be exceedingly eager to be broken.”
I, of course, blushed at such a forthright yet backhanded compliment from this man so startlingly overdressed in a lilac-colored shirt with a large ascot clinging to his throat. If truth be known, more than anyone else, he resembled George the Fourth, which made me smile secretly—what the French would have called joli-laid. His countenance was singularly mild yet his expression ardent. He spoke rapidly, in a low voice, and enunciated distinctly, like a man accustomed to being listened to. Yet beyond all that, his eyes arrested me. I’d never seen such wild intensity, juxtaposed with fragile sensitivity. To this day, try as I might, I simply cannot recall their color, which makes no sense, considering how strongly they held me. What I do recall is that they seemed to capture my very essence, as surely as if my dear soul were a butterfly, suddenly enslaved in a net. A delicate creature destined to be pinned to a board.
My father was called to greet another arriving friend, leaving me to the mercy of this peculiarly enticing stranger.
“There is nothing like youth,” he said, in a theatrical manner, gesturing lavishly, speaking loudly, attracting the attention of those standing nearby, yet holding my eye as if it were me alone to whom he spoke. “Youth has a kingdom waiting for it. To win back my youth … there is nothing I wouldn’t do …”
I, of course, laughed at such melodrama. “Surely you know nothing of wanting your youth back. My guess, from your appearance, is that you are all of two and twenty.”
“From appearances, your guess is nearly correct, less the two. Youth is not merely a chronological order of years, but more a state of mind. The life that makes the soul, mars the body.”
“How strange you are!” I blurted, then felt my face flame. After all, I hardly knew this man, and had not the familiarity with which to taunt him. But he took it in good humor.
“More peculiar than you at present can know. However, Florence, may I call you Florrie?”
“Well, yes, if you like—”
“I do like! Florrie, you must permit me to escort you to church this coming Sunday for the afternoon service.”
Flustered, flattered, I could only stumble over my words. “Well … of course. I would be delighted to have you attend our simple country chapel—”
“Excellent! The day is too bright, not the proper setting for a man to offer attention to a woman.”
“And church is?”
“One’s virtues either shine or dim when the virtuous speak.”
With that he kissed my hand again and was gone.
I recall standing, looking down at my hand, which felt as if burning ice had dropped onto it. Then I looked up. My eyes scanned the crowd of my parents’ friends. Oscar Wilde had disappeared.
“Tell me about your work, Mister Wilde.” We walked, his hand cupping my elbow, guiding me through the tall rock-strewn grass down the hill toward the rectory, and the chapel beyond, my parents not far ahead of us. I admit that this contact proved thrilling to my girlish body. My affections had already begun swaying in his direction, which, of course, both of us knew.
“My name is Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde, but you may call me Oscar.”
So formal a response made me laugh.
This caused him to glance down at me and frown slightly. “Is that mockery I hear?”
“Mockery, no. Amusement, Oscar. You are so serious. How do you get on in society?”
“I suppose society is wonderfully delightful. To be in it is merely a bore. But to be out of it simply a tragedy. But you were inquiring as to my work.”
“Unfortunately, I have not had the chance to read you as yet, although I’m certain you must be a fine poet and will go on to be an excellent writer of prose.”
“You are either foolish or perceptive, but, of course, I favor the latter. And what do you know of poetry?”
“I know that it is a taste of God’s passion.”
“Poets know how useful passion is. Nowadays a broken heart will run to many editions.”
“You speak of broken hearts on such a beautiful summer’s day? Have you survived one?”
“A poet can survive everything but a misprint.”
“You’re not very forthcoming, are you, Oscar?”
He stopped walking and turned toward me. I felt my heart flutter. The air seemed to encase the two of us.
“Florrie, all art is quite useless. Before you stands a shallow man, make no mistake about that. One in need of a muse