Charles Edwin Perkins (wilde_man) wrote in athensrising, @ 2008-10-27 00:50:00 |
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Current mood: | energetic |
Artistic Endeavors: John & Charlie
Who: John Saville & Charlie Perkins
What: Discussing art and the artistic nature
Where: Outside class & the Brotherhood brownstone
When: Late August 1880.
Warnings: None
Finally, the long, lingering summer was coming to a close and classes were back in session at Grantmore University, the halls no longer devoid of life but full of the jests, shouts, and laughter of young men. Loneliness blew away like so many withered midsummer petals as they all settled into brave the chill of winter together. They all carried in fresh ideas from their time apart as well, including one John Saville, who was as attentive as ever in his favorite teacher's pet position at the front of the professor's class, busily scribbling away into a composition book. It felt good just to be thinking again, and in a structured manner, as John's thoughts left to their own devices tended to scatter terribly. Too many strange twists and turns to explore when it came to philosophy.
But it ended all too soon, and as the professor ushered everyone out of his room, John found his eyes roving the faces of his peers, looking for someone to share his enthusiasm with. Ah! There was young Mr. Perkins, the Oscar Wilde fan and theater enthusiast. Surely he would be up for a conversation! Putting on his best "let's be friends!" smile, John threaded through the crowds of people and approached Charles with a wave.
"Hello, Perkins! How was your summer?"
Charlie Perkins sat through the long class, his attention wandered from thought to thought, ruminating over the most recent theater performance he had seen. The professor seemed to talk for hours, though Charlie knew it is not that long. The class only seemed to go on forever, valuable minutes better spent reading the local rag or pouring through the pages of a ribbald play. Charlie would conceed that the the professor was an attractive figure, perhaps the best looking teaching within the entire school. It was perhaps the only reason Charlie selected the class.
The class was dismissed and Charlie rose from his seat. He smiled at several of the more handsome members of the class, and exchanged the expected pleasantries with them. A voice called his name and he turned around, recognizing John Saville. "Hello Saville," he responded. He shifted away from the crowd, using the oppertunity to look Saville over. The other boy looked older and Charlie wondered what he had been doing this summer. He dimly remembered his mother mentioned something about the Saville boy but Charlie could not remember what it was. Still, he smiled broadly at John. "Dreadfully boring. Not an exciting play or a scandal or anything." Charlie puffed his cheeks out and sighed dramatically. "How was yours? Avoiding excitement?"
John lit up at the unexpected sympathy from Charlie as to the state of the summer, and quickly bobbed his head up and down in agreement. "Oh, just dreadful!" he echoed emphatically, clasping his hands tightly around his textbooks. "I thought that if I had to spend another day waiting for everyone to come home from the far ends of the world, or take one more trip wherever, I might absolutely perish. How is it that life seems to end as one knows it as soon as the snow dries up? A tragedy truly."
He neglected to mention as well that he'd spent a great deal of the summer consuming treats and growing a little round in the midsection, as to be thought boring would surely be a black mark upon his person in the eyes of Mr. Perkins, who seemed to glow when something outrageous was afoot. No time like the present for this sort, so John skipped immediately into what he had just been thinking, his youthful face gaining that cheerful color it always took on when he spoke of the professor.
"That was a great lecture, wasn't it? The Professor is so wise to be able to relate antiquities to our modern lives in such a relevant way. He makes the whole Greek nation sound incredible, as if history was some sort of grand story he made up." He went on as if he was sure there was no way Charlie was not paying attention. How could one look away from the professor when his mouth was spinning such fabulous fancy? It could never be any form of childish idolization, oh no...
Charlie nodded at John's assessment of the summer. "The country is always too dreadful. Nothing to do and no one but the family to talk to." He smiled at the memory of his hours spent lying in a hammock pretending to read as he watching the carpentars work. Charlie had always found the lower classes charming in their simplicity, and recently he had taken to watching the workers labor. "You were lucky to be in town and not banished to the ends of the earth with none but your sisters to keep your mind active."
John rambled on about their professor and Charlie nodded. Truthfully, he found the professor to be a fine figure of a man, but he had not actually listened to much that the man had said. "Of course," he responded. "Though I must admit that my mind wanders. Philosophy and history do not always interest me." Charlie wondered momentarily if Saville's interest in the professor was more than just admiration. Charlie looked carefully at John's flushed face, wondering where respect ended and inappropriate interest began. Curious.
Charlie examined the other boy carefully. He knew him a little from their shared school history, but they have never spoken at length about anything other than an occasional class. Charlie was uncertain if he wanted to spend more time with this other boy. Still, there was something about the look of John Saville that was intriguing, and something in his excitement which forced Charlie to give the offer real consideration.
Charlie nodded his head slowly and turned to walk down the hallway with John. "Some fresh air would be nice," he allowed. "Though I do not have much to recommend myself." Charlie shrugged as he walked. "I'm useless at school, unless I find the professor intriguing or stimulating." He allowed the phrase to hang in the air.
John started out before Charlie, glancing over his shoulder back at his fellow student. What he wanted to see was Charlie smiling. He had a nice face, and very charming eyes, and certainly he must have had a brilliant smile. That, and that anyone should be displeased near John was a disappointment that required no uncertain remedy. ...not that the principle worked in reverse when John was having a bad day, didn't get enough sleep, or was hungry.
"Don't have much to recommend?" John echoed curiously. "That certainly can't be true, can it, Perkins? You have such an inviting air about you, sir, I cannot imagine anyone being ill at ease in your company. Do you care at all for sports, or extracurricular activities?"
The crossed the threshold out into the sunshine, and free from the formality of the halls John turned on heel and walked backwards in front of Charlie, turning up the charm in his smile. With a deep breath he inhaled the fresh, crisp air, fallen leaves crunching beneath his feet.
Charlie wondered what John Saville thought of him. Though he was confident about both his looks and conversation, Charlie liked to be praised and flattred, like people to think well of him. And in Charlie's opnion there was no reason why anyone, particularly young men, would not think highly of him.
Charlie shrugged at John's surprise. "I appreciate your words," he replied. "The air is completely cultivated, I assure you." His voice was slightly teasing, as if he was becoming more comfortable. "I do not care for sport. I do appreciate the arts, and I live for the theater. Have your read the latest Wilde play? Fantastic."
The two men walked out of the building, and Charlie noted how Saville seemed to relax. He filed that bit of information away as he turned his face away from the sun. "How about yourself, Saville? Do you occupy yourself with the despair of mankind like our professor?"
John turned once more as he felt the cold presence of a stone bench behind him, sidling up in time to not trip over it backwards as he had been walking. Surely that would have been a funny image, he thought of himself, for Charlie to be talking to his face one moment, and then his heels the next, legs in the air as he went end over end over the bench. It quirked a little half-smile onto his face as he sat normally, his way of gliding into a sitting position seeming quite practiced, hands folded neatly over one knee.
"I have read the latest in all things Wilde, actually. His first showing in the theater, and a fascinating one at that. It seems the sage of aestheticism has an equal way with written word as he does the spoken word. Though I fear that with the assassination in Russia, "Vera" is not going to earn much popular sentiment. Shame that, isn't it?" John quirked his head to the side gently, gazing up at Charlie with the calm of one who spoke with a certain sense of philosophical detachment. "For the populace to ignore a piece of work all-together because something unpopular has occurred in their dull real lives. At least it is not Mr. Wilde they are ignoring. Did you happen to see him speak when he came through Boston?" John leaned forward with interest at that, grinning conspiratorially.
As Charlie spoke his last question John's grin faded into a wan impressionist's splash of itself, blinking several times into the sunlight. "Do I occupy myself with the despair of mankind...? Well... ah... no. Not despair, exactly... I mean... well, I prefer to believe that most ills can be righted with the proper combination of compassion and logic." Answer found for himself, he shrugged.
Charlie dropped onto the bench next to Saville. Now that he is no longer in class or taking tea with his mother an other society matrons, he lounged a bit more, his legs stretched out in front of him. He looked over at Saville and squinted at the fall sun.
At Saville's admission that he read Wilde, Charlie smiled and sat up a little more. He nodded his head, wanting to disguise the fact that he only understood about half of what Saville discussed. Charlie had enjoyed Vera, but he had been more interested in playing the main role of Alexis than in the political undertones of the play. Not that Charlie planned to share his ignorance with Saville. He had more sense than that. It was never a good idea to expose one's ignorance to a newer acquaintance. "Tragedy," he agreed. "I can only hope that I shall be able to perform in such a drama someday." He shook his head at Saville's question. "Sadly, I was not able to attend. I should love to hear what he spoke of," Charlie leaned forward eagerly.
Saville's smile faltered and Charlie was certain that he had been too familiar. "That is quite an optimistic view of human nature," charlie noted. "I do believe that there must be some passion in order to be happy. Passion and creative instinct." Charlie smiled broadly.
As Charlie sat down next to him, John accommodated him amenably, scooting around so that they both had ample room to relax. He didn't mind sitting a little close, even. It made him feel like a little boy again, clinging to a friend's hand as they dodged the crowds to the candy store or giggling over some shared story. Something about John would surely never grow up, and sought companionship.
"Oh Charles, you simply must perform. I had not thought of it before, but now that you have mentioned it I can see you on the stage in my mind already." he complimented generously, trying to be encouraging and perhaps to foster a bit of that nostalgic, innocent closeness. If Charlie had been avoiding any part of the topic at hand John didn't notice, too busy giving him soft eyes and reaching over to pat his hand. "I have no doubt that it shall be so. Perhaps you will be the one to rescue Vera from her prison of popular opinion!" He laughed playfully at that, enjoying the thought of Charlie as a hero, perhaps even going so far as to toss Vera over his shoulder and scaling the walls of a castle with her.
"You didn't see Mr. Wilde speak?!" John murmured with disbelief, his eyes blinking very rapidly. "Oh, it was the most delightful thing! He has a sensational voice, for one. So low and mossy and warm, like a lullaby. But the best part of all was what he spoke of, discussing new fashions and the very view one might take upon beauty. I should like to dress like him, I think, in such romantic pieces as knee breeches and silk stockings."
Charlie liked that Saville did not move away, rather seemed to enjoy the closeness. He smiled, feeling cheered that Saville would encourage him. While his parents did not forbid his time spent at the theater, they did not encourage him. He found that he enjoyed John's belief in him. He nodded and smiled, genuinely pleased. "I should so like to perform Vera," he agreed.
Charlie flushed slightly when Saville's hand pressed against his. "Yes, rescuing Vera would be a truly magnificent scene in theatrical history," he added, his flush deepening. "And perhaps Alexis could have a lengthy cliquey about the importance Vera will play in the artistic revolution."
He shook his head, chagrined that he had not been permitted to attend Mr. Wilde's speaking engagement. His mother had insisted, as she so rarely did, that he accompany her to tea with the Talbots. He had complained bitterly the entire afternoon. Now, as John spoke about the experience, Charlie felt his spirit sink. "I should have liked to go," he murmured. "Can you recall what he noted about ascots?" He looked at Saville and wondered what the other man might think about silk stockings.
"In the artistic revolution?" John echoed, slipping his lower lip in between his teeth. "What artistic revolution are you speaking of?" It wasn't that he suspected anything of Charlie, of course. Rather, he really wanted to hear of Charlie's views on art and revolution.
Ironically, it was Charlie's very presence at the Talbots' tea that got John out of it that afternoon. He had been grateful for not having to sit there with that girl for one more afternoon, muttering uncomfortably about the weather and flowers and things of dull natures. Every afternoon he stole to be with the boys only increased in delightfulness.
"My sympathies that you did not." he apologized politely. "Mr. Wilde will be in America for a while yet. Perhaps a weekend trip is in order? He is very enamored of the society in New York, as I understand it. Surely he'll return again. Ascots?" John chuckled at the idea of ascots. His own opinions on them were infamous. "Mr. Wilde does not seem to like them, or things that constrict the neck. I disagree completely. I adore them." He stroked his own tie, which was a little more modest for class than the usual but not by much, it being a silly thing of cerulean and spring green silk and embroidered with serenely stylized pastoral elements.
"I am not exactly sure," he replied. "Do you feel sometimes that something is going to change soon?" he asked. "That life and art and everything might be transformed." Charlie voice had risen slightly, but he soon tired of his intense speech and he leaned back against the bench. "Though it could be simply the shift and movement of fashion."
He nodded, eager to hear anything John might say about Mr. Wilde's speech. "I should enjoy any opportunity to hear Mr. Wilde speak." The thought of New York and all the saloons and theaters there made him smile in anticipation. He chuckled at John's clear love of ties. "I too do not always enjoy constriction around my neck," he responded. "Though I understand their importance in fashion." He chuckled when John touched his tie.
John once more folded his hands over his knee, his eyes meeting Charlie's with characteristic earnest, his lips vaguely parted as if he were to hang upon Charlie's words. "Yes... yes, actually, I do believe that something is going to change soon. Our fair city has always been a bastion of intellectual liveliness, and I cannot help but feel that the rest of this country, as it forms around us as if we are its heart, will look to us as it always has in the past to set the course. Art, of course, will be paramount to this. There is no question. And theater is a much-needed aspect in that example, it being so accessible to everyone. It speaks to the people in such admirable ways."
John never tired of intense speech, but noting Charlie's more casual style, he nodded deferentially. "Forgive me... I'm a fair bit too enthusiastic at times." He punctuated the apology with a sheepish smile.
Charlie nodded, pleased to that John also thought there was something grand about to happen. John phrased it much more eloquently and Charlie flushed with pleasure. "It heartens me that you agree with the importance of theater." He sighed dramatically. "I do sometimes feel that men of our parent's generation dismiss the theater as low class and coarse." He leaned back on the bench, his face alight with good humor. "But it shall be artist like us who can help to transform the world." He sighed, exhausted from his dramatic speech.
He shook his head at John's apology. "No, your passion is understandable. And should be admired."
John felt the familiar buzz in his head space as Charlie embellished their apparently shared beliefs with his own miniature speech. John was mild by nature, forgiving perhaps to the point of timidity, but as Oscar Wilde himself often said, "Give a man a mask and he will tell the truth." His Brotherhood persona was something apart from his society face, and when he got to debating and arguing the merits of art he felt it well up in his chest such that he simply could not contain his voice. His eyes flashed with a certain undeniable heat, endlessly interested in continuing the conversation even after Charlie looked exhausted. Charlie's drama did nothing but fan the flames, and John latched on with pleasure.
"Of course I agree, my dear man. There are few things that mean more to me in this world than expression... individuality. The men of our parents' generation dismiss what they don't understand, frankly. The professor himself said that it is up to our generation to save them and ourselves from the mire of the unexpressed sentiment; that the inner landscape of the mind is a wealth of remedies for every ill of every nation! And, well..."
Another shy chuckle. John glanced down at his knee, the heat radiating away in proverbial steam that colored his cheeks pink. "There I go again. But since you don't seem to mind... I would like to ask you a question, Mr. Perkins." He glanced up at Charlie, meeting his eyes. "If you could do anything in this life, if nothing was forbidden to you, what would you do?"
Charlie had to note that Saville's face took on a healthy, almost glowing light when he spoke about the importance of artistic expression. Charlie smiled and leaned forward, eager to bask in the other man's energy. He had exhausted his own reserve and he wished to experience another gentleman's devotion.
He found himself nodding energetically with Saville's words and he wondered why his courses did not interest him in quite this fashion. Charlie would surely spend much more time and attention on his school work if only such dreadfully dull things like Latin and economics were this exciting. "You are too correct, Saville," Charlie agreed. "Though I do not know if I am as hopeful as you."
Charlie's eyes narrowed at Saville's question and he considered his answer for a moment. "I should like to always be amused," he admitted. "And I should want to always be on the stage, with a good company." He did not know exactly how truthful he should be.
John looked remorseful at Charlie's admission that he did not feel as hopeful, but such a thing could always be remedied in time. Sitting back, he considered Charlie for a moment. Charlie Perkins... a mildly slothful student who took great pleasure in Oscar Wilde, who surely had good taste in aesthetic matters, who was pleasant enough to talk to, and wished to be on stage forever. That made him something... special. John smiled slowly, the expression painting its way across his face like the seeping of a watercolor.
"May I call you Charlie? I say, you may have you chance at living for the stage yet. I have just one more question for you..."
He glanced off to the side, down the path to see if anyone was coming from either direction, then flicked his eyes over his shoulder to check behind. When he was satisfied that no one was around, he leaned in close to Charlie and whispered near his ear.
"Do you like secrets?"
Charlie was intrigued. Though he knew very little of Saville, their families were of a similar level of society, and they had attended some of the same schools. As far as Charlie understood, John Saville was just another wealthy young man, filling their time until they took up a family business or trade and married. Charlie wondered if there was something he did not know, if there were something more to John Saville.
"Of course," he answered, leaning forward. He was interested in Saville's suggestion of living his life on a stage. He did not understand how such a thing could ever be accomplished. Certainly not for a Perkins. Charlie wondered if Saville enjoyed some of the more vigorous masculine pursuits, he wondered if Saville frequented the North End saloons and sought certain company.
Charlie nodded at Saville's whisper. "I do," he breathed.
John's smile quirked a little strangely at the response, the overall effect not unpleasant but very secretive, as if he really had something to say and was just waiting for the moment to say it. He leaned away from Charlie's ear enough to fish his pocketwatch out flip the lid open, glancing at the time.
"It's only one in the afternoon," he murmured. "Would you happen perhaps to have the time to accompany me somewhere? I can show you what I mean more easily than I could ever tell you."
He took to chewing his lip again, tucking his watch away and standing from the bench. His gaze was full of anticipation as he waited to see if Charlie would join him, having to hide his hands in his pockets for their own habit of fumbling around together when he was so anxious. Oh, he hoped the others would like Charlie when they met him!
Charlie felt a peculiar flutter in his stomach as John smiled at him. He was suddenly certain that he did not misinterpret Saville's meaning. He nodded silently when Saville observed the time and he knew that he would gladly accompany the other man anywhere. He would be a fool if he did not. It was not often, never if Charlie was honest, that he met such a man as Saville outside of the North End saloons or the shady theatrical underworld.
"I often find that demonstrations are much more efficacious than explanations," Charlie agreed.
Saville looked nervous and Charlie wanted to place a calming hand on the other man's shoulder. Charlie smiled gently and stood, reaching a hand down to help Saville stand. "Shall we go?" he asked quietly.
John pressed his hand to Charlie's for just a moment, thinking not much of it if truth were told. He had no inkling of what Charlie was thinking, his mind ablaze with his own dubious intentions. They would have to make haste so that John could tell Charlie about it alone, without the influence of the other boys. He loved them dearly, but sometimes they were just so noisy. They did terrible things to one's concentration, and that was no way to reveal such a secret as the one John would tell Charlie. He nodded his head to his fellow student and led the way, taking him out to the street and to where he might hail a cab for them both.
The ride would take them all the way down to the Back Bay, and to the charming flat their generous patron, a lover of art if there ever was any, gave to them. Would Charlie join them? Would he think it was crazy? Surely one who wished to defy all odds to act on stage would not turn down such an opportunity! No, John's gut feeling had to be right! He grinned like a nervous child at Charlie, finding it hard to say much of anything on the ride through the streets and to the quiet neighborhood where the stately brownstones stood in neat lines.
John motioned to the brownstone before them, the street being very peaceful, and dug the key from his pocket. He unlocked the door and entered, the soft scents of their various activities hanging in the air. A little turpentine, flax seed oil, wax for various types of musical instruments, the pulpy scent of paper all mixing in with the liquor some of them kept up there, and various other smells that suggested that this was a place for gentlemen. The light was low in the lower portions of the brownstone, to keep prying eyes away. John closed the door and locked it behind them, his eyes skimming the ceiling.
"So... here we are..."
Charlie's stomach churned when John pressed his hand. Though he had his share of romantic interludes with other men, they had been limited to indiscretions in the back of the theater or in shabby rooms at one of the slum hotels and boarding houses. Charlie felt a intense wave of affection for the other man and he smiled as they walked towards the cab.
Charlie sat politely in the cab and kept his knee from pressing against John's leg. Saville smiled at him and Charlie returned the smile and wondered if John has ever brought a man back to his rooms before. He thought probably not, especially if the nervous gesture of John's hands were any indication. Charlie peered out the cab window and recognized the area of town. This was not so far from his parent's home and he felt a thrill. How convenient this would be if Charlie needed to occasionally visit Mr. John Saville at a discreet hour.
They walked up the stairs and into the house. The smell reminded Charlie of the theater and he smiled. He believed that Saville must live alone, surely no woman would chose to inhabit such a place. This was the realm of artistic men.
Charlie felt a bloom of heat in his stomach when John locked the door. He turned to watch Saville and wondered if he could remove the other man's necktie. He thought he would like to admire the curve of Saville's neck.
Charlie seemed to be even less interested in talking than John, and somehow that made the butterflies proliferate in his stomach, not even sure why he was so nervous that way. Perhaps it was something in the air... something he had breathed in like a drifting perfume in passing. Yes, that's what it felt like.
"My friends and I..." John began slowly, turning to look over his shoulder at Charlie. His lips were a shade of cherry from all that chewing. "We spend a lot of time here. We... you know. We do our work here. And..."
His voice drifted away on him as he approached the first set of stairs, slowly mounting them to emerge in an open room with a fireplace, some sofas, and a piano. A great deal of sheet music, provided for the benefit of the entire group, stood in stacks at the feet of the piano, and sheets of blank paper scattered about as well. Wall mounts held a violin and its accompanying bow. John stood in the middle of the room here, on a floral print rug that splashed color onto the honey wood floor, and waved his hands about in indication of the room. "Music. We play music here. We keep the center of the room clear for dancing... recital of scripts... things of that nature."
Charlie had leaned forward and was about to rest his hand on John's shoulder when the other man moved away. He tried to suppress the keen wave of disappointment from devastating him too much. He wondered if he misunderstood the other man's motives in bringing him to this house. While not the elegant home of a woman, it was far from a den of iniquity. Not that Charlie would exactly know what a den of iniquity looked like. This brownstone, however, was a far cry from the picture his imagination painted.
He nodded at Saville's words and tried not to hope that work meant something completely different. And what did Saville mean about his 'friends'? Were there other young men who lived in this place? Was Charlie not to first to be tempted here? Charlie nodded dumbly and followed John up the stairs.
His stomach sank as he looked around the room. It resembled a conservatory of sorts and Charlie nodded at John's description. "So you perform and practice here?" he asked as he tried to keep his voice from sounding disappointed. "And this is a secret?" In Charlie's opinion there were other things that made for much more fascinating secrets.
Laughing a little, John shook his head and shoved his hands into his pockets. "That's not all there is to it. There are aspects of our work that are very secret indeed. You see..." He lifted one shoulder in a half sort of shrug, taking a few measured steps back across the floor. He stopped in front of Charlie, staring intensely into the other youth's eyes as if by doing so he might test the essence of his soul.
"Charlie, these aren't the same songs sung in parlors, or the images that hang in the museums. These are special." John's brow furrowed lightly in concentration. His hands rose and rested upon Charlie's upper arms, his grip soft and generous. "That idea we discussed. We live by it here." The name of what this place was rose on his lips but he denied speaking it for a moment, until he saw the reaction, recognition in Charlie's face.
Charlie nodded and looked around the room. He could understand the need to keep certain secrets from others, especially from parents and society matrons. It would be nice to have a place where he could practice his lines and possibly write, without worrying that his mother would call him down to tea. He turned his head when John stepped in front of him and watched the other man's eyes.
"I understand," he murmured. "It is something that our father's could not understand and artistic expression that would horrify our mothers." He smiled at Saville and his heart raced when the other man's hands rested on his arms. "Then this is where the artistic revolution will be formed?" he murmured. His heart raced faster and not just from the warm press of John's hands.
He was receptive. That was what John was looking for and he grinned brilliantly once more, his smiles habitually puffing out his cheeks and showing all his teeth. Shifting, John slid one of his arms around Charlie's shoulders and pulled him in close.
"This is where it was formed. Last January, made up of a handful of students and one genius of a mentor. We've been here ever since then, doing all the things we do best."
He took him back to the stairs. They went up again, this time all the way to the top, where the sun glittered in through the tall windows and illuminated rows of canvases upon which were skillful oil paintings, some drying and some covered by sheets to protect them from the light.
"This is my favorite floor, by the way." John inhaled deeply, the scent of the turpentine and oil very strong here. "It's a battle to keep the smog streaks off of the windows, but the light is perfect. What do you think, Charlie?"
He tilted his head toward his friend, his expression playfully secretive. It was time to tell Perkins where he was. "This little production is my most beloved treasure. We call ourselves The Brotherhood. You wouldn't be interested in joining us, would you?"