January 1893,
Babbacombe Cliff
My Own Boy,
Your sonnet is quite lovely, and it is a marvel that
those red-roseleaf lips of yours should be made no less for the madness of
music and song than for the madness of kissing. Your slim gilt soul walks
between passion and poetry. I know Hyacinthus, whom Apollo loved so madly, was
you in Greek days. Why are you alone in London, and when do you go to Salisbury?
Do go there to cool your hands in the grey twilight of Gothic things, and come
here whenever you like. It is a lovely place and lacks only you; but go to
Salisbury first.
Always, with undying love,
Yours, Oscar
March 1893, Savoy Hotel
Dearest of All Boys,
Your letter was delightful, red and yellow wine to me;
but I am sad and out of sorts. Bosie, you must not make scenes with me. They
kill me, they wreck the loveliness of life. I cannot see you, so Greek and
gracious, distorted with passion. I cannot listen to your curved lips saying
hideous things to me. I would sooner be blackmailed by every renter
["renter"was a slang term for male prostitutes] in London than to
have you bitter, unjust, hating.You are the divine thing I want, the thing of
grace and beauty; but I don't know how to do it.Shall I come to Salisbury? My
bill here is 49 pounds for a week. I have also got a new sitting-room over the
Thames. Why are you not here, my dear, my wonderful boy? I fear I must leave; no
money, no credit, and a heart of lead.
Your own, Oscar
Rouen, August 1897
My own Darling
Boy,
I got your telegram half an hour ago, and just
send a line to say that I feel that my only hope of again doing beautiful work
in art is being with you. It was not so in the old days, but now it is
different, and you can really recreate in me that energy and sense of joyous
power on which art depends.
Everyone is furious with me for going back to
you, but they don't understand us. I feel that it is only with you that I can
do anything at all. Do remake my ruined life for me, and then our friendship
and love will have a different meaning to the world.
I wish that when we met at Rouen we had not
parted at all. There are such wide abysses now of space and land between us.
But we love each other.
Goodnight, dear. Ever yours,
Oscar