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diff --git a/search-engine/books/The Picture of Dorian Gray.txt b/search-engine/books/The Picture of Dorian Gray.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e7dcf44 --- /dev/null +++ b/search-engine/books/The Picture of Dorian Gray.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8527 @@ +Title: The Picture of Dorian Gray +Author: Oscar Wilde + +The Picture of Dorian Gray + +by Oscar Wilde + + +Contents + + THE PREFACE + CHAPTER I. + CHAPTER II. + CHAPTER III. + CHAPTER IV. + CHAPTER V. + CHAPTER VI. + CHAPTER VII. + CHAPTER VIII. + CHAPTER IX. + CHAPTER X. + CHAPTER XI. + CHAPTER XII. + CHAPTER XIII. + CHAPTER XIV. + CHAPTER XV. + CHAPTER XVI. + CHAPTER XVII. + CHAPTER XVIII. + CHAPTER XIX. + CHAPTER XX. + + + + +THE PREFACE + + +The artist is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and +conceal the artist is art’s aim. The critic is he who can translate +into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful +things. + +The highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography. +Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without +being charming. This is a fault. + +Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the +cultivated. For these there is hope. They are the elect to whom +beautiful things mean only beauty. + +There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well +written, or badly written. That is all. + +The nineteenth century dislike of realism is the rage of Caliban seeing +his own face in a glass. + +The nineteenth century dislike of romanticism is the rage of Caliban +not seeing his own face in a glass. The moral life of man forms part of +the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in +the perfect use of an imperfect medium. No artist desires to prove +anything. Even things that are true can be proved. No artist has +ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable +mannerism of style. No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express +everything. Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an +art. Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art. From the +point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the +musician. From the point of view of feeling, the actor’s craft is the +type. All art is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the +surface do so at their peril. Those who read the symbol do so at their +peril. It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors. +Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, +complex, and vital. When critics disagree, the artist is in accord with +himself. We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he +does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that +one admires it intensely. + +All art is quite useless. + +OSCAR WILDE + + + + +CHAPTER I. + + +The studio was filled with the rich odour 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 was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry +Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured +blossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to +bear the burden of a beauty so flamelike as theirs; and now and then +the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long +tussore-silk 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 of Tokyo who, through the medium of +an art that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense 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 dusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine, +seemed to make the stillness more oppressive. The dim roar of London +was like the bourdon note of a distant organ. + +In the centre of the room, clamped to an upright easel, stood the +full-length portrait of a young man of extraordinary personal beauty, +and in front of it, some little distance away, was sitting the artist +himself, Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years ago +caused, at the time, such public excitement and gave rise to so many +strange conjectures. + +As the painter 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. But he suddenly started up, and +closing 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 thing you have ever done,” said +Lord Henry languidly. “You must certainly send it next year to the +Grosvenor. The Academy is too large and too vulgar. Whenever I have +gone there, there have been either so many people that I have not been +able to see the pictures, which was dreadful, or so many pictures that +I have not been able to see the people, which was worse. The Grosvenor +is really the only place.” + +“I don’t think I shall send it anywhere,” 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 such 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 gain a reputation. As soon as you have one, +you seem to want to throw it away. It is silly of you, for there is +only 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 himself out on the divan and laughed. + +“Yes, I knew you would; but it is quite 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 rugged strong face and your coal-black hair, and this young +Adonis, who looks as if he was made out 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. But beauty, real beauty, ends +where an intellectual expression begins. Intellect is in itself a mode +of 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 perfectly hideous they are! Except, of course, in the Church. But +then 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 as a natural consequence he always looks absolutely delightful. +Your mysterious young friend, whose name you have never told me, but +whose picture really fascinates me, never thinks. I feel quite sure of +that. He is some brainless beautiful creature 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,” answered the artist. “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 physical and intellectual distinction, +the sort of fatality that seems to dog through history the faltering +steps of kings. It is better not to be different from one’s fellows. +The ugly and the stupid have the best of it in this world. They can sit +at their ease and gape at the 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 brains, such as they are—my art, +whatever it may be worth; Dorian Gray’s good looks—we shall all suffer +for what the gods have given us, suffer terribly.” + +“Dorian Gray? Is that his name?” asked 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 never tell their +names to any one. It is like surrendering a part of them. I have grown +to love secrecy. It seems to be the one thing that can make modern life +mysterious or marvellous to us. The commonest thing is delightful if +one only hides it. When I leave town now 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 into +one’s life. I suppose you think me awfully foolish about it?” + +“Not at all,” answered Lord Henry, “not at all, my dear Basil. You seem +to forget that I am married, and the one charm of marriage is that it +makes a life of deception absolutely necessary for both parties. I +never know where my wife is, and my wife never knows what I am doing. +When we meet—we do meet occasionally, when we dine out together, or go +down to the Duke’s—we tell each other the 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 married life, Harry,” said Basil +Hallward, 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. +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 ensconced themselves on a long bamboo seat that +stood in the shade of a tall laurel bush. The sunlight slipped over the +polished leaves. In the grass, white daisies were tremulous. + +After a pause, Lord Henry pulled out his watch. “I am afraid I must be +going, Basil,” he murmured, “and before I go, I insist on your +answering a question I put to you some time ago.” + +“What is that?” said the painter, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. + +“You know quite well.” + +“I do not, Harry.” + +“Well, I will tell you what it is. 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 coloured canvas, reveals himself. The reason I will not exhibit +this picture is that I am afraid that I have shown in it the secret of +my own soul.” + +Lord Henry laughed. “And what is that?” he asked. + +“I will tell you,” said Hallward; but an expression of perplexity came +over his face. + +“I am all expectation, Basil,” continued his companion, glancing at +him. + +“Oh, there is really very little to tell, Harry,” answered the painter; +“and I am afraid you will hardly understand it. Perhaps you will 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 understand it,” he +replied, gazing intently at the little golden, white-feathered disk, +“and as for believing things, I can believe anything, provided that it +is quite incredible.” + +The wind shook some blossoms from the trees, and the heavy +lilac-blooms, with their clustering stars, moved to and fro in the +languid air. A grasshopper began to chirrup by the wall, and like a +blue thread a long thin dragon-fly floated past on its brown gauze +wings. Lord Henry felt as if he could hear Basil Hallward’s heart +beating, and wondered what was coming. + +“The story is simply this,” said the painter after some time. “Two +months ago I went to a crush at Lady Brandon’s. You know we poor +artists 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 tie, as you told me once, anybody, even a stock-broker, can gain +a reputation for being civilized. Well, after I had been in the room +about ten minutes, talking to huge overdressed dowagers and tedious +academicians, I suddenly became conscious that some one was looking at +me. I turned half-way round and saw Dorian Gray for the first time. +When our eyes met, I felt that I was growing pale. A curious sensation +of terror came over me. I knew that I had come face to face 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 influence in my life. You know +yourself, Harry, how independent I am by nature. 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 explain it to you. Something seemed to +tell me that I was on the verge of a terrible crisis in my life. I had +a strange feeling that fate had in store for me exquisite joys and +exquisite sorrows. I grew afraid and turned to quit the room. It was +not conscience that made me do so: it was a sort of 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, and I don’t believe you do either. +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 +stumbled against Lady Brandon. ‘You are not going to run away so soon, +Mr. Hallward?’ she screamed out. You know her curiously shrill voice?” + +“Yes; she is a peacock in everything but beauty,” said Lord Henry, +pulling the daisy to bits with his long nervous fingers. + +“I could not get rid of her. She brought me up to royalties, and people +with stars and garters, and elderly ladies with gigantic tiaras and +parrot noses. She spoke of me as her dearest friend. I had only met 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 close, almost touching. Our eyes met again. +It was reckless of me, but I asked Lady Brandon to introduce me to him. +Perhaps it was not so reckless, 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 afterwards. He, too, felt that we were destined +to know each other.” + +“And how did Lady Brandon describe this wonderful young man?” asked his +companion. “I know she goes in for giving a rapid _précis_ of all her +guests. I remember her bringing me up to a truculent and red-faced old +gentleman covered all over with orders and ribbons, and hissing into my +ear, in a tragic whisper which must have been perfectly audible to +everybody in the room, the most astounding details. I simply fled. I +like to find out people for myself. But Lady Brandon treats her guests +exactly as an auctioneer treats his goods. She either explains them +entirely away, or tells one everything about them except what one wants +to know.” + +“Poor Lady Brandon! You are hard on her, Harry!” said Hallward +listlessly. + +“My dear fellow, she tried to found a _salon_, and only succeeded in +opening a restaurant. How could I admire her? But tell me, what did she +say about Mr. Dorian Gray?” + +“Oh, something like, ‘Charming boy—poor dear mother and I absolutely +inseparable. Quite forget what he does—afraid he—doesn’t do +anything—oh, yes, plays the piano—or is it the violin, dear Mr. Gray?’ +Neither of us could help laughing, and we became friends at once.” + +“Laughter is not at all a bad beginning for a friendship, and it is far +the best ending for one,” said the young lord, plucking another daisy. + +Hallward shook his head. “You don’t understand what friendship is, +Harry,” he murmured—“or what enmity is, for that matter. You like every +one; that is to say, you are indifferent to every one.” + +“How horribly unjust of you!” cried Lord Henry, tilting his hat back +and looking up at the little clouds that, like ravelled skeins of +glossy white silk, were drifting across the hollowed turquoise of the +summer sky. “Yes; horribly unjust of you. I make a great difference +between people. I choose my friends for their good looks, my +acquaintances for their good characters, and my enemies for their good +intellects. A man cannot be too careful in the choice of his enemies. I +have not got one who is a fool. They are all men of 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 must be +merely an acquaintance.” + +“My dear old Basil, you are much more than 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!” exclaimed Hallward, frowning. + +“My dear fellow, I am not quite serious. But I can’t help detesting my +relations. I suppose it comes from the fact that none of us can 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 upper orders. The masses 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 yet I don’t suppose that ten per cent of the +proletariat live correctly.” + +“I don’t agree with a single word that you have said, and, what is +more, Harry, I feel sure you don’t either.” + +Lord Henry stroked his pointed brown beard and tapped the toe of his +patent-leather boot with a tasselled ebony cane. “How English you are +Basil! That is the second time you have made that observation. If one +puts forward an idea to a true Englishman—always a rash thing to do—he +never dreams of considering whether the idea is right or wrong. The +only thing he considers of any importance is whether one believes it +oneself. Now, the value of an idea has nothing whatsoever to do with +the sincerity of the man who expresses it. Indeed, the probabilities +are that the more insincere the man is, the more purely intellectual +will the idea be, as in that case it will not be coloured by either his +wants, his desires, or his prejudices. However, I don’t propose to +discuss politics, sociology, or metaphysics with you. I like persons +better than principles, and I like persons with no principles better +than anything else in the world. Tell me more about Mr. Dorian Gray. +How often do you see him?” + +“Every day. I couldn’t be happy if I didn’t see him every day. He is +absolutely necessary to me.” + +“How extraordinary! I thought you would never care for anything but +your art.” + +“He is all my art to me now,” said the painter gravely. “I sometimes +think, Harry, that there are only two eras of any importance in the +world’s history. The first is the appearance of a new medium for art, +and the second is the appearance of a new personality for art also. +What the invention of oil-painting was to the Venetians, the face of +Antinous was to late Greek 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, sketch from him. Of course, I have done all that. But he is much +more to me than a model or a sitter. I won’t tell you that I am +dissatisfied 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 manner in art, an entirely new mode of style. I see things +differently, I think of them differently. I can now recreate 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 Gray +has been to me. The merely visible presence of this lad—for he seems to +me little more than a lad, though he is really over twenty—his merely +visible presence—ah! I wonder can you realize all that that means? +Unconsciously he defines for me the lines of a fresh school, a school +that is to have in it all the passion of the romantic spirit, all the +perfection of the spirit that is Greek. The harmony of soul and +body—how much that is! We in our madness have separated the two, and +have invented a realism that is vulgar, an ideality that is void. +Harry! if you only knew what Dorian Gray is to me! You remember that +landscape 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. Some subtle influence passed from him to me, and for the +first time in my life I saw in the plain woodland the wonder I had +always looked for and always missed.” + +“Basil, this is extraordinary! I must see Dorian Gray.” + +Hallward got up from the seat and walked up and down the garden. After +some time he came back. “Harry,” he said, “Dorian Gray is to me simply +a motive in art. You might see nothing in him. I see everything in him. +He is never more present in my work than when no image of him is there. +He is a suggestion, as I have said, of a new manner. I find him in the +curves of certain lines, in the loveliness and subtleties of certain +colours. That is all.” + +“Then why won’t you exhibit his portrait?” asked Lord Henry. + +“Because, without intending it, I have put into it some expression of +all this curious artistic idolatry, of which, of course, I have never +cared to speak to him. He knows nothing about it. He shall never know +anything about it. But the world might guess it, and I will not bare my +soul to their shallow prying eyes. My heart shall 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. They know how useful passion +is for publication. Nowadays a broken heart will run to many editions.” + +“I hate them for it,” cried Hallward. “An artist should create +beautiful things, but should put nothing of his own life into them. We +live in an age when men treat art as if it were meant to be a form of +autobiography. We have lost the abstract sense of beauty. Some day I +will show the world what it is; and for that reason the world shall +never see my portrait of Dorian 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?” + +The painter considered for a few moments. “He likes me,” he answered +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 shall +be sorry for having said. As a rule, he is charming to me, and we sit +in the studio and talk of a thousand things. Now and then, however, he +is horribly thoughtless, and seems to take a real delight in giving me +pain. Then 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,” murmured Lord Henry. +“Perhaps you will tire sooner than he will. It is a sad thing 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. 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, with everything priced above +its proper value. I think you will tire first, all the same. Some day +you will look at your friend, and he will seem to you to be a little +out of drawing, or you won’t like his tone of colour, 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 +perfectly cold and indifferent. It will be a great pity, for it will +alter you. What you have told me is quite a romance, a romance of art +one might call it, and the worst of having a romance of any kind 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 can’t feel what I feel. You change +too often.” + +“Ah, my dear Basil, that is exactly why I can feel it. Those who are +faithful know only the trivial side of love: it is the faithless who +know love’s tragedies.” And Lord Henry struck a light on a dainty +silver case and began to smoke a cigarette with a self-conscious and +satisfied air, as if he had summed up the world in a phrase. There was +a rustle of chirruping sparrows in the green lacquer leaves of the ivy, +and the blue cloud-shadows chased themselves across the grass like +swallows. How pleasant it was in the garden! And how delightful other +people’s emotions were!—much more delightful than their ideas, it +seemed to him. One’s own soul, and the passions of one’s friends—those +were the fascinating things in life. He pictured to himself with silent +amusement the tedious luncheon that he had missed by staying so long +with Basil Hallward. Had he gone to his aunt’s, he would have been sure +to have met Lord Goodbody there, and the whole conversation would have +been about the feeding of the poor and the necessity for model +lodging-houses. Each class would have preached the importance of those +virtues, for whose exercise there was no necessity in their own lives. +The rich would have spoken on the value of thrift, and the idle grown +eloquent over the dignity of labour. It was charming to have escaped +all that! 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.” + +“Where was it?” asked Hallward, with a slight frown. + +“Don’t look so angry, Basil. It was at my aunt, 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, horribly freckled, and tramping +about on huge feet. I wish I had known it was your friend.” + +“I am very glad you didn’t, Harry.” + +“Why?” + +“I don’t want you to meet him.” + +“You don’t want me to meet him?” + +“No.” + +“Mr. Dorian Gray is in the studio, sir,” said the butler, coming into +the garden. + +“You must introduce me now,” cried Lord Henry, laughing. + +The painter turned to his servant, who stood blinking in the sunlight. +“Ask Mr. Gray to wait, Parker: I shall be in in a few moments.” The man +bowed and went up the walk. + +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. Don’t try to influence +him. Your influence would be bad. The world is wide, and has many +marvellous people in it. Don’t take away from me the one person who +gives to my art whatever charm it possesses: my life as an artist +depends on him. Mind, Harry, I trust you.” He spoke very slowly, and +the words seemed wrung out of him almost against his will. + +“What nonsense you talk!” said Lord Henry, smiling, and taking Hallward +by the arm, he almost led him into the house. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + +As they entered they saw Dorian Gray. He was seated at the piano, with +his 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 want 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 coloured his cheeks for a moment, and he started up. “I beg your +pardon, Basil, but I didn’t know you had any one with 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 meeting you, Mr. Gray,” said Lord +Henry, stepping forward and extending his hand. “My aunt has often +spoken to me about you. You are one of her favourites, and, I am +afraid, one of her victims also.” + +“I am in Lady Agatha’s black books at present,” answered Dorian with a +funny look of penitence. “I promised to go to a club in Whitechapel +with her last Tuesday, and I really forgot all about it. We were to +have played a duet together—three duets, I believe. I don’t know what +she will say to me. I am far too frightened to call.” + +“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. When Aunt Agatha sits down to +the piano, she makes quite enough noise for two people.” + +“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 candour 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. + +“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. + +The painter had been busy mixing his colours and getting his brushes +ready. He was looking worried, and when he heard Lord Henry’s last +remark, he glanced at him, hesitated for a moment, and then said, +“Harry, I want to finish this picture to-day. Would you think it +awfully rude of me if I asked you to go away?” + +Lord Henry smiled and looked at Dorian Gray. “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. It is so tedious a +subject that one would have to talk seriously about it. But I certainly +shall not run away, now that you have asked me to stop. You don’t +really mind, Basil, do you? You have often told me that you liked your +sitters to have some one to chat to.” + +Hallward bit his lip. “If Dorian wishes it, of course 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-bye, 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 sorry to miss you.” + +“Basil,” cried Dorian Gray, “if Lord Henry Wotton goes, I shall go, +too. You 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 oblige me,” said Hallward, +gazing intently at his picture. “It is quite true, I never talk when I +am working, and never listen either, and it must be dreadfully tedious +for my unfortunate sitters. I beg you to stay.” + +“But what about my man at the Orleans?” + +The painter laughed. “I don’t think there will be any difficulty about +that. Sit down 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 all his friends, with the single +exception of myself.” + +Dorian Gray 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 Basil. 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 influence, 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 think 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 becomes 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. To realize one’s nature perfectly—that is what each +of us is here for. People are afraid of themselves, nowadays. They have +forgotten the highest of all duties, the duty that one owes to one’s +self. Of course, they are charitable. They feed the hungry and clothe +the beggar. But their own souls starve, and are naked. Courage has gone +out of our race. Perhaps we never really had it. The terror of society, +which is the basis of morals, the terror of God, which is the secret of +religion—these are the two things that govern us. And yet—” + +“Just turn your head a little more to the right, Dorian, like a good +boy,” said the painter, deep in his work and conscious only that a look +had come into the lad’s face that he had never seen 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 believe that if one man +were to live out his life 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 mediævalism, and return to the +Hellenic ideal—to something finer, richer than the Hellenic ideal, it +may be. But the bravest man amongst us is afraid 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 with its sin, for action is a mode of +purification. Nothing remains then but the recollection of a pleasure, +or the luxury of a regret. The only way to get rid of a temptation is +to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick 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 events of the world take place in the brain. It is in the +brain, and the brain only, that the great sins of the world take place +also. You, Mr. Gray, 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 terror, day-dreams and sleeping +dreams whose mere memory might stain your cheek with shame—” + +“Stop!” faltered 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 try not to think.” + +For nearly ten minutes he stood there, motionless, with parted lips and +eyes strangely bright. He was dimly conscious that entirely fresh +influences were at work within him. Yet they seemed to him to have come +really from himself. The few words that Basil’s friend had said to +him—words spoken by chance, no doubt, and with wilful paradox in +them—had touched some secret chord that had never been 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 another +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. +And yet what a subtle magic there was in them! They seemed to be able +to give a plastic form to formless things, and to have a music of their +own as sweet as that of viol or of lute. Mere words! Was there anything +so real as words? + +Yes; there had been things in his boyhood that he had not understood. +He understood them now. Life suddenly became fiery-coloured to him. It +seemed to him that he had been walking in fire. Why had he not known +it? + +With his subtle smile, Lord Henry watched him. He knew the precise +psychological moment when to say nothing. He felt intensely interested. +He was amazed at the sudden impression that his words had produced, +and, remembering a book that he had read when he was sixteen, a book +which had revealed to him much that he had not known before, he +wondered whether Dorian Gray was passing through a similar experience. +He had merely shot an arrow into the air. Had it hit the mark? How +fascinating the lad was! + +Hallward painted away with that marvellous bold touch of his, that had +the true refinement and perfect delicacy that in art, at any rate comes +only from strength. He was unconscious of the silence. + +“Basil, I am tired of standing,” cried 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 still. And +I have caught the effect I wanted—the half-parted lips and the bright +look in the eyes. I don’t know what Harry has been saying to you, but +he has certainly made you have the most wonderful expression. I suppose +he has been paying you compliments. You mustn’t believe a word that he +says.” + +“He has certainly not been paying me compliments. Perhaps that is the +reason that I don’t believe anything he has told me.” + +“You know you believe it all,” said Lord Henry, looking at him with his +dreamy languorous eyes. “I will go out to the garden with you. It is +horribly 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 Parker comes I will +tell him what you want. I have got to work up this background, so I +will join you later on. Don’t keep Dorian too long. I have never been +in better form for painting than I am to-day. This is going to be my +masterpiece. It 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 quivered, and some +hidden nerve shook the scarlet of his lips and left them trembling. + +“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 creation. You know more than you think +you know, just as you know less than you want to know.” + +Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He could not help liking +the tall, graceful young man who was standing by him. His romantic, +olive-coloured face and worn expression interested him. There was +something in his low languid voice that was absolutely fascinating. His +cool, white, flowerlike hands, even, had a curious charm. They moved, +as he spoke, like music, and seemed to have a language of their own. +But he felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being afraid. Why had it been +left for a stranger to reveal him to himself? He had known Basil +Hallward for months, but the friendship between them 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 schoolboy or a girl. It was absurd to be +frightened. + +“Let us go and sit in the shade,” said 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 allow yourself to become sunburnt. It would be unbecoming.” + +“What can it matter?” cried Dorian Gray, 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 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 wrinkled and +ugly, when thought has seared your forehead with its lines, and passion +branded your lips with its hideous fires, you will feel it, you will +feel it terribly. Now, wherever you go, you charm the world. Will it +always be so? ... You have a wonderfully beautiful face, Mr. 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 of the great +facts of the world, like sunlight, or spring-time, or the reflection in +dark waters of that 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 you have lost it you won’t +smile.... People say sometimes that beauty is only superficial. That +may be so, but at least it is not so superficial as thought is. 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 the visible, not +the invisible.... Yes, Mr. Gray, the gods have been good to you. But +what the gods give they quickly take away. You have only a few years in +which to live really, perfectly, and fully. When your youth goes, your +beauty will go with it, and then you will suddenly discover that there +are no triumphs left 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.... Ah! realize your youth while you have it. +Don’t squander the gold of your days, listening to the tedious, trying +to improve the hopeless failure, or giving away your life to the +ignorant, the common, and the vulgar. These are the sickly aims, the +false ideals, of our age. Live! Live the wonderful life that is in you! +Let nothing be lost upon you. Be always searching for new sensations. +Be afraid of nothing.... A new Hedonism—that is what our century wants. +You might be its visible 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, +of what you really might be. There was so much in you that charmed me +that I felt I must tell you something about yourself. I thought how +tragic it would be if you were wasted. For there is such a little time +that your youth will last—such a little time. The common hill-flowers +wither, but they blossom again. The laburnum will be as yellow 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 hold +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 degenerate into hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the +passions of which we were too much afraid, and the exquisite +temptations that we had not the courage 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 oval stellated globe +of the tiny blossoms. He watched it with that strange interest in +trivial things that we try to develop when things of high import make +us afraid, or when we are stirred by some new emotion for which we +cannot find expression, or when some thought that terrifies us lays +sudden siege to the brain and calls on us to yield. After a time the +bee flew away. He saw it creeping into the stained trumpet of a Tyrian +convolvulus. The flower seemed to quiver, and then swayed gently to and +fro. + +Suddenly the painter appeared at the door of the studio and made +staccato signs for them to come in. They turned to each other and +smiled. + +“I am waiting,” he cried. “Do come in. The light is quite perfect, and +you 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 corner of +the garden 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?” + +“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 for ever. It is a meaningless word, too. The only +difference between a caprice and a lifelong passion is that the caprice +lasts 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 murmured, +flushing at his own boldness, then stepped up on the platform and +resumed his pose. + +Lord Henry flung himself into a large wicker arm-chair and watched him. +The sweep and dash of the brush on the canvas made the only sound that +broke the stillness, except when, now and then, Hallward stepped back +to look at his work from a distance. In the slanting beams that +streamed through the open doorway the dust danced and was golden. The +heavy scent of the roses seemed to brood over everything. + +After about a quarter of an hour Hallward stopped 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 frowning. “It is quite +finished,” he cried at last, and stooping down he wrote his name in +long vermilion letters on the left-hand corner of the canvas. + +Lord Henry came over and examined the picture. It was certainly a +wonderful work of art, and a wonderful likeness as well. + +“My dear fellow, I congratulate you most warmly,” he said. “It is the +finest portrait of modern times. Mr. Gray, come over and look at +yourself.” + +The lad started, as if awakened from some dream. + +“Is it really finished?” he murmured, stepping down from the platform. + +“Quite finished,” said the painter. “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, Mr. +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 his cheeks +flushed for a moment with pleasure. A look of joy came into his eyes, +as 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 sense of his own +beauty came on him like a revelation. He had never felt it before. +Basil Hallward’s compliments had seemed to him to be merely the +charming exaggeration of friendship. He had listened to them, laughed +at them, forgotten them. They had not influenced his nature. Then had +come Lord Henry Wotton 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 loveliness, 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 +colourless, the grace of his figure broken and deformed. The scarlet +would pass away from his lips and the gold steal from his hair. The +life that was to make his soul would mar his body. He would become +dreadful, hideous, and uncouth. + +As he thought of it, a sharp pang of pain struck through him like a +knife and made each delicate fibre of his nature quiver. His eyes +deepened into amethyst, and across them came a mist of tears. 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, not understanding what it meant. + +“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,” answered the painter. + +“He is a very lucky fellow.” + +“How sad it is!” murmured Dorian Gray with his eyes still fixed upon +his own portrait. “How sad it is! I shall grow old, and horrible, and +dreadful. But this picture will remain always young. It will never be +older than this particular day of June.... If it were only the other +way! If it were I who was to be always young, and the picture that was +to grow old! For that—for that—I would give everything! Yes, there is +nothing in the whole world I would not give! I would give my soul for +that!” + +“You would hardly care for such an arrangement, Basil,” cried Lord +Henry, laughing. “It would be rather hard lines on your work.” + +“I should object very strongly, Harry,” said Hallward. + +Dorian Gray turned and looked at him. “I believe you would, Basil. You +like your art better than your friends. I am no more to you than a +green bronze figure. Hardly as much, I dare say.” + +The painter stared in amazement. It was so unlike Dorian to speak like +that. What had happened? He seemed quite 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 Wotton is perfectly right. Youth +is the only thing worth having. When I find that I am growing old, I +shall kill myself.” + +Hallward turned pale and caught his hand. “Dorian! Dorian!” he cried, +“don’t talk like that. I have never had such a friend as you, and I +shall never have such another. You are not jealous of material things, +are you?—you who are finer than any of them!” + +“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 something from me and gives +something to it. Oh, if it were only the other way! If the picture +could change, and I could be always what I am now! Why did you paint +it? It will mock me some day—mock me horribly!” The hot tears welled +into his eyes; he tore his hand away and, flinging himself on the +divan, he buried his face in the cushions, as though he was praying. + +“This is your doing, Harry,” said the painter bitterly. + +Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. “It is the real Dorian Gray—that is +all.” + +“It is not.” + +“If it is not, what have I to do with it?” + +“You should have gone away when I asked you,” he muttered. + +“I stayed when you asked me,” was Lord Henry’s answer. + +“Harry, I can’t quarrel with my two best friends at once, but between +you both you have made me hate the finest piece of work I have ever +done, and I will destroy it. What is it but canvas and colour? I will +not let it come across our three lives and mar them.” + +Dorian Gray lifted his golden head from the pillow, and with pallid +face and tear-stained eyes, looked at him as he walked over to the deal +painting-table that was set beneath the high curtained window. What was +he doing there? His fingers were straying about among the litter of tin +tubes and dry brushes, seeking for something. Yes, it was for the long +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 the lad leaped from the couch, and, rushing over to +Hallward, tore the knife out of his hand, and flung it to the 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 the painter +coldly when he had recovered from his surprise. “I never thought 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 will have tea, of +course, Dorian? And so will you, Harry? Or do you object to such simple +pleasures?” + +“I adore simple pleasures,” said Lord Henry. “They are the last refuge +of the complex. But I don’t like scenes, except on the stage. What +absurd fellows you are, both of you! I wonder who it was defined man as +a rational animal. It was the most premature definition ever given. Man +is many things, 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 really do.” + +“If you let any one have it but me, Basil, I shall 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 silly, Mr. Gray, and that you +don’t really object to being reminded that you are extremely young.” + +“I should have objected very strongly this morning, Lord Henry.” + +“Ah! this morning! You have lived since then.” + +There came a knock at the door, and the butler entered with a laden +tea-tray and set it down upon a small Japanese table. There was a +rattle of cups and saucers and the hissing of a fluted Georgian urn. +Two globe-shaped china dishes were brought in by a page. Dorian Gray +went over and poured out the tea. 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 friend, so I can send him a wire to 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 +all the surprise of candour.” + +“It is such a bore putting on one’s dress-clothes,” muttered Hallward. +“And, when one has them on, they are so horrid.” + +“Yes,” answered Lord Henry dreamily, “the costume of the nineteenth +century is detestable. It is so sombre, so depressing. Sin is the only +real colour-element left in modern life.” + +“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, too, Basil, won’t you?” + +“I can’t, really. I would sooner not. I have a lot of work to do.” + +“Well, then, you and I will go alone, Mr. Gray.” + +“I should like that awfully.” + +The painter bit his lip and walked over, cup in hand, to the picture. +“I shall stay with the real Dorian,” he said, sadly. + +“Is it the real Dorian?” cried the original of the portrait, strolling +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. But it will never alter,” +sighed Hallward. “That is something.” + +“What a fuss people make about fidelity!” exclaimed Lord Henry. “Why, +even in love it is purely a question for physiology. It has nothing to +do with our own will. Young men want to be faithful, and are not; old +men want to be faithless, and cannot: that is all one can say.” + +“Don’t go to the theatre to-night, Dorian,” said Hallward. “Stop and +dine with me.” + +“I can’t, Basil.” + +“Why?” + +“Because I have promised Lord Henry Wotton to go with him.” + +“He won’t like you the better for keeping your promises. He always +breaks his own. I beg you not to go.” + +Dorian Gray laughed and shook his head. + +“I entreat you.” + +The lad hesitated, and looked over at Lord Henry, who was watching them +from the tea-table with an amused smile. + +“I must go, Basil,” he answered. + +“Very well,” said Hallward, and he went over and laid down his cup on +the tray. “It is rather late, and, as you have to dress, you had better +lose no time. Good-bye, Harry. Good-bye, Dorian. Come and see me soon. +Come to-morrow.” + +“Certainly.” + +“You won’t forget?” + +“No, of course not,” cried Dorian. + +“And ... Harry!” + +“Yes, Basil?” + +“Remember what I asked you, when we were 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-bye, Basil. It has been a most interesting afternoon.” + +As the door closed behind them, the painter flung himself down on a +sofa, and a look of pain came into his face. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + +At half-past twelve next day Lord Henry Wotton strolled from Curzon +Street over to the Albany to call on his uncle, Lord Fermor, a genial +if somewhat rough-mannered old bachelor, whom the outside world called +selfish because it derived no particular benefit from him, but who was +considered generous by Society as he fed the people who amused him. His +father had been our ambassador at Madrid when Isabella was young and +Prim unthought of, but had retired from the diplomatic service in a +capricious moment of annoyance on not being offered the Embassy at +Paris, a post to which he considered that he was fully entitled by +reason of his birth, his indolence, the good English of his dispatches, +and his inordinate passion for pleasure. The son, who had been his +father’s secretary, had resigned along with his chief, somewhat +foolishly as was thought at the time, and on succeeding some months +later to the title, had set himself to the serious study of the great +aristocratic art of doing absolutely nothing. He had two large town +houses, but preferred to live in chambers as it was less trouble, and +took most of his meals at his club. He paid some attention to the +management of his collieries in the Midland counties, excusing himself +for this taint of industry on the ground that the one advantage of +having coal was that it enabled a gentleman to afford the decency of +burning wood on his own hearth. In politics he was a Tory, except when +the Tories were in office, during which period he roundly abused them +for being a pack of Radicals. He was a hero to his valet, who bullied +him, and a terror to most of his relations, whom he bullied in turn. +Only England could have produced him, and he always said that the +country was going to the dogs. His principles were out of date, but +there was a good deal to be said for his prejudices. + +When Lord Henry entered the room, he found his uncle sitting in a rough +shooting-coat, smoking a cheroot and grumbling over _The Times_. “Well, +Harry,” said the old gentleman, “what brings you out so early? I +thought you dandies never got up till two, and were not visible till +five.” + +“Pure family affection, I assure you, Uncle George. I want to get +something out of you.” + +“Money, I suppose,” said Lord Fermor, making a wry face. “Well, sit +down and tell me all about it. Young people, nowadays, imagine that +money is everything.” + +“Yes,” murmured Lord Henry, settling his button-hole in his coat; “and +when they grow older they know it. But I don’t want money. It is only +people who pay their bills who want that, Uncle George, and I never pay +mine. Credit is the capital of a younger son, and one lives charmingly +upon it. Besides, I always deal with Dartmoor’s tradesmen, and +consequently they never bother me. What I want is information: not +useful information, of course; useless information.” + +“Well, I can tell you anything that is in an English Blue Book, Harry, +although those fellows nowadays write a lot of nonsense. When I was in +the Diplomatic, things were much better. But I hear they let them in +now by examination. What can you expect? Examinations, sir, are pure +humbug from beginning to end. If a man is a gentleman, he knows quite +enough, and if he is not a gentleman, whatever he knows is bad for +him.” + +“Mr. Dorian Gray does not belong to Blue Books, Uncle George,” said +Lord Henry languidly. + +“Mr. Dorian Gray? Who is he?” asked Lord Fermor, knitting his bushy +white eyebrows. + +“That is what I have come to learn, Uncle George. Or rather, I know who +he is. He is the last Lord Kelso’s grandson. His mother was a Devereux, +Lady Margaret Devereux. I want you to tell me about his mother. What +was she like? Whom did she marry? You have known nearly everybody in +your time, so you might have known her. I am very much interested in +Mr. Gray at present. I have only just met him.” + +“Kelso’s grandson!” echoed the old gentleman. “Kelso’s grandson! ... Of +course.... I knew his mother intimately. I believe I was at her +christening. She was an extraordinarily beautiful girl, Margaret +Devereux, and made all the men frantic by running away with a penniless +young fellow—a mere nobody, sir, a subaltern in a foot regiment, or +something of that kind. Certainly. I remember the whole thing as if it +happened yesterday. The poor chap was killed in a duel at Spa a few +months after the marriage. There was an ugly story about it. They said +Kelso got some rascally adventurer, some Belgian brute, to insult his +son-in-law in public—paid him, sir, to do it, paid him—and that the +fellow spitted his man as if he had been a pigeon. The thing was hushed +up, but, egad, Kelso ate his chop alone at the club for some time +afterwards. He brought his daughter back with him, I was told, and she +never spoke to him again. Oh, yes; it was a bad business. The girl +died, too, died within a year. So she left a son, did she? I had +forgotten that. What sort of boy is he? If he is like his mother, he +must be a good-looking chap.” + +“He is very good-looking,” assented Lord Henry. + +“I hope he will fall into proper hands,” continued the old man. “He +should have a pot of money waiting for him if Kelso did the right thing +by him. His mother had money, too. All the Selby property came to her, +through her grandfather. Her grandfather hated Kelso, thought him a +mean dog. He was, too. Came to Madrid once when I was there. Egad, I +was ashamed of him. The Queen used to ask me about the English noble +who was always quarrelling with the cabmen about their fares. They made +quite a story of it. I didn’t dare show my face at Court for a month. I +hope he treated his grandson better than he did the jarvies.” + +“I don’t know,” answered Lord Henry. “I fancy that the boy will be well +off. He is not of age yet. He has Selby, I know. He told me so. And ... +his mother was very beautiful?” + +“Margaret Devereux was one of the loveliest creatures I ever saw, +Harry. What on earth induced her to behave as she did, I never could +understand. She could have married anybody she chose. Carlington was +mad after her. She was romantic, though. All the women of that family +were. The men were a poor lot, but, egad! the women were wonderful. +Carlington went on his knees to her. Told me so himself. She laughed at +him, and there wasn’t a girl in London at the time who wasn’t after +him. And by the way, Harry, talking about silly marriages, what is this +humbug your father tells me about Dartmoor wanting to marry an +American? Ain’t English girls good enough for him?” + +“It is rather fashionable to marry Americans just now, Uncle George.” + +“I’ll back English women against the world, Harry,” said Lord Fermor, +striking the table with his fist. + +“The betting is on the Americans.” + +“They don’t last, I am told,” muttered his uncle. + +“A long engagement exhausts them, but they are capital at a +steeplechase. They take things flying. I don’t think Dartmoor has a +chance.” + +“Who are her people?” grumbled the old gentleman. “Has she got any?” + +Lord Henry shook his head. “American girls are as clever at concealing +their parents, as English women are at concealing their past,” he said, +rising to go. + +“They are pork-packers, I suppose?” + +“I hope so, Uncle George, for Dartmoor’s sake. I am told that +pork-packing is the most lucrative profession in America, after +politics.” + +“Is she pretty?” + +“She behaves as if she was beautiful. Most American women do. It is the +secret of their charm.” + +“Why can’t these American women stay in their own country? They are +always telling us that it is the paradise for women.” + +“It is. That is the reason why, like Eve, they are so excessively +anxious to get out of it,” said Lord Henry. “Good-bye, Uncle George. I +shall be late for lunch, if I stop any longer. Thanks for giving me the +information I wanted. I always like to know everything about my new +friends, and nothing about my old ones.” + +“Where are you lunching, Harry?” + +“At Aunt Agatha’s. I have asked myself and Mr. Gray. He is her latest +_protégé_.” + +“Humph! tell your Aunt Agatha, Harry, not to bother me any more with +her charity appeals. I am sick of them. Why, the good woman thinks that +I have nothing to do but to write cheques for her silly fads.” + +“All right, Uncle George, I’ll tell her, but it won’t have any effect. +Philanthropic people lose all sense of humanity. It is their +distinguishing characteristic.” + +The old gentleman growled approvingly and rang the bell for his +servant. Lord Henry passed up the low arcade into Burlington Street and +turned his steps in the direction of Berkeley Square. + +So that was the story of Dorian Gray’s parentage. Crudely as it had +been told to him, it had yet stirred him by its suggestion of a +strange, almost modern romance. A beautiful woman risking everything +for a mad passion. A few wild weeks of happiness cut short by a +hideous, treacherous crime. Months of voiceless agony, and then a child +born in pain. The mother snatched away by death, the boy left to +solitude and the tyranny of an old and loveless man. Yes; it was an +interesting background. It posed the lad, made him more perfect, as it +were. Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something +tragic. Worlds had to be in travail, that the meanest flower might +blow.... And how charming he had been at dinner the night before, as +with startled eyes and lips parted in frightened pleasure he had sat +opposite to him at the club, the red candleshades staining to a richer +rose the wakening wonder of his face. Talking to him was like playing +upon an exquisite violin. He answered to every touch and thrill of the +bow.... There was something terribly enthralling in the exercise of +influence. No other activity was like it. To project one’s soul into +some gracious form, and let it tarry there for a moment; to hear one’s +own intellectual views echoed back to one with all the added music of +passion and youth; to convey one’s temperament into another as though +it were a subtle fluid or a strange perfume: there was a real joy in +that—perhaps the most satisfying joy left to us in an age so limited +and vulgar as our own, an age grossly carnal in its pleasures, and +grossly common in its aims.... He was a marvellous type, too, this lad, +whom by so curious a chance he had met in Basil’s studio, or could be +fashioned into a marvellous type, at any rate. Grace was his, and the +white purity of boyhood, and beauty such as old Greek marbles kept for +us. There was nothing that one could not do with him. He could be made +a Titan or a toy. What a pity it was that such beauty was destined to +fade! ... And Basil? From a psychological point of view, how +interesting he was! The new manner in art, the fresh mode of looking at +life, suggested so strangely by the merely visible presence of one who +was unconscious of it all; the silent spirit that dwelt in dim +woodland, and walked unseen in open field, suddenly showing herself, +Dryadlike and not afraid, because in his soul who sought for her there +had been wakened that wonderful vision to which alone are wonderful +things revealed; the mere shapes and patterns of things becoming, as it +were, refined, and gaining a kind of symbolical value, as though they +were themselves patterns of some other and more perfect form whose +shadow they made real: how strange it all was! He remembered something +like it in history. Was it not Plato, that artist in thought, who had +first analyzed it? Was it not Buonarotti who had carved it in the +coloured marbles of a sonnet-sequence? But in our own century it was +strange.... Yes; he would try to be to Dorian Gray what, without +knowing it, the lad was to the painter who had fashioned the wonderful +portrait. He would seek to dominate him—had already, indeed, half done +so. He would make that wonderful spirit his own. There was something +fascinating in this son of love and death. + +Suddenly he stopped and glanced up at the houses. He found that he had +passed his aunt’s some distance, and, smiling to himself, turned back. +When he entered the somewhat sombre hall, the butler told him that they +had gone in to lunch. He gave one of the footmen his hat and stick and +passed into the dining-room. + +“Late as usual, Harry,” cried his aunt, shaking her head at him. + +He invented a facile excuse, and having taken the vacant seat next to +her, looked round to see who was there. Dorian bowed to him shyly from +the end of the table, a flush of pleasure stealing into his cheek. +Opposite was the Duchess of Harley, a lady of admirable good-nature and +good temper, much liked by every one who knew her, and of those ample +architectural proportions that in women who are not duchesses are +described by contemporary historians as stoutness. Next to her sat, on +her right, Sir Thomas Burdon, a Radical member of Parliament, who +followed his leader in public life and in private life followed the +best cooks, dining with the Tories and thinking with the Liberals, in +accordance with a wise and well-known rule. The post on her left was +occupied by Mr. Erskine of Treadley, an old gentleman of considerable +charm and culture, who had fallen, however, into bad habits of silence, +having, as he explained once to Lady Agatha, said everything that he +had to say before he was thirty. His own neighbour was Mrs. Vandeleur, +one of his aunt’s oldest friends, a perfect saint amongst women, but so +dreadfully dowdy that she reminded one of a badly bound hymn-book. +Fortunately for him she had on the other side Lord Faudel, a most +intelligent middle-aged mediocrity, as bald as a ministerial statement +in the House of Commons, with whom she was conversing in that intensely +earnest manner which is the one unpardonable error, as he remarked once +himself, that all really good people fall into, and from which none of +them ever quite escape. + +“We are talking about poor Dartmoor, Lord Henry,” cried the duchess, +nodding pleasantly to him across the table. “Do you think he will +really marry this fascinating young person?” + +“I believe she has made up her mind to propose to him, Duchess.” + +“How dreadful!” exclaimed Lady Agatha. “Really, some one should +interfere.” + +“I am told, on excellent authority, that her father keeps an American +dry-goods store,” said Sir Thomas Burdon, looking supercilious. + +“My uncle has already suggested pork-packing, Sir Thomas.” + +“Dry-goods! What are American dry-goods?” asked the duchess, raising +her large hands in wonder and accentuating the verb. + +“American novels,” answered Lord Henry, helping himself to some quail. + +The duchess looked puzzled. + +“Don’t mind him, my dear,” whispered Lady Agatha. “He never means +anything that he says.” + +“When America was discovered,” said the Radical member—and he began to +give some wearisome facts. Like all people who try to exhaust a +subject, he exhausted his listeners. The duchess sighed and exercised +her privilege of interruption. “I wish to goodness it never had been +discovered at all!” she exclaimed. “Really, our girls have no chance +nowadays. It is most unfair.” + +“Perhaps, after all, America never has been discovered,” said Mr. +Erskine; “I myself would say that it had merely been detected.” + +“Oh! but I have seen specimens of the inhabitants,” answered the +duchess vaguely. “I must confess that most of them are extremely +pretty. And they dress well, too. They get all their dresses in Paris. +I wish I could afford to do the same.” + +“They say that when good Americans die they go to Paris,” chuckled Sir +Thomas, who had a large wardrobe of Humour’s cast-off clothes. + +“Really! And where do bad Americans go to when they die?” inquired the +duchess. + +“They go to America,” murmured Lord Henry. + +Sir Thomas frowned. “I am afraid that your nephew is prejudiced against +that great country,” he said to Lady Agatha. “I have travelled all over +it in cars provided by the directors, who, in such matters, are +extremely civil. I assure you that it is an education to visit it.” + +“But must we really see Chicago in order to be educated?” asked Mr. +Erskine plaintively. “I don’t feel up to the journey.” + +Sir Thomas waved his hand. “Mr. Erskine of Treadley has the world on +his shelves. We practical men like to see things, not to read about +them. The Americans are an extremely interesting people. They are +absolutely reasonable. I think that is their distinguishing +characteristic. Yes, Mr. Erskine, an absolutely reasonable people. I +assure you there is no nonsense about the Americans.” + +“How dreadful!” cried Lord Henry. “I can stand brute force, but brute +reason is quite unbearable. There is something unfair about its use. It +is hitting below the intellect.” + +“I do not understand you,” said Sir Thomas, growing rather red. + +“I do, Lord Henry,” murmured Mr. Erskine, with a smile. + +“Paradoxes are all very well in their way....” rejoined the baronet. + +“Was that a paradox?” asked Mr. Erskine. “I did not think so. Perhaps +it was. Well, the way of paradoxes is the way of truth. To test reality +we must see it on the tight rope. When the verities become acrobats, we +can judge them.” + +“Dear me!” said Lady Agatha, “how you men argue! I am sure I never can +make out what you are talking about. Oh! Harry, I am quite vexed with +you. Why do you try to persuade our nice Mr. Dorian Gray to give up the +East End? I assure you he would be quite invaluable. They would love +his playing.” + +“I want him to play to me,” cried Lord Henry, smiling, and he looked +down the table and caught a bright answering glance. + +“But they are so unhappy in Whitechapel,” continued Lady Agatha. + +“I can sympathize with everything except suffering,” said Lord Henry, +shrugging his shoulders. “I cannot sympathize with that. It is too +ugly, too horrible, too distressing. There is something terribly morbid +in the modern sympathy with pain. One should sympathize with the +colour, the beauty, the joy of life. The less said about life’s sores, +the better.” + +“Still, the East End is a very important problem,” remarked Sir Thomas +with a grave shake of the head. + +“Quite so,” answered the young lord. “It is the problem of slavery, and +we try to solve it by amusing the slaves.” + +The politician looked at him keenly. “What change do you propose, +then?” he asked. + +Lord Henry laughed. “I don’t desire to change anything in England +except the weather,” he answered. “I am quite content with philosophic +contemplation. But, as the nineteenth century has gone bankrupt through +an over-expenditure of sympathy, I would suggest that we should appeal +to science to put us straight. The advantage of the emotions is that +they lead us astray, and the advantage of science is that it is not +emotional.” + +“But we have such grave responsibilities,” ventured Mrs. Vandeleur +timidly. + +“Terribly grave,” echoed Lady Agatha. + +Lord Henry looked over at Mr. Erskine. “Humanity takes itself too +seriously. It is the world’s original sin. If the caveman had known how +to laugh, history would have been different.” + +“You are really very comforting,” warbled the duchess. “I have always +felt rather guilty when I came to see your dear aunt, for I take no +interest at all in the East End. For the future I shall be able to look +her in the face without a blush.” + +“A blush is very becoming, Duchess,” remarked Lord Henry. + +“Only when one is young,” she answered. “When an old woman like myself +blushes, it is a very bad sign. Ah! Lord Henry, I wish you would tell +me how to become young again.” + +He thought for a moment. “Can you remember any great error that you +committed in your early days, Duchess?” he asked, looking at her across +the table. + +“A great many, I fear,” she cried. + +“Then commit them over again,” he said gravely. “To get back one’s +youth, one has merely to repeat one’s follies.” + +“A delightful theory!” she exclaimed. “I must put it into practice.” + +“A dangerous theory!” came from Sir Thomas’s tight lips. Lady Agatha +shook her head, but could not help being amused. Mr. Erskine listened. + +“Yes,” he continued, “that is one of the great secrets of life. +Nowadays most people die of a sort of creeping common sense, and +discover when it is too late that the only things one never regrets are +one’s mistakes.” + +A laugh ran round the table. + +He played with the idea and grew wilful; tossed it into the air and +transformed it; let it escape and recaptured it; made it iridescent +with fancy and winged it with paradox. The praise of folly, as he went +on, soared into a philosophy, and philosophy herself became young, and +catching the mad music of pleasure, wearing, one might fancy, her +wine-stained robe and wreath of ivy, danced like a Bacchante over the +hills of life, and mocked the slow Silenus for being sober. Facts fled +before her like frightened forest things. Her white feet trod the huge +press at which wise Omar sits, till the seething grape-juice rose round +her bare limbs in waves of purple bubbles, or crawled in red foam over +the vat’s black, dripping, sloping sides. It was an extraordinary +improvisation. He felt that the eyes of Dorian Gray were fixed on him, +and the consciousness that amongst his audience there was one whose +temperament he wished to fascinate seemed to give his wit keenness and +to lend colour to his imagination. He was brilliant, fantastic, +irresponsible. He charmed his listeners out of themselves, and they +followed his pipe, laughing. Dorian Gray never took his gaze off him, +but sat like one under a spell, smiles chasing each other over his lips +and wonder growing grave in his darkening eyes. + +At last, liveried in the costume of the age, reality entered the room +in the shape of a servant to tell the duchess that her carriage was +waiting. She wrung her hands in mock despair. “How annoying!” she +cried. “I must go. I have to call for my husband at the club, to take +him to some absurd meeting at Willis’s Rooms, where he is going to be +in the chair. If I am late he is sure to be furious, and I couldn’t +have a scene in this bonnet. It is far too fragile. A harsh word would +ruin it. No, I must go, dear Agatha. Good-bye, Lord Henry, you are +quite delightful and dreadfully demoralizing. I am sure I don’t know +what to say about your views. You must come and dine with us some +night. Tuesday? Are you disengaged Tuesday?” + +“For you I would throw over anybody, Duchess,” said Lord Henry with a +bow. + +“Ah! that is very nice, and very wrong of you,” she cried; “so mind you +come”; and she swept out of the room, followed by Lady Agatha and the +other ladies. + +When Lord Henry had sat down again, Mr. Erskine moved round, and taking +a chair close to him, placed his hand upon his arm. + +“You talk books away,” he said; “why don’t you write one?” + +“I am too fond of reading books to care to write them, Mr. Erskine. I +should like to write a novel certainly, a novel that would be as lovely +as a Persian carpet and as unreal. But there is no literary public in +England for anything except newspapers, primers, and encyclopaedias. Of +all people in the world the English have the least sense of the beauty +of literature.” + +“I fear you are right,” answered Mr. Erskine. “I myself used to have +literary ambitions, but I gave them up long ago. And now, my dear young +friend, if you will allow me to call you so, may I ask if you really +meant all that you said to us at lunch?” + +“I quite forget what I said,” smiled Lord Henry. “Was it all very bad?” + +“Very bad indeed. In fact I consider you extremely dangerous, and if +anything happens to our good duchess, we shall all look on you as being +primarily responsible. But I should like to talk to you about life. The +generation into which I was born was tedious. Some day, when you are +tired of London, come down to Treadley and expound to me your +philosophy of pleasure over some admirable Burgundy I am fortunate +enough to possess.” + +“I shall be charmed. A visit to Treadley would be a great privilege. It +has a perfect host, and a perfect library.” + +“You will complete it,” answered the old gentleman with a courteous +bow. “And now I must bid good-bye to your excellent aunt. I am due at +the Athenaeum. It is the hour when we sleep there.” + +“All of you, Mr. Erskine?” + +“Forty of us, in forty arm-chairs. We are practising for an English +Academy of Letters.” + +Lord Henry laughed and rose. “I am going to the park,” he cried. + +As he was passing out of the door, Dorian Gray touched him on the arm. +“Let me come with you,” he murmured. + +“But I thought you had promised Basil Hallward to go and see him,” +answered Lord Henry. + +“I would sooner come with you; yes, I feel I must come with you. Do let +me. And you will promise to talk to me all the time? No one talks so +wonderfully as you do.” + +“Ah! I have talked quite enough for to-day,” said Lord Henry, smiling. +“All I want now is to look at life. You may come and look at it with +me, if you care to.” + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + +One afternoon, a month later, Dorian Gray was reclining in a luxurious +arm-chair, in the little library of Lord Henry’s house in Mayfair. It +was, in its way, a very charming room, with its high panelled +wainscoting of olive-stained oak, its cream-coloured frieze and ceiling +of raised plasterwork, and its brickdust felt carpet strewn with silk, +long-fringed Persian rugs. 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 with the gilt daisies +that Queen had selected for her device. Some large blue china jars and +parrot-tulips were ranged on the mantelshelf, and through the small +leaded panes of the window streamed the apricot-coloured light of a +summer day in London. + +Lord Henry had not yet come in. He was always late on principle, his +principle being that punctuality is the thief of time. So the lad was +looking rather sulky, 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 book-cases. The formal monotonous ticking of the +Louis Quatorze clock annoyed him. Once or twice he thought of going +away. + +At last he heard a step outside, and the door opened. “How late you +are, Harry!” he murmured. + +“I am afraid it is not Harry, Mr. Gray,” answered a shrill 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. I know you quite well by your photographs. I think my +husband has got seventeen of them.” + +“Not seventeen, Lady Henry?” + +“Well, eighteen, then. And I saw you with him the other night at the +opera.” She laughed 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 usually in love with somebody, and, as her passion was never +returned, she had kept all her illusions. She tried to look +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 +anybody’s. It is so loud that one can talk the whole time without other +people hearing what one says. That is a great advantage, don’t you +think so, Mr. Gray?” + +The same nervous staccato laugh broke from her thin lips, and her +fingers began to play with a long tortoise-shell 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 in conversation.” + +“Ah! that is one of Harry’s views, isn’t it, Mr. Gray? I always hear +Harry’s views from his friends. It is the only way I get to know of +them. But you must not think I don’t like good music. I adore it, but I +am afraid of it. It makes me too romantic. I have simply worshipped +pianists—two at a time, sometimes, Harry tells me. I don’t know what it +is about them. Perhaps it is that they are foreigners. They all are, +ain’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 spare no expense in foreigners. They make 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 about music. We have quite the +same ideas. No; I think our ideas are quite different. But he has been +most pleasant. I am so glad I’ve seen him.” + +“I am charmed, my love, quite charmed,” 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,” exclaimed Lady Henry, breaking an +awkward silence with her silly sudden laugh. “I have promised to drive +with the duchess. Good-bye, Mr. Gray. Good-bye, Harry. You are dining +out, I suppose? So am I. Perhaps I shall see you at Lady Thornbury’s.” + +“I dare say, my dear,” said Lord Henry, shutting the door behind her +as, looking like a bird of paradise that had been out all night in the +rain, she flitted out of the room, leaving a faint odour of +frangipanni. Then he lit a cigarette and flung himself down on the +sofa. + +“Never marry a woman with straw-coloured 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 that you say.” + +“Who are you in love with?” asked Lord Henry after a pause. + +“With an actress,” said Dorian Gray, blushing. + +Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. “That is a rather commonplace +_début_.” + +“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. Women represent +the triumph of matter over mind, just as men represent the triumph of +mind over morals.” + +“Harry, how can you?” + +“My dear Dorian, it is quite true. I am analysing women at present, so +I ought to know. The subject is not so abstruse as I thought it was. I +find that, ultimately, there are only two kinds of women, the plain and +the coloured. The plain 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 very charming. They commit one mistake, +however. They paint in order to try and look young. Our grandmothers +painted in order to try and talk brilliantly. _Rouge_ and _esprit_ used +to go together. That is all over now. As long as a woman can look ten +years younger than her own daughter, she is perfectly satisfied. As for +conversation, there are only five women in London worth talking to, and +two of these can’t be admitted into decent society. However, tell me +about your genius. How long have you known her?” + +“Ah! Harry, your views terrify me.” + +“Never mind that. How long have you known her?” + +“About three weeks.” + +“And where 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 strolled 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 sensations.... +Well, one evening about seven o’clock, I determined to go out in search +of some adventure. I felt that this grey monstrous London of ours, with +its myriads of people, its sordid sinners, and its splendid sins, as +you once phrased it, must have something in store for me. I fancied a +thousand things. The mere danger gave me a sense of delight. I +remembered what you had said to me on that wonderful evening when we +first dined together, about the search for beauty being the real 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 streets and black +grassless squares. About half-past eight I passed by an absurd little +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. ‘Have a +box, my Lord?’ he said, when he saw me, and he took off his hat with an +air of gorgeous servility. There was something about him, Harry, that +amused me. He was such a monster. You will laugh 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 should 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 +should not say the greatest romance of your life. You should say the +first romance of your life. You will always be loved, and you will +always be in love with love. A _grande passion_ is the privilege of +people who have nothing to do. That is the one use of the idle classes +of a country. Don’t be afraid. There are exquisite things in store for +you. 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, the people who love only once in their lives are really +the shallow people. What they call their loyalty, and their fidelity, I +call either the lethargy of custom or their lack of imagination. +Faithfulness is to the emotional life what consistency is to the life +of the intellect—simply a confession of failure. Faithfulness! I must +analyse it some day. The passion for property is in it. There are many +things that we would throw away if we were not afraid that others might +pick them up. 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 from behind the +curtain and surveyed the house. It was a tawdry affair, all Cupids and +cornucopias, like a third-rate wedding-cake. The gallery and pit were +fairly full, 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 days of the British drama.” + +“Just like, I should fancy, and very depressing. I began to wonder what +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 but Innocent’. Our fathers +used to 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. In art, as in politics, _les grandpères ont +toujours tort_.” + +“This play was good enough for us, Harry. It was Romeo and Juliet. I +must admit that 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 +sort of way. At any rate, I determined to wait for the first act. There +was a dreadful orchestra, presided over by a young Hebrew 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 +friendly terms with the pit. They were both as grotesque as the +scenery, and that looked as if it had come out of a country-booth. But +Juliet! Harry, imagine a girl, hardly seventeen years of age, with a +little, flowerlike face, a small Greek head with plaited coils of +dark-brown hair, eyes that were violet wells of passion, lips that were +like the petals of a rose. She was the loveliest thing I had ever seen +in my life. You said to me once that pathos left 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 such a voice. It was very low at +first, 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 hautboy. 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. 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. She is +everything to me in life. 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 of an Italian tomb, sucking the poison from +her lover’s lips. I have watched her wandering through the forest of +Arden, disguised as a pretty boy in hose and doublet and dainty cap. +She has been mad, and has come into the presence of a guilty king, and +given him rue to wear and bitter herbs to taste of. She has been +innocent, and the black hands of jealousy have crushed her reedlike +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 any of them. They ride in the park in the morning and +chatter at tea-parties in the afternoon. They have their stereotyped +smile and their fashionable manner. They are quite obvious. But an +actress! How different an actress is! Harry! why didn’t you tell me +that the only 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 extraordinary +charm in them, sometimes,” said Lord Henry. + +“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. +You have a curious influence over me. If I ever did a crime, I would +come and confess it to you. You 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 matches, like a good boy—thanks—what are your +actual 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 worth touching, Dorian,” said +Lord Henry, with a strange touch of pathos in his voice. “But why +should you be annoyed? I suppose she will belong to you some day. When +one is in love, one always begins by deceiving one’s self, and one +always ends by deceiving others. That is what the world calls a +romance. You know her, at any rate, I suppose?” + +“Of course I know her. On the first night I was at the theatre, the +horrid old Jew came round to the box after the performance was over and +offered to take me behind the scenes and introduce me to her. I was +furious with him, and told him that Juliet had been dead for hundreds +of years and that her body was lying in a marble tomb in Verona. I +think, from his blank look of amazement, that he was under the +impression that I had taken too much champagne, or something.” + +“I am not surprised.” + +“Then he asked me if I wrote for any of the newspapers. I told him I +never 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 every one of them to be bought.” + +“I should not wonder if he was quite right there. But, on the other +hand, judging from their appearance, most of them cannot be at all +expensive.” + +“Well, he seemed to think they were beyond his means,” laughed Dorian. +“By this time, however, the lights were being put out in the theatre, +and I had to go. He wanted me to try some cigars that he strongly +recommended. I declined. The next night, of course, I arrived at the +place again. When he saw me, he made me a low bow and assured me that I +was a munificent patron of art. He was a most offensive brute, though +he had an extraordinary passion for Shakespeare. He told me once, with +an air of pride, that his five bankruptcies were entirely due to ‘The +Bard,’ as he insisted on calling him. He seemed to think it a +distinction.” + +“It was a distinction, my dear Dorian—a great distinction. Most people +become bankrupt through having invested too heavily in the prose of +life. To have ruined one’s self over poetry is an honour. But when did +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 take me behind, so I consented. It was curious my not +wanting to know her, wasn’t it?” + +“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? Oh, she was so shy and so gentle. 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 unconscious of +her power. I think we were both rather nervous. The old Jew stood +grinning at the doorway 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. I must call you Prince Charming.’” + +“Upon my word, Dorian, Miss Sibyl knows how 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 mother, a faded +tired woman who played Lady Capulet in a sort of magenta +dressing-wrapper on the first night, and looks as if she had seen +better days.” + +“I know that look. It depresses me,” murmured Lord Henry, examining his +rings. + +“The Jew wanted to tell me her history, but I said it did not interest +me.” + +“You were quite right. There is always something infinitely mean about +other people’s tragedies.” + +“Sibyl is the only thing I care about. What is it to me where she came +from? From her little head to her little feet, she is absolutely and +entirely divine. Every night of my life I go to see her act, and every +night she is more marvellous.” + +“That is the reason, I suppose, that you 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,” said Dorian, opening his +blue eyes in wonder. + +“You always come dreadfully late.” + +“Well, I can’t help going to see Sibyl play,” he cried, “even if it is +only for a single 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, can’t you?” + +He shook his head. “To-night she is Imogen,” he answered, “and +to-morrow 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 the world in one. +She is more than an individual. You laugh, but I tell you she has +genius. I love her, 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 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 was now from the shy frightened boy he had met in Basil Hallward’s +studio! His nature had developed like a flower, had borne blossoms of +scarlet flame. Out of its secret hiding-place had crept his soul, and +desire had come 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 are certain to +acknowledge her genius. Then we must get her out of the Jew’s hands. +She is bound to him for three years—at least for two years and eight +months—from the present time. I shall have to pay him something, of +course. When all that is settled, I shall take a West End theatre and +bring her out properly. She will make the world as mad as she has made +me.” + +“That would be 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.” + +“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, or +reading an English novel. It must be seven. No gentleman dines before +seven. Shall you see 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, specially designed by himself, and, though I am a little jealous +of the picture for being a whole month younger than I am, 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. He gives me good +advice.” + +Lord Henry smiled. “People are very fond of giving away what they need +most themselves. It is what I call the depth of generosity.” + +“Oh, Basil 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 his +work. The consequence is that he has nothing left for life but his +prejudices, his principles, and his common sense. The only artists I +have ever known who are personally delightful are bad artists. Good +artists exist simply in what they make, and consequently are perfectly +uninteresting in what they are. A great poet, a really 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 +makes a man quite irresistible. He lives 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 it. And now I am off. +Imogen is waiting for me. Don’t forget about to-morrow. Good-bye.” + +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 pang 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 natural science, but the ordinary subject-matter of +that 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. +Compared to it there was nothing else of any value. It was true that as +one watched life in its curious crucible of pain and pleasure, one +could not wear over one’s face a mask of glass, nor 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 became to one! To note the curious hard +logic of passion, and the emotional coloured life of the intellect—to +observe where they met, and where they separated, at what point they +were in unison, and at what point they were at discord—there was a +delight in that! What matter what the cost was? One could never pay too +high a price for any sensation. + +He was conscious—and the thought brought a gleam 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 premature. That was +something. Ordinary people waited till life disclosed to them its +secrets, but to the few, to the elect, the mysteries of life were +revealed before the veil was drawn away. Sometimes this was the effect +of art, and chiefly of the art of literature, which dealt immediately +with the passions and the intellect. But now and then a complex +personality took the place and assumed the office of art, was indeed, +in its 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 passion of youth were in him, but he was +becoming self-conscious. It was delightful to watch him. With his +beautiful face, and his beautiful soul, he was a thing to wonder at. It +was no matter how it all ended, or was destined to end. He was like one +of those gracious figures in a pageant or a play, whose joys seem to be +remote from one, but whose sorrows stir one’s sense of beauty, and +whose wounds are like red roses. + +Soul and body, body and soul—how mysterious they 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 impulse 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 matter was a mystery, and the union of spirit with matter was a +mystery also. + +He began to wonder whether we could 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 merely the name men gave to +their mistakes. Moralists had, as a rule, regarded it as a mode of +warning, had claimed for it a certain ethical 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 same +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 method 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 seemed 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 imagination, +changed into something that seemed to the lad himself to be remote from +sense, and was for that very reason all the more dangerous. It was the +passions about whose origin 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 really 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 for +dinner. He got up and looked out into the street. The sunset had +smitten into scarlet gold the upper windows of the houses opposite. The +panes glowed like plates of heated metal. The sky above was like a +faded rose. He thought of his friend’s young fiery-coloured life and +wondered how it was all going to end. + +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 +Gray. It was to tell him that he was engaged to be married to Sibyl +Vane. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + +“Mother, Mother, I am so happy!” whispered the girl, burying her face +in the lap of the faded, tired-looking woman who, with back turned to +the shrill intrusive light, was sitting in the one arm-chair that their +dingy sitting-room contained. “I am so happy!” she repeated, “and you +must be happy, too!” + +Mrs. Vane winced and put her thin, bismuth-whitened hands on her +daughter’s head. “Happy!” she echoed, “I am only happy, Sibyl, when I +see you act. You must not think of anything but your acting. Mr. Isaacs +has been very good to us, and we owe him money.” + +The girl looked up and pouted. “Money, Mother?” she cried, “what does +money matter? Love is more than money.” + +“Mr. Isaacs has advanced us fifty pounds to pay off our debts and to +get a proper outfit for James. You must not forget that, Sibyl. Fifty +pounds is a very large sum. Mr. Isaacs has been most considerate.” + +“He is not a gentleman, Mother, and I hate the way he talks to me,” +said the girl, rising to her feet and going over to the window. + +“I don’t know how we could manage without him,” answered the elder +woman querulously. + +Sibyl Vane tossed her head and laughed. “We don’t want him any more, +Mother. Prince Charming rules life for us now.” Then she paused. A rose +shook in her blood and shadowed her cheeks. Quick breath parted the +petals of her lips. They trembled. Some southern wind of passion swept +over her and stirred the dainty folds of her dress. “I love him,” she +said simply. + +“Foolish child! foolish child!” was the parrot-phrase flung in answer. +The waving of crooked, false-jewelled fingers gave grotesqueness to the +words. + +The girl laughed again. The joy of a caged bird was in her voice. Her +eyes caught the melody and echoed it in radiance, then closed for a +moment, as though to hide their secret. When they opened, the mist of a +dream had passed across them. + +Thin-lipped wisdom spoke at her from the worn chair, hinted at +prudence, quoted from that book of cowardice whose author apes the name +of common sense. She did not listen. She was free in her prison of +passion. Her prince, Prince Charming, was with her. She had called on +memory to remake him. She had sent her soul to search for him, and it +had brought him back. His kiss burned again upon her mouth. Her eyelids +were warm with his breath. + +Then wisdom altered its method and spoke of espial and discovery. This +young man might be rich. If so, marriage should be thought of. Against +the shell of her ear broke the waves of worldly cunning. The arrows of +craft shot by her. She saw the thin lips moving, and smiled. + +Suddenly she felt the need to speak. The wordy silence troubled her. +“Mother, Mother,” she cried, “why does he love me so much? I know why I +love him. I love him because he is like what love himself should be. +But what does he see in me? I am not worthy of him. And yet—why, I +cannot tell—though I feel so much beneath him, I don’t feel humble. I +feel proud, terribly proud. Mother, did you love my father as I love +Prince Charming?” + +The elder woman grew pale beneath the coarse powder that daubed her +cheeks, and her dry lips twitched with a spasm of pain. Sybil rushed to +her, flung her arms round her neck, and kissed her. “Forgive me, +Mother. I know it pains you to talk about our father. But it only pains +you because you loved him so much. Don’t look so sad. I am as happy +to-day as you were twenty years ago. Ah! let me be happy for ever!” + +“My child, you are far too young to think of falling in love. Besides, +what do you know of this young man? You don’t even know his name. The +whole thing is most inconvenient, and really, when James is going away +to Australia, and I have so much to think of, I must say that you +should have shown more consideration. However, as I said before, if he +is rich ...” + +“Ah! Mother, Mother, let me be happy!” + +Mrs. Vane glanced at her, and with one of those false theatrical +gestures that so often become a mode of second nature to a +stage-player, clasped her in her arms. At this moment, the door opened +and a young lad with rough brown hair came into the room. He was +thick-set of figure, and his hands and feet were large and somewhat +clumsy in movement. He was not so finely bred as his sister. One would +hardly have guessed the close relationship that existed between them. +Mrs. Vane fixed her eyes on him and intensified her smile. She mentally +elevated her son to the dignity of an audience. She felt sure that the +_tableau_ was interesting. + +“You might keep some of your kisses for me, Sibyl, I think,” said the +lad with a good-natured grumble. + +“Ah! but you don’t like being kissed, Jim,” she cried. “You are a +dreadful old bear.” And she ran across the room and hugged him. + +James Vane looked into his sister’s face with tenderness. “I want you +to come out with me for a walk, Sibyl. I don’t suppose I shall ever see +this horrid London again. I am sure I don’t want to.” + +“My son, don’t say such dreadful things,” murmured Mrs. Vane, taking up +a tawdry theatrical dress, with a sigh, and beginning to patch it. She +felt a little disappointed that he had not joined the group. It would +have increased the theatrical picturesqueness of the situation. + +“Why not, Mother? I mean it.” + +“You pain me, my son. I trust you will return from Australia in a +position of affluence. I believe there is no society of any kind in the +Colonies—nothing that I would call society—so when you have made your +fortune, you must come back and assert yourself in London.” + +“Society!” muttered the lad. “I don’t want to know anything about that. +I should like to make some money to take you and Sibyl off the stage. I +hate it.” + +“Oh, Jim!” said Sibyl, laughing, “how unkind of you! But are you really +going for a walk with me? That will be nice! I was afraid you were +going to say good-bye to some of your friends—to Tom Hardy, who gave +you that hideous pipe, or Ned Langton, who makes fun of you for smoking +it. It is very sweet of you to let me have your last afternoon. Where +shall we go? Let us go to the park.” + +“I am too shabby,” he answered, frowning. “Only swell people go to the +park.” + +“Nonsense, Jim,” she whispered, stroking the sleeve of his coat. + +He hesitated for a moment. “Very well,” he said at last, “but don’t be +too long dressing.” She danced out of the door. One could hear her +singing as she ran upstairs. Her little feet pattered overhead. + +He walked up and down the room two or three times. Then he turned to +the still figure in the chair. “Mother, are my things ready?” he asked. + +“Quite ready, James,” she answered, keeping her eyes on her work. For +some months past she had felt ill at ease when she was alone with this +rough stern son of hers. Her shallow secret nature was troubled when +their eyes met. She used to wonder if he suspected anything. The +silence, for he made no other observation, became intolerable to her. +She began to complain. Women defend themselves by attacking, just as +they attack by sudden and strange surrenders. “I hope you will be +contented, James, with your sea-faring life,” she said. “You must +remember that it is your own choice. You might have entered a +solicitor’s office. Solicitors are a very respectable class, and in the +country often dine with the best families.” + +“I hate offices, and I hate clerks,” he replied. “But you are quite +right. I have chosen my own life. All I say is, watch over Sibyl. Don’t +let her come to any harm. Mother, you must watch over her.” + +“James, you really talk very strangely. Of course I watch over Sibyl.” + +“I hear a gentleman comes every night to the theatre and goes behind to +talk to her. Is that right? What about that?” + +“You are speaking about things you don’t understand, James. In the +profession we are accustomed to receive a great deal of most gratifying +attention. I myself used to receive many bouquets at one time. That was +when acting was really understood. As for Sibyl, I do not know at +present whether her attachment is serious or not. But there is no doubt +that the young man in question is a perfect gentleman. He is always +most polite to me. Besides, he has the appearance of being rich, and +the flowers he sends are lovely.” + +“You don’t know his name, though,” said the lad harshly. + +“No,” answered his mother with a placid expression in her face. “He has +not yet revealed his real name. I think it is quite romantic of him. He +is probably a member of the aristocracy.” + +James Vane bit his lip. “Watch over Sibyl, Mother,” he cried, “watch +over her.” + +“My son, you distress me very much. Sibyl is always under my special +care. Of course, if this gentleman is wealthy, there is no reason why +she should not contract an alliance with him. I trust he is one of the +aristocracy. He has all the appearance of it, I must say. It might be a +most brilliant marriage for Sibyl. They would make a charming couple. +His good looks are really quite remarkable; everybody notices them.” + +The lad muttered something to himself and drummed on the window-pane +with his coarse fingers. He had just turned round to say something when +the door opened and Sibyl ran in. + +“How serious you both are!” she cried. “What is the matter?” + +“Nothing,” he answered. “I suppose one must be serious sometimes. +Good-bye, Mother; I will have my dinner at five o’clock. Everything is +packed, except my shirts, so you need not trouble.” + +“Good-bye, my son,” she answered with a bow of strained stateliness. + +She was extremely annoyed at the tone he had adopted with her, and +there was something in his look that had made her feel afraid. + +“Kiss me, Mother,” said the girl. Her flowerlike lips touched the +withered cheek and warmed its frost. + +“My child! my child!” cried Mrs. Vane, looking up to the ceiling in +search of an imaginary gallery. + +“Come, Sibyl,” said her brother impatiently. He hated his mother’s +affectations. + +They went out into the flickering, wind-blown sunlight and strolled +down the dreary Euston Road. The passersby glanced in wonder at the +sullen heavy youth who, in coarse, ill-fitting clothes, was in the +company of such a graceful, refined-looking girl. He was like a common +gardener walking with a rose. + +Jim frowned from time to time when he caught the inquisitive glance of +some stranger. He had that dislike of being stared at, which comes on +geniuses late in life and never leaves the commonplace. Sibyl, however, +was quite unconscious of the effect she was producing. Her love was +trembling in laughter on her lips. She was thinking of Prince Charming, +and, that she might think of him all the more, she did not talk of him, +but prattled on about the ship in which Jim was going to sail, about +the gold he was certain to find, about the wonderful heiress whose life +he was to save from the wicked, red-shirted bushrangers. For he was not +to remain a sailor, or a supercargo, or whatever he was going to be. +Oh, no! A sailor’s existence was dreadful. Fancy being cooped up in a +horrid ship, with the hoarse, hump-backed waves trying to get in, and a +black wind blowing the masts down and tearing the sails into long +screaming ribands! He was to leave the vessel at Melbourne, bid a +polite good-bye to the captain, and go off at once to the gold-fields. +Before a week was over he was to come across a large nugget of pure +gold, the largest nugget that had ever been discovered, and bring it +down to the coast in a waggon guarded by six mounted policemen. The +bushrangers were to attack them three times, and be defeated with +immense slaughter. Or, no. He was not to go to the gold-fields at all. +They were horrid places, where men got intoxicated, and shot each other +in bar-rooms, and used bad language. He was to be a nice sheep-farmer, +and one evening, as he was riding home, he was to see the beautiful +heiress being carried off by a robber on a black horse, and give chase, +and rescue her. Of course, she would fall in love with him, and he with +her, and they would get married, and come home, and live in an immense +house in London. Yes, there were delightful things in store for him. +But he must be very good, and not lose his temper, or spend his money +foolishly. She was only a year older than he was, but she knew so much +more of life. He must be sure, also, to write to her by every mail, and +to say his prayers each night before he went to sleep. God was very +good, and would watch over him. She would pray for him, too, and in a +few years he would come back quite rich and happy. + +The lad listened sulkily to her and made no answer. He was heart-sick +at leaving home. + +Yet it was not this alone that made him gloomy and morose. +Inexperienced though he was, he had still a strong sense of the danger +of Sibyl’s position. This young dandy who was making love to her could +mean her no good. He was a gentleman, and he hated him for that, hated +him through some curious race-instinct for which he could not account, +and which for that reason was all the more dominant within him. He was +conscious also of the shallowness and vanity of his mother’s nature, +and in that saw infinite peril for Sibyl and Sibyl’s happiness. +Children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older they judge +them; sometimes they forgive them. + +His mother! He had something on his mind to ask of her, something that +he had brooded on for many months of silence. A chance phrase that he +had heard at the theatre, a whispered sneer that had reached his ears +one night as he waited at the stage-door, had set loose a train of +horrible thoughts. He remembered it as if it had been the lash of a +hunting-crop across his face. His brows knit together into a wedge-like +furrow, and with a twitch of pain he bit his underlip. + +“You are not listening to a word I am saying, Jim,” cried Sibyl, “and I +am making the most delightful plans for your future. Do say something.” + +“What do you want me to say?” + +“Oh! that you will be a good boy and not forget us,” she answered, +smiling at him. + +He shrugged his shoulders. “You are more likely to forget me than I am +to forget you, Sibyl.” + +She flushed. “What do you mean, Jim?” she asked. + +“You have a new friend, I hear. Who is he? Why have you not told me +about him? He means you no good.” + +“Stop, Jim!” she exclaimed. “You must not say anything against him. I +love him.” + +“Why, you don’t even know his name,” answered the lad. “Who is he? I +have a right to know.” + +“He is called Prince Charming. Don’t you like the name. Oh! you silly +boy! you should never forget it. If you only saw him, you would think +him the most wonderful person in the world. Some day you will meet +him—when you come back from Australia. You will like him so much. +Everybody likes him, and I ... love him. I wish you could come to the +theatre to-night. He is going to be there, and I am to play Juliet. Oh! +how I shall play it! Fancy, Jim, to be in love and play Juliet! To have +him sitting there! To play for his delight! I am afraid I may frighten +the company, frighten or enthrall them. To be in love is to surpass +one’s self. Poor dreadful Mr. Isaacs will be shouting ‘genius’ to his +loafers at the bar. He has preached me as a dogma; to-night he will +announce me as a revelation. I feel it. And it is all his, his only, +Prince Charming, my wonderful lover, my god of graces. But I am poor +beside him. Poor? What does that matter? When poverty creeps in at the +door, love flies in through the window. Our proverbs want rewriting. +They were made in winter, and it is summer now; spring-time for me, I +think, a very dance of blossoms in blue skies.” + +“He is a gentleman,” said the lad sullenly. + +“A prince!” she cried musically. “What more do you want?” + +“He wants to enslave you.” + +“I shudder at the thought of being free.” + +“I want you to beware of him.” + +“To see him is to worship him; to know him is to trust him.” + +“Sibyl, you are mad about him.” + +She laughed and took his arm. “You dear old Jim, you talk as if you +were a hundred. Some day you will be in love yourself. Then you will +know what it is. Don’t look so sulky. Surely you should be glad to +think that, though you are going away, you leave me happier than I have +ever been before. Life has been hard for us both, terribly hard and +difficult. But it will be different now. You are going to a new world, +and I have found one. Here are two chairs; let us sit down and see the +smart people go by.” + +They took their seats amidst a crowd of watchers. The tulip-beds across +the road flamed like throbbing rings of fire. A white dust—tremulous +cloud of orris-root it seemed—hung in the panting air. The brightly +coloured parasols danced and dipped like monstrous butterflies. + +She made her brother talk of himself, his hopes, his prospects. He +spoke slowly and with effort. They passed words to each other as +players at a game pass counters. Sibyl felt oppressed. She could not +communicate her joy. A faint smile curving that sullen mouth was all +the echo she could win. After some time she became silent. Suddenly she +caught a glimpse of golden hair and laughing lips, and in an open +carriage with two ladies Dorian Gray drove past. + +She started to her feet. “There he is!” she cried. + +“Who?” said Jim Vane. + +“Prince Charming,” she answered, looking after the victoria. + +He jumped up and seized her roughly by the arm. “Show him to me. Which +is he? Point him out. I must see him!” he exclaimed; but at that moment +the Duke of Berwick’s four-in-hand came between, and when it had left +the space clear, the carriage had swept out of the park. + +“He is gone,” murmured Sibyl sadly. “I wish you had seen him.” + +“I wish I had, for as sure as there is a God in heaven, if he ever does +you any wrong, I shall kill him.” + +She looked at him in horror. He repeated his words. They cut the air +like a dagger. The people round began to gape. A lady standing close to +her tittered. + +“Come away, Jim; come away,” she whispered. He followed her doggedly as +she passed through the crowd. He felt glad at what he had said. + +When they reached the Achilles Statue, she turned round. There was pity +in her eyes that became laughter on her lips. She shook her head at +him. “You are foolish, Jim, utterly foolish; a bad-tempered boy, that +is all. How can you say such horrible things? You don’t know what you +are talking about. You are simply jealous and unkind. Ah! I wish you +would fall in love. Love makes people good, and what you said was +wicked.” + +“I am sixteen,” he answered, “and I know what I am about. Mother is no +help to you. She doesn’t understand how to look after you. I wish now +that I was not going to Australia at all. I have a great mind to chuck +the whole thing up. I would, if my articles hadn’t been signed.” + +“Oh, don’t be so serious, Jim. You are like one of the heroes of those +silly melodramas Mother used to be so fond of acting in. I am not going +to quarrel with you. I have seen him, and oh! to see him is perfect +happiness. We won’t quarrel. I know you would never harm any one I +love, would you?” + +“Not as long as you love him, I suppose,” was the sullen answer. + +“I shall love him for ever!” she cried. + +“And he?” + +“For ever, too!” + +“He had better.” + +She shrank from him. Then she laughed and put her hand on his arm. He +was merely a boy. + +At the Marble Arch they hailed an omnibus, which left them close to +their shabby home in the Euston Road. It was after five o’clock, and +Sibyl had to lie down for a couple of hours before acting. Jim insisted +that she should do so. He said that he would sooner part with her when +their mother was not present. She would be sure to make a scene, and he +detested scenes of every kind. + +In Sybil’s own room they parted. There was jealousy in the lad’s heart, +and a fierce murderous hatred of the stranger who, as it seemed to him, +had come between them. Yet, when her arms were flung round his neck, +and her fingers strayed through his hair, he softened and kissed her +with real affection. There were tears in his eyes as he went +downstairs. + +His mother was waiting for him below. She grumbled at his +unpunctuality, as he entered. He made no answer, but sat down to his +meagre meal. The flies buzzed round the table and crawled over the +stained cloth. Through the rumble of omnibuses, and the clatter of +street-cabs, he could hear the droning voice devouring each minute that +was left to him. + +After some time, he thrust away his plate and put his head in his +hands. He felt that he had a right to know. It should have been told to +him before, if it was as he suspected. Leaden with fear, his mother +watched him. Words dropped mechanically from her lips. A tattered lace +handkerchief twitched in her fingers. When the clock struck six, he got +up and went to the door. Then he turned back and looked at her. Their +eyes met. In hers he saw a wild appeal for mercy. It enraged him. + +“Mother, I have something to ask you,” he said. Her eyes wandered +vaguely about the room. She made no answer. “Tell me the truth. I have +a right to know. Were you married to my father?” + +She heaved a deep sigh. It was a sigh of relief. The terrible moment, +the moment that night and day, for weeks and months, she had dreaded, +had come at last, and yet she felt no terror. Indeed, in some measure +it was a disappointment to her. The vulgar directness of the question +called for a direct answer. The situation had not been gradually led up +to. It was crude. It reminded her of a bad rehearsal. + +“No,” she answered, wondering at the harsh simplicity of life. + +“My father was a scoundrel then!” cried the lad, clenching his fists. + +She shook her head. “I knew he was not free. We loved each other very +much. If he had lived, he would have made provision for us. Don’t speak +against him, my son. He was your father, and a gentleman. Indeed, he +was highly connected.” + +An oath broke from his lips. “I don’t care for myself,” he exclaimed, +“but don’t let Sibyl.... It is a gentleman, isn’t it, who is in love +with her, or says he is? Highly connected, too, I suppose.” + +For a moment a hideous sense of humiliation came over the woman. Her +head drooped. She wiped her eyes with shaking hands. “Sibyl has a +mother,” she murmured; “I had none.” + +The lad was touched. He went towards her, and stooping down, he kissed +her. “I am sorry if I have pained you by asking about my father,” he +said, “but I could not help it. I must go now. Good-bye. Don’t forget +that you will have only one child now to look after, and believe me +that if this man wrongs my sister, I will find out who he is, track him +down, and kill him like a dog. I swear it.” + +The exaggerated folly of the threat, the passionate gesture that +accompanied it, the mad melodramatic words, made life seem more vivid +to her. She was familiar with the atmosphere. She breathed more freely, +and for the first time for many months she really admired her son. She +would have liked to have continued the scene on the same emotional +scale, but he cut her short. Trunks had to be carried down and mufflers +looked for. The lodging-house drudge bustled in and out. There was the +bargaining with the cabman. The moment was lost in vulgar details. It +was with a renewed feeling of disappointment that she waved the +tattered lace handkerchief from the window, as her son drove away. She +was conscious that a great opportunity had been wasted. She consoled +herself by telling Sibyl how desolate she felt her life would be, now +that she had only one child to look after. She remembered the phrase. +It had pleased her. Of the threat she said nothing. It was vividly and +dramatically expressed. She felt that they would all laugh at it some +day. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + +“I suppose you have heard the news, Basil?” said Lord Henry that +evening as Hallward was shown into a little private room at the Bristol +where dinner had been laid for three. + +“No, Harry,” answered the artist, giving his hat and coat to the bowing +waiter. “What is it? Nothing 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 better for a little +whitewashing.” + +“Dorian Gray is engaged to be married,” said Lord Henry, watching him +as he spoke. + +Hallward started and then frowned. “Dorian engaged to be married!” he +cried. “Impossible!” + +“It is perfectly true.” + +“To whom?” + +“To some little actress or other.” + +“I can’t believe it. Dorian is far too sensible.” + +“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.” + +“Except in America,” rejoined Lord Henry languidly. “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 think that I +never was engaged.” + +“But think of Dorian’s birth, and position, and wealth. It would be +absurd for him to marry so much beneath him.” + +“If you want to make him 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 better 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. Your +portrait of him has quickened his appreciation of the personal +appearance of other people. It has had that excellent effect, amongst +others. We are to see her to-night, if that boy doesn’t forget his +appointment.” + +“Are you serious?” + +“Quite serious, Basil. I should be miserable if I thought I should ever +be more serious than I am at the present moment.” + +“But do you approve of it, Harry?” asked the painter, walking up and +down the room and biting his lip. “You can’t approve of it, possibly. +It is some silly infatuation.” + +“I never approve, or disapprove, of anything 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 common people +say, and I never interfere with what charming people do. If a +personality fascinates me, whatever mode of expression that personality +selects is absolutely delightful to me. Dorian Gray falls in love with +a beautiful girl who acts Juliet, 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 that +it makes one unselfish. And unselfish people are colourless. They lack +individuality. Still, there are certain temperaments that marriage +makes more complex. They retain their egotism, and add to it many other +egos. They are forced to have more than one life. They become more +highly organized, and to be highly organized is, I should fancy, the +object of man’s existence. Besides, every experience is of value, and +whatever one may say against marriage, it is certainly an experience. I +hope that Dorian Gray will make this girl his wife, passionately adore +her for six months, and then suddenly become fascinated by some one +else. He would be a wonderful study.” + +“You don’t mean a single word of 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 pretend to be.” + +Lord Henry laughed. “The reason we all like to think 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 neighbour +with the possession of those virtues that are likely to be a benefit to +us. 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. As for a spoiled life, no life is spoiled but +one whose growth is arrested. If you want to mar a nature, you have +merely to reform it. As for marriage, of course that would be silly, +but there are other and more interesting bonds between men and women. I +will certainly encourage them. They have the charm of being +fashionable. But here is Dorian himself. He will tell you more than I +can.” + +“My dear Harry, my dear Basil, you must both congratulate me!” said the +lad, 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. Of course, it is sudden—all really delightful things are. And +yet it seems to me to be the one thing I have been looking for all my +life.” 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 having let me know of your engagement. +You let Harry know.” + +“And I don’t forgive you for being late for dinner,” broke in Lord +Henry, putting his hand on the lad’s shoulder 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 this. After I +left you yesterday evening, Harry, I dressed, had some dinner at that +little Italian restaurant in Rupert Street you introduced me to, and +went down at eight o’clock to the theatre. Sibyl was playing Rosalind. +Of course, the scenery was dreadful and the Orlando absurd. But Sibyl! +You should have seen her! When she came on in her boy’s clothes, she +was perfectly wonderful. She wore a moss-coloured velvet jerkin with +cinnamon sleeves, slim, brown, cross-gartered hose, a dainty little +green cap with a hawk’s feather caught in a jewel, and 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 shall 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 away +with my love in a forest that no man had ever seen. After the +performance was over, I went behind and spoke to her. As we were +sitting together, suddenly there came into her eyes a look that I had +never seen there before. My lips moved towards hers. We kissed each +other. I can’t describe to you what I felt at that moment. It seemed to +me that all my life had been narrowed to one perfect point of +rose-coloured joy. She trembled all over and shook like a white +narcissus. Then she flung 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 year, 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 find 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,” said Hallward slowly. + +“Have you seen her to-day?” asked Lord 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 +particular 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 she said +she was not worthy to be my wife. Not worthy! Why, the whole world is +nothing to me compared with 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.” + +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 any +one. His nature is too fine for 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 impossible to be angry with you. When +you see Sibyl Vane, you will feel that the man who could wrong her +would be a beast, a beast without a heart. I cannot understand how any +one can wish to shame the thing he loves. I love Sibyl Vane. I want 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. You mock at it for +that. Ah! don’t mock. 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 that 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.” + +“And those are ...?” asked Lord Henry, helping himself to some salad. + +“Oh, your theories about life, your theories about love, your theories +about pleasure. All your theories, in fact, Harry.” + +“Pleasure is the only thing worth having a theory about,” he answered +in his slow melodious voice. “But I am afraid I cannot claim my theory +as my own. It belongs to Nature, not to me. Pleasure is Nature’s test, +her sign of approval. When we are happy, we are always good, but when +we are good, we are not always happy.” + +“Ah! but what do you mean by good?” cried Basil Hallward. + +“Yes,” echoed Dorian, leaning back in his chair and looking at Lord +Henry over the heavy clusters of purple-lipped irises that stood in the +centre of the table, “what do you mean by good, Harry?” + +“To be good is to be in harmony with one’s self,” he replied, touching +the thin stem of his glass with his pale, fine-pointed fingers. +“Discord is to be forced to be in harmony with others. One’s own +life—that is the important thing. As for the lives of one’s neighbours, +if one wishes to be a prig or a Puritan, one can flaunt one’s moral +views about them, but they are not one’s concern. Besides, +individualism has really the higher aim. Modern morality consists in +accepting the standard of one’s age. I consider that for any man of +culture to accept the standard of his age is a form of the grossest +immorality.” + +“But, surely, if one lives merely for one’s self, Harry, one pays a +terrible price for doing so?” suggested the painter. + +“Yes, we are overcharged for everything nowadays. I should fancy that +the real tragedy of the poor is that they can afford nothing but +self-denial. Beautiful sins, like beautiful things, are the privilege +of the rich.” + +“One has to pay in other ways but money.” + +“What sort of ways, Basil?” + +“Oh! I should fancy in remorse, in suffering, in ... well, in the +consciousness of degradation.” + +Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. “My dear fellow, mediæval art is +charming, but mediæval emotions are out of date. One can use them in +fiction, of course. But then the only things that one can use in +fiction are the things that one has ceased to use in fact. Believe me, +no civilized man ever regrets a pleasure, and no uncivilized man ever +knows what a pleasure is.” + +“I know what pleasure is,” cried Dorian Gray. “It is to adore some +one.” + +“That is certainly better than being adored,” he answered, toying with +some fruits. “Being adored is a nuisance. Women treat us just as +humanity treats its gods. They worship us, and are always bothering us +to do something for them.” + +“I should have said that whatever they ask for they had first given to +us,” murmured the lad gravely. “They create love in our natures. They +have a right to demand it back.” + +“That is quite true, Dorian,” cried Hallward. + +“Nothing is ever quite true,” said Lord Henry. + +“This is,” interrupted Dorian. “You must admit, Harry, that women give +to men the very gold of their lives.” + +“Possibly,” he sighed, “but they invariably want it back in such very +small change. That is the worry. Women, as some witty Frenchman once +put it, inspire us with the desire to do masterpieces and always +prevent us from carrying them out.” + +“Harry, you are dreadful! I don’t know why I like you so much.” + +“You will always like me, Dorian,” he replied. “Will you have 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 cigarette +is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite, and it +leaves one unsatisfied. What more can one want? Yes, Dorian, you will +always be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you have never +had the courage to commit.” + +“What nonsense you talk, Harry!” cried the lad, taking a light from a +fire-breathing silver dragon that the waiter had placed on the table. +“Let us go down to the theatre. When Sibyl comes on the stage you will +have a new ideal of life. She will represent something to you that you +have never known.” + +“I have known everything,” said Lord Henry, with a tired look in his +eyes, “but I am always ready for a new emotion. I am afraid, however, +that, for me at any rate, there is no such thing. 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.” + +They got up and put on their coats, sipping their coffee standing. The +painter was silent and preoccupied. There was a gloom over him. He +could not bear this marriage, and yet it seemed to him to be better +than many other things that might have happened. After a few minutes, +they all passed downstairs. He drove 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. He felt that +Dorian Gray would never again be to him all that he had been in the +past. Life had come between them.... His eyes darkened, and the crowded +flaring streets became blurred to his eyes. When the cab drew up at the +theatre, it seemed to him that he had grown years older. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + +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 loathed him more than ever. He felt as if he +had come to look for Miranda and had been met by Caliban. Lord Henry, +upon the other hand, rather liked him. At least he declared he did, and +insisted on shaking him by the hand and assuring him that he was proud +to meet a man who had discovered a real genius and gone bankrupt over a +poet. 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 yellow fire. The youths in the gallery +had taken off their coats and waistcoats and hung them over the side. +They talked to each other across the theatre and shared their oranges +with the tawdry girls who sat beside them. Some women were laughing in +the pit. Their voices were horribly shrill 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 rough people, with their coarse faces and +brutal gestures, become quite different when she is on the stage. They +sit silently and watch her. They weep and laugh as she wills them to +do. She makes them as responsive as a violin. She spiritualizes them, +and one feels that they are of the same flesh and blood as one’s self.” + +“The same flesh and blood as one’s self! Oh, I hope not!” exclaimed +Lord Henry, who was scanning the occupants of the gallery through his +opera-glass. + +“Don’t pay any attention to him, Dorian,” said the painter. “I +understand what you mean, and I believe in this girl. Any one you love +must be marvellous, and any girl who has the effect you describe must +be fine and noble. To spiritualize one’s age—that is 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 them of their selfishness and +lend them tears for sorrows that are not their own, she 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. The +gods made Sibyl Vane for you. Without her you would have been +incomplete.” + +“Thanks, Basil,” answered Dorian Gray, pressing his hand. “I 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 will 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 look 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. 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 Hallward leaped to his feet and began to applaud. +Motionless, and as one in a dream, sat Dorian Gray, gazing at her. Lord +Henry peered through his glasses, murmuring, “Charming! charming!” + +The scene was the hall of Capulet’s house, and Romeo in his pilgrim’s +dress had entered with Mercutio and his other friends. The band, such +as it was, struck up a few bars of music, and the dance began. Through +the crowd of ungainly, shabbily dressed actors, Sibyl Vane moved like a +creature from a finer world. Her body swayed, while she danced, as a +plant sways in the water. The curves of her throat were the curves of a +white lily. Her hands seemed 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 words she had to speak— + +Good pilgrim, you 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 spoken in a thoroughly +artificial manner. The voice was exquisite, but from the point of view +of tone it was absolutely false. It was wrong in colour. It took away +all the life from the verse. It made the passion unreal. + +Dorian Gray grew pale as he watched her. He was puzzled and anxious. +Neither of his friends dared to say anything to him. She seemed to 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 +overemphasized 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 which thou hast heard me speak to-night— + + +was declaimed with the painful precision of a schoolgirl who has been +taught to recite by some second-rate professor of elocution. When she +leaned over the balcony and came to those wonderful lines— + +Although I joy in thee, +I have no joy of this contract to-night: +It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden; +Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be +Ere one can say, “It lightens.” Sweet, 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 though they conveyed no meaning to her. It was +not nervousness. Indeed, so far from being nervous, she was 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. 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 girl herself. + +When the second act was over, there came a storm of hisses, and Lord +Henry got up from his chair and put on his coat. “She is quite +beautiful, Dorian,” 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 you both.” + +“My dear Dorian, I should think Miss Vane was ill,” interrupted +Hallward. “We will come some other night.” + +“I wish she were ill,” he rejoined. “But she seems to me to be simply +callous and cold. She has entirely altered. Last night she was a great +artist. This evening she is merely a commonplace mediocre actress.” + +“Don’t talk like that about any one you love, Dorian. Love is a more +wonderful thing than art.” + +“They are both simply forms of imitation,” remarked 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, so what does it matter if she plays Juliet like +a wooden doll? She is very lovely, and if she knows 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 heavens, 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 smoke cigarettes and drink to +the beauty of Sibyl Vane. She is beautiful. What more can you want?” + +“Go away, Harry,” cried the lad. “I want to be alone. Basil, you must +go. Ah! can’t you see that my heart is breaking?” The hot tears came to +his eyes. His lips trembled, and rushing to the back of the box, he +leaned up against the wall, 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. Dorian Gray went back to his seat. He looked pale, +and proud, and indifferent. The play dragged on, and seemed +interminable. Half of the audience went out, tramping in heavy boots +and laughing. The whole thing was a _fiasco_. The last act was played +to almost empty benches. The curtain went down on a titter and some +groans. + +As soon as it was over, Dorian Gray rushed behind the scenes into the +greenroom. The girl was standing there alone, with a look of triumph on +her face. Her eyes were lit with an exquisite fire. There was a +radiance about her. Her parted lips were smiling over some secret of +their own. + +When he entered, she looked at him, and an expression of infinite joy +came over her. “How badly I acted to-night, Dorian!” she cried. + +“Horribly!” he answered, gazing at her in amazement. “Horribly! It was +dreadful. Are you ill? You have no idea what it was. You have no idea +what I suffered.” + +The girl smiled. “Dorian,” she answered, lingering over his name with +long-drawn music in her voice, as though it were sweeter than honey to +the red petals of her mouth. “Dorian, you should have understood. But +you understand 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.” + +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 night 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. The 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 +hollowness, the sham, the silliness of the empty pageant in which I had +always played. To-night, for the first 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 that the words I +had to speak were unreal, were not my words, were not what I wanted to +say. You had brought me something higher, something of which all art is +but a reflection. You had made me understand what love really is. My +love! My love! Prince Charming! Prince of life! I have grown sick of +shadows. You are more to me than all art can 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 was that everything had gone from me. I thought that +I was going to be wonderful. I found that I could do nothing. Suddenly +it dawned on my soul what it all meant. The knowledge was exquisite to +me. I heard them hissing, and I smiled. What could they know of love +such as ours? Take me away, Dorian—take me away with you, where we can +be quite alone. 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 signifies? Even if 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 +killed my love,” he muttered. + +She looked at him in wonder and laughed. He made no answer. She came +across to him, and with her little fingers stroked his hair. 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, “you have +killed my love. You used to stir my imagination. Now you don’t even +stir my curiosity. You simply produce no effect. I loved you because +you were marvellous, because you had genius and intellect, because you +realized 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 again. 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! Without your +art, you are nothing. I would have made you famous, splendid, +magnificent. The world would have worshipped you, and you would have +borne my name. What are you now? A third-rate actress with a pretty +face.” + +The girl grew white, and trembled. She clenched her hands together, and +her voice seemed to catch in her throat. “You are not serious, Dorian?” +she murmured. “You are acting.” + +“Acting! I leave that to you. You 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 thrust her back. “Don’t touch me!” he cried. + +A low moan broke from her, and she flung herself at his feet and lay +there like a trampled flower. “Dorian, Dorian, don’t leave me!” she +whispered. “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. I couldn’t bear it. Oh! don’t go away from me. +My brother ... No; never mind. He didn’t mean it. He was in jest.... +But you, oh! can’t you forgive me for to-night? I will work so hard and +try to 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 have not +pleased you. But you are quite right, Dorian. I should have shown +myself more of an artist. It was foolish 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 floor like a wounded thing, and Dorian +Gray, with his beautiful eyes, looked down at her, and his chiselled +lips curled in exquisite disdain. There is always something ridiculous +about the emotions of people whom one has ceased to love. Sibyl Vane +seemed to him to be absurdly melodramatic. Her tears and sobs annoyed +him. + +“I am going,” he said at last in his calm clear voice. “I don’t wish to +be unkind, but I can’t see you again. You have disappointed me.” + +She wept silently, and made no answer, but crept nearer. Her little +hands 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 dimly +lit streets, past 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 heard shrieks and oaths from gloomy courts. + +As the dawn was just breaking, he found himself close to Covent Garden. +The darkness lifted, and, flushed with faint fires, the sky hollowed +itself into a perfect pearl. Huge carts filled with nodding lilies +rumbled slowly down the polished empty street. The air was heavy with +the perfume of the flowers, and their beauty seemed to bring him an +anodyne for his pain. He followed into the market and watched the men +unloading their waggons. A white-smocked carter offered him some +cherries. He thanked him, wondered why he refused to accept any money +for them, and began to eat them listlessly. They had been plucked at +midnight, and the coldness of the moon had entered into them. A long +line of boys carrying crates of striped tulips, and of yellow and red +roses, defiled in front of him, threading their way through the huge, +jade-green piles of vegetables. Under the portico, with its grey, +sun-bleached pillars, loitered a troop of draggled bareheaded girls, +waiting for the auction to be over. Others crowded round the swinging +doors of the coffee-house in the piazza. The heavy cart-horses slipped +and stamped upon the rough stones, shaking their bells and trappings. +Some of the drivers were lying asleep on a pile of sacks. Iris-necked +and pink-footed, the pigeons ran about picking up seeds. + +After a little while, he hailed a hansom and drove home. For a few +moments he loitered upon the doorstep, looking round at the silent +square, with its blank, close-shuttered windows and its staring blinds. +The sky was pure opal now, and the roofs of the houses glistened like +silver against it. From some chimney opposite a thin wreath of smoke +was rising. It curled, a violet riband, through the nacre-coloured air. + +In the huge gilt Venetian lantern, spoil of some Doge’s barge, that +hung from the ceiling of the great, oak-panelled hall of entrance, +lights were still burning from three flickering jets: thin blue petals +of flame they seemed, rimmed with white fire. He turned them out and, +having thrown his hat and cape on the table, passed through the library +towards the door of his bedroom, a large octagonal chamber on the +ground floor that, in his new-born feeling for luxury, he had just had +decorated for himself and hung with some curious Renaissance tapestries +that had been discovered stored in a disused attic at Selby Royal. As +he was turning the handle of the door, his eye fell upon the portrait +Basil Hallward had painted of him. He started back as if in surprise. +Then he went on into his own room, looking somewhat puzzled. After he +had taken the button-hole out of his coat, he seemed to hesitate. +Finally, he came back, went over to the picture, and examined it. In +the dim arrested light that struggled through the cream-coloured silk +blinds, the face appeared to him to be a little changed. The expression +looked different. One would have said that there was a touch of cruelty +in the mouth. It was certainly strange. + +He turned round and, walking to the window, drew up the blind. The +bright dawn flooded the room and swept the fantastic shadows into dusky +corners, where they lay shuddering. But the strange expression that he +had noticed in the face of the portrait seemed to 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 oval glass framed in ivory +Cupids, one of Lord Henry’s many presents to him, glanced hurriedly +into its polished depths. No line like that warped his red lips. What +did it mean? + +He rubbed his eyes, and came close to the picture, and examined it +again. There were no signs of any change when he looked into the actual +painting, and yet there 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 picture had been finished. Yes, he remembered it perfectly. He +had 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 bear the burden of his passions and his sins; that +the painted image might be seared with the lines of suffering and +thought, and that he might keep all the delicate bloom and loveliness +of his then just conscious boyhood. Surely his wish had not been +fulfilled? Such things were impossible. It seemed monstrous even to +think of them. And, yet, 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 had disappointed him. She had been +shallow and unworthy. And, yet, a feeling of infinite regret 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? Why 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 pain, aeon upon aeon of torture. His +life was well worth hers. She had marred him for a moment, if he had +wounded her for an age. Besides, women were better suited to bear +sorrow than men. They lived on their emotions. They only thought of +their emotions. When they took lovers, it was merely to have some one +with whom they could have scenes. Lord Henry had told him that, and +Lord Henry knew what women were. Why 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, and told his story. It had taught him to love his own beauty. +Would it teach him to loathe his own soul? Would 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 upon his brain that tiny scarlet speck that makes men +mad. The picture had not changed. It was folly to think so. + +Yet it was watching him, with its beautiful marred face and its cruel +smile. Its bright hair gleamed in the early sunlight. Its blue eyes met +his own. A sense of infinite pity, not for himself, but for the painted +image of himself, came over him. It had altered already, and would +alter more. Its gold would wither into grey. Its red and white roses +would die. For every sin that he committed, a stain would fleck and +wreck its fairness. But he would not sin. The picture, changed or +unchanged, would be to him the visible emblem of conscience. He would +resist temptation. He would not see Lord Henry any more—would not, at +any rate, listen to those subtle poisonous theories that in Basil +Hallward’s garden had first stirred within him the passion for +impossible things. He would go back to Sibyl Vane, make her amends, +marry her, try to love her again. Yes, it was his duty to do so. She +must have suffered more than he had. Poor child! He had been selfish +and cruel to her. The fascination that she had exercised over him would +return. They would be happy together. His life with her would be +beautiful and pure. + +He got up from his chair and drew a large screen right in front of the +portrait, shuddering as he glanced at it. “How horrible!” he murmured +to himself, and he walked across to the window and opened it. When he +stepped out on to the grass, he drew a deep breath. The fresh morning +air seemed to drive away all his sombre passions. He thought only of +Sibyl. A faint echo of his love came back to him. He repeated her name +over and over again. The birds that were singing in the dew-drenched +garden seemed to be telling the flowers about her. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + + +It was long past noon when he awoke. His valet had crept several times +on tiptoe into the room to see if he was stirring, and had wondered +what made his young master sleep so late. Finally his bell sounded, and +Victor came in softly with a cup of tea, and a pile of letters, on a +small tray of old Sevres china, and drew back the olive-satin curtains, +with their shimmering blue lining, that hung in front of the three tall +windows. + +“Monsieur has well slept this morning,” he said, smiling. + +“What o’clock is it, Victor?” asked Dorian Gray drowsily. + +“One hour and a quarter, Monsieur.” + +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 then 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 fashionable young +men every morning during the season. There was a rather heavy bill 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 unnecessary +things are our only necessities; and there were several very +courteously worded communications 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 throwing on an elaborate +dressing-gown of silk-embroidered cashmere wool, passed into the +onyx-paved bathroom. The cool water refreshed him after his long sleep. +He seemed to have forgotten all that he had gone through. 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 the open window. It was an exquisite day. The warm air +seemed laden with spices. A bee flew in and buzzed round the +blue-dragon bowl that, filled with sulphur-yellow roses, stood before +him. He felt perfectly happy. + +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. “I shut the window?” + +Dorian shook his head. “I am not cold,” he murmured. + +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 look of joy? Surely a painted canvas could not alter? The +thing was absurd. It would serve as a tale 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 round the warped lips. He almost dreaded his valet leaving the +room. He knew 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 wild desire to +tell him to remain. As the door was closing behind him, he called him +back. The man stood waiting for his orders. Dorian looked at him for a +moment. “I am not at home to any one, Victor,” he said with a sigh. The +man bowed and retired. + +Then he rose from the table, lit a cigarette, and flung 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 scanned it curiously, +wondering if ever before it had 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, eyes other 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? Basil would be sure to do that. No; the thing had to be +examined, and at once. Anything would be 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. Then 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. That such a change should have taken place was +incredible to him. And yet it was a fact. Was there some subtle +affinity between the chemical atoms that shaped themselves into form +and colour on the canvas and the soul that was within him? Could it be +that what that soul thought, they realized?—that what it dreamed, they +made true? Or was there some other, more terrible reason? He shuddered, +and felt afraid, and, going back to the couch, lay there, gazing at the +picture in sickened horror. + +One thing, however, he felt that it had done for him. It had made him +conscious how unjust, how cruel, he had been to Sibyl Vane. It was not +too late to make reparation 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 is to some, and conscience to others, and the +fear of God to us all. There were opiates for remorse, drugs that could +lull the moral sense to sleep. But here was a visible symbol of the +degradation of sin. Here was an ever-present sign of the ruin men +brought upon their souls. + +Three o’clock struck, and four, and the half-hour rang its double +chime, but Dorian Gray 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 did 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 after page with wild words of sorrow and wilder words of +pain. There is a luxury in self-reproach. When we blame ourselves, we +feel that no one else has a right to blame us. It is the confession, +not the priest, that gives us absolution. When Dorian 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 boy, I must see you. Let me in at once. I can’t +bear your shutting yourself up like this.” + +He made no answer at first, but remained quite still. The knocking +still continued and grew louder. Yes, 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 part if parting was +inevitable. He jumped up, drew the screen hastily across the picture, +and unlocked the door. + +“I am so sorry for it all, Dorian,” said Lord Henry as he entered. “But +you must not think too much about it.” + +“Do you mean about Sibyl Vane?” asked the lad. + +“Yes, of course,” answered Lord Henry, sinking into a chair and slowly +pulling off his yellow gloves. “It is dreadful, from one point of view, +but it was not your fault. Tell 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?” + +“I was brutal, Harry—perfectly brutal. But it is all right now. I am +not sorry for anything that has 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 +find you plunged in remorse and tearing that nice curly hair of yours.” + +“I have got through all that,” said Dorian, shaking his head and +smiling. “I am perfectly happy now. I know what conscience is, to begin +with. It is not what you told me it was. It is the divinest thing in +us. Don’t sneer at it, Harry, any more—at least not before me. I want +to be good. I can’t bear the idea of my soul being hideous.” + +“A very charming artistic basis for ethics, Dorian! I congratulate you +on it. But how are you going to begin?” + +“By marrying Sibyl Vane.” + +“Marrying Sibyl Vane!” cried Lord Henry, standing up and looking at him +in perplexed amazement. “But, my dear Dorian—” + +“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 Sibyl to marry me. I am not going to 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 was +afraid there might be something in it that I wouldn’t like. You cut +life to pieces with your epigrams.” + +“You know nothing then?” + +“What do you mean?” + +Lord Henry walked across the room, and sitting down by Dorian Gray, +took both his hands in his own 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 broke 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! How dare you say it?” + +“It is quite true, Dorian,” said Lord Henry, gravely. “It is in 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 mixed up in it. Things like that make 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 suppose they don’t know your name at the +theatre? If they don’t, it is all right. Did any one see you going +round to her room? That is an important point.” + +Dorian did not answer for a few moments. He was dazed with horror. +Finally he stammered, in a stifled voice, “Harry, did you say an +inquest? What did you mean by that? Did Sibyl—? Oh, Harry, I can’t bear +it! But be quick. Tell me everything at once.” + +“I have no doubt it was not an accident, Dorian, though it must be put +in that way to the public. It seems that as she was leaving the theatre +with her mother, about half-past twelve or so, she said she had +forgotten something upstairs. They waited some time for her, but she +did not come down again. They ultimately found her lying dead on the +floor of her dressing-room. She had swallowed something by mistake, +some dreadful thing they use at theatres. I don’t know what it was, but +it had either prussic acid or white lead in it. I should fancy it was +prussic acid, as she seems to have died instantaneously.” + +“Harry, Harry, it is terrible!” cried the lad. + +“Yes; it is very tragic, of course, but you must not get yourself mixed +up in it. I see by _The Standard_ that she was seventeen. I should have +thought she was almost younger than that. She looked such a child, and +seemed to know so little about acting. Dorian, you mustn’t let this +thing get on your nerves. You must come and dine with me, and +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 surely as if I had cut her little throat with a knife. +Yet 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, afterwards. 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? 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. Suddenly something happened that made me +afraid. I can’t tell you what it was, but it was terrible. 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. She had no right to kill herself. It was selfish of her.” + +“My dear Dorian,” answered Lord Henry, taking a cigarette from his case +and producing a gold-latten matchbox, “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 always +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 husband has to pay +for. I say nothing about the social mistake, which would have been +abject—which, of course, I would not have allowed—but I assure you that +in any case the whole thing would have been an absolute failure.” + +“I suppose it would,” muttered the lad, walking up and down the room +and looking horribly pale. “But I thought it was my duty. It is not my +fault that this terrible tragedy has prevented my doing what was right. +I remember your saying once that there is a fatality about good +resolutions—that they are always made too late. Mine certainly were.” + +“Good resolutions are useless attempts to interfere with scientific +laws. Their origin is pure vanity. Their result is absolutely _nil_. +They give us, now and then, some of those luxurious sterile emotions +that have a certain charm for the weak. That is all that can be said +for them. They are simply cheques that men draw on a bank where they +have no account.” + +“Harry,” cried Dorian Gray, coming over and sitting down beside him, +“why is it that I cannot feel this tragedy as much as I want to? I +don’t think I am heartless. Do you?” + +“You have done too many foolish things during the last fortnight 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 explanation, 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 thing 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 Greek tragedy, a tragedy in which I took a great 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 unconscious egotism, “an +extremely interesting question. I fancy that the true explanation is +this: It often happens that the real tragedies 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 affect us just as vulgarity affects us. They give us an +impression of sheer brute force, and we revolt against that. Sometimes, +however, a tragedy that possesses artistic elements of beauty crosses +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 wonder of the spectacle +enthralls us. In the present case, what is it that has really happened? +Some one has killed herself for love of you. I wish that I had ever had +such an experience. It would have made me in love with love for the +rest of my life. The people who have adored me—there have not been very +many, but there have been some—have always insisted on living on, long +after I had ceased to care for them, or they to care for me. 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 should absorb +the colour of life, but one should never remember its details. Details +are always vulgar.” + +“I must sow poppies in my garden,” sighed Dorian. + +“There is no necessity,” rejoined his companion. “Life has always +poppies in her hands. Of course, now and then things linger. I once +wore nothing but violets all through one season, as a form of artistic +mourning for a romance that would not die. Ultimately, however, it did +die. I forget what killed it. I think it 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—would 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 asphodel. She dragged it out again and assured me that I +had spoiled her life. I am bound to state that she ate an enormous +dinner, so I did not feel any anxiety. 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 their own way, every comedy would +have a tragic ending, and every tragedy would culminate in a farce. +They are charmingly artificial, but they have no sense of art. You are +more fortunate than I am. I assure you, Dorian, that not one of the +women I have known would have done for me what Sibyl Vane did for you. +Ordinary women always console themselves. Some of them do it by going +in for sentimental colours. Never trust a woman who wears mauve, +whatever her age may 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 felicity in one’s face, as if it +were the most fascinating of sins. Religion consoles some. Its +mysteries have all the charm of 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. Conscience makes egotists of us all. Yes; +there is really no end to the consolations that women find in modern +life. Indeed, I have not mentioned the most important one.” + +“What is that, Harry?” said the lad listlessly. + +“Oh, the obvious consolation. Taking some one else’s admirer when one +loses one’s own. In good society that always whitewashes a woman. But +really, Dorian, how different Sibyl Vane must have been from all the +women one meets! There is something to me quite beautiful about her +death. I am glad I am living in a century when such wonders happen. +They make one believe in the reality of the things we all play with, +such as romance, passion, and love.” + +“I was terribly cruel to her. You forget that.” + +“I am afraid that women appreciate cruelty, downright 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 really and absolutely angry, but I can fancy how +delightful you looked. And, after all, you said something to me the day +before yesterday that seemed to me at the time to be merely fanciful, +but that I see now was absolutely true, and it holds the key to +everything.” + +“What was that, Harry?” + +“You said to me that Sibyl Vane represented 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,” muttered 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 really lived, +and so she has never really died. To you at least she was always a +dream, a phantom that flitted through 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. She was less real +than they are.” + +There was a silence. The evening darkened in the room. Noiselessly, and +with silver feet, the shadows crept in from the garden. The colours +faded wearily out of things. + +After some time Dorian Gray looked up. “You have explained me to +myself, Harry,” he murmured with something of a sigh of relief. “I felt +all that you have said, 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 marvellous experience. That is all. +I wonder if life has still in store 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 old, 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 much 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 rather 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 listlessly. “But I am awfully +obliged to you for all that you have said to me. You are certainly my +best friend. 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-bye. 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, and in +a few minutes Victor appeared with the lamps and drew the blinds down. +He waited impatiently for him to go. The man seemed to take an +interminable time over everything. + +As soon as he had left, he rushed to the screen 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. It was conscious +of the events of life as they occurred. The vicious cruelty that marred +the 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? 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 before his very eyes, shuddering as he hoped it. + +Poor Sibyl! What a romance it had all been! She had often mimicked +death on the stage. Then Death himself had touched her and taken her +with him. How had she played that dreadful last scene? Had she cursed +him, as she died? No; she had died for love of him, and love would +always be a sacrament to him now. She had atoned for everything by the +sacrifice she had made of her life. He would not think any more of what +she had made him go through, on that horrible night at the theatre. +When he thought of her, it would be as a wonderful tragic figure sent +on to the world’s stage to show the supreme reality of love. A +wonderful tragic figure? Tears came to his eyes as he remembered her +childlike look, and winsome fanciful ways, and shy tremulous grace. He +brushed them away hastily and looked again at the picture. + +He felt that the time had really come for making his choice. Or had his +choice already been made? Yes, life had decided that for him—life, and +his own infinite curiosity about life. Eternal youth, infinite passion, +pleasures subtle and secret, wild joys and wilder sins—he was to have +all these things. The portrait was to bear the burden of his shame: +that was all. + +A feeling of pain crept over him as he thought of the desecration that +was in store for the fair face on the canvas. Once, in boyish mockery +of Narcissus, he had kissed, or feigned to kiss, those painted lips +that now smiled so cruelly 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. Was it to alter now with every mood to which +he yielded? Was it to become a monstrous and loathsome 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 its 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 prayer; 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 fantastic that chance +might be, or with what fateful consequences it might be fraught? +Besides, was it really under his control? Had it indeed been prayer +that had produced the substitution? Might there not be some curious +scientific reason for it all? If thought could exercise its influence +upon a living organism, might not thought exercise an influence upon +dead and inorganic things? Nay, without thought or conscious desire, +might not things external to ourselves vibrate in unison with our moods +and passions, atom calling to atom in secret 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 was 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 +follow 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. 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 his life +would ever weaken. Like the gods of the Greeks, he would be strong, and +fleet, and joyous. What did it matter what happened to the coloured +image on the canvas? He would be safe. That was everything. + +He drew the screen back into its former place in front of the picture, +smiling as he did so, and passed into his bedroom, where his valet was +already waiting for him. An hour later he was at the opera, and Lord +Henry was leaning over his chair. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + + +As he was sitting at breakfast next morning, Basil Hallward was shown +into the room. + +“I am so glad I have found you, Dorian,” he said gravely. “I called +last night, and they told me you were at the opera. Of course, I knew +that was impossible. But I wish you had 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. 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 thought of following you there. They gave the address in the +paper. Somewhere in the Euston Road, isn’t it? But 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?” + +“My dear Basil, how do I know?” murmured Dorian Gray, 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 sister, for the first time. We +were in her box. She is perfectly charming; and Patti sang divinely. +Don’t talk about horrid subjects. If one doesn’t talk about a thing, it +has never happened. It is simply expression, as Harry says, that gives +reality to things. I may mention that she was not the woman’s only +child. There is a son, a charming fellow, I believe. But he is not on +the stage. He is a sailor, or something. And now, tell me about +yourself and what you are painting.” + +“You went to the opera?” said Hallward, 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 Dorian, 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 people 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 completely. You +look exactly the same wonderful boy who, day after day, used to come +down to my studio to sit for his picture. But you were simple, natural, +and affectionate then. You were the most unspoiled creature in the +whole world. Now, I don’t know what has come over you. You talk 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 for a few +moments on the green, flickering, sun-lashed garden. “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.” + +“Well, I am punished for that, Dorian—or shall be some day.” + +“I don’t know what you mean, Basil,” he exclaimed, turning round. “I +don’t know what you want. What do you want?” + +“I want the Dorian Gray I used to paint,” said the artist sadly. + +“Basil,” said the lad, going over to him and putting his hand on his +shoulder, “you have come too late. Yesterday, when I heard that Sibyl +Vane had killed herself—” + +“Killed herself! Good heavens! is there no doubt about that?” cried +Hallward, looking up at him with an expression of horror. + +“My dear Basil! Surely you don’t think it was a vulgar accident? Of +course she killed herself.” + +The elder man buried his face in his hands. “How fearful,” he muttered, +and a shudder ran through him. + +“No,” said Dorian Gray, “there is nothing fearful about it. 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 +night you saw her—she acted badly because she had known the reality of +love. When she knew its unreality, she died, 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 +martyrdom, all its wasted beauty. But, as I was saying, you must not +think I have not suffered. If you had come in yesterday at a particular +moment—about half-past five, perhaps, or a quarter to six—you would +have found me in tears. Even Harry, who was here, who brought me the +news, in fact, had no idea what I was going through. I suffered +immensely. Then it passed away. I cannot repeat an emotion. No one can, +except sentimentalists. And you are awfully unjust, Basil. You come +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 write 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 +Marlow together, the young man who used to say that yellow satin could +console one for all the miseries of life. I love beautiful 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 own life, as Harry says, is to escape the suffering of life. I +know you are surprised at my talking to you like this. You have not +realized how I have developed. I was a schoolboy 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 fond 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 leave me, Basil, and don’t quarrel with me. I am what I +am. There is nothing more to be said.” + +The painter felt strangely moved. 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. After 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, after to-day. I only trust your +name won’t be mentioned in connection with it. 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 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 quite sure she never mentioned +to any one. She told me once that they were all rather curious to learn +who I was, and that she invariably told them my name was Prince +Charming. It was pretty of her. You must do me a drawing of Sibyl, +Basil. I should like to have something more 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 +must come and sit to me yourself again. I can’t get on without you.” + +“I can never sit to you again, Basil. It is impossible!” he exclaimed, +starting back. + +The painter stared at him. “My dear boy, what nonsense!” he cried. “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 done. Do take the screen away, Dorian. It is simply +disgraceful of your servant hiding my work like that. I felt the room +looked different as I came in.” + +“My servant has nothing to do with it, Basil. You don’t imagine I let +him arrange my room for me? He settles my flowers for me sometimes—that +is all. No; I did it myself. The light was too strong on the portrait.” + +“Too strong! Surely not, my dear fellow? It is an admirable place for +it. Let me see it.” And Hallward walked towards the corner of the room. + +A cry of terror broke from Dorian Gray’s lips, and he rushed between +the painter and the screen. “Basil,” he said, looking very pale, “you +must not look at it. I don’t wish you to.” + +“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 word of honour 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 absolute +amazement. He had never seen him like this before. The lad was actually +pallid with rage. His hands were clenched, 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 going 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 another 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?” exclaimed Dorian Gray, a +strange sense of terror creeping over him. Was the world going to be +shown his secret? Were people to gape at 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 could easily spare it for that +time. In fact, you are sure to be out of town. And if you keep 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 +cried. “Why have you changed your mind? You people who go in for being +consistent have just as many moods as others have. The only difference +is that your moods are rather meaningless. You can’t have forgotten +that you assured me most solemnly that nothing in the world would +induce you to send it to any exhibition. 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 a strange quarter of +an hour, get Basil 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, and I shall +tell you mine. What was your reason for refusing to exhibit my +picture?” + +The painter shuddered in spite of himself. “Dorian, if I told you, you +might like me less than you do, and you would certainly laugh at me. I +could not bear your doing either of those two things. If you wish me +never to look at your picture again, I am content. I have always you to +look at. If you wish the best work I have ever done to be hidden from +the world, I am satisfied. Your friendship is dearer to me than any +fame or reputation.” + +“No, Basil, you must tell me,” insisted Dorian Gray. “I think I have a +right to know.” His feeling of terror had passed away, and curiosity +had taken its place. He was determined to find out Basil Hallward’s +mystery. + +“Let us sit down, Dorian,” said the painter, looking troubled. “Let us +sit down. And just answer me one question. Have you noticed in the +picture something curious?—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 startled eyes. + +“I see you did. Don’t speak. Wait till you hear what I have to say. +Dorian, from the moment I met you, your personality had the most +extraordinary influence over me. I was dominated, soul, brain, and +power, by you. You became to me the visible incarnation of that unseen +ideal whose memory haunts us artists like an exquisite dream. I +worshipped you. I grew jealous of every one to whom you spoke. I wanted +to have you all to myself. I was only happy when I was with you. When +you were away from me, you were still present in my art.... Of course, +I never let you know anything about this. It would have been +impossible. You would not have understood it. I hardly understood it +myself. I only knew that I had seen perfection face to face, and that +the world had become wonderful to my eyes—too wonderful, perhaps, for +in such mad worships there is peril, the peril of losing them, no less +than the peril of keeping them.... Weeks and weeks went on, and I grew +more and more absorbed in you. Then came a new development. I had drawn +you as Paris in dainty armour, and as Adonis with huntsman’s cloak and +polished boar-spear. Crowned with heavy lotus-blossoms you had sat on +the prow of Adrian’s barge, gazing across the green turbid Nile. You +had leaned over the still pool of some Greek woodland and seen in the +water’s silent silver the marvel of your own face. And it had all been +what art should be—unconscious, ideal, and remote. One day, a fatal day +I sometimes think, I determined to paint a wonderful portrait of you as +you actually are, not in the costume of dead ages, but in your own +dress and in your own time. Whether it was the realism of the method, +or the mere wonder of your own personality, thus directly presented to +me without mist or veil, I cannot tell. But I know that as I worked at +it, every flake and film of colour seemed to me to reveal my secret. I +grew afraid that others would know of my idolatry. I felt, Dorian, that +I had told too much, that I had put too much of myself into it. 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 finished, and I sat alone with it, I +felt that I was right.... Well, after a few days the thing left my +studio, and as soon as I had got rid of the intolerable fascination of +its presence, it seemed to me that I had been foolish in imagining that +I had seen anything in it, more than that you were extremely +good-looking and that I could paint. Even now I cannot help feeling +that it is a mistake to think that the passion one feels in creation is +ever really shown in the work one creates. Art is always more abstract +than we fancy. Form and colour tell us of form and colour—that is all. +It often seems to me that art conceals 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 picture cannot be shown. You must not 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 colour came back to his cheeks, and +a smile played about his lips. The peril was over. He was safe for the +time. Yet he could not help feeling infinite pity for the painter who +had just made this strange confession to him, and wondered if he +himself would ever be so dominated by the personality of a friend. Lord +Henry had the charm of being very dangerous. But that was all. He was +too clever and too cynical to be really fond of. Would there ever be +some one who would fill him with a strange idolatry? Was that one of +the things that life had in store? + +“It is extraordinary to me, Dorian,” said Hallward, “that you should +have seen this in the portrait. Did you really see it?” + +“I saw something in it,” he answered, “something that seemed to me very +curious.” + +“Well, you don’t mind my looking at the thing now?” + +Dorian shook his head. “You must not ask me that, Basil. I could not +possibly let you stand in front of that picture.” + +“You will some day, surely?” + +“Never.” + +“Well, perhaps you are right. And now good-bye, Dorian. You have been +the one person in my life who has really influenced my art. Whatever I +have done that is good, I owe to you. Ah! you don’t know what it cost +me to tell you all that I have told you.” + +“My dear Basil,” said Dorian, “what have you told me? Simply that you +felt that you admired me too much. That is not even a compliment.” + +“It was not intended as a compliment. It was a confession. Now that I +have made it, something seems to have gone out of me. Perhaps one +should never put one’s worship into words.” + +“It was a very disappointing confession.” + +“Why, what did you expect, Dorian? You didn’t see anything else in the +picture, did you? There was nothing else to see?” + +“No; there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you mustn’t +talk about worship. It is foolish. You and I are friends, Basil, and we +must always remain so.” + +“You have got Harry,” said the painter sadly. + +“Oh, Harry!” cried the lad, with a ripple of laughter. “Harry spends +his days in saying what is incredible and his evenings in doing what 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 were in trouble. I would sooner go +to you, Basil.” + +“You will sit to me again?” + +“Impossible!” + +“You spoil my life as an artist by refusing, Dorian. No man comes +across two ideal things. Few come across one.” + +“I can’t explain it to you, Basil, but I must never sit to you again. +There is something fatal about a portrait. It has a life of its own. I +will come and have tea with you. That will be just as pleasant.” + +“Pleasanter for you, I am afraid,” murmured Hallward regretfully. “And +now good-bye. I am sorry you won’t let me look at 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 +little 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! The painter’s absurd fits of +jealousy, his wild devotion, his extravagant panegyrics, his curious +reticences—he understood them all now, and he felt sorry. There seemed +to him to be something tragic in a friendship so coloured by romance. + +He sighed and touched the bell. The portrait must be hidden away at all +costs. He could not run such a risk of discovery again. It had been mad +of him to have allowed the thing to remain, even for an hour, in a room +to which any of his friends had access. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + + +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 waited for his orders. Dorian lit a cigarette and walked +over to the glass and glanced into it. He could see the reflection of +Victor’s face perfectly. It was like a placid mask of servility. There +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 house-keeper that he +wanted to see her, and then to go to the frame-maker and ask him to +send two of his men round at once. It seemed to him that as the man +left the room his eyes wandered in the direction of the screen. Or was +that merely his own fancy? + +After a few moments, in her black silk dress, with old-fashioned thread +mittens on her wrinkled hands, Mrs. Leaf bustled into the library. He +asked her for the key of the schoolroom. + +“The old schoolroom, Mr. Dorian?” she exclaimed. “Why, it is full of +dust. I must get it arranged and put straight before you go into it. It +is not fit for you to see, sir. It is not, indeed.” + +“I don’t want it put straight, Leaf. I only want the key.” + +“Well, sir, you’ll be covered with cobwebs if you go into it. Why, it +hasn’t been opened for nearly five years—not since his lordship died.” + +He winced at the mention of his grandfather. He had hateful memories of +him. “That does not matter,” he answered. “I simply want to see the +place—that is all. Give me the key.” + +“And here is the key, sir,” said the old lady, going over the contents +of her bunch with tremulously uncertain hands. “Here is the key. I’ll +have it off the bunch in a moment. But you don’t think of living up +there, sir, and you so comfortable here?” + +“No, no,” he cried petulantly. “Thank you, Leaf. That will do.” + +She lingered for a few moments, and was garrulous over some detail of +the household. He sighed and told her to manage things as she thought +best. She left the room, wreathed in smiles. + +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 with gold, a splendid piece of late seventeenth-century +Venetian work that his grandfather had found in a convent near Bologna. +Yes, that would serve to wrap the dreadful thing in. It had perhaps +served often as a pall for the dead. Now it was to hide 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, his 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 that 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 nothing in it that was not noble +and intellectual. It was not that mere physical admiration of beauty +that is born of the senses and that dies when the senses tire. It was +such love as Michelangelo 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. There were +passions in him that would find their terrible outlet, dreams that +would 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, passed behind the screen. Was +the face on the canvas viler than before? It seemed to him that it was +unchanged, and yet his loathing of it was intensified. Gold hair, blue +eyes, and rose-red lips—they all were there. It was simply the +expression that had altered. That was horrible in its cruelty. Compared +to what he saw in it of censure or rebuke, how shallow Basil’s +reproaches about Sibyl Vane had been!—how shallow, and of what little +account! His own soul was looking out at him from the canvas and +calling him to judgement. A look of pain came across him, and he flung +the rich pall over the picture. As he did so, a knock came to the door. +He passed out as his servant entered. + +“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, handing it to him, “and show the men in +here.” + +In two or three minutes there was another knock, and Mr. Hubbard +himself, the celebrated frame-maker of South Audley Street, came in +with a somewhat rough-looking young assistant. Mr. Hubbard was a +florid, red-whiskered little man, whose admiration for art was +considerably 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 +favour of Dorian Gray. There was something about Dorian that 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 honour of coming round in +person. I have just got a beauty of a frame, sir. Picked it up at a +sale. Old Florentine. Came from Fonthill, I believe. Admirably suited +for a religious subject, Mr. Gray.” + +“I am so sorry you have given yourself the trouble of coming round, Mr. +Hubbard. I shall certainly drop in and look at the frame—though I don’t +go in much at present for religious art—but to-day I only want a +picture carried to the top of the house for me. It is rather heavy, so +I thought I would ask you to lend me a couple of your men.” + +“No trouble at all, Mr. Gray. I am delighted to be of any service to +you. Which is the work of art, sir?” + +“This,” replied Dorian, moving the screen back. “Can you move it, +covering and all, just as it is? I don’t want it to get scratched going +upstairs.” + +“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 carry it to, Mr. Gray?” + +“I will show you the way, Mr. Hubbard, 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 the front staircase, as it is wider.” + +He held the door open for them, and they passed out into the hall and +began the ascent. The elaborate character of the frame had made the +picture extremely bulky, and now and then, in spite of the obsequious +protests of Mr. Hubbard, who had the true tradesman’s spirited 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. + +“I am afraid it is rather heavy,” 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. + +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 +Kelso for the use of the little grandson whom, for his strange likeness +to his mother, and also for other reasons, he had always hated and +desired to keep at a distance. It appeared to Dorian to have but little +changed. There was the huge Italian _cassone_, with its fantastically +painted panels and its tarnished gilt mouldings, in which he had so +often hidden himself as a boy. There the satinwood book-case filled +with his dog-eared schoolbooks. On the wall behind it was hanging the +same ragged Flemish tapestry where a faded king and queen were playing +chess in a garden, while a company of hawkers rode by, carrying hooded +birds on their gauntleted wrists. How well he remembered it all! Every +moment of his lonely childhood came back to him as he looked round. He +recalled the stainless purity of his boyish life, and it seemed +horrible to him that it was here the fatal portrait was to be hidden +away. How little he had thought, 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 +kept 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. Some 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 unpictured 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. Hour by hour, and week by week, the thing upon +the canvas was growing old. It might escape the hideousness of sin, but +the hideousness of age was in store for it. The cheeks would 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 wrinkled throat, the cold, blue-veined +hands, the twisted body, that he remembered in the grandfather 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. Hubbard, please,” he said, wearily, turning round. “I +am sorry I kept you so long. I was thinking of something else.” + +“Always glad to have a rest, Mr. Gray,” answered the frame-maker, who +was still gasping for breath. “Where shall we put it, sir?” + +“Oh, anywhere. Here: this will do. I don’t want to have it hung up. +Just lean it against the wall. Thanks.” + +“Might one look at the work of art, sir?” + +Dorian started. “It would not interest you, Mr. Hubbard,” 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 the secret of his life. “I shan’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. Hubbard tramped downstairs, followed by the assistant, +who glanced back at Dorian with a look of shy wonder in his rough +uncomely face. He had never seen any one so marvellous. + +When the sound of their footsteps had died away, Dorian locked the door +and put the key in his pocket. He felt safe now. No one would ever look +upon the horrible thing. No eye but his would ever see his shame. + +On reaching the library, he found that it was just 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 Lady Radley, +his guardian’s wife, a pretty professional invalid who had spent the +preceding winter in Cairo, was lying a note from Lord Henry, 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 been placed on the tea-tray. It was evident that Victor had +returned. He wondered if he had met the men in the hall as they were +leaving the house and had wormed out of them what they had been doing. +He would be sure to miss the picture—had no doubt missed it already, +while he had been laying the tea-things. The screen had not been set +back, and a blank space was visible on the wall. Perhaps some night he +might find him creeping upstairs 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 shred 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_ languidly, and looked +through it. A red pencil-mark on the fifth page caught his eye. It drew +attention to the following paragraph: + +INQUEST ON AN ACTRESS.—An inquest was held 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 verdict of death by misadventure was returned. Considerable +sympathy was expressed for the mother of the deceased, who was greatly +affected during the giving of her own evidence, and that of Dr. +Birrell, who had made the post-mortem examination of the deceased. + + +He frowned, and tearing the paper in two, went across the room and +flung the pieces away. How ugly it all was! And how horribly real +ugliness made things! He felt a little annoyed with Lord Henry for +having sent him the report. 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 suspect something. And, yet, +what did it matter? What had Dorian Gray to do with Sibyl Vane’s death? +There 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-coloured octagonal +stand that had always looked to him like the work of some strange +Egyptian bees that wrought in silver, and taking up the volume, flung +himself into an arm-chair and began to turn over the leaves. After a +few minutes he became absorbed. It was the strangest book that he had +ever read. It seemed to 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 of were suddenly made +real to him. Things of which he had never dreamed were gradually +revealed. + +It was a novel without a plot and with only one 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. The +style in which it was written was that curious jewelled style, vivid +and obscure at once, full of _argot_ and of archaisms, of technical +expressions and of elaborate paraphrases, that characterizes the work +of some of the finest artists of the French school of _Symbolistes_. +There were in it metaphors as monstrous as orchids and as subtle in +colour. 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 mediæval saint or the morbid confessions of +a modern sinner. It was a poisonous book. The heavy odour 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 passed from chapter to chapter, +a form of reverie, a malady of dreaming, that made him unconscious of +the falling day and 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 he 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 that always stood at his +bedside and began to dress for dinner. + +It was almost nine o’clock before he reached the club, where he found +Lord Henry sitting alone, in the morning-room, looking very much bored. + +“I am so sorry, Harry,” he cried, “but really it is entirely your +fault. That book you sent me so fascinated me that I forgot how the +time was going.” + +“Yes, I thought you would like it,” replied 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, you have discovered that?” murmured Lord Henry. And they passed +into the dining-room. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + + +For years, Dorian Gray could not free himself from the influence of +this book. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he never +sought to free himself from it. He procured from Paris no less than +nine large-paper copies of the first edition, and had them bound in +different colours, 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 wonderful young Parisian in +whom the romantic and the scientific temperaments were so strangely +blended, became to him a kind of prefiguring type of himself. And, +indeed, the whole 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 novel’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 beau that had once, apparently, been so +remarkable. It was with an almost 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, with its really tragic, if +somewhat overemphasized, account of the sorrow and despair of one who +had himself lost what in others, and the world, he had most dearly +valued. + +For the wonderful beauty that had so fascinated Basil Hallward, and +many others besides him, seemed never to leave him. Even those who had +heard the most evil things against him—and from time to time strange +rumours about his mode of life crept through London and became the +chatter of the clubs—could not believe anything to his dishonour when +they saw him. He had always the look of one who had kept himself +unspotted from the world. Men who talked grossly became silent when +Dorian Gray entered the room. There was something in the purity of his +face that rebuked them. His mere presence seemed to recall to them the +memory of the innocence that they had tarnished. They wondered how one +so charming and graceful as he was could have escaped the stain of an +age that was at once sordid and sensual. + +Often, 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, he himself would creep +upstairs to the locked room, open the door with the key that never left +him now, and stand, 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 young 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 sometimes with a monstrous and +terrible delight, the hideous lines that seared the wrinkling forehead +or crawled around the heavy sensual mouth, 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 the failing limbs. + +There were moments, indeed, at night, when, lying sleepless in his own +delicately scented chamber, or in the sordid room of the little +ill-famed tavern near the docks which, under an assumed name and in +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 which Lord Henry had 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 season lasted, he would throw open to the +world his beautiful house and have the most celebrated musicians of the +day to charm his guests with the wonders of their art. His little +dinners, in the 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 arrangements of exotic flowers, and embroidered +cloths, and antique plate of gold and silver. Indeed, there were many, +especially among the very young men, who saw, or fancied that they saw, +in Dorian Gray the true realization of a type of which they had often +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 be of +the company of 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 first, 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 way, is an attempt to assert +the absolute modernity of beauty, had, of course, their fascination for +him. His mode of dressing, and the particular styles that from time to +time he affected, 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 reproduce 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 once had been, yet in his inmost heart he desired to be +something more than a mere _arbiter elegantiarum_, to be consulted on +the wearing of a jewel, or the knotting of a necktie, or the conduct of +a cane. He sought to elaborate some new scheme of life that would have +its reasoned philosophy and its ordered principles, and find in the +spiritualizing of the senses its highest realization. + +The worship of the senses has often, and with much justice, been +decried, men feeling a natural instinct of terror about passions and +sensations that seem stronger than themselves, and that they are +conscious of sharing with the less highly organized forms of existence. +But it appeared to Dorian Gray that the true nature of the senses had +never been understood, and that they had remained 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 elements 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 +surrendered! and to such little purpose! There had been mad wilful +rejections, monstrous forms of self-torture and self-denial, 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 out +the anchorite to feed with the wild animals of the desert and giving to +the hermit the beasts of the field as his companions. + +Yes: there was to be, as Lord Henry had prophesied, a new Hedonism that +was to recreate life and to save it from that harsh uncomely puritanism +that is having, in our own day, its curious revival. 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 experience itself, +and not the fruits of experience, sweet or bitter as they might be. Of +the asceticism that deadens 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 wakened before dawn, either +after one of those dreamless nights that make us almost 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, especially the art of those whose minds have been troubled +with the malady of reverie. Gradually white fingers creep through the +curtains, and they appear to tremble. In black fantastic shapes, dumb +shadows crawl into the corners of the room and crouch there. Outside, +there is the stirring of birds among the leaves, or the sound of men +going forth to their work, or the sigh and sob of the wind coming down +from the hills and wandering round the silent house, as though it +feared to wake the sleepers and yet must needs call forth sleep from +her purple cave. Veil after veil of thin dusky gauze is lifted, and by +degrees the forms and colours of things are restored to them, and we +watch the dawn remaking the world in its antique pattern. The wan +mirrors get back their mimic life. The flameless tapers stand where we +had left them, and beside them lies the half-cut 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 shadows 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 world that had been refashioned anew in +the darkness for our pleasure, a world in which things would have fresh +shapes and colours, and be changed, or have other secrets, a world in +which the past would have little or no place, or survive, 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 that seemed to Dorian Gray +to be the true object, or amongst 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 +would 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 colour and satisfied his +intellectual curiosity, leave them with that curious indifference that +is not incompatible with a real ardour of temperament, and that, +indeed, according to certain modern psychologists, is often a condition +of it. + +It was rumoured of him once that he was about to join the Roman +Catholic communion, and certainly the Roman ritual had always 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 as by the primitive simplicity +of its elements and the eternal pathos of the human tragedy that it +sought to symbolize. He loved to kneel down on the cold marble pavement +and watch the priest, in his stiff flowered dalmatic, slowly and with +white hands moving aside the veil of the tabernacle, or raising aloft +the jewelled, lantern-shaped monstrance with that pallid wafer that at +times, one would fain think, is indeed the “_panis cælestis_,” 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. +The fuming censers that the grave boys, in their lace and scarlet, +tossed into the air like great gilt flowers had their subtle +fascination for him. As he passed out, he used to look with wonder at +the black confessionals and long to sit in the dim shadow of one of +them and listen to men and women whispering through the worn grating +the true story of their lives. + +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 of a night, or for a few hours of a night in which +there are no stars and the moon is in travail. Mysticism, with its +marvellous power of making common things strange to us, and the subtle +antinomianism that always seems to accompany it, moved him for a +season; and for a season he inclined to the materialistic doctrines of +the _Darwinismus_ movement in Germany, 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 +before, no theory of life seemed to him to be of any importance +compared with life itself. He felt keenly conscious 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 spiritual +mysteries to reveal. + +And so he would now study perfumes and the secrets of their +manufacture, distilling heavily scented oils and burning odorous gums +from the East. He saw that there 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 frankincense 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 +influences of sweet-smelling roots and scented, pollen-laden flowers; +of aromatic balms 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 walls of +olive-green lacquer, he used to give curious concerts in which mad +gipsies 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 and, crouching +upon scarlet mats, slim turbaned Indians 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 discords of +barbaric music stirred him at times when Schubert’s grace, and Chopin’s +beautiful sorrows, and the mighty harmonies of Beethoven himself, fell +unheeded on his ear. He collected together 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 survived 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 youths may not see till they have been +subjected to fasting and scourging, and the earthen jars of the +Peruvians that have the shrill cries of birds, and flutes of human +bones such as Alfonso de Ovalle heard in Chile, and the sonorous green +jaspers 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 air; the +harsh _ture_ of the Amazon tribes, that is sounded by the sentinels who +sit all day long in high trees, and can be heard, it is said, at a +distance of three leagues; the _teponaztli_, that has two vibrating +tongues of wood 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 clusters 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 the 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 delight 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 “Tannhauser” and seeing in the prelude to that great work +of art a presentation of the tragedy of his own soul. + +On one occasion he took up the study of jewels, and appeared at a +costume ball as Anne de Joyeuse, Admiral of France, in a dress covered +with five hundred and sixty pearls. This taste enthralled him for +years, and, indeed, may be said never to have left him. 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 wirelike line of silver, +the pistachio-coloured peridot, rose-pink and wine-yellow topazes, +carbuncles of fiery scarlet with tremulous, 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 +sunstone, and the moonstone’s pearly whiteness, and the broken rainbow +of the milky opal. He procured from Amsterdam three emeralds of +extraordinary size and richness of colour, and had a turquoise _de la +vieille roche_ that was the envy of all the connoisseurs. + +He discovered wonderful stories, also, about jewels. In Alphonso’s +Clericalis Disciplina a serpent was mentioned with eyes of real +jacinth, and in the romantic history of Alexander, the Conqueror of +Emathia was said to have found in the vale of Jordan snakes “with +collars of real emeralds growing on their backs.” There was a gem in +the brain of the dragon, Philostratus told us, and “by the exhibition +of golden letters and a scarlet robe” the monster could be thrown into +a magical sleep and slain. According to the great alchemist, Pierre de +Boniface, the diamond rendered a man invisible, and the agate of India +made him eloquent. The cornelian appeased anger, and the hyacinth +provoked sleep, and the amethyst drove away the fumes of wine. The +garnet cast out demons, and the hydropicus deprived the moon of her +colour. The selenite waxed and waned with the moon, and the meloceus, +that discovers thieves, could be affected only by the blood of kids. +Leonardus Camillus had seen a white stone taken from the brain of a +newly killed toad, that was a certain antidote against poison. The +bezoar, that was found in the heart of the Arabian deer, was a charm +that could cure the plague. In the nests of Arabian birds was the +aspilates, that, according to Democritus, kept the wearer from any +danger by fire. + +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 snake +inwrought, so that no man might bring poison within.” Over the gable +were “two golden apples, in which were two carbuncles,” so that the +gold 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 +the queen one could behold “all the chaste ladies of the world, +inchased out of silver, looking through fair mirrours of chrysolites, +carbuncles, sapphires, and greene emeraults.” Marco Polo had seen the +inhabitants of Zipangu place rose-coloured pearls in the mouths of the +dead. A sea-monster had been enamoured of the pearl that the diver +brought to King Perozes, and had slain the thief, and mourned for seven +moons over its 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 gold +pieces for it. The King of Malabar had shown to a certain Venetian a +rosary of three hundred 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 +Brantome, and his cap had double rows of rubies that threw out a great +light. Charles of England had ridden in stirrups hung with four hundred +and twenty-one diamonds. Richard II had a coat, valued at thirty +thousand marks, which was covered with balas rubies. Hall described +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 other rich stones, and a great bauderike about his neck of large +balasses.” The favourites of James I wore ear-rings of emeralds set in +gold filigrane. Edward II gave to Piers Gaveston a suit of red-gold +armour studded with jacinths, a collar of gold roses set with +turquoise-stones, and a skull-cap _parsemé_ with pearls. Henry II. wore +jewelled gloves reaching to the elbow, and had a hawk-glove sewn with +twelve rubies and fifty-two great orients. The ducal hat of Charles the +Rash, the last Duke of Burgundy of his race, was hung with pear-shaped +pearls and studded with sapphires. + +How exquisite life had once been! How gorgeous in its pomp and +decoration! 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 frescoes in the chill rooms of the northern +nations of Europe. As 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 stained +his flowerlike bloom. How different it was with material things! Where +had they passed to? Where was the great crocus-coloured robe, on which +the gods fought against the giants, that had been worked by brown girls +for the pleasure of Athena? Where the huge velarium that Nero had +stretched across the Colosseum at Rome, that Titan sail of purple on +which was represented the starry sky, and Apollo driving a chariot +drawn by white, gilt-reined steeds? He longed to see the curious +table-napkins wrought for the Priest of the Sun, 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 indignation 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 sleeves 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, of square shape in those days, formed with four +pearls. He read of the room that was prepared at the palace at Rheims +for the use of Queen Joan of Burgundy and was decorated with “thirteen +hundred and twenty-one parrots, made in broidery, and blazoned with the +king’s arms, and five hundred and sixty-one butterflies, whose wings +were similarly ornamented with the arms of the queen, the whole worked +in gold.” Catherine de Medicis had a mourning-bed made for her of black +velvet powdered with crescents and suns. Its curtains were of damask, +with leafy wreaths and garlands, figured upon a gold and silver 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 verses +from the Koran. Its supports were of silver gilt, beautifully chased, +and profusely set with enamelled and jewelled medallions. It had been +taken from the Turkish camp before Vienna, and the standard of Mohammed +had stood beneath the tremulous gilt of its canopy. + +And so, for a whole year, he sought to accumulate the most exquisite +specimens that he could find of textile and embroidered work, getting +the dainty Delhi muslins, finely wrought with gold-thread palmates and +stitched over with iridescent beetles’ wings; the Dacca gauzes, that +from their transparency are known in the East as “woven air,” and +“running water,” and “evening dew”; strange figured cloths from Java; +elaborate yellow Chinese hangings; books bound in tawny satins or fair +blue silks and wrought with _fleurs-de-lis_, 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 ecclesiastical vestments, as indeed +he had for everything connected with the service of the Church. In the +long cedar chests that lined the west gallery of his house, he had +stored away many rare and beautiful specimens 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 +possessed a gorgeous cope of crimson silk and gold-thread damask, +figured with a repeating pattern of golden pomegranates set in +six-petalled formal blossoms, beyond which on either side was the +pine-apple device wrought in seed-pearls. The orphreys were divided +into panels representing scenes from the life of the Virgin, and the +coronation of the Virgin was figured in coloured silks upon the hood. +This was Italian work of the fifteenth 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 coloured crystals. The morse +bore 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-coloured silk, and blue silk and gold +brocade, and yellow silk damask and cloth of gold, figured with +representations of the Passion and Crucifixion of Christ, and +embroidered with lions and peacocks and other emblems; dalmatics of +white satin and pink silk damask, decorated with tulips and dolphins +and _fleurs-de-lis_; altar frontals of crimson velvet and blue linen; +and many corporals, chalice-veils, and sudaria. In the mystic offices +to which such things were put, there was something that quickened his +imagination. + +For these treasures, and everything that he collected in his lovely +house, were to be to him means of forgetfulness, modes by which 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 boyhood, he had hung with his +own hands the terrible portrait whose changing features showed him the +real degradation of his life, and in front of it had draped the +purple-and-gold pall 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 absorption in mere existence. +Then, suddenly, some 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 front of the +picture, sometimes loathing it and himself, but filled, at other times, +with that pride of individualism that is half the fascination of sin, +and smiling with secret pleasure at the misshapen shadow that had to +bear the burden that should have been his own. + +After a few years he could not endure to be long 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 they had more +than once spent the winter. He hated to be separated from the picture +that was such a part of his life, and was also afraid that during his +absence some one might gain access to the room, in spite of the +elaborate bars that he had caused to be placed upon the door. + +He was quite conscious that this would tell them 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 tried to taunt him. He had not +painted it. What was it to him how vile and full of shame it looked? +Even if he told them, would they believe it? + +Yet he was afraid. Sometimes when he was down at his great house in +Nottinghamshire, entertaining the fashionable young men of his own rank +who were his chief companions, and astounding the county by the wanton +luxury and gorgeous splendour of his mode of life, he would suddenly +leave his 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 with horror. Surely +the world would know his secret then. Perhaps the world already +suspected it. + +For, while he fascinated many, there were not a few who distrusted him. +He was very nearly blackballed at a West End club of which his birth +and social position fully entitled him to become a member, and it was +said that on one occasion, when he was brought by a friend into the +smoking-room of the Churchill, the Duke of Berwick and another +gentleman got up in a marked manner and went out. Curious stories +became current about him after he had passed his twenty-fifth year. It +was rumoured 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 whisper to each other in corners, or pass +him with a sneer, or look at him with cold searching eyes, as though +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 the calumnies, for so they termed them, that were circulated about +him. It was remarked, however, that some of those who had been most +intimate with him appeared, after a time, to shun him. Women who had +wildly adored him, and 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 increased in the eyes of many his +strange and dangerous charm. His great wealth was a certain element of +security. Society—civilized society, at least—is never very ready to +believe anything to the detriment of those who are both rich and +fascinating. It feels instinctively that manners are of more importance +than morals, and, in its opinion, the highest respectability is of much +less value than the possession of a good _chef_. And, after all, it is +a very poor consolation to be told that the man who has given one a bad +dinner, or poor wine, is irreproachable in his private life. Even the +cardinal virtues cannot atone for half-cold _entrées_, as Lord Henry +remarked once, in a discussion on the 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. 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 delightful to us. Is +insincerity such a 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. He used to wonder at the +shallow psychology of those who conceive the ego in man as a thing +simple, permanent, reliable, and of one essence. To him, man was a +being with myriad lives and myriad sensations, a complex multiform +creature that bore within itself strange legacies of thought and +passion, and whose very flesh was tainted with the monstrous maladies +of the dead. He loved to stroll through the gaunt cold picture-gallery +of his country house and look at the various portraits of those 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 not 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 him so suddenly, and almost without cause, +give utterance, in Basil Hallward’s studio, to the mad prayer that had +so changed his life? Here, in gold-embroidered red doublet, jewelled +surcoat, and gilt-edged ruff and wristbands, stood Sir Anthony Sherard, +with his silver-and-black armour piled at his feet. What had this man’s +legacy been? Had the lover of Giovanna of Naples bequeathed him some +inheritance of sin and shame? Were his own actions merely the dreams +that the dead man had not dared to realize? 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, +and her left clasped an enamelled collar of white and damask roses. On +a table by her 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. Had he something of +her temperament in him? These oval, heavy-lidded eyes seemed 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 the lean yellow hands that were so +overladen with rings. He had been a macaroni of the eighteenth century, +and the friend, in his youth, of Lord Ferrars. What of the second Lord +Beckenham, 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, with 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 pallid, thin-lipped woman in black. Her blood, also, stirred +within him. How curious it all seemed! And his mother with her Lady +Hamilton face and her moist, wine-dashed lips—he knew what he had got +from her. He had got from her his beauty, and his passion for the +beauty of others. She laughed at him in her loose Bacchante dress. +There were vine leaves in her hair. The purple spilled from the cup she +was holding. The carnations of the painting had withered, but the eyes +were still wonderful in their depth and brilliancy of colour. They +seemed to follow him wherever he went. + +Yet one had ancestors in literature as well as in one’s own race, +nearer perhaps in type and temperament, many of them, and certainly +with an influence of which one was more absolutely conscious. There +were times when it appeared 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 +subtlety. It seemed to him that in some mysterious way their lives had +been his own. + +The hero of the wonderful novel that had so influenced his life had +himself known this curious fancy. In the seventh chapter he tells how, +crowned with laurel, lest lightning might strike him, he had sat, as +Tiberius, 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 their stables and supped in +an ivory manger with a jewel-frontleted horse; and, as Domitian, had +wandered through a corridor lined with marble mirrors, looking round +with haggard eyes for the reflection of the dagger that was to end his +days, and sick with that ennui, that terrible _tædium vitæ_, that comes +on those to whom life 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 painted his face with +colours, and plied the distaff among the women, and brought the Moon +from Carthage and given her in mystic marriage to the Sun. + +Over and over again Dorian used to read this fantastic chapter, and the +two chapters immediately following, in which, as in some curious +tapestries or cunningly wrought enamels, were pictured the awful and +beautiful forms of those whom vice and blood and weariness had made +monstrous or mad: Filippo, Duke of Milan, who slew his wife and painted +her lips with a scarlet poison that her lover might suck death from the +dead thing he fondled; 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 harlot +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 young Cardinal Archbishop of Florence, child and +minion of Sixtus IV., whose beauty 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 gilded a boy that he might +serve at the feast as Ganymede or Hylas; Ezzelin, whose melancholy +could be cured only by the spectacle of death, and who had a passion +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 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 Polyssena with a napkin, and gave +poison to Ginevra d’Este in a cup of emerald, and in honour of a +shameful passion built a pagan church for Christian worship; Charles +VI., who had so wildly adored his brother’s wife that a leper had +warned him of the insanity that was coming on him, and who, when his +brain had sickened and grown strange, could only be soothed by Saracen +cards painted with the images of love and death and madness; and, in +his trimmed jerkin and jewelled cap and acanthuslike curls, Grifonetto +Baglioni, who slew Astorre with his bride, and Simonetto with his page, +and whose comeliness was such that, as he lay dying in the yellow +piazza of Perugia, those who had hated him could not choose but weep, +and Atalanta, who had cursed him, blessed him. + +There was a horrible fascination in them all. He saw them at night, and +they troubled his imagination in the day. The Renaissance knew of +strange manners of poisoning—poisoning by a helmet and a lighted torch, +by an embroidered glove and a jewelled fan, by a gilded pomander 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. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + + +It was on the ninth of November, the eve of his own thirty-eighth +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 night was cold +and foggy. At the corner of Grosvenor Square and South Audley Street, a +man passed him in the mist, walking very fast and with the collar of +his grey ulster turned up. He had a bag in his hand. Dorian 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 +quickly in the direction of his own house. + +But Hallward had seen him. Dorian heard him first stopping on the +pavement and 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 in your library ever since nine o’clock. 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 particularly wanted to see +you before I left. 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 Grosvenor +Square. I believe my house is somewhere about 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 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 come in for a moment. I have something +to say to you.” + +“I shall be charmed. But won’t you miss your train?” said Dorian Gray +languidly as he passed up the steps and opened the door with his +latch-key. + +The lamplight 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 club 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 things. 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 and an ulster! Come in, or the fog will 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 Dutch silver spirit-case stood, with +some siphons of soda-water and large cut-glass tumblers, on a little +marqueterie table. + +“You see your servant made me quite at home, Dorian. He gave me +everything I wanted, including your best gold-tipped cigarettes. He is +a most hospitable creature. 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 Radley’s +maid, and has established her in Paris as an English dressmaker. +_Anglomanie_ is very fashionable over there now, I hear. It seems silly +of the French, doesn’t it? But—do you know?—he was not at all a bad +servant. I never liked him, 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 some in the next room.” + +“Thanks, I won’t have anything more,” said the painter, taking his cap +and coat off and throwing them on the bag that 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 murmured. + +“It is not much to ask of you, Dorian, and it is entirely for your own +sake that I am speaking. I think it right that you should know that the +most dreadful things are being said against you in London.” + +“I don’t wish to know anything about them. I love scandals about other +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 his +good name. You don’t want people to talk of you as something vile and +degraded. Of course, you have your position, and your wealth, and all +that kind of thing. But position and wealth are not everything. Mind +you, I don’t believe these rumours at all. At least, I can’t believe +them when I see you. Sin is a thing that writes itself across a man’s +face. It cannot be concealed. People talk sometimes of secret vices. +There are no such things. If a wretched man has a vice, it shows 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 portrait done. I had never seen +him before, and had never heard anything about him at the time, though +I have heard a good deal since. He offered an extravagant price. I +refused him. There was something in the 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, Dorian, 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 what +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 or invite you to theirs? You +used to be a friend of Lord Staveley. I met him at dinner last week. +Your name happened to come up in conversation, in connection with the +miniatures you have lent to the exhibition at the Dudley. Staveley +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! Why +is your friendship so fatal to young men? There was that wretched boy +in the Guards who committed suicide. You were his great friend. There +was Sir Henry Ashton, who had to leave England with a tarnished 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’s Street. He seemed broken with shame and +sorrow. What about the young Duke of Perth? What sort of life has he +got now? What gentleman would associate with him?” + +“Stop, Basil. You are talking about things of which you know nothing,” +said Dorian Gray, biting his lip, and with a note of infinite contempt +in his voice. “You ask me why Berwick leaves a room when I enter it. It +is because I know everything about his life, not because he knows +anything about mine. With such blood as he has in his veins, how could +his record be clean? You ask me about Henry Ashton and young Perth. Did +I teach the one his vices, and the other his debauchery? If Kent’s +silly son takes his wife from the streets, what is that to me? If +Adrian Singleton writes his friend’s name across a bill, am I his +keeper? I know how people chatter in England. The middle classes air +their moral prejudices over their gross dinner-tables, and whisper +about what they call the profligacies of their betters in order to try +and pretend that they are in smart society and on intimate terms with +the people they slander. In this country, it is enough for a man to +have distinction and brains for every common tongue to wag against him. +And what sort of lives do these people, who pose as being moral, lead +themselves? My dear fellow, you forget that we are in the native land +of the hypocrite.” + +“Dorian,” cried Hallward, “that is not the question. England is bad +enough I know, and English society is all wrong. That is the reason why +I want you to be fine. You have not been fine. One has a right to judge +of a man by the effect he has over his friends. Yours seem to lose all +sense of honour, of goodness, of purity. You have filled them with a +madness for pleasure. They have gone down into the depths. You led them +there. Yes: you led them there, and yet you can smile, as you are +smiling now. And there is worse behind. I know you and Harry are +inseparable. Surely for that reason, if for none other, you should not +have made his sister’s name a by-word.” + +“Take care, Basil. You go too far.” + +“I must speak, and you must listen. You shall listen. 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? +Why, even her children are not allowed to live with her. Then there are +other stories—stories that you have been seen creeping at dawn out of +dreadful houses and slinking in disguise into the foulest dens in +London. Are they true? Can they be true? 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? Dorian, 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 began by saying that, and +then proceeded to break 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 and a fair record. I want you to get 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. Let it +be for good, not for evil. They say that you corrupt every one with +whom you become intimate, and that it is quite sufficient for you to +enter a house for shame of some kind to follow after. I don’t know +whether it is so or not. How should I know? But it is said of you. I am +told things that it seems impossible to doubt. Lord Gloucester was one +of my greatest friends at Oxford. He showed me a letter that his wife +had written to him when she was dying alone in her villa at Mentone. +Your name was implicated in the most terrible confession I ever read. I +told him that it was absurd—that I knew you thoroughly and that you +were incapable of anything of the kind. Know you? I wonder do I know +you? Before I could answer that, I should have to see your soul.” + +“To see my soul!” muttered Dorian Gray, starting up from the sofa and +turning almost white from fear. + +“Yes,” answered Hallward gravely, and with deep-toned 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. Nobody +would believe you. If they did believe you, they would 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. 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 origin of all his +shame was to be burdened for the rest of his life with the hideous +memory of what he had done. + +“Yes,” he continued, coming closer to him and looking steadfastly into +his stern eyes, “I shall show you my soul. You shall see the thing that +you fancy only God can see.” + +Hallward started back. “This is blasphemy, Dorian!” 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 know I have been always a stanch friend to you.” + +“Don’t touch me. Finish what you have to say.” + +A twisted flash of pain shot across the painter’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? If he had done a tithe of +what was rumoured about him, how much he must have suffered! Then he +straightened himself up, and walked over to the fire-place, and stood +there, looking at the burning logs with their frostlike ashes and their +throbbing cores of flame. + +“I am waiting, Basil,” said the young man in a hard clear voice. + +He turned round. “What I have to say is this,” he cried. “You must give +me some answer to these horrible charges that are made against you. If +you tell me that they are absolutely untrue from beginning to end, I +shall believe you. Deny them, Dorian, deny them! Can’t you see what I +am going through? My God! don’t tell me that you are bad, and corrupt, +and shameful.” + +Dorian Gray smiled. There was a curl of contempt in his lips. “Come +upstairs, 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 shall +show it to you if you come with me.” + +“I shall come with you, Dorian, if you wish it. I see I have missed my +train. That makes no matter. I can go to-morrow. But don’t ask me to +read anything to-night. All I want is a plain answer to my question.” + +“That shall be given to you upstairs. I could not give it here. You +will not have to read long.” + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + + +He passed out of the room and began the ascent, Basil Hallward +following close behind. They walked softly, as men do instinctively at +night. The lamp cast fantastic shadows on the wall and staircase. A +rising wind made some of the windows 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 answered, smiling. Then he added, somewhat +harshly, “You are the one man in the world who is entitled to know +everything about me. You have had more to do with my life than you +think”; and, 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,” he +whispered, as he placed the lamp on the table. + +Hallward glanced round him with a puzzled expression. The room looked +as if it had not been lived in for years. A faded Flemish tapestry, a +curtained picture, an old Italian _cassone_, and an almost empty +book-case—that was all that it seemed to contain, besides a chair and a +table. As Dorian Gray was lighting a half-burned candle that was +standing on the mantelshelf, 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 odour of mildew. + +“So you think that it is only God who sees the soul, Basil? Draw that +curtain back, and you will see mine.” + +The voice that spoke was cold and cruel. “You are mad, Dorian, or +playing a part,” muttered Hallward, frowning. + +“You won’t? Then I must do it myself,” said the young man, and he tore +the curtain from its rod and flung it on the ground. + +An exclamation of horror broke from the painter’s lips as he saw in the +dim light the hideous face on the canvas grinning at him. There was +something in its 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 spoiled that marvellous +beauty. There was still some gold in the thinning hair and some scarlet +on the sensual mouth. The sodden eyes had kept something of the +loveliness of their blue, the noble curves had not yet completely +passed away from chiselled nostrils and from plastic throat. Yes, it +was Dorian himself. But who had done it? He seemed to recognize his own +brushwork, and the frame was his own design. The idea was monstrous, +yet he felt afraid. He seized the lighted candle, and held it to the +picture. In the left-hand corner was his own name, traced in long +letters of bright vermilion. + +It was some foul parody, some infamous ignoble satire. He had never +done that. Still, it was his own picture. He knew it, and he felt as if +his blood had changed in a moment from fire to sluggish ice. His own +picture! What did it mean? Why had it altered? He turned and looked at +Dorian Gray 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 clammy sweat. + +The young man was leaning against the mantelshelf, watching him with +that strange expression that one sees on the faces of those who are +absorbed in a play when some great artist is acting. There was neither +real sorrow in it nor real joy. There was simply the passion of the +spectator, with perhaps a flicker of triumph in his eyes. He had taken +the flower out of his coat, and was smelling it, or pretending to do +so. + +“What does this mean?” cried Hallward, at last. His own voice sounded +shrill and curious in his ears. + +“Years ago, when I was a boy,” said Dorian Gray, crushing the flower in +his hand, “you met me, flattered me, and taught 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, even +now, I don’t know 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. 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 the young man, going over to the +window and leaning his forehead against the cold, mist-stained glass. + +“You told me you had destroyed it.” + +“I was wrong. It has destroyed me.” + +“I don’t believe it is my picture.” + +“Can’t you see your ideal in it?” said Dorian bitterly. + +“My ideal, as you call it...” + +“As you called it.” + +“There was nothing evil in it, nothing shameful. You were to me such an +ideal as I shall never meet again. This is the face of a satyr.” + +“It is the face of my soul.” + +“Christ! what a thing I must have worshipped! It 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 gazed at it. “My God! If it +is true,” he exclaimed, “and this is what you have done with your life, +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, that the foulness and horror had come. Through +some strange quickening of inner life the leprosies of sin were 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 into the rickety chair that was standing by the table and +buried his face in his hands. + +“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 taught to say in +one’s boyhood? ‘Lead us not into temptation. Forgive us our 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. I worshipped you too much. I am punished for it. You worshipped +yourself too much. We are both punished.” + +Dorian Gray turned slowly around and looked at him with tear-dimmed +eyes. “It is too late, Basil,” he faltered. + +“It is never too late, Dorian. Let us kneel down and try if we cannot +remember a prayer. Isn’t there a verse somewhere, ‘Though your sins be +as scarlet, yet I will make them as white as snow’?” + +“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 that accursed thing leering at us?” + +Dorian Gray glanced at the picture, and suddenly an uncontrollable +feeling of hatred for Basil Hallward came over him, as though it had +been suggested to him by the image on the canvas, whispered into his +ear by those grinning lips. The mad passions of a hunted animal stirred +within him, and he loathed the man who was seated at the table, more +than in his whole life he had ever loathed anything. 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 +had 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 stirred in his chair as if he was going to rise. +He rushed at him 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 sound of some one choking +with blood. Three times the outstretched arms shot up convulsively, +waving grotesque, stiff-fingered hands in the air. He stabbed him twice +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 the threadbare carpet. He +opened the door and went out on the landing. The house was absolutely +quiet. No one was about. For a few seconds he stood bending over the +balustrade and peering down into the black seething well of darkness. +Then 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, straining 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 was +slowly widening on the table, one would have said that the man was +simply asleep. + +How quickly it had all been done! He felt strangely calm, and walking +over to the window, opened it and stepped out on the balcony. The wind +had blown the fog away, and 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 the long beam of his lantern on +the doors of the silent houses. The crimson spot of a prowling hansom +gleamed at the corner and then vanished. A woman in a fluttering shawl +was creeping slowly by the railings, staggering as she went. Now and +then she stopped and peered back. Once, she began to sing in a hoarse +voice. The policeman strolled over and said something to her. She +stumbled away, laughing. A bitter blast swept across the square. The +gas-lamps flickered and became blue, and the leafless trees shook their +black iron branches to and fro. He shivered and went back, closing the +window behind him. + +Having reached the door, he turned the key and opened 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 the +fatal 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 Moorish +workmanship, made of dull silver inlaid with arabesques of burnished +steel, and studded with coarse turquoises. Perhaps it might be missed +by his servant, and questions would be asked. He hesitated for a +moment, then he turned back and took it from the table. He could not +help seeing the dead thing. How still it was! How horribly white the +long hands looked! It was like a dreadful wax image. + +Having locked the door behind him, he crept quietly downstairs. The +woodwork creaked 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 was +in the wainscoting, a press in which he kept his own curious disguises, +and put them into it. 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 come too close to the earth.... +And yet, what evidence was there against him? Basil Hallward had left +the house at eleven. No one had seen him come in again. Most of the +servants were at Selby Royal. His valet had gone to bed.... Paris! Yes. +It was to Paris that Basil had gone, and by the midnight train, as he +had intended. With his curious reserved habits, it would be months +before any suspicions would be roused. Months! Everything could be +destroyed long before then. + +A sudden thought struck him. He put on his fur coat and hat and went +out into the hall. There he paused, hearing the slow heavy tread of the +policeman on the pavement outside and seeing the flash of the +bull’s-eye reflected in the window. He waited and held his breath. + +After a few moments he drew back the latch and slipped out, shutting +the door very gently behind him. Then he began ringing the bell. In +about five 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?” + +“Ten minutes past two, sir,” answered the man, looking at the clock and +blinking. + +“Ten 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 then he went away +to catch his train.” + +“Oh! I am sorry I didn’t see him. Did he leave any message?” + +“No, sir, except that he would write to you from Paris, if he did not +find you at the club.” + +“That will do, Francis. Don’t forget to call me at nine to-morrow.” + +“No, sir.” + +The man shambled down the passage in his slippers. + +Dorian Gray threw his hat and coat upon the table and passed into the +library. For a quarter of an hour he walked up and down the room, +biting his lip and thinking. Then he took down the Blue Book from one +of the shelves and began to turn over the leaves. “Alan Campbell, 152, +Hertford Street, Mayfair.” Yes; that was the man he wanted. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + + +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. He looked like a boy who had been tired out with play, or study. + +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 lips, as though he +had been lost in some delightful dream. Yet he had not dreamed at all. +His night had been untroubled by any images of pleasure or of pain. But +youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms. + +He turned round, and leaning upon his elbow, began to sip his +chocolate. The mellow November sun came streaming into the room. The +sky was bright, and there was a genial warmth in the air. It was almost +like a morning in May. + +Gradually the events of the preceding night crept 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 still +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. + +When the half-hour struck, he passed his hand across his forehead, and +then got up hastily and dressed himself with even more than his usual +care, giving a good deal of attention to the choice of his necktie and +scarf-pin and changing his rings more than once. He spent a long time +also over breakfast, tasting the various dishes, talking to his valet +about some new liveries that he was thinking of getting made for the +servants at Selby, and going through his correspondence. At some of the +letters, he smiled. Three of them bored him. One he read several times +over and 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. + +After he had drunk his cup of black coffee, he wiped his lips slowly +with a napkin, motioned to his servant to wait, and going over to the +table, sat down 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 and began sketching upon a +piece of paper, drawing first flowers and bits of architecture, and +then human faces. Suddenly he remarked that every face that he drew +seemed to have a fantastic likeness to Basil Hallward. He frowned, and +getting up, went over to the book-case and took out a volume at hazard. +He was determined that he would not think about what had happened until +it became absolutely necessary that he should do so. + +When he had stretched himself on the sofa, he looked at the title-page +of the book. It was Gautier’s “Émaux et Camées”, Charpentier’s +Japanese-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 eye fell on the poem about the hand of +Lacenaire, the cold yellow hand “_du supplice encore mal lavée_,” with +its downy red hairs and its “_doigts de faune_.” He glanced at his own +white taper fingers, shuddering slightly in spite of himself, and +passed on, till he came to those lovely stanzas upon Venice: + +Sur une gamme chromatique, + Le sein de perles ruisselant, +La Vénus 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 comme 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, seated in a black +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 colour reminded him +of the gleam of the opal-and-iris-throated birds that flutter round the +tall honeycombed Campanile, or stalk, with such stately grace, through +the dim, dust-stained arcades. Leaning back with half-closed eyes, he +kept saying over and over to himself: + +“Devant une façade rose, +Sur le marbre d’un escalier.” + + +The whole of Venice was in those two lines. He remembered the autumn +that he had passed there, and a wonderful love that had stirred him to +mad delightful follies. There was romance in every place. But Venice, +like Oxford, had kept the background for romance, and, to the true +romantic, 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 volume again, and tried to forget. He read +of the swallows 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; he read of the Obelisk in the Place de la Concorde that weeps +tears of granite in its lonely sunless exile and longs 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; he began to brood +over those verses which, drawing music from kiss-stained marble, tell +of that curious 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 +out of England? Days would elapse before he could come back. Perhaps he +might refuse to come. What could he do then? Every moment was of vital +importance. + +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 +society 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 laboratory 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 +Parliament and had a vague idea that a chemist was a person who made up +prescriptions. He was an excellent musician, however, as well, and +played both the violin and the piano better than most amateurs. In +fact, it was music that had first brought him and Dorian Gray +together—music and that indefinable attraction that Dorian seemed to be +able to exercise whenever he wished—and, indeed, exercised often +without being conscious of it. They had met at Lady 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. For +eighteen months their intimacy lasted. Campbell was always either at +Selby Royal or in Grosvenor Square. To him, as to many others, Dorian +Gray was the type of everything that is wonderful and fascinating in +life. Whether or not a quarrel had taken place between them no one ever +knew. But suddenly people remarked that they scarcely spoke when they +met and that Campbell seemed always to go away early from any party at +which Dorian Gray was present. He had changed, too—was strangely +melancholy at times, appeared almost to dislike hearing music, and +would never himself play, giving as his excuse, when he was called +upon, that he was so absorbed in science that he had no time left in +which to practise. And this was certainly true. Every day he seemed to +become more interested in biology, and his name appeared once or twice +in some of the scientific reviews in connection with certain curious +experiments. + +This was the man Dorian Gray was waiting for. Every second he kept +glancing at the clock. As the minutes went by he became horribly +agitated. At last he got up and began to pace up and down the room, +looking like a beautiful caged thing. He took long stealthy strides. +His hands were curiously cold. + +The suspense became unbearable. Time seemed to him to be crawling with +feet of lead, while he by monstrous winds was being swept towards the +jagged edge of some black cleft of precipice. He knew what was waiting +for him there; saw it, indeed, and, shuddering, crushed with dank hands +his burning lids as though he would have robbed the very brain of sight +and driven the eyeballs back into their cave. It was useless. The brain +had its own food on which it battened, and the imagination, made +grotesque by terror, twisted and distorted as a living thing by pain, +danced like some foul puppet on a stand and grinned through moving +masks. Then, suddenly, time stopped for him. Yes: that blind, +slow-breathing thing crawled no more, and horrible thoughts, time being +dead, raced nimbly on in front, and dragged a hideous future from its +grave, and showed it to him. He stared at it. Its very horror made him +stone. + +At last the door opened and his servant entered. He turned glazed eyes +upon him. + +“Mr. Campbell, sir,” said the man. + +A sigh of relief broke from his parched lips, and the colour came back +to his cheeks. + +“Ask him to come in at once, Francis.” He felt that he was himself +again. His mood of cowardice had passed away. + +The man bowed and retired. In a few moments, Alan Campbell walked 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 spoke +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 of his Astrakhan coat, and seemed not to have noticed the +gesture with which he had been greeted. + +“Yes: 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. 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 him 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 seated at a table. +He has been dead ten hours now. Don’t stir, and don’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 +have 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. This one will have to interest +you. I am awfully sorry for you, Alan. But I can’t help myself. You are +the one man who is able to save me. I am forced to bring you into the +matter. I have no option. Alan, you are scientific. You know about +chemistry and things of that kind. You have made experiments. What you +have got to do is to destroy the thing that is upstairs—to destroy it +so that not a vestige of it will be left. Nobody saw this person come +into the house. Indeed, at the present moment he is supposed to be in +Paris. He will not be missed for months. When he is missed, there must +be no trace of him found here. You, Alan, you must change him, and +everything that belongs to him, into a handful of ashes that I may +scatter in the air.” + +“You are mad, Dorian.” + +“Ah! 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 nothing 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 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? I should have +thought you knew more about people’s characters. Your friend Lord Henry +Wotton can’t have taught you much about psychology, whatever else he +has taught you. Nothing will induce me to stir a step to help you. You +have come to the wrong man. Go to some of your friends. Don’t come 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. He may not have intended it, the +result was the same.” + +“Murder! Good God, Dorian, is that what you have come to? I shall not +inform upon you. It is not my business. Besides, without my stirring in +the matter, you are certain to be arrested. Nobody ever commits a crime +without doing something stupid. But I will have nothing to do with it.” + +“You must have something to do with it. Wait, wait a moment; listen to +me. Only listen, Alan. 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 table with red gutters scooped out in it for the blood to flow +through, you would simply look upon him as an admirable subject. You +would not turn a hair. You would not believe that you were doing +anything wrong. On the contrary, you would probably feel that you were +benefiting the human race, or increasing the sum of knowledge in the +world, or gratifying intellectual curiosity, or something of that kind. +What I want you to do is merely what you have often done before. +Indeed, to destroy a body must be far less horrible than what you are +accustomed to work at. And, remember, it is the only piece of evidence +against me. If it is discovered, I am lost; and it is sure to be +discovered unless you help me.” + +“I have no desire to help you. You forget that. I am simply indifferent +to the whole thing. It has nothing to do with me.” + +“Alan, I entreat you. Think of the position I am in. Just before you +came I almost fainted with terror. You may know terror yourself some +day. No! don’t think of that. Look at the matter purely from the +scientific point of view. You don’t inquire where the dead things on +which you experiment come from. Don’t inquire now. I have told you too +much as it is. But I beg of you to do this. We were friends once, +Alan.” + +“Don’t speak about those days, Dorian—they are dead.” + +“The dead linger sometimes. The man upstairs will not go away. He is +sitting at the table with bowed head and outstretched arms. Alan! 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 absolutely refuse to do +anything in the matter. It is insane of you to ask me.” + +“You refuse?” + +“Yes.” + +“I entreat you, Alan.” + +“It is useless.” + +The same look of pity came into Dorian Gray’s eyes. Then he stretched +out his hand, took a piece of paper, and wrote something on it. He read +it over twice, folded 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 took 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 his shoulder. + +“I am so sorry for you, 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. If you don’t help me, I +will send it. You know what the result will be. But you are going to +help me. It is impossible for you to refuse now. I tried to spare you. +You will do me the justice to admit that. You were 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 +ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece seemed to him to be dividing +time into separate atoms of agony, each of which was too terrible to be +borne. He felt as if an iron ring was being slowly tightened round his +forehead, as if the disgrace with which he was threatened had already +come upon him. The 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.” + +“I cannot do it,” he said, mechanically, as though words could alter +things. + +“You must. You have no choice. Don’t delay.” + +He hesitated a moment. “Is there a fire in the room upstairs?” + +“Yes, there is a gas-fire with asbestos.” + +“I shall have to go home and get some things from the laboratory.” + +“No, Alan, you must not leave the house. Write out on a sheet of +notepaper what you want and my servant will take a cab and bring the +things back to you.” + +Campbell scrawled a few lines, blotted them, and addressed an envelope +to his assistant. 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. + +As the hall door shut, Campbell started nervously, and having got up +from the chair, went over to the chimney-piece. He was shivering with a +kind of ague. For nearly twenty minutes, neither of the men spoke. A +fly buzzed noisily about the room, and the ticking of the clock was +like the beat of a hammer. + +As the chime struck one, Campbell turned round, 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—what 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 door, and the servant +entered, carrying a large mahogany chest of chemicals, 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, that 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 once, see Harden +personally, and tell him to send twice as many orchids as I ordered, +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. + +“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, leaving 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.” He spoke rapidly and +in an authoritative manner. Campbell felt dominated by him. They left +the 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 his +portrait leering in the sunlight. On the floor in front of it the torn +curtain was lying. He remembered that the night before he had +forgotten, for the first time in his life, to hide the fatal canvas, +and was about to rush forward, when he drew back with a shudder. + +What was that loathsome red dew that gleamed, 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 knew 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 heaved a deep breath, opened the door a little wider, and with +half-closed eyes and averted head, walked quickly in, determined that +he would not look even once upon the dead man. Then, stooping down and +taking up the gold-and-purple hanging, he flung it right over the +picture. + +There 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 wonder +if he and Basil Hallward had ever met, and, if so, what they had +thought of each other. + +“Leave me now,” said a stern voice behind him. + +He turned and hurried out, just conscious that the dead man had been +thrust back into the chair and that Campbell was gazing into a +glistening yellow face. As he was going downstairs, he heard the key +being turned in the lock. + +It was long after seven 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-bye. Let us never see each other again.” + +“You have saved me from ruin, Alan. I cannot forget that,” said Dorian +simply. + +As soon as Campbell had left, he went upstairs. There was a horrible +smell of nitric acid in the room. But the thing that had been sitting +at the table was gone. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + + +That evening, at eight-thirty, exquisitely dressed and wearing a large +button-hole of Parma violets, Dorian Gray was ushered into Lady +Narborough’s drawing-room by bowing servants. His forehead was +throbbing with maddened nerves, and he felt wildly excited, but his +manner as he bent over his hostess’s hand was as easy and graceful as +ever. Perhaps one never seems so much at one’s ease as when one has to +play a part. Certainly no one looking at Dorian Gray that night could +have believed that he had passed through a tragedy as horrible as any +tragedy of our age. Those finely shaped fingers could never have +clutched a knife for sin, nor those smiling lips have cried out on God +and goodness. He himself could not help wondering at the calm of his +demeanour, and for a moment felt keenly the terrible pleasure of a +double life. + +It was a small party, got up rather in a hurry by Lady Narborough, who +was a very clever woman with what Lord Henry used to describe as the +remains of really remarkable ugliness. She had proved an excellent wife +to one of our most tedious ambassadors, and having buried her husband +properly in a marble mausoleum, which she had herself designed, and +married off her daughters to some rich, rather elderly men, she devoted +herself now to the pleasures of French fiction, French cookery, and +French _esprit_ when she could get it. + +Dorian was one of her especial favourites, and she always told him that +she was extremely glad she had not met him in early life. “I know, my +dear, I should have fallen madly in love with you,” she used to say, +“and thrown my bonnet right over the mills for your sake. It is most +fortunate that you were not thought of at the time. As it was, our +bonnets were so unbecoming, and the mills were so occupied in trying to +raise the wind, that I never had even a flirtation with anybody. +However, that was all Narborough’s fault. He was dreadfully +short-sighted, and there is no pleasure in taking in a husband who +never sees anything.” + +Her guests this evening were rather tedious. The fact was, as she +explained to Dorian, behind a very shabby fan, one of her married +daughters had come up quite suddenly to stay with her, and, to make +matters worse, had actually brought her husband with her. “I think it +is most unkind of her, my dear,” she whispered. “Of course I go and +stay with them every summer after I come from Homburg, but then an old +woman like me must have fresh air sometimes, and besides, I really wake +them up. You don’t know what an existence they lead down there. It is +pure unadulterated country life. They get up early, because they have +so much to do, and go to bed early, because they have so little to +think about. There has not been a scandal in the neighbourhood since +the time of Queen Elizabeth, and consequently they all fall asleep +after dinner. You shan’t sit next either of them. You shall sit by me +and amuse me.” + +Dorian murmured a graceful compliment and looked round the room. Yes: +it was certainly a tedious party. Two of the people he had never seen +before, and the others consisted of Ernest Harrowden, one of those +middle-aged mediocrities so common in London clubs who have no enemies, +but are thoroughly disliked by their friends; Lady Ruxton, an +overdressed woman of forty-seven, with a hooked nose, who was always +trying to get herself compromised, but was so peculiarly plain that to +her great disappointment no one would ever believe anything against +her; Mrs. Erlynne, a pushing nobody, with a delightful lisp and +Venetian-red hair; Lady Alice Chapman, his hostess’s daughter, a dowdy +dull girl, with one of those characteristic British faces that, once +seen, are never remembered; and her husband, a red-cheeked, +white-whiskered creature who, like so many of his class, was under the +impression that inordinate joviality can atone for an entire lack of +ideas. + +He was rather sorry he had come, till Lady Narborough, looking at the +great ormolu gilt clock that sprawled in gaudy curves on the +mauve-draped mantelshelf, exclaimed: “How horrid of Henry Wotton to be +so late! I sent round to him this morning on chance and he promised +faithfully not to disappoint me.” + +It was some consolation that Harry was to be there, and when the door +opened and he heard his slow musical voice lending charm to some +insincere apology, he ceased to feel bored. + +But at dinner he could not eat anything. Plate after plate went away +untasted. Lady Narborough kept scolding him for what she called “an +insult to poor Adolphe, who invented the _menu_ specially for you,” and +now and then Lord Henry looked across at him, wondering at his silence +and abstracted manner. From time to time the butler filled his glass +with champagne. He drank eagerly, and his thirst seemed to increase. + +“Dorian,” said Lord Henry at last, as the _chaud-froid_ was being +handed round, “what is the matter with you to-night? You are quite out +of sorts.” + +“I believe he is in love,” cried Lady Narborough, “and that he is +afraid to tell me for fear I should be jealous. He is quite right. I +certainly should.” + +“Dear Lady Narborough,” murmured Dorian, smiling, “I have not been in +love for a whole week—not, in fact, since Madame de Ferrol left town.” + +“How you men can fall in love with that woman!” exclaimed the old lady. +“I really cannot understand it.” + +“It is simply because she remembers you when you were a little girl, +Lady Narborough,” said Lord Henry. “She is the one link between us and +your short frocks.” + +“She does not remember my short frocks at all, Lord Henry. But I +remember her very well at Vienna thirty years ago, and how _décolletée_ +she was then.” + +“She is still _décolletée_,” he answered, taking an olive in his long +fingers; “and when she is in a very smart gown she looks like an +_édition de luxe_ of a bad French novel. She is really wonderful, and +full of surprises. Her capacity for family affection is extraordinary. +When her third husband died, her hair turned quite gold from grief.” + +“How can you, Harry!” cried Dorian. + +“It is a most romantic explanation,” laughed the hostess. “But her +third husband, Lord Henry! You don’t mean to say Ferrol is the fourth?” + +“Certainly, Lady Narborough.” + +“I don’t believe a word of it.” + +“Well, ask Mr. Gray. He is one of her most intimate friends.” + +“Is it true, Mr. Gray?” + +“She assures me so, Lady Narborough,” said Dorian. “I asked her +whether, like Marguerite de Navarre, she had their hearts embalmed and +hung at her girdle. She told me she didn’t, because none of them had +had any hearts at all.” + +“Four husbands! Upon my word that is _trop de zêle_.” + +“_Trop d’audace_, I tell her,” said Dorian. + +“Oh! she is audacious enough for anything, my dear. And what is Ferrol +like? I don’t know him.” + +“The husbands of very beautiful women belong to the criminal classes,” +said Lord Henry, sipping his wine. + +Lady Narborough hit him with her fan. “Lord Henry, I am not at all +surprised that the world says that you are extremely wicked.” + +“But what world says that?” asked Lord Henry, elevating his eyebrows. +“It can only be the next world. This world and I are on excellent +terms.” + +“Everybody I know says you are very wicked,” cried the old lady, +shaking her head. + +Lord Henry looked serious for some moments. “It is perfectly +monstrous,” he said, at last, “the way people go about nowadays saying +things against one behind one’s back that are absolutely and entirely +true.” + +“Isn’t he incorrigible?” cried Dorian, leaning forward in his chair. + +“I hope so,” said his hostess, laughing. “But really, if you all +worship Madame de Ferrol in this ridiculous way, I shall have to marry +again so as to be in the fashion.” + +“You will never marry again, Lady Narborough,” broke in Lord Henry. +“You were far too happy. When a woman marries again, it is because she +detested her first husband. When a man marries again, it is because he +adored his first wife. Women try their luck; men risk theirs.” + +“Narborough wasn’t perfect,” cried the old lady. + +“If he had been, you would not have loved him, my dear lady,” was the +rejoinder. “Women love us for our defects. If we have enough of them, +they will forgive us everything, even our intellects. You will never +ask me to dinner again after saying this, I am afraid, Lady Narborough, +but it is quite true.” + +“Of course it is true, Lord Henry. If we women did not love you for +your defects, where would you all be? Not one of you would ever be +married. You would be a set of unfortunate bachelors. Not, however, +that that would alter you much. Nowadays all the married men live like +bachelors, and all the bachelors like married men.” + +“_Fin de siêcle_,” murmured Lord Henry. + +“_Fin du globe_,” answered his hostess. + +“I wish it were _fin du globe_,” said Dorian with a sigh. “Life is a +great disappointment.” + +“Ah, my dear,” cried Lady Narborough, putting on her gloves, “don’t +tell me that you have exhausted life. When a man says that one knows +that life has exhausted him. Lord Henry is very wicked, and I sometimes +wish that I had been; but you are made to be good—you look so good. I +must find you a nice wife. Lord Henry, don’t you think that Mr. Gray +should get married?” + +“I am always telling him so, Lady Narborough,” said Lord Henry with a +bow. + +“Well, we must look out for a suitable match for him. I shall go +through Debrett carefully to-night and draw out a list of all the +eligible young ladies.” + +“With their ages, Lady Narborough?” asked Dorian. + +“Of course, with their ages, slightly edited. But nothing must be done +in a hurry. I want it to be what _The Morning Post_ calls a suitable +alliance, and I want you both to be happy.” + +“What nonsense people talk about happy marriages!” exclaimed Lord +Henry. “A man can be happy with any woman, as long as he does not love +her.” + +“Ah! what a cynic you are!” cried the old lady, pushing back her chair +and nodding to Lady Ruxton. “You must come and dine with me soon again. +You are really an admirable tonic, much better than what Sir Andrew +prescribes for me. You must tell me what people you would like to meet, +though. I want it to be a delightful gathering.” + +“I like men who have a future and women who have a past,” he answered. +“Or do you think that would make it a petticoat party?” + +“I fear so,” she said, laughing, as she stood up. “A thousand pardons, +my dear Lady Ruxton,” she added, “I didn’t see you hadn’t finished your +cigarette.” + +“Never mind, Lady Narborough. I smoke a great deal too much. I am going +to limit myself, for the future.” + +“Pray don’t, Lady Ruxton,” said Lord Henry. “Moderation is a fatal +thing. Enough is as bad as a meal. More than enough is as good as a +feast.” + +Lady Ruxton glanced at him curiously. “You must come and explain that +to me some afternoon, Lord Henry. It sounds a fascinating theory,” she +murmured, as she swept out of the room. + +“Now, mind you don’t stay too long over your politics and scandal,” +cried Lady Narborough from the door. “If you do, we are sure to +squabble upstairs.” + +The men laughed, and Mr. Chapman got up solemnly from the foot of the +table and came up to the top. Dorian Gray changed his seat and went and +sat by Lord Henry. Mr. Chapman began to talk in a loud voice about the +situation in the House of Commons. He guffawed at his adversaries. The +word _doctrinaire_—word full of terror to the British mind—reappeared +from time to time between his explosions. An alliterative prefix served +as an ornament of oratory. He hoisted the Union Jack on the pinnacles +of thought. The inherited stupidity of the race—sound English common +sense he jovially termed it—was shown to be the proper bulwark for +society. + +A smile curved Lord Henry’s lips, and he turned round and looked at +Dorian. + +“Are you better, my dear fellow?” he asked. “You seemed rather out of +sorts at dinner.” + +“I am quite well, Harry. I am tired. That is all.” + +“You were charming last night. The little duchess is quite devoted to +you. She tells me she is going down to Selby.” + +“She has promised to come on the twentieth.” + +“Is Monmouth to be there, too?” + +“Oh, yes, Harry.” + +“He bores me dreadfully, almost as much as he bores her. She is very +clever, too clever for a woman. She lacks the indefinable charm of +weakness. It is the feet of clay that make the gold of the image +precious. Her feet are very pretty, but they are not feet of clay. +White porcelain feet, if you like. They have been through the fire, and +what fire does not destroy, it hardens. She has had experiences.” + +“How long has she been married?” asked Dorian. + +“An eternity, she tells me. I believe, according to the peerage, it is +ten years, but ten years with Monmouth must have been like eternity, +with time thrown in. Who else is coming?” + +“Oh, the Willoughbys, Lord Rugby and his wife, our hostess, Geoffrey +Clouston, the usual set. I have asked Lord Grotrian.” + +“I like him,” said Lord Henry. “A great many people don’t, but I find +him charming. He atones for being occasionally somewhat overdressed by +being always absolutely over-educated. He is a very modern type.” + +“I don’t know if he will be able to come, Harry. He may have to go to +Monte Carlo with his father.” + +“Ah! what a nuisance people’s people are! Try and make him come. By the +way, Dorian, you ran off very early last night. You left before eleven. +What did you do afterwards? Did you go straight home?” + +Dorian glanced at him hurriedly and frowned. + +“No, Harry,” he said at last, “I did not get home till nearly three.” + +“Did you go to the club?” + +“Yes,” he answered. Then he bit his lip. “No, I don’t mean that. I +didn’t go to the club. I walked about. I forget what I did.... How +inquisitive you are, Harry! You always want to know what one has been +doing. I always want to forget what I have been doing. I came in at +half-past two, if you wish to know the exact time. I had left my +latch-key at home, and my servant had to let me in. If you want any +corroborative evidence on the subject, you can ask him.” + +Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. “My dear fellow, as if I cared! Let +us go up to the drawing-room. No sherry, thank you, Mr. Chapman. +Something has happened to you, Dorian. Tell me what it is. You are not +yourself to-night.” + +“Don’t mind me, Harry. I am irritable, and out of temper. I shall come +round and see you to-morrow, or next day. Make my excuses to Lady +Narborough. I shan’t go upstairs. I shall go home. I must go home.” + +“All right, Dorian. I dare say I shall see you to-morrow at tea-time. +The duchess is coming.” + +“I will try to be there, Harry,” he said, leaving the room. As he drove +back to his own house, he was conscious that the sense of terror he +thought he had strangled had come back to him. Lord Henry’s casual +questioning had made him lose his nerve for the moment, and he wanted +his nerve still. Things that were dangerous had to be destroyed. He +winced. He hated the idea of even touching them. + +Yet it had to be done. He realized that, and when he had locked the +door of his library, he opened the secret press into which he had +thrust Basil Hallward’s coat and bag. A huge fire was blazing. He piled +another log on it. The smell of the singeing clothes and burning +leather was horrible. It took him three-quarters of an hour to consume +everything. At the end he felt faint and sick, and having lit some +Algerian pastilles in a pierced copper brazier, he bathed his hands and +forehead with a cool musk-scented vinegar. + +Suddenly he started. His eyes grew strangely bright, and he gnawed +nervously at his underlip. Between two of the windows stood a large +Florentine cabinet, made out of ebony and inlaid with ivory and blue +lapis. He watched it as though it were a thing that could fascinate and +make afraid, as though it held something that he longed for and yet +almost loathed. His breath quickened. A mad craving came over him. He +lit a cigarette and then threw it away. His eyelids drooped till the +long fringed lashes almost touched his cheek. But he still watched the +cabinet. At last he got up from the sofa on which he had been lying, +went over to it, and having unlocked it, touched some hidden spring. A +triangular drawer passed slowly out. His fingers moved instinctively +towards it, dipped in, and closed on something. It was a small Chinese +box of black and gold-dust lacquer, elaborately wrought, the sides +patterned with curved waves, and the silken cords hung with round +crystals and tasselled in plaited metal threads. He opened it. Inside +was a green paste, waxy in lustre, the odour curiously heavy and +persistent. + +He hesitated for some moments, with a strangely immobile smile upon his +face. Then shivering, though the atmosphere of the room was terribly +hot, he drew himself up and glanced at the clock. It was twenty minutes +to twelve. He put the box back, shutting the cabinet doors as he did +so, and went into his bedroom. + +As midnight was striking bronze blows upon the dusky air, Dorian Gray, +dressed commonly, and with a muffler wrapped round his throat, crept +quietly out of his house. In Bond Street he found a hansom with a good +horse. He hailed it and in a low voice gave the driver an address. + +The man shook his head. “It is too far for me,” he muttered. + +“Here is a sovereign for you,” said Dorian. “You shall have another if +you drive fast.” + +“All right, sir,” answered the man, “you will be there in an hour,” and +after his fare had got in he turned his horse round and drove rapidly +towards the river. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + + +A cold rain began to fall, and the blurred street-lamps looked ghastly +in the dripping mist. The public-houses were just closing, and dim men +and women were clustering in broken groups round their doors. From some +of the bars came the sound of horrible laughter. In others, drunkards +brawled and screamed. + +Lying back in the hansom, with his hat pulled over his forehead, Dorian +Gray watched with listless eyes the sordid shame of the great city, and +now and then he repeated to himself the words that Lord Henry had said +to him on the first day they had met, “To cure the soul by means of the +senses, and the senses by means of the soul.” Yes, that was the secret. +He had often tried it, and would try it again now. There were opium +dens where one could buy oblivion, dens of horror where the memory of +old sins could be destroyed by the madness of sins that were new. + +The moon hung low in the sky like a yellow skull. From time to time a +huge misshapen cloud stretched a long arm across and hid it. The +gas-lamps grew fewer, and the streets more narrow and gloomy. Once the +man lost his way and had to drive back half a mile. A steam rose from +the horse as it splashed up the puddles. The sidewindows of the hansom +were clogged with a grey-flannel mist. + +“To cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of +the soul!” How the words rang in his ears! His soul, certainly, was +sick to death. Was it true that the senses could cure it? Innocent +blood had been spilled. What could atone for that? Ah! for that there +was no atonement; but though forgiveness was impossible, forgetfulness +was possible still, and he was determined to forget, to stamp the thing +out, to crush it as one would crush the adder that had stung one. +Indeed, what right had Basil to have spoken to him as he had done? Who +had made him a judge over others? He had said things that were +dreadful, horrible, not to be endured. + +On and on plodded the hansom, going slower, it seemed to him, at each +step. He thrust up the trap and called to the man to drive faster. The +hideous hunger for opium began to gnaw at him. His throat burned and +his delicate hands twitched nervously together. He struck at the horse +madly with his stick. The driver laughed and whipped up. He laughed in +answer, and the man was silent. + +The way seemed interminable, and the streets like the black web of some +sprawling spider. The monotony became unbearable, and as the mist +thickened, he felt afraid. + +Then they passed by lonely brickfields. The fog was lighter here, and +he could see the strange, bottle-shaped kilns with their orange, +fanlike tongues of fire. A dog barked as they went by, and far away in +the darkness some wandering sea-gull screamed. The horse stumbled in a +rut, then swerved aside and broke into a gallop. + +After some time they left the clay road and rattled again over +rough-paven streets. Most of the windows were dark, but now and then +fantastic shadows were silhouetted against some lamplit blind. He +watched them curiously. They moved like monstrous marionettes and made +gestures like live things. He hated them. A dull rage was in his heart. +As they turned a corner, a woman yelled something at them from an open +door, and two men ran after the hansom for about a hundred yards. The +driver beat at them with his whip. + +It is said that passion makes one think in a circle. Certainly with +hideous iteration the bitten lips of Dorian Gray shaped and reshaped +those subtle words that dealt with soul and sense, till he had found in +them the full expression, as it were, of his mood, and justified, by +intellectual approval, passions that without such justification would +still have dominated his temper. From cell to cell of his brain crept +the one thought; and the wild desire to live, most terrible of all +man’s appetites, quickened into force each trembling nerve and fibre. +Ugliness that had once been hateful to him because it made things real, +became dear to him now for that very reason. Ugliness was the one +reality. The coarse brawl, the loathsome den, the crude violence of +disordered life, the very vileness of thief and outcast, were more +vivid, in their intense actuality of impression, than all the gracious +shapes of art, the dreamy shadows of song. They were what he needed for +forgetfulness. In three days he would be free. + +Suddenly the man drew up with a jerk at the top of a dark lane. Over +the low roofs and jagged chimney-stacks of the houses rose the black +masts of ships. Wreaths of white mist clung like ghostly sails to the +yards. + +“Somewhere about here, sir, ain’t it?” he asked huskily through the +trap. + +Dorian started and peered round. “This will do,” he answered, and +having got out hastily and given the driver the extra fare he had +promised him, he walked quickly in the direction of the quay. Here and +there a lantern gleamed at the stern of some huge merchantman. The +light shook and splintered in the puddles. A red glare came from an +outward-bound steamer that was coaling. The slimy pavement looked like +a wet mackintosh. + +He hurried on towards the left, glancing back now and then to see if he +was being followed. In about seven or eight minutes he reached a small +shabby house that was wedged in between two gaunt factories. In one of +the top-windows stood a lamp. He stopped and gave a peculiar knock. + +After a little time he heard steps in the passage and the chain being +unhooked. The door opened quietly, and he went in without saying a word +to the squat misshapen figure that flattened itself into the shadow as +he passed. At the end of the hall hung a tattered green curtain that +swayed and shook in the gusty wind which had followed him in from the +street. He dragged it aside and entered a long low room which looked as +if it had once been a third-rate dancing-saloon. Shrill flaring +gas-jets, dulled and distorted in the fly-blown mirrors that faced +them, were ranged round the walls. Greasy reflectors of ribbed tin +backed them, making quivering disks of light. The floor was covered +with ochre-coloured sawdust, trampled here and there into mud, and +stained with dark rings of spilled liquor. Some Malays were crouching +by a little charcoal stove, playing with bone counters and showing +their white teeth as they chattered. In one corner, with his head +buried in his arms, a sailor sprawled over a table, and by the tawdrily +painted bar that ran across one complete side stood two haggard women, +mocking an old man who was brushing the sleeves of his coat with an +expression of disgust. “He thinks he’s got red ants on him,” laughed +one of them, as Dorian passed by. The man looked at her in terror and +began to whimper. + +At the end of the room there was a little staircase, leading to a +darkened chamber. As Dorian hurried up its three rickety steps, the +heavy odour of opium met him. He heaved a deep breath, and his nostrils +quivered with pleasure. When he entered, a young man with smooth yellow +hair, who was bending over a lamp lighting a long thin pipe, looked up +at him and nodded in a hesitating manner. + +“You here, Adrian?” muttered Dorian. + +“Where else should I be?” he answered, listlessly. “None of the chaps +will speak to me now.” + +“I thought you had left England.” + +“Darlington is not going to do anything. My brother paid the bill at +last. George doesn’t speak to me either.... I don’t care,” he added +with a sigh. “As long as one has this stuff, one doesn’t want friends. +I think I have had too many friends.” + +Dorian winced and looked round at the grotesque things that lay in such +fantastic postures on the ragged mattresses. The twisted limbs, the +gaping mouths, the staring lustreless eyes, fascinated him. He knew in +what strange heavens they were suffering, and what dull hells were +teaching them the secret of some new joy. They were better off than he +was. He was prisoned in thought. Memory, like a horrible malady, was +eating his soul away. From time to time he seemed to see the eyes of +Basil Hallward looking at him. Yet he felt he could not stay. The +presence of Adrian Singleton troubled him. He wanted to be where no one +would know who he was. He wanted to escape from himself. + +“I am going on to the other place,” he said after a pause. + +“On the wharf?” + +“Yes.” + +“That mad-cat is sure to be there. They won’t have her in this place +now.” + +Dorian shrugged his shoulders. “I am sick of women who love one. Women +who hate one are much more interesting. Besides, the stuff is better.” + +“Much the same.” + +“I like it better. Come and have something to drink. I must have +something.” + +“I don’t want anything,” murmured the young man. + +“Never mind.” + +Adrian Singleton rose up wearily and followed Dorian to the bar. A +half-caste, in a ragged turban and a shabby ulster, grinned a hideous +greeting as he thrust a bottle of brandy and two tumblers in front of +them. The women sidled up and began to chatter. Dorian turned his back +on them and said something in a low voice to Adrian Singleton. + +A crooked smile, like a Malay crease, writhed across the face of one of +the women. “We are very proud to-night,” she sneered. + +“For God’s sake don’t talk to me,” cried Dorian, stamping his foot on +the ground. “What do you want? Money? Here it is. Don’t ever talk to me +again.” + +Two red sparks flashed for a moment in the woman’s sodden eyes, then +flickered out and left them dull and glazed. She tossed her head and +raked the coins off the counter with greedy fingers. Her companion +watched her enviously. + +“It’s no use,” sighed Adrian Singleton. “I don’t care to go back. What +does it matter? I am quite happy here.” + +“You will write to me if you want anything, won’t you?” said Dorian, +after a pause. + +“Perhaps.” + +“Good night, then.” + +“Good night,” answered the young man, passing up the steps and wiping +his parched mouth with a handkerchief. + +Dorian walked to the door with a look of pain in his face. As he drew +the curtain aside, a hideous laugh broke from the painted lips of the +woman who had taken his money. “There goes the devil’s bargain!” she +hiccoughed, in a hoarse voice. + +“Curse you!” he answered, “don’t call me that.” + +She snapped her fingers. “Prince Charming is what you like to be +called, ain’t it?” she yelled after him. + +The drowsy sailor leaped to his feet as she spoke, and looked wildly +round. The sound of the shutting of the hall door fell on his ear. He +rushed out as if in pursuit. + +Dorian Gray hurried along the quay through the drizzling rain. His +meeting with Adrian Singleton had strangely moved him, and he wondered +if the ruin of that young life was really to be laid at his door, as +Basil Hallward had said to him with such infamy of insult. He bit his +lip, and for a few seconds his eyes grew sad. Yet, after all, what did +it matter to him? One’s days were too brief to take the burden of +another’s errors on one’s shoulders. Each man lived his own life and +paid his own price for living it. The only pity was one had to pay so +often for a single fault. One had to pay over and over again, indeed. +In her dealings with man, destiny never closed her accounts. + +There are moments, psychologists tell us, when the passion for sin, or +for what the world calls sin, so dominates a nature that every fibre of +the body, as every cell of the brain, seems to be instinct with fearful +impulses. Men and women at such moments lose the freedom of their will. +They move to their terrible end as automatons move. Choice is taken +from them, and conscience is either killed, or, if it lives at all, +lives but to give rebellion its fascination and disobedience its charm. +For all sins, as theologians weary not of reminding us, are sins of +disobedience. When that high spirit, that morning star of evil, fell +from heaven, it was as a rebel that he fell. + +Callous, concentrated on evil, with stained mind, and soul hungry for +rebellion, Dorian Gray hastened on, quickening his step as he went, but +as he darted aside into a dim archway, that had served him often as a +short cut to the ill-famed place where he was going, he felt himself +suddenly seized from behind, and before he had time to defend himself, +he was thrust back against the wall, with a brutal hand round his +throat. + +He struggled madly for life, and by a terrible effort wrenched the +tightening fingers away. In a second he heard the click of a revolver, +and saw the gleam of a polished barrel, pointing straight at his head, +and the dusky form of a short, thick-set man facing him. + +“What do you want?” he gasped. + +“Keep quiet,” said the man. “If you stir, I shoot you.” + +“You are mad. What have I done to you?” + +“You wrecked the life of Sibyl Vane,” was the answer, “and Sibyl Vane +was my sister. She killed herself. I know it. Her death is at your +door. I swore I would kill you in return. For years I have sought you. +I had no clue, no trace. The two people who could have described you +were dead. I knew nothing of you but the pet name she used to call you. +I heard it to-night by chance. Make your peace with God, for to-night +you are going to die.” + +Dorian Gray grew sick with fear. “I never knew her,” he stammered. “I +never heard of her. You are mad.” + +“You had better confess your sin, for as sure as I am James Vane, you +are going to die.” There was a horrible moment. Dorian did not know +what to say or do. “Down on your knees!” growled the man. “I give you +one minute to make your peace—no more. I go on board to-night for +India, and I must do my job first. One minute. That’s all.” + +Dorian’s arms fell to his side. Paralysed with terror, he did not know +what to do. Suddenly a wild hope flashed across his brain. “Stop,” he +cried. “How long ago is it since your sister died? Quick, tell me!” + +“Eighteen years,” said the man. “Why do you ask me? What do years +matter?” + +“Eighteen years,” laughed Dorian Gray, with a touch of triumph in his +voice. “Eighteen years! Set me under the lamp and look at my face!” + +James Vane hesitated for a moment, not understanding what was meant. +Then he seized Dorian Gray and dragged him from the archway. + +Dim and wavering as was the wind-blown light, yet it served to show him +the hideous error, as it seemed, into which he had fallen, for the face +of the man he had sought to kill had all the bloom of boyhood, all the +unstained purity of youth. He seemed little more than a lad of twenty +summers, hardly older, if older indeed at all, than his sister had been +when they had parted so many years ago. It was obvious that this was +not the man who had destroyed her life. + +He loosened his hold and reeled back. “My God! my God!” he cried, “and +I would have murdered you!” + +Dorian Gray drew a long breath. “You have been on the brink of +committing a terrible crime, my man,” he said, looking at him sternly. +“Let this be a warning to you not to take vengeance into your own +hands.” + +“Forgive me, sir,” muttered James Vane. “I was deceived. A chance word +I heard in that damned den set me on the wrong track.” + +“You had better go home and put that pistol away, or you may get into +trouble,” said Dorian, turning on his heel and going slowly down the +street. + +James Vane stood on the pavement in horror. He was trembling from head +to foot. After a little while, a black shadow that had been creeping +along the dripping wall moved out into the light and came close to him +with stealthy footsteps. He felt a hand laid on his arm and looked +round with a start. It was one of the women who had been drinking at +the bar. + +“Why didn’t you kill him?” she hissed out, putting haggard face quite +close to his. “I knew you were following him when you rushed out from +Daly’s. You fool! You should have killed him. He has lots of money, and +he’s as bad as bad.” + +“He is not the man I am looking for,” he answered, “and I want no man’s +money. I want a man’s life. The man whose life I want must be nearly +forty now. This one is little more than a boy. Thank God, I have not +got his blood upon my hands.” + +The woman gave a bitter laugh. “Little more than a boy!” she sneered. +“Why, man, it’s nigh on eighteen years since Prince Charming made me +what I am.” + +“You lie!” cried James Vane. + +She raised her hand up to heaven. “Before God I am telling the truth,” +she cried. + +“Before God?” + +“Strike me dumb if it ain’t so. He is the worst one that comes here. +They say he has sold himself to the devil for a pretty face. It’s nigh +on eighteen years since I met him. He hasn’t changed much since then. I +have, though,” she added, with a sickly leer. + +“You swear this?” + +“I swear it,” came in hoarse echo from her flat mouth. “But don’t give +me away to him,” she whined; “I am afraid of him. Let me have some +money for my night’s lodging.” + +He broke from her with an oath and rushed to the corner of the street, +but Dorian Gray had disappeared. When he looked back, the woman had +vanished also. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + + +A week later Dorian Gray was sitting in the conservatory at Selby +Royal, talking to the pretty Duchess of Monmouth, who with her husband, +a jaded-looking man of sixty, was amongst his guests. It was tea-time, +and the mellow light of the huge, lace-covered lamp that stood on the +table lit up the delicate china and hammered silver of the service at +which the duchess was presiding. Her white hands were moving daintily +among the cups, and her full red lips were smiling at something that +Dorian had whispered to her. Lord Henry was lying back in a silk-draped +wicker chair, looking at them. On a peach-coloured divan sat Lady +Narborough, pretending to listen to the duke’s description of the last +Brazilian beetle that he had added to his collection. Three young men +in elaborate smoking-suits were handing tea-cakes to some of the women. +The house-party consisted of twelve people, and there were more +expected to arrive on the next day. + +“What are you two talking about?” said Lord Henry, strolling over to +the table and putting his cup down. “I hope Dorian has told you about +my plan for rechristening everything, Gladys. It is a delightful idea.” + +“But I don’t want to be rechristened, Harry,” rejoined the duchess, +looking up at him with her wonderful eyes. “I am quite satisfied with +my own name, and I am sure Mr. Gray should be satisfied with his.” + +“My dear Gladys, I would not alter either name for the world. They are +both perfect. I was thinking chiefly of flowers. Yesterday I cut an +orchid, for my button-hole. It was a marvellous spotted thing, as +effective as the seven deadly sins. In a thoughtless moment I asked one +of the gardeners what it was called. He told me it was a fine specimen +of _Robinsoniana_, or something dreadful of that kind. It is a sad +truth, but we have lost the faculty of giving lovely names to things. +Names are everything. I never quarrel with actions. My one quarrel is +with words. That is the reason I hate vulgar realism in literature. The +man who could call a spade a spade should be compelled to use one. It +is the only thing he is fit for.” + +“Then what should we call you, Harry?” she asked. + +“His name is Prince Paradox,” said Dorian. + +“I recognize him in a flash,” exclaimed the duchess. + +“I won’t hear of it,” laughed Lord Henry, sinking into a chair. “From a +label there is no escape! I refuse the title.” + +“Royalties may not abdicate,” fell as a warning from pretty lips. + +“You wish me to defend my throne, then?” + +“Yes.” + +“I give the truths of to-morrow.” + +“I prefer the mistakes of to-day,” she answered. + +“You disarm me, Gladys,” he cried, catching the wilfulness of her mood. + +“Of your shield, Harry, not of your spear.” + +“I never tilt against beauty,” he said, with a wave of his hand. + +“That is your error, Harry, believe me. You value beauty far too much.” + +“How can you say that? I admit that I think that it is better to be +beautiful than to be good. But on the other hand, no one is more ready +than I am to acknowledge that it is better to be good than to be ugly.” + +“Ugliness is one of the seven deadly sins, then?” cried the duchess. +“What becomes of your simile about the orchid?” + +“Ugliness is one of the seven deadly virtues, Gladys. You, as a good +Tory, must not underrate them. Beer, the Bible, and the seven deadly +virtues have made our England what she is.” + +“You don’t like your country, then?” she asked. + +“I live in it.” + +“That you may censure it the better.” + +“Would you have me take the verdict of Europe on it?” he inquired. + +“What do they say of us?” + +“That Tartuffe has emigrated to England and opened a shop.” + +“Is that yours, Harry?” + +“I give it to you.” + +“I could not use it. It is too true.” + +“You need not be afraid. Our countrymen never recognize a description.” + +“They are practical.” + +“They are more cunning than practical. When they make up their ledger, +they balance stupidity by wealth, and vice by hypocrisy.” + +“Still, we have done great things.” + +“Great things have been thrust on us, Gladys.” + +“We have carried their burden.” + +“Only as far as the Stock Exchange.” + +She shook her head. “I believe in the race,” she cried. + +“It represents the survival of the pushing.” + +“It has development.” + +“Decay fascinates me more.” + +“What of art?” she asked. + +“It is a malady.” + +“Love?” + +“An illusion.” + +“Religion?” + +“The fashionable substitute for belief.” + +“You are a sceptic.” + +“Never! Scepticism is the beginning of faith.” + +“What are you?” + +“To define is to limit.” + +“Give me a clue.” + +“Threads snap. You would lose your way in the labyrinth.” + +“You bewilder me. Let us talk of some one else.” + +“Our host is a delightful topic. Years ago he was christened Prince +Charming.” + +“Ah! don’t remind me of that,” cried Dorian Gray. + +“Our host is rather horrid this evening,” answered the duchess, +colouring. “I believe he thinks that Monmouth married me on purely +scientific principles as the best specimen he could find of a modern +butterfly.” + +“Well, I hope he won’t stick pins into you, Duchess,” laughed Dorian. + +“Oh! my maid does that already, Mr. Gray, when she is annoyed with me.” + +“And what does she get annoyed with you about, Duchess?” + +“For the most trivial things, Mr. Gray, I assure you. Usually because I +come in at ten minutes to nine and tell her that I must be dressed by +half-past eight.” + +“How unreasonable of her! You should give her warning.” + +“I daren’t, Mr. Gray. Why, she invents hats for me. You remember the +one I wore at Lady Hilstone’s garden-party? You don’t, but it is nice +of you to pretend that you do. Well, she made it out of nothing. All +good hats are made out of nothing.” + +“Like all good reputations, Gladys,” interrupted Lord Henry. “Every +effect that one produces gives one an enemy. To be popular one must be +a mediocrity.” + +“Not with women,” said the duchess, shaking her head; “and women rule +the world. I assure you we can’t bear mediocrities. We women, as some +one says, love with our ears, just as you men love with your eyes, if +you ever love at all.” + +“It seems to me that we never do anything else,” murmured Dorian. + +“Ah! then, you never really love, Mr. Gray,” answered the duchess with +mock sadness. + +“My dear Gladys!” cried Lord Henry. “How can you say that? Romance +lives by repetition, and repetition converts an appetite into an art. +Besides, each time that one loves is the only time one has ever loved. +Difference of object does not alter singleness of passion. It merely +intensifies it. We can have in life but one great experience at best, +and the secret of life is to reproduce that experience as often as +possible.” + +“Even when one has been wounded by it, Harry?” asked the duchess after +a pause. + +“Especially when one has been wounded by it,” answered Lord Henry. + +The duchess turned and looked at Dorian Gray with a curious expression +in her eyes. “What do you say to that, Mr. Gray?” she inquired. + +Dorian hesitated for a moment. Then he threw his head back and laughed. +“I always agree with Harry, Duchess.” + +“Even when he is wrong?” + +“Harry is never wrong, Duchess.” + +“And does his philosophy make you happy?” + +“I have never searched for happiness. Who wants happiness? I have +searched for pleasure.” + +“And found it, Mr. Gray?” + +“Often. Too often.” + +The duchess sighed. “I am searching for peace,” she said, “and if I +don’t go and dress, I shall have none this evening.” + +“Let me get you some orchids, Duchess,” cried Dorian, starting to his +feet and walking down the conservatory. + +“You are flirting disgracefully with him,” said Lord Henry to his +cousin. “You had better take care. He is very fascinating.” + +“If he were not, there would be no battle.” + +“Greek meets Greek, then?” + +“I am on the side of the Trojans. They fought for a woman.” + +“They were defeated.” + +“There are worse things than capture,” she answered. + +“You gallop with a loose rein.” + +“Pace gives life,” was the _riposte_. + +“I shall write it in my diary to-night.” + +“What?” + +“That a burnt child loves the fire.” + +“I am not even singed. My wings are untouched.” + +“You use them for everything, except flight.” + +“Courage has passed from men to women. It is a new experience for us.” + +“You have a rival.” + +“Who?” + +He laughed. “Lady Narborough,” he whispered. “She perfectly adores +him.” + +“You fill me with apprehension. The appeal to antiquity is fatal to us +who are romanticists.” + +“Romanticists! You have all the methods of science.” + +“Men have educated us.” + +“But not explained you.” + +“Describe us as a sex,” was her challenge. + +“Sphinxes without secrets.” + +She looked at him, smiling. “How long Mr. Gray is!” she said. “Let us +go and help him. I have not yet told him the colour of my frock.” + +“Ah! you must suit your frock to his flowers, Gladys.” + +“That would be a premature surrender.” + +“Romantic art begins with its climax.” + +“I must keep an opportunity for retreat.” + +“In the Parthian manner?” + +“They found safety in the desert. I could not do that.” + +“Women are not always allowed a choice,” he answered, but hardly had he +finished the sentence before from the far end of the conservatory came +a stifled groan, followed by the dull sound of a heavy fall. Everybody +started up. The duchess stood motionless in horror. And with fear in +his eyes, Lord Henry rushed through the flapping palms to find Dorian +Gray lying face downwards on the tiled floor in a deathlike swoon. + +He was carried at once into the blue drawing-room and laid upon one of +the sofas. After a short time, he came to himself and looked round with +a dazed expression. + +“What has happened?” he asked. “Oh! I remember. Am I safe here, Harry?” +He began to tremble. + +“My dear Dorian,” answered Lord Henry, “you merely fainted. That was +all. You must have overtired yourself. You had better not come down to +dinner. I will take your place.” + +“No, I will come down,” he said, struggling to his feet. “I would +rather come down. I must not be alone.” + +He went to his room and dressed. There was a wild recklessness of +gaiety in his manner as he sat at table, but now and then a thrill of +terror ran through him when he remembered that, pressed against the +window of the conservatory, like a white handkerchief, he had seen the +face of James Vane watching him. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + + +The next day he did not leave the house, and, indeed, spent most of the +time in his own room, sick with a wild terror of dying, and yet +indifferent to life itself. The consciousness of being hunted, snared, +tracked down, had begun to dominate him. If the tapestry did but +tremble in the wind, he shook. The dead leaves that were blown against +the leaded panes seemed to him like his own wasted resolutions and wild +regrets. When he closed his eyes, he saw again the sailor’s face +peering through the mist-stained glass, and horror seemed once more to +lay its hand upon his heart. + +But perhaps it had been only his fancy that had called vengeance out of +the night and set the hideous shapes of punishment before him. Actual +life was chaos, but there was something terribly logical in the +imagination. It was the imagination that set remorse to dog the feet of +sin. It was the imagination that made each crime bear its misshapen +brood. In the common world of fact the wicked were not punished, nor +the good rewarded. Success was given to the strong, failure thrust upon +the weak. That was all. Besides, had any stranger been prowling round +the house, he would have been seen by the servants or the keepers. Had +any foot-marks been found on the flower-beds, the gardeners would have +reported it. Yes, it had been merely fancy. Sibyl Vane’s brother had +not come back to kill him. He had sailed away in his ship to founder in +some winter sea. From him, at any rate, he was safe. Why, the man did +not know who he was, could not know who he was. The mask of youth had +saved him. + +And yet if it had been merely an illusion, how terrible it was to think +that conscience could raise such fearful phantoms, and give them +visible form, and make them move before one! What sort of life would +his be if, day and night, shadows of his crime were to peer at him from +silent corners, to mock him from secret places, to whisper in his ear +as he sat at the feast, to wake him with icy fingers as he lay asleep! +As the thought crept through his brain, he grew pale with terror, and +the air seemed to him to have become suddenly colder. Oh! in what a +wild hour of madness he had killed his friend! How ghastly the mere +memory of the scene! He saw it all again. Each hideous detail came back +to him with added horror. Out of the black cave of time, terrible and +swathed in scarlet, rose the image of his sin. When Lord Henry came in +at six o’clock, he found him crying as one whose heart will break. + +It was not till the third day that he ventured to go out. There was +something in the clear, pine-scented air of that winter morning that +seemed to bring him back his joyousness and his ardour for life. But it +was not merely the physical conditions of environment that had caused +the change. His own nature had revolted against the excess of anguish +that had sought to maim and mar the perfection of its calm. With subtle +and finely wrought temperaments it is always so. Their strong passions +must either bruise or bend. They either slay the man, or themselves +die. Shallow sorrows and shallow loves live on. The loves and sorrows +that are great are destroyed by their own plenitude. Besides, he had +convinced himself that he had been the victim of a terror-stricken +imagination, and looked back now on his fears with something of pity +and not a little of contempt. + +After breakfast, he walked with the duchess for an hour in the garden +and then drove across the park to join the shooting-party. The crisp +frost lay like salt upon the grass. The sky was an inverted cup of blue +metal. A thin film of ice bordered the flat, reed-grown lake. + +At the corner of the pine-wood he caught sight of Sir Geoffrey +Clouston, the duchess’s brother, jerking two spent cartridges out of +his gun. He jumped from the cart, and having told the groom to take the +mare home, made his way towards his guest through the withered bracken +and rough undergrowth. + +“Have you had good sport, Geoffrey?” he asked. + +“Not very good, Dorian. I think most of the birds have gone to the +open. I dare say it will be better after lunch, when we get to new +ground.” + +Dorian strolled along by his side. The keen aromatic air, the brown and +red lights that glimmered in the wood, the hoarse cries of the beaters +ringing out from time to time, and the sharp snaps of the guns that +followed, fascinated him and filled him with a sense of delightful +freedom. He was dominated by the carelessness of happiness, by the high +indifference of joy. + +Suddenly from a lumpy tussock of old grass some twenty yards in front +of them, with black-tipped ears erect and long hinder limbs throwing it +forward, started a hare. It bolted for a thicket of alders. Sir +Geoffrey put his gun to his shoulder, but there was something in the +animal’s grace of movement that strangely charmed Dorian Gray, and he +cried out at once, “Don’t shoot it, Geoffrey. Let it live.” + +“What nonsense, Dorian!” laughed his companion, and as the hare bounded +into the thicket, he fired. There were two cries heard, the cry of a +hare in pain, which is dreadful, the cry of a man in agony, which is +worse. + +“Good heavens! I have hit a beater!” exclaimed Sir Geoffrey. “What an +ass the man was to get in front of the guns! Stop shooting there!” he +called out at the top of his voice. “A man is hurt.” + +The head-keeper came running up with a stick in his hand. + +“Where, sir? Where is he?” he shouted. At the same time, the firing +ceased along the line. + +“Here,” answered Sir Geoffrey angrily, hurrying towards the thicket. +“Why on earth don’t you keep your men back? Spoiled my shooting for the +day.” + +Dorian watched them as they plunged into the alder-clump, brushing the +lithe swinging branches aside. In a few moments they emerged, dragging +a body after them into the sunlight. He turned away in horror. It +seemed to him that misfortune followed wherever he went. He heard Sir +Geoffrey ask if the man was really dead, and the affirmative answer of +the keeper. The wood seemed to him to have become suddenly alive with +faces. There was the trampling of myriad feet and the low buzz of +voices. A great copper-breasted pheasant came beating through the +boughs overhead. + +After a few moments—that were to him, in his perturbed state, like +endless hours of pain—he felt a hand laid on his shoulder. He started +and looked round. + +“Dorian,” said Lord Henry, “I had better tell them that the shooting is +stopped for to-day. It would not look well to go on.” + +“I wish it were stopped for ever, Harry,” he answered bitterly. “The +whole thing is hideous and cruel. Is the man ...?” + +He could not finish the sentence. + +“I am afraid so,” rejoined Lord Henry. “He got the whole charge of shot +in his chest. He must have died almost instantaneously. Come; let us go +home.” + +They walked side by side in the direction of the avenue for nearly +fifty yards without speaking. Then Dorian looked at Lord Henry and +said, with a heavy sigh, “It is a bad omen, Harry, a very bad omen.” + +“What is?” asked Lord Henry. “Oh! this accident, I suppose. My dear +fellow, it can’t be helped. It was the man’s own fault. Why did he get +in front of the guns? Besides, it is nothing to us. It is rather +awkward for Geoffrey, of course. It does not do to pepper beaters. It +makes people think that one is a wild shot. And Geoffrey is not; he +shoots very straight. But there is no use talking about the matter.” + +Dorian shook his head. “It is a bad omen, Harry. I feel as if something +horrible were going to happen to some of us. To myself, perhaps,” he +added, passing his hand over his eyes, with a gesture of pain. + +The elder man laughed. “The only horrible thing in the world is +_ennui_, Dorian. That is the one sin for which there is no forgiveness. +But we are not likely to suffer from it unless these fellows keep +chattering about this thing at dinner. I must tell them that the +subject is to be tabooed. As for omens, there is no such thing as an +omen. Destiny does not send us heralds. She is too wise or too cruel +for that. Besides, what on earth could happen to you, Dorian? You have +everything in the world that a man can want. There is no one who would +not be delighted to change places with you.” + +“There is no one with whom I would not change places, Harry. Don’t +laugh like that. I am telling you the truth. The wretched peasant who +has just died is better off than I am. I have no terror of death. It is +the coming of death that terrifies me. Its monstrous wings seem to +wheel in the leaden air around me. Good heavens! don’t you see a man +moving behind the trees there, watching me, waiting for me?” + +Lord Henry looked in the direction in which the trembling gloved hand +was pointing. “Yes,” he said, smiling, “I see the gardener waiting for +you. I suppose he wants to ask you what flowers you wish to have on the +table to-night. How absurdly nervous you are, my dear fellow! You must +come and see my doctor, when we get back to town.” + +Dorian heaved a sigh of relief as he saw the gardener approaching. The +man touched his hat, glanced for a moment at Lord Henry in a hesitating +manner, and then produced a letter, which he handed to his master. “Her +Grace told me to wait for an answer,” he murmured. + +Dorian put the letter into his pocket. “Tell her Grace that I am coming +in,” he said, coldly. The man turned round and went rapidly in the +direction of the house. + +“How fond women are of doing dangerous things!” laughed Lord Henry. “It +is one of the qualities in them that I admire most. A woman will flirt +with anybody in the world as long as other people are looking on.” + +“How fond you are of saying dangerous things, Harry! In the present +instance, you are quite astray. I like the duchess very much, but I +don’t love her.” + +“And the duchess loves you very much, but she likes you less, so you +are excellently matched.” + +“You are talking scandal, Harry, and there is never any basis for +scandal.” + +“The basis of every scandal is an immoral certainty,” said Lord Henry, +lighting a cigarette. + +“You would sacrifice anybody, Harry, for the sake of an epigram.” + +“The world goes to the altar of its own accord,” was the answer. + +“I wish I could love,” cried Dorian Gray with a deep note of pathos in +his voice. “But I seem to have lost the passion and forgotten the +desire. I am too much concentrated on myself. My own personality has +become a burden to me. I want to escape, to go away, to forget. It was +silly of me to come down here at all. I think I shall send a wire to +Harvey to have the yacht got ready. On a yacht one is safe.” + +“Safe from what, Dorian? You are in some trouble. Why not tell me what +it is? You know I would help you.” + +“I can’t tell you, Harry,” he answered sadly. “And I dare say it is +only a fancy of mine. This unfortunate accident has upset me. I have a +horrible presentiment that something of the kind may happen to me.” + +“What nonsense!” + +“I hope it is, but I can’t help feeling it. Ah! here is the duchess, +looking like Artemis in a tailor-made gown. You see we have come back, +Duchess.” + +“I have heard all about it, Mr. Gray,” she answered. “Poor Geoffrey is +terribly upset. And it seems that you asked him not to shoot the hare. +How curious!” + +“Yes, it was very curious. I don’t know what made me say it. Some whim, +I suppose. It looked the loveliest of little live things. But I am +sorry they told you about the man. It is a hideous subject.” + +“It is an annoying subject,” broke in Lord Henry. “It has no +psychological value at all. Now if Geoffrey had done the thing on +purpose, how interesting he would be! I should like to know some one +who had committed a real murder.” + +“How horrid of you, Harry!” cried the duchess. “Isn’t it, Mr. Gray? +Harry, Mr. Gray is ill again. He is going to faint.” + +Dorian drew himself up with an effort and smiled. “It is nothing, +Duchess,” he murmured; “my nerves are dreadfully out of order. That is +all. I am afraid I walked too far this morning. I didn’t hear what +Harry said. Was it very bad? You must tell me some other time. I think +I must go and lie down. You will excuse me, won’t you?” + +They had reached the great flight of steps that led from the +conservatory on to the terrace. As the glass door closed behind Dorian, +Lord Henry turned and looked at the duchess with his slumberous eyes. +“Are you very much in love with him?” he asked. + +She did not answer for some time, but stood gazing at the landscape. “I +wish I knew,” she said at last. + +He shook his head. “Knowledge would be fatal. It is the uncertainty +that charms one. A mist makes things wonderful.” + +“One may lose one’s way.” + +“All ways end at the same point, my dear Gladys.” + +“What is that?” + +“Disillusion.” + +“It was my _début_ in life,” she sighed. + +“It came to you crowned.” + +“I am tired of strawberry leaves.” + +“They become you.” + +“Only in public.” + +“You would miss them,” said Lord Henry. + +“I will not part with a petal.” + +“Monmouth has ears.” + +“Old age is dull of hearing.” + +“Has he never been jealous?” + +“I wish he had been.” + +He glanced about as if in search of something. “What are you looking +for?” she inquired. + +“The button from your foil,” he answered. “You have dropped it.” + +She laughed. “I have still the mask.” + +“It makes your eyes lovelier,” was his reply. + +She laughed again. Her teeth showed like white seeds in a scarlet +fruit. + +Upstairs, in his own room, Dorian Gray was lying on a sofa, with terror +in every tingling fibre of his body. Life had suddenly become too +hideous a burden for him to bear. The dreadful death of the unlucky +beater, shot in the thicket like a wild animal, had seemed to him to +pre-figure death for himself also. He had nearly swooned at what Lord +Henry had said in a chance mood of cynical jesting. + +At five o’clock he rang his bell for his servant and gave him orders to +pack his things for the night-express to town, and to have the brougham +at the door by eight-thirty. He was determined not to sleep another +night at Selby Royal. It was an ill-omened place. Death walked there in +the sunlight. The grass of the forest had been spotted with blood. + +Then he wrote a note to Lord Henry, telling him that he was going up to +town to consult his doctor and asking him to entertain his guests in +his absence. As he was putting it into the envelope, a knock came to +the door, and his valet informed him that the head-keeper wished to see +him. He frowned and bit his lip. “Send him in,” he muttered, after some +moments’ hesitation. + +As soon as the man entered, Dorian pulled his chequebook out of a +drawer and spread it out before him. + +“I suppose you have come about the unfortunate accident of this +morning, Thornton?” he said, taking up a pen. + +“Yes, sir,” answered the gamekeeper. + +“Was the poor fellow married? Had he any people dependent on him?” +asked Dorian, looking bored. “If so, I should not like them to be left +in want, and will send them any sum of money you may think necessary.” + +“We don’t know who he is, sir. That is what I took the liberty of +coming to you about.” + +“Don’t know who he is?” said Dorian, listlessly. “What do you mean? +Wasn’t he one of your men?” + +“No, sir. Never saw him before. Seems like a sailor, sir.” + +The pen dropped from Dorian Gray’s hand, and he felt as if his heart +had suddenly stopped beating. “A sailor?” he cried out. “Did you say a +sailor?” + +“Yes, sir. He looks as if he had been a sort of sailor; tattooed on +both arms, and that kind of thing.” + +“Was there anything found on him?” said Dorian, leaning forward and +looking at the man with startled eyes. “Anything that would tell his +name?” + +“Some money, sir—not much, and a six-shooter. There was no name of any +kind. A decent-looking man, sir, but rough-like. A sort of sailor we +think.” + +Dorian started to his feet. A terrible hope fluttered past him. He +clutched at it madly. “Where is the body?” he exclaimed. “Quick! I must +see it at once.” + +“It is in an empty stable in the Home Farm, sir. The folk don’t like to +have that sort of thing in their houses. They say a corpse brings bad +luck.” + +“The Home Farm! Go there at once and meet me. Tell one of the grooms to +bring my horse round. No. Never mind. I’ll go to the stables myself. It +will save time.” + +In less than a quarter of an hour, Dorian Gray was galloping down the +long avenue as hard as he could go. The trees seemed to sweep past him +in spectral procession, and wild shadows to fling themselves across his +path. Once the mare swerved at a white gate-post and nearly threw him. +He lashed her across the neck with his crop. She cleft the dusky air +like an arrow. The stones flew from her hoofs. + +At last he reached the Home Farm. Two men were loitering in the yard. +He leaped from the saddle and threw the reins to one of them. In the +farthest stable a light was glimmering. Something seemed to tell him +that the body was there, and he hurried to the door and put his hand +upon the latch. + +There he paused for a moment, feeling that he was on the brink of a +discovery that would either make or mar his life. Then he thrust the +door open and entered. + +On a heap of sacking in the far corner was lying the dead body of a man +dressed in a coarse shirt and a pair of blue trousers. A spotted +handkerchief had been placed over the face. A coarse candle, stuck in a +bottle, sputtered beside it. + +Dorian Gray shuddered. He felt that his could not be the hand to take +the handkerchief away, and called out to one of the farm-servants to +come to him. + +“Take that thing off the face. I wish to see it,” he said, clutching at +the door-post for support. + +When the farm-servant had done so, he stepped forward. A cry of joy +broke from his lips. The man who had been shot in the thicket was James +Vane. + +He stood there for some minutes looking at the dead body. As he rode +home, his eyes were full of tears, for he knew he was safe. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + + +“There is no use your telling me that you are going to be good,” 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 Gray shook his head. “No, Harry, I have done too many dreadful +things in my life. I am not going to do any more. I began 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, smiling, “anybody can be good in the +country. There are no temptations there. That is the reason why people +who live out of town are so absolutely uncivilized. Civilization is not +by any means an easy thing to attain to. There are only two ways by +which man can reach it. One is by being cultured, the other by being +corrupt. Country people have no opportunity of being either, so they +stagnate.” + +“Culture and corruption,” echoed Dorian. “I have known something of +both. It seems terrible to me 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 yet told me what your good action was. Or did you say you +had done more than one?” asked his companion as he spilled into his +plate a little crimson pyramid of seeded strawberries and, through a +perforated, shell-shaped spoon, snowed white sugar upon them. + +“I can tell you, Harry. It is not a story I could tell to any one else. +I spared somebody. It sounds vain, but you understand what I mean. She +was quite beautiful 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 simply a girl in a village. But I really loved her. I +am quite sure that I loved her. All during this wonderful May that we +have been having, I used to run down and see her two or three times a +week. Yesterday she met me in a little orchard. The apple-blossoms kept +tumbling down 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 flowerlike as I had found her.” + +“I should think the novelty of the emotion must have given you a thrill +of real pleasure, Dorian,” interrupted Lord Henry. “But I can finish +your idyll for you. You gave her good advice and broke her heart. That +was the beginning of your reformation.” + +“Harry, you are horrible! You mustn’t say these dreadful things. +Hetty’s heart is not broken. Of course, she cried and all that. But +there is no disgrace upon her. She can live, like Perdita, in her +garden of mint and marigold.” + +“And weep over a faithless Florizel,” said Lord Henry, laughing, as he +leaned back in his chair. “My dear Dorian, you have the most curiously +boyish moods. Do you think this girl will ever be really content 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, the fact of 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 cannot say that I think much +of your great renunciation. Even as a beginning, it is poor. Besides, +how do you know that Hetty isn’t floating at the present moment in some +starlit mill-pond, with lovely water-lilies round her, like Ophelia?” + +“I can’t bear this, Harry! You mock at everything, and then suggest 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 morning, I saw her white face at the window, +like a spray of jasmine. Don’t let us talk about it any more, 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. What is going on in town? I have not been to +the club for days.” + +“The people are still discussing poor Basil’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 British public are really not equal to the mental strain of having +more than one topic every three months. They have been very fortunate +lately, 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 the man in the grey ulster who left +for Paris by the midnight train on the ninth of November was poor +Basil, and the French police declare that Basil never arrived in Paris +at all. I suppose in about a fortnight we shall 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.” + +“Why?” said the younger man wearily. + +“Because,” said Lord Henry, passing beneath his nostrils the gilt +trellis of an open vinaigrette box, “one can survive everything +nowadays except that. Death and 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 +whom my wife ran away played Chopin exquisitely. Poor Victoria! I was +very fond of her. The house is rather lonely without her. Of course, +married life is merely a habit, a bad habit. But then one regrets the +loss even of one’s worst habits. Perhaps one regrets them the most. +They are such an essential part of one’s personality.” + +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 white +and black ivory of the keys. After the coffee 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 was very popular, and always wore a Waterbury +watch. Why should he have been murdered? He was not clever 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, and that was when he +told me, years ago, that he had a wild adoration for you and that you +were the dominant motive of his art.” + +“I was very fond of Basil,” said Dorian with a note of sadness in his +voice. “But don’t people say that he was murdered?” + +“Oh, some of the papers do. It does not seem to me to be at all +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.” + +“What would you say, Harry, if I told you that I had murdered Basil?” +said the younger man. He watched him intently after he had spoken. + +“I would say, my dear fellow, that you were posing for a character that +doesn’t suit you. All crime is vulgar, just as all vulgarity is crime. +It is not in you, Dorian, to commit a murder. I am sorry if I hurt your +vanity by saying so, but I assure you it is true. Crime belongs +exclusively to the lower orders. I don’t blame them in the smallest +degree. I should fancy that crime was to them what art is to us, simply +a method of procuring extraordinary sensations.” + +“A method of procuring sensations? Do you think, then, that a man who +has once committed a murder could possibly do the same crime again? +Don’t tell me that.” + +“Oh! anything becomes a pleasure if one does it too often,” cried Lord +Henry, laughing. “That is one of the most important secrets of life. I +should fancy, however, that murder is always a mistake. One should +never do anything that one cannot talk about after dinner. But let us +pass from poor Basil. I wish I could believe that he had come to such a +really romantic end as you suggest, but I can’t. I dare say he fell +into the Seine off an omnibus and that the conductor hushed up the +scandal. Yes: I should fancy that was his end. I see him lying now on +his back under those dull-green waters, with the heavy barges floating +over him and long weeds catching in his hair. Do you know, I don’t +think he would have done much more good work. During the last ten years +his painting had gone off very much.” + +Dorian heaved a sigh, and Lord Henry strolled across the room and began +to stroke the head of a curious Java parrot, a large, grey-plumaged +bird with pink crest and tail, that was balancing itself upon a bamboo +perch. As his pointed fingers touched it, it dropped the white scurf of +crinkled lids over black, glasslike eyes and began to sway backwards +and forwards. + +“Yes,” he continued, turning round and taking his handkerchief out of +his pocket; “his painting had quite gone off. It seemed to me to have +lost something. It had lost an ideal. When you and he ceased to be +great friends, he ceased to be a great artist. What was it separated +you? I suppose he bored you. If so, he never forgave you. It’s a habit +bores have. By the way, what has become of that wonderful portrait he +did of you? I don’t think I have ever seen it since he finished it. Oh! +I remember your telling me years ago that you had sent it down to +Selby, and that it had got mislaid or stolen on the way. You never got +it back? What a pity! it was really a masterpiece. I remember I wanted +to buy it. I wish I had now. It belonged to Basil’s best period. Since +then, his work was that curious mixture of bad painting and good +intentions that always entitles a man to be called a representative +British artist. Did you advertise for it? You should.” + +“I forget,” said Dorian. “I suppose I did. But I never really liked it. +I am sorry I sat for it. The memory of the thing is hateful to me. Why +do you talk of it? It used to remind me of those curious lines in some +play—Hamlet, I think—how do they run?— + +“Like the painting of a sorrow, +A face without a heart.” + + +Yes: that is what it was like.” + +Lord Henry laughed. “If a man treats life artistically, his brain is +his heart,” he answered, sinking into an arm-chair. + +Dorian Gray shook his head and struck some soft chords on the piano. +“‘Like the painting of a sorrow,’” he repeated, “‘a face without a +heart.’” + +The elder man lay back and looked at him with half-closed eyes. “By the +way, Dorian,” he said after a pause, “‘what does it profit a man if he +gain the whole world and lose—how does the quotation run?—his own +soul’?” + +The music jarred, and Dorian Gray started and stared at his friend. +“Why do you ask me that, Harry?” + +“My dear fellow,” said Lord Henry, elevating his eyebrows in surprise, +“I asked you because I thought you might be able to give me an answer. +That is all. I was going through the park last Sunday, and close by the +Marble Arch there stood a little crowd of shabby-looking people +listening to some vulgar street-preacher. As I passed by, I heard the +man yelling out that question to his audience. It struck me as being +rather dramatic. London is very rich in curious effects of that kind. A +wet Sunday, an uncouth Christian in a mackintosh, a ring of sickly +white faces under a broken roof of dripping umbrellas, and a wonderful +phrase flung into the air by shrill hysterical lips—it was really very +good in its way, quite a suggestion. I thought of telling the prophet +that art had a soul, but that man had not. I am afraid, however, he +would not have understood me.” + +“Don’t, Harry. The soul is a terrible reality. It can be bought, and +sold, and bartered away. It can be poisoned, or made perfect. There is +a soul in each one of us. I know it.” + +“Do you feel quite sure of that, Dorian?” + +“Quite sure.” + +“Ah! then it must be an illusion. The things one feels absolutely +certain about are never true. That is the fatality of faith, and the +lesson of romance. How grave you are! Don’t be so serious. What have +you or I to do with the superstitions of our age? No: we have given up +our belief in the soul. Play me something. Play me a nocturne, Dorian, +and, as you play, tell me, in a low voice, how you have kept your +youth. You must have some secret. I am only ten years older than you +are, and I am wrinkled, and worn, and yellow. You are really wonderful, +Dorian. You have never looked more charming than you do to-night. You +remind me of the day I saw you first. You were rather cheeky, very shy, +and absolutely extraordinary. You have changed, of course, but not in +appearance. I wish you would tell me your secret. To get back my youth +I would do anything 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 ignorance of youth. The only people to whose opinions I listen +now with any respect are people much younger than myself. They seem in +front of me. Life has revealed to them her latest 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, +believed in everything, and knew absolutely nothing. How lovely that +thing you are playing 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 marvellously 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 young 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 happy you are! What an exquisite life you have had! You +have drunk deeply of everything. You have crushed the grapes against +your palate. Nothing has been hidden from you. And it has all been to +you no more than the sound of music. It has not marred you. You are +still the same.” + +“I am not the same, Harry.” + +“Yes, you are the same. I wonder what the rest of your life will be. +Don’t spoil it by renunciations. At present you are a perfect type. +Don’t make yourself incomplete. You are quite flawless now. You need +not shake your head: you know you are. Besides, Dorian, don’t deceive +yourself. Life is not governed by will or intention. Life is a question +of nerves, and fibres, and slowly built-up cells in which thought hides +itself and passion has its dreams. You may fancy yourself safe and +think yourself strong. But a chance tone of colour in a room or a +morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once loved and that +brings subtle memories with it, a line from a forgotten poem that you +had come across again, a cadence from a piece of music that you had +ceased to play—I tell you, Dorian, that it is on things like these that +our lives depend. Browning writes about that somewhere; but our own +senses will imagine them for us. There are moments when the odour of +_lilas blanc_ passes suddenly across me, and I have to live the +strangest month of my life over again. I wish I could change places +with you, Dorian. The world has cried out 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 done anything, never carved a statue, or +painted a picture, or produced anything outside of yourself! Life has +been your art. You have set yourself to music. Your days are your +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 extravagant +things to me. You don’t know everything 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? Go back and give me the nocturne +over again. Look at that great, honey-coloured moon that hangs in the +dusky air. She is waiting for you to charm her, and if you play she +will come closer to the earth. You won’t? Let us go to the club, then. +It has been a charming evening, and we must end it charmingly. There is +some one at White’s who wants immensely to know you—young Lord Poole, +Bournemouth’s eldest son. He has already copied your neckties, and has +begged me to introduce him to you. He is quite delightful and rather +reminds me of you.” + +“I hope not,” said Dorian with a sad look in his eyes. “But I am tired +to-night, Harry. I shan’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,” he answered, smiling. “I am a +little changed already.” + +“You cannot change to me, Dorian,” said Lord Henry. “You and I will +always be friends.” + +“Yet you poisoned me with a book once. I should not forgive that. +Harry, promise me that you will never lend that book to any one. It +does harm.” + +“My dear boy, you are really beginning to moralize. You will soon be +going about like the converted, and the revivalist, warning people +against all the sins of which you have grown tired. You are much too +delightful to do that. Besides, it is no use. You and I are what we +are, and will be what we will be. As for being poisoned by a book, +there is no such thing as that. Art has no influence upon action. It +annihilates the desire to act. It is superbly sterile. The books that +the world calls immoral are books that show the world its own shame. +That is all. But we won’t discuss literature. Come round to-morrow. I +am going to ride at eleven. We might go together, and I will take you +to lunch afterwards with Lady Branksome. She is a charming woman, and +wants to consult you about some tapestries she is thinking of buying. +Mind you come. Or shall we lunch with our little duchess? She says she +never sees you now. Perhaps you are tired of Gladys? I thought you +would be. Her clever tongue gets on one’s nerves. Well, in any case, be +here at eleven.” + +“Must I really come, Harry?” + +“Certainly. The park is quite lovely now. I don’t think there have been +such lilacs since the year I met you.” + +“Very well. I shall be here at eleven,” said Dorian. “Good night, +Harry.” As he reached the door, he hesitated for a moment, as if he had +something more to say. Then he sighed and went out. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + + +It was a lovely night, so warm that he threw his coat over his arm and +did not even put his silk scarf round his throat. As he strolled home, +smoking his cigarette, two young men in evening dress passed him. He +heard one of them whisper to the other, “That is Dorian Gray.” He +remembered how pleased he used to be when he was pointed out, or stared +at, or talked about. He was tired of hearing his own name now. Half the +charm of the little village where he had been so often lately was that +no one knew who he was. He had often told the girl whom he had lured to +love him that he was poor, and she had believed him. He had told her +once that he was wicked, and she had laughed at him and answered that +wicked people were always very old and very ugly. What a laugh she +had!—just like a thrush singing. And how pretty she had been in her +cotton dresses and her large hats! She knew nothing, but she had +everything that he had lost. + +When he reached home, he found his servant waiting up for him. He sent +him to bed, 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 longing +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? + +Ah! in what a monstrous moment of pride and passion he had prayed that +the portrait should bear the burden of his days, and he keep the +unsullied splendour of eternal youth! All his failure had been due to +that. Better for him that each sin of his life had brought its sure +swift penalty along with it. There was purification in punishment. Not +“Forgive us our sins” but “Smite us for our iniquities” should be the +prayer of man to a most just God. + +The curiously carved mirror that Lord Henry had given to him, so many +years ago now, was standing on the table, and the white-limbed Cupids +laughed round it as of old. He took it up, as he had done on that night +of horror when he had first noted the change in the fatal picture, and +with wild, tear-dimmed eyes looked into its polished shield. Once, some +one who had terribly loved him had written to him a mad letter, ending +with these idolatrous words: “The world is changed because you are made +of ivory and gold. The curves of your lips rewrite history.” The +phrases came back to his memory, and he repeated them over and over to +himself. Then he loathed his own beauty, and flinging the mirror on the +floor, crushed it into silver splinters beneath his heel. It was his +beauty that had ruined him, his beauty and the youth that he had prayed +for. But for those two things, his life might have been free from +stain. His beauty had been to him but a mask, his youth but a mockery. +What was youth at best? A green, an unripe time, a time of shallow +moods, and sickly thoughts. Why had he worn its livery? Youth had +spoiled 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. James Vane +was hidden in a nameless grave in Selby churchyard. 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 Basil Hallward that weighed most upon his mind. 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 +murder 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! That was what he wanted. That was what he was waiting for. +Surely he had begun it already. He had spared one innocent thing, at +any rate. He would never again tempt innocence. He would be good. + +As he thought of Hetty Merton, he began to wonder if the portrait in +the locked room had changed. Surely it was not still so horrible 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 evil had +already gone away. He would go and look. + +He took the lamp from the table and crept upstairs. As he unbarred the +door, a smile of joy flitted across his strangely young-looking face +and 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 terror +to him. He felt as if the load had been lifted from him already. + +He went in quietly, locking the door behind him, as was his custom, and +dragged the purple hanging from the portrait. A cry of pain and +indignation broke from him. He could see no change, save that in the +eyes there was a look of cunning and in the mouth the curved wrinkle of +the hypocrite. The thing was still loathsome—more loathsome, if +possible, than before—and the scarlet dew that spotted the hand seemed +brighter, and more like blood newly spilled. Then he trembled. Had it +been merely vanity that had made him do his one good deed? Or the +desire for 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? And 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 feet, 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 monstrous. Besides, even if he did confess, who would +believe him? There was no trace of the murdered man anywhere. +Everything belonging to him had been destroyed. He himself had burned +what had been below-stairs. The world would simply say that he was mad. +They would shut him up if he persisted in his story.... Yet it was his +duty to confess, to suffer public shame, and to make public atonement. +There was a God who called upon men to tell their sins to earth as well +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. For it was an unjust mirror, this mirror of his soul 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 tell? ... No. There had been nothing +more. Through vanity he had spared her. In hypocrisy he had worn the +mask of goodness. For curiosity’s sake he had tried the denial of self. +He recognized that now. + +But this murder—was it to dog him all his life? Was he always to be +burdened by his past? Was he really to confess? Never. There was only +one bit of evidence left against him. The picture itself—that was +evidence. He would destroy it. Why had he kept it so long? Once it had +given him pleasure to watch it changing and growing old. Of late he had +felt no such pleasure. It had kept him awake at night. When he had been +away, he had been filled with terror lest other eyes should look upon +it. It had brought 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 stain left upon it. It was +bright, and glistened. As it had killed the painter, so it would kill +the painter’s work, and all that that meant. It would kill the past, +and when that was dead, he would be free. It would kill this monstrous +soul-life, and without its hideous warnings, he would be at peace. He +seized the thing, and stabbed the picture with it. + +There was a cry heard, and a crash. The cry was so horrible in its +agony 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 policeman and +brought him back. The man rang the bell several times, but there was no +answer. Except for a light in one of the top windows, the house was all +dark. After a time, he went away and stood in an adjoining portico and +watched. + +“Whose house is that, Constable?” asked the elder of the two gentlemen. + +“Mr. Dorian Gray’s, sir,” answered the 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 wringing her hands. Francis was as pale as death. + +After about a quarter of an hour, he got the coachman and one of the +footmen and crept upstairs. They knocked, but there was no reply. 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—their bolts 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. Lying on the floor was a dead man, in +evening dress, with a knife in his heart. He was withered, wrinkled, +and loathsome of visage. It was not till they had examined the rings +that they recognized who it was. + +THE END |