Touchstone (Meridian Series) Read Online Free Page B

the British Museum .
    “What do you read, Mr.
Nordhausen?” Wilde inquired. “I have spent countless hours over the last
several years drenched in the dusty miasma of that hall.”
    “I … am a student of ancient Egypt …” Nordhausen proposed.
    “Oh? How ancient, Mr.
Nordhausen,” Wilde inquired. “I, myself, spent a term studying the Ptolemaic
literature.”
    Nordhausen certainly didn’t want
to start up a discussion of Hellenistic Greek with Oscar Wilde! He had to keep
his contact to the bare minimum. He had to divert attention away from himself
and melt away into the anonymity of the crowd. The very notion that he was
standing here with two Prime Movers was setting his heart thumping, and he was
already sweating profusely.
    “Uh, no, dynastic Egypt , before the Greek invasion.”
    “Then you are a student of art
as well! Gilbert, you have by chance selected the right man for this dispute,”
he turned to Nordhausen, “for it is about Art… as what is not?”
    Gilbert sat back and began to
trim a cigar, while Wilde pondered for a moment how best to put his case.
    “Gilbert was educated to the
law,” he began, “So he disdains to call what he produces Art. As a practical
writer, he sees all Art as he sees his own Art, a circumstantial product,
created for the occasion.” He turned to face Gilbert, who by now was huffing on
his cigar to light it. “That is the solipsistic fallacy, as you well know.” He
rounded on Nordhausen. The surrounding group was focused hypnotically on the
large young man with the bright, quick gray eyes. His face was alive as he
spoke, his expression flashing to a different mood on almost every word.
    “I, on the other hand, maintain
that, like it or not, Mr. Gilbert is touched by the Muse. Several Muses no
doubt, let me see,  Erato, certainly Thalia, and no doubt you flirt with
Terpsichore.  Art is an attempt by us earthly men to limn the heaven that we
know lies beyond. When we envision heaven, we create art.” 
    “A pretty sort of heaven it is,
if one goes by my doggerel,” Gilbert scoffed, puffing great clouds of foul
smelling smoke. “I churn out reams of nonsense, which Sullivan somehow ennobles
and turns into opera. There is the suffering artist, if you will. This present
jolly success of Pinafore was written by Sullivan line by line while he was
suffering the most excruciating pain from his illness. There is a man lashed by
the Muse… and for what? To set music to popular nonsense verse.” He paused.
Nordhausen settled on a chair, his legs still weak, but he  was on the edge of
his seat.
    “Poor Sullivan! Dean Dodgson has
been pestering him to write some songs for Alice ’s Adventures in Wonderland. The Dean has no ear for music, but he
has been told that Sullivan was the man to go to for nonsense. Sullivan cannot
bring himself to respond with more than a broad hint that it shall never be,
but the Dean has no ear for subtlety either, I fear.”
    “Perhaps I shall set myself to
comedy, now that I am free from the Classics,” Wilde mused. “We Irish boast a
native humor which you English can only appreciate.”
    “Perhaps I shall set myself to
Aestheticism,” Gilbert returned. “I can make aesthetic doggerel as easily as patriotic
sentiment or amatory…” he faded into thought, and suddenly brightened.
    “Here, we shall have a contest.
Mr. Nordhausen from America will judge it.”
    He went on brightly, “Oscar, we
shall each compose at this moment, a verse. You may pray to your Muse for
inspiration, and create Art! I shall do what I do best, and crank out a
quatrain impromptu . But!” he held up a finger. “You shall write a comic
verse, and I shall write an aesthetic. And Mr. Nordhausen shall decide if
either one of us is struck with fairy dust, or if we have simply churned out an
occasional piece, on command. What do you say, Mr. Nordhausen?”
    Both men looked to Nordhausen.
What could he say, what should he do? “I… wouldn’t dream of judging