equipe que tudo se faz para que o capital especulativo fique, aumentando nossas agruras. Basta ver os elogios recebidos. Para o FMI, é o maior presidente que o Brasil já teve. Para o Banco Mundial, um chefe de governo confiável.
Pense bem, presidente, o senhor aderiu. Pode ser que apenas por tática, para ganhar tempo, mas é bom não esquecer de que cada dia sem mudanças tornará mais difícil qualquer alteração. Estão todos, do lado de lá, festejando. Terá sido essa sua proposta de campanha? Os votos que recebeu vieram desse balaio? O Brasil terá saída no modelo neoliberal que nos levou ao fundo do poço?
A bursite dói, caro presidente. Mas dói muito mais verificar que o Brasil continua o mesmo. Ou um pouquinho pior, pela frustração verificada nos que votaram no senhor? Com todo o respeito, de um admirador que ainda não trocou a esperança pelo medo. No caso, medo de uma explosão dos diabos..."
Para Lula ler na cama (4)
BRASÍLIA - "Caro presidente: os votos do País inteiro, começando por nós, seus eleitores, são para que vença imediatamente a bursite, com ou sem operação imediata. Não há nada pior do que enfrentar problemas nacionais, imensuráveis, tendo que suportar problemas pessoais. A gente não sabe o que teria acontecido com a França se Napoleão tivesse sido atacado do câncer no estômago antes de voltar do Egito.
Ou se De Gaulle, só para ficarmos na França, houvesse sucumbido à hipertensão logo depois de sair de Colombey-les-deux-Eglises para reassumir a chefia da nação posta em frangalhos. O senhor deve cuidar-se, tanto faz se no Albert Einstein ou se deitado na mesa da acupuntura, aí no Palácio da Alvorada.
Aliás, seria bom que não se deixasse levar apenas pela ilusão paulistana. Já chega ter composto um ministério que mais parece um paulistério. Nosso irmãos da paulicéia desvairada bem que poderiam ser atacados por um choque de nacionalidade e reconhecer que em Brasília, por exemplo, situa-se o maior hospital de recuperação do aparelho locomotor do planeta, o Sarah. É bem verdade que seu diretor, o dr. Campos da Paz, é carne de pescoço. Não dá luz ao poder nem aos poderosos. Se o senhor quisesse buscar auxílio na instituição, precisaria cadastrar-se e entrar na fila, como qualquer cidadão dos milhares que buscam, gratuitamente, seus serviços.
Mas vamos ao que interessa. O senhor, presidente Lula, foi eleito pela imensa maioria de assalariados, enjeitados, desempregados e famintos que hoje constituem a maior parte da população brasileira. Sensibilizamo-nos pela sua pregação que vem de doze anos. Um operário no poder seria um bom começo, principalmente depois de três rejeições engendradas pelas elites. Fernando Color, uma vez, e Fernando Henrique, duas vezes, demonstraram que com os donos do poder econômico não se brinca.
Agora, depois de tanta ignomínia, outra conclusão não poderia sobrevir: prevaleceu a natureza das coisas na quarta eleição que o senhor disputou. Sua vitória foi a vitória das massas sobre as elites. O grito de revolta sobre os vagidos de prazer de quantos, há tempo, impõem seus interesses sobre os anseios da população.
Foi por prometer mudar o modelo que o senhor chegou ao poder, ou melhor, ao governo, porque ao poder ainda não chegou. Este continua em mãos dos mesmos de sempre, que, pelo jeito, estão conseguindo enganá-lo, cooptá-lo ou convencê-lo de que o melhor é deixar as coisas como estavam. Não dá para entender, caro presidente, como o senhor permite que a equipe econômica mantenha os privilégios dos banqueiros sem pensar em taxar os obscenos lucros dos bancos.
Como nada se fez diante dos privilégios dos especuladores, que nem CPMF pagam. Como os seus ministros puderam levá-lo a fixar um salário mínimo de US$ 72 por mês, inferior ao de Paraguai, Equador, Bonga-Bonga e Songa-Monga. Como entender um funcionalismo durante sete anos sem aumento, receber 1% em nome da estabilidade financeira?
Mas tem mais. Sua equipe econômica aumentou os juros para 26,5% e permitiu que a gasolina aumentasse quatro vezes. As tarifas dos serviços públicos criminosamente privatizados elevam-se com o aumento do dólar, mas, se este cair, nada acontece. Impostos são reajustados muito mais do que a inflação, mas os salários, não.
Fala-se em reformar a previdência social pública pelo estabelecimento da contribuição obrigatória dos inativos, certamente para se aposentarem outra vez no céu ou no inferno. A moda parece ser de desonerar a produção para taxar o consumo, sem lembrar que a produção restringe-se a uns poucos e o consumo, a todos.
Argumenta sua equipe que tudo se faz para que o capital especulativo fique, aumentando nossas agruras. Basta ver os elogios recebidos. Para o FMI, é o maior presidente que o Brasil já teve. Para o Banco Mundial, um chefe de governo confiável.
Pense bem, presidente, o senhor aderiu. Pode ser que apenas por tática, para ganhar tempo, mas é bom não esquecer de que cada dia sem mudanças tornará mais difícil qualquer alteração. Estão todos, do lado de lá, festejando. Terá sido essa sua proposta de campanha? Os votos que recebeu vieram desse balaio? O Brasil terá saída no modelo neoliberal que nos levou ao fundo do poço?
A bursite dói, caro presidente. Mas dói muito mais verificar que o Brasil continua o mesmo. Ou um pouquinho pior, pela frustração verificada nos que votaram no senhor? Com todo o respeito, de um admirador que ainda não trocou a esperança pelo medo. No caso, medo de uma explosão dos diabos..."
14.4.03
Vocês podem não acreditar, mas este roqueiro empedernido aqui gosta de... Carpenters. Aluguei um DVD neste fim de semana e fiquei matando as saudades da cristalina voz de Karen Carpenter, e daquelas canções de amor que foram alguns dos hits pessoais de minha adolescência. Para a fossa, eu garanto, não há nada melhor. A versão deles para "Ticket to ride", dos Beatles (cuja introdução tocava em antiquíssimos anúncios do sabonete Lux -- você sabia?), é de fazer um pedregulho verter lágrimas.
Eu me lembro bem de onde estava quando Karen morreu, aos 32 anos, de anorexia nervosa, em 1983. Estava num barzinho da rua Moreira Cézar, em Icaraí, chamado Conversa Fiada, que não existe mais. Era um bar para namorar, todo à meia-luz, com um martini delicioso. E eu estava precisamente com uma namorada, e lembro-me de ter comentado que o rádio estava tocando muito Carpenters aquela noite, algo raro.
No dia seguinte, passei na casa de uma amiga e ouvi -- também no rádio -- que a cantora tinha morrido. Fiquei muito triste. E mais tarde peguei meus discos e ouvi novamente alguns dos clássicos da dupla.
E ainda hoje, muitas vezes, quando me sinto por baixo, lembro alguns versos cabais:
"Talking to mysefl and feeling old
Sometimes I'd like to quit
Nothing ever seems to fit
Hanging around
Nothing to do but frown
Rainy days and mondays always get me down"
(Rainy days and mondays)
"Oh it's a dirty old shame
when all you get from love is a love song.
It's gotcha layin' up nights
just waiting for the music to start.
It's such a dirty old shame
when you got to take the blame for a love song,
Because the best love songs
are written with a broken heart."
(All you get from love is a love song)
"The hardest thing I've ever done
is keep believing
there's someone in this crazy world for me
The way that people go
Through temporary lives
My chance could come
and I might never know"
(I need to be in love)
Eu me lembro bem de onde estava quando Karen morreu, aos 32 anos, de anorexia nervosa, em 1983. Estava num barzinho da rua Moreira Cézar, em Icaraí, chamado Conversa Fiada, que não existe mais. Era um bar para namorar, todo à meia-luz, com um martini delicioso. E eu estava precisamente com uma namorada, e lembro-me de ter comentado que o rádio estava tocando muito Carpenters aquela noite, algo raro.
No dia seguinte, passei na casa de uma amiga e ouvi -- também no rádio -- que a cantora tinha morrido. Fiquei muito triste. E mais tarde peguei meus discos e ouvi novamente alguns dos clássicos da dupla.
E ainda hoje, muitas vezes, quando me sinto por baixo, lembro alguns versos cabais:
"Talking to mysefl and feeling old
Sometimes I'd like to quit
Nothing ever seems to fit
Hanging around
Nothing to do but frown
Rainy days and mondays always get me down"
(Rainy days and mondays)
"Oh it's a dirty old shame
when all you get from love is a love song.
It's gotcha layin' up nights
just waiting for the music to start.
It's such a dirty old shame
when you got to take the blame for a love song,
Because the best love songs
are written with a broken heart."
(All you get from love is a love song)
"The hardest thing I've ever done
is keep believing
there's someone in this crazy world for me
The way that people go
Through temporary lives
My chance could come
and I might never know"
(I need to be in love)
10.4.03
Depois de horas com você
Poderia beijar todo o seu corpo devagar
e ainda assim não me sentiria tão perto de sua alma
quanto na última noite;
o simples entrelaçar de dedos
o afago, o toque em meu braço
seu olhar inquieto como o de um passarinho
tudo enternece mais minha carapaça dourada
e cria nela doces rachaduras.
Poderia lhe dar mil e um prazeres
e ainda assim nenhum seria mais plangente
que o abraço apertado na despedida
e as palavras incertas sussurradas em meus ouvidos,
incompletas pela perturbação que causamos um ao outro.
Por isso, tão logo você adentrou minha vida
criei um labirinto secreto em meu peito
para que jamais encontre a saída.
Poderia beijar todo o seu corpo devagar
e ainda assim não me sentiria tão perto de sua alma
quanto na última noite;
o simples entrelaçar de dedos
o afago, o toque em meu braço
seu olhar inquieto como o de um passarinho
tudo enternece mais minha carapaça dourada
e cria nela doces rachaduras.
Poderia lhe dar mil e um prazeres
e ainda assim nenhum seria mais plangente
que o abraço apertado na despedida
e as palavras incertas sussurradas em meus ouvidos,
incompletas pela perturbação que causamos um ao outro.
Por isso, tão logo você adentrou minha vida
criei um labirinto secreto em meu peito
para que jamais encontre a saída.
THE WILDE GAME
by André Machado
ACT III (Last act)
SCENE
The stage is again in complete darkness. A Chopin nocturne begins to play exactly at the moment the face of the Gioconda is ilumminated by a lonely beam of sunlight. The painting is at the center of the stage and, although this is Paris, the famous smile captures our souls and leads us straight to Florence.
The room is empty but for the picture and the real Oscar Wilde in his last days, seen standing at right. He wears an old overcoat and holds a very modest cane. On the checkered floor, a much used suitcase. All this is revealed very slowly as the light spreads over the scene.
Wilde stares at the mysterious lady as if saying goodbye. He looks infinitely sad. One can feel his burden through the weariness of his movements. For obvious reasons, we will name him Sebastian Melmoth during this act.
MELMOTH
Alas, this is not the destiny for me. Who would say in 1882 that I would in the end fall in the hands of the Phillistines? It is sad enough. It is not a tragedy to be dead in the European world; tragedy is to be alive amongst the American world. The gods are thorough in their judgement.
Enter Wilde (L), running and breathing wildly; he slips on the floor and falls heavily close to the picture.
By Jove, what a hurry! (Offers his hand to the other) Monsieur, s’il vous plâit...
WILDE (taking it)
Merci. (To himself) This is surprising... I really had an accent when speaking French! (Rises) Well, thank you, Mr. Wilde. (The other is looking at him in amazement) Oh, don’t be afraid.
MELMOTH
Who are you?
WILDE
This is easy. I am you.
MELMOTH (smiling)
By the mere fact of existing you put away one of my best epigrams at the trials.
WILDE
Yes, yes, I know. "I never adored another man but myself". But by adoring me, you would not be far off, would you?
MELMOTH
Yes, I would. I’m not like you anymore. And it’s been a long time. Look at you! Whoever you are-
WILDE
I am you. It is true.
MELMOTH (as if he did not listen)
As I said, sir, whoever your are, you are at least a younger version of me. Your collar is quite white, as in the nineties. The pearl in your tie is just perfect. Apollo himself would not have touched it. The waved hair becomes your oblong face. And the manners, I have almost forgotten them, living amongst my tigers in Paris. Please leave; I can’t stand looking at your face; I feel like I am Narcissus-
WILDE
Yes, like an old and wrinkled Narcissus who, staring at his beloved pond, could only see his former beauty. It is intolerable, I concede. But at least you are alive, and I am dead.
MELMOTH
What on earth do you mean?
WILDE
It is hard to explain. I am you, Mr. Wilde, and I have been dead for many, many years now. But there seems to be some confusion about your destiny up there (points up to the ceiling).
MELMOTH
I don’t believe you, sir. Please mock at me no more. You have not the slightest idea of what I have been through here in Paris.
WILDE
But I do. I do. Remember when you left the barber shop that morning and an English fool said “that is Oscar Wilde, I won’t sit in his chair?”And the time you met old Will Rothenstein and he snubbed you thoroughly before repenting and allowing you to seat at his table? And how sad it was when Carson’s hansom covered you with mud! I know it all, my friend. Don’t "sir" me, please! I was there! I suffered with you. I wept at Constance’s tomb at Genoa until my very eyes seemed to be two opaque and blank screens. I sat with you at that gloomy park after Bosie left you under his customary shower of insults at Villa Giudice, Posilippo. I was there at Berneval-Sur-Mer when Robbie kissed you with that passion long yearned after the prison years... and then that stupid Sherard spoiled it all. I was with you when you embraced Sarah Bernhardt and loved her the most, deciding to forget how mean she was when you were at Reading. And I was there at the early hours of a May day in 1895 when you wept desperately, regretting that you’d not accepted Frank Harris’s offer to go away aboard his yacht! Oh, Oscar! I am your friend and your most dangerous enemy! I am you! Forgive my manners, but I have to reach you - and I can’t stand looking at me in such a forlorn state! I’m so sorry... so sorry... (leans against the wall, weeping uncontrollably)
MELMOTH
(Quite taken aback, but still holding his own) Who... who was my first lover?
WILDE (wiping his tears)
Harry Marillier.
MELMOTH
Whom did I fall in love with after Lady Windermere’s Fan first night?
WILDE
Edward Shelley.
MELMOTH
Who brought Bosie to my house for the first time?
WILDE
Lionel Johnson. Tite Street, 1891.
MELMOTH
All right, all right. How much does Frank Harris owe me now for my Mr & Mrs Daventry scenario?
WILDE (smiling)
£150. And you are very angry that he wrote the play because you sold that scenario to a number of other people. I remember well how ashamed I was to do this. But we were terribly hard up.
MELMOTH
Er... and what am I doing here today?
WILDE
That’s why I came. You are to depart to America and work for your old friend Mrs. Julia Ward Howe. But you are very afraid to do it, in spite of your wretched life in Paris.
MELMOTH
And what are you going to do about it?
WILDE
That’s a tough question. I suppose I will have to ask you not to go. But then-
MELMOTH
I simply can’t stay here anymore. Paris used to celebrate me. Now it only wants to regurgitate me. Quite a difference.
WILDE
Don’t you think I already know that? Believe me, heaven is worse.
MELMOTH
That’s the first reason why I cannot believe you.
WILDE
What reason?
MELMOTH
I am never going to heaven!
WILDE
Oh yes, you are. And you will regret every minute.
MELMOTH
Are you really me? Are you really dead? This is impossible. It must be the absynthe. Too much of it in the last four years...
WILDE
Want to test it? Just kill me. Here (takes a gun from the coat). Shoot me.
MELMOTH
I couldn’t do it.
WILDE
Dorian Gray did it, with a knife. Why can’t you?
MELMOTH
Killing you would be like killing myself after all.
WILDE
Well, you were always good at pretending. Imagine... let me see... yes, imagine I am George Moore. Or Collette. Or Dickens.
MELMOTH
Oh, I don’t hate Dickens that much, dear.
WILDE
That’s a consumated lie.
MELMOTH
How dare you-
WILDE
Now come on. You almost vomited when you read that awful Scrooge thing.
MELMOTH (face distorted by horror)
You are disgusting!
WILDE
Don’t be so shocked. It is the product of an eternity in heaven. My only consolation is the presence of the Sphinx. She is a real gift from the gods.
MELMOTH
The Sphinx! With you! No, that’s definitely unbelievable.
WILDE (handing him the gun again)
This is the only way you will believe me.
MELMOTH (taking it)
Well, then be it.
WILDE
Perhaps you’d prefer a knife? It is silent.
MELMOTH
It is not necessary, dear. The Parisians never take notice of anything. That is the charm of Paris. Whereas the English are always busy with the life of others. That was the charm of London-until it hit me in the face.
WILDE
There is nothing like the life of others when yours is mere existence.
MELMOTH
Existence is what happens to life after marriage.
WILDE
Yes: to exist is to adore one; to live is to adore many.
MELMOTH
I think adoring was dying instead.
WILDE
There is no such thing as to die from excess of love. Too much love leads to ennui; and nothing is healthier than ennui. Live like a pebble and you’ll be one century old.
MELMOTH
Yes, and capable to understand only one-tenth of that.
WILDE
Ah, you’ve not lost the old verve.
MELMOTH
Sure, but I don’t know that I got anything monotonous from Bosie. And I loved him in excess.
WILDE
We did not love him. We idolized him. That is quite another thing. In fact, you were never capable to love anyone but yourself. Even Constance you put on a shrine - until 1885 at least.
MELMOTH
Well, haven’t I written that love is a malady in "Dorian Gray"?
WILDE
Indeed. But you were the victim of another malady. Your were the victim of passion. And passion is obsession. In the end, it leaves one completely exhausted, and yet one cannot get rid of it. Didn’t the childish tantrums of Bosie tire you? I remember loathing them, but I couldn’t be away, just like a bug circling the beloved lamp and passing away in the process.
MELMOTH
I still don’t know where you came from, but if you did arrive from Paradise, I can already comment on another side effect from the place, wherever it is.
WILDE
What is it?
MELMOTH
Your metaphors. They are so crude I feel I am reading Mark Twain.
WILDE
I envy him. He went to Hell.
MELMOTH
No wonder, to judge from his writings.
WILDE
The twentieth century will bring authors much worse. And - alas! - you are going to be one of them if you don’t stay in Paris.
MELMOTH
First we have to perform that test. Please wait a moment...
(Shoots him. Nothing happens. Shoots again. Nothing happens.)
Wh-what are you? By Jove.... Am I already dead? I beg you to forgive me. What is going to happen to me?
WILDE (Shows him book produced from overcoat)
Take a look.
MELMOTH (Examines book. After a few momens, starts indignantly)
No! I am not going to write this! No, no, no!
WILDE
Believe me, you will if you leave Paris now. Look.
(Gestures to the back of the stage. Smoke rises from the floor and an image forms slowlsy into some celestial screen. It shows a very old and wrinkled Wilde drinking champagne at a Hollywood party at the 20’s, surrounded by youthful admirers and looking completely happy.)
That seems not bad at all. Not bad at all. But you will be just another frivolous screenwriter, and will fade with the 1920’s. The Great One doesn’t want such a future for you, although, of course, you can choose the other way around if you like.
MELMOTH
I guess the other way around is shame and disgrace to the end.
WILDE
It is immortality in the long run.
MELMOTH
Must my destiny be always tragic then?
WILDE
It was not always tragic and you know it. Robbie Ross will write in a few years that yours was, "if the last five years are ommitted, a very happy life".
MELMOTH
Then I will die soon if I stay.
WILDE
Yes. It’s your only consolation.
MELMOTH
Oh.
WILDE
I fear I must go now. I cannot insist that much, you know. It wouldn’t be ethical at all.
MELMOTH
I see. But don’t worry. I will stay. I won’t turn my tragedy into a comedy. Unless, of course, I myself could create the characters and surroundings. But surely enough, an American atmosphere would mar all the inspiration. (Smiles and embraces the other). Go in peace, my dear.
WILDE
Oh, don’t worry. Peace is all we got up there. (Laughs.)
MELMOTH
Wait! Let us have a drink first at the Café de La Paix.
(The light fades as they go away. A few moments later, the stage is illuminated again. The scene now shows Wilde on his deathbed at the Hotel d’Alsace, surrounded by Robbie Ross and Reginald Turner. It is the exact moment when he exhales his last breath. The two other men look at each other in pain and, after some time, leave the room. Enters then the Sphinx, beautifully dressed, and almost shining with joy. She takes Wilde’s hand and kisses it.
He opens his eyes and smiles as he has never smiled in five years. He sits up, then takes her hand, and pulls her to him, embracing the long-missed friend. After that, they move away very slowly and gracefully. The light fades; Schubert’s Symphony no. 4 completes the farewell.)
[END]
by André Machado
ACT III (Last act)
SCENE
The stage is again in complete darkness. A Chopin nocturne begins to play exactly at the moment the face of the Gioconda is ilumminated by a lonely beam of sunlight. The painting is at the center of the stage and, although this is Paris, the famous smile captures our souls and leads us straight to Florence.
The room is empty but for the picture and the real Oscar Wilde in his last days, seen standing at right. He wears an old overcoat and holds a very modest cane. On the checkered floor, a much used suitcase. All this is revealed very slowly as the light spreads over the scene.
Wilde stares at the mysterious lady as if saying goodbye. He looks infinitely sad. One can feel his burden through the weariness of his movements. For obvious reasons, we will name him Sebastian Melmoth during this act.
MELMOTH
Alas, this is not the destiny for me. Who would say in 1882 that I would in the end fall in the hands of the Phillistines? It is sad enough. It is not a tragedy to be dead in the European world; tragedy is to be alive amongst the American world. The gods are thorough in their judgement.
Enter Wilde (L), running and breathing wildly; he slips on the floor and falls heavily close to the picture.
By Jove, what a hurry! (Offers his hand to the other) Monsieur, s’il vous plâit...
WILDE (taking it)
Merci. (To himself) This is surprising... I really had an accent when speaking French! (Rises) Well, thank you, Mr. Wilde. (The other is looking at him in amazement) Oh, don’t be afraid.
MELMOTH
Who are you?
WILDE
This is easy. I am you.
MELMOTH (smiling)
By the mere fact of existing you put away one of my best epigrams at the trials.
WILDE
Yes, yes, I know. "I never adored another man but myself". But by adoring me, you would not be far off, would you?
MELMOTH
Yes, I would. I’m not like you anymore. And it’s been a long time. Look at you! Whoever you are-
WILDE
I am you. It is true.
MELMOTH (as if he did not listen)
As I said, sir, whoever your are, you are at least a younger version of me. Your collar is quite white, as in the nineties. The pearl in your tie is just perfect. Apollo himself would not have touched it. The waved hair becomes your oblong face. And the manners, I have almost forgotten them, living amongst my tigers in Paris. Please leave; I can’t stand looking at your face; I feel like I am Narcissus-
WILDE
Yes, like an old and wrinkled Narcissus who, staring at his beloved pond, could only see his former beauty. It is intolerable, I concede. But at least you are alive, and I am dead.
MELMOTH
What on earth do you mean?
WILDE
It is hard to explain. I am you, Mr. Wilde, and I have been dead for many, many years now. But there seems to be some confusion about your destiny up there (points up to the ceiling).
MELMOTH
I don’t believe you, sir. Please mock at me no more. You have not the slightest idea of what I have been through here in Paris.
WILDE
But I do. I do. Remember when you left the barber shop that morning and an English fool said “that is Oscar Wilde, I won’t sit in his chair?”And the time you met old Will Rothenstein and he snubbed you thoroughly before repenting and allowing you to seat at his table? And how sad it was when Carson’s hansom covered you with mud! I know it all, my friend. Don’t "sir" me, please! I was there! I suffered with you. I wept at Constance’s tomb at Genoa until my very eyes seemed to be two opaque and blank screens. I sat with you at that gloomy park after Bosie left you under his customary shower of insults at Villa Giudice, Posilippo. I was there at Berneval-Sur-Mer when Robbie kissed you with that passion long yearned after the prison years... and then that stupid Sherard spoiled it all. I was with you when you embraced Sarah Bernhardt and loved her the most, deciding to forget how mean she was when you were at Reading. And I was there at the early hours of a May day in 1895 when you wept desperately, regretting that you’d not accepted Frank Harris’s offer to go away aboard his yacht! Oh, Oscar! I am your friend and your most dangerous enemy! I am you! Forgive my manners, but I have to reach you - and I can’t stand looking at me in such a forlorn state! I’m so sorry... so sorry... (leans against the wall, weeping uncontrollably)
MELMOTH
(Quite taken aback, but still holding his own) Who... who was my first lover?
WILDE (wiping his tears)
Harry Marillier.
MELMOTH
Whom did I fall in love with after Lady Windermere’s Fan first night?
WILDE
Edward Shelley.
MELMOTH
Who brought Bosie to my house for the first time?
WILDE
Lionel Johnson. Tite Street, 1891.
MELMOTH
All right, all right. How much does Frank Harris owe me now for my Mr & Mrs Daventry scenario?
WILDE (smiling)
£150. And you are very angry that he wrote the play because you sold that scenario to a number of other people. I remember well how ashamed I was to do this. But we were terribly hard up.
MELMOTH
Er... and what am I doing here today?
WILDE
That’s why I came. You are to depart to America and work for your old friend Mrs. Julia Ward Howe. But you are very afraid to do it, in spite of your wretched life in Paris.
MELMOTH
And what are you going to do about it?
WILDE
That’s a tough question. I suppose I will have to ask you not to go. But then-
MELMOTH
I simply can’t stay here anymore. Paris used to celebrate me. Now it only wants to regurgitate me. Quite a difference.
WILDE
Don’t you think I already know that? Believe me, heaven is worse.
MELMOTH
That’s the first reason why I cannot believe you.
WILDE
What reason?
MELMOTH
I am never going to heaven!
WILDE
Oh yes, you are. And you will regret every minute.
MELMOTH
Are you really me? Are you really dead? This is impossible. It must be the absynthe. Too much of it in the last four years...
WILDE
Want to test it? Just kill me. Here (takes a gun from the coat). Shoot me.
MELMOTH
I couldn’t do it.
WILDE
Dorian Gray did it, with a knife. Why can’t you?
MELMOTH
Killing you would be like killing myself after all.
WILDE
Well, you were always good at pretending. Imagine... let me see... yes, imagine I am George Moore. Or Collette. Or Dickens.
MELMOTH
Oh, I don’t hate Dickens that much, dear.
WILDE
That’s a consumated lie.
MELMOTH
How dare you-
WILDE
Now come on. You almost vomited when you read that awful Scrooge thing.
MELMOTH (face distorted by horror)
You are disgusting!
WILDE
Don’t be so shocked. It is the product of an eternity in heaven. My only consolation is the presence of the Sphinx. She is a real gift from the gods.
MELMOTH
The Sphinx! With you! No, that’s definitely unbelievable.
WILDE (handing him the gun again)
This is the only way you will believe me.
MELMOTH (taking it)
Well, then be it.
WILDE
Perhaps you’d prefer a knife? It is silent.
MELMOTH
It is not necessary, dear. The Parisians never take notice of anything. That is the charm of Paris. Whereas the English are always busy with the life of others. That was the charm of London-until it hit me in the face.
WILDE
There is nothing like the life of others when yours is mere existence.
MELMOTH
Existence is what happens to life after marriage.
WILDE
Yes: to exist is to adore one; to live is to adore many.
MELMOTH
I think adoring was dying instead.
WILDE
There is no such thing as to die from excess of love. Too much love leads to ennui; and nothing is healthier than ennui. Live like a pebble and you’ll be one century old.
MELMOTH
Yes, and capable to understand only one-tenth of that.
WILDE
Ah, you’ve not lost the old verve.
MELMOTH
Sure, but I don’t know that I got anything monotonous from Bosie. And I loved him in excess.
WILDE
We did not love him. We idolized him. That is quite another thing. In fact, you were never capable to love anyone but yourself. Even Constance you put on a shrine - until 1885 at least.
MELMOTH
Well, haven’t I written that love is a malady in "Dorian Gray"?
WILDE
Indeed. But you were the victim of another malady. Your were the victim of passion. And passion is obsession. In the end, it leaves one completely exhausted, and yet one cannot get rid of it. Didn’t the childish tantrums of Bosie tire you? I remember loathing them, but I couldn’t be away, just like a bug circling the beloved lamp and passing away in the process.
MELMOTH
I still don’t know where you came from, but if you did arrive from Paradise, I can already comment on another side effect from the place, wherever it is.
WILDE
What is it?
MELMOTH
Your metaphors. They are so crude I feel I am reading Mark Twain.
WILDE
I envy him. He went to Hell.
MELMOTH
No wonder, to judge from his writings.
WILDE
The twentieth century will bring authors much worse. And - alas! - you are going to be one of them if you don’t stay in Paris.
MELMOTH
First we have to perform that test. Please wait a moment...
(Shoots him. Nothing happens. Shoots again. Nothing happens.)
Wh-what are you? By Jove.... Am I already dead? I beg you to forgive me. What is going to happen to me?
WILDE (Shows him book produced from overcoat)
Take a look.
MELMOTH (Examines book. After a few momens, starts indignantly)
No! I am not going to write this! No, no, no!
WILDE
Believe me, you will if you leave Paris now. Look.
(Gestures to the back of the stage. Smoke rises from the floor and an image forms slowlsy into some celestial screen. It shows a very old and wrinkled Wilde drinking champagne at a Hollywood party at the 20’s, surrounded by youthful admirers and looking completely happy.)
That seems not bad at all. Not bad at all. But you will be just another frivolous screenwriter, and will fade with the 1920’s. The Great One doesn’t want such a future for you, although, of course, you can choose the other way around if you like.
MELMOTH
I guess the other way around is shame and disgrace to the end.
WILDE
It is immortality in the long run.
MELMOTH
Must my destiny be always tragic then?
WILDE
It was not always tragic and you know it. Robbie Ross will write in a few years that yours was, "if the last five years are ommitted, a very happy life".
MELMOTH
Then I will die soon if I stay.
WILDE
Yes. It’s your only consolation.
MELMOTH
Oh.
WILDE
I fear I must go now. I cannot insist that much, you know. It wouldn’t be ethical at all.
MELMOTH
I see. But don’t worry. I will stay. I won’t turn my tragedy into a comedy. Unless, of course, I myself could create the characters and surroundings. But surely enough, an American atmosphere would mar all the inspiration. (Smiles and embraces the other). Go in peace, my dear.
WILDE
Oh, don’t worry. Peace is all we got up there. (Laughs.)
MELMOTH
Wait! Let us have a drink first at the Café de La Paix.
(The light fades as they go away. A few moments later, the stage is illuminated again. The scene now shows Wilde on his deathbed at the Hotel d’Alsace, surrounded by Robbie Ross and Reginald Turner. It is the exact moment when he exhales his last breath. The two other men look at each other in pain and, after some time, leave the room. Enters then the Sphinx, beautifully dressed, and almost shining with joy. She takes Wilde’s hand and kisses it.
He opens his eyes and smiles as he has never smiled in five years. He sits up, then takes her hand, and pulls her to him, embracing the long-missed friend. After that, they move away very slowly and gracefully. The light fades; Schubert’s Symphony no. 4 completes the farewell.)
[END]
THE WILDE GAME
by André Machado
ACT II
SCENE
Heavy torrents of rain fall over Baker Street. It is the night of September, 28, 1900, and a cold wind sweeps all over London. The Victorian houses face the street menancingly as lightning turns their austere façades on. A tall, fat man with a black overcoat and top hat crosses hurriedly the street and halts at the door of number 221-B. He looks back for a moment, and one can see the black, vigorous beard and the pince-nez that adorn his face.
In response to his knocking, an old lady, dressed in full Victorian attire, opens the door. She has a tired face, but when she smiles, it lightens up and reveals the remains of long lost beauty. For a moment, however, the lady frowns and examines the stranger more than she usually does.
THE LADY
(Murmuring to herself) ...Upon my word, isn't he that... (Talking to her visitor) Good evening, sir. I'm Mrs. Hudson, and I own this place. May I be of any help? Perhaps the gentleman wants to see one of my apartments? In that case I shall recommend that you come mornings; the sunlight will give you-
THE MAN
Please. I apologize, madam. It is a little late, I concede... but I'm here to talk to Mr. Holmes. A matter of life and death, you see. Would you kindly announce that Mr. Sebastian Melmoth would be honoured to have a word with him and Dr. Watson?
MRS. HUDSON
In a moment, sir. (Exits.)
THE MAN
Oh, dear, how I missed this weather! The wind! The rain! The smell of gas from the lamps! The sound of British cabs, of British horses! Ave Imperatrix! Where are my friends now? Maybe at the Savoy, or at the Café Royal... maybe at Fitzroy Square, alas! O London of charms, O city of kings and tigers! At long last, I am back!
(As the words die, the stage falls in utter darkness. From the right corner a violin-completely out of tune- is then heard; when it silences, its owner's voice thunders and frightens the house.)
THE VOICE
Ah! Watson! Wasn't it splendid? Better than Paganini! What would Vivaldi say?
(Lights. They illuminate now the living-room of 221-B, Baker Street. The place is the perfect mirror of the description given by Conan Doyle in A Study In Red. . Right, stands Sherlock Holmes, holding a violin and the bow. Left, comfortably seated on an armchair, a cigar in his hand, is Dr. James Watson, clearly trying not to burst into outright laughter.)
WATSON
Well, Holmes, I certainly can't imagine what Vivaldi would say. But if the violin could speak, it would utter 'no more' and try to take its own life.
HOLMES (frowning)
Nonsense! My dear friend, you have been in the most strange mood these last few days. You used to love my music.
WATSON
That was when you paid the rent.
HOLMES
Good heavens! what bad temper! Hmm... let me see (takes a good look at his friend). No, she won't accept your proposal unless you go to Tintagel one more time. She is very hard-headed about your directly proposing to her at King Arthur's castle, and-yes, she completely fell for you, old chum!
WATSON (rising. His face is dominated by anger)
How dare you...! Reading my mail after all these years!
HOLMES
What mail? Do you really think me capable of wasting my time with silly love letters?
WATSON
But how come-
HOLMES
Now come. Look at your pocket. It contains not a handkerchief, but a worn-out piece of paper. First: the letters men usually read too much are from their beloved ones or from family, and as you have no relatives left... Second: you have been away for some days, and upon your return left some traces of mud on the carpet. I happened to examine them, and found some tiny fragments of leaves from plants-bushes that exist only in the moors. Third: I found on this very table a very interesting open copy of Mort D'Arthur. That edition, acquired recently if one shall judge from its almost untouched cover and pages, was issued at the beginning of this month at Tintagel during a well-publicized celebration of the Arthurian legends.
WATSON
But how do you know I proposed to her?
HOLMES
Why, you have been doing this to almost every fair lady that have come to me seeking help since we've been together. You have even disclosed it all to the public in The Sign of Four. Aren't you ashamed? (Watson blushes instantly). And it's obvious she refused at first. You were so nervous you burned your hand in the fireplace while reading that letter.
WATSON
And the castle?
HOLMES
It's the only romantic place in Tintagel. That is, if ruins are romantic at all.
WATSON
I suppose you discovered she is completely in love with me by examining some other clues at the microscope...
HOLMES
Indeed. A trace of lipstick in one of your shirts. Good-quality lipstick, I daresay. Not used by harlots.
WATSON
Holmes! Oh!...
HOLMES
What?
WATSON (keeping in control)
...You could not possibly know she is hard-headed.
HOLMES
Oh yes, she is. Miss Vera Stratford is one of the most stubborn ladies I have ever... met.
WATSON (completely taken aback)
Was she here?
HOLMES
No. We met by chance in the National Bank. I overheard her name. I saw dignity and strength during the little argument she had with the clerk. And she absolutely refused to talk to me when her purse fell and I helped to collect her things-including a charming photograph of yours. Besides, she has red hair. Have you ever seen a peaceful, easygoing woman with red hair?
WATSON
Never in my life. But that's what I adore most.
HOLMES
The hair or the personality?
WATSON
Both, my friend.
(At this moment a faint knock at the door is heard. Holmes opens it to Mrs. Hudson.)
MRS. HUDSON
Excuse me, Mr. Holmes, but there is a certain Mr. Melmoth at the door. He says he needs to talk to you at once. Shall I let the gentleman in?
HOLMES (frowning)
A very curious name indeed. Yes... kindly do it, Mrs. Hudson.
(She exits. Moments later, enters the man.)
THE MAN
Mr. Holmes, I presume? (Holmes nods. The man offers his hand). I wish to apologize for coming-
HOLMES (sitting down and leaving the other's hand alone)
Please leave this house now, sir.
WATSON (rising)
Holmes!
(The man bows his head, and puts his hand in the coat's pockets. He says nothing.)
HOLMES
Pray do it fast.
WATSON
How can you, Holmes! Treating the gentleman like an animal! (To the man) I beg your pardon, mr.-Melmoth, isn't it?
HOLMES
This, Watson, is no Mr. Melmoth. He is the infamous Oscar Wilde. No house in London will open its doors to him. How dare you come to me under this ridiculous false name! Sebastian Melmoth, from Melmoth The Wanderer, by Maturin! You are so disgusting!
WATSON
I still don't see what the point is. Didn't you deem all his trials deplorable? Did you not quarrel with some of your best friends in the Yard over this? Jesus, how many times you quotedThe Critic as an Artist to me!
HOLMES (letting go of the violin and bow quite abruptly, and taking his coat, gloves and hat. He speaks looking straight at Wilde.)
I am going out on some errands. When I get back, I expect to see you no more. (Exits.)
WATSON
How rude can he be sometimes! (Shaking Wilde's hand) It's an honour to have you here, Mr. Wilde. Please sit down. I have not recognized you with this beard and glasses.
WILDE (removing the beard and glasses)
That was what I expected your friend to do. Anyway I'm glad to get rid of these things. You know, Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes has a far better reason for contempt than the sheer morality he tried to convey.
WATSON (offering him a cigar, which he accepts)
Is that so? In that case I confess I would love to hear it all.
WILDE
Well, remember the Marquess of Queensberry? Before deciding to sue him, I sent a message to Mr. Holmes. Upon my word of honour, I was absolutely straightforward about the situation. I never lied to Mr. Holmes as I did to my lawyers. I asked him to follow the marquis and maybe discover something irregular that would set me free from that horrid ape. Your friend did his utmost, and found Queensberry had some unfinished business with an unscrupulous fighter accused of trying to kill a very young lady who used to be the marquis' lover. In fact, Douglas was charged with the murder of the girl, but there was no proof, so the case was forgotten. But Holmes visited the crime scene (the girl's house, where, the marquis claimed, he had never entered) and later, when we met at the Albemarle Club, produced all the evidence we needed-a tiny fibre from Douglas' whip. "I found it on the very carpet where she lay dead", he pronounced triumphantly.
WATSON
And then...?
WILDE
(Sighing) And then I committed the greatest mistake of my life. I kissed him.
WATSON (in utter astonishment)
You kissed Holmes?
WILDE
Yes, I did. I was so excited I couldn't resist it. I embraced him and kissed him, murmuring, "Thank you, thank you..." And then came the worst. He began to shiver, and he responded to it-passionately. Oh, Dr. Watson, you must not crucify the man you are so devoted to: for he is one of us. He yearns for the love that dare not say its name, but has no courage to yield to it.
WATSON
(Standing absolutely still, eyes wide open in amazement) Lord God...
WILDE
And then he fled. And then he helped Queensberry win the first trial. And then he helped get me imprisoned. And my life was over.
WATSON
That can't be true, Mr. Wilde.
WILDE
It is, it is. That's why he can't even stand looking at a book of mine.
WATSON
If so, why did he defend you with such intense emotion afterwards? I was witness to that.
WILDE
How could I possibly know? Only the superficial know themselves.
(Enter Holmes, just in time to hear the last few words exchanged between Watson and Wilde. They don't notice the detective. He looks quite different from the adamant, tight-lipped man who left a couple of minutes ago. Wet, hazard-looking, he looks at the writer with a face overwhelmed with sorrow and shame. Hesitatingly standing by the door, Holmes at last gathers courage to respond.)
HOLMES
... And I'm certainly not one of them, right, Mr. Wilde?
WILDE and WATSON
Holmes!
WILDE (rising)
I suppose I must go now, doctor.
HOLMES
I beg you, wait a little longer. My conduct was unforgivable. (The other sits down in silence. The detective does the same.) Should I not help you in such a time of distress, I would not be worthy of any of my victories against evil.
WILDE
Well, I daresay the creatures you help to defeat are sometimes the perfect mirrors of our souls. Crime-the unpunished version-roams these wastelands since Genesis.
HOLMES (sitting down)
I see you haven’t lost your abilities as a charmeur, Mr. Wilde.
WILDE
That is a great compliment. For, you know, given the Phillistine conditions of life in paradise, I shouldn’t be able to utter a single word. Thank the gods for the Sphinx over there.
WATSON
I beg your pardon? Have you said... paradise? Are you telling us you’re dead?
WILDE (looking confused)
I speak metaphorically. I’m long dead for Britain, aren’t I?
WATSON
Oh.
HOLMES (smiling)
Then... there is life after death. I could never imagine that.
WILDE
Nor did I. And to call it ‘life’ would be like calling a chimpanzee Adonis.
WATSON
Well, Holmes, won’t you hear what our guest came here for?
HOLMES (blushing)
Of course. Mr. Wilde, if you please...
WILDE
I’ve come to find... an old friend. The situation is as follows...
(As he explains it all, Mozart’s Simphony No. 40 fills the stage. At length, Wilde draws his story to an end. The music then fades smoothly, and Holmes rises.)
HOLMES
Very well then. Please join me and Dr. Watson, sir. We are going to Paris.
(Complete darkness. When the lights return, the three men are in Wilde’s rooms at the Rue des Beaux-Arts, in Paris. Holmes is examining something on the mantelpiece)
WILDE (to himself)
Beloved Zeus, what a task hath thou given me! I shall fight for my soul and therefore I must die in this horrid place once again. Whereas my alter ego yearns for life-I can fully understand his reasons! How many more punishments must I endure? I ought to think of Robbie... Only Robbie would smile when I wouldn’t anymore, and he would say in that suave mocking tone: "It could be worse, dear. Remember this. You could have been sentenced to read George Moore’s books for the rest of eternity."
HOLMES
Yes! This is it!
WATSON
Has the man gone to America?
HOLMES
No, not yet. Mr. Wilde, you may find him right here in Paris.
WILDE
Where?
HOLMES
Well, by the state of the mantelpiece-
WATSON
Enough, Holmes! Just say it! Don’t you see the man is desperate?
HOLMES
I suppose I owe him. (To Wilde) He is at the Louvre.
END OF ACT II
by André Machado
ACT II
SCENE
Heavy torrents of rain fall over Baker Street. It is the night of September, 28, 1900, and a cold wind sweeps all over London. The Victorian houses face the street menancingly as lightning turns their austere façades on. A tall, fat man with a black overcoat and top hat crosses hurriedly the street and halts at the door of number 221-B. He looks back for a moment, and one can see the black, vigorous beard and the pince-nez that adorn his face.
In response to his knocking, an old lady, dressed in full Victorian attire, opens the door. She has a tired face, but when she smiles, it lightens up and reveals the remains of long lost beauty. For a moment, however, the lady frowns and examines the stranger more than she usually does.
THE LADY
(Murmuring to herself) ...Upon my word, isn't he that... (Talking to her visitor) Good evening, sir. I'm Mrs. Hudson, and I own this place. May I be of any help? Perhaps the gentleman wants to see one of my apartments? In that case I shall recommend that you come mornings; the sunlight will give you-
THE MAN
Please. I apologize, madam. It is a little late, I concede... but I'm here to talk to Mr. Holmes. A matter of life and death, you see. Would you kindly announce that Mr. Sebastian Melmoth would be honoured to have a word with him and Dr. Watson?
MRS. HUDSON
In a moment, sir. (Exits.)
THE MAN
Oh, dear, how I missed this weather! The wind! The rain! The smell of gas from the lamps! The sound of British cabs, of British horses! Ave Imperatrix! Where are my friends now? Maybe at the Savoy, or at the Café Royal... maybe at Fitzroy Square, alas! O London of charms, O city of kings and tigers! At long last, I am back!
(As the words die, the stage falls in utter darkness. From the right corner a violin-completely out of tune- is then heard; when it silences, its owner's voice thunders and frightens the house.)
THE VOICE
Ah! Watson! Wasn't it splendid? Better than Paganini! What would Vivaldi say?
(Lights. They illuminate now the living-room of 221-B, Baker Street. The place is the perfect mirror of the description given by Conan Doyle in A Study In Red. . Right, stands Sherlock Holmes, holding a violin and the bow. Left, comfortably seated on an armchair, a cigar in his hand, is Dr. James Watson, clearly trying not to burst into outright laughter.)
WATSON
Well, Holmes, I certainly can't imagine what Vivaldi would say. But if the violin could speak, it would utter 'no more' and try to take its own life.
HOLMES (frowning)
Nonsense! My dear friend, you have been in the most strange mood these last few days. You used to love my music.
WATSON
That was when you paid the rent.
HOLMES
Good heavens! what bad temper! Hmm... let me see (takes a good look at his friend). No, she won't accept your proposal unless you go to Tintagel one more time. She is very hard-headed about your directly proposing to her at King Arthur's castle, and-yes, she completely fell for you, old chum!
WATSON (rising. His face is dominated by anger)
How dare you...! Reading my mail after all these years!
HOLMES
What mail? Do you really think me capable of wasting my time with silly love letters?
WATSON
But how come-
HOLMES
Now come. Look at your pocket. It contains not a handkerchief, but a worn-out piece of paper. First: the letters men usually read too much are from their beloved ones or from family, and as you have no relatives left... Second: you have been away for some days, and upon your return left some traces of mud on the carpet. I happened to examine them, and found some tiny fragments of leaves from plants-bushes that exist only in the moors. Third: I found on this very table a very interesting open copy of Mort D'Arthur. That edition, acquired recently if one shall judge from its almost untouched cover and pages, was issued at the beginning of this month at Tintagel during a well-publicized celebration of the Arthurian legends.
WATSON
But how do you know I proposed to her?
HOLMES
Why, you have been doing this to almost every fair lady that have come to me seeking help since we've been together. You have even disclosed it all to the public in The Sign of Four. Aren't you ashamed? (Watson blushes instantly). And it's obvious she refused at first. You were so nervous you burned your hand in the fireplace while reading that letter.
WATSON
And the castle?
HOLMES
It's the only romantic place in Tintagel. That is, if ruins are romantic at all.
WATSON
I suppose you discovered she is completely in love with me by examining some other clues at the microscope...
HOLMES
Indeed. A trace of lipstick in one of your shirts. Good-quality lipstick, I daresay. Not used by harlots.
WATSON
Holmes! Oh!...
HOLMES
What?
WATSON (keeping in control)
...You could not possibly know she is hard-headed.
HOLMES
Oh yes, she is. Miss Vera Stratford is one of the most stubborn ladies I have ever... met.
WATSON (completely taken aback)
Was she here?
HOLMES
No. We met by chance in the National Bank. I overheard her name. I saw dignity and strength during the little argument she had with the clerk. And she absolutely refused to talk to me when her purse fell and I helped to collect her things-including a charming photograph of yours. Besides, she has red hair. Have you ever seen a peaceful, easygoing woman with red hair?
WATSON
Never in my life. But that's what I adore most.
HOLMES
The hair or the personality?
WATSON
Both, my friend.
(At this moment a faint knock at the door is heard. Holmes opens it to Mrs. Hudson.)
MRS. HUDSON
Excuse me, Mr. Holmes, but there is a certain Mr. Melmoth at the door. He says he needs to talk to you at once. Shall I let the gentleman in?
HOLMES (frowning)
A very curious name indeed. Yes... kindly do it, Mrs. Hudson.
(She exits. Moments later, enters the man.)
THE MAN
Mr. Holmes, I presume? (Holmes nods. The man offers his hand). I wish to apologize for coming-
HOLMES (sitting down and leaving the other's hand alone)
Please leave this house now, sir.
WATSON (rising)
Holmes!
(The man bows his head, and puts his hand in the coat's pockets. He says nothing.)
HOLMES
Pray do it fast.
WATSON
How can you, Holmes! Treating the gentleman like an animal! (To the man) I beg your pardon, mr.-Melmoth, isn't it?
HOLMES
This, Watson, is no Mr. Melmoth. He is the infamous Oscar Wilde. No house in London will open its doors to him. How dare you come to me under this ridiculous false name! Sebastian Melmoth, from Melmoth The Wanderer, by Maturin! You are so disgusting!
WATSON
I still don't see what the point is. Didn't you deem all his trials deplorable? Did you not quarrel with some of your best friends in the Yard over this? Jesus, how many times you quotedThe Critic as an Artist to me!
HOLMES (letting go of the violin and bow quite abruptly, and taking his coat, gloves and hat. He speaks looking straight at Wilde.)
I am going out on some errands. When I get back, I expect to see you no more. (Exits.)
WATSON
How rude can he be sometimes! (Shaking Wilde's hand) It's an honour to have you here, Mr. Wilde. Please sit down. I have not recognized you with this beard and glasses.
WILDE (removing the beard and glasses)
That was what I expected your friend to do. Anyway I'm glad to get rid of these things. You know, Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes has a far better reason for contempt than the sheer morality he tried to convey.
WATSON (offering him a cigar, which he accepts)
Is that so? In that case I confess I would love to hear it all.
WILDE
Well, remember the Marquess of Queensberry? Before deciding to sue him, I sent a message to Mr. Holmes. Upon my word of honour, I was absolutely straightforward about the situation. I never lied to Mr. Holmes as I did to my lawyers. I asked him to follow the marquis and maybe discover something irregular that would set me free from that horrid ape. Your friend did his utmost, and found Queensberry had some unfinished business with an unscrupulous fighter accused of trying to kill a very young lady who used to be the marquis' lover. In fact, Douglas was charged with the murder of the girl, but there was no proof, so the case was forgotten. But Holmes visited the crime scene (the girl's house, where, the marquis claimed, he had never entered) and later, when we met at the Albemarle Club, produced all the evidence we needed-a tiny fibre from Douglas' whip. "I found it on the very carpet where she lay dead", he pronounced triumphantly.
WATSON
And then...?
WILDE
(Sighing) And then I committed the greatest mistake of my life. I kissed him.
WATSON (in utter astonishment)
You kissed Holmes?
WILDE
Yes, I did. I was so excited I couldn't resist it. I embraced him and kissed him, murmuring, "Thank you, thank you..." And then came the worst. He began to shiver, and he responded to it-passionately. Oh, Dr. Watson, you must not crucify the man you are so devoted to: for he is one of us. He yearns for the love that dare not say its name, but has no courage to yield to it.
WATSON
(Standing absolutely still, eyes wide open in amazement) Lord God...
WILDE
And then he fled. And then he helped Queensberry win the first trial. And then he helped get me imprisoned. And my life was over.
WATSON
That can't be true, Mr. Wilde.
WILDE
It is, it is. That's why he can't even stand looking at a book of mine.
WATSON
If so, why did he defend you with such intense emotion afterwards? I was witness to that.
WILDE
How could I possibly know? Only the superficial know themselves.
(Enter Holmes, just in time to hear the last few words exchanged between Watson and Wilde. They don't notice the detective. He looks quite different from the adamant, tight-lipped man who left a couple of minutes ago. Wet, hazard-looking, he looks at the writer with a face overwhelmed with sorrow and shame. Hesitatingly standing by the door, Holmes at last gathers courage to respond.)
HOLMES
... And I'm certainly not one of them, right, Mr. Wilde?
WILDE and WATSON
Holmes!
WILDE (rising)
I suppose I must go now, doctor.
HOLMES
I beg you, wait a little longer. My conduct was unforgivable. (The other sits down in silence. The detective does the same.) Should I not help you in such a time of distress, I would not be worthy of any of my victories against evil.
WILDE
Well, I daresay the creatures you help to defeat are sometimes the perfect mirrors of our souls. Crime-the unpunished version-roams these wastelands since Genesis.
HOLMES (sitting down)
I see you haven’t lost your abilities as a charmeur, Mr. Wilde.
WILDE
That is a great compliment. For, you know, given the Phillistine conditions of life in paradise, I shouldn’t be able to utter a single word. Thank the gods for the Sphinx over there.
WATSON
I beg your pardon? Have you said... paradise? Are you telling us you’re dead?
WILDE (looking confused)
I speak metaphorically. I’m long dead for Britain, aren’t I?
WATSON
Oh.
HOLMES (smiling)
Then... there is life after death. I could never imagine that.
WILDE
Nor did I. And to call it ‘life’ would be like calling a chimpanzee Adonis.
WATSON
Well, Holmes, won’t you hear what our guest came here for?
HOLMES (blushing)
Of course. Mr. Wilde, if you please...
WILDE
I’ve come to find... an old friend. The situation is as follows...
(As he explains it all, Mozart’s Simphony No. 40 fills the stage. At length, Wilde draws his story to an end. The music then fades smoothly, and Holmes rises.)
HOLMES
Very well then. Please join me and Dr. Watson, sir. We are going to Paris.
(Complete darkness. When the lights return, the three men are in Wilde’s rooms at the Rue des Beaux-Arts, in Paris. Holmes is examining something on the mantelpiece)
WILDE (to himself)
Beloved Zeus, what a task hath thou given me! I shall fight for my soul and therefore I must die in this horrid place once again. Whereas my alter ego yearns for life-I can fully understand his reasons! How many more punishments must I endure? I ought to think of Robbie... Only Robbie would smile when I wouldn’t anymore, and he would say in that suave mocking tone: "It could be worse, dear. Remember this. You could have been sentenced to read George Moore’s books for the rest of eternity."
HOLMES
Yes! This is it!
WATSON
Has the man gone to America?
HOLMES
No, not yet. Mr. Wilde, you may find him right here in Paris.
WILDE
Where?
HOLMES
Well, by the state of the mantelpiece-
WATSON
Enough, Holmes! Just say it! Don’t you see the man is desperate?
HOLMES
I suppose I owe him. (To Wilde) He is at the Louvre.
END OF ACT II
4.4.03
Caros amigos do Cadafalso: escrevi essa peça em inglês mesmo (só consigo pensar Wilde, de verdade, em inglês) há alguns anos. Me deu vontade de postá-la aqui agora. Pronto, o primeiro ato está aí (é longo). Os dois restantes serão postados em breve.
THE WILDE GAME
an ethereal play by André Machado
ACT I
SCENE
It's a Victorian room, with red roses on the table at the center. At the right, a colorful sofa, two armchairs, and, left, an oak bookshelf with first editions of all the great 1880's and 90's British and French authors. In the background, a staircase leads to a corridor where a huge clock hangs on the wall. Two drawings, one from Whistler and the other by Beardsley, adorn the living-room. It lights up little by little, like if some playful old spirit is passing by and spraying vivid memories of a forgotten era. There are two doors, at the left and right.
TIME
Lots of it.
The left door opens, and enter Oscar Wilde and Ada Leverson, known as The Sphinx. He is wearing an Inverness coat, a top hat, gloves, and holds a carved cane. Carefully, Wilde removes the hat, and halts, looking around. The Sphinx stares at him after giving a few more steps.
SPHINX
Why, Oscar, what are you waiting for?
WILDE
My dear Sphinx, it is perfectly natural for a gentleman to give his top hat and coat to the butler. In fact, that is almost all the meaning there is to life for the butler. And an appropriate one, I dare say.
SPHINX (sighing)
There is no butler, Oscar. Don't you remember? We are no more in the 1890's.
WILDE (after hesitating for a moment)
Yes, we are no more.
SPHINX
Please don't be sad. The dead ones lack their fondest memories. Thus we had better forget the rest, because the gods only leave us the ability to retain the scent of our mistakes. No cause of shame, not remembering even the pleasure of being greeted by a butler.
WILDE (impatiently)
By Jove! how didatic you became after passing away! Dear Sphinx, can't you even remember our little jokes? My mistakes are simply delicious when I hear your scientific explanations.
SPHINX (smiling)
The gods are never scientific.
WILDE
I was a thoroughly scientific god once. My life was planned to the end.
SPHINX
Ah, but you would have put the hard labours aside.
WILDE
No. I had already doomed myself-I only objected to the trial. In the end, I would have confessed all my sins. How wonderful it would have been if I were the one who said all those things about my pleasures, my recklessness. I think I wrote something about this in the prison letter to Bosie, didn't I?
SPHINX
De Profundis.
WILDE (with an expression of disgust)
Ah! was that the title dear Robbie chose? I simply hate it. Quite medieval.
SPHINX
Let us sit down, dear. Aren't you tired? (They sit on the sofa). I wish I had a glass of champagne. In fact I wish I was able to desire one. (Wilde begins to tremble uncontrollably) What is the matter, Oscar?
WILDE (breaks down quietly, tries to speak but nothing comes, breathes deeply and begins again)
Sphinx, my Sphinx... After all, I can remember-the dinners, the luncheons, the wine-and it entrances me. Oh! I am so hungry!
SPHINX
That is most irregular.
WILDE
That is precisely what is best in the human soul. It is most irregular all the time. And when one becomes a spirit, one has the entire eternity to miss precisely the one thing that makes any existence, at all levels, interesting-pathos. To change is to awake to new worlds like the ones I described in Dorian Gray; drama is what all paradises lack. Should one know the true nature of immortality, the words dictated by Allah to Mohammed would be no more than the babble of a drunk, and the Four Gospels would turn into insipid pocket books like that monstrous novel from Bram Stoker.
SPHINX
You are not real, Mr. Wilde! (She laughs, throwing back her delicate head, and it is a delicious, sounding laugh)
WILDE
Oh, certainly. After all, I am dead. (They laugh together.)
SPHINX
Now come on, dear, you had to mention Stoker! And just because he stole from you that beautiful girl-Florrie, right?
WILDE (trying to keep serious)
Miss Florence Balcombe, please. And you know I never regretted her leaving me. He made a much better husband for her than I would ever be. Yes, a good husband. That accounts for the fact that he was a bad writer.
SPHINX
Perhaps they had so romantic a marriage that it inspired the vampire's tale...?
WILDE (smiling)
Now that is the old Sphinx.
SPHINX
A Sphinx has no age. (A pause.) Still it counts its own periods of time... by the men she devoures.
WILDE (pretending shock)
Indeed? Upon my word, Mrs. Leverson, you are quite dangerous in the afterlife. Whereas during the romantic nineties you only discovered the importance of having Ernest. (More laughs.)
SPHINX (looking at him tenderly)
Oscar, I miss that years so much. Being here with you is almost like gaining flesh once more. That is why we seem to remember it all. But it is strange. We met so often in the eternity whirlwind, and never talked like this before.
WILDE
Maybe it is the influence of this room. A place always has its secrets. I was in Capri once, and the turquoise-blue waters inside Tiberius's grotto revealed more of his wicked games than all the Roman chronicles.
SPHINX
But whose room is this? I cannot see it in anyone's house when I think of our acquaintances. It is more like a fancy room.
WILDE (looking around)
In certain aspects, it resembles one of the rooms in Lady Windermere's Fan.
SPHINX
Yes, but some things are out of place. The clock-you hated clocks in your scenes-and the bookshelf...
WILDE
And this sofa is too vivid. Besides, I don't mean to be rude, but why are we here?
SPHINX
I am not supposed to tell you, but it is a kind of mission-
(Suddenly a pale green light comes through the right door, and a soft odour of musk fills the room. Enters a little man, with a nice suit and a carefully waved moustache planted in the exact center of his egg-like face. Deep black is the tone of his hair; equally dark and very penetrating are his eyes. The man, a little over his weight, walks slowly and examines each detail of the room. Finally he stops and turns to the other two.)
THE MAN
Monsieur Melmoth, I presume?
WILDE
Sir, there are no need for false names here. A man in disguise is useful for adding colour to a scandal. But I haven't seen one at this level of existence since the day my former friend Jimmy Whistler tried to leave for hell without permission.
THE MAN
Ah, l'esprit! I wish my creator had the fifth part of your style, Mr. Wilde.
WILDE (standing up. The Sphinx does the same)
Whom have I the honour to talk to?
THE MAN
Hercule Poirot, sir. It is my duty to-how do the Americans say?-fill you in about your mission.
WILDE
Poirot? (Turning to the Sphinx) Isn't he that French detective so obsessed with Apollo who killed a very special type of assassin by shooting exactly the central spot in his forehead?
POIROT (moving his eyes and sighing)
Mon Dieu! Even when one's dead! My dear sir, it's a Belgian detective. And yes, that last case of mine was extremely exciting. You know, certain individuals have a subtle influence over the others. ...And in most situations they conclude that bringing the evil that's in our hearts about is much more fun than to play an exotic instrument or doing any other harmless thing. In this instance, I felt pity for the murderers in spite of the victims, for they were moved to kill by the right word in the wrong moment. And he who said it was the real culprit. It was a desperate case. I had to solve it myself, and this time did not use only my gray cells.
SPHINX
Mr. Poirot, let us sit down. (They do it.)
WILDE
An interesting theory. But, pardon me, if you did kill this crook, why then are you here, Mr. Poirot?
POIROT
Don't you know I am a character? All characters who die go to heaven. (Smiling) And almost all great writers, no matter how inconsiderate they were.
WILDE (a little taken aback)
You are not going to say that Æschylus's Agamemnom is here! And my Basil Hallward? Oh, Romeo, Juliet, Hamlet... Now come, monsieur, if that's supposed to be true this place would be completely different.
POIROT
C'est vrai. The problem is, they lose their memories, and all charm, once they get here. I'm an exception. That's because even The Great One couldn't stand my casual conversation.
SPHINX
Mr. Poirot, I wonder why you were sent. In fact I was expecting something more... dramatic.
POIROT
Well, I know Mr. Wilde's works and life well. And besides, they thought it would be nice if someone with a French touch came. You see, there are no Frenchmen in paradise.
WILDE
I knew there was some mysterious reason why we got so spicy a hell.
SPHINX
By the way, Oscar, have you been there?
WILDE
Of course. The devil is the most delightful talker I have ever met. But his breath is a nuisance. Nevertheless, he told me a very revealing Bible tale.
SPHINX
And won't you tell us?
WILDE
Well, it was about time I told you a story-if I can remember how. Do I still have the style of old, dear Sphinx?
POIROT
Mon cher, that is what is wrong with eternity. It may lack emotion, as you said shortly before I got in; but there is so much style that one feels like reading a book by Zola.
WILDE (shaking his head)
Zola! No wonder you were a detective, my friend. Zola has no more style than an octopus has night gowns... And the only thing that makes our existence bearable is the complete unreality of this place. Were it to resemble a very small part of Zola's worlds, we all would want to die all over again, if that's possible. You mean style and no story? Take Proust. Take Thomas Mann. Take Godard's films. Take new age music. Oh, I'm sorry. New age music has no style, nor story, and, I think, not even notes!
SPHINX
You are quite well informed for a man that once hated journalists.
WILDE
Journalists are uninteresting; newspapers are always fun. I once tried to read the Daily Chronicle upside down in a train, and still laughed all the way to London. Besides, what are we to do but behold the new wonders from here? I simply loathe being a mere ghost.
POIROT
Ah, you court reality then!
WILDE
No. The twentieth century is everything but real. Even the most sombre moments mislead us, puzzle the mind.
SPHINX
What about our story?
WILDE
Christ came in from a white plain into a purple city... No, that's another one. Christ ventured into the desert, where He fasted and prayed for forty days and nights. Then came the devil, and the devil tempted Him in many ways. He offered not just power and gold, but all the finest wines from Rome, the most sought delicacies from the East and West, and slaves of all kinds and races. Negroes that could dive so deep they robbed very exquisite pearls from the mouths of giant oysters; Arabians that were able to forge the sharpest blades throughout the Crescent and fought like hungry lions in the desert battlefields; and Greeks who sang with such honey-touched voices you would think 'twas the mighty Orpheus hypnotizing the earth when you closed your eyes. 'Adore me, and all these shall be Yours for ever', said the Beast.
"All this the Son of Man refused. Then the devil touched a dying tree nearby, and its naked and forlorn branches turned into the arms and legs of a most exotic Jewish woman. She had emerald-green eyes, darkened skin, long and black hair, and a voluptuous body so perfect Adam would have burned the entire Garden of Eden to build another one, for Eros this time, in its place. 'Kneel down, and pay me due homage. All this shall be
Yours for ever', said Lucifer.
"But the Son of Man was adamant. And then the Lord of the Flies sighed, opened his arms, and from the very warm air a personal computer formed. And on the screen it showed home pages from every corner of the world, and amazing images of the future. And Christ said, 'This is nothing new for the Son of God'. The devil replied: 'Is it? Have You already been properly introduced to Your Father, the Third Millenium version?'
And Christ laughed, but His eyes were stormy. The devil then pressed some keys, and He watched the letters dancing on the screen. They said 'www.god.com'. All of a sudden the most incredible landscapes passed through the screen, of places never imagined, of mythical creatures, of past and future civilizations. The entire Universe captured Christ's eyes and filled them with Wonder. There were Adam and Eve, looking more like beasts than anything else. There was the Red Sea enveloping the Egyptians in a violent mist, and their screams were so vivid Jesus thought of entering the screen to save them. There was John the Baptist's head lying between Salomé's lovely marble-pale limbs, wickedly coloured by the seven veils and the prophet's blood. Christ saw Himself on the cross, and His very last breath. He saw the precise instant when He returned from Hades. And He could behold the first steps of a Faith that would set the world on fire. A Faith that would turn the beautiful Jerusalem into ashes and corpses of children. A Faith whose Gospel created over the Sinai sands and the Jordan waters would be discreetly murmured into luxurious and expensive churches.
And the Son of Man beheld the Vatican. The crowd at St Peter's Square went wild when a man richly dressed in purple and gold appeared at the balcony.
'Father', He said, looking at the sky, 'never in my wildest dreams could I envision the future in such detail!'
The silence swallowed the sands, the sun, the wind, the insects. And the screen showed the simple words-
Adore him and all this shall be yours for ever.
And the devil laughed.
And the Son of Man wept bitterly.
(A pause. Time stands still. The Sphinx looks luminous and younger. Poirot is humbly bowing his head.)
SPHINX
Oh, Oscar! (A tiny tear crosses her cheek.)
POIROT
This does not come from the devil, monsieur. It is genuine Wildeana.
WILDE
(Clearly enjoying the moment) How accurate of you, M. Poirot! But I suppose I shall know now the true nature of the mission I must accomplish.
POIROT
Yes. Eh bien-your mission, Mr. Wilde, is to save yourself.
WILDE
I beg your pardon?
SPHINX
My dear, don't you know there are two possible dates for your death?
WILDE
Oh! but didn't I pass away on November 30, 1900?
POIROT
That's the official day. It's in the books. But, mysteriously enough, there is another Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde buried not at Père Lachaise, but at the Los Angeles County Cemetery. And this one apparently died on July 27, 1930.
SPHINX
Oscar gone Hollywood? That's impossible.
POIROT
That's entertainment. (Nobody laughs. He smiles awkwardly.) Excuse me. Fact is, Mr. Wilde was-till now-recognized as one of the finest British writers of all times. This alter-ego, or whatever it may be, was a second-rate screenplay scribbler that ruined your former fame by plagiarizing each and every cliché he could find.
WILDE
But he is certainly not me.
POIROT
Unfortunately he is. We checked all available data on his past, and discovered that you, by some twist of fate, left Paris in September 1900 and crossed the Atlantic. He-or you-simply disappeared from the Rue des Beaux-Arts and was never found again.
WILDE
I never thought I would fall so low... And what am I to do?
POIROT
As the Great One does not want the Phillistines to rule the world, and your works helped purify a lot of air, you were granted a chance. You are to find yourself with the help of an English gentleman, and convince you to choose posterity instead of Hollywood's posters...
WILDE
And who shall this gentleman be...?
POIROT (looking at the Sphinx)
You know who he is, my dear. Please give Mr. Wilde his card.
SPHINX
Here it is. And I wish you good luck, Oscar. Otherwise we shall miss you here. Mediocrity stays six feet under.
WILDE (starts and reads the address on the card)
"221-B Baker Street, Chelsea, London."
END OF ACT I
THE WILDE GAME
an ethereal play by André Machado
ACT I
SCENE
It's a Victorian room, with red roses on the table at the center. At the right, a colorful sofa, two armchairs, and, left, an oak bookshelf with first editions of all the great 1880's and 90's British and French authors. In the background, a staircase leads to a corridor where a huge clock hangs on the wall. Two drawings, one from Whistler and the other by Beardsley, adorn the living-room. It lights up little by little, like if some playful old spirit is passing by and spraying vivid memories of a forgotten era. There are two doors, at the left and right.
TIME
Lots of it.
The left door opens, and enter Oscar Wilde and Ada Leverson, known as The Sphinx. He is wearing an Inverness coat, a top hat, gloves, and holds a carved cane. Carefully, Wilde removes the hat, and halts, looking around. The Sphinx stares at him after giving a few more steps.
SPHINX
Why, Oscar, what are you waiting for?
WILDE
My dear Sphinx, it is perfectly natural for a gentleman to give his top hat and coat to the butler. In fact, that is almost all the meaning there is to life for the butler. And an appropriate one, I dare say.
SPHINX (sighing)
There is no butler, Oscar. Don't you remember? We are no more in the 1890's.
WILDE (after hesitating for a moment)
Yes, we are no more.
SPHINX
Please don't be sad. The dead ones lack their fondest memories. Thus we had better forget the rest, because the gods only leave us the ability to retain the scent of our mistakes. No cause of shame, not remembering even the pleasure of being greeted by a butler.
WILDE (impatiently)
By Jove! how didatic you became after passing away! Dear Sphinx, can't you even remember our little jokes? My mistakes are simply delicious when I hear your scientific explanations.
SPHINX (smiling)
The gods are never scientific.
WILDE
I was a thoroughly scientific god once. My life was planned to the end.
SPHINX
Ah, but you would have put the hard labours aside.
WILDE
No. I had already doomed myself-I only objected to the trial. In the end, I would have confessed all my sins. How wonderful it would have been if I were the one who said all those things about my pleasures, my recklessness. I think I wrote something about this in the prison letter to Bosie, didn't I?
SPHINX
De Profundis.
WILDE (with an expression of disgust)
Ah! was that the title dear Robbie chose? I simply hate it. Quite medieval.
SPHINX
Let us sit down, dear. Aren't you tired? (They sit on the sofa). I wish I had a glass of champagne. In fact I wish I was able to desire one. (Wilde begins to tremble uncontrollably) What is the matter, Oscar?
WILDE (breaks down quietly, tries to speak but nothing comes, breathes deeply and begins again)
Sphinx, my Sphinx... After all, I can remember-the dinners, the luncheons, the wine-and it entrances me. Oh! I am so hungry!
SPHINX
That is most irregular.
WILDE
That is precisely what is best in the human soul. It is most irregular all the time. And when one becomes a spirit, one has the entire eternity to miss precisely the one thing that makes any existence, at all levels, interesting-pathos. To change is to awake to new worlds like the ones I described in Dorian Gray; drama is what all paradises lack. Should one know the true nature of immortality, the words dictated by Allah to Mohammed would be no more than the babble of a drunk, and the Four Gospels would turn into insipid pocket books like that monstrous novel from Bram Stoker.
SPHINX
You are not real, Mr. Wilde! (She laughs, throwing back her delicate head, and it is a delicious, sounding laugh)
WILDE
Oh, certainly. After all, I am dead. (They laugh together.)
SPHINX
Now come on, dear, you had to mention Stoker! And just because he stole from you that beautiful girl-Florrie, right?
WILDE (trying to keep serious)
Miss Florence Balcombe, please. And you know I never regretted her leaving me. He made a much better husband for her than I would ever be. Yes, a good husband. That accounts for the fact that he was a bad writer.
SPHINX
Perhaps they had so romantic a marriage that it inspired the vampire's tale...?
WILDE (smiling)
Now that is the old Sphinx.
SPHINX
A Sphinx has no age. (A pause.) Still it counts its own periods of time... by the men she devoures.
WILDE (pretending shock)
Indeed? Upon my word, Mrs. Leverson, you are quite dangerous in the afterlife. Whereas during the romantic nineties you only discovered the importance of having Ernest. (More laughs.)
SPHINX (looking at him tenderly)
Oscar, I miss that years so much. Being here with you is almost like gaining flesh once more. That is why we seem to remember it all. But it is strange. We met so often in the eternity whirlwind, and never talked like this before.
WILDE
Maybe it is the influence of this room. A place always has its secrets. I was in Capri once, and the turquoise-blue waters inside Tiberius's grotto revealed more of his wicked games than all the Roman chronicles.
SPHINX
But whose room is this? I cannot see it in anyone's house when I think of our acquaintances. It is more like a fancy room.
WILDE (looking around)
In certain aspects, it resembles one of the rooms in Lady Windermere's Fan.
SPHINX
Yes, but some things are out of place. The clock-you hated clocks in your scenes-and the bookshelf...
WILDE
And this sofa is too vivid. Besides, I don't mean to be rude, but why are we here?
SPHINX
I am not supposed to tell you, but it is a kind of mission-
(Suddenly a pale green light comes through the right door, and a soft odour of musk fills the room. Enters a little man, with a nice suit and a carefully waved moustache planted in the exact center of his egg-like face. Deep black is the tone of his hair; equally dark and very penetrating are his eyes. The man, a little over his weight, walks slowly and examines each detail of the room. Finally he stops and turns to the other two.)
THE MAN
Monsieur Melmoth, I presume?
WILDE
Sir, there are no need for false names here. A man in disguise is useful for adding colour to a scandal. But I haven't seen one at this level of existence since the day my former friend Jimmy Whistler tried to leave for hell without permission.
THE MAN
Ah, l'esprit! I wish my creator had the fifth part of your style, Mr. Wilde.
WILDE (standing up. The Sphinx does the same)
Whom have I the honour to talk to?
THE MAN
Hercule Poirot, sir. It is my duty to-how do the Americans say?-fill you in about your mission.
WILDE
Poirot? (Turning to the Sphinx) Isn't he that French detective so obsessed with Apollo who killed a very special type of assassin by shooting exactly the central spot in his forehead?
POIROT (moving his eyes and sighing)
Mon Dieu! Even when one's dead! My dear sir, it's a Belgian detective. And yes, that last case of mine was extremely exciting. You know, certain individuals have a subtle influence over the others. ...And in most situations they conclude that bringing the evil that's in our hearts about is much more fun than to play an exotic instrument or doing any other harmless thing. In this instance, I felt pity for the murderers in spite of the victims, for they were moved to kill by the right word in the wrong moment. And he who said it was the real culprit. It was a desperate case. I had to solve it myself, and this time did not use only my gray cells.
SPHINX
Mr. Poirot, let us sit down. (They do it.)
WILDE
An interesting theory. But, pardon me, if you did kill this crook, why then are you here, Mr. Poirot?
POIROT
Don't you know I am a character? All characters who die go to heaven. (Smiling) And almost all great writers, no matter how inconsiderate they were.
WILDE (a little taken aback)
You are not going to say that Æschylus's Agamemnom is here! And my Basil Hallward? Oh, Romeo, Juliet, Hamlet... Now come, monsieur, if that's supposed to be true this place would be completely different.
POIROT
C'est vrai. The problem is, they lose their memories, and all charm, once they get here. I'm an exception. That's because even The Great One couldn't stand my casual conversation.
SPHINX
Mr. Poirot, I wonder why you were sent. In fact I was expecting something more... dramatic.
POIROT
Well, I know Mr. Wilde's works and life well. And besides, they thought it would be nice if someone with a French touch came. You see, there are no Frenchmen in paradise.
WILDE
I knew there was some mysterious reason why we got so spicy a hell.
SPHINX
By the way, Oscar, have you been there?
WILDE
Of course. The devil is the most delightful talker I have ever met. But his breath is a nuisance. Nevertheless, he told me a very revealing Bible tale.
SPHINX
And won't you tell us?
WILDE
Well, it was about time I told you a story-if I can remember how. Do I still have the style of old, dear Sphinx?
POIROT
Mon cher, that is what is wrong with eternity. It may lack emotion, as you said shortly before I got in; but there is so much style that one feels like reading a book by Zola.
WILDE (shaking his head)
Zola! No wonder you were a detective, my friend. Zola has no more style than an octopus has night gowns... And the only thing that makes our existence bearable is the complete unreality of this place. Were it to resemble a very small part of Zola's worlds, we all would want to die all over again, if that's possible. You mean style and no story? Take Proust. Take Thomas Mann. Take Godard's films. Take new age music. Oh, I'm sorry. New age music has no style, nor story, and, I think, not even notes!
SPHINX
You are quite well informed for a man that once hated journalists.
WILDE
Journalists are uninteresting; newspapers are always fun. I once tried to read the Daily Chronicle upside down in a train, and still laughed all the way to London. Besides, what are we to do but behold the new wonders from here? I simply loathe being a mere ghost.
POIROT
Ah, you court reality then!
WILDE
No. The twentieth century is everything but real. Even the most sombre moments mislead us, puzzle the mind.
SPHINX
What about our story?
WILDE
Christ came in from a white plain into a purple city... No, that's another one. Christ ventured into the desert, where He fasted and prayed for forty days and nights. Then came the devil, and the devil tempted Him in many ways. He offered not just power and gold, but all the finest wines from Rome, the most sought delicacies from the East and West, and slaves of all kinds and races. Negroes that could dive so deep they robbed very exquisite pearls from the mouths of giant oysters; Arabians that were able to forge the sharpest blades throughout the Crescent and fought like hungry lions in the desert battlefields; and Greeks who sang with such honey-touched voices you would think 'twas the mighty Orpheus hypnotizing the earth when you closed your eyes. 'Adore me, and all these shall be Yours for ever', said the Beast.
"All this the Son of Man refused. Then the devil touched a dying tree nearby, and its naked and forlorn branches turned into the arms and legs of a most exotic Jewish woman. She had emerald-green eyes, darkened skin, long and black hair, and a voluptuous body so perfect Adam would have burned the entire Garden of Eden to build another one, for Eros this time, in its place. 'Kneel down, and pay me due homage. All this shall be
Yours for ever', said Lucifer.
"But the Son of Man was adamant. And then the Lord of the Flies sighed, opened his arms, and from the very warm air a personal computer formed. And on the screen it showed home pages from every corner of the world, and amazing images of the future. And Christ said, 'This is nothing new for the Son of God'. The devil replied: 'Is it? Have You already been properly introduced to Your Father, the Third Millenium version?'
And Christ laughed, but His eyes were stormy. The devil then pressed some keys, and He watched the letters dancing on the screen. They said 'www.god.com'. All of a sudden the most incredible landscapes passed through the screen, of places never imagined, of mythical creatures, of past and future civilizations. The entire Universe captured Christ's eyes and filled them with Wonder. There were Adam and Eve, looking more like beasts than anything else. There was the Red Sea enveloping the Egyptians in a violent mist, and their screams were so vivid Jesus thought of entering the screen to save them. There was John the Baptist's head lying between Salomé's lovely marble-pale limbs, wickedly coloured by the seven veils and the prophet's blood. Christ saw Himself on the cross, and His very last breath. He saw the precise instant when He returned from Hades. And He could behold the first steps of a Faith that would set the world on fire. A Faith that would turn the beautiful Jerusalem into ashes and corpses of children. A Faith whose Gospel created over the Sinai sands and the Jordan waters would be discreetly murmured into luxurious and expensive churches.
And the Son of Man beheld the Vatican. The crowd at St Peter's Square went wild when a man richly dressed in purple and gold appeared at the balcony.
'Father', He said, looking at the sky, 'never in my wildest dreams could I envision the future in such detail!'
The silence swallowed the sands, the sun, the wind, the insects. And the screen showed the simple words-
Adore him and all this shall be yours for ever.
And the devil laughed.
And the Son of Man wept bitterly.
(A pause. Time stands still. The Sphinx looks luminous and younger. Poirot is humbly bowing his head.)
SPHINX
Oh, Oscar! (A tiny tear crosses her cheek.)
POIROT
This does not come from the devil, monsieur. It is genuine Wildeana.
WILDE
(Clearly enjoying the moment) How accurate of you, M. Poirot! But I suppose I shall know now the true nature of the mission I must accomplish.
POIROT
Yes. Eh bien-your mission, Mr. Wilde, is to save yourself.
WILDE
I beg your pardon?
SPHINX
My dear, don't you know there are two possible dates for your death?
WILDE
Oh! but didn't I pass away on November 30, 1900?
POIROT
That's the official day. It's in the books. But, mysteriously enough, there is another Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde buried not at Père Lachaise, but at the Los Angeles County Cemetery. And this one apparently died on July 27, 1930.
SPHINX
Oscar gone Hollywood? That's impossible.
POIROT
That's entertainment. (Nobody laughs. He smiles awkwardly.) Excuse me. Fact is, Mr. Wilde was-till now-recognized as one of the finest British writers of all times. This alter-ego, or whatever it may be, was a second-rate screenplay scribbler that ruined your former fame by plagiarizing each and every cliché he could find.
WILDE
But he is certainly not me.
POIROT
Unfortunately he is. We checked all available data on his past, and discovered that you, by some twist of fate, left Paris in September 1900 and crossed the Atlantic. He-or you-simply disappeared from the Rue des Beaux-Arts and was never found again.
WILDE
I never thought I would fall so low... And what am I to do?
POIROT
As the Great One does not want the Phillistines to rule the world, and your works helped purify a lot of air, you were granted a chance. You are to find yourself with the help of an English gentleman, and convince you to choose posterity instead of Hollywood's posters...
WILDE
And who shall this gentleman be...?
POIROT (looking at the Sphinx)
You know who he is, my dear. Please give Mr. Wilde his card.
SPHINX
Here it is. And I wish you good luck, Oscar. Otherwise we shall miss you here. Mediocrity stays six feet under.
WILDE (starts and reads the address on the card)
"221-B Baker Street, Chelsea, London."
END OF ACT I
3.4.03
2.4.03
Mário Prata, no Estadão de hoje, faz uma comparação apavorante entre trechos de discursos de Hitler em 1939, no começo da II Guerra, e os discursos de George W. Bush sobre a atual guerra no Iraque. Veja aqui.