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]