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The Picture Of Dorian Gray
By
Oscar Wilde
=
Contents
[3] The studio was filled with the rich odor of
roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden
there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more =
delicate
perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.
From the corner of the divan of Persian
saddle-bags on which he was lying, smoking, as usual, innumerable cigarette=
s,
Lord Henry Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and
honey-colored blossoms of the laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed har=
dly
able to bear the burden of a beauty so flame-like as theirs; and now and th=
en
the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long tussore-si=
lk
curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window, producing a kind =
of
momentary Japanese effect, and making him think of those pallid jade-faced
painters who, in an art that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the se=
nse
of swiftness and motion. The =
sullen
murmur of the bees shouldering their way through the long unmown grass, or
circling with monotonous insistence round the black-crocketed spires of the
early June hollyhocks, seemed to make the stillness more oppressive, and the
dim roar of London was like the bourdon note of a distant organ.
In the centre of the room, clamped to an uprig=
ht
easel, stood the full-length portrait of a young man of extraordinary perso=
nal
beauty, and in front of it, some little distance away, was sitting the arti=
st himself,
Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years ago caused, at the ti=
me,
such public excitement, and gave rise to so many strange conjectures.
As he looked at the gracious and comely form he
had so skilfully mirrored in his art, a smile of pleasure passed across his
face, and seemed about to linger there.&nb=
sp;
But he suddenly started up, and, closing [4] his eyes, placed his
fingers upon the lids, as though he sought to imprison within his brain some
curious dream from which he feared he might awake.
"It is your best work, Basil, the best th=
ing
you have ever done," said Lord Henry, languidly. "You must certainly send it n=
ext
year to the Grosvenor. The Ac=
ademy
is too large and too vulgar. =
The Grosvenor
is the only place."
"I don't think I will send it anywhere,&q=
uot;
he answered, tossing his head back in that odd way that used to make his
friends laugh at him at Oxford.
"No: I won't send it anywhere."
Lord Henry elevated his eyebrows, and looked at
him in amazement through the thin blue wreaths of smoke that curled up in s=
uch fanciful
whorls from his heavy opium-tainted cigarette. "Not send it anywhere? My dear fellow, why? Have you any reason? What odd chaps you painters are! You do anything in the world to ga=
in a
reputation. As soon as you have one, you seem to want to throw it away. It is silly of you, for there is o=
nly
one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being
talked about. A portrait like=
this
would set you far above all the young men in England, and make the old men
quite jealous, if old men are ever capable of any emotion."
"I know you will laugh at me," he
replied, "but I really can't exhibit it. I have put too much of myself into
it."
Lord Henry stretched his long legs out on the
divan and shook with laughter.
"Yes, I knew you would laugh; but it is q=
uite
true, all the same."
"Too much of yourself in it! Upon my word, Basil, I didn't know=
you were
so vain; and I really can't see any resemblance between you, with your rugg=
ed
strong face and your coal-black hair, and this young Adonis, who looks as i=
f he
was made of ivory and rose-leaves.
Why, my dear Basil, he is a Narcissus, and you--well, of course you =
have
an intellectual expression, and all that.&=
nbsp;
But beauty, real beauty, ends where an intellectual expression
begins. Intellect is in itsel=
f an
exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face. The moment one sits down to think,=
one
becomes all nose, or all forehead, or something horrid. Look at the successful men in any =
of the
learned professions. How perf=
ectly
hideous they are! Except, of
course, in the Church. But th=
en in
the Church they don't think. A
bishop keeps on saying at the age of eighty what he was told to say when he=
was
a boy of eighteen, and consequently he always looks absolutely delightful.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Your mysterious young friend, whos=
e name
you have never told me, but whose picture really fascinates me, never
thinks. I feel quite sure of
that. He is a brainless, beau=
tiful
thing, who should be always here in winter when we have no flowers to look =
at, and
always here in summer when we want something to chill our intelligence. Don't flatter yourself, Basil: you=
are
not in the least like him."
"You don't understand me, Harry. Of course I am not like him. I know that perfectly well. Indeed, I should be sorry to look =
like him. You shrug your shoulders? I am telling you the truth. There is a fatality about all phys=
ical
and intellectual distinction, the sort of fatality that [5] seems to dog
through history the faltering steps of kings. It is better not to be different f=
rom
one's fellows. The ugly and the stupid have the best of it in this world. They can sit quietly and gape at t=
he
play. If they know nothing of
victory, they are at least spared the knowledge of defeat. They live as we all should live,
undisturbed, indifferent, and without disquiet. They neither bring ruin upon
others nor ever receive it from alien hands. Your rank and wealth, Harry; my br=
ains,
such as they are,--my fame, whatever it may be worth; Dorian Gray's good
looks,--we will all suffer for what the gods have given us, suffer
terribly."
"Dorian Gray? is that his name?" said
Lord Henry, walking across the studio towards Basil Hallward.
"Yes; that is his name. I didn't intend to tell it to you.=
"
"But why not?"
"Oh, I can't explain. When I like people immensely I nev=
er
tell their names to any one. =
It
seems like surrendering a part of them. You know how I love secrecy. It is the only thing that can make=
modern
life wonderful or mysterious to us.
The commonest thing is delightful if one only hides it. When I leave town I never tell my =
people
where I am going. If I did, I=
would
lose all my pleasure. It is a=
silly
habit, I dare say, but somehow it seems to bring a great deal of romance in=
to
one's life. I suppose you thi=
nk me
awfully foolish about it?"
"Not at all," answered Lord Henry,
laying his hand upon his shoulder; "not at all, my dear Basil. You seem to forget that I am marri=
ed, and
the one charm of marriage is that it makes a life of deception necessary for
both parties. I never know wh=
ere my
wife is, and my wife never knows what I am doing. When we meet,--we do meet occasion=
ally,
when we dine out together, or go down to the duke's,-- we tell each other t=
he
most absurd stories with the most serious faces. My wife is very good at it,--much
better, in fact, than I am. She never gets confused over her dates, and I
always do. But when she does =
find
me out, she makes no row at all. I
sometimes wish she would; but she merely laughs at me."
"I hate the way you talk about your marri=
ed
life, Harry," said Basil Hallward, shaking his hand off, and strolling
towards the door that led into the garden.=
"I believe that you are really a very good husband, but that you
are thoroughly ashamed of your own virtues. You are an extraordinary
fellow. You never say a moral
thing, and you never do a wrong thing.&nbs=
p;
Your cynicism is simply a pose."
"Being natural is simply a pose, and the =
most
irritating pose I know," cried Lord Henry, laughing; and the two young=
men
went out into the garden together, and for a time they did not speak.
After a long pause Lord Henry pulled out his
watch. "I am afraid I mu=
st be
going, Basil," he murmured, "and before I go I insist on your ans=
wering
a question I put to you some time ago."
"What is that?" asked Basil Hallward,
keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.
"You know quite well."
"I do not, Harry."
[6] "Well, I will tell you what it is.&qu=
ot;
"Please don't."
"I must.=
I want you to explain to me why you won't exhibit Dorian Gray's
picture. I want the real
reason."
"I told you the real reason."
"No, you did not. You said it was because there was =
too
much of yourself in it. Now, =
that
is childish."
"Harry," said Basil Hallward, looking
him straight in the face, "every portrait that is painted with feeling=
is
a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter. The sitter is merely the accident,=
the occasion. It is not he who is revealed by the
painter; it is rather the painter who, on the colored canvas, reveals
himself. The reason I will not
exhibit this picture is that I am afraid that I have shown with it the secr=
et
of my own soul."
Lord Harry laughed. "And what is that?" he a=
sked.
"I will tell you," said Hallward; an=
d an
expression of perplexity came over his face.
"I am all expectation, Basil," murmu=
red
his companion, looking at him.
"Oh, there is really very little to tell,
Harry," answered the young painter; "and I am afraid you will har=
dly
understand it. Perhaps you wi=
ll
hardly believe it."
Lord Henry smiled, and, leaning down, plucked a
pink-petalled daisy from the grass, and examined it. "I am quite sure I shall unde=
rstand
it," he replied, gazing intently at the little golden white-feathered =
disk,
"and I can believe anything, provided that it is incredible."
The wind shook some blossoms from the trees, a=
nd
the heavy lilac blooms, with their clustering stars, moved to and fro in the
languid air. A grasshopper be=
gan to
chirrup in the grass, and a long thin dragon-fly floated by on its brown ga=
uze
wings. Lord Henry felt as if =
he
could hear Basil Hallward's heart beating, and he wondered what was coming.=
"Well, this is incredible," repeated
Hallward, rather bitterly,-- "incredible to me at times. I don't know what it means. The story is simply this. Two months ago I went to a crush a=
t Lady
Brandon's. You know we poor painters have to show ourselves in society from
time to time, just to remind the public that we are not savages. With an evening coat and a white t=
ie, as
you told me once, anybody, even a stock-broker, can gain a reputation for b=
eing
civilized. Well, after I had =
been
in the room about ten minutes, talking to huge overdressed dowagers and ted=
ious
Academicians, I suddenly became conscious that some one was looking at me.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I turned half-way round, and saw D=
orian Gray
for the first time. When our =
eyes
met, I felt that I was growing pale.
A curious instinct of terror came over me. I knew that I had come face to fac=
e with
some one whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to=
do
so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself. I did not want any external influe=
nce in
my life. You know yourself, H=
arry,
how independent I am by nature. My
father destined me for the army. I insisted
on [7] going to Oxford. Then =
he
made me enter my name at the Middle Temple. Before I had eaten half a dozen di=
nners
I gave up the Bar, and announced my intention of becoming a painter. I have always been my own master; =
had at
least always been so, till I met Dorian Gray. Then--But I don't know how to expl=
ain it
to you. Something seemed to tell me that I was on the verge of a terrible c=
risis
in my life. I had a strange f=
eeling
that Fate had in store for me exquisite joys and exquisite sorrows. I knew that if I spoke to Dorian I=
would
become absolutely devoted to him, and that I ought not to speak to him. I grew afraid, and turned to quit =
the
room. It was not conscience t=
hat
made me do so: it was cowardice. I
take no credit to myself for trying to escape."
"Conscience and cowardice are really the =
same
things, Basil. Conscience is the trade-name of the firm. That is all."
"I don't believe that, Harry. However, whatever was my motive,--=
and it
may have been pride, for I used to be very proud,--I certainly struggled to=
the
door. There, of course, I stu=
mbled
against Lady Brandon. 'You ar=
e not
going to run away so soon, Mr. Hallward?' she screamed out. You know her shrill horrid voice?&=
quot;
"Yes; she is a peacock in everything but
beauty," said Lord Henry, pulling the daisy to bits with his long, ner=
vous
fingers.
"I could not get rid of her. She brought me up to Royalties, an=
d people
with Stars and Garters, and elderly ladies with gigantic tiaras and hooked
noses. She spoke of me as her
dearest friend. I had only me=
t her
once before, but she took it into her head to lionize me. I believe some picture of mine had=
made
a great success at the time, at least had been chattered about in the penny=
newspapers,
which is the nineteenth-century standard of immortality. Suddenly I found
myself face to face with the young man whose personality had so strangely
stirred me. We were quite clo=
se,
almost touching. Our eyes met
again. It was mad of me, but I
asked Lady Brandon to introduce me to him.=
Perhaps it was not so mad, after all. It was simply inevitable. We would have spoken to each other=
without
any introduction. I am sure of
that. Dorian told me so after=
wards. He, too, felt that we were destine=
d to
know each other."
"And how did Lady Brandon describe this
wonderful young man? I know s=
he
goes in for giving a rapid précis of all her guests. I remember her bringing me up to a=
most
truculent and red-faced old gentleman covered all over with orders and ribb=
ons,
and hissing into my ear, in a tragic whisper which must have been perfectly
audible to everybody in the room, something like 'Sir Humpty Dumpty--you
know--Afghan frontier--Russian intrigues: very successful man--wife killed =
by
an elephant--quite inconsolable--wants to marry a beautiful American widow-=
-everybody
does nowadays--hates Mr. Gladstone--but very much interested in beetles: ask
him what he thinks of Schouvaloff.'
I simply fled. I like =
to
find out people for myself. B=
ut
poor Lady Brandon treats her guests exactly as an auctioneer treats his goo=
ds. She
either explains them entirely away, or tells one everything about them exce=
pt
what one wants to know. But w=
hat
did she say about Mr. Dorian Gray?"
[8] "Oh, she murmured, 'Charming boy--poor
dear mother and I quite inseparable--engaged to be married to the same man-=
-I
mean married on the same day--how very silly of me! Quite forget what he does-- afraid
he--doesn't do anything--oh, yes, plays the piano--or is it the violin, dear
Mr. Gray?' We could neither o=
f us
help laughing, and we became friends at once."
"Laughter is not a bad beginning for a
friendship, and it is the best ending for one," said Lord Henry, pluck=
ing
another daisy.
Hallward buried his face in his hands. "You don't understand what fr=
iendship
is, Harry," he murmured,--"or what enmity is, for that matter.
"How horribly unjust of you!" cried =
Lord
Henry, tilting his hat back, and looking up at the little clouds that were
drifting across the hollowed turquoise of the summer sky, like ravelled ske=
ins
of glossy white silk. "Y=
es;
horribly unjust of you. I mak=
e a
great difference between people. I
choose my friends for their good looks, my acquaintances for their characte=
rs,
and my enemies for their brains. A man can't be too careful in the choice of
his enemies. I have not got o=
ne who
is a fool. They are all men o=
f some
intellectual power, and consequently they all appreciate me. Is that very vain of me? I think it is rather vain."
"I should think it was, Harry. But according to your category I m=
ust be
merely an acquaintance."
"My dear old Basil, you are much more tha=
n an
acquaintance."
"And much less than a friend. A sort of brother, I suppose?"=
;
"Oh, brothers! I don't care for brothers. My elder brother won't die, and my
younger brothers seem never to do anything else."
"Harry!"
"My dear fellow, I am not quite serious.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> But I can't help detesting my
relations. I suppose it comes=
from
the fact that we can't stand other people having the same faults as
ourselves. I quite sympathize=
with
the rage of the English democracy against what they call the vices of the u=
pper
classes. They feel that
drunkenness, stupidity, and immorality should be their own special property,
and that if any one of us makes an ass of himself he is poaching on their
preserves. When poor Southwark got into the Divorce Court, their indignation
was quite magnificent. And ye=
t I
don't suppose that ten per cent of the lower orders live correctly."
"I don't agree with a single word that you
have said, and, what is more, Harry, I don't believe you do either."
Lord Henry stroked his pointed brown beard, and
tapped the toe of his patent-leather boot with a tasselled malacca cane.
"Every day. I couldn't be happy if I didn't se=
e him
every day. Of course sometime=
s it
is only for a few minutes. Bu=
t a
few minutes with somebody one worships mean a great deal."
"But you don't really worship him?"<= o:p>
"I do."
"How extraordinary! I thought you would never care for
anything but your painting,--your art, I should say. Art sounds better, doesn't it?&quo=
t;
"He is all my art to me now. I sometimes think, Harry, that the=
re are
only two eras of any importance in the history of the world. The first is the appearance of a n=
ew
medium for art, and the second is the appearance of a new personality for a=
rt
also. What the invention of
oil-painting was to the Venetians, the face of Antinoüs was to late Gr=
eek
sculpture, and the face of Dorian Gray will some day be to me. It is not merely that I paint from=
him,
draw from him, model from him. Of
course I have done all that. =
He has
stood as Paris in dainty armor, and as Adonis with huntsman's cloak and
polished boar- spear. Crowned=
with
heavy lotus-blossoms, he has sat on the prow of Adrian's barge, looking into
the green, turbid Nile. He has
leaned over the still pool of some Greek woodland, and seen in the water's =
silent
silver the wonder of his own beauty.
But he is much more to me than that. I won't tell you that I am dissati=
sfied
with what I have done of him, or that his beauty is such that art cannot
express it. There is nothing =
that
art cannot express, and I know that the work I have done since I met Dorian
Gray is good work, is the best work of my life. But in some curious way--I wonder =
will
you understand me?--his personality has suggested to me an entirely new man=
ner
in art, an entirely new mode of style.&nbs=
p;
I see things differently, I think of them differently. I can now re-create life in a way =
that
was hidden from me before. 'A=
dream
of form in days of thought,'--who is it who says that? I forget; but it is what Dorian Gr=
ay has
been to me. The merely visible
presence of this lad, --for he seems to me little more than a lad, though h=
e is
really over twenty,--his merely visible presence,--ah! I wonder can you realize all that =
that
means? Unconsciously he defin=
es for
me the lines of a fresh school, a school that is to have in itself all the
passion of the romantic spirit, all the perfection of the spirit that is Gr=
eek.
The harmony of soul and body,--how much that is! We in our madness have separated t=
he
two, and have invented a realism that is bestial, an ideality that is
void. Harry! Harry! if you only knew what Doria=
n Gray
is to me! You remember that l=
andscape
of mine, for which Agnew offered me such a huge price, but which I would not
part with? It is one of the best things I have ever done. And why is it so? Because, while I=
was
painting it, Dorian Gray sat beside me."
"Basil, this is quite wonderful! I must see Dorian Gray." Hallward got up from the seat, and
walked up and down the [10] garden.
After some time he came back.
"You don't understand, Harry," he said. "Dorian Gray =
is
merely to me a motive in art. He is
never more present in my work than when no image of him is there. He is simply a suggestion, as I ha=
ve
said, of a new manner. I see =
him in
the curves of certain lines, in the loveliness and the subtleties of certain
colors. That is all."
"Then why won't you exhibit his
portrait?"
"Because I have put into it all the
extraordinary romance of which, of course, I have never dared to speak to
him. He knows nothing about
it. He will never know anythi=
ng
about it. But the world might=
guess
it; and I will not bare my soul to their shallow, prying eyes. My heart sha=
ll
never be put under their microscope.
There is too much of myself in the thing, Harry,--too much of
myself!"
"Poets are not so scrupulous as you are.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> They know how useful passion is for
publication. Nowadays a broken
heart will run to many editions."
"I hate them for it. An artist should create beautiful
things, but should put nothing of his own life into them. We live in an age when men treat a=
rt as
if it were meant to be a form of autobiography. We have lost the abstract sense of
beauty. If I live, I will sho=
w the world
what it is; and for that reason the world shall never see my portrait of Do=
rian
Gray."
"I think you are wrong, Basil, but I won't
argue with you. It is only the
intellectually lost who ever argue.
Tell me, is Dorian Gray very fond of you?"
Hallward considered for a few moments. "He likes me," he answer=
ed, after
a pause; "I know he likes me.
Of course I flatter him dreadfully.=
I find a strange pleasure in saying things to him that I know I shal=
l be
sorry for having said. I give
myself away. As a rule, he is
charming to me, and we walk home together from the club arm in arm, or sit =
in
the studio and talk of a thousand things.&=
nbsp;
Now and then, however, he is horribly thoughtless, and seems to take=
a real
delight in giving me pain. Th=
en I
feel, Harry, that I have given away my whole soul to some one who treats it=
as
if it were a flower to put in his coat, a bit of decoration to charm his
vanity, an ornament for a summer's day."
"Days in summer, Basil, are apt to
linger. Perhaps you will tire=
sooner
than he will. It is a sad thi=
ng to
think of, but there is no doubt that Genius lasts longer than Beauty. That accounts for the fact that we=
all
take such pains to over-educate ourselves.=
In the wild struggle for existence, we want to have something that
endures, and so we fill our minds with rubbish and facts, in the silly hope=
of keeping
our place. The thoroughly well
informed man,--that is the modern ideal.&n=
bsp;
And the mind of the thoroughly well informed man is a dreadful
thing. It is like a
bric-à-brac shop, all monsters and dust, and everything priced above=
its
proper value. I think you wil=
l tire
first, all the same. Some day=
you
will look at Gray, and he will seem to you to be a little out of drawing, or
you won't like his tone of color, or something. You will bitterly reproach him in =
your own
heart, and seriously think that he has behaved very badly to you. The next =
time
he calls, you will be [11] perfectly cold and indifferent. It will be a great pity, for it wi=
ll
alter you. The worst of havin=
g a
romance is that it leaves one so unromantic."
"Harry, don't talk like that. As long as I live, the personality=
of Dorian
Gray will dominate me. You ca=
n't
feel what I feel. You change =
too
often."
"Ah, my dear Basil, that is exactly why I=
can
feel it. Those who are faithf=
ul
know only the pleasures of love: it is the faithless who know love's
tragedies." And Lord Hen=
ry
struck a light on a dainty silver case, and began to smoke a cigarette with=
a
self-conscious and self-satisfied air, as if he had summed up life in a
phrase. There was a rustle of
chirruping sparrows in the ivy, and the blue cloud- shadows chased themselv=
es
across the grass like swallows. How
pleasant it was in the garden! And
how delightful other people's emotions were!--much more delightful than the=
ir
ideas, it seemed to him. One'=
s own
soul, and the passions of one's friends,--those were the fascinating things=
in
life. He thought with pleasur=
e of
the tedious luncheon that he had missed by staying so long with Basil Hallw=
ard. Had he gone to his aunt's, he woul=
d have
been sure to meet Lord Goodbody there, and the whole conversation would have
been about the housing of the poor, and the necessity for model lodging-hou=
ses.
It was charming to have escaped all that!&=
nbsp;
As he thought of his aunt, an idea seemed to strike him. He turned to Hallward, and said,
"My dear fellow, I have just remembered."
"Remembered what, Harry?"
"Where I heard the name of Dorian Gray.&q=
uot;
"Where was it?" asked Hallward, with=
a
slight frown.
"Don't look so angry, Basil. It was at my aunt's, Lady Agatha's=
. She
told me she had discovered a wonderful young man, who was going to help her=
in
the East End, and that his name was Dorian Gray. I am bound to state that she never=
told
me he was good-looking. Women=
have
no appreciation of good looks. At
least, good women have not. She said that he was very earnest, and had a
beautiful nature. I at once
pictured to myself a creature with spectacles and lank hair, horridly freck=
led,
and tramping about on huge feet. I
wish I had known it was your friend."
"I am very glad you didn't, Harry."<= o:p>
"Why?"
"I don't want you to meet him."
"Mr. Dorian Gray is in the studio, sir,&q=
uot;
said the butler, coming into the garden.
"You must introduce me now," cried L=
ord
Henry, laughing.
Basil Hallward turned to the servant, who stood
blinking in the sunlight. &qu=
ot;Ask
Mr. Gray to wait, Parker: I will be in in a few moments." The man bowed, and went up the wal=
k.
Then he looked at Lord Henry. "Dorian Gray is my dearest
friend," he said. "=
He has
a simple and a beautiful nature.
Your aunt was quite right in what she said of him. Don't spoil him for me. Don't try to influence him. Your influence would be bad. The world is wide, and has many ma=
rvellous
people in it. Don't take [12]=
away
from me the one person that makes life absolutely lovely to me, and that gi=
ves
to my art whatever wonder or charm it possesses. Mind, Harry, I trust you."
"What nonsense you talk!" said Lord
Henry, smiling, and, taking Hallward by the arm, he almost led him into the
house.
[...12] As they entered they saw Dorian Gray.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He was seated at the piano, with h=
is
back to them, turning over the pages of a volume of Schumann's "Forest
Scenes." "You must =
lend
me these, Basil," he cried.
"I want to learn them.
They are perfectly charming."
"That entirely depends on how you sit to-=
day,
Dorian."
"Oh, I am tired of sitting, and I don't w=
ant
a life-sized portrait of myself," answered the lad, swinging round on =
the
music-stool, in a wilful, petulant manner.=
When he caught sight of Lord Henry, a faint blush colored his cheeks=
for
a moment, and he started up.
"I beg your pardon, Basil, but I didn't know you had any one wi=
th
you."
"This is Lord Henry Wotton, Dorian, an old
Oxford friend of mine. I have=
just
been telling him what a capital sitter you were, and now you have spoiled
everything."
"You have not spoiled my pleasure in meet=
ing
you, Mr. Gray," said Lord Henry, stepping forward and shaking him by t=
he
hand. "My aunt has often
spoken to me about you. You a=
re one
of her favorites, and, I am afraid, one of her victims also."
"I am in Lady Agatha's black books at pre=
sent,"
answered Dorian, with a funny look of penitence. "I promised to go to her club=
in Whitechapel
with her last Tuesday, and I really forgot all about it. We were to have pl=
ayed
a duet together,--three duets, I believe.&=
nbsp;
I don't know what she will say to me. I am far too frightened to call.&q=
uot;
"Oh, I will make your peace with my
aunt. She is quite devoted to=
you. And I don't think it really matters
about your not being there. The audience probably thought it was a duet.
"That is very horrid to her, and not very
nice to me," answered Dorian, laughing.
Lord Henry looked at him. Yes, he was certainly wonderfully =
handsome,
with his finely-curved scarlet lips, his frank blue eyes, his crisp gold
hair. There was something in =
his
face that made one trust him at once.
All the candor of youth was there, as well as all youth's passionate
purity. One felt that he had =
kept
himself unspotted from the world.
No wonder Basil Hallward worshipped him. He was made to be worshippe=
d.
"You are too charming to go in for
philanthropy, Mr. Gray,--far too charming." And Lord Henry flung himself down =
on the
divan, and opened his cigarette-case.
Hallward had been busy mixing his colors and
getting his brushes ready. He=
was
looking worried, and when he heard Lord Henry's last [13] remark he glanced=
at
him, hesitated for a moment, and then said, "Harry, I want to finish t=
his
picture to-day. Would you thi=
nk it awfully
rude of me if I asked you to go away?"
Lord Henry smiled, and looked at Dorian Gray.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> "Am I to go, Mr. Gray?" =
he
asked.
"Oh, please don't, Lord Henry. I see that Basil is in one of his =
sulky
moods; and I can't bear him when he sulks.=
Besides, I want you to tell me why I should not go in for
philanthropy."
"I don't know that I shall tell you that,=
Mr.
Gray. But I certainly will no=
t run
away, now that you have asked me to stop.&=
nbsp;
You don't really mind, Basil, do you? You have often told me that you li=
ked your
sitters to have some one to chat to."
Hallward bit his lip. "If Dorian wishes it, of cour=
se you
must stay. Dorian's whims are laws to everybody, except himself."
Lord Henry took up his hat and gloves. "You are very pressing, Basil=
, but
I am afraid I must go. I have
promised to meet a man at the Orleans.--Good-by, Mr. Gray. Come and see me some afternoon in =
Curzon
Street. I am nearly always at=
home
at five o'clock. Write to me =
when
you are coming. I should be s=
orry
to miss you."
"Basil," cried Dorian Gray, "if=
Lord
Henry goes I shall go too. Yo=
u never
open your lips while you are painting, and it is horribly dull standing on a
platform and trying to look pleasant.
Ask him to stay. I insist upon it."
"Stay, Harry, to oblige Dorian, and to ob=
lige
me," said Hallward, gazing intently at his picture. "It is quite true, I never ta=
lk
when I am working, and never listen either, and it must be dreadfully tedio=
us
for my unfortunate sitters. I=
beg
you to stay."
"But what about my man at the Orleans?&qu=
ot;
Hallward laughed. "I don't think there will be =
any
difficulty about that. Sit do=
wn
again, Harry.--And now, Dorian, get up on the platform, and don't move about
too much, or pay any attention to what Lord Henry says. He has a very bad influence over a=
ll his
friends, with the exception of myself."
Dorian stepped up on the dais, with the air of=
a
young Greek martyr, and made a little moue of discontent to Lord Henry, to =
whom
he had rather taken a fancy. =
He was
so unlike Hallward. They made=
a delightful
contrast. And he had such a
beautiful voice. After a few =
moments
he said to him, "Have you really a very bad influence, Lord Henry? As bad as Basil says?"
"There is no such thing as a good influen=
ce,
Mr. Gray. All influence is
immoral,--immoral from the scientific point of view."
"Why?"
"Because to influence a person is to give=
him
one's own soul. He does not t=
hink
his natural thoughts, or burn with his natural passions. His virtues are not real to him. His sins, if there are such things=
as
sins, are borrowed. He become=
s an
echo of some one else's music, an actor of a part that has not been written=
for
him. The aim of life is self-development.&=
nbsp;
To realize one's nature perfectly,--that is what each of us is here
for. People are afraid of
themselves, nowadays. They ha=
ve
forgotten the highest of all duties, the duty that one owes to one's [14]
self. Of course they are
charitable. They feed the hun=
gry,
and clothe the beggar. But th=
eir
own souls starve, and are naked.
Courage has gone out of our race.&n=
bsp;
Perhaps we never really had it.&nbs=
p;
The terror of society, which is the basis of morals, the terror of G=
od,
which is the secret of religion,--these are the two things that govern us.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> And yet--"
"Just turn your head a little more to the
right, Dorian, like a good boy," said Hallward, deep in his work, and
conscious only that a look had come into the lad's face that he had never s=
een
there before.
"And yet," continued Lord Henry, in =
his
low, musical voice, and with that graceful wave of the hand that was always=
so
characteristic of him, and that he had even in his Eton days, "I belie=
ve
that if one man were to live his life out fully and completely, were to give
form to every feeling, expression to every thought, reality to every dream,=
--I
believe that the world would gain such a fresh impulse of joy that we would
forget all the maladies of mediaevalism, and return to the Hellenic ideal,-=
- to
something finer, richer, than the Hellenic ideal, it may be. But the bravest man among us is af=
raid
of himself. The mutilation of=
the
savage has its tragic survival in the self-denial that mars our lives. We are punished for our refusals. =
Every
impulse that we strive to strangle broods in the mind, and poisons us. The body sins once, and has done w=
ith
its sin, for action is a mode of purification. Nothing remains then but the recol=
lection
of a pleasure, or the luxury of a regret.&=
nbsp;
The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sic=
k with
longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its
monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful. It has been said that the great ev=
ents
of the world take place in the brain.
It is in the brain, and the brain only, that the great sins of the w=
orld
take place also. You, Mr. Gra=
y, you
yourself, with your rose-red youth and your rose-white boyhood, you have had
passions that have made you afraid, thoughts that have filled you with terr=
or,
day-dreams and sleeping dreams whose mere memory might stain your cheek with
shame--"
"Stop!" murmured Dorian Gray,
"stop! you bewilder me. I
don't know what to say. There=
is
some answer to you, but I cannot find it. Don't speak. Let me think, or, rather, let me t=
ry not
to think."
For nearly ten minutes he stood there motionle=
ss,
with parted lips, and eyes strangely bright. He was dimly conscious that entire=
ly fresh
impulses were at work within him, and they seemed to him to have come really
from himself. The few words t=
hat
Basil's friend had said to him--words spoken by chance, no doubt, and with
wilful paradox in them--had yet touched some secret chord, that had never b=
een
touched before, but that he felt was now vibrating and throbbing to curious
pulses.
Music had stirred him like that. Music had troubled him many times.=
But
music was not articulate. It =
was
not a new world, but rather a new chaos, that it created in us. Words! Mere words! How terrible they were! How clear, and vivid, and cruel! One could not escape from them.
Yes; there had been things in his boyhood that=
he
had not understood. He understood them now. Life suddenly became fiery-colored=
to
him. It seemed to him that he had been walking in fire. Why had he not known it?
Lord Henry watched him, with his sad smile.
Hallward painted away with that marvellous bold
touch of his, that had the true refinement and perfect delicacy that come o=
nly from
strength. He was unconscious =
of the
silence.
"Basil, I am tired of standing," cri=
ed
Dorian Gray, suddenly. "=
I must
go out and sit in the garden. The
air is stifling here."
"My dear fellow, I am so sorry. When I am painting, I can't think =
of anything
else. But you never sat
better. You were perfectly st=
ill. And
I have caught the effect I wanted,--the half-parted lips, and the bright lo=
ok
in the eyes. I don't know what
Harry has been saying to you, but he has certainly made you have the most w=
onderful
expression. I suppose he has =
been
paying you compliments. You m=
ustn't
believe a word that he says."
"He has certainly not been paying me
compliments. Perhaps that is =
the
reason I don't think I believe anything he has told me."
"You know you believe it all," said =
Lord
Henry, looking at him with his dreamy, heavy-lidded eyes. "I will go out to the garden =
with you. It is horridly hot in the
studio.--Basil, let us have something iced to drink, something with
strawberries in it."
"Certainly, Harry. Just touch the bell, and when Park=
er
comes I will tell him what you want.
I have got to work up this background, so I will join you later on.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Don't keep Dorian too long. I have never been in better form f=
or
painting than I am to-day. Th=
is is
going to be my masterpiece. I=
t is
my masterpiece as it stands."
Lord Henry went out to the garden, and found
Dorian Gray burying his face in the great cool lilac-blossoms, feverishly
drinking in their perfume as if it had been wine. He came close to him, and put his =
hand
upon his shoulder. "You =
are
quite right to do that," he murmured.=
"Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can =
cure
the senses but the soul."
The lad started and drew back. He was bareheaded, and the leaves =
had tossed
his rebellious curls and tangled all their gilded threads. There was a look=
of
fear in his eyes, such as people have when they are suddenly awakened. His finely-chiselled nostrils quiv=
ered,
and some hidden nerve shook the scarlet of his lips and left them trembling=
.
[16] "Yes," continued Lord Henry,
"that is one of the great secrets of life,-- to cure the soul by means=
of
the senses, and the senses by means of the soul. You are a wonderful creature. You know more than you think you k=
now,
just as you know less than you want to know."
Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He could not help liking the tall,
graceful young man who was standing by him. His romantic olive-colored face an=
d worn
expression interested him. There was something in his low, languid voice th=
at
was absolutely fascinating. H=
is
cool, white, flower-like hands, even, had a curious charm. They moved, as he spoke, like musi=
c, and
seemed to have a language of their own.&nb=
sp;
But he felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being afraid. Why had it been left for a strange=
r to
reveal him to himself? He had=
known
Basil Hallward for months, but the friendship between then had never altered
him. Suddenly there had come =
some
one across his life who seemed to have disclosed to him life's mystery. And,
yet, what was there to be afraid of?
He was not a school-boy, or a girl.=
It was absurd to be frightened.
"Let us go and sit in the shade," sa=
id
Lord Henry. "Parker has =
brought
out the drinks, and if you stay any longer in this glare you will be quite
spoiled, and Basil will never paint you again. You really must not let yourself b=
ecome
sunburnt. It would be very un=
becoming
to you."
"What does it matter?" cried Dorian,
laughing, as he sat down on the seat at the end of the garden.
"It should matter everything to you, Mr.
Gray."
"Why?"
"Because you have now the most marvellous
youth, and youth is the one thing worth having."
"I don't feel that, Lord Henry."
"No, you don't feel it now. Some day, when you are old and wri=
nkled and
ugly, when thought has seared your forehead with its lines, and passion bra=
nded
your lips with its hideous fires, you will feel it, you will feel it
terribly. Now, wherever you g=
o, you
charm the world. Will it alwa=
ys be
so?
"You have a wonderfully beautiful face, M=
r. Gray. Don't frown. You have. And Beauty is a form of Genius,--is
higher, indeed, than Genius, as it needs no explanation. It is one of the great facts of the
world, like sunlight, or spring-time, or the reflection in dark waters of t=
hat
silver shell we call the moon. It
cannot be questioned. It has =
its
divine right of sovereignty. =
It
makes princes of those who have it.
You smile? Ah! when yo=
u have
lost it you won't smile.
"People say sometimes that Beauty is only
superficial. That may be so.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> But at least it is not so superfic=
ial as
Thought. To me, Beauty is the
wonder of wonders. It is only
shallow people who do not judge by appearances. The true mystery of the world is t=
he
visible, not the invisible.
"Yes, Mr. Gray, the gods have been good to
you. But what the gods give t=
hey
quickly take away. You have o=
nly a
few years in which really to live.
When your youth goes, your beauty will go with it, and then you will
suddenly discover that there are no triumphs left [17] for you, or have to
content yourself with those mean triumphs that the memory of your past will
make more bitter than defeats. Every month as it wanes brings you nearer to
something dreadful. Time is jealous of you, and wars against your lilies and
your roses. You will become sallow, and hollow-cheeked, and dull-eyed. You will suffer horribly.
"Realize your youth while you have it.
"A new hedonism,--that is what our century
wants. You might be its visib=
le
symbol. With your personality=
there
is nothing you could not do. =
The
world belongs to you for a season.
"The moment I met you I saw that you were
quite unconscious of what you really are, what you really might be. There was so much about you that c=
harmed
me that I felt I must tell you something about yourself. I thought how tragic it would be i=
f you
were wasted. For there is suc=
h a
little time that your youth will last,--such a little time.
"The common hill-flowers wither, but they
blossom again. The laburnum w=
ill be
as golden next June as it is now.
In a month there will be purple stars on the clematis, and year after
year the green night of its leaves will have its purple stars. But we never get back our youth. The pulse of joy that beats in us =
at
twenty, becomes sluggish. Our=
limbs
fail, our senses rot. We dege=
nerate
into hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the passions of which we were
too much afraid, and the exquisite temptations that we did not dare to yield
to. Youth! Youth! There is absolutely nothing in the=
world
but youth!"
Dorian Gray listened, open-eyed and
wondering. The spray of lilac=
fell
from his hand upon the gravel. A
furry bee came and buzzed round it for a moment. Then it began to scramble all over=
the fretted
purple of the tiny blossoms. =
He
watched it with that strange interest in trivial things that we try to deve=
lop
when things of high import make us afraid, or when we are stirred by some n=
ew
emotion, for which we cannot find expression, or when some thought that ter=
rifies
us lays sudden siege to the brain and calls on us to yield. After a time it
flew away. He saw it creeping=
into
the stained trumpet of a Tyrian convolvulus. The flower seemed to quiver, and t=
hen
swayed gently to and fro.
Suddenly Hallward appeared at the door of the
studio, and made frantic signs for them to come in. They turned to each other, and smi=
led.
"I am waiting," cried Hallward. "Do come in. The light is quite perfect, and yo=
u can
bring your drinks."
They rose up, and sauntered down the walk
together. Two green-and- white
butterflies fluttered past them, and in the pear-tree at the end of the gar=
den
a thrush began to sing.
"You are glad you have met me, Mr.
Gray," said Lord Henry, looking at him.
"Yes, I am glad now. I wonder shall I always be glad?&q=
uot;
[18] "Always! That is a dreadful word. It makes me shudder when I hear it=
. Women are so fond of using it. They spoil every romance by trying=
to
make it last forever. It is a
meaningless word, too. The on=
ly
difference between a caprice and a life-long passion is that the caprice la=
sts
a little longer."
As they entered the studio, Dorian Gray put his
hand upon Lord Henry's arm.
"In that case, let our friendship be a caprice," he murmur=
ed,
flushing at his own boldness, then stepped upon the platform and resumed his
pose.
Lord Henry flung himself into a large wicker
arm-chair, and watched him. T=
he
sweep and dash of the brush on the canvas made the only sound that broke the
stillness, except when Hallward stepped back now and then to look at his wo=
rk
from a distance. In the slant=
ing
beams that streamed through the open door-way the dust danced and was golde=
n. The heavy scent of the roses seeme=
d to
brood over everything.
After about a quarter of an hour, Hallward sto=
pped
painting, looked for a long time at Dorian Gray, and then for a long time at
the picture, biting the end of one of his huge brushes, and smiling. "It is quite finished," =
he
cried, at last, and stooping down he wrote his name in thin vermilion lette=
rs
on the left-hand corner of the canvas.
Lord Henry came over and examined the
picture. It was certainly a w=
onderful
work of art, and a wonderful likeness as well.
"My dear fellow, I congratulate you most
warmly," he said.--"Mr. Gray, come and look at yourself."
The lad started, as if awakened from some
dream. "Is it really fin=
ished?"
he murmured, stepping down from the platform.
"Quite finished," said Hallward. "And you have sat splendidly =
to- day. I am awfully obliged to you."=
"That is entirely due to me," broke =
in
Lord Henry. "Isn't it, M=
r. Gray?"
Dorian made no answer, but passed listlessly in
front of his picture and turned towards it. When he saw it he drew back, and h=
is
cheeks flushed for a moment with pleasure. A look of joy came into his eyes, a=
s if
he had recognized himself for the first time. He stood there motionless, and in
wonder, dimly conscious that Hallward was speaking to him, but not catching=
the
meaning of his words. The sen=
se of
his own beauty came on him like a revelation. He had never felt it before. Basil Hallward's compliments had s=
eemed
to him to be merely the charming exaggerations of friendship. He had listened to them, laughed at
them, forgotten them. They ha=
d not
influenced his nature. Then h=
ad
come Lord Henry, with his strange panegyric on youth, his terrible warning =
of
its brevity. That had stirred=
him
at the time, and now, as he stood gazing at the shadow of his own lovelines=
s,
the full reality of the description flashed across him. Yes, there would be=
a
day when his face would be wrinkled and wizen, his eyes dim and colorless, =
the
grace of his figure broken and deformed.&n=
bsp;
The scarlet would pass away from his lips, and the gold steal from h=
is
hair. The life that was to ma=
ke his
soul would mar his body. He w=
ould
become ignoble, hideous, and uncouth.
[19] As he thought of it, a sharp pang of pain
struck like a knife across him, and made each delicate fibre of his nature
quiver. His eyes deepened into
amethyst, and a mist of tears came across them. He felt as if a hand of ice=
had
been laid upon his heart.
"Don't you like it?" cried Hallward =
at
last, stung a little by the lad's silence, and not understanding what it me=
ant.
"Of course he likes it," said Lord
Henry. "Who wouldn't like
it? It is one of the greatest
things in modern art. I will =
give
you anything you like to ask for it.
I must have it."
"It is not my property, Harry."
"Whose property is it?"
"Dorian's, of course."
"He is a very lucky fellow."
"How sad it is!" murmured Dorian Gra=
y,
with his eyes still fixed upon his own portrait. "How sad it is! I shall grow old, and horrid, and =
dreadful. But this picture will remain always
young. It will never be older=
than
this particular day of June. . . . If it was only the other way! If it was I who were to be always =
young,
and the picture that were to grow old!&nbs=
p;
For this--for this--I would give everything! Yes, there is nothing in
the whole world I would not give!"
"You would hardly care for that arrangeme=
nt,
Basil," cried Lord Henry, laughing.&n=
bsp;
"It would be rather hard lines on you."
"I should object very strongly, Harry.&qu=
ot;
Dorian Gray turned and looked at him. "I believe you would, Basil. = You like your art better than your friends.&nb= sp; I am no more to you than a green bronze figure. Hardly as much, I dare say."<= o:p>
Hallward stared in amazement. It was so unlike Dorian to speak l=
ike that. What had happened? He seemed almost angry. His face was flushed and his cheeks
burning.
"Yes," he continued, "I am less=
to
you than your ivory Hermes or your silver Faun. You will like them always. How long will you like me? Till I =
have
my first wrinkle, I suppose. I
know, now, that when one loses one's good looks, whatever they may be, one
loses everything. Your picture has taught me that. Lord Henry is perfectly right. You=
th is
the only thing worth having. =
When I
find that I am growing old, I will kill myself."
Hallward turned pale, and caught his hand. "Dorian! Dorian!" he cried, "don'=
t talk
like that. I have never had s=
uch a
friend as you, and I shall never have such another. You are not jealous of material th=
ings,
are you?"
"I am jealous of everything whose beauty =
does
not die. I am jealous of the
portrait you have painted of me.
Why should it keep what I must lose? Every moment that passes takes som=
ething
from me, and gives something to it.
Oh, if it was only the other way!&n=
bsp;
If the picture could change, and I could be always what I am now!
"This is your doing, Harry," said
Hallward, bitterly.
[20] "My doing?"
"Yes, yours, and you know it."
Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. "It is the real Dorian Gray,-=
- that
is all," he answered.
"It is not."
"If it is not, what have I to do with
it?"
"You should have gone away when I asked
you."
"I stayed when you asked me."
"Harry, I can't quarrel with my two best
friends at once, but between you both you have made me hate the finest piec=
e of
work I have ever done, and I will destroy it. What is it but canvas and color? I will not let it come across our =
three
lives and mar them."
Dorian Gray lifted his golden head from the
pillow, and looked at him with pallid face and tear-stained eyes, as he wal=
ked
over to the deal painting-table that was set beneath the large curtained
window. What was he doing
there? His fingers were stray=
ing
about among the litter of tin tubes and dry brushes, seeking for
something. Yes, it was the lo=
ng
palette-knife, with its thin blade of lithe steel. He had found it at last. He was going to rip up the canvas.=
With a stifled sob he leaped from the couch, a=
nd,
rushing over to Hallward, tore the knife out of his hand, and flung it to t=
he
end of the studio. "Don'=
t,
Basil, don't!" he cried.
"It would be murder!"
"I am glad you appreciate my work at last,
Dorian," said Hallward, coldly, when he had recovered from his
surprise. "I never thoug=
ht you
would."
"Appreciate it? I am in love with it, Basil. It is part of myself, I feel that.=
"
"Well, as soon as you are dry, you shall =
be
varnished, and framed, and sent home.
Then you can do what you like with yourself." And he walked across the room and =
rang
the bell for tea. "You w=
ill
have tea, of course, Dorian? =
And so
will you, Harry? Tea is the o=
nly simple
pleasure left to us."
"I don't like simple pleasures," said
Lord Henry. "And I don't=
like scenes,
except on the stage. What abs=
urd
fellows you are, both of you! I
wonder who it was defined man as a rational animal. It was the most premature definiti=
on
ever given. Man is many thing=
s, but
he is not rational. I am glad=
he is
not, after all: though I wish you chaps would not squabble over the
picture. You had much better =
let me
have it, Basil. This silly boy
doesn't really want it, and I do."
"If you let any one have it but me, Basil=
, I
will never forgive you!" cried Dorian Gray. "And I don't allow people to =
call
me a silly boy."
"You know the picture is yours, Dorian. I gave it to you before it existed=
."
"And you know you have been a little sill=
y,
Mr. Gray, and that you don't really mind being called a boy."
"I should have minded very much this morn=
ing,
Lord Henry."
"Ah! this morning! You have lived since then."
There came a knock to the door, and the butler
entered with the tea- tray and set it down upon a small Japanese table. There was a [21] rattle of cups and
saucers and the hissing of a fluted Georgian urn. Two globe-shaped china di=
shes
were brought in by a page. Do=
rian
Gray went over and poured the tea out.&nbs=
p;
The two men sauntered languidly to the table, and examined what was
under the covers.
"Let us go to the theatre to-night,"
said Lord Henry. "There =
is
sure to be something on, somewhere.
I have promised to dine at White's, but it is only with an old frien=
d,
so I can send him a wire and say that I am ill, or that I am prevented from
coming in consequence of a subsequent engagement. I think that would be a rather nice
excuse: it would have the surprise of candor."
"It is such a bore putting on one's
dress-clothes," muttered Hallward.&nb=
sp;
"And, when one has them on, they are so horrid."
"Yes," answered Lord Henry, dreamily,
"the costume of our day is detestable. It is so sombre, so depressing.
"You really must not say things like that
before Dorian, Harry."
"Before which Dorian? The one who is pouring out tea for=
us,
or the one in the picture?"
"Before either."
"I should like to come to the theatre with
you, Lord Henry," said the lad.
"Then you shall come; and you will come t=
oo,
Basil, won't you?"
"I can't, really. I would sooner not. I have a lot of work to do."<= o:p>
"Well, then, you and I will go alone, Mr.
Gray."
"I should like that awfully."
Basil Hallward bit his lip and walked over, cu=
p in
hand, to the picture. "I=
will
stay with the real Dorian," he said, sadly.
"Is it the real Dorian?" cried the
original of the portrait, running across to him. "Am I really like that?"=
"Yes; you are just like that."
"How wonderful, Basil!"
"At least you are like it in appearance.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> But it will never alter," said
Hallward. "That is
something."
"What a fuss people make about
fidelity!" murmured Lord Henry.
"And, after all, it is purely a question =
for
physiology. It has nothing to=
do
with our own will. It is eith=
er an
unfortunate accident, or an unpleasant result of temperament. Young men want to be faithful, and=
are
not; old men want to be faithless, and cannot: that is all one can say.&quo=
t;
"Don't go to the theatre to-night,
Dorian," said Hallward.
"Stop and dine with me."
"I can't, really."
"Why?"
"Because I have promised Lord Henry to go
with him."
"He won't like you better for keeping your
promises. He always breaks his
own. I beg you not to go.&quo=
t;
Dorian Gray laughed and shook his head.
"I entreat you."
The lad hesitated, and looked over at Lord Hen=
ry,
who was watching them from the tea-table with an amused smile.
[22] "I must go, Basil," he answered=
.
"Very well," said Hallward; and he
walked over and laid his cup down on the tray. "It is rather late, and, as y=
ou
have to dress, you had better lose no time. Good-by, Harry; good-by, Dorian. Come and see me soon. Come to-morrow."
"Certainly."
"You won't forget?"
"No, of course not."
"And . . . Harry!"
"Yes, Basil?"
"Remember what I asked you, when in the
garden this morning."
"I have forgotten it."
"I trust you."
"I wish I could trust myself," said =
Lord
Henry, laughing.--"Come, Mr. Gray, my hansom is outside, and I can drop
you at your own place.-- Good-by, Basil.&n=
bsp;
It has been a most interesting afternoon."
As the door closed behind them, Hallward flung
himself down on a sofa, and a look of pain came into his face.
[...22] One afternoon, a month later, Dorian G=
ray
was reclining in a luxurious arm-chair, in the little library of Lord Henry=
's
house in Curzon Street. It wa=
s, in
its way, a very charming room, with its high panelled wainscoting of
olive-stained oak, its cream-colored frieze and ceiling of raised plaster-w=
ork,
and its brick-dust felt carpet strewn with long-fringed silk Persian rugs.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> On a tiny satinwood table stood a
statuette by Clodion, and beside it lay a copy of "Les Cent
Nouvelles," bound for Margaret of Valois by Clovis Eve, and powdered w=
ith
the gilt daisies that the queen had selected for her device. Some large blue china jars, filled=
with
parrot- tulips, were ranged on the mantel-shelf, and through the small lead=
ed panes
of the window streamed the apricot-colored light of a summer's day in Londo=
n.
Lord Henry had not come in yet. He was always late on principle, h=
is principle
being that punctuality is the thief of time. So the lad was looking rather sulk=
y, as
with listless fingers he turned over the pages of an elaborately-illustrated
edition of "Manon Lescaut" that he had found in one of the
bookcases. The formal monoton=
ous
ticking of the Louis Quatorze clock annoyed him. Once or twice he thought of going =
away.
At last he heard a light step outside, and the
door opened. "How late y=
ou
are, Harry!" he murmured.
"I am afraid it is not Harry, Mr. Gray,&q=
uot;
said a woman's voice.
He glanced quickly round, and rose to his
feet. "I beg your pardon=
. I
thought--"
"You thought it was my husband. It is only his wife. You must let me introduce myself.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I know you quite well by your
photographs. I think my husba=
nd has
got twenty-seven of them."
[23] "Not twenty-seven, Lady Henry?"=
"Well, twenty-six, then. And I saw you with him the other n=
ight
at the Opera." She laugh=
ed
nervously, as she spoke, and watched him with her vague forget-me-not
eyes. She was a curious woman,
whose dresses always looked as if they had been designed in a rage and put =
on
in a tempest. She was always =
in
love with somebody, and, as her passion was never returned, she had kept all
her illusions. She tried to l=
ook
picturesque, but only succeeded in being untidy. Her name was Victoria, and she had=
a
perfect mania for going to church.
"That was at 'Lohengrin,' Lady Henry, I
think?"
"Yes; it was at dear 'Lohengrin.' I like Wagner's music better than =
any
other music. It is so loud th=
at one
can talk the whole time, without people hearing what one says. That is a great advantage: don't y=
ou
think so, Mr. Gray?"
The same nervous staccato laugh broke from her
thin lips, and her fingers began to play with a long paper-knife.
Dorian smiled, and shook his head: "I am
afraid I don't think so, Lady Henry.
I never talk during music,--at least during good music. If one hears=
bad
music, it is one's duty to drown it by conversation."
"Ah! that is one of Harry's views, isn't =
it,
Mr. Gray? But you must not th=
ink I
don't like good music. I ador=
e it,
but I am afraid of it. It mak=
es me
too romantic. I have simply
worshipped pianists,-- two at a time, sometimes. I don't know what it is about them=
. Perhaps
it is that they are foreigners.
They all are, aren't they? Even those that are born in England become
foreigners after a time, don't they?
It is so clever of them, and such a compliment to art. Makes it quite
cosmopolitan, doesn't it? You=
have
never been to any of my parties, have you, Mr. Gray? You must come. I can't afford orchids, but I spar=
e no
expense in foreigners. They m=
ake
one's rooms look so picturesque.
But here is Harry!--Harry, I came in to look for you, to ask you
something,--I forget what it was,--and I found Mr. Gray here. We have had such a pleasant chat a=
bout
music. We have quite the same
views. No; I think our views =
are
quite different. But he has b=
een
most pleasant. I am so glad I=
've
seen him."
"I am charmed, my love, quite charmed,&qu=
ot;
said Lord Henry, elevating his dark crescent-shaped eyebrows and looking at
them both with an amused smile.--"So sorry I am late, Dorian. I went to look after a piece of old
brocade in Wardour Street, and had to bargain for hours for it. Nowadays people know the price of
everything, and the value of nothing."
"I am afraid I must be going," excla=
imed
Lady Henry, after an awkward silence, with her silly sudden laugh. "I have promised to drive wit=
h the
duchess.--Good-by, Mr. Gray.--Good-by, Harry. You are dining out, I suppose? So am I. Perhaps I shall see you at Lady Th=
ornbury's."
"I dare say, my dear," said Lord Hen=
ry,
shutting the door behind her, as she flitted out of the room, looking like a
bird-of-paradise that had been out in the rain, and leaving a faint odor of
patchouli behind her. Then he=
shook
hands with Dorian Gray, lit a cigarette, and flung himself down on the sofa=
.
[24] "Never marry a woman with straw-colo=
red
hair, Dorian," he said, after a few puffs.
"Why, Harry?"
"Because they are so sentimental."
"But I like sentimental people."
"Never marry at all, Dorian. Men marry because they are tired; =
women,
because they are curious: both are disappointed."
"I don't think I am likely to marry,
Harry. I am too much in love.=
That
is one of your aphorisms. I am
putting it into practice, as I do everything you say."
"Whom are you in love with?" said Lo=
rd
Henry, looking at him with a curious smile.
"With an actress," said Dorian Gray,
blushing.
Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. "That is a rather common-plac=
e début,"
he murmured.
"You would not say so if you saw her,
Harry."
"Who is she?"
"Her name is Sibyl Vane."
"Never heard of her."
"No one has. People will some day, however. She is a genius."
"My dear boy, no woman is a genius: women=
are
a decorative sex. They never =
have
anything to say, but they say it charmingly. They represent the triumph of matt=
er
over mind, just as we men represent the triumph of mind over morals. There are only two kinds of women,=
the
plain and the colored. The pl=
ain
women are very useful. If you=
want
to gain a reputation for respectability, you have merely to take them down =
to
supper. The other women are v=
ery
charming. They commit one mis=
take,
however. They paint in order =
to try
to look young. Our grandmothe=
rs
painted in order to try to talk brilliantly. Rouge and esprit used to go
together. That has all gone o=
ut
now. As long as a woman can l=
ook
ten years younger than her own daughter, she is perfectly satisfied. As for conversation, there are onl=
y five
women in London worth talking to, and two of these can't be admitted into d=
ecent
society. However, tell me abo=
ut
your genius. How long have you
known her?"
"About three weeks. Not so much. About two weeks and two days."=
;
"How did you come across her?"
"I will tell you, Harry; but you mustn't =
be
unsympathetic about it. After all, it never would have happened if I had not
met you. You filled me with a=
wild
desire to know everything about life.
For days after I met you, something seemed to throb in my veins. As I lounged in the Park, or strol=
led
down Piccadilly, I used to look at every one who passed me, and wonder with=
a
mad curiosity what sort of lives they led.=
Some of them fascinated me.
Others filled me with terror. There was an exquisite poison in the
air. I had a passion for sens=
ations.
"One evening about seven o'clock I determ=
ined
to go out in search of some adventure.&nbs=
p;
I felt that this gray, monstrous London of ours, with its myriads of
people, its splendid sinners, and its sordid sins, as [25] you once said, m=
ust
have something in store for me. I fancied
a thousand things.
"The mere danger gave me a sense of
delight. I remembered what yo=
u had
said to me on that wonderful night when we first dined together, about the
search for beauty being the poisonous secret of life. I don't know what I expected, but =
I went
out, and wandered eastward, soon losing my way in a labyrinth of grimy stre=
ets
and black, grassless squares. About
half-past eight I passed by a little third- rate theatre, with great flaring
gas-jets and gaudy play-bills. A hideous
Jew, in the most amazing waistcoat I ever beheld in my life, was standing at
the entrance, smoking a vile cigar.
He had greasy ringlets, and an enormous diamond blazed in the centre=
of
a soiled shirt. ''Ave a box, =
my
lord?' he said, when he saw me, and he took off his hat with an act of gorg=
eous
servility. There was somethin=
g about
him, Harry, that amused me. H=
e was
such a monster. You will laug=
h at
me, I know, but I really went in and paid a whole guinea for the
stage-box. To the present day=
I
can't make out why I did so; and yet if I hadn't!--my dear Harry, if I hadn=
't,
I would have missed the greatest romance of my life. I see you are laughing. It is horrid of you!"
"I am not laughing, Dorian; at least I am=
not
laughing at you. But you shou=
ld not
say the greatest romance of your life.&nbs=
p;
You should say the first romance of your life. You will always be loved, and you =
will
always be in love with love. =
There
are exquisite things in store for you.&nbs=
p;
This is merely the beginning."
"Do you think my nature so shallow?"
cried Dorian Gray, angrily.
"No; I think your nature so deep."
"How do you mean?"
"My dear boy, people who only love once in
their lives are really shallow people.&nbs=
p;
What they call their loyalty, and their fidelity, I call either the
lethargy of custom or the lack of imagination. Faithlessness is to the
emotional life what consistency is to the intellectual life,--simply a
confession of failure. But I =
don't
want to interrupt you. Go on =
with
your story."
"Well, I found myself seated in a horrid
little private box, with a vulgar drop-scene staring me in the face. I looked out behind the curtain, a=
nd surveyed
the house. It was a tawdry af=
fair,
all Cupids and cornucopias, like a third-rate wedding-cake. The gallery and pit were fairly fu=
ll,
but the two rows of dingy stalls were quite empty, and there was hardly a
person in what I suppose they called the dress-circle. Women went about with oranges and
ginger-beer, and there was a terrible consumption of nuts going on."
"It must have been just like the palmy da=
ys
of the British Drama."
"Just like, I should fancy, and very
horrid. I began to wonder wha=
t on
earth I should do, when I caught sight of the play-bill. What do you think the play was,
Harry?"
"I should think 'The Idiot Boy, or Dumb b=
ut
Innocent.' Our fathers used t=
o like
that sort of piece, I believe. The
longer I live, Dorian, the more keenly I feel that whatever was good enough=
for
our fathers is not good enough for us.&nbs=
p;
In art, as in politics, les grand pères ont toujours tort.&qu=
ot;
[26] "This play was good enough for us,
Harry. It was 'Romeo and Juli=
et.' I must admit I was rather annoyed =
at the
idea of seeing Shakespeare done in such a wretched hole of a place. Still, I felt interested, in a sor=
t of
way. At any rate, I determine=
d to
wait for the first act. There=
was a
dreadful orchestra, presided over by a young Jew who sat at a cracked piano,
that nearly drove me away, but at last the drop-scene was drawn up, and the
play began. Romeo was a stout
elderly gentleman, with corked eyebrows, a husky tragedy voice, and a figure
like a beer-barrel. Mercutio =
was
almost as bad. He was played =
by the
low-comedian, who had introduced gags of his own and was on most familiar t=
erms
with the pit. They were as
grotesque as the scenery, and that looked as if it had come out of a pantom=
ime
of fifty years ago. But
Juliet! Harry, imagine a girl,
hardly seventeen years of age, with a little flower-like face, a small Gree=
k head
with plaited coils of dark-brown hair, eyes that were violet wells of passi=
on,
lips that were like the petals of a rose.&=
nbsp;
She was the loveliest thing I had ever seen in my life. You said to me once that pathos le=
ft you
unmoved, but that beauty, mere beauty, could fill your eyes with tears. I tell you, Harry, I could hardly =
see this
girl for the mist of tears that came across me. And her voice,- -I never heard suc=
h a
voice. It was very low at fir=
st,
with deep mellow notes, that seemed to fall singly upon one's ear. Then it became a little louder, and
sounded like a flute or a distant hautbois. In the garden-scene it had all the
tremulous ecstasy that one hears just before dawn when nightingales are
singing. There were moments, =
later
on, when it had the wild passion of violins. You know how a voice can stir one.=
Your voice and the voice of Sibyl =
Vane
are two things that I shall never forget.&=
nbsp;
When I close my eyes, I hear them, and each of them says something
different. I don't know which=
to
follow. Why should I not love
her? Harry, I do love her. Night after night I go to see her =
play. One
evening she is Rosalind, and the next evening she is Imogen. I have seen her die in the gloom o=
f an
Italian tomb, sucking the poison from her lover's lips. I have watched her wandering throu=
gh the
forest of Arden, disguised as a pretty boy in hose and doublet and dainty
cap. She has been mad, and ha=
s come
into the presence of a guilty king, and given him rue to wear, and bitter h=
erbs
to taste of. She has been innocent, and the black hands of jealousy have
crushed her reed-like throat. I
have seen her in every age and in every costume. Ordinary women never appeal to one=
's
imagination. They are limited=
to
their century. No glamour ever
transfigures them. One knows =
their
minds as easily as one knows their bonnets. One can always find them. There is no mystery in one of them=
. They ride in the Park in the morni=
ng,
and chatter at tea-parties in the afternoon. They have their stereotyped sm=
ile,
and their fashionable manner. They are quite obvious. But an actress! How different an actress is! Why didn't you tell me that the on=
ly
thing worth loving is an actress?"
"Because I have loved so many of them,
Dorian."
"Oh, yes, horrid people with dyed hair and
painted faces."
"Don't run down dyed hair and painted
faces. There is an extraordin=
ary
charm in them, sometimes."
[27] "I wish now I had not told you about
Sibyl Vane."
"You could not have helped telling me,
Dorian. All through your life=
you
will tell me everything you do."
"Yes, Harry, I believe that is true. I cannot help telling you things.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> You have a curious influence over
me. If I ever did a crime, I =
would
come and confide it to you. Y=
ou
would understand me."
"People like you--the wilful sunbeams of
life--don't commit crimes, Dorian.
But I am much obliged for the compliment, all the same. And now tell me,--reach me the mat=
ches,
like a good boy: thanks,--tell me, what are your relations with Sibyl
Vane?"
Dorian Gray leaped to his feet, with flushed
cheeks and burning eyes. "Harry, Sibyl Vane is sacred!"
"It is only the sacred things that are wo=
rth
touching, Dorian," said Lord Henry, with a strange touch of pathos in =
his
voice. "But why should y=
ou be
annoyed? I suppose she will be
yours some day. When one is in
love, one always begins by deceiving one's self, and one always ends by
deceiving others. That is wha=
t the
world calls romance. You know=
her,
at any rate, I suppose?"
"Of course I know her. On the first night I was at the th=
eatre,
the horrid old Jew came round to the box after the performance was over, and
offered to bring me behind the scenes and introduce me to her. I was furious with him, and told h=
im
that Juliet had been dead for hundreds of years, and that her body was lyin=
g in
a marble tomb in Verona. I th=
ink,
from his blank look of amazement, that he thought I had taken too much
champagne, or something."
"I am not surprised."
"I was not surprised either. Then he asked me if I wrote for an=
y of the
newspapers. I told him I neve=
r even
read them. He seemed terribly
disappointed at that, and confided to me that all the dramatic critics were=
in
a conspiracy against him, and that they were all to be bought."
"I believe he was quite right there. But, on the other hand, most of th=
em are
not at all expensive."
"Well, he seemed to think they were beyond
his means. By this time the l=
ights
were being put out in the theatre, and I had to go. He wanted me to try some cigars wh=
ich he
strongly recommended. I decli=
ned. The next night, of course, I arriv=
ed at
the theatre again. When he saw me he made me a low bow, and assured me that=
I
was a patron of art. He was a=
most
offensive brute, though he had an extraordinary passion for Shakespeare.
"It was a distinction, my dear Dorian,--a
great distinction. But when d=
id you
first speak to Miss Sibyl Vane?"
"The third night. She had been playing Rosalind. I could not help going round. I had thrown her some flowers, and=
she
had looked at me; at least I fancied that she had. The old Jew was persistent. He seemed determined to bring me b=
ehind,
so I consented. It was curiou=
s my
not wanting to know her, wasn't it?"
[28] "No; I don't think so."
"My dear Harry, why?"
"I will tell you some other time. Now I want to know about the girl.=
"
"Sibyl?&=
nbsp;
Oh, she was so shy, and so gentle.&=
nbsp;
There is something of a child about her. Her eyes opened wide in exquisite =
wonder
when I told her what I thought of her performance, and she seemed quite unc=
onscious
of her power. I think we were=
both
rather nervous. The old Jew s=
tood
grinning at the door-way of the dusty greenroom, making elaborate speeches
about us both, while we stood looking at each other like children. He would insist on calling me 'My =
Lord,'
so I had to assure Sibyl that I was not anything of the kind. She said quite simply to me, 'You =
look
more like a prince.'"
"Upon my word, Dorian, Miss Sibyl knows h=
ow
to pay compliments."
"You don't understand her, Harry. She regarded me merely as a person=
in a
play. She knows nothing of
life. She lives with her moth=
er, a faded
tired woman who played Lady Capulet in a sort of magenta dressing-wrapper on
the first night, and who looks as if she had seen better days."
"I know that look. It always depresses me."
"The Jew wanted to tell me her history, b=
ut I
said it did not interest me."
"You were quite right. There is always something infinite=
ly
mean about other people's tragedies."
"Sibyl is the only thing I care about.
"That is the reason, I suppose, that you =
will
never dine with me now. I thought you must have some curious romance on
hand. You have; but it is not=
quite
what I expected."
"My dear Harry, we either lunch or sup
together every day, and I have been to the Opera with you several times.&qu=
ot;
"You always come dreadfully late."
"Well, I can't help going to see Sibyl pl=
ay,
even if it is only for an act. I
get hungry for her presence; and when I think of the wonderful soul that is
hidden away in that little ivory body, I am filled with awe."
"You can dine with me to-night, Dorian, c=
an't
you?"
He shook his head. "To-night she is Imogen,"=
; he
answered, "and tomorrow night she will be Juliet."
"When is she Sibyl Vane?"
"Never."
"I congratulate you."
"How horrid you are! She is all the great heroines of t=
he
world in one. She is more tha=
n an
individual. You laugh, but I =
tell
you she has genius. I love he=
r, and
I must make her love me. You,=
who
know all the secrets of life, tell me how to charm Sibyl Vane to love me! I
want to make Romeo jealous. I=
want
the dead lovers of the [29] world to hear our laughter, and grow sad. I want a breath of our passion to =
stir
their dust into consciousness, to wake their ashes into pain. My God, Harry, how I worship
her!" He was walking up =
and down
the room as he spoke. Hectic =
spots
of red burned on his cheeks. He was terribly excited.
Lord Henry watched him with a subtle sense of
pleasure. How different he wa=
s now
from the shy, frightened boy he had met in Basil Hallward's studio! His nature had developed like a fl=
ower,
had borne blossoms of scarlet flame.
Out of its secret hiding-place had crept his Soul, and Desire had co=
me
to meet it on the way.
"And what do you propose to do?" said
Lord Henry, at last.
"I want you and Basil to come with me some
night and see her act. I have=
not
the slightest fear of the result.
You won't be able to refuse to recognize her genius. Then we must get her out of the Je=
w's
hands. She is bound to him for
three years--at least for two years and eight months--from the present
time. I will have to pay him
something, of course. When al=
l that
is settled, I will take a West-End theatre and bring her out properly. She will make the world as mad as =
she
has made me."
"Impossible, my dear boy!"
"Yes, she will. She has not merely art, consummate
art-instinct, in her, but she has personality also; and you have often told=
me
that it is personalities, not principles, that move the age."
"Well, what night shall we go?"
"Let me see. To-day is Tuesday. Let us fix to-morrow. She plays Juliet to-morrow."<= o:p>
"All right. The Bristol at eight o'clock; and =
I will
get Basil."
"Not eight, Harry, please. Half-past six. We must be there before the curtain
rises. You must see her in the
first act, where she meets Romeo."
"Half-past six! What an hour! It will be like having a meat-tea.=
However,
just as you wish. Shall you s=
ee
Basil between this and then? =
Or
shall I write to him?"
"Dear Basil! I have not laid eyes on him for a
week. It is rather horrid of =
me, as
he has sent me my portrait in the most wonderful frame, designed by himself=
, and,
though I am a little jealous of it for being a whole month younger than I a=
m, I
must admit that I delight in it.
Perhaps you had better write to him. I don't want to see him alone. He says things that annoy me."=
;
Lord Henry smiled. "He gives you good advice, I
suppose. People are very fond=
of
giving away what they need most themselves."
"You don't mean to say that Basil has got=
any
passion or any romance in him?"
"I don't know whether he has any passion,=
but
he certainly has romance," said Lord Henry, with an amused look in his
eyes. "Has he never let =
you
know that?"
"Never.&=
nbsp;
I must ask him about it. I
am rather surprised to hear it. He is the best of fellows, but he seems to =
me
to be just a bit of a Philistine.
Since I have known you, Harry, I have discovered that."
"Basil, my dear boy, puts everything that=
is
charming in him into [30] his work.
The consequence is that he has nothing left for life but his prejudi=
ces,
his principles, and his common sense.
The only artists I have ever known who are personally delightful are=
bad
artists. Good artists give
everything to their art, and consequently are perfectly uninteresting in
themselves. A great poet, a r=
eally great
poet, is the most unpoetical of all creatures. But inferior poets are absolutely
fascinating. The worse their =
rhymes
are, the more picturesque they look.
The mere fact of having published a book of second-rate sonnets make=
s a
man quite irresistible. He li=
ves
the poetry that he cannot write.
The others write the poetry that they dare not realize."
"I wonder is that really so, Harry?"
said Dorian Gray, putting some perfume on his handkerchief out of a large
gold-topped bottle that stood on the table. "It must be, if you say so. And now I must be off. Imogen is waiting for me. Don't forget about to-morrow. Good- by."
As he left the room, Lord Henry's heavy eyelids
drooped, and he began to think.
Certainly few people had ever interested him so much as Dorian Gray,=
and
yet the lad's mad adoration of some one else caused him not the slightest p=
ang
of annoyance or jealousy. He =
was
pleased by it. It made him a =
more
interesting study. He had been
always enthralled by the methods of science, but the ordinary subject-matte=
r of
science had seemed to him trivial and of no import. And so he had begun by vivisecting
himself, as he had ended by vivisecting others. Human life,--that appeared =
to
him the one thing worth investigating. There was nothing else of any value,
compared to it. It was true t=
hat as
one watched life in its curious crucible of pain and pleasure, one could not
wear over one's face a mask of glass, or keep the sulphurous fumes from
troubling the brain and making the imagination turbid with monstrous fancies
and misshapen dreams. There were poisons so subtle that to know their
properties one had to sicken of them.
There were maladies so strange that one had to pass through them if =
one
sought to understand their nature.
And, yet, what a great reward one received! How wonderful the whole world beca=
me to
one! To note the curious hard=
logic
of passion, and the emotional colored life of the intellect,--to observe wh=
ere
they met, and where they separated, at what point they became one, and at w=
hat point
they were at discord,--there was a delight in that! What matter what the cost was? One could never pay too high a pri=
ce for
any sensation.
He was conscious--and the thought brought a gl=
eam
of pleasure into his brown agate eyes--that it was through certain words of
his, musical words said with musical utterance, that Dorian Gray's soul had
turned to this white girl and bowed in worship before her. To a large extent, the lad was his=
own
creation. He had made him pre=
mature. That was something. Ordinary people waited till life d=
isclosed
to them its secrets, but to the few, to the elect, the mysteries of life we=
re
revealed before the veil was drawn away. Sometimes this was the effect of a=
rt,
and chiefly of the art of literature, which dealt immediately with the pass=
ions
and the intellect. But now an=
d then
a complex personality took the place and assumed the office of art, was ind=
eed,
in its [31] way, a real work of art, Life having its elaborate masterpieces,
just as poetry has, or sculpture, or painting.
Yes, the lad was premature. He was gathering his harvest while=
it was
yet spring. The pulse and pas=
sion
of youth were in him, but he was becoming self-conscious. It was delightful to watch him.
Soul and body, body and soul--how mysterious t=
hey
were! There was animalism in =
the
soul, and the body had its moments of spirituality. The senses could refine,
and the intellect could degrade.
Who could say where the fleshly impulse ceased, or the psychical imp=
ulse
began? How shallow were the arbitrary definitions of ordinary psychologists=
! And
yet how difficult to decide between the claims of the various schools! Was the soul a shadow seated in the
house of sin? Or was the body
really in the soul, as Giordano Bruno thought? The separation of spirit from matt=
er was
a mystery, and the union of spirit with matter was a mystery also.
He began to wonder whether we should ever make
psychology so absolute a science that each little spring of life would be
revealed to us. As it was, we always misunderstood ourselves, and rarely
understood others. Experience=
was
of no ethical value. It was m=
erely
the name we gave to our mistakes.
Men had, as a rule, regarded it as a mode of warning, had claimed fo=
r it
a certain moral efficacy in the formation of character, had praised it as
something that taught us what to follow and showed us what to avoid. But there was no motive power in
experience. It was as little =
of an
active cause as conscience itself.
All that it really demonstrated was that our future would be the sam=
e as
our past, and that the sin we had done once, and with loathing, we would do
many times, and with joy.
It was clear to him that the experimental meth=
od
was the only method by which one could arrive at any scientific analysis of=
the
passions; and certainly Dorian Gray was a subject made to his hand, and see=
med to
promise rich and fruitful results.
His sudden mad love for Sibyl Vane was a psychological phenomenon of=
no
small interest. There was no =
doubt
that curiosity had much to do with it, curiosity and the desire for new
experiences; yet it was not a simple but rather a very complex passion. What there was in it of the purely
sensuous instinct of boyhood had been transformed by the workings of the im=
agination,
changed into something that seemed to the boy himself to be remote from sen=
se,
and was for that very reason all the more dangerous. It was the passions about whose or=
igin
we deceived ourselves that tyrannized most strongly over us. Our weakest motives were those of =
whose
nature we were conscious. It =
often
happened that when we thought we were experimenting on others we were reall=
y experimenting
on ourselves.
While Lord Henry sat dreaming on these things,= a knock came to the door, and his valet entered, and reminded him it was time= to dress [32] for dinner. He got= up and looked out into the street. The sunset had smitten into scarlet gold the upper windows of the houses opposi= te. The panes glowed like plates of he= ated metal. The sky above was like= a faded rose. He thought of Dor= ian Gray's young fiery-colored life, and wondered how it was all going to end.<= o:p>
When he arrived home, about half-past twelve
o'clock, he saw a telegram lying on the hall-table. He opened it and found it was from=
Dorian. It was to tell him that he was eng=
aged
to be married to Sibyl Vane.
[...32] "I suppose you have heard the new=
s,
Basil?" said Lord Henry on the following evening, as Hallward was shown
into a little private room at the Bristol where dinner had been laid for th=
ree.
"No, Harry," answered Hallward, givi=
ng
his hat and coat to the bowing waiter.&nbs=
p;
"What is it? Noth=
ing
about politics, I hope? They =
don't interest
me. There is hardly a single =
person
in the House of Commons worth painting; though many of them would be the be=
tter
for a little whitewashing."
"Dorian Gray is engaged to be married,&qu=
ot;
said Lord Henry, watching him as he spoke.
Hallward turned perfectly pale, and a curious =
look
flashed for a moment into his eyes, and then passed away, leaving them dull=
. "Dorian
engaged to be married!" he cried.&nbs=
p;
"Impossible!"
"It is perfectly true."
"To whom?"
"To some little actress or other."
"I can't believe it. Dorian is far too sensible."<= o:p>
"Dorian is far too wise not to do foolish
things now and then, my dear Basil."
"Marriage is hardly a thing that one can =
do
now and then, Harry," said Hallward, smiling.
"Except in America. But I didn't say he was married. I said he was engaged to be
married. There is a great
difference. I have a distinct
remembrance of being married, but I have no recollection at all of being
engaged. I am inclined to thi=
nk
that I never was engaged."
"But think of Dorian's birth, and positio=
n,
and wealth. It would be absur=
d for
him to marry so much beneath him."
"If you want him to marry this girl, tell=
him
that, Basil. He is sure to do=
it
then. Whenever a man does a
thoroughly stupid thing, it is always from the noblest motives."
"I hope the girl is good, Harry. I don't want to see Dorian tied to=
some
vile creature, who might degrade his nature and ruin his intellect."
"Oh, she is more than good--she is
beautiful," murmured Lord Henry, sipping a glass of vermouth and
orange-bitters. "Dorian =
says
she is beautiful; and he is not often wrong about things of that kind. [33] Your portrait of him has quic=
kened his
appreciation of the personal appearance of other people. It has had that excellent effect, =
among others. We are to see her to-night, if tha=
t boy
doesn't forget his appointment."
"But do you approve of it, Harry?" a=
sked
Hallward, walking up and down the room, and biting his lip. "You can't approve of it, rea=
lly. It
is some silly infatuation."
"I never approve, or disapprove, of anyth=
ing
now. It is an absurd attitude=
to
take towards life. We are not=
sent
into the world to air our moral prejudices. I never take any notice of what com=
mon
people say, and I never interfere with what charming people do. If a personality fascinates me, wh=
atever
the personality chooses to do is absolutely delightful to me. Dorian Gray falls in love with a b=
eautiful
girl who acts Shakespeare, and proposes to marry her. Why not? If he wedded Messalina he would be=
none
the less interesting. You know I am not a champion of marriage. The real drawback to marriage is t=
hat it
makes one unselfish. And unse=
lfish
people are colorless. They la=
ck
individuality. Still, there a=
re
certain temperaments that marriage makes more complex. They retain their egotism, and add=
to it
many other egos. They are for=
ced to
have more than one life. They
become more highly organized.
Besides, every experience is of value, and, whatever one may say aga=
inst
marriage, it is certainly an experience.&n=
bsp;
I hope that Dorian Gray will make this girl his wife, passionately a=
dore
her for six months, and then suddenly become fascinated by some one else. He would be a wonderful study.&quo=
t;
"You don't mean all that, Harry; you know=
you
don't. If Dorian Gray's life =
were
spoiled, no one would be sorrier than yourself. You are much better than you prete=
nd to
be."
Lord Henry laughed. "The reason we all like to th=
ink so
well of others is that we are all afraid for ourselves. The basis of optimism is sheer
terror. We think that we are
generous because we credit our neighbor with those virtues that are likely =
to
benefit ourselves. We praise =
the
banker that we may overdraw our account, and find good qualities in the
highwayman in the hope that he may spare our pockets. I mean everything that I have said=
. I have the greatest contempt for
optimism. And as for a spoiled
life, no life is spoiled but one whose growth is arrested. If you want to mar a nature, you h=
ave
merely to reform it. But here=
is
Dorian himself. He will tell you more than I can."
"My dear Harry, my dear Basil, you must b=
oth
congratulate me!" said the boy, throwing off his evening cape with its
satin-lined wings, and shaking each of his friends by the hand in turn. "I have never been so happy.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Of course it is sudden: all really
delightful things are. And ye=
t it
seems to me to be the one thing I have been looking for all my life."<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He was flushed with excitement and
pleasure, and looked extraordinarily handsome.
"I hope you will always be very happy,
Dorian," said Hallward, "but I don't quite forgive you for not ha=
ving
let me know of your engagement. You
let Harry know."
"And I don't forgive you for being late f=
or
dinner," broke in Lord [34] Henry, putting his hand on the lad's shoul=
der,
and smiling as he spoke.
"Come, let us sit down and try what the new chef here is like, =
and
then you will tell us how it all came about."
"There is really not much to tell,"
cried Dorian, as they took their seats at the small round table. "What happened was simply thi=
s. After
I left you yesterday evening, Harry, I had some dinner at that curious litt=
le
Italian restaurant in Rupert Street, you introduced me to, and went down
afterwards to the theatre. Si=
byl
was playing Rosalind. Of cour=
se the
scenery was dreadful, and the Orlando absurd. But Sibyl! You should have seen her! When she came on in her boy's dres=
s she
was perfectly wonderful. She =
wore a
moss-colored velvet jerkin with cinnamon sleeves, slim brown cross-gartered
hose, a dainty little green cap with a hawk's feather caught in a jewel, an=
d a
hooded cloak lined with dull red.
She had never seemed to me more exquisite. She had all the delicate grace of =
that
Tanagra figurine that you have in your studio, Basil. Her hair clustered round her face =
like
dark leaves round a pale rose. As
for her acting--well, you will see her to-night. She is simply a born artist. I sat in the dingy box absolutely =
enthralled. I forgot that I was in London and =
in the
nineteenth century. I was awa=
y with
my love in a forest that no man had ever seen. After the performance was over I w=
ent
behind, and spoke to her. As =
we
were sitting together, suddenly there came a look into her eyes that I had
never seen there before. My l=
ips
moved towards hers. We kissed=
each other. I can't describe to you what I fel=
t at
that moment. It seemed to me =
that
all my life had been narrowed to one perfect point of rose-colored joy. She trembled all over, and shook l=
ike a
white narcissus. Then she flu=
ng
herself on her knees and kissed my hands. I feel that I should not tell you=
all
this, but I can't help it. Of=
course
our engagement is a dead secret.
She has not even told her own mother. I don't know what my guardians will
say. Lord Radley is sure to be
furious. I don't care. I shall be of age in less than a y=
ear,
and then I can do what I like. I
have been right, Basil, haven't I, to take my love out of poetry, and to fi=
nd
my wife in Shakespeare's plays?
Lips that Shakespeare taught to speak have whispered their secret in=
my
ear. I have had the arms of
Rosalind around me, and kissed Juliet on the mouth."
"Yes, Dorian, I suppose you were right,&q=
uot;
said Hallward, slowly.
"Have you seen her to-day?" asked Lo=
rd
Henry.
Dorian Gray shook his head. "I left her in the forest of =
Arden,
I shall find her in an orchard in Verona."
Lord Henry sipped his champagne in a meditative
manner. "At what particu=
lar
point did you mention the word marriage, Dorian? and what did she say in
answer? Perhaps you forgot all
about it."
"My dear Harry, I did not treat it as a
business transaction, and I did not make any formal proposal. I told her that I loved her, and s=
he
said she was not worthy to be my wife.&nbs=
p;
Not worthy! Why, the w=
hole
world is nothing to me compared to her."
"Women are wonderfully practical,"
murmured Lord Henry,--"much more practical than we are. In situations of that kind we often
forget to say anything about marriage, and they always remind us."
[35] Hallward laid his hand upon his arm. "Don't, Harry. You have annoyed Dorian. He is not like other men. He would never bring misery upon a=
ny
one. His nature is too fine f=
or
that."
Lord Henry looked across the table. "Dorian is never annoyed with=
me,"
he answered. "I asked the
question for the best reason possible, for the only reason, indeed, that
excuses one for asking any question,--simple curiosity. I have a theory that it is always =
the
women who propose to us, and not we who propose to the women, except, of
course, in middle-class life. But
then the middle classes are not modern."
Dorian Gray laughed, and tossed his head. "You are quite incorrigible, =
Harry;
but I don't mind. It is impos=
sible
to be angry with you. When yo=
u see
Sibyl Vane you will feel that the man who could wrong her would be a beast
without a heart. I cannot und=
erstand
how any one can wish to shame what he loves. I love Sibyl Vane. I wish to place her on a pedestal =
of
gold, and to see the world worship the woman who is mine. What is marriage? An irrevocable vow. And it is an irrevocable vow that =
I want
to take. Her trust makes me faithful, her belief makes me good. When I am with her, I regret all t=
hat
you have taught me. I become
different from what you have known me to be. I am changed, and the mere touch of
Sibyl Vane's hand makes me forget you and all your wrong, fascinating,
poisonous, delightful theories."
"You will always like me, Dorian," s=
aid
Lord Henry. "Will you ha=
ve some
coffee, you fellows?--Waiter, bring coffee, and fine-champagne, and some
cigarettes. No: don't mind the
cigarettes; I have some.-- Basil, I can't allow you to smoke cigars. You must have a cigarette. A cigar=
ette
is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure.=
It is exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied. What more can you want?-- Yes, Dor=
ian,
you will always be fond of me. I
represent to you all the sins you have never had the courage to commit.&quo=
t;
"What nonsense you talk, Harry!" cri=
ed
Dorian Gray, lighting his cigarette from a fire-breathing silver dragon that
the waiter had placed on the table.
"Let us go down to the theatre. When you see Sibyl you will have a=
new
ideal of life. She will repre=
sent something
to you that you have never known."
"I have known everything," said Lord
Henry, with a sad look in his eyes, "but I am always ready for a new
emotion. I am afraid that the=
re is
no such thing, for me at any rate.
Still, your wonderful girl may thrill me. I love acting. It is so much more real than life.=
Let us go. Dorian, you will come with me.--I =
am so
sorry, Basil, but there is only room for two in the brougham. You must follow us in a hansom.&qu=
ot;
They got up and put on their coats, sipping th=
eir
coffee standing. Hallward was silent and preoccupied. There was a gloom over him. He could not bear this marriage, a=
nd yet
it seemed to him to be better than many other things that might have
happened. After a few moments=
, they
all passed down-stairs. He dr=
ove
off by himself, as had been arranged, and watched the flashing lights of the
little brougham in front of him. A
strange sense of loss came over him. [36] He felt that Dorian Gray would ne=
ver
again be to him all that he had been in the past. His eyes darkened, and the crowded
flaring streets became blurred to him.&nbs=
p;
When the cab drew up at the doors of the theatre, it seemed to him t=
hat
he had grown years older.
[...36] For some reason or other, the house was
crowded that night, and the fat Jew manager who met them at the door was
beaming from ear to ear with an oily, tremulous smile. He escorted them to their box with=
a
sort of pompous humility, waving his fat jewelled hands, and talking at the=
top
of his voice. Dorian Gray loa=
thed
him more than ever. He felt a=
s if
he had come to look for Miranda and had been met by Caliban. Lord Henry, upon the other hand, r=
ather
liked him. At least he declar=
ed he
did, and insisted on shaking him by the hand, and assured him that he was p=
roud
to meet a man who had discovered a real genius and gone bankrupt over
Shakespeare. Hallward amused =
himself
with watching the faces in the pit.
The heat was terribly oppressive, and the huge sunlight flamed like a
monstrous dahlia with petals of fire.
The youths in the gallery had taken off their coats and waistcoats a=
nd
hung them over the side. They
talked to each other across the theatre, and shared their oranges with the
tawdry painted girls who sat by them.
Some women were laughing in the pit; their voices were horribly shri=
ll
and discordant. The sound of =
the popping
of corks came from the bar.
"What a place to find one's divinity
in!" said Lord Henry.
"Yes!" answered Dorian Gray. "It was here I found her, and=
she
is divine beyond all living things.
When she acts you will forget everything. These common people here, with the=
ir
coarse faces and brutal gestures, become quite different when she is on the
stage. They sit silently and watch her.&nb=
sp;
They weep and laugh as she wills them to do. She makes them as responsive as a
violin. She spiritualizes the=
m, and
one feels that they are of the same flesh and blood as one's self."
"Oh, I hope not!" murmured Lord Henr=
y,
who was scanning the occupants of the gallery through his opera-glass.
"Don't pay any attention to him,
Dorian," said Hallward.
"I understand what you mean, and I believe in this girl. Any one you love must be marvellou=
s, and
any girl that has the effect you describe must be fine and noble. To spiritualize one's age,--that i=
s something
worth doing. If this girl can=
give
a soul to those who have lived without one, if she can create the sense of
beauty in people whose lives have been sordid and ugly, if she can strip th=
em of
their selfishness and lend them tears for sorrows that are not their own, s=
he
is worthy of all your adoration, worthy of the adoration of the world. This marriage is quite right. I did not think so at first, but I=
admit
it now. God made Sibyl Vane f=
or
you. Without her you would have been incomplete."
"Thanks, Basil," answered Dorian Gra=
y,
pressing his hand. "I [3=
7] knew
that you would understand me. Harry
is so cynical, he terrifies me. But
here is the orchestra. It is =
quite
dreadful, but it only lasts for about five minutes. Then the curtain rises, and you wi=
ll see
the girl to whom I am going to give all my life, to whom I have given
everything that is good in me."
A quarter of an hour afterwards, amidst an
extraordinary turmoil of applause, Sibyl Vane stepped on to the stage. Yes, she was certainly lovely to l=
ook
at,--one of the loveliest creatures, Lord Henry thought, that he had ever
seen. There was something of =
the
fawn in her shy grace and startled eyes.&n=
bsp;
A faint blush, like the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, came=
to
her cheeks as she glanced at the crowded, enthusiastic house. She stepped back a few paces, and =
her lips
seemed to tremble. Basil Hall=
ward
leaped to his feet and began to applaud.&n=
bsp;
Dorian Gray sat motionless, gazing on her, like a man in a dream.
The scene was the hall of Capulet's house, and
Romeo in his pilgrim's dress had entered with Mercutio and his friends. The band, such as it was, struck u=
p a
few bars of music, and the dance began.&nb=
sp;
Through the crowd of ungainly, shabbily-dressed actors, Sibyl Vane m=
oved
like a creature from a finer world.
Her body swayed, as she danced, as a plant sways in the water. The curves of her throat were like=
the curves
of a white lily. Her hands se=
emed
to be made of cool ivory.
Yet she was curiously listless. She showed no sign of joy when her=
eyes
rested on Romeo. The few line=
s she
had to speak,--
Good pilgrim, yo=
u do
wrong your hand too much, =
Which
mannerly devotion shows in this; For saints =
have
hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, =
And
palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss,--
with the brief dialogue that follows, were spo=
ken
in a thoroughly artificial manner.
The voice was exquisite, but from the point of view of tone it was
absolutely false. It was wron=
g in
color. It took away all the l=
ife
from the verse. It made the p=
assion
unreal.
Dorian Gray grew pale as he watched her. Neither of his friends dared to say
anything to him. She seemed t=
o them
to be absolutely incompetent. They
were horribly disappointed.
Yet they felt that the true test of any Juliet=
is
the balcony scene of the second act.
They waited for that. =
If she
failed there, there was nothing in her.
She looked charming as she came out in the
moonlight. That could not be
denied. But the staginess of =
her
acting was unbearable, and grew worse as she went on. Her gestures became absurdly
artificial. She over-emphasiz=
ed
everything that she had to say. The
beautiful passage,--
Thou knowest the=
mask
of night is on my face, Else would a
maiden blush bepaint my cheek For that wh=
ich
thou hast heard me speak to-night,--
[38] was declaimed with the painful precision =
of a
school-girl who has been taught to recite by some second-rate professor of
elocution. When she leaned over the balcony and came to those wonderful lin=
es,--
=
&nb=
sp;
Although I joy in thee, I have no j=
oy of
this contract to-night: It is too r=
ash,
too unadvised, too sudden; Too like the
lightning, which doth cease to be Ere one can=
say,
"It lightens." Swee=
t,
good-night! This bud of=
love
by summer's ripening breath May prove a
beauteous flower when next we meet,--
she spoke the words as if they conveyed no mea=
ning
to her. It was not
nervousness. Indeed, so far f=
rom
being nervous, she seemed absolutely self-contained. It was simply bad art. She was a complete failure.
Even the common uneducated audience of the pit=
and
gallery lost their interest in the play.&n=
bsp;
They got restless, and began to talk loudly and to whistle. The Jew manager, who was standing =
at the
back of the dress-circle, stamped and swore with rage. The only person unmoved was the gi=
rl
herself.
When the second act was over there came a stor=
m of
hisses, and Lord Henry got up from his chair and put on his coat. "She is quite beautiful, Dori=
an,"
he said, "but she can't act.
Let us go."
"I am going to see the play through,"
answered the lad, in a hard, bitter voice.=
"I am awfully sorry that I have made you waste an evening,
Harry. I apologize to both of
you."
"My dear Dorian, I should think Miss Vane=
was
ill," interrupted Hallward.
"We will come some other night."
"I wish she was ill," he rejoined. "But she seems to me to be si=
mply callous
and cold. She has entirely
altered. Last night she was a=
great
artist. To-night she is merel=
y a
commonplace, mediocre actress."
"Don't talk like that about any one you l=
ove,
Dorian. Love is a more wonder=
ful
thing than art."
"They are both simply forms of
imitation," murmured Lord Henry.
"But do let us go.
Dorian, you must not stay here any longer. It is not good for one's morals to=
see
bad acting. Besides, I don't
suppose you will want your wife to act.&nb=
sp;
So what does it matter if she plays Juliet like a wooden doll? She is very lovely, and if she kno=
ws as little
about life as she does about acting, she will be a delightful experience. There are only two kinds of people=
who
are really fascinating,--people who know absolutely everything, and people =
who know
absolutely nothing. Good heav=
ens,
my dear boy, don't look so tragic!
The secret of remaining young is never to have an emotion that is
unbecoming. Come to the club =
with
Basil and myself. We will smo=
ke
cigarettes and drink to the beauty of Sibyl Vane. She is beautiful. What more can you want?"
"Please go away, Harry," cried the
lad. "I really want to be
alone.- -Basil, you don't mind my asking you to go? Ah! can't you see that my heart is
breaking?" The hot tears=
came
to his eyes. His [39] lips
trembled, and, rushing to the back of the box, he leaned up against the wal=
l,
hiding his face in his hands.
"Let us go, Basil," said Lord Henry,
with a strange tenderness in his voice; and the two young men passed out
together.
A few moments afterwards the footlights flared=
up,
and the curtain rose on the third act.&nbs=
p;
Dorian Gray went back to his seat.&=
nbsp;
He looked pale, and proud, and indifferent. The play dragged on, and seemed in=
terminable. Half of the audience went out, tra=
mping
in heavy boots, and laughing. The
whole thing was a fiasco. The=
last
act was played to almost empty benches.
As soon as it was over, Dorian Gray rushed beh=
ind
the scenes into the greenroom. The
girl was standing alone there, with a look of triumph on her face. Her eyes were lit with an exquisite
fire. There was a radiance ab=
out
her. Her parted lips were smi=
ling
over some secret of their own.
When he entered, she looked at him, and an
expression of infinite joy came over her.&=
nbsp;
"How badly I acted to-night, Dorian!" she cried.
"Horribly!" he answered, gazing at h=
er
in amazement,--"horribly! It was
dreadful. Are you ill? You have no idea what it was. You have no idea what I suffered.&=
quot;
The girl smiled. "Dorian," she answered,
lingering over his name with long-drawn music in her voice, as though it we=
re
sweeter than honey to the red petals of her lips,--"Dorian, you should
have understood. But you unde=
rstand
now, don't you?"
"Understand what?" he asked, angrily=
.
"Why I was so bad to-night. Why I shall always be bad. Why I shall never act well again.&=
quot;
He shrugged his shoulders. "You are ill, I suppose. When you are ill you shouldn't act.=
You make yourself ridiculous. My friends were bored. I was bored."
She seemed not to listen to him. She was transfigured with joy. An ecstasy of happiness dominated =
her.
"Dorian, Dorian," she cried,
"before I knew you, acting was the one reality of my life. It was only in the theatre that I
lived. I thought that it was =
all
true. I was Rosalind one nigh=
t, and
Portia the other. The joy of
Beatrice was my joy, and the sorrows of Cordelia were mine also. I believed in everything. The common people who acted with me
seemed to me to be godlike. T=
he
painted scenes were my world. I
knew nothing but shadows, and I thought them real. You came,--oh, my beautiful love!-=
-and
you freed my soul from prison. You
taught me what reality really is.
To-night, for the first time in my life, I saw through the hollownes=
s,
the sham, the silliness, of the empty pageant in which I had always
played. To- night, for the fi=
rst
time, I became conscious that the Romeo was hideous, and old, and painted, =
that
the moonlight in the orchard was false, that the scenery was vulgar, and th=
at
the words I had to speak were unreal, were not my words, not what I wanted =
to
say. You had brought me somet=
hing
higher, something of which all art is but a reflection. You have made me understand what l=
ove
really is. My love! my love!<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I am sick [40] of shadows. You are more to me than all art ca=
n ever
be. What have I to do with the
puppets of a play? When I came on to-night, I could not understand how it w=
as
that everything had gone from me.
Suddenly it dawned on my soul what it all meant. The knowledge was exquisite to me.=
I heard them hissing, and I smiled=
. What should they know of love? Take me away, Dorian-- take me awa=
y with
you, where we can be quite alone. =
span>I
hate the stage. I might mimic=
a
passion that I do not feel, but I cannot mimic one that burns me like
fire. Oh, Dorian, Dorian, you=
understand
now what it all means? Even i=
f I
could do it, it would be profanation for me to play at being in love. You have made me see that."
He flung himself down on the sofa, and turned =
away
his face. "You have kill=
ed my
love," he muttered.
She looked at him in wonder, and laughed. He made no answer. She came across to him, and stroke=
d his
hair with her little fingers. She knelt down and pressed his hands to her
lips. He drew them away, and a
shudder ran through him.
Then he leaped up, and went to the door. "Yes," he cried, "y=
ou
have killed my love. You used=
to
stir my imagination. Now you =
don't
even stir my curiosity. You s=
imply
produce no effect. I loved yo=
u because
you were wonderful, because you had genius and intellect, because you reali=
zed
the dreams of great poets and gave shape and substance to the shadows of
art. You have thrown it all
away. You are shallow and
stupid. My God! how mad I was=
to
love you! What a fool I have
been! You are nothing to me
now. I will never see you aga=
in. I will never think of you. I will never mention your name. You
don't know what you were to me, once.
Why, once . . . . Oh, I can't bear to think of it! I wish I had never laid eyes upon =
you! You
have spoiled the romance of my life.
How little you can know of love, if you say it mars your art! What are you without your art? Not=
hing. I would have made you famous, sple=
ndid,
magnificent. The world would =
have
worshipped you, and you would have belonged to me. What are you now? A third-rate actress with a pretty
face."
The girl grew white, and trembled. She clinched her hands together, a=
nd her
voice seemed to catch in her throat.
"You are not serious, Dorian?" she murmured. "You are acting."
"Acting!=
I leave that to you. Y=
ou do
it so well," he answered, bitterly.
She rose from her knees, and, with a piteous
expression of pain in her face, came across the room to him. She put her hand upon his arm, and
looked into his eyes. He thru=
st her
back. "Don't touch me!&q=
uot;
he cried.
A low moan broke from her, and she flung herse=
lf
at his feet, and lay there like a trampled flower. "Dorian, Dorian, don't leave
me!" she whispered. &quo=
t;I am
so sorry I didn't act well. I=
was
thinking of you all the time. But I
will try,--indeed, I will try. It
came so suddenly across me, my love for you. I think I should never have known =
it if
you had not kissed me,--if we had not kissed each other. Kiss me again, my
love. Don't go away from me.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I couldn't bear it. Can't you forg=
ive me
for to-night? I will work so =
hard,
and try to [41] improve. Don'=
t be
cruel to me because I love you better than anything in the world. After all, it is only once that I h=
ave
not pleased you. But you are =
quite
right, Dorian. I should have =
shown myself
more of an artist. It was foo=
lish
of me; and yet I couldn't help it.
Oh, don't leave me, don't leave me." A fit of passionate sobbing choked
her. She crouched on the floo=
r like
a wounded thing, and Dorian Gray, with his beautiful eyes, looked down at h=
er,
and his chiselled lips curled in exquisite disdain. There is always something ridiculo=
us
about the passions of people whom one has ceased to love. Sibyl Vane seemed to him to be abs=
urdly
melodramatic. Her tears and s=
obs
annoyed him.
"I am going," he said at last, in his
calm, clear voice. "I do=
n't wish
to be unkind, but I can't see you again.&n=
bsp;
You have disappointed me."
She wept silently, and made no answer, but cre=
pt
nearer to him. Her little han=
ds
stretched blindly out, and appeared to be seeking for him. He turned on his heel, and left the
room. In a few moments he was=
out
of the theatre.
Where he went to, he hardly knew. He remembered wandering through di=
mly-lit
streets with gaunt black-shadowed archways and evil-looking houses. Women with hoarse voices and harsh
laughter had called after him.
Drunkards had reeled by cursing, and chattering to themselves like
monstrous apes. He had seen
grotesque children huddled upon door-steps, and had heard shrieks and oaths
from gloomy courts.
When the dawn was just breaking he found himse=
lf
at Covent Garden. Huge carts filled with nodding lilies rumbled slowly down=
the
polished empty street. The ai=
r was
heavy with the perfume of the flowers, and their beauty seemed to bring him=
an
anodyne for his pain. He foll=
owed
into the market, and watched the men unloading their wagons. A white-smocked carter offered him=
some
cherries. He thanked him, won=
dered
why he refused to accept any money for them, and began to eat them
listlessly. They had been plu=
cked
at midnight, and the coldness of the moon had entered into them. A long line of boys carrying crate=
s of
striped tulips, and of yellow and red roses, defiled in front of him, threa=
ding
their way through the huge jade- green piles of vegetables. Under the portico, with its gray s=
un- bleached
pillars, loitered a troop of draggled bareheaded girls, waiting for the auc=
tion
to be over. After some time he
hailed a hansom and drove home. The
sky was pure opal now, and the roofs of the houses glistened like silver
against it. As he was passing=
through
the library towards the door of his bedroom, his eye fell upon the portrait
Basil Hallward had painted of him.
He started back in surprise, and then went over to it and examined
it. In the dim arrested light=
that
struggled through the cream-colored silk blinds, the face seemed to him to =
be a
little changed. The expression
looked different. One would h=
ave
said that there was a touch of cruelty in the mouth. It was certainly curious.
He turned round, and, walking to the window, d=
rew
the blinds up. The bright dawn
flooded the room, and swept the fantastic shadows [42] into dusky corners,
where they lay shuddering. Bu=
t the
strange expression that he had noticed in the face of the portrait seemed t=
o linger
there, to be more intensified even.
The quivering, ardent sunlight showed him the lines of cruelty round=
the
mouth as clearly as if he had been looking into a mirror after he had done =
some
dreadful thing.
He winced, and, taking up from the table an ov=
al
glass framed in ivory Cupids, that Lord Henry had given him, he glanced
hurriedly into it. No line li=
ke
that warped his red lips. Wha=
t did
it mean?
He rubbed his eyes, and came close to the pict=
ure,
and examined it again. There =
were
no signs of any change when he looked into the actual painting, and yet the=
re
was no doubt that the whole expression had altered. It was not a mere fancy of his own=
. The thing was horribly apparent.
He threw himself into a chair, and began to
think. Suddenly there flashed
across his mind what he had said in Basil Hallward's studio the day the pic=
ture
had been finished. Yes, he
remembered it perfectly. He h=
ad
uttered a mad wish that he himself might remain young, and the portrait grow
old; that his own beauty might be untarnished, and the face on the canvas b=
ear
the burden of his passions and his sins; that the painted image might be se=
ared
with the lines of suffering and thought, and that he might keep all the del=
icate
bloom and loveliness of his then just conscious boyhood. Surely his prayer =
had
not been answered? Such thing=
s were
impossible. It seemed monstro=
us
even to think of them. And, y=
et, there
was the picture before him, with the touch of cruelty in the mouth.
Cruelty!
Had he been cruel? It =
was
the girl's fault, not his. He=
had
dreamed of her as a great artist, had given his love to her because he had
thought her great. Then she h=
ad
disappointed him. She had been shallow and unworthy. And, yet, a feeling of infinite re=
gret
came over him, as he thought of her lying at his feet sobbing like a little
child. He remembered with what
callousness he had watched her. Why
had he been made like that? W=
hy had
such a soul been given to him? But
he had suffered also. During =
the
three terrible hours that the play had lasted, he had lived centuries of pa=
in,
aeon upon aeon of torture. Hi=
s life
was well worth hers. She had =
marred
him for a moment, if he had wounded her for an age. Besides, women were bet=
ter
suited to bear sorrow than men.
They lived on their emotions.
They only thought of their emotions. When they took lovers, it was mere=
ly to
have some one with whom they could have scenes. Lord Henry had told him that, and =
Lord
Henry knew what women were. W=
hy
should he trouble about Sibyl Vane?
She was nothing to him now.
But the picture? What was he to say of that? It held the secret of his life, an=
d told
his story. It had taught him =
to
love his own beauty. Would it=
teach
him to loathe his own soul? W=
ould
he ever look at it again?
No; it was merely an illusion wrought on the
troubled senses. The horrible=
night
that he had passed had left phantoms behind it. Suddenly there had fallen u=
pon
his brain that tiny scarlet speck that [43] makes men mad. The picture had not changed. It was folly to think so.
Yet it was watching him, with its beautiful ma=
rred
face and its cruel smile. Its
bright hair gleamed in the early sunlight.=
Its blue eyes met his own. =
span>A
sense of infinite pity, not for himself, but for the painted image of himse=
lf,
came over him. It had altered
already, and would alter more. Its
gold would wither into gray. =
Its
red and white roses would die. For
every sin that he committed, a stain would fleck and wreck its fairness.
He got up from his chair, and drew a large scr=
een
right in front of the portrait, shuddering as he glanced at it. "How horrible!" he murmu=
red to
himself, and he walked across to the window and opened it. When he stepped out on the grass, =
he
drew a deep breath. The fresh
morning air seemed to drive away all his sombre passions. He thought only of Sibyl Vane. A faint echo of his love came back=
to him. He repeated her name over and over
again. The birds that were si=
nging
in the dew-drenched garden seemed to be telling the flowers about her.
[...43] It was long past noon when he awoke. His valet had crept several times =
into
the room on tiptoe to see if he was stirring, and had wondered what made his
young master sleep so late. F=
inally
his bell sounded, and Victor came in softly with a cup of tea, and a pile of
letters, on a small tray of old Sèvres china, and drew back the oliv=
e-satin
curtains, with their shimmering blue lining, that hung in front of the three
tall windows.
"Monsieur has well slept this morning,&qu=
ot;
he said, smiling.
"What o'clock is it, Victor?" asked
Dorian Gray, sleepily.
"One hour and a quarter, monsieur."<= o:p>
How late it was! He sat up, and, having sipped some=
tea,
turned over his letters. One =
of
them was from Lord Henry, and had been brought by hand that morning. He hesitated for a moment, and the=
n put
it aside. The others he opened
listlessly. They contained the
usual collection of cards, invitations to dinner, tickets for private views,
programmes of charity concerts, and the like, that are showered on fashiona=
ble
young men every morning during the season. There was a [44] rather heavy bi=
ll,
for a chased silver Louis-Quinze toilet-set, that he had not yet had the
courage to send on to his guardians, who were extremely old-fashioned people
and did not realize that we live in an age when only unnecessary things are=
absolutely
necessary to us; and there were several very courteously worded communicati=
ons
from Jermyn Street money-lenders offering to advance any sum of money at a
moment's notice and at the most reasonable rates of interest.
After about ten minutes he got up, and, throwi=
ng
on an elaborate dressing-gown, passed into the onyx-paved bath-room. The cool water refreshed him after=
his
long sleep. He seemed to have
forgotten all that he had gone through.&nb=
sp;
A dim sense of having taken part in some strange tragedy came to him
once or twice, but there was the unreality of a dream about it.
As soon as he was dressed, he went into the
library and sat down to a light French breakfast, that had been laid out for
him on a small round table close to an open window. It was an exquisite day. The warm air seemed laden with
spices. A bee flew in, and bu=
zzed
round the blue-dragon bowl, filled with sulphur-yellow roses, that stood in=
front
of him. He felt perfectly hap=
py.
Suddenly his eye fell on the screen that he had
placed in front of the portrait, and he started.
"Too cold for Monsieur?" asked his
valet, putting an omelette on the table.&n=
bsp;
"I shut the window?"
Dorian shook his head. "I am not cold," he murm=
ured.
Was it all true? Had the portrait really changed? Or had it been simply his own
imagination that had made him see a look of evil where there had been a loo=
k of
joy? Surely a painted canvas =
could
not alter? The thing was
absurd. It would serve as a t=
ale to
tell Basil some day. It would=
make
him smile.
And, yet, how vivid was his recollection of the
whole thing! First in the dim
twilight, and then in the bright dawn, he had seen the touch of cruelty in =
the
warped lips. He almost dreade=
d his
valet leaving the room. He kn=
ew
that when he was alone he would have to examine the portrait. He was afraid of certainty. When the coffee and cigarettes had=
been
brought and the man turned to go, he felt a mad desire to tell him to
remain. As the door closed be=
hind
him he called him back. The m=
an
stood waiting for his orders.
Dorian looked at him for a moment.&=
nbsp;
"I am not at home to any one, Victor," he said, with a
sigh. The man bowed and retir=
ed.
He rose from the table, lit a cigarette, and f=
lung
himself down on a luxuriously-cushioned couch that stood facing the
screen. The screen was an old=
one
of gilt Spanish leather, stamped and wrought with a rather florid
Louis-Quatorze pattern. He sc=
anned
it curiously, wondering if it had ever before concealed the secret of a man=
's
life.
Should he move it aside, after all? Why not let it stay there? What was the use of knowing? If the thing was true, it was
terrible. If it was not true,=
why
trouble about it? But what if=
, by
some fate or deadlier chance, other eyes than his spied behind, and saw the=
horrible
change? What should he do if =
Basil
Hallward came and asked to look at his own picture? He would be sure to do that. No; the [45] thing had to be exami=
ned,
and at once. Anything would b=
e better
than this dreadful state of doubt.
He got up, and locked both doors. At least he would be alone when he=
looked
upon the mask of his shame. T=
hen he
drew the screen aside, and saw himself face to face. It was perfectly true. The portrait had altered.
As he often remembered afterwards, and always =
with
no small wonder, he found himself at first gazing at the portrait with a
feeling of almost scientific interest.&nbs=
p;
That such a change should have taken place was incredible to him.
One thing, however, he felt that it had done f=
or
him. It had made him consciou=
s how
unjust, how cruel, he had been to Sibyl Vane. It was not too late to make repara=
tion
for that. She could still be =
his wife. His unreal and selfish love would =
yield
to some higher influence, would be transformed into some nobler passion, and
the portrait that Basil Hallward had painted of him would be a guide to him
through life, would be to him what holiness was to some, and conscience to
others, and the fear of God to us all.&nbs=
p;
There were opiates for remorse, drugs that could lull the moral sens=
e to
sleep. But here was a visible symbol of the degradation of sin. Here was an ever-present sign of t=
he
ruin men brought upon their souls.
Three o'clock struck, and four, and half-past
four, but he did not stir. He=
was
trying to gather up the scarlet threads of life, and to weave them into a
pattern; to find his way through the sanguine labyrinth of passion through
which he was wandering. He di=
d not
know what to do, or what to think.
Finally, he went over to the table and wrote a passionate letter to =
the
girl he had loved, imploring her forgiveness, and accusing himself of
madness. He covered page afte=
r page
with wild words of sorrow, and wilder words of pain. There is a luxury in self-reproach=
. When we blame ourselves we feel th=
at no
one else has a right to blame us.
It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution. When Dorian Gray had finished the
letter, he felt that he had been forgiven.
Suddenly there came a knock to the door, and he
heard Lord Henry's voice outside.
"My dear Dorian, I must see you. Let me in at once. I can't bear yo=
ur
shutting yourself up like this."
He made no answer at first, but remained quite
still. The knocking still
continued, and grew louder. Y=
es, it
was better to let Lord Henry in, and to explain to him the new life he was
going to lead, to quarrel with him if it became necessary to quarrel, to pa=
rt
if parting was inevitable. He
jumped up, drew the screen hastily across the picture, and unlocked the doo=
r.
"I am so sorry for it all, my dear boy,&q=
uot;
said Lord Henry, coming in. "But you must not think about it too
much."
[46] "Do you mean about Sibyl Vane?"
asked Dorian.
"Yes, of course," answered Lord Henr=
y,
sinking into a chair, and slowly pulling his gloves off. "It is dreadful, from one poi=
nt of view,
but it was not your fault. Te=
ll me,
did you go behind and see her after the play was over?"
"Yes."
"I felt sure you had. Did you make a scene with her?&quo=
t;
"I was brutal, Harry,--perfectly brutal.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> But it is all right now. I am not sorry for anything that h=
as
happened. It has taught me to=
know
myself better."
"Ah, Dorian, I am so glad you take it in =
that
way! I was afraid I would fin=
d you
plunged in remorse, and tearing your nice hair."
"I have got through all that," said
Dorian, shaking his head, and smiling.&nbs=
p;
"I am perfectly happy now.&nbs=
p;
I know what conscience is, to begin with. It is not what you told me it was.=
It is the divinest thing in us.
"A very charming artistic basis for ethic=
s,
Dorian! I congratulate you on
it. But how are you going to
begin?"
"By marrying Sibyl Vane."
"Marrying Sibyl Vane!" cried Lord He= nry, standing up, and looking at him in perplexed amazement. "But, my dear Dorian--"<= o:p>
"Yes, Harry, I know what you are going to
say. Something dreadful about
marriage. Don't say it. Don't ever say things of that kind=
to me
again. Two days ago I asked S=
ibyl
to marry me. I am not going t=
o break
my word to her. She is to be =
my
wife."
"Your wife! Dorian! . . . Didn't you get my
letter? I wrote to you this
morning, and sent the note down, by my own man."
"Your letter? Oh, yes, I remember. I have not read it yet, Harry. I w=
as
afraid there might be something in it that I wouldn't like."
Lord Henry walked across the room, and, sitting
down by Dorian Gray, took both his hands in his, and held them tightly. "Dorian," he said, "=
;my
letter--don't be frightened--was to tell you that Sibyl Vane is dead."=
A cry of pain rose from the lad's lips, and he
leaped to his feet, tearing his hands away from Lord Henry's grasp. "Dead! Sibyl dead! It is not true! It is a horrible lie!"
"It is quite true, Dorian," said Lord
Henry, gravely. "It is i=
n all the
morning papers. I wrote down =
to you
to ask you not to see any one till I came.=
There will have to be an inquest, of course, and you must not be mix=
ed
up in it. Things like that ma=
ke a
man fashionable in Paris. But=
in
London people are so prejudiced.
Here, one should never make one's début with a scandal. One should reserve that to give an
interest to one's old age. I =
don't
suppose they know your name at the theatre. If they don't, it is all right.
Dorian did not answer for a few moments. He was dazed with horror. Finally =
he
murmured, in a stifled voice, "Harry, did you say an inquest? What did you mean by that? Did Sibyl--? Oh, [47] Harry, I can't bear it! But be quick. Tell me everything at once."<=
o:p>
"I have no doubt it was not an accident,
Dorian, though it must be put in that way to the public. As she was leaving the theatre wit=
h her
mother, about half-past twelve or so, she said she had forgotten something
up-stairs. They waited some t=
ime for
her, but she did not come down again.
They ultimately found her lying dead on the floor of her
dressing-room. She had swallo=
wed
something by mistake, some dreadful thing they use at theatres. I don't know what it was, but it h=
ad
either prussic acid or white lead in it.&n=
bsp;
I should fancy it was prussic acid, as she seems to have died
instantaneously. It is very t=
ragic,
of course, but you must not get yourself mixed up in it. I see by the Stand=
ard
that she was seventeen. I sho=
uld
have thought she was almost younger than that. She looked such a child, and seeme=
d to
know so little about acting.
Dorian, you mustn't let this thing get on your nerves. You must come and dine with me, an=
d afterwards
we will look in at the Opera. It is
a Patti night, and everybody will be there. You can come to my sister's box. She has got some smart women with
her."
"So I have murdered Sibyl Vane," said
Dorian Gray, half to himself,-- "murdered her as certainly as if I had=
cut
her little throat with a knife. And
the roses are not less lovely for all that. The birds sing just as happily in =
my
garden. And to-night I am to =
dine
with you, and then go on to the Opera, and sup somewhere, I suppose, afterw=
ards. How extraordinarily dramatic life
is! If I had read all this in=
a
book, Harry, I think I would have wept over it. Somehow, now that it has happened
actually, and to me, it seems far too wonderful for tears. Here is the first passionate love-=
letter
I have ever written in my life.
Strange, that my first passionate love- letter should have been
addressed to a dead girl. Can=
they
feel, I wonder, those white silent people we call the dead? Sibyl! Can she feel, or know, or listen?<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Oh, Harry, how I loved her once! It seems years ago to me now. She was everything to me. Then came that dreadful night--was=
it
really only last night?--when she played so badly, and my heart almost
broke. She explained it all to
me. It was terribly pathetic.=
But I was not moved a bit. I thought her shallow. Then something happened that made =
me
afraid. I can't tell you what=
it
was, but it was awful. I said=
I
would go back to her. I felt =
I had
done wrong. And now she is
dead. My God! my God! Harry, what shall I do? You don't know the danger I am in,=
and
there is nothing to keep me straight.
She would have done that for me.&nb=
sp;
She had no right to kill herself.&n=
bsp;
It was selfish of her."
"My dear Dorian, the only way a woman can
ever reform a man is by boring him so completely that he loses all possible
interest in life. If you had married this girl you would have been
wretched. Of course you would=
have
treated her kindly. One can a=
lways
be kind to people about whom one cares nothing. But she would have soon found out =
that you
were absolutely indifferent to her.
And when a woman finds that out about her husband, she either becomes
dreadfully dowdy, or wears very smart bonnets that some other woman's husba=
nd
has to [48] pay for. I say no=
thing
about the social mistake, but I assure you that in any case the whole thing
would have been an absolute failure."
"I suppose it would," muttered the l=
ad,
walking up and down the room, and looking horribly pale. "But I thought it was my duty=
. It is not my fault that this terri=
ble
tragedy has prevented my doing what was right. I remember your saying once that t=
here
is a fatality about good resolutions,--that they are always made too late.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Mine certainly were."
"Good resolutions are simply a useless
attempt to interfere with scientific laws.=
Their origin is pure vanity.
Their result is absolutely nil.&nbs=
p;
They give us, now and then, some of those luxurious sterile emotions
that have a certain charm for us.
That is all that can be said for them."
"Harry," cried Dorian Gray, coming o=
ver
and sitting down beside him, "why is it that I cannot feel this traged=
y as
much as I want to? I don't th=
ink I
am heartless. Do you?"
"You have done too many foolish things in
your life to be entitled to give yourself that name, Dorian," answered
Lord Henry, with his sweet, melancholy smile.
The lad frowned. "I don't like that explanatio=
n,
Harry," he rejoined, "but I am glad you don't think I am
heartless. I am nothing of the
kind. I know I am not. And yet I must admit that this thi=
ng
that has happened does not affect me as it should. It seems to me to be simply like a
wonderful ending to a wonderful play. It has all the terrible beauty of a g=
reat
tragedy, a tragedy in which I took part, but by which I have not been
wounded."
"It is an interesting question," said
Lord Henry, who found an exquisite pleasure in playing on the lad's unconsc=
ious
egotism,--"an extremely interesting question. I fancy that the explanation is th=
is. It often happens that the real tra=
gedies
of life occur in such an inartistic manner that they hurt us by their crude
violence, their absolute incoherence, their absurd want of meaning, their
entire lack of style. They af=
fect
us just as vulgarity affects us.
They give us an impression of sheer brute force, and we revolt again=
st
that. Sometimes, however, a tragedy that has artistic elements of beauty cr=
osses
our lives. If these elements =
of
beauty are real, the whole thing simply appeals to our sense of dramatic
effect. Suddenly we find that=
we
are no longer the actors, but the spectators of the play. Or rather we are both. We watch ourselves, and the mere w=
onder
of the spectacle enthralls us. In
the present case, what is it that has really happened? Some one has killed herself for lo=
ve of you. I wish I had ever had such an
experience. It would have mad=
e me
in love with love for the rest of my life.=
The people who have adored me--there have not been very many, but th=
ere
have been some-- have always insisted on living on, long after I had ceased=
to
care for them, or they to care for me.&nbs=
p;
They have become stout and tedious, and when I meet them they go in =
at
once for reminiscences. That awful memory of woman! What a fearful thing it is! And what an utter intellectual
stagnation it reveals! One sh=
ould
absorb the color of life, but one should never remember its details. Details are always vulgar.
[49] "Of course, now and then things
linger. I once wore nothing b=
ut violets
all through one season, as mourning for a romance that would not die. Ultimately, however, it did die. I forget what killed it. I think i=
t was
her proposing to sacrifice the whole world for me. That is always a dreadful
moment. It fills one with the
terror of eternity. Well,--wo=
uld
you believe it?--a week ago, at Lady Hampshire's, I found myself seated at
dinner next the lady in question, and she insisted on going over the whole
thing again, and digging up the past, and raking up the future. I had buried my romance in a bed of
poppies. She dragged it out a=
gain,
and assured me that I had spoiled her life. I am bound to state that she ate a=
n enormous
dinner, so I did not feel any anxiety.&nbs=
p;
But what a lack of taste she showed! The one charm of the past is that =
it is
the past. But women never know when the curtain has fallen. They always want a sixth act, and =
as
soon as the interest of the play is entirely over they propose to continue
it. If they were allowed to h=
ave
their way, every comedy would have a tragic ending, and every tragedy would=
culminate
in a farce. They are charming=
ly
artificial, but they have no sense of art.=
You are more fortunate than I am.&n=
bsp;
I assure you, Dorian, that not one of the women I have known would h=
ave
done for me what Sibyl Vane did for you.&n=
bsp;
Ordinary women always console themselves. Some of them do it by going in for
sentimental colors. Never trust a woman who wears mauve, whatever her age m=
ay
be, or a woman over thirty-five who is fond of pink ribbons. It always means that they have a
history. Others find a great
consolation in suddenly discovering the good qualities of their husbands. They flaunt their conjugal felicit=
y in
one's face, as if it was the most fascinating of sins. Religion consoles some. Its mysteries have all the charm o=
f a
flirtation, a woman once told me; and I can quite understand it. Besides, nothing makes one so vain=
as
being told that one is a sinner.
There is really no end to the consolations that women find in modern
life. Indeed, I have not ment=
ioned
the most important one of all."
"What is that, Harry?" said Dorian G=
ray,
listlessly.
"Oh, the obvious one. Taking some one else's admirer whe=
n one
loses one's own. In good soci=
ety
that always whitewashes a woman.
But really, Dorian, how different Sibyl Vane must have been from all=
the
women one meets! There is som=
ething
to me quite beautiful about her death.&nbs=
p;
I am glad I am living in a century when such wonders happen. They ma=
ke
one believe in the reality of the things that shallow, fashionable people p=
lay
with, such as romance, passion, and love."
"I was terribly cruel to her. You forget that."
"I believe that women appreciate cruelty =
more
than anything else. They have wonderfully primitive instincts. We have emancipated them, but they
remain slaves looking for their masters, all the same. They love being dominated. I am sure you were splendid. I have never seen you angry, but I=
can
fancy how delightful you looked.
And, after all, you said something to me the day before yesterday th=
at seemed
to me at the time to be merely fanciful, but that I see now was absolutely
true, and it explains everything."
[50] "What was that, Harry?"
"You said to me that Sibyl Vane represent=
ed
to you all the heroines of romance--that she was Desdemona one night, and
Ophelia the other; that if she died as Juliet, she came to life as
Imogen."
"She will never come to life again now,&q=
uot;
murmured the lad, burying his face in his hands.
"No, she will never come to life. She has played her last part. But you must think of that lonely =
death
in the tawdry dressing-room simply as a strange lurid fragment from some
Jacobean tragedy, as a wonderful scene from Webster, or Ford, or Cyril
Tourneur. The girl never real=
ly
lived, and so she has never really died.&n=
bsp;
To you at least she was always a dream, a phantom that flitted throu=
gh Shakespeare's
plays and left them lovelier for its presence, a reed through which
Shakespeare's music sounded richer and more full of joy. The moment she touched actual life=
, she
marred it, and it marred her, and so she passed away. Mourn for Ophelia, if you like. Put
ashes on your head because Cordelia was strangled. Cry out against Heaven because the=
daughter
of Brabantio died. But don't =
waste
your tears over Sibyl Vane. S=
he was
less real than they are."
There was a silence. The evening darkened in the room.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Noiselessly, and with silver feet,=
the
shadows crept in from the garden.
The colors faded wearily out of things.
After some time Dorian Gray looked up. "You have explained me to mys=
elf,
Harry," he murmured, with something of a sigh of relief. "I felt all that you have sai=
d, but
somehow I was afraid of it, and I could not express it to myself. How well you know me! But we will not talk again of what=
has
happened. It has been a marve=
llous experience. That is all. I wonder if life has still in stor=
e for
me anything as marvellous."
"Life has everything in store for you,
Dorian. There is nothing that=
you,
with your extraordinary good looks, will not be able to do."
"But suppose, Harry, I became haggard, and
gray, and wrinkled? What then=
?"
"Ah, then," said Lord Henry, rising =
to
go,--"then, my dear Dorian, you would have to fight for your victories=
. As it is, they are brought to you.=
No, you must keep your good looks.=
We live in an age that reads too m=
uch to
be wise, and that thinks too much to be beautiful. We cannot spare you. And now you had better dress, and =
drive
down to the club. We are rath=
er
late, as it is."
"I think I shall join you at the Opera,
Harry. I feel too tired to eat
anything. What is the number =
of
your sister's box?"
"Twenty-seven, I believe. It is on the grand tier. You will see her name on the door.=
But I am sorry you won't come and
dine."
"I don't feel up to it," said Dorian,
wearily. "But I am awful=
ly obliged
to you for all that you have said to me.&n=
bsp;
You are certainly my best friend.&n=
bsp;
No one has ever understood me as you have."
"We are only at the beginning of our
friendship, Dorian," answered Lord Henry, shaking him by the hand. "Good-by. I shall see you before nine-thirty=
, I
hope. Remember, Patti is
singing."
As he closed the door behind him, Dorian Gray
touched the bell, [51] and in a few minutes Victor appeared with the lamps =
and
drew the blinds down. He wait=
ed
impatiently for him to go. Th=
e man
seemed to take an interminable time about everything.
As soon as he had left, he rushed to the scree=
n,
and drew it back. No; there was no further change in the picture. It had received the news of Sibyl =
Vane's
death before he had known of it himself.&n=
bsp;
It was conscious of the events of life as they occurred. The vicious cruelty that marred th=
e fine
lines of the mouth had, no doubt, appeared at the very moment that the girl=
had
drunk the poison, whatever it was.
Or was it indifferent to results?&n=
bsp;
Did it merely take cognizance of what passed within the soul? he
wondered, and hoped that some day he would see the change taking place befo=
re
his very eyes, shuddering as he hoped it.
Poor Sibyl! what a romance it had all been!
He felt that the time had really come for maki=
ng
his choice. Or had his choice
already been made? Yes, life =
had
decided that for him,-- life, and his own infinite curiosity about life.
A feeling of pain came over him as he thought =
of
the desecration that was in store for the fair face on the canvas. Once, in boyish mockery of Narciss=
us, he
had kissed, or feigned to kiss, those painted lips that now smiled so cruel=
ly
at him. Morning after morning=
he
had sat before the portrait wondering at its beauty, almost enamoured of it=
, as
it seemed to him at times. Wa=
s it
to alter now with every mood to which he yielded? Was it to become a hideous and loa=
thsome
thing, to be hidden away in a locked room, to be shut out from the sunlight
that had so often touched to brighter gold the waving wonder of the hair? The pity of it! the pity of it!
For a moment he thought of praying that the
horrible sympathy that existed between him and the picture might cease. It had changed in answer to a pray=
er;
perhaps in answer to a prayer it might remain unchanged. And, yet, who, that knew anything =
about
Life, would surrender the chance of remaining always young, however fantast=
ic that
chance might be, or with what fateful consequences it might be fraught? Besides, was it really under his
control? Had it indeed been p=
rayer
that had produced the substitution?
Might there not be some curious scientific reason for it all? If thought could exercise its [52]
influence upon a living organism, might not thought exercise an influence u=
pon
dead and inorganic things? Na=
y,
without thought or conscious desire, might not things external to ourselves
vibrate in unison with our moods and passions, atom calling to atom, in sec=
ret love
or strange affinity? But the =
reason
was of no importance. He would
never again tempt by a prayer any terrible power. If the picture was to alter, it wa=
s to
alter. That was all. Why inquire too closely into it?
For there would be a real pleasure in watching
it. He would be able to follo=
w his
mind into its secret places. =
This
portrait would be to him the most magical of mirrors. As it had revealed to him his own =
body,
so it would reveal to him his own soul.&nb=
sp;
And when winter came upon it, he would still be standing where spring
trembles on the verge of summer.
When the blood crept from its face, and left behind a pallid mask of
chalk with leaden eyes, he would keep the glamour of boyhood. Not one blossom of his loveliness =
would
ever fade. Not one pulse of h=
is
life would ever weaken. Like =
the
gods of the Greeks, he would be strong, and fleet, and joyous. What did it matter what happened t=
o the
colored image on the canvas? =
He
would be safe. That was every=
thing.
He drew the screen back into its former place =
in
front of the picture, smiling as he did so, and passed into his bedroom, wh=
ere
his valet was already waiting for him.&nbs=
p;
An hour later he was at the Opera, and Lord Henry was leaning over h=
is
chair.
[...52] As he was sitting at breakfast next
morning, Basil Hallward was shown into the room.
"I am so glad I have found you, Dorian,&q=
uot;
he said, gravely. "I cal=
led last
night, and they told me you were at the Opera. Of course I knew that was
impossible. But I wish you ha=
d left
word where you had really gone to.
I passed a dreadful evening, half afraid that one tragedy might be
followed by another. I think =
you
might have telegraphed for me when you heard of it first. I read of it quite by chance in a =
late
edition of the Globe, that I picked up at the club. I came here at once, and
was miserable at not finding you. =
span>I
can't tell you how heart-broken I am about the whole thing. I know what you must suffer. But where were you? Did you go down and see the girl's
mother? For a moment I though=
t of
following you there. They gav=
e the
address in the paper. Somewhe=
re in
the Euston Road, isn't it? Bu=
t I
was afraid of intruding upon a sorrow that I could not lighten. Poor woman! What a state she must be in! And her only child, too! What did she say about it all?&quo=
t;
"My dear Basil, how do I know?" murm=
ured
Dorian, sipping some pale- yellow wine from a delicate gold-beaded bubble of
Venetian glass, and looking dreadfully bored. "I was at the Opera. You should have come on there. I met Lady Gwendolen, Harry's sist=
er,
for the first time. We were in her box.&nb=
sp;
She is perfectly charming; and Patti sang divinely. Don't talk about horrid subjects.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> If one doesn't [53] talk about a t=
hing,
it has never happened. It is =
simply
expression, as Harry says, that gives reality to things. Tell me about yourself and what yo=
u are
painting."
"You went to the Opera?" said Hallwa=
rd,
speaking very slowly, and with a strained touch of pain in his voice. "You went to the Opera while =
Sibyl
Vane was lying dead in some sordid lodging? You can talk to me of other women =
being
charming, and of Patti singing divinely, before the girl you loved has even=
the
quiet of a grave to sleep in? Why, man, there are horrors in store for that
little white body of hers!"
"Stop, Basil! I won't hear it!" cried Doria=
n,
leaping to his feet. "You must not tell me about things. What is done is done. What is past is past."
"You call yesterday the past?"
"What has the actual lapse of time got to=
do
with it? It is only shallow p=
eople
who require years to get rid of an emotion. A man who is master of himself can=
end a
sorrow as easily as he can invent a pleasure. I don't want to be at the mercy of=
my
emotions. I want to use them,=
to
enjoy them, and to dominate them."
"Dorian, this is horrible! Something has changed you complete=
ly. You
look exactly the same wonderful boy who used to come down to my studio, day
after day, to sit for his picture.
But you were simple, natural, and affectionate then. You were the most unspoiled creatu=
re in
the whole world. Now, I don't=
know
what has come over you. You t=
alk as
if you had no heart, no pity in you.
It is all Harry's influence.
I see that."
The lad flushed up, and, going to the window,
looked out on the green, flickering garden for a few moments. "I owe a great deal to Harry,
Basil," he said, at last,--"more than I owe to you. You only taught me to be vain.&quo=
t;
"Well, I am punished for that, Dorian,--or
shall be some day."
"I don't know what you mean, Basil,"=
he
exclaimed, turning round. &qu=
ot;I don't
know what you want. What do y=
ou
want?"
"I want the Dorian Gray I used to know.&q=
uot;
"Basil," said the lad, going over to
him, and putting his hand on his shoulder, "you have come too late.
"Killed herself! Good heavens! is there no doubt ab=
out that?"
cried Hallward, looking up at him with an expression of horror.
"My dear Basil! Surely you don't think it was a vu=
lgar
accident? Of course she killed
herself It is one of the great
romantic tragedies of the age. As a
rule, people who act lead the most commonplace lives. They are good husbands, or faithful
wives, or something tedious. =
You
know what I mean,--middle-class virtue, and all that kind of thing. How different Sibyl was! She lived her finest tragedy. She was always a heroine. The last night she played--the nig=
ht you
saw her--she acted badly because she had known the reality of love. When she knew its unreality, she d=
ied,
as Juliet might have died. She
passed again into the sphere of art.
There is something of the martyr about her. Her death has all the pathetic
uselessness of [54] martyrdom, all its wasted beauty. But, as I was saying, you must not=
think
I have not suffered. If you h=
ad
come in yesterday at a particular moment,--about half-past five, perhaps, o=
r a
quarter to six,--you would have found me in tears. Even Harry, who was here, who brou=
ght me
the news, in fact, had no idea what I was going through. I suffered immensely, then it pass=
ed
away. I cannot repeat an
emotion. No one can, except
sentimentalists. And you are
awfully unjust, Basil. You co=
me
down here to console me. That=
is
charming of you. You find me
consoled, and you are furious. How
like a sympathetic person! You
remind me of a story Harry told me about a certain philanthropist who spent
twenty years of his life in trying to get some grievance redressed, or some
unjust law altered,--I forget exactly what it was. Finally he succeeded, and nothing =
could exceed
his disappointment. He had
absolutely nothing to do, almost died of ennui, and became a confirmed
misanthrope. And besides, my =
dear
old Basil, if you really want to console me, teach me rather to forget what=
has
happened, or to see it from a proper artistic point of view. Was it not Gautier who used to wri=
te
about la consolation des arts? I remember
picking up a little vellum-covered book in your studio one day and chancing=
on
that delightful phrase. Well,=
I am not
like that young man you told me of when we were down at Marlowe together, t=
he
young man who used to say that yellow satin could console one for all the
miseries of life. I love beau=
tiful
things that one can touch and handle.
Old brocades, green bronzes, lacquer- work, carved ivories, exquisite
surroundings, luxury, pomp,--there is much to be got from all these. But the artistic temperament that =
they
create, or at any rate reveal, is still more to me. To become the spectator of one's o=
wn
life, as Harry says, is to escape the suffering of life. I know you are surprised at my tal=
king
to you like this. You have not
realized how I have developed. I
was a school-boy when you knew me.
I am a man now. I have=
new
passions, new thoughts, new ideas.
I am different, but you must not like me less. I am changed, but you must always =
be my
friend. Of course I am very f=
ond of
Harry. But I know that you are
better than he is. You are not stronger,--you are too much afraid of life,-=
-but
you are better. And how happy=
we
used to be together! Don't le=
ave
me, Basil, and don't quarrel with me.
I am what I am. There =
is
nothing more to be said."
Hallward felt strangely moved. Rugged and straightforward as he w=
as, there
was something in his nature that was purely feminine in its tenderness. The lad was infinitely dear to him=
, and
his personality had been the great turning-point in his art. He could not bear the idea of
reproaching him any more. Aft=
er
all, his indifference was probably merely a mood that would pass away. There was so much in him that was =
good,
so much in him that was noble.
"Well, Dorian," he said, at length, =
with
a sad smile, "I won't speak to you again about this horrible thing, af=
ter
to-day. I only trust your name
won't be mentioned in connection with it.&=
nbsp;
The inquest is to take place this afternoon. Have they summoned you?"
Dorian shook his head, and a look of annoyance
passed over his face at the mention of the word "inquest." There was something so [55] crude =
and
vulgar about everything of the kind.
"They don't know my name," he answered.
"But surely she did?"
"Only my Christian name, and that I am qu=
ite
sure she never mentioned to any one.
She told me once that they were all rather curious to learn who I wa=
s,
and that she invariably told them my name was Prince Charming. It was pretty of her. You must do me a drawing of her, B=
asil. I should like to have something mo=
re of
her than the memory of a few kisses and some broken pathetic words."
"I will try and do something, Dorian, if =
it
would please you. But you mus=
t come
and sit to me yourself again. I
can't get on without you."
"I will never sit to you again, Basil.
Hallward stared at him, "My dear boy, what
nonsense!" he cried. &qu=
ot;Do you
mean to say you don't like what I did of you? Where is it? Why have you pulled the screen in =
front
of it? Let me look at it. It is the best thing I have ever
painted. Do take that screen =
away, Dorian. It is simply horrid of your servant
hiding my work like that. I f=
elt
the room looked different as I came in."
"My servant has nothing to do with it,
Basil. You don't imagine I le=
t him
arrange my room for me? He se=
ttles
my flowers for me sometimes,--that is all.=
No; I did it myself. T=
he
light was too strong on the portrait."
"Too strong! Impossible, my dear fellow! It is an admirable place for it. Let me see it." And Hallward walked towards the co=
rner
of the room.
A cry of terror broke from Dorian Gray's lips,=
and
he rushed between Hallward and the screen.=
"Basil," he said, looking very pale, "you must not lo=
ok
at it. I don't wish you to.&q=
uot;
"Not look at my own work! you are not
serious. Why shouldn't I look=
at
it?" exclaimed Hallward, laughing.
"If you try to look at it, Basil, on my w=
ord
of honor I will never speak to you again as long as I live. I am quite serious. I don't offer any explanation, and=
you
are not to ask for any. But, =
remember,
if you touch this screen, everything is over between us."
Hallward was thunderstruck. He looked at Dorian Gray in absolu=
te amazement. He had never seen him like this
before. The lad was absolutely
pallid with rage. His hands w=
ere
clinched, and the pupils of his eyes were like disks of blue fire. He was trembling all over.
"Dorian!"
"Don't speak!"
"But what is the matter? Of course I won't look at it if you
don't want me to," he said, rather coldly, turning on his heel, and go=
ing over
towards the window. "But,
really, it seems rather absurd that I shouldn't see my own work, especially=
as
I am going to exhibit it in Paris in the autumn. I shall probably have to give it a=
nother
coat of varnish before that, so I must see it some day, and why not to- day=
?"
"To exhibit it! You want to exhibit it?" excl=
aimed
Dorian Gray, a strange sense of terror creeping over him. Was the world going [56] to be sho=
wn his
secret? Were people to gape a=
t the
mystery of his life? That was
impossible. Something--he did=
not
know what--had to be done at once.
"Yes: I don't suppose you will object to
that. Georges Petit is going =
to
collect all my best pictures for a special exhibition in the Rue de
Sèze, which will open the first week in October. The portrait will only be away a
month. I should think you cou=
ld
easily spare it for that time. In
fact, you are sure to be out of town.
And if you hide it always behind a screen, you can't care much about
it."
Dorian Gray passed his hand over his
forehead. There were beads of=
perspiration
there. He felt that he was on=
the
brink of a horrible danger.
"You told me a month ago that you would never exhibit it,"=
he
said. "Why have you chan=
ged
your mind? You people who go =
in for
being consistent have just as many moods as others. The only difference is that your m=
oods
are rather meaningless. You c=
an't
have forgotten that you assured me most solemnly that nothing in the world =
would
induce you to send it to any exhibition.&n=
bsp;
You told Harry exactly the same thing." He stopped suddenly, and a gleam of
light came into his eyes. He
remembered that Lord Henry had said to him once, half seriously and half in
jest, "If you want to have an interesting quarter of an hour, get Basi=
l to
tell you why he won't exhibit your picture. He told me why he wouldn't, and it=
was a
revelation to me." Yes,
perhaps Basil, too, had his secret.
He would ask him and try.
"Basil," he said, coming over quite
close, and looking him straight in the face, "we have each of us a
secret. Let me know yours, an=
d I will
tell you mine. What was your =
reason
for refusing to exhibit my picture?"
Hallward shuddered in spite of himself. "Dorian, if I told you, you m=
ight
like me less than you do, and you would certainly laugh at me. I could not =
bear
your doing either of those two things.&nbs=
p;
If you wish me never to look at your picture again, I am content.
"No, Basil, you must tell me," murmu=
red
Dorian Gray. "I think I =
have a
right to know." His feel=
ing of
terror had passed away, and curiosity had taken its place. He was determined to find out Basi=
l Hallward's
mystery.
"Let us sit down, Dorian," said
Hallward, looking pale and pained. "Let us sit down. I will sit in the shadow, and you =
shall
sit in the sunlight. Our live=
s are
like that. Just answer me one
question. Have you noticed in the picture something that you did not like?-=
- something
that probably at first did not strike you, but that revealed itself to you
suddenly?"
"Basil!" cried the lad, clutching the
arms of his chair with trembling hands, and gazing at him with wild, startl=
ed
eyes.
"I see you did. Don't speak. Wait till you hear what I have to =
say. It
is quite true that I have worshipped you with far more romance of feeling t=
han
a man usually gives to a friend.
Somehow, I had never loved a woman.=
I suppose I never had time.
Perhaps, as [57] Harry says, a really 'grande passion' is the privil=
ege
of those who have nothing to do, and that is the use of the idle classes in=
a
country. Well, from the moment I met you, your personality had the most ext=
raordinary
influence over me. I quite ad=
mit
that I adored you madly, extravagantly, absurdly. I was jealous of every one to whom=
you
spoke. I wanted to have you a=
ll to
myself. I was only happy when=
I was
with you. When I was away fro=
m you,
you were still present in my art.
It was all wrong and foolish.
It is all wrong and foolish still.&=
nbsp;
Of course I never let you know anything about this. It would have been impossible. You would not have understood it; =
I did
not understand it myself. One=
day I
determined to paint a wonderful portrait of you. It was to have been my masterpiece=
. It is my masterpiece. But, as I worked at it, every flak=
e and
film of color seemed to me to reveal my secret. I grew afraid that the world would=
know
of my idolatry. I felt, Doria=
n,
that I had told too much. Then it was that I resolved never to allow the
picture to be exhibited. You =
were a
little annoyed; but then you did not realize all that it meant to me. Harry, to whom I talked about it,
laughed at me. But I did not =
mind
that. When the picture was fi=
nished,
and I sat alone with it, I felt that I was right. Well, after a few days the portrai=
t left
my studio, and as soon as I had got rid of the intolerable fascination of i=
ts
presence it seemed to me that I had been foolish in imagining that I had sa=
id
anything in it, more than that you were extremely good-looking and that I c=
ould
paint. Even now I cannot help
feeling that it is a mistake to think that the passion one feels in creatio=
n is
ever really shown in the work one creates.=
Art is more abstract than we fancy.=
Form and color tell us of form and color,--that is all. It often seems to me that art conc=
eals
the artist far more completely than it ever reveals him. And so when I got =
this
offer from Paris I determined to make your portrait the principal thing in =
my
exhibition. It never occurred=
to me
that you would refuse. I see =
now
that you were right. The pict=
ure
must not be shown. You must n=
ot be
angry with me, Dorian, for what I have told you. As I said to Harry, once, you are =
made
to be worshipped."
Dorian Gray drew a long breath. The color came back to his cheeks,=
and a
smile played about his lips. =
The
peril was over. He was safe f=
or the
time. Yet he could not help f=
eeling
infinite pity for the young man who had just made this strange confession to
him. He wondered if he would =
ever
be so dominated by the personality of a friend. Lord Harry had the charm of being =
very
dangerous. But that was all.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He was too clever and too cynical =
to be
really fond of. Would there ever be some one who would fill him with a stra=
nge idolatry? Was that one of the things that li=
fe had
in store?
"It is extraordinary to me, Dorian,"
said Hallward, "that you should have seen this in the picture. Did you really see it?"
"Of course I did."
"Well, you don't mind my looking at it
now?"
Dorian shook his head. "You must not ask me that,
Basil. I could not possibly l=
et you
stand in front of that picture."
"You will some day, surely?"
[58] "Never."
"Well, perhaps you are right. And now good-by, Dorian. You have been the one person in my=
life
of whom I have been really fond. I don't
suppose I shall often see you again.
You don't know what it cost me to tell you all that I have told
you."
"My dear Basil," cried Dorian,
"what have you told me? =
Simply
that you felt that you liked me too much.&=
nbsp;
That is not even a compliment."
"It was not intended as a compliment. It was a confession."
"A very disappointing one."
"Why, what did you expect, Dorian? You didn't see anything else in the
picture, did you? There was n=
othing
else to see?"
"No: there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you mustn't talk about not mee=
ting
me again, or anything of that kind.
You and I are friends, Basil, and we must always remain so."
"You have got Harry," said Hallward,
sadly.
"Oh, Harry!" cried the lad, with a
ripple of laughter. "Har=
ry
spends his days in saying what is incredible, and his evenings in doing wha=
t is
improbable. Just the sort of =
life I
would like to lead. But still=
I
don't think I would go to Harry if I was in trouble. I would sooner go to you, Basil.&q=
uot;
"But you won't sit to me again?"
"Impossible!"
"You spoil my life as an artist by refusi=
ng,
Dorian. No man comes across t=
wo
ideal things. Few come across
one."
"I can't explain it to you, Basil, but I =
must
never sit to you again. I will come and have tea with you. That will be just as pleasant.&quo=
t;
"Pleasanter for you, I am afraid,"
murmured Hallward, regretfully. "And now good-by. I am sorry you won't let me look a=
t the
picture once again. But that =
can't
be helped. I quite understand=
what
you feel about it."
As he left the room, Dorian Gray smiled to
himself. Poor Basil! how litt=
le he
knew of the true reason! And =
how
strange it was that, instead of having been forced to reveal his own secret=
, he
had succeeded, almost by chance, in wresting a secret from his friend! How =
much
that strange confession explained to him!&=
nbsp;
Basil's absurd fits of jealousy, his wild devotion, his extravagant
panegyrics, his curious reticences,--he understood them all now, and he felt
sorry. There was something tragic in a friendship so colored by romance.
He sighed, and touched the bell. The portrait must be hidden away a=
t all
costs. He could not run such =
a risk
of discovery again. It had be=
en mad
of him to have the thing remain, even for an hour, in a room to which any of
his friends had access.
[...58] When his servant entered, he looked at=
him
steadfastly, and wondered if he had thought of peering behind the screen. The man was quite impassive, and w=
aited
for his orders. Dorian lit a
cigarette, [59] and walked over to the glass and glanced into it. He could see the reflection of Vic=
tor's
face perfectly. It was like a
placid mask of servility. The=
re was
nothing to be afraid of, there. Yet
he thought it best to be on his guard.
Speaking very slowly, he told him to tell the
housekeeper that he wanted to see her, and then to go to the frame-maker's =
and
ask him to send two of his men round at once. It seemed to him that as the man l=
eft
the room he peered in the direction of the screen. Or was that only his fancy?
After a few moments, Mrs. Leaf, a dear old lad=
y in
a black silk dress, with a photograph of the late Mr. Leaf framed in a large
gold brooch at her neck, and old-fashioned thread mittens on her wrinkled h=
ands,
bustled into the room.
"Well, Master Dorian," she said,
"what can I do for you? =
I beg
your pardon, sir,"--here came a courtesy,--"I shouldn't call you
Master Dorian any more. But, =
Lord
bless you, sir, I have known you since you were a baby, and many's the trick
you've played on poor old Leaf. Not that you were not always a good boy, si=
r;
but boys will be boys, Master Dorian, and jam is a temptation to the young,
isn't it, sir?"
He laughed.&n=
bsp;
"You must always call me Master Dorian, Leaf. I will be very angry with you if you
don't. And I assure you I am =
quite
as fond of jam now as I used to be.
Only when I am asked out to tea I am never offered any. I want you to give me the key of t=
he
room at the top of the house."
"The old school-room, Master Dorian? Why, it's full of dust. I must get it arranged and put str=
aight
before you go into it. It's n=
ot fit
for you to see, Master Dorian. It
is not, indeed."
"I don't want it put straight, Leaf. I only want the key."
"Well, Master Dorian, you'll be covered w=
ith
cobwebs if you goes into it. =
Why,
it hasn't been opened for nearly five years,--not since his lordship
died."
He winced at the mention of his dead uncle's
name. He had hateful memories=
of
him. "That does not matt=
er,
Leaf," he replied. "=
;All I
want is the key."
"And here is the key, Master Dorian,"
said the old lady, after going over the contents of her bunch with tremulou=
sly
uncertain hands. "Here is the key.&nb=
sp;
I'll have it off the ring in a moment. But you don't think of living up t=
here,
Master Dorian, and you so comfortable here?"
"No, Leaf, I don't. I merely want to see the place, and
perhaps store something in it,--that is all. Thank you, Leaf. I hope your rheumatism is better; =
and
mind you send me up jam for breakfast."
Mrs. Leaf shook her head. "Them foreigners doesn't unde=
rstand
jam, Master Dorian. They call=
s it
'compot.' But I'll bring it t=
o you myself
some morning, if you lets me."
"That will be very kind of you, Leaf,&quo=
t;
he answered, looking at the key; and, having made him an elaborate courtesy,
the old lady left the room, her face wreathed in smiles. She had a strong objection to the =
French
valet. It was a poor thing, s=
he
felt, for any one to be born a foreigner.
[60] As the door closed, Dorian put the key in=
his
pocket, and looked round the room.
His eye fell on a large purple satin coverlet heavily embroidered wi=
th
gold, a splendid piece of late seventeenth- century Venetian work that his
uncle had found in a convent near Bologna.=
Yes, that would serve to wrap the dreadful thing in. It had perhaps served often as a p=
all
for the dead. Now it was to h=
ide something
that had a corruption of its own, worse than the corruption of death
itself,--something that would breed horrors and yet would never die. What the worm was to the corpse, h=
is
sins would be to the painted image on the canvas. They would mar its beauty, and eat=
away its
grace. They would defile it, =
and
make it shameful. And yet the=
thing
would still live on. It would=
be
always alive.
He shuddered, and for a moment he regretted th=
at
he had not told Basil the true reason why he had wished to hide the picture
away. Basil would have helped him to resist Lord Henry's influence, and the=
still
more poisonous influences that came from his own temperament. The love that=
he
bore him--for it was really love--had something noble and intellectual in
it. It was not that mere phys=
ical admiration
of beauty that is born of the senses, and that dies when the senses tire. It was such love as Michael Angelo=
had
known, and Montaigne, and Winckelmann, and Shakespeare himself. Yes, Basil could have saved him. But it was too late now. The past could always be
annihilated. Regret, denial, =
or
forgetfulness could do that. =
But
the future was inevitable. Th=
ere
were passions in him that would find their terrible outlet, dreams that wou=
ld
make the shadow of their evil real.
He took up from the couch the great
purple-and-gold texture that covered it, and, holding it in his hands, pass=
ed
behind the screen. Was the face on the canvas viler than before? It seemed to him that it was uncha=
nged;
and yet his loathing of it was intensified. Gold hair, blue eyes, and rose-red
lips,--they all were there. I=
t was simply
the expression that had altered.
That was horrible in its cruelty.&n=
bsp;
Compared to what he saw in it of censure or rebuke, how shallow Basi=
l's
reproaches about Sibyl Vane had been!--how shallow, and of what little
account! His own soul was loo=
king
out at him from the canvas and calling him to judgment. A look of pain came across him, an=
d he
flung the rich pall over the picture.
As he did so, a knock came to the door. He passed out as his servant enter=
ed.
"The persons are here, monsieur."
He felt that the man must be got rid of at
once. He must not be allowed =
to know
where the picture was being taken to.
There was something sly about him, and he had thoughtful, treacherous
eyes. Sitting down at the writing-table, he scribbled a note to Lord Henry,=
asking
him to send him round something to read, and reminding him that they were to
meet at eight-fifteen that evening.
"Wait for an answer," he said, handi=
ng
it to him, "and show the men in here."
In two or three minutes there was another knoc=
k,
and Mr. Ashton himself, the celebrated frame-maker of South Audley Street, =
came
in with a somewhat rough-looking young assistant. Mr. Ashton was a florid, red-whisk=
ered
little man, whose admiration for art was considerably [61] tempered by the
inveterate impecuniosity of most of the artists who dealt with him. As a rule, he never left his shop.=
He
waited for people to come to him.
But he always made an exception in favor of Dorian Gray. There was something about Dorian t=
hat charmed
everybody. It was a pleasure =
even
to see him.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Gray?" he
said, rubbing his fat freckled hands.
"I thought I would do myself the honor of coming round in perso=
n. I have just got a beauty of a fram=
e,
sir. Picked it up at a sale.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Old Florentine. Came from Fonthill, I believe. Admirably suited for a religious
picture, Mr. Gray."
"I am so sorry you have given yourself the trouble of coming round, Mr. Ashton. I will certainly drop in and look at the frame,--though I don't go in much for religious art,--but to-day I only want a picture carried to the to= p of the house for me. It is rather heavy, so I thought I would ask you to lend me a couple of your men."<= o:p>
"No trouble at all, Mr. Gray. I am delighted to be of any servic=
e to you. Which is the work of art, sir?&quo=
t;
"This," replied Dorian, moving the
screen back. "Can you mo=
ve it,
covering and all, just as it is? I
don't want it to get scratched going up-stairs."
"There will be no difficulty, sir," =
said
the genial frame-maker, beginning, with the aid of his assistant, to unhook=
the
picture from the long brass chains by which it was suspended. "And, now, where shall we car=
ry it
to, Mr. Gray?"
"I will show you the way, Mr. Ashton, if =
you
will kindly follow me. Or perhaps you had better go in front. I am afraid it is right at the top=
of
the house. We will go up by t=
he front
staircase, as it is wider."
He held the door open for them, and they passed
out into the hall and began the ascent.&nb=
sp;
The elaborate character of the frame had made the picture extremely
bulky, and now and then, in spite of the obsequious protests of Mr. Ashton,=
who
had a true tradesman's dislike of seeing a gentleman doing anything useful,
Dorian put his hand to it so as to help them.
"Something of a load to carry, sir,"
gasped the little man, when they reached the top landing. And he wiped his shiny forehead.
"A terrible load to carry," murmured Dorian, as he unlocked the door that opened into the room that was to keep = for him the curious secret of his life and hide his soul from the eyes of men.<= o:p>
He had not entered the place for more than four
years,--not, indeed, since he had used it first as a play-room when he was a
child and then as a study when he grew somewhat older. It was a large, well- proportioned=
room,
which had been specially built by the last Lord Sherard for the use of the
little nephew whom, being himself childless, and perhaps for other reasons,=
he
had always hated and desired to keep at a distance. It did not appear to Dorian to hav=
e much
changed. There was the huge I=
talian
cassone, with its fantastically-painted panels and its tarnished gilt
mouldings, in which he had so often hidden himself as a boy. There was the satinwood bookcase f=
illed
with his dog-eared school-books. On
the wall behind it was hanging the same [62] ragged Flemish tapestry where a
faded king and queen were playing chess in a garden, while a company of haw=
kers
rode by, carrying hooded birds on their gauntleted wrists. How well he recalled it all! Every moment of his lonely childho=
od
came back to him, as he looked round.
He remembered the stainless purity of his boyish life, and it seemed
horrible to him that it was here that the fatal portrait was to be hidden
away. How little he had thoug=
ht, in
those dead days, of all that was in store for him!
But there was no other place in the house so
secure from prying eyes as this. He
had the key, and no one else could enter it. Beneath its purple pall, the face
painted on the canvas could grow bestial, sodden, and unclean. What did it matter? No one could see it. He himself would not see it. Why should he watch the hideous
corruption of his soul? He ke=
pt his
youth,--that was enough. And,
besides, might not his nature grow finer, after all? There was no reason that the future
should be so full of shame. S=
ome
love might come across his life, and purify him, and shield him from those =
sins
that seemed to be already stirring in spirit and in flesh,--those curious u=
npictured
sins whose very mystery lent them their subtlety and their charm. Perhaps, some day, the cruel look =
would
have passed away from the scarlet sensitive mouth, and he might show to the
world Basil Hallward's masterpiece.
No; that was impossible. The thing upon the canvas was grow=
ing
old, hour by hour, and week by week.
Even if it escaped the hideousness of sin, the hideousness of age wa=
s in
store for it. The cheeks woul=
d become
hollow or flaccid. Yellow
crow's-feet would creep round the fading eyes and make them horrible. The hair would lose its brightness=
, the
mouth would gape or droop, would be foolish or gross, as the mouths of old =
men
are. There would be the wrink=
led
throat, the cold blue-veined hands, the twisted body, that he remembered in=
the
uncle who had been so stern to him in his boyhood. The picture had to be concealed. There was no help for it.
"Bring it in, Mr. Ashton, please," he
said, wearily, turning round. "I am sorry I kept you so long. I was thinking of something else.&=
quot;
"Always glad to have a rest, Mr. Gray,&qu=
ot;
answered the frame-maker, who was still gasping for breath. "Where shall we put it, sir?&=
quot;
"Oh, anywhere, Here, this will do. I don't want to have it hung up. J=
ust
lean it against the wall.
Thanks."
"Might one look at the work of art,
sir?"
Dorian started. "It would not interest you, M=
r.
Ashton," he said, keeping his eye on the man. He felt ready to leap upon him and=
fling
him to the ground if he dared to lift the gorgeous hanging that concealed t=
he
secret of his life. "I w=
on't
trouble you any more now. I am much obliged for your kindness in coming
round."
"Not at all, not at all, Mr. Gray. Ever ready to do anything for you,
sir." And Mr. Ashton tra=
mped
down-stairs, followed by the assistant, who glanced back at Dorian with a l=
ook
of shy wonder in his rough, uncomely face.=
He had never seen any one so marvellous.
When the sound of their footsteps had died awa=
y,
Dorian locked [63] the door, and put the key in his pocket. He felt safe now. No one would ever look on the horr=
ible
thing. No eye but his would e=
ver
see his shame.
On reaching the library he found that it was j=
ust
after five o'clock, and that the tea had been already brought up. On a little table of dark perfumed=
wood
thickly incrusted with nacre, a present from his guardian's wife, Lady Radl=
ey,
who had spent the preceding winter in Cairo, was lying a note from Lord Hen=
ry,
and beside it was a book bound in yellow paper, the cover slightly torn and=
the
edges soiled. A copy of the third edition of the St. James's Gazette had be=
en placed
on the tea-tray. It was evide=
nt
that Victor had returned. He =
wondered
if he had met the men in the hall as they were leaving the house and had wo=
rmed
out of them what they had been doing.
He would be sure to miss the picture,--had no doubt missed it alread=
y,
while he had been laying the tea-things.&n=
bsp;
The screen had not been replaced, and the blank space on the wall was
visible. Perhaps some night h=
e might
find him creeping up-stairs and trying to force the door of the room. It was a horrible thing to have a =
spy in
one's house. He had heard of =
rich
men who had been blackmailed all their lives by some servant who had read a
letter, or overheard a conversation, or picked up a card with an address, or
found beneath a pillow a withered flower or a bit of crumpled lace.
He sighed, and, having poured himself out some
tea, opened Lord Henry's note. It
was simply to say that he sent him round the evening paper, and a book that
might interest him, and that he would be at the club at eight-fifteen. He opened the St. James's languidl=
y, and
looked through it. A red
pencil-mark on the fifth page caught his eye. He read the following paragraph:
"INQUEST ON AN ACTRESS.--An inquest was h=
eld
this morning at the Bell Tavern, Hoxton Road, by Mr. Danby, the District
Coroner, on the body of Sibyl Vane, a young actress recently engaged at the
Royal Theatre, Holborn. A ver=
dict
of death by misadventure was returned. Considerable sympathy was expressed =
for
the mother of the deceased, who was greatly affected during the giving of h=
er
own evidence, and that of Dr. Birrell, who had made the post-mortem examina=
tion
of the deceased."
He frowned slightly, and, tearing the paper in
two, went across the room and flung the pieces into a gilt basket. How ugly it all was! And how horri=
bly
real ugliness made things! He=
felt
a little annoyed with Lord Henry for having sent him the account. And it was certainly stupid of him=
to
have marked it with red pencil.
Victor might have read it.
The man knew more than enough English for that.
Perhaps he had read it, and had begun to suspe=
ct
something. And, yet, what did=
it
matter? What had Dorian Gray =
to do
with Sibyl Vane's death? Ther=
e was
nothing to fear. Dorian Gray =
had
not killed her.
His eye fell on the yellow book that Lord Henry
had sent him. What was it, he
wondered. He went towards the
little pearl-colored octagonal stand, that had always looked to him like the
work of some [64] strange Egyptian bees who wrought in silver, and took the
volume up. He flung himself i=
nto an
arm-chair, and began to turn over the leaves. After a few minutes, he became
absorbed. It was the stranges=
t book
he had ever read. It seemed t=
o him
that in exquisite raiment, and to the delicate sound of flutes, the sins of=
the
world were passing in dumb show before him. Things that he had dimly dreamed o=
f were
suddenly made real to him. Th=
ings
of which he had never dreamed were gradually revealed.
It was a novel without a plot, and with only o=
ne
character, being, indeed, simply a psychological study of a certain young
Parisian, who spent his life trying to realize in the nineteenth century all
the passions and modes of thought that belonged to every century except his
own, and to sum up, as it were, in himself the various moods through which =
the
world-spirit had ever passed, loving for their mere artificiality those
renunciations that men have unwisely called virtue, as much as those natural
rebellions that wise men still call sin.&n=
bsp;
The style in which it was written was that curious jewelled style, v=
ivid
and obscure at once, full of argot and of archaisms, of technical expressio=
ns
and of elaborate paraphrases, that characterizes the work of some of the fi=
nest
artists of the French school of Décadents. There were in it metaphors as mons=
trous
as orchids, and as evil in color.
The life of the senses was described in the terms of mystical
philosophy. One hardly knew at
times whether one was reading the spiritual ecstasies of some mediaeval sai=
nt
or the morbid confessions of a modern sinner. It was a poisonous book. The heavy odor of incense seemed to
cling about its pages and to trouble the brain. The mere cadence of the sentences,=
the
subtle monotony of their music, so full as it was of complex refrains and
movements elaborately repeated, produced in the mind of the lad, as he pass=
ed
from chapter to chapter, a form of revery, a malady of dreaming, that made =
him
unconscious of the falling day and the creeping shadows.
Cloudless, and pierced by one solitary star, a
copper-green sky gleamed through the windows. He read on by its wan light till h=
e could
read no more. Then, after his=
valet
had reminded him several times of the lateness of the hour, he got up, and,
going into the next room, placed the book on the little Florentine table th=
at
always stood at his bedside, and began to dress for dinner.
It was almost nine o'clock before he reached t=
he
club, where he found Lord Henry sitting alone, in the morning-room, looking
very bored.
"I am so sorry, Harry," he cried,
"but really it is entirely your fault. That book you sent me so fascinate=
d me
that I forgot what the time was."
"I thought you would like it," repli=
ed
his host, rising from his chair.
"I didn't say I liked it, Harry. I said it fascinated me. There is a great difference."=
"Ah, if you have discovered that, you have
discovered a great deal," murmured Lord Henry, with his curious
smile. "Come, let us go =
in to dinner. It is dreadfully late, and I am af=
raid
the champagne will be too much iced."
[65] For years, Dorian Gray could not free him=
self
from the memory of this book. Or
perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he never sought to free himse=
lf
from it. He procured from Par=
is no
less than five large-paper copies of the first edition, and had them bound =
in different
colors, so that they might suit his various moods and the changing fancies =
of a
nature over which he seemed, at times, to have almost entirely lost
control. The hero, the wonder=
ful
young Parisian, in whom the romantic temperament and the scientific tempera=
ment
were so strangely blended, became to him a kind of prefiguring type of
himself. And, indeed, the who=
le
book seemed to him to contain the story of his own life, written before he =
had
lived it.
In one point he was more fortunate than the bo=
ok's
fantastic hero. He never knew--never, indeed, had any cause to know--that
somewhat grotesque dread of mirrors, and polished metal surfaces, and still=
water,
which came upon the young Parisian so early in his life, and was occasioned=
by
the sudden decay of a beauty that had once, apparently, been so
remarkable. It was with an al=
most
cruel joy--and perhaps in nearly every joy, as certainly in every pleasure,
cruelty has its place--that he used to read the latter part of the book, wi=
th its
really tragic, if somewhat over-emphasized, account of the sorrow and despa=
ir
of one who had himself lost what in others, and in the world, he had most
valued.
He, at any rate, had no cause to fear that.
He himself, on returning home from one of those
mysterious and prolonged absences that gave rise to such strange conjecture
among those who were his friends, or thought that they were so, would creep=
up-stairs
to the locked room, open the door with the key that never left him, and sta=
nd,
with a mirror, in front of the portrait that Basil Hallward had painted of =
him,
looking now at the evil and aging face on the canvas, and now at the fair y=
oung
face that laughed back at him from the polished glass. The very sharpness of the contrast=
used
to quicken his sense of pleasure.
He grew more and more enamoured of his own beauty, more and more
interested in the corruption of his own soul. He would examine with minute care,=
and often
with a monstrous and terrible delight, the hideous lines that seared the
wrinkling forehead or crawled around the heavy sensual mouth, [66] wondering
sometimes which were the more horrible, the signs of sin or the signs of
age. He would place his white=
hands
beside the coarse bloated hands of the picture, and smile. He mocked the misshapen body and t=
he
failing limbs.
There were moments, indeed, at night, when, ly=
ing
sleepless in his own delicately-scented chamber, or in the sordid room of t=
he
little ill-famed tavern near the Docks, which, under an assumed name, and i=
n disguise,
it was his habit to frequent, he would think of the ruin he had brought upon
his soul, with a pity that was all the more poignant because it was purely
selfish. But moments such as =
these
were rare. That curiosity about life that, many years before, Lord Henry ha=
d first
stirred in him, as they sat together in the garden of their friend, seemed =
to
increase with gratification. =
The more
he knew, the more he desired to know.
He had mad hungers that grew more ravenous as he fed them.
Yet he was not really reckless, at any rate in=
his
relations to society. Once or=
twice
every month during the winter, and on each Wednesday evening while the seas=
on
lasted, he would throw open to the world his beautiful house and have the m=
ost
celebrated musicians of the day to charm his guests with the wonders of the=
ir
art. His little dinners, in t=
he
settling of which Lord Henry always assisted him, were noted as much for the
careful selection and placing of those invited, as for the exquisite taste
shown in the decoration of the table, with its subtle symphonic arrangement=
s of
exotic flowers, and embroidered cloths, and antique plate of gold and silve=
r. Indeed,
there were many, especially among the very young men, who saw, or fancied t=
hat
they saw, in Dorian Gray the true realization of a type of which they had o=
ften
dreamed in Eton or Oxford days, a type that was to combine something of the
real culture of the scholar with all the grace and distinction and perfect
manner of a citizen of the world.
To them he seemed to belong to those whom Dante describes as having
sought to "make themselves perfect by the worship of beauty." Like
Gautier, he was one for whom "the visible world existed."
And, certainly, to him life itself was the fir=
st,
the greatest, of the arts, and for it all the other arts seemed to be but a=
preparation. Fashion, by which what is really
fantastic becomes for a moment universal, and Dandyism, which, in its own w=
ay,
is an attempt to assert the absolute modernity of beauty, had, of course, t=
heir
fascination for him. His mode=
of
dressing, and the particular styles that he affected from time to time, had
their marked influence on the young exquisites of the Mayfair balls and Pall
Mall club windows, who copied him in everything that he did, and tried to r=
eproduce
the accidental charm of his graceful, though to him only half-serious,
fopperies.
For, while he was but too ready to accept the =
position
that was almost immediately offered to him on his coming of age, and found,=
indeed,
a subtle pleasure in the thought that he might really become to the London =
of
his own day what to imperial Neronian Rome the author of the
"Satyricon" had once been, yet in his inmost heart he desired to =
be
something more than a mere arbiter elegantiarum, to be consulted on the wea=
ring
of a jewel, or the knotting of a necktie, or [67] the conduct of a cane.
The worship of the senses has often, and with =
much
justice, been decried, men feeling a natural instinct of terror about passi=
ons and
sensations that seem stronger than ourselves, and that we are conscious of
sharing with the less highly organized forms of existence. But it appeared to Dorian Gray tha=
t the
true nature of the senses had never been understood, and that they had rema=
ined
savage and animal merely because the world had sought to starve them into
submission or to kill them by pain, instead of aiming at making them elemen=
ts
of a new spirituality, of which a fine instinct for beauty was to be the
dominant characteristic. As he
looked back upon man moving through History, he was haunted by a feeling of
loss. So much had been surren=
dered!
and to such little purpose! T=
here
had been mad wilful rejections, monstrous forms of self-torture and self- d=
enial,
whose origin was fear, and whose result was a degradation infinitely more
terrible than that fancied degradation from which, in their ignorance, they=
had
sought to escape, Nature in her wonderful irony driving the anchorite out to
herd with the wild animals of the desert and giving to the hermit the beast=
s of
the field as his companions.
Yes, there was to be, as Lord Henry had
prophesied, a new hedonism that was to re-create life, and to save it from =
that
harsh, uncomely puritanism that is having, in our own day, its curious revi=
val. It was to have its service of the
intellect, certainly; yet it was never to accept any theory or system that
would involve the sacrifice of any mode of passionate experience. Its aim, indeed, was to be experie=
nce
itself, and not the fruits of experience, sweet or bitter as they might
be. Of the asceticism that de=
adens
the senses, as of the vulgar profligacy that dulls them, it was to know
nothing. But it was to teach =
man to
concentrate himself upon the moments of a life that is itself but a moment.=
There are few of us who have not sometimes wak=
ened
before dawn, either after one of those dreamless nights that make one almos=
t enamoured
of death, or one of those nights of horror and misshapen joy, when through =
the
chambers of the brain sweep phantoms more terrible than reality itself, and
instinct with that vivid life that lurks in all grotesques, and that lends =
to
Gothic art its enduring vitality, this art being, one might fancy, especial=
ly
the art of those whose minds have been troubled with the malady of revery. =
Gradually
white fingers creep through the curtains, and they appear to tremble. Black fantastic shadows crawl into=
the
corners of the room, and crouch there.&nbs=
p;
Outside, there is the stirring of birds among the leaves, or the sou=
nd
of men going forth to their work, or the sigh and sob of the wind coming do=
wn
from the hills, and wandering round the silent house, as though it feared to
wake the sleepers. Veil after=
veil
of thin dusky gauze is lifted, and by degrees the forms and colors of things
are restored to them, and we watch the dawn remaking the world in its antiq=
ue
pattern. The wan mirrors get =
back
their mimic life. The flamele=
ss
tapers stand where we have left them, and beside them [68] lies the half-re=
ad
book that we had been studying, or the wired flower that we had worn at the=
ball,
or the letter that we had been afraid to read, or that we had read too
often. Nothing seems to us
changed. Out of the unreal sh=
adows
of the night comes back the real life that we had known. We have to resume it where we had =
left
off, and there steals over us a terrible sense of the necessity for the
continuance of energy in the same wearisome round of stereotyped habits, or=
a
wild longing, it may be, that our eyelids might open some morning upon a wo=
rld
that had been re-fashioned anew for our pleasure in the darkness, a world i=
n which
things would have fresh shapes and colors, and be changed, or have other
secrets, a world in which the past would have little or no place, or surviv=
e,
at any rate, in no conscious form of obligation or regret, the remembrance =
even
of joy having its bitterness, and the memories of pleasure their pain.
It was the creation of such worlds as these th=
at
seemed to Dorian Gray to be the true object, or among the true objects, of =
life;
and in his search for sensations that would be at once new and delightful, =
and
possess that element of strangeness that is so essential to romance, he wou=
ld
often adopt certain modes of thought that he knew to be really alien to his
nature, abandon himself to their subtle influences, and then, having, as it
were, caught their color and satisfied his intellectual curiosity, leave th=
em
with that curious indifference that is not incompatible with a real ardor o=
f temperament,
and that indeed, according to certain modern psychologists, is often a
condition of it.
It was rumored of him once that he was about to
join the Roman Catholic communion; and certainly the Roman ritual had alway=
s a
great attraction for him. The=
daily
sacrifice, more awful really than all the sacrifices of the antique world,
stirred him as much by its superb rejection of the evidence of the senses a=
s by
the primitive simplicity of its elements and the eternal pathos of the huma=
n tragedy
that it sought to symbolize. =
He
loved to kneel down on the cold marble pavement, and with the priest, in his
stiff flowered cope, slowly and with white hands moving aside the veil of t=
he tabernacle,
and raising aloft the jewelled lantern-shaped monstrance with that pallid w=
afer
that at times, one would fain think, is indeed the "panis caelestis,&q=
uot;
the bread of angels, or, robed in the garments of the Passion of Christ,
breaking the Host into the chalice, and smiting his breast for his sins.
But he never fell into the error of arresting =
his
intellectual development by any formal acceptance of creed or system, or of=
mistaking,
for a house in which to live, an inn that is but suitable for the sojourn o=
f a
night, or for a few hours of a night in which there are no stars and the mo=
on
is in travail. Mysticism, wit=
h its marvellous
power of making common things strange to us, and the subtle antinomianism t=
hat
always seems to accompany it, moved him for a season; and for a [69] season=
he
inclined to the materialistic doctrines of the Darwinismus movement in Germ=
any,
and found a curious pleasure in tracing the thoughts and passions of men to
some pearly cell in the brain, or some white nerve in the body, delighting =
in
the conception of the absolute dependence of the spirit on certain physical
conditions, morbid or healthy, normal or diseased. Yet, as has been said of him befor=
e, no
theory of life seemed to him to be of any importance compared with life
itself. He felt keenly consci=
ous of
how barren all intellectual speculation is when separated from action and
experiment. He knew that the
senses, no less than the soul, have their mysteries to reveal.
And so he would now study perfumes, and the se=
crets
of their manufacture, distilling heavily-scented oils, and burning odorous =
gums
from the East. He saw that th=
ere
was no mood of the mind that had not its counterpart in the sensuous life, =
and
set himself to discover their true relations, wondering what there was in f=
rankincense
that made one mystical, and in ambergris that stirred one's passions, and in
violets that woke the memory of dead romances, and in musk that troubled the
brain, and in champak that stained the imagination; and seeking often to
elaborate a real psychology of perfumes, and to estimate the several influe=
nces
of sweet-smelling roots, and scented pollen-laden flowers, of aromatic balm=
s,
and of dark and fragrant woods, of spikenard that sickens, of hovenia that =
makes
men mad, and of aloes that are said to be able to expel melancholy from the
soul.
At another time he devoted himself entirely to
music, and in a long latticed room, with a vermilion-and-gold ceiling and w=
alls
of olive- green lacquer, he used to give curious concerts in which mad gyps=
ies tore
wild music from little zithers, or grave yellow-shawled Tunisians plucked at
the strained strings of monstrous lutes, while grinning negroes beat
monotonously upon copper drums, or turbaned Indians, crouching upon scarlet
mats, blew through long pipes of reed or brass, and charmed, or feigned to
charm, great hooded snakes and horrible horned adders. The harsh intervals and shrill dis=
cords
of barbaric music stirred him at times when Schubert's grace, and Chopin's
beautiful sorrows, and the mighty harmonies of Beethoven himself, fell unhe=
eded
on his ear. He collected toge=
ther
from all parts of the world the strangest instruments that could be found, =
either
in the tombs of dead nations or among the few savage tribes that have survi=
ved
contact with Western civilizations, and loved to touch and try them. He had the mysterious juruparis of=
the
Rio Negro Indians, that women are not allowed to look at, and that even you=
ths may
not see till they have been subjected to fasting and scourging, and the ear=
then
jars of the Peruvians that have the shrill cries of birds, and flutes of hu=
man
bones such as Alfonso de Ovalle heard in Chili, and the sonorous green ston=
es
that are found near Cuzco and give forth a note of singular sweetness. He had painted gourds filled with
pebbles that rattled when they were shaken; the long clarin of the Mexicans,
into which the performer does not blow, but through which he inhales the ai=
r;
the harsh turé of the Amazon tribes, that is sounded by the sentinels
who sit all day long in trees, and that can be heard, it is said, at a dist=
ance
of three leagues; the teponaztli, that [70] has two vibrating tongues of wo=
od, and
is beaten with sticks that are smeared with an elastic gum obtained from the
milky juice of plants; the yotl-bells of the Aztecs, that are hung in clust=
ers
like grapes; and a huge cylindrical drum, covered with the skins of great
serpents, like the one that Bernal Diaz saw when he went with Cortes into t=
he
Mexican temple, and of whose doleful sound he has left us so vivid a
description. The fantastic
character of these instruments fascinated him, and he felt a curious deligh=
t in
the thought that Art, like Nature, has her monsters, things of bestial shape
and with hideous voices. Yet,=
after
some time, he wearied of them, and would sit in his box at the Opera, either
alone or with Lord Henry, listening in rapt pleasure to "Tannhäus=
er,"
and seeing in that great work of art a presentation of the tragedy of his o=
wn
soul.
On another occasion he took up the study of
jewels, and appeared at a costume ball as Anne de Joyeuse, Admiral of Franc=
e,
in a dress covered with five hundred and sixty pearls. He would often spend a whole day
settling and resettling in their cases the various stones that he had
collected, such as the olive-green chrysoberyl that turns red by lamplight,=
the
cymophane with its wire-like line of silver, the pistachio-colored peridot,
rose-pink and wine-yellow topazes, carbuncles of fiery scarlet with tremulo=
us
four-rayed stars, flame- red cinnamon-stones, orange and violet spinels, and
amethysts with their alternate layers of ruby and sapphire. He loved the red gold of the sunst=
one,
and the moonstone's pearly whiteness, and the broken rainbow of the milky
opal. He procured from Amster=
dam
three emeralds of extraordinary size and richness of color, and had a turqu=
oise
de la vieille roche that was the envy of all the connoisseurs.
He discovered wonderful stories, also, about
jewels. In Alphonso's "C=
lericalis
Disciplina" a serpent was mentioned with eyes of real jacinth, and in =
the
romantic history of Alexander he was said to have found snakes in the vale =
of
Jordan "with collars of real emeralds growing on their backs."
The King of Ceilan rode through his city with a
large ruby in his hand, as the ceremony of his coronation. The gates of the palace of John the
Priest were "made of sardius, with the horn of the horned [71] snake
inwrought, so that no man might bring poison within." Over the gable w=
ere
"two golden apples, in which were two carbuncles," so that the go=
ld
might shine by day, and the carbuncles by night. In Lodge's strange romance "A
Margarite of America" it was stated that in the chamber of Margarite w=
ere
seen "all the chaste ladies of the world, inchased out of silver, look=
ing
through fair mirrours of chrysolites, carbuncles, sapphires, and greene eme=
raults." Marco Polo had watched the inhabit=
ants
of Zipangu place a rose-colored pearl in the mouth of the dead. A sea-monster had been enamoured o=
f the
pearl that the diver brought to King Perozes, and had slain the thief, and
mourned for seven moons over his loss. When the Huns lured the king into the
great pit, he flung it away,-- Procopius tells the story,--nor was it ever
found again, though the Emperor Anastasius offered five hundred-weight of g=
old
pieces for it. The King of Malabar had shown a Venetian a rosary of one hun=
dred
and four pearls, one for every god that he worshipped.
When the Duke de Valentinois, son of Alexander
VI., visited Louis XII. of France, his horse was loaded with gold leaves,
according to Brantôme, and his cap had double rows of rubies that thr=
ew
out a great light. Charles of
England had ridden in stirrups hung with three hundred and twenty-one
diamonds. Richard II. had a c=
oat, valued
at thirty thousand marks, which was covered with balas rubies. Hall describ=
ed
Henry VIII., on his way to the Tower previous to his coronation, as wearing
"a jacket of raised gold, the placard embroidered with diamonds and ot=
her
rich stones, and a great bauderike about his neck of large balasses."<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The favorites of James I. wore ear=
-rings
of emeralds set in gold filigrane.
Edward II. gave to Piers Gaveston a suit of red-gold armor studded w=
ith
jacinths, and a collar of gold roses set with turquoise-stones, and a skull=
-cap
parsemé with pearls. H=
enry
II. wore jewelled gloves reaching to the elbow, and had a hawk-glove set wi=
th
twelve rubies and fifty-two great pearls.&=
nbsp;
The ducal hat of Charles the Rash, the last Duke of Burgundy of his
race, was studded with sapphires and hung with pear- shaped pearls.
How exquisite life had once been! How gorgeous in its pomp and decor=
ation! Even to read of the luxury of the =
dead
was wonderful.
Then he turned his attention to embroideries, =
and
to the tapestries that performed the office of frescos in the chill rooms o=
f the
Northern nations of Europe. A=
s he
investigated the subject,--and he always had an extraordinary faculty of
becoming absolutely absorbed for the moment in whatever he took up,--he was
almost saddened by the reflection of the ruin that time brought on beautiful
and wonderful things. He, at =
any
rate, had escaped that. Summer
followed summer, and the yellow jonquils bloomed and died many times, and
nights of horror repeated the story of their shame, but he was unchanged. No winter marred his face or stain=
ed his
flower-like bloom. How differ=
ent it
was with material things! Whe=
re had
they gone to? Where was the great crocus-colored robe, on which the gods fo=
ught
against the giants, that had been worked for Athena? Where the huge velarium that Nero =
had stretched
across the Colosseum at Rome, on which were represented the starry sky, and
Apollo driving a chariot drawn by [72] white gilt-reined steeds? He longed to see the curious table=
-napkins
wrought for Elagabalus, on which were displayed all the dainties and viands
that could be wanted for a feast; the mortuary cloth of King Chilperic, with
its three hundred golden bees; the fantastic robes that excited the indigna=
tion
of the Bishop of Pontus, and were figured with "lions, panthers, bears,
dogs, forests, rocks, hunters,--all, in fact, that a painter can copy from
nature;" and the coat that Charles of Orleans once wore, on the sleeve=
s of
which were embroidered the verses of a song beginning "Madame, je suis
tout joyeux," the musical accompaniment of the words being wrought in =
gold
thread, and each note, a square shape in those days, formed with four pearl=
s. He read of the room that was prepa=
red at
the palace at Rheims for the use of Queen Joan of Burgundy, and was decorat=
ed
with "thirteen hundred and twenty-one parrots, made in broidery, and b=
lazoned
with the king's arms, and five hundred and sixty-one butterflies, whose win=
gs
were similarly ornamented with the arms of the queen, the whole worked in
gold." Catherine de
Médicis had a mourning-bed made for her of black velvet powdered with
crescents and suns. Its curta=
ins
were of damask, with leafy wreaths and garlands, figured upon a gold and si=
lver
ground, and fringed along the edges with broideries of pearls, and it stood=
in
a room hung with rows of the queen's devices in cut black velvet upon cloth=
of
silver. Louis XIV. had
gold-embroidered caryatides fifteen feet high in his apartment. The state bed of Sobieski, King of
Poland, was made of Smyrna gold brocade embroidered in turquoises with vers=
es
from the Koran. Its supports =
were
of silver gilt, beautifully chased, and profusely set with enamelled and
jewelled medallions. It had b=
een taken
from the Turkish camp before Vienna, and the standard of Mohammed had stood
under it.
And so, for a whole year, he sought to accumul=
ate
the most exquisite specimens that he could find of textile and embroidered
work, getting the dainty Delhi muslins, finely wrought, with gold-threat
palmates, and stitched over with iridescent beetles' wings; the Dacca gauze=
s, that
from their transparency are known in the East as "woven air," and
"running water," and "evening dew;" strange figured clo=
ths
from Java; elaborate yellow Chinese hangings; books bound in tawny satins or
fair blue silks and wrought with fleurs de lys, birds, and images; veils of
lacis worked in Hungary point; Sicilian brocades, and stiff Spanish velvets;
Georgian work with its gilt coins, and Japanese Foukousas with their
green-toned golds and their marvellously- plumaged birds.
He had a special passion, also, for ecclesiast=
ical
vestments, as indeed he had for everything connected with the service of th=
e Church. In the long cedar chests that line=
d the
west gallery of his house he had stored away many rare and beautiful specim=
ens
of what is really the raiment of the Bride of Christ, who must wear purple =
and jewels
and fine linen that she may hide the pallid macerated body that is worn by =
the
suffering that she seeks for, and wounded by self-inflicted pain. He had a gorgeous cope of crimson =
silk
and gold-thread damask, figured with a repeating pattern of golden pomegran=
ates
set in six-petalled formal blossoms, beyond which on either side was the pi=
ne-
[73] apple device wrought in seed-pearls. The orphreys were divided into pa=
nels
representing scenes from the life of the Virgin, and the coronation of the
Virgin was figured in colored silks upon the hood. This was Italian work of the fifte=
enth century. Another cope was of green velvet,
embroidered with heart- shaped groups of acanthus-leaves, from which spread=
long-stemmed
white blossoms, the details of which were picked out with silver thread and
colored crystals. The morse b=
ore a
seraph's head in gold- thread raised work.=
The orphreys were woven in a diaper of red and gold silk, and were
starred with medallions of many saints and martyrs, among whom was St.
Sebastian. He had chasubles, =
also,
of amber-colored silk, and blue silk and gold brocade, and yellow silk dama=
sk
and cloth of gold, figured with representations of the Passion and Crucifix=
ion
of Christ, and embroidered with lions and peacocks and other emblems; dalma=
tics
of white satin and pink silk damask, decorated with tulips and dolphins and
fleurs de lys; altar frontals of crimson velvet and blue linen; and many
corporals, chalice-veils, and sudaria.&nbs=
p;
In the mystic offices to which these things were put there was somet=
hing
that quickened his imagination.
For these things, and everything that he colle=
cted
in his lovely house, were to be to him means of forgetfulness, modes by whi=
ch
he could escape, for a season, from the fear that seemed to him at times to=
be
almost too great to be borne. Upon
the walls of the lonely locked room where he had spent so much of his boyho=
od,
he had hung with his own hands the terrible portrait whose changing feature=
s showed
him the real degradation of his life, and had draped the purple-and-gold pa=
ll
in front of it as a curtain. =
For
weeks he would not go there, would forget the hideous painted thing, and get
back his light heart, his wonderful joyousness, his passionate pleasure in =
mere
existence. Then, suddenly, so=
me
night he would creep out of the house, go down to dreadful places near Blue
Gate Fields, and stay there, day after day, until he was driven away. On his return he would sit in fron=
t of
the picture, sometimes loathing it and himself, but filled, at other times,
with that pride of rebellion that is half the fascination of sin, and smili=
ng,
with secret pleasure, at the misshapen shadow that had to bear the burden t=
hat
should have been his own.
After a few years he could not endure to be lo=
ng
out of England, and gave up the villa that he had shared at Trouville with =
Lord
Henry, as well as the little white walled-in house at Algiers where he had =
more
than once spent his winter. He
hated to be separated from the picture that was such a part of his life, an=
d he
was also afraid that during his absence some one might gain access to the r=
oom,
in spite of the elaborate bolts and bars that he had caused to be placed up=
on the
door.
He was quite conscious that this would tell th=
em
nothing. It was true that the
portrait still preserved, under all the foulness and ugliness of the face, =
its
marked likeness to himself; but what could they learn from that? He would laugh at any one who trie=
d to
taunt him. He had not painted=
it. What was it to him how vile and fu=
ll of shame
it looked? Even if he told th=
em,
would they believe it?
Yet he was afraid. Sometimes when he was down at his =
great
[74] house in Nottinghamshire, entertaining the fashionable young men of his
own rank who were his chief companions, and astounding the county by the wa=
nton
luxury and gorgeous splendor of his mode of life, he would suddenly leave h=
is
guests and rush back to town to see that the door had not been tampered with
and that the picture was still there. What if it should be stolen? The mere thought made him cold wit=
h horror. Surely the world would know his se=
cret
then. Perhaps the world alrea=
dy
suspected it.
For, while he fascinated many, there were not a
few who distrusted him. He was
blackballed at a West End club of which his birth and social position fully
entitled him to become a member, and on one occasion, when he was brought b=
y a
friend into the smoking-room of the Carlton, the Duke of Berwick and another
gentleman got up in a marked manner and went out. Curious stories became current abo=
ut him
after he had passed his twenty-fifth year.=
It was said that he had been seen brawling with foreign sailors in a=
low
den in the distant parts of Whitechapel, and that he consorted with thieves=
and
coiners and knew the mysteries of their trade. His extraordinary absences became
notorious, and, when he used to reappear again in society, men would whispe=
r to
each other in corners, or pass him with a sneer, or look at him with cold
searching eyes, as if they were determined to discover his secret.
Of such insolences and attempted slights he, of
course, took no notice, and in the opinion of most people his frank debonair
manner, his charming boyish smile, and the infinite grace of that wonderful=
youth
that seemed never to leave him, were in themselves a sufficient answer to t=
he
calumnies (for so they called them) that were circulated about him. It was remarked, however, that tho=
se who
had been most intimate with him appeared, after a time, to shun him. Of all his friends, or so-called
friends, Lord Henry Wotton was the only one who remained loyal to him. Women who had wildly adored him, a=
nd for
his sake had braved all social censure and set convention at defiance, were
seen to grow pallid with shame or horror if Dorian Gray entered the room.
Yet these whispered scandals only lent him, in=
the
eyes of many, his strange and dangerous charm. His great wealth was a certain ele=
ment of
security. Society, civilized
society at least, is never very ready to believe anything to the detriment =
of
those who are both rich and charming.
It feels instinctively that manners are of more importance than mora=
ls,
and the highest respectability is of less value in its opinion than the
possession of a good chef. An=
d,
after all, it is a very poor consolation to be told that the man who has gi=
ven
one a bad dinner, or poor wine, is irreproachable in his private life. Even the cardinal virtues cannot a=
tone
for cold entrées, as Lord Henry remarked once, in a discussion on th=
e subject;
and there is possibly a good deal to be said for his view. For the canons of good society are=
, or
should be, the same as the canons of art.&=
nbsp;
Form is absolutely essential to it.=
It should have the dignity of a ceremony, as well as its unreality, =
and
should combine the insincere character of a romantic play with the wit and
beauty that make such plays charming.
Is insincerity such a [75] terrible thing? I think not. It is merely a method by which we =
can
multiply our personalities.
Such, at any rate, was Dorian Gray's opinion.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He used to wonder at the shallow
psychology of those who conceive the Ego in man as a thing simple, permanen=
t,
reliable, and of one essence. To
him, man was a being with myriad lives and myriad sensations, a complex mul=
tiform
creature that bore within itself strange legacies of thought and passion, a=
nd
whose very flesh was tainted with the monstrous maladies of the dead. He loved to stroll through the gau=
nt cold
picture-gallery of his country-house and look at the various portraits of t=
hose
whose blood flowed in his veins.
Here was Philip Herbert, described by Francis Osborne, in his
"Memoires on the Reigns of Queen Elizabeth and King James," as one
who was "caressed by the court for his handsome face, which kept him n=
ot long
company." Was it young
Herbert's life that he sometimes led?
Had some strange poisonous germ crept from body to body till it had
reached his own? Was it some dim sense of that ruined grace that had made h=
im
so suddenly, and almost without cause, give utterance, in Basil Hallward's
studio, to that mad prayer that had so changed his life? Here, in
gold-embroidered red doublet, jewelled surcoat, and gilt- edged ruff and
wrist-bands, stood Sir Anthony Sherard, with his silver-and-black armor pil=
ed
at his feet. What had this ma=
n's
legacy been? Had the lover of
Giovanna of Naples bequeathed him some inheritance of sin and shame? Were his own actions merely the dr=
eams that
the dead man had not dared to realize?&nbs=
p;
Here, from the fading canvas, smiled Lady Elizabeth Devereux, in her
gauze hood, pearl stomacher, and pink slashed sleeves. A flower was in her right hand, an=
d her
left clasped an enamelled collar of white and damask roses. On a table by h=
er
side lay a mandolin and an apple.
There were large green rosettes upon her little pointed shoes. He knew her life, and the strange
stories that were told about her lovers.&n=
bsp;
Had he something of her temperament in him? Those oval heavy-lidded eyes seeme=
d to
look curiously at him. What of
George Willoughby, with his powdered hair and fantastic patches? How evil he looked! The face was saturnine and swarthy=
, and
the sensual lips seemed to be twisted with disdain. Delicate lace ruffles fell over th=
e lean
yellow hands that were so overladen with rings. He had been a macaroni of the eigh=
teenth
century, and the friend, in his youth, of Lord Ferrars. What of the second =
Lord
Sherard, the companion of the Prince Regent in his wildest days, and one of=
the
witnesses at the secret marriage with Mrs. Fitzherbert? How proud and handsome he was, wit=
h his chestnut
curls and insolent pose! What
passions had he bequeathed? The world had looked upon him as infamous. He had led the orgies at Carlton
House. The star of the Garter
glittered upon his breast. Beside him hung the portrait of his wife, a pall=
id,
thin-lipped woman in black. H=
er
blood, also, stirred within him.
How curious it all seemed!
Yet one had ancestors in literature, as well a=
s in
one's own race, nearer perhaps in type and temperament, many of them, and c=
ertainly
with an influence of which one was more absolutely conscious. There [76] were times when it seem=
ed to
Dorian Gray that the whole of history was merely the record of his own life,
not as he had lived it in act and circumstance, but as his imagination had
created it for him, as it had been in his brain and in his passions. He felt that he had known them all,
those strange terrible figures that had passed across the stage of the world
and made sin so marvellous and evil so full of wonder. It seemed to him that in some myst=
erious
way their lives had been his own.
The hero of the dangerous novel that had so
influenced his life had himself had this curious fancy. In a chapter of the book he tells =
how,
crowned with laurel, lest lightning might strike him, he had sat, as Tiberi=
us,
in a garden at Capri, reading the shameful books of Elephantis, while dwarfs
and peacocks strutted round him and the flute-player mocked the swinger of =
the
censer; and, as Caligula, had caroused with the green-shirted jockeys in th=
eir
stables, and supped in an ivory manger with a jewel-frontleted horse; and, =
as
Domitian, had wandered through a corridor lined with marble mirrors, lookin=
g round
with haggard eyes for the reflection of the dagger that was to end his days,
and sick with that ennui, that taedium vitae, that comes on those to whom l=
ife
denies nothing; and had peered through a clear emerald at the red shambles =
of
the Circus, and then, in a litter of pearl and purple drawn by silver-shod
mules, been carried through the Street of Pomegranates to a House of Gold, =
and
heard men cry on Nero Caesar as he passed by; and, as Elagabalus, had paint=
ed his
face with colors, and plied the distaff among the women, and brought the Mo=
on
from Carthage, and given her in mystic marriage to the Sun.
Over and over again Dorian used to read this
fantastic chapter, and the chapter immediately following, in which the hero
describes the curious tapestries that he had had woven for him from Gustave=
Moreau's
designs, and on which were pictured the awful and beautiful forms of those =
whom
Vice and Blood and Weariness had made monstrous or mad: Filippo, Duke of Mi=
lan,
who slew his wife, and painted her lips with a scarlet poison; Pietro Barbi,
the Venetian, known as Paul the Second, who sought in his vanity to assume =
the
title of Formosus, and whose tiara, valued at two hundred thousand florins,=
was
bought at the price of a terrible sin; Gian Maria Visconti, who used hounds=
to
chase living men, and whose murdered body was covered with roses by a harlo=
t who
had loved him; the Borgia on his white horse, with Fratricide riding beside
him, and his mantle stained with the blood of Perotto; Pietro Riario, the y=
oung
Cardinal Archbishop of Florence, child and minion of Sixtus IV., whose beau=
ty
was equalled only by his debauchery, and who received Leonora of Aragon in a
pavilion of white and crimson silk, filled with nymphs and centaurs, and gi=
lded
a boy that he might serve her at the feast as Ganymede or Hylas; Ezzelin, w=
hose
melancholy could be cured only by the spectacle of death, and who had a pas=
sion
for red blood, as other men have for red wine,--the son of the Fiend, as was
reported, and one who had cheated his father at dice when gambling with him=
for
his own soul; Giambattista Cibo, who in mockery took the name of Innocent, =
and
into whose torpid veins the blood of three lads was infused by a [77] Jewish
doctor; Sigismondo Malatesta, the lover of Isotta, and the lord of Rimini, =
whose
effigy was burned at Rome as the enemy of God and man, who strangled Polyss=
ena
with a napkin, and gave poison to Ginevra d'Este in a cup of emerald, and in
honor of a shameful passion built a pagan church for Christian worship; Cha=
rles
VI., who had so wildly adored his brother's wife that a leper had warned hi=
m of
the insanity that was coming on him, and who could only be soothed by Sarac=
en
cards painted with the images of Love and Death and Madness; and, in his tr=
immed
jerkin and jewelled cap and acanthus-like curls, Grifonetto Baglioni, who s=
lew
Astorre with his bride, and Simonetto with his page, and whose comeliness w=
as
such that, as he lay dying in the yellow piazza of Perugia, those who had h=
ated
him could not choose but weep, and Atalanta, who had cursed him, blessed hi=
m.
There was a horrible fascination in them all.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He saw them at night, and they tro=
ubled
his imagination in the day. T=
he
Renaissance knew of strange manners of poisoning,--poisoning by a helmet an=
d a
lighted torch, by an embroidered glove and a jewelled fan, by a gilded poma=
nder
and by an amber chain. Dorian=
Gray
had been poisoned by a book. =
There
were moments when he looked on evil simply as a mode through which he could
realize his conception of the beautiful.
[...77] It was on the 7th of November, the eve=
of
his own thirty- second birthday, as he often remembered afterwards.
He was walking home about eleven o'clock from =
Lord
Henry's, where he had been dining, and was wrapped in heavy furs, as the ni=
ght
was cold and foggy. At the co=
rner
of Grosvenor Square and South Audley Street a man passed him in the mist,
walking very fast, and with the collar of his gray ulster turned up. He had a bag in his hand. He recognized him. It was Basil Hallward. A strange sense of fear, for which=
he
could not account, came over him.
He made no sign of recognition, and went on slowly, in the direction=
of
his own house.
But Hallward had seen him. Dorian heard him first stopping, a=
nd
then hurrying after him. In a=
few
moments his hand was on his arm.
"Dorian!=
What an extraordinary piece of luck! I have been waiting for you ever s=
ince
nine o'clock in your library.
Finally I took pity on your tired servant, and told him to go to bed=
, as
he let me out. I am off to Paris by the midnight train, and I wanted
particularly to see you before I left.&nbs=
p;
I thought it was you, or rather your fur coat, as you passed me. But I wasn't quite sure. Didn't you recognize me?"
"In this fog, my dear Basil? Why, I can't even recognize Grosve=
nor Square. I believe my house is somewhere ab=
out
here, but I don't feel at all certain about it. I am sorry you are going away, as =
I have
not seen you for ages. But I
suppose you will be back soon?"
"No: I am going to be out of England for =
six
months. I intend [78] to take=
a
studio in Paris, and shut myself up till I have finished a great picture I =
have
in my head. However, it wasn't
about myself I wanted to talk. Here
we are at your door. Let me c=
ome in
for a moment. I have somethin=
g to
say to you."
"I shall be charmed. But won't you miss your train?&quo=
t;
said Dorian Gray, languidly, as he passed up the steps and opened the door =
with
his latch-key.
The lamp-light struggled out through the fog, =
and
Hallward looked at his watch.
"I have heaps of time," he answered. "The train doesn't go till
twelve-fifteen, and it is only just eleven. In fact, I was on my way to the cl=
ub to
look for you, when I met you. You
see, I shan't have any delay about luggage, as I have sent on my heavy thin=
gs. All I have with me is in this bag,=
and I
can easily get to Victoria in twenty minutes."
Dorian looked at him and smiled. "What a way for a fashionable=
painter
to travel! A Gladstone bag, a=
nd an
ulster! Come in, or the fog w=
ill
get into the house. And mind =
you
don't talk about anything serious.
Nothing is serious nowadays.
At least nothing should be."
Hallward shook his head, as he entered, and
followed Dorian into the library.
There was a bright wood fire blazing in the large open hearth. The lamps were lit, and an open Du=
tch
silver spirit-case stood, with some siphons of soda-water and large cut-gla=
ss
tumblers, on a little table.
"You see your servant made me quite at ho=
me,
Dorian. He gave me everything=
I
wanted, including your best cigarettes.&nb=
sp;
He is a most hospitable creature.&n=
bsp;
I like him much better than the Frenchman you used to have. What has become of the Frenchman, =
by the
bye?"
Dorian shrugged his shoulders. "I believe he married Lady As=
hton's
maid, and has established her in Paris as an English dressmaker. Anglomanie=
is
very fashionable over there now, I hear.&n=
bsp;
It seems silly of the French, doesn't it? But--do you know?--he was not at a=
ll a
bad servant. I never liked hi=
m, but
I had nothing to complain about.
One often imagines things that are quite absurd. He was really very devoted to me, =
and
seemed quite sorry when he went away. Have another brandy-and-soda? Or would you like hock-and-seltzer=
? I always take hock-and-seltzer
myself. There is sure to be s=
ome in
the next room."
"Thanks, I won't have anything more,"
said Hallward, taking his cap and coat off, and throwing them on the bag th=
at
he had placed in the corner.
"And now, my dear fellow, I want to speak to you seriously. Don=
't
frown like that. You make it =
so
much more difficult for me."
"What is it all about?" cried Dorian=
, in
his petulant way, flinging himself down on the sofa. "I hope it is not about
myself. I am tired of myself
to-night. I should like to be
somebody else."
"It is about yourself," answered
Hallward, in his grave, deep voice, "and I must say it to you. I shall only keep you half an
hour."
Dorian sighed, and lit a cigarette. "Half an hour!" he murmu=
red.
[79] "It is not much to ask of you, Doria=
n,
and it is entirely for your own sake that I am speaking. I think it right that you should k=
now
that the most dreadful things are being said about you in London,--things t=
hat
I could hardly repeat to you."
"I don't wish to know anything about
them. I love scandals about o=
ther
people, but scandals about myself don't interest me. They have not got the charm of
novelty."
"They must interest you, Dorian. Every gentleman is interested in h=
is
good name. You don't want peo=
ple to
talk of you as something vile and degraded. Of course you have your position, =
and
your wealth, and all that kind of thing.&n=
bsp;
But position and wealth are not everything. Mind you, I don't believe these ru=
mors
at all. At least, I can't bel=
ieve
them when I see you. Sin is a=
thing
that writes itself across a man's face.&nb=
sp;
It cannot be concealed.
People talk of secret vices.
There are no such things as secret vices. If a wretched man has a vice, it s=
hows
itself in the lines of his mouth, the droop of his eyelids, the moulding of=
his
hands even. Somebody-- I won't
mention his name, but you know him--came to me last year to have his portra=
it
done. I had never seen him be=
fore,
and had never heard anything about him at the time, though I have heard a g=
ood
deal since. He offered an
extravagant price. I refused
him. There was something in t=
he
shape of his fingers that I hated.
I know now that I was quite right in what I fancied about him. His life is dreadful. But you, Dor=
ian,
with your pure, bright, innocent face, and your marvellous untroubled youth=
,--I
can't believe anything against you. And yet I see you very seldom, and you
never come down to the studio now, and when I am away from you, and I hear =
all
these hideous things that people are whispering about you, I don't know wha=
t to
say. Why is it, Dorian, that =
a man
like the Duke of Berwick leaves the room of a club when you enter it? Why is it that so many gentlemen in
London will neither go to your house nor invite you to theirs? You used to be a friend of Lord
Cawdor. I met him at dinner l=
ast
week. Your name happened to c=
ome up
in conversation, in connection with the miniatures you have lent to the
exhibition at the Dudley. Caw=
dor curled
his lip, and said that you might have the most artistic tastes, but that you
were a man whom no pure-minded girl should be allowed to know, and whom no
chaste woman should sit in the same room with. I reminded him that I was a friend=
of
yours, and asked him what he meant.
He told me. He told me=
right
out before everybody. It was horrible!&nbs=
p;
Why is your friendship so fateful to young men? There was that wretc=
hed
boy in the Guards who committed suicide.&n=
bsp;
You were his great friend.
There was Sir Henry Ashton, who had to leave England, with a tarnish=
ed
name. You and he were
inseparable. What about Adrian
Singleton, and his dreadful end?
What about Lord Kent's only son, and his career? I met his father yesterday in St. =
James Street. He seemed broken with shame and
sorrow. What about the young =
Duke
of Perth? What sort of life h=
as he
got now? What gentleman would
associate with him? Dorian, D=
orian,
your reputation is infamous. =
I know
you and Harry are great friends. I
say nothing about that now, but [80] surely you need not have made his sist=
er's
name a by-word. When you met =
Lady
Gwendolen, not a breath of scandal had ever touched her. Is there a single decent woman in =
London
now who would drive with her in the Park?&=
nbsp;
Why, even her children are not allowed to live with her. Then there are other stories,--sto=
ries that
you have been seen creeping at dawn out of dreadful houses and slinking in
disguise into the foulest dens in London.&=
nbsp;
Are they true? Can they be true?&nb=
sp;
When I first heard them, I laughed.=
I hear them now, and they make me shudder. What about your country-house, and=
the
life that is led there? Doria=
n, you
don't know what is said about you.
I won't tell you that I don't want to preach to you. I remember Harry saying once that =
every
man who turned himself into an amateur curate for the moment always said th=
at,
and then broke his word. I do=
want
to preach to you. I want you =
to
lead such a life as will make the world respect you. I want you to have a clean name an=
d a
fair record. I want you to ge=
t rid
of the dreadful people you associate with.=
Don't shrug your shoulders like that. Don't be so indifferent. You have a wonderful influence.
"To see my soul!" muttered Dorian Gr=
ay,
starting up from the sofa and turning almost white from fear.
"Yes," answered Hallward, gravely, a=
nd
with infinite sorrow in his voice,--"to see your soul. But only God can do that."
A bitter laugh of mockery broke from the lips =
of
the younger man. "You shall see it yourself, to-night!" he cried,
seizing a lamp from the table.
"Come: it is your own handiwork. Why shouldn't you look at it? You can tell the world all about it
afterwards, if you choose. No=
body
would believe you. If they did
believe you, they'd like me all the better for it. I know the age better than you do,=
though
you will prate about it so tediously.
Come, I tell you. You =
have
chattered enough about corruption.
Now you shall look on it face to face."
There was the madness of pride in every word he
uttered. He stamped his foot =
upon
the ground in his boyish insolent manner.&=
nbsp;
He felt a terrible joy at the thought that some one else was to share
his secret, and that the man who had painted the portrait that was the orig=
in
of all his shame was to be burdened for the rest of his life with the hideo=
us
memory of what he had done.
"Yes," he continued, coming closer to
him, and looking steadfastly into his stern eyes, "I will show you my
soul. You shall see the thing=
that
you fancy only God can see."
[81] Hallward started back. "This is blasphemy, Dorian!&q=
uot;
he cried. "You must not say things like that. They are horrible, and they don't =
mean
anything."
"You think so?" He laughed again.
"I know so. As for what I said to you to-night=
, I
said it for your good. You kn=
ow I
have been always devoted to you."
"Don't touch me. Finish what you have to say."=
A twisted flash of pain shot across Hallward's
face. He paused for a moment,=
and a
wild feeling of pity came over him.
After all, what right had he to pry into the life of Dorian Gray?
"I am waiting, Basil," said the young
man, in a hard, clear voice.
He turned round. "What I have to say is this,&=
quot;
he cried. "You must give=
me
some answer to these horrible charges that are made against you. If you tell me that they are absol=
utely
untrue from beginning to end, I will believe you. Deny them, Dorian, deny them! Can't you see what I am going
through? My God! don't tell m=
e that
you are infamous!"
Dorian Gray smiled. There was a curl of contempt in hi=
s lips. "Come up-stairs, Basil,"=
he
said, quietly. "I keep a=
diary
of my life from day to day, and it never leaves the room in which it is
written. I will show it to yo=
u if
you come with me."
"I will come with you, Dorian, if you wish
it. I see I have missed my
train. That makes no matter.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I can go to-morrow. But don't ask me to read anything
to-night. All I want is a pla=
in
answer to my question."
"That will be given to you up-stairs. I could not give it here. You won't have to read long. Don't keep me waiting."
[...81] He passed out of the room, and began t=
he
ascent, Basil Hallward following close behind. They walked softly, as men instinc=
tively
do at night. The lamp cast
fantastic shadows on the wall and staircase. A rising wind made some of the win=
dows
rattle.
When they reached the top landing, Dorian set =
the
lamp down on the floor, and taking out the key turned it in the lock. "You insist on knowing,
Basil?" he asked, in a low voice.
"Yes."
"I am delighted," he murmured, smili=
ng. Then he added, somewhat bitterly,
"You are the one man in the world who is entitled to know everything a=
bout
me. You have had more to do w=
ith my
life than you think." An=
d,
taking up the lamp, he opened the door and went in. A cold current of air passed them,=
and
the light shot up for a moment in a flame of murky orange. He shuddered. "Shut the door behind you,&qu=
ot; he
said, as he placed the lamp on the table.
[82] Hallward glanced round him, with a puzzled
expression. The room looked a=
s if
it had not been lived in for years.
A faded Flemish tapestry, a curtained picture, an old Italian casson=
e,
and an almost empty bookcase,--that was all that it seemed to contain, besi=
des
a chair and a table. As Doria=
n Gray
was lighting a half-burned candle that was standing on the mantel-shelf, he=
saw
that the whole place was covered with dust, and that the carpet was in
holes. A mouse ran scuffling =
behind
the wainscoting. There was a =
damp
odor of mildew.
"So you think that it is only God who sees
the soul, Basil? Draw that cu=
rtain
back, and you will see mine."
The voice that spoke was cold and cruel. "You are mad, Dorian, or play=
ing a
part," muttered Hallward, frowning.
"You won't? Then I must do it myself," sa=
id the
young man; and he tore the curtain from its rod, and flung it on the ground=
.
An exclamation of horror broke from Hallward's
lips as he saw in the dim light the hideous thing on the canvas leering at
him. There was something in i=
ts
expression that filled him with disgust and loathing. Good heavens! it was Dorian Gray's=
own
face that he was looking at! =
The
horror, whatever it was, had not yet entirely marred that marvellous
beauty. There was still some =
gold
in the thinning hair and some scarlet on the sensual lips. The sodden eyes had kept something=
of
the loveliness of their blue, the noble curves had not yet passed entirely =
away
from chiselled nostrils and from plastic throat. Yes, it was Dorian himself. But who had done it? He seemed to recognize his own
brush-work, and the frame was his own design. The idea was monstrous, yet he
felt afraid. He seized the li=
ghted candle,
and held it to the picture. I=
n the
left-hand corner was his own name, traced in long letters of bright vermili=
on.
It was some foul parody, some infamous, ignobl=
e satire. He had never done that. Still, it was his own picture. He knew it, and he felt as if his =
blood
had changed from fire to sluggish ice in a moment. His own picture! What did it mean? Why had it altered? He turned, and looked at Dorian Gr=
ay
with the eyes of a sick man. =
His
mouth twitched, and his parched tongue seemed unable to articulate. He passed his hand across his
forehead. It was dank with cl=
ammy
sweat.
The young man was leaning against the
mantel-shelf, watching him with that strange expression that is on the face=
s of
those who are absorbed in a play when a great artist is acting. There was neither real sorrow in i=
t nor
real joy. There was simply the
passion of the spectator, with perhaps a flicker of triumph in the eyes.
"What does this mean?" cried Hallwar=
d,
at last. His own voice sounded
shrill and curious in his ears.
"Years ago, when I was a boy," said
Dorian Gray, "you met me, devoted yourself to me, flattered me, and ta=
ught
me to be vain of my good looks. One
day you introduced me to a friend of yours, who explained to me the wonder =
of
youth, and you finished a portrait of me that revealed to me the wonder of
beauty. In a mad moment, that=
[83]
I don't know, even now, whether I regret or not, I made a wish. Perhaps you
would call it a prayer . . . ."
"I remember it! Oh, how well I remember it! No! the thing is impossible. The room is damp. The mildew has got into the canvas=
. The
paints I used had some wretched mineral poison in them. I tell you the thing is
impossible."
"Ah, what is impossible?" murmured t=
he
young man, going over to the window, and leaning his forehead against the c=
old,
mist-stained glass.
"You told me you had destroyed it."<= o:p>
"I was wrong. It has destroyed me."
"I don't believe it is my picture."<= o:p>
"Can't you see your romance in it?" =
said
Dorian, bitterly.
"My romance, as you call it . . ."
"As you called it."
"There was nothing evil in it, nothing
shameful. This is the face of=
a
satyr."
"It is the face of my soul."
"God! what a thing I must have
worshipped! This has the eyes=
of a devil."
"Each of us has Heaven and Hell in him,
Basil," cried Dorian, with a wild gesture of despair.
Hallward turned again to the portrait, and gaz=
ed
at it. "My God! if it is
true," he exclaimed, "and this is what you have done with your li=
fe,
why, you must be worse even than those who talk against you fancy you to
be!" He held the light up
again to the canvas, and examined it.
The surface seemed to be quite undisturbed, and as he had left it. It was from within, apparently, th=
at the
foulness and horror had come.
Through some strange quickening of inner life the leprosies of sin w=
ere
slowly eating the thing away. The
rotting of a corpse in a watery grave was not so fearful.
His hand shook, and the candle fell from its
socket on the floor, and lay there sputtering. He placed his foot on it and put it
out. Then he flung himself in=
to the
rickety chair that was standing by the table and buried his face in his han=
ds.
"Good God, Dorian, what a lesson! what an
awful lesson!" There was=
no
answer, but he could hear the young man sobbing at the window.
"Pray, Dorian, pray," he murmured. "What is it that one was taug=
ht to
say in one's boyhood? 'Lead u=
s not
into temptation. Forgive us o=
ur
sins. Wash away our
iniquities.' Let us say that
together. The prayer of your =
pride
has been answered. The prayer=
of
your repentance will be answered also.&nbs=
p;
I worshipped you too much. =
span>I
am punished for it. You worsh=
ipped
yourself too much. We are bot=
h punished."
Dorian Gray turned slowly around, and looked at
him with tear-dimmed eyes. &q=
uot;It
is too late, Basil," he murmured.
"It is never too late, Dorian. Let us kneel down and try if we ca=
n remember
a prayer. Isn't there a verse
somewhere, 'Though your sins be as scarlet, yet I will make them as white as
snow'?"
[84] "Those words mean nothing to me
now."
"Hush! don't say that. You have done enough evil in your
life. My God! don't you see t=
hat
accursed thing leering at us?"
Dorian Gray glanced at the picture, and sudden=
ly
an uncontrollable feeling of hatred for Basil Hallward came over him. The mad passions of a hunted animal
stirred within him, and he loathed the man who was seated at the table, more
than he had ever loathed anything in his whole life. He glanced wildly around. Something glimmered on the top of =
the
painted chest that faced him. His
eye fell on it. He knew what =
it
was. It was a knife that he h=
ad
brought up, some days before, to cut a piece of cord, and had forgotten to =
take
away with him. He moved slowly
towards it, passing Hallward as he did so.=
As soon as he got behind him, he seized it, and turned round. Hallward moved in his chair as if =
he was
going to rise. He rushed at h=
im,
and dug the knife into the great vein that is behind the ear, crushing the
man's head down on the table, and stabbing again and again.
There was a stifled groan, and the horrible so=
und
of some one choking with blood. The
outstretched arms shot up convulsively three times, waving grotesque
stiff-fingered hands in the air. He
stabbed him once more, but the man did not move. Something began to trickle on the
floor. He waited for a moment,
still pressing the head down. Then he threw the knife on the table, and
listened.
He could hear nothing, but the drip, drip on t=
he
threadbare carpet. He opened the door, and went out on the landing. The house was quite quiet. No one was stirring.
He took out the key, and returned to the room,
locking himself in as he did so.
The thing was still seated in the chair, strai=
ning
over the table with bowed head, and humped back, and long fantastic arms. Had it not been for the red jagged=
tear
in the neck, and the clotted black pool that slowly widened on the table, o=
ne
would have said that the man was simply asleep.
How quickly it had all been done! He felt strangely calm, and, walki=
ng
over to the window, opened it, and stepped out on the balcony. The wind had blown the fog away, a=
nd the
sky was like a monstrous peacock's tail, starred with myriads of golden
eyes. He looked down, and saw=
the
policeman going his rounds and flashing a bull's-eye lantern on the doors of
the silent houses. The crimso=
n spot
of a prowling hansom gleamed at the corner, and then vanished. A woman in a
ragged shawl was creeping round by the railings, staggering as she went.
He passed to the door, turned the key, and ope=
ned
it. He did not even glance at=
the
murdered man. He felt that the
secret of the whole thing was not to realize the situation. The friend who had painted [85] the
fatal portrait, the portrait to which all his misery had been due, had gone=
out
of his life. That was enough.=
Then he remembered the lamp. It was a rather curious one of Moo=
rish workmanship,
made of dull silver inlaid with arabesques of burnished steel. Perhaps it might be missed by his
servant, and questions would be asked.&nbs=
p;
He turned back, and took it from the table. How still the man was! How horribly white the long hands
looked! He was like a dreadfu=
l wax
image.
He locked the door behind him, and crept quiet=
ly
down-stairs. The wood-work cr=
eaked,
and seemed to cry out as if in pain.
He stopped several times, and waited. No: everything was still. It was merely the sound of his own
footsteps.
When he reached the library, he saw the bag and
coat in the corner. They must be hidden away somewhere. He unlocked a secret press that wa=
s in
the wainscoting, and put them into it.&nbs=
p;
He could easily burn them afterwards. Then he pulled out his watch. It was twenty minutes to two.
He sat down, and began to think. Every year--every month, almost-- =
men
were strangled in England for what he had done. There had been a madness of murder=
in
the air. Some red star had co=
me too
close to the earth.
Evidence?&nbs=
p;
What evidence was there against him? Basil Hallward had left the house =
at
eleven. No one had seen him c=
ome in
again. Most of the servants w=
ere at
Selby Royal. His valet had go=
ne to
bed.
Paris!
Yes. It was to Paris t=
hat
Basil had gone, by the midnight train, as he had intended. With his curious reserved habits, =
it would
be months before any suspicions would be aroused. Months? Everything could be destro=
yed
long before then.
A sudden thought struck him. He put on his fur coat and hat, an=
d went
out into the hall. There he p=
aused,
hearing the slow heavy tread of the policeman outside on the pavement, and
seeing the flash of the lantern reflected in the window. He waited, holding his breath.
After a few moments he opened the front door, =
and
slipped out, shutting it very gently behind him. Then he began ringing the bell. In=
about
ten minutes his valet appeared, half dressed, and looking very drowsy.
"I am sorry to have had to wake you up,
Francis," he said, stepping in; "but I had forgotten my
latch-key. What time is it?&q=
uot;
"Five minutes past two, sir," answer=
ed
the man, looking at the clock and yawning.
"Five minutes past two? How horribly late! You must wake me at nine to-morrow=
. I have some work to do."
"All right, sir."
"Did any one call this evening?"
"Mr. Hallward, sir. He stayed here till eleven, and th=
en he
went away to catch his train."
"Oh!&nbs=
p;
I am sorry I didn't see him.
Did he leave any message?"
"No, sir, except that he would write to
you."
[86] "That will do, Francis. Don't forget to call me at nine to=
morrow."
"No, sir."
The man shambled down the passage in his slipp=
ers.
Dorian Gray threw his hat and coat upon the ye=
llow
marble table, and passed into the library.=
He walked up and down the room for a quarter of an hour, biting his =
lip,
and thinking. Then he took th=
e Blue
Book down from one of the shelves, and began to turn over the leaves. "Alan Campbell, 152, Hertford
Street, Mayfair." Yes; t=
hat was
the man he wanted.
[...86] At nine o'clock the next morning his
servant came in with a cup of chocolate on a tray, and opened the
shutters. Dorian was sleeping=
quite
peacefully, lying on his right side, with one hand underneath his cheek.
The man had to touch him twice on the shoulder
before he woke, and as he opened his eyes a faint smile passed across his l=
ips,
as though he had been having some delightful dream. Yet he had not dreamed at all. His night had been untroubled by a=
ny
images of pleasure or of pain. But
youth smiles without any reason. It
is one of its chiefest charms.
He turned round, and, leaning on his elbow, be=
gan
to drink his chocolate. The m=
ellow
November sun was streaming into the room.&=
nbsp;
The sky was bright blue, and there was a genial warmth in the air. It was almost like a morning in Ma=
y.
Gradually the events of the preceding night cr=
ept
with silent blood- stained feet into his brain, and reconstructed themselves
there with terrible distinctness.
He winced at the memory of all that he had suffered, and for a moment
the same curious feeling of loathing for Basil Hallward, that had made him =
kill
him as he sat in the chair, came back to him, and he grew cold with
passion. The dead man was sti=
ll
sitting there, too, and in the sunlight now. How horrible that was! Such hideous things were for the
darkness, not for the day.
He felt that if he brooded on what he had gone
through he would sicken or grow mad.
There were sins whose fascination was more in the memory than in the
doing of them, strange triumphs that gratified the pride more than the
passions, and gave to the intellect a quickened sense of joy, greater than =
any
joy they brought, or could ever bring, to the senses. But this was not one of them. It was a thing to be driven out of=
the
mind, to be drugged with poppies, to be strangled lest it might strangle one
itself.
He passed his hand across his forehead, and th=
en
got up hastily, and dressed himself with even more than his usual attention,
giving a good deal of care to the selection of his necktie and scarf-pin, a=
nd changing
his rings more than once.
He spent a long time over breakfast, tasting t=
he
various dishes, talking to his valet about some new liveries that he was
thinking of [87] getting made for the servants at Selby, and going through =
his correspondence. Over some of the letters he smiled=
. Three of them bored him. One he read several times over, an=
d then
tore up with a slight look of annoyance in his face. "That awful thing, a woman's =
memory!"
as Lord Henry had once said.
When he had drunk his coffee, he sat down at t=
he
table, and wrote two letters. One
he put in his pocket, the other he handed to the valet.
"Take this round to 152, Hertford Street,
Francis, and if Mr. Campbell is out of town, get his address."
As soon as he was alone, he lit a cigarette, a=
nd
began sketching upon a piece of paper, drawing flowers, and bits of
architecture, first, and then faces.
Suddenly he remarked that every face that he drew seemed to have an
extraordinary likeness to Basil Hallward.&=
nbsp;
He frowned, and, getting up, went over to the bookcase and took out =
a volume
at hazard. He was determined =
that
he would not think about what had happened, till it became absolutely neces=
sary
to do so.
When he had stretched himself on the sofa, he
looked at the title- page of the book.&nbs=
p;
It was Gautier's "Emaux et Camées," Charpentier's J=
apanese-paper
edition, with the Jacquemart etching.
The binding was of citron-green leather with a design of gilt
trellis-work and dotted pomegranates.
It had been given to him by Adrian Singleton. As he turned over the pages his ey=
e fell
on the poem about the hand of Lacenaire, the cold yellow hand "du supp=
lice
encore mal lavée," with its downy red hairs and its "doigt=
s de
faune." He glanced at hi=
s own white
taper fingers, and passed on, till he came to those lovely verses upon Veni=
ce:
Sur une gamme
chromatique, =
Le
sein de perles ruisselant, La Vé=
;nus
de l'Adriatique =
Sort
de l'eau son corps rose et blanc.
Les dômes,=
sur
l'azur des ondes =
Suivant
la phrase au pur contour, S'enflent c=
omme
des gorges rondes =
Que
soulève un soupir d'amour.
L'esquif aborde =
et me
dépose, =
Jetant
son amarre au pilier, Devant une
façade rose, =
Sur
le marbre d'un escalier.
How exquisite they were! As one read them, one seemed to be
floating down the green water-ways of the pink and pearl city, lying in a b=
lack
gondola with silver prow and trailing curtains. The mere lines looked to him like =
those
straight lines of turquoise-blue that follow one as one pushes out to the
Lido. The sudden flashes of c=
olor reminded
him of the gleam of the opal-and-iris-throated birds that flutter round the
tall honey-combed Campanile, or stalk, with such stately grace, through the=
dim
arcades. Leaning back with ha=
lf- closed
eyes, he kept saying over and over to himself,--
Devant une
façade rose, Sur le marb=
re
d'un escalier.
[88] The whole of Venice was in those two
lines. He remembered the autu=
mn
that he had passed there, and a wonderful love that had stirred him to
delightful fantastic follies. There
was romance in every place. B=
ut
Venice, like Oxford, had kept the background for romance, and background was
everything, or almost everything.
Basil had been with him part of the time, and had gone wild over
Tintoret. Poor Basil! what a horrible way for a man to die!
He sighed, and took up the book again, and tri=
ed
to forget. He read of the swa=
llows
that fly in and out of the little café at Smyrna where the Hadjis sit
counting their amber beads and the turbaned merchants smoke their long
tasselled pipes and talk gravely to each other; of the Obelisk in the Place=
de
la Concorde that weeps tears of granite in its lonely sunless exile, and lo=
ngs
to be back by the hot lotus-covered Nile, where there are Sphinxes, and
rose-red ibises, and white vultures with gilded claws, and crocodiles, with
small beryl eyes, that crawl over the green steaming mud; and of that curio=
us
statue that Gautier compares to a contralto voice, the "monstre
charmant" that couches in the porphyry-room of the Louvre. But after a
time the book fell from his hand.
He grew nervous, and a horrible fit of terror came over him. What if Alan Campbell should be ou=
t of
England? Days would elapse be=
fore
he could come back. Perhaps he might refuse to come. What could he do then? Every moment was of vital importan=
ce.
They had been great friends once, five years
before,--almost inseparable, indeed.
Then the intimacy had come suddenly to an end. When they met in soci=
ety
now, it was only Dorian Gray who smiled: Alan Campbell never did.
He was an extremely clever young man, though he
had no real appreciation of the visible arts, and whatever little sense of =
the beauty
of poetry he possessed he had gained entirely from Dorian. His dominant
intellectual passion was for science.
At Cambridge he had spent a great deal of his time working in the
Laboratory, and had taken a good class in the Natural Science tripos of his
year. Indeed, he was still devoted to the study of chemistry, and had a lab=
oratory
of his own, in which he used to shut himself up all day long, greatly to the
annoyance of his mother, who had set her heart on his standing for Parliame=
nt
and had a vague idea that a chemist was a person who made up
prescriptions. He was an exce=
llent musician,
however, as well, and played both the violin and the piano better than most
amateurs. In fact, it was mus=
ic
that had first brought him and Dorian Gray together,--music and that
indefinable attraction that Dorian seemed to be able to exercise whenever h=
e wished,
and indeed exercised often without being conscious of it. They had met at L=
ady
Berkshire's the night that Rubinstein played there, and after that used to =
be
always seen together at the Opera, and wherever good music was going on.
This was the man that Dorian Gray was waiting =
for,
pacing up and down the room, glancing every moment at the clock, and becomi=
ng
horribly agitated as the minutes went by.&=
nbsp;
At last the door opened, and his servant entered.
"Mr. Alan Campbell, sir."
A sigh of relief broke from his parched lips, =
and
the color came back to his cheeks.
"Ask him to come in at once, Francis.&quo=
t;
The man bowed, and retired. In a few moments Alan Campbell wal=
ked in,
looking very stern and rather pale, his pallor being intensified by his
coal-black hair and dark eyebrows.
"Alan! this is kind of you. I thank you for coming."
"I had intended never to enter your house
again, Gray. But you said it =
was a
matter of life and death." His
voice was hard and cold. He s=
poke
with slow deliberation. There=
was a
look of contempt in the steady searching gaze that he turned on Dorian. He kept his hands in the pockets o=
f his
Astrakhan coat, and appeared not to have noticed the gesture with which he =
had
been greeted.
"It is a matter of life and death, Alan, =
and
to more than one person. Sit down."
Campbell took a chair by the table, and Dorian=
sat
opposite to him. The two men's eyes met.&n=
bsp;
In Dorian's there was infinite pity. He knew that what he was going to =
do was
dreadful.
After a strained moment of silence, he leaned
across and said, very quietly, but watching the effect of each word upon the
face of the man he had sent for, "Alan, in a locked room at the top of
this house, a room to which nobody but myself has access, a dead man is sea=
ted
at a table. He has been dead =
ten
hours now. Don't stir, and do=
n't
look at me like that. Who the=
man
is, why he died, how he died, are matters that do not concern you. What you have to do is this--"=
;
"Stop, Gray. I don't want to know anything
further. Whether what you hav=
e told
me is true or not true, doesn't concern me. I entirely decline to be mixed up =
in
your life. Keep your horrible
secrets to yourself. They don=
't
interest me any more."
"Alan, they will have to interest you.
"You are mad, Dorian."
"Ah!&nbs=
p;
I was waiting for you to call me Dorian."
"You are mad, I tell you,--mad to imagine
that I would raise a finger to help you, mad to make this monstrous
confession. I will have nothi=
ng to
do with this matter, whatever it is.
Do you think I am going to peril my reputation for you? What is it to me what devil's work=
you
are up to?"
"It was a suicide, Alan."
"I am glad of that. But who drove him to it? You, I should fancy."
"Do you still refuse to do this, for
me?"
"Of course I refuse. I will have absolutely nothing to =
do
with it. I don't care what shame comes on you. You deserve it all. I should not be sorry to see you
disgraced, publicly disgraced. How
dare you ask me, of all men in the world, to mix myself up in this horror?<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I should have thought you knew more
about people's characters. Yo=
ur friend
Lord Henry Wotton can't have taught you much about psychology, whatever els=
e he
has taught you. Nothing will =
induce
me to stir a step to help you. You
have come to the wrong man. G=
o to
some of your friends. Don't c=
ome to
me."
"Alan, it was murder. I killed him. You don't know what he had made me
suffer. Whatever my life is, =
he had
more to do with the making or the marring of it than poor Harry has had.
"Murder!=
Good God, Dorian, is that what you have come to? I shall not inform upon you. It is not my business. Besides, you are certain to be arr=
ested,
without my stirring in the matter.
Nobody ever commits a murder without doing something stupid. But I will have nothing to do with
it."
"All I ask of you is to perform a certain
scientific experiment. You go=
to
hospitals and dead-houses, and the horrors that you do there don't affect
you. If in some hideous
dissecting-room or fetid laboratory you found this man lying on a leaden ta=
ble
with red gutters scooped out in it, you would simply look upon him as an ad=
mirable
subject. You would not turn a
hair. You would not believe t=
hat
you were doing anything wrong. On
the contrary, you would probably feel that you were benefiting the human ra=
ce,
or increasing the sum of knowledge in the world, or gratifying intellectual=
curiosity,
or something of that kind. Wh=
at I
want you to do is simply what you have often done before. Indeed, to destroy a body must be =
less
horrible than what you are accustomed to work at. And, remember, it is the only piec=
e of
evidence against me. If it is=
discovered,
I am lost; and it is sure to be discovered unless you help me."
[91] "I have no desire to help you. You forget that. I am simply indifferent to the who=
le
thing. It has nothing to do w=
ith
me."
"Alan, I entreat you. Think of the position I am in. Just before you came I almost fain=
ted
with terror. No! don't think =
of
that. Look at the matter purely from the scientific point of view. You don't inquire where the dead t=
hings
on which you experiment come from.
Don't inquire now. I h=
ave
told you too much as it is. B=
ut I beg
of you to do this. We were fr=
iends
once, Alan."
"Don't speak about those days, Dorian: th=
ey
are dead."
"The dead linger sometimes. The man up-stairs will not go away=
. He is sitting at the table with bo=
wed
head and outstretched arms. A=
lan! Alan!
if you don't come to my assistance I am ruined. Why, they will hang me, Alan! Don't you understand? They will hang me for what I have
done."
"There is no good in prolonging this
scene. I refuse absolutely to=
do
anything in the matter. It is
insane of you to ask me."
"You refuse absolutely?"
"Yes."
The same look of pity came into Dorian's eyes,
then he stretched out his hand, took a piece of paper, and wrote something =
on
it. He read it over twice, fo=
lded
it carefully, and pushed it across the table. Having done this, he got up, =
and
went over to the window.
Campbell looked at him in surprise, and then t=
ook
up the paper, and opened it. =
As he
read it, his face became ghastly pale, and he fell back in his chair. A horrible sense of sickness came =
over
him. He felt as if his heart =
was
beating itself to death in some empty hollow.
After two or three minutes of terrible silence,
Dorian turned round, and came and stood behind him, putting his hand upon h=
is
shoulder.
"I am so sorry, Alan," he murmured,
"but you leave me no alternative. I have a letter written already. Here it is. You see the address. If you don't =
help
me, I must send it. You know =
what
the result will be. But you a=
re
going to help me. It is impos=
sible
for you to refuse now. I trie=
d to
spare you. You will do me the
justice to admit that. You we=
re
stern, harsh, offensive. You
treated me as no man has ever dared to treat me,--no living man, at any
rate. I bore it all. Now it is for me to dictate terms.=
"
Campbell buried his face in his hands, and a
shudder passed through him.
"Yes, it is my turn to dictate terms,
Alan. You know what they are.=
The
thing is quite simple. Come, =
don't
work yourself into this fever. The
thing has to be done. Face it=
, and
do it."
A groan broke from Campbell's lips, and he
shivered all over. The tickin=
g of
the clock on the mantel-piece seemed to him to be dividing time into separa=
te
atoms of agony, each of which was too terrible to be borne. He felt as if an iron ring was bei=
ng
slowly tightened round his forehead, and as if the disgrace with which he w=
as threatened
had already come upon him. Th=
e hand
upon his shoulder weighed like a hand of lead. It was intolerable. It seemed to crush him.
"Come, Alan, you must decide at once.&quo=
t;
[92] He hesitated a moment. "Is there a fire in the room
up-stairs?" he murmured.
"Yes, there is a gas-fire with
asbestos."
"I will have to go home and get some thin=
gs
from the laboratory."
"No, Alan, you need not leave the house.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Write on a sheet of note- paper wh=
at you
want, and my servant will take a cab and bring the things back to you."=
;
Campbell wrote a few lines, blotted them, and
addressed an envelope to his assistant.&nb=
sp;
Dorian took the note up and read it carefully. Then he rang the bell,
and gave it to his valet, with orders to return as soon as possible, and to
bring the things with him.
When the hall door shut, Campbell started, and,
having got up from the chair, went over to the chimney-piece. He was shivering with a sort of
ague. For nearly twenty minut=
es,
neither of the men spoke. A fly buzzed noisily about the room, and the tick=
ing
of the clock was like the beat of a hammer.
As the chime struck one, Campbell turned aroun=
d,
and, looking at Dorian Gray, saw that his eyes were filled with tears. There was something in the purity =
and
refinement of that sad face that seemed to enrage him. "You are infamous, absolutely
infamous!" he muttered.
"Hush, Alan: you have saved my life,"
said Dorian.
"Your life? Good heavens! what a life that is!=
You have gone from corruption to
corruption, and now you have culminated in crime. In doing what I am going to do, wh=
at you
force me to do, it is not of your life that I am thinking."
"Ah, Alan," murmured Dorian, with a
sigh, "I wish you had a thousandth part of the pity for me that I have=
for
you." He turned away, as=
he
spoke, and stood looking out at the garden. Campbell made no answer.
After about ten minutes a knock came to the do=
or,
and the servant entered, carrying a mahogany chest of chemicals, with a sma=
ll electric
battery set on top of it. He =
placed
it on the table, and went out again, returning with a long coil of steel and
platinum wire and two rather curiously-shaped iron clamps.
"Shall I leave the things here, sir?"=
; he
asked Campbell.
"Yes," said Dorian. "And I am afraid, Francis, th=
at I
have another errand for you. =
What
is the name of the man at Richmond who supplies Selby with orchids?"
"Harden, sir."
"Yes,--Harden. You must go down to Richmond at on=
ce,
see Harden personally, and tell him to send twice as many orchids as I orde=
red,
and to have as few white ones as possible.=
In fact, I don't want any white ones. It is a lovely day, Francis, and
Richmond is a very pretty place, otherwise I wouldn't bother you about
it."
"No trouble, sir. At what time shall I be back?"=
;
Dorian looked at Campbell. "How long will your experiment
take, Alan?" he said, in a calm, indifferent voice. The presence of a third person in =
the
room seemed to give him extraordinary courage.
Campbell frowned, and bit his lip. "It will take about five
hours," he answered.
[93] "It will be time enough, then, if you
are back at half-past seven, Francis.
Or stay: just leave my things out for dressing. You can have the evening to
yourself. I am not dining at =
home,
so I shall not want you."
"Thank you, sir," said the man, leav=
ing
the room.
"Now, Alan, there is not a moment to be
lost. How heavy this chest is=
! I'll take it for you. You bring the other things."<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He spoke rapidly, and in an
authoritative manner. Campbel=
l felt
dominated by him. They left t=
he
room together.
When they reached the top landing, Dorian took=
out
the key and turned it in the lock.
Then he stopped, and a troubled look came into his eyes. He shuddered. "I don't think I can go in,
Alan," he murmured.
"It is nothing to me. I don't require you," said
Campbell, coldly.
Dorian half opened the door. As he did so, he saw the face of t=
he portrait
grinning in the sunlight. On =
the
floor in front of it the torn curtain was lying. He remembered that the night befor=
e, for
the first time in his life, he had forgotten to hide it, when he crept out =
of
the room.
But what was that loathsome red dew that gleam=
ed,
wet and glistening, on one of the hands, as though the canvas had sweated
blood? How horrible it was!--=
more
horrible, it seemed to him for the moment, than the silent thing that he kn=
ew
was stretched across the table, the thing whose grotesque misshapen shadow =
on
the spotted carpet showed him that it had not stirred, but was still there,=
as
he had left it.
He opened the door a little wider, and walked
quickly in, with half- closed eyes and averted head, determined that he wou=
ld
not look even once upon the dead man.
Then, stooping down, and taking up the gold- and-purple hanging, he
flung it over the picture.
He stopped, feeling afraid to turn round, and =
his
eyes fixed themselves on the intricacies of the pattern before him. He heard Campbell bringing in the =
heavy
chest, and the irons, and the other things that he had required for his
dreadful work. He began to wo=
nder
if he and Basil Hallward had ever met, and, if so, what they had thought of
each other.
"Leave me now," said Campbell.
He turned and hurried out, just conscious that=
the
dead man had been thrust back into the chair and was sitting up in it, with
Campbell gazing into the glistening yellow face. As he was going downstairs he hear=
d the
key being turned in the lock.
It was long after seven o'clock when Campbell =
came
back into the library. He was=
pale,
but absolutely calm. "I =
have
done what you asked me to do," he muttered. "And now, good-by. Let us never see each other again.=
"
"You have saved me from ruin, Alan. I cannot forget that," said D=
orian,
simply.
As soon as Campbell had left, he went up-stair=
s. There was a horrible smell of chem=
icals
in the room. But the thing th=
at had
been sitting at the table was gone.
[94] "There is no good telling me you are
going to be good, Dorian," cried Lord Henry, dipping his white fingers
into a red copper bowl filled with rose-water. "You are quite perfect. Pray don't change."
Dorian shook his head. "No, Harry, I have done too m=
any
dreadful things in my life. I=
am
not going to do any more. I b=
egan
my good actions yesterday."
"Where were you yesterday?"
"In the country, Harry. I was staying at a little inn by
myself."
"My dear boy," said Lord Henry smili=
ng,
"anybody can be good in the country.&=
nbsp;
There are no temptations there.&nbs=
p;
That is the reason why people who live out of town are so uncivilize=
d. There are only two ways, as you kn=
ow, of
becoming civilized. One is by=
being
cultured, the other is by being corrupt.&n=
bsp;
Country-people have no opportunity of being either, so they
stagnate."
"Culture and corruption," murmured
Dorian. "I have known
something of both. It seems t=
o me
curious now that they should ever be found together. For I have a new ideal, Harry. I am going to alter. I think I have altered."
"You have not told me yet what your good
action was. Or did you say yo=
u had
done more than one?"
"I can tell you, Harry. It is not a story I could tell to =
any
one else. I spared somebody.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> It sounds vain, but you understand=
what
I mean. She was quite beautif=
ul,
and wonderfully like Sibyl Vane. I think
it was that which first attracted me to her. You remember Sibyl, don't you? How long ago that seems! Well, Hetty was not one of our own
class, of course. She was sim=
ply a
girl in a village. But I really loved her.=
I am quite sure that I loved her.&n=
bsp;
All during this wonderful May that we have been having, I used to ru=
n down
and see her two or three times a week.&nbs=
p;
Yesterday she met me in a little orchard. The apple-blossoms kept tumbling d=
own on
her hair, and she was laughing. We
were to have gone away together this morning at dawn. Suddenly I determined to leave her=
as
flower-like as I had found her."
"I should think the novelty of the emotion
must have given you a thrill of real pleasure, Dorian," interrupted Lo=
rd
Henry. "But I can finish=
your
idyl for you. You gave her go=
od advice,
and broke her heart. That was=
the
beginning of your reformation."
"Harry, you are horrible! You mustn't say these dreadful thi=
ngs. Hetty's
heart is not broken. Of cours=
e she
cried, and all that. But ther=
e is
no disgrace upon her. She can=
live,
like Perdita, in her garden."
"And weep over a faithless Florizel,"
said Lord Henry, laughing. &q=
uot;My
dear Dorian, you have the most curious boyish moods. Do you think this girl will ever be
really contented now with any one of her own rank? I suppose she will be married some=
day
to a rough carter or a grinning ploughman.=
Well, having met you, and loved you, will teach her to despise her
husband, and she will be wretched.
From a moral point of view I really don't think much of your great
renunciation. [95] Even as a beginning, it is poor. Besides, how do you know that Hetty
isn't floating at the present moment in some mill-pond, with water-lilies r=
ound
her, like Ophelia?"
"I can't bear this, Harry! You mock at everything, and then s=
uggest
the most serious tragedies. I=
am
sorry I told you now. I don't=
care what
you say to me, I know I was right in acting as I did. Poor Hetty! As I rode past the farm this morni=
ng, I
saw her white face at the window, like a spray of jasmine. Don't let me talk about it any mor=
e, and
don't try to persuade me that the first good action I have done for years, =
the
first little bit of self-sacrifice I have ever known, is really a sort of
sin. I want to be better. I am going to be better. Tell me something about yourself.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> What is going on in town? I have not been to the club for
days."
"The people are still discussing poor Bas=
il's
disappearance."
"I should have thought they had got tired=
of
that by this time," said Dorian, pouring himself out some wine, and
frowning slightly.
"My dear boy, they have only been talking
about it for six weeks, and the public are really not equal to the mental
strain of having more than one topic every three months. They have been very fortunate late=
ly,
however. They have had my own=
divorce-case,
and Alan Campbell's suicide. =
Now
they have got the mysterious disappearance of an artist. Scotland Yard still insists that t=
he man
in the gray ulster who left Victoria by the midnight train on the 7th of
November was poor Basil, and the French police declare that Basil never arr=
ived
in Paris at all. I suppose in=
about
a fortnight we will be told that he has been seen in San Francisco. It is an odd thing, but every one =
who
disappears is said to be seen at San Francisco. It must be a delightful city, and
possess all the attractions of the next world."
"What do you think has happened to
Basil?" asked Dorian, holding up his Burgundy against the light, and
wondering how it was that he could discuss the matter so calmly.
"I have not the slightest idea. If Basil chooses to hide himself, =
it is
no business of mine. If he is=
dead,
I don't want to think about him.
Death is the only thing that ever terrifies me. I hate it. One can survive everyth=
ing
nowadays except that. Death a=
nd
vulgarity are the only two facts in the nineteenth century that one cannot =
explain
away. Let us have our coffee =
in the
music-room, Dorian. You must =
play
Chopin to me. The man with wh=
om my
wife ran away played Chopin exquisitely.&n=
bsp;
Poor Victoria! I was v=
ery
fond of her. The house is rat=
her
lonely without her."
Dorian said nothing, but rose from the table, =
and,
passing into the next room, sat down to the piano and let his fingers stray
across the keys. After the co=
ffee
had been brought in, he stopped, and, looking over at Lord Henry, said,
"Harry, did it ever occur to you that Basil was murdered?"
Lord Henry yawned. "Basil had no enemies, and al=
ways
wore a Waterbury watch. Why s=
hould
he be murdered? He was not cl=
ever enough
to have enemies. Of course he=
had a
wonderful genius for painting. But
a man can paint like Velasquez and yet be as dull as possible. Basil was really rather dull. He only interested me once, [96] a=
nd
that was when he told me, years ago, that he had a wild adoration for
you."
"I was very fond of Basil," said Dor=
ian,
with a sad look in his eyes. "But don't people say that he was
murdered?"
"Oh, some of the papers do. It does not seem to be probable. I know there are dreadful places in
Paris, but Basil was not the sort of man to have gone to them. He had no curiosity. It was his chief defect. Play me a
nocturne, Dorian, and, as you play, tell me, in a low voice, how you have k=
ept
your youth. You must have some
secret. I am only ten years o=
lder
than you are, and I am wrinkled, and bald, and yellow. You are really wonderful, Dorian.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> You have never looked more charmin=
g than
you do to-night. You remind m=
e of
the day I saw you first. You =
were
rather cheeky, very shy, and absolutely extraordinary. You have changed, of course, but n=
ot in
appearance. I wish you would tell me your secret. To get back my youth I would do an=
ything
in the world, except take exercise, get up early, or be respectable. Youth! There is nothing like it. It's absurd to talk of the ignoran=
ce of
youth. The only people whose
opinions I listen to now with any respect are people much younger than
myself. They seem in front of
me. Life has revealed to them=
her
last wonder. As for the aged,=
I
always contradict the aged. I=
do it
on principle. If you ask them their opinion on something that happened
yesterday, they solemnly give you the opinions current in 1820, when people
wore high stocks and knew absolutely nothing. How lovely that thing you are play=
ing
is! I wonder did Chopin write=
it at
Majorca, with the sea weeping round the villa, and the salt spray dashing
against the panes? It is
marvelously romantic. What a
blessing it is that there is one art left to us that is not imitative! Don't stop. I want music to-night. It seems to me that you are the yo=
ung
Apollo, and that I am Marsyas listening to you. I have sorrows, Dorian, of my own,=
that
even you know nothing of. The
tragedy of old age is not that one is old, but that one is young. I am amazed sometimes at my own
sincerity. Ah, Dorian, how ha=
ppy
you are! What an exquisite li=
fe you
have had! You have drunk deep=
ly of
everything. You have crushed =
the
grapes against your palate. N=
othing
has been hidden from you. But=
it
has all been to you no more than the sound of music. It has not marred you. You are still the same.
"I wonder what the rest of your life will
be. Don't spoil it by renunci=
ations. At present you are a perfect type.=
Don't make yourself incomplete.
"I wish I could change places with you,
Dorian. The world has cried o=
ut
against us both, but it has always worshipped you. It always will worship you. You are the type of what the age is
searching for, and what it is afraid it has found. I am so glad that you have never d=
one
anything, never carved a statue, or painted a picture, or produced anything
outside of yourself! Life has=
been
your art. You have set yourse=
lf to
music. Your days have been yo=
ur sonnets."
Dorian rose up from the piano, and passed his =
hand
through his hair. "Yes, life has been exquisite," he murmured,
"but I am not going to have the same life, Harry. And you must not say these extrava=
gant things
to me. You don't know everyth=
ing about
me. I think that if you did, =
even
you would turn from me. You
laugh. Don't laugh."
"Why have you stopped playing, Dorian?
"I hope not," said Dorian, with a to=
uch
of pathos in his voice. "=
;But I
am tired to-night, Harry. I w=
on't
go to the club. It is nearly =
eleven,
and I want to go to bed early."
"Do stay. You have never played so well as
to-night. There was something=
in
your touch that was wonderful. It
had more expression than I had ever heard from it before."
"It is because I am going to be good,&quo=
t;
he answered, smiling. "I=
am a little
changed already."
"Don't change, Dorian; at any rate, don't
change to me. We must always =
be
friends."
"Yet you poisoned me with a book once.
"My dear boy, you are really beginning to
moralize. You will soon be go=
ing
about warning people against all the sins of which you have grown tired.
"Very well. I will be here at eleven," sa=
id
Dorian. "Good-night, Har=
ry." As he reached the door he hesitate=
d for
a moment, as if he had something more to say. Then he sighed and went out.
It was a lovely night, so warm that he threw h=
is
coat over his arm, and did not even put his silk scarf round his throat.
When he reached home, he found his servant wai=
ting
up for him. He sent him to be=
d, and
threw himself down on the sofa in the library, and began to think over some=
of
the things that Lord Henry had said to him.
Was it really true that one could never
change? He felt a wild longin=
g for
the unstained purity of his boyhood,--his rose-white boyhood, as Lord Henry=
had
once called it. He knew that =
he had
tarnished himself, filled his mind with corruption, and given horror to his
fancy; that he had been an evil influence to others, and had experienced a
terrible joy in being so; and that of the lives that had crossed his own it=
had
been the fairest and the most full of promise that he had brought to
shame. But was it all
irretrievable? Was there no hope for him?
It was better not to think of the past. Nothing could alter that. It was of
himself, and of his own future, that he had to think. Alan Campbell had shot himself one=
night
in his laboratory, but had not revealed the secret that he had been forced =
to
know. The excitement, such as=
it
was, over Basil Hallward's disappearance would soon pass away. It was already waning. He was perfectly safe there. Nor, indeed, was it the death of B=
asil
Hallward that weighed most upon his mind.&=
nbsp;
It was the living death of his own soul that troubled him. Basil had
painted the portrait that had marred his life. He could not forgive him that. It was the portrait that had done
everything. Basil had said things to him that were unbearable, and that he =
had yet
borne with patience. The murd=
er had
been simply the madness of a moment.
As for Alan Campbell, his suicide had been his own act. He had chosen to do it. It was nothing to him.
A new life!&n= bsp; That was what he wanted. That was what he was waiting for.&n= bsp; Surely he had begun it already.&nbs= p; He had spared one innocent thing, at any rate. He would never again tempt innocence. He would be good.<= o:p>
As he thought of Hetty Merton, he began to won=
der
if the portrait in the locked room had changed. Surely it was not still so horribl=
e as it
had been? Perhaps if his life
became pure, he would be able to expel every sign of evil passion from the
face. Perhaps the signs of ev=
il had
already gone away. He would g=
o and
look.
He took the lamp from the table and crept
up-stairs. As he unlocked the=
door,
a smile of joy flitted across his young face and [99] lingered for a moment
about his lips. Yes, he would=
be
good, and the hideous thing that he had hidden away would no longer be a te=
rror
to him. He felt as if the loa=
d had
been lifted from him already.
He went in quietly, locking the door behind hi=
m,
as was his custom, and dragged the purple hanging from the portrait. A cry of pain and indignation brok=
e from
him. He could see no change, =
unless
that in the eyes there was a look of cunning, and in the mouth the curved w=
rinkle
of the hypocrite. The thing w=
as
still loathsome,--more loathsome, if possible, than before,--and the scarlet
dew that spotted the hand seemed brighter, and more like blood newly spilt.=
Had it been merely vanity that had made him do=
his
one good deed? Or the desire =
of a
new sensation, as Lord Henry had hinted, with his mocking laugh? Or that passion to act a part that
sometimes makes us do things finer than we are ourselves? Or, perhaps, all these?
Why was the red stain larger than it had
been? It seemed to have crept=
like
a horrible disease over the wrinkled fingers. There was blood on the painted fee=
t, as
though the thing had dripped,--blood even on the hand that had not held the
knife.
Confess?
Did it mean that he was to confess?=
To give himself up, and be put to death? He laughed. He felt that the idea was monstrou=
s. Besides, who would believe him, ev=
en if
he did confess? There was no trace of the murdered man anywhere. Everything belonging to him had be=
en
destroyed. He himself had bur=
ned
what had been below-stairs. T=
he
world would simply say he was mad.
They would shut him up if he persisted in his story.
Yet it was his duty to confess, to suffer publ=
ic
shame, and to make public atonement.
There was a God who called upon men to tell their sins to earth as w=
ell
as to heaven. Nothing that he=
could
do would cleanse him till he had told his own sin. His sin? He shrugged his shoulders. The death of Basil Hallward seemed=
very
little to him. He was thinking of Hetty Merton.
It was an unjust mirror, this mirror of his so=
ul
that he was looking at.
Vanity? Curiosity? Hypocrisy? Had there been nothing more in his
renunciation than that? There=
had
been something more. At least=
he
thought so. But who could tel=
l?
And this murder,--was it to dog him all his
life? Was he never to get rid=
of
the past? Was he really to co=
nfess? No.
There was only one bit of evidence left against him. The picture itself,--that was evid=
ence.
He would destroy it. Why had he kept it so long? It had given him pleasure once to =
watch
it changing and growing old. =
Of
late he had felt no such pleasure.
It had kept him awake at night.&nbs=
p;
When he had been away, he had been filled with terror lest other eyes
should look upon it. It had b=
rought
melancholy across his passions. Its
mere memory had marred many moments of joy. It had been like conscience to him=
. Yes, it had been conscience. He would destroy it.
He looked round, and saw the knife that had
stabbed Basil Hallward. He had cleaned it many times, till there was no sta=
in
left upon it. It was bright, and glistened. As it had killed the painter, so i=
t [100]
would kill the painter's work, and all that that meant. It would kill the past, and when t=
hat
was dead he would be free. He=
seized
it, and stabbed the canvas with it, ripping the thing right up from top to
bottom.
There was a cry heard, and a crash. The cry was so horrible in its ago=
ny
that the frightened servants woke, and crept out of their rooms. Two gentlemen, who were passing in=
the
Square below, stopped, and looked up at the great house. They walked on till they met a pol=
iceman,
and brought him back. The man=
rang
the bell several times, but there was no answer. The house was all dark, except for=
a light
in one of the top windows. Af=
ter a
time, he went away, and stood in the portico of the next house and watched.=
"Whose house is that, constable?" as=
ked
the elder of the two gentlemen.
"Mr. Dorian Gray's, sir," answered t=
he
policeman.
They looked at each other, as they walked away,
and sneered. One of them was =
Sir
Henry Ashton's uncle.
Inside, in the servants' part of the house, the
half-clad domestics were talking in low whispers to each other. Old Mrs. Leaf was crying, and wrin=
ging
her hands. Francis was as pal=
e as
death.
After about a quarter of an hour, he got the
coachman and one of the footmen and crept up-stairs. They knocked, but there was no rep=
ly. They
called out. Everything was
still. Finally, after vainly =
trying
to force the door, they got on the roof, and dropped down on to the balcony=
. The windows yielded easily: the bo=
lts
were old.
When they entered, they found hanging upon the
wall a splendid portrait of their master as they had last seen him, in all =
the
wonder of his exquisite youth and beauty.&=
nbsp;
Lying on the floor was a dead man, in evening dress, with a knife in=
his
heart. He was withered, wrink=
led, and
loathsome of visage. It was n=
ot
till they had examined the rings that they recognized who it was.