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La Lune Blanche tells the story of the young boy of the name Jocelyn and his adult friend, the rich good-looking gay
man of the name of Anthony Blanche, who enjoys life, as well as of their forbidden love and life a deux

£7.99

I "Oh, beloved.

Let us dream, now is the hour"

Paul Verlaine, "The White Moon"

Part 1. George

“Blue birds from the bluest fable,

Peacock moth on picnic table”.

V. Nabokov

“…Hermes acted as a messenger of the gods and a deity of wealth, trade and travellers. His winged sandals named ‘talaria’”. Here the boy took his eyes off the page of the book, looked up straight before him and fell to thinking.
The past turned into the air around the writing-table, flashed over the varnish of the Japan casket and over the marble nudity of the statue, lay down underfoot as a carpet, rose at the door, and like a last small echo it died away in his strain bosom. He had begun to recollect recently, and every time he recalled the first meeting with his friend his thoughts carried him away in the dim and distant past--one year ago. For the last several months he was often mentally carried away in memoirs. At present it was such a special time in his life when the fears that tormented him formerly had left his life as well as his mind. The fears disappeared, turning into some dissolving views and vague visions of different vagueness, dimming, rolling away like a mist and loosing in the quiet serene stream of his life.
He cast his eyes down and continued reading:
“The Phoenix, completely burning up and resurrecting from one’s own ashes…”
At present he had calmed down so much that could recollect--recollect all and recollect quite easy. Recalling the past for the first time, retracing the first meeting with his friend he realized that his way toward his love had begun long before the day in early August when he and his future lover first met each other in Rome. Actually, everything had begun two months before in England--shortly before his birthday.

Abuse
Sirius rose, the dog-days began, and on July 26th the boy was eleven. Recalling that year he thought a little more and made a surprising discovery: he had learned of his future friend only thanks to Uncle George, so it turns out that Jocelyn Lindenridge’s Love Story began even earlier, in the spring of that year, when Uncle George appeared in his life. But the boy did not like to recall Uncle George and his appearance in his life. There were only a few events he disliked to recall; one of them was the meeting with George Sherwood, his uncle from America. Once, in a rest-hour the boy told his friend about it--in fact, to his friend the boy could refuse nothing--and he told about much, about what he would prefer to forget and recall never again.
In that May Uncle George acceded to the estate Lindenridge Park, where Jocelyn lived. The estate consisted of the mansion in Georgian and small picturesque land, it was all what remained from the precinct of former times. George Sherwood received the Lindenridge Park as a legacy from Jocelyn’s father, Viscount Lindenridge who died several months ago. George Sherwood was not in need of the mansion or the land, so, right after he had the estate in his possession, he started negotiations with a hotel consortium for delivery of the estate in rent. Onlookers, who could see the activity of the American, could think that it was a kind relative helping his little ward, who had become an orphan recently, that the American helped to cope with the affairs of the legacy of the orphan. But it was not so. In fact, Uncle George who was worth many millions, disposed of his own property here, in Midlands, since he was the chief legatee of the late viscount. And Jocelyn had inherited from his father nothing but the title. According to the will, the boy had got only a lawful minimum of money, and all the rest property was left to the cousin of his father, whom the late viscount saw in flesh never and did not experience a relative’s feeling to the American. Having got the English estate as a legacy the American millionaire was about to start it up in business, so that it would be profitable as other real estate he had. Along with the troubles connected with the estate George Sherwood had got the duty to care about his cousin nephew. Then, in May, for the first time he met this pretty 10-year-old boy, whose the only next of kin he had become recently.
George Sherwood was about to transfer the Lindenridge Park to a hotel consortium for rent, he had begun negotiations with the consortium, yet hung them up: he had a look at this beautiful estate, ancient mansion and spacious shady park around, and he felt like spending a part of the summer here. And also by this time he knew how much his little nephew disliked to leave home, so he permitted the boy to celebrate the birthday here, in the house where the boy was born, to do it for the last time. After the celebrating of the boy’s birthday and finishing all the business George Sherwood was about to return to America and to take his nephew away.
The servants of the castle were dismissed soon after the new owner had arrived. George Sherwood had come in England along with his cook who also was the major-domo; presently the only servants who kept the household became the cook, the porter and a two day-labourers. And the boy got used to this fairly well. From under the wing of his governess he passed to the guardianship of his unmarried uncle and he felt fairly well at his uncle’s celibate household, all the more that the mode of life of his uncle was arranged perfectly, and being all found the little boy found his place there at once.
On the day of the arrival, while talking with him Uncle George shortened the nephew’s name and called him “J”. The boy got used to this too. It was early May. Everyone expected the arrival of the new master and was ready from early morning; all the inhabitants of the castle with the attorney Mr. Clifton as a head went out to meet the American. The silvery-grey Mercedes passed the alley of old, dark cedar-trees and stopped in front of the house. George got out of the car. Showing his noticeable stature he drew himself up, took in at glance the white facade of the house and people crowding near the baroque staircase, and he held out his hand to Mr. Clifton, who approached with warm greetings. They exchanged a few greeting phrases, and then Miss Greene brought the nephew up to his American uncle. George looked at the curly-haired child wearing blue jeans and a crimson sweater, with a white collar of a shirt visible in the cut of the sweater, and wishing to define more precisely that that was his nephew and not a strange girl he asked: “Are you Jocelyn?”
“Yes, sir!” The boy was all eyes.
“I’ll be calling you J”, said George, and their first conversation was over.
Accompanied by the adults Uncle went upstairs toward the door. J was left to himself. He sat down on a step of the staircase and began to watch how the driver and the elderly companion of his uncle began to unload suitcases out of the car. The servants helped them. Nobody paid attention to the boy wearing a crimson sweater, who was sitting on a step of the grey stone staircase. He had learnt to be imperceptible.
Uncle deeply impressed J. J was impressed with the uncle’s stature and gorgeous male appearance: the head of curly chestnut-coloured hair, piercing blue eyes, bushy eyebrows, stately body, all this was striking and stuck in one’s memory at once.
For the next week J saw his uncle seldom, because Uncle was very busy. All those days some strange people visited the house and stayed to have dinner every day. Miss Greene told J about this. J’s life had not changed; it went as before. The boy disliked being called ‘J’, but it was just a trifle as compared with the news that he learnt in several days after his uncle’s arrival. Miss Greene told him that Uncle George was about to send his nephew to a sanatorium--good expansive sanatorium--then, as soon as the boy could learn as all healthy children, he will be sent to the public school, very expansive too. The news threw J into the depths of despair: he did not want to go to a sanatorium, hospitals horrified him, he was nearly dead of fear.
After his mother’s death a year and a half ago he spent two weeks in the hospital; he left it, having had a steady hostility for hospitals and doctors, and now he felt a real despair thinking of the possibility to find himself there once again. After the discharging from the hospital J felt ever so much better: he did not sorrow for mother so awfully, all the signs of the depression passed off, and the doctors found his nervous system quite satisfactory--his health seemed to be restored. However, shortly soon, it turned out that he could not study as usual; he lost his former apprehension. He was permitted not to go to school; a teacher was engaged and began to visit the Lindenridge Park. At private lessons his former ability came back, and he even started making progress. Now learning the fearsome news about what was to happen to him in the near future J expected that the uncle would call him for the final sentence. But day by day passed and everything was as usual: J dwelt in his nursery on the second floor, saw his uncle seldom, the teacher visited him, Miss Greene looked after him.
The weather was fine that last summer which J spent in Lindenridge Park. The days were sunny; the light, white clouds did not condense too much rain and it was uncommonly dry--a few drizzling rains, warm and short like a kiss, did not count. It was unexpected that George Sherwood decided to spend the summer in the English estate; apparently it had become a pleasant change for him. The weather being warm J swam in the swimming-pool that showed blue in front of the south side of the house. The late viscount built this large blue bath for J--however, it was a long time ago, it was when mother was alive. That springtime was as warm as summer, and J had a first swim in May. Right then it happened. While standing on the edge of the bath, swimming, diving like young dolphin in the clear shining water, without his knowledge J captivated imagination of his American uncle, captivated so much that changed life, his own and Uncle’s. The lovely, half naked statuesque form--Cellini’s living Ganymede--appeared on the edge of the bath in the amber irradiance of the May morning, becaming the main reason why J’s guardian changed his mind to send the boy far away, to the sanatorium and decided to take him to the house in Hawaii.
J was too young; he did not know the world. He lived in the world of his own; he had been nowhere but his home, the school, which was in 20 miles away from his home, the neighbouring village, where he was brought to the church, and the small town Bridgeborough, where he was brought by car to the town library. He liked reading books and read them all one by one. In the world of the fantasy he took his bearing easy. The better he felt at the world of books the more helpless he was in the real world. He guessed of this, therefore he got used to relying upon the adults around him in his life: it was the not numerous relatives and the familiar servants who were so kind and considerable to him. If only he knew the real life better, as a boys of his age knew, then he would know that he had some valuables that might give him a power over some persons, such persons and mighty men as his American relative. Those living, thrilled and thrilling valuables were the freshness of his adolescence and his natural charm.
His almond-shaped ciliated eyes were blue, his hair was black and curly, there was no one spot on his healthy white skin, and his features was the very image of his beautiful mother with the only differences: his late mother had dark eyes and her long black hair was lank. His slim body was the body of a wood-elf; his hands was strong and his shapely legs were trained enough. Yes, his mother used to say him that he was beautiful, but it was in the past, in the far, former life that passed away long ago. Time and the stay in the hospital made him forget some details of the life. His mother was quiveringly aware of the magnificent uniqueness of her son--yet she passed away, and J had no other adorers. His loveliness along with his clear, spirited voice and vivid and at the same time gentle manners made an appeal to him. Now, in spring his appearance and manners had formed a devilish cocktail that intoxicated George Sherwood and made the man forget his duty to the little orphan but remember only of the total dependence, in which the beautiful boy came to be. And in one of the May evenings George made use of the dependence.
It took place ten days after George had settled in the estate.
Once in the morning the teacher did not come to J. The teacher was dismissed. Putting her lacy handkerchief up to her long thin nose Miss Greene said to J that the next day she would leave the castle, because the new owner of the Lindenridge Park discharged her today as well. J listened to her attentively and thought that most probably the day, when he would be to leave home and be sent to the unknown and fearsome sanatorium, went for. He ran to the garden and hid under the wood floor of the arbour. He spent time there sighing. J lived in the world of his own, he played all by himself, and the arbour was his oldest, most tried and reliable of his concealments over the castle fence, yet, it hardly could help him today. Next morning Miss Greene departed, and J was alone. But it was all the same to him. He was not attached to the strict and captious governess and he was not about to sorrow for her departure. Had not he other, more serious and agonizing losses in his life, yet? He just thought: if only he were offered to live alone but to stay in the Lindenridge Park, then he would agree with joy and would live in the empty house being alone and would fear nothing. Yet it was impossible--so, it meant that all the rest was nothingness--thinking of all this he made himself another piece of toast.
That day when he gwas alone, he had dinner with his uncle for the first time. There were two other men at table: the American attorney of Uncle and his English attorney. After dinner Uncle and his lawyers went to the railway station--the American lawyer returned to New York and his English colleague went to London. The day long J wandered about the rooms of the hose and round the garden and said good bay to everything; he was ready, and yet he fell into a blue melancholy. In due time he was called for tea--after the tea, which he had in the nursery, he went to the garden again.
How sad are the lime-scented summer evenings! The regular penumbra that has embraced the weary sun wanders over the hushed land; the drawn-out and sadly delayed echo; the distant vistas wane in silent melancholy. The rhythm of an elegy holds sway over a saddened heart. Whom do you pity? Yourself. You hear a previously inaudible moaning of the earth. The shades of the dead are deepening around you at that perspicacious hour. Memories subconsciously are straining in the lonely soul and seeking a way out. And you are overwhelmed by the pity, like someone who is lost in the wilderness. It grows dark. A sightless flight of a moth is heard in the still of the night. It is an hour of an unspeakable melancholy: all’s in me and I’m in all. However, the sun had not set yet when time supper had come, and J was called to the dining-room.
Supper was for two. The table of dark oak was laid for two persons--for uncle and J. The ancient silver candlestick in the middle of the table; golden beams of the sunset lit up the oak paneled walls of the spacious room. J sat on the right uncle’s hand. The majordomo Brenner waited on. Nobody else in the house. All the talks between uncle and nephew consisted in greetings thus far, that’s why J was not surprised when Uncle George said that after supper J should go to the library, for uncle wanted to talk to him. The supper was finished in silence. Carrot pudding was served for dessert--it was delicious; J never ate anything better. Having eaten his entire helping he stood up.
“Thank you, uncle!”
“Go to the library. I’ll be soon”.
He had come soon indeed.
He sat at the carved mahogany writing-table; the lamp with a jonquil shade shone on his left hand. J sat down in one of the armchairs Chippendale opposite. For a lingering minute George Sherwood was watching the beautiful child sitting vis-à-vis, and then he started talking in the low voice. First he informed J about what J knew: J would have to go to the sanatorium, very good sanatorium where J would be treated, living and studying. While Uncle was telling about how fine J would live there, in that good place, the blue eyes of the boy became wider and wider and tears materialized in the eyes. And when uncle asked: “Well, J, do you want to go to the sanatorium?” poignant plentiful tears rolled upon the boy’s cheeks.
He was crying; through the sobs that shook his body he implored Uncle not to send him to a sanatorium. J covered his face with hands and sobbed violently. And his uncle merely watched him and kept silence.
In a minute George Sherwood rose and said: “Let’s go to the divan! It’ll be much more comfortable there”. He touched J’s shoulder. J lowered his hands, stood up, and looking down he came after. They sat down on the glossy leather divan--there was a shady place of the lamp lit room. Uncle George embraced his nephew’s shoulders, took a clean white handkerchief out of his pocket and began to wipe the boy’s wet face. “Be calm and relax!” He spoke in a low voice. “Let’s think over that together. You don’t want to go there, I see. Well. You won’t. You won’t go there, if you behave yourself and be obedient. You must obey me. If you are an obedient boy then I’ll take you to Hawaii. The house I have there, is not worse than this one, and my garden is ever so much better. You’ll live there, swim in the ocean, won’t have any lessons, and there won’t be Miss Greene. Well, does it suit you?”
It suited J, of course. He stopped weeping. Letting Uncle finish wipe his cheeks he replied: “Yes, sir!”
Then Uncle kissed on his cheek, then on his lips, then began to kiss his moist face and at the same time to feel easily J’s body with hands. J was slightly surprised--Uncle’s kisses smelled of wine and the thick moustache tickled his skin--but he did not resist. After Uncle’s words he just did not dare resisting and also… he did not want to. J was rather obedient boy by his nature, he was always in care of the adults who were kind to him, and Uncle George was the mightiest adult of all the people J knew, the biggest and most powerful one, besides, the instant J first met the man he noticed his uncle was handsome, handsome, handsome…
Uncle kissed him and embraced carefully for a few minutes. “Well, are you calm now?” he asked looking at J’s face. “You are pleased, aren’t you? Are you glad that you’ll live with me?”
J fetched a sigh and said: “Yes, Uncle...”
While watching his face Uncle George said: “But remember, J: you must obey me, obey always. You’ll go to your room now and take a shower before going to bed. In a quarter I’ll come to check up how good you fulfill my order. It's examination. It will show whether you are ready for going to Hawaii with me or not”.
J was glad for the examination yet he was slightly surprised with its easiness. His little heart throbbed when he left the library; he closed the door and ran with full steam to his place.
From the library he is running to the main staircase--up its left aisle that leads to the gallery--along the dark gallery, by portraits of his grandsires he is running to the end--there is one more staircase, then--the corridor--and at last his room.
In the nursery, being out of the breath J hastened to get changed. Many joyful thoughts flashed across his mind: the awful menace of the sanatorium has passed away! J’s escaped it! Well, he will leave the Lindenridge Park anyway, and yet… and yet not to the sanatorium! His luck held! How kind Uncle George is!
Uncle George came as he promised. J had left the bathroom but just; he was wearing the maroon-and-black checkered dress-gown. Uncle George looked at him, taking a look at all his form, and praised him. He said that J was good, obedient boy, and that he would take J to his house and would love. Saying the word ‘to love’ Uncle took J’s shoulders in the big strong hands and began to caress him again. Uncle’s embraces and kisses confused J, his confusion increased more when uncle took J’s hand in his and led to the bed--the embraces and kisses lasted in bed now. Nobody fondled J in this way formerly. Nobody dared. This instant it was quite the reverse: J did not dare reject Uncle’s fondling. Then in some extraordinary way he found himself naked, then blanketed, then Uncle George settled beside--the man had not his dress-gown on. J could not make out the man, because he was turned and lay face downwards. While going on to whisper some gentle words in J’s ear Uncle possessed his body, doing what he had been longing for a long while.
J felt his anus tried to close and his body wished to free--yet the man was stronger.
Uncle did it that night, did it next morning and later on--he hurt the soft flesh of the boy and it was very sore, but he did it--as soon as the pain subsided he did it again, in short, he did it with J every day. He called it ‘love’ and J believed him gradually.
“This is love, J. People are not to talk about it, but it exists. You can’t read on it in your books--and you understand why--but the love exists in spite of all. I love you, J”. Uncle spoke gently and emotionally.
J did not know the world--it was easy to best him in this--he had not the slightest idea of his power. He received any fondling of Uncle, bearing whatever Uncle pleased to do with him. In a few days, when he got used to the love a little, J took a decision: he would endure whatever his uncle liked to do with him--whatever--if only uncle would not change his mind, not sending his nephew to the sanatorium or anywhere else, there, to the unknown people. And the decision of the little boy was not too odd, for, virtually, J had nobody else but Uncle George, the tall handsome stranger, in the whole world.
…The sun was shining over the foliage, leaves of grass and lawns. The splashes of green beams blinded and irritated the eyes, so J cast his eyes down on the page of the book again. In the picture he could see an image of an ancient Egyptian god wearing the calantica and pleated loincloth. Something was odd with the cold beautiful features of the god… J was lying across the hammock and reading in the shade of two old cypresses; he was trying to while away the time. A chorus of grasshoppers was chirring without stopping, two gaily-coloured matting butterflies lit down on the blades of the grass. Here J stopped reading and looked up--the man who the boy waited for had come. J laid the book aside, and with adroit motions of his well-built body he got out of the hammock. Uncle George embraced his shoulders with right hand, and they went along the path. Their way lay toward the arbour. Three minutes later the light gate of the arbour closed behind them. A wind whiffled stirring deep-green leaves of the vines over the walls of the arbour. The old lindens stood round like sentinels-giants; they rustled quietly with foliage, swaying with thousands teeny odoriferous fans.
Last time it was in the car.
While mixing with the gentle serious kid for the next three weeks George Sherwood took to his nephew more and more. The birthday of the boy was coming soon and it was sheer necessity to prepare a gift. And the gift should be out-of-the-way. The gift which George Sherwood intended to present to the boy, was not a valuable or extraordinary thing--while living with him his nephew could have any valuable things and expensive bagatelles any time--no, the gift would be something much more important. Uncle George was about to return a little part of J’s childhood which the boy lost. The loss concerned J’s late mother; it took place right after her death.
After the death of his mother J felt so bad, his grief lasted so long while that it was told on his health, and his father sent him to the private hospital. Having returned home J had found the great changes in the house. With a great surprise he saw that the beautiful yellow collie and shaggy pony disappeared from the castle. Yet main shock was that all mother’s things, all what might remind of her, disappeared too. The large oil-painting that adorned the wall over the fireplace in the drawing-room--mother and 3-years old baby were sitting on a sofa in that picture--this fine portrait disappeared without a trace. All the photographs of her disappeared from the nursery. At the same time Viscount Lindenridge had utterly changed for his son, and it was in such a way that J hardly ever saw him--father merely shunned the boy. J was left to Miss Greene’s care totally. She could explain nothing; while replying the boy’s questions, filling shy she put the lacy handkerchief to her nose and said that all this was instruction of Lord Henry. J’s nerves had been cured recently, or else he would take to his bed again. The story of the photos that disappeared had its sequel: when in April J’s father passed away, there were not the things of his late wife amid his things. Any things of her. Apparently, Viscount destroyed all the things by himself.
J narrated the sad story to George at the minutes of intimacy, when Uncle asked him what the boy would like to have for his pleasure. J still was sorry that he had not a picture of his beautiful mother, he narrated the sad story and added that he knew that nobody could help him. Hearing this George decided that the man, who would help the nice boy, would be his Uncle.
About a month before the birthday George Sherwood engaged the private detective; he set the detective to find any photographs of Lady Esme Lindenridge that most likely were somewhere in those places on the Continent where she dwelt before coming to England. Lady Esme Lindenridge, nee Scaligeri was an Italian.
Now, on the 25th of July, in due time the detective came to the Lindenridge Park to give an account of the work he had done. The guard opened the figured cast-iron gates, and the wheels of the car with London number rustled on the gravel of the shady drive-alley. The high old cedar trees greeted silently the car.
George Sherwood received the visitor in the small drawing-room in the ground floor. The private detective, the representative of the London agency National Pacific had done his work. He put a plastic file on the low table in front of the armchair George was sitting in--there were papers and photographs in the file.
George took the thin batch of photographs--they were only half a dozen, that was all what was possible to find in Europe. A young beautiful woman was in all the photos, and George was amazed much, recognizing her face. It was the woman, who he used to know, who he was not able and did not want to forget. He had the ardent affair with her in Biarritz. How many years ago? It’s easy to find out later on. George turned over one photo and looked at its back. The inscription said: “November, 198…” Yes, it was late autumn; it was about 12 years ago. He did not know she was an Italian, because she passed herself off as a Frenchwoman, so they mixed with each other speaking in French all along. The fair 20-year-old thing had a slim body of a top-model, long shapely legs and unbalanced temper and passionate disposition. George realized now whose features the features of the boy did remind so much. J resembled his mother so much that George could recollect Esme and guess of that from the very beginning--as he thought now--or at least could recollect. While eyeing the pretty face of the boy at times George agonizingly reflected asking himself why the boy did glamour and captivate him so much. And it was Esme. It was his Esme again.
George looked through the report. There was a letter amid the papers. The detective said that one person asked to deliver the letter and to hand it to George Sherwood; that was the person whose house the detective visited in connection with the matter. It was Marquis Jiuliano Scaligeri, who was the cousin grandfather of Esme Braidwell and who seemed to be the only her far cousin. The letter was written in French and George read it. Marquis Scaligeri wrote that he was surprised and pleased to learn that he had a relative he knew nothing about, who, apparently, was his the only grate-grandson. With exquisite and a bit old-fashioned expressions the marquis invited George and J to visit his house in Rome. The top of the paper was decorated with a blazon and there were the address and telephone number.
George liked the news: J had another relative. That was good. George drew a cheque and went to see the detective off to the car.
When he came back the small drawing-room he saw J was sitting in one of the armchairs at the low table and looking through the photographs.
J watched the photos and could hardly believe--he could see his mother again!-- he was happy as blazes… And suddenly he got another surprise: in the last photo he saw a man standing beside his mother, and J recognized the man: it was Uncle George! It was an amateur snap; Esme and George were standing near a stone parapet, a glorious view of an old European city was behind them; they were embracing and smiling; a wind tousled their hair, the blue cloudless sky above.
George subsided on the divan and beckoned the boy.
“I was acquainted with your mother, J…” he said, when J sat down beside him.
He narrated of something. He knew Lady Esme--he explained--but it turned out that he did not know her real name then, and only today, looking through the photos he had learnt of it. George and Esme met each other in the hotel they lived in. The young Lady checked in the hotel giving an assumed name, and today it was clear why: she had been married. While listening to Uncle J was not about to blame his late mother--far from it--he loved her too much to do it. George and J were speaking about her for an hour. They were sitting and recollecting what she was like. Then George said that they had received news and the message from J’s far cousin, who lived in Rome. The news did not impress J; he nearly slurred it over. And George on the contrary--he left the boy and went to take his phone--then he came back, settled on the divan again and began to phone to Rome.
The secretary of the marquis answered him, and in a minute the voice of the marquis himself was heard. George could not speak Italian, therefore he introduced himself and they started talking in French. The marquis’s manner was refined and full of fascination of long-ago times. Finally they reached arrangement that George and J would visit Grandfather in early August on the way to Hawaii.
George rang off; he laid the phone aside and fell into thinking. Today he received news from the past that reminded him of his old flame. Of course, he would go to Rome: J’s Grandfather, the man who knew Esme lived there, she lived there formerly too. And this instant the new question brought up--George wished to make it out as soon as possible: whose son was J? Viscount’s or George’s?