Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 122 Wilde's Invitation

Under the dim light of the gas streetlights, Oscar Wilde's smile was faint, and his grey-blue eyes were exceptionally deep: "Don't be nervous, handsome sir. I'm just an Englishman with an accent, not a robber."

He didn't know why Lionel had taken a step back, but he assumed it was out of wariness of strangers, so he simply laid it on the table: "I've seen Monsieur Renoir at Monsieur Mallarmé's salon—well, I just saw him guiding you?"

Lionel smiled wryly. "Is that so? Good evening, Mr. Wilde. I am Lionel Sorel."

“Lional Sorel? The Lional Sorel who wrote Letter from an Unknown Woman? Ha! So this is the biggest surprise of the night!” Wilde let out a short, pleasant laugh.

Wilde looked toward the bustling entrance to the Louvre: "Sir Cavendish invited me to Paris, intending for me—a young man from London with a meager understanding of beauty—"

To witness firsthand how his "miracle of light" illuminates the temple of art will allow me to return and write a hymn of science for him in the newspaper, proclaiming to the world: "Behold, this is the dawn that Great Britain bestows upon France!"

How sublime! How pragmatically characteristic of the Victorian era!

Oscar Wilde's tone was full of irony: "I have to thank those wretched light bulbs, who have done the most brilliant commentary for me ahead of time—with explosion, chaos and darkness, rather than my poor ink."

Lionel couldn't help but laugh at Wilde's sarcastic and witty remarks.

Wilde's gaze was fixed on Lionel, as if appraising a fine piece of porcelain: "However, putting aside this farce, Mr. Sorel, you are my real prize tonight..."

Oh, don't get me wrong, I mean, your work—whether it's *Letter from an Unknown Woman* or your recent serialization in *Le Petit Parisien*—has me... completely captivated.

“You’re best referring to novels…” Lionel muttered to himself, but said politely, “…You flatter me.”

Oscar Wilde’s grey-blue eyes gleamed: “I must say that your writing, especially Benjamin Bouton’s Curious Cases, is refreshing. It does not merely pursue the bizarreness of the plot—although ‘growing backwards’ itself is astonishing enough.”

What moves me is your poetic reflection on 'existence' itself, your keen capture of the essence of life, and the profound and pure beauty you unearth beneath the seemingly bizarre surface.

You've allowed a baby born old to experience love, loss, and loneliness, touching upon the eternity of humanity in the process of reversing time—this in itself is an adventure imbued with a strong sense of 'aestheticism'!

It's like a butterfly encased in amber, breathtakingly beautiful. It proves that beauty can exist independently, can be pursued for its own brilliance, and doesn't have to be reduced to a handmaiden of morality or preaching.

This is exactly what I believe in—art for art's sake!

His praise was passionate and direct, his language ornate and penetrating.

Lionel breathed a slight sigh of relief; he could accept talking about literature—however, Wilde's next invitation made him tremble with fear.

“Your fascinating soul deserves to be seen by more people.” Wilde leaned forward slightly, his voice low and invitingly suggestive.
“I know a place… more private, more free, and more… capable of appreciating unique beauty and thought. It's a place where truly interesting people gather—artists, poets, and souls unfettered by worldly constraints…”

Oscar Wilde's grey-blue eyes gazed intently at Lionel: "Tomorrow night, in the back room of the 'Black Cat' gallery in Montmartre. I'm sure you'll find some memorable inspiration there."

Would you do me the honor of joining me?

Lionel subtly shifted half a step, avoiding Wilde's breath that was so close: "Thank you very much for the invitation, Mr. Wilde. But I'm very sorry, the school year exams are coming up soon, and I've been spending my nights studying Latin and philosophy!"

His refusal was decisive and left no room for negotiation.

A fleeting look of disappointment crossed Wilde's eyes. Just as he was about to say something more, he heard the voices of Georges Charpentier and Renoir, clearly calling out to Lionel.

Oscar Wilde sighed, “I will stay in Paris until next Thursday, and I hope to see you again at Monsieur Mallarmé’s salon.” With that, he gave a slight bow and left gracefully.

Lionel watched his departing figure, let out a long sigh of relief, and then temporarily crossed "Tuesdays at Mallarmé" off his salon checklist.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

On Sunday morning, the apartment at 64 Lafitte Street was filled with the usual aroma of coffee and fresh bread.

Alice, returning from her walk, placed a still-smelling copy of the Little Daily on the breakfast table, pointing with lingering fear to the headline: "Leon, look! The night before last was truly terrifying!"

Thank goodness you weren't hurt—I knew that 'light bulb' was no good!

Lionel's headline was exceptionally eye-catching:

Lightning Disaster! A Night of Terror at the "Paris Salon"!

The report detailed the massive chaos caused by the series of light explosions, with particular emphasis on the embarrassing situation of Sir Morton Cavendish, the British sponsor, as the meticulously planned "lighting" extravaganza turned into a complete farce.

What's even more noteworthy is the latter half of the report:

[...Following the incident, Sir Henry Cavendish displayed generosity befitting his status, promising full compensation for all paintings damaged by the light bulb explosion or subsequent chaos, and covering all losses incurred due to the two-day closure of the Louvre's galleries.]

Sir Cavendish angrily declared that the incident was no accident, but a "despicable conspiracy"! He suspected that his business rivals had secretly sent people to sabotage his power generation equipment and deliberately increase the output voltage.

Reports indicate that gas companies in London and Paris are deeply concerned about electric lights, believing that this new form of lighting will replace gas lamps.

“This is a murder of science!” Sir Cavendish said. There is currently no evidence to support his accusation, and the police have launched an investigation…

Alice's voice trembled slightly: "I told you that thing was too dangerous! It flickers and can explode! Gas lamps are much better, they're safe and sound."

Those British concoctions are all fancy and useless, but completely unreliable!

Lionel put down his newspaper and smiled gently: "Alice, fear often stems from the unknown. Last night's incident was indeed frightening, but that doesn't mean the light bulb itself was broken."

When we first saw a locomotive belching thick smoke as it roared past, didn't we also think it looked like a steel monster that would eat people?

But what about now? Trains connect cities and bring prosperity—as do electric lights.

If I have the chance in the future, I will install lights in the apartment so that the nights are as bright as day.

Alice was startled and found it hard to understand why Lionel, who had survived a bombing, would still trust the light bulb so much.

Lionel smiled and shook his head, ending the conversation.

After breakfast, he told Alice and Patty, "Don't prepare lunch or dinner for me. I might not be back until tonight."

(End of this chapter)